Loki Quinn

01 - weakness

02 - purple

03 - dessert

04 - camaraderie

05 - murder

06 - plan b

07 - book

08 - prison

09 - sword

10 - consequences

11 - children

12 - on the run

13 - connection

14 - patience

15 - suit

16 - obsession

17 - dream

18 - pain

19 - cat

20 - danger

21 - loyalty

22 - mask

23 - greatness

24 - deviation

25 - laugh

26 - nostalgia

27 - chess

28 - blood

29 - faith

He’s sitting with Steve and Sam in the corner of one of Tony’s stupid team-building drinks, watching all sorts of SHIELD employees approach you. For some reason, it seems like every fucking field agent, engineer and tech analyst decided that tonight is the night to chance their arm with you. 

He is furious at the fact that they think they have a shot, but there’s nothing he can do. He has no claim to stake. You dismiss most of them with a polite smile and a flippant comment, but every so often you lean just slightly too far forward, speak a little bit too softly, and it throws Bucky’s head for a spin. Hand grasping his whiskey tumbler just a bit too tight, he’s biding his time until he can discreetly pull you into his room or a supply closet or hell, even the bathroom, and prove why none of them are worth your time. It wouldn’t be the first time.

In his defence, the whole ‘no strings’ thing had mostly been for your benefit. He’s an old man with the emotional regulation abilities of a teenager. HYDRA had left him so thoroughly fucked up, he hadn’t been sure what parts of him were Bucky and what parts were the Winter Soldier. He hadn’t wanted to drag anyone into the mess of finding out and surgically removing the unwanted pieces. 

But as spring bled into summer and eventually streamed steadily into autumn, he began to realise that maybe those unwanted pieces don’t need to be removed - you seem to like them just fine, in any case. You do more to dampen the noise in his head than any court-mandated therapy session, uncharacteristically sincere when he wakes up with terror wracking his mind and body. You remind him of who he is and the fact that he will never again be the Bucky of the past - but who is ever their past selves? And who would want to be? He is the old Bucky and the new Bucky and both are okay and worth living as. And if he fucks you with a little more intensity on those days where he feels more Winter Solider than Bucky Barnes, bends you over and makes you take it hard and fast - well, who is complaining? Not you.

He had regretted asking for this arrangement almost instantly. You are gracious; never mentioning the dates you go on, but he knows and you know, and he can just feel how smug you are about it. He almost wishes he could return the favour; show up to your trysts smelling like perfume and running out early with a vague excuse. But he’s old and disgruntled and, if he’s being honest, the idea of being so close to anyone except you makes his skin crawl, as if you’re the one exception to his whole touch aversion thing. Maybe you are.

He has only seen you out with a date once. He was passing by the window of a cosy, candlelit Italian restaurant on his way to the laundromat and caught sight of you. Your blood-red dress was dipping just low enough to hint at your cleavage. Your lips were the same crimson as your dress and you brought the rim of your glass up to meet them, shooting the asshole in front of you a flirty smirk. Lust and nausea were flooding Bucky’s stomach in equal measure. When your eyes caught sight of him, he watched surprise flicker there momentarily, before you smiled wickedly and turned back to your date, leaning in closer to rub salt in the wound.

He thinks you might be doing the same thing now, doling out your punishment to him in the most unkind way he can fathom. The way you’re tilting your head up towards the agent in front of you, eyes wide and enthralled, as if he had just said the most fascinating thing you had ever heard. He knows you’re faking it.

Sure, the guy was fairly good-looking - if you’re into that All-American, Steve Rogers kind of thing. But he knows you’re not. You like your men with rough edges - you like them like Bucky. He can see as much when he fucks you, whispering to you all dirty and mean, and your eyes roll back into your skull as if you’ve found nirvana. The boy in front of you wouldn’t know how to treat you like that, how to get you there.

And he can hear, even from this distance, that the guy is a bore. He’s rambling on about statistics - expounding entry level concepts to you, as if you’re not two full grades above him. And you’re just sitting there, listening and nodding earnestly like he’s not the exact sort of person you would make fun of when you’re alone with Bucky.

