spencersoddsocks

“But what if it’s not fine,” you’d pleaded. “What if there’s a- A storm, or more people than we thought, or- Or Bucky gets hurt-“

“Who is in charge of Bucky’s health?” Yelena had cut you off with a pointed look, and you’d swallowed.

“I’m not- I wouldn’t say in charge-“

“You make him eat vegetables. That is in charge.”

“I make all of you eat vegetables-“

“You don’t make me eat vegetables,” Walker had muttered, and you’d flipped him off.

“That’s because I hate you.”

Walker had scowled, Ava—pressed against the wall of the room and clearly trying not to be involved in this conversation—had snorted, and Yelena’s mouth had twitched.

“See,” she’d given you a winning grin. “You are a natural leader. You will be fine.”

“I will not be fine-“

Bucky had said your name, and everyone in the room had gone still. He’d been left out of this meeting. From Yelena’s wide eyes and Ava’s smirk, it hadn’t been hard to work out that it was on purpose.

“What isn’t going to be fine,” Bucky had muttered, and Walker and Yelena had an exchanged sharp, you do it looks.

Walker had lost the glare off, sighed, and turned to Bucky with a wide, winning grin.

“You’re taking the scout on her first mission, buddy, congrats- Shit- Hey-“

Bucky had stormed forward, metal hand flexing like he was thinking about wrapping it around Walker’s throat. He’d stopped himself, shot you a strange look, and jerked his head.

“Out,” he’d grunted, before pausing and adding, “Please.”

The please hadn’t been necessary. You’d almost run out the room with a nervous look back, a little worried you were going to come back to a bloodbath. The glass was supposed to be fully soundproof. You’d still been able to hear muffled, furious shouting. 

Bucky had stormed out after almost an hour, given you a tight look, strange look, then stomped down the hall. Yelena had given you a thumbs up. You’d—foolishly—hoped that meant you were off the hook.

It hadn’t.

You’d been dropped in Norway with Bucky a week later, an hour after planned—Alexei wanted to bring his camera, and wouldn’t hear anyone tell him no—with plans to be picked up in the morning.

“Stay close,” Bucky had muttered, not meeting your gaze. “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

You’d nodded, your voice barely more than a  breath. “James, I- I don’t know what you’d do.“

“Then don’t do anything.” He’d snapped.

You’d shrunken into yourself. You knew he didn’t like this—you weren’t a big fan either—but the bristling, electric anger almost radiating off of him, it wasn’t anything you were used to. Bucky was usually kind to you. He opened your doors and brought you muffins from the bakery down the street. You made him watch movies when he couldn’t sleep, and he asked you questions about pop culture when he was confused. You had a good—confusing, but good—relationship.

Yelena likes to tease that he like likes you. You try to punch her in the face, and always miss. He doesn’t. He couldn’t. He’s Bucky Barnes, and you’re a dork with a computer that he’s nice to because he’s a good man.

A kind, handsome, perfect man with a jawline you’d kill to kiss and hands you’d die to hold. A man who remembers your birthday when you sometimes forget, and knows your coffee order, and lets you push him around even thought he could crush you with a single hand. You’d like him to crush you with that hand. Maybe pin you down with it and split you open and kiss you with those soft lips that always ghost with a smile at your stupid jokes.

You never should’ve told Yelena about your tiny, little, totally manageable crush on him to begin with. It’s going to be the death of you. You’re sort of starting to worry that this was Yelena’s grand plan to finally make you talk to him. If it was, you’re actually going to kill her, or hire someone who can.

Because it started raining. And after it started raining, lightning cracked through the sky, and thunder followed, and you and Bucky got slowed down. Slowed down enough that—combined with the weather conditions—Alexei couldn’t come pick you up. And you had to find a hotel in Norway.

And the only room left had one bed.

And you’re going to jump off the balcony and pray that Bucky doesn’t catch you.

“You should take a shower,” he mutters, tossing your bag onto the couch. “I’ll go find some extra clothing.”

You nod, pulling at the sleeves of your drenched shirt. “I- I can take the couch-“

“No.”

You sigh. “Bucky-“

“I’m on the couch,” he shoots you a stern look, bracing his hands on his hips. “And you’re on the bed.”

You swallow, and nod. Arguing with him right now doesn’t seem productive. You’re lucky he’s still talking to you after the mission.

It didn’t go poorly. In fact, given everything, it actually went better than you could’ve hoped for. But Bucky is still looking at you like you’re a problem, and it’s making you sort of sick. You don’t want to be something extra that weighs on his shoulders. Don’t want to be an extra layer of ice, pressing down on his chest when he’s already the one keeping you both together. It’s already cold enough as it is.

You shower. Bucky finds clothing—an oversized, thin fabriced shirt that just drapes past your thighs—and follows after you. Neither of you say much, and you try not to let the silence feel like poison, but it’s hard. He’s never been quiet with you this long, but you’ve also never been in this kind of situation with him before.

“Alexei will get us in the morning,” he mutters, stepping out of the shower with only a towel wrapped around his waist. “Then we’ll get you home.”

“Oh- Okay.” You flush, staring down at your hands. His chest is broad, and bare, and warm looking. The rivers of scars over his shoulder and pecs look like they’d be easy to map, and the dip of his towel show off the strength of his stomach. Thick and muscled, soft in all the right places, probably easy to wrap yourself in, and-

Bucky mutters you name, and you’d stopped staring at your hands without thinking. You clear your throat and slide into the bed, grabbing your phone with shaking fingers and pretending to be deeply invested in the blank lock screen. In your periphery, Bucky doesn’t move for a long moment. You dare to look at him under your lashes, and find him staring back.

“Bucky?” You ask softly, and Bucky’s throat bobs. “Are you-“

“You did good,” he grunts, and you blink, heat rushing between your thighs.

“I- I did good?”

He nods tightly. “Today. You did good.”

“Oh.” You swallow, unable to break his gaze. “I- I didn’t do much-“

“You got me through the lab. You listened.”

“Anyone can listen, James.”

Bucky’s jaw twitches, and he huffs something close to a laugh. “You’d be surprised,” he mutters, grabbing his warm clothing off the arm of the couch. “And don’t sell yourself short, doll. You listen real well.”

Your mouth falls open, and you think you might be frozen in place. Bucky retreats back to the bathroom, and you’re not even sure what to do with yourself. You’re sure he didn’t mean it like that, but god, it would’ve been nice if he did. Your head certainly takes the thoughts and runs with them. Bucky over you in this same bed, that metal hand pressed against your stomach, cooed praise and light orders of take it and make some noise for me, doll. The gleam in his eyes when you’d listen, the way he’d feel buried inside of you, the burn of blue eyes as he’d watch you come apart, driving into your cunt over and over and over-

“Night,” Bucky grunts, and you blink at him through the dark.

“Night,” you breathe back, and for a second, you just stare at each other.

Bucky’s gaze softens slightly. You could swear is does. And maybe it’s just a trick of the light, but his gaze drags down the fabric of your sleep shirt, catching on your bare thighs and spread legs. His tongue darts over his lips, and you press your thighs together, shifting nervously on the mattress.

He looks back up to you, jaw working tight. 

“Night,” he mutters again, and you swallow.

He goes for the light, and you glance at the couch. It’s small. More of a sectional than a functional piece of comfort.  

“Bucky?” You say, before you can think better of it. “Do you- Do you want to sleep in the bed.”

Bucky freezes, his hand on the light switch. You swallow, pulling the sheets higher up your body, and Bucky mutters your name. “You don’t have to-“

“Are you going to be able to sleep on the couch?” You whisper, and his jaw ticks again.

“That’s not your shit to worry about-“

“Alexei’s going to talk the whole ride home,” you push, and his throat bobs. “And you- You get really grumpy when you don’t sleep.”

Bucky chuckles. “I get grumpy, huh.”

You nod, and he sighs. His hand curls into a fist, and for a second, you’re sure he’s going to tell you no.

“I- I really don’t mind-“ 

“Alright,” he cuts you off, words short and clipped. “You win.”

You blink, and try not to smile when he hits the lights. The streetlamps outside let you see his figure, walking over to the bed. You force yourself not to hold your breath, and lie down like everything is perfectly normal.

The mattress dips. Bucky lies flat and stiff on his back, slowly pulling the sheets over his body, and you turn away, trying to hide the flush blooming over your face.

This was a mistake. That’s clear now. You adore him too much, and you wanted to help, and it made you forget about the actual consequences of Bucky being right there, next to you, wearing only sweats and emitting heat like a furnace. The bed feels smaller than it did a moment ago, but that might just be the size of him. Your fingers brush, and his hand jerks away like he thinks you’re going to burn. You twist further over, pulling the blankets with you.

“You’re hogging,” Bucky grunts, and you pull your knees a little into your chest.

“Sorry,” you mumble, trying to loosen your grip. “Just- Cold.”

It’s not cold. It was, before he climbed in next to you. Now it’s impossibly humid, like you’ve been dropped in to a hot spring. Bucky sighs, and doesn’t take the slack of the sheets you offered. You shift in the bed, trying to make yourself smaller, trying to offer him more space.

The minutes crawl past you. It’s been an exhausting day, but you’ve never been more awake. You’re worried he can hear your heartbeat. You’re worried he can smell the arousal, pooling between your thighs whenever your feet brush. You’re almost curled fully into a ball, the sheet wrapped around you like a cocoon. A restless, anxious pill bug of a cocoon, trying to find a spot on the bed where you’re not painfully aware of Bucky’s presence.

His hands, brushing near your spine when you roll the wrong direction. The steady sound of his breath, that should be calming but only works you up more and more. The line of his jaw when you risk a look, and the flutter of his lashes as he stares at the ceiling. At least he’s not sleeping either. You can be grumpy together, in the morning.

“You’re movin’ too much,” Bucky grunts, and you’re flushing so deeply you’re worried you’re going to light on fire.

“Sorry,” you breathe, and he sighs.

“’S fine.”

You think he might just give up and go back to the couch, but he doesn’t. You consider taking the couch yourself, but you’re stubborn. You asked him to do this, and if you try to go to the couch, Bucky will just throw you back to bed and take the couch himself.

That’s a nice idea. Strong arms wrapped around you, manhandling you, folding you over and tossing you wherever he pleases like a fuckdoll.

You risk another look, and almost whimper.

He’s staring at you in the dark, that strange, hooded look gleaming in his eyes. Your heart pushes into your throat, and your fingers dig into your hips as you hold yourself. Neither of you seem to be able to think of anything to say. Bucky licks his lips again, his eyes darting down to the arch of your neck, and your breath catches. The air seems to be pressing over your skin like a shroud. You’re not sure what to do with yourself but try to breathe.

This must be a dream. Bucky wouldn’t look at you like that during the day. And if it isn’t a dream, he probably doesn’t mean it the way your sleepy, addled brain thinks. He’s always had the same effect on you as a strong drink. Making you a little loose-lipped and foolish and delusional. There’s a reason you don’t go out with him. You’re not trying to ruin the good, steady friendship you’ve had for so long.

“I’m sorry you got stuck with me,” you whisper, and Bucky frowns.

“Stuck with you?”

“On- On the mission.”

His frown deepens. “I’m not stuck with you, that’s-“

He cuts himself off, rolling onto his back with a groan. He runs a hand over his face, and you swallow, pushing up a little to hold his gaze.

“It’s okay, I- I get it-“

“I wasn’t stuck with you,” he cuts you off, tone surprisingly stern. “I mighta been- Harsh,” he lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “But listen to me, I’m never- I like havin’ you around, alright? Never stuck with you.”

“But-“

“You matter,” he grunts, staring firmly up at the ceiling. “I don’t like this ‘cause you- You’re not supposed to be in these kinda situations, doll. That’s it. Don’t think it’s anything else.”

“Oh- Okay.” You whisper, and Bucky’s eyes dart to yours.

“Got it?”

You nod, and he sighs, looking back to the ceiling. His arms are still crossed, and he doesn’t look cold, but just lying there without blankets, it can’t be comfortable.

“Bucky?” You say softly, and he grunts. “Do you want the blankets?”

“I’m good-“

“We could share,” you add quickly, and he shoots you an amused look.

“I tried to share. You’re the one who kept yankin’ them away from me.”

You flush, wrinkling your nose. “They’re small-“

“They fit the mattress. Should fit two people.”

“Well, they didn’t think one of those people would be you.”

Bucky raises his brows, and your eyes widen.

“I- I just mean- You- You’re very big, and- I’m smaller- The sheets are smaller, and you’re big-“

“Said I’m big already,” he drawls, and you’re going to smack him.

“Well, you are,” you snap, yanking the sheets fully around you. “And now I’m not sharing. Because you’re being a butt.”

You flip over, burying your face in a pillow when Bucky laughs. It’s a low, deep sound that rolls through your body, almost making you dizzy. You feel the mattress shift behind you, and curl further into yourself.

“Your heart is racing,” he mutters, low and rough, and you’re sure you’re dreaming now.

“Your heart is racing.”

Bucky chuckles again. That’s a dangerous sound. He shouldn’t be allowed to make it.

“You’re bein’ bratty tonight,” he murmurs, a large, light hand tracing over the curve of your hips. “It’s cute.”

You want to roll over and hit him or something. It’s not fair to do that. Not right now, not to you. “James…” You whisper, and he hums.

“Love when say my name like that,” he toys with your hair between, and you bite back a moan. “You know you’re the only one I let say it, right? Only one who could get away with damn near anything ‘round me.”

You make a disgruntled, confused little sound that’s a mix between a moan and whine. You’re really not sure what the fuck is happening, but you’re terrified to ruin it. To move wrong and break from the dream.

“But Christ, doll,” Bucky wraps his hand slowly around the back of your neck, and you can’t stop yourself from leaning back into the touch. “I’m tryin’ real hard to be gentleman, and you’re not making it easy.”

His thumb drags over the base of your hairline, and the mattress dips again. Your breathing becomes shallow, as Bucky leans down. His lips brush near your ear, and you whimper, clinging onto the sheets for dear life.

“I can smell you,” he says, and you’d like the mattress to just swallow you whole. “Can smell how you get fuckin’ wet looking at me, how you gush whenever I touch you,” he squeezes that back of your neck gently. “Tell me to back off. Before I do something real stupid and selfish.”

You roll over slowly, and try not to moan at just the sight of him. Hanging over you in the dark, broad shoulders and parted lips, staring at you like he wants to eat you alive.

“Selfish?” You manage to breathe, reaching up to rest your hand, flat against his burning chest. “James, you’re not-“

“Don’t.” He catches your wrist, but doesn’t push you away. “I want you all to myself. I’d call that selfish.”

You shake your head, your heart pounding your ears. Your nails scrape over his skin, and his whole body almost shudders with restraint. He mutters your name, cupping your cheek, his thumb dragging against your lower lip. 

“Please,” he rasps. “Don’t look at me like that, doll, c’mon-“

“What if I want you to look at me like that,” you whisper, and Bucky’s fingers flex against your jaw. “What- What if I want you too.”

Bucky’s gaze drops back to your lips. His tongue flicks out again, and when he looks at you, you can feel the desperation, tight as a wire between your bodies, begging to be snapped.

You’re not a brave person. You have never been. But under his attention, you feel like you could do anything. You drag your hand over his shoulders, and he shudders. You hold him, trembling with anticipation, and tug him down. He lets you, lowering until your lips are just brushing, his eyes lidded and features blown out.

“You sure?” He mutters, letting out a sharp breath when you nod. “I’m not- One night ain’t gonna be enough-“

“Good,” you whisper, and Bucky groans, fully dropping his brow. “Bucky- Please-“

Bucky kisses you, and you’ve dedicated countless hours to dreaming of this moment. You’ve played it out in a million scenarios, a million different ways, with a million different results. You never dared let yourself think that the reality would be better than the dream, and yet you’re here. And Bucky’s kissing you, and you didn’t know anything could feel so good.

He’s slow. Almost cautious, like he’s trying to test the waters of just how much he’s allowed to take. His lips are chapped and warm, working softly against yours, lighting a little fire with every single, teasing kiss. His tongue brushes over your low lip and you suck in a sharp breath. Bucky hums, pressing a little further down, caging you beneath the mass of his body, trapping you beneath him.

You’re exactly where you want to be. You open your mouth when his tongue presses on your lower lip, tugging gently on his hair to coax him on. He moans down your throat, weaving his fingers into your hair and tugging ever so lightly back. You let him guide you, clinging to his shoulders, getting swept away in the mass of him, the feeling of having him everywhere. His free hand drags down to caress your side, and you arch into the touch with a soft, uncontrolled sound.

Bucky groans, and his kiss gets sloppier. His movements become shorter, his lips demanding against yours. You’re already out of breath, but you don’t dare to push him away. You’ll let him kiss you like this until your head is spinning, until you pass out from the pleasurable, burning ache of his kisses and touches.

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters against your lips, kissing between every word as if he can’t stop himself. “You’re so fuckin’ soft for me, doll, so sweet and easy.”

You whine and Bucky chuckles, kissing you deep and long and so torturously slow. His hand drags further down, tugging the hem of your shirt up. Your legs spread mindlessly, all the thoughts in your head being sucked away by Bucky’s kisses. Cool, metal fingers drag up your sensitive thigh, and you gasp, whole body shivering under the touch.

“You like that, huh,” Bucky kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other. “Tryin’ to take it nice and slow, but you’re already begging for a little, more. Look at you,” he kisses up your cheek, over your jaw. “Gonna take real good care of you, doll. Make it feel real good for my pretty, needy girl.”

Words are already failing you, and you’re getting a little worried for what kind of boneless, fuckdoll puppet you’re going to be when he’s done with you. It’s an electric, hopeful fear. You hope you can feel him when you sit down tomorrow. You hope you can’t walk straight for a fucking week.

