You tried your best to behave, but it was getting late and you just wanted Harry. The two of you had been out at a party for a few hours now, but you’d grown tired of the conversations going on around you and began to pout.
Under the table, your hands can’t help but wander over to his thighs, knowingly brushing over his (growing) bulge in his trousers, earning glares from him every so often.
“Don’t,” is all he whispers in your ear, tone strict enough it admittedly makes you a little nervous.
Your hands snake higher and higher up, egging him on with each pass. He eventually excuses the two of you, saying something about an early morning.
The grip he has around your wrist feels like it’ll leave a mark, but he’s not too concerned. Harry’s face is set in a dead stare, taking no time to make sure you’re carefully in tow with him.
He makes an abrupt turn into the hallway, dimly lit by the party going on just feet away. His body pins you close to the wall, eyes staring you down; cold. You feel your breathing pick up as he constricts you closer to the wall, the chair rail poking into the small of your back.
“Think tha’s okay? Tease m'like tha’?” he seethes, face close to yours, “Have no idea how embarrassing tha’ could’ve gotten.”
You swallow harshly, throat feeling tight, “I didn’t…"
His hand gripping your jaw cut you off.
"Don’t play tha’ game with me, y/n,” Harry’s eyes only seemed to grow darker, “Know full well what you’re after.”
He held your chin with a strong grip, making it known that you had no power in this situation. Your heart was beating steadily in your ears and your stomach was knotted with anticipation.
He was right where you’d wanted him all along.
Harry studied your face carefully, your eyes looking innocent as he traced over your lips with his free hands.
You parted your lips slightly, following his orders and obeying him, knowing his tone was nothing to mess around with.
His fingers pressed into your mouth, finding their resting place on the flat surface of your tongue.
“Suck,” he whispered, and you instinctively closed your lips around them, swirling your tongue and making his voice stutter just a bit:
“Show me exactly how you’re goin’t take care of me when we’re back home.”
Could you do 067: "I came home to a Nerf gun on the front porch and a note that says ‘Here is your weapon. I have one too. Loser cooks dinner. Good luck. xo’" from the 101 Fluffy prompts with Bucky please?
Why of course I can!!! And I am so fucking sorry this took a century and a half to post. I’m a horrible person. xxx
Home Sweet Nerf Gun
Bucky came home to see an offensively bright, neon pink and orange nerf gun on the front porch. Just laying there all innocently on the doormat (the doormat says ‘Welcome! Beware of husband, cat is shady, wife is cool though’). With a curious grin he climbs the three porch steps and halts before the gun that has a small torn piece of scratch paper perched on top of it. It reads in your familiar script: Here is your weapon, I have one too. Loser cooks dinner. Good fucking luck xo.
Bucky right out cackles when he sees your P.S - ‘p.s you should not have taught me how to snipe baby’
not quite sure how this happened, but Kacchan is dragging him up the path to
the gates of U.A. High while a pretty girl chatters at them. Also, Izuku is
floating. This seems like a pretty important fact to mention. Izuku rarely defies
gravity on his own.
that way, Roundface,” Kacchan had grunted and started dragging the floating
Izuku by his tie after the girl had used her Quirk to save Izuku from tripping.
“Can’t run off to be fucking stupid that way.”
“I could sleep like this,” Izuku had realised.
found that very funny. “You’re not nervous at all, huh?” She’d laughed
sheepishly. “I’m so excited!”
dead inside,” Izuku explained to her.
“Deku’s a fucking
idiot, is what he is.” Kacchan looked like he was contemplating chucking Izuku
into the sun.
looks that way now, actually. Izuku should probably not tempt fate.
“No, (y/n), you don’t understand!” Frustrated the Doctor hit against the handrail inside of the TARDIS. He had turned away from you, facing the wall, hands clutching the rail. Slowly you took a step closer to him. “Doctor…”, you started, but quickly he interrupted you. “I could have saved them, (y/n). Now all of them, all of them are dead. And nearly you would have joined them. Because of my decisions!”
Slightly taken aback by this sudden outburst of despair, you took a step back. You had never seen him acting like this before. And certainly not to you.
“But I didn’t. Because of you”, you whispered, trying to approach him a little bit more. “And there was no way you could’ve saved them. They had doomed themselves ages ago. It was just a question of time.”
As soon as the words left your mouth you regretted them. “And what am I, (y/n)? A bloody Time Lord!” You bit your lip, staring at his back and just wished he would turn around and at least look at you.
“It can’t go on like this.”
His voice had turned dangerously low, as he turned around, facing you. Almost you had taken another step back.
His eyes were red, tears glistening inside of them. On his face an expression of pure doubt. Not just doubt if this decision had been the right one. No, he looked like he’d question his existence. He looked like he doubted everything he’d ever done in his whole long life. His back was slightly bent, as he looked at you, his jaw clenched. Every single one of his muscles was tense, and yet he looked somehow limp.
“Doctor…”, you tried once again, but stopped immediately as soon as you looked into his eyes. You always had liked his eyes. They were full of wisdom, knowledge and something else you never had been able to read. But now you finally knew. Towards you looked a mix out of emotions, so strong, so desperate, you had never seen before. Sadness, hate, guilt, frustration. Pain. All mixed into one single glance. Your breathing stopped for a second, overwhelmed by all these emotions fighting in your usually so vivid Doctor. He seemed like an entirely different person.
“I killed, (y/n). And not just the bad guys. And I’ll kill you to. Somehow I will.” He made a small pause, as his lower lip started to tremble slightly.
“How do you know?”, you asked quietly, fighting the urge to start crying yourself. The Doctor took his gaze from you, looking to the ground. Yet you still could see a single tear, running down his cheek, as he opened his mouth, his voice husky.
“Because it’s always been like this.”
He ran a hand over his face, before looking back up at you. “Every single one of them. I destroyed to many lives already.” His voice had became so quiet, that you had difficulties to understand him. “I tried so hard to save them. Amy, Rory. Now you. And did it work?”, he asked, his voice rising with every word. “Did it work for once?”
Slowly you could feel the tears forming in your own eyes, but quickly blinked them away. Now you had to stay strong. For once it wasn’t you who needed help. It was him.
And then happened something you never had thought possible. With an agonised cry, that froze your blood, the Doctor broke down. Sobbing heavily his tears started to hit the floor, while he knelt on the ground right in front of you.
You always had known that his life hadn’t been easy. He had outlived, yeah, lost so many people, seen so many things, had to make so many decisions. But usually he’d keep his darker emotions to himself.
Sometimes, he’d looked sad, while he thought no one was watching, or his mind just wandered off completely into his own world. Even though you were aware of this everlasting pain, you had usually known him as the cheerful person, who’d never say no to an adventure and could turn any situation, the bad it may be, to good.
But now you finally saw, what was really going on inside him, in all these quiet moments. And why he’d always acted this cheerful. It was probably the only way to live with a story like his – to be happy in the present.
Slowly you approached his sobbing figure, his eyes directed at the ground, hands clenched to fists and his back irregular lifting and lowering with his sobs. You knelt down in front of him, carefully putting your hand on his shoulder.