You’re in your tactical gear - not long returned from a mission, but always eager for a chance to socialise and cause mischief. His jaw twitches when you shift in your seat and he gets a better view of your breasts. He sees your hips shift, a sliver of soft skin peeking out between your vest and the waistband of your pants, and he can almost picture that you’re seated above him, with the way the leather of your suit clings to you like a second skin. The asshole talking to you - Brandon? Brian? - is clearly enjoying the view too, judging by the way his breath stutters mid-sentence. Bucky wonders if you’re doing this on purpose just to torture him.

“Get a fuckin’ grip, dude,” Sam mutters, reaching over to remove the tumbler from Bucky’s grasp. “Gonna break the damn thing.”

He wonders how long they had been watching him when he catches sight of Steve, expression caught somewhere between amusement and concern. “You okay, pal?”

Bucky just grunts in what is intended to be an affirmative, forcing his eyes away from you but still listening in to your conversation. Steve and Sam are watching him like they aren’t quite sure what to say, eyes darting between himself and you. They have been in this predicament enough to know that something is happening between the two of you, but had never discussed the specifics. Bucky figures they must just know that he has an interest in you that is bordering on unhealthy. 

“Look,” Steve says in that pragmatically optimistic way of his. “I actually think it could be a good thing to… you know, get back out there. Why don’t you just talk to her?”

Bucky almost laughs at the suggestion that it’s shyness that is preventing him from talking to you right now. But the truth is so much worse, so he admits nothing. “Had enough whiskey,” he says instead. “Gonna get a beer.”

Steve and Sam sigh almost in tandem as Bucky hauls himself up and over to the bar. When he gets his beer, he doesn’t bother returning to his seat. Instead, he leans against the bar where he can observe you again without any intervention. It’s almost embarrassing how well you have him wrapped around your finger, but he can’t look away.

“Uh- not trying to freak you out or anything,” Brandon mutters conspiratorially, voice lowering. “But I think Barnes has been staring over here for a while. And he looks- well, he doesn’t look happy.”

You smile then, and it’s real - not the pitiful grins you had been granting him before. “Oh, really?” you ask, eyes flicking over and meeting Bucky’s for just a split-second. It strikes him like lightning, the way you look at him - eyebrows raised with mirth and devilment. He feels that he’s too old for the games you’re playing with him, while also wanting nothing more than to grab you by the hips and haul you out of the room caveman-style to have his wicked way with you.

“Don’t look, you’ll make it obvious,” your little pest urges you quickly and Bucky almost face-palms at his idiocy. He doesn’t really understand how this guy got certified as an agent without an awareness that super soldiers also had super hearing, but whatever. The training program is more Steve’s remit.

“Sorry,” you say with a smile that only Bucky knows is sarcastic. “Don’t think he saw me.”

“Are you guys…” he trails off, head turning around to glance at Bucky who meets his stare head-on. “Are you guys together or something? I wouldn’t really wanna piss him off…”

“Together? Oh god no,” you laugh and Bucky’s jaw twitches.

“Okay…” Brendan continues, taking another quick glance at Bucky, who knows his stare has only grown more stormy. “Well, does he maybe have a thing for you?”

“No way,” you protest, and he hates how much you seem to be enjoying this. “We’re not like that at all, Brennan. Bucky trained me. Pretty much taught me everything I know. He’s more like… a father figure, really.”

Bucky almost drops his beer. Something inside him stops, like all the clogs turning in his body have decided to break down. His brain is lagging as he tries to convince himself that he must have misheard you. Even his blood has paused its journey through his body. He can see Steve looking between the two of you from the corner of his eye, but he ignores his bewildered glances. He’ll do his best to explain this away later.

You can hardly contain your amusement. Bucky can tell that you’re fighting every instinct in your body to not look over at his reaction. 

“Oh ok!” Brandon seems happy enough with that explanation, but you have lost interest. You quickly manage to get rid of him with the promise of a date the next day and turn back to Natasha, voice brimming with real interest in a stark contrast to your last conversation. 

