Choices Have Consequences.

His arms wrapped around your waist from behind and slammed you to the forest floor. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make your body jolt. Your breath left you in a startled squeal as your back hit the ground and his weight pressed into you, anchoring you there like a storm had just landed.

He was all over you. One thigh pinning your legs down, his chest caging yours, his hand already around your wrists and pressing them into the mossy dirt. His other hand braced next to your head, fingers dug into the earth like he needed something to hold him back. Like you weren’t already his.

Leaves crunched beneath you, damp and cool against the heat of your spine. His breath was hot in your face. His body radiated heat and fury, muscles locked tight beneath the fabric of his dark henley, sweat and adrenaline bleeding off him in waves.

“You think you can run from me?” His voice was low. Dangerous.

It wasn’t a question. It was a warning.

You blinked up at him, your grin slow and entirely unrepentant. His weight was a furnace over you, radiating heat and threat and control that hadn’t broken loose—yet. But the fuse was burning fast, sparking somewhere behind his eyes as he looked down at you like he didn’t know whether to drag you back to camp or fuck you into the forest floor.

“Wasn’t running,” you breathed, eyes locked on his, “just stretching my legs.”

His face didn’t change. Not right away. But his eyes—

Oh, those fucking eyes.

They lit up like a fuse had been lit behind them. Not surprise. Not anger. Something deeper. Darker. Something that recognized your defiance for exactly what it was: a challenge.

That smile of yours—lips parted, eyes defiant—dared him to do something about it.

And John froze. For just a beat his body locked up—shoulders drawn tight, nostrils flaring, jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth. You could feel every inch of him against you: the tension in his chest as it rose and fell with every ragged breath, the unmistakable weight of his thigh trapping yours, his grip on your wrists just shy of bruising. It was the restraint of a man who had all the power—and was holding it back by a thread.

You saw it in his eyes. That flicker of restraint. That near-maniacal calculation. You could feel the primal part of him thrashing in its cage.

And still, you didn’t stop.

You arched just enough to press your hips against him—slow, subtle, a featherlight grind that said I know you want this.

“You caught me, John,” you whispered, lashes fluttering. “What are you gonna do now?”

The growl that tore from his throat wasn’t human.

His hand shot to your throat—not choking, just holding—and he sat back on his heels, dragging you up with him by the collar of your shirt. You yelped as your back left the ground, the thin fabric digging into your neck as he manhandled you like a ragdoll, hauling you to your knees between his thighs.

He didn’t speak.

Not yet.

His eyes dragged over your body like a claim, like he was mapping every inch of skin he was about to mark. Your chest heaved, your knees dug into the damp earth, your hands still restrained in one of his.

Then—rip.

The sound of fabric tearing echoed in the woods.

You gasped as your shirt came apart in his fist, the torn halves hanging useless from your shoulders. His eyes dropped to the swell of your chest, to the marks he’d left there the last time, and his nostrils flared like he was about to sink his teeth into you all over again.

“You think this is a game?” he asked, voice low and cold now, dangerously steady. “You think you can run, tease, talk back—and not get put in your place?”

His other hand came to your chin, forcing your gaze up. His thumb brushed your bottom lip—slow, almost tender—but it only made the look in his eyes more brutal.

“Look at you. I know you’re fucking soaked already. I can smell it. You liked getting hunted, didn't you?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. He could feel the way your body responded—your thighs squeezed together on instinct, your pupils blown wide, your breath catching every time he touched you.

“You want a punishment?” he murmured, dragging his thumb down to your throat, then lower, between your breasts, pausing just above the waistband of your pants. “Fine.”

Suddenly—you were moving.

He shoved you forward, onto your hands and knees. The cold shock of earth against your palms bit through the fog of heat building between your thighs. His hand tangled in the back of your hair, yanking your head up just enough for you to gasp. John straddled your hips, knees pressing your thighs apart with deliberate pressure. His hands grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head, his grip unshakable. You struggled, testing him—but he only grinned, head tilted, the thrill of the hunt still gleaming in his eyes.

Then came the sound.

Hiss.

His belt slid free from the loops of his jeans with a low, sinful whisper. It was a sound you’d heard a hundred times—but never like this. Never with this kind of slow, lethal intention. You tensed.

He didn’t speak as he shifted your wrists together, and before you could take your next breath, the belt was wrapped around them—tight, secure, rough leather against your skin. His movements were practiced. Efficient. Final.

You looked up at him, wrists bound, chest heaving beneath your ruined shirt, and saw the moment his restraint vanished.

John leaned forward, one hand still on the belt to keep your arms pinned above your head, the other sliding beneath your back to drag you upright—forcing you to kneel, tied hands behind your back, thighs spread by the cage of his knees around you.

His voice dropped to a deadly murmur against your ear, “Now you can’t run.”

Your lips parted, breath hitched, the position already sending heat spiraling through your core. You could feel his cock hard and heavy behind the fly of his jeans, pressing against your stomach as he shifted just enough to drive the point home.

“Hands where I want them,” he continued. “Mouth shut. Eyes on me.”

And then—he pulled you forward again, dragging you across the forest floor by the belt around your wrists until your upper body was bent over a fallen log, the rough bark pressing against your stomach. He stood behind you now, one gloved hand between your shoulder blades, holding you down.

“We’re gonna do this my way.”

You whimpered.

The cool air licked at your skin as he yanked your pants down, leaving you bare from the waist down, knees digging into mossy dirt. You twisted slightly—reflex—but the moment your hips shifted, his palm slammed down on your ass.

Crack.

You jerked forward, gasping.

“Did I say move?” He gripped your hips hard enough to leave bruises, dragging you back into place. The leather restraint bit against your wrists as you tried to steady yourself.

“You’re gonna count,” he growled, voice coiled and sharp. “And if you move, we start over. If you lose count, we start over. If I think you’re holding back? We start. Over.”

You trembled.

“Do you understand me?”

You nodded quickly—too quickly—and another slap followed, hard and punishing.

“Use your voice.”

“Y-Yes, sir.”

He chuckled darkly. It wasn’t warm. “There she is.”

And then—he raised his hand again. You braced.

Crack.

“One,” you gasped, voice trembling.

His hand landed again. Harder.

“Two.” 

Your breath hitched. 

Again.

“Three.” 

You arched instinctively, but his hand flattened between your shoulder blades, holding you down.

“Keep still. That was a warning.”

You whimpered in response. Your cunt clenched.

He leaned down, his mouth brushing your ear. “Let’s see how long that attitude lasts, sweetheart.”

The weight of him pressed into your back—solid, inescapable—as the rough bark of the fallen log scraped your belly with each tremble that ran through you. Your wrists were still bound tightly behind you by his belt, the leather biting into your skin with each twitch, each breath. You were helpless, folded in half, ass high and thighs already slick with arousal, completely at his mercy.

John stood behind you, unmoving for a beat.

You could hear him breathing. Hear the leather of his gloves creak as he flexed his fingers—preparing.

Then—

Crack.

His palm landed sharply across your ass, the sting immediate, your gasp louder this time.

“Four,” you whimpered, voice shaking.

Crack.

“Five—”

“Louder.”

“Five!”

He adjusted his stance behind you, spreading your thighs wider with his boot. You nearly lost your balance but managed to stay steady, legs trembling.

Crack.

“Six.”

Your hips jerked forward. Too much. You couldn’t help it. And then you froze, a shudder racing through you.

You had moved.

John’s gloved hand slid into your hair, gripping it tight. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make you still. His voice was calm—almost cold.

“What did I say?”

Your lips parted. “Don’t move,” you whispered.

“What happens if you move?”

You swallowed. “We start over.”

His grip tightened in your hair. “That’s right.”

Your whole body slumped with the weight of it—of the heat blooming across your skin, of the ache between your legs, of the unbearable tension that came with having to earn every second of his touch.

“Let’s go again,” he growled. “Count it, brat.”

Crack.

“One.”

Crack.

“Two.”

The punishment didn’t let up.

Each strike was hard, deliberate. His pace was slow—not rushed, not angry—just controlled. That was what made it worse. He wasn’t lashing out. He was teaching you.

And you were learning.

By count six, your voice was cracking. By eight, tears had begun to sting your lashes—less from pain and more from frustration, from how goddamn good it felt to be pushed like this. Owned like this.

You wanted to come just from the rhythm of it.

And John knew.

Crack. 

“Nine.”

Your hips bucked again—just a little. You caught yourself—but not fast enough.

“Ah ah,” John’s voice dipped to a mocking hum. “So close, baby.”

You sobbed. “Please don’t start over—please—!”

“Then stay still,” he snarled, stepping forward so you could feel his cock straining behind his fly. “You think you deserve to come after acting like a mouthy little tease? Running from me, smirking at me like a goddamn brat? You’re lucky all I’m doing is spanking you.”

Crack.

You shrieked.

“Start over.”

You trembled—your body coated in sweat and forest air, skin flushed and aching. But you didn’t fight. You lifted your hips again, face flushed against the log, and whispered, “One.”

John smirked behind you. “Good girl.”

And he kept going.

Two. Three. Four…

Your legs quivered. You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood just to stay still.

When you reached ten—on the third attempt—he paused. His hand stroked over the raw, hot flesh of your ass in a mockery of kindness.

“There she is,” he murmured, voice syrup-smooth now. “Obedient. Quiet. Finally learning her place.” He bent low, lips brushing your temple. “Took you long enough.”

You whimpered beneath him, bound and trembling and soaked, but you didn’t dare move. And he could feel it. The submission. The ache. The desperation.

“You wet?” he asked softly. 

He already knew the answer. But still—he brought two fingers down between your thighs, dragged them through your folds with maddening slowness, then showed them to you over your shoulder—slick and dripping.

“Fucking soaked,” he said, voice hardening again. “All this for a spanking?”

You nodded slowly, shame and heat pooling under your skin.

“Pathetic.” He slapped your cunt lightly—once, twice. “You like getting punished. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Say it.”

“I like it,” you said, louder. “I like when you punish me.”

John grinned like a wolf. “Then let’s see how much you like the next part.”

You couldn’t see him behind you, but you could feel the shift. The change in the air. The moment he stopped punishing you—and started claiming you.

John’s fingers slid back between your thighs, gathering slick like he was testing the damage he’d done. He hummed under his breath when he found your cunt dripping, hot and swollen and absolutely fucking wrecked from nothing more than his hand and his words.

“So easy for me,” he muttered, fingers stroking your folds with obscene ease. “Didn’t even need my cock to get you soaking, did I?”

You whimpered. Shook your head. That earned you a slap right between your legs.

“Use your words.”

“N-no, sir.”

“That’s what I thought.” His zipper came down—slow, deliberate. You heard the shift of denim, the rustle of his clothing, and then the sound of him spitting into his hand. The vulgar wet slap of it made you moan, thighs trembling as he stroked himself behind you.

“You know we’re not that far from camp,” he said casually. “A mile. Maybe less.”

You froze.

“What if Barnes comes looking for us?” His tone was mocking now. Sharp. Cruel. “Think he’ll hear the noises you make when I fuck you full?”

“J-John—”

“Or maybe Belova. You think she’ll just wander by and find you bent over this log with your ass in the air, begging like a needy little whore?”

Your breath hitched. Your pussy clenched around nothing. 

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, stroking himself harder. “You like that. You like the idea of them hearing.”

You didn’t deny it.

Couldn’t.

Then his hand gripped your hip and his cock slammed into you. You cried out—loud, raw, broken—as he bottomed out in a single, brutal thrust. He didn’t wait. Didn’t ease you in. He just took.

“You want to act like a slut,” he growled, “I’m gonna fuck you like one.”

Your wrists jerked against the belt behind your back, body arching instinctively—but there was nowhere to go. He had you locked in place, body caging yours as he drove his cock in hard, fast, relentless.

The sound of it—skin slapping skin, breathless moans, the wet, obscene slick of your cunt gripping him with every thrust—echoed through the trees.

“Say it,” he growled into your ear. “Say what you are.”

“Y-Yours—”

Another slap across your ass. “Not what I fucking asked.”

“I’m your slut,” you sobbed. “I’m your cock-hungry slut.”

“Damn right you are.”

He fucked you harder.

The kind of rhythm that bordered on violent—every thrust designed to push you toward the edge and keep you there. His cock split you open with maddening precision, hitting that spot deep inside that made you see stars behind your eyes.

And still—he didn’t slow. Not when you started crying. Not when your legs gave out. He just hauled you up by the belt around your wrists, dragging you back onto his cock.

“You’re gonna take all of it,” he snarled. “You’re gonna take every drop of my cum, and you’re gonna keep it inside that sloppy cunt like the good little girl you are.”

Your moans cracked the air.

It was too much.

You were dizzy. Sobbing. Dripping down your thighs and clenching around him like your body had forgotten how to do anything but obey.

And John? He was unraveling. 

“Gonna breed this pussy,” he panted. “Gonna fill you up so deep they’ll smell me on you all the way back at camp.”

“Please,” you gasped. “Please do it—need it—need you—!”

“Yeah?” His voice dropped to something close to reverent. “Need my cum inside you, baby? Need me to fuck a baby into this tight little hole?”

“Yes—please, John, please—!”

That did it. He shoved in deep—as deep as he could go—and came with a snarl against the back of your neck. His cock pulsed inside you, thick spurts of heat filling your cunt, the stretch of it making your eyes roll back.

But he didn’t stop.

He didn’t pull out.

Even after he’d come—after he’d buried himself deep and flooded your cunt with every last drop—he didn’t stop.

You were already sobbing, face pressed into the rough bark of the log, breath catching in wet, broken gasps as he kept fucking you, hips never faltering. The pressure inside you was unbearable—his cum hot and thick, pushed deeper with every thrust, slicking your thighs and coating your walls in obscene excess.

“J-John—” you choked, your voice barely audible, wrecked and shaking. “Can’t—please, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled behind you, teeth gritted. “You’ll take it. Every fucking drop.”

You screamed when he slammed in again, cock still rock-hard, dragging against your sensitive walls like he needed to ruin you. You weren’t just full—you were overfull, stretched and aching, the leather belt still biting into your wrists, binding you helpless while he used your body like it was his.

“Can’t even take it right, and you still want me to fuck a baby into you? Pathetic.” He panted.

“I can! I can take it right,” you whimpered, barely able to breathe.

“Then you’re gonna stay right here until I’m done.”

He shoved you down harder, one hand between your shoulder blades, the other gripping your hip so tight you knew you’d wear bruises for days. His cock slammed in deep again—so deep—and your body arched without permission, your mouth opening in a silent cry as another orgasm tore through you.

“There it is,” he growled. “Fuck—feel that. Feel how tight this pussy gets when I talk to you like that?”

You couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t think.

You were a mess of tears and slick and twitching muscles, every nerve ending firing at once. Your cunt fluttered around him, clenching so hard it dragged a ragged groan from his throat.

“You don’t get to tap out yet, sweetheart,” he snarled, slamming in again and then hold completely still, just filling you with his thick cock. “You don’t move, you don’t breathe without my permission.”

You came again. You didn’t even realize it until he said it.

“Fuck—there’s my little slut. Coming without even being touched.”

Your legs collapsed completely. He caught you.

Still didn’t pull out.

Instead, he dragged you up with him, back to your knees, his arm around your waist, his cock still buried to the hilt.

Your body shook and he smiled.

“That’s what I wanted to see.” He thrust again. Slower this time, deeper, more drawn out. Purposeful.

“You’re gonna be leaking for days,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “Gonna walk back to camp with my cum dripping down your legs. Think Bucky’ll notice?”

You whimpered—half panic, half arousal.

“Maybe Ava. Or Alexei,” he murmured darkly, his voice curling low and close to your ear. “Think they’ll see the way you walk? The way you limp back into camp like you’ve been fucked within an inch of your life?”

He thrust into you—slow, deep, grinding—and you sobbed, wrecked and shaking as his cock pulsed inside your overfilled cunt.

“Think they’ll know I bred you out here like an animal?” He mocked. “Think they’ll figure out you let me use this pretty little hole while they sat around the fire, waiting on their sweet, innocent teammate?”

His fingers dipped between your legs—right where he was stretching you wide, collecting the mess he’d made. He brought his hand up in front of your face, coated in slick and cum.

“Open.”

You obeyed without hesitation. He pressed two fingers into your mouth—deep—and watched you suck.

“Filthy little thing,” he muttered. “You love being used, don’t you?”

You nodded around his fingers, tears streaking your cheeks, spit dripping down your chin. He kissed your temple. Soft. Gentle. A crack in the armor.

“You’re mine, baby. Only mine.”

And then he was moving again. His cock thrust deep—one hand locked around your waist, the other splayed over your belly like he was holding it all in place, like he needed you to feel every drop he’d pumped into you.

You were limp now. Soft. Ragged and teary and so full, his cum already trickling down your thighs in hot, obscene streams. But he was still hard. Still buried inside you.

Still not done.

“You’re still so fucking tight,” he growled. “Still gripping me like this pussy hasn’t already milked me dry.”

You sobbed. It was too much. You didn’t know whether to beg for more or mercy—but it didn’t matter. Your body had long since surrendered. You were his. Every inch of you said so.

“Can’t stop,” he muttered, voice breaking somewhere between reverence and madness. “Not until you can’t take anyone else. Not until you’re full of me.”

He was losing himself now. His thrusts turned ragged. Sloppier. Less calculated, more desperate. His hips slammed into yours with bruising force, a wild, broken rhythm that said this isn’t about power anymore—this is about need.

“Gonna make it take,” he panted, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder. “Gonna make sure it sticks this time. Gonna make you a mommy.”

You cried out again—high-pitched and delirious—your body shaking as your walls fluttered around him, milking his cock like your cunt was just as desperate as he was.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—” He snarled when he came again. Hot. Violent. Endless.

You felt every pulse, every twitch, every desperate grind of his hips as he fucked it deeper, like he could bury it in your womb if he just pushed hard enough. Your body collapsed beneath him, completely and utterly wrecked, tears streaming down your cheeks from the sheer overstimulation.

He didn’t pull out. He just collapsed with you, folding himself over your back, chest heaving as his arms finally wrapped around you—not to restrain, not to punish—but to hold. To anchor.

Your arms were still bound behind you. Your cunt was leaking. Your thighs were shaking. Your cheek was pressed to the log and you couldn’t remember your own name—but you remembered his.

And he said yours like it was a prayer.

“Shh,” he whispered, breath hot against your ear. “I got you. I got you, baby.”

You whimpered.

He pressed kisses—actual kisses—to your neck, your shoulder, your temple. Gentle. Real. Hands trembling now as they fumbled with the buckle at your wrists.

“Fuck—I shouldn’t’ve… you okay? Sweetheart—hey. Hey.”

You couldn’t speak. Just nodded weakly, tears still leaking from your lashes.

He kissed them. “You did so good for me. So fucking good. My good girl.”

Your arms came free. You didn’t even try to move them.