“Doctor. Please look at me.”
Slowly he lifted his head, before his gaze found its way into your eyes. You inhaled deeply, before you gently took one of his trembling hands in yours, holding it tight. “None of them is making any accusations”, you started.
“Believe me. They most likely had the time of their lives with you. And no one”, you emphasised, “no one would ever choose to forget this time of their lives.”
His breath had gradually became steady again by now. He was able to keep looking at you. “Believe me”, you repeated. “Because I’d know, Doctor.” You could still feel his hand slightly trembling. Gently you squeezed it, wanting to make sure, he’d know you’d be there for him. “All this time I’ve spent with you. All these things I’ve seen, good or bad. Of course they have changed me. And if I should go back to a normal life, I know it will never be like before I met you.” He stiffened a little, but you just kept talking, gently squeezing his hand, while trying to sound as calming as you could. “But you know what? I don’t want it to be like before I met you. Every second I spent on other planets, in different times. I have learned so much from you. And I wouldn’t change that for anything in all galaxies.”
For a few seconds it was completely silent. You, kneeling in front of the Doctor, who still knelt on the ground, hands and knees on the floor, tears stinging in his read eyes. Your hand upon his. Slowly you walked closer to him, sitting down right beside him. Your back was leaning against the control panel of the TARDIS and on your face had formed a light smile. Thoughtful he watched every movement of yours, before he pushed himself up, sitting down beside you.
Again, you carefully took his hand in yours, leaning your head against his shoulder. Soon after you could feel the slight weight of the Doctor’s head on yours, as you both sat in silence, thinking about anything that had happened. Yet you could still feel him trembling slightly, trying to contain himself. Soothing you caressed his hand, before starting to speak again.
“If I go. Would you forget me?”
For a moment silence filled the room, before the Doctor’s broken voice reached your ear.
“Never.” “Do you remember all of us?”
“Every single one”, he whispered, stil trying to keep himself together. “Well, then”, you breathed, knees drawn up, you squeezed his hand and smiled as you could feel him return the gesture softly.
could you do a scenario w/s76, reaper, mccree, genji, hanzo and lucio (separately) where they think their s/o is dead but they arent and when they meet up they despirerately make out with them it can be nsfw if you want
So, nonnie, I didn’t make them NSFW?? Only because, as I was writing each little scenario, I realized that I was doing them in a way that didn’t really prompt NSFW ouo;;; Um. Yeah. If you want, I can do some NSFW requests for you if you’d like!! Especially now that the ask box is back open! :D
Just a note, I kinda wrote all of these with the idea in mind that they each take place during a mission of kinds. Genji’s and Lucio’s are the only ones that are Pre-Recall? The rest take place sometime Post-Recall. So. Yeah.
Reaper, McCree, Genji, Hanzo, and Lucio under the cut after Solider: 76 because the totality of this work is kinda long ahahaha.
Soldier: 76: He didn’t want to answer the Recall. He knew you
wouldn’t be there, knew you wouldn’t be waiting for him, holding your breath as
he walked through the doors of Watchtower: Gibraltar. He knew you wouldn’t be
organizing the missions with Winston as you all struggled to pull Overwatch
from the ashes of what it used to be.
But he did. Because he knew you would have answered the call. He knew
you would have wanted him to, too.
He watched the doors of the Watchtower slid open with a wave of refrigerated
air. It hit his overheated skin and drew a shiver from him. He didn’t want to
do this. He really didn’t want to. He stepped through the door and winced as it
slid shut behind him. His head tilted up and he froze. There used to be a
picture of you there, a memorial to you, to the sacrifice you had made during
the mission that was thought to have taken Ana. But the picture was gone. So
was the plaque.
“Thought it was tacky.” His eyes darted further up the wall to the overhang
above. You were there, leaning against the rail, a smile on your face and
wrinkles framing your eyes. The breath fled from Jack’s lungs just like it had
the first time he saw you. You shrugged and his heart fluttered. “You know,
since I’m not dead and all.”
He was twenty-five again, young and energetic and staring at your
grinning face at the top of the rock wall as you shouted, “Gotta move quicker
than that Strike Commander!”
He had laughed and shouted back, “That’s husband to you, soldier.” Your
laughter spurred him to move faster.
All that energy came back. The pulse rifle fell to the ground as he
launched forward and up the wall, gripping the rails to propel himself up until
he was sitting on the one you leaned on. You arched a graying eyebrow at him. “Show
off,” you murmured. His hand ghosted over the back of your neck, tugging you
close until his forehead pressed against yours. You were warm. You were there.
You mimicked the motion and he felt the cold metal of your wedding band
on your finger and he released the breath he was holding.
This happened years ago, my family was on a Disney vacation and we were in the Epcot park. My younger brother (“Brian”) and I had split away from the group and were waiting in lines/going on rides by ourselves. We were in the line for the Maelstrom ride in “Norway” at the time, and we were among the first in line. Right as we had gotten inside the building, we turned right and settled into our place in line. We’re used to waiting, so it wasn’t a big deal. The line inside the building begins with a small section of “hallway” where there are two solid walls with a railing on one wall, before the room opens up into the more familiar line-maze of theme parks. That “hallway” is where this happened.
Eventually, more people joined the line behind us, and soon, the short kid directly in back of us was yelling and complaining. Parents ignore him. If you’ve never been to this particular part of Disney, it’s very dark and quiet, and it was first thing in the morning, so the kid was being really, really abrasive. It didn’t help that the line wasn’t moving yet. But hey, it’s Disney, there are always things like this. Still, a shitty way to start the day for all the poor people nearby. We tuned him out and talked about other things.
The kid eventually settled with his head against the railing, walking along it, shouting, and sliding his head back and forth over the metal(wood?) bar. Soon, my brother (who was behind me, with his hip resting on the railing to keep the kid from passing us and getting separated from his inattentive parents) nudged me in the dark and whispered to look behind him. He was trying not to laugh. I looked, and the kid had reached Brian’s butt blockade of the railing, but hadn’t stopped. His face was burrowed into Brian’s ass. The kid had a baseball cap on, and it was being pushed back off his head because he was so close. The opportunity was too good to resist.
“You should fart.” I said. “Right in his face.” “I’m trying.” he replied, already ahead of me.
I wish you could have seen the following events. It was f*cking glorious. I didn’t hear the fart, but I could tell when it happened because the kid stumbled backwards, turned left, and ran full speed into the opposite wall. He just hit the wall, BAM! with his arms out to his sides and everything, and fell over right onto his back. His parents finally started paying attention to him and picked him up. Everyone else in the line saw what happened, but was clueless about what had really gone on.
Oh god my sides.
TL;DR: My little brother weaponized a fart and took out an annoying child.
It’s not that she doesn’t believe in the possibility, it’s just that it doesn’t matter.
Past lives are one implausible thing, but parallel universes are another altogether. The thing about theoretical physics is that it’s just that – theoretical. If multiverse theory is true, every individual choice made by every individual person generates a new reality. Each outcome creates its own timeline. Quanta can exist in two places at once. Light is both a particle and a wave.