Bucky kisses over your nose, then your neglected cheek, and down your jaw. His teeth graze against you, his hand in your hair angling you around so he can suck little bruises right under your jaw. Those thick, metal fingers are still teasing along the inseam over your panties, and when his thumb brushes against the embarrassingly wet spot against your core, he groans against your skin.

“So wet,” he mutters, kissing over the sore mark under your jaw, then attaching his lips near your pulse point. “All for me, isn’t it? Thinkin’ about me fucking you, nice and slow.”

His tongue flicks against your throat, and you make a borderline pathetic noise.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You cry out, wrapping your arms fully around his neck. “Just for you- Only for you- Please-“

Bucky groans, pushing his face further into your neck. His thumb drags back against your clothed slit, teasing the lightest amount of pleasure until you’re clenching around nothing.

“More,” you try to demand, but it’s breathy and broken. “James, I- I need more-“

You roll your hips up, and Bucky’s thumb bumps right up against your clit. Your thighs try to push together and hold him there, but he grabs them forcing them back open and pushing his knee right against your core.

“Demanding,” he presses a quick kiss to your lips then pushes back up, tracing his thumb over the curve of your swollen bottom lip. “You wanna try that one again?”

You swallow and shake your head, trying to push him just a little, just to test what will happen. Bucky’s jaw ticks. He pushes his knee further forward against your cunt, and you cry out, rolling your hips to chase a little extra friction. Bucky lets you, his thumb pushing a little further into your mouth.

He groans when you take him, swirling your tongue and sucking as the need between your thighs builds impossibly high. He keeps hitting against your clit, but not with nearly enough pressure, and he’s planted against your fluttering cunt, but you need him in you. You need to not be able to think, outside of Bucky all around you. If you were stronger, you’d try to pull him back down, but you’re not. You’re  a messy, fluttering mess beneath him, unable to remember how cold it was moments ago as you suck on his thumb like a whore.

Bucky presses on your abdomen, pushing you deeper into the mattress, and you grab his wrist. You give him your best, watering, pathetic eyes. You need more of him the same way you need oxygen. His knee isn’t enough, no amount of him is enough. If you don’t get to drown in the pine scent and massive strength of him, you might start actually screaming.

“Look at you,” Bucky mutters, leaning over your body with a smirk. “So pretty like this, doll. Could drive a man fuckin’ crazy.”

You whimper, eyes dropping to his crotch. To the thick, massive tent pressing against his sweats, and the slightly dark spot against the gray fabric. You moan around his thumb, and watch it twitch slightly. Bucky groans, leaning further down so the head of his cock drags against your soft thigh. He pulls his thumb away, smearing a line of spit over your cheek, then ducks down and lick it away. You moan, turning your face to try and meet his lips, and he chuckles.

“That’s right,” he mutters, indulging you with a slow, gentle kiss. “I know what you need, baby. I’ve got you.”

You hum, eyes fluttering closed and Bucky goes back to kissing you like you’re something priceless. You’re still fucking yourself on his knee, the feeling spreading like a warm, rising tide through your body. Bucky hums, his now free hand slowly dragging under your shirt. Teasing up your side, under your breast, then pinching your nipple between two fingers and rolling it in tight, fast circles.

He swallows the cry that leaves your lips, flicking your nipple before soothing the hurt with his thumb.

“Easy,” he mutters. “Nice and easy. Let’s get you ready, huh?”

You nod, thinking back to that tent in Bucky’s pants. You’re going to need to be ready to take that. And whatever he has to do to get you there, you’re more than willing to let him.

Bucky pulls back up and slowly guides your t-shirt over your head, tossing it off to the side and helping you settle back into the mattress. A low groan rumbles through his chest as his eyes rake over your body, and your arms instinctively go up to cover yourself from the unrelenting, almost feral gaze.

He catches your wrist and pins it over your head, giving you a stern, knowing look.

“Don’t hide,” he scolds, his metal hand slowly trailing down your exposed body. “Most gorgeous fuckin’ girl I’ve ever seen, trying to hide her pretty little body from me.” He grabs your waist, squeezing the soft skin before massaging it, holding your gaze the whole time. “Been driving me made for years, baby. Thinking you were right there and I’d never get to have you like this.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Torture. Goddamn torture.”

Your mouth is hanging open, your breaths coming out in short helpless pants. You’re not even really sure what to do with yourself but lay there, and you’d feel worse about that if it didn’t seem to be exactly what Bucky wanted as well.

“Thought about just fuckin’- Living with my face here,” he palms at your breast, the cold of his metal hand a sharp contrast to the fire, brimming under every inch of your skin. “Marking those up until the whole world knew that you were mine. My needy little slut.”

You whimper, and Bucky’s lips twitch.

“Yeah, I know you like that,” he flicks your nipple, watching with dangerous attention as your body seizes up. “Always could smell you gettin’ wet when I’d tell you what to do. Drove me out of my mind, you got no idea.”

You think you’ve got some idea. His grip on your hands is tight like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together, and his every muscle is rippling with restraint. You let out a low, soft whine of his name, and Bucky makes that deep, hungry sound again.

“This pussy,” he mutters, dragging his hands back down your body, cupping your pussy and grinding the palm of his hand against your clit. “It’s mine, isn’t it, doll.”

“Ye- Yes,” you whisper. “It’s yours, James- Please.”

Bucky grins, hooking two metal fingers around the ruined fabric, knuckles bumping against your needy pussy, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Damn right it is.”

He rips your underwear off in one motion, and you don’t even get a second to adjust to the feeling before Bucky’s shoving his ring finger straight into your cunt, pressing his thumb down over your sensitive clit. You make an embarrassingly loud sound, almost bucking off the bed, but the metal hand is impossibly strong. He pushes you back down, crooking his finger deep inside of you, and laughs when your eyes roll back in your head.

“Come on, doll. Eyes on me,” he pumps his finger once, twice, the slaps your sensitive cunt before shoving his hand back in. “Eyes on me.”

You force your eyes to open back up, locking onto his as you try to adjust to the feeling of him inside you. It’s just one finger. One thick, massive, metal finger that you can feel straight through your core and to your toes. The cold makes every sensation starker. Bucky’s forced eye contact makes you feel raw and exposed, like a meal he’s about to savor.

“Good girl,” he coos, pulling that finger almost fully out, swirling his thumb around your clit, and pushing it back in.

“Buckyyyy-“ You moan, lashes fluttering as he bumps right against that gooey spot deep inside of you. “Don’t- Don’t tease-“

“I’m not teasin’,” he leans over you, his hand picking up the pace. “Keep those pretty eyes on me, baby. You can do it.”

You try. God you try. Bucky fucks his finger into you like a machine, reangling his hand so the metal palm is slapping against your clit, working you open more and more and more until you’re whimpering and unravelling beneath him. It’s so overwhelming, you’re almost forgetting to breathe. You strain against his hold on your hands, but it’s hopeless, and you just end up wiggling below him, tits bouncing in his face.

Bucky groans at the sight of you, his hips jerking and cock dragging against your sensitive inner thigh, but he doesn’t slow down or offer you another kiss. He just keeps you pinned beneath him, drawling out praise and mocking words, shoving in a second finger when the first starts to slip in and out too easy.

“Greedy fuckin’ pussy,” he rasps, eyes burning against yours. “Bet my cock is gonna slide right in, doll. Made to take me like the pretty slut you are.”

You moan again, every last bit of dignity slipping through your trapped fingers. The eye contact makes it too intense, and the second finger is bullying you open just right, offering a little extra pressure against your sensitive g-spot. Bucky’s eyes flash, when a tiny, hitched noise leaves your throat, and presses down harder.

“That’s it, isn’t it,” he mutters, watching every twitch of your face, every flutter of your wet lashes like some kind of incubus sex-hawk. “There’s the spot, baby. Feels so good, I know you want to cum.”

You whimper, nodding desperately. Bucky grinds his hard palm against your over-stimulated clit, and your think you’re going to explode.

“It’s alright, babydoll,” he coos. “Let go.”

Your orgasm snaps through you like a rocket, ripping every nerve of your body and making your vision go white. You thrash and scream as you pussy gushes and clenches, your eyes still unable to leave Bucky’s. His jaw is hanging open, his face lust-drunk and predatory, and it just makes your orgasm crest higher. You think he could shove his whole arm in you and you’d be able to take it, with how he’s unraveled.

If the size of his cock in his pants is any indication of what’s coming. That’s for far better than worse.

You’re trembling when you come down, tears streaming down your cheek and broken mewls escaping your lips. Bucky leans down slowly, kissing your cheek, then your closed eyes, then your open mouth.

“You’re doin’ so well, baby,” he murmurs, letting your wrist go so he can cup your jaw. “Gonna fuck you so good, my sweet girl.”

You make a pathetic, eager sound, and Bucky’s faint smile ghosts over your lips. He leans back up, his thumb dragging against a hickey he left on your neck, and his shoulders shake.

“No idea,” he mutters. “No fuckin’ clue what you do to me.”

He pulls a little further back, tugging down his sweats, and you squeak at the sight of him. You didn’t think dicks could actually look like that without steroids or surgery or something. Thick and veiny, a good amount of hair cropped around heavy balls, his thick, angry head twitching as he fists himself and drags his thumb over his slit.

You look up at him, almost drooling. “You- You’re-“

“Big?” He teases, and you try to scowl, but it’s more of a pout.

“Shut up,” you whine, and he laughs, crawling slowly over your limp body.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Bucky leans down, kissing you like you’re not both sex-addled, ruined wrecks of people. It’s the kiss you imagined when he would be a knight, and you’d be a princess, and he’d sweep you off your feet in your dreams. Slow and loving, more of an oath than an act of need. Trying to say things neither of you know how to articulate with words. You reach up, cradling Bucky’s face between your hands, and he lets out a shuddering breath, muttering your name.

“I’m not gonna be gentle,” he warns, and you smile against his lips.

“Yay.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but kisses you again, holding onto that soft, honey-sweet moment. His cock rubs between the lips of your pussy, and your breath catches.

“You’re so big,” you whisper, and it’s not a joke anymore. He’s nudging against your entrance, and a sting is already building back up behind your eyes. 

“I know,” Bucky mutters, kissing away your tears. “But you can take it, doll. Know you can.”

You nod, letting Bucky kiss you into the mattress. He’s holding you down with the weight of his hips, stopping you from squirming or crawling away as he nudges in the first inch.

“Fuuuuck,” he groans. “So tight, doll, shit-“

Another inch, and you’re struggling for air. The stretch burns in the best possible way, making your head spin and your mouth hang, agape and useless. Bucky kisses your open lips like he can’t help himself, and you can feel his control already slipping as he groans, pushing a little more inside.

His thumb fumbles to find your clit, rubbing tight circles, easing you further and further open. Bucky moans when he bottoms out, his whole body tensed as he tries to hold himself still, giving you time to adjust.

Your eyes cross, and your toes curl, and slowly the pain shifts into a warm, desperate pleasure.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You whisper, scratching at his back. “Move, please.”

He grunts, and pulls his hips fully out before driving them slowly back in. You moan, and he grabs your jaw, forcing his mouth back over yours.

“Feel so fuckin’ good,” he grunts against your lips, repeating the long, torturous motion. “Sweet fuckin’ doll, gonna milk this cock, aren’t you. Let me fuck you however I want.”

You mewl and nod, a molten puddle in Bucky’s arms. The sheets are long tossed to the ground, so you grab his bicep, blinking up at him with needy, pathetic doe eyes. Bucky groans, his pace picking up slightly.

“That’s right,” he grunts, finding an angle that makes him bully your g-spot, a rhythm that pushes broken moans out of your throat. “So sensitive, gorgeous when you cry for me, shit-“

Bucky groans, pressing down to kiss you, all bruising force and spit. You let him, unable to think outside of the consuming way he’s around you, the brutal split of his cock inside your abused pussy.

He’s fucking you so that the bed creaks, so that everything feels floaty and light and impossibly good. His abdomen presses against your clit and his dick hits every good spot inside of you, rearranging your guts and turning you into pure putty.  It’s embarrassing, how quickly you’re getting to the edge again. Bucky notices, and doubles down, slamming his hips down just a little harder.

“Like that, baby?” He grunts, watching your slack, cockdrunk expression. “Like bein’ fucked like this? Wanna soak my cock, show me how fuckin’ good it feels?”

You nod, another wrecked noise escaping your throat. Bucky snakes his metal hand between your bodies, rubbing your clit in small, tight circles.

“Again, doll, cum on this dick,” he spanks your clit, then goes back to the circle. “Cum for me-“

You shatter with a cry of Bucky’s name, pussy clenching and fluttering, body arching off the mattress. Bucky groans and doubles over, pressing his face between your breasts and mouthing at them like an animal. Your hands shoot into his hair as you try to hold onto something, your orgasm just cresting higher and higher as Bucky keeps fucking into you. You can feel his cock pulsing inside of you, his shallow thrusts desperate and uncontrolled, his moans vibrating against your skin and making your whole body twitch.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You sob with pleasure, pressing his face further into your body. “Fuck- James- Oh my god-“

Your orgasm doesn’t seem to be settling. It just builds higher and higher as Bucky keeps fucking into you, desperate and rough. You rock beneath him, overstimulated and dazed, and his wraps his mouth around your nipple, sucking hard as his thrusts start to get jagged.

You pet his head with trembling fingers, gasping every word with a hoarse voice. “Come on, James, pleaseee-“

Bucky moans your name, and crashes back up to your lips as he slams home, and cums deep inside your cunt.

There’s so much of him. He kisses you with tongue and long moans, and you’re barely even able to return the affection as he empties himself into your warm cunt. You can feel him in your throat, in the tips of your fingers, almost bursting out of your tummy and seeping through your pussy lips. Bucky fucks you through his orgasm, slower and slower with every thrust, panting against your lips. You clench around him and he buries himself back in with a grunt, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you up into his lap.

You kiss his slowly, everything a little bit of a haze as you finally float back down from your long orgasm. Bucky kisses all over your face as the last of him spills inside of you, then presses his face against your neck, letting out a shaky breath.

His tongue flicks against another one of those bruises he left, and you shiver.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and you hum, leaning your cheek against the side of his head.

“’S okay.”

Bucky sighs, leaning back to meet your hooded, starry eyes. You’ve never been so exhausted, but fuck, you don’t care. You’ve also never felt so close to someone. To Bucky. You never want to let go.

“That’s gonna hurt in the morning,” he mutters, and you’re not even sure which part he’s talking about, but it doesn’t matter, so you just shrug.

“Worth it.”

Bucky swallows, glancing down at your lips. Like he’s suddenly not allowed to just kiss you.

You lean forward for him, and he immediately melts over you. You smile into the kiss, curling into his chest, and he lets out a low, rough groan. You should probably get off the bed soon. Neither of you are going to be able to sleep in it now. But you really don’t care. If you could, you’d just stay here forever.

Bucky leans back, tracing his thumb over the corner of your mouth. He’s looking at you like you’re a dream. You hope he thinks you’re looking at him the same way.

“Might be a little late,” he rasps. “But can I get you dinner?”

You giggle, and nod. Bucky’s shoulders sag.

“Thank god,” he mutters, leaning back in for another kiss. “Got no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this, doll. Really.”

You hum, and just kiss him back. You’ll show him that you know exactly how long later, because you’ve been waiting even longer. For now, you just let him kiss you. You’re going to have all the time in the world, to ruin other beds. You don’t want to waste a single second of his heat and ease in this one. Finally, in Bucky’s arms.

✦End note: it can't believe i've never done this trope before it's amazing i love it here✦

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D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He doesn’t like to ask for things, but that doesn’t stop his head from running wild with lewd, obscene images that almost make him blush. He’s got a vivid imagination, and he’s spent more showers and nights than he’ll admit indulging in it. The images of you on your knees, ass up and cunt exposed—or folded in half beneath him, or riding his cock and crying his name—seep into his dreams, until he can’t close his eyes without being haunted by the idea of how gorgeous you’d be, coming apart for him. Even after you get together the dreams won’t relent. You’ve woken up many nights to Bucky almost humping you in his sleep, his eyes fluttering and your name falling from his lips. You indulge him, and pretend you don’t notice the dark stain on the front of his sweats in the morning. It’s hotter than he needs to know, anyway.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Back in the 40s he might’ve been called a womanizer, but the standards were different. Fooling around wasn’t too kinky, and often didn’t really even go past second base. And after Hydra, intimacy was mostly forgotten. Bucky knows what he’s doing, but with your body more than his own. He’s good at the hand and mouth stuff—so good you sometimes still can’t believe it—but penetration takes a while for you both to build up to. Sometimes he still blows it a little early when you put your mouth on him, not used to that kind of warmth and care. He’s a quick learner, though, and it doesn’t take long for you both to find a nice, shared rhythm in how you fuck.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

At first, when you’re still learning each other, he says there’s nothing better than some good, old fashioned missionary. It’s the good, Christian boy in him coming back out, taught well by his Ma that rough is no way to treat a lady. But then you talk him into doggy, and he’s a goner. The way he gets to hold you up with a single arm and play with your clit with the other, the way your arms give out from how well he’s giving it to you, the vision of your ass in the air, it’s enough to drive a man mad. Combine that with how you moan when he forces your back to arch—giving him an even deeper angle, making your walls clench down around him like a sin—and he never stood a goddamn chance.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He might’ve been playful before, and after a while he starts to find it again, but sex is mostly something serious. It’s close, vulnerable, impossibly intimate. He doesn’t do casual, and it shows. A single smile might not be cracked some days, but the worship of your body more than makes up for it. His brow gets furrowed in concentration, his mouth hangs open with awe, and if you’re lucky, his lips twitch slightly when you shiver under his touch. He calls you perfect, and you’ve never believed anyone more.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

The military training doesn’t fade away. Bucky keeps himself clean and neat, more for himself than anyone else. He lets a little hair grow out as he settles into an easier life, but it’s well-groomed and clean. When his chest hair comes back he thinks about keeping that shaven as well, but you just manage to talk him out of it. He lets you have that. It’s another thing he learns to love about himself, just because of you.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

While reserved at first, Bucky quickly becomes the most romantic man you’ve ever known. Random gifts are frequent, too the point that you’re so spoiled as to expect them. It translates smoothly into sex, where he gives and gives and gives until you almost can’t take it anymore. Praise is showered down like flower petals, affection whispered into your skin and kissed onto your lips. You can almost feel his love in every single touch, and even if you couldn’t, it falls from his lips like a prayer when he’s buried inside of you. He kisses you almost every second, everywhere he can reach, every inch of you that he wants you feel.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Before he met you, it was something he did quick and fast in the shower when he needed some release. An itch he needed to scratch, a way to quickly relieve stress before moving on with his day. But then you’re there, and it becomes another part of his devotion. It starts with shame—his head bowed, his hand braced on the wall, his cum slipping down the drain while he pretends it’s on your face—but quickly evolves into something more. He whispers your name into countless pillows and sheets before he has you, then discovers his favorite part of this century. Calling you while he’s away, and moaning your name into the phone while you gasp his, and he hears your pussy, wet and ready for him in the background.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Bucky loves your voice. How it gets breathy and high for him when he’s got you on the edge, how it whimpers and calls out his name like a song, even how it scolds him when he gets on your bad side. You could say anything to him, and he’d find his pants getting tight and his hands flexing to touch you. You notice, and whisper sweet nothings in his ears when you want to work him up. He grunts and forms a fist on his thigh, trying to stop himself from tossing you onto the table and giving you something to really moan about.