He caught you before you slumped completely, cradling your ruined body against his chest, his cock still softening inside you, your combined mess still warm and thick between your legs.

You didn’t remember how long you stayed like that—collapsed together over the fallen log, your arms finally unbound, your body trembling from aftershocks, and John draped over your back like he was shielding you from the entire goddamn world.

His cock still nestled inside you. Your legs still spread. His hands still on you—not with force anymore, but with something gentler. Slower. Like he needed the reassurance that you were still there. Still breathing. Still his.

You flinched when he moved. It wasn’t pain. Not really. Just the raw, swollen throb of a body wrung dry and used up in the best possible way.

He noticed immediately. “Hey,” he whispered, voice low and careful now. “I’ve got you. Gonna take care of you, baby.”

You let out a soft sound, barely audible.

And John—brutal, dominant, hunter-in-the-woods John—kissed the back of your neck like it was something holy.

He didn’t let you walk. Didn’t even ask if you could.

He cleaned you as best he could in the woods—his t-shirt soaked in water from his canteen, dragging it gently between your thighs with soft murmurs and the kind of touch that didn’t match the bruises blooming beneath it.

“Easy. I know, baby—I know it’s sore.”

He tugged your pants up carefully, tucked your hands against his chest, and then lifted you into his arms like you weighed nothing.

And then he carried you.

The whole mile back.

Through trees and underbrush, across rocks and roots and fading dusk light, John Walker held you like you might vanish if he let go. His heart thundered against your cheek. You could feel it. Could feel how tightly his jaw was clenched, like he was mad at himself. Or the world. Or the people waiting at camp who didn’t know just how far he’d gone this time.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded sleepily. “Just full,” you mumbled. 

His lips twitched. “Yeah, sweetheart. You are.”

By the time you reached the edge of camp, night had fallen and the fire had burned low. There were shadows by the flames—Bucky, leaning back with his arms crossed; Bob laughing at something Yelena said; Alexei in his chair, already dozing with a half-empty beer bottle in his lap.

They didn’t see you.

Or if they did, they didn’t say anything.

John slipped you into the tent like a ghost, closing the flap behind him, shutting the rest of the world out in one motion. The second it was zipped, he knelt beside you—hands already working, already fussing, stripping your boots off, peeling away layers of dirt and sweat-soaked fabric.

“Lemme see the damage,” he muttered, more to himself than you.

He turned you gently in the soft lantern light. Gasped softly at the bruises on your ass—some fresh and red, some already turning the color of plum. You had older ones, too. From three nights ago. From the last time he’d bent you over a table and called you his.

“Jesus,” he breathed, hands ghosting over them without pressure. “You’re gonna hate me in the morning.”

You smiled softly. “You say that every time.”

“And every time, you look more marked up than before.”

He cleaned you properly now. Warm water from the canteen. His softest undershirt. Slow, patient touches. He even massaged your thighs, kissed your knees. Rubbed the ache from your calves like he hadn’t just torn your soul out in the woods.

Then he slid into the sleeping bag behind you—shirtless, warm, big—and pulled your body back against his chest. He buried his nose in your hair.

“You’re mine, you know that?” he whispered.

You nodded, eyes fluttering shut.

“Say it.”

You murmured it like a lullaby. “I’m yours.”

“That’s right.” His arms wrapped tighter around you. Not possessive now. Just needy.

That was the part no one else saw. The way he trembled just a little after scenes like that. The way his thumb stroked your hip like he was afraid you might vanish between one breath and the next.

“You’re all I fucking have,” he whispered, barely audible. “You get that? You’re it.”

Your heart cracked.

You turned your face toward his and kissed him—soft, slow, nothing like the way he’d kissed your neck an hour ago. This wasn’t about heat. It was about home.

“I’m not going anywhere, John.”

He held you tighter.

And for the first time all night—maybe all week—he let himself breathe.

-

Sunlight filtered through the olive canvas of your tent in muted gold bands, the world outside soft and still—quiet enough to make you wonder if the team had packed up and moved without you.

You stirred, barely, as the ache in your thighs and hips announced itself loud and early. It was a deep soreness, the kind that didn’t settle on the surface. This was bone-deep. Pussy-deep. The kind that made you aware of yourself.

Aware of how full you’d been last night.

Of how John had made sure there wasn’t an inch of your body untouched, unmarked, or unclaimed.

You winced, shifting onto your side.

A warm arm curled tighter around your waist in response, and you felt the press of John’s chest against your back, his nose nudging into your hair.

“Mmm. Don’t move yet,” he rasped. “Still not done holding you.”

You huffed a laugh. It came out hoarse. “You never are.”

“Damn right I’m not.” He kissed your shoulder, slow and lazy. The soft intimacy of it made your chest ache more than your body did.

This was the part that always gutted you.

Not the spanking. Not the fucking.

This.

John Walker, quiet and warm and careful after he’d broken you into a trembling, overstimulated mess the night before. His fingertips traced aimless patterns over your stomach. His voice was raspy, but calm.

He wasn’t trying to be anyone right now.

He was just yours.

Eventually, he helped you up—slow, gentle, steadying your arms when your legs didn’t cooperate on the first try. You hissed when your feet hit the ground and your thighs tensed.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he muttered, eyeing the wobble in your knees. “You’re walking like I broke your pelvis.”

You shot him a look. He smirked, clearly not sorry. “You’re lucky I’m still wet for you or I’d punch you.”

“You’re lucky you can still walk.”

You made it outside together—his arm looped around your back in a move that almost looked casual. Almost.

The second you crossed the firepit line, four heads turned.

Yelena looked up first—her lips parted around a forkful of scrambled eggs. Then her eyes dropped to the way John’s arm was still wrapped around you. To the way your shirt was hanging loose at the collar. To the finger-shaped bruises on your throat.

She didn’t say a word. Just arched a brow, and then  grinned, slow and razor-sharp.

“Someone had fun.”

You flushed.

Bucky glanced up, one brow ticking, but he didn’t comment. Just looked from you, to John, to your bruised knees and the faint red mark where bark had kissed your cheek.

Ava blinked once then turned to Yelena with a deadpan and said, “Five bucks says Walker carried her back like a caveman.”

“Already saw it,” Yelena quipped. “He did.”

Alexei was oblivious. Still eating like it was his last meal. Bob? Probably still asleep in a tree somewhere.

But John didn’t flinch. Didn’t hide.

He just pulled you closer to his side, let his hand rest just above your hip—on top of your bruises like he wanted them seen.

“What?” he said flatly, to no one in particular. “We were on perimeter patrol.”

Yelena snorted into her mug. “Yes, and I’m a fucking nun, Walker.”

“You’ve been worse,” Ava added helpfully.

“That is not the point.”

You stood there in your silence, wrapped in the after of everything, and couldn’t help but smile. Because your body ached. Your skin stung.

You were sore. Marked. Loved.

And John was still there, big and broad and solid beside you, wearing your wreckage like a badge of honor.

He leaned down as the others turned back to their breakfasts, brushed his lips against your temple, and whispered, “Next time, I’m making you crawl back.”

You shivered.

You knew he meant it.

you’re just awake enough though to register the passenger side door opening. your eyebrows furrow. it’s cold outside, too cold when you’re so warm, night air crisp against your shorts-clad legs and causing goosebumps to raise on your skin. your eyes are just beginning to slip open when your seatbelt is undone for you. 

“oh, love of mine,” jake coos, sing-songy and quiet. a slow kiss to your forehead is what does it. that’s what wakes you fully, a choked groan and a gust of stale air rocketing out of your mouth before you can stop them. the crackling of your knees and elbows follows as you stretch, and you barely miss knocking jake in the face when you do. “careful now, little lady. who else is gonna carry all these bags if ya knock me out cold?” 

you hum then and smack your lips, finally sitting up straight and untangling yourself from your sleep-warm seat. 

“my husband.”

“husband, huh? this husband a’yours must be a real handsome son of a gun. strong too, i bet.” 

jake hefts one of your duffle bags over a tan arm. the muscle bulges, flexes under the skin, showing you just how strong said husband really is. 

“yeah, he’s a real stud,” you yawn. 

there’s no lie to be told. he is a real stud — inflation of jake’s ego be damned — fuck it, you like your man confident. that sandy blonde hair, those emerald green eyes. temptation on legs, he is, suave and assured and kind, even when the cocksure attitude he sports wraps its protective arms around that kindness and hides it from view. 

jake’s truck isn’t all that tall, but your feet still slip to the ground ungracefully when you lower yourself from the passenger seat. he steadies you with a warm hand at your elbow, keeping it there as you wipe the crust from your eyes and run your fingers through your hair to wake yourself up more. a buzzing light bar to your left makes you squint when your vision clears. 

“up and at ‘em, darlin’. room should be a little ways down the hall and straight to the right.” 

jake hands you the keycard and locks his truck before hefting a couple more bags in his arms, following your lead to your motel room for the night. 

it’s definitely the oldest place you’ve stayed so far on your long journey up the coast, but it doesn’t look too bad. paint is chipping in the ceiling corners, there looks to be a little water damage on the flooring of the hall, again, it’s nothing you’ve never seen before. but you know your husband well enough to know that he’s probably having a silent fit over the chipping paint and water stains. if you were this tired just from sitting in the passenger seat all day, you can only imagine jake’s fatigue. he must not have had much of an option, unless you’d rather the two of you spend the night in a ditch. 

you find the door easily enough, double checking the number written on the keycard just in case and holding it to the electronic key swipe until it turns green. the door sticks for a moment, you have to bump it with your shoulder once or twice to get it to open, and the smell of roses hits you before anything. 

roses — what a nice change! there’s a fresh bouquet sitting pretty on the television console. you were honestly expecting the ever welcoming scent of mildew. 

the maroon carpet comes as a surprise too, the mirrored walls even more so, but it isn’t until you step further into the room and see the bed that you stop in your tracks. 

“jacob.” it’s hissed through your teeth rather frantically, voice raising in pitch as your eyes widen. “where the fuck are we?!” 

you turn around to address your husband and find him looking surprisingly just as surprised as you are. his lips are ticking upwards at the corners though, those bright green eyes of his roaming the room before landing on you with a wink. 

“well goddamn. if this ain’t the honeymoon suite, honey, i don’t know what is.” 

“jacob!” you grab your bag from his arm and whack him with it. “if that’s a waterbed i’m going to kill you, oh my god. tasha’s going to freak when i tell her you booked us a room at a love motel. if you wanted to get me naked you could have just asked. you know, like a normal person.” 

he laughs then, bright like ringing bells, crows feet popping by his squinted eyes. he wraps an arm around your shoulder and pulls you to his chest, kissing the top of your head before tipping your chin up with long fingers. 

“most of the time i don’t even have to ask, though, do i?” 

there’s that smug little smirk you fell hard for, that damned, honey-dipped texas drawl, that steadfast attention that still makes your cheeks heat up despite how long you’ve been together. being on the receiving end of a jake seresin look is not for the weak. 

you roll your eyes and nudge him with a playful shoulder to his sturdy chest. he’s laughing all the way to the heart-shaped bed then, locking in to check meticulously for bedbugs and unwanted stains that would get you moved to another room and a zero taken off your charge. you busy yourself too by piddling around the room, latching the security lock on the door and setting your bags on the console underneath the television. 

the whole suite is something straight out of the fifties, can’t have been touched since the eighties. a creak of the bathroom door and a flick of the lights is all it takes to confirm your suspicions. there’s a jacuzzi style bathtub right in the middle of the room, four walls equally as mirrored as the main suite. there’s even a lounge chair in the corner on top of the velveteen, maroon carpeted floor. 

“oh my- jesus, jake, why is there carpet in the bathroom?!” you guffaw, a slightly hysterical laugh leaving your lips.

a closer inspection of the bathtub finds you staring straight up at a spigot in the ceiling. when you twist the knob in the tub, water gushes from the spigot and down into the basin, which actually — you pause to consider with raised brows, the thought of leaning back in the corner of the bathtub with your legs spread, feeling the water pressure jet where you’re most sensitive — sounds… like a pretty good time. maybe jake could join you, maybe he could sit in the lounge chair and watch, but your eyes land on the carpeted floor again and you recoil with a shudder, dreamy bathroom escapades cast to the side until you find somewhere with blessed tile flooring. 

you brush your teeth quickly and leave jake’s toothbrush out for him to use when he’s done fussing around the main suite, changing just as quickly out of your clothes and into your favorite, worn sleep shirt to turn in after a long day spent in jake’s truck. 

you’re thankful to find that the bed in the direct center of the room isn’t a waterbed after all. jake’s already pulled the covers back for you, so you slip in and rub your feet together like a bug after pulling the blankets back up to your chin. your back pops when you recline onto the pillow only to be disrupted by another hysterical laugh, and you watch yourself do it courtesy of the mirror on the ceiling. 

jake pads back into the main suite and saddles up close beside you in bed after turning off the overhead lights, leaving you in the intimate glow of the bedside lamps. he’s warm, always is, smells like your shared minty toothpaste and home. he pulls you into his side and hums when you rest your head on his hairy chest, slinging your own arm across his waist and rubbing your palm across his toned stomach as he squeezes you closer. 

“i’m just gonna go out on a limb here and guess they don’t serve breakfast,” jake says. 

“oh, sure they do. i’m sure if you go back to the front desk and ask for some, i dunno… oysters, strawberries, maybe some dark chocolate, they’ll be able to hook us up.” 

jake pinches your hip and you giggle. you press your mouth to the side of his pec to hide your smile. it’s easy to relax into him, to let your weight go lax while you nuzzle your cheek against the coarse fur on his chest, to kiss him right where the beat of his heart is. the soft beat of his heart almost does its job and lulls you to sleep, but your eyes creep open again, so damn distracted by that mirror right above you. 

“isn’t sleeping in front of a mirror, like, bad luck?” you ask. you’re not just in front of a mirror, you’re completely surrounded by them. “stevie wonder probably has a song about this.” 

he laughs then and it jostles you from your spot on his chest. jake rolls you over then until you’re on your back and leans over you, elbow planted on the mattress beside your head. 

“sounds like someone needs a little distraction.” his hand dips under your loose shirt to caress your hip, rucking it up just enough that you shiver the moment his fingertips brush against the hem of your panties. those green eyes of his are deep, as vast as a forest, droopy with exhaustion but there’s a glint in them just for you to see. once jake sets his mind to something, there’s no stopping him. he scoffs. “bad luck… nah, you’re layin’ next to a mighty fine good luck charm.” jake grins, but it softens into something sweet just as he leans down to kiss you. you taste his smile on your lips, bright and bold as always, and your arms come up to wrap around his broad shoulders. 

jake’s fingers skim your panties again. all it does is make your legs twitch and have you exhaling into his mouth. “can i touch you right here?” he asks, gentle as ever. 

the moment he backs up to ask, you throw your arm over your eyes with a barely concealed whine. 

“you know you can.” 

“mmm, but i like to ask.” 

your exhaustion slinks away the moment jake throws the blanket to the foot of the bed and his thick fingers slip under the hem of your panties. he finds you wet, of course he does, wet and warm and inviting. he knows just how to play you — an amalgamation of your many years spent together and a hankering to be the best you’ll ever have, jake touches you with the experience of someone who loves you completely, who cherishes your pleasure above all else. he dips lower to find your entrance even silkier there, and jake curls his fingers at the give of it to swipe up your dripping wetness. he brings it right where you need it — a smooth, tight motion right on the swell of your aching clit — and he adjusts himself on his side when you spread your legs wider for him, throwing a thigh over his to give him more room. 

“jake,” you breathe. he touches you like that until you’re trembling again, your hips circling in tandem with his dexterous fingers. “jake, jake, baby, oh-”

“i’m right here, darlin’, shit. would ya look at that.” 

the raspy tone of his voice has you fitfully dragging your arm away from your face to see what it is that he’s talking about. there’s only one thing it could be, really, and it’s the first thing your bleary eyes land on anyway. 

the mirror on the ceiling reflects such a dirty scene that your head swims with it. you’re embarrassed, so embarrassed seeing yourself like this. heat trickles down your face and flushes your chest hot, but embarrassment be damned, you can’t make yourself look away from it. it’s sinful, it really is, the bump of jake’s hand in your panties, soft fabric clinging to his fingers when he moves them in tight circles. your hips follow unconsciously, endlessly chasing the pleasure that jake so willingly gives you. it makes you whimper, grind your hips against the pads of his fingers harder. 

“jake!” another cry of his name, unbridled and a little pathetic. you watch yourself cry out for him in your reflection, see the way your spit-slick lips curl around your most favorite word. your eyebrows are furrowed, mouth dropped open in rising pleasure. you push your thigh down onto jake’s to lift you higher into his touch with a warbled keen. 

“easy, easy sweetheart, shh. my perfect girl… perfect fuckin’ girl. i’ll get you there. you know that, right? know i’ll get you right where you need? ‘s all good, just feel it.”

a rushed nod of your head. you can’t answer him, mouth too busy moaning to give him a verbal confirmation. you wrap your fingers around his arm and clutch him, his strong muscles flexing under the hold of your fingertips. jake leans further into your side then, ducking his head to press searing kisses into the tender, sweaty skin of your neck. 

heat swirls in your belly. jake’s wrist must be aching where it’s trapped underneath the band of your panties, but his fingers don’t stop their movements. he’s rubbing you just right — the slick pads of his digits swiping over and over and over your clit, pressing them harder when they swirl right underneath it to make you jolt against him. he’s getting you there just like he promised you. 

your orgasm hits you so hard that it almost surprises you, a boiling pot bubbling over on the stove and hissing with steam. jake hisses then, groans deep in his throat when your legs clamp shut around the constant pressure, the steady movements of his fingers. he doesn’t let up until you’re jolting in overstimulation and curling into his chest. you’re keen to stay there until you finally gain your bearings back enough to notice how hard he is through his sweatpants, cock throbbing as you grip him right over the thick fabric. 

that’s what gets you to finally roll over. your smug husband still has it in him to chuckle at your uncoordinated limbs, but you get him back when your back finally hits his warm chest, ass rolling back onto his length to entice. 

“still got one more in you?” he asks. the answer’s obvious — made even more obvious by your frantic fingers tugging your ruined, sticky panties to your ankles and then reaching behind you for jake. despite his bravado, it’s easy to tell that he’s just as worked up as you are, his own hands fumbling to pull his sweats down just enough to have his heavy cock springing out of its confines. he grabs himself in hand and presses the leaking tip to you, groaning when your hole clenches in a kiss right to his tip. 

he slides home easily when you unclench, and you’re so soaked for him that a nasty, wet noise overtakes the sound of your heavy breathing when he finally presses balls deep. 

