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We lay there for what felt like an eternity, though it was probably only minutes, his body still draped over mine like a heavy blanket. The couch cushions sagged under our weight, and the air smelled of sweat and sex, thick and clinging. Bucky's cock slipped out of me with a wet sound, his cum trickling down my thigh, but neither of us moved to clean up. I stared at the ceiling, tracing cracks in the plaster, waiting for the usual—him pulling away, dressing in silence, vanishing into the night like a ghost. But tonight, the quiet stretched, awkward and heavy, pressing on my chest.

I shifted slightly, his arm still slung across my waist, metal fingers cool against my skin. 'Hey,' I said softly, voice hoarse from all the moaning. 'Rough day out there?' It was a dumb question, I knew. Missions with hydra weren't 'fine,' but I asked anyway, hoping to crack through the wall he always rebuilt post-fuck.

He tensed, then rolled off me abruptly, sitting up with a grunt. The warmth of him vanished, leaving me chilled. Bucky ran a hand through his disheveled hair, avoiding my eyes as he reached for his discarded pants on the floor. 'What the hell do you care?' he snapped, tone sharp as a knife edge. 'Just because I come here to blow off steam doesn't mean you get to play therapist, Leona.'

The words hit like a slap, stinging deeper than they should. I sat up too, pulling the torn remnants of my tank top over my chest, suddenly exposed in more ways than one. Deep down, a ache bloomed in my gut—sadness twisting like a knot, because yeah, I did care. More than I should for a friends-with-benefits setup. But I swallowed it, forcing a light laugh that sounded fake even to me. 'Whoa, easy there, Tin Man. I was just asking if you kicked any ass today. Or did they finally upgrade to vibranium-proof goons?'

He paused, pants halfway up his thighs, and shot me a glare that could freeze hell. His jaw clenched, blue eyes narrowing. 'Not in the mood for your shitty jokes,' he growled, yanking the zipper up with more force than necessary. 'You think this is funny? Some comedy hour after I just railed you? Grow up.'

My attempt at humor backfired spectacularly, his crankiness ramping up like a storm cloud darkening. The sadness swelled, hot and unwelcome, pricking at the backs of my eyes. Why did I even try? He was always like this after—walled off, biting at anything that got too close. But I couldn't let it show, not fully. 'Sorry,' I mumbled, hugging my knees to my chest, dark hair falling like a curtain to hide my face. 'Didn't mean to piss you off more. Forget I said anything.'

Bucky didn't respond at first, just grabbed his shirt from the armrest and shrugged it on, movements jerky and irritated. He stood, buckling his belt with a metallic clink that echoed in the quiet room. Rain pattered against the window, a soft reminder of how he'd stormed in earlier. Without a backward glance, he headed for the door, boots thudding on the floor. 'Yeah, whatever,' he muttered, hand on the knob. Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving the apartment echoing with emptiness.

I stayed curled on the couch, the mess between my legs cooling, a stark reminder of what we'd just done. The clock ticked over to 3:00 AM now, and the city noise outside felt miles away. Alone again, just me and my secrets, the sadness settling in like an old friend. I wiped at my thigh absently, then pulled a throw blanket over myself, staring at the door as if he might come back. He wouldn't. Never did.

The clock on my nightstand glowed 2:17 AM, casting a faint blue light across the cluttered bedroom of my tiny apartment. I'd been scrolling through my phone, trying to unwind after a long shift at the coffee shop, my dark hair splayed out like a messy halo on the pillow. The city outside hummed with distant sirens and the occasional car horn, but inside, it was just me—Leona, twenty-one and keeping my life as tucked away as the secrets I guarded. No one knew much about me, not even the friends I barely had, and that was how I liked it. Especially with him.

A sudden thud from the living room jolted me upright, heart slamming against my ribs. What the hell? I lived on the third floor; no one just dropped by unannounced. Grabbing the baseball bat from under the bed—my half-assed attempt at home defense—I crept toward the door, barefoot on the cold hardwood. The shadows in the hallway stretched long, and my pulse thundered in my ears. Burglar? Some creep who'd followed me home? I gripped the bat tighter, edging into the living room.

There—a silhouette by the window, broad shoulders cutting through the moonlight filtering through the blinds. He moved with predatory silence, rummaging through my coat rack like he owned the place. Panic surged; I swung the bat up, ready to crack skull, when he turned. Steel-blue eyes locked on mine, and in that split second, recognition hit. Bucky.

