#biglychee

The Staring Problem

 Avengers Tower, various locations, two weeks running.

You've been keeping a mental list with the grim focus of someone building a legal case, and it's up to eleven incidents. The evidence is circumstantial but it is consistent.

At this point you're less interested in understanding it than in figuring out at what number you escalate to Fury.

It starts at the coffee machine. You reach for the pot and when you look up he's already looking at you. Not glancing, looking — with an expression that gives you absolutely nothing to work with. You say good morning and Bucky says nothing. You take your coffee and leave at a quicker pace that is definitely not a jog.

It happens in the elevator, the common room, and even in the hallway outside the training floor. Always the same: you look up and he's there, already watching, and he never looks away first. You've started taking the stairs.

You run through the list of possible offenses. You were loud in the kitchen once. You accidentally used his mug, but you washed it? You beat his time on the obstacle course three weeks ago, but surely that's not, surely he's not still—

You mention it to Natasha, very casually, purely as a logistical concern for your continued survival. She looks at you for a long moment, says "hm," and walks away. It’s somehow the least reassuring response she could have given.

He is, for the record, not thinking about any of your eleven incidents. He is thinking about the way you laugh when you think no one's listening, and it's been living in his head for three days, and he has absolutely no idea what to do about that.

The Rifle 

Pre-mission briefing, loading bay, five minutes before wheels up

You're running through your gear check with a focus that has nothing to do with the gear and everything to do with the fact that Bucky has been watching you for two weeks and you are no closer to understanding why.

Especially when he appears at your left shoulder without sound and holds out his rifle like that's something people do.

You take it, obviously you do. You don't know what else to do. He gives a single nod and walks away to the quinjet like he hasn't just handed you something that costs more than your apartment and is probably also somehow an heirloom.

You hold it for the entire mission like it's a live grenade. You make every shot count. You are not going to be the person who scratched Bucky Barnes' rifle and lived to tell about it.

Your shots are, objectively, incredible. You don't register that at the time because you are too busy being careful.

He watches your form from across the ridge with an expression nobody else would clock as anything. Sam clocks it, filing it away.

You hand it back after debrief, two-handed, like returning something sacred. He takes it one-handed, casual, and there's something around his eyes that might be — you don't finish that thought. You go to your debrief, trying not to seem scared shitless.

"We Should Shoot Together"

Post-mission corridor, still in tactical gear, he has clearly been waiting

You're tired in the specific way that comes from twelve hours of sustained adrenaline, and you want a shower and about eight hours of not thinking about anything, which is why it's particularly unfortunate timing when Bucky falls into step beside you. He’s got that calm, unhurried energy of someone who has made a decision and is simply waiting for the moment to be right.

He stops walking. You stop walking. He looks at you with the full weight of his complete attention and says, completely evenly: "Your shots were incredible out there."

You say thank you and mean it and wait for the other shoe.

"Use my rifle next time." You think about the last time. You think about how carefully you held it. So, you wonder if your performance didn't meet the standard and this is somehow a test.

"We should shoot together." He says it like it's a normal sentence, like those words in that order constitute a fun activity and not what your nervous system has just interpreted them as — a proposal, a hunt, prey selected.

He turns and walks away. And here is the thing, the thing that keeps you up later: he's smiling. Small, private, to himself. The smile of a man who just executed a plan perfectly.

He has, in his own assessment, just asked you out. It went great. You are currently reconsidering whether your go-bag is packed.

The Smile

Common room, the morning after Sam and Steve got involved

You have faced things that scared you — real things, things with actual stakes — and come out fine, which is why it's genuinely surprising that you're standing in the kitchen at eight in the morning holding a piece of toast and feeling, for reasons you cannot immediately articulate, like something is deeply wrong.

Sam and Steve, well-meaning and catastrophic in equal measure, pulled him aside the previous evening. The conversation reportedly involved the phrase "just smile more, it makes you seem approachable." Steve demonstrated, while Sam refined it. Bucky practiced in the mirror with the focused intensity he applies to everything.

He comes in, sees you, and then — and you will think about this for a long time — he smiles. At you. Directly at you. It is the most deliberate, considered, technically-executed smile you have ever seen on a human face. There are too many teeth. The eyes are not involved. It lasts exactly three seconds too long.

You put down your toast.

He holds it for another beat, nods once like a mission objective completed, and leaves. You hear Steve in the hallway say "how'd it go" and Bucky say "good" with complete sincerity.

You are still standing there when Natasha comes in. She looks at your face and says "what happened." You don't have the words yet.

Twenty minutes later — you're still in the kitchen, the toast long forgotten — he comes back for something and doesn't see you around the corner. Someone says something from the hallway and he laughs, actually laughs, and then this smile, this real one, quiet and a little crooked and completely unguarded, just sits on his face for a moment before he schools it back.

He doesn't know you saw it. You don't know what to do with the fact that you did. You look down at your coffee.

Something has shifted and you can't quite name it yet. You're not scared anymore; that's the problem.

$ tag @twentytomidnight (@froggibus here's the horror movie in play 🧍‍♀️)

$ vi dont-shoot-your-shot-v2 dont-shoot-your-shot-v3

It’s Winchester. Again.

The tickets haven't worked, the formal warnings have been ignored, and the reports are just piling up on your desk like a testament to his stubbornness. This brat thinks he can just dance around the law, playing the part of the untouchable rebel, but he’s about to learn that the law has a very physical way of enforcing its boundaries.

Without a word of warning, you shove him forward, forcing him down until his chest hits the warm metal of the Impala's bonnet. He stumbles, a startled "Hey!" escaping him, but you don't give him a second to recover.

You pin him there, the weight of your authority pressing down on him, and you know that tonight, the paperwork is done. Tonight, you're going to give him a lesson he won't be able to write off so easily.

Bent over his hood, sirens colouring the bare treeline, and he wasn’t even a tad scared. In fact he was quite proud - this’ll be another grand story to brag about. He glances over his shoulder at your disgruntled look, shaking his hips with a tease.

"What are you gonna do, old man? Arrest me again? Fuck me?" Dean sneers, leaning back against the Impala with that insufferable, cocky grin.

You don't even give him the satisfaction of a smile. You wrench his wrists behind his back, the metal cuffs biting into his skin with a sharp click. As you roughly undo his trousers, you look him dead in the eye, voice flat and dangerous. "That’s exactly what I’m going to do. The ticket machine is broken; this will have to do."

The smugness vanishes instantly. He freezes, eyes wide as he stares at you, the reality of your intent finally sinking in. "Wait are you serious? You're actually — " He cuts himself off with a sharp gasp as you push his face down against the hot metal of the bonnet.

"Hey! Watch the hair, you old bastard!" he yelps, his voice cracking as he tries to regain some semblance of dignity.

You don't let him. You grab a thick fistful of his hair, yanking his head back so he’s forced to look at the dark sky, before shoving his face back down into the paint. "Shut up, Winchester. You've been a very loud, very annoying trespasser. It's time you learned some goddamn respect," you growl, your voice dripping with authority.

Smack!

The heavy sting of your palms against his bare, pale ass makes him jump, a muffled "Fuck!" escaping him.

"You think you're so tough, don't you?" you sneer, leaning over him, your heat radiating against his trembling skin. "But right now, you're just a brat who needs to be put in his place," you growl, your voice thick with a hunger that makes his breath hitch.

You don't wait for a retort.

You're already hard. You’re so goddamn easy, but can you blame yourself? The sight in front of you was gorgeous: Dean bent over his beloved car, fumbling at his cockiness while his cute ass sticks just easy for the taking.

Your cock’s leaking pre-cum that drips onto the metal of the Impala. You wrap your hand around yourself, a few rough, desperate strokes to ease the ache before you do leak, painting his trembling, pale arse in thick, hot streaks of cum.

So damn easy. Long night, sheriff, just been’a long night, and a long week.

"God, damn —" Dean stammers, his snarky bravado fracturing into a series of breathless, incoherent sounds. He tries to pull his head up, to find that defiant glint in his eyes again. "You think — you think a little jizz and — and a few spanks makes you the boss? You're still just an old —"

"An old what, Winchester?" you cut him off, your voice a low, dangerous rumble. You scoop up a handful of your own warm, sticky cum, prodding your fingers into his tight, twitching hole to coat him thoroughly.