There’s a universe she thinks of most, where she married Ethan and is living comfortably in the suburbs with a kid or two, her ova safely unharvested. (She wonders how that Dana deals with the boredom, or if she’s long since stopped asking the hard questions, settled with her lot in life).
There’s a universe where Marcus knocked her up in high school and they ran off together, to her parents’ eternal disappointment. That Dana is working as a waitress or plodding through community college. (She knows this version is ashamed of herself, aware that she could’ve been so much more, but now there are too many choices to undo).
There’s the universe where she stayed in medicine, choosing surgery or pediatrics over pathology. Maybe that Dr. Scully saves lives every day, but is overworked and lonely.
Or the myriad universes created every time she wanted to leave Mulder and the X Files and actually followed through. The one that first year, after Deep Throat died. The time she stepped away after her coma. The thousand Mondays when it all just seemed too much – especially after Philadelphia when the snarl of anger in her gut threatened to unleash all her dark and girlish motives.
Pre-Pilot AU, possible explanation for why Mulder is such an condescending ass to Scully in the first episode.
Tuesday, December 31,
1991 10:32 PM
The staccato clack of stilettos on tile floor echoes through
the empty basement corridor of the Hoover Building. Dana Scully hurries down
the hall, the train of her dress in one hand and the files she had spent the
last two hours digging through the FBI Archives for clutched in the other. It
was supposed to be just a quick stop before the party, but locating the files
had taken frustratingly longer than expected and the more she could not find
what she was looking for, the more she had become determined to find it. It was
a conspiracy of the filing cabinets, she was certain, and finding them had
become a personal vendetta, even if it had made her so very, very late. She
just needed to get to the parking garage, so she could get in her car and
finally be on her way, before she incurred any more tardiness-induced wrath
upon her. She reaches the end of the hallway and jams the ‘up’ button, mentally
urging the car to arrive faster. The doors finally slide open and she slips
inside, finger on ‘door close’, trying to calm her pulse, foot tapping
“Hold the door!” an unfamiliar voice shouts down the hall,
heavy footsteps growing louder.
Scully groans and jabs at the ‘door open’ button, her
military upbringing of unfailing politeness winning out over her desire to get
out of there. A large male hand clamps over the sliding metal door.
“Thanks,” her newfound elevator companion shoots her a
smile. Adonically lanky with floppy hair and oversized wire rim glasses perched
on an aquiline nose, he is dressed in a rumpled white button-down with a wide,
garish tie hanging loosely round his neck, forest green patterned with orange
triangles. A grey wool trench coat is tossed over his arm.
“Sure thing, ground floor?”
The elevator shutters to life and slowly begins its ascent.
It barely clears the first floor when it lurches to an abrupt stop with a
precarious creak. A startled yelp emerges from Scully as she grasps for the
wall railing to stay upright. The lights flicker and suddenly plunge the tiny
car into darkness. After a few moments, the sallow emergency backup lights
Scully pulls the elevator emergency phone from its case,
stabbing at the red help button to no avail; the line is dead.
“Somewhere important to be?” he drawls bemusedly, slowly
trailing his eyes down her body.
She is wearing an exquisite cobalt dress with an open back
cut down almost to the base of her spine. The top of the dress cuts modestly
across her chest and the thin straps hug her shoulders before crisscrossing the
smooth pale skin of her back. The fabric shimmers when she moves and the
flowing train brushes the top of her feet encased in silver pointy heels that
brought her almost to the height of his nose. She shifts uncomfortably under
his heated gaze, feeling naked and exposed. She crosses her arms across her
chest, causing the creamy rise of her cleavage to swell. This does not escape
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” she rejoins archly. At his
non-response, she prattles to fill the awkward silence. “I was supposed to be
meeting Ethan over an hour ago and he’ll be waiting with no idea where I am and
I have no way of contacting him and I should have just left these stupid files
until Thursday but no, I just had to have them tonight because God forbid I
don’t do any work and actually relax on my vacation and now it’s New Year’s Eve
and I’m stuck in a basement elevator with…with…” she gestures helplessly,
realizing she had never asked his name.
“Mulder. Fox Mulder,” he supplies helpfully, looking even
Fox Mulder. She knew that name; everyone did. The golden boy
of the Violent Crimes Section, his profiling skills had earned him the nickname
“Spooky” at the academy.
“Oh god, I’m so sorry. You must think I’m insane.” She
places her head in her hands with a soft groan of embarrassment, fair skin
reddening. Here she is, trapped in an elevator with the infamous Spooky Mulder
and somehow she manages to be the crazy one.
Way to go, Dana. Make
a fool of yourself in front of an attractive elevator stranger. Attractive? You
have a boyfriend, Dana. A boyfriend who is probably freaking out right now
because he doesn’t know where you are.
Fox Mulder cracks a sunflower seed between his teeth and
smiles down at his tiny elevator partner, suddenly finding himself distracted
by the escaped curls from the chignon on the nape of her neck. His long fingers twitch as he fights the urge to brush them back. He’d intended for his question to be entirely
innocuous, but he’d be lying if he said wasn’t enjoying watching her stumble
over herself like a baby bird, all fluff and innocence.
His smile fades when she turns her face to look up at him.
He’s taken aback by the sheer fierceness of the blue flame, exactly the same
hue as the gown that sheathed her lithe body.
“I’m Dana Scully. It’s nice to meet you, Fox.”
He meets her proffered hand, unable to tear his eyes from
her crimson lips as they slide over the syllables of his detested first name.
He almost jerks his hand back at the first touch of her skin
on his. He could swear he’s been burned. Was the audible crack of static
electricity between them simply a result of the dry winter air or something
“Likewise” He swallows hard.
Scully reluctantly drops her hand and her eyes from his.
There’s only so long you can keep someone you just met in a polite handshake
before it turns into impolite hand holding. She steps back into the corner,
awkwardly staring at her feet, unsure of what to say next, silence blooming in
the space between them. Did he feel it too? That spark between them? Had it
been all in her head?
“So, who’s Ethan?” Mulder’s voice snaps her from her
reverie. She lifts her head to find him still fixing her with that bemused
gaze, all bright eyes and pouty lips twisting their way around another seed.
“He’s…um…my…uh…boyfriend.” The expression on his face
doesn’t change, but Scully is sure she sees a flash of disappointment darken
his eyes. “He’s a journalist.”
Really Mulder? ‘That’s
nice’? An Oxford education and esteemed psychology degree and that’s the best
you can do?
That uncomfortable silence fills the elevator car again.
“Maybe we should try the phone again?” Mulder offers. His
long body leans across her to pick up the emergency phone and Scully finds her
eyes drawn to the wide planes of his shoulders stretching under his dress
shirt. “Nope. Nothing.”
He’s suddenly standing much closer to her than he had
before, so close she could reach out and touch his chest. Which she will not
do. Because he is an elevator stranger. And she has a boyfriend.
“Don’t worry; I’m sure someone will be along soon to fix it.
Unless a shadowy government agent cuts the cable and we plunge to our death
first,” he monotones.
