wtv this is

The first two are self-explanatory, but the third is a wild card you never expected. He came home with it at the start of the summer and never looked back, carefully tending to it night and day with an intense devotion that had you feeling more than a little jealous. Hours went into polishing the chrome details and treating the leather seats. He drove it as if he was transporting the Ark of the Covenant. Sometimes you’d even catch him in the garage, just admiring it in quiet awe before bed.

You didn’t even know Bucky was into vintage cars, having just suffered through his year-long crazed motorcycle phase, but there’s no disputing it now. He acts like the cherry-red convertible is his first born child.

So it’s no surprise to you when Bucky announces he’s going to give the car a wash on a particularly steamy July day. You’re fanning yourself with a magazine while sitting next to the open window, hoping for an improbable breeze to cool your flushed skin. Bucky, with his super serum regulatory system, looks frustratingly comfortable for the number on the thermometer, although he’s swapped his usual dark t-shirt and jeans for a white tank top and loose-fitting shorts. It’d make you stop and stare if you weren’t on the brink of a heat-induced psychosis.

“Most people stay out of the sun when it’s this hot,” you grumble, watching as he dons a pair of shades.

“I’m not most people,” he replies with a toothy grin.

“Don’t I know it,” you sigh, pressing a glass of ice water to your neck.

“Wanna help?”

You wave your hand at him. “No thanks. I prefer not to have heat stroke today. I’ll just be in here, enjoying the show.”

His smile grows smug. “Tips are always appreciated.”

“Better make it worth my while, then.”

He chuckles before stepping out into the burning heat of the summer afternoon. You watch from the window as he backs the convertible down the driveway until it’s directly in your line of sight. From the glance he throws your way, you know it was intentional. You’re not complaining.

Bucky gathers his supplies carefully, methodically laying them out in front of the car: bucket, rags, soap and sponges. The hose is last, and like the tease he is, he takes his sweet time uncoiling it much like a cowboy does with his lasso. The muscles in his shoulders ripple with every motion, his vibranium arm glinting in the sun, until the hose is laid out exactly how he wants it and he’s ready to begin. When he disappears around the corner to turn on the water, you realize your nose is almost pressed up against the glass. And is that drool you feel on your chin?

The worst part is that he isn’t even trying. And he’s only just started.

You wave the magazine faster.

When he returns, Bucky carefully soaks the trunk of the car with a gentle stream of water. Then he pours the soap into the bucket, bending over to mix until it’s overflowing with suds. It’s crazy that you can see every muscle in his back flex through his tank top, but again, you’re not complaining.

Bucky swipes the sponge over the wet car and begins cleaning it to perfection. He starts with the bumper, dark shades slipping down his nose, and works his way up until he’s leaning over the trunk. Once he’s satisfied that he got every inch, he pulls back, blessing you with the sight of a very wet and see-through shirt. The magazine slips from your grasp as you gaze upon his carved chest and sharp abdominals, the dark nipples poking through the fabric.

You’re out of your chair and opening the door before you realize that you’ve left the safety of the shaded living room.

Bucky looks up as soon as he hears your footsteps on the driveway, bubbles dripping down his hand. “Am I about to be tipped?”

You roll your eyes. “Nice try. I guess I’m…here to help.”

“Something change your mind?” he asks with a smirk, and you swear he flexes his abs.

“Oh, please. I only came out because I know the hose water’s cold and that’s better than melting inside.”

He gestures to it. “It’s all yours.”

You shoot him a look before picking up the hose and moving to the front of the car. The water trickles out onto the hood, and you eagerly stick your hand under it. The temperature is crisp against your skin; you swipe across the back of your neck, then your collarbone. The trails of water leave goosebumps in their wake as they drip past your neckline, but it’s the best you’ve felt since you woke up this morning to the sticky heat of another concerningly hot day. You add a handful to your face for good measure, then — blinking through the drips — your eyes find Bucky.

As predicted, he’s watching closely, with that familiar hungry undertone to his stare. With or without intention — you’re not sure yet — this has become a standoff, a game of who can wind up the other more.

Once upon a time you’d say it’d be crazy to be turned on from something as normal as washing a car, but with Bucky, you’ve learned that nothing’s off the table.

Sucking his teeth, your boyfriend turns back to his sponge, reverently cleaning the brake lights with unwavering focus. You fight down a smile and grab the other sponge.

The two of you quietly wash the car, the relentless sun baking your exposed skin. You’re regretting not putting on sunscreen, but settle for splashing your arms and legs every so often with the hose to help with the burn. From the corner of your eye, you can see Bucky turning away pointedly each time, shoulders tense, and it gives you an irrational sense of pride. Looks like you’re the one putting on the show now.

The more you buff the car, the more you begin to appreciate its cherry-red body, the luminescent sparkles hidden in its depths, the reflection of the metallic accents. It truly is a beautiful convertible, and you can’t help but feel oddly powerful every time you sit in the passenger seat when Bucky takes you for joy rides around town. There’s a possessive feeling in your chest as you make it shine, like for the first time you feel able to claim it as much as yours as it is Bucky’s by giving it the million-dollar treatment. You’re starting to understand his obsession.

Once the front is cleaned, you start down the side, carefully washing the fenders until they gleam. You must have gotten lost in the motions of it because you nearly jump from your crouched position when a shadow falls over you.

Bucky’s made his way up the same side until he’s met you in the middle. His sponge knocks into yours, spraying soap and bubbles over your arm and on your shirt. You grunt.

“You did that on purpose,” you mutter with a sideways look.

“No I didn’t, you’re in my way,” he mutters back, rubbing vigorously at an invisible spot. More suds fly off the sponge, coating your shorts this time.

“Bucky!”

“What?”

“You’re getting me wet!”

He grins, not taking his eyes off the place his sponge cleans. “Well, that’s nothing new.”

You grit your teeth, even though you can taste the truth of his words on your tongue, can feel the truth of his words beyond the soap and water. But you’re not losing this war.

Without thinking, you grab the hose off the ground next to you, flick the nozzle to ‘spray’ with your thumb, and point it at your boyfriend. And then you pull the trigger.

A jet of water hits him directly in the side, catching him by surprise and sending him straight onto his ass. You make sure to aim for his shorts, quickly drenching them until they stick to him like a second skin, and the wake of it soaks his shirt as an unplanned — yet happy — consequence. Bucky puts his metal hand up to stave off the water getting into his face.

“Hey, hey, hey!”

You let go of the trigger, your smile smug, and stand over him. There’s no denying that he looks positively humbled, the image of a drowned kitten with his big blue eyes blinking up at you in disbelief. You drop the hose and cross your arms in triumph.

“Now who’s wet?” you ask sweetly.

Bucky wipes off the excess water from his eyes. They flash at you in warning. “Oh, it’ll be you, doll.”

He springs up with super human speed, and you have only half a second to jump out of his grasp and scamper around to the other side of the car. “Bucky,” you warn, using the convertible as a barrier. “Don’t you dare.”

He stalks around the hood, forcing you to retreat to the trunk, a wickedness in his tight smirk. “You started it, baby, don’t back down now.”

You gulp, knowing you can’t run circles around this car forever; Bucky’s jumped greater lengths than the Mustang, after all. You take another step but almost trip on a rag left on the ground. Instinct takes over and you grab it blindly — it’s soaked and heavy in your hand before you launch it at him. It’s safe to say the both of you are wildly surprised when it hits its mark, landing directly in the middle of Bucky’s already wet chest with a loud smack.

His eyes burn into yours when it drops to the ground. “Now you’re really getting it.”

You shriek when he takes off, coming around the side of the car and scooping up the hose as he goes. The ice cold water hits your back and nearly knocks the breath out of you, but you keep running until you’ve swapped places around the car. The assault stops just in time to prevent any water from getting inside, and you take the opportunity to crouch out of sight against the front bumper, chest heaving.

“This isn’t a fair fight and you know it!” you call out. Bucky laughs in response.

“Fair? You’ve gotten most of the hits, sweetheart.”

“Put the hose down, Bucky — for the sake of the car.”

A pause as Bucky considers. “Nuh-uh. You just want me to put it down so you can have it.”

“Fuck,” you whisper, eyes squeezing shut. So much for that ploy.

Your ears strain for the sounds of Bucky moving, but all you can hear is the buzzing of summer bugs and that indescribable high-pitched whine that comes with intense heat. Despite the game, your heart thuds against your chest. You love Bucky more than anything, but you’d be the biggest idiot to ever forget that he was once the scariest ghost story told in the darkest corners of the world. His past is made up of secrecy, silence and impossible kill shots. You couldn’t think of a worse opponent to go up against.

Just then, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and you look over in time to see the nozzle of the hose stick out around the corner. You dive, the spray hitting your bare feet as you take cover on the other side of the car.

You hear Bucky laugh again. “Natasha would be impressed if she could see you right now.”

A breathless smile snakes across your face as you crawl towards the back of the convertible. “Maybe you’ve finally met your match, Barnes.”

He groans. “Don’t say that, it only makes me want you more.”

“If you drill me with that hose, that’ll be the only thing you’re drilling tonight.”

“That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one.”

You dare to peek over the top of the car. Bucky seems to have taken inspiration from your stealth moves and is using the car as shelter. You glance under it to find his feet somewhere on the side, near the hood. Your eyes land on his forgotten sponge, sitting just within reach next to his half-filled bucket of soapy water. As quietly as you can, you grab the sponge and toss it over your head. You hear it hit the ground on the other side of the car from him, and what follows is the scrape of gravel as he slides over to investigate the sound. Your window of opportunity opens.

Moving on silent feet, you pick up the bucket, trying desperately not to let the water splash, and follow behind Bucky. You see him poke his head around the front of the car, and then you pounce.

The bucket is turned upside down over his head, drenching him from head to toe. He gasps and sputters, whipping around to see you dancing out of reach so not even the hose can get to you.

“I win!” you declare.

“Says who?!” he demands, standing up. The water runs off him in rivulets, a sudsy wet spot growing rapidly where he just sat.

“Says me — you’re completely soaked and I’m still dry,” you answer with a smile, hand on your hip.

He narrows his eyes at you before peeling his wet shirt off his body, letting it hit the ground without fanfare; he pushes his slick hair out of his eyes, and your mouth goes suddenly, yet predictably, dry. Bucky notices the way you’ve gone still and a slow smile works its way across his face.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

“No,” you say immediately.

“Come here, I wanna congratulate you on your win.”

“Bucky—“

“Baby, just one hug, that’s all I want.”

And then he’s taking off after you across the driveway, through the front yard and around the large oak tree. You squeal every time he comes close enough to swipe at your shirt. You know he could easily catch up to you, but Bucky’s always liked the chase.

“No, please—“ you beg, legs burning as you make a break for the front door.

But that’s when you feel two arms, one warm and one cold, snake around your waist. You’re lifted off the ground and spun around, tucked against a hard, wet chest that soaks through your tank top. Bucky buries his drenched face into your neck, pressing hot kisses there as his hold on you tightens. Your shrieks quickly melt into giggles as his large body folds over yours, his lips continuing to attack every inch of you that they can reach while your clothes begin to dampen against his skin.

“Gotcha,” he says in your ear. You smile, fighting weakly against him.

“Buckyyyy…”

“Now what did you say earlier? Something about drilling you?”

Your laughter carries across the yard. The sun beats down on the half-washed car. Bucky’s prized possession is momentarily forgotten as he carries you into the house, more than ready to remind you what his real prized possession is.

sammy speaks: hi! this was short and sweet and probably trash but I wanted to make sure I got it out there before July ended :) I have missed you all sm!!!! I’m so sorry that I haven’t gotten to the latest comments, reblogs and asks about at your back door, but I will get to them soon, I promise. and I have soooooo many fics by other incredible authors to catch up on too ugh!!!!!! summer is always so crazy for me and I may have underestimated how much free time I actually have to write, but I’m hoping to get something else out next week, so stay tuned!

Jack sighs happily, as if he’s already sated with the glimmer of your teeth and your honeyed little hum of, “hi dad…” Your socked feet are hung off the table, kicking up like a joy-strewn puppy attempting to behave and not yet pounce on him. Jack is immediately permitted to swallow his groan, his cock already starting its swell in the groin of his black scrubs. 

“Hey, sugar,” he smiles back, the creases by his mouth gleaming in the white-hot lighting. He steps close and slips right into the scene, his brows furrowing in faux concern about what’s ‘written’ on the chart before he meets your eyes again.

“See here you’re having some pain in your privates?” His finger taps at the folder twice before gently setting it down on the counter. “Mind if the doctor takes a look?” You nod, shifting your thighs together and suckling on your bottom lip, succumbing to his request and spreading them. 

Jack is unable to suppress his smirk, tugging up the scrub fabric on his thighs to properly sit on the stool in an examination. Your slick imbues freshly through your underwear, and he nearly shivers with anticipation before exhaling slowly. His thick palms press at your knees, shoving them more apart, and you hike the hospital gown up enough to expose the sliver of skin just above your waistband.  

You’re irrevocably swollen – Jack can already tell from how see-through your panties are; the translucence from the seeping slick now outlines your tender, tumid folds, and he begins to trace them with the lightest touch, noting the contour of your puffy pussy lips and how your pleading clit is nudging through the thin fabric. Another groan is subdued in his throat when he conceals his desire within his ‘Doctor Dad’ facade, and he slowly peels the sticky fabric off of your cunt. Strings of your arousal break with distance, and you begin to leak on the paper beneath you. You’re so reddened, and Jack bites back a beratement – he can already tell that you’ve been rubbing the night away while he’s been working – although for now, he feigns indifference.

“Okay, baby, I see you’re having some swelling and tenderness. I’ll need to check everything carefully.” You nod, listening to his clinical request as you watch your Dad snap on sterilizing gloves, whimpering when his thick digits flex beneath the material. “I’m going to press gently to access the inflammation. Tell me if it hurts too much, alright?” 

His hand rubs at your inner thigh in a poor play of professional detachment. “Deep breath for me now.” 

Your hips twitch involuntarily with your stifled breath, and Jack just drinks in each little reaction of your body. His eyes are dimming now, the hazel spurred within them now staining with something darker. Something languorous.

A blue-veiled index finger begins to prod the swell of your slick pussy, and immediately, you squirm and choke down whines of pleasure. His lips quirk up when a fat drool glistens out of your cunt.

“That’s it. Just relax for me, little one... Know it must feel strange with Dad touchin’ you like this…” Jack chuckles, and it’s playfully light, as if he’s mending a scraped knee or bandaging a papercut, rather than probing himself at your drippy little pussy. You try, and wholly fail, to not rut on his hand when he firmly presses his thumb on your pulsing, gooey bud – you cant your hips up eagerly in an involuntary response. 

His brows raise in that subtle, parental admonishment, clicking his tongue to talk. “Tch. Baby... I need you to stay still so I can get a good look.” The sensation on your clit slows to a soft and deliberate taunt, a testament to the former pressure he’d just tormented your body with.

“‘m sorry, dad.” You mumble, biting hard onto your lip. He retracts unreservedly then, adjusting his gloves in the respectable role of your current physician.

It’s impossible for Jack to remain stoic when his own face is flush with want. His groin aches, and his cock is evidently bobbing through the strained material of his scrubs. He finds himself leaning in between your quivering thighs, attempting a steadying breath. The role is crumbling; he can’t help it — he’s more Dad than Doctor when his face dips in, his nose brushing the inside of your thigh to inhale the scent. Your skin is sugared from body lotion, warm and salted from the night, and infused with the sweet aroma of what drips out of your swollen little pussy. He sighs, sitting up to conjure up some composure, and slips a gloved hand against your cunt. 

“Okay, sugarplum. You’re definitely inflamed.” He nods once to himself before parting your inner folds to expose the glistening that clings to them. He can see your hole undulate at his touch, clenching on nothing before more translucent want weeps out of you.

“Does it hurt when I do this?” He asks, playing into the part of what’s purely diagnostic. He applies the pressure of his two digits right against where your entrance quivers to be filled, and instantly, your throat cracks out a whine. Jack ignores it, pressing more pronouncedly onto your hole. “What about here, honey?” He ponders out loud, before shoving his gloved index finger past the ring of muscle, pushing all the way inside you, scraping walls with an audible squelch. You let out a pitched gasp, nearly a moan, and much too loud for the exam room. He prods into the tender flesh of your tightening cunt, and the pressure has your back already arching and eyes clenching shut. The paper crinkles under your writhing body as you ineptly simulate the ingenuousness you’re supposed to exude.

“ahh–! dad.. dad, that.. feels rea- really funny,” you whine out, whilst your doctor remains neutral. He’s too fucking good at this, feigning it all in this fantasy of provoking pleasure in a poorly oblivious and inexperienced ‘patient.’ You want to kick his ribs, jam your heel in an effort to bare his skin and rip off those godforsaken black scrubs, to just have his swelling dick deep inside you already. But you don’t. You just worry at your lip, peering down at your Dad’s forehead lines and how they scrunch in his rapt perusal of your pussy. You stare at the silvered curls that streak against your thighs, softly sweeping over your skin and leaving you to shiver in their wake.

“Funny, huh? Hmmm…” His voice is heavier now, and the breaths that exude from his lungs are hot and curling over your clit in a whisper of sensation. Your hole flutters in a relentless, sloppy throb.

“Does it feel funny when I do this?" His finger inside mushes itself right inside that soft, sponged spot inside, and this time, you do react, in a roused, surprised moan. Your hips buck, and you shudder, half slouched on the wall against the exam table. Jack’s mouth is only mere inches from your warmth now, and it takes everything in him not to salivate and suck on your turgid, needy bud. You smell like sweet musk, heat and heaven, and he parts his lips to aspirate the flavor, swallowing it thickly before forcing out another fallacious assessment with a frown. 

“Oh. That doesn’t feel any better, does it, pumpkin?” He sighs, his brows furrowing in a contrived look of bewilderment – he acts as if you’re in physical, unexplainable pain, rather than sensitivity from hammering arousal and your need for release. But Jack can’t quite angle his wrist right with enough success to ram in relentless thrusts, and he pulls out and away as a result. You whine with sheer impotence and anguish.

“Let’s try something else. Lay back, honey. Let Dad take another look.” 

You’re too distraught with the discomfort to discern Jack’s feverish desire. This innocent doctor-patient act you both are playing at has his fat dick pulsing, his breaths too fast, and he has to force himself to maintain configuration. Maybe he’ll just cum contactless. It already feels like he will. He’s dribbling precum already, and his hips twitch every so often to spurt and slicken his boxers. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. He’s not sure that they’ll ever be a last – his kid tests him and his virility more often than he should allow. 

Jack’s teeth spear into his bottom lip, watching you obey doctor’s orders so willingly. You reposition yourself to properly lie vertically on the table, your tiny cunt smearing on the paper sheet as Jack rounds the side on the stool. Your knees are bent past the edge, feet hung once again, before he’s racking a leg over his shoulder to properly spread and palm your heat. His free hand presses on the plush of your inner thigh to keep you splintered open for when he plunges his thick digits back in. And he does, immediately. Before you can seal your legs shut again. Two fingers pry against sloppy petals, and then penetrate inside of you once more. The friction of his finger pads grind incessantly against the sweet spot where you throb, and it draws out a long, tormented moan from you.

“Ah..” He smiles in faux guile at the diagnostic discovery, “I think I know what the problem is – My baby’s pussy is empty. Poor little cunt.. that’s why you’re all puffy, isn’t it, honey?”

You whimper and nod discordantly, babbling out a, “yes, doctor,” that makes Jack’s hips twitch as the knot in his gut stutters a sharp spike of arousal down through his spine.

“That’s right. Doctor Dad's gonna fix you right up.” Jack promises, but the pressure of his digits inside remains too slow.

You still gush, squelching out when you push your cunt up on his knuckles, moaning an implore of, “dada– please dada, more…”

Jack groans gutterrally at your prattish want, pressing kisses to the side of your knee that’s slung over him. “Yeah. That’s right baby, it’s Dada. And Dada’s just trying to make you feel better. Although…” He fucks his fingers deeper against your fleshy, inner walls, just to accentuate his unsound words, “I’ve never had a patient react quite like this before.”

“s’ ‘cause ‘m your daughter,” you murmur back, and your shameless, immediate claim nearly makes him cum untouched in his scrubs.

“Fuck… Yeah. I know.” Jack grits out with fierce need, his breath ragged, and his grasp on your thigh grows white-knuckle taut for a moment before relaxing again. “Can’t let my baby hurt, though.” 

You’re a prowess for fucking ruining him. You always do. And in reply, he mars you with two fingers deep within the confines of your body. His exhale is dizzy, his eyes hazed, and he heeds all he can muster to subsist through the scene. 

Your squishy pussy slips out more arousal, puddling up the paper below the cleft of your ass. When Jack speaks again, it's only hushed in condescension – all saccharine and succulent, just to make you snivel. 

“Ohh, look at you. Baby’s getting allll fussy, over just a little checkup, huh? Just so runny down here...” The words melt off his tongue and settle hot in your spine. Jack fucks his fingers harder, before popping them halfway out, just to see your poor, inflamed little pussy flow out arousal. “Aw. Look at her. Makin’ a little river for Dad.”

You start thrashing when he doesn’t press himself back in, beginning to purposefully and petulantly whine aloud. Jack watches as you attempt to toss – your thighs only tremble in his asundering grip, but the calf crutched over his shoulder shudders against his jaw, shoving flush with his face in defiance. His teeth sink in before his mind can interject. And it works. It does halt your twisting muscles.

You gasp, pacified immediately from the pain as you’re left panting. Jack doesn’t shred through skin – it's only just enough to stifle your squirms, leaving your lower leg indented with a bite pooling with saliva. His laugh is bitter, bred straight from tutelarous, torturous depths, sated from your stasis and sweet, shuddering cunt. It’s an unbidden break in the role, clearly, but he’s able to curb it and recompose himself. He kisses the faceted mark before a grin furls onto his lips. 

“Poor little one. Can’t even stay still for her exam.”

You don’t respond; you can’t, really. You just turn your head away as a pout blooms on your face in a biddable, silent plea. Jack clears his throat, pinching at your inner thigh with his free hand.

“I see. That’s not what a good little baby does, you know… You have to try to hold steady for the doctor, or I’m not going to be able to make you stop hurting… Do you understand that, sweetheart? Can you listen? Stay still for Dad?”

Your mouth stays silent in an attempt to concentrate on remaining stationary, but your pussy whines in squelches when he twists his wrist, angling it a little deeper once again. It’s not until you experience the icy sensation of metal, softly pressed against your pleading clit, that a sound, a gasp, is wrung high and raw from your throat.

“Such a reactive little patient.” Jack’s smirks, positioning the stethoscope more firmly as your pulse hammers through your wet, wanting flesh. “Making such a mess of my equipment, baby… but Daddy has to listen; your rhythm is accelerated.”

You mewl, unmoving, even as his fingers frot knuckle-deep inside, gently swirling the diaphragm through the slick that’s soaked and sticky on your bulb of nerves.

“Babycunt’s all throbby… She’s beating so hard.” 

Jack sighs with furrowed brows and faux apprehension; Your ‘ailment’ is not yet cured by the remedy of his hands. Of course, Jack also knows that he hasn’t given you enough pressure or pace to cum –  the torment of your pleasure is a part of the appeal and the scene. And so his digits pause inside you once more and press hard into your plush spot while you fight the need to writhe. “Such excessive sensitivity. I think… I think you need a different course of treatment, little one.”

He sighs before he stops all the stimulation of your pussy. Fingers force themselves out of your stretched, seeping hole; the stethoscope is withdrawn and whisked away, and you cry in helplessness and denial. 

Jack stands with a groan, his good knee popping at the joint while his prosthetic adjusts to position. He grins as you weep, watching you grind on the paper, mindless and crying. His hands slip beneath the hospital gown, below your arms, as he hikes you higher off the table, hips raised in the air for him to properly scale himself against your lain form.

His girthy thighs ascend from his scrubs as he sheds them off just enough to expose his hardened, seeking cock. A fat dribble of precum weeps out when it’s exposed to air, and Jack grunts, squeezing his length while his other hand parts your thighs, exposing your already clenching pussy. 

“Dad’s gonna give you the right medicine now, okay, baby?” Jack doesn’t wait for you to respond – you only convey yourself with a baby whine, anyway. He just drags your hips to his, notching his puffy, pleading tip against your slit.

“Shh… shh, honey.” He rasps in a whisper, entirely enthralled by the way your eager cunt is already attempting to clench on his cockhead. “S’just a special treatment, okay? Take it like a good baby.” 

The first push makes you cry out, your hole so hot and puffy, stretching out on his fat dick while he just coos to you. “Fuck… there she is. Jus’ a little stretch — you’re okay, you got it.”

He slots the thick, aching length of him further inside your plush, clamping walls, even as you whimper softly. “Gonna get you all better, kid.” 

With a squelching thrust, more of your slick sputters out of your creamy cunt, suckling your Dad further inside. Jack grunts, his hands pressing to your hips, holding you still as he pumps himself deeper, prodding into the walls of your warmth. His lips are parted, eyes closed and biceps tense as he holds back the sharp curls of heat that spike in his groin. His baby just feels so good. Pulsing and squeezing him, and he bucks up once more, pulling your pelvis tight against his. His swollen cockhead buries itself right against the spongy spot inside you, your palpitating, quivering pussy beating right through the veins that bulge through his dick. You watch Jack bite his bottom lip, his mouth dipping into those familiar lines around the silver bristles when he frowns in pleasure – entirely enraptured in the way you ripple around him. A hand of his shoots down to steel himself, pinching at the base of his cock to calm the orgasm that simmers inside his gut. 

You listen to your Dad pant, before he’s giving an exploratory roll into the tightening clutch of his baby, kissing up at your cervix, and making you gasp out with the full sensation. 

His thumb finally makes contact with your sticky, exposed bundle of nerves, which is already engorged from so much friction and firmed up with blood flow. Jack rubs it in lavishing glides, in tandem with each shivering thrust that he makes inside you, and the heat in your belly sunders. Your orgasm hits in a hot, dizzying surge of seeping arousal. You gush from around him with a gasp, your body nearly convulsing with the clench of your pussy. Your puffy walls writhe against the thick ridges of him, cumming on your Dad’s length in extended whimpers of ravishing pleasure. 

“Oh, looook at you.” Jack chuckles gruffly, “Cumming so sweetly for the doctor.” You can hear the infantilizing tone of his voice, and it only makes your cunt shudder harder in a constricting hold on him. “Mmh– I know… Didn’t know a checkup would feel this good, did you, honey?” 

You respond with a shake of your head, or more of a jerky sway, accompanied by a dazed look in your eye when you look up at your Dad. He moans above you, at the scent and sight of him sinking himself further in and out of your pussy, watching his baby’s cunt swallow the slick, thick base of him. 

“That’s it– fuck. Dad’s just gotta fill you with your medicine, baby.” Jack slots himself entirely inside, for the final time, flush with your hips, slumped and bent over your body to press against your chest. He feels the throbbing, sticky sheath of you on the swell of his cock, gripped and twitching tight. His free hand clasps, clenched on the side of the exam table as he ruts needily inside your tender, twitching little cunt before stilling. Jack cums with a sharp, hoarse groan, flooding you in scorched surges of warmth. His orgasm nearly feels endless as he seeps into you, filling his baby, and fucking himself deeper when spurt after spurt shoots through his slit and thickly stuffs your puffy hole. He doesn’t stop; not until there’s a foamed ring of your cum and his semen coating the base of his cock where the silver hair curls and prickles at his groin. 

The exam room is silent except for shared pants and pulses. Jack peers down at you only after the post-sex moments stretch long, and he’s purely endeared by how thoroughly and undoubtedly wrecked you are – cheeks seeped wet, lips parted and glistening saliva down your chin. You’re fiercely clamped on his now slackening cock as if he belongs confined inside of you – and yet, you both are eerily cognizant that the truth is that he does; You’re inexorably, and painfully, aware of your dependence on each other, on the bond that blooms with such inexplicable love. And, of course, the ‘treatment’ of having your Dad spill into your cunt until you’re both trembling and sticky with sweat and cum. 

Your eyes tiredly meet his own – dizzy, dreary, and splashed dark with devotion for his daughter. His lungs stutter with his breaths, but Jack smiles with surfeit, still half bowed over you, chest to chest and snuggling his face into your neck. Your senses are fully saturated with only him. The scent of his cum, his sweat, accompanied by the airy, florality of Hibiclens wash and the bergamot of his cologne that seems to curl itself through it all. 

“thanks f’curing me, dad.. feels so good now.” You declare ditzily, grinning against his mussed tresses, and Jack huffs a spent, sated laugh in response. 

“Mm. Course, baby. You’re always such a sweet, little patient for me,” He slurs back, pressing kisses over your collarbone where the gown has dipped down enough for exposure. Your hand slips into his silver, sweat-damp hair, feeling the curls as he sighs into the sensation, subtly grinding his softening, tender length still inside, just to keep you closer.

You’ll be sore and sticky – and he’ll certainly have to sterilize the room after such an intense exam. But for now, Jack is able to savor this; The besotted touches and shivers from him hauled in your warmth. The afterglowed, winsome whispers under the white fluorescent lights, the flush of your cheeks and the flutters of your lashes – all prior to the sunrise, and another precious, sweet-natured day of loving you.

With your bottom lip pulled between your teeth, you hum as you try to remember.  “I don’t know, Jackie,” you admit, “I think you were there. You usually are. In my dreams, I mean. I think we were at the beach… or at a lake?”

You pull the blanket up to your arms. It’s still much too early to think about so much, but if Jack asks, you deliver.

“Sounds nice,” he mumbles. His voice is hoarse, almost rough like sandpaper. “Keep going.”

Something about the way he speaks makes your tummy flutter. 

“Well,” you go on, “There were birds. Green ones.”

“Mhm…”

“They kept circling over us. I don’t think I know any green birds.”

“Me neither.”

You hear him shift again, and this time there is another sound. Like… like fabric moving.  You’re about to question this when Jack suddenly groans. 

“Keep talkin’, sweet girl,” he croaked.

“Jackie…?” 

“Please. Just talk. That’s all I’m askin’.”

His words are followed by a wet, filthy sound.  You immediately feel the pull in your lower tummy as you begin to realise. 

“There- we went swimming,” you go on, a little shakily now, “and saw fish. A bunch of ‘em. Little ones, which were— “

Jack moans softly, which makes you press your thighs together. 

“Um…” As you grow more flustered, it gets harder to speak. “They were like rainbows, their scales. The sun made them change colours.”

“Uh huh,” Jack mutters, his voice thin and strangled. “Keep goin’, baby. Just a little longer."

You can’t really focus as you hear the way his hand begins to move faster, slick sounds coming out of the speaker of your phone. 

“I… uh, we… we… I don’t remember, Jackie.”

“C’mon, bunny,” he encourages, “You can. Use that pretty little head of yours for me. For Daddy, hm?”

Liquid heat collects at the base of your spine, and you sneak a hand down between your thighs, only applying pressure for now. You’re not allowed to touch without him there. 

“Daddy, I don’t remember,” you whine. 

“Yeah, you do,” he retorts. “Baby, you do. C’mon, talk to me. Help out your Daddy.”

“We- we sat at the shore,” you continue. You weren’t even sure if it was true or just desperation making you invent things now. “And we saw dragonflies. And you held my hand and told me about your day at work. It was… it was a good day, I think.”

“Mhm.” He inhaled sharply, and you heard fabric rustling again. “So close, bunny. Just a little longer. Daddy’s almost done. Oh, fuck.” 

You clench around nothing as he curses, all breathy and needy.

“You.. we just kept sitting and talking. You, um, you kissed my cheek. And then you held me.”

The last word has barely left your mouth when a godless noise spills from his mouth.  “Fuck, bunny, yes. Yes, keep talking with that sweet voice of yours. Please, baby.”

“Daddy,” you whimper, your cunt pulsing now. “I don’t remember anything else. Just you and me at the water and the fishies and the dragonflies and—”

You’re interrupted by the deep, throaty moan that claws itself up from his chest only to fall from his lips like a tidal wave.

“Oh, fuck,” Jack gasps. “Yes. That’s my bunny.”

It’s quiet for a moment, only his heavy breathing and your needy little gasps as you rock into your hand, your hips moving almost involuntarily.  It always takes Jack a few seconds to catch his breath when he cums like that.

“Bunny?” he murmurs then. 

“Yeah?” you whisper. 

“Get that hand off your cunt right now. She’s mine. And I’m coming over right now to take good care of her.”

He wraps himself on the thickened flesh of your bulbed-up clit, suckling wildly and coating his chin in you during his latch. His thicker scruff frictions right against the skin of your chubby and delicate pussy lips, before his tongue swirls hard, just once more, and retracts away from where you're spread. His fat, aged and freckled hands keep your soft thighs speared wide open, just to observe your desperate, aching hole. You’re beard-burned and sensitive, a soppy little cunt rubbed raw from his face; chafed up, creamy, and fluttering wetly around nothing. Jack's jaw is steeped in you, wet on the growth that shrouds the curve of his face and neck. He takes a long, rough breath, an open-mouthed aspiration to taste your sweetness through the air, swallowing the scent as his head lilts in working condescension. Silver curls, dampened with his own sweat, swath over his lined forehead with the tilt. 