He’ll never admit it, but there’s nothing he loves more than wrapping around you like a shield. Than—even if he’s not—feeling bigger than you, like a protector rather than a weapon. When you’re cradled in his arms he feels almost worthy of it, when your little pussy tightens around him, he’s sure this is exactly where he needs to be, and when your hands tangle together and his envelopes yours, he’s sure he’s never going to let go.

There’s nothing more he loves more than a mouthy girl who can tell him off and boss him around, half because you’re never sexier than when you’re confident, and half because that’s a confidence and sass he gets to fuck right out of you. The one place he wants you dumb and babbling is below him, trusting that he’s taking good care of you, blinking up at him with doe eyes and a blown out, cockdrunk expression. You get the attitude right back when he’s done, but he just chuckles and rolls his hips just right, making you stutter and whine. His girl is nice and stupid for him, and just him, and that’s exactly what he wanted.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Bucky doesn’t know how good it can feel to take you against the wall or in the kitchen until he does, and suddenly he wants to fuck you in every corner of the apartment. There shouldn’t be a place that you haven’t felt good in, a spot in this home that doesn’t know how perfect you are. And after testing every single surface and edge, he finds that he might be in love with taking you on the floor. There’s something desperate and dirty about it, that you can’t wait for the bed to crawl all over him and bed. He gets to cradle you in his arms and keep you safe from the low windows of your apartment, or hold you above him and protect you from the ground. You’re even more of a mess after, when he takes you like that, and that’s just how he likes it.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

At first it’s small things. Touches and flashes of bare skin that make him feel like a teenager again, a kiss on his cheek that makes his cock twitch or a squeeze of his shoulder that forces him to squeeze his eyes shut for control. Then you get more comfortable together, and you start sassing him, and he’s never realized he could be this fucking horny. It doesn’t matter what you’re saying or how you’re saying it, if you’re talking at him—rolling your eyes or bossing him around or huffing about something silly—he wants to crawl over you like a tiger and kiss you until you’re giggling and starry eyed. There’s nothing better in the world than his smart girl, and there’s no one better to deal with it than him.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

The lines are harsh and clear, grooved into the bedrock of your relationship, along with Bucky’s trust. Nothing with binds, nothing where he can’t see you, nothing in public and nothing that might really hurt you. His metal hand doesn’t go around your throat, you tap out immediately if anything is too much, and you tell him exactly what you want so he can give it, and nothing more. And he gives it. Over and over with ease, but only as you ask. And you ask. He’s too good not to.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Bucky likes eating you out, a little more than he thinks he should. It’s easy to him, a simple way to get on his knees and show you just how good he can make you feel. You get whiny, when he’s got his head between your thighs, and that’s just how he likes you. Writhing and squirting on his face, pulling at his hair until he groans your name against your cunt, and you let out a strangled gasp of his name. It makes him feel more human, more grounded, and so impossibly real. You’re softer than anything else he’s ever known, and tasting you is the closest he can get to being drunk. When you get on your knees for him, though, he sometimes tries to pull you back up. He never wants you to feel like you have some kind of obligation, and it can take a while to convince him you’re there because you want to be. He always comes apart embarrassingly fast, when your warm lips wrap around his cock. It’s hard to blame him. You just have that effect.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He can go fast and rough, but you have to beg him for it. He never wants to go harder than he has to, and there’s a low fear under every movement that he’s going to snap you in half. He prefers to kiss every inch of your body and draw out the time he’s buried inside of you, losing himself in your heat and dazed, adoring expression. He can be mean like that, if you want him to be. The pace has nothing to do with teasing you like you deserve, with slow, lazy thrusts that bully against your g-spot, giving so much and not enough, all at once. Making you cry for him, perfectly safe and wound tight enough to burst beneath him, just how he likes you.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Sex is important enough that Bucky doesn’t like rushing it, but sometimes you get to him—bending over in a little dress, sitting on his lap and rolling your hips in the way you know drives him mad—and his cock gets so hard he can’t help himself. If there’s no one around he’ll hitch up your skirt or shove his hand into your pants, playing with your little pussy until you’re dripping for him and begging. When he decides you’re ready he thrusts in brutally, rutting up into your cunt with his face pressed into your neck and his moans low and desperate. You both cum with gasps, and Bucky slaps your sensitive clit. He’ll nip at your neck and warn you not to tease him again. You never listen. You know he likes it too much.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Maybe when he was younger, Bucky might’ve let a pretty girl talk him into something crazy, but now he’s old. Tired half the time, itching to get out of his skin the other half, sure what he likes in bed and—more importantly—sure of what he doesn’t. You’re the only one who can get him to take the small step outside his comfort, because he knows you wouldn’t ask if you didn’t really want it. And there isn’t much he wouldn’t do for you. A small experiment that makes you cum all over him is a small sacrifice to make .

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

The super solider serum has it’s benefits, and this might be the only one that Bucky never regrets. Before he was batting a strong two or three with proper recouperation time, but now he can go up to ten without flinching. He’s more than grateful for it. He’s worried he wouldn’t be able to keep up with you, if he didn’t have that extra leg up. Your appetite for him is so great that you push him to his limits, and he didn’t know that was possible, but he still lets you every time. You seem determined to find out exactly how long he can go for. He’d be worried about it, if he wasn’t having the time of his life.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

A lot of things have changed in the past century, and toys are a one of the things Bucky hasn’t really gotten yet. He doesn’t need one for himself, and he’s of the mind that—with how expensive vibrations are—there’s no need for you to have one either. He’s got a mouth and cock that can go all night, and a metal arm that can work like a toy if you’re that needy and desperate. You’d never thought to throw out your vibration until you had a massive super soldier next to you in bed. Metal fingers can fuck you until tears are springing to your eyes, and he can move his thumb so fast across your clit it basically feels like you’re at the mercy of a toy. A toy with soft lips, that drawl low praise and look at you like you’re an angel. Who could need anything else?

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Bucky doesn’t like to be too public or obvious—another roll over of 40s sensibilities—but if you’re begging for it, he won’t stop himself from landing a sharp, teasing slap on your ass or tracing his fingers up your inner thighs. Never enough to make you do anything rash, but that’s not his goal. He wants to see you squirm and flush, to smell that sweet arousal pooling between your legs. He’s making sure that, when he finally does get his hands on you, you’ll be more than ready for him. Just how he likes it.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He’s not too loud unless you really get him going. Most praise and dirty talk is whispered in your ear or against your skin, and his own grunts and moans are low and controlled. But then you get your mouth on him, or clench down on his cock just right, and a deep, loud moan rumbles through his chest. You toy with his balls in a trembling hand, and he doubles over with lidded eyes, almost shouting your name for the whole of New York to hear. You smile at him, kissing every roar off his lips, and his control starts to slip, only for you.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Phone sex is something he never wants to give up. He has to leave frequently, for missions and meetings and work, and the knowledge that you’re still thinking of him like he’s thinking of you almost gets him there all on its own. A lewd part of him likes the idea that someone might hear him calling your name through the thin hotel walls, so everyone knows how well you’re worshipped, how thoroughly he adores you. He likes just the sound of your voice calling his name. He thinks he could make it off of phone sex only, for at least a month. He’d need you back eventually, but this is almost enough.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Bucky was packing before the serum, but it didn’t neglect his cock when it made everything bigger. The first time you see him, you’re worried you’ll barely even be able to get the head in. He’s got a cock so big it makes your mouth water and your eyes prick with tears from just sliding between the lips of your pussy. Once you tried to talk him into a dildo because it would’ve been smaller and easier. He always kisses your brows and coos that you can take it, and you can, but barely. The stretch hits places inside of you that you didn’t know you had, and Bucky has the nerve to be sweet and humble about it. It just makes it easier, though. So, so much easier, when that monster cock is attached to that perfect man.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Before you, it was more of an itch that he really couldn’t ignore, no matter how he tried. He had a drive, but it was more mechanical. Then you strolled into his life, and suddenly he’s something akin to an animal. You can walk around the apartment in pajamas and slippers, and Bucky feels his dick twitch to attention. He wants to be as close to you as he can, all the time, and if that means bending you over the closest surface and showing you just how much he loves you, than so be it.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He might not need it like most people, but Bucky loves his sleep. He’d keep you both in bed all day, just cuddling and napping and having mindblowing sex if he was allowed to. Once you’re both settled and cleaned up, you’re not allowed out of bed for at least a few hours so Bucky can get some rest. He sleeps better after sex, and better with you in his arms, and the two combined can even work to keep the nightmares at bay. He tells you that it’s all you, but you think it’s him. Working to get past it, to stay with you, to find slices of peace and hold onto them, with you laying right where you belong, at his side.

Your watch as your playful words cause a smile to settle across his lips, and the hardness of his face distorts into a soft gentleness that's only ever the result of you.

His notes are forgotten in his hand as he leans his back against the couch and looks down at his lap, where your face lies, the back of your head resting against his muscular thigh. “So I’ve been told,” he replies with the same amount of playfulness. 

“No, you're meant to say you’ve never heard that before and that I'm a genius.” You fake a sad frown, something that you have become very good at since dating Aaron. 

You always pulled out the teasing fake sadness so he would smile more at the jest of it; he loved when you sported it in silly conversations, always commenting on it with endearment, he thinks it’s adorable. 

He cocks a brow, and his smile grows wider “You want me to lie to you?” 

You jokingly punch his bicep, smiling with your words, “You're so mean to me.”  

He raises his bushy brows, the ones you love so much. His calloused hand finds itself moving towards your hair, it lightly scratches your scalp and strokes the strands that spread themselves across his legs. 

“Am I?” His voice is low and teasing. He looks down at you, watching the way your eyes light up with every letter that leaves his mouth, like he’s saying something worth savouring.

“Maybe” 

“Yeah, have a feeling you're lying, sweetheart.” 

“No, you're a bully” The words aren’t true, you know that.

He always treats you with admiration and respect, drowning you in kisses and sweet sex to show how much he loves you. He’s never mean to you, but oh, how you love to tease him just to see the smirk paint his lips, just so he picks you up and presses his lips all over your cheeks as you giggle. 

That’s what you're craving now, so in a fluid motion, you move your head off his lap, turn your body around, and then straddle him. It’s so natural as you slide onto his lap, you know where to place your hands, you know how his shoulders relax under your touch and how his hands come to your waist like it’s routine. 

“Such a big bully that you come to seek comfort from me” his hands run up and down the curve of your waist, each brush sending small shudders under your skin. “Should I expect stolen kisses too?”  

“Your ego is too big.” 

“You're slightly dramatic”, he presses a kiss to your cheek and looks up at you through his thick lashes. 

You try to will the heat rising at your cheeks, pushing it down turns up hopeless under the warmth of his gaze. Your fake sadness ruse comes to an end when his eyes drop to your blushed cheeks. 

“You're still mean to me” 

“But you still love me”, he raises one of his brows in an attempt to fluster you, to get your answer out quicker. 

Yes, yes, you loved him with everything you were.   

You stay silent, your upturned lips sealed shut. 

“Maybe”, your voice comes out quiet, provoking Aaron as much as you could without actually saying anything that might hurt his feelings, even just a little. 

He brings his face closer to yours, his breath exhaling against your lips, “I love you.” 

You bite back a smile, your teeth holding your bottom lip in the confines of your mouth. 

“I love you”, he repeats. 

His attempt at getting you to say you love him definitely wasn’t weak; he knew all the ways you worked and what made you melt. 

And he knew that pressing into your hips slightly and wiggling his fingers into your skin would make you yelp and giggle, a way to get exactly what he wants.

“Aaron!- Aaron stop- oh my god- Aar-” Your loud giggles soak up every word you try to speak, every plea you struggle to slip out. 

“Cmon honey, tell me you love me”, he grins, so proud of himself that he is eliciting these sounds and motions from you. 

He has no remorse for the way he moves his fingers on your skin as he lowers you onto the couch, continuing his tickling from above you. Your arms come together in a feeble way of protecting your stomach and waist, swatting his hands away as his deep chuckles fall from his lips and warm your neck. 

“Baby- stop, mh stopp” Your laughter is loud and almost hysterical, his fingers feel like a thousand tiny feathers tenderly moving across the most sensitive parts of your stomach. Your legs are wrapped around his hips, and your arms are guarding your body from his attack. 

His lips come to your neck, which only brings more sensitivity. “Tell me you love me.” 

“I- Aaron! - I love you” 

“Huh?” You can practically hear the grin in his words because you know for a fact that you can feel it press against your skin, accompanied by the sharp stubble lining his jaw.  

“I love you”, you breathe through your ragged chuckles, “I love you.” 

You inhale as much air as you can when his fingers finally still across your waist, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm down your adrenaline high that was fueled by giggles and feather-soft touch. 

He has a smug look splayed across his face, a mischievous glint to his dark eyes as though you had never told him you had loved him in your life, like it was such an achievement to finally get you to spill the words from your pretty lips that he looked like he wanted to sink into. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” he looks down at you, one hand pressed against your head that's propping him up, whilst the other moves a loose piece of your hair that somehow found itself between your lips. 

“I'm not taking the bully thing back”, You answer, your words still coming out breathy even after managing to compose yourself. 

“I'm sorry.” 

“No your not” 

“No, not really”, he huffs out a small chuckle that lands on your cheek.

Fuck he looks so handsome.  

You took notice of his flustered state, his cheeks a shade darker, his hair slightly messed up, and his blue and white striped tie a lot looser than it was before. You supposed pulling it when you had attempted to get away from his tickling attack was the probable cause. 

“I love you”, you say again. This time, nothing was encouraged through tickling or teasing, but just pure truth. Words driven by the feeling that first lay itself down in your chest a few months ago when you discovered just how Aaron Hotchner kissed. 

The world relaxed around you both, the air floating around so much lighter than it had been in the midst of your teasing and laughing, when you couldn’t and didn't want to escape from Aaron’s calloused hands. 

He presses a soft, closed-mouthed kiss to the smoothness of your lips, the action speaking such tenderness. 

“I love you too,” his rough voice speaks faintly in the silence of the living room. 

You meet his lips with the same gentleness, you kiss softly, it becomes tongue and mouth after a while, but the sweetness of it speaks more than the clashing want. 

His lips drift from your mouth and down the path of your jaw until they find a place on your neck with the same softness displayed to your mouth. 

Your body is still sensitive, so when his tie gently brushes against your chest where the neckline of your plaid pjs fall, you let out a small yelp coupled with a shiver that wracks up your spine. That makes him smile softly against the skin he grazes his lips on.  

He pulls back from kissing your neck and shares a warm glance with you before pressing a peck to the tip of your nose. 

It is then that you both perk up at the sound of a soft, boyish voice from the other side of the room.        

“Daddy?” Jack's unmistakable voice calls out from the living room entrance. His voice has a small shake to it, the small shake all young children have after being woken up at way past midnight. 

You can see ‘dad mode’ enter Hotch’s eyes as soon as the smallness of his son's voice reached his ears. He moves his face from hovering over yours, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, and sits up without seeming too much like he was just making out with you. 

“Hey, buddy, why are you up so late?” Concern is evident in his voice, he gets up from the couch, and whilst he walks up towards Jack, you sit up and fix yourself so you look more presentable towards your boyfriend's son. 

You had gotten together with Aaron only five months ago, and you had the chance to meet Jack a handful of times, but it was something you were still both getting use too. 

He was such a sweet boy, and you felt a great amount of love towards him, but the last thing you would ever want to do is make it seem like you were trying to replace Haley. Jack was still sore over the divorce that happened a couple of years ago. 

So with that in mind, you button up the top of your pyjama shirt, smooth out your hair and wipe off all of the saliva over your lips and neck with your sleeve. 

You had stayed over a few times during the night, but you and Aaron had both agreed that nothing intimate would happen under the same roof as Jack. And at the moment, it looked like that was what was happening. 

You really didn’t want it to look like you were just feasting on his father.

Your heart skips a beat, and a peaceful smile brightens your face as you watch Aaron walk back to the couch with his son wrapped in his embrace. It’s a sight you always love to see, something you're so grateful you get to be a part of.

