𝔇𝔞𝔪𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔰 𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔰

Or maybe he didn’t forget at all. You’ve spent your entire married life telling him how hot he looks with the toolbelt wrapped around his waist.

“Contractor’s word is sacred,” he says, voice rich and amused as he shoulders his way inside. “This one’s actually the last. Promise.”

He sets the box down in the foyer, right where the warm afternoon light spills over the hardwood. The house still smells faintly of fresh paint and new wood, something clean and intoxicating. It smells like him. You’re pretty sure it always will.

Your house.

Your home.

The one he built, designed, and obsessed over for almost a year. The one whose every inch you’ve seen on paper, and in progress, and in his eyes when he dragged you through showrooms and across job sites, mumbling to himself about structural supports and load-bearing beams.

You weren’t stupid. Even if you weren’t a contractor, you’d known when his gaze lingered a little too long on a certain height or surface. You’d seen the heat flicker in his expression when he ran his fingers along the edge of a half wall or tested the give in a support beam. It had always felt like he was trying to invite you into visualizing how supportive that beam could truly be with your bodies pressed up against it. 

You knew what he was doing.

Still, standing here now, in the finished space with sunlight shining on the curved white plaster and the gleam of polished metal, you feel like you’re seeing it all for the first time.

Bucky straightens up with a soft groan, hands going to his hips.

“You’re staring,” he says, eyes flicking from your face to the open-plan living room and the sweeping staircase that curves to the second floor.

“Just taking it in.” You wrap your arms around yourself, feeling small and a little overwhelmed in the best way. “Our house.”

He steps closer. The scuffed boots, the soft thud of his weight on the hardwood—familiar, grounding. His hands slide up your arms, over your shoulders, settling at the base of your neck, thumbs brushing your jaw.

“Our house,” he echoes, softer now. He presses a quick kiss to your forehead. “Built it for you, didn’t I?”

Your heart skips. For me, you think.

After months of stolen looks and those low, gravelly sounds he makes when you’re close, you know better than to pretend it’s innocent.

“For you” isn’t just a gesture.

It’s a promise of exactly what he plans to do to you.

His thumb traces down the column of your throat, skimming over your pulse. “You wanna see it?” he murmurs, voice dipping the way it does when he’s about to say something he shouldn’t. “Really see it?”

You swallow. “You’ve already shown me everything.”

“On paper,” he says. “Walk-throughs. Punch lists. That’s not the same.”

You arch a brow. “No?”

He leans in, nose brushing yours, breath warm against your lips. “No, sweetheart. A house like this…” His hand drifts down, fingers sliding beneath the hem of your T-shirt, knuckles grazing your bare stomach. “Gotta be… tested. Broken in.”

Your breath hitches.

There it is; that little curl of filthy intention he’s been hiding behind blueprints and building codes.

You knew it. 

“What exactly did you design this place for?” you ask, even though you already know the answer.

His grin turns wolfish. “You know.”

You do. You really do.

“All those nights,” you murmur, remembering the way he’d spread plans across your old, too-small kitchen table, pencil tapping against measurements while his gaze glazed over with want. “‘It’ll be beautiful, baby,’” you mimic, voice pitched low in a teasing imitation. “‘Open space, clean lines… perfect for entertaining.’”

“Oh, we’re gonna entertain,” he rumbles. His fingers flex against your skin, sliding higher, under your bra now, the rough pad of his thumb grazing the underside of your breast. “And don’t lie to me. I saw your face every damn time I mentioned that half wall.”

Your cheeks heat.

The half wall.

He pulls back just enough to tilt his head toward it, the curved partition that separates the kitchen from the sunken living room. It’s a piece of art, really. Smooth white plaster, edges rounded, top capped in warm oak that matches the floors. It’s just high enough to mark the transition between spaces and low enough to keep sight lines open.

And…you know.

Perfect height.

You bite your lip. “You told the inspector it was for sight lines and flow.”

He laughs, low and wicked. “It is. It just also happens to be the perfect height to fold you over until you’re archin’ that pretty back for me.” His hand squeezes your tits gently through your shirt, just enough to make your breath catch. “Multifunctional. I’m nothing if not efficient.”

You swat at his chest, feigning offense even as your thighs press together. “You are so full of shit.”

He catches your wrist, the calloused pad of his thumb circling the inside, right over your racing pulse. “You’re the one who signed off on it, doll. I gave you all the elevations. You knew what you were gettin’ into.”

Your pulse stutters at the undercurrent in his words.

You did know. From the first time he’d mentioned designing a place together, from the first sketch he’d slid across the table with a shy, hopeful tilt to his mouth. It hadn’t just been about a house. It had been about a life; a life with him. With his hands on you, his name in your mouth, his rules written into the bones of the space around you.

You’d said yes to more than a mortgage.

You’d said yes to him.

Yes to this.

The agreement had been half joking at first—a breathless, giggling thing whispered under worn sheets in your tiny apartment, his fingers already buried in you when he’d said, “Gonna build us a place where I can have you anytime I want. Any room, any surface. I built this home with you as the perfect image. Everything in it belongs to me—especially you. You’re going to be mine for as long as we live under this roof. Got it?

And you’d nodded, eyes glassy, fingers fisted in his hair.

Yes. Please. Yours.

“You moved the bed to the wrong wall,” you say now, voice barely steady. “That’s not where it was on the plan.”

He hums, unbothered. “Better angle for the hook from that wall.”

Your stomach flips.

“The hook,” you repeat.

His thumb drags over your lower lip, tugging it down. “Mmhm.”

You picture it—the heavy, discreet ring set into the ceiling in the center of your bedroom, disguised as part of the modern lighting track. You remember the way he’d stood there one afternoon, sweat-darkened T-shirt clinging to his back, brow furrowed as he double-checked the mounting bracket.

“Four to five hundred pounds easy,” he’d said, voice oddly rough. “Could hang a damn engine block off it.”

You hadn’t been thinking about engine blocks.

You’re not thinking about them now.

“Bucky…”

He kisses you before you can figure out what you’re asking for—mouth hot and sure, tongue sweeping against yours with the kind of deliberate control that always makes your knees weak. He tastes like coffee and the sweat of hard work, like home, like every filthy promise he’s ever made you.

“C’mon,” he murmurs against your lips. “Let me give you the grand tour.”

You laugh, breathless. “We’ve already—”

His hand drops from your shirt to your ass, fingers squeezing firmly as he nips your bottom lip. “Different kind of tour, doll.”