The lack of humor in his voice gives her the unsettling
impression that he’s not joking.
“Somehow I think we’d probably survive the one floor drop,”
she retorts, tipping her chin to look at him. “And besides, despite what all your
action hero movies may tell you, it’s nearly impossible for an elevator to
plummet in freefall. Elevator cables are regularly inspected and rarely break
and even if they did almost all elevators have at least four cables, one of
which is strong enough to hold up the entire car. And say your shadowy
government agent somehow managed to cut all the cables, there are breaking
systems activated by a mechanical speed gauge, which clamp the rails the run
down the inside of the shaft. And if this nefarious villain somehow destroyed
the safeties too, the friction from the shaft rails and air pressure underneath
the car would greatly decrease the speed until you ultimately hit the built-in
shock absorber that would cushion the impact at the bottom of the elevator
shaft. It’s simple physics, really.”
His lips twitch of their own accord. Of course, simple physics indeed. He likes women who know things.
She finishes her diatribe to find him staring at her with
that frustrating smile again. She hates it. She hates how it makes her cheeks
burn and stomach flip. There you go
again, Dana, just rambling on for no reason. Again. If he didn’t think you were a freak before, he
certainly does now. Maybe you should be the one they call “Spooky”.
“So I shouldn’t jump right before we hit the ground?”
“Only if you want broken bones.”
He wonders what else she knows.
“I guess it’s a good thing you’re here to keep me in one piece then.”
He wonders what she knows about chemistry.
“I guess so.”
Mulder pulls back abruptly and clears his throat, moving to
lounge against the elevator railing, long arms stretched to either side of him,
not meeting her eyes.
Scully eases down into the corner and pulls the heeled shoes
from her feet with a slight wince. They are not the most comfortable of shoes,
but they are gorgeous and when she had seen them in the store window, she
couldn’t resist them. Besides, Melissa is always telling her she lacks a sense
of whimsy and that a bit of impulsivity is good for a person.
An unexpected shiver courses through her. She had been so
distracted fighting off the inappropriate thoughts featuring the attractive
elevator stranger, she hadn’t noticed the dropping temperature.
“Are you cold?” Mulder asks, staring down at her from his
perch, brow furrowed in concern.
“Oh no,” another shiver interrupts her nonchalant shrug.
Mulder extends his coat to her. “Here, take this. I’m not
“No, I couldn’t. I’m sure you’ll want it eventually. I’m
fine, honestly. It’s my own fault, really, for leaving mine in the car. I
wasn’t expecting to be here this long.”
“Take it,” he insists with a teasing smile. “Before your
lips turn blue.”
Unless you want me to
warm you some other way… damn it, Mulder. Who are you, Frohike? Pull yourself
together. She has a boyfriend.
He crouches down and drapes the coat across her back, his
hand lingering on her shoulder longer than necessary. It engulfs her petite
frame and she shifts infinitesimally closer to him under the pretense of
drawing the coat tighter around her herself. He pretends not to notice. It’s
warm from his body and smells like him, dark and woodsy and undeniably
She smiles gratefully up at him before dropping her eyes,
inexplicably shy, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth. “Thanks.”
“Of course.” If his New England upbringing had taught him
anything, it was how to be a gentleman. He sits down next to her, stretching
his long legs out in front of him.
“So…what are you reading?” Mulder gestures to the file in
her lap. “Anything good?”
“Cadaveric heat rigor in cases of self-immolation”
“That sounds like cheery holiday reading. Certainly gives a
new meaning to ‘chestnuts roasting on an open fire’.”
Scully laughs; Mulder decides in that instant that it’s
something he needs to hear again.
“I’m a medical doctor. I did my residency in forensic
medicine and now I teach at the Academy.”
“A doctor?” She nods at him and he leans over to whisper
lowly in her ear, “So, Dr. Scully, have you ever performed an alien autopsy?”
She laughs again, even louder this time, the sound
reverberating in the small metal car. His stomach somersaults and he grins over
at her. Yeah, he really likes that sound. He wasn’t kidding about the autopsy
Mulder shifts uncomfortably on the hard ground of the
elevator car. The chill that had settled in the car shows no signs of abating
and the temperature continues to drop. He hunches his shoulders against the
goosebumps scattering down the slope of his neck.
“See? I knew you be cold eventually,” Scully ribs
“Me? Cold? Nah. I’m far too manly to be taken down by
something as insignificant as a minute drop in temperature,” he declares.
Scully rolls her eyes at him, reaching out a finger to trail
the goosebumps on side of his neck in proof. He shivers, but not from the chill
of the air.
“Uh huh. You can save the macho act for another time, Fox.
It’s only going to get colder as the night goes on. I might be a doctor, but I
can’t bring you back from the dead if you freeze to death,” she smiles. “Come
on, we can at least share the coat.”
Scully slides the coat from her shoulders and moves closer
to him, her thigh resting along the length of his. She spreads it across their
laps, but quickly realizes it isn’t large enough to cover both of them. She
wraps her arms around her top half, now exposed to the cold air. Mulder looks
over at her, feeling slightly guilty that he’s the reason she’s no longer
snuggly and warm. The sight of her wrapped in his clothes did things to him.
Inappropriate things. Things one should not be thinking about a girl with a
Slowly, cautiously, as if to gauge her reaction, he reaches
his arm around her and rubs his large hand up and down her thin upper arm,
shifting her even closer. She goes completely still, but doesn’t move away.
“Jesus, your skin is still like ice,” he chuckles, the
friction increasing between them.
Scully sighs almost imperceptibly and her eyes slide closed
a hair longer than a blink should last. His warmth feels so good against her; she
wants to bury herself in it.
Mulder rotates his upper body and opens his arms to her
wordlessly, his eyes reflecting a silent invitation. Scully hesitates, unsure of
the proper social protocol of such a situation and unsure of how it makes her
“Just for warmth,” she clarifies in the sternest doctor
voice she can manage.
She crawls into his lap and he pulls her into his chest,
tucking her head snuggly under his collarbone. She shifts the train of her
dress so she can pull her knees towards her chest. The coldness of her tiny
hands seeps through his shirt as they settle over his breastbone and she can
feel the rapid flutter of his heartbeat thrumming through the tips of her
fingers. He draws the coat back over them and wraps his arms around her. One
arm rests one across her shoulders on top of the coat to ensure it stays tucked
up against her. The other is under the coat, directly against her curled body,
his large hand splayed across her exposed lower back like it somehow knows it
Mulder has to remind himself to breathe. Her soft hair is
inches from his nose, the floral of her shampoo wafting towards him; he wants
to bury himself in it.