“Do you want to come sit with us for a little?” Aaron asks Jack as he places him on his lap. 

Jack nods in response and clutches his raggy teddy closer to his chest. His head falls on his dad’s chest, and after only a couple of minutes, Jack starts snoring ever so lightly.

You scoot closer toward both of them, desperately trying to make every shuffle as quiet as it can be. When you're close enough to Aaron that your thigh is almost on his, you place your head on his shoulder and look down at the sight of Jack’s small face. 

“Did he have a nightmare?” you whisper. 

“I'm pretty sure your laughter woke him.” He responds with the same attempt at quietness, only his voice is spoken through a smile. 

Your cheeks warm up. 

Oops. 

“Your fault” 

He looks down at you at the same time you glance up at him. You stay like that for a while. This was a special moment for both of you, something you knew you were both locking up and throwing away the key. 

His blinks slow down when he looks at you, and his pupils widen ever so slightly in the dark lighting. With the soft sound of Jack's sleepy breathing alongside the intimacy shared through Aarons love filled look, only ever gifted to you, you decide that this is your home. 

“Bully”, Aaron whispers lightheartedly. 

This was where you belonged, and you didn’t want it any other way.

Tags: @baucumdumpster @kissesbya @heypyre

One second you were minding your business, enjoying what was left of your coffee and your relatively peaceful morning, and the next Nick Fury was informing you that you would be spending the foreseeable future pretending to be happily married to Steve Rogers.

"You're going." Fury didn't even break stride. He rolled his eye and kept walking down the hallway toward the conference room, clearly done entertaining your complaints before you'd even finished making them, with you hot on his heel. 

Your footsteps echoed in the wide hallway as you walked backwards, facing Fury. "Can't I marry someone else for this?" You pondered. "What about Barnes?"

Fury stopped so suddenly you nearly tripped. "You want to pretend to be married to Barnes?"

You opened your mouth, immediately closed it, thought for a second and shrugged, squeezing your eyes shut. "That's not the point."

"That's what I thought."

The polished floors reflected the overhead lights as the two of you moved through the hallway. “Nat, maybe? Some of those married dudes would eat up girl-on-girl and spill the beans right away. Mission would be so quick!”

Fury walked with the patience of a man who'd dealt with far worse than you. The fact that he hadn't strangled you after years of working together was honestly kind of impressive, a little endearing almost.

Both of you quickly arrived at the conference room door, Fury stopping with his hand on the handle, turning his face to you and letting our a frustrated sigh. "Do you like working here?"

You rolled your eyes, "Yes, sir." What kind of question was that?

"And what's your title?" His brow quirked up.

A confused look plastered all over your face. "Agent."

He leaned down to talk to you closer, almost like explaining rules to a petulant child, "Then be an agent." and proceeded to push the door open and hold it for you, giving you full view of Steve Rogers sitting at the head of the table with a sour expression on his face, just as displeased to have to pretend to love you for the mission. 

The training room should've been empty half an hour ago, and technically, everyone was done for the day. 

It should’ve been quiet—mats wiped down, lights dimmed, everyone gone for the night.

Instead, the air was thick.

Heavy with sweat, heat, and something sharp enough to make the back of your neck prickle. The entire team and a couple recruits were watching you.

Well, you and Steve. 

At first not openly—no one was stupid enough to make it obvious—but they lingered. Leaned against walls, sat on benches, hovered just close enough to pretend they had somewhere else to be.

It started as any other training session did, you rotated partners, almost like shark bait: in and out, partner after partner cycling through you while you stayed planted on the mat, pushing your stamina, your endurance, your patience.

Until you ended up on the other side of the mat from Steve. 

Barefoot, sleeves rolled, skin already lightly sheened with the littlest bit of sweat that somehow made him look betterinstead of worse—which was deeply, personally offensive.

Here's the thing: he was a super soldier. He had endless stamina, super strength, reflexes that outmatched 99% of the population, and he had it all with perfect blond hair and barely breaking a sweat on his sculpted body.

It infuriated the hell out of you. 

He blocked every kick, every punch, and when he didn't he wasn't even phased. 

It made you go harder, to the point where you found yourselves now: almost trying to hurt each other. 

By then, no one was even preteding to be occupied by anything else, shamelessly staring at the two of you at the center of the mat like Oppenheimer waiting for a bomb to go off. 

Steve had stopped treating you with the same careful restraint he used with newer recruits. He'd throw you harder into the mats, knock the wind from your lungs, shove you back with enough force to remind you exactly how much stronger he was, and you'd borderline play dirty.

Every hit had a little more weight behind it. Neither willing to back down. Neither willing to lose.

Sam was sitting backwards in a chair, chin propped on his arms, watching like he had front row seats to the best show of his life; Natasha looked delighted; Bucky looked concerned, brows drawn, arms crossed tight over his chest, like he was trying to decide whether to step in or let you both learn your lesson the hard way.

Steve stood opposite of you, his feet staggered and his arms up, making a "come at me" motion with his fingers. His hair was slightly mussed, a damp strand falling forward over his forehead.

"Come to daddy."

The entire room held their breaths, and you saw red. 

In hindsight, you should've planned a better move than to just charge at him, the strength in your muscles and bones not being able to match his. You should've thought of something tactical, something smart. 

But also… you fucking hated his guts. 

Which is exactly how you ended up with your cheek and stomach pressed to the sweaty mat, with Steve's whole weight on your back, your wrists pinned between the two of you and his right arm laced under yours and up your back, hand holding your neck down. 

His hands caught you mid-motion, grip iron-tight as he twisted, using your momentum against you with terrifying ease, his grip locking your body in place, the angle just shy of painful.

"You need to work on your psyche. Mind over matter." His stupid voice right in your ear made goosebumps bloom up your spine, so you did what any reasonable person would do.

You flexed the knee that was between his spread legs hard enough that you hit him square in the balls, giving you the out you needed. 

You straightened on your feet, pushing damp hair back from your face, a breathless, borderline feral grin breaking across your lips as he winced on the mat in pain. 

"Who's your daddy now?" 

Your breathless laughter was cut short, Fury's booming voice breaking through any pain or enjoyment present in the room. "You do know domestic violence is not part of your cover story, no?"

Both of your heads whipped in the direction of his voice. 

He continued to walk in your direction, dropping two folders in front of your feet, and Steve, who was still kneeling down on the mat. "Shower this off. You leave in the morning, lovebirds."

The neighborhood looked like the kind of place where people complained to the HOA because their neighbor's hydrangeas were the wrong shade of blue.

Every lawn was trimmed within an inch of its life, sharp lines cutting through impossibly green grass like someone came out with a ruler every morning. 

The mailboxes all matched—sleek, black, expensive-looking—and every driveway held something polished and obscene:luxury SUV or a car that definitely cost more than your first apartment.

The houses themselves were enormous. White trim, brick facades, wraparound porches, massive windows that left little room for privacy on a street that looked like it loved to mind every business but its own. 

You sat in the passenger seat while Steve drove to your home, the undercover file open across your lap like a book while your bare feet rested on the dash. 

Because annyong Steve was free, and your favorite past time. "No feet on the dash."

You turned a page, ignoring him. "They're staying." You read more of the file. "It's more comfortable that way." Your light blue summer dress was bunched up higher across your thighs, and he did a double take before taking a right turn to your house block.

He sighed. "If we crash—"

"Just look at the road instead of me and we'll be fine." That made him shift in the driver's seat, straightening his posture and looking ahead, his Adam's apple bobbing in annoyance.

What irritated Steve about you was the fact that these comebacks never even seemed to make sense or be thought of, it just rolled off your tongue, almost just for the plot. And you didn't even care. 

He didn't even know why you hated him so much in the first place, but he reciprocated the feeling as soon as he saw how insubordinate and bratty you were. 

Steve sighed the long suffering sigh of a man questioning every life decision that had brought him to this moment. "You're impossible." Muttered under his breath. 

"You're a Senior Project Manager at your own company, honey!" Fake admiration and praise filled your voice. "Oh, you proposed quick! Only a year after our first date." You turned to him, your first real smile plastered on your face. "You're so down bad."

The car came to a stop in your driveway, and Steve turned it off, unclipping his seatbelt. "Put your shoes on, we're here and I feel eyes already." 

"Bossy." You muttered, doing exactly as he said. As you got out of the car, your voice went up an octave, carrying through the humid summer weather. 

“Ready, honey?” you asked, slipping the word out effortlessly, like you’d been saying it for years.

He opened the front door for you, making sure whoever was watching heard him just as well, possessive in a way that made your breath hitch before you could stop it.

“After you, sweetheart.”

You'd barely had enough time to figure out which bedroom closet was yours before the doorbell rang.

ding-dong. ding-dong.

You froze in the middle of the bedroom, one hand still gripping a hanger, Steve somewhere down the hall filling a modified cabinet with all sorts of concealed weapons.

You dropped the hanger onto the bed without another thought, smoothing your hands down your dress as you moved. Steve stepped out of the kitchen at the same time, wiping his hands on a dish towel like he’d been doing something domestic instead of checking sightlines and exits.

Ben and Julie Poindexter stood in your porch like they had been plucked straight out of a catalog. They were ones you hoped to make the acquaintance of quickly, as he was the right hand of the big druglord you and Steve were tasked with making an airtight case on.

Years of field work had taught you that monsters were rarely obvious, still, some primitive part of your brain always expected criminals to look like criminals.

Instead, Ben Poindexter looked like somebody who coached Little League and had multiple PTA moms undoing extra buttons in their cardigans to get his attention. Beside him, Julie beamed, already leaning slightly forward like she couldn’t wait to know everything about you.

“Oh my goodness,” she breathed, eyes lighting up. “You must be the Adlers!” You felt Steve shift beside you, his hand coming to rest warm on your back with an ease that shouldn't be there in the best of actors. 

He smiled, and it was a good one. The kind that made people relax immediately. The kind that five years ago made you—

“Guilty,” he said easily. “Frank.” Right. Frank Adler. 

He extended his hand and Ben took it immediately, introducing you then. “I’m Dex,” the shorter blond said in return, just as easy. “This is my wife, Julie.”

“Hi,” you said, stepping forward like you hadn’t been mentally preparing to dismantle her entire social circle for intel. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

She lit up.

“Oh, you are just adorable,” she gushed, reaching out to squeeze your arm like you were already best friends. “We saw the moving truck this morning and I told Ben, I said, ‘We have to go introduce ourselves before everyone else gets to them first.’”

You faked confusion. "Ben…?"

He chuckled lightly in response. "That's me, I… uh… Ben's really only for her and my parents. Friends call me Dex."

You smiled back in understanding. “We appreciate that,” he said smoothly. “It’s been a bit of a whirlwind getting settled.”

“So,” Dex cut in, tone casual but eyes observant, “what brings you two here?” There it was. The first test.

You felt Steve’s thumb twitch slightly against your back. A cue , or maybe just instinct. “Work, mostly,” he said, not missing a beat. “I just transferred to oversee a new branch out here.”

Julie gasped softly. “Oh! That’s right, you’re the project manager, right? We heard something about that—”

Of course they did.

You tilted your head toward Steve, letting your smile soften just a touch as you looked at him. Pride, affection… Just enough to sell it.

“He won’t say it, but he’s very good at what he does.” You interjected, turning your sweet smile to your nosy neighbors again. 

His hand pressed a little more firmly into your back before easing again. “Someone has to pay the bills,” he joked lightly, glancing down at you.

"It's a 50/50 relationship," you shot back, nudging his side with your elbow just enough to look playful. "You earn money, and I look pretty in the things it buys." Your hand reached up to scratch the freshly shaven skin of his chin.

“Wow,” Julie breathed, practically vibrating with delight. “You two are so cute.”

You laughed, soft, a little embarassed… and completely fake. Dex watched that exchange carefully. His smile stayed in place, but his eyes sharpened just a fraction.

“New couples usually take a while to settle in around here,” he said, tone still easy. “But I think you two will fit right in.”

“Well,” you said lightly, leaning just a little closer into Steve without thinking about it, “we’re counting on our neighbors to help with that.”

Julie clasped her hands together. “Oh, you have to come to dinner this weekend! Everyone’s going to be there—it’s kind of our thing.”

“We’d love to,” Steve said, lightly nodding.

Both of them smiled in satisfaction, briefly saying their goodbyes and we'll let you get settled. As they started to step back, Julie waved enthusiastically. “Welcome to the neighborhood!”

Integration happened faster and easier than either of you expected. Almost like… bait. 

It started with waves.

Small, polite acknowledgments from across driveways—neighbors watering already-perfect lawns, women in linen sets pausing mid-walk with their equally curated dogs. At first it was just smiles, quick introductions repeated twice because no one actually listened the first time, or maybe they expected you to slip up. 

Names, occupations, how long you planned to stay.

Somehow, without either of you saying much at all, your lives had already been filled in for you. Steve—Frank—was “the project manager from the city.” You were “so sweet” and “adjusting beautifully.”

It was unsettling.

Steve got pulled in first.

Dex made it look casual—leaning over the fence one late afternoon while Steve pretended to struggle with a hose attachment he absolutely knew how to fix.

“Couple of us head out to the club on Saturdays,” Dex had said, like it wasn’t a test. Like it wasn’t an invitation into something much bigger. “You golf?”

Steve had shrugged, wiping his hands on a towel like the answer didn’t matter. “Enough not to embarrass myself.”

Dex chuckled. “Good. Fisk hates losing.”

That was how Steve Rogers found himself in pressed polos and quiet greens, standing under the sun with a man who ran half the city from behind clean hands and cleaner money.

Wilson Fisk didn’t look like a monster either. They never did.

From the sidelines, it would’ve looked normal—three men talking shop, trading easy laughs, the soft crack of a golf ball slicing through the air.

But Steve came home with tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before, and eyes that thought too much.

You were integrated differently. Faster, deeper in a sense. If you wanna know a man, you need to know the woman in his life first. Julie took one look at you and decided you were hers.

Brunch turned into wine nights, which turned into yoga classes and impromptu shopping trips where you learned which women talked too much, which ones listened too closely, and which ones pretended not to notice everything while noticing everything.

You laughed when you were supposed to, touched arms at the right moments, let yourself be pulled into conversations about renovations and charity events and who was “having trouble in their marriage” this week.

You played the part. Perfectly.

But you also listened. And Julie talked, about Dex, about their marriage, about his schedule, the men he worked with, his "job".

About Fisk in a careful, vague way that told you she knew just enough to be useful and not enough to be dangerous.

Inside the house, however, nothing really changed. You were in bliss whenever Steve was anywhere outside of the five thousand square feet of the house. And in hell when you could hear his footsteps through the hallways. 

“Why are your shoes in the middle of the hallway?” “Because I took them off.”

“You put a gun in the cereal cabinet.” “It was concealed.”

And yet, somewhere in between the arguing and the slammed cabinets and the pointed silences, you moved around each other.

Steve adjusted the cuff of his polo as he stepped out onto the green, the sun warm against the back of his neck, the grass trimmed so perfectly it almost didn’t look real. Somewhere in the distance, a fountain trickled softly—controlled, decorative, intentional.

Everything here was curated, including the people. Dex stood a few feet ahead, already mid-conversation with a Fisk, Steve immediately recognizing his big frame.

“Frank,” Dex called easily, turning just enough to wave him over. “Glad you made it.” 

Steve walked up at an even pace, shoulders loose, posture relaxed, every movement deliberate in its lack of tension. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Dex clapped his hands lightly. “Let’s see if you actually know how to swing that thing.”

The game itself was uneventful on the surface, small talk, a couple of drinks over a few holes, business talk, the kind of conversation that never said anything directly but still managed to reveal everything if you knew how to listen.

Steve pretending to be worse than Fisk at golf remembering what Dex said about him not liking losing. 

Well, who does? He thought.

He missed a shot he could’ve made here and there, fake grimace on his face to help sell the lie, burrow himself deeper in the web.

Dex talked the most—easy laughter, casual stories, the kind of man who filled silence before it could become uncomfortable.

Fisk didn’t, he was quieter, more measured. Almost amused. 

By the ninth hole, Steve could feel the shift, the attention settling more fully onto him. He was past the evaluation phase and onto something else. 

Fisk set his club aside after a clean shot, stepping back as one of the attendants moved to retrieve it. He didn’t look at Steve immediately, instead adjusting his cufflinks with slow, precise movements.

“Beautiful house you’ve got,” Fisk said finally.

Steve shrugged lightly, taking a swing of his beer. “Got lucky to swoop in right when it went on the market.”

Fisk hummed. “I find luck tends to favor the well-prepared.” Steve didn’t respond, Fisk’s gaze lifted then. “You and your wife settling in well?”

For some reason, hearing such a dangerous man mention you made him uneasy. And it shouldn't, because he hated you. Steve forced his expression to remain easy. “Yeah. She likes it here.” He paused for a second. “She’s… adjusting.”

Fisk’s lips curved slightly. “Is she?” Steve’s grip on the club in his hand tightened just a fraction.

Dex shifted beside them, glancing between the two, something quieter settling over his usual ease.

“You know,” Fisk continued, tone almost conversational, “I take a great interest in the people who choose to live in the neighborhood.”

Steve tilted his head slightly. “Seems like a lot of effort.”

Fisk chuckled softly. “It is if you don't have the… resources.”

Steve didn’t like the way he said that, didn’t like the weight behind it.

The back nine loosened things.

Or at least, that’s what it looked like.

Dex got louder, a little more relaxed with each hole, his posture easing into something casual as the game stretched on. Drinks appeared somewhere around the seventh—cold, expensive, handed off by staff who moved like ghosts—and by the tenth, the conversation had shifted.

Way less about business. 

Dex snorted at something one of the other men—some hedge fund name Steve hadn’t bothered to remember—had said, shaking his head as he lined up his shot.