Your insides melt.

You could say no. That’s part of it, and he knows it. You’d agreed on that too, somewhere between talk of tile samples and safewords. This house is a playground, a stage, a living, breathing consent agreement. He can take what he wants when he wants it; as long as you can take it back with a single word.

You could say no.

You don’t.

Instead, you nod, eyes wide, hand slipping into his. “Show me,” you whisper.

His answering smile is almost tender, the heat in his gaze tempered by something softer, deeper. “Attagirl,” he says, like you’ve done something right. Like you’re not the one offering yourself up to be used against every surface he can dream of.

You barely get a minute before he hauls you into the kitchen. There’s days of heated longing and charged ideas swirling in his eyes, and even though he’s trying to play it cool by giving this tour, you can already tell he’s been dreaming of taking you in the same pace you’re  meant to eat breakfast..

The space is a dream—white cabinets, brass hardware, a huge farmhouse sink overlooking the backyard. The island is massive, topped with a thick slab of veined quartz that catches the light like marble. There’s more counter space than you’ve ever had in your life.

Bucky stops beside the curved half wall, running his hand along the smooth wooden cap. “Now this,” he says, looking at you from beneath his lashes, “this is just good design.”

You snort. “Sure. For entertaining.”

“Oh, I’m feelin’ mighty entertained already.” His grip on your hand tightens, tugging you closer, until your hips bump the warm wood. “Turn around for me.”

Your breath catches. “Already?”

“Already?” His eyes darken, mouth tipping into something between a smirk and a sneer. “Baby, I’ve been waitin’ months to break this house in. You think I’m gonna be patient now that you’re finally here?”

Your pulse thrums. “Bucky…”

He steps into you, chest nearly flush against your back, his breath hot against your ear. “You remember what you told me when I first showed you this wall? Hm?”

You swallow. The memory bursts behind your eyes—blueprints spread on your lap, his hand braced on the back of the couch, his voice low and hungry. The way your face had heated when you’d realized the height, the curve, the way your hips would fit against it just so.

You’d blurted it without thinking.

“That’s the perfect height to bend me over,” you’d said then, half laughing, half flushed.

He hadn’t laughed at all.

Now, in the finished kitchen, you can barely get the words out. “I said… I said it was… perfect height to bend me over.”

“That’s right.” He noses along your jaw, lips brushing your skin. “You said that. You asked me to. You remember that?”

You nod, cheeks burning.

“Use your words,” he murmurs, hand smoothing down your spine. “You remember?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

He hums, satisfied, and his palm presses between your shoulder blades, firm and sure, guiding you. “Then bend over for me, sweetheart.”

You exhale slowly, letting his command sink in. The world narrows to the curve of plaster in front of you, the warmth of the wood beneath your palms as you place them flat on the top of the wall. It’s cool at first, a faint breeze from the living room vent brushing your wrists.

You feel him behind you, big and solid, all heat and intention. His hands are gentle on your hips as he nudges your feet apart, boot toe sliding between your ankles to widen your stance.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Like it was made for you.” He taunts, playing dumb.

You glance down. The top of the wall hits across your hips perfectly, cradling your lower belly, tipping your pelvis just enough that your ass presses back against him when he steps closer.

You feel him, hard and thick against the curve of you, already straining against his jeans.

“Bucky,” you whisper, breath hitching.

“Yeah, that’s it.” His hands slide from your hips to your waist, thumbs stroking where your shirt’s ridden up. “You good, doll?”

“Yes.” It comes out without hesitation, without thought, the answer wired into your bloodstream at this point.

He chuckles, low and pleased. “Thought so.”

His fingers slip into the waistband of your leggings, dragging the elastic down slowly, carefully, until the fabric hugs the tops of your thighs. The air hits your bare skin and you shiver, the polished wood cool against your stomach.

“You know what I thought about,” he says conversationally, as if you’re not already dripping for him, your core clenching on nothing. “Every time I checked these measurements?”

You bite your lip. “What?”

His hand slides between your thighs from behind, knuckles brushing your lips—bare, hot, and slick. You gasp, fingers digging into the wood.

“You,” he says simply, voice rough. “In this position. Just like this. My good girl folded over my pretty little wall, ready for whatever I wanna give her. Do you know how fucking impossible it was to build this house when all I could do was think about how pretty your pussy would look bent over this ”

You whimper. You can feel your arousal smear against his skin as he pushes two fingers through your folds, spreading the wetness lazily.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re fuckin’ soaked already. You like this that much, huh?”

“Yes,” you say, voice tight. “Bucky, please—”

He laughs, breath ghosting over the back of your neck. “Already beggin’ and I haven’t even gotten my cock out yet. Greedy thing.”

His fingers circle your clit once, twice, a teasing brush that has you arching involuntarily, hips pressing back into him. The wall holds you, keeps you from losing your balance, lets you give into the curve of your spine.

“Look how easy you move,” he murmurs, as if commenting on the weather. His free hand slides up your spine, palm warm between your shoulder blades as he presses you down just a fraction more. “That’s why I made it like this. So I can get it just right, every time.”

Your breath stutters. He knows your body too well. Knows the exact angle that makes your thighs shake, the depth that makes your vision white out.

He gives your clit one last slow circle, then pulls away. You hear the soft rasp of his zipper, the rustle of denim. The curve of him slots against your ass a moment later, heavy and hot, the head of his cock nudging your entrance.

“Color?” he asks softly, voice suddenly serious.

The word is an anchor, a reminder. A line in the sand you both drew long ago.

“Green,” you answer immediately. You’re not sure you’ve ever been more certain of anything.

He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for weeks. “Good girl.”

The praise melts you, leaves you loose and pliant as he pushes forward, sinking into you with agonizing slowness. He’s big—he’s always been big—but the angle, the way the wall tips your hips, makes every inch feel sharper, deeper, like he’s cutting you open and filling you in the same breath.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, nails digging into the wood as he pushes in, and in, and in—

“That’s it,” he groans, voice strained. “Take me, baby. Fuck, you’re so tight.”

You pant, trying to breathe around the fullness. The wall is supporting half your weight; your toes barely skim the floor as he bottoms out, his hips snug against your ass.

“Perfect,” he rasps, forehead pressing between your shoulder blades. “Knew it. Knew it would be perfect.”

He pulls back, slow and torturous, and then slams back in with a sharp thrust that sends you jolting forward, your belly hitting the curved plaster. The burn of stretch gives way to molten pleasure, the friction at this angle dragging against that spot inside you just right.