“ho-ly shit,” jake grunts. his hand finds your hip and you reach for him, clammy fingers clinging to two of his. 

your sight is filled with the reflection of you and jake from all angles. no matter where you look, forwards, upwards, flipped upside down and standing on your head with your right eye closed — you’d see the image of the two of you together, your body held tight to jake’s and jostling with his eager thrusts. he’s huffing into your neck, hot breath skittering over your skin. 

jake shushes you again when he moves his hand from your hip, a sad little coo leaving your lips at the loss of his sweet touch. your hand stays with his, follows the warmth as he rucks up your shirt more so he can grip one of your bouncing breasts with greedy fingers. a mean bite to your bottom lip can’t hold your warbled moan inside, neither can it deter the desperate words that flow freely after your moan broke the floodgates. “yes! yesyes- y-yeah, jake, ‘s so good, mm-!” 

“that’s it, there you go.” another harsh squeeze to your breast, his rough palm against your sensitive nipple makes your back bow sharply. “gonna get you there again. such a sweet girl, so damn perfect. look how well you take me, darlin’, you see it?” 

he lifts your leg, palm cupping the pit of your knee to hold you open so that you can see yourself in the mirror. 

your gaze drops downwards despite the burning in your cheeks. you’re not embarrassed enough to dissuade yourself though, you do take him perfectly, something you’ve always known — whether it be from your own devilish thoughts or jake’s insistence — but now you see it. as clear as day, you watch the slick slide of jake’s cock, the grip of your pussy keeping him snug and warm inside and begging for his cum. he’ll give it to you soon, if his erratic thrusts are anything to go by, a man fueled completely by your pleasure. 

“fuck me,” you beg, high pitched and sticky in your throat. “fuck me, please fuh- fuck me, cum in me, jake, please.” 

he’s as stubborn as a mule but never when you ask him so sweetly. jake cums with a bitten off groan, his grip on your leg tightening slightly as he does before he drops it completely from his grasp. he wraps his arm around you then, reaches between your thighs to thumb at your clit again so that you can cum with him inside, and the insistent pressure from his fingers has you squirming all over again. he holds you in place, makes you feel everything without running. that warmth washes over you again when you catch his eyes in the mirror, his unwavering gaze tender and deep and dedicated. 

jake knows when you’re done because you go completely lax in his arms. he smooths your shirt back down over your heaving chest and tucks himself back into his sweats afterward. 

a soft kiss to your shoulder, another to the shell of your ear. jake goes to pull up your panties before he hesitates, thinks twice. 

“wanna shower? you’re kinda sweaty.” 

jake’s grin is sly when you swat at him, an incredulous laugh leaving your lips. 

“me sweaty?! be serious. i’m not showering in the carpet bathroom. just go get a cloth, lieutenant.” 

he doesn’t even make you say please before he gets up with a sleepy, sated smile. 

It’s chemical. It’s hormonal. It’s not personal.

Because Bucky Barnes is grumpy. Bucky Barnes is quiet. And Bucky Barnes has absolutely no idea that he’s the reason you can’t go three days without needing to fuck yourself stupid.

Like right now.

He’s just standing there in the kitchen, back to you, broad shoulders stretching that worn black Henley like it’s a second skin. His hair’s short now, freshly trimmed at the nape, the kind of cut that shows off the sharp line of his jaw, the back of his neck.

You’re staring. Again.

You don’t mean to. But he makes a little grunt when he stretches — just a tired noise, nothing sexual — and you nearly whimper like a kicked dog. Instinct. Pavlovian response.

And he doesn’t notice. Not even a flicker of awareness as he pours his coffee and walks out, oblivious, muttering something about the mission report.

You just stand there, holding a spoon, clenched thighs and flushed cheeks like you’ve just been fucked by the idea of him.

It’s getting worse.

Like, medically worse.

You’ve gone from horny to feral to clinically unwell, and it’s all because of one man.

One grumpy, emotionally constipated, vein-poppingly hot man who can’t say a sentence without sounding mildly irritated. Who barely even looks at you unless you’re in the way. Who definitely doesn’t like you — and yet somehow owns your nervous system like a fucking landlord.

And it’s not fair.

Because he’s not even nice to you.

He’s short with you in meetings. Scoffs when you crack jokes. Gives you that look when you say something mildly reckless on a mission — like you’re exhausting. Like you’re annoying.

But then he’ll do something that ruins you completely. Like grunt your name low and gravelly when tossing you your gear. Or casually push you out of the line of fire with one big, rough hand and say, “Watch it, sweetheart,” like you’re some dainty little thing.

You pace your room that night, ranting to no one.

“I don’t even like him,” you mutter, folding laundry with violent purpose. “He’s so rude. He never smiles. Doesn’t talk to anyone unless he has to.”

Your shirt gets yanked onto a hanger too hard. You nearly snap it.

“And he doesn’t even like me. Not even a little. I’m just some girl who laughs too loud and gets in his way and—oh my god, I would let him ruin me.”

That’s probably the most honest thing you said all week. You’d let him manhandle you. Throw you over his shoulder. Rail you into the mattress like a war crime. That arm? The metal one? You’ve thought about it. God, you’ve thought about it so much it’s starting to feel like a sin.

You can’t help it.

You collapse onto your bed, still in your T-shirt and underwear, legs kicking uselessly against the sheets. Your body is hot — too hot. Your skin prickles, stomach twisting tight with the sheer need of it.

You shouldn’t do it.

But fuck it — you do.

Your hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties like second nature, no hesitation. You’re already soaked — of course you are. One fucking grunt from Bucky in the kitchen and you’ve been like this all day, wound tight and throbbing.

Your fingers slide through the slick heat of your folds, and your hips twitch. You let out a soft, breathless whimper, biting your lip like it’ll help.

It doesn’t.

He’s all you can think about.

Bucky, with that low rasp of a voice. Bucky, sweat-slicked and panting, muscles straining above you. Bucky, staring down at you like you’re a mess he likes making.

You rub lazy circles around your clit, teasing yourself, letting it build slow. Letting the images crawl behind your eyes:

His hands gripping your thighs, spreading them open.

That cold metal arm wrapped around your throat, holding you in place while he pounds into you, relentless and filthy.

His voice in your ear, rough and possessive —“You been thinkin’ about this, sweetheart? Been touching yourself like a needy little thing?”

Your fingers move faster.

You arch into the mattress, breath stuttering, hips chasing the pressure. Your other hand slides up under your shirt, finds your breast and squeezes hard, tugging at your nipple.

“Fuck,” you whisper, squirming, already so close it’s pathetic.

You imagine his hand — that hand — between your legs. Imagine him shoving your panties to the side with those cool, precise fingers and just… watching you squirm. Watching you come undone with that unreadable expression of his, like he’s filing it away for later.

You imagine him making you come like this. Telling you you’re not allowed to stop. That you’re gonna do it again, and again, until you’re crying.

Your thighs start to shake.

You gasp, pressing harder, grinding down. Your toes curl, muscles tensing, pleasure tearing through you like lightning — sharp, wet, overwhelming.

You come hard, moaning into your pillow, breathless and ruined, hand still trembling between your thighs.

And then?

You lie there. Sticky. Hot. Unsatisfied.

Because no matter how many times you make yourself come, it’s never enough.

Not when it’s him you want.

Not when it’s Bucky fucking Barnes.

———

You’re minding your business. Truly. Peacefully. Drinking your stupid little smoothie, scrolling through intel reports on your tablet, trying so hard not to think about last night and the shame spiral that followed.

You’re in the common room, feet tucked under you, hair up, living a clean and quiet life.

The front door hisses open. Voices filter in—Sam laughing, Nat muttering something dry, Steve’s boots heavy on the floor.

And him.

Bucky.

You don’t look up at first. You don’t need to. You can feel him. Like some sixth sense activated just by his presence, like the air itself is different when he walks into it.

But then you do look up and you regret it immediately.

He’s just back from the field. Tactical gear still clinging to him, black shirt soaked through with sweat in that way that makes it stick to every hard line of muscle underneath. The sleeves are tight around his biceps—dangerously tight—making it look like the fabric’s seconds from giving out under the strain of his arms.

His hair’s damp, just messy enough to be criminal, a few strands sticking to his forehead. Dog tags resting against his chest. Black cargo pants slung low on his hips, clinging to his thighs like they were custom-made by someone with your exact problem.

He’s flushed from exertion, a little dirty, jaw tight like he’s still coming down from combat.

And he doesn’t notice you. He just walks past, arm flexing as he drags his glove off with his teeth.

You actually—physically—have to grip the edge of the couch.

You squeeze your thighs together so tight your eyes almost roll back. Your smoothie is sweating in your hand, condensation dripping onto your leg, and it’s the least of your problems right now.

Because that man?

That man could rail you into next week with the anger he carries in his shoulders alone. You’d let him wreck you in the debriefing room, up against the wall, still wearing that gear and not saying a word.

You’d tear those tactical pants off with your teeth.

And he just keeps walking. Oblivious. Like he’s not singlehandedly dragging you through the gates of horny hell.

“God,” you mutter under your breath, heart hammering. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He pauses for half a second like he might’ve heard you. Glances over his shoulder—just once.

And then he’s gone, down the hall.

You stare at the door for a long time, smoothie forgotten, thighs still clenched like your life depends on it.

You need help. You need prayer. Exorcism. A cold shower.

Or maybe you just need him to ruin your entire existence.

You barely make it back to your room.

Your legs are shaking. Your mind’s a blur. All you can see is him—sweaty, panting, muscles strained beneath that black t-shirt. His arm flexing, the curve of his jaw, those goddamn tactical pants hugging every inch of thigh like a threat.

You lock the door behind you with trembling fingers.

You don’t even bother taking your clothes off properly—just shove your hand down your shorts as you collapse back onto your bed, legs spread, head spinning.

He looked so good.

Your fingers slide through your folds, already wet, your body acting like it’s been starving for him. Like it’s been waiting all day, all year, for a glimpse of that man so it can break down on command.

You rub your clit in tight, needy circles, moaning quietly.

Your eyes flutter shut.

You picture him over you, sweaty and still in gear, that black shirt pushed up just enough to show the cut of his stomach. You imagine his voice, low and rough, right next to your ear—“Couldn’t even wait, huh? Needed me that bad?”

Your hips buck, thighs shaking, pleasure building fast and desperate.

“Fuck—Bucky,” you gasp, breath catching.

You don’t hear the quiet footfalls in the hall.

Don’t hear the door next to yours click shut.

Don’t know he’s just gotten back to his room.

But he hears you.

Bucky stops with one boot halfway unlaced.

He frowns—still half in mission mode—until he hears it again: a faint whimper through the wall. A soft gasp. Then—his name. Muffled. Almost whispered.

His blood goes still.

He steps closer to the wall, heart suddenly pounding, every nerve pulled tight.

Another moan. Higher this time. Desperate.

He can hear the rhythm now—quiet, wet sounds, a bed creaking slightly with every movement. You’re touching yourself. Saying his name. Whimpering like it’s been torturing you.

His mouth goes dry. Something low in his stomach twists.

He shouldn’t listen.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe.

You don’t know he’s there—don’t know you’ve already ruined him. That he’s standing on the other side of the wall, jaw clenched, cock straining against his pants, while you moan into your pillow and come with his name on your lips.

———

The next day, you tell yourself you’re fine.

You look fine. You act fine. You sit in the common area with your laptop open and a mug in your hands like a picture of peace. The night before? Never happened. The hand between your thighs? The breathy moans into your pillow? The orgasm that left you limp and half-ashamed?

A delusion. A private, pathetic delusion.

Until he walks in.

And your entire body remembers.

Bucky enters like it’s nothing. Like he’s nothing. Joggers low on his hips, black T-shirt riding up in the back, hair damp from a shower and curling just slightly around his ears.

You look up instinctively.

And he looks right at you.

Your breath catches. Your stomach drops. He holds your gaze for half a second—half a second too long—then nods, casual as ever, and heads to the kitchen.

No hello. No smirk. Nothing to suggest he heard the way you moaned his name with your fingers stuffed between your thighs like you were starving for him.

He doesn’t say a word.

You try to refocus, try to look at your screen and breathe, but your eyes keep flicking back.

He’s moving around the kitchen now, calm, quiet, efficient. Forearms flexing with every movement. The joggers cling when he crouches to grab something from a low cabinet, and your mouth actually goes dry.

Your thighs squeeze together.

He knows.

He has to know.

But he’s pretending like he doesn’t, and it’s driving you fucking insane.

You don’t even want to like him. He’s grumpy and rude and dismissive. He doesn’t flirt. He barely talks. He exists like a thundercloud with muscles and you still want to cry from how badly you want him.

And now he knows.

Now you’ve moaned his name with a hand between your legs, and he’s seen you since and said nothing.

You want to crawl into the floor.

You want to jump him.

You want him to ruin you until you can’t even say your own name.

He walks past you again with a cup of coffee, eyes flicking toward you—slow, heavy, unreadable.

And this time?

You swear there’s a hint of a smirk.

He leans against the counter, sipping his coffee, that black mug dwarfing in his gloved hand. The steam curls around his face, catching the light, and he’s just staring at nothing—completely unreadable.

Until he speaks. “Sleep okay last night?”

You freeze. Your heart flatlines. Then kicks into overdrive.

You glance up too fast, trying to act casual, but your grip on the mug betrays you—tight, white-knuckled.

“Yeah,” you say, blinking. “Why?”

Bucky shrugs. Sips again. His face is all calm, cold stillness. Like he’s discussing the weather. Not like he heard you moaning his name behind the paper-thin wall like your soul was leaving your body.

“Nothing,” he says, low and even.

You swallow hard. Try to hide the heat crawling up your neck.

You stare at him. Waiting for something. A look. A smirk. A single flicker of anything.

But he gives you nothing.

Just turns back toward the hallway, casual as ever, coffee in hand, like he didn’t just dangle a loaded gun over your head and walk away.

And as he disappears down the hall, your thighs press together again.

You’re so fucked.

———

You try to sleep.

You really, really do.

You toss. You turn. You fluff your pillow. You kick the blankets off and pull them back up. You stare at the ceiling and beg your brain to stop replaying the way he looked in that shirt. The way his voice dropped when he asked about your night. The nothing he gave you like a damn grenade and walked away.

It doesn’t stop.

It won’t stop.

You squeeze your thighs together for the fifth time in twenty minutes, but it only makes it worse. Your whole body’s aching—burning. Tight with the need that’s been building for the entire day.

You glance at the door. You know you should get up and lock it.

But you don’t. Because you’re tired. And turned on. And pathetic.

“Fuck it,” you whisper, dragging your hand under the sheets. “I’ll be quiet.”

You bite your lip as your fingers slide down, already warm, already soaked. You work slow at first, trying to stay silent—just enough to relieve the pressure. Just enough to breathe again.

But then your mind starts drifting.

To him.

Always him.

Bucky in the gym, sweat-slick and scowling. Bucky walking past you post-mission like a walking sin. Bucky pressing you into your mattress with that big metal hand wrapped around your throat, voice rough in your ear—“You’re so fucking loud for me, baby.”

You gasp. Then whimper. Soft. Barely audible.

But he hears it.

He’s in his room again. Reading. Trying to pretend like he didn’t spend all day imagining the look on your face when he asked about your sleep. Trying not to picture your hand between your thighs again.

And then he hears you.

Again.

A muffled moan, breathless and aching, like it’s being pulled out of you against your will.

He stands without thinking.

Crosses the hall with quiet, deliberate steps. His pulse is steady, but something low is stirring—something primal. Something possessive. The kind of heat that doesn’t burn—it consumes.

He stops outside your door.

Closed. Not locked.

He doesn’t even knock.

The handle turns with the softest click, and then—

He steps inside. The door shuts behind him with a quiet snick.

You don’t hear it.

You’re on your back, one knee bent, your hand buried under the hem of your shorts. Your head is tipped back against the pillow, mouth open in these soft, gasping little whimpers as you chase the edge, hips twitching, breath fogging in the dim light.

You have no idea he’s there.

Not until you hear him speak.

“Didn’t I just ask if you slept okay?” The voice—his voice—cracks through the quiet like a whip.

You bolt upright.

Everything inside you lurches, heart ramming against your ribs, a violent rush of heat and panic rising through your chest like you’ve been caught in a fire. Your hand yanks back from your shorts like it’s been scorched, and you scramble to pull the blanket up, dragging it over your thighs as your breath shatters.

Your eyes fly to the source of the voice.

And there he is. Leaning against the door like he’s got all the time in the world. Arms crossed. One brow slightly raised.

His expression is unreadable—casual, maybe—but there’s a flicker in his eyes. Something dark. Something hungry. Like he’s taking inventory of every inch of you in one glance.

You can’t move. Can’t think.

Your heart’s thudding like a drumline, and your cheeks go hot, burning as your stomach flips over itself in full-blown horror.

You can still feel your arousal—sticky, heat pressed between your thighs, your pulse fluttering in places he’s not even touched.

“Bucky—” you croak, throat tight. “I—what are you doing—how—”

“The door wasn’t locked,” he says flatly.

Matter-of-fact. Like that explains everything.

And it kind of does.

You just sit there, still clutching the blanket to your chest like it can undo what he saw. As if it can erase the sound of you moaning into your pillow while your fingers worked yourself over to the thought of him.

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t leer.

He just watches.

Like he’s curious. Patient. Like he’s giving you a chance to dig your own grave or shut up and let him lower you into it.

You look at him and it hits you how big he is. Broad and solid, filling the doorway like a wall. The black t-shirt is stretched across his shoulders, tucked into his pants just enough to show the lines of his waist, and that goddamn metal hand is flexing at his side like it’s already made its decision.

And still… he doesn’t leave.

Your voice breaks trying to fill the silence. “I didn’t mean— I thought I was quiet— I didn’t know—”

“I heard everything.”

That shuts you up.

His voice is calm. But it’s not soft. Not gentle. It sinks into your gut like a stone, and your thighs squeeze together before you can stop yourself—before your body betrays you again.

You look away. You can’t look at him. Not when you’re like this—hair messy, skin flushed, caught in the act like a filthy little secret with your want written all over your sheets.

He moves. Not quickly. Not harshly. Just decisively. Like this is inevitable. Like he knew the moment he opened that door that he wasn’t going to leave until you were ruined.

He crosses the room in two slow steps. Sits on the edge of your bed, right next to you. His thigh brushes yours, warm and solid, and your breath hitches—your entire body tensing as his presence crowds the air.

Then his hand—the metal one—reaches out.

He takes your wrist. Your fingers are still damp. Still twitching from where they were buried between your thighs. He stares at them for a second, then meets your eyes.

“Touch yourself.”

You blink. “What—”

“I said touch yourself,” he repeats, a little lower this time. “Show me.”

Your heart slams. His grip stays locked around your wrist, not forcing—but not letting go either. He doesn’t need to threaten. Doesn’t need to beg.

He’s already heard you fall apart for him.

Now he wants the show.

And fuck—your body obeys before your brain can stop it.

You shift beneath the covers, breath shaking, eyes wide as your hand slides back down, slipping under the waistband of your shorts.