Bucky isn’t sure what to do with himself. He can see Steve deciding whether or not to approach him, so he gives you a look - one that you are very familiar with - and goes straight to his room, trying his best to ignore the bulge forming in his pants.

It takes you near enough to two hours to get to Bucky’s room. Exhaustion steamrolling through you in the aftermath of your mission and the team event, but not enough for you to turn down the silent offer made to you before he walked out. He is almost foaming at the mouth by the time you reach his door.

“You have some fuckin’ explaining to do,” he demands when he meets you at the door, dragging you in not-so-gently. You smirk up at him as you walk in, purposely casual and slow, as if you have all the time in the world.

“I don’t have to leave early just because you do. My world doesn’t revolve around you, you know.”

Bucky would usually tell you that it should, but he seems to bite it back today. He’s not talking about the fact it took you so long to get here, and you know that. “What the fuck was that, down there?”

“What? You’re the one who wanted no exclusivity, remember? Don’t tell me you’re jealous just because I’ve talked to a few boys.”

He is and you know it. You see the way he grits his teeth when someone else approaches you and a warm sort of satisfaction slithers up your spine every damn time. It’s the only thing that makes it worth letting them take you out on dates. The way he fucks you after, rough and demanding, like he’s proving that he’s better than whoever your date is (he is). Or the way he fucks you before you’re scheduled to run out, desperate and possessive, pushing into you hard and fast in a way that should be too much but isn’t because it’s him. Like he’s trying to convince you to stay.

And you never do. Because he made his stance perfectly clear and the last thing you are going to do is invest where he hasn’t. 

Even if the dates you go on make you bored and sick. Even if the one person you had tried to sleep with since starting your arrangement with Bucky gave you a full-body ick, a shiver running through you like your body was rejecting him. (“Did you just cum?” he had asked you, smug and satisfied. You told him you had.)

But that’s not the point. You’re playing with Bucky now, trying to make him say it. To admit he is jealous. That he doesn’t want to see you with anyone else.

“You said I was a fuckin’ father figure, doll.”

Your smile just widens, a laugh bubbling forth. You hadn’t been expecting that. “Oh, that really got you, huh? You have a daddy kink, Barnes?”

Bucky just glares back. He doesn’t. He has told you before that the whole daddy thing has never appealed to him. 

But you can see it now - you calling him a father figure, so flippantly and casually, did something to him. You can’t tell whether he wanted to bend you over then and there, prove to you and everyone else at the function that he is most definitely not a father figure to you. Or if he wanted to lean into it, maybe show you who is in charge. The irritation on his face is making you lean towards the latter.

“You’re a damn piece of work.” he grumbles, voice low and dangerous. “I’ve half a mind to take you over my knee and show you the discipline you obviously never got from your actual father figure.”

You freeze for just a beat. That’s new.

“You won’t,” you say, indignantly rolling your eyes even though you’re kind of faking your confidence.

“Wanna bet, kid?”

The air has changed slightly, an odd current running between the two of you. And you’re suddenly not so sure he’s bluffing. You feel slightly out of your depth. Like this whole thing had gotten away from you a bit. Like he was more serious about this than you were expecting. 

Still, you press him. Because that’s who you are and what you do.

“Yeah, actually, I think I do, old man.”

There’s a tense silence - long and drawn out - where you start to doubt yourself. Maybe you should have backed down, because the way he’s looking at you now, stormy and dark, is making you nervous in a way you’re not used to with him.

And then his nostrils flare and he’s moving towards you, faster than lightning, faster than you are prepared for. He lifts you with annoying ease before you can even register what’s happening, fingers digging into your waist as evidence of a cracked restraint. You’re kicking your legs, a strained shout escaping as he catches you off your guard. 

“Let me go!” you’re thrashing now, all spit-fire and outrage.

No,” he grunts, manhandling you with practiced ease. He settles you down over his lap. “You wanna act like a brat? I’ll show you what it means.”