“Aww, pumpkin… does she like it? Little pussy likes my scruff? I think she does…" Jack coos, his voice enough to make your legs quiver under his pinion. He inhales, puckers his lips, and effuses a jet of his hot breath, runneled right to your needy hole. His lips upturn, thumbs pinching deeper into your thighs.

"Look at her. She’s already clamping up – just ‘cause Daddy had his mouth on you…” 

A finger glides through the mess, thick and seeping down irritated, velveted flesh, clinging to the sheets below your puckered hole. Jack can't halt his hand, which lifts to press his thumb pad to the cleft of your ass, like he's surveilling the vicious throb of you through your puddle of arousal. 

“Is it all stingy, baby? Should Daddy shave so he doesn't hurt your little pussy anymore?” 

Your head shakes violently, writhing on the sheets, whimpering as you gush out more between your forcedly spread thighs.

“No? You like it? I can tell. My baby’s already too close…” Jack sighs with a sated grin, and his digits ascend back up to your throbby little hole.

“Should we let her, hm? Let your little cunt just cum – all messy on Daddy’s beard?” It’s rhetorical, plainly mean, and Jack completely rescinds a response from you when his jaw presses right up against where you're pulsing. He fucks his tongue inside, driving it in deep, without warning or clemency. 

Jack adheres his face and stubbly bristles to your soft, sloppy folds, prompting you to leak, fresh and hot, all over him. The strong muscle licks inside at inner walls, his fingers rubbing at your quivering clit to feel you grip onto him in tighter, cinching pulses. He pulls away just enough to watch your tiny hole cling to his tongue, his scratchy fuzz slick and sticking to your slit, and then he's lapping at you, from entrance to bud once more. He curves his lips onto your swelled clit, suckling and licking into the fleshy rift. Your whines crack open to sharp-pitched moans when your orgasm torments every nerve ending, muscle, and cell. Your belly swoops, warming in your release, riveting the heat through to your trembling thighs. Your eyes shimmer with tears through the cascades of pleasure and the prickle of his chin, which Jack rubs over your poor pussy well into the aftershocks. And he still doesn’t stop – his silver hair is lambent and streaked with your cum, and he strokes his mouth down you to elicit a shiver, patting your hip in coax. “That’s it – My good little girl. Daddy’s just gonna get you real clean now.”

◞ daughterbubs ⭐︎ 2026 ༝

your nails dig into the back of his neck as you let out a pitiful little whine and then a sharp gasp as he suddenly pulls the entire thing out in one go, a slick popping noise as your hole reluctantly releases its tight grip.

he spits on the thick head and starts to slide it back inside.

‘ah! too big, too big,’ you protest, panting, your head thrown back against the pillow beneath you.

‘aw,’ jack coos, ‘but look how much she wants it, baby.’

he grinds the toy deep, palm butting up against the base until the head kisses your cervix. you choke on your own spit, going a little cross-eyed at the pleasure-pain. jack pulls it out slow, about halfway, shaft dragging before abruptly pushing it back in, pussy wet enough to hear the slide.

‘this greedy cunt always needs something inside her, isn’t that right?’ he says.

you whimper and moan as jack speeds up his hand. the ‘shlick shlick shlick’ sounds of your pussy getting stuffed filling up the space between you.

‘i—oh,’ you say, catching jack’s eyes as your breathing grows ragged.

he’s watching you with such intensity and desire, like he wants to eat you, swallow you right up. it makes you a little dizzy.

‘your pussy feel good, princess? nice and full of cock?’

‘mmn—,’ you moan, teeth biting into your bottom lip. you give him a small nod.

‘yeah, ‘course she does,’ jack says, ‘daddy always knows what his girls need.’

he leans down and breathes you in, holding you close, his forearm flexing as he pumps your cunt full of the silicone toy.

‘and what they need right now is a good little fucking before bedtime. so they can be all relaxed and have sweet dreams while daddy goes off to work.’

the next time the toy’s pressed deep, he rubs his thumb against your swollen clit. you moan, squeezing tight around the toy, pleasure shooting electric.

‘mm, there we go,’ jack murmurs, circling your clit as you spasm, ‘can’t forget about her too, now can we, princess?’

he doesn’t stay there for long, abandoning your clit to start sliding the toy in and out again, ignoring the way you grasp at the short curls on the back of his neck.

‘oh, fuck, wait, please,’ you say, your voice high and breathy, needing his attention back there, more than desperate for it.

‘shh,’ jack says, ‘just relax and take what daddy gives you. be a good little hole for me.’

he’s fucking you hard with the toy now, your stomach tensing each time it slides home, your leg shaking where jack has it pressed up against your chest.

‘but—,’ you try and say, but jack just shakes his head, giving you a knowing look that has your mouth snapping shut.

‘no more talking, baby. holes don’t talk, okay? holes get used.’

the sound you let out is so pathetic it mortifies you, heat spreading from the center of your forehead out, down, past your cheeks and your neck, into your chest. suffusing until you feel like you might actually start glowing from the warmth.

jack presses a kiss to your forehead, humming.

together, the two of you watch as the toy in his hand splits you open again, head catching against your opening before your pussy sucks it deep inside, back where it belongs.

relaxing in his hold, all control released, you let your boyfriend pump you full of fake cock for as long as he wants, until he decides you’ve had enough, your eyes wet with desperate tears and your lips gone swollen from your gnawing teeth.

‘does my little girl want to come?’ jack finally asks, his voice sweet and coddling.

you nod frantically, looking up at him, pleading with your whole face.

‘she can come,’ jack says, pressing the toy deep, a featherlight touch of his thumb on your clit.

but it’s all you need, sitting on the edge as you have been, and you shake apart, mouth dropped open to whisper a repeated, ‘thank you, thank you, thank you’ to jack, eyes locked onto his own, his pupils blown wide, devouring you.

he kisses you when you’re done, wet and filthy, full of tongue like he’s trying to taste how grateful you are.

‘good girl,’ he praises you, sucking on your bottom lip.

he slides the toy out careful and slow, letting your knee lower down to the bed.

you let out a quiet whimper when you’re left empty, feeling sensitive and open. bereft, your pussy clenching down around nothing. but jack doesn’t leave you empty any longer than he has to, slipping three thick fingers inside, curling them up against your pubic bone.

‘shh, don’t worry, baby. daddy’s got you,’ jack says, nuzzling his nose against yours. ‘daddy’s always got you.’

he stays like that, fingers pressed deep, plugging you full, until you fall asleep, sated, in your shared bed.

*

You reach up, fingers brushing the chain at his neck. “Leave them,” you breathe, because the sound is filthy in its own way, the soft metallic music of him claiming you.

But Bucky’s eyes, stormy blue, pupils blown wide with lust darken further. He leans down, mouth brushing your ear, breath hot. “They’re distracting you from what I want you feeling.”

In one smooth motion, he catches the tags between his teeth. The chain pulls taut against the back of his neck, the metal plates disappearing into his mouth. His jaw flexes, lips parting just enough for you to see the silver edge glinting against his tongue. The sight alone rips a fresh wave of heat through you, Bucky, the Winter Soldier, reduced to biting down on his own history just so he can fuck you without anything getting in the way.

He groans around the tags, the sound muffled and raw. Then he drives into you harder.

No more clinking. Just the wet slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bedframe, and the obscene sounds of your body taking him. His metal fingers dig into your hip, cool and unyielding, while his flesh hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing at the corner of your mouth like he wants to feel how wrecked you are.

“Look at me,” he demands around the metal. His voice is distorted, rougher, sex-drenched. Sweat beads at his temple, dark hair falling into his eyes as he fucks you with punishing precision, long strokes that bottom out and grind against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. Every time he bottoms out, his abs flex against your clit, and the tags shift between his teeth with the motion, a constant, visible reminder of how much control he’s exerting just for you.

You moan his name and he bites down harder, jaw tight, eyes locked on yours like he’s memorizing every gasp, every flutter of your cunt around his cock. The chain trembles against his throat with each thrust. You can see the way his tongue moves against the tags inside his mouth, the way his lips are shiny with spit, and it’s so fucking filthy you clench around him involuntarily.

“That’s it,” he growls through clenched teeth, the words barely intelligible but vibrating straight down to your core. “Milk me, doll. Let me feel how much you love this.”

Your hands scramble up his back, nails digging into scarred skin and metal plating alike. He’s relentless, hips snapping faster now, the wet sounds louder, your slick coating his balls as they slap against you. The dog tags stay right where he put them, trapped between those perfect teeth, catching the light every time he pulls back to look at where you’re stretched around him.

You’re close. So fucking close. And Bucky knows it, he always does. He drops his forehead to yours, tags still clenched tight, breath coming in hot pants around the metal. His voice is a broken rasp:

“Come on my cock while I’ve got these between my teeth, baby. Want to feel you fall apart knowing I’d do anything- anything- to keep fucking you right.”

The orgasm slams into you like lightning under your skin, sudden, devastating, unstoppable. Your back arches sharply off the mattress, a broken cry tearing from your throat as your pussy clamps down hard around his thick cock, fluttering and pulsing in relentless waves. Pleasure rips through every nerve ending, white-hot and overwhelming, leaving you shaking uncontrollably beneath him.

Bucky doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even falter. He keeps fucking you through it with those deep, grinding thrusts, hips rolling relentlessly as he chases his own release, dragging out your climax until you’re a whimpering, sobbing mess beneath him.

Only then does he let the tags fall from his mouth, spit-slick and gleaming, dropping heavy and cool against your heaving chest. He buries his face in your neck, groaning your name like a prayer as he spills deep inside you, hips stuttering, metal arm braced beside your head so he doesn’t crush you.

For a long moment, there’s just the sound of your ragged breathing and the faint, final clink of the dog tags settling between your sweat-slick bodies.

Bucky kisses the side of your throat, soft and reverent now, his lips brushing tenderly over the spot where his teeth had been clenched moments before.

“Next time,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, “I’m putting them between your teeth. See how quiet you can stay while I ruin you.”

You laugh breathlessly, already aching for it.

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

Periods have always sucked for you. Messy, irritating, and downright painful. The kind that feels like a grapefruit spoon is being jiggled inside of your uterus and stomach, scraping up your walls.

So Bucky seeing you cozied up to the best of your abilities in bed, lying on your stomach, arms wapped around your abdomen, with products strewn around you in a chaotically organised mess — lukewarm peppermint and ginger tea on the bedside, as well as a half-drank glass of water, hot water bottle on the floor, no longer hot, and five different types of medication at the foot of the bed. Painkillers, anti-inflammatory... — He couldn't help the sigh as he leaned against your door frame, arms crossed over his chest, as with his leg across his ankle, just taking you all in.

You hummed from your side of the bed, muffled by the pillow, eyes still shut in an attempt to not think about the pain inside your uterus. If I cant see it, it doesn't exist. But the throb aches on and on, and on. "Keep staring. Your eyes are burning into my back, I actually think it's helping the cramps."

Bucky laughed at that. The small, amused kind that exhales softly from his nose and leaves a soft smile on his lips. He faces away with a shake of his head. "That bad, huh?" He asks.

You sigh deeply, finally rolling from your position and onto your back where you could finally glance at the soldier.

He looks so warm clad in an old, worn navy blue shirt, thats gotten more muted with each wear and wash, as well as some plaid grey pajama pants you got him a few Christmases ago. It's automatic, how your arms immediately reach up to him with another hum, too tired to think, or do.

"C'mere," you sigh like the words have a toll on you. "You're like a walking furnace, I need you."

Bucky's smile widens as he moves towards you, a hum on his lips as he situates himself on the bed, crawling closer, until he finally flops down on his side of the bed. His arms immediately wrap around your middle, pulling you into his heat. "Need me, huh?"

You laugh, cozying up into his chest, nosing his heartbeat and scent to calm you down. "Aren't you insaciable." You mumble into his sternum, the vibrations of your sleepy voice tickles, goosebumps erupting on his skin. Your legs tangle with his, socks grazing his own, and your arms envelop his mid-section, snuggling up into him as best as you could.

He shrugs, his warm hands smooth your hair, running down to your back where they take purchase, rubbing against your shirt in an easy motion. He kisses your forehead and murmurs, "Heard it helps. But hey, if you're not in the mood, you're not in the mood. We don't have to do anything," he kisses your head again like a confirmation, a stamp. "We can just stay like this for however long you want."

You'd be lying if you said his voice wasnt creating a pool in your tummy.

Sure, periods had you sensitive and needy, always needing to satiate that ache between your legs, but the mess always had you averting your wants and just leaving it be. But this time, his soft whispers and gravelly lilt had you by the throat.

"I mean," you shuffled in his hold, thinking about his proposition. "It wouldn't hurt to try, but the mess is what i'm worried about."

His brows taut, arms squeezing you just a little tighter for a moment as if to ask you to continue. "What do you mean?" He mutters into your hair.

"I mean the sheets, they'll be ruined, Buck."

He holds your head in his hands, making you look into his eyes. You couldn't help but revel in the warmth they emitted, sighing and fluttering your eyes as his thumbs stroked your flushed skin. "We got a washer, it's no problem—"

You grumble at his words, "It's blood though—"

He smiled as he leaned forward, lips grazing your own as he spoke. "New sheets, sweetheart. We can make a day of it." Before devoting you with a gentle peck on your lips. Albeit, yours were chapped, but Bucky never minded.

And as if he couldn't get enough of your touch, his kisses frequented. Warm palms over your cheeks slid down as the kisses slowly bled into a long, well needed, act of reverence and tongue — coasting to your jaw and your neck. His mouth is warm against yours, spit slicking against the two of you, softening your rough, bitten lips. Working carefully, yet ardently, devotion and tenderness wrapped in your contact.

Bucky situates himself above you, skillfully keeping his attention on your lips. As your mind finally catches up to his plan, you croon into his mouth as his right hand stays put on your throat. His thumb placed against your pulse point, revelling in how your heartbeat fastens and stutters at his hold. His left hand caressed down your torso, down the curve of your waist, to your hip, just to stroke up and down over the thin fabric of your shirt.

His warmth releases from you for a moment, keeping as close as possible, his lips tickling your own. "Can I take this off?" Bucky fingers at the worn cotton and you snort softly.

"You don't need to ask, Buck." Nosing his stubbled cheek, you lean back into the connection. cold fingertips toying the soft curls at the base of his neck, and he beams.

"Just making sure, sweetheart," his knees push your own apart, positioning himself fully above you on his haunches. Staring down at your chest, your nipples peaked from under your sleep-shirt. "Prettiest fuckin' thing." He breathed out. You couldn't tell if he was talking to you or himself.

Without wasting another second, he brings his hands up, gently grazing the mounds with his heated touch, thumbs grazing your nipples with a reverence similar to that of some kind of worship. You revel in the attention with gentle exhales and fluttering eyelids, back arching slightly off the mattress with each drag of his digits. Your fingers stayed buried in his hair, toying, holding him in your palms like water.

Your ribs ached with his tender groping, he savours your reactions, watching you grow more desperate as he tweaked at your flesh a little harder. You felt yourself gush, arousal and blood as your lover sat, coaxing a particularly high whine from you.

"Fuck, please." You begged, breathing ragged. You tug on his tuftss delicately, creating a fist on his nape while he teases you.

He knows this isnt the best time to be playing, asking you questions, drawing it out, but you look so beautiful all flushed, hair a chaotic halo against the pillows. You make it so easy. "What'd'you want, baby, talk to me."

That earns him a restless grumble that turns into a whiny laugh. Eyes fastening shut, hips bucking into his hard erection, trying to give him any sembelance of a hint — but Bucky pauses his movements, palms squeezing your tits like a parting goodbye.

You roll your eyes, "Your mouth, Buck." And you see that glint in his eye, one that says 'I've got all day, doll', only for you to tilt your head in a manor that replies 'I'm bleeding from my vagina, I will cut you", to which he inhales with the softest smile, absolutely whipped. Eyes shining with admiration, you almost want to pull yourself up to kiss his eyelids.

"Course, doll. Anything you want."

His warm hands skim across your stomach, pushing up your shirt until your bare from the waist up. he creates a trail from your lips, suckling and nipping, trailing heat down your collarbone, to your sternum, and the swell of your breast — where he finally takes you into his mouth. His free hand, vibranium, fondles your other, keeping that easy pace from before, making sure to stay careful of your soreness. Bucky hums into your plushness, creating a palliative effect under your skin with the vibration and warmth. He alternates between the two, twin touches, keeping you satisfied.

Curving your back, you groan at the sensation, pressing your chest into him as his tongue swirls and his hand kneads — his flesh palm squeezes your hip, fingers teasing the hem of your sweatpants and underwear.

You gently pull him off of you, both groaning at the loss, staring at the wet mess he created before catching your breath. "Kinda unfair that i'm the only one in this room with my tits out, Barnes," your eyes flitter downward to his own chest, nipples peaked beneath the worn fabric, before finding his eyes again with a smile.

"Off."

"Yes, ma'am."

His chest prickled with goosebumps as he rucked his shirt off, throwing it to the side without a care. Scars littered the breadth of his chest, white lines against muscles, soft stretch marks extended his pecks and biceps. You didn't know where to touch first, hands clutching his hips, thumbing the hem of his sleep pants, bottom lip pulled into your mouth, heart erratic, searching for a place to start like a kid in a candy shop.

Before you could get a proper feel of the tissue, he starts to drag your pants down your thighs, stained panties with them, pad crunching at his act. A heavy mixed scent of heady arousal and metal, thick in the air and it only deepens the desire coiling within Bucky, putting the fabric aside, and pushing your knees open, exposing you completely to him.

You shudder at the sudden coldness, exhaling with part arousal and part unease, as your lover locks his sights on your weeping entrance. Clenching around nothing, a rush of lining escapes, making your hips buck at the uncomfortable, jelly-like feeling — but Bucky takes delight in it.

Jaw clicking, tonguing at his teeth, he smiles with a shake of his head as he watches the blood spill against the bedding, staining the cotton. You try to wiggle out his grasp, pulling your knees up, squirming, only for his hands to lock onto your thighs, holding you open, and keeping him closer.

Your warmth, your smell, it's all he can feel, see, smell, hear.

"Fuck, you look…" He couldnt even finish the sentence. Moving his hands up, cupping closer and closer, until his thumbs find you. Using his left thumb to reveal your clit, he experementally brushes his right thumb against your swollen bud, earning a jerk of your hips and a tight whine. Your hands struggle to keep still, moving from his hips, to his arms, his neck, and finally tugging at his pants, using the heels of your feet to haul them down.

You gasp as he circles your clit, achingly slow, humming uncontrollably with contained moans. You could barely talk, using all your power to buck up the strength to tell him what you want. "Take — Shit! Take these off—!"

Your hips rolled helplessly into his touch, tugging at his pants carelessly, shifting the hem lower and lower until it skimmed the soft fuz that coated his mound. Your hips desperately chasing the friction you craved as his thumbs rolled against your throbbing bud, pulsing around nothing, feeling the edge ebb over in overstimulated flutters.

Whining, you palm at his wrists, holding onto his skin. Your brain teeters between pushing and pulling him away, wanting the relief, yet unwilling to overwhelm yourself. Bucky caught the furrow in your brow and the quiver of your thighs, all the tell-tale signs.

"I got you, baby." He whispered. Not fully pulling his touch off of your cunt, but simmering it down, keeping that spark alight as he uses his free hand to push down his pants and briefs clumsily until he could kick them off the bed.

He was excited, worked-up. Solid and heavy, adorned with veins, and one thick cord on the underside. Blushing a deep red, slick with want, it looked painful. You took it within your hand without hesitation, making him shudder in your hold. Giving him a few soft tugs, you pull softly to guide him closer.

Urging him to sit between your legs, his vibranium hand coasts the expanse of your torso as you tease yourself with his head. Small up and down motions from entrance to clit, coating him in your arousal and blood. He whined at the sight, so deprived of your warmth, his hips move on their own. Slipping through your grip, grunting into your shoulder as he lowers himself over you like a safety blanket.

"Impatient much?" You quip, lips muffled by his hair.

Bucky finally holds his hips up, letting you guide him inside, the broad head of his tip pushes against your opening. The two of you share a deep, longing exhale. His stretch eases with your cycle, leaving him able to bottom out with relief, allowing the two of you to revel in each other's warmth.

Your eyes fluttered shut with his breadth, the ache of ease and fullness veiling your senses as he shifts momentarily, clutching him inside you like you never want him to leave. Just keeping still. Your legs stay open, curved at the knees, hands dragging up and down his back with reverence, comfort, spilling goosebumps all over your soldier's body. Bucky keeps his head bowed into your collar, breath hot, sticky and shuddering against your skin, softly dragging his lips, not quite a kiss but a quiet contact.

Your warmth — this warmth — is different. Silky and slick, heavier in a sense that he's giving. It's not just a link for you both, it's a harmony built on awareness and comfort. A fufillment.

Sure, he had the idea first, but that idea was built on keeping you relaxed, and contented.

You whisper his name, a silent exhale of vowels and consonants that hung from your lips like ripe fruit. Bucky exhales against you, a full body motion, chest shuddering at your voice, and his hips started to shift — gentle, minute grinds of his hips against your cirvix, pelvis grinding down onto your mound — encouraging you to taste the flavour of his name in your mouth, feel it's motions, how he fits into you so perfectly it's like you were moulded from the same dough. The pleasure quickly magnifies.

Tingling in your senses, a sparkler amongst your hips as he sank into you, pushing airy gasps from your lips as he picked up the pace. Donning a similar sound, his breath glued against you, both hands on your hips, holding you tight and close.

Your own traced the path of his back again, memorising the ridges of hard muscle, before kneading into the soft flesh of his ass. Molding your palms, your fingers, the heels of your palms into the fat as his strokes grew faster — still attentive in nature.

The tightening of your belly grew. Your joint heartbeats quicken against your ribs. The pressure pushed back, inflating through your body, stealing all of your thoughts, leaving you a shell of pleasure and him. Your hips arched into his, nails digging into his ass, chasing his friction. "Buck — oh god —"

"C'mon baby," his voice trails in the crook where your neck meets your shoulder. Softening you down, he uses his words as a tool, knowing how lax it gets you in these moments. He lets you lie and feel him wholly, aiding you through your time of need. "Doing so good for me, taking me so well."

He moves himself up on his haunches, keeping precise and measured thrusts, gentle in how his hips work. His hands stay planted around your waist, grip unwavering but tender, keeping you there like you could slip from his touch at any moment, thumbs circling the flesh of your tummy in easing strokes.

You coat him so nicely, reddening his shaft, slipping onto him like a dream. He licks his lips as he watches how you hold him, squeezing around him, how sensitive you are by the soft murmurs of whimpers leaving your lips with every inch he fed.

"God, look at you… My pretty girl."

It's all almost too much for you to handle. His body on yours, how Bucky just wants to make you feel good — stretch out the pleasure for as long as you need to keep your mind off the cramping in your abdomen. And fuck, was he doing a good job.

He strokes his palms down your belly, patiently smoothing your skin, before his thumbs find you once again. He holds you unfolded, splaying your pussy open as he starts to move his fingers once again.

You twitched with his rubs, barely able to speak, mouth open, body fluttering around him with each drag he gives, filling you to the brim, sending shocks all through your spine like a livewire.

"Mine," he rasps, leaning back down, kissing your sternum, your collarbone, your neck, jaw. Forehead to forehead, you breath each other in, the thick scent of sex and metal surround you, as Bucky ruts inside like he can create more space. "Made for me… That's my girl, can feel you milkin' my cock. Come for me, pretty, atta girl."

Your body seized beneath his, a tremour releasing from within you, rippling outward with each thrust he gave. Your vision whites out as your cunt clenches his cock, chokes it, sobbing out his name. Wrung out and high from Bucky's praise, from body and voice, you cling onto him like gravity.

His breath bates against you, murmuring songs of sweet adorations. "My girl, my good girl. Takin' it so well, choking my cock —fuck!"

He stills inside of you, grunts vibrating down your collarbone and into your stomach, feeling him twitch inside of you, balls throbbing around your warmth with each rope of release. You kiss the top of his head gently.

Bucky props his head up, drowziness taking over both of you with half lidded eyes and sleepy smiles. "You okay, darling?"

Your brain was still numb. Catching up with your still buzzing body, still full with his half-hard cock, his cum, and the walls of your uterus. So, the best you give is a very enthusiastic thumbs up, which gets him nuzzling back into your neck with a grumbling chuckle.

The sound flitters through you like a cozy fire, basking in his post coitus heat with your hands stroking his back and arms.

"Did so good," pushing himself up with a grunt, he holds his body weight with both hands beside your head, painting your face with chaste kisses, smirking at how shy you grow with each tickle of his stubble. "I'll get you all washed up, baby, dont move a muscle."

As he pushed himself back on his haunches, humming as he slides out of you. Bucky exhales sharply with the sudden chill, but quickly pauses at the sight between your legs.

Sinful, grotesquely rich, a painting of red and brown splatters against your mound, thighs and ass — and worst of all, your poor hole was still pulsing. Each wave releasing a mouthwatering glob of Bucky's white seed and your red blood.

Without a thought, Bucky's fingers found your skin, middle and pointer together, collecting the thick release, and pushing it back inside. Your hips shook as if driven by a motor, thighs shivering, and your throat closed, as he just watched the release fall, only to push it back in, hypnotised and unable to look away.

It wasnt until you whine did he snap out of it. His fingers leave your warmth, but you quickly dinounce his departure, holding tightly onto his wrist.

Bucky didnt wanna hurt you, make you overstimulated and more fucked out than you already were — but the mess between your legs was calling out to him like beacon. He parts your lips once again, making sure to keep his touch gentle and soft.

You convulsed at his feel, a sinful mix of red and white oozing from your hole, it made his breath stutter.

"You've got no clue how crazy you make me," he groans under his breath, losing himself once again, staring straight at the feast between your thighs. "You look so good in pink, sweetheart."

Your body wobbles as Bucky leans himself down, his mouth immediately latching onto your pussy.

Gasping at his tongue, your fingers find his hair, keeping him close as he cleans you all up himself. Licking a fat stripe from entrance to clit, lapping like at you delicately like ice-cream, gathering your tastes on his tongue. He groans into you, making out with your lips methodically, an easy rhythm with a hint of urgency.

The hums of his pleasure make your hips buck, humping into his face for more as he suckles at your clit. You couldn't stop the silent pleas fumbling out of your mouth, clipped from exhaustion and overstimulation. Bucky holds your pelvis to the mattress, keeping you tight in his grip, minimising your squirms and jolts. Your whimpers come out incoherent, fingers tugging at his hair as he works his tongue inside of you.

Lapping, sucking, spitting, swallowing… The wet squelches of his mouth on your messy cunt only deepen the final wave, rocking your hips back and forth as best as you could, with a sick desperation that took over your body.

"That's it, make a mess of me," Bucky's growl reverberates through your hips and up each vertebrae. A fullness, a weight fills you once more as he eats you like a starving man, savouring the taste of both of you interlinked. "Need it so bad, need you to come on my tongue, baby, please."

With a whisper of his name, your body snapped. Pleasure erupting through your body so violently, your thighs threatened to clamp around his head. Legs kicking outwards, hips jolting in waves as he continued to lap every second of bliss from your body until you were completely and utterly ruined.

You lay there, trembling in his hold as he slowly weans off your clit. Massaging your thighs as he steadily kisses up to your mound, sitting back up.

He takes you in. Breathing heavy and uneven, thighs wobbling with the intensity, eyes locked in on his own. Bucky shuffles up close to you, both dirtied hands coming up to cup your cheeks, and you take him in, paying no mind to the dried stains rasping against your cheeks. In fact, you lean into it, into his hold. "Thank you."

You snort, shuffling yourself up until your back hits your pillows against the headboard. Bucky's moves his hands to squeeze your ankles, rubbing them softly — the sheets already look like a crime scene, theres no need to care about pants anymore.

Your brow creases, and you whisper. "For what?"

"For that," he widened his eyes to emphasise. "Took guts, kid. And you tasted amazing."

"Shut up!" flicking his shoulder, you laughed with your full chest. Bucky's own smile widens, pearly whites against the darkening smudges across his jaw and lips.

He gets up, gathering your discarded clothes for the washer. "I'm running you a bath… And I'll buy some new sheets tomorrow," Bucky huffed, stroking a hand down his mouth like it could cover the red-ish brown stains across his lips, chin and cheeks. "Could make it a date."

You smile up at him. Despite the amount of you that covered his body, messy splotches on his skin — face, arms, fingers and waist — you couldn't help but feel proud. Like this was some kind of claim on him.

"Fuck, you look… so good right now." You take his naked form in with your lip between your teeth. Savouring his presence, how you got that.

Hands on his hips, clothes under his arm, he clicks his fingers to the direction of the bathroom. "Bath. Now. Go pee and all that other stuff. I'll get you fresh clothes, with a pad, and run you a bath,"

You get up with a grunt, body picking up speed as you feel an oncoming wave leak out of you. Passing the door, right next to Bucky, he takes the oppertunity to pinch your butt.

"I'll join you in a bit, sweetheart. Just gotta throw these in the wash and get you some new clothes, okay?"

"'Course, baby." As you turned your heel to go down the hall, Bucky calls out to you.

"Oh and by the way," you turn your head, watching him lean against the doorframe, eyes raking your body as you slow your walking. "We're doing that again."

taglist: @devililithh @buck-star @buckyfmd @bckyslover @nikkitabarnes @miraclediviner @barnes-babydoll @kqtholins @wint3rbarnes @swimmingnightcolor @ilovestizzy @chronic-fangirl-222 @ornateglass @bucklesby-barnes @avgdestitute

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They walked into the library, and the first thing Soldier Boy noticed was that it was warm and cool all at once. Like stepping into a building made of springtime. Sunlight poured in, but there was a soft hum in the background from the fans. The furniture was cozy, but everything was perfectly clean. Butcher called out a name, lazily bouncing on his feet, and an angelic voice called back.

“Be right there!”

Butcher smirked. Hughie shifted nervously, shooting Soldier Boy looks like he’d explode in this little fairy book house. He wouldn’t. Place wasn’t worth wasting his bomb on anyways.

Then you floated into view, and Soldier Boy felt the ground under his feet shift. You weren’t a molding, self-important, four-eyed bitch. If this was a fairy book house, you were a fairy. If you had the voice of an angel, it was because you were an angle, and the world twisted itself to give you everything you needed. The sunlight bended, hitting you like some scene from those romance movies he’d always refused to shoot. You floated more than walked. You smiled like you knew everything, and it didn’t even piss him off. 

Soldier Boy hadn’t been a teenager in almost a hundred years, but suddenly he remembered. How it felt for his face to heat and his cock to twitch and his heart to race under his palms. He kicked himself silently, gritting his jaw and standing a little taller. He was a grown fucking man. An American icon. A hero. He wasn’t going to tip over his fucking feet like some kid, especially not for some pretty girl that probably looked down on him. On everyone. The smart ones always did.

They were also the most fun to get in bed. They got bratty, then stupid when he fucked them nice and slow. All the mocking and sass draining out of their pussy, onto Soldier Boy’s hands and cock. Sharp eyes go dazed and sneers fall into open, shocked lips.  

You’ve got those sharp eyes, as you take their little group in. They’re like a hawk, picking them apart with a single look. A hawk in a doll’s body. A sexy, smart little doll.

But there’s no sneer. Even as you glare at Butcher, you’re more pouting than anything else. Solider Boy wonders if you’d pout while begging for him, or just get defiant and bitchy. He’d love to find out.

“You’re getting blood on the carpet,” you tell Butcher, and he shrugs.

“Ain’t you worried about where I’m leakin’ the blood from, love-“

“No.” You cross your arms, lifting you chin. “You’re going to clean it up.”

Butcher’s shoulders curve slightly. Like a scolded fucking child. “C’mon, I got other shit to be workin’ on-“

“Then you shouldn’t have dragged blood on my carpet.”

“But- I got work I needed ya for-“

“Hughie can tell me about it.” You offer Hughie a small smile, and he waves in return.

Soldier Boy stands a little taller. Maybe you just haven’t noticed him yet.

“Clean,” you snap at Butcher, turning on your heels and marching back between the shelves.

Butcher looks at Hughie and Soldier Boy, like they’re supposed to save him from this shit. Hughie gives him an apologetic smile, and follows you into the back. Soldier Boy grins, clapping Butcher on the shoulder before following.

“You didn’t tell me she was a firecracker-“

“She ain’t a firecracker,” Butcher muttered, rolling up his sleeves and glaring around the entryway for whatever people use to clean things. “She’s a fuckin’ problem.”

Soldier Boy smirked, looking back to where you disappeared. “Even fuckin’ better.”

Butcher snorted, giving Soldier Boy a strange, half-amused look. “Good luck with that one, Gov. Don’t blow the fuckin’ job.”