“I’m telling you,” the man continued, grinning like he thought he was hilarious, “if you’re doing it right, she’s not walking straight the next morning.”

One of the others chimed in with something worse, cruder. The kind of joke that got easy agreement and knowing looks passed around like currency.

Steve didn’t react, just stood there, one hand resting loosely on his club, gaze fixed somewhere out over the green like he wasn’t listening.

“C’mon, Adler,” Dex called, nudging him lightly with his elbow. “You’ve been real quiet over there.”

Steve glanced over, trying to seem unbothered. Like he didn't want to roll his eyes at everything coming out of that prick's mouth. “Just listening.”

“That’s not how this works,” the hedge fund guy said with a smirk. “You gotta contribute. You’re married, right?”

“Familiarity,” Fisk continued, almost thoughtfully, like he was discussing market trends instead of people, “breeds a certain ease.”

“Guess some guys are just more private.” Steve chimed, moving as to redirect the conversation, walking a couple steps to the next hole. "I don’t feel the need to talk about my wife like that."

Silence fell upon the group for a second, Dex interjected to change the subject quickly, but the way Fisk looked at Steve the rest of the time made he hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Steve unlocked the kitchen door, toeing his shoes off as soon as he stepped inside. The house was clean, marble countertops reflecting the golden light coming through the curtains.

A candle burned on the center island that made the house smell like a bouquet of fresh flowers, blooming in deepest winter.

The door clocked shit behind him with a soft, controlled click, as he called out "Babe?" while letting his keys rattle against the marble.

He stepped further into the kitchen, eyes sweeping automatically—back door locked, blinds angled just enough, nothing out of place. The cabinet he’d modified earlier sat closed, unassuming, hiding everything it needed to.

He called out for you again, "Sweetheart?", feet padding into the house and when he got to the bottom of the stairs, he heard the shower running on. 

Steve's mind kept replaying the interactions he'd had that day, how Fisk seemed to have too much knowledge of his dynamic with you to not have—

Of course.

A man like Fisk wouldn't just intentionally have a blind side. 

The motherfucker had surveillance on your house. 

In your house. 

The sound got clearer and clearer as he moved up the stairs. The hallway stretched ahead, quiet and sun-dimmed, and then right outside of the bathroom door, steam curling underneath it. Steve paused just outside it, his hand hovering near the frame, his head tilting slightly as he listened.

You were humming, soft and absentminded.

Like you weren’t in the middle of a mission that had just taken a very sharp turn.

He exhaled softly through his nose, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching briefly on the tension sitting heavy there.

He should wait, he knew he should. Whatever he had to say could wait ten minutes.

Five.

Hell, two.

But the words Fisk had said—had implied—sat in his chest like a weight that refused to settle. So if Fisk had creepily put surveillance in your home like Steve was 98% sure he had, you were gonna have to roll with the punches.

Steam hit him immediately, warm and thick, fogging the edges of his vision for half a second before it cleared. 

Stripping his shirt, kicking off the rest of his clothes in a blur of motion that would’ve felt ridiculous under any other circumstance.

He walked into the shower, watching you let the water trickle over you, over your face, your neck, your chest, and he thanked every God he could think of that his body was cooperating and he did not have more than a half-hard on right then and there.

Which meant that you finished rinsing your shampoo off and opened your eyes to find a very, very naked Steve Rogers encapsulated by the shower stall glass around you. 

With you.

All naked, and very wet, and very naked, and—

"Ahh!" You shrieked in surprise, stumbling back half a step, water splashing over him as your hands came up instinctively. "What the f—" Steve put his index finger on his lips with one hand, the other motioning to his ear and out.

We're being listened to.

"Honey," You immediately switched into your undercover tone, "you scared the crap out of me!"

Steve stepped closer, couldn't risk his voice being any louder than absolutely necessary to get you the information right then and there. 

His frame in comparison to yours felt even bigger now, steam curling around him like vines. You'd blame the way your nipples hardened at the sight on the water. 

“Fisk,” he whispered, barely audible over the spray. “He knows something’s off. Pretty sure we’re wired. The house is.”

Your breath hitched.

Absolutely having nothing to do with the fact that you were trying very hard not to stare at his— "Where?"

"Everywhere." He confirmed. 

Water ran down both of you in steady streams, heat curling between your bodies, steam thickening the air until everything felt too close.

“Well,” you murmured, louder now, just enough for anyone listening to catch it, your tone dipping into something softer, more playful, “next time, maybe knock?”

Steve huffed out a quiet breath that could almost pass for a laugh, his forehead dipping closer to yours, but not touching, droplets of water falling from his hair onto you.

“Didn’t think you’d mind.” One of your hands braced lightly against his chest, the other gripping his arm as if for balance.

Your hand slid up to the nape of his neck, pulling the hair there enough to make him hiss. “Oh, I mind,” you said lightly, your fingers threading just a little deeper into the short hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You were pretty good at… faking it. 

Night settled over the house smoothly, the sun bleeding into deep indigo slowly and surely until stars littered the sky and you all you could hear was the fair sound of nature beyond the glass.

The neighborhood dimmed in stages—porch lights flicking on one by one, warm squares of yellow glowing through wide, uncovered windows. Somewhere down the street, laughter carried faintly. A dog barked once, then twice, then went quiet again.

As your brain processed the information Steve had given you, you moved through the motions anyway. 

Teeth brushed. Face washed. Lights turned off and on in the right order. The kind of routine that would look normal from the outside, mundane and unremarkable to anyone paying attention.

The thought sat in the back of your mind, somewhat panicked and loud, but also a constant, steady pressure. 

You dried your hands slowly on a towel, eyes flicking briefly to the mirror. Your reflection stared back—hair dried and silky, skin still warm from the shower, expression carefully neutral.

Steve stood near the dresser, back half-turned to you, pulling a t-shirt over his head. The fabric stretched sinf— normallyacross his shoulders before falling into place, softening the sharp lines of him into something more… domestic.

You watched him through the mirror without meaning to, picking up a book, turning on his bedside lamp, and crawling under the covers of your bed, letting the light comforter rest on his legs and hips while he flipped through the pages with his back resting against his pillows and the headboard.

You bit your lip, thoughts blooming fast and messy under your skull, and flicked the lights in the bathroom off, walking towards your side of the bed. 

Your short camisole shifted through the air as you moved, light and soft, brushing against your thighs. Steve's eyes immediately clocking your bare legs before he forced them onto the words in front of him. 

You laid onto your side and closed the distance between you in one smooth motion, your body fitting against his side like that's where it was always supposed to be. 

Your arm slid across his waist, your cheek pressed lightly against the plane of his pecs, and you felt the very warm, solid, real muscle of him under your face go completely still. 

Not in any subtle way, you could feel the exact moment his brain short-circuited.

He turned his face just enough to look down and meet your gaze. His expression screamed an unfiltered "what the hell?"while yours softly said "we have to sell it."

He shifted, turning just enough so he wasn’t facing away from you anymore, his arm coming up—hesitant for half a second—before settling around you, his hand resting on your forearm, thumb tracing soothing patterns on the soft, moisturized skin. 

As you laid there, the cogs in your brain turned. You bit the inside of your cheek lightly, the more he believes it, the quicker we get out. 

You moved forward, your hand pressed against his chest, using him for leverage as you pushed yourself up, swinging one leg over his hips in a smooth, deliberate motion until you were straddling him.

The poor book slid uselessly to rest on the mattress on the other side of his body. You nuzzled your face into his neck, pretending to pepper kisses on the skin there, and Steve stiffened up.

His hands instinctively came up, not grabbing or even stopping you, just hovering at your waist like he didn’t know where they were allowed to go.

Your mouth lingered by his pulse point just long enough to make it convincing before you spoke, your breath hot against his skin. "Play along." You whispered.

You felt the tension in him—every muscle coiled, controlled, restrained in a way that had nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with the position you’d just put him in.

“Sweetheart,” he said, louder now, his tone shifting seamlessly, to something warmer, rougher, like it belonged to someone else. “You trying to kill me?”

From the outside, it sounded like a joke. A husband amused by his wife.

You tilted your head, letting your lips ghost just below his ear. “You just been working so much lately,” you murmured, just loud enough to carry.

His grip on you flexed, and he leaned into it. 

“I know, baby, I know,” he said, voice dropping, threading something you hadn’t heard from him since he had your face pressed into a sparring mat through it as his hands settled more firmly at your hips, anchoring you there. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Your stomach flipped, shameful heat pooling low in your core even though you tried to ignore it and call it by a different name. 

His fingers pressed just slightly, grounding, guiding, selling the illusion with an ease that made your pulse stutter.

Steve moved, fast as always, one second you were on top of him, the next your back hit the mattress, making it dip hard beneath you as he flipped you with practiced ease, your breath catching as his weight settled above you, caging you in without quite touching.

His face dipped toward yours, close enough that your noses almost brushed.

“What you’re doing,” he murmured against your ear, his breath warm, controlled, “is reckless.”

Your fingers curled slightly into his shirt, heart beating too fast, and you tilted your head just enough to whisper back, your tone soft and teasing, so low he almost didn't hear it. “So is getting caught.”

You tilted your neck up, and your lips connected with his.

It had been weeks of little pecks, prim and proper kisses in front of your neighbors, just enough to sell it on the outside. 

Holding his face in your hands and actually kissing Steve Rogers felt like a completely different experience. 

His tongue licked into your mouth with an intention you never really expected from Steve. Specially a Steve that was faking it. Your hands roamed the plane of his shoulders, trying to make it seem like the actual rustling of sheets one would expect of a couple who was going to—

He should really take this shirt off. 

And so your hands went to the hem of his white cotton shirt, pulling it up. Steve reluctantly let you take it off of him, leaving him only in the grey boxers that let you see he wasn't faking that much. 

"Oh my God," You whispered. "Are you serious?" That was more of a hiss. Was he seriously getting hard right now?

"I know," He whispered back, annoyed, frustrated, "I know. Just shut up about it."

Oh.

He wanted you to shut up about it. He wanted you to—

The petty part of your brain took over, and before you couldn't think of a less reckless thing to do, you squeezed your legs tighter around him, bringing his bulge flush against your clothed pussy. 

"O-oh—" Steve was surprised, not about the pettiness, but at the action itself. You bit your lip, almost proud of yourself, and tilted your hips up.

That earned you a scolding look. 

"Mmm," you breathed, just loud enough to carry, your voice shifting instantly to a soft, breathy, higher pitched version of yourself. "Fuck, baby, right there."

Steve's ears were ringing. Mostly because he didn't know what to do with his hard cock rubbing up and down against you. “Relax,” you murmured against his jaw, barely moving your lips. “You sound like you’re filing paperwork.”

He huffed softly, turning it into something that passed. “Maybe I like paperwork,” he muttered.

You scoffed. “You do not.”

“You don’t know that.” He whined softly against you. 

"You need to actually move your hips, Steve. Video needs to look like you're fucking your wife." You whispered in his ear. 

It's not like he couldn't feel how wet you were, slick pressing through the cotton of your panties and onto his underwear, darkening a spot there. 

“You’re unbelievable,” he breathed low, close to your ear.

“Say it louder,” you shot back quietly.

“You’re unbelievable,” he repeated, louder, tone shifting, like it meant something entirely different now.

Your heels dug into his ass cheeks, pulling him closer and closer to you, and closer and closer to the edge. 

You could feel the length of him twitch with each pass of his hips, and you pictured the leaking head of him making a mess out of the inside of his boxers, precum slicking him all over. 

“Okay—” he muttered quickly under his breath, breaking the moment before it could stretch too far. “We need a time frame. We can’t just—keep going forever.”

“Two minutes,” you whispered. “Make it believable.”

“Two minutes?” he echoed, actually offended. “That’s insulting.”

The thought of it sent heat down your core. His face was buried in your neck, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as your hands threaded through his hair. "Talk about me." Another perfectly placed thrust that nudged your clit. "'bout how I feel."

Steve grinded his teeth like he was fighting a mental battle between letting himself be consumed by this moment, and being proper. 

You nudged him again with your heel. 

"Nice and tight, sweetheart." He let his voice carry, surprisingly unwavering for how close he was. "Never get enough of your pussy."

What in the fuckity fuck?

Steve?

He almost said your name, your very real name, too lost in himself, letting his rhythm build up much too realistically, his thrusts deeper, the bulge now rubbing and nudging your clothed entrance as well. 

Your could hear the sound of wet fabric shifting, your panties getting caught and letting one lip slip out of safety and closer to Steve's leaking cock. 

"Frank," You said loudly, trying to catch his attention without success. "Frank." You tried again, more stern, being met with the same squeezed-shut eyes you tried to get an answer from. You dropped your voice low, hushed like a secret. "Steve."

That made him open his eyes, powder blue irises staring at you as his thursts hit a spot that had him moaning, stuttering over his own breath.

And spilling all inside his boxers, looking right into your eyes. 

His hips stuttered, almost as if his body wanted to milk itself dry, and his breathing slowed. 

You were speechless, big wide eyes looking up at him, genuinely not knowing what to say.

Both of you stared at each other in shock, horror, confusion as to why it felt so good to do that without someone who managed to get under your skin without even trying. 

You stayed like that until you felt the warm trickle of his seed seep through the cotton of his boxers and onto the front of your panties.

Steve dropped back to his side of the bed, and both of you avoided each other's gaze, just staring at the ceiling. 

"Are we—"

“…go to sleep,” you muttered.

Whatever Fisk needed proof of, seemingly he got it, since both you and Steve got invited the the biggest 4th of July bash of the neighborhood. 

Right at the belly of the beast. 

The whole backyard looked like something out of a magazine. 

String lights draped across the perimeter, glowing warm against the deep navy of the night sky, fireworks already starting to crackle faintly in the distance. 

The lawn stretched wide and immaculate, dotted with clusters of people holding drinks in delicate glasses, laughter spilling easily between them like nothing in the world could touch this place.

It was loud, busy, perfect, and underneath it all— wrong.

Steve had light wash jeans and a light blue polo on, you had a strapless summer dress and one of his linen shirts on, the shirt unbuttoned to give the air of a casual outing. 

You stood near one of the long tables, fingers loosely wrapped around a Moscow Mule you hadn’t touched, your eyes scanning without looking like you were scanning. Steve was across the yard, pulled into a circle of men near the grill, one of them mid-story, the others laughing at something you couldn’t quite hear from this distance.

And there she was.

Blonde, tall, and much too interested in your— Steve.

Her hand landed on his arm like she’d been waiting for an excuse, your eyes narrowed at her as you shoved a piece of salami and cheese into your mouth.

“That's Sharon.” Julie’s voice chimed in beside you, far too cheerful for how observant she actually was. “She's new. Came to stay with her aunt a bit, they live a few strees back. Divorced. Which means she’s—”

“—looking,” you finished lightly, before finally taking a sip of your drink like you hadn’t already clocked every detail.

Julie laughed. “Exactly.”

Your eyes flicked back to Steve. He hadn’t moved away, hadn’t stepped back, hadn’t even noticed.

Of course he hadn’t.

He was listening—really listening—to whatever the man next to him was saying, nodding slightly, relaxed in that effortless way that made people lean in closer without thinking about it.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, lowering her voice just enough to feel conspiratorial. “If he's anything like Dex, he's clueless. They don’t even realize when they’re being flirted with.”

You hummed softly. "He is clueless, alright."

“He’s very charming,” Julie added, watching you now instead of them. “Frank, I mean.”

Your lips curved. “He has his moments.”

Julie giggled, and you finished downing your drink, making your way to him, wrapping a hand around his perfectly sculped bicep and turning on your smile to the sweetest setting possible. 

His body reacted immediately, adjusting to your touch like it always belonged there. His gaze dropped to you, surprise flickering for half a second before smoothing into something softer.

“Hey,” he said, one hand coming up to rest at your hip without thinking about it.

“Hi,” you replied, tilting your head up toward him, your smile warm in a way that felt almost too real. “Sorry,” you said sweetly, not sounding sorry at all. “Am I interrupting?”

She blinked, then smiled tightly back at you. “Not at all.” Steve’s hand pressed slightly into your hip, a silent question that you answered it by leaning just a fraction closer into him.

“We were just talking about the neighborhood,” she continued.

“Were you?” you asked, your tone light, but your grip on Steve tightening just enough to be felt.

“Oh—yes,” she said, glancing briefly at him. “Frank was just telling us about his work.”

“Mm,” you hummed, eyes flicking up to his. “He works too much.”

Steve’s brows lifted slightly. “Oh, I do?”

“You do,” you said simply, sighing longingly, your fingers sliding absently against his side like it was second nature. “I barely see you anymore.”

Sharon laughed softly. “That’s a shame.” Steve lifted the beer up to his lips and took a swing.

“It is,” you agreed, smiling again. “But I make sure he makes up for it.”

Steve choked on his drink. Actually choked. Coughed once, quickly covering it with a laugh that didn’t quite hide the surprise.

His hand flexed at your hip. “Yeah,” he said, voice dropping just slightly as he looked down at you, something new threading through it. “I do.”

For a moment it didn't feel like pretending, but it also didn't feel real. It felt like a limbo much too similar to five years ago, when he first recruited you into SHIELD by accident. 

FIVE YEARS EARLIER

Colombia had been too hot. The humid, muggy weather made your skin sticky, a sheen coat of sweat all over your arms and legs, even though you were only wearing a white tanktop and a flowy, maxi floral skirt. 

Music was bleeding from open windows, people crowding narrow streets, making it the kind of place where mistakes didn’t just cost you the mission.

They cost you everything.

You’d been handling it just fine, up until you weren’t. The intel had been wrong. Or incomplete. Or leaked.