Your skin’s hot. Everything throbs and you’re soaked.

Shame prickles in your chest, but it’s drowned by the way he watches—focused and still, his hand still gripping yours like he owns it.

You let your fingers find that spot again, slick and swollen, and you shudder.

“Fuck,” you whisper, breath catching.

His voice cuts through it. Soft. Direct. “You’ve been touching yourself thinking about me?”

You nod, cheeks burning.

“And now you can’t stop, can you?” he murmurs. “Poor thing. You want me this much, baby?”

You let out a tiny, broken sound—something between a gasp and a whimper—and press harder.

His metal thumb strokes over the inside of your wrist, slow and thoughtful, like he’s testing your pulse. You’re so wet your fingers glide without resistance, your hips moving on their own.

“Messy little thing,” he mutters. “God, you’re desperate. Didn’t even lock the door.”

His flesh hand moves too now—reaching up to push your hair from your face, tilting your chin toward him.

“You wanted to get caught, didn’t you?”

You shake your head, but your body betrays you—back arching, thighs tensing, rhythm faltering as your orgasm creeps up again, fast, tighter than before.

He sees it. Feels it. And he knows.

“You gonna come for me?” he whispers. “Right here, baby? With my hand around yours and your pussy soaking your sheets?”

You sob his name and he finally leans in—breath warm against your cheek.

“Good girl.”

Your fingers slip again—rhythm stuttering, body caught in that maddening edge.

He watches you falter. Watches your mouth fall open, brows pull together, your thighs start to shake with the pressure of holding yourself there. So close. Too close.

And that’s when he moves. His grip on your wrist tightens just enough to make you freeze.

“Let go,” he says.

You whimper. “But—”

“I said let go.” His voice leaves no room for argument.

You obey. Your hand slips from your shorts, fingers slick and trembling, and your chest rises in short, desperate breaths as he shifts closer.

“Bucky—” you gasp.

But he’s already there. His fingers slide between your folds—just one, at first, cool and unreal, brushing over your clit in a slow, torturous circle. Your hips jerk like you’ve been shocked.

“God,” you moan, clinging to the sheets, “fuck—”

“So sensitive,” he murmurs.

His eyes are locked on your face, hungry, focused—like he’s memorizing the way your mouth falls open for him, the way your lashes flutter when he presses a little harder.

You can’t stop the sounds you make.

You’re already too close—too much—your body wired tight from teasing yourself for nights and thinking of him, only him.

One metal finger dips lower—in now, slick and slow—and your breath punches from your chest.

Your hips grind into it, chasing it like you’re starving.

He fucks you with it slow at first. Deep. Deliberate. Watching you unravel inch by inch.

“You’ve been dreaming about this?” he says, voice like gravel. “Getting off to the thought of my hands on you?”

You nod helplessly, fingers clenching around the sheets.

Another finger slides in.

Your body wails for it—so full, so good, the metal stretching you just right—and your thighs tremble, back arching as your orgasm builds so fast it almost hurts.

“Then come for me,” he growls. “Right now. I want to feel how tight you get when you finish.”

You choke on a cry.

And then you fall apart.

Hard.

Your walls clamp down around his fingers, body convulsing as the wave hits you—sharp and electric—shaking through your entire frame with a loud, wrecked moan that echoes in your room.

His hand doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it—slower now, drawing it out, holding your body steady with his free hand while you tremble and sob and drip around him.

You don’t know how long it lasts. You just know you’ve never come like that before.

Not in your life.

Not until him.

You’re still gasping, thighs twitching, brain static from how hard you just came—but he’s not done with you. Not even close.

His fingers slip from you slow, drenched, and he brings them up to his mouth, sucking them clean without taking his eyes off you.

Then?

He smirks.

That low, dangerous smirk you’ve only ever imagined. Dreamed about. Touched yourself to. And now it’s real.

“You’ve been thinking about me so much,” he says, voice thick with heat, “I bet you want to feel my cock, huh?”

You don’t even answer. Can’t. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out but a broken moan.

He laughs. Dark. Rough. “You fucking slut.”

He stands. Hands go to the waistband of his pants.

Your breath catches, watching.

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t need to.

The black tactical pants slide down slow over those solid thighs, revealing the outline of what’s beneath—thick, heavy, hard. You feel your whole body clench at the sight.

He steps out of them, shirt already discarded somewhere between your moans, and he’s standing there now in nothing but black briefs—soaked at the tip.

And holy fuck, he’s big.

Your lips part, staring. You want to drool.

He notices.

“Go ahead,” he murmurs. “Look at what you’ve been aching for every night.”

He pulls the briefs down—slow, shameless.

His cock springs free, thick and hard and flushed at the tip, veins running along the length like something out of a wet dream. You whimper, thighs pressing together reflexively.

“You wanted this inside you so bad you couldn’t keep quiet,” he says, climbing onto the bed again, crawling over you until his weight cages you in. “Moaning my name with the fucking door unlocked.”

Your body arches up to meet him.

“Please,” you whisper.

He fists his cock once, dragging his head through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance.

You’re still sensitive. Still pulsing.

“Is this what you want?” he growls, notching the tip right against you. “Want me to stretch you open and fuck the brains outta that filthy little head of yours?”

You nod, desperate.

His cock sits heavy in his hand, the flushed tip glistening as he slides it through your slick folds again. Over and over—up and down—until you’re squirming beneath him, hips chasing every motion like you can’t stand another second of not being filled.

But he doesn’t give in. Not yet.

He drags the thick head over your entrance, slow and deliberate, just barely nudging inside before pulling back again.

“Fuck—Bucky,” you whimper, body arching.

“You’re soaked again,” he growls, almost to himself. “You got this wet just thinking about my cock?”

You nod, but it’s not enough. Not for him. He taps your clit once—sharp and teasing—and your whole body jerks.

“Say it.”

Your breath catches. “I—I thought about it every night,” you gasp. “I wanted it so bad. I still want it. Please, Bucky—”

He groans, low and ragged. The tip of his cock presses at your entrance again. Just a little. Just enough to make you feel the burn of it—how thick he is, how your body tries to pull him in even as he holds himself back.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, circling your hole with maddening precision. “How much your pussy needs me?”

You moan, desperate. Hands clawing at his shoulders, his arms, anywhere you can hold onto.

He grins. “Needy little thing.”

Then he pushes. Just the tip—slow and thick, stretching you inch by inch.

Your mouth falls open. Breathless. Wide-eyed.

“Oh my—fuck,” you cry.

He pulls back.

You sob.

“Patience,” he mutters, teasing your entrance again. “Wanna feel you beg for it.”

“I’m begging,” you gasp. “Please, Bucky—please, I need it, I need you to fuck me—”

His mouth crashes over yours, swallowing your cry as he thrusts in deep—all the way—filling you to the hilt in one thick, devastating stroke.

Your back arches. Your vision whites out.

“So fucking tight,” he growls against your mouth, rolling his hips, grinding in deeper. “Fuck—you were made for this, weren’t you?”

He stays there for a moment—buried inside you—his cock stretching you open so wide it burns in the best way, hips pressed flush to yours. You can barely breathe, your body trembling with the shock of just how full you feel.

Then he moves. A slow pull out—just a few inches—before slamming right back in.

You scream. Not from pain. From everything. The pressure, the friction, the heat of his skin, the weight of his body pinning you down like he owns you.

“Goddamn,” he hisses, his jaw clenched tight. “You’re fucking dripping around me.”

Your nails dig into his back.

He starts thrusting—hard and fast, hips snapping against yours with brutal rhythm, the head of his cock dragging over every sensitive spot inside you like he knows exactly where to hit.

And all the while, he talks.

“Been thinking about this tight little cunt every night since I got here. Didn’t know it was mine to take.”

You moan—choked and desperate.

“You wanted it so bad, didn’t you? Wanted me to catch you with your legs spread and fuck you like the filthy little cock-drunk slut you are.”

“Y-Yes—please—” you’re a mess beneath him, eyes wet, mouth open.

He grabs your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek, forcing you to look up at him.

“Look at me,” he growls. “Don’t you dare look away while I fuck your pussy.”

You blink up at him, dazed. And fuck—he looks insane. Hair a mess, sweat dripping down his temples, that metal hand gripping your thigh so hard you might bruise.

And still—he doesn’t stop. He fucks you like it’s punishment. Relentless. Ruthless.

Every thrust knocks the air out of your lungs, your body jerking with the force of it. The bed creaks beneath you, headboard slamming against the wall, your moans echoing like you’re meant to be heard.

“You gonna come again, baby?” he murmurs, lowering his mouth to your ear. “You gonna soak my cock just like you soaked your fingers last night?”

“Bucky—Bucky, I’m gonna—fuck, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

His hand slips down between you, fingers rubbing fast circles over your clit as he keeps fucking you open with brutal thrusts.

“You’re gonna come with me inside you, sweetheart. You’re gonna come on my cock like a good little toy.”

And it snaps.

You cry out—loud and broken—as your orgasm slams into you hard enough to steal your breath, your pussy clenching around him like a vice.

“Fuck, yes,” he growls, grinding deep into you as you come, riding you through it. “That’s it. So fucking tight—so good for me—”

He’s close now too. You can feel it—his thrusts stuttering, muscles tensing.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groans. “You want that, baby? Want me to come inside this perfect little pussy?”

You’re still shaking, but you nod. Whimpering. Needy.

“Please—inside—want it so bad—”

He buries himself deep and groans loud—raw and wrecked—as he spills inside you, hips jerking, cock twitching as you feel every hot pulse of it.

You’re ruined.

His weight sinks down on top of you, breath ragged in your ear, and for a long moment, all you can hear is the sound of both of you panting.

The room’s heavy with heat and sweat, skin sticking where it meets, your body still twitching with the aftershocks of how hard he fucked you.

Then he lifts his head. Eyes drag down your flushed face. Your parted lips. Your chest rising and falling fast. Still dazed. Still ruined.

He shifts back onto his knees between your thighs, hands gripping your hips, keeping you spread open wide beneath him.

“Look at this,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Then he pulls out—slow and thick, his cock dragging against your fluttering walls before slipping free with a wet sound that makes you whimper.

And fuck.

You feel it immediately. The warm spill of him leaking out of you—thick and hot and so much—trickling down your folds and onto the sheets in sticky, glistening streams.

Bucky groans under his breath, his eyes locked on your pussy like it’s the most perfect thing he’s ever seen.

“Goddamn,” he mutters. “You took it all. So fucking good for me.”

You try to close your legs on instinct, flushed and wrecked and so overstimulated—but he stops you with a firm grip, holding you open with his metal hand.

“Uh-uh. Keep ’em open. I wanna see it.”

His thumb slides down, spreads you further, letting him watch as more of his cum drips from your aching hole.

“Look at that mess,” he murmurs, gaze heavy-lidded, voice thick with pride and hunger. “You’re leaking all over the place, baby.”

You shiver under him.

He swipes his thumb through the slick, then presses it back in—just a little—pushing some of it inside again while your body jerks from the sensitivity.

“Fuck,” he growls. “You were made to be filled like this.”

He leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath hot and uneven.

“You’re gonna clean me up, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice thick with command. “Gonna taste every drop.”

Your pulse spikes. You barely have the strength to move, still reeling from the wreck he’s made of you—but you obey, because you need it, because he told you to.

He shifts forward, settling between your thighs again. His metal hand spreads you open, keeping you wide for him, raw and messy. His other hand trails down, steadying his cock where it rests—still hard, still slick with both of you.

He throbs against your skin, flushed and glistening.

You lean forward without hesitation, tongue flicking out to catch the first salty bead that clings to the head. He lets out a quiet groan above you.

His eyes burn as you take your time, licking slowly around the tip—teasing, deliberate—before your lips part wider and you sink down, wrapping him in heat.

Your cheeks hollow as you draw him in deeper, your mouth soft and eager.

“Fuck,” Bucky grits, his hand sliding into your hair, curling tight. “You’re good at this.”

You moan around him, letting the praise sink in as you begin to move—slow, controlled bobs of your head. Your tongue swirls, tasting the mix of him and yourself, and it only makes you hungrier.

You’re not just cleaning him up. You’re savoring him and he knows it.

He pulls you up by your hair, not rough—controlled. Intentional. His mouth crashes onto yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and heat and claiming, like he’s branding you from the inside out. His metal hand clamps around your waist, anchoring you, holding you still as he devours you like he owns you.

And fuck, maybe he does.

When he finally breaks the kiss, his breath ghosts over your lips, low and ragged.

“That’s enough,” he murmurs, voice thick with something dark and satisfied. “You did so well. That’s my good girl.”

Your stomach twists, body still trembling, as you melt into him — breathless and soaked, the taste of him still slick on your tongue.

He doesn’t move for a while, just lets his weight settle into you, chest rising and falling against yours, heart still pounding beneath sweat-damp skin. His breath is warm where it fans over your cheek, his metal hand still possessively wrapped around your waist.

Then, gently, he shifts. His fingers slide up, brushing your hair back from your face with a tenderness that makes your throat tighten. He kisses your forehead—soft, slow—like he’s claiming you all over again, but quieter this time.

“My good girl,” he murmurs, the words husky but reverent now. “You were perfect.”

Your eyes flutter closed at the sound, overwhelmed, wrecked in the best way. His flesh hand strokes your cheek, soothing the heat from it, while the metal one trails lazy circles over your spine.

“Did so good for me,” he whispers again, like a secret meant only for your bones.

You don’t trust your voice, so you just nuzzle closer, tucking yourself into his chest.

Fuck, he did ruin you.

The knocking at your door was unexpected, waking you up from a sorely needed rest after last night's rituals, hours spent meditating, leaving offerings, stocking up on your most important supplies and general “wiliness” as the people would say that ensues on the night of the first full moon of spring, so much to do, and so little time to do it, though you suppose you only have yourself to blame. Leaving your life and everybody you knew behind at eighteeen to seek a fulfillment you could wholly call your own means that for the first time of your life, you were fully alone, no community to fall back on, no coven to support and help you.

For the past few years, you were officially a one man band, making your living at various markets and shows, providing your services to any who accepted it (for the right price). It wasn’t much by any means, but you knew you’d only need enough to get by, finding a kindly gentleman who allowed you to rent out a small hunting lodge on the edge of his land, most things you’d need or want, you could acquire naturally through foraging, trading or simply making them yourself. 

You swing your door open, not bothering to change before leaving your room, dressed in your nightgown with no socks or outerwear on, exhaustion plain to see, your eyes were bleary, hair unkempt, shoulders sloping forward as if the weight of your head was too much to carry, the activities from the previous night had meant you’d slept through sunrise, something that didn’t occur often. You could see the midday sun high in the sky, and if it wasn’t for the stranger rudely waking you, you’d have slept until the afternoon, so you take it as the universe sending you a wake up call, albeit an unwelcome one, hoping silently to yourself that it was just your ears playing tricks on you, not having the energy this morning to scare off some teenagers or do a reading for some lovesick couple. 

It takes you a second to realise who’s on the other side of the door, with his dark black shirt, pressed and crease-free, as it usually was. Broad shoulders and arms thick and golden from hours dedicated to helping his community; building new shacks for neighbours, helping his cousins fix their roof, herding a member of his clergy’s sheep after mass on Sunday…you’d seen him last week as you made your way to find some willow saplings, straddling a fence in his overalls, laughing heartily with another man as they sawed and hammered and ripped planks apart. Rhett Abbott. The newly appointed priest of your local church was standing outside of your house. Your brain sprinted back and forth to come up with a reason as to why he was here, in front of your house, frowning tiredly up at the man, confusion evident in your face, eyeing him with blatant suspicion, what would the town priest want with you, the local “crazy”? (some kids would even call you a ‘hag’, but really?? You couldn’t have looked that bad) 

“Can I help you, Sir?” Your voice clear and strong, crossing your arms and resting your body on the doorframe, effectively guarding your house from sight, from entry, the man nods curtly in response, handsome face (you had to admit it) schooled into what you think is supposed to be a stern, albeit slightly pitiful frown, you can tell he didn't want to be here, the smile lines on his face ever-present clearly telling you he'd rather not be doing this, that he'd never had to do this before, like a soft-hearted father having to scold his children. You'd almost feel bad for him if it wasn't for the fact that he was here, disturbing your space. 

“Mornin’ Miss, we’ve been having a few complaints in the town of you trespassin’ on owned land, now that’s a serious offence by county law, though I’m not sure if you're aware of that” His voice low and his words hurried, wanting to leave as quickly as he’d arrived.

Your frown deepens, trespassing? There were no fences in the forest, no pickets or signs to tell you anything about the land being claimed by someone, these people honestly….and they call you the devious one. 

“How am I to know whose land I’m on if they don’t make it obvious, Sir? I was just collecting flowers for my house, I don’t see how that’s a crime, am I to assume all of this land is owned?” you sigh resigning yourself, knowing there’s no way you, of all people, would be able to get out of this. 

“Now I know that it might not seem clear to you but there are some folks in town who think they’ve seen you on their land, stealin-’ 

“Stealing?! Sir!” Voice raised and sharp,you’d had it with this town, eyebrows raised in offence at his words. 

“I was picking flowers for a wreath, not nabbin’ cattle” 

“Now-now, calm down Miss, nobodies accusing you of-” you cut off his god awful attempts to placate you, not caring how rude or unhospitable you seemed. 

“They are, that’s an accusation Mr Abbott, one i don’t take too kindly to neither” You grumble, eyes flitting off to somewhere that isn't his pathetic attempt of a look of understanding, looking off to the side of your vegetable patch, you really must weed them soon, you think to yourself.

“Miss-” Like you were some goddam southern Belle. 

“Call me Miss one more time and i swear to The Mother-” You cut yourself off, distracted by the spots of blood on the cuff of his shirtsleeve, hand half-opened in such a way you knew he couldnt close his fist, frayed white bandage blanketing his knuckles. Your eyes flit from his injury to his eyes, scanning his face with brash suspicion.

His eyes widen at the intensity of your stare, looking to his hand and then back to you, the sudden change in your demeanour making it hard to keep up with you, predicting your moods was, to him, like finding north on a broken compass, to try meant he’d failed already. 

“Huh? Oh” He fiddles with the bloody cuff, opening his palm flat, inspecting the poorly dressed wound, wincing as the sore skin stretches out. 

“Turns out falling knives really don’t have a handle” He snickers to himself. 

Before he knew what was happening, he was being pulled into the cottage you called home and pushed down onto one of the wooden stools dotted around your lounge.  You began plucking various containers from their respective places throughout the room, placing them onto your workbench, throwing different powders and liquids into a mortar and pestle, muddling leaves and roots in a separate bowl to add to the concoction later. Muttering to yourself quiet enough that he could only make out a few words 

“Stupid…infected…could’ve sworn…” 

He should be worried, he should leave immediately. 