Soldier Boy flipped him off. He’d never blown the job over a woman before—not even an ethereal, enchanting one—and he’s not about to start now. He stood in the corner of your little office, while Hughie asked you questions about books and chemicals and other, smartass shit that Soldier Boy’s never bothered with. He always had people like you on payroll, to give him those answers when he needed them, but usually he didn’t. You punch anything hard enough, it breaks. And he was pretty fucking good at punching.

He said that, at one point. Hughie sighed like he was in physical pain—kid was fucking dramatic—and you just gave him a curious tilt of your head.

“You’re good at punching?”

“I’ m the fuckin’ best.” Soldier Boy pushed off the wall, crossing over to the desk. “Could show you sometimes. Teach you how to defend yourself.”

“Hm.”

You looked him up and down, and Soldier Boy found himself puffing out his chest and flexing his arms. He’d dealt with hard to get girls before. They always cave, when he chases long enough. When he gives them a bit of a show, and promises them it’ll be worth their time.

“What would I be defending myself against?” You asked, soft and sweet. Your voice was like honey. Soldier Boy wanted to get trapped in it, like a fly.

“There are evil people out there,” he drawled, leaning over the desk.

You didn’t lean away, but you blink, and Soldier Boy hears your heartbeat skip. Any reaction is a good one. Meant he was doing something to your body, and that was the first step in getting his foot through the door.

“But I’m here to protect you,” Soldier Boy winked, and stuck out a hand. That was his favorite line. It always fucking worked. “Soldier Boy, doll. Pleasure to meet you.”

Usually, that line made women of all ages and makes swoon. They’d bat their lashes and giggle if they were easy, roll their eyes and flush if they were hard, get starry-eyed if they were innocent, or twirl their hair of they were just as sinful as Soldier Boy himself. But you looked him up and down, and your heartbeat was at a steady baseline. You watched him like you were trying to read him. Like he had thoughts written over his face, and you were  skimming through them. Through him.

“I know,” you said, taking his hand and shaking once. Your fingers weren’t trembling. Your smile was kind, but controlled. “Nice to meet you.”

Soldier Boy blinked, hand still hanging in the air as you turned back to your computer. He’d felt an unsteady heartbeat under his fingers, when you’d touched. But it wasn’t yours. It was his. He wasn’t fucking nervous. His mouth was oddly dry. He cleared his throat and stood back up, trying to strangle some fucking dignity into his body. He wasn’t about to fold in half like some fucking pussy. He just hadn’t gotten properly laid in too fucking long. You were pretty. That was fucking it.

You helped Butcher and Hughie with the job, tracking down books and flipping through them with nimble fingers. Soldier Boy imagined them wrapped around his cock, and forced himself not to rub himself through his pants. He wasn’t about to be that fucking pathetic, no matter how much it hurt. No matter how he couldn’t look away from you for a single second, in case you just turned into mist and turned out to be some kind of fucked up hallucination.

Soldier Boy watched you, as you read and spoke to Butcher. You were polite. Please and thank you and tiny fucking giggles that made his balls heavy. It would be fun to fuck all that out of you. All those sweet words pouring out of your lips, as you’d cry and sing for him.

Butcher seemed to respect you, which said something Soldier Boy wasn’t sure how to hear. Nothing and everything good. When Hughie told you what supes they were going after, you didn’t blink or crow uselessly about murder not being right. You’d just rolled up your sleeves and gotten to fucking work. Soldier Boy could appreciate that. No use in crying about shit that had to be done.

“How’d Butcher find someone like you,” Soldier Boy asked when it was just the two of you. You looked up with raised brows, he almost fucking balked.

 Pretty fucking doe-eyes that ripped right through him. Fucking dangerous.

“Someone like me?” You echoed, and he grunted.

“You’re too fucking gorgeous to be tangled up in this shit-“

“Am I?” Your lips twitched. “I wish someone would’ve told me that. I would’ve kicked you out.”

Soldier Boy opened his mouth, his tongue dragging over his lips. You kept fucking smiling and talking, and he was asking you to smile and talk, but it did something drug-like to his brain and he didn’t fucking like it.

“You know, I used to watch your movies as a kid,” you said casually.

Soldier Boy smirked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He could fucking work with that. “Yeah? You a groupie?”

That got another, breathy little laugh from your lips. Christ, the sound was addicting. “Not quite. I’m not- That’s not really something I do.”

“Somethin’ you do? The fuck does that mean.”

You shrugged. “Hero worship.”

Soldier Boy frowned. The fuck were heroes for, if not to be worshipped. “You think you’re too good for that shit? For getting wet from seein’ someone you want on a screen?”

That got a flush. It’s the best fucking color he’d seen, on your face. He wanted to kiss over it, make it bloom down your neck and over your tits.

“I bet you were a dirty fuckin’ girl, weren’t you,” he leaned further forward, and dared to reach over the desk. To brush his fingers against your arm, and revel in the way you shivered from his touch. “Had posters of me in your room, didn’t you. Used to touch yourself, thinkin’ about me breaking through the fucking wall and taking you right there.”

You blinked at him, with those pretty fucking eyes. They were glossy, now. Another step. He was closer, to what he wanted, and it was the best damn feeling in the world.

“Well, I’m here to make dreams come true, doll,” he traced down your arm, and your breath caught. “Just tell me how you want it, I’ll fuck you ‘till you’re too cross-eyed to read this shit.”

He jerked his head to the books, and waited. This was the part where you told him to bend you over the desk, to pin you to the wall, to pull you into his lap and let you ride him until you passed out.

But instead, you fucking laughed. You pulled your arm back and giggled, shaking your head like he’d said something funny. Soldier Boy’s mouth fell open, and he felt like a fucking idiot. You flipped through your little book, ignoring his dumbfounded expression. He opened and closed his mouth like a damn fish, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

“My favorite was Ghosts of Hanai,” you told him, offering another one of those mind-numbing smiles. “Did you know it was a book first?”

Soldier Boy did not know that. He couldn’t remember how to speak, to tell you that.

“It’s a really good book. Obviously you’re not the main character- In the book- But I kind of liked the adaptation anyway. It wasn’t as- You know- Good. But it was more fun.”

“I’ll show you fun,” he muttered before he could stop himself, and you just giggled again.

If you did that shit one more time, he was going to have to go into the bathroom to beat himself off. Soldier Boy knew why Butcher called you a problem, now. You were perfect, and infuriating, and he should’ve wanted to put your head through a wall for fucking laughing at him, but he didn’t. He wanted to hear that songbird sound again. He wanted to fucking get under your skin, the way you’d seeped under his.

“Bye, Soldier Boy,” you waved to him like a sweet siren, when they were ready to go. He grunted, and waved back.

“You sure she ain’t some kind of supe,” he asked Butcher in the van, and Butcher snorted.

“I’ve wondered, but nah. Just a fuckin’ human.”

Butcher gave Hughie some kind of secret look that Soldier Boy didn’t concern himself with. He was too busy thinking about you. He’d have to go back to you see you. He’d make up a reason why. But he wasn’t used to not getting things he wanted, and he was worried he might want you so much his annoying fucking heart was going to give out about it. He couldn’t allow that.

You’d remember him. You’d laugh for him more. He’d figure out what made you like him, and he’d do it, and then this annoying buzz in his bloodstream could fuck off.

This annoying fucking feeling better fuck off.

It wouldn’t fuck off.

Soldier Boy found himself back at your library after a week. If anyone asked, he’d say he tried to stay away. It would be to preserve dignity. To pretend he hadn’t been hoping they’d need more stupid books so he could go back and see you.

You were clinging to the edge of his every thought. That laugh, that smile, the magnetic way you’d spoken and sat and been. Gentle but not weak. Kind but not stupid. A rare kind of thing to be, when you knew the dark kind of shit that grew in the corners of the world. Part of Soldier Boy prayed it was just an act. That he’d talk to you a little more, and you’d be no better than the rest of them. Then he could fuck you and forget after, like he’d done with almost every other person on his long, stained list of bodies.

But you were just fucking like that. And it was insufferable and enchanting and fucking amazing.

“Soldier Boy,” you said when he returned, blinking in surprise, and something else he couldn’t read. “You’re… back?”

He grunted. “Obviously.”

“Do you need help with another-“

“No.”

You frowned at him. Did that little head tilt, and Christ, what he wouldn’t give to just bury his fucking face in your neck and breathe you in. 

“I just here to get a book,” he heard himself say, and Jesus, you were doing something to him. He didn’t give a fuck about books. He certainly didn’t want one.

But you were here. And Soldier Boy had a feeling you wouldn’t be open to him just being here to see you.

And you lit up, when he said he wanted a book. Great. Now he was going to have to fucking read, just to get some pussy.

“What book?”

“A- Big one.” That had to be impressive. “Biggest you’ve got, doll.”

He winked, looping his thumbs through his belt. You made that face again, brow raising slightly. “Big as in long, or complicated?”

Soldier Boy shrugged. “Both.”

“Fiction or Nonfiction?”

Why were there so many kinds of fucking books. “Whichever one you like better. I trust you won’t give me something shit.”

That made your lips twitch, and it hit Soldier Boy like a rush of coke. His head got lighter and the world got sharper, and you smiled at him, and that heartbeat was his again. He really was worse than a fucking teenager.

“Wait here,” you told him, and he did. Like a fucking dog.

You came back with a massive heap of a book. There couldn’t be that many words in the world, let alone enough sentances to make something that long. Anything worth saying shouldn’t take more than a fucking page.

“Infinite Jest.” You passed him the book, and he stared at you. “Long and complicated.”

Soldier Boy grunted, not bothering to spare the book a glance. You were what he was here for, and if you just fucking walked away, he felt like he might explode.

“You like this thing?” He almost barked, and you paused, already a half-step back.

“It’s okay,” you said slowly. Actually fucking thinking about your answer. “I like his essays better.”

“Essays?” Soldier Boy frowned. “You like his fuckin’ book reports?”

You gave him one of those coy, honeyed half-smiles again. He was worried he was going to fucking drool. “Creative essays. Like- Book reports about your life.”

Soldier Boy nodded, glancing down to the book, then back to you. He didn’t want to read this shit. Book reports had, as far as he remembered, always been short. And he wanted to see what kind of shit you liked to read. What you considered good. “I want one of those. Instead of this.”

He’d meant it to be an order, but it came out without the usual edge he put in his tone. That edge was his best weapon. It had won him countless battles before they even fucking started.

But you just gave him that fucking look. The one where he felt flimsy and stupid and weak, his body all excited from your attention and his fingers itching to dig into your soft looking skin. You smiled, and he swallowed, drawing himself a little taller. He wouldn’t just fall into you. He refused to be that fucking weak.

“Read that first,” you told him. “Then we’ll talk about the essays.”

You turned and walked away. Soldier Boy let you go, because if he touched you, he was worried he was going to turn into more of a weak fucking lapdog than he already was. He wished he could read you—read that smile, those looks, the lacey tone you took with him and seemingly no one else—as well as you seemed to be able to peel him right apart. He looked back at the book, roughly flipping it to the first page. He tried to read the first sentence, but the words floated off the fucking page and didn’t even brush through his brain. He couldn’t read this shit.

Then we’ll talk, you’d said.

You’d talk to him, if he read this.

Christ on a Cross. He was going to try and read a book.

It took him a month. A month of staring at words in the dead of night, when he couldn’t sleep and no one was around to see. If Butcher caught him trying this shit, he’d never hear the end of it. Hell, he wasn’t hearing the end of it now, and no one even knew he was reading.

“Where you goin’, Gov?” Butcher barked as Soldier Boy moved to the door, and he scowled at the air.

“None of your fucking business.”

Then Butcher said your name, smiling knowingly, and Soldier Boy wanted to punch his teeth in. “You’re goin’ to see her again, ain’t you-“

“Said it was none of your fucking business,” Soldier Boy spat, raising a firm finger. “Not another word, or I punch your teeth into your asshole, you got that?”

Butcher just laughed to himself, and Soldier Boy ground his teeth. It wasn’t anything like your laugh, but then again, nothing was.

“Hi, Soldier Boy,” you greeted him without looking now. He wanted to think that meant something. That you were getting as obsessed with his presence as he was with yours. “Did the dictionary help?”

“Mhm,” he glanced at the sitting area, where a few old folks—younger than him, but wrinkled in a way he’d never be—were poking through the newspapers and chatting. There were some kids in the book section. Few teens giggling, somewhere deeper between the shelves.

No one paying him any mind. No one to look at him and wonder what the fuck Soldier Boy was doing in a library, why he’d needed a dictionary, like he was some dumbass who couldn’t speak or read or-

“I needed a dictionary,” you said, and Soldier Boy blinked. You were looking at him. Right at him. He felt it, in his heartbeat, and he never wanted it to fucking stop.

“What,” he said, stupid and drunk, and you smiled.

“I needed a dictionary. To get through Infinite Jest. The first time,” you amended, your eyes getting strangely softer the longer you watched him. “But- I still needed it.”

Soldier Boy’s hands curled into fists. “You read it multiple times?” This one time was feeling like it was going to fucking kill him.

“I read most things multiple times.”

He snorted. “Jesus.”

That made you blink. A faint flush creeped onto your face, and you looked back to your computer. Soldier Boy froze. Your heart was doing a little fucking stumble.

Interesting.

“You’re real fuckin’ smart, huh?” He tried, just to see what would happen.

Your heart did the little stumble again.

Jackpot.

“Maybe,” you mumbled, glaring at your screen. “I just- Like books.”

Soldier Boy snorted. “Yeah. Think I figured that one out myself.”

You hummed, not meeting his gaze anymore. You were getting quiet. He didn’t like it. Not like this. You’d be allowed to get quiet and shy when he was balls deep inside of you. Right now, he wanted to hear that pretty fucking voice, teasing and sassing and helping him, all at once.

“What kind of books do you like,” he asked, and it sounded lame to his own ears.

But you looked at him. And screw him up the ass and sideways, it was fucking worth it.

“What kind of books do I like?”

“That’s what I fucking said, isn’t it?”

You stared at him. He stared back, because there was one thing he wasn’t going to let himself do, and it was back off of this.

“Why?”

And Soldier Boy leaned back. Because you said it like that was a real question. Like he wouldn’t, obviously, naturally, want to know every fucking thing about you. Women liked it when someone listened, he’d learned over the years. He’d listen to whatever the fuck you wanted to say, if it got you closer to being in his arms.

“Because,” he said, and your lips tugged down into that pretty pout.

“Because why?”

“Can’t I just fuckin’ want know?” He snapped, and you leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms.

“No one ever just wants to know.”

Soldier Boy rolled his eyes. “Well, you’re looking at someone, doll. So get that through your pretty head.”

You blinked. Flushed. Wrapped your arms around yourself, like you were trying to stop that loud heartbeat from jumping right out of your chest.

“I like everything,” you said stiffly, and Soldier Boy smirked.

“Everything, huh.”

You shrugged, and he leaned over the desk. Your breath hitched, and he knew his features were turning wolfish, but he didn’t fucking care. You seemed into it anyways.

“Everything,” he breathed, and your lips pressed in a nervous little line. “Show me what everything is, then.”

And I’ll show you everything, gorgeous. He thought about saying it. Thought about how you’d melt and get nervous and he’d have his in.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t figure out why—what the fuck was wrong with him, what the fuck you were doing—but the words got caught, and he didn’t say them. He had you where he wanted you anyway, he rationalized. Talking to him. Smiling at him. Breaking you right now would be too fucking easy.

Since when had he not wanted easy.

Maybe since you pulled him through the bookshelves with light, delicate fingers on his wrist. Like you were afraid of breaking him. Since you talked and talked and talked, and he realized how fucked he was.

He wasn’t listening to you talk to fuck you. He just wanted to hear you talk, about books and ships and history and romance and any other fucking thing you wanted. He went home with a book he hadn’t gone there for, because you said it would help him keep trudging through Infinite Jest, and it did. He finished it that week, and marched back into your library with a prideful grin, slamming the monster of a book down on your desk.

“Done,” he declared, and you smiled at him like you were fucking happy, and it did something to his chest he didn’t want to name. Something fucking gooey and light. Something dangerous and strange.

“Did you like it?” You asked him, like it fucking mattered. 

Soldier Boy nodded, and you beamed.

“I have something for you, next.”

Of course you fucking did. You were just perfect like that. And the next thing was a damn picture book, but when he glared at you, you just giggled and pushed it further into his hands.

“Trust me,” you said, and fuck him, he did.

He took the damn book, because you were the one handing it to him, and he’d read it, because that smile was the best thing he’d ever damn seen.

“Bye, Soldier Boy,” you said when he walked away, and he paused.

Soldier Boy. The character, in the movie you hadn’t liked as much as the book. “Ben.”

You blinked, and he sighed.

“My name is Ben.”

“Oh- Okay,” you flushed, and there it was again. That little skip in your heart. “My name is-“

“I know your name, doll,” he drawled, and you bowed your head. Shy and adorable and he was so fucked.

“Right. I- I knew that.”

He chuckled, grinning down at you, and that hawk sharpness in your eyes was gone. You looked like a fucking bunny, and screw him, he wanted to bend you over right there. He brushed his fingers with yours, and you made the tiniest fucking sound.

“Bye, pretty girl,” he said, and you mumbled another bye of your own.

Soldier Boy took a deep breath through his nose, and smelled it. Heady and thick and purely fucking you.

You were turned on. It made his own cock twitch in response, throbbing and begging him to coat itself in that sweet slick between your legs. To feel the way it would stick and slide against him, to cover himself in you and make you his and-

He took a deep breath. He’d be back tomorrow. He’d keep testing it, until you snapped. You made him chase, he’d keep fucking chasing. He didn’t want to just take you anymore. He wanted to make you admit it. That you wanted him as much as he wanted you.

He was worried that wasn’t fucking possible. That no one had ever wanted anyone, as much as he wanted you.

Feelings were so fucking annoying. He still refused to name them. You’d do that for him, with all your smart words and pretty eyes. 

Soldier Boy looked over his shoulder before he walked out the door. You were watching him. He smirked, waving a hand in goodbye. You flushed and looked frantically back to your computer. 

He’d get you where he wanted you. Didn’t matter what he’d need to do. He looked at the book in his hands. Comic, you’d called it. He’d give it a shot. For you.

He was starting to worry, about the type of shit he’d do for you.  

“What’s your thing,” Ben grunted at you one day, and you frowned.

“My thing?”

“Everyone’s got something that gets them in this shitty game,” he said. “They kill someone you love? Help someone you hated. One of those soft little fuckin’ pussies try and do something to you?”

A small, angry part of him flared at that. Anything that had touched you would burn.

“I mean- It’s just the right thing to do,” you mumbled, looking back to your book, and Ben snorted.

Of course you’d do the right fucking thing. He knew you better now. He shouldn’t have bothered to be surprised.

You liked things too much. You were too soft and too hard in all the strangest places. You never looked at him like you were afraid, and you praised him for finishing comic book after comic book—you’d been right, he liked those things, more than he’d say aloud, but you knew—and then you’d flush when he gave you a little too much attention and get sassy when he tested you.

He knew about your past now. There were darker parts that made him angry. Happier shit that made you smile, and made him want you to smile about him one day.

You knew about his past. More than he’d ever told the tabloids. He’d found it slipping out of him, the longer he was around you. But you had that effect on him. Flowing over his like the fucking ocean and catching him in your tide. He didn’t fight it. Anything that made you look at him, that let him tease you, and made you all fucking soft and sugary.

Ben brought you dinner now, like some kind of delivery boy. But you always smiled at him, and asked him how his day had been, and damn him that kept making it worth it. You kept making it worth it. He was allowed in your place now, and he didn’t question why. He’d just been there, and you’d been going home, and he’d been allowed to walk you there. It wasn’t too far from the library, and pretty fucking small, but it smelled like you. Felt like you. So he liked it, and he found a reason to be there almost every fucking day, and that reason was food or your safety or another comic book. You’d talk and he’d listen, then he’d talk and you’d listen, and fuck him, he felt better than he had in longer than he wanted to admit. In maybe forever. And it was all fucking you.

“Wow.” Hughie had said to him, about a week ago. “You really don’t just want to like- You know. Bang her.”

Ben had grunted, not bothering to respond. All the shit he said just made them bigger asses. Butcher had taken to asking him to read every single piece of paper they came across. Frenchie had been making kissy faces behind his back, and asked him to make out with a book. The only reason Ben hadn’t crushed his skull with a single hand was that he’d be kicked out, and you’d probably frown upon that upon that.

“Heard you been reading,” MM had grunted to him. “Didn’t know you knew how.”

Ben had ignored that too, mostly because he hadn’t know he could read either. But he was getting better at it. Helpful to have a good motivator.

You.

He didn’t want to just fuck you anymore. He wasn’t sure what the fuck he wanted. You smiled and the world felt in order. You said his name and it sounded like being called home. Fucking you would be a benefit—you’d only gotten hotter, the longer he’d looked, and his shower and pillowcases knew your name as well as his dreams did by now—but he also liked just… sitting here. Talking. Like some cucked, pathetic little housewife-

“Why do you do it?” You asked, and Ben paused.

“Do what? Fight?”

You nodded, watching him with that judgement free curiosity. He frowned at his burrito, hoping it would give him the answer. He didn’t fucking know. He never thought about that kind of shit, unless you asked him to.

“Couldn’t you just… leave?” You asked softly, and he glanced up at you under heavier eyes.

“You want me to leave, doll?”

“No.”

You’d answered so quickly. It made him feel a million feet tall, and decide that maybe flying wasn’t that fucking bad, if this was what it felt like.

“But- Do you really want to do this forever?” Your voice was so quiet, Ben was worried you were trying to tread lightly around him. He never wanted you to do that. Not with him. If he was getting raw and weak, you had to fucking come down with him.

“Nah,” he took a large bite of his burrito, speaking through the mouthful. “Sick of it. All of it. Been lookin’ for something better-“

“Ben,” you chastise, holding out a napkin. “Chew.”

He rolled his eyes, but chewed. You smiled, waiting patiently for him to finish. He never fucking knew how you did that. Put up with him, when all the members of Butcher’s team looked like they wanted to throttle him every damn second. He used to like it like that. To be satisfied, with the way people would glare at him and not be able to do a fucking thing about it.

But you just… liked him. And that felt better than anything else.

“Looking for something better,” he said after he swallowed. “Y’know. Not this shit.”

“What does better look like?”

You asked it gently, and he doesn’t need to think about it.

Better looked like you.

“Still figuring that out, doll,” he muttered, and something taut flashed over your features. Ben frowned. Times like this, he really fucking wished he could read you.

“I hope you figure it out soon,” you mumbled, and Ben swallowed.

He did too.

You’re getting confused, but Ben is a confusing man.

Everything you’d heard about him—from Butcher, Annie, and the TV—said that he’d be a monster. An impossible, murderous asshole who’d snap you in half to get what he wanted. Over sexual and disrespectful. Arrogant and cold.

And he was arrogant. He was impossible, and a bit of an asshole. He’d flirted with you like he couldn’t help himself, and looked at you like he wanted to eat you alive.

But then he actually read the book. He smiled at you, and got soft around edges you hadn’t even noticed were so sharp. It had been like watching barbed wire unravel. Concerning and strange and… endearing.

Ben was surprisingly endearing.

It was like he’d never just had a friend before. He wandered after you in the library like a puppy, and leaned over your desk with squared shoulders like he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing himself.

“What’s that,” he’d ask you every day, about almost every thing, and you’d shove down a laugh. Under all the gruffness and anger, he mostly just seemed confused. About the world. About you.

So at least it was mutual. The uncertainty.

Because for everything you understood about Ben—his loneliness, his age, his strange puppy like demeanor—you didn’t get this. What he meant to you. What you meant to him.

You’re afraid you’re in love with him. That somewhere between take-out dinners and telling him you read romance books, he stopped being just Ben and became yours.

Not yours.

No one else’s. He says he hasn’t gotten laid in forever. Between visiting you and working, you’re sure he hasn’t had time to mess around in a bar or alleyway. That makes you smug, in a way that sits too brightly in your chest. You don’t want him to find that kind of feeling anywhere. You wish he’d ask for it from you.

He makes moves. He flirts and teases and smirks when it pools between your legs, nostrils flaring and eyes gleaming. Like he fucking knows. But he never does anything about it, and you’re going insane.

You mean something to him. You had to. He’s not the kind of man who would’ve stuck around this long, if he didn’t. But he’s also not the kind of man to deprive himself of things. If he wanted you, he should’ve fucking taken you by now.

Hughie turned red, and mumbled something about this not being his business, when you brought it up.

“Just- Talk to him,” he’d pleaded. “Not me. Never me- I- I like life.”

You’d frowned, but Hughie had frantically changed the subject. He seemed to know something you didn’t. They all did.

“He’s fuckin’ obsessed with you,” Butcher had drawled, when you’d asked him. “That’s what we know.”

Your face had burned. “It’s- No he’s- I mean- I know he- He likes women, and- I’m one- But- Just sex-“

“Love, he could find sex on the street or gutter if his dick needed a tug,” Butcher had rolled his eyes like you—pacing and wringing your hands—were the insane one. “He read for you. I’m real bloody sure he didn’t even know what the fuck a book was, ‘fore he laid eyes on your pretty fuckin’ face.”

You’d smacked Butcher. He’d laughed, and started asking more mission-related questions.

You’d obsessed over it all day. Obsessed with you. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. You were you and Ben was Ben. He was Soldier Boy. The handsome face you’d grown up fawning over, the big man on the TV screen that seemed untouchable. You’d almost fainted when you saw him, something like a survival instinct locking over you and stopping you from becoming a downright pathetic schoolgirl. You tried to divorce him in your head, from the idealization of a childhood crush.

But you couldn’t. He was meaner and kinder and smarter and cruder than anything you’d managed to dream of. His praise made you dizzy and his mocking tone sent a pool of desire between your thighs, and then he did the dishes when he thought you weren’t looking—you think he might be under the impression you’ll believe they’re just doing themselves—and asked about your interests and didn’t fuck around.

He was supposed to fuck around. To make it easy on you, to get over the infatuation.

He hadn’t. And now you’re so far gone you spend every day gorging yourself on his attention.

Obsessed.

Pretty girl, he calls you. You’d like to be his pretty girl, if he’d just put a claim on you. You wish you could drink enough to be brave. You wish he’d be selfish again, and just fucking take you.

But you’re going to have to do this the hard way. The way that cleaves you in half, if there’s a single wrong serration. If he just carves your chest open, takes your heart, and doesn’t offer his in return.

You have to try. Because if you don’t, you’re going to be here forever.

He brings you your favorite food, tonight. He sits with his knee bumping yours, and it makes your head so clouded you almost forget your plan.

“Do you have… anything?” You ask, your voice barely more than a nervous breath. “That you want to do?”

Ben gives you a sideways, almost confused look. “The fuck does that mean?”

“I mean, just- What are you planning to do?”

“When.”

“In the future.”

“Ah,” he shrugs, raising his burger back to his mouth. “This.”

You swallow. That’s not helpful. “This?” You prompt weakly, and he nods. “You mean- This?” You wave a hand around the room, and Ben’s lips twitch. “Me?”

“You?”

He says it like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, and your heart shrinks.

That’s what you thought. You never should’ve listened to Butcher and Hughie, you knew that wasn’t what he meant, you fucking knew it and- God, you were so fucking stupid, to think he’d want you back.

“Nevermind,” you mumble, and Ben stiffens.

“Doll-“

“I’m getting a new shipment of books tomorrow.” You don’t want to talk about this anymore. “So- I might be too busy to eat lunch-“

Ben snaps your name, and you stare at your hands.

“I- Um- I don’t know how long it will take, so you don’t have to come over-“

Ben grabs your wrist, his touch almost searing into your skin, and when you look up, he’s staring at you. He’d moved to kneel over you. Your noses would brush if you twitched. His breath fans over your face, and you’re embarrassingly slack under his hand.

“Ben…” You whisper, because you don’t want to do this. You don’t want whatever fragile thing you had—even if it was just friendship—to break.

But he doesn’t move back. He never really has.

“You’re sulking,” he mutters, and you try to bow your head, but he catches your chin with two fingers. Tilts it slowly back up, forcing you to hold his gaze. “Why.”

Your voice is tiny. “Doesn’t matter-“

“The fuck it doesn’t matter. What’s wrong with you.”

“Nothing,” you try to avert your gaze. It’s impossible. “I just- You’re- I’m-“

You cut yourself off lamely. Ben leans in closer, jaw ticking as he scans over your features.

“You want it to be you?”

Your mouth falls open. “I- What?”

“My future.” He rasps. “You want it to be you?”

“Do you?”

Your mouth falls open. “I- What?”

“My future.” He rasps. “You want it to be you?”

“Do you?”

You expect him to laugh, but the lines on his face just deepen. He lets out a sharp breath through his lips, then smirks.

“Maybe I do,” he almost purrs, tipping your chin a little futher back. “What then, doll?”

You gape at him. So close. Saying words he won’t be able to take back, but not enough to make you melt. You’re still guarded. Still careful.

“Say it,” you whisper, because you have to be sure. “The- The whole thing.”

Ben frowns. “Doll-“

“Say it,” you almost plead. “If you mean it-“ Please fucking mean it. “If this isn’t just- If I’m not just some fixation, Ben, please say it-“

He crashes his mouth over yours, and your words turn into a long, hungry whimper. His lips are chapped and warm. Soft but firm, the kiss demanding but controlled. His hand slides into your hair, the other coming up to cup the back of your neck, and you melt into his strong body. His tongue traces over your lower lip, and you whine softly.

You get breathless embaressingly fast. Your thighs press together, but he’s not making it easy on you. His hand on your neck drags down your spine and splays possessively on your back. He pulls you closer, humming in satisfaction when you brace your fingers on his thighs. His knee pushes between your legs, and you grind down against it without a thought.

“Christ,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, smirking as you pant and cling to his jeans. “Needy little thing, ain’t you?”

“Ben,” you whimper, and he hums.

“’S alright. I’m gonna take care of you.” He hooks his arm under your knees, the other sliding under your arms. “C’mon.”

You wrap your arms around his neck as he pulls you into the air, pressing your face into his neck. He carries you steadily to the bedroom, setting you down with suprising gentleness on the bed. You blink hopelessly at him, as he draws back up. He still hasn’t said it.

And like he can read your mind, Ben smirks and flicks your nose with his thumb.

“Not a fixation,” he says. “Just my pretty fuckin’ girl.”

You flush, but refuse to cave that fast. “That’s not saying it.”

Ben snorts. “Jesus, woman-“

“Say it.” You snap, before—under the burn of his gaze—adding a mumbled, “Please.”

Ben chuckles. He peels off his shirt, and you almost forget to be stubborn. His big. Even bigged than he looks with his shirt on. His skin is tanned and soft, his boobs might be bigger than yours, and you can see the flex of thick, well built muscle with every breath. Your tongue flicks over your lips, and he smirks.

“You’re real fuckin’ demanding, you know that?”

“You- You’re supposed to- Ben-“ Your protests fall flat, as he trails a light touch up the underside of your leg. “Ben- That’s- You’re- Not playing fair-“

“I’m not tryin’ to play fair, doll,” he teases. “I’m tryin’ to get you ready.”

“Ready?” you squeak, and he hums, squeezing under your knee.

“Want you to be nice and relaxed for me,” he murmurs. “Gonna use this pretty fuckin’ body right. Make you wet, make you fuckin’ stupid.”

He pushes his fingers under the hem of your shorts, and your breathing is staggered and shallow. You lean back and push into his touch all at once, and Ben’s grin widens.

“Look at that. Already playin’ nice.”

You try to glare at him, but he lean back down, pressing you back into the mattress with a deep kiss. Your fingers shoot into his hair, as his weight settles between your legs. It forces them open, his budge pressing right against you clothed, aching pussy. You hadn’t even let yourself fully feel it—the vastness of your desire—because you’d been worried it would’ve just consumed you entirely. That you’d turn into some sex-crazed lunatic, imagining Ben above you and touching you and kissing you. You would’ve turned into a puddle that spent her days in bed with a vibrator, dreaming of what she couldn’t have.

But now you have it. You have him. Kissing you like he’s trying to let you consume him. He groans, with every whimper he draws from your lips. His hips roll against your core, and your breath catches. Your cunt feels like it’s almost in pain, from the neglect of intention. You scratch at Ben’s shoulders and belt, trying to drag him closer and tear every barrier between you apart with only your nails.

Ben catches your wrist, and pins it over your head. You thrash and strain, and he just chuckles, dragging his thumb over soft skin.

“Look at you,” he rolls his hips down again, and your back arches off the bed. “How the fuck could you think I wouldn’t want this?”

You blink at him, breathing through your mouth, and Ben leans down. His kiss brushes the very tip of your nose. You mewl, wired and desperate, and Ben laughs. The mockery of it only makes the heat between your legs stronger.

“You make me fuckin’ crazy,” he says, jaw clenched tight. “Make me… Feel things.”

“You make me feel things too,” you breathe out, and Ben stills.

“Yeah?”

You almost giggle at the slack, worshipful look on his face. Guarded but leaking with a hope you’re sure his old, old heart doesn’t know how to recognize. You don’t strain against his pull on you. You just lean up and brush a kiss over his jawline.