You didn’t know which yet—only that the second you stepped into that dim, crowded cantina, something in your gut twisted. Too many eyes, too many men pretending to drink, too many sharp ears and even sharper looks. 

You were planning an exit strategy, a way to get out of here with as few scratches and as many of these men killed. Mid counting how many thing you could use as a weapon, in walked a picture perfect specimen. 

Muscles everywhere, blond hair lightened even more by the sun, the faintest sunburn across his nose and cheeks making his blue eyes stand out more. 

You turned slightly, lifting your drink to your lips like you were just another woman trying to cool off, not someone seconds away from deciding how many people she might have to kill.

He clocked the men immediately. 

And then he clocked you. His broad frame faked a smile at you and stepped quickly to stand beside you at the bar, hand resting on your hip.

“Don’t,” he muttered under his breath, pretending to try to get the bartender's attention.

“Don’t what?” you shot back just as quietly, adjusting your sunglasses on your head like you were annoyed at them and happy to see him, not seconds away from being cornered.

“They’re looking for someone,” he said.

“I know.” A beat where he leaned down to whisper in your ear.

“They’re closing exits.”

And you responded through gritted teeth and a smile. “I noticed.” You let your body rest closer to his, feeling the heat radiating off of him.

Outside, thunder and lightning started, and a summer storm came pouring down. 

“Babe,” you said, loud enough to carry, tilting your head up at him like you were teasing. “You said one drink.”

He leaned into you, his hand sliding from your waist to your lower back, pulling you closer in a way that felt practiced.

“Yeah?” he shot back easily. “Thought you wanted to see more of the place.”

“Oh, I do,” you laughed lightly, fingers curling into his shirt. “Just… from inside a bedroom window right now." You leaned in closer, lowering your voice just enough to make it look intimate, like you were sharing something private instead of tracking his every movement.

“Relax your shoulders,” you murmured.

He huffed softly—almost a laugh, almost something else—and adjusted just slightly, his grip tightening at your lower back like he was settling into the role instead of fighting it.

A beat passed between you—quick, sharp, charged—and then he leaned in closer, his mouth ghosting just along your temple.

“Storm’s our out,” he whispered. “We gotta go.”

“Come on,” you said, tugging gently at his shirt, turning your body into his as thunder cracked loud enough to rattle the windows. “I am not ruining my hair for this.”

“Tragic,” he murmured, letting you pull him toward the back hallway.

The rain hit hard the second you stepped out of the main room—heavy, sudden, loud enough to drown out most of the noise behind you. The narrow corridor smelled like damp wood and cheap liquor, dimly lit and barely used.

Perfect.

Your hand stayed fisted in his shirt as you stumbled slightly—just enough to sell it—as he caught you, his arm tightening instinctively around your waist.

“Careful, sweetheart.” he said, louder now, for anyone who might still be listening. “You’re gonna slip.”

The back door burst open under his hand.

Rain poured down in sheets, warm and relentless, soaking the edges of your skirt instantly as you both stepped out into the alley behind the cantina.

Steve looked around to make sure no one followed, he kept you closer than necessary as you moved, your bodies angled into each other like you were shielding yourselves from the storm instead of disappearing into it.

One block, then another, until you were far away and safe in the back alley of the Sofitel. Your clothes were soaked, as were his, your shirt basically see through, you kept moving, pulling him down the short hallway and into the first unlocked door you found—some storage room or unused guest space, it didn’t matter.

The door shut behind you with a soft click. Steve walked in last, and you didn't put distance between you two, though right now looking at him through wet lashes you wish you did.

His eyes reflected the gloomy sky outside, his lips were pink and plump, and you felt yourself being drawn closer and closer to him, as did he. 

The storm outside cracked again, lightning flashing briefly through the thin curtains, illuminating the space in stark white for half a second, loud thunder taking you out of your trance, Steve jerking away like he was burned. 

"I, uh… I think we lost them." Your voice was shaky and unsure. 

“Not bad,” he added, quieter now, his eyes flicking over your face like he was reassessing something.

You scoffed lightly. “High praise.”

PRESENT

“Fireworks are about to start,” someone called from across the yard.

And just like that, the moment broke, and your attentions turned to the mission at hand: while everyone is distracted, get into Fisk's office and copy all of his intel. 

Steve leaned down slightly as people shifted away in the direction of the fireworks, his lips brushing near your ear, voice low. “You’re laying it on thick.”

“Am I?” you murmured back, sly smirk playing on your lips.

“A little.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "You should go for the office. I'll keep watch."

Steve looked at you like he wanted to say something, but nodded and snuck away, your eyes immediately making sure all persons of interest were accounted for and not in the office. 

The party swelled around you.

Fireworks cracked overhead in bursts of red and gold, laughter spilling across Fisk’s perfectly manicured lawn, glasses clinking, music humming low beneath it all.

Steve had been gone for about five minutes when you noticed Dex was gone mid conversation with Claire and her husband Matthew. You saw the little flop of blonde hair make its way into the house and your blood ran cold. 

Steve.

“I’m gonna grab another drink,” you said lightly, lifting your empty glass as proof, bee-lining up the stairs on the porch and to the kitchen. 

You moved like you weren’t tracking footsteps that weren’t yours, counting seconds, mapping distance in your head.

You slipped inside through the side door, heels soft against polished floors, your breath steady even as your pulse kicked harder.

You moved faster, turning the corner just in time to see the office door slightly ajar, light spilling out onto the hallway, and footsteps approaching from the opposite direction.

You pushed the door open and slipped inside, Steve standing by the big mahogany table with a thumbdrive pluggesd into the desktop, downloading everything.

“What—”

“Dex,” you cut him off, already crossing the room. “Coming.” His expression shifted instantly, worry, anxiety, combat. 

A shadow passed the crack of the door and you closed the distance between you, pushing yourself to sit on top of the table and pulled Steve to stand between your legs. Your hands grabbed his shirt, yanking him down toward you hard enough to make him stumble.

He exhaled harshly the second your lips touched, tasting the vanilla macadamia flavor of your lipgloss. Your tongue licked into his mouth and one of his hands found the plane of your back, the other bracing against the desk behind you as he backed you further into it, the impact soft but enough to sell it.

“Mm—” you exhaled softly, the sound slipping out before you could stop it.

Your fingers thread through his hair as you sighed against him, losing yourself in the cedarwood of his cologne, the taste of beer on his tongue, and— 

The door creaked open lgithly with someone's breathy "oh." coming through at the sight.

You didn't pull away, didn't even flinch. If anything, you leaned in more, your body pressing fully into his, your mouth lingering just long enough to make the moment undeniable.

You heard a the sound of someone clearing their throat, and that made both of you break apart. Your lips brushed his once more before you turned your head, like you’d just noticed her. “Oh—” you said, a little breathless, but smiling.

“Sharon,” your eyes widened slightly when you looked behind you, a flush creeping into your expression like you’d been caught.

Her gaze drifted from his hands on you to the hem of your summer dress, pulled up and draped high on your thighs, then up to your hands in his hair and Steve's face — his expression a mix of very confused, flustered, and fucked out. 

Steve cleared his throat, stepping back just slightly, like he was trying to recover something that had already slipped.

“We were just—”

“—busy,” you finished easily, sliding off the desk but not moving far from him.

“…right,” she said after a second, her lips pressing into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Well, enjoy the, uh… the party."

You stifled a laugh, biting your lip, as she walked away leaving the door open behind her. You hopped off the desk as Steve got his brain working again. 

“What the hell was that?” His voice cut through it, low and sharp.

You shrugged. "Saved your ass, you're welcome." You smoothed the hem of your dress against your thighs and walked around the desk, making your way out the door as Steve hushedly called out for you, swiming the thumb drive into his pocket before following you out of the house. 

Your heels hit the pavement in sharp, even beats, your jaw locked, your eyes fixed straight ahead like if you didn’t look back, he wouldn’t follow.

Fuck him and his long legs that caught up to you as soon as you reached your lawn. 

You stormed into your kitchen, pushing the door closed quicky to slam it behind you, but making it hit Steve on the shoulder as he crowded the space behind you. “Hey—” he pushed still, stepping closer. “No, seriously. What was that?”

You still gave him nothing, your jaw tightened. You stood with your back to the kitchen island, fingers gripping the marble, biting your own cheek. Your gaze stayed anywhere but him.

“That wasn’t about getting caught,” he said. “You knew she—” Then it seemed to dawn on him.  “You kissed me to make her jealous.” His voice was incredulous, almost like he solved a decade long mystery right then and there. "You were jealous."

You scoffed, still not meeting his eye. "Jealous? Over you? Plea—"

He crowded you even more now, bending down to look for your gaze and force you to meet his, sly smile playing on his lips. "You were jealous."

You huffed, finally looking into his eyes, sunlight playing on his face making the blue just a tad lighter. Steve had his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, almost waiting for a response from you. 

For what it felt like a second and a day all at once, your brain went numb. 

And then your hands were on each side of his face, bringing his lips to crash into yours. 

Steve's lips were warm against your mouth in the same way they were minutes ago. He stepped forward, towering over you making you tilt your head up to keep the kiss going, his hands grabbing your hips as he pressed you against the counter. 

He licked into your mouth and your hands fell to the nape of his neck, his shoulders, and finally his arms.

Steve leaned over, pushing you back further, until you had no more oxygen to burn in your lungs and you broke the kiss, making him kiss your jaw, below your ear, and down your neck. "You had no reason to be jealous, you know."

He grinded his hips against yours, letting you feel the length of him hardening by the minute. "'M not jealous." You felt underwater, dizzy, borderline having fuzzies in your vision. 

Steve chuckled against your neck, the warm breath making shivers run down your spine, his hands dropping to graze outside of your thighs. "Mmhmm." His right hand brushed over your thigh and made it way to your core, tickling the skin of your inner thigh. 

His fingers quickly found the wet spot on the front of your underwear, kissing his way back towards your lips. When he pressed deep circled into it, he felt you sigh into his mouth.

"Steve… People might see…"

"Don't care" he pressed his fingers harder, until your hips were bucking to get more friction, and you were whining against him. Words came muffled against your mouth. "Not jealous, huh? Didn't want me a single bit, right?"

You scoffed despite youself, "You're the one that came into your pants the other day." 

That did it. 

Skin to skin. His rough fingers sliding through your soaked slit, dragging your arousal across your folds, teasing you right at the entrance. You broke off mid-sentence, a soft whimper catching in your throat.

His thumb easily found your clit, and one of your hands squeezed around his bicep while the other pulled at the hair at the nape of his neck, your moans getting breathier and breathier by the minute.

His fingers thrusted in and out of you bringing you to an edge so close you could taste it, letting out little pants by the crook of his neck, inflating Steve's ego, making more blood rush south. "Wanna try that again?"

He curled them just right, your slick coating his knuckles as your hips twitched against his hand.

Your head fell back, lips parting on a desperate moan. "N-not jealous…" through gritted teeth, making him click his tongue. 

"Suit yourself." And just like that, his fingers were gone, slick mess on your thighs and an unsatisfied beast inside of you.

"Steve, what the—"

He pulled away the slightest bit and bent down, lacing his arm around your legs and throwing you over his shoulder, walking away in the direction of the stairs.

Steve nudged your bedroom door open once you got upstairs and flopped you down on the bed, making you bounce on the mattress.

He hovered over you, settling between your legs and rubbing the heat of him against you, while one if his hands snuck to the back of your dress and pulled the zipper down. He pulled the clothing item down your body as he kissed the same path, and soon you were only in his shirt and a thong.

Your legs opened to accommodate him further, thighs falling to your sides, and he slotted himself chest to mattress, lips barely an inch away from your pussy. Steve kissed your inner thigh once, then again, and your fingers threaded through his hair. 

"She's wetter than that night," He spoke softly, but his voice had a dark tone to it, blue eyes staring up at you. "Can't blame me from coming in my boxers when," and a bite to your flesh. "you were grinding a wet spot onto me, honey."

Fuck him and that nickname. 

His middle finger came to curl beyond the hem, pulling the sticky wet fabric down your thighs, and both of his thumbs spread your lips, watching your hole clench around nothing. 

His gaze once again reached yours, almost asking for permission. 

You didn't seem to be able to find it in you to say anything, not a single word but a quiet "Please." leaving your lips. 

The second his tongue touched your slit, you were all the way back in that mission in Colombia. Wet, horny, and almost begging him.

At the first taste of you, one would think Steve got possessed, quickly settling further into the mattress and wrapping his arms around your thighs, holding them open. "F-fuck, Steve—"

He groaned against you, the vibration going through you like electricity through water. His tongue traced your entrance, nose nudging your clit, and your back arched off the bed slightly, pushing your hips closer to his face.

Steve's fingers pressed against the tops of your thighs with bruising strength, not that you minded. 

Not at all. 

He licked zigzag patterens up and down your slit, and then would circle your clit with his tongue, sucking the nerves into his mouth and flicking it. "O-oh my God."

He chuckled into you, "Stop squirming." 

Like you could help it. Like it was your damn fault he let Sharon touch him and flirt with him and all but forced you to make sure everyone bought this sham of a marriage. 

"Easier— fuck me, easier said than done, Rogers." Your nails scratched deeper into his scalp.

Steve angled his head differently so he could tense his tongue and fuck you while his thumb moved from your thigh to rub quick circles onto your clit. 

Your thighs closed around his head, eyes squeezing shut as you heard him breathe heavy against you. Steve's other hand landed on your breast, kneading the skin there, pinching and pulling a nipple drawing a mewl out of you. 

"Steve, Steve, I'm— fuck, I'm gonna—"

You really shouldn't have told him, though he'd know you were close judging by the little flutters of your walls around his tongue. 

He pulled away harshly, chin slick and lips swollen, his hair a mess from you running your fingers through it. 

He stood by the foot of the bed, stripping down to nothing watching your dumbfounded fucked out expression. Your hair was matted, your nipples were hard, and there was a wet spot on the white comforter under you. 

In front of you, though, stood 230lbs of pure, unadultered, perfectly sculped by God, blond 100% American Prime Steve Rogers. 

Standing naked, tall, thick and proud.

And hard.

Your mouth salivated at the sight, looking at the leaking head of him appear and disappear inside his fist with each slick stroke he gave himself. Steve caught your ankle with his other hand, and pulled you to the edge of the bed, your toes touching the soft carpet of the bedroom.

He turned you around, fingers gripping the linen of his shirt you had on, dragging it down your arms but not over your wrists, twisting the fabric around his own fist. 

And just like that, you were face and shoulders down on the mattress with your wrists tied behind you, feeling him rub the head of his cock up and down your puffy slit, coating himself in your wetness. 

Steve heard a muffled whine from you, any words being impacted by the fabric of the bedding, "What was that, sweetheart?" He leaned over you, the tip of him notching just a smidge further. 

You turned your head to the side. "Steve, please…"

He clicked his tongue again. "No, you didn't want me, remember? Think I shouldn't even be doing this to you."

He motioned to pull out and you whined louder. "She— she was all o-over you…" Tears pricked your eyes from the pressure in your chest, from the ache between your legs, from the desperation of being kept at the edge. 

“Steve, please put it in…”

"Yeah?" He gave you the cue to keep going, pushing in unbearably slow and barely any. 

You nodded against the mattress. "Pissed me off." You gulped. "Please, please don't leave me like this…"

"All you had to do was stop being such a brat about it."

And then he thrust in enough to knock the air out of your lungs. The squelch of his cock pushing into you was obscene. And in your mind every inch he pushed after that thrust had one though going through your head:

There's more?!

"Oh God…"

That made Steve chuckle. "Just me, baby."

"Is— is it all in?" Your voice trembled, and if you had a mirror you'd see Steve's evil smirk as he dragged your wrists down to where your bodies connected, arching your back and hurting you with the stretch, only to wrap your delicate hands around what was left of him.

"Barely half." He grunted.

You whimpered, both in fear and anticipation, and Steve took the queue to push the rest of the way through, until your hand was flat on his pelvis, and then he let you rest against the mattress again. 

"So fucking good." He gave a couple tentative thrusts. "Can feel you gripping me like you don't wanna let me go."

You moaned at the feel of him hitting that sweet spot inside of you, making your eyes roll. "So— hah! Good, Steve…"

After he felt your pussy get used to the size of him, that when he really stopped playing nice. 

You could feel every ridge of him, every vein, the length of him pulsing and pulsing inside of you, throbbing against the spongy spot that made you see stars.

“Steve, please, please let me—“

Another harsh thrust interrupted you. “Tell me the truth then.”

You whimpered. The bastard was really going to make you admit it.

As you tried to think through it, brainless as you were, he slowed down, and down, until you could feel the pulse of his cock inside of you just as he could feel your walls flutter around him.

You whimpered, cheeks blushing at the thought. “I was jealous! I was jealous, okay?!” You pushed your hips into him, chasing friction harder, deeper.

“She thought she could have you and— and—“ He picked up the pace, your brain mush as your neck strained to keep your voice from being muffled. “And you’re my— Oh— oh my God!”

“Yeah?” Steve leaned over you, fingers finding your clit with ease. “I’m your what?”

You could cry. You could cry right no— oh you had tears streaming from your eyes onto the bedding. “Steve…”

His eyes rolled to the back of his head.

“That’s right, I’m your Steve.” His fingers picked up speed as did his hips, lips kissing your shoulder blade. “Come for me, pretty girl. Come all over my cock.”

“Mmmmngghhh—“ your vision went white, your body clenching tight around him and pulsing, as your moans got drowned out outside by the fireworks still going.

Steve slammed his hips deeper into you, to the point of almost painful, muttering curse words in sequence of “fuck, fuck, fuck.” until you felt him spill thick ropes of cum inside of you, filling you up until it dripped onto the floor.

As you both caught your breaths, you heard the wet schlick of him pulling out, dropping himself on the bed with a bounce.