You’re squirming when his hand comes up to yank the leather of your pants down to your thighs, almost tearing it in the process. You’re left in just a lace white thong, bearing your backside to him fully. You had worn it intentionally to see the tortured expression on his face that you enjoy so much. Now it just feels humiliating, bent over in front of him in his favourite panties - the picture of submission. 

“Stop messing around, Bucky. Don’t be a dick.”

There is a second where neither of you speak. His fingers dance gently on the skin of your ass and you can’t see him but you can hear his breath catching over the strained silence that stretches between you.

Before it shatters into a million pieces.

Because Bucky’s flesh hand comes down - abrupt and hard - against the skin of your ass. The stinging sensation travels outwards from the area of impact, sizzling your skin and your nerves, and you realise you are absolutely and utterly in over your head.  

“Okay!” you gasp. “Okay, Jesus Christ, Bucky, I’m sorry! I didn’t actually think you’d…” you trail off, face enveloping in a sudden and suffocating heat. “I’m sorry. You can let me go now.”

Another silence where you can feel him hesitating and then: “No.”

“No?” you splutter, words lost in your throat as if the position you’re in isn’t humiliating enough. “What do you mean no? I apologised.”

“I mean no. You asked for this doll, remember?”

He grabs your hair in a way that you suppose isn’t a million miles from gentle and twists your face to meet his. In what is an uncomfortable stretch for you, his eyes implore yours, silently assessing whether this is really okay.

Whatever he finds in your face steels his resolve because in the next second, he is pressing your face down further, ass arched higher and his palm is coming back down against your ass, knocking you forward. He clears his throat, mutters a curse under his breath that lets you know this is getting to him too.

“Asked for it when you flirted with that moron downstairs instead of coming to me.”

Another slap has dark stars flashing behind your eyes, the combination of pain and pleasure sparking through you to create something completely unchartered. Your skin is burning and it should be unpleasant - probably would be with anyone else. 

Maybe it’s just the angle, you reason. Maybe it’s reverberating to your clit and that’s what making you rock forward with an embarrassing moan.

“Asked for it when you called me a father figure, like I don’t fuck you silly.” He spits the term ‘father figure’ like it’s something dirty, and the smack he delivers after it makes your mouth fall ajar and your cunt pulsate.

“Asked for it when you wore this fuckin’ thing,” he says, hooking a finger around the thin lace strap of your thong and letting it slingshot back with a dull nip, before you feel the stronger sting of his hand on your ass again. “Asked for it when you bet I wouldn’t do this. You remember that, don’t you, doll?”

“I-I-“ you can’t get the words out because now Bucky is pressing his fingertips lightly down your spine, carding through the soft indents there before tracing down, lower and lower. He follows the line of your thong, over places that make you clench and shudder, until his finger is pressing lightly over your core through the soaked fabric of your underwear.

“You-you-?” he mocks, black and mean, as he applies pressure there and watches you wiggle back to his touch.

When you don’t answer, his hand leaves your pussy and comes down hard with three successive smacks as punishment. You can feel his jean-clad cock pressing into your thighs, feel it jump at the little yell you release. He curses, whispered and dirty.

“I don’t know, Bucky,” you whine. “It hurts.”

“Too much?” he asks condescendingly, rubbing a hand over the curve of your ass where you can feel red-hot heat blossoming. 

You shake your head, face warm with embarrassment and sheer desire and he brings his hand down again and you wonder if it’s possible for you to cum like this, with nothing but his hand against your ass in explosions of fire and something just shy of real pain. 

You really should not be having this reaction to being taken over Bucky’s knee and spanked - you’re an adult, for fuck sake - but you think maybe you would enjoy anything he chooses to do to you. Your shame is just making you want it more.

He continues until it really starts to hurt in the most delicious way, the flat of his palm hitting against your skin, rotating between featherlight and rough. Every so often, his fingers nudge their way to the tops of your thighs and your clit, playing there for just a matter of seconds before returning to the fat of your ass.

When he stops, you’re delirious and dumb and you wonder if you’ve just discovered something new about yourself, or if Bucky just has a way of gnarling all your desires, turning them darker and moulding them to his own preferences until the only thing you can categorically say you enjoy in bed is him.