He doesn’t, and maybe that worries him more as he stays seated, observing you as you get to work on…well, whatever you were making

“Forgive me, miss but ... .That smells awful...” he frowns, button nose crinkling at the smell, a reflexive frown setting into his forehead at the scent of the so-called “medicine” you said you were making. To you it smelled like dozens of your memories, skinning your knee as you climbed down a tree as your Ma watched on, cutting your hand on a glass during Mabon….the smell so deeply connected to your relationship with the earth, with your life that you forget, to the unexposed nose, it must smell simply like mud and rot. To the untrained eye, you’d look like a child playing “potions” in their garden. 

“I know,” you hum softly, a fond smile you’d never admit to appearing at his distaste, finishing the simple salve and decanting half into a small jar for him to take home and use tomorrow.

“But I promise this’ll do your hand a lot better than whatever the pharmacist gave you” you turn around in your seat, reaching for a thick brush, swivelling back around, swirling your brush in the paste you had just made before a thought passes through your head, remembering something and reaching across the table, your shoulder brushing his chest as you grabbed a glass bottle, sitting back in your seat and extending your free hand to him, eyes expectantly waiting for him to take it, exhaling out of your nose in irritation at his hesitance 

“It’s not poison” 

“And how am I sure of that? Could’ve hexed it. Could be nightshade” he points out, turning his nose up at the mixture. 

You feel yourself readying an insult before you remind yourself that his ignorance isn’t malice, it’s simply ignorance and nothing more

“Nightshade is a bore to work with, hemlock! Now that’s the exciting stuff” you chuckle admittingly, you couldn’t help yourself, these Christians were as gullible as lambs when it came to your craft, believing whatever their preachers claimed you were doing in ‘your’ corner of the forest. He retracts his hand from your reach, eyes distrustful, back straightening as he starts to move off the stool, you can't help but laugh quietly at his fear, reaching to gently pull him back to his seat, tugging on the side on his shirt

“I’m messing, It’s burdock root and a herbal tincture I made, no funny business, besides surely your big bad god would protect you from little old me” you tease, trying your best to reign it in, for your sake, reminding yourself that this isn’t some boy in the pews you could frighten for your own enjoyment. This was the town’s ‘beloved’ priest, no matter if you believed in their god or not, he had an entire population on his side, ready to lynch you at a moments notice 

Rhett’s chest puffs up for a moment as you mention a higher power, eyes hardening as he slowly lowers back down, sitting uncomfortably next to you, almost as if he was shying away, choosing not to respond to your jab, seeing the grin on your face and realising then that you were trying to rile him up 

“Why you helpin’ me anyways?” He enquiries, watching you as you push up his shirt sleeve, wiping down his hand with a rag soaked in a liquid he prayed was water, wincing as it made contact with his skin 

Definitely not water 

You shrug at his question, even if you knew the answer, you wouldn’t tell him, inspecting the wound on his palm, it was no longer bleeding, and not warm or red enough to look infected, but it definitely looked tender, cutting into the skin just below the calluses on his upper palm, you can't help but look at the lines and creases littering his hands, studying them with an interest that Rhett is quick to pick up on

“You gonna read my fortune?” He sniggers, eyeing your concentrated face curiously 

“Do you want me to?” You offer, eyes earnest, wondering if he’d accept your proposal, to your surprise, he shrugs nonchalantly, you point to the bottom of his thumb, tracing over the lines there

“That’s your family ring, see how it's made up of all those little lines there? That shows conflict and division in relationships” you state, not knowing how deep you should delve, the last thing you need is him turning tail and reporting you to the authorities, for what? Did it even matter? He could accuse you of just about anything and it’d be enough to land you with a sentence, the sheer power he had was enough to make you freeze up as you await his response 

you look up to see him clenching his jaw, eyes steely as he nods, whether in confirmation or understanding, you couldn’t say. You look back down and trace another line by his pinky finger, and then another in the centre of his palm

Ring of solomon 

Sun line

Heart line

Mount of Venus 

You keep your descriptions short, not letting him know of all of the things you see in his skin, deciding that should be your secret for now, allowing the silence rest heavy in the room, tending to him with deft, skilled fingers, letting him use the quietness as space to wrestle with the information youd brought to light. 

After a few minutes of internal debate, watching his eyes flash through several emotions with a quiet, knowing observance, he seemed to let go of the tension resting in his shoulders, unfurling his palm on the tabletop, letting it gently rest against the weathered wood. As you apply the paste to his wound, you catch him looking around your house, you think that perhaps it’s to distract himself from the weight of the secrets you had told him. Though, you suppose it couldn't be a secret. Some part of him already knew a lot of what you’d said.

Innocently peering at all of your decor and tools. Eyes flitting from the drying bouquets hanging from the ceiling to the shelf near the fireplace, deliberately ignoring your altar to the best of his ability, the wooden idols, hand carved by the looks of them, observe both of you in their stillness. Oddly enough, he knew this feeling too well, being observed by an inhuman power, he felt eyes on him every time his eyes rested on the cross in his chapel, urging him to sit in his humanity for hours on end

He wonders if you feel the same weight he does as he stares at the figures from the corner of his eye

Maybe you were more alike than he’d thought.  

“I’m not gonna report you” He breaks the silence abruptly as you wrap his salve-covered hand up in fresh gauze, you keep your eyes on your work, securing the wraps with knots and pins, waiting for him to give a reason as to why. 

“Use my family’s land if you need to” 

“Some things only grow to the west-” You begin, ready to once again argue with him on the necessity of your ‘theft’ 

“Then” He interjects, face full of something close to fondness, but not quite reaching his eyes, as he looks to you, giving you a look of playfully false thoughtfulness, shrugging his shoulders. 

“What is it, Bob, hm?” You asked him tenderly as you sat on his lap at the edge of his bed. You hooked your finger under his chin, causing him to look at you. “Is it that you’ve never had one before? Are you nervous?”

“No—” he half heartedly laughed. “I have… I just don’t feel like I deserve it, y’ know? You do so much for me, and I want to show you how much I love and appreciate you.” His large palms were on your waist, holding you against him as you sat on his lap. He pulled you in tighter; that underlying force that bellowed inside of him was ready to flip you over and spread your thighs before him.

“Bob…” You let out a giggle as he returned to kissing your neck to distract you. “You do so much for me!” You protested back at him, but it fell on deaf ears as he pressed kisses down your neck and shoulders.

Your fingers found their way through his soft curls and tugged a little as his lips sucked on your tender flesh. 

“Bob!” You protested again with laughter. You lifted his face to meet yours, and he wore a smug smile due to his attempt at distracting you. “Tell me. Why?”

His eyes shifted from yours to stare at the ground, and his fingers played with the hem of your t-shirt.

“It’s fucking stupid.” He mumbled out.

“I can promise you, it won’t be.” You reassured him with a soft smile and tucked a stray strand of hair behind his warm ear. 

“I don’t… I don’t want to be a burden, or be a hassle, or be annoying—”

“A blowjob is annoying to you?” You raised your eyebrows at him with a smirk. 

“No!” Bob laughed and brushed it off. “It’s not that. I don’t think I deserve it because you do so much for me, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to, and then I don’t want you to stop being so kind to me because—” 

A flurry of words left his mouth in a panicked rush, and you could see how his chest was beginning to rise and fall faster with each breath. 

“Bob. Bob.” You stopped him mid-rambling and directed his worried gaze back to yours. “You do deserve it. I want to give you a blowjob, and I will always, always love you and want to care for you, my sweetheart.” 

He didn’t say anything in return; he just nodded. You pressed down harder on his lap and slowly began moving your hips across his clothed cock. He drew his bottom lip in between his teeth and hummed. 

“Please let me, Robby?” You lilted with a sweet and pleading tone.

“O—Okay.” He swallowed thickly. A rosy flush crept up his neck and blossomed on his cheeks. 

Truth be told, Bob had played out this exact scenario countless times when he was alone in the shower. His cock hardened beneath you as he pictured how pretty you would look on your knees and took his cock to the hilt. 

You pressed your lips to his and kissed him slowly. Your hands found their way back into his curls and pulled gently, causing him to groan against your mouth. 

You continued to move your hips against his lap, and you mumbled against him. “Remember, you can tell me to stop anytime, baby.”

He hummed in agreement and squeezed his palms tighter against your hips, feeling the last draw of your ass over his cock before you shifted off him and knelt between his thighs.

His hands naturally found their way into your hair as you ran yours up and down his clothed thighs. You littered teasing kisses over the fabric, but when you pressed firmer kisses to his growing bulge, he let out a loud moan.

Your fingers messily found the waistband of his sweats and pulled them down and off, followed by his underwear. You let out a whimper when you saw how achingly hard Bob was already. His cock was pressing against his torso, which was littered with the soft and messy curls of his pubic hair. 

You had seen his cock plenty of times, but knowing that Bob was baring himself to you like this for you to give him pleasure, caused a surge of pleasure to rip through your stomach. Your cunt twitched momentarily, and you ached to be filled with him.

You were holding back from burying his cock in your mouth to the hilt so quickly.

You placed your hands on his bare thighs and gently squeezed at them, trailing kisses along his warm flesh. He shuddered and let out a whimper. You wrapped your hand around his shaft. It was hot under the touch, and it throbbed as you firmly palmed at it. Your lips met his tip with a soft kiss, and another whimper escaped him.

“A—Are you sure, baby?” He was questioning you with his words, but his body reacted entirely differently. His hands were winding tighter into your hair and tugging at your scalp. It was a subconscious twitch to pull you down onto his cock and chase that feeling he so desperately craved.

“I’m positive, Robby.” You convinced him between a flurry of kisses to his shaft.

Your lips wrapped around his tip, and you sank lower down his shaft. He bucked his hips forward, and a longing groan left his lips, his secret pleasure daydream now becoming a wild reality.

You moved your tongue along the base of his cock, and a more resounding groan tore from his throat.

“Fuck!” Hearing him curse your name above caused your stomach to twist, and arousal seep through your underwear.

His fingers entangled deeper into your hair as you sank lower. You moved your head along his shaft at a rhythmic pace, with your tongue drawing long strokes against his base. Your palms spread across his thighs to steady yourself, with the aid of Bob’s hand messily in your hair to guide you.

Your body bounced rhythmically in time, and with a deep swallow, you took his cock to the hilt, burying your nose into the base of his curls. His swollen tip hit the back of your throat, and he choked out a groan, startled by the sudden movement. His sweet noises of contentment turned into breathy whimpers as your warm mouth took him whole. You mercilessly continued to push his tip to the back of his throat, and a curse of your name tore from his throat.

“Shit! O— Oh my fuckin’ God! You feel so fucking good, m— my sweet girl.” He stumbled over his words with breathy moans.

You pulled back momentarily, and his eyes fell on the string of saliva connecting his tip to your bottom lip. You ran your thumb across your lips, collecting the saliva into your mouth with a smirk. He cursed again.

You took his length back into your warm mouth, but this time, removed your hand from his thigh and gently cupped at his swollen balls.

“O—Oh…” He gasped with relief.

You drew yourself off his cock to ask, “Does that feel nice?”

“Yeah… Please… Keep going.” He was asking politely, but his voice had a heavy sense of demand. You were firmly reminded of the weight of his powers that rumbled and coursed through his veins.

You placed your mouth back around his cock, and your hand massaged his balls. You kept a continuous pace, sliding your lips up and around his cock, and slowly added a firm pressure to the grasp on his balls. He continued to let out a string of hurried curses of your name, groaning every time his pulsing tip hit the back of your throat. 

You gently bounced on your knees against the carpet. You were pathetically humping the air in an attempt to gain any friction against your clit that was throbbing against your underwear.

“Let me look at you, please, baby.” He murmured. One of his hands left your head to cup at your jaw and tilt your gaze upwards. Tears were pricking at the corners of your eyes from the continuous deep throating. A sheen of salvia was drooling down your chin, and your cheeks flushed a deep crimson colour.

Bob had envisioned this moment countless times, but nothing compared to the pretty sight below him. 

Your eyes directly met his. His gaze bore into yours, and you saw the shimmery, golden speckles flutter around his pupils. 

It caused a shudder to spread down your spine. 

“I’d like to experience this more often, please. You look so pretty for me.” He breathed out with shaky breaths but with a sure smile. 

He was always so damned polite.

You did your best attempt at a smile but hummed in agreement. The vibrations sent around his cock caused him to stutter out another moan, and you took that as your sign to continue your ministrations.

You repeated the same rhythmic actions, and Bob couldn’t hold on for much longer. His hips were starting to buck impossibly closer to your face, and the grip on your hair grew tighter.

“I think… M’ gonna…” He blurted it out so suddenly that his taste in your mouth caught you off guard. “D— Don’t stop… Please! Oh fuck!” He groaned out with shaky breaths as he spilt into your mouth, and his head rolled backwards. 

You continued to pulse your mouth around his twitching cock, causing him to whine as his thighs trembled beneath you. Another flurry of curses left his lips, pushing him further into overstimulation.

You licked along the base of his sticky shaft twice more before removing your mouth completely. 

You gazed up at him and watched how the golden sparkles thrummed around his pupils before dissolving completely.

His cock was sheened with a mix of his cum and your saliva. A rosy flush was blossoming across his cheeks, and a pleasure-induced smile spread on his face.

He was such a beautiful sight to behold. 

You wiped your thumb over your bottom lip, collecting the final droplets of his spend into your mouth. 

You placed yourself back on his lap, and your hands found his hair again. As you placed a kiss on his lips, he let out a muffled groan as he tasted himself. 

Bob pulled back from the kiss and let out a gasp when he felt your arousal seeping through your underwear and coating his softening cock.

“Have you been this wet the entire time, baby?!”

You blushed and hid your face in the crook of his neck. “Yeah.” You mumbled as you mouthed at his flesh. 

“Can I give you head now, please?” He politely asked with a playful tone. You pulled back and nodded eagerly. 

“You can, but I’m giving you another blowjob late—” You let out a yelp, followed by bubbles of laughter as Bob used his underlying force to pick you up so effortlessly and lay you out on the bed.

He grinned as he towered above you and drew his hands up your ankles to part your thighs. “Fine by me, my sweet girl.” 

taglist: @floydsmuse @beachbabey @tallrock35 @unmistakablyunknown @kmc1989

tagging those who may be interested: @becks-things @peachystenbrough @lewmagoo @rhettabbotts @hangmanapologist @rhettmotel @mustaaarrd @beautifulandvoid @auroralightsthesky

It had started with a mission. A quick rendezvous for some data Sam had requested from a sister agency overseas. Y/N had figured it might be nice to get out and travel a bit.

Wrong.

“Give you a break? James, we are in Sweden! Sweden. The rendezvous was supposed to be in Switzerland. I mean, you have to understand why this is frustrating!”

“I messed up! Would you relax?”

Bucky slid the keycard into their hotel door, shouldering his way in. It was a last minute booking, since they hadn’t meant to be here in the first place. Thanks to James.

Bucky cursed under his breath, and Y/N peeked over his shoulder to see what was wrong.

Sick.

“Oh great. You booked a room with one bed. Awesome,” Y/N snarked. She shook her head in disappointment. “You know, I should’ve probably taken over booking and planning when you landed us in the wrong fucking country, but it seems I haven’t learned my lesson yet.”

“Would you just fucking drop it? I said I was sorry!” Bucky bit out.

Y/N scowled. “Sorry doesn’t fix the fact that we’re in fucking Sweden, James. Someone has to explain this to-”

“Stop calling me that.”

She paused mid-sentence. “Calling you what?”

Bucky heaved a sigh. “James. You can be mad at me, but please just… stop calling me that. You never call me that.”

All the fight left her then. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself a moment of quiet to calm down.

“I’m gonna take a shower. Don’t wait up.”

----------------------------------

The hot water did little to relax Y/N’s nerves, but she was clean. And if she took an extra 15 minutes to just stand there and enjoy the quiet, well that was her business.

But she couldn’t stay there forever. She knew a fight sat unfinished on the other side of the door, and the longer she stayed in the quiet of the bathroom, the longer she pushed off a resolution.

So with a sigh, she pushed back the shower curtain and fumbled for her towel. She spent much longer than necessary drying off, avoiding the inevitable while she could.

Once her skin was thoroughly dry (and beginning to pink in the spots she had rubbed too much), she gave in to the gnawing in her stomach. She reached for her pajamas with a sigh, mentally going over how to diffuse the fight that waited for her.

Her hand met the empty countertop.

Y/N’s brows furrowed. She spun around, surveying the bathroom for her clothes.

Nothing.

Because this was supposed to be a day trip.

You don’t pack pajamas for a day trip.

Y/N wanted to scream. Because of course this would be happening. Her shit show day had reached its dirty grimy claws into the evening.

Her annoyance reared its head again, and she had to keep herself from storming out and shouting at Bucky once more for getting them in this predicament.

But she bit her tongue, and cracked the door just a sliver. “Bucky?”

Shuffling. Then, “Yeah?”

Her cheeks were already burning from embarrassment. “I didn’t bring pajamas. Do you mind calling down to the front desk and asking for a robe or something?”

“Y/N, it’s like nine o’clock. The receptionist has probably gone home by now.”

Her irritation flared. “Can you just check? The only other option is putting on the clothes I wore today and they’re filthy.”

She heard an annoyed curse and more movement. Then a metal hand was sliding in the gap in the door, a t-shirt hanging from its fingers.

“Here,” came a grunt through the wood.

A flush crept down Y/N’s chest. “I don’t-”

“Would you stop fucking arguing for once, and just take it?”

“I still don’t have any pants!”

“It’s a long shirt, you won’t need them! Just put it on and fucking relax.”

The sheer command in his voice would have been enough to make her listen, nevermind the fact that Bucky had always had her wrapped around his finger. So with a huff that sounded more pathetic than grumpy, she snatched the shirt and slammed the door.

The shirt was quintessential Bucky. Plain, dark, simple. It hung just past her hips, a bit too short to be considered decent.

“I knew it,” she growled. But there was no use in pouting about it now. It was clean and comfortable (and warm).

It took every ounce of security (and maybe insanity) to open the door and walk out. She refused to look at Bucky, but she could still feel his eyes like a physical weight on her body. After several rather awkward seconds, he cleared his throat.

“I’m not sleeping on the floor. So either you make yourself cozy down there, or we’re splitting the bed.”

Not even two minutes in, and he had found her last nerve. Found it, poked at it, sank his teeth into it, shredded it. “I’m not sleeping on the floor.”

“Well I guess that settles it.”

What a shit day.

With a pout, Y/N pushed her way under the duvet, taking notice of how small the bed seemed to feel with Bucky in it. Her thigh brushed his and she bit back her gasp.

“Are you wearing pants?”

“No. Neither are you. Leave me alone and go to sleep.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and curled under the blankets. She had almost dozed off when a sharp tug on the covers disrupted her. “Do you mind?”

“You’re hogging all the blankets. Do you mind?” Bucky hissed.

And just to piss him off more, Y/N yanked the blankets enough to leave him exposed to the chill in the air.