Before I could lower the weapon, he lunged. Fast. Too fast. His metal arm shot out, wrapping around my throat in a vice grip that pinned me against the wall. The bat clattered to the floor as cold vibranium pressed into my skin, squeezing just enough to make stars dance in my vision. I gasped, thrashing instinctively, but then the familiar whir of his prosthetic hummed against my pulse, and the scent of gunpowder and sweat—his post-mission cologne—flooded my senses. It was him. My body went slack, tension melting into a twisted rush of relief and heat.

'Bucky,' I rasped, voice muffled under his hold. His flesh hand came up, fingers digging into my hip, yanking me flush against his chest. He was soaked from the rain outside, tactical gear clinging to his muscled frame, the Winter Soldier peeking through in the hard set of his jaw.

'Quiet,' he growled, low and rough, breath hot against my ear. 'Door was unlocked. Stupid girl.' His metal fingers tightened fractionally, not choking but dominating, sending a shiver straight to my core. I hated how much I craved this—how he'd show up after his ops, all pent-up rage and need, using me to burn it off. Friends with benefits? More like his secret outlet, and I'd take it every time.

I tilted my head back, exposing more throat to his grip, and he took the invitation, lips crashing down on mine. The kiss was brutal—teeth clashing, tongue invading like he was claiming territory. I moaned into his mouth, hands fisting his wet shirt, pulling him closer. He released my neck only to shove me toward the couch, his metal arm banding around my waist, lifting me like I weighed nothing.

We tumbled onto the cushions, him on top, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand—flesh this time, but no less unyielding. His eyes raked over me, taking in my thin tank top and shorts, nipples already pebbling under the fabric. 'Missed this pussy,' he muttered, voice gravelly from whatever hell he'd just crawled out of. Without warning, he ripped the tank down the front, exposing my breasts to the cool air. His mouth latched onto one nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing until I arched off the couch with a cry.

'Bucky—fuck,' I whimpered, legs parting on instinct. He ground his hips down, the hard bulge of his cock pressing against my thigh through his pants. I could feel how thick he was already, throbbing with urgency. His free hand yanked my shorts aside, fingers plunging into me without preamble. I was soaked—always was for him—and he groaned against my skin as two digits stretched me, curling deep to hit that spot that made my toes curl.

'Tight as ever,' he rasped, pumping faster, thumb circling my clit with rough precision. I bucked against his hand, chasing the friction, but he pinned me harder, controlling every twist and thrust. The wet sounds of my arousal filled the room, obscene and intoxicating. He added a third finger, scissoring wide, prepping me roughly for what I knew was coming.

I came undone fast

his missions always left him impatient, and tonight was no different. My walls clenched around him, orgasm ripping through me in waves, but he didn't stop, fucking me through it with merciless strokes until I was sobbing his name. Only then did he pull his fingers free, slick with my release, and shove them into my mouth. 'Taste yourself,' he ordered, and I sucked greedily, eyes locked on his as he watched, pupils blown wide.

He stood abruptly, dragging me up by the hair gentle enough not to hurt, but firm. My knees hit the floor before I could protest, and he unzipped his pants, freeing his cock. It sprang out, heavy and veined, the head already leaking pre-cum. 'Open,' he commanded, and I did, mouth watering as he fisted my dark strands and fed himself in. Inch by inch, he pushed past my lips, hitting the back of my throat until I gagged, tears pricking my eyes. He didn't ease up, thrusting shallow at first, then deeper, using my mouth like a toy.

Saliva dripped down my chin as he fucked my face, grunts escaping him with each slide. His metal hand cupped my jaw, tilting me for better access, the cool touch contrasting the heat of him. 'Good girl,' he praised hoarsely, hips snapping forward. I hollowed my cheeks, tongue swirling around the underside, and he cursed, pulling out just before he lost control. Strings of spit connected us as he hauled me to my feet, spinning me around to bend over the arm of the couch.

My shorts were gone in a tear, ass bare and exposed. He kicked my legs wider, metal palm cracking down on one cheek—hard enough to sting, leaving a red print. I yelped, pushing back for more, and he obliged with another smack before lining up his cock. The blunt head nudged my entrance, teasing for a heartbeat, then he slammed in. All at once, filling me to the hilt, stretching my pussy around his girth.