Your ass is so raw that when Bucky finally lifts you off his lap and places you on the bed, you feel a pleasurable little burn linger, but most of your concentration is on your neglected core. You can’t stop moving your hips, too desperate for friction, as he carefully removes your shoes and peels your pants the rest of the way down your legs. He makes light work of your top too and in just a matter of moments you are completely bared to him at the bottom of the bed. He stands above you, still fully clothed, his jeans stained with your desperation.

“Did so good for me. Took it so well,” he murmurs, grabbing your jaw and forcing your eyes to his for one brutal moment. You feel imprisoned by his blue eyes before he grants you a soft kiss - an act of mercy before he completely destroys you. “I think you enjoyed it a bit too much though. Not much of a punishment.”

You shake your head but both of you know that you’re lying. Bucky just smiles knowingly, glancing down obviously to where your pussy is dripping onto the bedsheets. Your face floods with humiliation. 

When he kisses you this time, it’s a violent thing - tongue pushing against yours with a dominance usually reserved for those nights when you return to him after a date, your chin lightly grazed with beard burn from an unpleasant goodnight kiss. The feel of his lips on yours lets you know what kind of night you’re in for.

He’s leaning over you, thumb navigating its way to your clit like clockwork. You’re so ridiculously wet that it almost glides right off. He chuckles and mumbles something about how needy you are against your lips, but your body is buzzing and your ears aren’t working properly.

He circles your clit, using extra pressure as if it needs it. You’re humming and moaning, feeling like you might already be on the precipice after just a few seconds. When he slides just one finger into your heat, your mouth opens to release the most desperate sound you think you might have ever made right up against his lips. He smiles, nudges it in further.

“I don’t think I need to get you ready for me at all, do I, sweetheart? Pretty pussy is drooling already just from a bit of discipline.”

Something about the term ‘discipline’ - as if he’s an authority figure - makes the whole thing feel so horrifically dirty but you can hear the mortifying squelching between your thighs and you know he’s right. When he adds a second finger, you’re preparing for the humiliating reality that you’re about to cum just from Bucky’s punishment and less than a minute of fingering.

Except you don’t. Because Bucky curls his fingers into that spot that only he can hit, makes light explode behind your eyes, gets you so so close. You grind down on his fingers, body taught with the expectation of something mind-blowing. And then suddenly he’s gone as quickly as he was ever there and you’re pressing your hips down onto air, trying to find purchase where there is none.

“Bucky!” you gasp, voice coming out so embarrassingly breathless that you might be self-conscious if you thought about it too much. The sight of him humming around his fingers, still slick with the evidence of your arousal, is not helping. “I was just about to-”

“I know, I know,” Bucky murmurs, hand brushing through your hair, voice thick with false sympathy. He’s looking down at you as if you’re some child that fell off their bike - his condescension almost pisses you off, but mostly it turns you on. “You were so close, baby. Your voice goes all whiny when you’re almost there, did you know that? Always sound so needy. Makes me wanna fuck you harder.”

“Then why did you do that?” You’re vaguely aware of how petulant you sound but all conscious thought flew out the window the second you felt his palm on your ass.

Bucky doesn’t answer you. Instead, his hands reach down and begin to unbuckle his belt. Slowly. Meticulously. You’re transfixed, watching every movement. When you reach out a hand to help, he smacks it away, light but firm. He unbuckles and tugs his pants and underwear down far enough for his hard cock to spring out. Your thighs press together in a motion he doesn’t miss.

You feel small like this - completely bared and open to him. You are vulnerable and exposed and so helplessly turned on. But if you try to rush Bucky into touching you, he will only take ten times longer. So you lie as still as a rock, watch him undress slowly and fold away his clothing with precision, ignoring the very horny, very naked woman on his bed. But it is wildly clear that he is feeling some of what you are. His jaw is ticking and his nostrils flare at the smell of your arousal. 

By the time he leans over you and kisses you again, you are both on fire. He wastes no time, pressing his cock up against your dripping hole and slamming in with one stroke.