“Are you serious? What are you, 5?”

“Do we really want to start talking about ages, you old fuck?”

Bucky groaned and reached for the bedside lamp, bathing the room in darkness. “Fine. Whatever. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

The peace in the room settled and remained for maybe five minutes.

Until…

“Would you stop pouting?”

Y/N threw her hands up incredulously. “I’m not pouting!”

“Yes. You are.”

“How would you even know?”

“I can just tell. It’s irritating me. Now stop,” Bucky spat.

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Y/N’s not sure how it happened, or what set it off exactly. But Bucky had gripped the back of her neck and pulled her face to hover above his too quickly for her to prepare, her hands falling to his chest to balance herself. Bucky’s fingers dug into the nape of her neck with a bruising grip, and he soon brought his metal ones up to grab her jaw.

“Enough,” he growled.

With her head caged between his hands, she had no room to move, let alone reply. It wasn’t necessary though, as Bucky pushed through, his tone turning razor sharp.

“Enough with the pouting. Enough with the disobedience. Enough with the smart ass comments. Enough with calling me ‘James’. Enough. I’ve had enough. You can’t seem to help yourself from being a pain in my ass. I’m over it. Everyone else wants to kiss your ass, I’m not gonna do that. I want-”

He stopped. His teeth bared and gritted.

So it came as a shock when his lips crashed into hers with a force so staggering, she would’ve fell back if not for his hands holding her in place.

The kiss was urgent. Desperate. It was teeth, and tongues, and lips, and spit, and lust. Y/N struggled to catch her breath, but feared breaking away to break whatever spell had fallen over them.

“Such a fucking waste,” Bucky groaned. “A mouth like this, and all you do is pout and whine with it.”

The hand on the back of her neck slid up to her hair, and with a yank he had her throat bared where he sat up to meet it. His teeth nipped at her neck, roughly biting at the skin there. Y/N threw her head back in ecstasy, biting back a moan that threatened to slip.

A warm trickle slid down her neck.

Y/N pushed Bucky off by the shoulders, her hands flying to her neck. “Am I-” she stuttered. “Am I bleeding?”

“That should be the least of your worries right now.”

And before she could protest, he had pinned her on her back. “I am going to fuck you hard enough that you feel me every time you sit down. Every time you mouth off. Every time you touch yourself,” he continued, kissing a trail down her stomach. “I am going to ruin you.”

That didn’t sound so terrible.

The moment Bucky put his mouth on her, her eyes rolled to the back of her head. This had to be some sort of punishment. To be laid out in front of someone she despised and fall apart like this. Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, small gasps managing to escape.

“You can do better than that,” Bucky urged.

And yes. She could. When his tongue did a particularly sinful circle around her clit, the whine that left her cut through the air loud enough that she briefly thought of whoever might be in the room next door. But when Bucky repeated the action, drawing another series of whimpers from her, she found she didn’t care.

A groan sounded, and the vibrations from it rang through her core. “Just like that,” Bucky gasped.

His mouth returned with a vengeance, licking and sucking at her like a man starved. She couldn’t have held her mewls and whimpers to herself if she tried, embarrassment be damned.

“Please,” she gasped. “I’m gonna-”

“No.”

Bucky pulled back at once, and her core throbbed at the loss of contact. Y/N sat up on her elbows, poised to protest.

“There’s that pout again.”

And yes, she was pouting.

But who could blame her?

“If I see that pout again, I’m knocking it off your fucking face.”

She immediately sobered and set her mouth straight.

Bucky smiled. “Good girl.”

Fuck.

Y/N keened high in her throat, the sound leaving without her intending it to. A flush crept up her cheeks.

Bucky’s grin looked like it might split his cheeks.

“Oh?” he teased. “Did you like that?”

His hands snaked up her waist, pushing his shirt higher on her torso, inches of skin creeping out bit by bit. His fingers, both flesh and metal burned her skin as they trailed up her sides. She gasped as his hands finally cupped her breasts.

“You like being told how good you are? You like being my good girl?”

Y/N whined, her hands moving to grab at Bucky’s wrists. Something to anchor her, she supposed.

Or just an excuse to touch him.

“You want me to tell you how pretty you look like this? Spread out and whining for me? Wearing my shirt?”

It was becoming too much: the way his hands grabbed at her skin, the way his breath fanned over her face, the words he was speaking.

“Please,” she begged.

“Use your words.”

“Fuck, please,” she tried. “I need you.”

Bucky smirked. “Where? Where do you need me?”

This was torture. She had seen the worst of humanity. She had fought the worst of humanity. But this was pure, unadulterated punishment.

And she loved it.

“Please,” she rasped.

Bucky chuckled, a sound that raked down her nerves. “Only because you asked so nicely.”

He plunged two metal fingers deep in her core, the cold biting into the lining of her walls. It stung, but it was wonderful.

“God,” Y/N gasped, a newfound sense of euphoria washing over her.

“You feel so soft,” Bucky rasped, kissing the space between her breasts with a tenderness that was unlike him.

It was too much. The cool steel of his fingers stung and her whimpering was fueled by the way they curled inside her.

“I knew you’d like this,” Bucky rasped. His hand pushed harder, deeper, until he was stroking just out of reach of where she really wanted him. “I always thought you’d be responsive, but this…” Another kiss. “This is better than I could have ever imagined.”

“Bucky,” Y/N moaned.

He paused. His lips hovered just above her nipple and his fingers stilled inside her. “Fuck, say it again.”

And so she did.

“Bucky.”

“Fuck, good girl,” he groaned, plunging back in with a renewed vigor. “You’re getting me all wet, baby. Look how pretty you look taking my fingers. Already whining, and I’ve barely touched you.” He dove in for her mouth this time, lips borderline bruising. He spoke against her mouth in a tone that sent heat rushing through her. “I can’t wait to see what you do with my cock in you.”

“I’m gonna-”

“No you’re not,” he growled, pulling his fingers away. Y/N groaned, but was cut short by a hand at her throat.

“Enough. Whining. I won’t tell you again,” Bucky hissed.

He tightened his grip around her throat, and her vision immediately blurred. Bucky smirked. “Good.”

Then he was inspecting his fingers, watching the way her essence dripped down the metal of his hand. Another groan.

“Open,” he commanded. Y/N’s lips parted, her tongue darting out eagerly. Bucky slid two metal fingers into her waiting mouth, pushing them back far enough to brush the back of her throat. Her eyes watered as she gagged, but she kept her mouth open all the same.

“So pretty.”

It was intoxicating, the taste of herself on the tang of metal, and she greedily lapped at his digits while he thrusted them past her lips. She had just started to lose herself when he pulled his fingers away.

His now spit-slick metal hand dug into the flesh on her ass when he had managed to (easily) manhandle her onto her front, leaving her gasping into the pillow at the sting. Her scorching flesh burned hotter against the cool brush of vibranium. Y/N’s entire body was on fire, made worse by the intensity and heat of Bucky’s gaze sliding over her skin. She was still lost in that feeling when she jumped against the sheets with a whimper, Bucky’s hand soothing over the now sore spot he had left after striking the flesh underneath.

“That one was for snapping at me all day,” he taunted, a smirk evident in his voice as he raised his hand again. Y/N braced herself for the strike, but still cried out when it landed. “And that, is for calling me ‘James’,” he growled out.

She was panting, breath ragged and sharp in her lungs. “You-” she gasped out as his fingers drew lazy circles over the marks he had left on her ass. “You can’t-”

“I can,” he hissed, wrenching her head back by her hair. “And you’re going to take everything I give you.”

Any sane person would’ve refused. Kicked him off of them with a snide comment and gone to bed, maybe even pretending this never happened to salvage any scrap of dignity left after everything that had happened.

“Got it?” Bucky growled with another tug to her hair.

“Yes, sir,” she groaned back.

The older man sighed contentedly, releasing his grip on her hair and dragging both hands down her spine slowly. “I think you’ve had enough spanking for now.”

A small surge of something close to panic roared through her, panic at losing this feeling, and the sting she could still feel on her ass.

“No!” Y/N gasped out before she could stop herself, too far gone to feel the bite of embarrassment at her words. Bucky’s hands stilled on her hips, and his fingers flexed against her skin.

“No?”

“Please,” she nearly whispered. “Please keep going.”

Silence hung, low and heavy around them for several moments. Had it not been for the weight of his hands still on her, Y/N would’ve thought he left.

Then, a groan, low and guttural, like the sound was being punched out of him. Bucky’s hand slid around the front of her neck, the heat of his flesh seeping into her throat. His grip was tight enough to pull her head up, but just barely. Suddenly, his mouth was right next to her ear, tone low and threatening, much like one he used when speaking to their targets.

“This is your last chance to tell me to cool off before I ruin you,” he bit out.

It was as good of a warning as she was gonna get, Y/N knew from their time together on missions, seeing the “Winter Soldier” firsthand. A sick thrill ran through her blood.

“Please,” she insisted.

A resounding ‘smack’ rang through the air as Bucky brought down his other hand against her ass, metal impacting soft skin. Y/N arched back against him, simultaneously running from and chasing the feeling.

More smacks followed, each one worse than the last. Her resolve was crumbling beneath her with each blow. Sensing her drop, Bucky smoothed both hands over her abused cheeks with a smirk.

“What happened to begging? Hm?” he taunted, digging his fingers into her already bruising skin just to see her hiss and try to pull away.

“Please,” she slurred against the pillow.

Bucky laughed, a mean and cruel sound. “Is that all you know how to say now? Have I already fucked you that stupid? I’ve barely touched you sweet girl.”

Y/N’s head was reeling, an emotional whiplash pounding at her temples as he mocked her and soothed the bite all in one breath.

“I need you inside me. Need to feel you,” she whimpered out, writhing as his hands pressed her further into the mattress.

Bucky muttered a sharp ‘fuck’ under his breath, before recomposing himself. She could hear the shuffle of him ridding himself of his pants, and she held her breath when she felt the rigid line of him press against her already sore ass.

Y/N keened high in her throat and pressed her hips back into his harder. Bucky pulled back just barely, teasing her.

“You sure about this?”

And maybe it was the gentle note of sincerity staining his voice that made her head swim, but Y/N found her breath catching once again.

“Please,” she insisted again.

And then Bucky was pressing into her slowly, inch by torturous inch, until he was seated all the way to the hilt with a strangled moan. Words failed Y/N as she felt the head of his cock pressing into the deepest and most intimate part of her, already leaving her aching in his wake.

Bucky dug his fingers into her flesh, pulling her back against him to sink into her even further. It was overwhelming, the way he filled every space within her, leaving her no room to even breathe. He was unlike any other partner she had ever had, and Y/N had the sick feeling she may never be satisfied with anyone else. She wrapped her fingers around the smooth metal of Bucky’s wrist, dragging his hand up to settle around her throat once more. The older man’s grip stayed loose where it rested against the skin of her neck as he let out a shallow breath.

“Don’t,” he panted. “Don’t do that. I don’t think I can be gentle with you if we start that.”

It was sick, so sick, the thrill that thrummed through her veins at the thought of Bucky, the Winter Soldier, stringing her out and using her body in that brutal way that only he could.

It was that same thrill (and slight mania) that sent her over the edge of insanity (and stupidity).

“Is that so?,” she gritted out with as much teasing in her voice as she could. She felt him tense behind her, deadly quiet and still as he waited for her to continue. “Or are you just worried you won’t have enough bite to match your bark?”

It was the wrong thing to say.

Bucky’s fingers tightened around her throat to the point of it being painful, her breathing slowing to almost a stand still. His hot breath ran across her ears as he leaned in to whisper, “I’m going to enjoy every fucking second of this.”

The pace he set was immediately brutal, leaving no time for her to adjust to the sheer size and force of him. The sharp curve of hip bones dug into her ass almost painfully with every thrust as he filled her to the hilt. Words failed her completely, nothing but wanton moans stuttering out between her ragged breathing. Normally, she’d have the sense to be embarrassed about her volume altogether, but this was not the same run-of-the-mill hookups she was used to. This was untamed and raw and torturous.

Another moan slipped between her rough-bitten lips, and then Bucky was slipping his grip up to her chin and cheeks to grab her face hard and turn her head painfully to meet his wild eyes.

“Shut the fuck up,” he hissed, pushing her face away again before dropping his hand against the flesh of her bottom once again, leaving a sting in its wake.

His manhandling only made that pit in her stomach worse, and Y/N clenched her jaw to stifle the whimpers free flowing from her mouth. It only seemed to spur the soldier behind her even more.

His cock was dragging against her walls sinfully, and she wondered if she had ever felt this full before. Or if she’d ever feel this full again.

“You want everyone in this goddamn hotel to hear you?” Bucky ground out when yet another pathetic sound escaped her. He pulled his hips back just enough to slip out of her before yanking her up by the arm to roll her over onto her back. The intimacy of facing him as he dismantled her piece by piece was overwhelming, and Y/N nearly cowered away from the heat of his stare as it roved over exposed form, but Bucky was quickly slipping his cock back into her and she was keening once again.

Bucky’s hand reared back quickly, and Y/N braced herself for the slap to fall against her ass, but gasped when the strike landed across her cheek. Tears immediately welled up in her eyes at the burn, but the moan that tore from her throat betrayed her arousal at the impact.

The older man towering over her laughed, a full and mocking sound that made her want to simultaneously sink back and chase the cadence of it. His tone was nothing short of taunting when he sneered at her. “You’re getting off on this.”

Her cheeks burned again, this time from shame instead of smacking, and she pulled into herself just barely. It was humiliating to be this vulnerable in front of him, but the thrill of him seeing every dirty part of her and fueling all of it gave her a sick sort of satisfaction.

“You like when I get rough with you, pretty girl? You like it when I treat you like the whore you are?” he crooned, a gentle hand smoothing down her cheek as his thrusts picked up even more. That same hand gripped her cheeks hard enough to make her lips pucker, a smile pulling up at his lips as her pupils blew out. “My little whore. All mine.”

Mine.

Y/N whined, that knot tightening even further. “Please,” she gasped out for what felt like the hundredth time.

Bucky smirked. “Please, what? What is it, baby?”

Any other day, his teasing would’ve earned him a lashing from her, but she only found it more and more enticing now. “I need to cum,” she panted, on the verge of tears. “Please let me cum.”

She could see the effect her begging had on him, his eyes darkening considerably. “I don’t know-”

A choked sob broke from her chest, a single tear rolling down her cheek hotly. It was all too much, and she had the feeling she’d combust if he didn’t grant her relief. “Please,” she begged once again, more desperate now.

“Fuck,” Bucky gritted out between clenched teeth, eyes zeroing in on the path of the tear staining her cheek. “Cum for me, sweet girl.”

She could have wept as the wave of euphoria swept over her, pulling her under fast and hard and wracking through her body with an intensity she had never felt before. She clenched around Bucky’s shaft like a vice, and she felt him twitch before he was spilling into her with mutters of “all mine”. His thrusting continued as she rode out her high and even long after it had passed, making her whine at the sensitivity. He only pulled out when she weakly shoved at his shoulder, too overstimulated to take much more.

They were both panting as they stared at each other, and Y/N said a silent thank you to whoever could hear her that Bucky looked just as wrecked as she felt. He pulled away from her quicker than she would have liked and retreated to the bathroom. She heard the faucet turn and on and off before he reemerged with a wet rag. Her face flushed as he nudged her knees open and made to wipe at his seed dripping out of her before she stopped him with a hand to the wrist.

He leveled her with a look that made her toes curl, that same bit of dominance she had seen firsthand creeping into the expression. “I was just inside you, and now you’re trying to keep me from cleaning you up?” Y/N swallowed, still too embarrassed to let him take care of her like this. Bucky scoffed, and his voice turned stern. “Move your hand. Now.”

And even though they were done with whatever had just happened between them, Y/N found herself obeying the order. Her partner took care to clean her up gently before tossing the rag aside in the small pile of dirty linens they had accumulated. He slid into bed next to her, lifting the sheets slightly before pulling her into him with a strong, muscle chorded arm. Silence hung around them for a moment.

“Should we talk about this?” she whispered, afraid that speaking any louder would shatter the calm.

“No,” Bucky replied simply, sinking a stone in her heart before he continued. “You need to rest right now. Talking can wait until you’ve slept.”

It was a sweet sentiment, but Y/N didn’t want to leave things unchecked just because she needed rest (even if sleep was tugging at her eyelids heavily). “Are you sure? Maybe we should-”

“It wasn’t a suggestion, you’re going to sleep,” he insisted, pulling her in tighter and tempting her with his warmth.

She gave in with a playful huff, burrowing into his chest with a private smile. It felt natural, to be with him like this.

But Bucky Barnes always has to ruin her good mood.

“Who knew bossing you around was all it took to get you to shut up.”

She rolled her eyes, even as a laugh crept up her throat. “Don’t get used to it.”

Y/N felt the smile he buried in her hair as he pecked the crown of her head.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

you yelped when you hit the ground. your footing lost, earth crumbling like dried red clay beneath you. the wind knocked out of your lungs and you scrambled to suck it back up as ghost pulled his horse to a halt.

paralysed, you couldn’t escape when the large man hopped down off his horse and tugged his lasso towards him. you yelped again when your jolted, body pulled back, dirt staining your clothes.

he dropped to his knees behind you. you heard the heavy thud and the grunt from where you lay flat on the dirt. your ankle still tied, he split your legs apart and pushed your heavy cotton skirts right up to expose your arse.

you gasped out, wriggling. “what—?”

you tried to raise yourself up, but once again, ghost prevented you from doing that with a swift curling of his rope. he looped part of the lasso around once more as he quickly took hold of your wrists, binding them tightly together right in front of your face. the rest of the rope kept your leg stretched to the side.

“y’think runnin’s doing you any good, baby?” ghost uttered as he took a knife from his belt and cut a slit through the fabric of your undergarments, exposing your pussy.

you gasped out, warm air hitting your slit. only then did you realise how soaked you were.

“oh, you liked runnin’,” he grunted, pulling the fabric further apart with his leather gloved hand to get a better look at your pussy.

she was puffy and swollen, sopping wet and glistening in the lowering western sun. ghost cast a pretty significant shadow, though. his mass blocked most of the sun out from where he kneeled between your parted legs behind you.

two gloved fingers, thick and warm from a days grip on his stallion’s reins, split your folds apart. you whimpered as he exposed your hole, which fluttered and clenched around nothing as heat pooled in the base of your stomach.

“look at the fuckin’ state of you,” he said, pushing two fingers slowly into your cunt. you squealed, and ghost tugged on the rope, the coarseness rubbing raw against your wrists and ankle. he continued, “this outlaw’s got your pussy all wet, eh?”

the noises were obscene. wet and lewd. heat continued to boil in your lower belly as he pushed two fingers in and out of you, the glide of the leather against your gummy walls nearly orgasmic in itself.