'Fuck, Leona,' he groaned, hands bruising my hips as he set a punishing pace. Each thrust drove deep, balls slapping against my clit, the force jolting me forward. I braced on the cushions, moaning loudly, the burn of the stretch turning to pure bliss. He was relentless pulling almost out before ramming back in, angling to hit my g-spot every time. Sweat slicked our skin, his chest pressing to my back as he leaned over, metal arm snaking around to choke me lightly again, heightening every sensation.

I came a second time like that, vision blurring, pussy fluttering around him in spasms. He didn't slow, chasing his own release with guttural sounds, pounding harder until the couch creaked under us. 'Gonna fill you up,' he warned, voice breaking, and with a final, brutal thrust, he did, hot spurts flooding me, his cock pulsing deep inside.

We collapsed together, breaths ragged, his weight a comforting cage. He stayed buried in me, softening slowly, as the adrenaline ebbed. No words just the quiet aftermath, knowing he'd leave before dawn, back to his shadows. But for now, in my apartment, it was just us.

The rain-slicked alley reeked of damp stone and distant thunder, the shadows clinging to the brick walls like unspoken regrets. Sherlock Holmes stood there, coat billowing slightly in the wind, his sharp features etched with that infuriating mix of defiance and calculation. Across from him, John Watson's face was a storm of its own—eyes blazing, fists clenched at his sides, the scar on his shoulder throbbing faintly under his sodden shirt from an old wound that never quite healed.

'You absolute madman,' Watson growled, his voice cracking like the lightning overhead. He stepped closer, jabbing a finger into Sherlock's chest. 'Baiting yourself like that? Walking right into their trap to draw them off me? Do you have any idea what could've happened?'

Sherlock's lips curled into that trademark smirk, but it didn't reach his eyes—those pale, piercing eyes that always saw too much. 'I deduced the variables, John. Their patterns, their weaknesses. It was the only logical—'

'Logical?' Watson exploded, shoving Sherlock back against the wall with more force than intended. The detective's head thudded softly against the brick, but he didn't flinch, just held Watson's gaze with unnerving steadiness. 'This isn't a bloody chess game! You're not expendable. If you'd died back there—'

'I didn't,' Sherlock interrupted, his voice low, almost a whisper amid the patter of rain. 'Because you mattered more. Saving you was the priority.'

Watson's breath hitched, his hand still pressed flat against Sherlock's chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart beneath the wet fabric. 'Insane. You're insane, Sherlock. Reckless. You think I can't handle myself? That I need you playing hero?'

The argument hung between them, words sharp as knives, slicing through years of buried tension. Sherlock's hand came up slowly, gripping Watson's wrist—not to push away, but to hold it there, anchoring the moment. 'You do need me,' he said, voice rougher now, laced with something raw. 'And I... I need you alive.'

They stared at each other then, the world narrowing to the space between their faces. Rain dripped from Watson's hair, tracing paths down his temple, and Sherlock's breath ghosted warm against his skin. Time stretched, taut as a bowstring, until Watson's resolve shattered. He surged forward, crashing his lips against Sherlock's in a kiss that was all desperation and unspoken fear—deep, devouring, tongues tangling with the ferocity of men who'd stared death in the face too many times.

Sherlock gasped into it, his free hand fisting in Watson's shirt, pulling him closer until their bodies aligned, hips grinding instinctively through layers of clothing. The kiss slowed, deepened, turning from fury to something achingly tender. Watson's mouth moved with deliberate pressure, sucking on Sherlock's lower lip, then tracing the seam with his tongue, coaxing it open wider. Sherlock yielded, a soft moan vibrating in his throat as Watson's hand slid up to cup his jaw, thumb stroking the sharp line of his cheekbone.

They broke apart only to breathe, foreheads pressed together, panting in the chill air. 'John,' Sherlock murmured, the name a plea, his long fingers threading into Watson's damp curls, tugging gently to angle his head back for another kiss—this one slower, lips brushing like a confession.

Watson's hands roamed, urgent yet reverent, unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt with trembling fingers, exposing the pale expanse of his chest. He leaned in, mouth trailing hot kisses down Sherlock's neck, nipping at the pulse point until the detective arched, a shudder rippling through him. 'I've wanted this,' Watson whispered against his skin, voice gravelly, 'for so long. To feel you, all of you.'

Sherlock's response was a low hum, his own hands working at Watson's belt, freeing him with practiced efficiency despite the tremor in his touch. John's cock sprang hard and heavy into the cool air, and Sherlock wrapped his fingers around it, stroking from base to tip in languid pulls that made Watson groan, hips bucking forward. They shed clothes in a haze—coats discarded in puddles, shirts peeled away, trousers shoved down just enough.