“Of course, Dr. Scully,” he replies. “What else would it be
The answer they both know hangs unwillingly in the air
The rumbling of his chest reverberates through her body as
he enthusiastically expounds a dizzying array of complex theories. When she had
asked him a few moments ago what he was doing here so late on New Year’s Eve
himself, she’d expected a witty quip about psych profiles and serial killers
not taking vacations, but instead found herself the audience of a sunflower
seed fueled soliloquy on the inherently flawed nature of the Fermi Paradox and
all twenty-one possible explanations for the lack of evidence of extraterrestrial
The soft weight of her body in his lap is making it hard to
focus, very hard. He’s disconcerted by how familiar and right it feels with her
head on his shoulder and her hand on his chest. It’s been so long since he has
held anyone like this, felt the warmth of physical human connection. He’d forgotten
how much he misses it. Mulder struggles to keep a cohesive narrative as he continues
to ramble. He’s sure he sounds insane at this point. Another thing he’d learned
from that New England upbringing: blathering on about the intricacies of
alien morphology doesn’t tend to impress the ladies.
Always living up to your nickname, aren’t you Spooky? Fantastic.
Scully really does try to pay attention to what he’s saying,
but she’s constantly distracted by the pout of his lips wrapping themselves
around words like ‘interstellar’, ‘Arecibo’, and ‘synchronous gauge’. His one hand
idly trails over his coat, punctuated by sporadic gestures into the air to
emphasize his thoughts, and she can feel his touch even through thick wool. She
shifts and his arms instinctively tighten around her, the thumb of his other
hand never breaking from its rhythmic sweeps across her the soft skin of her
“Are you warming up yet?” he breaks from his monologue to
look down at her.
“I’m much better now, thanks,” she casts a small smile up at
Neither of them dares to move. The ceasing of the steady
rise and fall of his chest tells her that she isn’t the only one who stopped
breathing. She thinks she sees something flicker briefly in his eyes again
before he pulls back and resumes talking aliens and neutrino signals.
Mulder tips his wrist to look at the time, before extending
the watch towards Scully. “Hey Dana, look, it’s almost midnight.”
“Really? We’ve been in here that long?” Scully peers at the
watch face, shifting in his lap and flexing her ankles.
“The New Year shall be upon us in 10…9…8…7…” She tilts her
head back to look at him. Her eyes catch his and do not waver, his face slowly
lowering toward hers. He’s so close she can taste the salty sunflower tang of
his warm breath. They know this is wrong, but are powerless to stop it. The
unbreakable attraction of north and south poles pull them closer and closer;
it’s simple physics. Or was it chemistry?
With a sudden surge of reconnected electricity, the elevator
car jolts back to life, breaking them from their spell. The force jerks them
away from each other and Mulder tightens his grip on her to keep her from being
thrown across the car.
“Are you okay?” His brow furrows again and Scully resists
the compulsion to smooth the creases away with her lips.
“Yeah,” she stammers, unsure whether her heart is racing
from their almost-kiss or the unexpected restart of the elevator. “Yeah, I’m
“I’m good.” He reluctantly releases her from his arms and
stands, shrugging on his coat. She slides back into her heels and he offers a
hand to help her up. The elevator sounds their arrival and the metal doors
slide open. Her hand falls from his. Both know they will never speak of this
1992 12:01 AM
Scully steps out of the elevator to the shouting of a
“Look, I know she’s here! She said she had to pick some
files up and then was coming to meet me. And she never showed up! That was four
hours ago. I know her car is still in the garage, so where is she?!”
Ethan is struggling with two security guards at the end of
the hall, desperately trying to get past them. His face breaks with relief when
he sees her coming down the hall.
Scully flashes her badge to the guards and they release him
with annoyed shakes of their heads. Ethan sprints the rest of the way down the
hall and pulls her into his arms.
“Dana! Are you okay?! What happened? Where have you been?!”
“I’m fine, really. The power went out and I was stuck in the
elevator with…” she turns to gesture towards Mulder, only to find that he is no
Mulder takes the stairs two at a time back to his basement
office, determined to find out everything he can about the enigmatic elevator
partner currently consuming his thoughts. He combs through the FBI’s personnel
database until her file appears on his computer screen. Dana Katherine Scully: 28,
undergraduate degree in physics from the University of Maryland, medical degree
from Stanford, and currently an instructor at the Academy. The intrigued smile
on his face grows when he comes upon a copy of her senior thesis, ‘Einstein’s
Twin Paradox, A New Interpretation’. He was right. She does know things. He tucks
his face into the soft woolen collar of his coat; it still smells like her.
1992, 8:15 AM
“Are you familiar with an agent named Fox Mulder?”
Dana Scully freezes in panic for the length of her skipped
heartbeat before recovering quickly with a smile.
“Yes, I am.”
What did they know?
Had someone seen us? Did Fox Mulder say something about our completely platonic
New Year’s elevator tryst? Surely there couldn’t be an FBI rule against
huddling for warmth?
“By reputation,” Scully hedges carefully, praying her face
didn’t reveal anymore.
Fox Mulder shuffles through slides on his desk, looking for
best ones to illustrate the mysterious spate of unexplained deaths cropping up
across the country, connected only by the strange raised marks on the victims’
backs and an unidentifiable substance in the surrounding tissue. When Division
Chief Blevins had informed him of his new partner, it took everything in him
not to cuss out loud. Of course it was her. He should have known she was too
good to be true. Just like Diana had been. It wasn’t random coincidence or magnetic
fate that had drawn her to his hallway that night. No, she had been sent there to
spy on him, to debunk his work, to shut him down.
The staccato clack of stilettos on tile floor echoes through
the empty basement corridor of the Hoover Building. Scully clips briskly down
the hall, her briefcase slung over her shoulder. When Blevins had informed her
she had been assigned to the X-Files, with none other than her attractive
elevator stranger, she thought for sure that it was some kind of joke. The
serious unsmiling faces of the three men in the office told her otherwise. She
arrives at the office door bearing no name.
Would he say anything
about that night? Will he even remember me?
She hesitates for a moment.Willing her face to betray nothing, she takes a breath and forces
a neutral expression. She raises her fist and knocks.
“Sorry, nobody down here but the FBI’s most unwanted,” his
muffled voice comes through the door.
She opens the door to find him bent over his cluttered desk,
carefully examining slides on a light tray. He’s surrounded by stacks of
binders and files, manila folders stuffed to the brim with scrawled notes on errant
papers; pictures of skulls and humanoid corpses adorn the walls, along with a
prominent poster of a UFO flying over trees declaring ‘I Want to Believe’. The
dim lights cast sallow shadows across his face when he turns his head to look
at her, still all oversized glasses, gaudy tie, and floppy hair she wants to
brush out of his eyes. His cool steady gaze offers no acknowledgement.
“Agent Mulder. I’m Dana Scully; I’ve been assigned to work with
She extends her hand. When his skin meets hers, she could
swear she’s been burned.
between storms, the Ladies Association of Bright Colors holds parades. As they
pass by the street outside they pop open their rainbow of parasols and shout
curses at our house. They call us the Cat Thieves because of the way the
neighborhood felines stage hostile takeovers of the apartment every time it
rains. We’ve tried to explain that the pets aren’t invited and we’d prefer it
if they stayed away, but once you get a reputation as a Cat Thief, there’s
really no shedding it.
cats don’t like us, I’ve told the Ladies over and over, it’s the apartment
they want. The apartment, with its tall, curved windows and deep-stained
mahogany that you can hear moaning in the winter, soft and languid, smooth. The
ratty, sea-green couch Sal inherited from his dead uncle, its insides all
spilling out where the cats have ripped through the velvet; the ruined silver
tea tray, cat hair embedded in all its cracks; the names of former tenants
etched behind the loose paneling in the bathroom, letters harsh and curveless.