“ghost, please—” you begged, pulling at your binds. your knees were hurting where they pressed into the ground, and the arch in your back ached from days perched in a saddle. “you can’t—”

“i can, and i will,” ghost grunted behind you, and then his fingers were gone, replaced by the sound of his belt shimmying and his buckle unclamping.

he was quick to get his cock out, not that you could see, but you knew. you knew with the way he pulled on the rope to force you into a deeper arch, producing your pussy and arse to him perfectly. you knew by the way he shifted closer, his heat radiating onto you.

“i’ll take whatever the fuck i want from you,” ghost muttered, pushing the head of his cock, weeping and red, against your soaked cunt. “and runnin’ ain’t doin’ nothin’ but gettin’ me all worked up.”

you moaned when his cockhead pushed through the rim of your hole and stretched you open, your wetness making the glide bearable despite his girth. you could feel veins and soft ridges, your senses heightened by the adrenaline injected into your nervous system.

“oh, yeah?” ghost goaded, your noises spurring him on. “s’that right? you likin’ this cock in your pussy, huh? yeah?”

he pushed in further— bucking his hips, notching his cock inwards, stretching you open. you whined put, barely holding back a nod and a moan of his name. it was there, though. salty and sweet on your tongue.

your stomach fluttered, head cloudy. he pushed his cock in all the way, bottoming out roughly with his hips pressed tightly to your arse. he groaned above you, the sound deep and dark and utterly animalistic. it had your clit pulsing with your heartbeat, your cunt clenching down around him and a small moan slipping out from between your teeth.

“ghost,” you whispered.

he started a pace. one of his hands held the rope, whilst the other held your hip as he fucked into you. he groaned again, quieter this time, at how wet and warm you were.

“i’m here, baby,” he muttered as he rutted into you strongly. a glimmer of kindness before his pace increased, and the head of his cock was soon knocking up against the base of your cervix.

you squirmed beneath him, orgasm already building inside you like a ball of light. simmering in your lower abdomen, shaking through your bones, static bursting near the base of your spine.

your cunt gushed around him, dribbling and drenching the fabric of your ripped underwear. it was cold against the crevices of your arse and thighs, making you shiver, along with the stimulation of ghost’s cock dragging against your gummy walls.

“needy fuckin’ slut,” ghost hissed out, pounding into you with a tight grip on his rope. the fat of your arse and thighs jiggled with each of his thrusts, and you attempted to take handfuls of dirt in an attempt to ground yourself. he carried on, “gettin’ all wet from outlaw cock. that’s right, ain’t it, baby? this pussy’s gotten all worked up for a wanted man, hasn’t she?”

“ghost,” you called out to him, begging. “ghost, please, i—”

you moaned, his cock sending spasms up your legs. you tried to move beneath him but his mass was preventing you from doing so.

“come on, sweet girl, i can feel you clenchin’ up ‘round my cock. come for me,” ghost told you, panting behind his black and white bandana that obscured the lower portion of his face. “cream all over this fuckin’ cock— yeah, make a mess on this cock, baby.”

you did. you came with his name curled across your tongue, and it was the best thing you’d tasted. you squeezed up around him, cunt gushing out and around his cock, which continued to rut into you. the force of your orgasm had you trembling, sweat dripping down your neck. your lips parted, his name falling from your mouth again and again until his pace began to falter, and he was coming inside you too.

hot cum flooded up against the plug of your womb, and you felt it fill you like molten molasses. his twitching cock spilled sticky ropes inside you, painting the walls of your cunt with himself, claiming you for himself.

he pulled out when he had fucked himself dry, wiping his wet cock along the scraps of fabric that were once your undergarments. you moaned when your gaping pussy hit the air, now cool and jarring.

ghost chuckled at this, placing two thick fingers to your cunt again, this time pushing in a viscous glob of cum back inside you. you whimpered.

he leaned down over top of you, his chest to your back. sweat had your clothes sticking to you. he placed a gentle kiss to the back of your head.

The construction site is alive with purpose— the buzzing of drills, raucous banter, and the low hum of music from a stereo. You run a hand down the back of your skirt that is more tourniquet than office attire you were forced into wearing, regretting not drawing the line at the heels pinching your toes. "Professional setting, professional appearance," your boss had said. Nothing here demands you to stand in ironed clothes with dust settling on your eyelashes and the taste of grit on your tongue.

You feel out of place, a white-collar worker surrounded by hard hats and steel-toe boots. Perhaps taking this job for a promotion was hasty on your part. But it’s too late now and the sun above you is wilting the starched collar of your blouse.

Best get this over and done with. (The bottle of barefoot wine at home will be your reward for your suffering.)

Walking to the home still in a semi-skeletal phase had been a bit uncomfortable, anxiety gnawing at your nerves and the polished shoes at the skin of your heel. But what made your shoulders tense and spine stiffen was the crew. You'd expected disgruntled workers, sure. A bit of grumbling here and there. No one likes to have someone with more authority and less experience trample all over your work, telling you what's what.

Not them eyeing you like you're a fish in a shark tank. A little minnow pulled out of her natural habitat and into the mix with dominant predators. The paper on your clipboard crinkles audibly as one of them— the leader, you gather— stops you before you can get any closer than he feels necessary. He plods over, hard hat tucked into his arm, wiping his sweaty brow with his sunbaked forearm, a few wood curls nestled into his beard.

"Ya lost?" he grunts.

There's a guy with a comb for hair and limpid blue eyes staring right at you from the back as he leans on a half-built wall with a smarmy grin on his thin lips.

"No! No, I, um—" you stammer, "I'm here as a temporary replacement for, um—"

He cuts you off with a dismissive wave, fingers thick as steel beams. "Right. Yeah, yeah." Bloody rude. "The inspector." His head tilts and spits on the cement, eyes giving you a once over, lingering on the bare skin of your calves. "John," he says then jerks his head behind him, to the shady inside of the home. "Let's get ya out this sun 'fore you melt like sugar on the driveway."

You keep your lips pressed in a line, swallowing down the retort sitting on your tongue with a hint of frustration, and follow him on swift feet. It is unforgivingly hot and at least there's a roof overhead. Most of the walls were still just wooden beams, the foundation concrete covered in dust. Rough-bristle brooms lean in corners, the stereo now sitting silently in the center of what’s to be the living room next to a man with a massive frame and a sweat-soaked wifebeater who didn't bother turning around as you made a beeline for the only fan feebly cutting through the muggy heat inside.

John from behind you grabs your attention. "So? What's the issue this time? We jus' had tha' muppet pass through a week ago." You turn around, the breeze now somewhat cooling the back of your neck.

"Just need to personally check what's left—" you clear your throat, giving the clipboard a waggle, "on this. Nothing too grand." The blonde one with shorn hair hasn't looked up once from the blue cooler between his legs.

John scratches his head. "Right." There's a drag of heavy boots behind you. "Temporary, eh?" His eyes are like cerulean rivets, pinning you in place.

Gruff Scottish cuts in, tone dripping with amusement. "Will ye look a' tha'," he mutters, accent thick and deliberate, "bosses up top sent a bonnie wee lass to keep an eye on things. Make sure ye pay good attention, aye?" The brute comes to stand in front of you, flexing one arm, bicep like a knotted tree trunk. "Would hate ye missin' the show."

Show ‘em your teeth, little fish. That promotion is already in your hands, don't let it slip through your fingers.

"Listen, you—" you snap back, cheeks burning hot but then his eyebrows raise to his hairline, the corner of his lip curling in challenge.

"It's Soap, hen."

“...Right.”

What the hell kind of name is Soap?

A third voice— crisp English just like John's— cuts through the air from the second floor. "Wipe the slobber off ya chin 'nd leave 'er alone, Soap! You still hav'ta sweep up 'ere!" A man with bronze skin and a cap adorned with the Union Jack in the center pokes his head out from over the wooden railing. His smile looks stiff.

"Miss." His eyes flash to Soap. "Move it. You can get your cock—" wow, mouth like a sailor, that one, "wet while on company's time." His gaze falls on you for a moment longer before disappearing back into the upper level.

Soap grumbles what sounds like a "fuckin' 'ell Kyle" but heads for the stairs anyway, steps creaking under his weight. "Ah'll be 'round if ye need me," he says with a wink.

Unlikely.

John absently shakes his head and turns to the grizzled, mountain of a man still hunched over that cursed cooler of his. "Simon." He suddenly moves then, rising smoothly to his feet for someone his size. He's a wall of muscle, a very clear force of nature, and he's now staring at your—

your shoes?

"Alrigh'," he gruffly says, "We'll get outta your way. The faster you can look for, whatever it is you're lookin' for, the faster you can get out o' my beard." He places his hard hat back on and gives Simon a nod. "To work, break time's over."

Simon walks past you without so much as a glance, his thick arm brushing roughly against your shoulder with enough strength to make you take a step back but then he speaks. "Don't trip on nothin', girl. I'd hate f'r our pretty mascot t'get injured on the," he emphasizes the last word, tone heavy with mockery, "job."

Your tongue is pressed firmly behind your clenched teeth as you straighten your skirt. Get this shit over with.

--

Their attitudes toward you had left some to be desired, but they had done their job seamlessly. Not a crack in place nor a bolt out of it meaning that ticking off the rest of the boxes on your clipboard had been a cinch, making the promotion even easier. By the time you were ready to go home— the thought of leaving behind the tangy scent of sweat and iron adding a pep to your painful step— the sun had already dipped, casting long shadows over the construction site.

Until John's unwelcome chivalrous gesture: sending one of his to accompany you to your car. "t's late out," he says, leaving no room for lip. Fine, whatever. The faster you get out of here the better. Saliva pools in your mouth at the thought of having a chilled glass of wine with chinese takeout for dinner.

Except the one waiting for you in the garage with a lit smoke between his chapped lips is Simon. He flicks it to the ground, smothering out the embers with the heel of his boot. "Move. Ain't got all day."

The last strand of your patience snaps and your mouth twists into a snarl. "Then leave off! I don't need a fucking chaperone. Believe it or not, I do know how to look both ways before crossing the street."

You'd only taken three irate, swift-footed steps away from him, clipboard trembling in your grip when the back of your shoe dug into raw skin; a sharp, sudden agony flaring out in a hot, thick wave and you stumble. The world spins for a second, colors blurring together until—

The relief is immediate. The hot needles on your raw nerves dulled down to a throb, vision blurring from the brief bite of intense pain. You breathe in a deep lungful of air, tasting salt and sawdust while you flex your feet, hissing when the blistered skin stretches. At least the damage to your toes is minimal.

But not to your pride. Tripping over your own feet, because the driveway while unfinished is still flat, now means you're being hauled over his shoulder, which is broad enough to be surprisingly comfortable, in the opposite direction of where your car is with your heels in hand. The fabric of his tank feels stiff under your sweaty palms.

"Is this kind of behavior normal for you? Or am I just lucky?" your voice is tinged with a mix of irritation and embarrassment. His arm tightens uncomfortably around the back of your bare thighs even though the office skirt you managed to squeeze into is knee-length.

"Only when I spot clumsy-footed birds like you. Can't 'ave ya splat on the concrete like a crime scene outline." A slow creeping flame spreads from your neck to the apple of your cheeks when you notice the guys staring at you from a window upstairs, Soap giving you a toothy smile. Even Kyle seems amused. Mortifying. Someone strike you down now. Actually, no. Then who'd feed your cat once you’re gone?

"'nd John would chew me out f'r lettin' ya break these," his long fingers circle your ankle, "in 'alf." You try to muster a response, but the words sit behind your teeth, your chagrin having tangled your tongue into knots.

Then he stops and the creaking of hinges reaches your ears. "Wait." Your eyes land on a black cargo bed, caked with dried mud. "Are you just going to sit me in your car?" He sets you down in the back seat anyway, tossing your shoes inside.

"Truck. I can drop ya on the patch of grass if ya like." Simon leaves you there, going to the driver's side rummaging through the middle compartment. His work truck is exactly what you'd expect from a man like him. The seats are covered in a thin layer of dust, you imagine he gives no one a ride, a well-worn visibility vest strewn about, an extra pair of work boots stained with splatters of white paint—the size difference of your shoes compared to his has you swallowing a lump the size of your fist down.

Simon pulls out a mid-sized red box and places it on the floor mat then props your leg up on his. His grip is firm but gentle as he inspects your open wounds and then sucks on his teeth. "A bit stupid, wearin' ankle breakers when out on a job." He prods around the inflamed skin, the pain making you tense.

"Don't worry about me and mi—" you hiss when he digs his thumb into the arch of your foot, "mine. Maybe I wanted to look nice." Fuck those shoes.

"'m sure ya did, though the skirt's all ya need." The warmth of his breath spreads through your toes and up your calf, raising gooseflesh.

You can't hold back a snort. "And now you're going to tell me that you prefer women in skirts and dresses?"

Simon switches legs, careful to not aggravate the blisters further. "I prefer my women with no clothes. But both of those make it f'r easier access. Like yours. Can see your knickers from 'ere." That has your heart skipping a beat, eyes widening with disbelief. Instinctively, you sit upright, back straightening with a pop.

"They're red."

You chuff out a breath. He's lying. You'd put on the only available pair you had at the time since you'd forgotten to dry your laundry the night prior. A simple, cotton grey. "You—! Fucking hell, I almost kicked you in the teeth." Simon's looking at you now, eyes dark and intense.

"Wouldn't be the first time someone's tried," he says with a smirk, voice low. "White, then."

The first aid kit still lies on the floor mat. "Stop talking." Simon ignores you, instead grabbing your other leg and pulling you closer toward the edge of the seat. Toward him.

"Green," he rumbles, his hands cupping the bottom of your feet, thumb and pointer coming to gently tug on your toes before moving his way up. You feel like a young, dewy-eyed farm girl having her first tumble in the hay and he's only now stroking the protruding bone of your ankle. The motion is slow, deliberate, a tender caress that sends a shiver up your spine. Has it truly been that long since you've had your body shape imprinted into the mattress?

"How about," you swallow thickly, "you patch me up proper and I'll be on my way?" If anyone else had heard, they'd say you're trying to convince yourself that being here isn't what you really want. But the little garble in your voice gives you away.

Simon hums, a sound that vibrates in your chest, sinks into the marrow of your bones. "Little bird wants t’go home 'nd 'ave only a throw 'nd a cat t'warm 'er bed?" You feel a different kind of ache this time, pulsing sharp and deep in your core. "Eh? Y'wanna curl up on the couch with one o’ those sex books while playin’ with your pretty cunt?" 

The idea of having to use the blue bullet sitting inside the nightstand drawer sounds unappealing. And it’s probably out of battery too. Damn. 

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip and shake your head. He doesn’t accept that as your answer.

"Wha's tha'? You will speak when spoken to, pet. Do you," he emphasizes the last word as he begins to open your legs by the knees, "wanna go home with an empty pussy or let me fill it 'til you're leaking cum out ya ears?"

Can't say no to him serenading you like that. You clench around nothing, hesitance crumbling like sand. "B-but what about your job? Aren't you still working?"

Simon grabs you then, dinner plate-sized hands wrapping around the softer part of your waist. "'M on a break. I'd say I deserve it after all my 'ard work." He lifts you effortlessly, the hem of your skirt rolling as you widen your legs further.

He rolls his hips once, feeling the bulge in his jeans brush against your sex, feather-light, and you bite on the thickest part of your tongue to keep from moaning like a cat in heat. "And what about us being in the open?" you ask though the question is redundant. Besides the crew's work vehicles, there's not another car in sight. If anyone else had been working nearby, they've long since left.

He seems to share your sentiment. "If tha's all? 'm tryin' t'see if I got it righ'."

No, that'll just about do it. "Okay. Alright." God knows you need this. Even if it comes from a stranger you'll probably never see again. Simon doesn't wait any longer, pushing up the rest of your skirt to pool above your thighs.

He hisses long and low through his teeth. "Tight little thing, innit?" Yeah, well. You were going to tell him that while putting on your skirt that morning had been an absolute nightmare, it wasn't that small on you until the tips of his fingers glided along your clothed slit. Oh. He's not talking about that.

"I guess grey's my new favorite colour. Especially this—" he thumbs the darkened wet spot on the fabric, "shade." When he adds more pressure, you can't help but let a gasp out as you buck your hips in want of more. "Easy. 'aven't even started with you." Simon opens the front of your blouse with a single hand, coming undone easily. He goes for the clip of your bra that's serendipitously placed on the front.

"Gotta let the girls breathe," he says. Whatever his reasoning doesn't matter because all there is, is relief. No more underwire digging into your skin, no more suffocating restraint. You only wore the blasted thing because all of your sports bras would've been visible through the blouse.

Simon rolls a hardened bud with one hand while unbuttoning the front of his jeans with the other. "Eatin' this," he gives the mound of your pussy a mean tap, "gonna 'ave t'wait. I'll get ya off though, don't worry tha' little head o' yours."

You wonder if he says that to everybody he fucks in the back of his truck. "What? Why?"

His length sits hot and heavy over your cunt. And it's big enough to kill. Death by cock. That'll be on your epitaph. "'m a big geezer," he mutters, fingers toying with the side of your panties, "lyin' down so you can sit your cunt on my face isn't gonna work righ' now."

Definitely says that to everybody. "Doesn't matter. I'll take care o'ya 'nother way." Simon pulls the dampened gusset to the side and lowers his head to— "Pretty like I thought it was." A fat glob of spit lands on the puffy lips of your pussy and he smears it around with his cock, tip sliding right along your clit. He uses his thumb to press himself down harder, more friction, more sensation, each slow roll of his hips pricking neglected nerves awake, alive, and it feels good. Surprisingly good.

The way the scar on his lip whitens as he bites it tells you it's just as good for him too. "Thought about it much, did you?" He goes lower this time, ruddy tip catching on your entrance momentarily before returning up.

"Since you walked inside a place you 'ave no business bein' in. Birds like you shouldn't be minglin' in the trenches with us grunts." The tips of your ears are hot as he stares down at you. "Should be sittin' nice 'nd pretty in a cubicle with air conditionin' 'nd an oversized mug o' watered-down coffee."

Simon cups the swell of your arse, canting your hips to glide himself better. Every bump and ridge on the underside of his cock is rubbing slowly on you and the thought of licking a slick stripe on the vein only tightens the white-hot coil below your navel.

"Or better yet, sittin' at home doin' wha'ever else while waitin' f'r a man like me to come back from work with a ribeye 'nd redskin potatoes in the oven." He lets your panties fall back into place; the sodden front almost transparent as he rubs against your swollen clit at the same time. God, he's fucking. your. panties! And you're bloody letting him.

What a way to break this year-long dry spell.

He bends your legs so that your feet are now being held flat on the thick of his chest with his hands as he picks up the pace. The suspension springs on the truck begin to groan. "I like mine medium rare."