The sensation of him clenching around your digits makes your vision swim.

Dean huffs, trying to sound indignant even as his voice trembles and his hips instinctively tilt back toward your touch. "Just — just get on with it! Stop playing with me!"

"Patience, boy," you growl, the sound vibrating deep in your chest as you angle your tip to his hole. You savour the tiny whimpers as you tease — you know damn well he’s fighting against himself to just beg for it.

Slow and steady was the way you’d decided to push in, but perhaps that was the worser option.

"Mmhm, fuck —" he groans languidly into the metal of the bonnet, his eyes rolling to his skull as he's filled to the brim. "God you're — you're too big! You're gonna break me, you crazy ol’ bastard — gah!”

"Shut your mouth and take it," you growl, your voice a low, predatory rumble. You don't give him a second to adjust to the sheer, stretching girth of you. You begin to move, your hips pushing into his ass with a rhythmic, punishing force that makes the entire Impala shudder.

"Oh god," Dean’s snarky bravado is completely gone now, replaced by desperate, high pitched moans that he tries and fails to swallow. "Is this — is this part of the — the fine? You're fuckin’ killing me —"

"Consider it a lifetime subscription to my personal attention, then," you growl, your voice thick with lust as you drive into him again, harder this time, making his entire frame shudder against the Impala.

You reach down, grabbing his chin to force his head up just enough so he has to feel the vibration of your voice against his skin. "You wanted to play rough, Winchester? You wanted to see what an 'old man' could do? Well, here it is. Every inch of me, claiming every inch of you."

"Fuck — fuck —" Dean gasps, his head lulling back as your girth stretches him to the absolute limit. The snark is almost entirely gone, replaced by a raw, desperate need. "You're — you're a goddamn animal —" he manages to choke out, his voice a wrecked, breathless mess. "Just, don't stop — don't you dare stop."

The sound of your hips hitting his arse is a wet, heavy slap that never stops. You aren't being gentle; you're driving that massive, thick cock of yours into him like you're trying to split him in half.

Every time you lunge, your girth wedges itself so deep into his tight, puckered hole that he lets out a choked sound, his whole body jerking forward against the metal of the Impala.

He looks fucking wrecked, his eyes rolled back in his head and his mouth hanging open, completely mindless because his brain can't even handle how much of you is shoved inside him. He’s just a mess of spit and tears, staring at nothing because you’ve stuffed him so full he can’t think.

Jesus, you think, your teeth gritting as you watch your cock slide in and out of him. The sight is fucking hypnotic, the way his skin stretches and pulls around your thick, heavy head with every brutal lunge. If he had a pussy, you'd have knocked him up real quick, you think, a dark, hungry heat blooming in your gut.

That tight little hole of his is making you delirious; you're just as gone as he is, lost in the sheer rhythm of breaking him.

"Look at you, sport," you growl, leaning down to his shoulder. "Fucked so hard you can't even remember your own goddamn name, can you?" You don't wait for an answer. You just drive that thick, heavy length back into him, bottoming out so hard his entire frame lurches.

He’s babbling, an incoherent mess of "sorry, sir — please — sorry," his voice cracking as he fumbled against the bonnet.

"You like trespassing, don't you, boy?" you sneer, your voice dripping with condescension as you pull back almost all the way, letting the cool air hit his stretched, wet hole before driving back in. "You like thinking you can just wander wherever you want, disobeying every little rule? You think you're too big for the law to handle?"

Every lunge is slow, deliberate, and fucking brutal. You aren't rushing; you're making sure he feels every goddamn inch of your heavy self as it slides in, pressing snug against his insides.

You want him to feel the exact moment your head wedges deep into his gut.

"Look at me when you're getting handled like this," you bark, grabbing his chin to force his tear streaked face toward yours. "Don't you dare look away. You're a delinquent, and it's time you learned some respect for your elders."

He can barely keep his eyes open, his head lolling as he lets out a broken, high pitched mewl. "No, sir — please — so big," he whimpers, the words barely intelligible through the sheer sensation of you filling him.

You cum deep inside him, a hot, thick flood of seed pumping into his core, filling him to the absolute brim. You can feel his insides spasming, clenching around your girth in a desperate, attempt to milk every last drop.

"There," you grunt, your voice thick with satisfaction as you hold yourself deep inside him, letting him feel the heavy, warm weight of your release. "Now you've got a real reason to remember the law, you little brat."

You aren't done with him. You're going to milk every last drop of submission out of that brat.

Even as your seed floods his insides, you don't pull out. You keep your hips moving, a heavy, relentless rhythm that forces him to endure the sensation of your thick, leaking cock sliding through your own warm release inside his tight, aching walls. The wet, slapping sound of your pelvis hitting his ass is constant, a rhythmic reminder of who owns him.

You glance down and see his cock, neglected and twitching, leaking a mess of pre cum all over the hood of the Impala. He lets out a desperate, choked sound, his hips bucking instinctively, trying to find some friction, some relief.

"Look at that," you growl, watching the thick, white cream overflow from his puckered, overstretched hole and drip down his trembling thighs, staining the rim of his own goddamn car. "You're leaking all over your own ride, you little delinquent. Can't even hold a single drop of the law inside you, can you?"

You don't slow down.

If anything, the slickness of the cum makes you even more aggressive. You're fucking him with a wet, slapping intensity, the sound of your cock sliding through the overflow making a disgusting, slurping noise that echoes in the quiet night. Every time you bottom out, you can feel the excess fluid being forced back in, only to squirt back out the second you pull back for the next lunge.

He's a total wreck, his voice nothing but a series of broken, high pitched whimpers and pathetic, wet sobs. "Please, sir, it's too much — so much —" he gasps.

He's completely at your mercy, his body reacting to the sheer, unyielding weight of you even as he begs for a break he isn't going to get.

"Too much?" you chuckle, a low, mean sound that vibrates through his spine. "You haven't seen anything yet, brat. You wanted to play in the wrong territory, now you're gonna take every goddamn bit of what comes with it."

You don't stop. You keep thrusting into him, the sound of your cock sliding through the thick, white mess of his own leaking insides making a disgusting, slurping noise. You reach down, your fingers slick and heavy with the overflow, and you scoop up a handful of your own warm cum from where it's dripping off his thighs.

With a mean smirk, you bring your hand up to his face. He looks up at you, eyes glazed and pathetic, and you shove your fingers, coated in that thick cream, straight past his trembling lips. Dean doesn't even fight it; he just opens up like a hungry, desperate puppy, his tongue swirling around your fingers, suckling at the taste of you with a mindless need.

"That's it, attaboy. Clean it all up," you murmur, watching him desperately try to swallow every drop of your essence. The sight of him, so broken and submissive, makes your blood boil with a fresh wave of lust. You can't help yourself; you want to see just how much of him you can dominate.

You pull your fingers from his mouth, leaving him gasping and dripping, and then you shove them into his throat.

He's so small compared to you, his throat constricting around your thick digits as he chokes, his eyes watering as he struggles to breathe.

You love the way he looks completely overwhelmed, his body reacting to the sheer size of your palm as it wraps around his throat, making him feel like he's being swallowed whole.

"You're just a little thing, aren't you?" you growl, your thumb pressing hard to force a choked, desperate sound from his lungs.

You can feel the frantic pulse in his neck thrumming against your skin, a rhythmic, terrified beat that only makes you want to squeeze harder. He's gagging on your fingers, his eyes rolling back as he tries to reconcile the sensation of being choked with the heavy, rhythmic pounding still happening in his arse.

He's caught between two kinds of ruin, and he's taking every bit of it like the good, obedient little delinquent he is.

"Look at you," you mutter, watching a string of saliva and cum stretch between his lips as he tries to catch his breath. "Completely owned. From your mouth to your ass. You're a fucking mess, Winchester."

You don't let him recover. While your fingers are busy stretching his throat and making him gag, you drive your hips forward in a devastating lunge. The impact is so heavy it makes the whole Impala rock on its suspension.

Heavy-hitter.

You bottom out with a force that feels like it's bruising his very soul, your massive cock burying itself so deep in his leaking, cum filled hole that there's no space left between you.