You moan, the sound high and unabashed.

“Yeah?” he grits out, hand sliding around to your front, fingers seeking your clit. “That good, doll? That what you wanted outta this wall?”

“Yes, yes,” you babble, mind fuzzing as he starts to move in earnest. Each thrust rocks you forward, the wall bracing you, keeping you from pitching face-first onto the floor. You ride the give of the wood and the flex of his hips, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the high ceilings.

“This is why I built it this way,” he growls, fingers working your clit in tight circles. “So I can walk into my kitchen, see you standin’ here, and just—” He punctuates it with a thrust that makes you cry out. “Take what’s mine. Whenever I fuckin’ want.”

You whimper, heat coiling low and tight. “Anytime you want,” you echo, words tumbling out between gasps. “You can, I—I told you, I’m yours—”

“I know you are,” he snarls, pace quickening, the rhythm brutal and precise. “Whole house knows it now too. You hear that?” He leans over you, mouth at your ear. “First day in our new home and you’re already makin’ those noises for me, lettin’ the walls hear what I do to you.”

His words send a fresh bolt of heat through you. The idea of it—of the house witnessing this, of the bones of it soaking in your pleasure like some kind of twisted christening—turns you inside out.

“Bucky, I’m—”

“I know.” His fingers press harder, faster. “Come on, doll. Come all over my cock. Mark my kitchen as yours.”

The filthy possessiveness snaps something, and you shatter with a choked cry, pleasure detonating behind your ribs. You collapse against the half wall, fingers scrabbling for purchase as your body convulses around him.

He groans, the sound guttural. “That’s it. Fuck, that’s it. Squeezin’ me so tight—”

He thrusts through your orgasm, drawing it out until your legs shake and your throat is raw. Then, with a ragged curse, he pulls out, his hand wrapping around himself as he finishes against the curve of your ass, hot and sticky.

You tremble, breath coming in harsh pants. The wall holds you, solid and unyielding, as he strokes himself through the last pulses, chest heaving.

“Christ,” he mutters, voice wrecked. His hand comes to your hip, thumb rubbing comforting circles into the damp skin. “You okay?”

You laugh weakly, the sound dissolving into something like a sigh. “I’m… I think my soul left my body for a second.”

“That’s a yes, then.” You can hear the smile in his voice.

He cleans you up quickly, gently, using a dish towel he probably didn’t intend to christen like this but will never look at the same way again. He pulls your leggings up with careful hands, presses a soft kiss to the small of your back.

When you finally push yourself upright, turning to face him, he’s looking at you like you hung the moon and then fucked him on it.

You smooth your hair back, cheeks still hot. “So. Kitchen: tested.”

He grins, tucking himself back into his jeans, fingers lingering on his belt buckle. “Kitchen: tested,” he agrees. His eyes flick toward the living room, then up the stairs. “Whole lotta house left, though.”

You swallow, thighs clenching. “We have time.”

He nods, expression softening. “We have all the time in the world, sweetheart.”

You make it upstairs under the pretense of “unpacking.”

Which is technically true. You open one box in the bedroom and put exactly three shirts in a drawer before Bucky’s hand hooks in the waistband of your leggings again.

“This isn’t exactly efficient,” you say, even as your body leans into his touch, as if pulled by gravity.

“Disagree,” he murmurs, eyes drifting up to the ceiling. “I’m bein’ extremely efficient.”

You follow his gaze.

The hook is subtle—a small, matte black ring mounted flush to the ceiling, centered over the bed. If you didn’t know what you were looking for, you’d assume it was part of the lighting track or some kind of modern design element.

You know better.

“You had to special order that, didn’t you?” you ask, narrowing your eyes.

He smirks. “Maybe.”

“Bucky.”

“Baby, if we’re gonna have an anchor point in the ceiling, it’s gotta meet code. Detective work like that doesn’t come cheap.” His hands slide up your sides, thumbs stroking the edge of your ribs. “And you want it to hold, don’t you?”

Your pulse skitters.

You glance at the bed—king-sized, solid oak frame, headboard built into the wall. The mattress is plush but supportive, the linens crisp and new. On the nightstand, you spot the neatly coiled length of deep navy rope you’d tucked there the last time you’d gone shopping together, when a “quick run” to the hardware store had turned into a half-hour detour through the aisle of nylon cords.

You’d picked it up as a joke.

Bucky hadn’t laughed then either.

Now, he reaches past you and picks it up, running the rope between his fingers. “Feels soft, doesn’t it?”

You nod, throat dry. “We… we don’t have to—”

He steps closer, rope dangling from one hand, the other cupping your jaw. “Stop,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”

You do.

His eyes are dark, yes, pupils blown wide with want, but beneath it there’s something steady. Something grounding.

“You trust me?” he asks quietly.

You exhale. “You know I do.”

“I do know,” he says. “But I like hearin’ it.” He tilts your face up, presses a slow, careful kiss to your mouth. “We do this, we do it our way. Your way. You tell me if you don’t like somethin’ and we stop. Understand?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

He smiles, a quick flash of teeth. “Good girl.” The words sink into you like honey, thick and sweet. “Hands.”

You offer them without thinking, wrists together.

He hums approvingly and steps around behind you. The rope moves like water—soft and smooth as he wraps it around your wrists, looping and knotting with practiced ease. You shouldn’t be surprised; he’s a contractor. His hands know how to work with tension, with weight, with lines that need to be both beautiful and functional.

“Too tight?” he asks, giving the bindings a gentle tug.

You flex your fingers. The rope bites just enough to make you aware of it, but it doesn’t hurt. It feels like a hug around your wrists, a reminder.

“No,” you murmur. “Feels… good.”

“Yeah?” His voice is thick. “You like bein’ tied up for me, doll?”

You nod, breathless. “Yes.”

He makes a sound that’s almost a groan. “Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

He leads you to the bed, one hand on the small of your back. You crawl up onto the mattress at his gentle nudge, knees sinking into the soft top. He follows, reaching up to clip the rope through the hook with a carabiner.

“There,” he says, sitting back on his heels to admire his handiwork. “Look at you.”

Your arms are pulled up over your head, but not uncomfortably so; there’s enough slack that you can shift, enough give that you don’t feel trapped. You test it, tugging lightly, and the hook holds firm, the rope creaking softly.

Heat floods your cheeks.

“Bucky,” you whisper. “This is…”

“Hot as hell?” he supplies, climbing onto the bed fully, straddling your thighs.