Your back's come off the seat, spine bowed. You're close, so fucking close, you've got slick coating the inside of your thighs, dripping down to your arse, probably staining his polyester material underneath. This is torture and your pussy feels tender, raw, yet he's barely touching the focal point of your desire. If he doesn't make you come in the next minute, you're breaking that thick neck of his.

It's like he read your mind because he uses his cock to tap on your clit firmly, hard enough to hear a wet thwack and he does it once, thrice and—

And then your body gives, an intense climax that steals the breath in your very lungs, has you your blunt nails biting into the muscle of his forearms, his groan drowned out by the shrill ringing in your ears. Your face feels hot, probably is hot to the touch and there's a sting on the middle of your bottom lip and can taste iron on your tongue. Even the tips of your fingers tingle.

Through your half-lidded gaze, you see Simon holding onto the top of the truck while his breath comes in ragged gasps. Did he come? You curiously touch the expanse of your stomach. Not sticky.

"No. I didn't come. You," he takes in a deep, steadying breath then reaches to squeeze the sides of your face, cheeks plumping under the pressure. "You almost 'ad me, though. I don't remember the last time I 'ad to think tha' 'ard of London t'not finish. But I'm not done with you."

Simon hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and takes them off with urgency only to stuff them in his back pocket. "Better with no clothes on, remember." You can feel his twitching cock leak onto your heated skin.

"If ya need, use this." A black bundle of fabric lands on your chest, what is— It's a mask? If he means to hide your identity from his coworkers, you're not sure this skull mask is going to work. He drags you to him roughly until your arse is hanging off the seat. And then there's a hot, dull pressure pushing against your entrance that's followed by a searing sting, and it, it's so much, it's too m-

"Tight fucking-, Ya need t-, fuck, to relax," he grunts, fingers dimpling your thighs. Simon's thrusts are jerky, short, as he wrenches your walls apart. Even with your creamy cum and his spit it's still a struggle. "'Alf way there," and a rattled breath escapes you. You're being split right down the middle and there's still some left?

For the next few moments only your squeaks and mewls can be heard as he makes room for him, your hand flat on his lower stomach— feeling the coarse, thick patch of hair on it— as if you're trying to keep him away, out, something but then he snarls and snaps his hips. You've heard of a ring of fire some women experience at some point in their life and you think this is yours. The thin skin of your entrance burns, most likely stretched to its limit, like a rubber band about to snap.

"Easy," he drawls out, "The worst's over. Took me like you're made f'r me. G'mme ya 'and." He takes your clammy hand and has you touch where the two of you meet. His eyes are glued to your fingers that are split into a v, pads feeling your cunt soaked in viscous slick.

The groan he lets out at the sight makes the world around you spin. "Stay jus' like tha'." Sure, not like you’ve got anywhere to go. Not with his hands tight around you like metal cuffs. Simon holds nothing back, not even in the very first minute. Doesn't warm you up to it, don't let you try to get used to him turning you inside out. His thrusts are long, firm, hungry— bottoming out every single time until he sits snugly at the plug of your womb. Grinds up when he meets resistance, eyeing your features in case there's discomfort.

The only ache you've got is the one he's fucking into you. (And you also might be partly lying on his tape measurer.)

But then he hitches your legs up, hands around the back of your thighs as they're pushed toward your chest and that pulls a whine out of you that you're sure John and the crew heard. "There she is, bird's got a healthy set o' lungs on 'er." He keeps the same, unforgiving angle and doubles down, using the bulk of his weight to pin you in place, forced to do nothing but take and take and take.

Until Simon's strikes the side of your arse with an open palm. "D'ya hear 'em?" Wha? What? Hear who?

And then you hear it. Him. The handsome one with the hat from upstairs. "Ghost?" he sounds right across the street and Simon hasn't stopped rocking the truck as he fucks you right through it. "Wha's tha' Kyle?" His voice is steady even though there are beads of sweat rolling down the side of his temple.

"I said good job on all your 'ard work 'nd we'll see ya tomorrow. You 'ave a good night too, Miss." There's a crude whistle followed by a pained grunt and a quick mumbled apology. Maybe if you don't respond they'll just get in their car and go home.

But then John calls out to you too.

"Simon must’ve missed you, sweetheart. “Wow. He barks out a laugh. " 'ave yourself a good night, Miss.” Then, sternly says, “Tomorrow at 6, Simon.”

Simon, though, has no intention of letting you take the easy way out. He smacks your arse again, right in the same— already tender— spot from just moments before. "Answer 'em, pet. Or 'ave I fucked all the manners outta ya?" He accentuates the last three words with thrusts so sharp that if he hadn't been holding you in place, you would've been sent sprawling back.

Whatever words you're supposed to say are snagged in your throat like hooks, only whimpers and high-pitched gasps falling past your trembling lips. He drags his thumb over your bottom one, the calloused pad of it tough. "Go on. Be good 'nd tell 'em to 'ave a good night too. And no names. Only one comin’ outta you should be mine."

When you open your mouth, he weaves a hand down to your clit, jerking it in fast little circles that have you forgetting where you even are. "Mf- g-good," he gives you just a second of respite to spit on it. "Good night-," his fingers are almost torture, and god, you're going to come in front of all of them. You warble out the words hastily, feeling your impending orgasm come at you with the speed of a freight train.

"Tha's a good bird, singin' when I tell ya to." There's no stopping this, not with all of his focus on the little bundle of nerves and every drag of his cock making your spine arch as if he were winding it. "Squeeze my cock, tha's it."

Your legs shake violently, toes curled, and you can feel a cramp begin in your calf but none of it matters, not when you're seeing bright lights behind your scrunched eyelids, not when you feel fingers in your mouth to stifle the scream that's viciously wrenched from your throat nor when Simon growls out a "Fuckin' 'ell."

"I told ya, if ya needed somethin' t'bite on, use tha'," he jerks his head toward the mask that's tight in your fist. Your soul is still floating adrift in the wind and he's already trying to make conversation. And he did not say to bite on it.

"I'm not puttin' this unwashed thing in my mouth." You languidly watch him inspect his hand, looking at the deep purple teeth imprints on his fingers. Whoops.

"But you'll 'ave me after sweatin' under the bloody sun for 'ours." His hand slides behind your nape, lifting your head a bit as he lowers his chest to meet your sweat-slick one. Your hands come to claw at the shifting muscles of his back when he begins anew, this time his pace is relentless, sharp, predatory. He's a shark that has scented blood and is now on the hunt.

The prickling bristles of his facial hair scratch against your temple. "This," the hand around your neck tightens, your rapid pulse now roaring in your ears, "is the best pussy I've ever had." His thrusts are jarring, make your teeth clack together hard enough to hurt, and after a dozen of them, he comes with a cruel bite to the junction of your shoulder, snarl animalistic.

Hopefully, the guys drove off a while ago otherwise you're re-dressing and driving home with that mask Simon tossed your way.

Your blouse is unfortunately beyond saving. Your skirt isn’t faring any better if that massive tear in the front has anything to say about it and your shoulder will require at least half a bottle of concealer plus a couple of bandaids, which the first aid kit is completely empty of. Not even the first aid guide is inside. 

You sluggishly begin to button up one of Simon's spare flannel shirts when he asks you if you're hungry.

"No." Not really. Hard to feel much when most of your nerves from the ribs down are shot.

"Get in the front, I'd like t'eat my dinner soon." He's staring right at the apex of your legs, your cunt still throbbing from the abuse."'m 'ungry." There’s no tow car sign on the street, actually, there’s not even a simple stop sign here. 

It better not get towed. You’re not paying a dime if it does.

"excuse me! I clean up after myself at least, any hair you find in there is yours!" you yelled back, clearly embarrassed

"nae, ma' hair ain't long with split ends, er' whateva' the hell 'ure always moanin' 'bout in there"

you had half a mind to hit him across the face for that, "I don't know, hairs getting a little long there princess" you teased, gesturing to his grown out mohawk "need to get it trimmed? or you worried they might leave you looking bald again like last time?" you grinned

"awe no way!" Gaz grinned "you got pictures?" he ran over to you. Simon was curious too but didn't make a show of it, settling to sit back with his arms crossed instead, surveying the chaos.

"sure do" you beamed, ready to pull out your phone

"Naw naw!" Johnny scrambled to intercept his friend "nae happenin'"

you flung the phone behind you, out of his reach "then wash the fucking dishes man" you scoffed, shoving the sponge into his chest "thought they called you Soap for a reason?"

"feckin whatever" Johnny groaned, returning to the sink and flicking the tap on

you beamed and turned to head towards your room, calling out your dibs on the shower. Not before holding your phone up to Kyle and Simon, mouthing an 'I'll show you later' before slipping out of view.

"cheeky little mother fucker..." Soap mumbled, the half smile on his face turning into a look of disgust as he touched some wet food.

"so...." Gaz started after a moment "Never did decide where we 'going to be sleepin' mate?"

"well 've only got two beds" Johnny said, back turned to his friends "an' mine can only fit one a you's plus ma'self" he continued "an' like -ell I'm not going to sleepin on 'ma own bed while 'm home , so one ya will have-tae take the couch" he paused "unless the other one wants to bunk up with 'er" he laughed

Simon froze simply at the idea, suddenly incredibly uncomfortable in his slacks at the thought of being right up next to you while you rested. If you were closer would be be able to put his hands of you? trace the contours of your waist with his finger tips, burry his nose in the back of your head and wrap his hulking arms around your smaller figure? Feel the curve of your ass as you pressed against-

he bit the inside of his cheek and gripped the counter top so hard his knuckles turned white, "I'll take the couch" he huffed "'ure smaller anyway" he gestured to Kyle

"Whateva' mate" Gaz rolled his eyes, taking his friends jab in stride.

You had claimed dibs of the shower first because you were well aware that three, probably filthy, men (all of which had to be over 6 feet) were bound to need to use it as well and it would be pointless to try and wash your hair after that disaster.

"I'm done!" you called absentmindedly from the hallway, a towel wrapped around your body, wet hair sticking to your neck and back. Simon had found a very interesting part of the ceiling to focus on while you went back to your room, "try to not blow the thing up, I've got a down payment on this thing" you said, closing the door behind you.

silence fell over the room once again, as all three men glanced between themselves. Gaz was first, he took off at a run towards the bathroom door, determined to be second. Soap started off not more then a moment after him,

"aye ya prick, it's my house this?!" he grabbed for Gaz who held on steady to the door

"exactly mate! we're the guests!" Kyle chided "so be a good host 'an bugger off!"

"Nae 'm not lettin' you's skimp me outta a hot shower" Soap yelled attempting to pull Gaz back, but the man had such a a tight hold on the door he might've pulled out the hinges first.

you reopened the door after hearing the chaos, still in only a towel "the hell is-?" you were cut off almost immediately by ghost stepping in, he grabbed them both by the back collars of their shirts with what seemed like minimal effort, and pulled them off each other.

"Gaz you go first," he growled "Johnny, at least finish drying the bloody dishes before you go runnin' off" he shoved your roommate back into the kitchen

"Lt.! 's no fair he's goin' first! Why do you get to decide?" Soap griped

"on base 'er not, 'm still in charge." Simon said plainly, narrowing his eyes towards his friend, "just be lucky I'm the one yellin' at you for tusslin' around inside"

"In 'ma own home!" Johnny threw his hands up in defeat as Gaz pumped his fist before closing the bathroom door.

for a moment, your eyes met Simon's as you peaked from behind your door and they lingered there. His gaze was so was piercing as he glared from above his mask, that he had (unfortunately) put back in after dinner. His eyes only remained that way for a moment however, for as soon as they met yours, they softened. The harsh lines fell away instantly and his pupils began to dilate when they met yours, not aware you had been watching the whole ordeal.

'why did his eyes have to be so pretty?'

He coughed quickly, tearing his gaze from you before returning to the kitchen himself. Leaving you awe struck, fanning your face behind the closed door of your room.

When it was finally time for him to take a shower, Simon allowed himself a moment of respite in the bathroom before actually cleaning himself off. Away from Johnny's teasing glances and their incessant banter that he hated to admit he had come to be too fond of to reprimand them for, and they knew that all to well. Above all else though, it was a moment to internally process seeing you in nothing but a towel because when he had tried to think it over out there, the evidence of that was all too noticeable. You had looked so fucking good, wet hair, glossy skin, that towel that did absolutely nothing to cover up the swell of your tits as you pressed it to your chest. Even the simple fact that your cheeks still flushed from the heat of the shower sent his whole body into overdrive.

'shit- right, the shower.'

He broke from his thoughts to finally enter the shower but that did nothing to aid him in his situation. On the ledge was your shampoo and various other soaps, much like how your side of the sink was covered in various products and bottles he couldn't name even if he tried. Johnny's side had a toothbrush that was joined by Gaz's wash bag, and that was it. In the shower however, he only saw what were clearly your products. He grumbled and opened the door just a crack,

"Either 'a you got any shower gel?" He yelled through the crack, rather embarrassed at his current situation, "lef' mine at base."

"jus' use 'er's!" Johnny called back from his spot on the couch "'s what I do anyway..."

"You what?!" you yelled from across the flat

"dumbass" Kyle scoffed

"kidding, kidding!" Johnny laughed "Mines the one with the green lid mate, ya don' see it?"

"Fuckin hell...neva'mind!" Ghost responded, closing the door again. He swore he wasn't seeing straight. It didn't help that the whole bathroom already smelt like you, your intoxicating scent invading every breath he took. But to use your products? That was some shit couples do, and he had to stop his mind from getting away from him with that fantasy.

Stepping into the shower once more he located Johnny's soap. Spring rain?, no fucking wonder he hadn't noticed it, who would've thought Soap would use something like this? He quickly washed himself and got dressed, rubbing his hair dry with a towel as he exited the bathroom.

You stood in the kitchen, a large sweatshirt dwarfed your frame. You seemed to be waiting for the kettle of the stove to heat up as you noticed his presence.

"oh I can take that" you smiled, walking over to him and holding out your hand to take his towel from him.

He very reluctantly gave it to you, worried it would smell bad or have something gross on it he hadn't even realized. "was just about to start another lode anyway" you chimed, opening up the closet door and throwing it in the machine before starting it.

Simon couldn't help himself "Colors I'm assuming?" he joked

you whipped around to face him "Now don't you start" you scolded, but the smile and deep red of your cheeks was unmistakable, "Johnny's enough to deal with on his own" you headed back to your kettle

"'m sorry, I'll try to be less of a pain in the arse to ya than he is" Simon chuckled

"that's a low bar" you laughed dully "but thank you"

Simon found conversation to flow freely with you, like it does with the rest of his team but only after he had gotten close to them. He had only known you for a day but still found it so natural to speak to you (if he ignored the deafening sound of his heartbeat and the massive lump in his throat).

"want any tea?" your offer broke the silence as you grinned and held up the now boiling kettle.

"uh- sure" he nodded, was his heart getting louder?

you tossed open one of the cupboards "pick your poison" you chirped, gesturing the stocked shelf of teas.

he rounded the island to inspect the selection, peering over you in such a way that his form eclipsed yours and forced you to move back against the counter top. You held your breath.

"'ere" he handed a small tin containing a non-caffeinated herbal blend down to you and stepped away "is it any good?" he asked, pointing lazily at the tin that you now held.

you tried to shrug your flustered feelings away "Better be, 's what I'm having" you turned to grab him a mug from the shelf.

Simon smiled to himself at the knowledge he picked the same type of tea as you purely by coincidence. Moments later you were handing it to him, "here ya go Ghost" you said placing the hot mug in front of him

"Simon." he responded plainly

"Hm?" you tilted your head a bit

"Simon's fine, ya don't need to be calling me that 'Ghost' shit 'ere" he was staring holes into the kitchen island, wondering if it was weird for him to be asking you to call him by his given name.

"Alright, Simon it is then" you beamed, not missing a beat

christ his name sounded so good when you said it

"sorry guess it was just habit, seeing as thats what Johnny calls you whenever he's home"

"'s fine" he mumbled, a brief pause hung in the air as you both took your first sips of tea. You were right, it was good.

"where they at anyway?" Simon tried to fill the silence

"probably giggling under the covers by now" you scoffed "why? trying to get rid of me?" you joked

"'s not it" Simon answered quickly

"I know I know- I'm just teasing" you smirk "Johnny told me you were a bit quiet so don't feel pressured to talk 'er anything"

He appreciated the sentiment, but not talking to you was possibly the last thing he wanted to do right now. "What else does the little twat say?" Simon asked, a little gruffer than he intended to sound, but his reputation was on the line here.

"Oh just stories from all the dangerous stuff you all get up to, usually the ones where he can say he was the hero" you fully laughed and it sounded like music to Simon's ears "That and he complains about all the work he has to do, usually when he wants to get out of chores"

"sounds 'bout right" Simon smiled lightly and you could have sworn it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

At least you didn't think he was some sulking, menacing, edge-lord. I mean he most certainly was most times but he would really prefer it if you didn't think of him like that. Now he just had one more thing to clear up.

"jus' so ya know... I- I didn't use your body wash" he practically had to shove the words out of his mouth he was so tense, but to his surprise you just laughed.

You smiled brightly and waved your hand dismissively, "Don't worry I didn't think you had, I don't blame you for not finding his soap though" you held your mug close to your chest and smiled fondly "He used to use that Head and Shoulder's stuff, you know the one? Anyway, it was nasty so I got him some better stuff and he actually likes it, even if he complains he smells 'like a chick' now" you put that last part in air quotes.

"fair", the soap Simon used on base was Head and Shoulder's. He made a mental note to throw it out and get better stuff the second he got back.

Conversation flowed freely for the next couple minutes as you both finished your drinks, you mostly asked about what it was like living on a military base and he asked about a bit about your graduate studies. Happy just to learn anything about you. When you set your empty mug down on the kitchen counter, he silently glided over with his own and took your mug in his other hand, filling them with water in the sink.

"you really don't have to do that, but thank you" you smiled softly, a yawn escaped you, feeling the tiredness begin to catch up with you.

"don't mind it" he dried his hands off with the kitchen towel. When he looked back at you his heart swelled. you were smiling lightly in the dimly lit kitchen, eyes squinting from even that being too much light. You swayed back and forth slowly, heading nodding slightly every couple of moments. He felt bad for keeping you up but more than that he wished he could just pick you up and whisk you off to bed, curling up next you you and letting you snuggle into his chest. But there was no way he could do something like that, not now anyway, so he settled for the next option

"you look like you're about to fall over love, off to bed now" he said, his voice quiet and gentle as patted you on the back and steered you towards your room.

"aye aye captain" you lazily saluted him and he couldn't help but smile "let me know if ya need anything" you called from the hall "night!"

"yeah g'night" he groaned, shoving himself onto the couch that was much too small for him. He would rather freeze than make you get up to get him another blanket or something. And even though he felt perfectly comfortable he couldn't seem to get to sleep, his heart was just too loud.

*I might make Price come over to give the boys something they left behind just so he can meet/flirt with reader and Simon and get all grumpy and jealous cuz it would be cute <3

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