His whole body shudders. You sink back into the cushions, beaming as his wrecked expression. A low growl rolls through his chest, and his eyes go so dark it’s almost predatory.

“You,” his voice has dropped, so impossibly deep. “You…”

Words seem to fail him. You don’t mind. You don’t love Ben because he’s a man of words. You have enough of them as it is. You surround yourself with them, and there are only so many in the world that can express this. The electric, new and fragile and hungry thing between you. 

You love Ben because he’s a man of action. And you know he’s not going to be able to say he loves you.

So he crashes back down, and shows you instead.

It starts with open mouth kisses, over your collarbone and throat. You head tips back, your mouth going slack, and Ben moans against your skin.

“So fuckin’ responsive.” He snakes a hand under your body, giving you ass a firm squeeze. “Knew you would be. Sensitive fuckin’ doll, probably getting fuckin’ soaked from just a little touching.”

Humiliations burn with arousal in your gut, deep and hot and intoxicating. You are soaked. You can feel it every time you shift against him.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Ben coos, kissing a particularly soft part of your neck. “I know how bad you want this. I can fuckin’ smell it.”

Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “You- You what?”

“You heard me,” he pushes your shirt slowly up, thick fingers brushing over the soft skin of your stomach. “Every time you got needy, doll. I could almost taste it.”

“And you- You never-“

“You’re the one who said to be sure.”

His tone is mocking, but his touch is hot and his expression is shockingly soft. You flush under the attention, unsure what to do yourself. Just splayed on the bed for him to play with, dazed and confused. Ben grins like a wolf, and tears off your shirt without a warning. You almost protest, but he doesn’t give you the chance.

“No bra,” he takes on perked nipple, rolling it between his fingers with a dangerous smile. “Fuckin’ slut.”

You swallow, watching with wide eyes as he lean over your chest. Electricy shoots through your body, as he wraps his mouth around your neglected nipple, sucking lightly as he plays with the other one between those infernal fingers. You stare at the ceiling with fluttering lashes, lost in the warmth of his mouth. His tongue flicks, and you whimper. Ben’s teeth graze against you, and a weak noise of his name falls from your lips.

He smirks, dragging more kisses over the curve of your breast. He gives your nipple one last flick, then kisses over the hurt.

“Already bein’ so quiet,” he teases, toying with the band of your shorts. “Think I might need to make you scream, doll. Make you prove how bad you want this cock.”

“I- I want it-“ You stammer, pushing up on your elbows. “Don’t- I want it-“  

“Shh.” Ben presses his finger against your mouth, and your jaw snaps shut.

He blinks. You swallow, trying to drag up the strength to resist him again, but it’s too late. He’s seen it. How fucking desperate you are to please him.

“Jesus,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “You’re- Chirst.”

Your cheeks burn. You try to roll onto your stomach, but Ben catches you and rolls you back. You pout at him, silently pleading with him not to make this a fucking thing, but he just keeps examining you. His gaze burns over your skin. You think you’re going to fucking explode.

Slowly—almost carefully—Ben pushes his thumb into your mouth. You take it, batting your lashes and loosening your jaw. The pad of his fingers tickles the back of your throat, and you suck lightly, eyes fluttering shut. Ben massages your thigh, and your legs fall further open.

“This what you really fuckin’ wanted, huh,” Ben mutters, and you hum, swirling your tongue around him. “You’ll do anything I fuckin’ tell you.”

You hum, sucking harder. You eyes burn, and you squeeze them shut.

Ben taps your cheek with his free forefinger. “Open.”

You obey, blinking through the shame, not letting yourself slack on his thumb. You flick against it, the same way he’d played with your nipple, and his throat bobs.

“Fuckin’ dangerous,” he says, and you don’t understand why he thinks that. You’re the pathetic one here.

But Ben pulls his thumb back, and with a softness you didn’t know he had, he leans down and brushes his lips against yours. It’s a restrained, teasing kiss. You think you’re going to cry, but then he pushes his knee back against your core, and you can only gasp against his mouth.

“That’s it, doll,” he mutters. “Relax for me.”

“Be- Ben-“ You blubber, already fucking ruined. “Touch me, please-“

He deepens the kiss, his tongue pressing into your mouth with such demand you almost sob. He knee grinds itself against you, moving back only so he can rip your shorts and panties away. Your breath hitches, as two massive fingers drag their way through your cunt.

“What a fuckin’ mess,” Ben growls. “I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I. Not fuckin’ my pretty girl like she needs.”

You whine, nodding like a bobblehead. Ben pulls slightly back, kissing a stray tear on your cheek.

“Fucking crybaby,” he hisses. “Barely even done anything yet, you’re going to be a fucking wreck when I’m done.”

God, you are. There’s no way around it. Those two fingers are curling right against your weeping pussy, and if he doesn’t do something soon, you’re going to fucking scream.

“I’ll give you something to really cry about.” Ben slams a quick, harsh kiss back on your lips before pulling away. “No cumming, ‘till I say. You got that?”

You stare at him, and the softness is gone. His jaw is set, his eyes sharp, and his voice a rough command. Usually, you’d laugh at his attempts to boss you around, but right now you’re barely more than putty in his arms. You nod, and Ben huffs in satisfaction.

“Good girl.”

Your cunt squeezes around nothing. Ben must smell the gush, because his nostrils flare and his fingers dig into your hips.

“Been waitin’ too fucking long for this,” he says, kissing his way down your body. “Going to take my fuckin’ time, doll. Think I’ve earned that much, keeping my cock in my pants long as I did.”

You mewl an agreement, and Ben laughs.

“Anything I say,” he mutters to himself, pulling your legs over his shoulders. “Too fuckin’ good to be true.”

You’d argue this wasn’t good, if it wasn’t the best feeling you’ve ever experienced. You’re completely at Ben’s mercy, one massive hand massaging your ass as the opposite parts your pussy folds, giving him a good look at the evidence of your desperation.

Ben hums in approval, and your pussy clenches again. He laughs, kissing the inside of your thigh, and blows a puff of cool air against your clit. Your hips fly off the bed as you cry out, and Ben slams them down with a single hand.

“Stay still.” He orders, and you whimper in acknowledgement.

You’re going to try. You’re really going to fucking try, to listen. To be good for him.

But he does’t make it fucking easy.

Ben dives headfirst into your pussy, and you almost fucking scream. You knew he was experienced, but this feels like someone’s mouth fucking you with a sex machine. A hot, messy sex machine that has rough lips and a thick tongue, plunging in and out of your gaping cunt. His nose drags against your clit, rubbing into it over and over like he’s trying to set you off, and you grab at the sheets to try and achnor yourself.

“Be- Ben- Fuck-“ He makes out with your clit, and your eyes roll back in your head. “Oh- Oh my god-“

He pulls back, smacks your pussy, and pushes his face back into your core. Your body doesn’t even seem to know how to process it, every nerve so lit up that it’s scrambled and dazed. You’re almost, literally, overloaded with pleasure.

Ben keeps eating you out with the fervor of a starved man. He uses his whole face, tonguing you like he’s trying to memorize the way you squeeze around him. Whenever you cry out for him, he spanks your pussy, and you can’t tell if it’s a punishment or reward. Maybe both, if the way your cunt pulses with every hit is an indication.

He hits your pussy again, right when you’re so close to the edge you can taste it, and you almost cum. The only thing that stops you it is physically yanking yourself back, trying to escape the intensity of his touch.

Ben grabs you and drags you back. You whine, looking up at him with glossy, tear stained eyes. He wipes them away with his thumb, glaring down at your open, wrecked expression.

“The fuck did I say about moving?”

“I- I didn’t-“

“You did.”

He plants one hand on your lower abdomen, spanking your pussy with the other. Once. Twice. Your eyes roll back and the tears roll down your cheeks, but Ben just sneers.

“You wanna cum, doll?”

“Yes- Yes, please-“

“Then be fuckin’ good.”

He spanks your pussy again, and pushes his face back in. Your cunt is so abused and raw it only takes a few seconds to work you back up to where you were before. You try not to move, but then Ben—like he wants you not to listen—flicks his clit back and forth over your clit, so fast it feels like a vibrator. Your thighs lock around his head, and your back arches off the mattress.

This time, Ben doesn’t pull back and spank you. This time is worse. He just… Keeps going. He’s strong enough to keep your hips steady against his face. He grabs your ankles, and forces them to stay around his head. You can’t get away from him, as he works your pussy. You thrash in the sheets, crying out and shoving his head as it becomes borderline impossible to hold your orgasm in, but he doesn’t fucking stop.

You’re crying, loud and pathetic, and Ben just moans against your cunt. You roll onto your stomach, trying to crawl away as your traitorous pussy grinds against his face, and Ben slaps your ass. One arm leaves your body—though it doesn’t help you at all—and you hear skin slapping behind you. You manage to twist over your shoulder, and almost cum just from the sight.

Ben, jerking himself off as he keeps you pinned to his face. His cock is thick and big, bigger than anything you’ve ever see. It’s almost pretty, and that’s not something a cock should be. He’s leaking with pre-cum. You want to lap it off of him.

He slams you further onto his face, and you mewl, collapsing back into the matteress. You might pass out, with the effort to keep your orgasm in. You can barely think, barely speak. You’re just sobbing into the sheets and lost in the pleasure.

Then it stops.

Ben pulls away, and the loss is worse than the torture. You cry out, babbling something like his name, and Ben’s lips slot gently over yours.

“Doin’ so fucking well, babydoll,” he mutters. “Just a little longer. It’ll feel good.”

You nod, trying to chase his lips when he pulls away. He hums in amusement, pressing a kiss to your neck, and drags your ass up into the air. Your knees are already wobbly. You wouldn’t be able to stay up, if Ben didn’t wrap an arm around your stomach and force you up.

“Never seen someone so fuckin’ gorgous when they cry,” he mutters, rubbing that thick cock between the lips of your pussy. “Think I just like you wet, honey. Wet and fuckin’ sweet.”

He gathers some arousal with his fingers, then reaches over to press them against your lips.

“Taste,” he orders, and you obey thoughtlessly.

You don’t taste bad. Just… Strange. You moan, but mostly because you like Ben’s fingers being back in your mouth.

“That’s it,” Ben coos, lining himself up against your entrance. “Keep suckin’, pretty girl. Know it helps.”

You hum, and you’re too gone to actually think about what he said. It helps.

Then Ben starts to push inside you, and it becomes obvious what he meant. You squeak around his fingers, and Ben shushes you, slowly. Pushing every inch in so slowly, letting you adjust before giving a little more. You’ve never been strenched this wide, had such deep an angle. You keep sucking on his thumb, trying to find something to do with your body but seize up and wiggle. Ben thumbs slowly at your clit, helping it get further and further in.

“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, his balls pressed against the curve of your ass. “Fit me like a fuckin’ glove, doll- Christ-“

Ben leans fully over you, his body blanketing yours and his hand splaying back over your stomach. His face presses into the crook of your neck, his thumb pulling out of your mouth so his hand can wrap around your throat. He grinds his hips down, and you mewl, fresh tears falling from your eyes.

Ben kisses them away, rolling his hips again. His cock hits so deep inside you, you think you see stars. Just having him in you is cruel. You’re so full, with so little friction, it’s a wonder you’re not sobbing.

But Ben takes mercy, squeezing your neck gently before whispering, “Sing for me, babydoll.”

He pulls almost fully out, slams back in, and you scream. It’s a broken, delighted sound of pleasure, and Ben groans against your skin. He lets go of your throat, letting your cheek press into the mattress, and grabs your hand. Your fingers tangle together, as you pant. There’s nothing you can really do but take it. The size of him along, it knocks the air clean from your lungs. Ben presses demanding kisses, over your face and neck. You try to kiss him back, but you mostly just writhe and cry out his name.

He’s like an animal, with all his grunts and growls of your name. Every thrust drags his cock over your g-spot, splitting you open over and over until you’re just a ball of tears and nerves in Ben’s arms. His thumb wanders back down to your clit, rubbing tight, harsh circles, and you scream. The Zpressure in your body feels seconds from exploding, and you really don’t think you can take much more.

“Be- Ben-“ Your eyes cross, as he keeps pounding into your gushing cunt. “Ooooh- Bennn-“

“I know,” he kisses your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, his hips snapping down like a drill. “Soak my cock, pretty girl. You can do it, come on-“

The permission is all you needed. Ben’s hips snap forward, the head of his cock angled to drive into that gooey spot, and you come undone. Your orgasm is blinding and powerful, sweeping through every inch of your body. It lasts, as Ben fucks and fingers you through it, unraveling you so completely you think you black out for a moment. All you remember is a heavenly, strangely pure kind of floating feeling, and Ben’s growled praise in your ear.

“Good girl,” he hisses, and you coo, pussy fluttering and weeping. “Fuckin’- Gonna fill you up, doll, fill you up real fuckin’ good- I’ll be leakin’ out of this pussy when I’m done, let everyone know who the fuck you belong to- My girl, my fuckin’ girl-“

Ben’s thrusts grow jagged, his hand moving back to your throat, and you make a blubbering sound of agreement. He chuckles, choked and rough.

“You’d fuckin’ love that. Bein’ full of me, bein’ mine, bein’- Fuck-“

Ben cums, thick ropes of cum spurting into your cunt. There’s so much of it, so much of him, you can almost feel it in your throat. Almost fucking taste it. He tries to fuck you through it, but soon his release is dripping down your thighs and spraying back to your calves, and he pulls out. A stream of it hits your back as he moans, and you only squeak when Ben rolls you over and paints your stomach and tits white as well.

It’s a glorious fucking sight. Ben in all his glory, his cock wrapped in his fist and coated in your juices, his chest heaving as he moans your name and cums all over your body. When he’s done he doubles over, crashing his lips against yours and kissing you with so much fervor, you could almost think no sex had happened at all.

He pulls back, and you giggle. You don’t know why. It just feels like the right fucking thing to do, with how softly he’s looking at you. How unbelievably fucking lucky you are. Ben raises his brows, rolls his eyes, and presses a softer kiss to your lips.

“You think this is funny?” He mutters, but there’s no venom in his voice.

You nod, smiling up at him, and he sighs.

“You’re lucky,” he mutters, and he has no idea.

You press a kiss to his lips, and they twitch up. His eyes soften again, as he takes you in. So fucked out you can’t even speak.

“Good?” He mutters, and you nod like a bobblehead.

So good. So fucking worth it, for the months of mind games of questions, with how fucking good it was.

Ben smiles. And you can read it all over his face.

How he really does feel the exact same way.

“Told you I’d take care of you,” he grunts. “My fuckin’ girl.”

And you are. And he really, really fucking does. He cleans you up and feeds you. Gets you water and crawls into bed, lighting up a joint but keeping you tucked tight into his chest. You look up at him with a dazed smile, and he looks down at like some adoring, devout follower of a secret religion.

“We should get married,” he says suddenly, and you laugh, finding enough of a voice to respond.

“Date me first, smart guy.”

He grunts, pulling you closer and kissing the top of your head. You both know there isn’t much dating that will need to be done, to get you on board. But Ben’s going to try anyway. And you love him for it. How willing he is, just for you, to really, always fucking try.  

✦End note: eric kripke WISHES he had my vision of soldier boy ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

You’re not casual. You’re obsessive, and quietly insane. You don’t become the top of your field like this while being anything else. It’s easy to contain yourself in this kind of work, in it’s order and chaos all at once. There are rules that you to follow, then break, and everyone praises you and you glow like a diamond catching sunlight.

Not absorbing it. Because it passes right through, and it’s never enough, and you get addicted to it. The praise, from these living gods. They all love you, and you bask in it, and then you look at him.

Bucky.

The only one who doesn’t praise you. Who doesn’t treat you like a good dog, bringing them treats and newspapers. When you met him, he barely treated you like anything at all. Tony had introduced you, he’d looked you up and down, shaken your hand, and walked away.

But you.

You’d been a fucking goner.

Bucky’s handsome in the way you used to only see in movies. Your exact type, from the hair to the eyes to the way he carries himself. Silent and in control, kind but not overly nice, polite without expectation. You’d made it two years without developing a crush on anyone. Somehow, surrounded by some of the world’s most handsome men, you’d maintained that tiny sliver of your sanity.

Then there was Bucky. And you lost yourself.

You’re not weird around him. You’re not a stalker, and you’re not that kind of insane. You’re perverted in the privacy of your head, drooling over his massive hands and muscles, but swallowing it before it leaks out of your lips. You don’t react when Tony says his name, save for a traitorous pulse in your cunt.

“You ready to look at his arm?” Tony asks, and you hum.

“Think so. Just maintenance?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tony sighs. “I’d work on Terminator myself, but Cap says I spend the whole time looking like I want to throat chop him. So,” he shrugs. “Don’t look like you wanna throat chop him.”

You laugh softly, and grab the tools off the bench. It’s not a big deal. You’re the only person besides Tony, in the whole building, who’s qualified to work on Bucky’s arm.

But that means you get to be close to him. Just the thought of it makes your skin hot, your heart buzzing more than thumping, your fingers fidgeting with the straps of your toolkit as you restlessly wait.

Bucky says your name, and your head shoots up. He’s there. He’s right there, and watching you with those careful, beautiful eyes.

“Hi,” you say, and it sounds so pathetically breathless.

Bucky tilts his head. His hair looks soft. You want to run your fingers through it, to pull on it, to feel it tickling over your face as he ruts into your drooling pussy-

He’s staring at you. He must’ve said something that you didn’t hear. Fuck.

“What?”

His lips twitch. Just the smallest movement up, almost impossible to catch. Your heart skips, and you almost miss his words again.

“You the one workin’ on me today?” His voice is low. It rolls through the air like thunder.

You wonder, if there’s any part of him that isn’t addictive.

You’re here for a job. You’re here to give him medical treatment. You plaster a sweet smile on your face, and gesture to the chair. You can be normal about this.

“Tony has bad bedside manner,” you say smoothly, and Bucky chuckles.

God, that’s worse than the smile. It echoes through your chest, and you almost choke on it. How fucking bad you want him.

“He does call me Schwarzeneggerevery time I’m here,” he mutters, crossing the room. “Don’t even know what that means.”

You hum, pretending to look at your tools. He’s sitting down next to you. Your knees are bumping. You’re normal. “Arnold Schwartzinagor. Actor who played the Terminator.”

“Ah.” Bucky pauses. “Sam calls me that, too. It a good movie?”

“It’s fine.” You shrug. “If you like stuff from the 80s.”

“I don’t know things from the 80s.”

You laugh softly, and look up with an apology on your tongue. You find Bucky staring at you, and your breath catches in your throat.

His eyes are so intense, you think they can see right through you. To the lust, pounding in your bloodstream. You have to open your mouth to breathe. Bucky’s eyes flick down. Just tracking a movement. Nothing about you.

You kick yourself internally, and push the casual smile back into place.

“I think you’d like some of it.” You reach for his arm, and Bucky turns it palm up, still staring at you. “I mean, any decade will have it’s ups and downs.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You run your fingers over the plates of metal, and for a second, forget all about the Bucky attached to them. It’s a beautiful artwork of technology. Overlapping, gold-inlaid, smooth under your fingers. You turn the wrist slowly, and there’s only a faint whir. No clicks. Shuri must be using a muffler, or some kind of fluid that moves the wires instead of gears-

“You want me to go?”

Your head shoots up, a panicked flush spreading over your cheeks. “No- No- I- I’m just-“

Bucky raises his brows, light amusement dancing in his eyes. Your words falter. He’s fucking with you.

“Shut up,” you roll your eyes, and Bucky chuckles again.

God, that sound. It’s going to be the death of you.

“It’s just- It’s amazing technology.” You mumble defensively, and Bucky shrugs.

“I can tell, from the way you’re eye fuckin’ it.”

“Eye fucking.” You shake your head, biting back your smile. “How do you even know what that means?”

“Too much time with Sam.”

“Hm,” you grab your screwdriver, running your hands up the mock muscle—he should be thanking Shuri even more, she didn’t have to give him biceps—looking for a panel. “Tony told me you weren’t going to talk.”

“Tony’s got that bad bedside manner,” Bucky shrugs with his good arm. “You gonna be nicer to me, doll?”

You just hum, ducking your head to hide your flush. Doll. He called you doll.

And Bucky huffs an amused laugh, at your non-answer. But he keeps talking to you. He tells you what Sam’s already gotten him to watch, and what Steve’s trying to get him to watch next, and what Steve’s saving so they can look at it together.

“Is Star Wars any good?” He asks, and you snort.

“Do you like cowboys?”

“I’m neutral.”

“Do you like space?”

“Yeah,” he pauses, then mutters, “I wanted to go to the moon. When I was a kid.”

You look up, and find a faraway look, etched over his handsome features. Your smile softens, and you lower your voice to a whisper, because this feels like a secret. “Yeah?”

Bucky nods, his eyes finding yours again. “I heard we got up there eventually.”

“We did. A few times.” It’s hard to hold his gaze. An unbearable ache is staring to pool between your thighs. “But now there are aliens on earth, so the final frontier is less… Coveted.”

Bucky’s lips twitch. It seems to be the closest he really gets to smiling. You want to see it over, and over, and over again.

“I think you’d like Star Wars.” You’re still whispering. You don’t know why.

“Alright,” Bucky says. And that’s it. He just… Trusts your words.

He asks for you again, next week. Tony claps you on the shoulder and thanks you, because Christ, he stares at me and I feel like I’m under surveillance. You roll your eyes and don’t respond. It doesn’t feel like that when Bucky stares at you, but he also does stare at everyone. So you’re not special. You’re just another person in his line of sight.

“I tried those donuts you were talkin’ about,” he tells you one afternoon, and you hum.

It’s the new routine. Bucky comes for you to work on his arm. You’re normal about it. You talk like people, and his lips twitch, and you feel something press on top of your chest, trying to gnaw your heart right open.

“Liked them,” he adds, staring at you. As always.

You hum, looking at him under your lashes. “Did you have the cookies and cream?”

He nods. “Just like you told me to.”

You smile despite yourself. It’s those small confirmations that he thinks about you, which get you the most. It means you mean something to him. It drives you insane.

“Sam says there are all kinds of ice cream flavors now, too.”

“Sam’s right.”

Bucky sighs. “Hate it when that happens.”

You laugh, a bubbly, pathetic sound that only Bucky pulls out of you. His fingers twitch under your hand, and you glance up.

It would be wise, if you stopped doing that. Every time you find him staring at you, you feel fucking insane.

“You should try cotton candy ice cream,” you murmur. “It’s fucking crazy.”

“That is my favorite kind of thing.”

“I know.”

Bucky’s lips twitch, and your heart almost bursts. “You got a good place? For ice cream?”

You shrug. “The grocery store?”

Bucky grunts, and his fingers twitch again. You focus back on his hand, because you don’t understand why they keep doing that. The rest of the session passes, and Bucky smiles at you before he goes, and you hold onto it like he just handed you a pearl-strung noose. Clutched between your teeth and priceless, but making your breathing short.

The rest of the day always passes in a daze, after you see Bucky. The seconds rush past you in an avalanche, and then you’re in your room, and  you let it take over.

How much you want him. How much you need him.

You lay, flat on your back in bed, and let your thoughts run wild. Bucky’s massive hands, one cool and one burning hand, would wander up your thighs. He’d shove your knees open, and kiss over the sensitive, hidden patches of skin. The stubble he’s been growing would scrape and tickle, as he kissed over your weeping pussy.

“All for me?” He’d murmur, and you’d nod helplessly. “You just walk around, pussy leakin’ because of how bad you need it?”

And you’d whimper. You do. There’s nothing you can do to help it, but save that desire for locked doors and hot, tangled sheets. Your fingers—smaller than Bucky’s, but all you have—rub over the swollen lips of your pussy, spreading your arousal as you picture that it’s Bucky instead. You push one finger in slowly, then a second one because you need them to stretch you like Bucky’s would.

“Messy girl,” he’d coo in your ear, and your back arches. You start to fuck yourself, slow and tentative as your thoughts run wild.

This is what just one of his fingers would feel like. Pumping in and out of you, his palm grinding down on you clit until you’re trembling beneath him. You’d try to push up into his hand, but he’d shove you right back down and kiss over your throat. Licking and nipping and driving you out of your fucking mind.

“Buckyyyy...” You moan at the air, and when you squeeze your eyes shut you can almost feel him.

“There you go, babydoll,” he’d kiss under your ear, his body pressing over yours. Warm and massive, pinning you to the bed, forcing you to just take it. “That’s it. You like that, don’t you. Like fallin’ apart on my fingers.”

You whimper and grab at the sheets. Your wrist aches, and you can’t hit that gooey, wet spot inside you, but god you just need to cum.

“I know,” Bucky would hit deeper. Wet, lewd sounds would fill the room, as he pounded his fingers into you at an unforgiving pace. “I know, sweet girl. C’mon, show me how pretty you are when you cum.”

Your back arches off the bed. Your hand shoots over your mouth as you moan and cry out his name, your thighs shaking and pussy squeezing down on your fingers. You lay there for a while after you’re done, holding the sheets in a vague form of Bucky.

Tomorrow, you’re going to see him again. Maybe just over breakfast, or passing in the hall. But you’ll see him. And you’ll have to look him in the eyes, and pray that he can’t see it just under your features. That all he’d ever need to do it touch your head, and you’d fall to your knees.

You’re devoted to him. He thinks of you as a friend, and he’s not your boss, but he’s boss adject, and there’s nothing about him that’s accessible. There’s no world where this ever goes beyond fantasy.

But god, you’re going to fantasize. You can’t hurt anyone, by just fantasizing.

That’s what you’ll tell yourself over and over, to avoid the guilt.

It’s all just a fantasy.

You‘re perfectly professional about it. It’s not Bucky’s fault that he’s so handsome it feels like you shouldn’t be allowed to look at him. You can keep your desire bottled up, keep in the warmest, wettest pits of your stomach. It can seep out between your thighs when it becomes too much to bare. It can breed into itself and spread up into your heart, festering in the dark. But Bucky will never see it. You’ll be good, and you’ll act sane, and that will be it.

He’s been through too much already, to add your insatiable, ardors devotion to his list of problems.

You’ve developed an easy friendship. That’s all you’ll allow yourself to have, all you let yourself think about in his presence. When you’re working on his arm, you don’t think about those big, cold fingers being buried in your pussy until you’re alone in your room. All your daydreams are trapped in your sheets, and your moans absorbed and locked in your pillowcase.

You think about Bucky pinning you down with a warm, splayed hand on your abdomen. About his smirk, as he bullies three metal fingers into your pussy, forcing a perfect stretch before fucking you like a toy. His cold thumb swiping over your clit, sending shivers through your body. His eyes gleaming and attention burning, as he drags out orgasm after orgasm.

That hand would be like having a personal fuck machine, and he’d act like it until the very end. All taunting and teasing until you were spent and limp below him. Then he’d kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the space between your eyes. He’d coo about what a good girl you were for him, and you’d whimper, your voice lost from screaming his name.

“What’re you thinking about?” Bucky says, sitting next to you at the kitchen counter.

You swallow, and shrug meekly. You never feel small around anyone but him, but you’ve never been this lost in anyone but him. It’s a miracle no one’s noticed, how Bucky shows up and suddenly you’re all flushed cheeks and girly giggles. You might as well be twirling your hair and kicking your feet. It’s pathetic. You can’t stop.

“Nothing?” Bucky pushes a little, and you give him a close-lipped, full smile.

“Nope.”

“You looked like you were thinkin’ about something.”

“I wasn’t.” You look back to the sandwich you’d been working on. Bucky keeps staring at you. He always does. “Nothing going on up here, Barnes.”

Bucky’s lips twitch.

The whole world seems brighter, like he’s just like some holy kind of candle.

“I don’t believe that,” he murmurs, and you shrug.

“You don’t have to.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Good for you.”

“It is, isn’t it,” he chuckles. “I’m gonna love being right.”

You blink, shooting his a sideways look. “Being… Right?”

“I know you’re thinkin’ about something.” He shrugs. “I’ll figure out what.”

Oh. Under no circumstances can he find out what you’re thinking about. “It’s not anything interesting,” you try lamely, and Bucky smirks.

“Ah. So it’s something.”

“I- That’s-“ You sputter. “Why do you even care-“

“I like knowin’ what you’re thinking,” he shrug. “It’s always interesting.”

You blink at him. For some reason, that makes your throat close up, your eyes burning with embarrassing tears. Your knees are wobbling, and you’re sitting down. You grunt and look back to your sandwich, and Bucky chuckles.

“C’mon. Tell me.” He leans closer. There’s a gravity, from his heat, and it makes you want to just collapse over his chest.

You look at him from the corner of your eye, and you won’t tell him. That’s against the rules. It defeats the purpose.

But god, he’s looking at you. Really looking at you. You can count each shade of blue in his eyes. If you move just an inch, your noses might bump.

“I’m hungry,” you whisper, and Bucky’s brow knits.

He looks down to your sandwich. Then back to you. Adorable confusion flashes over his face. “You should… Uh- Eat.”

You nod, and he clears his throat, leaning back. You wish you could grab the collar of his shirt, and drag him back.

“You ever seen this thing called the Princess Bride?” He asks, not touching any food himself.

Just sitting there. With you. You try not to think about it too much.

You nod, chewing on your sandwich with puffed out cheeks. “’S a really good movie-“

“Chew then swallow, doll.” Bucky’s lips twitch, and you flush and obey.

“It’s a good movie,” you mumble, giving him a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”

Bucky shrugs, his gaze dropping to your mouth. Your breath hitches. You go perfectly still, afraid that if you shift, he’ll look away.

His tongue darts over his lips. He tips his head, his forearm flexes as he curls his fingers, and your breathing gets shallow. Something electric has shifted in the air, and it’s making you dizzy. Bucky reaches up slowly, and if you weren’t rooting in place, you think you’d fall out of your chair.

His thumb wipes the spot right above your lips, and a shock rushes through your body. His nostrils flare, his eyes lock onto yours, and his touch lingers.

When he pulls back, the movement is slow. Controlled. Your tongue flicks out, to lick where his thumb had been. Bucky’s nostrils flare.

There’s something on his thumb. Tiny little breadcrumbs that must’ve been stuck to your cheek from the sauce. Bucky brings the finger up to his mouth, holding your gaze, and sucks the crumbs away. Heat pools in your tummy, and your thighs press together.

Bucky stares at you. You grab the edge of your seat with white  knuckles, trying to keep yourself from falling off.

“Crumbs,” he mutters, and you nod.

“Yeah.”

“I- Uh-“ He coughs, and looks away. Disappointment sinks like a boulder into your stomach.

You don’t know what you expected. Hell, you’ve told yourself what to expect. You’re not allowed to be disappointed by him. You’re not allowed to want anything from him, except for what your head can offer.

“Sam’s been tryin’ to make me watch it,” he mutters, and you blink.

“What?”

“Princess Bride.”

“Oh.” You’re still a little drunk on his proximity. He smells like something rich and spicy, and it’s fogging up your brain. “Cool.”

Bucky nods. “We’re gonna watch it next Friday. In that common room, where Stark makes us do game nights.” He gives you a sideways look. “I never see you at those.”

You shrug. “I’m not an Avenger.”

“Stark says you get invited.”

You do. But that would be a night of drinking and laughing and being closer to Bucky than you can handle, so you usually lock yourself in your room and pretend he’s fucking you stupid.

“You’re invited to movie night, too.” He adds casually, and you swallow.

Movie night. Where Bucky would be near you. In the dark. You can’t go there. You’ll lose your mind.

But he’s looking at you with such dim, cautious light in his eyes. There’s no expectations. Just hope. And it pulls the words out of you before you can stop them.

“Oh- Okay.”

Bucky beams, and that makes it worth it. The risk, that he might brush your hand in the dark and you’ll moan loud enough for everyone to hear.

He reaches up, and wipes a few more breadcrumbs from your cheeks. Time seems to stop, when he touches you. It’s dangerous, and you barely manage not to fall all over him before he pulls away.

“You get messy,” he mutters, and oh, God.

You shouldn’t have said yes. Why the fuck did you say yes. Now you’re going to have to sit next to him, after that.

You get messy. He has no idea.

That night, you end up back in your bed with a vibrator pressed over your panties. It makes the feeling stronger, with the friction of the fabric, and you toss your head back. It’s easier and easier to get lost in the fantasy, lately. The better you know him, the clearer it gets.

You can almost feel his hands, mapping over the curves and soft dips of your body. You can almost smell him.

He mouths at your breast, pinching and rolls your nipple between metal fingers. You make a broken, pathetic sound, and he smirks.

“I know, doll. Too much, isn’t it?”

You whimper, pressing the vibrator down. Bucky hums, his hand wrapping around yours, and your hips jerk when he angles it to shove right against your clit.

“Too much,” he coos, making out with the softness of your breast. “I’m barely even touchin’, and you’re already about to fuckin’ fall apart for me.”

Your eyes roll back, as Bucky starts to guide the vibrator up and down. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, as he grabs your hips and pushes them higher, further exposing your pussy. He bites at your nipple, then turns his attention to the neglected one. You writhe in the sheets, gasping his name, and he smiles.