It’s humiliating, really. The whole night is turning out to be just one humongous humiliation ritual. 

Because after that first stroke, you’re completely gone. Your cunt clenches down in a way that makes him hiss, squeezing and convulsing, losing your mind. You’re not sure what you’re babbling while you try to milk him - possibly something along the lines of Yes, Bucky, please, right there. You just know that Bucky’s grip bruises your hips with a restraint that is fit to snap at any moment and your legs are spasming as you try to bear down on the cock he just fed you. He’s too surprised to even talk you through it the way he normally does. Instead, he just watches you, awe filtering through his bright eyes.

Your first thought when you come down is that Bucky is going to be absolutely insufferable about this. Your second thought is that you’re still ridiculously horny. 

“God, baby,” he grits out, a taunt and a prayer all at once - like he can’t quite decide whether he wants to tease you about this or worship at your feet. He chooses the former. “I didn’t know you were this fucking desperate. Coming as soon as you get my cock in you. Like you were trained for it.”

In a way, you were, you think. But then Bucky is pulling out of you and slamming back in. The sensation is overwhelming - he is too big. It’s too much for your sensitive hole. Your cunt is still pulsing with aftershocks, the sensitivity verging on too much. But you’re still squeezing around him, unwilling to give yourself any reprieve. Not when it feels this good.

“Feel how she’s sucking me in, doll? You can’t stop, even after coming. Your tight little cunt was made for this.”

His eyes are trained solely on your wet heat and the way it’s taking him, a sort of adoration painting his face that almost seems out of place in the filthiness of his actions. His hands have a firm grasp on your hips for leverage while he fucks into you, hard and slow. Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head and you feel too braindead to respond. All you can do is watch him.

“Look at you. Can’t even talk. Let me empty that smart little head of yours. There’s only enough space in there to think about my cock.”

When he fucks you like this, you think you might be in love him. Best not to think too much on it. Not that you can think too much on anything, with his dick sliding in and out of you, filling up and stretching every inch of you.

“Feels so good, Bucky,” you whine. “Need you.”

“You need me?” His voice is patronising. It should piss you off, but it has you gushing. “Baby, you have me. I’m all up in your guts, right here.”

He looks to your stomach and you follow his gaze, watching the head of his cock press into the skin there, before disappearing and poking through again with every thrust. “Fuck, look at that,” Bucky groans, watching his own movements. “So perfect at taking me.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, hand absently reaching down to press on your stomach, feeling his movements there. Your breath is stuttering and you think maybe you’re choking on the pleasure he’s giving you. “Wanna be good for you.”

When Bucky feels you press down on the head of his cock through his stomach, his hips stutter and a loud, animalistic groan spills out. “So good for me. Such a good girl, letting me mark up your ass like that. Think you’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you baby? Let me fuck you past your limit?”

You’re lost to the pleasure. You just nod and he gives your clit a quick nudge in appreciation.

“I know you would. Know how bad you wanna make me proud.”

Oh.

Oh.

Your pussy jumps, face flooding with heat and Bucky is looking down at you like he’s figuring you out. The term ‘father figure’ comes rushing back into your consciousness and it takes everything in you not to go running for the hills in a panic at how much you liked those words on his lips.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he grumbles, pulling his cock out of you and manoeuvring you so you are kneeling up on the bed with your hands on the headboard. “Can’t look at your face when I say those things to you, baby. Gonna make me cum too soon.”

He’s sliding into you from behind then, both arms pressed to your hips to navigate you up and down on his cock, while he presses his face to yours. Every now and again, he lands a kiss to your gland that makes your pulse drop. His pace is steady and harsh and your tits bounce with every brutal thrust of his hips, your combined arousal dripping down to his heavy balls.

You’re chanting his name along with other obscenities that you can barely even register. You feel completely shameless, willing to do anything he wants just so he will shower you with more of that praise you have become so addicted to. 

“You’re so easy,” Bucky taunts you again. “Bet if I touched your clit right now, you’d cum again.”