He lets out a muffled, strangled cry against your hand, a sound of pure, unadulterated ruin, as he's caught between the choking pressure in his throat and the overwhelming fullness in his gut.

"Don't you dare get greedy," you growl, your voice a low, commanding rasp. You reach down, not to stroke him, but to firmly press his hips down harder against the metal. "I'm not touching your cock, sport. You take it like a champ and you cum like one. You don't need a hand when you've got me filling you up like this, do you?"

Dean lets out a broken, high pitched sob, the sound of a man completely undone.

Pretty, shimmering tears track down his cheeks, smearing against the hot paint of the car as he whimpers, "Please, sir, please, just — sir —" He’s practically begging, his body trembling with the unfulfilled ache of his ignored cock and the overwhelming sensation of you continuing to hammer into him.

Smack! Smack!

Two heavy, stinging spanks to his reddened arse cut his pleas short, forcing a startled gasp from his lungs. You lean down, your mouth hovering just inches from his ear, your breath hot and smelling of lust.

"Hush now," you cooed, lowly. "Only need those pretty sounds outta you. Keep the whining for when you're actually in trouble. Right now, you're just being a good, quiet boy for me, aren't you?"

You watch with dark satisfaction as Dean tries to swallow his sobs, his breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches, his body forced into a state of pure, mindless receptivity.

He’s completely at your mercy, a broken, beautiful mess of a man, and as you continue to fuck into him, you know he won't be thinking about trespassing for a long, long time. He'll only be thinking about the weight of your hand, the heat of your cock, and the way you made him beg.

The morning sun bleeds through the dusty windows of the Impala, stinging Dean’s eyes as he groans, his consciousness returning in heavy, painful waves. His first sensation is the ache a deep, throbbing soreness in his hips and a raw, stinging heat in his arse that makes every slight movement feel like a monumental task.

He tries to roll over, but his body feels heavy, uncoordinated, and utterly spent. As he shifts, he realises with a jolt of disorientation that he’s lying face down in the backseat, his hips propped up at an awkward, vulnerable angle, his trousers pooled around his ankles.

The reality of the night before hits him like a physical blow. He remembers the heat of the bonnet, the heavy, rhythmic thrusting of your hips, the way you’d gripped his throat, and the sheer, overwhelming weight of you claiming him.

His eyes wander blindly to the seat pocket beside his face, finding a crumpled citation and a small, plastic tape reel. The label on the tape is written in your sharp, authoritative scrawl:

How the Law Works.

It’s a mockery, a dirty piece of evidence that turns his humiliation into a public record, a grim sex tape disguised as official body cam footage.

Beside it, the citation sits, but it's not just a list of infractions. There's a handwritten note scrawled in the margin, the ink dark and mocking:

Consider the plug a memoir, Winchester. A little something to keep you full of me, and of the law until you learn to behave.

The realisation of the note sends a fresh wave of heat rushing to his face, a mix of shame and a terrifying, involuntary arousal. He reaches back, his fingers trembling as they brush against the cold, hard base of the plug still slotted deep inside him.

He stares at the tape reel, the thought of anyone anyone at all watching the footage of him being broken, of him whimpering "yes, sir" while you fucked him into the metal of his own car, making his head spin.

It wasn't just a punishment; it was a total deconstruction of everything he thought he was. He wasn't the rebel, the hunter just a messy, overstimulated boy who couldn't keep his hands off the wrong things.

He tries to shift his weight to sit up, but the movement causes the heavy plug to shift deep within his bruised walls, sending a jolt of unbidden pleasure and sharp ache straight to his core. He lets out a choked, pathetic sound, his forehead dropping back onto the leather seat.

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger

$ join taglist

He watches you move with a calm confidence and his pussy actually pulses. Every time you walk into a room, the air feels thicker, and he can feel that familiar, humiliating heat pooling between his legs, his pussy getting ridiculously wet from just the sight of you.

During hunts, you offer brief commendations with a hand on his shoulder or a simple good work on that trap that sends jolts of electricity straight down his spine.

You drink heavily and smoke long into the night, but unlike John, you carry your strength with a lazy grace that never turns into anger. Seeing you laugh with Bobby makes him crave the heated stability.

Sometimes, Dean finds himself staring, unable to look away from the way your jeans, staring against the heavy, unmistakable bulge of your cock, a silent promise of the size he knows he needs.

The darkness of the room was suffocating, thick with the scent of old wood and Dean’s own frantic arousal. He lay sprawled on the mattress, his body trembling with a need so sharp it felt like a physical wound. His fingers were slick, sliding deep into his needy pussy with a desperate friction, while his other hand slapped hard against his own jaw, trying to sting himself into silence.

“Fuck — please — ” he mewled a tiny sound, before swallowing it back.

Every time a quiet, broken moan escaped his lips, he froze, heart hammering against his ribs — absolutely terrified that Sam or Bobby would hear the sound of him unravelling late at night.

Then, the fantasy took over, pulling him under like a tide. Suddenly, he wasn’t alone. The scent of leather and stale smoke overwhelmed his scenes, while all he felt was the unyielding weight of you crushing him into the cushions. His legs were shoved wide and his back curved as you hovered over him.

“That’s it, Dean,” your voice rumbled in his ear, low and commanding. “Take it all. You’re so fucking greedy for it, aren’t ya?”

Then, the phantom sensation of your cock hit him thick, hot, and unyielding, driving straight into his messy, overstimulated pussy. He let out a choked sob real-time, his hips jerking upwards to meet the imagined thrusts.

“God, you’re so wet f’me,” you murmured, voice a rough vibration against his skin. “Wrap those legs around me, take it all, Dean — show me how much you want it —”

His fantasy seemed to reach its peak in tempo, followed by a white-hot sensation that sent Dean over the edge.

Back straining off the sheets, he buckled hard as he orgasms — a silent, shaking mess in the dark. He buried his pace into the pillow to muffle the desperate, broken cries of your name, his heart was a frantic patter against his ribs.

“Fuck — you're —,” he gasped with a trembling whisper as he lay there in the cooling dark, trembling and spent from the illusory feeling of your weight. That soothing voice was still echoing in his mind, leaving him more desperate for the real thing than he’d ever been in his entire life.

Minutes later, Dean stumbled towards the bathroom, his legs feeling like jelly and his skin still flushed from the friction. He cleaned himself up with the cool water doing little to dampen the remaining pleasurable sensation of you. He felt wrecked, a shivering version of himself, desperately trying to pull his composure back together before the sun came up.

Thirsty and feeling the post orgasmic ache in his core, he crept down towards the kitchen, hoping to grab a glass of water without making a sound. But as he rounded the corner, the sight of you stopped him dead in his tracks.

You were sitting on the couch, a half finished whiskey in your hand, a stack of lore books spread out on the coffee table in front of you. The low light of the lamp casting long shadows across your face, making you look even more formidable, even more grounded.

“Can’t sleep?”

The question came in that same coarse rumble that had been haunting his dreams only minutes before. Dean felt his knees actually weaken — a traitorous heat instantly blooming at his clit as if he hadn’t just finished coming to the thought of you. He had to physically grip the doorframe to keep from swaying.

“Nah,” he managed, forcing his voice to stay steady, though it came out a fraction higher than usual. He plastered on his best ‘tough guy’ nonchalance, leaning against the wall with a practise ease that felt entirely fake, “Just… thirsty. Brain won’t shut up, ya know?”

He kept his eyes averted, terrified that if he looked at you too long, he’d lose his fucking mind. But, he could feel the heat of your gaze on him, a heavy masculine weight that made his skin prickle. He focused intensely on a random spot on the floor.

“I hear that,” you replied before taking a slow sip of your drink, the movement effortless. “Sometimes the world’s too loud, even when it’s quiet.”

Dean nodded, a very jerky and unconvincing movement. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

He finally risked a singular glance at you, and his heart nearly stopped. You were looking at him, your expression unreadable, but your eyes sharp. It’s as if you could see right through his ‘tough guy’ facade and straight into the trembling mess.

You set the whiskey down, your gaze softening with a genuine, steady warmth that only makes his heart hammer harder. “What’s going on, Dean?” you ask, voice dropping into a comforting register. “You know you can talk to me about anything, sport. Whatever’s on your mind — I’ll help.”