I wouldn’t mind the cats so much if they didn’t use the dark wood of the walls
and railings as scratching posts. Sal says the whole place looks like a prison,
like all our ghosts have tried to claw their way out.
mother calls the apartment Chateau D'if. I’m not sure it can be a prison if all
the occupants keep trying to get in, but Sal likes the name so much he
made a sign for the door. APT 2D. CHATEAU D'IF FOR CATS.
like to watch the parades. The Ladies make their own dresses, layers of sewn
silk that are dyed deep and resonant with blues and greens and reds and
yellows, colors mixing in the fabric like liquid, whispering around the Ladies’
legs and making them as beautiful and precise as the careful stitching. They look
best without the parasols, with the sun sticky against their pale skin, their
dark skin, mixing flesh with fabric until its hard to tell what was born and
what was made. That’s when I like them best, but when they pass by through the
Chateau D'if they push open the shade of their umbrellas and hiss,
not thieves,“ I remind Sal from the balcony. He is eating a tuna sandwich.
There is a soft drop of mayonnaise on the corner of his mouth. He shrugs. The
Ladies Association of Bright Colors doesn’t bother Sal, except that they making
driving impossible on sunny days. We always have to take the bus–an ungainly,
purple, bovine thing that rumbles down too-small cobbled alleys like a child’s
overloaded wagon, squealing and squawking every time the driver hits the
breaks. The wheels have no tract whatsoever and we always slip when we hit
puddles. It’s not so bad in the dry season, but once the cats start showing up
with regularity I know to get a window seat and brace myself with my knees.
should just start closing the windows when it rains.“
thing,” he says, and takes another bite.
sunny days like this, you would never guess about the cats. Sal is meticulous
about vacuuming up the hair, about shoving the couch’s insides back where they
belong. If it weren’t for the deep scars in the walls, even I might forget the
way the cats wind around my ankles and barricade the door. When they come, they
come in hordes, in legions; they don’t lie on the couch, they lay siege to it.
We cannot cook because the cats are sleeping in our pots and curled up in the
microwave. There are always at least three in the dryer, no less than two in
our pillowcases. We find diced mice on the cutting board as if someone expects
us to serve it.
purring might drive you crazy, if you didn’t become used to it, if you didn’t
turn it into a lullaby. Sometimes I think that they are singing in harmony.
Sometimes I think that they are whispering secrets to me, trapped safe in the
place where languages meet and are incompatible. They watch us with their dark
eyes, prowling in circles, shedding and coughing up hairballs, telling us all
the things cats know, including that they know that we don’t understand them.
think you’re overthinking this,“ says Sal around a mouthful of tuna.
"Just watch the parade.”
am watching the parade,“ I tell him, and the Ladies’ dresses fan
out around them as they spin, whirring like pinwheels.
is no official credo of the Ladies’ Association of Bright Colors. I thought
they might be animal activists, the way they go on about the cats, but Sal says
he read somewhere that really what they’re protesting is the rain.
can you protest the rain?” I ask as the sky darkens and the first hum of a
cat folding itself into the space between the window and the frame slips into
the living room.
"Ask the cats,“ says Sal, and laughs. I don’t know why he thinks it’s so funny.
It’s Sal that can’t stand the hair everywhere, Sal that wakes up with cat
bodies pressing him into the mattress, pinning his wrists. I sleep in the
bathroom during the rain. The cats won’t touch the porcelain tub, for reasons
they’ll only tell us in their untranslatable, rough tongues.
are four or five cats now, slinking their way along the walls, circling. This
is how it always goes: a spiral from the wall inward, until they have reached
the center of the apartment. We tried placing furniture in that spot, but it
doesn’t deter them. The old wicker lampstand that we finally settled on is
frayed and cracked, its paint chipping. It is held together as much by cat hair
as by its woven strands.
rain comes faster and so do the cats, knocking over bowls and wrapping their
tails around the legs of the furniture. They pay Sal and I no mind.
the rainy season ends, the Ladies’ Association of Bright Colors hosts a parade
that far outshines all the others. The street seems to light up beneath them,
gathering their reflections. They say that black is made from colors mixing,
and today that’s true. Today black isn’t even black, just the reflecting of
silk in sun-drunk pavement.
call Sal from the bus station. We spent the morning locating the cats’ owners
and returning them. Now he is using Drain-O to dissolve hairballs and vacuuming
under the couch. I can hear him munching on chips, probably sour cream &
onion flavored because that’s all he’ll eat. The phone will have slick, grainy
fingerprints on it when I get home, and I won’t be able to scrub the oil off.
We’ll have to wait for the next rainstorm to come, because the cats lick off
the grease residue with their tough, no-nonsense tongues and make everything
D'if for Cats,” says Sal, laughing around a mouthful of crushed starch.
“Nothing but open windows and unlocked doors, and still, no one can get
out, not a single soul.”
hear him shove the vacuum under the always-bleeding couch, choking on lint and
fur that has gathered on the rug. There are no cats left in the apartment but
there are always the ghosts of cats, always the deep scars left in the wood
where they have sharpened their claws.
rainy season,“ he says easily, "let’s try closing the windows.”
“It’s about time,” I agree. “Next rainy
that’s the thing, you know; that’s what makes Chateau D'if Chateau D'if:
neither one of us will shut the window. I can’t explain it to you, if you don’t
already understand. I am not a Cat Thief and I don’t claw at the walls. I want
to see the Ladies Association of Bright Colors without their parasols. But I
can’t close the windows when it rains.
Warnings: StudentXProfessor relationship (No minors involved, Reader is a Grad student and completely legal at the age of 25), Language (you all know me by now, I mean c’mon), unprotected sex (you know the drill) This chapter is pure Smut. That’s it.
A/N: I am so beyond sorry for how long this took. I’m finally all settled into my dorm (thank GOD) and finally have access to my laptop and wifi again after a straight week of driving (Yes, a week. please kill me.) I hope you all enjoy, this chapter fought me like crazy but I’m pretty happy with the outcome! (But this is probably the worst porn I’ve ever written, I am so sorry.)
ALSO: If you saw my post about auditioning for a musical, I got a callback for the part I want!! :D Callbacks are in the morning and the cast list is up tomorrow afternoon! PLEASE keep me in your thoughts/prayers/send good juju because lord I love this show!!
Everything comes slamming back into reality the second Dr. Bar-Bucky takes his hands off of you.
“I’ll get a cab.” He says, clearing his throat as he stares into your eyes. Somehow you get yourself to nod, saying something about how you need to grab your purse and you only hope that what came out was at least slightly coherent.
Numb legs hobble over to the bar, and you’re surprised you keep completely upright the whole time. Wide eyes greet you as your hands find purchase on the bar itself.