After a minute, you spoke. "There's gonna be so much paperwork to explain all this..."

He looked at an imaginary watch on his wrist, turning to you with that boyish smile of his, sheen coat of sweat on his chest and hairline. “Got time for a couple more rounds before all that. You tapped out?”

You smirked at him, using your arms to push yourself up, hands on his chest for leverage as you straddled him, slick pussy on top of his hardening cock.

“I could do this all day, Cap.”

final thoughts: this started as me and Maddie just thirsting over the shower scene, and then... yeah... heh

“No. I know what I’m doing,” you lied, holding the cards up to your face to where he could only see your taunting eyes. 

You slowly shifted your gaze up to him, wanting to seem more confident with your small collection of cards than you actually were. 

You had learnt more about playing poker by watching the team play friendly games on the jet. You’d always sit close by, half-asleep, focusing mostly on Spencer just because he hated when you watched him play. 

You’d try to get a glimpse of his cards for no reason other than to mess with him, because what would you use that information for? 

Today, you officially had your first six poker games against Spencer. 

“Come on, just show me your cards,” he sighed, reaching over to the cards in your hands. 

“Absolutely not!” you hissed, bringing the cards flat against your chest. 

“I’m actually gonna kill both of you if you don’t put those cards away.” Emily groaned, picking her forehead off the hard wood, glaring at the two of you, and covering her ears to block out every possible sound you two were making. 

“Don’t be a party pooper, Em.” you playfully rolled your eyes at her, glancing over, and taking in how terribly tired she looked. 

“You’re yelling in my ear,” she rubbed her eyes harshly before dropping her head back down on the table with a dull thud. 

“Sorry,” you whispered, politely pulling your lips into a thin line. 

You took in a deep breath, catching your top lip between your teeth in deep thought before leaning your elbows on the table. 

Although the two of you agreed to no profiling during the game, that was nearly impossible to avoid—the only signs of how the game was going you could rely on as an amateur were his microexpressions. 

You couldn’t help but catch the slight twitch of the right corner of his lip when the queen of spades hit the board, so you took a leap of faith to conclude that you'd helped him somehow. 

You didn’t know the exact math, but you knew that Spencer could destroy you right now if he wanted to. 

Instead, his fingers idly traced the edges of his cards as he stared at your chest where you’d held the papers a few moments ago, unable to peel his eyes away. 

Staring at every inch of your skin was a habit that slowly grew over the past few months—undeniable proof that Spencer had become a dog at your feet. 

He’d fuck you with nothing but that filthy look of his eyes—mapping out your body shamelessly when he thought no one was looking. 

“Do you have a nine?” he finally looked up to your eyes after staring for way too long. 

You bit the inside of your cheek, unsure of how truthful you wanted to be, “Yes.” you nodded. 

“And do you have a king?”

“Why’d you look at my fucking cards?” you whisper yelled, furrowing your brows as you leaned closer to him from across the board. 

“I didn’t.” 

You’d missed a very easy win—a straight. It was a hit to your ego, even though Spencer hadn’t rubbed it in your nose that you missed such an obvious, basic move when he usually would. 

You placed the two cards in the small space between you two. 

Spencer always had an unyielding need to overpower you intellectually during working hours, because that was the only way he could keep a lick of his dignity anymore.

So his so-called help didn’t seem right. 

“What cards do you have?” you tilted your head, having a certain feeling that he’d managed to trick you so he could win. 

Spencer folded his cards over onto the board, hiding them close to his side before taking in a deep breath, “You won.” he simply said.

Your brain was nearly entirely fried that you didn’t register his words immediately. 

“First win after six rounds,” he sounded smug, “I see great potential.” the words that left his lips miserably failed to hide his disgustingly beautiful smirk as he gave you a nod of mock satisfaction.

There it was, his undying need of proving that he’s superior.  

Spencer told himself that he’d let you win purely out of pity, but deep down he knew that one of his many guilty pleasures is seeing you so self-satisfied after scarring his pride whenever you got the chance.

 And he was giving you a tiny chance at that, missing your shit-eating grin after six rounds of beating you. 

Winning didn’t taste as good as losing to you. 

“Pack it up,” Hotch announced, stepping into the room, the heavy click of his dress shoes filling the quiet space, “We’re heading to the hotel. We have to share rooms due to some last-minute booking shortages, so pair up.”

“Reid.”

Spencer only hummed, looking up at Hotch.

“I don’t wanna see those cards tomorrow.” he warned, raising his brows up for a moment. 

“Yes, sir.” Spencer buttered, slight embarrassment evident in his voice. 

Emily practically bolted upright at the word ‘hotel’, her eyes instantly losing their dead glaze, “Thank god,”   

“My beautiful Emily-” you clasped your hands together, tilting your head to the side with the sweetest look you could muster. 

“I love you so much,” Emily slowly stretched her arms up after they’d been wedged under her head for too long, “but I cannot bear your voice for another second. I’m going with JJ.”

“Ouch?”

“That’s what you get for blabbing the entire time we were playing,” Spencer shook his head, stiffly packing his cards back into their small cardboard box, avoiding eye contact entirely. 

“You’re not any better, Reid.” Morgan quickly picked up his file off the round table, turning to the door as if he’s trying to evade the question Spencer was certainly about to ask him. 

Of course, Derek wouldn’t pass up on the only single room available. 

In no time, you and Spencer were the only ones left between the four sterile white walls, “Looks like you’re stuck with me.” you murmured, forcing his eyes to flicker up at you. 

Spencer’s hand faltered, a single card slipping from his fingers onto the table. He didn’t respond, but the faint shade of pink tinting the tips of his ears told you everything you needed to know.  

--

You headed to the shared hotel room before Spencer, leaving him behind as he trailed along with Hotch and Rossi—most probably interrogating them about the sudden booking issues that came up. 

And knowing Spencer, he was certainly begging one of the two to switch rooms with him but the pair were inseparable. 

You lazily dropped your go-bag on the twin bed tucked in the far left corner of the room, and unzipped it. The long day of working on a case with little to no leads had sucked out all your energy and left you frustrated and exhausted with a barely functioning brain.  

Being neat was the last thing you cared about at that moment, so you took out some of the bag’s contents as you looked for a change of clothes for the night, throwing them on the bed. 

After finding a pair of cotton sleep shorts and an oversized tee shirt, you reached underneath your skirt, hooking your fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down, and stepping out of them before carelessly tossing them next to the open bag. 

You grabbed your clean clothes and slipped into the bathroom to wash up and change. 

The sound of the door clicking shut was the signal of Spencer’s arrival, reminding you of what hell you had to deal with tonight. 

A few minutes passed and there was no movement in the room. 

You had no idea what Spencer was doing. 

The red fabric of your used panties was like a trap, making him stand weirdly close to your side of the room, tilting his head slightly forward, trying to get a better look at the delicate fabric as he shamelessly licked his lips.

Spencer was under a spell, his tall frame facing your bed, standing a few feet away from it. 

The unadulterated hunger that crept into his chest was borderline sinful, and he hated how a piece of fabric had such an effect on him. 

All he could do was picture you, taking off the fabric, completely bare like he’d seen you many times before. So perfect. 

The image of you had burnt itself in the back of his eyes ever since the first time he got to see your naked body. It was a visual that made him more grateful for his eidetic memory than ever. 

He had used the mental image of you so many times in the past few weeks. Obsessing over it when he couldn’t fall asleep at night, jerking off to the crystal-clear replay of you dismantling him before coming embarrassingly fast. 

The things he’d done to you in his head were nothing short of depraved, and he’d drop dead if anyone ever found out about his guiltiest pleasure—you. 

You swung the door open, stepping into the room with no intention of being met with a paralyzed Spencer. 

“What are you doing?”

Spencer whipped his head to your direction—feeling like a deer in headlights. 

“Nothing.” he lied, almost stuttering over the few letters leaving his mouth. 

He was caught. 

You placed your fists on your hips, tilting your head to the side as you made your way further into the room, “What the fuck are you doing, Reid?” you demanded an answer he clearly didn’t have. 

“I was just- I didn’t-” he pointed at the used panties then a random direction as if that would help him out. 

“You’re a total pervert, you know that?” A satisfied smirk cut across your face as you watched the crimson flood his neck, “I leave you alone for two minutes and you turn into a dog salivating over my underwear. Is that what you are, Reid? A little dog?”

He quickly shook his head, trying so hard to suck in the panic that was seeping through his pores, “N-no, my eyes just drifted, I swear-” he choked on his own breath as you took another step closer. 

“Oh, and you’re trying to lie to me too?” you raised your eyebrows, slightly bringing your chin in.

“You’re really racking up your debt with me. It’s like you want me to ruin you. Is that it?” you tipped your head back a little to get your face closer to his, “You’re acting out because you’re starving for the punishment I promised you?”

Spencer’s adam’s apple bobbed hard as you took a step closer, making the backs of his knees hit the edge of his bed. The only reprieve from your soul-sucking body he was painfully trying to resist was sinking down onto the bed. 

Spencer looked up at you, naked fear bubbling in his wide brown eyes. He was a condemned man staring up at his executioner.

No one’s ever made an effort to pick him apart and analyse his every move—but that’s exactly what you did, so you became his drug of choice. 

To Spencer, it didn’t matter that your attention was sick and completely reliant on using his most depraved desires for your own pleasure. All he could see was that you were using him. You were choosing to use his mind, body, and soul. 

You’d think that Spencer is smart enough to know that you don’t care about him, but that wasn’t the case. 

How could your overbearing consumption of him mean nothing? It certainly meant that he was seen. 

You’d look at him and not miss a thing—down to the invisible quiver of his lips. 

Spencer was two people in one, or maybe he was one split into two—torn between running to save his sanity, and pressing his throat harder against your blade. 

He understood that everything about this was wrong and it ate him alive. But to a man who’s been emotionally starved his entire life, cruel attention is still attention, and the guilt was worthless when all you do is pin him down and dig into the filthiest corners of his mind. 

You could easily map out the fractures in his psyche and use them as leverage. 

And god help him, he was letting you. 

Spencer was completely paralyzed beneath your gaze, waiting for your next move. 

“You’re a disgusting man,” your fingers roughly gripped his jaw, “now strip and get on all fours on the bed and I’ll give you what you deserve.” you murmured against his lips before dropping his chin as if his very skin repulsed you.

Spencer immediately obliged, his fingers trembling as they flew to the buttons of his shirt. His eyes followed you as you gracefully padded to your bed, rummaging through your unzipped bag at the edge of the white sheets. 

His hands grew clumsier as he started frantically unbuckling his belt, hoping to get in position before you walked back to him so he wouldn’t have to face you again. You’d make him speak—and that’s something he was incapable of at the moment. His long limbs shook as he shed his clothes and crumbled them up onto the corner of the bed. 

You had asked him to be in an exposing position that he’d never been in—offering himself blindly while his heart hammered against his ribs, almost cutting through the bones to jump out. 

Spencer pushed himself onto his hands and knees, his spine straightening as he shivered. 

When you finally plucked the small bottle of lube out of your bag, a wave of satisfaction settled in your chest. You had packed it before you left Virginia, long before the booking shortage forced you into this room, because you had planned on having fun and punishing him on this trip--Spencer just happened to hand you the perfect excuse on a silver platter. 

You picked up the pair of panties Spencer was ogling earlier, then turned your head to him to find his eyes fixated on the mattress beneath him—focusing on the space between his flattened hands on the bed. 

You walked up behind him—the sight of his backside entirely exposed just for you made excitement ripple straight to your core. You didn’t touch him yet. 

Instead, you draped the red cotton panties right in front of his face with your index finger. You leaned to the side to get a good look at his face as you dangled the fabric, making him instinctively raise his head. 

His glassy brown eyes zeroed on the maroon fabric that branded him disgusting in your eyes, his chest expanding as he took a deep breath, greedily breathing in your scent, unable to restrain himself.  

“I didn’t know you had it in you, Reid,” you said softly, flicking the panties away from his face, watching him involuntarily chase it, “Underneath the proper act you’re just a filthy little pervert who has to steal glances at a woman’s underwear to get off. Look at how hard you’re already getting.” you shook your head. 

From this angle, you could see the curve of his erection dangling beneath him, straining against his stomach, the pink tip already swollen and wet, weeping with a sheer glaze of precum. 

Spencer let out a ragged breath, his head bowing slightly under the weight of your gaze, but you gripped his jaw, forcing him to look back up at the fabric, “Very tempting, right?” the corners of your mouth turned up in a smug, teasing smirk as you shot your brows up. 

“I can’t help it,” he whispered, his throat bobbing. 

“I know it’s very easy to get you off, but this is really pathetic, Spencer.” you purred, your fingers scratching the stubble on his chin. 

“Stop,” his head grew heavy against your hand, the humiliation slowly getting to him, making him wonder why he’s letting you do this.

“Remember your safe word?” you whispered, your fingers carding through the curls at the nape of his neck, soothing the shiver running down his spine. 

He nodded, giving you his glassy puppy-dog eyes he knew you liked. 

You leaned down, pressing your soft lips onto his, “Good, because you know I have to fuck all the disrespect out of you.” 

“I know..” he breathed out quietly, “I know..”

“Good boy,” you patted his cheek lightly before pushing yourself of the bed, “pick a number,” 

Spencer’s throat bobbed as he stared down at the white sheets, “For what?”

“For whatever I wanna do to you,” you said simply, your tone matter-of-factly as you slid the thin tee shirt over your head before stepping out of your shorts and new underwear, leaving you completely bare at the foot of the bed behind him. 

His mouth parted slightly as he instinctively turned his head to look at you, “Ten.” 

A slow, wicked grin spread across your face as you took a step closer to the bed, your thighs hitting the edge of the plush mattress. 

You reached down, your fingertips feathering across the soft, pale skin of his round ass, “Let’s find out if your pretty ass can take ten strikes,”  

“Okay,” he whispered, his voice completely stripped of any argument, “I can take that,” 

Spencer’s words sounded like reassurance for himself—a quiet murmur to keep himself calm and still. 

“I want you to count for me,” you instructed, your hand flattening on his bare cheek, giving him a moment to brace himself and take a deep breath. 

The brief pause after your words was the only warning he got before you raised your hand just for it to quickly come down and connect with his flesh. 

The loud, raw sound of the slap filled the quiet room as Spencer’s frame jolted from the impact, wincing before blurting out, “One.” 

“Two!” Spencer’s voice grew smaller, swallowing the next sob as your hand slapped him again. His hips twitched, an instinctive urge to pull away from the sting pulling at his muscles, but he forced himself to stay put. 

“Don’t be such a crybaby, I’m going very easy on you right now,” 

Spencer’s eyes flew wide open at the third spank as you came back with more force, watching a patch of crimson bloom across his skin. “Oh my- three!” 

You looked down at your palm, the skin plump and red, feeling like it’s on fire. 

“No one told you to pick such a high number,” 

“Please, please, please,” he whimpered, his voice breaking almost as if he was on the verge of tears. 

You cut off his pleas with a harsher slap, pulling a wince from your own lips at the contact. 

A sudden sob left Spencer’s lips as he buried his face down into the fluffy pillow, his fingers tearing at the sheets, “Four!”

You reached forward with your good hand, tugging on his hair just enough to force his face up from the pillow, “Shh, don’t bury your face away like a coward. We still have six more to go. Get up and take it like a man.” 

You softly brushed the red mark on his skin, soothing your flaring palm along with his sensitive ass. The slight tremble in his hips every time you traced your hand onto his skin made your stomach turn, almost feeling bad for him. 

You leaned down, pressing a soft, wet kiss against his burning cheek, lingering there until his ragged breath slowed down. “You can handle the rest, baby. I know you can.” you whispered against his skin, your cool lips turning up into a faint smile. 

Spencer sniffled, his thighs flexing as he took a deep breath, mustering up all his strength for you, “I’m trying.. I really am,” he breathed out. 

“Fuck- five!” he hissed, his voice raspy as he heaved, “can you kiss me again- I promise I’ll be good but it burns so bad,” 

“Give me two more and I might soothe the burn,” you whispered, giving him the sixth firm spank, the sound of his breath hitching as he tried to be quiet made a tight knot form in your core. 

“S-six! six!” he choked out, his toes curled. 

You didn’t give him a second to recover, your hand coming back down again with a sharp snap, landing right on top of the flaring mark on one of his cheeks since you alternated between them. 

“Seven!” he gasped, his back arching as his entire frame trembled. 

True to your word, you didn’t give him the eighth strike yet. Instead, you leaned down, pressing your wet mouth directly onto the angriest part of the crimson patch, “See how nice I am when you’re behaving?” 

You dragged your tongue over the overheating skin, drinking in the throbbing sting.

You let out a pleased hum as he twitched beneath you before relaxing. 

“Are you ready for more?” you said with an open mouth, spreading your saliva onto him. 

“No...” he moaned, shaking his head, “no, this feels so good..” he shifted his hips back to you. 

“I know it does,” you cooed, your breath fanning over the wet trail you left behind, “but we’re not done yet. And you don’t get to be picky. This is your punishment and I gave you a grace period because I wanted to.” you pulled your lips back with a gentle pop. 

The sudden loss of your coolness drew a desperate whine out of him, his hips instinctively trying to follow your retreat, but you placed your hand on the small of his back, pushing him back in his place. 

“How many do we have left?” you tested. 

“Three,” 

“Good job, Dr. Reid. You can still count.” you chuckled, your hand teasing the hypersensitive skin in front of you. 

A chill ran down his spine as you gave him the eighth blow, “Eight!” he was yelling louder now. 

“You want everyone to hear you getting spanked, Spencer?” you pinned his hips in place with both hands as he shook. 

“No- no I’m sorry,” 

You responded with a harsher strike, making his elbows give out once again as he pressed his face down into the pillow, muffling his sob, “Oh my god- nine!” his broken voice vibrated through the mattress, tickling your nerves in all the right ways. 