Sport.

The term of casual, masculine endearment hits him like a physical blow, that makes his pussy throb with a sudden, shameful ache.

How the fuck am I supposed to tell you that?

He wants to scream it. He wants to grab the front of your shirt, pull your frame down until your lips are inches from his and tell you that the only thing keeping him sane is the desperate, pulsing need to feel you inside him. He doesn’t want you to just be a listening ear; he wants you to act on your words firmly too.

Ugh, fuck.

He needs your calloused hands pinning his wrists or your thick fingers stretching him wide till he sobs — or better yet, your heavy cock driving into his weeping pussy till his brain’s fucking empty. The ache is getting unbearable by each grovelling minute. It’s a heavy, wet throb that him want to sink to his knees right there on the kitchen linoleum. He needs the pressure, the weight, the stable masculinity. 

He needs you to stop being his “mentor” and start being the person who ruins him.

“Just… thinking about the case,” Dean lies, the words feeling like ash in his mouth. He forces a lopsided, cocky grin — the kind he’s used a thousand times to hide the fact that he’s falling apart.

Unfortunately his eyes betray him. Pining green lingers a second too long on the way your throat moves when you swallow or the way your large hands were splayed upon the case studies.

“The case can wait ‘til morning, Dean. You look like you’re wound tighter than a guitar string.” You chuckle while gesturing to the empty spot on the couch beside you, “Sit, drink your water — you’re pacing like a caged animal.”

Dean hesitates, his heart performing a frantic drumroll against his ribs. He should go back to his room, back to the safety of his blankets and his lonely aching silence. 

But the pull of your presence is too fucking strong.

With stiff movements, he moves towards the couch, trying to mask the way his thighs rub together with every step. He sinks into the cushion beside you, careful to leave a respectful distance — though every instinct in his body is screaming at him to close the gap.

“Yeah, well, the Winchester brain never really shuts off right?” he says, as he takes some heavy sips of his water.

As he drinks, he can’t help — he really can’t help — but steal a glance at you.

Composed and steady, you’re leaning back with the lamp light catching the rugged lines of your face. You look so damn comfortable, so entirely in control of yourself, while he feels like he’s one second away from shattering.

The silence between you stretches thick with everything he isn’t saying. He sets the glass down, his knuckles white as he grips the cushion’s edge. He’s trying to play it cool, trying to be the legendary hunter, but the heat radiating from your body is making it impossible to focus on anything but the proximity of your thigh to his.

“You’re a terrible liar, Dean,” you say softly, not even looking up from your book, though the corner of your mouth twitches with a knowing smirk.

He stiffens, a flush creeping up his neck. “Yeah? And since when did you become an expert on me?”

“Since you started looking at me like you’re starving — and I haven’t even fed you yet?”

The sheer audacity of the comment leaves him breathless. Dean opens his mouth to snap back a witty retort, but the words die in his throat. 

You don’t even look up from the page as you reach out, your large hand landing on his thigh. You don’t move it far, but the stable heat was enough to make his breath hitch. His reaction is instinctive. His legs don’t move nor straddle; they widen, his knees falling open in a silent, desperate invitation that he can’t control.

Then, your hand shifts.

Your fingers slide upward, moving with a terrifying, calm precision. Because he was so frantic to get back to bed, he hadn't even pulled his boxers back up, leaving himself completely exposed to the cool air and your sudden touch.

Your digits find the wet heat of his bare pussy, grazing a stripe of his labia, your blunt fingertips catching on the sensitive flesh. Dean lets out a strangled, high pitched gasp, his entire body jolting as if he’d been struck by lightning. He tries to pull his legs back together — to hide the evidence of his shame — but your hand is a heavy anchor, holding him wide and vulnerable.

You finally shift your gaze from the book, your eyes dark and knowing as they land on his flushed, trembling face. You don't pull your hand away; instead, you press a little deeper, your finger curling slightly into his wetness.

"You're soaking," you murmur, your voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates right through him. A smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth. "Naughty boy, been watching some porn late at night?"

"I — it's not — " Dean stammers, his cocky facade completely demolished. He's staring at you, his eyes wide and glazed with terror and lust. He looks like a man caught red-handed, his chest heaving as he tries to find a lie that doesn't sound pathetic.

"It's not — it's not like that," he breathes, though the way his hips instinctively tilt toward your hand tells a completely different story.

You let out a low chuckle, finally closing the book and setting it aside. You don't pull your hand back; instead, you increase the pressure, your thumb beginning to grind slow, heavy circles against his clit, catching on the wetness he's been producing all night.

"Then what is it, Dean?" you demand, your voice dropping an octave, becoming that commanding tone that makes his insides melt. "Because you're dripping all over my hand, and you're shaking like you're waiting for me to do something about it?"

Dean can't even find the breath to argue. His head falls back against the couch cushion, his eyes fluttering shut as he lets out a broken, needy whine. The sensation of your thumb grinding against his clit is too much; it’s the exact friction he’d been trying to mimic with his own fingers in the dark, but your hand is larger, heavier, and infinitely more authoritative.

"Please —" he whimpers, the word slipping out before he can censor it. He doesn't even know what he's asking for. More pressure? More fingers, or the real thing he just knows the ache in his pussy is screaming for relief?

You lean in closer, your shadow swallowing him whole. The scent of your skin, mixed with the faint aroma of alcohol and tobacco, wraps around him like a physical weight. 

"Please what, Dean?" you murmur against the shell of his ear, your warm breath hot against his skin. "You want me to stop — or do you want me to show you exactly what you were dreaming about?"

Dean's eyes snap open, glazed and unfocused, as he lets out a shuddering breath. He can't even lie anymore; the truth is written in the way his hips buck weakly against your hand, seeking more of that brutal, grounding pressure.

"Don't stop," he chokes out, his voice a mere thread of sound, stripped of all its usual bravado. "Please —  don't stop."

You grin, a slow, predatory curve of your lips, as you slide a second finger deep into his tight, pulsing heat. The sudden fullness makes him cry out, a sharp, needy sound that echoes in the quiet kitchen, but you don't let him recover. You start to move, your fingers working with a rhythmic, punishing pace that drives him straight back toward the breadth of you.

You haul him up effortlessly, dragging his body until he's straddling your massive thigh, his back pressed flush against your chest. Your left hand fists in his hair before sliding down to grip his jaw, tilting his face at a sharp angle. You press your lips to his in a bruising, demanding kiss, then abruptly yank his head to the side, holding him there so he can feel your breath against his ear.

"Look at you," you murmur, your voice a controlled, gravelly purr. "You're fucking soaking, Dean. Every time I move my fingers, you squelch. Tell me truthfully, have you been touching yourself like this all night?”

Dean swallows hard, his throat working against your grip. "No," he gasps out, the lie tasting bitter even as his hips betray him by grinding harder against your palm. "Just, some lousy porn — nothing else."

You don't call him out immediately. Instead, you let the silence stretch, the only sound is the wet, rhythmic slap of your fingers working inside him.

In the corner of the room, Dean's eyes catch your reflection in the dusty mirror. The sight of himself completely exposed, helpless, and being handled like a toy sends a fresh wave of shame and arousal crashing through him. He knows he's lying; he knows you can see every tremor in his body. But he can't stop looking.

His gaze drops down the mirror's reflection, trailing past your broad shoulder to where your hand is buried between his thighs. He watches as your fingers disappear into his slick folds, working with a ruthless efficiency that makes his vision blur.

In the mirror, he sees your thumb hook under the sensitive edge of his flesh, pulling his labia wide to expose the raw, swollen pink of his entrance.

"Look at that," you murmur against his ear, your breath hot enough to scald. "Look how fucking open you are for me. Look at how you're begging for it."

Dean's breath hitches as he stares at the reflection. Seeing it from the outside — seeing how your thick fingers stretch him apart — how his own pussy glistens and pulses around your knuckles makes the reality of his degradation hit him like a freight train.

"Fuck," he chokes out, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as his hips buck involuntarily. "Fuck, please — please!"