“What the hell just happened?” They screech in unison, flabbergasted at the fact that a few seconds after rutting on the dance floor, the two of you have seemingly parted ways. You chug the water Wanda has offered out to you, sighing as it slithers down your throat. The cool liquid does nothing to cool you down, and as your eyes meet Bucky’s across the bar once more, the fire inside of you is set ablaze once more.
With a smirk, he nods towards the door. The taxi is waiting outside and your heart is pounding a million miles an hour.
Blowing a breath out your nose to steady yourself, you turn to your best friends and wink. “Don’t wait up, girls.”
The air in the taxi hangs thick as the two of you sit in silence. You’re sitting close - oh so close - and your heart is racing. You’ve never done something like this before and the thought of it all is incredibly daunting. The apprehension must show on your face, because beside you Dr. Barnes scoots closer. His long fingers curl under your chin, angling your face so that you’re gazing into each other’s eyes.
He’s silent as he looks at you, a small smile playing across his lips. Those very lips brush sweetly over yours a moment later and you melt into him again. Strong arms wind around you, easily pulling you into his lap as his tongue explores your mouth. He tastes divine and you hope to god that you are able to keep up with him.
The taxi lurches suddenly, the driver clearing his throat. The way you scramble off of Bucky’s lap is less than graceful, but he’s too distracted with fishing his cash out to notice. He all but throws the cash at your driver, snapping out a ‘keep the change’ as his hand wraps around your wrist before yanking you from the car.
Numb legs hobble to the elevator, doing nothing to catch you from slamming into his hard body as Bucky suddenly comes to a stop. He glances down at you as your momentum rocks him, his arm snaking around your waist to support you. You’re both hyper-aware of the fact that there are other people present in the lobby, and it only makes it that much more difficult to keep your hands off of each other. His eyes are peeking at you from the side as he faces ahead toward the elevators and you daringly lick your lips. His eyes darken.
The glance goes unnoticed by everyone else as his grip flexes against your hip.
That sinful pink tongue peaks out, running quickly across his lip and your legs almost give out.
With perfect timing, the elevator chimes to alert you of its presence and the both of you are almost running into the now open doors.
The second you’re inside, you’re shoved up against the far wall, the metal hand rail digging into your back as kiss chapped lips crash against your own. Hands land on either side of your head, lean waist edging your legs wider so he can rest right against you. He rocks gently as he kisses you, low groans escaping his throat as he generates the friction he so craves. Your chin begins to burn from the way he’s drinking you in with his kisses, but you couldn’t care less. In fact, you found yourself wondering how that beard burn would feel running up your inner thighs.
The elevator ride is over before it really starts, and while you’re slightly disappointed, you don’t even have a moment to mourn before you’re being scooped up bridal style - yes, bridal style, Christ almighty - and being carried effortlessly through the long hallway.
When he shifts to dig through his pocket for his keys you shriek, your weight being tossed over his shoulder. Your stomach rests against the strong muscle of his shoulder and you giggle as he fishes his keys out and only barely struggles to open the door. Your mirth is met with a sharp smack to your ass and there is no way you could prevent the moan that bubbles up in response.
Bucky smiles darkly, his teeth glimmering in the promising grin before he’s walking over the threshold. His large hand caresses your stinging cheek. Cupping your weight in his hands, he returns you to standing. You can feel the callouses on his strong hands through the flimsy material of your dress and gulp heavily. Thoughts of how good those fingers will feel between your legs dance behind your lust filled eyes. Your clumsy fingers reach up.
You want him naked now.
Well, you wanted him naked the moment you met him, but that’s beside the point.
“Patience, Doll,” Bucky whispers against the shell of your ear as he pulls you flush against him. Heat surges through your veins.
This is happening.
This is really happening.
You’re going to fuck your teacher. Dr. Bucky do-whatever-you-want-with-me Barnes is about to screw your brains out and -
Oh god, what’s he doing?
Your eyes roll back at the sensation of his warm tongue tracing your ear before dipping to the sensitive skin behind it. Fingers knot in the buttery leather draped on his strong frame and you’re singing his praises as his fingers inch up the hem of your skirt.
As the scratchy sparkles reach your stomach, he stops, callouses dancing over the ticklish skin there and his lips close around your pulse point.
Giggles that become sighs surge forward as he plays you like a god damn violin and you vaguely think that you want to do the exact same to him.
Daring hands surge forward and shove the leather jacket down his arms, tugging harshly and only keeping his touch from you for a matter of seconds. The shirt comes next, but he’s far too impatient to let you get any further. He attacks again, a new fever consuming him as he abandons your neck, lips capturing your own.
With your hem pushed so high, his hands come up to cup the backs of your bare thighs and suddenly you’re in the air. Instinctively, you wrap your arms and legs around him and the second you do, he’s moving down the hall. The movement is blurred, shaky as he rushes to the bedroom.
Your back meets the bed, body bouncing as Bucky drops you to tear his shirt off over his head. Your jaw drops and like a damn idiot you gape at him, eyes washing over every contour and crevice in his perfect abdomen. Suddenly, you’re very aware of the way he’s looking at you and you know he wants you to lose the dress.
There was only one problem.
You had no idea how to get it off.
God bless Natasha for lending you such a sexy number, but God damn her for choosing the one that requires a second set of hands to get on and off.
Coming up to rest back on your arms, you bat your eyelashes at the sex god staring down at you and bite your lip. Your foot even ventures to brush up the outside of his thigh, hooking around his hip as you speak.
“Want to give me a hand, big boy?” That same devilish grin breaks across Bucky’s face and before you can comprehend what’s happening, you’re on your stomach.
Large hands creep up your calves, dipping as they run over the back of your knees and you giggle at the sensation. A breathy chuckle blows over the back of your throat as hands travel further upward, squeezing the backs of your thighs. Unexpectedly, his fingers brush over your cloth covered center in his accession and you sigh quietly, your hips jolting off the bed.
Bucky’s low chuckle rings in your ears again as his fingers knot in the hem and tug up. Somehow he gets the skintight garment off and tosses it off somewhere in the room. As soon as it’s gone, his hands are on the bare skin of your back. He admires you quietly, letting his skin run over the dips of your back before he’s rolling you over again. He settles on his knees between your spread legs, groaning as he cups your lace covered breasts in his hands. “You’re so beautiful.” He whispers into your cleavage as he descends on you, laving at the soft skin of your breasts.
Heat follows the path he traces on your soft skin, goosebumps exploding beneath his hands as he kneads your breasts. His eyes are glued to the lace adorning them, his thumbs rolling your nipples as he watches pleasure dance over your face. Reaching inside, he brings a breast out to the cool air, blowing over the sensitive bud before taking it into his mouth.
Your whines split the air as he laps at you, teeth grazing and pulling gently, just enough that your legs dance in response of their own accord. His hand pays the same attention to the other breast each time he switches off but his blue eyes are always locked on your face.
Then his lips travel lower, tracing every detail of your stomach.