“Dirty girl.” He pushes your hand back, just enough for him to rip away your panties, exposing your cunt to the cold air. “Look at that, pretty little pussy fuckin’ shining for me.”

You grind down, trying to find friction on the sheets. Bucky pushes the vibrator against your bare pussy, and your eyes roll back in your head. He starts kissing all over your chest, pawing at your breasts and swirling his tongue around you nipples, sending electric shock through your body. He licks the sensitive buds the same way he licked his thumb. Your hips start to roll mindlessly, as the coil in your stomach threatens to snap.

When you cum, it’s with a cry of his name. The coil snaps, and heat floods out of your pussy, all over the vibrator and your hand. Your body convulses with the sheer force of it, and Bucky kisses down. Over your abdomen, your hips, your inner thighs.

“What a mess, baby.” He mocks, before pressing the sweetest kiss to your clit.

You sob, trembling in the sheets, and grab at his hair.

But your hand finds nothing.

Because it’s just another fantasy, kept in the confines of your mind.

Movie night was a bigger mistake than you could’ve ever imagined.

You show up, and it’s just Bucky and Sam. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, because men are strange creatures.

“Stevie’s on a mission,” Bucky says, staring at you like he’s seeing an angel. Like he didn’t invite you.

There’s an odd rasp to his voice, too. Maybe he’s just tired.

Sam says your name, that signature, I know something that everyone else doesn’t smirk on his face. You don’t think much if it. He always has it, even when he doesn’t know shit.

“Buck told me you’d be comin’. I didn’t believe him.”

“Sam.” Bucky grunts, and Sam shrugs.

“What? I didn’t.” He grins at you. “You never leave your lab-“

“She leaves her lab.” Bucky gives you an apologetic look, but you just laugh.

“No, he’s right. I really don’t.”

Bucky sighs, rolls his eyes, and pats the seat next to him. You smile to yourself, taking a long breath before you move. You’re going to be normal about this. Very, incredibly normal. So normal, they’ll think something’s wrong, because no one’s ever been this normal in history.

You last ten minutes.

The movie starts. You’ve seen it before, but you try to pay attention to every, tiny detail. The only other option is paying attention to Bucky. To the weight of him at your side, the way his knee brushes against yours and his arm is slung over the back of the couch. You’ve never seen him so relaxed and tense, all at once. He’s sunken into the cushions, but whenever you look over, his jaw is tight.

You could swear you catch his gaze, once or twice. If you do, he looks away immediately. And you feel it, that buzzing heat over your skin. But you’re supposed to be watching the movie. He’s supposed to be watching the movie. So you really, really try not to look over.

Bucky’s knee pushes against yours, and you swallow. His fingers trail near your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around your stomach to suppress the shiver. He’s warm. So fucking warm you can feel it, blooming in your core. You shift in your seat, and you’re already wet.

The movie isn’t even a third of the way done.

Bucky’s fingers rest on your shoulder. It’s so light, so casual, you’re not even sure he knows he’s doing it. You take the risk, and turn to fully look at him. He’s gotten even more relaxed, the knit of his brows loosened, pretty pink lips parted as he watches the TV. You want to reach up, and trace the stubble of his jaw. Maybe kiss up the column of his throat, dig your nails into his pecs and make out with that full, perfect mouth.

You let out a tiny sigh. Bucky doesn’t react to it. Too lost in the movie. Not paying you any mind.

And you should look away. You’re not here to Bucky watch.

You turn your head for three whole seconds, before your eyes start to ache. As if they can’t stand not to look at him. You try to resist it, but it plays over and over, on a loop in your brain. The image of him in the dark. The heat from him, almost penetrating under your skin and making you rise up like a balloon. Your head is in the clouds. You have to look at him.

You close your eyes, trying to fight it. Bucky’s hand drops from your shoulder, down to your upper arm, and your breath hitches.

Your eyes shoot open, and Bucky’s right there. Staring at you, with the same intense, focused need that’s clawing at your ribs and up your throat.

He grabs your chin, between strong but gentle fingers. You swallow, letting your gaze trail down his body. His massive chest, torso that looks perfect to hook your legs around, his thick thighs and his crotch.

The bulge, pushing through his sweats. It looks thick. Long and thick, demanding some attention. You look back to Bucky with your best, doe-eyed pout. He smirks, and leans down to kiss you. It’s slow and deep, his tongue swiping over your lower lip before pushing into your mouth. You moan, and Bucky weaves his hair through your hair, tugging slightly. Your second moan is downright pathetic. You grab his thigh, letting your nails brush against the outline of his cock.

Bucky hisses against your lips, and pulls back. You bat your lashes at him, and his lips twitch.

“Messy girl,” he mutters, before pressing a sweeter, mocking kiss to your lips.

He pulls away too quickly, but before you can give chase, you’re lost in a daze. Bucky’s pulling down his pants, taking his boxers with him. His cock springs free, thick and veiny, massive even in his own hand. He strokes himself slowly, giving you a prompting, amused look. You swallow, licking your lips.

“C’mon, doll,” he beckons. “Show me what you can do.”

Almost in a trance, you nod. Bucky’s eyes darken, as you crawl over his lap. You move his hand away, and fist his cock in one hand. He grabs the back of your neck, not to push, but for balance. A low, guttural sound rolls through his chest as you start to pump him, and you smile to yourself.

He really is perfect. A heavy, certain weight in your hand, jumping slightly whenever you squeeze him near the base. You shift back on your knees, using your other hand to massage his balls. He hisses, his grip tightening on your neck, and you smile. 

When you look at him, there’s nothing but pure devotion in his gaze. You squeeze again, then pick up your pace, and he groans out your name.

You kiss him, pushing his head back against the couch cushions. He grunts, but lets you guide him. As if he knows that it’s all just a show, before you let him fuck your face like an animal.

“Relax, baby,” you breathe against his lips.

Bucky lets out a deep, rough laugh. “Little hard to do that right now.”

You giggle, swiping your thumb over the slit of his cock. “Is it? Hard?”

Bucky groans, and deepens the kiss. You slide off of him, before he can just grab your hips, pick you up, and sit you on his dick.

You move back, lowering down to your stomach so you’re eye level with his dick. He’s pulsing in your hands, trying to hold himself back. You don’t want him to. You want him to cum everywhere. Down your throat and over your face and tits, claiming you in one of the most primal ways possible.

“Doll…” Bucky rasps, and you look up at him under hooded eyes. He’s a wrecked. Bulging muscles and sweat, slicking on his brow. “Don’t tease- Jesus-“

You wrap your mouth around him, and take him as deep as you can go. He bumps against the back of your throat, but you suppress your gag reflex, relaxing to try and get even more. Your nose brushes against the hair at base of him. Your tongue presses flat against Bucky’s shaft, your fingers still working his balls, and he fists his hand in your hair.

“So- So fuckin’ warm-“ He chokes out. “Holy- You’re somethin’, sweetheart- God-“

You hum, and Bucky’s hips jerk up. He stutters out an apology, but you just moan again. He tries to pull you off, muttering more apologies, and you dig your nails into his thigh. You want it. You want him to use you.

He gets it, after a moment. His grip on your hair tightens. He starts slow, jerking his hips up as he pushes you a little further down, before yanking you back. You moan around his cock, drool falling from your swallow lips. Your eyes roll back. He’s using you, god, he’s using you, and it’s the best fucking thing in the world.

Bucky fucks your face like a fleshlight, and you grind your ass up against nothing. He hits the back of your throat, over and over, salty and heavy on your tongue. The sounds he makes are beautiful and sinful, and-

“Something on my face, doll?”

You blink, and Bucky’s cock isn’t in your mouth anymore. You smack your lips, trying to find it. Bucky frowns at you, the light of the movie making him even more, impossibly handsome. Sam ignores you both, popcorn stuffed in his mouth.

Bucky looks worried. He said something.

“Hm?”

“You were, you were- Uh-“ He clears his throat, then shakes his head. “Never mind.”

He looks back to the TV, and your face burns. His thigh is pressed right against yours. You can swear, when you lick your lips, you can still taste his dick.

You’re so, so fucked.

It only gets worse.

Eating breakfast becomes a trial, because Bucky is always there, and you’re always thinking about his fingers while he eats. How they’d feel stuffed down your throat, gripping your hips, scissoring deep inside of you. He wipes cream cheese off your cheek, and you almost moan.

“You feelin’ alright?” Bucky says, always so caring and worried, and you nod weakly.

“Yeah. Just- Just tired.”

He looks at you like he doesn’t believe you, but lets it go. If you were smarter, you’d be avoiding him. But you’re not. And you still have to work with him, anyway. It makes avoiding him rather impossible.

For a while you cling onto the idea that work would be sacred. That while Bucky’s in your office and you’re examining his arm, it’s purely professional. Not a single dirty thought.

You last about a week, with that one.  Bucky startles you walking in. You trip, and he catches you around your waist.

“Careful,” he smiles down at you, all handsome and stupid.

“Uh huh,” you breathe out, and you could’ve sworn a flood gushed out between your legs.

Bucky’s nostrils had flared, and he’d helped you up to your seat. You’d already had the new fantasy, blooming in your mind like the little fucking pervert that you were. You’d tried to shove it down, swaying in the middle of the room, but then you’d looked at him. Sitting with his legs spread in your chair. And you’d been lost.

You imagined climbing into his lap. His arm wrapping around you as you sat down on his cock, grinding slowly, lashes flutters as he kneaded and pulled at your hips and breasts. He’d stand up, taking you with him like you weighed nothing, and pin you to the wall. One arm would stay around you, holding you in place as his mouth started to explore your dripping cunt.

His tongue would work you open, pushing in and out of your pussy. He would’ve already cum inside of you, and every stroke of his tongue would send a wave of your mixed arousals over his beard. You’d watch him, moaning his name, and his thumb would bully and flick and tease your clit, until your were dazed and gasping for air and-

Bucky says your name, and you could slap yourself. This is getting out of hand.

“Sorry,” you mumble, sitting next to him. He smiles at you, so kind.

Always so kind.

“You’ve been kinda out of it, lately.” His words are casual. You still daydream about shooting yourself and running away.

“Just getting lost in thought,” you murmur, and he hums.

“Anything I can help with?”

You shake your head, because if you speak you’ll start begging. Please, please, please, he’s the only one who can help you, you’re going insane with how much you need him, and he could save you, he could really save you-

“Movin’ usually helps me.” He offers softly. You almost don’t hear him. “Y’know. Using my body. Remembering that it’s mine.”

“Yeah?” You say softly, cleaning the panel near his shoulder. He looks at you, and you risk looking back.

You can’t read that expression. You’re not sure you want to.

“Yeah,” he mutters. His gaze might flick down to your lips, but you don’t trust your own mind anymore. “You wanna try it with me? I head to that gym in the basement every night. It ain’t bad.”

And you should say no, but you can’t help it. You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch, and God, what you won’t do just so he smiles.

You will torture yourself, apparently. Bucky’s too hot to be allowed in a gym. Wearing a tank top that shows off his massive arms, smiling at you all lazy, in the way that’s more of a guard than the slip that you always crave, but a smile all the same.

First, you try walking on the treadmill and just watching him the mirror. He’s lifting weights, and his arms, they should be classified as weapons. You want those biceps keeping you in a head lock, against his chest or at his side. Keeping you still, while his cock pounds relentlessly into your pussy.

Bucky meets your gaze in the mirror. His lips twitch, and you look away, face burning.

You feel him, more than you see him coming over. The gravity of his presence, you think you’d be able to feel him blindfolded and dropped in a crowd of a million people.

“Come on,” he offers you a hand. “Lemme show you something.”

And you can’t say no to him. You really should learn how.

Because the something is training. Wrestling. Throwing fucking punches and trying to get the other down.

“Bucky, I can’t-“

“Yeah, you can.” He raises his fists, nodding to your own. “Up, doll.”

You sigh, raising them slowly. “You’re going to kick my ass-“

“I am. And then you’re going to get better.”

You scoff—he’s ridiculous—but listen. Bucky smirks, and lunges. You yelp and try to scramble away, but he’s too fast. You’re pinned under him in seconds, whacking at his arms and wiggling.

“Bucky- Get off-“

He laughs, standing up with a proud grin. You’ve never seen him so relaxed, so confident. It makes you hornier than you ever could’ve imagined.

He’d been over you. Everywhere over you. Pinning you down and manhandling you, and- Oh God-‘

“Up,” he beckons, and you swallow.

“I- I don’t know-“

“Yeah, you do.” He gives you a playful smile. “Get up.”

You sigh, and scramble to your feet. Bucky raises his fists again. You narrow your eyes, and match.

He chuckles. “Getting competitive?”

You shrug. “You wanted me to.”

Something flashes in his eyes. You’re not sure how to read into it.

“Damn right I do,” his voice is lower. You’re not imagining that.

You don’t get time to think about it, before he’s moving again. You hold your own exactly a second longer than before, but it ends the exact same way. You, pinned under Bucky’s broad, strong body. His face is pressed near your breasts, his fingers digging into your hips, his legs shoving yours apart to stop you from flailing around.

It goes on longer than it shoulder. This strange game that you like playing more than you should. Bucky starts trying to properly get you to throw a punch, but he gives up fast. Soon you’re more play wrestling than doing anything else. You’re giggly and dazed, charging at him like a bull, and he acts as bored and collected as always, but you can see the amusement dancing in his eyes, every time you try to climb him like a tree.

Then something shifts.

He gets you beneath him, and you try to shove at his chest. He catches your wrists and pins them up over your head. Your breath hitches, and he blinks. His hips drop against yours, and you can feel it. The bulge of his cock, pressing into your core.

He’s hard.

Not fully, but enough. Enough that you can imagine every ridged and curve of him, sliding between the puffy lips of your pussy. Your thighs clench, and Bucky grunts, rutting forward.

You both freeze, and your eyes lock. It’s one of those seconds, where you just stare hopelessly at each other. You almost apologize, but your tongue is limp. Bucky’s face is redder than you’ve ever seen it. His cock twitches in his pants.

And this isn’t a dream or fantasy. Bucky mutters your name, and it’s so real you think your heart might pound of your chest.

Bucky moves first. He clears his throat and moves to his feet.

“Better.” He offers you a hand. “That was…”

He trails off. You stare at each other, lost for words.

Bucky turns, and leaves without another word. You sway in the center of the room, breathing shallow, head spinning.

What the fuck just happened.

Bucky kisses up your spine, his mouth hot and possessive. His tongue flicks against your neck, and his fingers dig into your hips. He drags your ass up in the air and you mewl, pressing your face into the sheets.

“Ah,” he scolds, slapping your soaked, swollen pussy. “Lemme hear you, doll.”

You turn your head, moaning loud and shamelessly. Bucky chuckles, kissing a soft spot on your neck.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, notching his cock against your entrance. “Good girl.”

You coo like a baby bird, flushed and dazed. He’s big, so big that it almost hurts. He doubles over you with a groan, pressing his face into your shoulder as he slowly pushes every inch inside of you. The stretch burns in the best way, and you clench down around him.

Bucky hisses, hips jerking forward. “Careful,” he grunts. “Gonna strangle me.”

“S- Sorry-“

“No,” Bucky leans down, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Nothin’ to apologize for. Just gotta relax, babydoll. Lemme do the rest.”

You hum, and take a deep breath. You’re grounded, in the feeling of Bucky everywhere. His warmer arm wraps around your neck, forcing you up enough for his lips to trail open kisses over your face.  

“That’s my girl,” he mutters against your ear, bottoming fully out. “That’s it. Just take it for me, just like that.”

You mewl, pushing your ass back up, then crying out with delight as Bucky pulls out, and slams back in. He’s met with no resistance, from how your pussy is gushing out with every thrust, every touch, every hot kiss.

But there’s nothing else to be expected. Not with how Bucky’s using you, how worshipful his every touch and kiss is, all while he fucks into you so hard you think the bed is going to break. His breath is hot on your back, the head of his cock drill against that one, gooey spot deep inside you. His cold arm locks around your middle, and his fingers tease and graze over your clit. Rubbing in tight little circles, making your eyes roll back in your head.

Bucky grunts, hauling you up so you’re pressed against his chest. You’re pinned down on his cock now, wet and warm and tight. So fucking tight that it pulls a low, rumbling moan from his chest. His hips slam up in a barely controlled rhythm, chasing more of your heat. You’re limp in his arms. Dazed and smiling like you’re drunk. Bucky uses his arm around your neck to push your head further back, and you have the nerve to fucking giggle.

You’re so beautiful like this that he almost cums right there. Fluttering lashes and the sweetest sounds, you pussy milking him like a machine. He kisses you because he can’t help it, and you hum happily, grinding your ass down into him.

He needs you to cum first. He gropes at your clit, letting his fingers fumble for a second to work you up into a teased, messy frenzy, before he pushes down and rubs in a steady, unyielding rhythm. You cry out his name, squeezing down so hard on his cock, and Bucky buries his face in your neck.

He cums, so hard that his vision goes white. Thick ropes of cum spurt over his hand, squeezing hard at the base of his cock.

It’s not as warm as you’d be, he thinks.

And he thinks. All the time, Bucky just thinks about you. About how you’d feel, molding around him. About how you’d sound right in his ear, how you’d get smiley and drool, and he’s feed you his fingers just so you have something to do with that pretty mouth. You’d moan around them, and he’d thrust up into you so hard he’d knock the damn worries out of your head.

It’s his favorite time of the day, this. Your rooms are closer than you seem to think, or you just forget how good his hearing is.

And every night, right before bed, he gets to settle into the mattress and beat his cock into his hand, listening to you moan and call his name. He’d never tell you. You deserve better, than a broken robot like him. He counts himself lucky he even gets to be your friend, because he’s a man well practiced at restraint. At not getting what he wants.

But this space, where no one can see, he allows himself things. He allows himself you.

But only ever in his head.

✦End note: this might be one of my fave bucky fics i just got to be soooo horny with it✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

soft!dom!bucky who figured the next gift he'd give you would be something a little smaller. he doesn't want to overwhelm you, or make you think you're not capable by accepting his help. so, he figured a bouquet (that cost way more than bucky will ever tell you) and takeout from your favorite restaurant would be a good start, dropping them by your apartment after your shift from hell. actually, he thinks it's the bare minimum in a relationship, but he can tell you're not used to receiving things just for the hell of it, and he wants you to get used to it. so. starting small is necessary. you were still a little hesitant to take the flowers, but bucky could see the way your eyes lit up at the beautiful arrangement, the way you stumbled through expressing your gratitude as though you were trying not to show how touched you were at the gesture.

soft!dom!bucky who makes it a point to buy you a new bouquet every sunday. it's always a different arrangement with vibrant colors and calming scents, and always comes with a little note, each one different than the last. to my princess, just for being you, or you deserve things as beautiful as you are, or you've made me the happiest man alive. and all of the notes end with from, your daddy<3. and bucky absolutely preens when he steps into your apartment one day and finds himself in your bedroom, only to see the cork board on one of your walls with all of his notes pinned to it.

soft!dom!bucky who always pays when you go out to eat. and, this is pretty normal with all of the dates you've been on with any of your past partners, but it's the location of the dates that gets you. the restaurants get more and more expensive as time goes on, and you have to fight not to gawk at the prices of the entree's alone. the first time you went to a higher-end restaurant, you started with a single glass of wine and scoured the menu for any dish that cost less than fifty dollars, only to find none. bucky saw your deliberation, and he caught on quickly as to why you seemed stressed, causing him to place down his own menu and reach over the table to grab your hand and tell you to order whatever you want, princess. you like steak, right? let's get that. when you quietly fought him on it (the steak was fucking 65 dollars??), bucky insisted that he doesn't care about the price. he wants to treat his princess to a nice evening and this place has the best food in town.

soft!dom!bucky who refuses to call maintenance or talk to the landlord about any issues his place has. he's pretty handy and can fix most broken things on his own, so he always opts to work on a project himself. this also applies to you. the hinges on your cupboards are loose? baby, why are you calling maintenance when you know I have a toolbox? ac went out again? princess, hang up the phone and show me where it is. the first time he fixed something for you, you offered to pay him for the 'inconvenience', to which bucky looked absolutely offended, claiming that helping you isn't an inconvenience, princess, I'm your boyfriend, of course I'm going to help you.

soft!dom!bucky who always offers to drive you anywhere you need to go. he doesn't trust public transportation and he has a perfectly good vehicle, so why would he let you take the bus? especially since he knows you'll be safe, away from prying eyes and people sitting uncomfortably close to you. you tried offering him gas money a few times, but he always turns it down immediately with princess, it's only a 10 minute drive, I'm not losing that much gas, or driving you places isn't a chore, I just love spending time with you.

soft!dom!bucky who eventually starts ramping up the generosity. as time goes on, you're less hesitant to accept his smaller gifts and gestures, which bucky absolutely loves. it feels like serotonin is being pumped directly into his veins when you stop appearing guilty every time you take his gifts or let him buy your groceries for the week. it also helps that you give him a kiss afterward, a little thank you for treating me even though I don't really believe I deserve it.

soft!dom!bucky who nearly gets an instant erection the first time you ask for something. granted, it's just a blanket from your local farmer's market, but still. you're asking for something! he pauses for just a second too long, relishing in the fact that you're taking that step, but you interpret his silence as rejection, so your smile immediately falls. you start assuring him that it's okay, I'll just buy it! it's fine, I just thought - interrupted by him taking out his wallet and shoving too much money into the stall-owner's hands as he says you absolutely will not be buying it, I've got it. and he has to recite his grandma's old apple pie recipe to will away his hard on any time you look up at him with those doe eyes and timidly ask for the painting hanging in one of the stalls or a new cup of coffee after you've finished the one he bought you when you first arrived. he does, but insists you drink water to offset the jitters he knows you'll get if you don't hydrate.

soft!dom!bucky who swears nothing will ever compare to the feeling he gets when you send him a link to an apparel website with a screenshot of the new blouse you've been eyeing but have been hesitant to purchase because of the price. you offer to pay for shipping, but bucky ignores that text and simply sends you a screenshot of the confirmation email he received and lets you know that it'll be at yours in a few days. he loves that you're coming around to letting him treat you, that you've stopped apologizing for needing or wanting anything from him. he'll spoil you rotten any day of the week, and he's so happy that you're starting to love it too.

A sixth one comes through, your phone buzzing angrily. You roll your eyes, and for a long second you seriously consider drowning the damn thing in the abandoned beer glass next to you.

He doesn’t get to call you, like you’re some wandering child. He doesn’t get to get angry about you being out, when he’s the reason you’re here in the first place. And you told Sam to tell him that you’d be here. So really, this is Dean’s fault, then Sam’s, then yours.

The call goes to voicemail. You flip the screen back over, and take a long drink. If it’s really that big a deal that you’re out without him, he can put on his pants and come get you himself.

And he won’t. And that’s part of the problem.

Dean’s going to lecture you about safety when you crawl back in the morning, and you’re going to roll your eyes. He’ll ask you if you think something’s funny, sweetheart? You look him dead in his pretty eyes and say I don’t know, is it? He’ll get angrier. You’ll get angrier. Sam will try to mediate, and you’ll throw something at him before stomping off. Dean will chase after you, and wrestle you back into the room while calling you a brat.

When you get tossed down on the mattress, you’ll sink your nails into his shoulder, because you do every time. You want to drag him down with you, to make him feel this the same way you always have.

To big, too much. Too soft in all the wrong places, and too spiked everywhere else. There’s a sharp, angry shell around your heart that’s grown like an exoskeleton. It’s got wires and teeth that snap, whenever Dean gives you a little too much attention. You can never tell if it’s trying to eat him or latch onto him anymore. You don’t think it really matters.

Dean hates you. He thinks you hate him. He’s going to grab your knees and pin them to your chest, and you’re going to be the only woman in the world who he doesn’t notice flush against him. He’ll hiss that you can’t just go running around alone. That it’s not like you, to be reckless. You spit a fuck you, his grip will get tight, and he’ll shove you away to go take one of his long showers.

Sam will tell you to stop testing him. You’ll tell Sam to eat himself, and go back to sulking like a child in the corner.

Only Dean can do that to you. You hate and love him for it.

When you met—on a hunt that didn’t matter, until it did—he made you all giggly and dumb. Years of training and a mind that could never slow down, turned to goo from one roughish, lazy smile.

“You like trouble?” He’d asked you, trying even then to talk you out of a hunt.

“No. No one likes trouble.”

Dean had chuckled. “I don’t know about that, sweetheart. Most girls like you love it.”

You’d snorted. “Girls like me? What’s a girl like me?”

“Gorgeous.” He’d smirked, like he’d been dying for you to ask. “Smart. Mouthy-“

“Mouthy?” You’d cut him off, rolling your eyes. “Are you from the 60s?”

“No. But you’re provin’ my point.”

“You didn’t have a point. You were just trying to sleep with me.”

Dean had raised his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty. But- Is it working-“

“No.”

It had been. If Sam hadn’t come back to the car two seconds later, you would’ve climbed into Dean’s lap like a whore. Which wasn’t what you were. It wasn’t what you did. Sex with a half-stranger, sex in general, you didn’t toss your body around easily. You’d never been able to do the removing emotions part of casual sex. You’d always managed to come up with a million reasons not to, most of them looking something like have a hookup, get pregnant, the father’s already gone, the baby’s born with cancer, you love it anyway and it dies in your arms, if you’d been more responsible the baby would’ve solved climate change, everyone dies in a fiery explosion.

But you’d looked at Dean, and seen no death or path out that didn’t end in light. He’d grabbed your thigh in the dark of the car, and you’d flushed and smiled to yourself like a schoolgirl.

“You wanna know my middle name?” He’d whispered to you, later that night.

“That’s the worst pick up line I’ve ever heard-“

“It’s not a pick up line! I’m askin’ you a question-“

“But it’s going to turn into a pickup line.” You’d said flatly, and Dean had given you a boyish smile that almost made you forget that he was covered in vampire blood.

“You already know me so well,” he’d cooed, and you’d snorted.

“You’re predictable.”

“So you’re never gonna wonder what I’m thinking.”

You’d shoved his face away with a hand, still giggling. This was usually the point in a hunt where you started thinking about what came next. How long you had to get out of town, how much food you’d need to eat now before you got to your next stop—if you eat too much, you’re going to overstuff and get sick, if you don’t eat enough you’re going to be weak and pass out behind the wheel and cause a fifty car pile-up—and if there are any strings you needed to wrap up on the case.

But Dean had been smiling at you. And that had felt like the only thing that mattered.

“C’mon, ask me what my middle name is-“

You’d covered his mouth with a hand, shooting him a stern glare. His eyes had gleamed with affection, and something deeper you try not to think about now. It hurts too much. It makes you mourn for something that was never even yours to have.

“Only so you shut up,” you’d whispered. “What’s your middle name.”

You’d dropped your hand, and Dean had touched his lips like he was in some telenovela. You’d fought a smile. You’d never known someone could be so handsome it made your heart ache, and so cute you thought you’d explode.

He’d puffed out his chest, and grinned at you like he won the lottery.

“It’s Trouble-“

“It’s Adam.” Sam had called from the table. Dean had looked at  him like he’d just murdered a puppy, and you’d laughed so hard you almost fell off the bed.

And you’d thought something was growing. You’d been a foolish girl, who thought the dorky, handsome hero in front of her would give chase, when she turned him down.,

If you could go back, you’d slap yourself in the face and tell you to get it together. Dean Winchester is Dean Winchester. You listen to the what the shadows whisper. You knew his reputation before he smiled at you in the low light of his car. You’re smart. Sam goes to you for research advice, you’ve come up with whole new ways to kill demons and trap angels. You fucking knew better, than to fall in love with Dean.

You should’ve known better.

You didn’t.

So you attached yourself to them like a little, leeching parasite. You followed them around, the Winchester’s shadow, and fell more in love with Dean, and got your heart broken every night when he slipped out of the bar with another woman on his arm.

You’d gotten mean. You’d started getting short with him, and he’d fueled the fire building in the cavity of your chest by being a dick. Suddenly you were too inexperienced for every hunt. Too young to be out alone—you’ve had that fight more times than you can count—or too tense and tightly wound to think clearly.

He’s the one who doesn’t think clearly. He’s the one who drinks himself to death after a hunt and has literally fucked monsters because he can’t be bothered to plan ahead. He drags you and Sam to towns because he’s got a good feeling about them. He tells you to just relax, princess, and you want to punch him in his stupid, pretty face.

But you still love him. You love him so much you think it’s going to kill you. And you keep that locked in the deepest chamber of your heart, because he never needs to know that you still get stupid and soft for him. If he finds out that the first time he tried to leave on a hunt without you, you almost started crying in the middle of the bunker kitchen, he’ll look at you like you’re crazy.

And you are crazy. You know that. You’re a fumbling, wild ball of worries and sneers, and Dean would never want a nagger. He’d never want a younger woman who acts like she knows better—even though you do—and who needs him to be perfectly attentive and affectionate every second of every day.

You’re in love with a man who hates you. And if you had to listen to him fuck that secretary through the wall all night, you were going to kill yourself on their bed.

So now you’re at this loud, disgusting bar, drinking something that you’re praying numbs the pain, and smiling so wide it hurts your face.

The abandoned beer’s owner came back. He’s a broad shouldered, smirking man with a clean cut face, and lighter hair. If you get a little more squint, he looks just like Dean. If you get a little more buzzed, he’ll sound like him too.

You hate causal sex. It doesn’t count if you’re pretending it’s Dean. It doesn’t count if it makes this stop hurting.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ here?” The man drawls, leaning across the bar.

You giggle, and it sounds distant to your ears. “Drinking.”

“Yeah?” The man smirks. “You like drinkin’, doll?”

You shake your head, swinging your feet and spinning in the bar stool. The man raises his brows.

“You sure you don’t? You’re goin’ through that thing fast.”

“It tastes bad.” You wrinkle your nose. “Feels good.”

The man’s smile turns wolfish. Your phone starts to buzz again, and you glare at the screen before shutting it fully off.

“Boyfriend?” The man asks, and you shake your head.

“He wishes.”

No, he doesn’t.

That’s the problem.

And you keep flirting—if it can even be called that, because you mostly babble about hating the drink you got and hating Dean and loving the man’s drink because Dean likes that one too—and the man’s hands find their way to your lower back and thigh.

“Why don’t I help you forget about Dean?” He winks at you, and you shrug.

The world is mostly just blurred colors and lights now. Everything feels awfully light, in a way you’re not sure you like.

But you like forgetting about Dean more. So even though you want to tell this man that it’s impossible to forget about Dean, you’re also just lost enough to want help finding your way out.

“Okay.” You beam at him.

You make it to the parking lot—his arm around your waist, herding you like a lost lamb—before Dean ruins everything. He always ruins everything.

There’s a shout of your name, almost ripping through the hazy fog of your drunken mind. You were feet from the man’s car. Just a few more steps from having fun, which you’re bad at doing, but maybe if you practiced, Dean would like you more.

From the look on his face when you turn around, it might’ve actually made him like you less.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He marches across the lot with a scowl, hands balled into fists and gaze fixed solely on you. “I almost made Sammy file a missing persons report-“

“’M not missing.” You stick your tongue out at him. “’M right here. Stupid.”

You mutter the last word under your breath, and Dean freezes. He blinks slowly, gaze raking over your body. That’s not fair. It makes you feel all warm and puddley. Your core floods with heat, and your knees get weak, and he’s get looking at you.

Dean takes a half-step forward, his voice dropping low and rough. “Are you drunk?”

“No.”

There’s a larger gust of wind. Dean’s eyes gleam in the golden light of the parking lot. He looks a little like an angel. You trip standing up, then giggle when the man pulls you back up. Dean’s jaw drops, his brow knitting tight.

“You’re fuckin’ wasted.” He mutters, shaking his head. “Jesus, sweetheart- C’mon.” He steps forward, reaching out a hand. “Let’s go.”

“Nuh uh.” You pout, shaking you head. “I’m not drunk-“

“You’re standing like we’re on a freakin’ ship. Come on.” He flexes his hand, and you cross your arms over your chest.

He doesn’t get to win. “I’m having fun.”

“We can have fun back at the room-“

“The lady said she’s having fun.” The man next to you pulls you tighter into his side, fingers curling on your hip like a lock. “Screw off, pal. I got here first.”

And Dean recoils, looking at the man like he’s noticing him for the first time. You can’t read his expression in the low light, but it seems angry. Or just annoyed. Or indifferent. His jaw looks sharp and clenched. You want to lick it.

“Listen, bud.” Dean snaps, glaring down at the man. “This ain’t a who got here first thing. My girl’s drunk. I’m takin’ her home, or I’m punching you in the face.”

The man is silent for a moment. He and Dean glower at each other, and you frown between them. There’s something poking at your drink addled brain, but it’s spelling a word you can’t read. All you can really figure out is that they’re being weird.

“You Dean?” The man asks.

Dean’s eyes narrow. His shoulders square, the way they do before he’s about to swing at a demon. “Yeah. And?”