You huff out a laugh. “That’s one word for it.”

His hands trace down your sides, palms broad and sure. “Won’t keep you like this long,” he says. “Just wanna see you. Want you to feel it. Know you’re safe here. That this house holds you how I want it to.”

You shiver.

He takes his time undressing you this time, peeling your shirt over your head, mouth chasing every inch of newly exposed skin. He kisses your collarbones, the swell of your breasts, the hollow at the base of your throat. He nips gently at your nipples, tongue soothing the sting, until you’re arching into his mouth despite the pull in your arms.

“You look so pretty like this,” he murmurs against your skin. “All laid out for me. My girl in my bed in my house.”

“Your house,” you correct weakly, trying to keep your brain engaged.

“Our house,” he amends immediately. “But this…” His hand slides between your legs, over the damp cotton of your panties. “This is mine.”

You whimper.

He peels your leggings and panties down slowly, kissing the inside of your thigh as he goes. Once you’re bare, he sits back again, eyes roaming over you with open reverence.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “I built walls and floors and doors, but nothin’ in this place is more beautiful than you.”

Your heart stutters. He doesn’t say things like that lightly. Not that he’s ever stingy with affection, but this—this specific kind of softness—always feels like being handed something precious.

You swallow past the lump in your throat. “You’re just sayin’ that ‘cause I let you tie me up.”

He chuckles, low and fond. “That helps.” He leans forward, bracing himself on one forearm beside your head. His other hand skims down your body, fingers spreading over your belly, then lower. “But I promise, sweetheart, even if you never let me do any of this, you’d still be the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You blink hard, vision blurring for a moment. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“Don’t,” he says, thumb circling your clit lightly. “Not when I’m tryin’ to make you come.”

The whine that leaves you is embarrassingly high-pitched.

He grins, then dips his head, kissing his way down your torso until his mouth hovers over your center. He looks up at you through his lashes, eyes dark and burning.

“Gonna eat you until you’re beggin’,” he says calmly. “Then I’m gonna fuck you again. Gonna make this bed squeak so loud we void the warranty.”

You laugh, breathless. “You’re an idiot.”

“You love me,” he says, then doesn’t give you a chance to answer.

His tongue is hot and sure, broad strokes from your entrance to your clit that drag a ragged moan from your chest. You tug at the rope reflexively, wrists flexing. The hook creaks, reassuringly solid.

The vulnerability of it, of being spread out like this, unable to grab his hair or push him away if it gets to be too much, should scare you. Maybe once upon a time it would have.

Now, all it does is send you hurtling headfirst into trust, into want.

His hands grip your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, holding you open for him. He licks you like he’s starving, like this is the first real meal he’s had in days, every pass of his tongue purposeful. He knows your body too well, zeroes in on the exact rhythm that makes your hips twitch.

“God, Bucky—”

“Yeah, that’s it,” he murmurs against you. “Give it to me. Let this room know how good I make you feel.”

“If the house had ears,” you gasp, “it would be traumatized.”

He laughs, the vibration sending a shock through you. “Our house loves it,” he says. “Built it on your moans.”

You want to be annoyed at how ridiculous that sounds. You can’t be. Not when his mouth seals around your clit and sucks, not when two fingers slide into you in the next breath, curling just right.

Your world narrows—hook above you, rope biting into your wrists, his head between your thighs, the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead as if none of this is happening.

The orgasm hits fast and hard, ripping through you in a white-hot wave. You cry out, back arching off the bed as much as the bindings allow, hips jerking against his face.

He groans, holding you down, fingers pumping through the clench of your walls until you’re shaking.

“You okay?” he asks when you finally slump back into the mattress, chest heaving.

“Y-yes,” you manage, voice rough. “Just… give me a second or I’m gonna die.”

He chuckles, smug. “Gonna die on me in our brand new bed, huh? That’d be a hell of a note to leave the realtor.”

You snort weakly. “Shut up.”

“Language,” he scolds lightly, crawling up your body. He kisses you, slow and deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “You ready for me, doll?”

You take a breath, feeling the throbbing echo of your climax, the lingering tension in your arms, the press of rope against your skin.

You’re wrung out. You’re overstimulated.

You’re so fucking ready.

“Yes.”

He nudges your knees wider, guiding his cock to your entrance. This time, when he pushes in, your body welcomes him, soft and yielding. The angle is different now—your hips flat on the bed, his weight above you, your arms stretched overhead—but the stretch is the same, the fullness just as consuming.

You exhale slowly as he sinks all the way in, eyes fluttering closed.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, voice rough.

You force your eyes open. He’s hovering over you, arms braced on either side of your head, your bound wrists between them. The hook creaks faintly with each breath, a reminder.

He starts to move, slow at first, rolling his hips in controlled thrusts that push little sounds out of you with every stroke.

“That’s it,” he says, gaze glued to your face. “There she is. My pretty girl takin’ my cock so well.”

You whimper, cheeks heating.

“This is what I thought about,” he continues, voice high and tight with restraint. “Every late night, every early morning on this build. Every time somethin’ went wrong and I had to fix it, every time somethin’ went right and I wanted to celebrate. All of it. Kept me goin’.”

You wet your lips. “Thinking about… this?”

He nods, thrusts picking up speed. “Thinkin’ about comin’ home from a job dusty and pissed off and findin’ you here.” His hand slides up, fingers wrapping around the rope above your wrists, bracing himself with it. “Tied up in my bed, waitin’ for me. Letting me walk through that door and just… use you. As hard and as long as I need until I feel better.”

The image sends a sharp spike of heat through you.

“Anytime you want,” you whisper.

“Anytime I want,” he agrees, voice almost reverent. “Long as you say yes. Long as you want it too. That’s our deal, right, doll?”

“Yes.” You roll your hips up to meet his, chasing more friction. “Yes, Bucky, please—”

He groans, the sound like broken glass. “Good girl. You’re so fuckin’ good to me.”

He fucks you harder then, really puts his back into it, the headboard knocking rhythmically against the wall. The rope creaks overhead with each thrust, your arms rocking with the motion. Your world is reduced to the slide of him inside you, the weight of his body, the scrape of his chest hair against your nipples.

“Gonna come,” you gasp, another wave building fast, shockingly soon after the last.

“Already?” he grits out, sweat dripping from his brow to your chest. “You gonna come for me again, baby?”

“Yes, yes, yes—”

“That’s my girl.” He reaches between you with his free hand, thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy. “Come on, then. Let go. Let me feel you.”