Watson turned Sherlock gently, pressing him face-first against the wall, but Sherlock twisted, pulling him into a shadowed alcove for some semblance of shelter. Their mouths met again, kisses turning sloppy, wet, as hands explored. Watson's palm slid over Sherlock's ass, kneading the firm muscle, fingers dipping between to tease the cleft. Sherlock pushed back into the touch, breath hitching when Watson's finger circled his entrance, pressing in slowly, knuckle by knuckle, slicked only by the rain and their shared heat.

'Yes,' Sherlock breathed, voice breaking as Watson added a second finger, scissoring gently, stretching him with careful thrusts. The sensation burned sweetly, building a deep ache that had Sherlock rocking back, his own cock leaking pre-cum against his thigh. Watson kissed his shoulder, then his spine, murmuring praises—'So beautiful like this, god you're'—while his free hand reached around to pump Sherlock's length in time with his fingers.

The rhythm built slow, deliberate, each movement drawing out gasps and whispers. Sherlock's body trembled, walls clenching around the intrusion, but he wanted more—needed it. 'John... please,' he gasped, turning his head for another kiss, deep and lingering, tongues sliding as Watson withdrew his fingers.

Raven's boots echoed softly down the sterile corridor of the Task Force 141 base, her heart hammering in her chest as she clutched her tablet tighter. It's her first day here, the recruiter's warnings replayed in her mind like a broken record: 'These men are rough, heartless killers, especially with women. They see you as a liability, something to fuck with, break or discard. Stay out of their way.'

She swallowed hard, her analyst uniform—crisp blouse and tactical pants—feeling like inadequate armor against the ghosts of those words.

The briefing room door swung open, and there he was: Captain John Price, striding in with the rest of the team. His presence filled the space, broad shoulders straining his tactical vest, a perpetual scowl etched under his mustache. Gaz, Soap, and Ghost followed, but Price's gaze locked on her immediately, sharp and unyielding. Raven froze in her seat at the edge of the table, her pulse spiking. He was everything the recruiter described—intimidating, with eyes that stripped you bare before a word was spoken.

The conversation started innocently enough, a debrief on the latest intel from a botched op in Eastern Europe. Gaz leaned back, cracking a joke about the target's escape. 'Bloody amateurs,' Soap chuckled. Raven, trying to prove her worth, piped up with her analysis. 'Actually, the data suggests it wasn't amateurs—it was a deliberate leak from within our supply chain. If we cross-reference the timestamps—'

Price's hand slammed on the table, cutting her off. 'You questioning my team's execution, analyst?' His voice was gravel, low and dangerous. The room went silent. Raven's mouth went dry, but she held her ground, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. 'No, sir, but the facts don't lie. Ignoring them could cost lives.'

His eyes narrowed, chair scraping as he stood, towering over her. 'Facts? You think you waltz in here with your pretty charts and tell me how to run my op? These men bleed for this unit—you're just a desk jockey playing at soldier.' Soap shifted uncomfortably, Ghost's mask tilting slightly, but no one intervened. Raven rose too, fists clenched at her sides, adrenaline surging. 'And you think charging in blind is heroic? It's reckless!' The air crackled, inches from fists flying, until Gaz cleared his throat. 'Easy, Cap. She's new.' Price's jaw ticked, but he backed off with a glare that promised retribution. 'Watch your mouth, Raven. Or you'll learn what happens to liabilities.'

Hours later, the base had quieted, the hum of fluorescent lights her only company as Raven sorted files in the dimly lit intel room. She jumped when the door clicked shut behind her, spinning to find Price blocking the exit. His sleeves were rolled up, forearms corded with muscle, and that same predatory stare pinned her in place.

'Captain,' she stammered, stepping back until her ass hit the desk. Fear coiled in her gut, mixing with something hotter, unbidden.

'You think you can mouth off to me in front of my team?' He advanced slowly, voice a rumble that vibrated through her. 'Disagree like you're my equal? That argument earlier—it's gonna cost you.' Before she could respond, his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around her throat—not squeezing, just holding her there, thumb pressing her pulse point. She gasped, body betraying her as heat flooded between her legs.

'P-please, sir—' Her plea died as he yanked her closer, his other hand fisting the collar of her blouse. With a rip, buttons scattered across the floor, exposing her lace bra and the flush creeping over her chest. 'Shut it,' he growled, shoving her back onto the desk. Papers flew as he pinned her wrists above her head with one massive hand, his body pressing between her thighs. She squirmed, but his weight held her down, his knee nudging her legs wider.