Feather light touches drift down your stomach, curling over your hips and the garments hugging them as his mouth explores. Those talented fingers pluck at the elastic of your panties, and you’re sure that if he doesn’t get them off soon, you’re going to lose your mind. Thankfully, he hooks his fingers in the fabric, dragging them down and tossing them over your shoulder before he’s licking at the skin of your pelvic bone again.
Then, at the last second, he’s pulling to the side, nipping the sensitive skin where your hip meets your pelvis. You shudder, not quite expecting it, and your legs pull closer of their own accord.
But that won’t do.
Callouses brush against the skin behind your thighs, tracing the shape of your ass, before pushing your legs apart. You gasp at how exposed you suddenly are, sighing when that focused tongue dances on the skin of your pubic bone, then your hip. The stubble peppering that strong chin leaves fire in its wake but you don’t fucking care. If anything the sting pulls your strings tighter and so when he finally inches closer, circling your pussy a few times before he’s tripping over your clit, you arch off the bed.
“There we go.” He rumbles lowly against your core, the vibrations pulling a whine from your chest. He’s using every tool he’s got to take you higher and higher, brushing that delicious stubble over your most sensitive skin, fingers teasing at your folds, all while his breath is blowing over you. His eyes are locked on you, memorizing every reaction he pulls from you. Your body bows as he repeats every action that has you chanting his name, and soon enough you’re tripping over the edge.
Your first orgasm catches you off guard when his stubble is brushing over your clit again as he devours you. He notices, because as you’ve experienced thus far - this man misses nothing - and he does it again, elongating your orgasm as he presses with his tongue, his nose, his chin. Anything and everything that has you burning in his hands. Then his fingers slide home and you’re not sure how much more you can take.
Bucky’s eyes watch hungrily as he thrusts his fingers in and out, spreading your slick all over as you flutter around the curling digits.
You collapse against the bed as you come down, chest rising and falling as you pant and desperately try to catch your breath. Your eyes flutter shut, your energy failing you.
Bucky chuckles above you, his weight coming to rest on you. When you open your eyes, his beautiful smiling face is staring back and you and you can’t help but giggle.
“What’s so funny?” He asks, brushing your damp hair from your forehead. You reach up, brushing a finger through his damp stubble.
“You’ve got a little…something, right there.” You tease, bringing the slick finger to your mouth and sucking it into your mouth all while maintaining eye contact. Blue eyes grow dark as you lick your juice from your finger and as soon as you’ve pulled it from your mouth, he’s on you.
The kiss is bruising, the energy flowing through the two of you anew. His hands clamp down heavily on your hips, pulling them up as he grinds down. You whine, grinding back against him and tug at the denim keeping him from you. Taking the hint, he rocks back on his haunches and rids himself of both pants and boxers in almost one fluid motion.
Your eyes grow wide, jaw dropping, and Bucky merely chuckles. The man is gifted, there’s no doubt about that. Hell, he’ll probably tear you in two. But fuck, he’s absolutely stunning. That strong, taut body all hard and ready - for you. The thought has a shiver running up your spine and you wrap your arms around his neck to pull him down again. His weight lands on his forearms at either side of your head and he begins to rub his bare skin against you.
The both of you moan at the new found friction, Bucky’s head falling to the crook of your neck as he continues his assault. You’re sure if he keeps it up, you’ll cum again all too quickly. But you need him inside of you.
“Bucky,” You sigh, your legs wrapping around his wide waist and pulling him closer to you.
“What do you want, beautiful?” He asks gently, smacking your ass lightly when you don’t answer him quickly enough. “C’mon, Doll.”
“I want to ride you.”
He doesn’t have to be told twice.
As soon as the words are out of your mouth, Bucky’s on his back and pulling you on top of him. His dark eyes drink you in, no doubt lost in the way you look above him. After all, you’re admiring him as well. The way his hair is splayed out like a crown, chest rising and falling, proud cock curled up to his stomach as he aches for you.
By now, your liquor has completely worn off. Now you’re intoxicated by nothing but Bucky. You find him easily enough, never breaking the eye contact as you ease him into your entrance and your heart hammers at the way his eyes flutter and he groans. The thick head pushes in easily enough, stretching you with a pleasant sting and you can’t help but moan as well.
It’s downright pornographic, in fact.
“Fuck, you’re tight.” He moans high in the back of his throat.
“It’s been a while.” You admit sheepishly, shifting so you can rock against him comfortably.
“Me too.” He utters out, on the verge of insanity at the slow pace you’ve set. The admission sends your heart speeding out of your chest, your pride soaring that such a handsome man would choose you to break his dry spell, and him - yours.
You don’t bounce on him yet, don’t slowly rise up and down, you just rock slowly, letting the fur low on his abdomen tickle your clit as you memorize the way he feels inside you. The way he fills you so completely. He does the same for a moment, eyes rolling back at the way your walls constrict around him every time a shock shoots through your clitoris. The warm vice around him slowly drives him to break, and when he does you’re done for.
Strong hands clamp on your hips, blue eyes narrowing before he pulls you up, only to slam you right back down.
Your moans harmonize, yours high and desperate while his are low and satisfied.
He controls it then, letting making you ride him as he controls the way you bounce above him. His thumb angles down as you bounce, finding your clit, the friction you so desperately need is hitting it perfectly.
“Come on, doll.” Bucky coaxes you, thumb forming circles around your little nub.
“On what?” You tease breathlessly, shocked that you’re coherent enough through your pleasure to make a joke. But it’s not a joke to him, apparently, and his tongue sweeps over his lips as his eyes dart to the place where the two of you are meeting over and over again.
“On me, doll. All over my cock.” His voice is low, dangerous, and it’s enough to almost have you reeling.
“Fucking hell.” You mutter, picking up the pace and grinding yourself against his pelvic bone every time the two of you meet. “Bucky, I’m s-so close. Fuck, I’m gonna-gon-oh!”
His hands tighten on your hips, keeping the pace going as you come apart on top of him, legs shaking as your walls grip at him. Those perfect teeth grind as his jaw flexes and you know he can’t last much longer, not with the way you’re milking him.
He howls, not letting his pace falter, that gruff voice and the way he’s spilling his seed inside of you elongating your own climax until you’re both collapsing.
The air is thick and reeks of sex as you fall atop your panting partner. Not a word is said as kisses are pressed to each other’s temples, bodies shifting so that you’re laying on your back as he rises to his feet.
Before you can wonder what he’s doing, your eyes shut gently. You’re completely content. Hell, you’re beyond content. You’re ellated. You came twice in one night, at the hands of the man of your dreams and just when you think he couldn’t be more perfect, he’s returned with a wet washcloth to clean you up.
He presses kisses to your lips as he wipes his mess from you, taking care to make sure you’re as comfortable as possible before he gets rid of it and returns to your side.
His heavy frame causes the bed to dip as he slips under the covers. His strong arms wrap around you, pulling your back flush with his front as he settles onto his pillow. Lazy kisses are pressed to your bare shoulder blades and you can feel the smile growing against your skin as he presses a particularly long kiss to your skin.
“Goodnight, doll.” He murmurs sleepily and you can feel sleep pulling at you as well. Just as you drift off, you respond quietly, not quite catching yourself.