You do.

The second orgasm crashes into you like a freight train, your whole body stiffening before dissolving into helpless tremors. You scream his name, the sound tearing out of your throat as your walls clamp down on him, pulsing.

He snarls, the last of his control snapping. He thrusts through it with ragged determination, hips stuttering.

“Gonna fill you up,” he gasps. “Gonna come so deep in this pretty pussy, you’ll be leaking all over my sheets.”

“Yes, please—”

“Want it all, don’t you?” he growls. “That’s why you let me build this place. So you could be my perfect little fucktoy in every room.”

You nod frantically, words gone, throat raw.

He gives a few more wild, uneven thrusts and then he’s gone—tipping over the edge with a strangled curse, burying himself as deep as he can go. You feel him pulse inside you, hot and thick, filling you until you swear you can feel it in your chest.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room are both of your breathing and the faint creak of the hook as it settles.

Eventually, Bucky’s grip on the rope loosens. He sags, bracing his weight on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you. His breath ghosts across your skin, hot and damp.

“You still with me?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your forehead.

“Yeah,” you croak. “Just… dead.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “Let’s get these off you, then.”

He carefully unclips the carabiner, lowering your arms to the bed before working the knots loose. His fingers are gentle, deft, as he unwinds the rope from your wrists. He rubs at the faint indentations with his thumbs, warming the skin.

“There,” he says. “You good?”

You flex your hands. They ache a little, but in a satisfying way. Your whole body does. “Yeah.” You look up at the hook, then back at him. “That thing really holds five hundred pounds?”

He smiles, boyish and proud. “Told you. Overengineered it for safety.” He wiggles his brows. “And versatility.”

You roll your eyes, but your chest feels full, overflowing. 

He softens, fingers brushing your wrists. “You okay?” he asks. 

When you nod, he unclips the hook, works the knots loose, and kisses the faint rope marks like an apology, pulling you into his chest until your breathing slows and your body feels like it belongs to you again.

“C’mon,” he murmurs after a minute, voice warm against your hair. “Before we glue ourselves to these sheets. Shower, then we can die in here properly.” 

You let him help you up, let him steady you on shaky legs all the way to the bathroom.

Later, clean and wrapped in fresh sheets that smell like detergent instead of sweat, you curl into his side and trace idle shapes on his chest. “So,” you say, a sleepy smile tugging at your mouth. “Bedroom: tested.”

He hums. “Bedroom: tested.” His fingers trail idle shapes along your spine. “We still gotta christen the shower.”

You snort. “Of course we do.”

“And the stairs,” he continues, undeterred. “That landing’s got your name written all over it.”

You imagine it—hands on the railing, his shoulder pressed into the back of your thighs as he goes down on you with your foot braced on the step.

Your cheeks heat. “You’re insatiable.”

He kisses the top of your head. “You built a sex palace with me, sweetheart. I’m just usin’ it the way it was intended.”

“You built the sex palace,” you counter. “I just signed paperwork.”

“Details,” he says dismissively. “Besides, you had ideas too. That pillar in the living room? That was you.”

You blink. “I thought you needed that for structural support.”

He grins, unrepentant. “I do. But it also happens to be the perfect width for you to wrap your arms and legs around while I fuck you from behind. Just sayin’.”

A shiver races down your spine.

“You thought this all through, didn’t you?” you murmur, half in awe, half in exasperation.

“Every inch,” he says sincerely. “Every room, every angle. This house is a love letter to you, doll. To us. To what we like.” His hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth. “I wanted you to feel wanted here. Always. Wanted and safe and… mine.”

You swallow past the sudden tightness in your throat. “I do.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you repeat firmly. “It’s… I don’t know. It’s like the whole place is… holding me. For you.” You huff out a breathy laugh. “That sounds weird.”

“No,” he says softly. “That sounds perfect.”

You smile against his chest, tracing idle patterns on his ribs. “You know, for all your big talk about free use… you still ask every time.”

He snorts. “You want me to stop askin’?”

“Never,” you say quickly. “I just… I like it. That you designed all this to take me whenever you want, but you still… check.”

He kisses your forehead, lingering. “That’s the point, sweetheart. I can want you all the time. I do want you all the time. Built a whole damn house to prove it. But I don’t get to have you unless you want me back.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Consent’s part of the design.”

You laugh softly. “Of course it is. You’re a nerd.”

“I’m your nerd,” he says. “And your contractor. And your—”

“Sex architect,” you supply.

He groans. “God, don’t call me that, I’ll never recover.”

You giggle, the sound light and easy. “So what’s next in the… tour?”

He hums, considering. “We could get some water. Maybe actually unpack a box.”

“Responsible,” you say approvingly.

“Or,” he continues, ignoring you, “we could go downstairs, you could stand in front of that pillar, and we could find out if my calculations were right.”

You look up at him, at the spark in his eyes, the familiar challenge.

“You seriously ran calculations for that?”

He looks offended you even asked. “Of course I did.”

You shake your head, grinning. “Unbelievable”

He laughs, rolling you beneath him with an easy shift of his weight. “Come on, doll,” he says, eyes gleaming. “Let me show you what this house can really do.”

The pillar rises from the center of the living room, a sleek, square column of painted plaster that seems more aesthetic than structural. It breaks up the openness of the space, adding a modern touch.

It also, as it turns out, fits perfectly against your spine.

Bucky presses you gently back against it, hands braced on either side of your shoulders. The late afternoon light slants through the tall windows, bathing the room in gold.

“Hands around it,” he murmurs.

You obey, reaching behind you to wrap your arms as far as you can around the pillar. The cool surface presses between your shoulder blades, solid and unmoving. Your fingers meet the backs of your own shoulders, giving you leverage.

He steps closer, slotting his body against yours. His jeans are still undone from earlier, his cock already hard again, nudging your lower belly through your clothes.

“Comfortable?” he asks.

You raise a brow. “Define ‘comfortable.’”

He smirks. “Not in pain?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good.”

He sinks to his knees in front of you so fast you barely have time to squeak. His hands slide up your calves, over your knees, to your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh.

“Bucky—”

“Relax,” he says, mouthing at the inside of your knee. “Gotta test the load-bearing capabilities first.”

“You—” You cut off with a gasp as he scrapes his teeth lightly up the inside of your thigh. “You already tested the load-bearing capabilities.”

“Mm, that was structural.” His fingers hook into the waistband of your leggings again. “This is recreational.”

“Those are not mutually exclusive,” you point out.