“Nothin’.” The man smirks. “Just… Thought you’d be God, based on how she was talkin’ about you. But,” he chuckles, tipping his chin. “You’re just a little bitch.”

Dean’s jaw ticks. You don’t need the lighting to figure out what he’s thinking now. You can almost feel it, rolling off of him in waves.

He’s pissed.

He looks the man up and down, and if he throws a punch, you know he won’t be the one who goes down. You’re drunk enough not to worry about the violence of it. All your useless thoughts can spin around is the idea of Dean fighting for you. Of his massive arms flexing as he knocks down the other man—who, the longer your Dean stands in front of you, looks less and less appealing—and scoops you into his arms like the princess he mocks you with being. Then he can wrap his arm around your head and fuck you against the hood of his car, until you’re drooling all over his cock.

You giggle at nothing, a unignorable heat pooling between your legs. Dean’s attention snaps back over, and you beam at him.

Something in his gaze shifts. He lets out a slow breath, and stretches out a hand.

“Let’s go, princess.” He beckons with two crooked fingers, and you almost stumble forwards. “We can watch whatever you want, alright? I’ll get you some of that ice cream you like, and- Sammy can watch with you, if you don’t want me around. Just-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “Get over here. Please.”

He sounds so tired. Tired and almost sad. Your feet move without your permission, and you reach to take his hand.

The man yanks you back, and you yelp.

“Remember what you told me, doll.” He drawls in your ear, loud enough for Dean to still hear. “Remember how he treats you.”

Dean scowls. “You stay out of this-“

“He doesn’t care.” The man ignores him. “You told me, he doesn’t love you.”

Dean opens his mouth, something stricken flashing over his features. You feel a little sick.

“C’mon. I got you.” The man rubs your hip, smiling gently. “Show him what he’s missing. He can bitch about it, alone all night while you get fucked real good.”

Dean’s face is a shade of red you’ve never seen before. He has an expression like someone just punched him in the gut.

And it’s not the fucking real good that steels you. It’s the reminder that Dean won’t be alone. He has his secretary. And you’re allowed to have your random bar man, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

Dean rasps your name. “Come here-“

“You come here.” You snap, and it’s meant to be a sharp, killing blow that makes him sigh and give up.

If you were a little less drunk, you would’ve known that was never going to work.

Dean’s throat bobs. He exhales like he’s going through the trials of Hercules, rather than arguing in a parking lot. He rubs his jaw, looks up to the sky like he’s praying, and chuckles. It’s dry and flat, but so deep and rough. You shiver at the sound, and almost fall right into him again.

“Alright.” Dean mutters, shaking out his arm. “Fine.”

He marches forward, clocks the man across the jaw, and throws you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. It happens so fast your body is still catching up with it, by the time he’s halfway back to the car. You realize you should be thrashing and shouting when you hear the Impala door unlock. Your body doesn’t seem to want to cooperate though. Dean’s back is warm, and his hand is resting near your ass, and it’s making you putty for him to play with.

He did it so fast. He didn’t even break a sweat or give the man a chance to fight back, before he grabbed you. When he lowers you into shotgun, he does it so gently. Like even after getting on his nervous, you’re precious cargo. He brushes the hair from your face, hunched over as you settle into the bench.

You blink at him, still drunk and confused. Dean still has that strange look in his eyes, his lips parted as you just stare at each other. His hand lingers on your cheek. You lean into the touch, and his nostrils flare.

Across the parking lot, there’s a roar of his name.

Dean sighs, and stands up. He walks around the hood of the car, slides into the driver’s seat, and starts the car. You watch his fingers move like a starved woman. You want him to put them in your mouth, and you almost tell him when there’s a slam on his window.

The man is shouting at him, veins bulging and eyes bugging. He looks nothing like Dean now.

And Dean doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t even look at him. He just puts the car in reverse and pulls out of the lot. If the man gives chase, you don’t see. You’re too busy staring at Dean.

The first half of the drive is silent. Low music plays on the radio, and you watch Dean in the moving light of the road. Long shadows and dim streetlamps make him look like he fell out of a dream. Your arms twitch to wrap around him. Your eyes are heavy, your head intoxicated by the rich, amber and smoke smell of his cologne. If you lay your head in his lap, you wonder if he’d shove you away.

“You weren’t actually gonna go with him.” Dean mutters suddenly, and you blink.

“Huh?”

“That douchebag.” His fingers flex on the wheel. “You weren’t gonna fuck him.”

You frown. Useless, exhausted tears prick at your eyes. You don’t even know where they’re coming from. Just that you feel small, and you’re tired, and Dean’s dragging you back to the motel just so he can fuck another woman with peace of mind.

“He’s not even your type-“

“You don’t know what my type is.” You grumble, sinking into your seat.

Dean huffs a laugh. “I’ve seen what kinda guys you find hot on TV. He was ugly.”

“He wasn’t ugly-“

“Yeah, he was.”

“You’re ugly.” You snap, and Dean laughs. You get why. You didn’t even convince yourself.

“Only on the inside, sweetheart.”

Your lips wobbles. For some reason, that pushes the tears out of your eyes. You sink into the bench, wrapping into a tight little ball that Dean won’t be able to pry apart. You can’t stop the tears, but he doesn’t get to have more leverage.

Dean clears his throat. “Are you crying-“

“Shut up.” You sniff, wiping your nose with your sleeve.

He murmurs your name, voice softer than before, and you lean against the window.

“Shut up-“

“You’re fuckin’ crying-“

“Dean!” You glare at him through the blur of the tears. “Just- Leave me alone!”

Dean’s silent for a second. But only a second.

“Did he hurt you?” He grunts, something hot and angry lining his words. “Before I got there, did that son of a bitch-“

“He barely even touched me, you just- You fucking-“

“I what? What the hell did I do-“

“You hate me!” You shout, and Dean goes horribly still. 

“Don’t be insane.” He mutters your name, glaring out at the road. “I don’t hate you.”

You scoff, hugging your knees tight to your chest. “Yes, you do. You hate me, and you- You never let me have any fun-“

“That wasn’t fun, that was a lawsuit.”

You don’t even have a good comeback to that. He’s probably right. It just makes you angrier.

You turn away from him all together, watching the trees blur past in the window. You’re certain you’re going to be sick now. You close your eyes, the tears still flowing, and hide your face behind your hair and in your knees.

Dean sighs. His voice gets softer again.

“Listen, you’re drunk, alright? You’re gonna feel better in the morning-“

“No.” Your words are muffled, but you know he’ll still hear them. “I won’t.”

“Yeah, you will. I get a million of these drunken… feelings.” He says the word in an oddly tight tone. “You just gotta sleep them off.”

You laugh, wet and weak. “Whatever, Dean.”

“I’m trying to help-“

“No, you’re not.” You hug yourself tighter. “You just wanna get back to her.”

He’s silent again. You can hear his fingers drumming on the wheel. Almost hear the frown in his voice when he finally speaks.

“Who the hell are you talking about.”

“Your secretary lady.” You grumble, bitter and tired.

“You mean Katy?”

You grunt. “I hate her.”

“I- Princess, I sent her home like- Two hours ago.” He pauses. The air in the car feels oddly heavy. “Moment Sammy told me you were gone.”

You huff, but don’t respond. You can’t think of anything. You can barely understand what that means.

“You hate her?” Dean’s voice is so quiet you almost miss it.

“Mhm.” 

“You barely even talked to her-“

“I don’t care.” You mutter, rubbing away the tears on your cheeks. “I hate her.”

“Why-“

“’M tired.” You pull your face out of your knees, and find Dean staring at you.

He clears his throat, and looks back to the road. You think you’re going to start sobbing again, when he stretches out an arm around your shoulder.

Neither of you say anything, when he slowly pulls you into his side. You haven’t been this close to him in a while. He’s just as warm as you remember. You’re already half-asleep, just from a few seconds of his fingers tracing circles on your shoulder and your face pressed into his neck.

“I didn’t like him that much either.” Dean mutters suddenly. “Your bar guy.”

You hum, nosing at his jaw. He smells good.

“I wish you’d tell me.” He adds. “When you were goin’ out. I’d come with you-“

“I don’t want you to come with me.”

Dean tenses. He doesn’t pull away. “I’m fun at bars, sweetheart..” His voice is too casual. “We’d have a good time-“

“You’d have a good time.” You grumble. “I’d be alone.”

“I wouldn’t- If we went out, I wouldn’t ditch-“

“Yes, you would.” You yawn, and you’re crying again, but it’s softer.

Even now, Dean makes everything easier.

You wish you could hate him more than you love him. You don’t think you’re ever going to manage.

“You hate me.” You whisper, sleep already pulling on the corners of your brain. “’S not fair.” 

Dean swallows. His fingers still on your arm. “Why not?”

“’Cause I-“

You cut yourself off with a yawn. Dean mutters your name, and you shake your head, burrowing further into his side. You need to be as close as possible. You need to sink something into him that he can never wipe away, the same way he did with you.

“I love you,” you mumble. “And you hate me. And- It’s not fair, Dean.” You tremble, letting out a soft, pained breath. “Not fair.”

And sleep drags you under. But right before the world fades, you could swear you hear Dean’s low voice, and it floats through your dreams.

“I don’t hate you, baby.” He murmurs. “I couldn’t if I tried.”

Dean hasn’t spoken to you since last night.

You get up in the morning with a migraine and shame burning your face. You remember all of it. Every painful, whiny moment. You acted like the lovesick, annoying girl he accuses you of being. You told him the thing you swore you’d never say aloud. Once Sam tried to make you admit it, and you dumped a glass of iced tea over his head. You’d whimpered Dean’s name into your pillows while you touched yourself, and you’ve told yourself to get it together in the bathroom mirror, but you’ve never said it aloud.

And you just told.

You ruined everything.

He gives you meds and a glass of water to help the hangover, but he doesn’t look you in the eyes. You pack up the rooms and hit the road, but he doesn’t look in the rearview mirror to check on you even once. You bite the inside of your cheek and refuse to cry again. That will just make you seem more pathetic than you already are.

“What’s going on with you two.” Sam mutters when you stop at a gas station, hanging over your shoulder in the candy aisle.

“Nothing-“

“Don’t lie.” He gives you a flat look. “You’re not even fighting, which means you’re fighting.”

You peer up at him with a flat expression, and he sighs.

“You know what I mean. What the hell did he say to you.”

“He didn’t say anything.”

Sam mutters your name, and you grab a candy bar, flipping him off over your shoulder.

“Just drop it, okay?”

“No! I can’t drop it! I live with you guys, and- This is so much worse than when you were acting like you hated each other-“

“Sam-“

“You can’t see his face while he’s driving.” Sam hisses, grabbing a pack of almonds. “He’s either going to punch himself or cry, and that’s gonna be a whole freakin’ thing. Just- Talk to him-“

“He can talk to me.” You grab a pack of jerky. You can’t help it. Dean must be hungry too, and despite all your common sense, you still love him so much the world is slipping out from under your feet. 

Sam pleads with your name. You shake your head.

“Please. Drop it.”

He examines you for a moment, then sighs. He agrees to drop it. It doesn’t make anything better at all.

Because Dean’s not even being mean or overbearing or annoying. He’s just silent. And Sam’s right.

It’s so much worse.

Normally by this point in the ride, you’ve been fighting so much that Sam turns up the radio until you can’t hear each other. You’ll poke his neck to annoy him, and he’ll swat you like a fly before cornering you against the car when you stop for food. You’ll shove him and march into the diner. He’ll stomp after you and sit too close in the booth, making you press your thighs together with every mocking word. He’ll flirt with the waitress, and you’ll daydream about throttling her every time she bats her eyes. Dean will keep your knees against each other’s, while he gets her number, and you’ll pour a bunch of salt over his pie when he goes to the bathroom.

You’ll shove at each other, until one of you snaps and stomps away. You’ll cry yourself to sleep that night, because he hates you, he hates you, he hates you.

But you don’t even have any tears left, and Dean doesn’t hate you.

He just can’t stand to look at you, now that he knows you love him.

Sam gives you worried looks, while Dean glares silently at the road. His fingers drum on the wheel, and you hug yourself tight. He might not be looking at you, but you can’t stop looking at him. If he asks you to leave, it will kill you. If he doesn’t ask you, but never speaks to you again, you’ll just wither away into nothing. But you can’t be the one to break the silence. You’ll only make it worse.

You stop at a diner, and the waitress has the biggest boobs you’ve ever seen and the kind of honeyed smile that usually makes Dean smirk.

Today he doesn’t even look at her. You have to order for him, which makes the waitress glare at you, as if you’re responsible for him sulking so much he doesn’t care about boobs—and you are, but she has no way to know that—and you give her a tight smile.

Dean doesn’t thank you for the food, but he looks at you for the first time all day. You blink at him, biting back the pout threatening your lips. You’re not going to break here, in broad daylight, with Sam right there.

Dean lets out a slow exhale through his nose, and looks back to his food. You blink away the useless sting behind your eyes, biting your inner cheek until it’s swollen. Sam gives you a pitying look. You shoot him a glare.

“He still sat next to you.” Sam mutters while Dean checks you into a motel, that night. “Whatever happened, he’s not that mad at you-“

“Sammy!” Dean calls from the desk. “The lady needs our IDs!”

Sam sighs, going through his pockets as he walks over.

Dean’s gaze meets yours, and you flush. You can’t read the expression on his face, and you fucking hate it. You thought you knew all his expression. You thought you knew him. You thought he’d at least have the guts to turn you down like a man.

Instead his tongue flicks over his lips, and he rips his gaze back to the desk attendant. You hate her. You hate him. You love him. Your head hurts, overflowing with too many thoughts that you can’t even pick them apart. You want to scream and cry and run and sink into the floor. It’s not fair of him, to do this to you. You’re going to be sick. You want to drown your sorrows in as many drinks as you can find.

You settle for curling into your bed, hiding your face in the pillows, and crying until your body is limp and your throat is sore. He knows you love him. He hates you. He’s never going to look at  you again, and you’re going to turn into a ghost. An evil, angry ghost. One of the ghosts that he has to kill. Then he’s going to kill you, and you’re going to turn into a demon, then you’re going to start the apocalypse again, and everyone ever is going to die because you told Dean you love him.

You cry until you can barely breathe, then a little while after. It was silent. There was no way Sam and Dean would hear it, even through the door joining your rooms.

But there’s a creak, and you sniff, turning your head just enough that Sam will be able to hear you.

“I’m fine, Sam-“

“Not Sam.” Dean mutters, and you freeze.

You don’t move. You don’t dare. Dean clears his throat, and you hear him shifting on his feet. He’s close enough to be fully through the door. You hear it close behind him, and bunch the sheets in your arms.

“I- Uh- I was hopin’ we could talk?”

You still don’t move. Dean coughs. His voice is even rougher than usual. Normally, if you had the brainpower, you’d be worried about him.

“Can you look at me?”

You scowl at the pillow in your face. “No.”

Dean mutters your name, and you cut him off with short words.

“Go away, Dean.”

“No, we need to- I got some shit to say, alright-“

“I don’t care.”

“Trust me, princess, you’re gonna care about this-“

“Stop calling me that!” The words rip from your throat, sudden and broken.

You flip over, moving to your knees, and Dean stumbles back like you punched him. His face is red, and there are bags under his eyes. He’s still handsome.

Asshole.

“I-“

“Shut up.” You hiss, narrowing your eyes at his slack expression. “Stop- Stop calling me princess and sweetheart and- and acting like you fucking care about me! It’s fucking cruel, Dean, it was a dick move before and now- Now you know.” Your voice cracks. You can’t even say it again. “Now you know, alright? You know what I- How I am! And I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have told you, but I was drunk, and I- I was tired, and you were being nice and you’re never nice to me-“

Dean opens his mouth, and you chuck a pillow right at his chest.

“No.” You spit, pushing up higher on your knees. “No, you don’t get to talk now. I don’t want to hear it, I don’t need- You don’t have to tell me! I get it, I know what you’re going to say!” You thought you were out of tears. You were wrong. “I’m just a stupid little girl, and you see me like a fucking sister or whatever, I don’t know what I’m talking about and I don’t know how I feel and you- You’d never-“ You choke on your own words. “You’d never feel-“

He moves quickly. You don’t even get the chance to throw another pillow.

Dean grabs your face between his hands, pulling right up into his. Dean kisses you, and your sharp words dissolve into a surprised sound, then a tiny moan.

His mouth is demanding. Your lips are already parted, and when the moan pushes its way up from your chest, Dean pushes his tongue over yours with a grunt. It’s a messy and desperate, noses bumping and spit mixing. You try and shove back, but Dean just pushes further over you, and you dissolve into his touch. 

You’re panting, when he pulls away. He keeps his hands firmly planted, his thumb tracing the swollen line of your lips and his shoulders heaving. His fingers are tangled in your hair. You feel small under his gaze, but not in the painful, ignored way like before. It’s like you’re being shielded. Like he’s trying to protect you from your own, spiraling thoughts by sucking them out of your face.

It’s working. You stare at him with an open awe you can feel in your chest, bubbling and light.

He kissed you.

His lips were soft and chapped in the best way, and he was even better at kissing than you imagined. He tasted a little sugary from the pie he had with dinner, and something richer that was just Dean. His touch on your is almost reverent, and you want to suck on his thumb to see if it tastes as good as his lips. You want to suck on every part of him. For science. You want, you want, you want. Dean kissed you, and now all you can feel—thundering through your bloodstream—is want.

He murmurs your name, scanning over your slack features. Your eyes flutter. His throat bobs.

“I’m gonna talk now.” He says, and you nod.

You should be shoving or fighting him, but he’s looking at you like you matter. And you’re far too tired to bother with anything but tears or pleas for more kisses right now.

“I thought-“ He shakes his head, huffing a low, dry laugh. “I thought you hated me.”

“I don’t-“

“Yeah, I got that now.” He gives you an amused, tired look. “But- Sweetheart, you called me a seductive manwhore last week.”

Your face burns a little. He’d been flirting with another waitress, at another diner. You’d wanted to slit her throat.

“Seductive is a compliment.” You mumble weakly, dropping your gaze to his chest. Dean chuckles.

“From where I was sittin’, it felt like you wanted to kill me.”

 You shake your head, the movement small between his hands. “You looked like you wanted me to fuck off. You always looked like you wanted me to fuck off-“

“No.” His grip tightens, and your attention shoots back up.

And you think you understand that expression. It’s heavy, and you have seen it before. But it’s always been a dull glint in his eyes, before he looks away.

Longing.

“Dean…” You whisper, and he leans down, pressing his brow to yours.

“I never want you to fuck off.” He mutters. “Never. Please- Don’t.”

His voice breaks. You reach up to grab his wrists, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“I know I ain’t perfect. I know I’m old, and a dick, and I don’t got much to offer-“

“I like what you have to offer.” You whisper. His brow knits tighter. “I always liked it.”

Dean chuckles. “You shot me down. First time I offered it.”

“You wanted a hookup, I- I can’t do that-“

“I couldn’t either.” He looks at you under hooded eyes. “Not with you.”

You press your lips in a thin line, years of anger and sparring fading into a blur of a dull, bruising ache. He was always a wound you refused to heal. If he cuts you open any wider, you don’t think you’re going to have the option anymore.

“You didn’t seem interested.” Dean rasps. “You started- Lookin’ at me all weird and calling me names and-“

“I loved you.” You say it before you can think. Dean lets out a sharp breath, his weight pressing further down.

“But- I- You too.” He winces, like he hates the words. “I didn’t- It was never- Son of a bitch-“

He looks like it’s paining him to try and say it. And you know. You know he can’t, because he doesn’t even say it to Sam. 

But he looks like he’s going to cry. Dean never cries.

He means it. The thing you never let yourself dream of, he means it.

“I- You just- I wanted shit, and you seemed like you wanted nothin’ to do with me, so I-“

You move carefully, tugging that collar of his shirt down into the kiss. Dean goes rigid for a single, horrible second.

Then he almost melts.

His fingers dig into your skin like he can’t bear to let go. His body collapses over yours, his kisses going from the soft ones you started to fast and desperate. He kisses you like he’s trying to leave a mark, and you meet him with every bit off passion.

Dean folds you down, until you’re flat on the mattress. Your legs fly up to wrap around his torso, and he grabs one of your hands, tangling your fingers together. The kisses turn slow. A little more certain and controlled, Dean sucking on your lower lip before kissing the corner of your mouth, then your upper lip. You smile into the kiss, and a broken sound rumbles from his chest.

He pins your hands next to your head, squeezing once before he breaks away. He looks wrecked. He stares at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and your head buzzes, nice and clear of what ifs.

All that matters right now is Dean above you, and the electric heat in your body. How his hand fits so perfectly in yours. How your bodies are already molding together, and you’re both still fully clothed.

“You deserve better, baby.” He mutters, and you almost laugh.

There’s nothing better. There’s Dean, glorious and unreachable, and there’s everyone else.

“No.” You whisper, beaming up at him. “I don’t.”

Dean’s throat bobs. He lowers himself down slowly, pressing his lips slowly over yours. Like he’s still not fully sure. You hum happily into the kiss, and he takes the cue easily.

You lose yourself in him quickly. His lazy, passionate kisses and his hands, slowly tracing over your body. He starts with light touches near your hips and waist, every brush of his fingers making you shiver. You arch into it, when his thumb grazes the bare skin of your midriff. Dean groans, testing the waters with another slow graze of his fingers.

“Deeean…” You breathe against his lips, and he grunts.

“You’re so soft.” He mutters, slipping his hand under your shirt. “So fuckin’ reactive and soft.”

You whimper, heels digging into his back as he teases his fingers up your spine. “Don’t- Don’t tease-“

“Not teasin’.” He nips at the corner of your mouth. “Just sayin’ things that are true, baby. Not my fault they make you all stupid.”

Your breath hitches, your head tipping back as your legs spread slightly. Dean hums, interest flashing in his gaze. He noticed. Of course he did. He notices everything.

“You like that?” He drawls, kissing over your cheek, then down your neck. “You like bein’ called baby? Or called stupid.”

His hand drifts up your side, until his thumb is grazing under your breast. The sensation, combined with his dirty words, makes your hips roll. A dizzy, pleased sigh escapes your lips. Dean chuckles, rubbing his thumb in a tight circle. His lips graze a sensitive spot on your neck, and your hips roll again.

“I think you like both.” He murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Dirty girl, bet you’re already wet for me.”

You whimper, the sound turning to a sharp gasp when Dean shoves his knee right between your thighs. You buck off the bed at the sudden pressure, eyes glazing and mouth hanging open.

Dean sucks on that sensitive spot, and your whole body shivers. You can’t stand to not move, not with the heat of him all around you. His thumb drags up, brushing over your nipple right as his tongue flicks against your skin. You start to mindlessly grind against his knee, chasing just a little bit more friction. Dean chuckle, biting softly at your neck before bullying his knee further against your clothed cunt.

“That’s it.” He growls in your ear. “Messy fuckin’ girl, already humping my leg. You need it that bad, sweetheart? Can’t even wait for me?”

“I- I’m sorry-“ You whine, trying to stop your body from moving.

It doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. Dean slips his hand from under your shirt and grabs your jaw, forcing your gaze onto his, and his attention just fuels the wildfire under your skin. You need him, and form of him you can get. You need him harsh and all over your body, until there’s are marks you won’t be able to wash away in the morning. You need him to claim you so deeply neither of you can back out.

Dean watches you with a gentle, but sharp awe. Like he’s trying to memorize the scene below him, that you’re sure is quiet a sight. You fucking his leg like a dog in heat, your adoration and love finally allowed to pour all over your face.

“Need you,” you breathe out, grabbing his wrist. “Need you so bad, Dean.”

A low rumble leaves his chest, his eyes getting darker with every tiny moan from your lips. His attention is almost too much. You try and turn your face into the sheets, but he tugs it back with barely a flick of his wrist.

“Dean, please-“

“Look at me.” He taps your cheek with one finger, slamming his knee forward.

Your glossy, tear-stained eyes dart to his, and he smirks. It’s soft, but dangerous. He smiles down at you, and another breath of his name escapes your lips.

“What do you want, sweet girl?” He murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Use your words.”

It takes you a second to remember how. “You,” you breathe out, and Dean’s jaw ticks. “Want you, Dean, always wanted you-“

“I know, baby,” he coos, leaning slowly down. Your noses bump, and you whimper, closing your eyes. “You want me so bad it hurts, don’t you. Bet your little pussy is fuckin’ calling my name, begging me to stuff her up.”

“Yes,” you nod, bobbleheaded and dizzy. “Oh my god, yes-“

“But how.” His voice turns stern, the heat of his breath making you shiver. “Do you want me? Soft? Or,” he pushes your further down onto his knee, and your eyes roll a little back. “Hard?”

Dean drags his thumb over your lips, squeezing your cheeks into a tiny pout. You try to keep fucking his knee, but he’s got you pinned so hard against it that you can’t move. You’re trapped in a cruel kind of heaven, with everything right on the brink of falling, and Dean holding you over the edge by the nape of your neck.

“Hard,” you whisper, dragging your eyes open to meet his. He needs to see it. How bad you want him. “Wanna- Ohh-“ Your lashes flutter, as Dean starts to slowly grind his knee against your core. “Wanna feel you. All of you. Don’t- Don’t hold back.”

His grip on your jaw tightens. His voice drops a full octave. “Baby, are you-“

“Yes.” You smile at him, already a little drunk on his everything. “I trust you.”

And that seems to be what gets him. Dean blinks at you for a second, the façade of pure control slipping. You know it’s a game, and that when you’re done he’s going to coddle you like a princess. But you’re not sure he knew you knew. Not sure he understood that, even when you thought he hated you, you would’ve placed your life in his hands without even a beat of hesitation.

Dean leans down, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. His hand pulls from yours, and he wraps his arm around your lower back. His fingers tickle your sides a little, teasing the side of your breast, and you giggle. Dean grunts, pushing you further into the mattress. It just makes you giggle more.

“Somethin’ funny?” He mutters, and you can hear it again. He’s back in this. It sends a shivering thrill through your body.

You need more. And you shake your head, trying to test just how much it takes him to snap.

“You’re laughin’ like something’s funny.” Dean leans back up, glaring down at your lovedrunk, giddy expression.

There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes.

You’re about to be fucked into next week.

“Look at you.” He mutters, palming at your breast through your shirt. You gasp, arching into the touch, and Dean chuckles. “You’d do anything I told you, huh. Just to make me fuck you.”

You shake your head, and Dean chuckles.

“Don’t lie, princess. Good girls don’t lie to me.”

Your breath catches. Your thighs press around Dean’s knee, the grind of your hips short and uncontrolled. He lets you writhe below him, smirking at the pants that escape your lips.

“Does it hurt?” he coos, smearing some spit over your cheek. “Your pussy aching, baby girl? Already can’t take it?”

“N- No.” You choke out. “I can take it-“

“Doesn’t seem like you can.” He mutters, scanning over your limp body. “I’m not even touchin’ you and you’re about to cum. Can’t believe you’re that fucking easy.”

You whimper, shaking your head. “I- I’m not easy-“

“Yeah?” Dean mocks. “How many other guys you fucked?”

“Two. Just two-“

“They make you feel like this?”

“No- Never-“

“Damn right. They don’t.” Dean grunts. “You’re mine, princess. My fuckin’ girl.”

You whimper, heat rushing through you at the possession in his voice. You are his. He has no idea, how completely and totally his you are.

“Say you’re mine.” Dean orders, and you nod.

“Yours. All yours, Dean, I’m- Fuuuck-“

He pinches your nipple rolling it between two fingers. Your hips try to buck off the bed, but he’s pinned you down too well.

“Fuck- Dean- You can’t just-“

You moan, and he chuckles.

“Oh, baby.” He leans back down, brushing a featherlight kiss over your lips. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

Dean nips on your lower lip, then rises back up, patting your cheek.

“Open.”

You do, without a thought. He chuckles, leans down, and spits right into your swollen lips.

“Swallow.” He grunts, and you obey.

You lick your lips for good measure. Just to see how he’ll react. His mouth falls a little open, a deep, possessive sound rumbling chest.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost fully to himself. “So fuckin’ eager. You ready to listen, princess?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, and add for good measure. “Please.”

 Dean’s lips twitch. “Beggin’ and I don’t even have you naked yet. We should fix that.”

“Fix what-“

“Stand up.” Dean drags you upright with steady, but firm hands.

You follow his lead, letting him move you off the mattress and onto shaking legs. He keeps you between his spread knees, smirking up at your confused expression. He’s got one hand, steadily rubbing the back of your thigh.

“Strip.” He orders, and your cheeks burn.

“Dean-“

You cut yourself off, when he just raises his brows. God, if he wasn’t begging you for attention fifteen minutes ago, you’d be putting up more of a fight. Just for the show of it. To prove that you’re perfectly capable of thinking for yourself. That you don’t need him at all.

But you think he knows that. And for once, you don’t want to have to think at all.

You peel off your clothing slowly, burning under Dean’s gaze. He’s tracking every movement, dragging over every bare inch of skin. Your top goes first, and his hands fly right up to palm your breasts. His hand is big and warm, and you bite back a tiny moan.

Dean smirks, leaning slowly forward to trail open, wet kisses over the valley of your breasts. You weave your fingers through his hair, your breath stuttering. You fumble with your bottoms. It’s a little hard to focus, with his tongue swirling around your sensitive, peaked nipple.

“Shit- Dean-“ You take a deep breath, tugging at his soft, short locks. “That’s- Mmmm-“

He sucks lightly, and you lean fully over his chest. He chuckles, flicking his tongue back and forth, and all you can think of is that sinful mouth against your core.

“I- I can’t-“

“Yes, you can.” He kisses your nipple, before switching to the neglected one. “For me.”

You swallow, grabbing at the hem of your bottoms and tugging them down. Dean grabs a handful of your ass, slapping it once before dipping his fingers down between your thighs. You collapse over him with a weak noise, and Dean just laughs. The shame in how quickly he’s unraveling you, how wet you know you are, it just makes you ache for him more. He’s got you, needy and in the palm of his hand. He knows it. And still, he touches you like he’s been waiting to his whole life.

“That’s my girl.” He mutters. “Son of a bitch, you’re so fuckin’ wet. You been walkin’ around like this? Waiting to get bent over and turned into my little cockslut.”

“Ye- Yes.” You press your face into his hair, nails scratching at his neck. “Oh my god, Deean-“

 “Yeah. That’s right.” Dean hums as you grind down onto his fingers, teasing between the lips of your pussy. “Barely even fuckin’ touching you, and you’re soaking my hands. Jesus,” he laughs, the sound vibrating against your chest. “You’re getting wetter every time I talk.”

You keen, when the tip of his forefinger grazes your clit. It’s like being struck by lightning, making your whole body rush with pleasure and your pussy clench around nothing. He flicks it, just that once, then pulls away. You hug his head tighter, begging between your every moan.

Dean doesn’t budge. He rubs over your pussy without touching your clit again, muttering dirty words against your skin.

“Look at you,” he kisses your shoulder. “My pretty fuckin’ girl.”

“Dean-“

“Come on.” He slaps your ass again, and your knees give a little. “Like I couldn’t make you cum just from talkin’ to you.”

You flush, wrapping your arms around his neck as he pulls you fully into his lap. Dean pauses, at the way you shiver, and pulls back. You try to avoid his gaze, but he isn’t having it. He grabs your jaw and forces your gaze back to his, eyes gleaming and playful.

“Oh, I could, couldn’t I.” He smirks. “You’d cum for me just sittin’ here, letting me call you names.”

“No.” Your protest is short. Weak. Dean looks at you like he’s just pulled the sweetest bunny into his trap, and he wants to eat you alive.

He pulls you down for one of those kisses that’s too slow and sweet. It’s almost mocking, with how his cock is straining against his jeans, pressing into your thigh. You dissolve into it, lowering your guard against your better judgement. Dean squeezes your ass, rubbing where he’d spanked before. Your knees are jelly, your core pressed right against his denim-clad bulge.

Jesus, he must be massive. Just the idea makes you shiver, and Dean smiles against your lips.

“You’re bein’ so patient,” he coos, massaging your hips. “You trust me, don’t you? You know I’m gonna fuck you real good.”

You hum an agreement, smiling from the praise. Dean combs his fingers through your hair, sucking on your lower lips before pulling slightly back.

“You’re ready, aren’t you? I could fuck you right now and you’d take me like I was lubed up.”

You whimper, and Dean pushes you further onto his bulge.

“You gonna let me own you, sweet girl? Let me make you the dirty fuckin’ cumslut you wanna be.”

“Deaan-“ You gasp weakly. “Don’t be mean-“

“Why?” He kisses your cheek. “You like it. You’re the one who said you wanted it, baby. And fuckin’ gush,” he runs his hand between your thighs. “Every fuckin’ time I call you my dirty little girl.”

He’s right. Your pussy clenches, arousal dripping down your thighs. Dean laughs, manhandling you to stay upright as moves fully onto the mattress and lies flat on his back. You stare at him for a second, unable to move with his hold on your hips, but unsure what to do with yourself. You’re straddling him, watching with an open mouth as he pulls off his shirt and settles fully into the pillow. His cock is pushed right against your pussy. You grind down, and he hisses.