Price's free hand roamed roughly, palming her breast through the bra before tearing the lace away. Her nipple hardened in the cool air, and he pinched it hard, twisting until she cried out. 'This is what happens when you argue with the captain,' he said, leaning in, his breath hot against her ear. 'You get punished. And next time? It'll be dangerous. I'll break you properly—no mercy for liabilities.'

His fingers trailed down, unbuckling her belt with practiced ease, then yanking her pants and panties down her thighs in one brutal tug. The fabric caught at her knees, leaving her exposed, pussy already slick despite her fear. He cupped her mound possessively, thumb circling her clit with rough pressure. 'Look at you, wet for it already. Knew you were trouble the second you opened that mouth.'

Raven whimpered, hips bucking involuntarily as he plunged two thick fingers inside her, curling them against her walls. He pumped hard, no gentleness, his thumb grinding her clit until her body tensed. 'Cum for me, Raven. Show me what a good little girl you can be.' The pressure built fast, overwhelming, and she shattered, walls clenching around his fingers as she moaned his name, juices soaking his hand.

But he didn't stop. Price added a third finger, stretching her wider, his pace relentless. 'That's one,' he murmured, watching her face contort. 'Argue with me again, and I'll tie you down, fuck you raw until you beg to agree.' He twisted his fingers, hitting that spot deep inside, and she came again, harder, thighs trembling as waves crashed over her.

He pulled his hand free, slick with her release, and smeared it across her lips. 'Taste yourself. Remember this next time you think to challenge me.' Then he was on her again, mouth claiming her nipple, sucking and biting while his hand returned to her pussy, fingers thrusting deep. She arched, lost in the onslaught, cumming a third time with a sob, body quivering under his control.

Price finally stepped back, leaving her sprawled and panting, clothes in tatters. 'Clean yourself up,' he ordered, adjusting his belt with a smirk. 'And keep your opinions to the reports. Or the next punishment won't end with just your fingers getting wet.' He turned and left, the door clicking shut, leaving Raven breathless, marked, bruised and craving the danger he'd promised.

The restaurant buzzed with the low hum of conversations and clinking silverware, but your date with Bucky Barnes felt like it was sinking into quicksand.

You'd been set up by mutual friends—something about him needing to 'get out more' after his latest mission, and you being the adventurous type who could handle a guy like him. But from the moment you sat down across from him in that dimly lit Italian spot, the spark just wasn't there.

Bucky was all brooding intensity, his metal arm glinting under the candlelight as he picked at his pasta, answering your questions with short, clipped responses.

You tried—god, you tried—cracking jokes about his super-soldier stamina or asking about his time in Wakanda, but he just nodded, his blue eyes distant, like he was humoring the whole thing.

By dessert, the awkwardness had thickened the air between you. You stirred your tiramisu without eating it, stealing glances at his sharp jawline and the way his dark hair fell over his forehead. He was hot, no denying that—tall, built like a wall of muscle, with that quiet confidence that screamed control. But the conversation? Dead end after dead end. When the check came, he paid without a word, standing up and shrugging on his leather jacket. 'Walk you to your car?' he asked, voice gravelly, not quite a question.

You nodded, grabbing your purse, the night air cool against your skin as you stepped outside. The street was quiet, lined with parked cars under the glow of streetlamps. You fumbled for your keys, mumbling a polite 'Thanks for dinner, even if it was... interesting.' He stopped you with a hand on your arm—firm, unyielding, his flesh fingers warm through your sleeve. Before you could process it, he turned you toward him, his body crowding your space, and crushed his mouth to yours.

The kiss hit like a freight train. His lips were demanding, parting yours without hesitation, his tongue sweeping in to claim every inch. You gasped into it, your hands instinctively grabbing his jacket as heat exploded low in your belly. All the pent-up frustration from the failed date ignited—his dominance pouring over you like a wave, making your knees weak. He backed you against the nearest wall, the brick rough against your back, his metal arm bracing beside your head while his other hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. You melted, surrendering the control you'd clung to all night, your body arching toward his solid frame.

'Get in the car,' he growled against your lips, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, his pupils blown wide with hunger. It wasn't a request. Your heart hammered as you nodded, sliding into the passenger seat of his black SUV. The drive to his place blurred by—his hand on your thigh, squeezing possessively, inching higher with each red light. By the time he pulled into the driveway of his secluded brownstone, you were aching, wet and desperate, the tension coiling tighter.