He grins against your skin. “You’re right. ‘S why we’re doing a full inspection.”

You shake your head, laughing breathlessly. “You’re ridiculous.”

But you lift one foot, then the other, letting him peel your leggings and panties off entirely this time. The air kisses your bare skin, raising goosebumps. He lifts one of your thighs, rests your knee on his shoulder, and then does the same with the other, until you’re perched with both legs draped over his broad shoulders, your back pressed into the pillar.

You make a startled noise, gripping the column harder. “Bucky—”

“Look at that,” he says, sounding inordinately pleased. “Told you. Perfect height. Perfect width. I can fit right between your legs and still have room to move.”

You feel absurdly exposed—elevated, open, held up solely by his grip and the press of the pillar.

You also feel… safe.

The column isn’t going anywhere. Neither is he.

You exhale shakily. “You gonna… hold me like this the whole time?”

He raises a brow. “You doubt my stamina, doll?”

“Never,” you say truthfully.

He smirks, then leans in, mouth hovering over your center. “Then settle in,” he murmurs. “This might take a while.”

His tongue is devastating. If the half wall was about leverage and angle, if the bed and hook were about surrender and trust, then this—this is about worship. Pure and simple.

Held up against the pillar, your legs draped over his shoulders, you can’t do anything but hang on and feel. The column supports your back, keeps you from sliding, while he devours you like a man possessed.

You moan, the sound echoing faintly in the open space. The living room feels enormous around you—vaulted ceiling, big windows—but your world is only this. His mouth. The pillar. The way your fingers dig into the plaster as he pushes you higher and higher.

“You’re gonna ruin the paint,” you gasp at one point, nails scraping when a particularly sharp bolt of pleasure hits.

“I’ll fix it,” he growls, not bothering to lift his head. “Keep clawing.”

You do.

By the time he finally stands, easing your legs down one at a time, your thighs are shaking and your vision is foggy. You’re pretty sure you’ve come at least twice, maybe three times. Numbers are meaningless.

“You okay?” he asks, hands steady on your hips.

You nod, boneless. “House… passed inspection.”

He snorts. “Damn right it did.”

He kisses you then, hard and open and hungry, backing you up the few inches until your shoulders meet the pillar again. His hands fumble with his jeans, shoving them just far enough down.

“Gonna fuck you like this,” he mutters against your mouth. “Wanna feel you holdin’ on to my house and to me at the same time.”

You make a strangled sound that might be an agreement.

He lifts one of your legs, hooking it around his hip, and then the other, until your feet are off the ground, hands locked behind the pillar for leverage. He presses forward, sliding into you with a groan.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, head dropping back against the column. “Bucky—”

He’s deeper like this, somehow, the new angle hitting a spot that makes your toes curl. The pillar at your back keeps you from being knocked over by the force of his thrusts; you’re pinned between solid structure and solid man, nowhere to go and no desire to go anywhere.

“Fuck,” he grits out, pace quickening. “Look at you. Clingin’ to my pillar, takin’ my cock like you were made for it.”

You whimper, nails digging into the plaster again.

“I’m not gonna last,” he admits, voice ragged. “Not after watchin’ you come on my tongue like that. But that’s okay. ‘Cause I’m gonna do this again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next…”

You laugh breathlessly, even as your muscles tighten toward another peak. “Gonna wear me out in our new home, Barnes?”

“Gonna make you so used to me,” he says, thrusts turning punishing, “that you’ll get wet just walkin’ through the door. See this pillar, remember what I did to you on it, and start drippin’ for me.”

Your walls clench around him, the filthy words almost enough to push you over by themselves.

“Yeah, like that,” he groans. “You like that idea? My house makin’ you needy?”

“Yes,” you moan. “Yes, yes—”

He growls, hand dropping between you to rub your clit again. “Come with me, doll. Come on my cock while I fuck you against this pillar I built with my own two hands.”

You break.

Your orgasm rips through you, your whole body seizing as you cry out, back arching off the pillar. You cling to the column like it’s a lifeline, fingers digging gouges in the paint.

Bucky curses, a harsh, guttural sound, and buries himself deep, hips shuddering as he comes with you. You feel it, hot and thick, filling you once more.

When he finally lowers you back to the ground, your legs wobble dangerously. He catches you, arms wrapping around your waist.

“Careful,” he murmurs, kissing your temple.

“Mm,” you manage, leaning fully into him.

He looks over your head at the pillar and winces slightly. “Okay, yeah, we are definitely gonna have to touch up that paint.”

You glance back. There are faint scratches where your nails dug in, little crescents of exposed plaster.

“Worth it,” you say frankly.

He laughs, delighted, pulling you closer. “Love you.”

The words are simple, but they hit you like a hammer every time.

“Love you too,” you whisper.

He kisses you again, slow and sweet this time, no urgency, just warmth. The late afternoon sun slides lower, painting the room in shades of amber and rose.

Eventually, you both end up on the couch, tangled in a nest of half-unpacked blankets, your head on his chest. The house hums quietly around you—refrigerator kicking on in the kitchen, a soft creak in the walls as the temperature changes, the faint outside noise of life on your new street.

Bucky’s fingers card lazily through your hair.

“So,” you say, voice soft. “Half wall, bedroom, pillar. That’s… a good start.”

He hums in agreement. “We’ll get to the rest.”

You smile against his shirt. “Laundry room?”

He chuckles. “Hell yeah.”

“Garage?”

“Obviously.”

“Back patio?”

“Definitely.”

You consider. “Hallway?”

He pauses. “We can make the hallway work.”

You giggle, then sigh happily. “You really did this,” you murmur. “You built us a house designed to fuck me in.”

“And to keep you warm, and safe, and happy,” he adds. “Don’t forget those parts.”

“I won’t.”

He tips your chin up, eyes serious. “You know I’d still love you just as much if we lived in a crappy studio with a leaky sink and no sex furniture, right?”

You smile. “I know.”

“Good.” He relaxes, pulling you closer. “But this is more fun.”

You laugh. “Yeah. It is.”

The house settles around you, accepting you, claiming you. You think about all the mornings you’ll wake up here, all the nights you’ll fall asleep tangled with him, all the mundane in-between moments—coffee in the kitchen, mail at the door, laundry and dishes and bills.

And woven through all of it, like beams hidden inside the walls, there will be this: his hands, his mouth, his body, his intentions.

Intentional, beautiful design.

Filthy, perfect execution.