Your palm came down with the sharpest snap yet, burning your own hand as you felt like your skin was almost falling off. “Ten!” he cried out loudly, “ten..” he repeated, whimpering and breathing heavily into the lenin covered pillow.

You turned your palm up, examining the swollen skin before shifting your gaze to Spencer’s scarlet-marked ass, a rush of heat pooling in your stomach. “Such a good boy.” 

“Stay like this,” you pecked the side of his hips before picking the bottle of lube off the floor. 

You poured a generous amount of the cool liquid onto your flaring palm, watching his shoulders tense at the soft click of the cap. 

The contrast between the coldness of your palm and his raw skin sent a sharp shiver up his spine, making him jolt and arch into your touch. 

You splayed out your fingers as you delicately rubbed the lube onto him, desperately needing the stinging to stop just as much as he did. You massaged his plump, bruised flesh, your fingers slightly digging in as if that would help put out the fire in your hand. 

“It would be a shame to waste how worked up you got over my underwear.”

Spencer’s small gasps and whimpers of relief surprisingly did a good job at soothing your skin, the sounds twisting the pain into something far more pleasurable. 

“Feel better?” you whispered, slowly pressing your thumb along the dip of his crack, feeling the tight, trembling muscles melt, surrendering to your merciful touch. 

Spencer hummed in response, finally letting go of whatever bit of pride he was holding onto, accepting your merciless care and the way you were feeding off the ruined sight of him. 

“I’m gonna stretch your pathetic little ass now, Spencer,” you purred, watching his hips instinctively twitch in anticipation, “to make sure you never forget the price of being a weirdo who looks at things he’s not supposed to.” 

You slid your slick thumb lower, pressing it flat against the tight, puckered rim of his asshole, “But I’m sure that’s what you wanted, right?”

Spencer whined at your simple touch, the sound compelling deep desire to twist its way around your bones like ivy, quietly spreading everywhere. 

“Take a deep breath and push against my thumb, Spencer.” you commanded softly.

You saw his chest expand before he did what he was told. 

“There you go. Keep pushing.”

A broken gasp left Spencer’s lips as he forced himself to unclench against your finger that circled the tight ring of muscle to prep him. 

“Shh, just let go, Spencer. You’re too tight.” you rubbed the base of his spine with your other hand as he answered your words with a loud whine. You shifted your gaze down to the red panties next to Spencer’s knee before picking up the fabric, tossing it right in front of his face so you wouldn’t have to pause your rhythm. “Put this in your mouth, you’re already very noisy and I haven’t done anything yet.” 

Spencer’s trembling fingers bunched up the fabric, holding onto it for dear life as if it were a precious gift, before greedily biting down on it, muffling a deep grunt as you pushed you switched your thumb with your index finger before pushing past the barrier of his entrance. 

You held your finger still inside his pulsing heat, letting him adjust to the sudden intrusion, “Come on, Spence, let me see how much you can take.” 

You drew a muffled, high-pitched sob out of his pretty mouth as you pumped your finger deeper into his hole, slightly hooking your finger against the tender walls.

Your eyes drifted to his balls, twitching beneath his leaking cock. You slithered your free hand down the sensitive skin of his thighs, capturing his balls in a firm grip, playfully tugging on them, making his hips buck in a helpless search for friction. 

Your fingers lightly brushed against the base of his painfully hard dick, teasing him with nothing more than occasional soft brushes as your index finger continued its assault. 

You made an effort to tug on his pubes, rolling his aching balls between your fingers, keeping his dick completely out of reach, “Your poor dick looks so lonely, Spencer. So useless while I ruin the rest of you.” you smirked, sharply yanking his pubic hair just to hear his pretty squeal against your now chewed panties. 

You deliberately rolled your middle finger next to the slightly stretched hole before inserting it slowly, careful enough to make the pain feel good. 

“I know you let me win.” 

You pushed your two digits deeper into him, curling them against his prostate, watching his elbows start to shake beneath him. “Why’d you let me win, Spencer? Do you like how mean I am when I beat you?”

“Hm?” you let out a stifled hum, matching his own choked whimpers as you reached over, pushing your panties deeper into his mouth as you applied more pressure against his gland. 

None of Spencer’s words were comprehensible, but you knew he was begging. 

“I asked you a question,” you held your fingers still against the most sensitive part of him, allowing him to drop his head onto the soft pillow as he gave a hesitant nod into the fabric. 

You smirked, resuming a cruel, heavy thrust, sinking your fingers all the way to the knuckles, “That’s what I thought,” 

Spencer held himself up on his shaky hands, arching his back, aiming to please you so you’d let him come. 

“Are you close, baby?” you jutted your lip out in mock sympathy, watching him nod and turn his head to look back at you, barely-there tears glistening on his flushed cheeks. 

You ran a finger down his shaft, feeling the prominent, pulsing veins along his length, tracing down to his weeping tip without giving him the relief of a full grip. 

“You really thought if you arched that needy ass high enough for me, I’d let you finish? You’re a lot smarter than that, Spencer.” you watched his face twist in beautiful agony. 

Once his whines got louder, you fully withdrew your fingers, leaving him cold and empty as he buried his face back into the sheets, letting out a small cry. 

You grabbed some tissues from the bedside table, wiping your fingers clean as you stared at Spencer’s damp hair, getting the sudden urge to sink your hands into the soft curls and soothe the trembles right out of him. 

“You took me so well,” you sweetly whispered, plopping down on the bed next to his head, pressing a gentle kiss on the crown of his head. 

Spencer turned his head slowly, dropping his jaw to let your soaked panties drop out of his mouth. 

“My body feels like it’s on fire,” he admitted. 

“I’m sorry,” you bit back a smile, but the edges of your mouth twitched, giving you away—you were satisfied. 

“You’re evil.” 

You raised your brows, letting the smile take over your mouth, “You think?” you teased, wiping away the strands that stuck to his forehead, brushing through his sweaty hair. 

Spencer rolled his eyes, letting out a long, shuddering exhale as he leaned his forehead right against your thigh. 

His eyes wandered between your legs, staying silent for a few moments before speaking, “You didn’t shave,” he blurted out before he could think better of his words, his face immediately turning into a deeper shade of red. 

You furrowed your brows at his bluntness, staring down at him, “Is that a complaint?” you asked, tilting your head to the side. 

“No- no that’s- it’s good.” 

It’s good. 

His words made a genuine laugh bubble in your chest, what a weird way to put it. 

“Is doctor Spencer Reid turned on by pubes?” you teased, using your thumb to trace the burning flush on his cheekbone. 

He picked his head off your thigh, uncomfortably sitting straight, “It’s completely normal by the way,” he shot his brows up, nodding as he defended himself.

You deliberately shifted your weight on the mattress, leaning your back against the headboard as Spencer continued talking, now taking his spot across from you, “y’know scent and pheromone retention in pubic hair increases arousal, so it’s just a basic neurological response to- to find it attractive…” 

“Hm, really?” a soft blush started flooding your cheeks as you propped your legs up, keeping them apart to display your core, watching as Spencer slowly trailed off, his eyes hopelessly locking onto your heat. 

“You’re so easily distracted,” you rested your head back, sliding your fingers down your stomach, admiring the sheer desperation in Spencer’s eyes. 

Spencer’s eyes widened, his irises completely swallowed by his blow-out pupils as your hand lightly brushed against the hair beneath your lower stomach, slowly making your way to your clit.  

You tilted your hips up, getting yourself in a more comfortable position as Spencer slowly tipped back on his heels, sitting further away from you as if the temptation would turn him feral if he stayed close. 

You let yourself melt by swirling two fingers on the tight bundle of nerves at the top of your folds before sliding your fingers down your drenched slit, coating them in your juices as you admired Spencer through your lashes—sitting all pretty and ruined before you with his mouth slightly agape. 

You dipped your fingers into your entrance, already aching with need, tightening your core muscles as you let out a soft moan. 

You looked down to Spencer’s leaking dick that was completely abandoned, and the sight made you push your fingers deeper to feed your arousal. 

Spencer’s self control was impressive, and it turned you on, because you knew how much effort it was taking for him to not completely come undone. 

You sunk your fingers deeper into your hole, pulling out more juices every time you withdrew your fingers just to pump them back in and curling them against your upper inner wall with more force. 

Spencer leaned down, bracing himself on his forearms at the same level as your pussy, letting out small whimpers in sync with your own pretty noises. 

“You’re very pretty,” he whispered, his soft breath travelling to tickle your legs. 

“Spencer…” you whimpered in response, your eyes fluttering shut as you moaned out again—his name becoming the only word your mouth could say. 

You desperately wanted to get yourself off, but Spencer was right there and you had to make good use of such a beautiful thing. 

“Come here,” you murmured, your fingers slowing down, unable to hold back from hitting your g-spot a few times before pulling out completely. 

Spencer crawled to you on his sore knees and forearms, looking up at you with an eager, reverent look as his face reached your inner thighs. 

You parted your legs wider for him, “Look at how wet you made me, Spencer,” you whispered, your hips giving a small, encouraging twitch against the mattress. 

You tangled your wet fingers into his messy hair, gently guiding his mouth right to your soaking center. 

A ragged gasp left your lips as his tongue finally made contact with your swollen folds as he let out a starved groan. 

Spencer tucked his hair behind his ear, pressing his tongue flat against your wet folds, burying his nose into your messy bush as he lapped at you with beautiful hunger. 

His long fingers blindly reached out to grip your thighs, spreading them wider to plunge his tongue deeper into you, feeling your walls pulse at a steady rhythm. 

Your moans only made Spencer bolder, sucking on your hypersensitive skin, grazing his teeth against your folds as his muffled grunts vibrated against your wet flesh. 

You tugged his head back by his hair, taking in the sight of his drool—evidence of how ravenous he was. 

You pulled him up to your face, needing to taste the mess smeared on his face. Spencer sloppily tipped forward, bumping his teeth against yours, pushing his tongue past your lips to share the sweet taste of your arousal with you.

He desperately sucked on your tongue, pulling it between his teeth just to reach into the depths of your wet mouth and pull needy moans out of you.

You pulled away with a wet pop, blindly pushing your slick fingers against his mouth to slow him down, making him focus on your eyes.

“God, I wanna ride this pretty face,” you heaved, cradling his face with both hands, your eyes unable to stay steady as they darted all over his face, every feature more beautiful than the other. 

What have you done to have such a pretty angel between your wicked hands?

“Please do,” Spencer begged, nodding as he suckled on your fingers because that’s all you were giving him right now. 

“Lay down,” you replied, gently pushing him off of you so you could make space for him to lay flat in the middle of the bed. 

Spencer’s lanky frame immediately stretched out flat on the now-wrinkled sheets, his eyes never leaving your bare body that he craved so badly.  

Shifting forward, you crawled over his chest, peppering open-mouthed kisses across his feverish skin to cool him down. 

When you finally reached his head, you turned around, switching your legs to opposite sides so you could face the rest of his body. 

Spencer’s slender fingers clung to your thighs, his nails sinking into your skin to lower your heat onto his face, but you kept your hips hovering atop his face. 

“So greedy.” You shook your head in faux disappointment—in reality, his greed to take everything you gave him amplified the tension in the pit of your stomach. 

Spencer chased your dripping pussy, desperately sticking his tongue out to reach you despite your teasing. 

“Please..please, I’ll make you feel so good, I promise,” he choked out, his voice vibrating through the tiny space between you two, making your hole clench around nothing. 

Spencer’s utter desperation broke your self control, urging your hips to drop down, your pussy connecting with his honeyed, parted lips. 

His jaw snapped open instantly, running his tongue up and down your slit, closing his lips around your hole as he applied unforgiving suction before pushing deep into your tight depths.

It was a filthy exchange—his mouth mimicking a deep, hungry french kiss by focusing his tongue on your pulsing walls to find your g-spot as his lips worked against your outer folds. 

Spencer let out a muffled, wrecked whimper against your flesh as you began riding his face, your hips rolling in heavy circles, burying his nose behind your entrance, breathing in every part of you. 

You felt him mix his spit with your fluids, pushing it into you along with his tongue that kept flicking at a quicker pace, giving you more and more friction, urging you to grind down with more force. 

You leaned over his long torso, Spencer’s hands flying to steady your hips and hold your core in place against his face. 

His cock was practically bouncing against his lower stomach, beads of precum leaking onto his belly. 

You couldn’t help but lick a short trail on his skin, the taste of his arousal making you want more of him. 

“You’re about to explode,” you barely managed to get the words past your lips. 

The sheer sight of his dick, heavy and throbbing after everything you’d put him through made you unable to hold back, quickly wrapping your lips around his swollen, pink tip. 

You ran your tongue along his weeping slit, feeling him whimper against your pussy, adding to the pleasure before you pulled back. 

“God, Spencer.. You’re gross. So messy." you panted, admiring his completely ruined cock—Spencer obviously on the verge of spilling his entire load. 

“I-I’m trying not to be.” he whined, his hips giving a helpless involuntary twitch beneath you, “Please.. just put your mouth on me. I’ve been so good.” 

You obliged by giving into the goodness of your heart, granting Spencer some mercy so he would enjoy this too.

“Oh god..” Spencer gasped before nipping at your folds, losing all coordination, “just like that.. Oh my god.. I’m- please I’m so close,” 

“You don’t get to come before me-”

“Then I won’t. I promise I won’t.” he quickly cut you off, desperate to get his cock back in your warm mouth. 

You were eager to test how long he could last, and if he could push you off the edge before he broke.

You let his dick push past your slightly parted lips before your tongue worked to spread his slickness and your own spit across his length before hollowing your cheeks and pushing yourself down on him. 

You bobbed your head, stuffing your mouth with his thick cock, gagging as you pushed yourself harder just to hear him get louder beneath you. 

Every thorough, rhythmic drag of Spencer’s mouth pulled an unravelling sob out of your chest, muffled by his girthy shaft, making you cough against him without pulling away. 

Spencer was kissing you raw—turning your delicate flesh bruised and tender under the relentless force of his mouth, until the tight knot in your core violently snapped. 

Your walls clamped around his tongue as a heavy wave of fluid broke from you, squirting straight into his open mouth and drenching his face. 

Your entire body was shaking, your back arching to press your front against Spencer’s torso as you cried out around his cock. 

Your messy juices that sprayed all over his face and pillow didn’t make him pull away or raise your hips away from his face. 

Instead, he moaned along with you as instinctively swallowed the hot gush of your release, licking your inner thighs to gather every drop of you.  

You lost control over your body, completely going limp as your face sunk down, letting Spencer’s cock fill you to the brim as his hips stuttered, thrusting up to hit the back of your throat repeatedly. 

Your jaw ached as Spencer hammered up to meet your heavy head, fucking your throat until his own orgasm was triggered after a long night of holding onto the thin thread of his sanity. 

A loud whine was ripped out of his lungs as he emptied his seed into you, making you swallow all his hot release. 

Your throat bobbed as his cum was now crowding the narrow airway, making hot tears form in your eyes, blurring your vision. 

You both heaved, flushed, glistening faces completely dazed and overwhelmed as you pressed your cheeks against the closest part of each other. 

You slowly raised your ass off of Spencer’s face, feeling him press soft kisses against your thighs, somehow making you sink deeper in the hazy afterglow and odd affection. 

You dropped beside Spencer, your muscles giving out, forcing you to lay completely flat. 

As you stared up at the ceiling, you felt small, almost as if you’ve shrunk into nothing without a single word of degradation from Spencer. 

Your ribcage felt raw, completely ripped open and empty, but that was probably exhaustion. 

You stared up at the dark hotel ceiling before slowly turning your head to Spencer who was already staring at you with a patient glint in his eyes. 

“Are you okay?” you asked, just like you’ve done many times before. You were always the first to speak after the two of you hooked up. 

“I think so.” he nodded, the lack of physical touch in the moment made space for nerves to creep back into Spencer’s head—yours too. 

“You’ll be very sore tomorrow,” you lazily smiled, looking very pleased with what you’ve done as you traced a finger on his damp chin. 

If Spencer were in his right mind, he’d come up with something witty to downplay the pain and try to defend his dignity, but he wasn’t in his right mind tonight. 

He swallowed hard, his eyes briefly dropping to the sheets before flickering back up to yours as he pouted, “I know. It’s already throbbing,” he admitted.

You fell silent. Your body giving you no power to do anything other than admire the beautiful creature laying next to you. His face was peaceful. Calm. Gorgeously holy, even. 

“We should change the sheets,” he muttered, his raspy voice slightly breaking, “You seem very tired, I’ll get a towel or something to clean you up and you can-”

“It’s okay, I really needa shower anyways,” you let out a small grunt as you sat up, stretching your back before slowly standing up, your legs still a bit shaky. 

“You can have those,” a small, raw smile crept up your lips as you gestured toward the damp panties next to Spencer’s pillow. 

You didn’t wait for a response, turning to the bathroom, because—of course—Spencer would want to have them. 

“Um.. did I do okay?” Spencer whispered, almost as if he wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted you to hear him. 

You turned your head to look at his beautiful bare frame that you won’t get to see for who knows how long, “You were a lot more than okay, Spencer.” 

After a much-needed shower, you stepped back into the room; no trace remained of anything the two of you had done. Spencer was half-tucked into bed, seemingly waiting for you without a clear reason. 

The maroon panties were gone now—tucked away safely where not a single soul would ever see them, including you. 

“I brought you some extra pillows,” he pointed to your bed, were two new perfectly fluffed pillows sat next to your bag. 

Was this his excuse to wait for you? 

“Thanks,” you placed a thin towel on top of a single pillow, preparing the perfect headrest for your wet hair, “Goodnight, Spencer.” you whispered.