"Shhh, easy now, Dean," you coo, your voice dripping with that infuriatingly calm, patronising affection. You sound less like a lover and more like someone soothing a needy puppy — which only makes his blood boil and his pussy clench tighter. "There we go. Just let it happen, don't fight it."

You pick up the pace, your fingers working with a cruel, precise rhythm that targets every nerve ending he has. Dean's hips buck violently against your thigh, his back arching until his spine cracks audibly.

A wrecked, high pitched keen tears from his throat as his orgasm hits sudden and overwhelming. His body shudders uncontrollably as he spills over your fingers, his vision swimming behind closed eyelids.

But you don't slow down. You don't let him collapse into the afterglow. The moment his tremors begin to subside, you immediately resume the punishing stroke.

Dean gasps, his eyes snapping open in genuine shock.

"Wait fuck no, I can't — " His voice breaks as he glances back at you over his shoulder, his expression one of pure bewilderment.

His brain is short circuiting; he knows he's already come multiple times tonight, alone in his bed, exhausted and desperate. His body should be spent, his nerves fried, but the way you're touching him the overwhelming authority of your hand is forcing new waves of arousal through him that shouldn't exist.

"What's wrong, champ?" you murmur, your thumb finding that sensitive spot again with unerring accuracy. You tighten your grip on his jaw, forcing him to meet your amused gaze. "Already spent? After all that lying?"

"I'm — I'm already —" he stammers, his hips jerking involuntarily as your thumb finds that perfect, swollen nerve again. "I can't — I'm already fucking empty, I swear to God — "

"Empty?" you interrupt, your chuckle dangerously as you lean closer, your lips brushing against his ear. "You don't know shit about being empty, Dean. You're just sensitive. Your body is still screaming for more."

You increase the pressure, your fingers sliding deeper, stretching him wider with each thrust. You're working him open, your blunt fingertips slick with his arousal as you relentlessly massage the walls of his pussy.

"If you want the real thing tonight, you need to be ready for it," you murmur, your voice dropping into something darker, more utilitarian. "You need to be loose — you need to be fucking dripping so I can slide right in without tearing you apart. Consider this an investment."

Dean's head lolls back against your shoulder, his breathing coming in shallow, confused pants. "An investment? What the fuck are you — "

His words die in his throat when he shifts slightly, his ass grinding against your thigh.

In that movement, he feels it: the unmistakable, rock hard ridge of your cock pressing through the denim of your jeans, poking insistently against the sensitive cleft of his ass. The heat of it radiates through his clothes, a promise of something far more devastating than your fingers.

The realisation hits him like a physical blow. You weren't just tormenting him for sport, nor were you being cruel. You were prepping him. Every punishing stroke, every forced climax, every stretch of his labia had been calculated to make his body surrender completely to what was coming next.

"Oh," he breathes, the syllable more of a whimper than a confession. His clit throbs painfully, slick with the evidence of his own undoing, while the hard bulge behind him promises a different kind of fullness entirely.

"Oh," he repeats, his eyes blown wide as they fix on your reflection in the mirror, seeing the way your erection strains against your jeans right where his ass meets your thigh. "Oh god," he chokes out, his hips stuttering in a helpless attempt to both escape and press closer.

"I'll pull one or two more orgasms out of you, Dean," you state plainly, your tone as matter of fact as if you were discussing the weather. "Maybe three, if you're as good as I think you are."

"No — fuck you, I can't — " Dean protests, his voice cracking as he tries to twist away from your relentless fingers. But there's nowhere to go.

Your body is a wall behind him, and your hand on his jaw is an iron vise that keeps him exactly where you want him. He can only squirm, his hips bucking uselessly against your thigh in a desperate, futile attempt to regain some semblance of control.

Smack!

The sound of your palm connecting with his jaw is sharp and startling in the quiet room. It isn't enough to hurt him, but it's firm enough to shock the protest right out of his lungs.

You hold his face steady, forcing him to meet your gaze. "Listen to me, Dean. What you see in those stupid fucking porn videos — that's all bullshit. Real sex requires preparation — and I'm the one teaching you how to actually handle it. You need to learn how to take this."

You lean in closer, your lips grazing his earlobe while your fingers work deeper, stretching his slick walls with increasing urgency. "Now, you're going to be a good boy and accept this. Say it, say you'll take whatever I give you."

"I — I won't —" Dean starts to protest, but you tighten your grip on his jaw, applying just enough pressure to remind him who holds the power here.

"Wrong answer," you command, your voice dropping to that stern register that leaves no room for argument. "I want to hear you say it properly, through every one of those pathetic little gasps."

Dean's body betrays him completely. His hips roll forward in a desperate, involuntary search for friction as your fingers stretch him to his limit. A broken, strangled noise escapes his throat as he finally surrenders to the authority in your voice.

"I'll — fuck — I'll take it," he manages to choke out, his words punctuated by sharp, hitched gasps that leave him panting. "I'll take — whatever you give me."

"Good boy," you murmur, the praise dripping with that same patronising satisfaction. You give his jaw one last firm squeeze before releasing him, though you don't pull away.

Instead, you let your hand slide down from his face to rest heavily on his chest, feeling the frantic, rabbit quick hammering of his heart beneath his ribs.

"See?" you whisper, your breath hot against his neck. "That wasn't so hard, was it? Now we know you're listening."

The room falls into a heavy, charged silence, broken only by the ragged sound of Dean's breathing. His body has finally gone boneless against you, his muscles twitching with the aftershocks of the orgasm you forced out of him. He drips freely, sending warm rivulets of cum down your thigh.

You withdraw your fingers slowly, the wet sound of your exit making him whimper. Without hesitation, you take those slick, swollen fingers and press them against his mouth. 

He doesn't resist, leaning into the touch, his eyes rolling back as he begins to suckle on your fingers — tasting the salty, unmistakable evidence of himself. He heaves against your chest, his mouth working around your knuckles with a desperate, unconscious hunger, seeking comfort in the very thing that just broke him.

While he is momentarily occupied, lost in that haze of shame and sensory overload, you give him a moment to catch his breath against your shoulder. Your fingers slip free from his mouth, leaving him panting and dazed, but you don't release your hold on his waist. You keep him pinned against you, anchoring him while you shift to the next phase of your plan.

With one hand still possessively wrapped around his middle, you reach down with the other. Your movements are efficient, practiced, and utterly calm as you unbuckle your belt with a metallic click that sounds deafening in the quiet room.

You work the zipper down, and then, with a gradual motion, you free your aching cock from your jeans.

Dean's breath hitches audibly as he feels the sudden change in temperature and weight beneath him. He shifts his hips slightly, and his eyes go wide as he sees the thick size of you lying just beneath his thighs.

The heat coming off your cock is staggering, a physical force that makes his entire lower body tremble. His gaze drops to where your cock presses against his swollen pussy, already wet with the mess of his own orgasms.

"Oh god —" he murmurs, his voice barely a thread of sound, thick with awe and terror. "It's so —  it's so big —"

He can feel the sheer girth of you spreading his folds apart even before you make contact. He's terrified of how much he wants it, terrified of how perfectly his body seems to be reaching for you despite the exhaustion still clinging to his limbs.

As you prepare to make your move, your hand dips into your pocket. The crinkle of plastic fills the space between you as you tear open a sachet.

Dean catches the sound, his eyes darting to the packet in your hand. A weak, self deprecating laugh escapes his lips — a pathetic attempt to reclaim some dignity through humor.

"You — you always carry lube around with you?" he manages to wheeze out, trying to sound teasing when his voice is clearly trembling.

"I was going to go out to the bar tonight," you reply, your tone casual, and utterly unbothered by his attempt at levity. "But then I heard your pretty little whines coming down the hallway." You let out a dark chuckle at the way his face instantly floods with a deep, mortified crimson. "Figured I'd come see what all the noise was about instead."

The implication hangs heavy in the air between you.

You begin to lather the sweet scented slick over your cock, the clear gel catching the dim light as you coat yourself from base to tip. Then, with deliberate slowness, you smear the rest over his dripping labia, ensuring every inch of his entrance is glistening and ready.

Even after the work you've put in, you can feel the resistance beneath your touch; despite the lube and his arousal, his body is still coiled tight.

"Your walls are quite thin, Dean," you murmur, watching how his pupils dilate at the implication.