You close your eyes, listening to the steady thud of his heart under your ear, and let yourself sink into the knowledge that you are held—from the hook in the ceiling to the pillar at your back, from the half wall at your hips to the man whose arms you’re wrapped in.

His house.

Your home.

And you, the center of it all, made for his hands and his plans and every wicked, wonderful thing he wants to do to you in every inch of it.

leon’s big everywhere, it’s no secret to anyone really, but his cock had to have been crafted by some kind of god. even as he’s grinding along your core, there’s more of him not touching you at any given moment because of his size. he’s long and thick, a double whammy and more than you could have ever dreamt of

“i don’t know,” leon hums, long and drawn out whilst he tips his chin to his chest to look at the spot where your bodies meet. his fingers brush over the backs of your thighs, soothing trembling muscles in a way that only he could manage to do while he’s being so cruel, “don’t want to split you in half, sweetheart,”

you moan wantonly at the idea of it. being fucked full and broken in two on his cock. you want it—no, you need it. writhing against the sheets and begging is getting you nowhere, so you try a slightly different approach instead, “just the tip then, please,” you whimper and tickle your nails against his wrists

for the first time since he spread you wide, leon falters. a groan rumbles through his chest like thunder and his hips buck involuntarily, making his balls slap against your soft skin, “fuck—yeah, okay,” he mumbles under his breath, like you’re not supposed to hear it, and finally starts to pull his hips back

his cock slips down the center of your cunt, aided by the sheer amount of slick that’s coating your skin, and as the fat head of him slots against your hole, you suck in a harsh breath through your teeth. though, when leon still doesn’t give you what you want, you release it in a whiny, “please, please, plea—oh god,”

begs turn into sobs the second leon suddenly presses into you and stretches you around the tip of his cock. it aches in the best way possible and has your back arching away from the mattress as you fight against leon’s hands to squirm and force yourself further down his length

“not god but close enough,” leon grunts as you tighten like a vice, stuck somewhere between trying to pull him closer and push him out at the same time. he’s struggling too and you know it, the urge to sink into you is written in the furrowing of his eyebrows and his cock is twitching with anticipation

it’s not nearly enough to satisfy either of your needs though, just the tip of him was never going to be enough, but as your lips part and a beg for more sits right on the tip of your tongue, you look up at leon and see the smirk spreading across his face and you know exactly what it means straight away, “i can’t,” you pout

leon shrugs, “you can and you will, angel,” he rasps before he leans forwards slightly and spits directly onto your clit. you whine as one of his hands leaves your thigh and then moan when the calloused pad of his thumb spreads his saliva over where you’re very sensitive, “come like this, then i’ll fuck you, promise,”

electricity fizzles up your spine and shudders through your shoulders while you realise that he’s going to drag this out even longer. he’s going to make you come again and there’s nothing that you can do about it—not that you even want to try when you know that he’ll make it feel so good

your eyes pinch shut and your stomach tenses as his rough swipes turn into soft circles, going around and around your bundle of nerves, which causes your cunt to flutter around him. heat erupts in your stomach, a fire that’ll build quickly because it always does when leon’s the firestarter

“you’re just too small sweetheart, need to make sure you can definitely take me,” leon sighs condescendingly and you can feel his eyes on you, studying you, even though yours are still shut and you can’t actually prove that he's looking at you but somehow, you just know

he's good with his hands, he knows what he's doing, so the slide of his thumb over your clit is easy. all you have to do is lay there and take it, focus on the feeling that’s already beginning to coil tight and you’ll come in no time, especially if leon keeps talking filthy whilst burning holes into you

“fuck—wish you could see how tight you are, pretty little hole strugglin’ to take just the head of my cock,” leon murmurs as he ghosts his thumb down the center of your cunt. you huff over the loss of his touch but it’s back within a second and it’s devastating

his fingertip still goes in a circle but this time he’s tracing around the spot where your pussy is squeezing his cock. your delicate skin against his velvety skin, both wet and sticky with your slick and his precome as it leaks out of you. it’s filthy and it makes your head spin

you can’t help but sniffle and rake vicious lines over his wrist, the one that you can still reach and dig your nails into while he teases, and he returns the touch with a bruising hold on your thigh which makes your eyes flutter open, “ruin me, break me—please—just do anything,” you beg up at him

leon’s cock kicks and his jaw clenches, “yeah?” he grunts afterwards and then his thumb is back on your clit and rubbing harsher, uneven, circles, “fuck you full, make you bulge with my cock, mold your cunt to only take me, ruin you for everyone else?” he rambles through deep growls

“yes—fuck yes—you already have!” you wail while your thighs tremble and your clit throbs under his assault. there’s nothing nice in his movements anymore, it’s devolved into a driven need that’s dirty and abrasive and you love it even as it starts to become too much, too fast

everything in your body is screaming no as you hurtle towards another orgasm, the number of which is unknown because you lost the ability to keep count of them hours ago, but you can’t stop and you won’t stop while the ache in your stomach multiplies and your legs try to pull together, though leon won’t let them

“close, angel?” leon asks lowly and you could hear the smirk in his tone even if you couldn’t see it. you nod frantically in response, unable to use any of your words because of him, “yeah? you’re doing so good—fuck, you’re so good, letting me use you like this,” he groans, each word getting you closer

your chest begins to heave, panting in short, desperate breaths as leon’s thumb starts to swipe back and forth quickly over the tip of your twitching clit. you’re right there, teetering on the edge, ready to let bliss take ahold as your brain turns to mush. you just need one final little push and then—

“come baby, come for me,”

it’s such a simple order and yet, your body listens to it before you even have the chance to process it. the coil snaps and you choke on a sob while your entire body tenses and then shudders. your nerve endings burn in every part of your body, a white hot heat that spreads like a wildfire

somewhere distant is leon’s voice is ringing in your ears with a trickle of soft praises, “there you go, that feels better, huh?” he coos and strokes featherlight hearts—you think—into the outside of your thigh. when he let them snap shut, you don’t know, “uh huh—fuck look at you,”

around his cock your cunt has clamped down and pushed him out, leaving your hole empty again but you can’t find it in yourself to care when leon is wringing your orgasm for all that it’s worth by still brushing sporadic circles over your clit until you knock his hand away with a heavy feeling hand

“oh my god,” you whimper and then shiver through the last of the little aftershocks before you wriggle, “you promised,” you whisper, your tone laced with exhaustion while you remind him of the deal that he made and make it known that you do still want him to fuck you properly

leon chuckles as he leans over you and kisses your bottom lip just once before he pulls away. it’s sloppy and probably a little gross but it makes your cheeks flush anyway, “ready, sweet girl?” he asks and nudges his cock against your wet little hole, barely letting himself slip inside before he pulls back