“Not yet.” He mutters at your pout. “Need to taste that sweet pussy. C’mere.”

He beckons, and your mouth falls open when you realize what he means.

“Dean, I can’t- You’re going to suffocate-“

“Nobel death.” He grins, and you scowl.

“I don’t want you to die the first time we have sex.”

“First time?” He wiggles his brows. “You’re gonna let me come back for seconds?”

“Dean, I’m serious-“

“So am I, can we do an all you can eat kinda situation-“

“Dean Winchester.” You shove his chest, and the idiot just laughs. “I’m not- I’m not doing that. I don’t want to hurt you, that’s- I’m not-“

“Hey.” Dean grabs your hand, squeezing it gently. You meet his gaze, and it’s a million times softer than before. “It’s okay. This ain’t gonna hurt me, I swear, but if you just don’t wanna, I have a lotta other ways to make us both feel good.”

He drags his thumb over your knuckles, and you take a deep breath. You hadn’t realized it. You were about to cry again.

You peer at Dean through your lashes, and he offers you a boyish, gentle smile.

“Promise it won’t hurt you?” You whisper, and he nods.

“Swear on your life.”

You nod, slowly and carefully. Dean opens his mouth—probably about to ask if you’re sure—but you’re already crawling up his chest.  

He smiles, rubbing your thighs as you settle them on either side of his head. You take a deep breath, your hands fidgeting and unsure where to rest. Dean grabs them and guides them into his hair, before kissing the inside of your thigh. Your breath hitches, and you almost collapse straight over him.

He laughs, digging his dull nails into your ass. “Sweetheart, point of this is you sitting on my face.”

“I- I am-“

“You’re hovering. That ain’t sittin’.”

“I don’t want to crush you-“

“You won’t.” He sighs, kissing the opposite thigh. “I got you, right?”

You nod. He trails the kisses upwards, close to where you’re sure you’re dripping on his beard. His eyes never leave yours.

“You trust me?” He rasps, warm breath fanning over your pussy.

“Of- Of course I trust you-“

“Good.” Dean kisses your clit, sloppy and using his tongue to flick the little button back and forth.

You almost shriek, the sensation overwhelming. You squirm, unsure if you’re trying to get closer or wiggle away. Dean makes the choice for you.

“Hold on.” He grunts, right before yanking you right down onto his face.

And oh.

Oh god.

You’ve been eaten out before. Even by people who were good at it. Who enjoyed it. You came before, and walked away with no complaints.

Compared to this, they might as well have just spat on it and walked away.

Dean eats you out like he’s on a personal mission for honor between your legs. Like he lost something in your pussy and he’s trying to shake it loose. His jaw works like he’s devouring the finest food of his life, his tongue dragging and pumping in and out of your sensitive opening. His nose is pressed right against your clit, and he moves it with his full face, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing.

“Fuuck- Fuck!” You cry out, yanking on Dean’s hair. “Dean- Oh- Oh my God-“

He moans, and the vibration makes it better and worse all at once. You’re trembling, no way to escape it, no way to feel it less. Dean massages your ass as he works, keeping you pinned to his face, to the pleasure he’s slowly dragging out of your body.

You pull his hair again, and his time he smacks your ass with his moan. Your back arches. You have to grab the bed frame to stop yourself from collapsing.

“Dean- Deeaaan-“

You chant the word like a prayer. It’s all you can remember. The infernal man below you laughs, and you push down harder into his wet, open mouth. He grunts, and doubles his efforts. His tongue traces around your pussy before shoving back into your tight cunt, and you clench around him with a whimper.

He tightens his grip on your hips, dragging them slowly back and forth. Guiding you into fucking his face. You follow his rhythm, and swear you can feel him everywhere in your body. Your nerves light up, with every stroke of his tongue and bump of his nose on your clit. Your mouth hangs open, and you pant as you try to hold off your orgasm, building up and up and up in your core.

One of his hands disappears from your body. You’re too lost in his mouth below you to notice, until you hear it.

The sound of slapping skin, mixed with Dean’s increasing moans below you. You manage to find enough of a mind to look over your shoulder, and the sight shoots straight to your pussy, gushing on Dean’s face.

He’s fisting his cock, thick and long and a little curved. He beats it into his hand, the head angry and red, coated in a thick layer of pre-cum. You twist back around looking down at his face between your thighs, and find him staring back.

He’s been staring the whole time. Eyes dark and wrecked, fixed on you as you writhed and moaned above him. He’s getting off to it. To having you like this.

Dean moans—fully, totally moans—into your pussy, his eyes never leaving yours.

And you can’t hold it off.

“Dean- I- I’m gonna-“

He squeezes your ass, moaning against your pussy again.

Permission.

You cum with a cry of his name, grinding down onto his face through your orgasm. Your vision goes white, your whole body shaking and seizing up as Dean’s tongue strokes you through it. He doesn’t stop when you’re a trembling, dazed mess above him. He slowly shifts you backwards, cradling your body as sits up, forcing your back into the sheets, between his legs.

He kisses your clit gently, eyes shining on your unfocused, glossy ones.

“Taste better than I imagined.” He murmurs, slowly moving you further up the bed. “And trust me, baby. I lost a whole lotta sleep imagining.”

You swallow, eyes darting to his still hard cock. Dean follows your hungry gaze, then laughs, angling it to rub between the lips of your pussy.

“You’re really that needy, huh.” He teases. “Not enough for just my mouth. Gotta have my cock, too.”

You hum, too lost in the feeling to even protest. You’re flat on your back, legs hiked up in the air and over Dean’s shoulder, fully exposing your poor, swollen pussy to him. He slides his cock right between the slick lips, the tip bumping your clit. You pout up at Dean, spreading your legs wider to try and urge him on. He raises his brows, pausing with his cock pressed over your clit.

“Already too fucked out to talk?”

You nod, and pride and worry mix in his eyes.

“Baby, if you need me to take it easy-“

You shake your head frantically. He promised no holding back. You want to be sore from him in the morning.

Dean sighs, lowering your legs so he can lean over your face. You glare at him, grinding your hips up against him. He pins you back to the bed with a single hand sprawled on your abdomen and a stern look.

“There’s gonna be more time for it to be rough.” He murmurs. “I been plenty mean tonight. And I love it, sweetheart, I do, but I’m gonna love anything-“

“Dean.” You push out, your voice wrecked and hoarse. “Hard. Please.”

“Are you-“

You push up on weak elbows, capturing his mouth against yours. Dean leans down, kissing you with every bit of adoration and softness he’s about to rip away for the sake of pleasure. You smile against the kiss, boneless and happy, and Dean grunts. 

“Alright.” He mutters, the darkness in his voice sending a chill down your spine. “You get what you ask for, baby girl.”

Yes.

You’d say it, if he hadn’t already stolen most of the words from your body. And you thought that it was bad before.

Dean slowly shoves himself into your dripping cunt, and you can’t remember your own fucking name.

He’s big. So big you’re not sure how you’re fitting him. His hand on your abdomen pushes you deeper into the mattress, forcing you to take every thick, veiny inch of him. You whimper, and the sound gets swallowed by Dean’s lips.

“Feel that?” He hisses, tone harsh in the way that sends a thrill to your core. “Feel my cock, filling up your tight little pussy?”

You nod, mouth hanging open. Dean bottoms out with a grunt, pulling your hips roughly up to let him hit a deeper angle. You mewl, eyes rolling back at the burning, perfect stretch of him.

“That’s right.” He mutters, rutting into your wet, hot channel. “This is what you fuckin’ begged for, princess. To be a brainless little cockslut. You can’t even talk right now, can you? Just gonna lay there and look pretty while I do all the work?”

Tears prick at your eyes. You’re so full you almost don’t think you can handle it.

Dean isn’t going to give you much of a choice.

“Damn right you are.” He mutters to himself, dragging almost fully out of you before slamming back in, knocking the air from your lungs.

You sob with pleasure, reaching up to grab at his face. Dean kisses your wrist, repeating the motion with an even harsher thrust than before.

“That’s it.” He grunts, pushing over your as he finds a brutal pace. “That’s my girl. Fit me like a glove, sweetheart. Tightest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever fucked, so good for me, so fuckin’ good-“

Dean groans, crashing his lips over yours. You wrap your arms around him, holding on for dear life as he fucks stars behind your eyes and lightning through your body. If you weren’t ruined for him before, you are now. There isn’t another man in the world, who could reduce you to such a sobbing, wrecked mess while fucking you like a doll, then kiss all over your face like you’re the most important thing in the world.

He’s handling your body like it only exists for him to fuck. Grabbing your hips and breasts like they’re toys, positioning in the best way for him to hit you deeper. So deep he’s finding burning, pleasurable spots in you that you hadn’t known existed before, that make your whole body light up with pleasure. You can feel him in your throat, though every single inch of you, his muscles flexing and chest heaving and cock drilling into you until your pussy is drooling and he’s just sliding in and out.

But he kisses you like he’s a soldier being sent off to war. Rough and desperate, but loving. With all the fervor of a man who’s trying to something both of you have lost the words for. You return his every kiss, and his thrusts get sharper. Deeper.

You make sounds that are supposed to be his name. The room fills with the obscene sound of his cock, pounding into your cunt. You tip your head back and he starts to bite and suck on your throat, like he really can’t find enough of you to worship.

“Shit, baby-“ He presses his nose against your jaw, voice cracking as the bed creaks beneath you both. “Gonna- Gonna fuckin’- Where’d you want it-“

You grab his shoulders, yanking him fully down. Dean groans, doubling over and pressing his mouth back over yours.

“Come with me, sweetheart, c’mon- Milk my fuckin’ cock-“

His thumb slips between your bodies, rubbing your clit in tight, unforgiving circles. You scream silently, as your orgasm hits you like a train. Dean fucks you through it, moaning your name as he chases his own release. White hot cum paints your inner walls, and Dean fucks it back into you with rough grunts and shorter thrusts.

You think you might be floating. You’ve never been this stuffed up, this warm. All the mocking and harshness from Dean is gone, replaced by worshipful hands that caress your face and gentle kisses over every spot he played with. Neither of you seem ready to know. You know you aren’t at all, and Dean’s curled over you like a very heavy blanket.

You rub his back, smiling up at the ceiling. It’s quiet. You’d like to stay here for a while. Maybe forever.

Dean rises over you, still not pulling out. His eyes are glazed, his expression wrecked. You reach up to cup his cheek, and he leans into the touch.

“My girl.” He mutters, and even if he doesn’t say it like one, you know it’s a question.

“Your girl.” You whisper.

You’ve never seen him smile so wide, than before he leans back down to kiss you again.

And if you make him smile like that for the rest of your life, then you know you’ve done something right.

✦End note: the good thing about writing these fics is that it's fun. the bad thing is that i've set my standards WAY too high. ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

Your eyes rolled back, too fucked out to protest that what he's giving you is a little more than a couple inches. Your mouth went slack in his hand, and feeling your pitiful little gasps against his palm only spurred him on.

"What? Got nothin' to say?"

You moaned, the drool leaking out of your mouth becoming evident when he switched his grip to your neck.

"How about 'thank you, daddy, for treating me exactly how I asked you to.'"

The words came out embarrassingly slurred. You fought your way through, trying to show him you are appreciative of the way he is claiming you right now. Every part of you feels like it's his when he fucks you like this. Not just the position, but the way he's showing you that he'll always give you exactly what you need. His hand snaked around to play with your clit. You felt yourself gush around him, impossibly more pliant underneath his strong body.

"Can you take a little more f'me?"

Without waiting to hear your answer he slid his middle finger in alongside his cock, groaning into your ear when he feels you stretch around him. His long digit rubbed at your spot, as if he wasn't hitting it before, and you felt him smile into your neck at the way you thrashed underneath him.

"C'mon, honey. I'm just givin' you what you asked for. All you gotta do is cum out some of this attitude and we'll call it even."

His fingers prodded at you relentlessly, his cock still shoving it's way in. All the fight left your body when his thumb started circling your clit.

"Yeahhh, that's all you needed, huh? Pussy just needed some of dad's attention." He drew the pleasure from you in pulsing waves, your cunt fluttering around his finger and cock as he fucked you through it. "There you go, honey. Cummin' around dad's cock like a good girl." His thrusts stayed unhurried, enjoying the feeling of your warm, spasming pussy. The only sign he was getting close was the way he started babbling, his filter and restraint completely gone.

"Love fuckin' this little pussy honey, sucks me in all nice even when she's pretending to be a fuckin' brat. Know just what to do to get her all warm 'n welcoming. Need to fuck her more to teach her how bad she needs her dad's cock. She should feel empty whenever I'm not fillin' her up to the brim. Need'a get a little plug to keep her all full've my cum even when I can't be there for her. Gonna breed her nice 'n deep so she can't forget who she belongs to, who she's gotta listen to. I'm gonna-- fuck."

You felt him paint you deep inside, his grip on your neck moving back to lock around your mouth. He fucked back into you, groaning when a little bit of his spend dribbled out.

"Remember how you feel right now next time you try to say I don't treat you right."

Maybe that was why your lower belly still burned while your breathing slowly evened out, lying there with Bucky’s arm around your shoulders and his body still warm beside yours beneath the sheets. That night the sex had been as sweet as ever, his lips lingering on your skin only as long as they absolutely had to, his whispered words of adoration brushing against your neck.

Nothing calmed the heat in your pussy.

“Bucky?” you murmured softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his jaw that made him shiver briefly, just like he always did whenever your lips touched his skin.

And still he wouldn’t let you use your mouth to please him, you thought bitterly.

Even so, you didn’t let the thought discourage you.

His time would come.

Bucky only hummed faintly in acknowledgment, his body still loose and relaxed, his thumb stroking along your ribs. Not too high. Not brushing your bare breasts or the hardened peaks reaching toward him, begging for his mouth. Your lips pursed before you continued.

“I want to try something new.”

Your words clearly caught him off guard.

“Something… new?” he repeated, brow furrowing, head tilting like a curious puppy. It might have been cute if you weren’t already wet enough to make patience impossible. “New like… here, in bed? Or do you mean…?”

You barely let him finish before answering.

“I want to sit on your face. Fuck me with your tongue, Buck.”

The curse that slipped from Bucky’s mouth only made your cunt grow wetter, already clenching around nothing while a few drops of his semen still slid slowly between your thighs.

“Jesus, sweetheart. Why would you say—? What the hell…?” he huffed, chest rising fast as his arm tightened around your shoulders while you bit your lip and looked at him with those doe eyes that always made him give in. “We’ve never done that. I mean, I don’t think… that wouldn’t be good, and I—”

“Bucky, Buck, please,” you pleaded, lips already pouting as your leg shifted over his thigh, the friction of his bare skin against your center sending another wave of wetness through your folds. Bucky’s grip tightened even more. “I want to do it. You’re sweet and very chivalrous, but I need more. Please, please, my love. Just this once, and if it’s not good then we’ll never do it again for the rest of our lives, okay? I want to feel your tongue. Please, James.”

His name on your lips was enough to make his pupils expand like a predator’s, the feeling of his still-warm, soft cock against your thigh beginning to harden again. Bucky had never been a strong man when it came to you and your pleading.

“Climb onto my chest, sweetheart. Hands on the headboard.”

It was the only thing he said, in that rough tone that made heat coil deep in your stomach and wetness surge between your legs.

Excitement filled your chest at his words. You left a quick kiss on his lips before sliding your leg fully over his waist, dragging your wetness along the path of his abs until your ass settled on his bare chest. His hands moved down to grip your waist as if you were a doll made of clay beneath his touch. Your knees framed his head while Bucky silently examined the slick shine of your folds barely brushing his skin.

A low growl rumbled in his chest.

“Fuck, look at that. I just filled you and you’re already asking for more stuffing in that cunt, huh?” he muttered almost to himself, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip as he pulled your hips forward, his nose brushing your trembling thigh. “And how thoughtful. Still dripping my cum. Dirty little thing.”

“Buck, stop—oh, fuck.”

Bucky’s tongue dove between your folds before you could finish complaining. His lips wrapped around your clit with a gentle tug that made you gasp and whimper. He ate you like you were the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted, his tongue circling your clit while his nose brushed the start of your slit. Your eyes nearly rolled back as the wet sounds of his mouth filled the room.

“Oh, I—Buck, Bucky, please…” you moaned instinctively, your hips trying to roll to chase the sensation of his lips. Bucky growled low, pulling away with one last suck on your swollen clit, the pop echoing like your final sentence. You could have cried from frustration, looking down at him as your hands smacked the headboard.

“No! No, no… please don’t—don’t stop, I need it… I want—please…”

The teasing smile that left his lips would have earned him a slap if the heat twisting in your stomach weren’t so overwhelming.

“You asked for this, sweetheart. You begged for it,” he replied coolly, guiding your hips in a slow roll, his rough stubble dragging deliciously across your trembling folds. The sound that left your mouth was anything but dignified, but Bucky only kept smiling, lips swollen and wet. “So be a good girl, yeah? Stay still and I’ll give you a nice reward. But if you even try to move your hands off the headboard, I swear I’ll suck your pussy without giving you a single fucking orgasm. Understood?”

Your whimper came out faster than expected.

“Understood, understood! Please, just go back to—”

Before you could finish, his mouth was between your legs again. Your lips parted in a trembling sigh, your head falling boneless against the headboard while your nails dug crescent shapes into the fabric until it began to tear under the pressure. Bucky’s hands stayed anchored to your hips while his lips alternated between greedy sucks and kitten licks that made your head spin.

“Fuck, James! Don’t stop, please, don’t stop, don’t you dare—”

The words spilled out of you faster than your mind could process them. But Bucky kept that arrogant air as you sat on his face, the lower half of it buried between your thighs and his eyes shut in pleasure. Low groans vibrated against your pussy between every suck, his words muffled against your wet folds.

“So fucking good, baby… best meal I’ve ever had,” he breathed against the slick heat between your legs, his nose hooked against your clit while his tongue moved side to side in a furious lick that sent fire straight to your womb. “I can feel how much this pussy wants something inside it. Fuck, my girl can’t get enough of my tongue, huh? So wet, so damn ready for my tongue and my cock.”

His words only stoked the fire in your stomach, your breath catching in your throat when Bucky’s tongue slid between your folds, sucking at your entrance like he was eating a glazed donut from the inside out. Your forehead dropped against your forearm on the headboard as the knot in your belly snapped and your orgasm crashed through you, flooding Bucky’s mouth and dripping down his chin like melting ice cream.

“Shit, yeah, give it to me, give me everything. I want every last drop, baby. That’s it. My strong girl, so fucking sweet,” he groaned, sucking down your release in obscenely loud noises, his hands pressing your hips firmly onto his face until the curve of your ass settled fully against his wet chin. “More… I’m not full yet. Give me another, sweetheart. Give me another and then I’ll give you my cock.”

The frustrated moan that left your lips broke into a sob while his tongue returned to its assault, your body still shaking and your thighs weak against his cheeks.

“I can’t, Buck. Please, no. I can’t, I don’t have another one,” you pleaded to deaf ears while Bucky kept sucking through the aftershocks of your orgasm and the tremors wracking your muscles. “Jamie, please, Buck…”

“Give me another, sweetheart,” was all he said.

Your eyes filled with tears while Bucky guided your hips back and forth over his face, your slick soaking his bronzed skin. His tongue chased the salty taste of the drops of your orgasm his mouth had missed, sucking them up in quick, confident pulls that made tears run down your cheeks and your toes curl beside his shoulders.

“Buck, I can’t anymore! I can’t, please, it’s too much, too much!”

“Never enough,” he replied, the words nearly lost in the friction of his tongue against your folds as he licked up the pearly drops of wetness still pooling between them despite your pleas.

A sob tore from your chest as your thighs relaxed around his head. Bucky made a pleased sound, eyes shut tight and brows drawn together while he guided your hips, bouncing you against his hungry tongue. One of his hands left your waist, sliding like a snake beneath your stretched arm, his thumb brushing your nipple in slow vicious circles that made the knot in your stomach ache and tighten.

“I feel you getting close… give it to me, please, fuck, give me everything,” Bucky panted between increasingly fierce sucks that left your folds tingling and made your back arch. His thumb and forefinger pinched your nipple just enough for pain and pleasure to blur together—and for the second time that night, the pressure in your lower belly broke as your orgasm spilled in soft drops across his face.

Your sobs softened while Bucky licked and cleaned your release from between your legs for what felt like forever. His fingers left your nipple and settled back on your waist, his once fierce grip loosening until you felt his calloused but gentle fingers tracing soothing circles along your skin. Your muscles felt like jelly by the time his licking slowed, his hands guiding you back until you were once again sitting on his chest.

A hiccup caught in your throat as you looked down at his still-dilated blue eyes and the stains of your release smeared across the lower half of his face like a permanent mark of your claim.

He barely managed a breath before speaking again.

“I swear to God, sweetheart, I hope you like having a new seat, because we’re doing this every day.”

The clang of metal rings out across the Avengers’ training room, echoing off the reinforced walls. You’re supposed to be sparring, hand-to-hand drills, testing speed and reflexes, but your eyes are glued to the far corner of the room where Bucky Barnes is bench-pressing like it’s a goddamn porn audition.

Sweat beads along his temples, darkening his hair at the edges. His grey t-shirt is plastered to his chest, and every time he lowers the barbell to his chest and pushes it back up again, his muscles strain in a way that makes your stomach flip and your thighs press together.

He’s not even showing off. Not grunting, not straining, hust existing. And that’s the problem.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter under your breath, pretending to stretch but really just watching the way his jaw flexes when he exhales through his nose. “How is he so fucking slutty all the time?”

Natasha, across the mat from you, doesn’t even look up from adjusting her gloves. “You’re staring.”

“I’m not staring,” you lie. “I’m… observing.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Scientific reasons.”

“Uh-huh.”

Before you can defend yourself further, Bucky racks the weights and sits up, swiping a towel over his face. And then, because the universe hates you, he rolls his broad shoulders back, stretches his arms overhead, and you catch the glimpse of taut abs when his shirt rides up.

You choke on your water bottle.

Bucky glances over, one brow raised, that infuriating smirk tugging at his mouth. He knows. He fucking knows.

“Y’alright over there, doll?” His voice carries easily across the room, rich and low, wrapping around you like velvet.

You glare at him weakly, cheeks heating. “You’re disgusting.”

He laughs, short and amused. “What’d I do now?”

“You—you can’t just—” You gesture helplessly at his entire existence. “—do that.”

His grin widens. “Do what? Work out?”

“Do anything,” you snap. “You can’t just breathe near me looking like that. It’s slutty.”

Natasha actually snorts from the corner, muttering something about being too sober for this conversation.

Bucky’s smirk sharpens into something wolfish. He drapes the towel over his shoulders, striding toward you with an ease that should be illegal. Every step makes your pulse thrum harder, and you hate how much you love it.

“Slutty, huh?” he murmurs when he stops in front of you, towering close enough that you smell the faint mix of clean sweat and his woodsy cologne. “That’s what we’re callin’ it?”

You cross your arms, looking up at him defiantly even as your heart pounds. “Yeah. Slutty. You make lifting weights look obscene, and you know it.”

Bucky chuckles, leaning down just enough to brush his lips against your ear, his breath hot on your skin. “If you think this is obscene, doll, wait ‘til you see what I can do when I’m actually tryin’.”

Your breath catches, and he straightens with a wicked glint in his eye, leaving you vibrating in place like a live wire.

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The thing about Bucky Barnes is that he doesn’t even need to be shirtless, sweaty, or benching half a ton to ruin you. No. He ruins you simply by existing in your shared apartment like it’s nothing.

This morning, you find him in the kitchen. Hair damp from a shower, tied up in a loose bun. Grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. A fitted black henley rolled up to the elbows, showing off forearms that should be studied in a lab.

He’s making coffee. Just… making coffee. Scooping grounds, pouring water into the machine, leaning lazily against the counter as he sets his watch on his wrist with practiced ease.

You’re halfway to drooling.

“Unbelievable,” you whisper to yourself, leaning in the doorway.

Bucky glances over, eyebrow raised. “What now, sweetheart?”

“You,” you accuse, striding toward him. “You’re obscene. Slutty.”

He blinks, actually laughs. “For makin’ coffee?”

“Yes! You’ve got no business looking that good putting your watch on. You know how ridiculous that is?”

His smirk spreads slow, like honey dripping. “What, this?” He deliberately flexes his wrist as he fastens the clasp, veins and tendons shifting under his skin.

You groan, covering your face. “You’re doing it on purpose.”

“Baby,” he chuckles, reaching out to tug your hands down, forcing you to look at him. His thumb brushes your jaw. “I’m literally just existing.”

“That’s the problem!” You jab a finger into his chest. “You’re so—so slutty all the time. Breathing. Standing. Drinking coffee. I can’t even look at you without wanting to—”

Your words cut off because his smirk sharpens, dark and dangerous. “Without wantin’ to what?”

You bite your lip. “You know.”

His gaze drops to your mouth, lingers there before sliding back up to your eyes. His voice drops, low and teasing. “Say it.”

You flush, heat pooling between your thighs already. “Without wanting to climb you like a fucking tree.”

His laugh is dark and satisfied, head tipping back before he looks at you again. “Christ, doll. You’re lucky I love you, ‘cause you’re insufferable when you’re horny.”

“Lucky?” you echo, indignant. “You’re the one walking around here looking like that.”

He leans in, lips brushing yours as he murmurs, “Guess that makes us both lucky, then.”

And then he kisses you, slow, lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world. Which would be fine, except the kiss only makes you hungrier. You whine against his mouth, fisting his shirt, pressing your body flush to his.

Bucky groans, pulling back just enough to smirk. “Coffee first, sweetheart.”

You glare at him, breathless. “I hate you.”

He grins, pecking your lips again. “No, you don’t.”

And the worst part? He’s right.

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The compound is quiet for once. No alarms, no training schedules, no Tony blasting AC/DC through the halls. Just peace.

You’re wandering toward the common room, phone in hand, when you hear the faint scrape of a chair.

And then you see him.

Bucky’s lounging on the couch, one arm thrown over the back, the other holding a book open. His hair is down, falling around his face in waves. His Henley is stretched across his chest like it’s two sizes too small, and his glasses, those fucking reading glasses, are perched low on his nose.

You stop dead in the doorway.

Oh, no. No no no. This is unfair. Illegal, even.

You feel your knees weaken, a rush of heat shooting straight through your body. The air feels too heavy, your chest tight. You actually press a hand to your sternum like you’ve been winded, muttering to yourself, “Slut. Absolute slut.”

Bucky glances up, brow raised. “Somethin’ wrong, sweetheart?”

You stalk closer, tossing your phone on the table. “Yeah. You.”

He smirks, adjusting his glasses as he marks his page with a finger. “What’d I do this time?”

“Existing,” you snap, dropping onto the couch beside him. “Reading. Breathing. Looking like—like that.” You wave a hand vaguely at him, too flustered to form coherent words.

His smirk deepens, voice dropping. “Like what?”

“Like you jumped straight out of my my wet dreams,” you hiss, grabbing his shirt and tugging him toward you.

Before he can answer, you’re kissing him, hungry, messy, nothing like the slow teasing of the kitchen. Your teeth catch his lip, your tongue presses inside, and Bucky groans low in his chest, dropping the book to cup your jaw.

“Jesus, doll,” he murmurs against your mouth. “You’re insatiable.”

“You do this on purpose,” you growl, climbing into his lap, straddling him.

His grin is wicked. “What, sittin’ here readin’?”

“With the glasses,” you accuse, tugging them off and tossing them onto the table. “You know what you look like.”

He chuckles, leaning back, letting you pin him with your glare. “Maybe I do. What’re you gonna do about it?”

You smirk. “This.”

You slide off his lap, sinking to your knees between his spread thighs before he can blink.

“Baby—fuck,” he hisses, his head tipping back as your hands tug at the waistband of his sweats. “We’re in the common room.”

“Then be quiet,” you purr, tugging him free.

The sight of him, hard and heavy in your hand, makes your mouth water. You wrap your lips around the flushed tip, sucking slow and deliberate just to watch his composure crack.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, hands flying to your hair. His hips twitch up, betraying him.

You drag your tongue down the thick vein, then take him deeper, gagging softly as you swallow him halfway. His thighs flex under your palms, his grip tightening.

“Sweet girl,” he rasps, his voice wrecked already. “God, you’re so fuckin’ good at this—always so hungry for me.”

You hum around him, the vibrations making his cock twitch against your tongue. His groan is guttural, his head dropping back against the couch as his chest heaves.

“Look at you,” he pants, guiding your movements. “On your knees in the damn common room, suckin’ me off like you’re starved. What if someone walks in, huh?”

You pull off just enough to smirk up at him, spit slicking your chin. “Then they’ll know how slutty you are, sittin’ here letting me do this.”

His laugh is sharp, cut off by a strangled moan as you take him all the way down, nose brushing the coarse hair at his base. His thighs tremble, his hands clench.

“Fuck—baby, m’not gonna last—” he groans, trying and failing to pull you back.

You grip his thighs, nails digging in, swallowing around him until his whole body jerks.

“Sweetheart, fuck—comin’—”

He spills down your throat with a shattered cry, hips bucking despite his attempt to stay composed. Tears prick his eyes behind his glasses, his chest heaving as you milk him through it, licking and swallowing until he collapses back against the couch.

You finally pull off, licking your lips, smirking wickedly. “Still think I’m insatiable?”

Bucky stares at you like you’ve knocked years off his life. “You’re gonna kill me, pretty girl.”

You grin, leaning in to kiss him, spit-slick, filthy, perfect. “Worth it.”

And just as he pulls you back into his lap, just as you’re grinding against him again, you both freeze at the sound of footsteps in the hall.

Bucky’s eyes widen. Yours do, too.

You both hold your breath.

The footsteps fade.

Bucky exhales, then bursts out laughing, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re fuckin’ insane.”

“Maybe,” you whisper, biting his lip. “But you love me.”

“God help me,” he groans, already hardening again under you. “Yeah, I do.”

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You don’t know why you agreed to this.

Actually—you do. Because Bucky had asked, voice soft, hand warm on your waist, murmuring something about “we could use a normal date, doll.” And you’d melted. Obviously.

So now you’re here, strolling hand in hand through a mall like you’re not two Avengers who could snap a wrist with a flick. You should be normal. Window shopping. Grabbing coffee. People-watching.

Instead, you’re seconds away from losing your mind.

Because Bucky, your sweet, infuriating boyfriend, is being the sluttiest man alive without even trying.

His henley is rolled to the elbows, showing off veiny forearms as he carries your bags like they weigh nothing. His reading glasses are tucked into the collar of his shirt, catching the light every time he shifts. He’s chewing gum, jaw flexing, hair tied back loosely at the nape of his neck.

And then, like a cherry on the slut-sundae, he leans down to kiss your temple. Just a brush of lips, casual and tender.

It’s your undoing.

You choke on your iced latte, stopping dead in the middle of the walkway.

Bucky looks back, confused. “What’s wrong?”

You stare at him, eyes wide, chest heaving. “You.”

His brows knit. “Me?”

“You’re—fuck, Bucky, you’re so—” You tug him toward the nearest hallway, away from the crowd, practically dragging him along by his wrist.

“Angel—what—?”

The sign ahead reads Restrooms.

He catches on immediately, lips twitching into a smirk. “Oh.”

You shove him into the family restroom, lock the door behind you, and whirl on him.

“You think you can just—” you’re already crowding into his space, shoving his bags aside, “—walk around being slutty? In public? With me right there?”

Bucky grins, backing against the wall. “Slutty? Baby, I was just holdin’ your hand.”

“Exactly.” You grab his jaw, kissing him hard, tongue pushing into his mouth before he can quip again. He groans, his hands immediately finding your hips, sliding under your shirt.

“Jesus, doll,” he pants when you break for air. “You’re wound up tight.”

“You’re wound up,” you growl, tugging at his belt.

He catches your wrists, pinning them briefly against the wall, eyes gleaming. “Slow down. You want me that bad?”

“Yes,” you snap, writhing under his hold. “Now shut up and fuck me.”

That does it. His smirk slips, his pupils blow wide, and he hauls you up against him in one smooth motion, your back pressed to the wall, his mouth devouring yours.

By the time your legs are wrapped around his waist, you’ve got his cock out, stroking him fast and messy.

Bucky hisses, burying his face in your neck. “Oh, fuck, doll—always so eager for me. My filthy girl.”

You gasp when his metal hand slides under your skirt, cool fingers parting your folds. He finds your clit instantly, circling slow, and your hips buck against his.

“Fuck, Bucky—” you whimper, stroking him harder.

His groan is guttural, hot breath hitting your ear. “Feelin’ how hard you make me? You’ve got me like this just from walkin’ through the mall with you. You’re the slutty one, sweetheart.”

You moan, clutching at his shoulders, rocking into his hand. His fingers sink inside you, curling deep, and your knees tremble around his waist.

“God, baby,” he whispers, voice breaking, “you’re so wet already. My perfect girl. Always so ready for me.”