His heart hammers against your chest. The realisation that you've been listening to him every desperate moan, every wet slap of his own hand against his thighs every single night since you arrived here threatens to overwhelm him. But there is no room for shame now.

His entire universe has shrunk down to the point of contact between his pussy and the massive heat between your cock and his pussy. He's too far gone, too consumed by the physical presence of you to even process the humiliation of being caught.

So, he gives a tentative, desperate grind, his hips rolling against your cock in a silent plea for friction.

You glance down at the sight of him in your lap, watching how his hips stutter against you. His desperate self is thinking exactly the right way. You can see it in the way he arches, seeking that contact, begging for the fullness he knows is coming. Good. You'll let him have this — you'll let him work for it, getting a job out of him first, letting him ride that slick heat until he's begging for mercy.

But you aren't planning on being gentle when you finally decide to fuck him mean. You've spent the last hour preparing him, stretching him, and breaking his resistance, all so you can fuck him without hesitation.

"Slow down, Dean. I told you we're still prepping."

You grip his hips with bruising force, your fingers digging into the soft flesh above his pelvic bones to anchor him. However, you don't let him sink down. You simply hold him just at the threshold, forcing him to hover there, suspended between desperate need and the agonising promise of fullness.

"But please — " Dean gasps, his voice breaking as he tries to push downward, his hips stuttering in an involuntary attempt to impale himself on your cock. "I need — I need you inside — fuck, please."

"I said slow," you growl, your voice dropping into that stern tone that brooks no argument. "You're still too tight. If I push you now, you'll tear, and I'm not interested in hearing you scream from pain instead of pleasure."

It's a lie, and his younger, desperate mind knows exactly what you're doing, but he's too far gone to care about the deception. He can feel the truth in the way your cock pulses against his pussy, teasing the very edge of his folds without giving him the release he's starving for.

"I'm not fucking you yet," you murmur, your breath hot against the nape of his neck as you begin to move him. "We're going to work this friction until you're completely slick, until you're begging me to ruin you."

Instead of pushing inside, you begin to guide his hips in a slow, punishing grind. You force him to slide his pussy along the entire length of your cock, but only on the outside.

You make sure his clit catches repeatedly against the sensitive ridge of you, the friction sending sparks of electricity straight to his brain. The wet, squelching sound of your cock sliding between his labia fills the room as fills the space between your bodies.

Every time he grinds down, you make sure he feels the full, unforgiving texture of your cock sliding between, never letting him slip past the entrance

You keep him exactly where you want him: hovering on the precipice of ecstasy, his pussy’s stretched taut and glistening with lube as it rubs relentlessly against you.

"Please, please, please —" Dean whines, his head tossing back against your shoulder as his hips stutter in a desperate rhythm. "It's — it's too much, I can't — "

"You can, and you will," you cut him off, your grip tightening on his hips to control the pace. "Feel that? That's what happens when you don't know how to prepare yourself properly."

You deliberately angle your cock so that each downward roll of his hips forces his clit to scrape directly against the edge beneath your cock's head. 

"Please — fuck, please just fuck me already," Dean sobs, his voice breaking into something raw and pathetic. His hips are working in frantic, uncoordinated jerks, trying to force his way down, but your hands are like iron shackles around his pelvic bones.

You move him with effortless, terrifying strength, sliding his pussy up and down your cock as if he weighs nothing at all, controlling every millimetre of friction.

"Shhh, easy, sport. Don't get ahead of yourself," you coo, pressing tender kisses to his sweat slicked temples.

You sound like a guardian angel soothing a frightened soul, but internally, you're scoffing at how goddamn easy this is. His body is responding to every single movement with desperate, unguarded need; his pussy is practically begging for the invasion, slick and pliant under your expert torment.

"I can't — I'm gonna — " he gasps, his entire body trembling as he teeters on the razor's edge of another orgasm, his breath coming in short, broken whimpers. His hips stutter helplessly against you, his pussy already raw from the relentless grinding — each movement sending fresh waves of overstimulation through his already fried nerves.

"I'm gonna fuck, I'm gonna cum —"

"Not yet," you murmur against his ear, your voice dripping with mock concern. You maintain that torturous rhythm for three more agonising seconds, pushing him to the absolute brink where his vision blurs and his muscles lock up, before suddenly stopping.

You pull back just enough to feel the cool air hit his slick skin, then you give his ass a cheerful, affectionate pat. "Okay, now you're ready."

Before he can even process the sudden absence of friction, you manhandle him. With practiced ease, you flip him over on the couch, pressing his chest down into the cushions while forcing his hips high into the air. You plant yourself behind him, your knees bracketing his thighs as you spread his ass wide with both hands.

The sight is perfect — his pussy all flushed a deep shade, glistening with lube and his own releases, stretched open and waiting.

"There we go," you murmur, the tenderness gone from your voice, replaced by something hungry and predatory. "Now we can actually begin."

You don't pound into him straight away. You don't give him the violent release he's begging for. Instead, you press the broad, blunt head of your cock against his entrance and begin to push, inch by agonising inch.

Dean's entire body jerks as he feels the intrusion. "Ah fuck! Oh god, it's — it's too — " His voice cracks as he realises you aren't rushing. You're taking your time, forcing his tight walls to accommodate your girth one excruciating inch at a time.

You reach forward, threading your fingers through his hair and yanking his head back just enough so you can watch his face. His eyes are blown wide, pupils swallowed by irises as they fix on yours, glassy with tears and overwhelmed by the sensation of being split open.

"Look at me, Dean," you command, your voice a low, dangerous purr. "See how well you take it?"

You push again, a slow, inexorable advance that forces his pussy to stretch to its absolute limit. The wet, sucking sound of your cock sliding past his tight entrance echoes in the quiet room.

Each inch feels like an eternity, each millimetre a new lesson in surrender. His walls flutter around you, clenching desperately as they try to accommodate the invading girth, but you don't give an inch of slack.

"Fuck — it's so big — you're stretching me so much " Dean whines, his fingers clawing into the couch cushions.

His breath comes in ragged, terrified gasps as you continue your methodical assault. The resistance is delicious the way his muscles spasm and fight against the intrusion before finally yielding to the overwhelming pressure.

"That's it, Dean. Take it all," you whisper, your voice devoid of any real sympathy as you drive deeper. "Every single inch."

You watch with clinical fascination as his body reacts to the fullness. The sensation of his tight pussy gripping you is intoxicating — a warm vice that threatens to undo even your own composure.

"I'm — I'm full, oh god — you're so deep — " he chokes out, his back arching involuntarily as you finally bottom out against his cervix.

The teasing is over. The performance of the gentle mentor has been discarded like yesterday's trash, replaced by something far more primal.

You shift your weight, planting your knees wider to brace yourself as you settle into a brutal, relentless position. One hand remains buried in his hair — not to soothe him this time — but to hold his head exactly where you want it tilted back. Just enough so you can watch every expression of his degradation.

"That's enough playing around, sport," you growl, your voice dropping the pretense of sweetness. It's cold now, hard as flint, the voice of someone who has stopped asking permission and started taking what belongs to them. "Time to actually fuck you properly."

Without warning, you drive forward. You don't ease in anymore; you thrust into him with powerful, piston-like paces that send his entire body bunching forwards against the couch cushions.

Each thrust is deep and utterly relentless, forcing the air from his lungs in ragged, broken cries. You're not interested in his comfort anymore; you're only interested in his capacity to endure you.

"Look at this pussy," you sneer, your free hand coming down to slap against his thigh as you drive home again. "So fucking messy. So fucking desperate." You lean down, your mouth close to his ear as you continue the brutal rhythm. "Bobby talks about you like you're some kind of legend, Dean. A grand hunter — the best there is. But right now? All I see is a needy little boy who can't even handle being filled up."

Dean can't even form coherent sentences. He just nods dumbly against the cushion, his brain short circuiting from the intensity of the penetration.

He's lost in the sensation of you stretching him apart, shattering under the onslaught. He can only manage weak, incoherent sounds that dissolve into wet whimpers every time you bottom out against him.