“yes—please!” you blurt, much louder than you meant to but leon is far too focused on pressing into you to realise it. a silent gasp scratches your throat as he gives you back what you already had, the stretch is no longer there but your back still lazily curves away from your sheets over it

he goes slowly, excruciatingly slowly. each centimetre of his length has your jaw dropping further, while you stare up at him with big, wet eyes. every vein that’s strung around his cock drags against your fluttering walls and nothing else could ever compare to that feeling—a feeling that only leon can give you

once he’s half way in, you quickly feel full. it’s like your body simply has nowhere else for him to go because he’s already occupying every space, filling every spot and grinding against it no matter how sensitive it is. that, however, doesn’t stop your pussy from trying to pull him in

“sweeth—fuck—s’like you’re sucking me in,” leon hisses through clenched molars. his muscles are starting to tense and any composure that he had is slipping away rapidly but he’s held on for so long that you can’t blame him, even if it is his own fault, “shit—oh my god, fuck,” he groans

the last inches of his cock seem to sink into you quicker than the first ones did. whether it’s because you really are sucking him in or because he just doesn’t have the capacity to go slowly anymore, you really don’t care whilst your room gets filled with soft whimpers and deep grunts that sound like a song

that is, until leon bottoms out and nails your cervix

everything goes fuzzy. your vision, your nerves, your veins. you’re blindsided and blacking out whilst your pulse pounds against your eardrums and every colour of the rainbow bursts behind your eyes. you’re frozen, stuck in your mind while an orgasm rips through your system like a hurricane

it feels like lightning in every one of your limbs, seizing sore muscles and forcing a wrecked yelp from your lips. you've never felt anything like it and you're not sure you'll ever get close to it ever again. it's like a high that you don't want to chase

“oh—oh, are you coming, again?” leon’s asking but you can’t reply more than a stiff nod and a shove at his hip because he was right, it’s too much and you can’t take him all at once. he goes easily though, pulling out of you carefully whilst he hums a sympathetic, “good girl,”

losing all of his touch at once is horrid but you're too overstimulated for him to risk giving you anything whilst you writhe underneath him and even though you hate feeling empty in the moment, you'll thank him for it later

“too much,” you slur your words after sometime. your heart is still thumping in your chest and your eyelids are too heavy to open but it’s all made better by leon hovering over you and peppering soothing kisses to your burning cheeks, “too much,” you repeat, causing leon to hum and smile against your skin

“i know baby, i’m just far too big for you,”

thanks for reading! remember to like! reblog! and comment! i’ll give you a kiss if you do, mwah ily! send prompts to my ask box!

a/n i proofread this badly because i’m so exhausted so if there’s any mistakes, please ignore them, thank yew, i love you !!!! 𑣲

There's a rumble akin to a growl. He quickly ruts up, Shoving every painfully hard, throbbing veiny inch into you. Grabbing his hard biceps, digging your nails in, whining. "Too much."

There is a rasp from lack of use which is fading more demands he makes. To where he can sound utterly patronizing, “Cry, louder.” Taking delight at hearing your pained cries as you struggle to handle his cock.

Clenching his throbbing, veiny cock, shifting your hips. There's a puffy vein rubbing your sweet spot. Lifting your hips, gliding your sloppy cunt on his veiny cock. Your thighs trembling,

Leaning down, softly kissing his hard pec. Dragging your nails down his abs, rolling your hips slowly. Pyramid Heads's massive, muscular body quivers. His deeply defined and scarred abs clenching.

He lets you go, grabbing your headboard behind him, and crushing it quickly. The veins on the arm momentarily bulging. You're getting off on overwhelming him with a gentle rock of your hips. Lightly gliding a couple thick, veiny inches out.

There's a pleasurable painful jolt when his head rubs your cervix. Your toes curl, clenching his waist with your thighs. Crooning, “Nnn fuck me your cock is too fat," Grabbing your waist, standing up, quickly shoving you against the closest wall.

Pinning your legs back by your side. Leaving you powerless, trapped to a wall with Pramind Head looming over you. Unaware of how he sees, yet determined he is watching your cunt take his cock.

He pauses with half his head in, slowly rolling his hips forward. You can't squirm with his massive hands pinning your legs to the wall. "It's only half." Trying to glare up at him he roughly rocks forward.

You cry loudly, scratching his chest. Pumping his hips, slowly picking up speed with every other thrust. You can't run away, and you can't decide if it's more pleasurable or painful to have his large head threatening to push past your cervix.

Could he? With as much strength he has and how big cock is Pyramind Head might be able to.

"Nnng annn fuck!" His loud raspy groans make your cunt flutter around his veiny cock. Sliding your hands up his large pecs, over his broad shoulder. Digging your nails into his thick arms, biting your lip when he flexes.

You hold back your moan for mere seconds before he catches on. Keeping a steady, quick pace whilst fucking into you harder, bruises your cervix. Your body tenses, and you can't fully process the intensity of the pleasure just barely overlapping the sweet pain.

Your toes curl and your eyes blur with tears. The moment one slips down your cheeks, he has his hand around your neck. Taking you off the wall, fucking you roughly on his cock like a toy. Using his firm grasp on your neck and hip, your stomach bulges with every hard thrust.

"Take it little slut." You shouldn't have shown him some of your good porn. Hearing his raspy voice calling you, "My pretty cock-whore." is too much. You're cumming on his cock. Your body tingles with intense bliss.

Your spasming cunt, soaking his veiny cock, pushes him over the edge. Thick warm cum shots from his cock, in short, quick bursts you can feel hitting your cunt. When he isn't balls deep.

A couple more pumps and he pulls out whining in overstimulation. Laying you down on the bed. Where you lay in pleasurable bliss, trying to catch your breath. Admiring Pyramind Head looming over you, breathing heavily. His cock still hard dripping cum.

Closing your legs, he grunts pushing them open. Spreading your lips apart, stuffing his thick cum as he drips out. Clenching his fingers, moaning, rocking your hips when he brushes your sweet spot.

He grabs his cock, slipping his fingers out and flipping you over. Spreading your cheeks apart, smearing a slicked-up finger on your asshole. "More?" Gliding his thick finger in, whilst splitting your sloppy cum filled cunt open with his veiny fat cock.