You stroke him faster, his cock leaking into your hand, thick and heavy. “Come for me,” you beg, desperate. “Please, Bucky, I need it—”

His forehead drops to your shoulder, his breath ragged. “Fuck, you’re killin’ me—say it again.”

“Come for me,” you whimper, squeezing his cock. “Make me messy. Please, Buck—”

He groans loud enough you pray no one’s outside the door, fingers plunging deeper as his cock jerks in your grip. “Sweet girl—god, you’re doing so good for me—fuck—I can’t—”

He’s spilling across your fist at the same time your orgasm rips through you, his fingers fucking you through it as his come paints your hand.

You both collapse against the wall, panting, trembling, clinging to each other like you’ll drown without it.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky mutters, pressing frantic kisses to your jaw, your cheek, your mouth. “What the fuck are you doin’ to me, doll? You’re gonna kill me.”

You grin weakly, still catching your breath. “Worth it.”

And then his fingers slide back between your thighs, already circling your clit again.

Your eyes fly wide. “Bucky—”

“Didn’t say I was done,” he murmurs against your lips, wicked. “Gotta make sure my good girl’s satisfied. Hold on tight.”

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The restroom smells faintly of antiseptic and cheap soap, humming with the flicker of fluorescent lights above. It’s nothing glamorous—white tile, a scratched-up mirror, a metal sink that drips every few secondss.

But right now, it feels like the center of the universe.

Because Bucky Barnes has you pinned against the sink, his cock buried inside you, and the only thing you can see in that fogging mirror is the wreck you’ve already become.

Your hair is mussed, your lipstick smeared, your skirt bunched up around your waist. Your panties are dangling off one ankle, half-forgotten. And behind you, looming, broad, flushed, is Bucky. His shirt’s wrinkled, collar askew from your fists tugging, his hair escaping the tie at his neck, his glasses tucked away in his pocket like he couldn’t be bothered.

He’s gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, rutting into you with a steady force that makes the sink squeak against the wall.

You whimper, your forehead knocking the glass. “Bucky—oh god—”

“Uh-uh.” His voice is low, rough, commanding. You feel his metal hand slide up your stomach, cold against overheated skin, until it wraps around your throat. He tilts your chin up with just enough pressure to make your knees wobble. “Eyes up, pretty girl. Look.”

You blink, trying to steady yourself. The mirror shows everything: the way your tits bounce with every thrust, the wet sheen between your thighs, the way his cock disappears inside you over and over.

“See that?” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. “See how messy you are for me? How you’re drippin’ down your thighs, makin’ a fuckin’ mess all over my cock?”

You bite your lip, whimpering as your pussy clenches around him.

His eyes narrow in the mirror. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” you choke out, voice trembling under his grip. “I’m messy for you, Bucky—”

He smirks, leaning down to kiss your shoulder, sweat dampening his temple. “My good girl. My perfect girl. Look how well you take me.” His thrusts deepen, angling just right, and you cry out when he brushes your g-spot.

Your nails claw at the sink, slipping against the damp porcelain. “Fuck—oh, fuck—”

“Shhh, baby.” His hand slides down, pinching your clit between metal fingers, rolling it with practiced precision. You jolt, eyes rolling back, your whole body trembling as your orgasm teases the edges.

“Look at you,” he pants, grinding harder. “All that attitude, draggin’ me in here like you were gonna ruin me. But now? You’re fucked-out already. My pretty baby, my messy girl.”

Your hips buck against him helplessly, chasing more, begging for it without words.

Bucky watches you in the mirror, his own eyes blown black with lust, sweat dripping down his throat. He looks wild—wrecked. And still, his lips curl into a slow, cruel smirk.

“You love this, don’t you?” he taunts, squeezing your throat just enough to make your vision blur at the edges. “Love lettin’ me use you in some filthy restroom like you’re mine to ruin.”

“Yes,” you gasp, tears pricking your eyes. “Fuck, yes—yours—always yours—”

That cracks him.

A guttural groan rips from his chest, his hips snapping harder, faster, relentless. The slap of skin on skin echoes in the small room, mixing with your wetness and your broken cries.

You’re close,so close, but you can’t catch your breath. It’s too much, too good, his cock filling you so deep, his hand on your throat, his fingers grinding your clit like he owns it.

“Bucky—please—I can’t—”

“You can.” His voice is rough, pleading under the dominance, breaking at the seams. “C’mon, sweetheart. Cum for me. Show me. Be my good girl.”

You whimper, your thighs shaking, and that’s when he covers your mouth with his palm.

“Shhh,” he hisses, teeth grazing your ear. “You’re so fuckin’ loud, baby. Gonna get us caught.” His eyes are frantic in the mirror, locked on yours as his hips piston into you. “Cum for me, sweetheart. Cum on my cock, right here—quiet for me.”

The pressure of his hand, the weight of his cock, the brutal rhythm, it unravels you.

You scream into his palm as your orgasm slams through you, body shuddering, pussy clenching tight around him. Your vision whites out, tears streaming down your cheeks as he fucks you through it, merciless.

“Fuck—yes, that’s it, sweet girl, that’s my girl,” he groans, rutting harder. “Milkin’ my cock so perfect—god, I’m—”

His thrusts stutter, his jaw tight, and then he’s spilling inside you with a broken moan, forehead pressed to your temple, his hand still muffling your cries.

Hot spurts flood you, dripping down your thighs, messy and obscene. He keeps fucking you through it, slow and sloppy, his cock twitching inside your soaked cunt.

When he finally pulls his hand from your mouth, you’re gasping, tears streaking your face, lips swollen.

He kisses your jaw, your temple, your hair, voice trembling with tenderness. “M’sorry, sweetheart. You pull me in—fuck—I can’t stop. You’re too good, too perfect.”

Your chest aches, not from regret but from the overwhelming love that drips from every word, every kiss, every thrust.

You cup his jaw, still panting, forcing him to meet your eyes in the mirror. “Don’t you dare be sorry. You’re mine, Bucky. Always.”

His eyes glisten, his forehead knocking gently against yours. “Yours,” he whispers, raw and reverent. “Always.”

And then he’s kissing you again, filthy and tender, while his cock stays buried deep inside you, unwilling to let go.

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The hallway outside the restroom is bright, much brighter than it felt going in. Fluorescent lights seem to spotlight every inch of your flushed skin, every smudge of your makeup, every trace of Bucky’s hands on you.

You’re a mess.

Your skirt is rumpled from being bunched up. Your hair is wild, lips swollen, cheeks blotchy from tears and exertion. And between your thighs, still slick, still trembling, you can feel him, his release mixed with yours, a constant reminder of what you just did.

And Bucky?

He’s looking like he just won a medal.

His shirt is wrinkled, collar tugged down, hair sticking out of its tie, but the smug curve of his mouth and the soft, almost possessive hand at your waist make him look devastatingly proud. Like he’s parading you, like he’s daring anyone to say something.

You’re wobbling a little, legs weak, trying to keep up with his stride.

He notices, of course. Without a word, his metal arm snakes around your waist tighter, steadying you as if you’re fragile. His fingers squeeze your hip gently, his thumb brushing small circles against your skin through the fabric.

“You okay, doll?” he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear. “Need me to carry you?”

You glare at him weakly. “Don’t you dare.”

He chuckles, leaning down to kiss your temple. “Could just toss you over my shoulder. Make it look normal.”

You whine softly, burying your face against his arm. “Bucky…”

You’re almost to the food court when it happens.

A girl, early twenties maybe, in a cropped hoodie and ripped jeans, walks past you both. She takes one look at you: your messy hair, your swollen lips, the way Bucky’s holding you like a ragdoll. Her eyes flick to Bucky, towering, smug, hair messy, and back to you.

And then she grins.

“Damn! You go, girl,” she says under her breath, not even slowing down.

Your entire face goes nuclear. “Oh my god,” you whisper, covering your face with your hands. “She knows.”

Bucky’s chest shakes against your shoulder. You feel the rumble of his laugh before you hear it. “She definitely knows.”

You peek out from between your fingers, mortified. “I’m never coming back to this mall again.”

He tilts his head, lips twitching. “Why? I think she’s your new biggest fan.”

You smack his arm weakly, but he just laughs harder, leaning down to press a long, warm kiss to your temple. “C’mere, baby,” he murmurs against your skin. “Don’t be shy. You were perfect.”

You mumble something incoherent, hiding your face against his shoulder as you walk.

Bucky only tightens his arm around your waist, guiding you easily through the crowd, his smirk softening into something warmer.

To anyone watching, you probably look like a couple coming from brunch, him protective, you a little dazed, both of you glowing.

Only you two know the truth.

୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧

The elevator dings softly as it glides open, the hum of The Compound buzzing faintly around you.

You should feel tired, shopping bags dangling from Bucky’s hand, your body wrecked from what happened at the mall, but instead you’re giggling breathlessly as Bucky casually hauls you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. His metal arm anchors you in place, while the other hand balances all your bags with insulting ease.

“Bucky!” you squeal, pounding his back with a fist. “Put me down, people are gonna see!”

He just smirks, striding through the lobby like a soldier who’s conquered something. “Let ‘em look, doll. You think I give a damn what they see? Everyone oughta know you’re mine anyway.”

The view upside-down gives you a perfect shot of his ass in those jeans, muscles flexing with every easy step. And instead of being embarrassed, heat blooms between your thighs again. You squirm, pressing your face against his back to hide your wicked little smile.

“God,” you mutter under your breath, half to yourself, “you’re such a slut.”

Bucky actually stumbles for a half-step. “What’d you just say, sweetheart?”

You grin into his back, smug. “Nothin’.”

He huffs a laugh, low and dark, the kind that makes your stomach clench. “You better be careful, baby. Don’t think I won’t put you flat on your back the second we get through that door.”

“Promise?” you tease, your voice honey-sweet.

The growl that leaves his chest vibrates right through you.

By the time he reaches your shared room, your face is flushed, your thighs pressed together, and your heart beating too fast. He sets the bags down in the corner, then tosses you onto the bed like you’re weightless. You bounce, laughing, hair falling into your face, until he leans over you, that wolfish smirk back on his lips.

“Still callin’ me a slut?” he asks, brushing your hair back with his metal fingers.

You answer by tugging him down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his neck, sucking just hard enough to make him shiver. “Wanna go again,” you whisper against his pulse. “Need you, Buck. Right now.”

His breath catches, and you feel the way his body tightens against you. “Jesus, doll, you’re gonna fuckin’ kill me,” he mutters, already hardening against your thigh.

You just smile wickedly. “Then die a happy man.”

It happens fast, like you’ve both been holding back since the mall.

One second you’re kissing him, the next his big hands are gripping your thighs, hauling you up until your legs wrap around his waist. He slams you against the wall, his lips hot and desperate on yours, tongue claiming your mouth like he hasn’t had you in years.

Your back hits the wall hard enough to make you gasp, but his hand is already around your throat, tilting your face up so you’re forced to look at him. His blue eyes are dark, glassy with hunger.

“Messy little thing,” he growls, grinding his cock against your soaked core through your clothes. “Look at you, begging for more when you can barely stand. Can’t get enough of me, can you, doll?”

You whimper, shaking your head. “No—never enough.”

“Say it,” he demands, voice sharp, grip on your throat tightening just enough to make your pulse hammer.

“Never enough,” you breathe, eyes wide, desperate.

His mouth crashes onto yours again as he thrusts up against you, both of you groaning at the friction. His free hand yanks your panties aside, then his cock, already leaking, is sliding against your folds, not even inside yet, just teasing, smearing slick everywhere.

“Fuckin’ soaked,” he mutters, breaking the kiss to press his forehead against yours. “You were wet the whole walk back, weren’t you? My needy little slut.”

“Yes, Bucky,” you whimper, rocking your hips against him. “Please—fuck me, I can’t—”

He doesn’t make you wait. With one rough thrust, he pushes into you, stretching you so perfectly you cry out. He groans at the sound, burying his face in your neck, kissing, biting, panting.

“God—tight little pussy,” he growls. “Grippin’ me like you never wanna let go. Fuck, I can’t—angel, I can’t stop.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he pounds you into the wall, the frame rattling with every thrust. The sound of skin on skin, your breathless moans, and his filthy praise fill the room.

“That’s it, baby,” he pants, his hand sliding down to rub your clit. “Take me. Take all of me. My perfect girl—always so fuckin’ good for me.”

You’re sobbing now, head tipping back against the wall, pleasure coursing through you so sharp you see stars.

When your legs start shaking too hard to stay wrapped around him, Bucky doesn’t even pause. He carries you to the bed, still buried inside you, and drops you down onto the sheets.

You barely have time to gasp before he’s on top of you, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, his thrusts deeper now, sharper, his other hand circling your clit ruthlessly.

“Look at you,” he groans, sweat dripping down his temple, his lips swollen from your kisses. “My sweet girl, my perfect fuckin’ angel—messy and ruined, and still beggin’ for more.”

Your back arches, your cries breaking as the orgasm rips through you, your walls clamping down around him. He gasps, a guttural, broken sound, burying his face against your neck as his thrusts turn erratic.

“Sweetheart—fuck, I’m sorry—can’t hold it,” he groans, spilling inside you, hips jerking helplessly. “You’re pullin’ me in—shit—don’t stop, don’t you fuckin’ stop—”

You’re both a mess, sweat, cum, tears, kisses that taste desperate and needy. And when he finally collapses on top of you, chest heaving, his arms still wrapped around your body like he’ll never let go, you realize the truth:

It doesn’t matter how many times you go at it. You’ll never, ever get enough of him.

୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧

The room is quiet again, save for the two of you catching your breath. The sheets are damp, your thighs sticky, Bucky’s weight still heavy against you.

For a moment, you just lay there, dazed, your chest rising and falling in sync with his. His nose is buried against your neck, stubble scratching you softly, lips brushing against your pulse with every exhale.

Then he groans, pulling back just enough to look at you. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, his eyes still glassy and wild, yet when they meet yours, they soften instantly.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb gently over your cheek. “You okay, angel?”

You nod, your lips curving into a lazy smile. “Better than okay. I think you ruined me.”

He huffs out a laugh, kissing your nose. “Good. Then we’re even.”

You giggle, and he presses another kiss, your cheek, then your forehead, then your lips, slow and tender this time. Nothing filthy, nothing rushed. Just love.

Bucky finally pushes himself up, grimacing at the mess between you. “Alright, sweetheart. Let’s get you cleaned up before you stick to the sheets.”

You groan dramatically, flopping back into the pillow. “Nooo. I live here now.”

“Mm, tempting,” he says, chuckling as he slips out of bed. “But then I’d have to peel you off the mattress in the morning.”

You stick your tongue out at him, but your pout fades when he returns, warm cloth in hand, glass of water in the other. He sets the glass down for you before settling between your legs, his movements careful, almost reverent, as he wipes you clean.

You sigh, watching him in silence for a moment. There’s something about seeing Bucky Barnes, former assassin, world-class soldier, terrifying to everyone but you, gently cleaning you up with that soft furrow in his brow like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

“Stop staring,” he mutters, cheeks pink as he focuses on his task.

“Can’t help it,” you say softly. “You’re just… perfect.”

His hand falters, his blue eyes flicking up to yours, wide and vulnerable. Then he leans forward, cupping your face with his metal hand, cool against your warm skin.

“You’re the perfect one,” he whispers, kissing you so softly it makes your chest ache.

When he’s done, he tucks you back under the covers, slides in beside you, and pulls you into his chest. You snuggle close instantly, your ear pressed against the steady thump of his heart, your leg thrown over his hip.

“You’re clingy,” he teases, running his hand up and down your spine.

“Mmhm,” you hum sleepily, “your fault. You broke me.”

“Guess I’ll just have to take care of you forever, then.”

You peek up at him, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. “You promise?”

His throat bobs as he presses his lips to your hairline, voice low and raw when he says:

“Yeah, baby. I promise. Forever.”

You fall asleep like that, tangled together, your heart so full it feels like it might burst.

And Bucky? He doesn’t sleep for a long time. He just lays there, stroking your back, kissing your hair, and whispering quiet little nothings you’ll never fully hear:

“I love you. God, I love you so much.”

a/n: GOSH!! I HATE HIS SLUTTY ASS AND HIS SLUTTY WATCH AND HIS SLUTTY HANDS!! WHY IS HE ALWAYS SLUTTING AROUND?? SLUT. okay old fic, like from last year, like im talking november of 2025. so that’s why it’s the old theme. its ahh lowkey but i wanted to post something so yall know im alive :p

𓂃 ࣪˖ thea’s taglist: @buckyfmd @sheriff-bodecker @54nboo @bckyslover @herejustforbuckybarnes @umbreoni @devililithh @metal-armed-muse @opheliabbarnes @demiebarnes @barnesandashes @mrgrungusthefrog @amoremarveloustime @colettebarnes @fucky-barnes82 @barnesgirlx @dolcesaints @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @thegirlwhowaited5everok

You huff, unwilling and grateful. “Director’s cut.”

“Hit me, baby.” His hand makes steady circles on your back. “I’m all ears.”

You unload. The email that moved the goalposts. The meeting that could’ve been an email. The co-worker who “just had a thought” right after you said the exact same thing. The way your chest felt tight at 3 p.m. for no reason except the thousand tiny reasons stacked under it.

He doesn’t interrupt. He nods in the right places. He goes soft-mouthed and furious in a way that means he’s on your side, not just mad at the air.

 When you finally run out, you expect him to fix it. He doesn’t.

“That sounds exhausting,” he says simply, forehead resting to yours. “No wonder you’re wrung out. I’m proud of you for getting through it.”

You swallow. Something unknots. “Thank you.”

“Always.” He kisses your temple. “Couch. Shoes off. I’m making you tea.”

“You don’t—”

“I know,” he says, already steering you with a palm at the small of your back. “I want to.”

He tucks you into the corner of the couch like you’re the most valuable thing in the room, plucks your shoes off, slides a throw over your legs. The kitchen light clicks on. You hear the kettle, the small domestic music of a spoon against a mug. He returns with chamomile and honey and the good mug—the one with the chip you like—and kneels to hand it to you with two hands like an offering.

“For my queen,” he says, soft and proud.

The steam kisses your face. You take a sip; the honey blooms on your tongue. Bucky moves behind the couch and sets those hands—one cool, one warm—on your shoulders. He doesn’t push. He listens with his thumbs.

“Here?” he asks, kneading lightly at a knot.

You melt. “There.”

“Mm.” His fingers go to work. Slow pressure, careful mapping. He finds the line where tension hooks behind your skull and rubs it until your breath evens out. Then he cards through your hair, scritching lightly at your scalp the way he knows will make your eyes heavy.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, a litany of comfort leaking out in between slow, sure strokes. “You did more than enough today. You don’t have to be anything for me except here. I’m so lucky I get to take care of you. That’s it, baby. Let it go.”

If you were standing, you’d fall over. As it is, you sag back into his hands and the couch makes a contented little creak like it approves.

“You want a warm bath?” he asks your crown. “Epsom salts, the lavender stuff you pretend you don’t like and then steal. I’ll run it. Wait here.”

You nod, boneless. He kisses the top of your head and slips away.

You try to obey. You last nineteen seconds.

He’s in the bathroom when you pad down the hall—sleeves shoved up, faucet purring, steam frosting the mirror. He’s set a towel on the radiator to warm and your favorite candle is already flickering on the counter. He glances up when he hears you and smiles, that private one he saves for you.

“I said wait,” he teases lightly, reaching for the bath oil.

“You don’t have to go above and beyond.” You lean in the doorway, hands tucked in your sleeves. “Really.”

He looks over his shoulder, brow lifting. 

“What do you mean I don’t?” He turns the tap down to a perfect, steady run. “I said, I want to.”

The way he says it—like it’s obvious, like wanting to is enough—lands in your chest and spreads. He tests the water with his metal fingertips, adds a dash more hot, then pours a ribbon of lavender that sends the room to a field at dusk.

“Arms,” he says gently, and when you lift them he peels your day off: cardigan, top, skirt, then the weight of your bag strap that still ghost-hangs from your shoulder. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t reach for more than you give. When you shiver, he takes the warmed towel from the radiator and drapes it around you like a cape.

“Phone,” he prompts. You hand it over; he flips on Do Not Disturb and tucks it in the drawer. “Crime scene handled.”

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. “You think you’re funny.”

“I know I am,” he says, smug and soft. He taps the counter. “Jewelry tray.”

You pass him your jewellery; he lines them up in the little dish your aunt gave you, careful as a museum curator. 

Then he tilts his head at your hair.  “May I?”

At your nod, he steps behind you and gently gathers it. He twists a loose bun high on your head, secures it with one of your scrunchies like he’s handling something priceless, then smooths your flyaways with his palm.

“Look at you,” he says to your reflection, sincere and a little awed. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, even on a terrible day.”

You roll your eyes because that is the law, but your mouth betrays you with a smile. He sees it. He always does. He winks and turns back to the tub; the water has climbed into that sweet spot—warm enough to unravel you, not so hot it scolds.

He kills the tap, swirls the bath once with his hand to distribute the heat, then sets a folded washcloth on the rim like he’s setting a table. 

“Okay,” he says, stepping back to make space, “we have: perfect temperature, cozy towel staging area, candle that smells like cinnabon, and a playlist that is ninety percent piano and ten percent songs that make you roll your eyes but secretly relax.”

“Which ones make me roll my eyes?”

“Any that start with ‘acoustic version.’” He grins when you snort. “Come here.”

You let the towel slip, and he looks at you like you’re something he’s allowed to gaze at, not devour. He offers his hands—one warm, one cool—and helps you step in. The water sighs around you; you do, too.

“Too hot?” he checks.

“No, it’s perfect.”

He kneels by the tub, forearms on the porcelain, chin propped on his wrist. Close enough to be there, far enough that you have space to float. 

“Sip,” he says, passing you the mug he somehow thought to bring along; the steam curls up to kiss your face.

You take a drink. The next breath you release feels two pounds lighter.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs. “We’re gonna soak for ten. Then I’m gonna wash your hair, put you in my biggest hoodie and your stupidly soft socks. Then we’re ordering dinner from the place that puts too many sesame seeds on everything you love, and we’re watching that show where everybody stares out windows and says ‘We can’t.’”

“They do more than that.”

“They occasionally kiss dramatically in the rain,” he concedes. “But mostly? Window-staring.”

You bite your smile and sink until the water kisses your collarbones. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm. I’m yours.” He traces a fingertip over the top of your shoulder, a barely-there touch that says I’m here more than any speech could. “And I’m not leaving you alone with your brain tonight.”

You look at him. He looks back like he means every word.

“Thank you,” you say, because it doesn’t cover it and is all you have.

He leans in and presses a kiss to your damp forehead. “You don’t have to thank me for loving you.”

“I know.” You reach, wet fingers curling around his wrist, the cool metal and warm skin both yours. “I just like saying it.”

“Then say it,” he says, smiling. “Say it as many times as you want. Say it while you eat dumplings. Say it while I blow-dry your hair. Say it while you fall asleep on me in the third episode because you always do.”

You laugh, full-bodied now, and the day loosens its grip for good. He watches your shoulders drop, watches your face soften, and you can feel the satisfaction roll off him like sunlight.

He stands, squeezes your hand, and starts for the door. “I’ll grab the hoodie and the socks,” he says over his shoulder. “And the remote, so I can pretend I’m not gonna give it to you.”

“Bucky.”

He pauses. “Yeah, baby?”

“Can you… join me instead?”

His smile tilts—soft and a little dazzled. 

“You want me to join you? Of course.” He toes off his sweats, peels his top over his head, and in two unhurried motions he’s bare and beautiful in the lamplight. “Scoot, my love.”

You slide forward through the lavender water; he steps in behind you and sinks with a pleased exhale, long legs bracketing your hips. Heat and him close around you like a second bath. His chest warms your back; the cool kiss of vibranium settles at your waist, anchoring.

“Hi,” he murmurs against your temple, like it’s the best word he knows.

“Hi,” you breathe, already melting.

“Turn for me.” He lifts your hair, fingertips reverent. “Let me take care of you.”

You tip your head forward. He finds your scrunchie and eases it free, letting your hair spill into his palms. He reaches for the cup on the tub ledge and pours a slow ribbon of warm water from crown to nape. It runs over your scalp, your neck, your shoulders; his thumb follows the path in lazy circles.

“Pressure okay?” he asks.

“Mmm—perfect.”

“Good.” He works a little shampoo into his hands, then into your hair, massaging with careful, hypnotic strokes—temples, behind your ears, the base of your skull where all the day’s sharp edges hide. 

Your eyes flutter. The world narrows to the rhythm of his fingers and the steady rise and fall of his breathing at your back.

“Want me to make you forget your day?” he whispers, all praise and promise. “Can I make you feel good, my love?”

“Yes,” you sigh, boneless.

“Good, now lean onto me.” 

He tips a cup of warm water over your crown, shielding your eyes with his palm while he rinses you clean. The lavender slips away; his touch doesn’t. Those hands map lower—slow, reverent passes down your neck, along your collarbones—thumbs drawing lazy circles at the dip of your sternum. He hums like he likes the way your heartbeat stutters under his fingers.

“Just relax,” he murmurs. “That’s it, baby.”

His flesh hand glides over your chest, cupping you with tenderness that turns your ribs to honey. He teases, feather-light at first—fingers skimming, circling, learning the way you arch into the touch—then a gentle roll of his thumb that has your breath catching. 

“So responsive,” he praises, voice a low current in your ear. “Look at you, my love. Such a good girl for me.”

The cool band of vibranium anchors you at your waist while his warm palm coasts down your belly, lower—patient, sure—until his fingers slip between your thighs. He finds heat and slick and groans softly against your temple like he’s the one being touched. 

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, circling your clit with slow, perfect pressure. “Let me have it. Give me every bit of that tension. I’ve got you.”

Your head tips back to his shoulder; he follows the line of your throat with his mouth, dropping kisses like breadcrumbs—tender, claiming—while his hands work in tandem: one coaxing soft, aching sparks over your nipple, the other stroking you in tight, pressured rhythms below.

“You’re doing so well,” he breathes, pace unhurried and coaxing. “Such pretty sounds. You feel how easy you open for me? Mmm. Take what you need.”

“Bucky—” it escapes you, a small, helpless plea that makes his jaw flex against your cheek.

“Right here,” he promises, tightening the arm at your middle to hold you when your knees go warm. “Do you want more pressure? Want me to for faster, Mm?”

“Please.”

He gives it to you—just enough—and you shiver, hips answering for you under the water. He smiles against your skin, proud and a little wrecked. 

“Let me draw it out of you. Let me replace every bad minute with this.”

His fingers circles faster but keeps you exactly where the heat crests and curls, praising you in that low, sinful voice that melts your bones. 

“You deserve to be worshiped after a day like that. Can you feel it building?" Your fingers clutch his forearm; he groans at the cling, at the trust, at the way you anchor yourself to him like he’s the only solid thing left in the room. "Uh-huh, I know. I know.”

A helpless sound catches in your throat. His fingers keep the rhythm—patient, coaxing—until your knees go loose and the tub cradles you both.

“Should I put a finger in?” he asks, voice low, checking your eyes even though your body’s already begging.

You nod, breath hitching. “Please.”

“Yeah?” His smile tilts, tender and a little wicked. “Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, my love? Tell me what you need.”

“Need. . . Your fingers,” you whisper. “Fill me….”

“As you wish,” he breathes, and does exactly that—one thick finger sliding in, warm and sure, knuckle by careful knuckle. He waits, letting you melt around him, then curls. Electricity skates through your belly. Your free hand finds the back of his neck; you pull him closer, mewling into his jaw as his thumb draws tight, merciless circles over your clit.

“That’s it,” he praises, voice going husky. “Hold on to me. Use me. I'm right here.”

He strokes again, precise and . Your hips answer on instinct, a small roll that drives him deeper. He groans softly, forehead tipping to your temple. “So sweet for me. So soft. You’re squeezing my finger like you never want to let go.”

“More,” you breathe, trembling. “I can take more.”

“Anything for you, baby.” He eases his middle finger out just a hair, slicks it with your heat, and slides his ring finger in beside it—slow, careful, praising against your ear. 

“There you go… open for me… good girl.” Both fingers seat to the hilt; you gasp, nails biting the nape of his neck. He stills, gives you one heartbeat, two, then curls both in tandem and finds the spot that makes your vision spark.

Your head falls back to his shoulder; a wrecked moan spills out before you can catch it. He hums approvingly and keeps working that angle—steady, toe-curling pulls, thumb never breaking rhythm.

“Oh baby, you sound so beautiful.” He feels your answer shiver through you. “Right there. Feel it… let it roll through you. You’re doing so well.”

Water laps the porcelain, lavender steam rising while he plays you with unhurried skill. 

The cool arc of vibranium bands your waist; his warm chest cages your back. You’re strung tight between them, every nerve tuned to the slick slide of his fingers and the low river of his voice.

“Listen to yourself,” he murmurs, kissing the hinge of your jaw. “That pretty little whimper—music to me. Give me more. Give me everything.”

You do, helpless and greedy, rolling into his palm. He answers by tightening the circles of his thumb, by scissoring the slightest bit and then curling again, relentless and sure until your thighs start to shake under the water.

“Bucky—” your voice breaks, “you feel so good.”

“Yeah?,” he chuckles, pace tightening. “Let go for me. I’m right here. Fall, baby—I’ll catch you.”

The edge pulls taut—bright, inevitable. He curls just once more, thumb pressing perfect, and the world snaps. Heat bursts low and fast; you clamp around his fingers, shuddering, breath snagging on a fractured cry as he murmurs through it:

“Good girl… that’s it… give it to me… so beautiful… I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

He keeps moving you gently—lighter strokes, reverent circles—working the aftershocks until the tremble becomes a lazy ripple and your whole body goes molten against him. He kisses your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, smiling when you chase the last one.

“Hi,” he whispers, thumb stroking slow at your hip. “You with me?”

You nod, boneless, fingers still looped around his neck. “Y-yeah.”

Your fingers still looped at his nape, you shift to face him—slick, giggly—and your knee slipped on the porcelain. Water sloshes; you both laugh, breathless and bright.

“Are you okay?” Bucky braces you instantly, big hands steadying your waist.

“I’m okay,” you grin, climbing into his lap and kissing him like the relief of a long day breaking—deep, hungry, grateful. Your hand slides down, stroking his thick length under the water until his breath hitches against your mouth.

“Baby…” he groans, forehead tipping to yours as you guide him. “Easy. Take your time.”

“I’ve got it,” you whisper, lining the thick crown to your entrance. You breathe, sink—slow, thick inches—until you’re seated all the way and both of you swear into the steam.

“God, my love,” he rasps, palms spreading over your hips to hold you there, not forcing, just anchoring. “So warm. You feel like heaven.”

Water laps the rim in soft waves as you start to move—small, rolling circles that grind you down on him. His head falls back; his jaw flexes; then he’s looking at you again like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense. One hand drifts to your lower belly, splayed to feel the depth of him; the other slips between you, thumb finding your clit with that patient, perfect pressure.

“That’s it,” he praises, low and wrecked. “Ride me, baby. Let me see you feel good. You deserve every bit of it.”

You take what he offers—pace unhurried, greedy, wet sounds turning the tiny room into something holy. He meets your mouth between breaths—kisses that land on a sigh, on a moan, on your name. 

When your rhythm stutters, he bucks up—once, hard—and your breath breaks against his mouth. 

“Faster,” you whisper, fingers curling at his shoulders. “Please.”

“Yeah, baby.” His hands lock your hips and he drives up to meet you, turning those slow, rolling circles into a slick, urgent bounce that sends water sloshing in greedy sheets over the rim. The tub rocks; the candlelight jumps. He keeps his thumb steady on your clit, tightening pressure just a breath with every snap of his hips.

“Just like that,” he grits, eyes on your face like he’s memorizing each stutter, each gasp. “You look so beautiful riding my cock. Take it—all of it.” 

You do, chasing the pace he sets, thighs burning, breath gone ragged as the rhythm sharpens—up, down, grind—until you’re helplessly meeting him, matching him, losing track of where you end and he begins.

“Bucky—” Your voice pitches high; his palm slides to your lower back, arching you into the angle that ruins you.

“I’ve got you,” he rasps, fucking up into you harder, deeper, water spilling warm around your hips. “Come on, my love, that’s it—come for me.”

It hits—fast, white, toe-curling. You clamp around him and keen into his mouth; he swears, breaks, and follows with a guttural sound, holding you down while his seeds pulses deep, thumb still soft on your clit to milk every last tremor.

You collapse against him, both of you laughing breathlessly when another wave slaps over the edge. He strokes your spine, kissing your temple, then your smile. 

“Worth the cleanup,” he murmurs, smug and tender.

“Totally,” you pant, nosing his jaw.

“Stay,” he says, easing you down until you’re draped along his chest, still joined, water lapping gentler now. “Catch your breath. Then I’m wrapping you in a towel and carrying you to the bed like the princess you are.”

“Bossy,” you tease, eyes half-closed.

“Devoted,” he corrects, pressing a slow kiss to your forehead, thumb idly tracing your hip as your pulse settles. “And completely yours.”

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