“Yeah,” you say, and you can’t help the way you sound as if you’re begging. “Please, Bucky.”

He tuts, and he grins against your cheek. “I don’t know. Do you deserve it? You talked to a lot of men today, sweetheart. Made them think they have a shot.”

There’s a stubborn part of you that, even in this cock-induced daze, wants to snap at him. To remind him that this was all his decision, not yours. Unfortunately, you’re thinking with all organs except your brain right now.

“M’yours,” you pant, fucking back onto him. You can feel the short, course public hairs graze your ass, which is still red raw. The pain only adds to the building feeling. “Don’t want them.”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck- yeah, please, Bucky.”

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he gasps, voice strained. “I’m gonna come inside you. Gonna fill you up so good that nobody could ever try to take you from me again.”

You can’t help the sharp moan that comes spilling from you. You can’t quite explain how much you want that; how much you want him to fuck his cum into you, as if it would somehow make you belong to him. His filthy words along with the grinding of his hips is almost too much for you to handle.

“Please, Bucky. Want it so bad.”

“Please, Bucky,” he mocks you with a cruel lilt that makes you squeeze around him. “That all you can say? You want my cum so bad you can’t even think?”

You just nod, a strange concoction of arousal and humiliation coursing through you.

“That’s okay, baby. Don’t have to talk. I’ll give it to you. You just have to take it like a- fuck- like a good girl.”

Finally, he moves his metal arm down. He presses his middle finger over your clit, featherlight, and it makes your legs shake and your cunt squeeze and you’re so close-

“Gonna flood you, baby. Have so much to give you. Gonna make you drip.”

And then you’re falling off the edge with a call of Bucky’s name, grinding back onto his stupidly big cock, nonsense falling from your lips. You’re almost embarrassed about the keening noises you’re making but the enormity of your orgasm is too extreme for it to matter. He follows you not a second later, and you feel him pulse inside you, shooting up ropes of sticky cum. He holds you tight as he groans, rocking his hips back and forth on yours with aggressive ardour that peters out into slow, languid thrusts as the feeling washes through you both.

Bucky was telling the truth. He’s still grinding shallowly into you while his spend is spilling out of you, dripping down his length, past his balls and onto the sheets. He fucks what he can back into you for a moment while you both come down, shaking and shuddering. 

He’s babbling, pressing kisses to your neck. “So good. Took that cock so good for me. You’re all mine, aren’t you, sweet girl? My good girl.”

He pulls out of you gently and you feel his spend flood out of your thoroughly used hole. He allows you to slump back, lifting you back until you’re lying on the bed with his face in your neck. You can’t bring yourself to care about the wet patches you’re lying in. Not yet.

Both of your chests are heaving as you come down. Bucky is pressing intimate little kisses to your neck, a gentle hand stroking your stomach, and your chest tightens. You’re so close to mistaking this for something that it’s not. How he can dole out his affection like this while still maintaining that you two have ‘no strings attached’ is beyond you. As you slowly recuperate, your breathlessness is replaced with a gooey warmth, owing itself entirely to the man pressing gentle kisses and whispering sweet praises to you as if you’re his. And you’re uncomfortable with how much you want to be.

But you don’t let it upset you. Instead, you take your red ass and your dignity and you decide it’s time to get the hell out of dodge.

“Jesus, Barnes,” you chuckle softly, beginning to haul yourself up even though you’re still feeling shaky and limp. “Whatever I did to piss you off so much today, remind me to do it again.”

“You’re leaving?” he asks, sitting up with you immediately.

“Yeah,” you say, searching through the crumpled sheets for your underwear which has blended into the white of the bed. “Got an early morning tomorrow.”

“Why? You just got back from a mission.”

You give him a sideways glance. “Going for breakfast,” you say simply, as if you’re not both aware that it’s a date you have planned.

“You being serious right now, doll? You’re really gonna go on a date knowing I was inside you just a few hours before? With my cum still dripping out of you.”

You ignore the way heat pools in your stomach. Maybe it’s for the best that you and Bucky are not together - being this turned on all the time would be exhausting.