"Listen to those moans, Dean," you chuckle darkly, the sound vibrating against his spine as you pick up the pace, your thrusts becoming faster, more punishing. "Goddamn, they're fucking pornographic. If Sam or Bobby heard you right now, they wouldn't be able to tell the difference between you and some R-rated video — you sound exactly like what you are: a fucktoy."

The words hit him harder than the physical impact, but he has no defense.

His body betrays him with every word, his pussy clenching around your cock in desperate, involuntary spasms that only make you want to fuck him harder. You reach around, your palm connecting with the meat of his ass in a sharp, stinging spank that makes him cry out.

"Such a pretty ass, too," you drawl, your voice dripping with cruel amusement as you deliver another smack that leaves a blooming red handprint across his pale skin. "All flushed and shaking for me."

You watch with predatory satisfaction as his body arches involuntarily, his hips stuttering against your cock in a futile attempt to find some kind of rhythm amidst the chaos you're creating.

His tears have begun to spill freely now, dampening the couch cushions as he sobs through each deepening thrust, but you don't stop. If anything, the sight of his breakdown only fuels your hunger.

"God, you're gorgeous when you're breaking like this," you murmur, your grip tightening on his hair to yank his head back further, forcing him to meet your cold, hungry gaze. "So helpless — so fucking perfect."

As you drive yourself into him again, your cock sliding through the slick, messy heat of him, your free hand slides down, fingers tracing the sensitive edge where his pussy meets his ass.

You pause there for a heartbeat, the tip of your cock grinding against his inner walls while your touch lingers dangerously close to his tight, puckered hole.

"You know what I'm thinking about, Dean?" you chuckle darkly, your breath hot against his ear as you watch his hips quiver in terror. "All this mess, all this wetness — it's a shame it's only coming from one hole."

You deliver one last, devastating thrust that makes him cry out in a high, broken note, before leaning down to whisper the promise that makes his entire body freeze.

"Next time, I'm not stopping at your pussy — I'm going to open you up right here, too. I'm going to stretch that pretty little asshole until you can't even remember how to walk straight."

You watch as the threat sinks in, his entire body going rigid beneath you, every muscle locking up in terror at the prospect of what's to come. The way his breath hitches, the way his pussy clenches around you in a desperate, instinctive attempt to protect itself — it's intoxicating.

"That's it, freeze for me," you growl, feeling the delicious tightness of his internal muscles as they spasm around your cock. "Let that fear sink in. Let it make you even wetter."

You don't give him a moment to recover. You resume the mean rhythm, each thrust more punishing than the last, driving him further into the cushions.

You want him to remember this feeling — the feeling of being completely owned, completely exposed — and utterly powerless against the promise of what you'll do to him next.

The final thrusts come with an unrelenting force that leaves Dean completely undone.

His body has reached its absolute limit; his muscles have gone beyond exhaustion into a state of pure, boneless surrender. As you feel your own orgasm building your balls heavy and aching with the need to release you lean down, your voice rough and demanding.

"Should I cum inside you, Dean? Should I fill you up with everything I've got?"

He doesn't even hesitate. His mind is too fried, his body too overwhelmed to consider the consequences. He simply nods dumbly against the cushion — a pathetic, desperate movement that says he doesn't care if he gets pregnant, doesn't care about Bobby, doesn't care about anything except the relief of your cum flooding his abused insides.

"Attaboy," you growl.

With one last, bone-deep lunge, you bottom out against him, cumming in hot, thick pulses that fill him to the brim.

Dean's body convulses beneath you, a final, weak tremor running through his spine as the overwhelming sensation of being filled sends him spiraling past the point of conscious thought. His breathing becomes shallow, erratic gasps before smoothing out into the heavy, unconscious rhythm of someone who has simply given up.

"Fuck, sport," you grumble, a snarky, almost disappointed sound escaping your throat as you feel his strength drain away entirely. He's teetering on the edge of passing out, his limbs going limp as his brain shuts down to escape the sensory overload. "Look at you. Can't even stay awake for the best part."

You feel him slipping away, his forehead pressing limply against the couch cushions. You lean down, your voice dropping into that dark, possessive comfort that promises no escape. "Don't worry, you'll stay right here — I'll continue fucking my fill. After all, this is exactly what you've been craving all these weeks, isn't it?"

You watch with cruel satisfaction as his consciousness finally fractures.

Dean's body goes completely boneless, his face pressed limply into the fabric of the couch, tears still wet on his cheeks. He has passed out, his mind unable to process any more of the exquisite torment you've inflicted.

He lies there in a state of beautiful, broken surrender: face down, ass up, completely exposed to your whims.

Even as he sleeps, you aren't finished.

The rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh fills the room as you continue to claim him, your thrusts methodical and unhurried now that he can no longer fight back or beg for mercy. Poor boy. 

Maybe he should’ve thought twice before desperately chasing after the heat of someone double his age, double his intelligence, and double his lust.

Watching his tired form twitch under your touch brings a surge of dark triumph that no supernatural battle could ever match.

You think to yourself how fortunate you were that you agreed to take on Bobby's request for this particular case; it had promised danger, but it delivered something far more intoxicating. The raw power of breaking a legend, the feel of his flooded pussy clenching around you even in his stupor is undoubtedly the most exhilarating sensation you have ever experienced.

It surpasses every hunt, every demon slain, and every supernatural victory you've ever claimed. As you drive yourself home one last time, you realise that this conquest is the only reward that truly matters.

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @hisokamywaifu

$ join taglist

The yoga mat was a pathetic little island of stability in the middle of the training room, and Bucky felt like he was drowning on it.

He was folded in half, his thick thighs shoved violently toward his chest. It was a position meant for flexibility, but with you looming over him, it just felt like a way to expose his most vulnerable parts.

You’d already spent a good while prepping him, coating his puckered entrance in slick, heavy lube. But even with the moisture, he was still struggling to accommodate the sheer, terrifying girth of you. As you leaned forward, the heavy, blunt head of your cock began to inch bit by bit into his puckered hole, forcing its way past the initial resistance. 

Bucky’s jaw went slack, his eyes dazed and staring blankly at the ceiling as he tried to process the sensation of being filled so completely. He thought he was a big, beefy man, a soldier built for war, but under the weight of your presence, he felt fucking microscopic. 

"You feeling the burn of the stretch, Barnes?" you murmured, your voice low as you nudged his hips up by the tailbone, angling him to take more.

"Fuck, please," he sobbed, his voice breaking into a quiet whimper. His face was flushed with a mix of overstimulation and pure awe.

He was a mess of tears and friction — his super soldier stamina doing nothing to help him when his very anatomy was being pushed to its limit.

"C'mon, Barnes, you've still got half of me left," you teased, your voice devoid of any real sympathy as you pushed your knees further toward his chest, forcing his pelvis to tilt up even higher.

You were too focused on one thing: the feeling of yourself sliding deeper, stretching the lining of his muscles until he was sure he was going to split.

"Can't —  can't take it —  too big — " he choked out, a sob racking his broad shoulders. He felt so small, so fucking helpless, pinned to the mat by someone who looked so calm while he was falling apart.

To make matters worse, you reached down to wrap your hand around his cock. Bucky let out a high, broken whine, his hips jolted against your palm, his hips twitching in a desperate, uncoordinated rhythm. He was so close to the edge, his body trembling from the sensory overload of being stretched wide while his cock was being worked with such clinical, ruthless intent. 

"There we go," you hummed, watching with a dark satisfaction as he began to leak.

You didn't even wait for him to find his breath. Youu simply used your thumb to catch the thick, clear beads of his precum, smearing the slickness back over his arsehole to ease the friction of your next thrust. "Need a little more lubrication for the deep tissue work, don't you?"

With a sudden, heavy lunge, you buried the rest of your cock inside him. 

Arching his back, a choked yelp died in his throat as he was completely pushed through. His vision swam, the ceiling blurring into a haze of white light as his entire existence narrowed down to you filling every single inch of him.

"That's it, take it all," you commanded, your voice a low, steady anchor in his sea of sensation. you began to move — a slow, punishing grind that forced him to feel every ridge — every heavy inch of your cock as it slid against his sensitised lining.

He couldn't even find the strength to fight it; he could only sob, his fingers digging uselessly into the mat as you drove into him with a relentless, rhythmic cruelty.