He didn't waste time once inside. The door barely clicked shut before he had you pinned against it, his mouth devouring yours again. His hands roamed—rough, commanding—yanking your blouse open, buttons scattering across the hardwood floor. 'You have no idea how long I've wanted to shut that smart mouth of yours,' he murmured, voice low and dangerous, nipping at your jaw as he shoved your bra up, exposing your breasts to the cool air. His mouth latched onto one nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing just enough to make you cry out. You clutched his shoulders, nails digging in, but he grabbed your wrists in one massive hand—flesh and metal cold against your skin—and pinned them above your head.

'Tonight, you don't move unless I say,' he ordered, his free hand sliding down to cup you through your skirt, fingers pressing against the damp fabric of your panties. You whimpered, hips bucking instinctively, but he held you still, his gaze locking onto yours—intense, unblinking. 'Say it. Tell me you give up control.'

'I... I give up,' you breathed, the words tumbling out as surrender washed over you. His smirk was feral, rewarding you with a rough grind of his palm that had you moaning.

He released your wrists only to strip you bare—skirt hiked up and panties ripped aside, his fingers plunging into your pussy without preamble. Two thick digits curled inside you, stroking that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids, his thumb circling your clit with merciless precision. 'So fucking wet for me already,' he rasped, pumping faster, his metal arm holding your thigh open wide. You rode his hand, head thrown back against the door, but he pulled out abruptly, leaving you clenching around nothing. 'Not yet. Bedroom. Now.'

He scooped you up like you weighed nothing, carrying you down the hall to his king-sized bed, the sheets crisp and dark. He dumped you onto it, stripping off his shirt to reveal the sculpted planes of his chest, scars mapping his history. His jeans followed, cock springing free—thick, veined, already leaking pre-cum. You reached for him, but he batted your hand away, climbing over you to straddle your chest. 'Open,' he commanded, fisting his length and tapping it against your lips.

You obeyed, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of him as he fed his cock into your mouth, inch by inch. He groaned, hips rocking forward, fucking your throat with controlled thrusts—deep enough to make you gag, but he pulled back each time, letting you breathe. His metal hand cradled the back of your head, guiding you, while his flesh one pinched your nipples, twisting until you squirmed. Tears pricked your eyes from the stretch, but the dominance—the way he owned every gasp—had you dripping onto the sheets.

'Good girl,' he praised, voice husky, pulling out with a wet pop before flipping you onto your stomach. He yanked your hips up, ass in the air, and you felt the cool press of his metal fingers tracing your spine before slapping your cheek—sharp, stinging. 'Stay like that.' He knelt behind you, spreading your folds with his thumbs, breath hot against your skin. Then his tongue was there—lapping at your pussy, flat and broad, before spearing inside. He ate you out like a starving man, sucking your clit, teeth grazing your inner thighs, one finger—metal, unyielding—sliding into your ass while two flesh ones fucked your cunt. The dual sensations shattered you; you came hard, screaming into the pillow, walls fluttering around him.

But he didn't stop. He rose up, cock nudging your entrance, and thrust in with one brutal snap of his hips—burying himself to the hilt. You keened, the fullness overwhelming, his girth stretching you wide. 'Fuck, you're tight,' he grunted, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he set a punishing pace—pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, balls slapping against your clit. Each thrust angled just right, hitting deep, his metal arm wrapping around to rub your swollen nub while the other pulled your hair, arching your back.

You gave up everything—pushing back to meet him, begging with broken words: 'Harder, Bucky, please.' He obliged, flipping you onto your back without pulling out, hooking your legs over his shoulders to fold you in half. The new angle let him grind against your g-spot, his pace relentless, sweat slicking his skin as he chased his own release. 'Come for me again,' he demanded, thumb pressing your clit, and you did—orgasm ripping through you, pussy clenching around his cock like a vice.

He followed with a roar, burying deep and flooding you with hot cum, pulsing inside as he collapsed over you, both panting. For a moment, he softened, pressing a surprisingly gentle kiss to your forehead, his dominance easing into something protective. But as he pulled out, cum leaking from you, his eyes darkened again. 'We're not done,' he murmured, already hardening. The night stretched on—round after round, him taking you against the wall, on the floor, until dawn crept in, your body marked by his claim, utterly spent and satisfied in his unyielding control.