“Well, that’s what showers are for, dumbass,” you say, standing up and shimmying into your underwear.

You’re turning around to find your pants but his voice stops you. “Don’t go.”

You give him a smug little smirk, but truthfully, your heart is racing. “Why not?”

“I don’t want you to,” he spits and his eyebrows are furrowed - an attractive little line forming there. He looks so sulky and petulant, it almost makes you laugh, something affectionate tugging at your heart. But that answer isn’t good enough.

“Don’t worry, I don’t have high hopes for this guy,” you sigh, yanking on your pants. “I will probably be back here again in a day or two.”

“I don’t want you to come back in a day or two,” he grits out, standing up to tug on his underwear. “I don’t want you to go.”

He’s standing over you now in a way that might be intimidating if you didn’t know Bucky any better. His arms are crossed, great swells of muscles tensing and bulging while he looks down at you with stormy eyes. You like him like this - broody and grumpy and disgruntled. But the confusion it’s causing right now is overriding all of that.

“I can’t stay, Bucky. I would have to cancel-”

“Then cancel.”

You’re not sure what to say - shifting from one foot to the other in an uncomfortable staring contest. You’re not usually like this, but you feel a bit nervous, squirming under his gaze. You push it down.

“No.”

Bucky grits his teeth. “Why are you bothering with these fuckin’ dates? You think they can fuck you like me? Make you cum as hard as you just did?”

“Oh shut the fuck up,” you snap, irritation fighting through all nervousness. “It’s not all about sex, asshole.”

He stands up straighter. “And you think any of them would be the perfect man for you, doll? You think they’d be better for you than me?”

That was cruel. Fury is coursing through you, burning hot. “I don’t know, Bucky, maybe they would be. At least they wouldn’t say they just want sex and then throw their toys out of the pram when I talk to anyone else.”

The storm clears from his eyes for just a second but you don’t care to stick around to see what peeks through after. You’re fumbling with your bra, trying to get it on as fast as humanly possible. Why is it so much harder with shaky fingers?

“I don’t just want sex,” he says, so earnest and uncharacteristically timid that it almost makes you want to wrap him in your arms. Almost.

“Yeah, I know, Bucky,” you scoff and watch as surprise flickers over his expression. “I’m not stupid and you’re not subtle. But you made your bed when you asked for this. I’m not gonna stick around and wait for you to stop being too emotionally stunted for a relationship.”

“I’m not- hey, stop.”

You’re leaning down to tie up the laces of your shoes when he grabs your arms to stop you in your tracks. You glare up at him.

“I’m tryna talk to you. Can you just listen to me for a second? Stop trying to run out on me, Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” He puffs out a breath and silence falls over the two of you for a moment. You know you won’t be the one to break it - you just watch Bucky grapple with his words.

“It was never just sex,” he begins softly. “I just didn’t wanna fuck you up while I was figuring things out. But then things were… so good between us.” He looks to you with a hint of insecurity, as if checking to see whether or not you agree. “It made me think maybe I had nothing to be scared of. I regret ever saying it was just sex. And I can’t fuckin’ stand watching you leave.”

He closes his mouth tight, like he’s trying to stop a flow of excuses and appeals from bursting forth. He might even be holding his breath, leg twitching and bouncing nervously. You still won’t say anything, waiting for him to admit what you’ve known all along.

“I want you to be mine, doll. If you’ll have me.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re fighting off a laugh. “I’ll think about it.”

Bucky’s eye twitches comically. “You’ll think about it?”

“Yeah. I’ll compare notes after my date with Brennan, decide which one of you to pick.”

He glares, but his ears are pink. “You think you’re funny.”

“What’s funny?” you say and this time you can’t stop the smile from creeping onto your face. “Gotta assess my options.”

He groans, rubbing a hand over his face but he’s smiling too - a crooked, reluctant one with blissful happiness creeping out of the cracks. His hands move to your hips and you let them. 

“Let me give you something else to add to your notes.”

how i felt after writing this:

tags: @dolcesaints @m0th3rcal @marina468