"Keep those hips up, Barnes. Don't let the pelvic floor slacken now," you commanded, your voice an authoritative rasp that cut through his sobbing.

You were driving into him with a heavy pace —  each thrust designed to maximise the expansion of his internal walls. "We need to ensure the deep tissue is fully accommodating the new range of motion. You can't have your muscles seizing up just because you're a little full, can you?"

Bucky let out a broken, high pitched keen, his head thrashing side to side on the mat. "it's too much —  god, it's too fucking much —  " 

"It's exactly what you need," you countered, your tone dripping with a condescending sort of mockery. "You're a super soldier, aren't you? Stop acting like a fucking amateur. If you want to stay mobile, you have to learn how to take the tension. Let it stretch, Barnes. Let it widen."

You increased the pace, the wet, slapping sound of your pelvis hitting his ass echoing in the quiet room. Every time you bottomed out, you felt his internal muscles clenching around you in a desperate, involuntary attempt to hold onto the sensation, but you just drove harder, forcing him to expand even further.

"That's it, take the tension," you growled, your hand moving from his cock to grip his jaw, forcing him to look up at you even as he sobbed. "Feel how much space you're making for me. You're doing so well, Barnes, so good f'me, aren't ya?"

His eyes rolled back, his vision fracturing into white sparks. his cock, already leaking and sensitive, gave a sudden, desperate twitch. He couldn't hold it back; the friction of your heavy fucking was the final straw.

With a choked, desperate sob, his body buckled, and he came in a messy spurt, the thick white cream splattering across his own broad chest. He was completely undone, his breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches as he stared up at the ceiling

You let out a low, dark chuckle at the sight of him, a broken, panting mess with his own cum splattered all over his chest. He looked so fucking pathetic, a goddamn legend of war reduced to a shivering heap because you decided to stretch him out a little too hard.

"Look at you," you teased, your voice dripping with amusement as you watched him try to catch his breath. "Cumming hands free like a fucking animal. So much for that super soldier discipline, huh?"

Bucky could only mewl weak whines, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Before he could even try to recover, you reached down, scooping up a thick glob of his warm seed from his skin with your fingers. Startled, he gasped as you pressed the slick mess against his lips, forcing his mouth open.

"Messy boy," you murmured, stuffing your fingers into his mouth to silence him. "You gotta shut up now. You'll wake up the Tower. It's a muscle strengthening session here, not some dirty porno."

He let out a muffled, needy sound against your knuckles, his eyes pricking with fresh tears as he swallowed the salty mess you'd forced on him. 

Even though your words were sharp and your attitude was pure condescension  your hands were surprisingly sweet —  they moved to stroke his hair, smoothing the damp strands away from his forehead.

The contrast was driving him insane. You were being so fucking mean, treating him like a disobedient pet. But the way you touched him—  the gentle, expert way you massaged his tense muscles even as you continued to stretch him out — made his head spin.

He couldn't even find the strength to be offended. He just leaned into your touch, nodding weakly as he sucked on your fingers, his eyes never leaving yours, completely surrendered to the new routine you'd established.

He was a soldier, a killer, a man who had seen the worst of humanity, But in this moment, he was just yours — stretched, filled, and utterly broken by the very person meant to help him heal.

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"The cameras can kiss your arse," you murmur, leaning in until your lips graze his ear. "Try to act right tonight. No grandstanding, no making a scene. Just stay by my side and keep your mouth shut."

"And miss the chance to be the center of attention? You're cruel, you know that?" Tony retorts, though his voice is a little thinner than usual. He reaches up, his fingers brushing yours as he tries to regain his composure, but you just tighten the knot one last time.

"I'm not being cruel, Tony. I'm being practical. If you can't behave, I'll have to find a way to keep you quiet."

He scoffs, a lopsided, arrogant grin spreading across his face. "Is that a threat or a promise? Because you know damn well how much I love a challenge."

You give the tie one final, sharp tug, watching the way his eyes flutter for a split second before he masks it with that trademark Stark bravado.  "It's a warning, Tony."

"Please," he rolls his eyes, though he doesn't pull away from your touch.

He catches your gaze in the mirror, his smirk softening just enough to let the heat show. "You love the challenge just as much as I do. Now hurry up; we took forty-five minutes to get dressed up, won't even make it there."

The heavy door of the Maybach clicks shut, sealing the two of you into a world of leather, expensive cologne, and suffocating heat. The city lights smear past the tinted windows, but you aren't looking at the view.

Tony’s hand is already moving, restless and demanding. He’s bored of the small talk from the penthouse and he’s hungry for something real. His palm slides up your chest, his fingers grazing the fabric of your shirt before dipping lower, tracing the line of your thigh with a possessive intent.

"God, if I have to hear one more person talk about themselves before we even get there," he mutters, his voice dropping an octave as his hand finds the hem of your trousers.

He isn't being subtle; he’s being a brat, his fingers digging into your thigh with a desperate, needy friction.

"Tony, behave," you warn, though there's no real bite in it. You reach out, your hand clamping firmly over his to remind him exactly who is in control here. "We aren't even at the venue yet."

He lets out a low, frustrated huff, leaning into your space until his forehead rests against yours. "Who cares? The gala is a bore. This — " He slides his hand higher, his touch becoming more insistent, more demanding. " — This is the only part of the night worth a damn."

You grin, the heat in your gut turning into something much more predatory. You lean in, your lips brushing his ear, your voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "You're acting like a brat, Tony. Do you want me to make you behave before we even step out of this car?"

"Maybe," he challenges, his eyes dark and hooded as he pulls your hand closer to his own heat. "Maybe that's exactly what you should do."

He doesn't wait for an answer, his hand moving with a sudden, frantic urgency, sliding past the waistband of your trousers to find the hard, heavy cock of yours. He groans, a sound of pure, unadulterated want, as he begins to palm you with a rhythmic, demanding pressure that makes your vision swim.

"Careful," you growl, your fingers digging into his hip to steady him. "The driver is right there."

"Let him listen," Tony huffs, his ego flaring even through the haze of lust. He leans in, nipping at your lower lip before pulling back just enough to smirk. "He's seen me in worse states than this. Besides, he knows you're the only one who can actually handle me."

You let out a low, dark chuckle, the sound vibrating against his chest. Your hand moves from his thigh to the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair to tilt his head back, exposing the line of his throat.

"Is that so?" you murmur, your thumb tracing the edge of his jaw. "Then let's see if you can handle being quiet for once."

You reach for the partition lever, your eyes locked on his.

With a sharp click, the glass partition glides up, sealing the backseat into a private, dimly lit sanctuary. The muffled sound of the engine and the distant hum of the city are all that remain, leaving nothing but the heavy, electric heat between the two of you.

Tony’s eyes widen slightly at the sound — a triumphant, wicked glint dancing in them. He knows exactly what that sound means.

He leans back into the leather, spreading his legs just enough to give you better access, his breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches.

"There," he whispers, his voice thick with anticipation, "now we can actually have some fun."

You shift, straddling his lap, the weight of your body forcing a low, shaky exhale from his lungs. The friction of your trousers against his is maddening; the rough, high end wool of your suits creates a heat that feels like it’s burning through the layers.

"You're so impatient," you murmur, your voice a low vibration as you lean down. You don't kiss him yet. 

Instead, you just hover your lips just a fraction of an inch from his, letting him feel the heat of your breath. You watch his eyes flutter shut, his head lulling back against the leather headrest as he chases the contact you're teasingly withholding.

His hands are everywhere now, frantic and clumsy in his desperation. One hand is buried in your hair, pulling you closer, while the other claws at your waist, his fingers bunching the expensive fabric of your shirt.

The sensation of his palms sliding against your sides, the friction of your clothes grinding together with every shallow movement of your hips, is a slow torture. 

"Don't — don't do that," Tony groans, a broken, needy sound that he’d never let anyone else hear.

He tries to pull you down, to force the kiss, but you lean back just enough to keep him on the edge. "Just fucking kiss me already."

"Is that an order, sweetheart?" you tease, your hips performing a slow, agonisingly shallow grind against him. The sensation of your cock pressing through the layers of silk and wool is enough to make him gasp, his back arching off the leather seat.

"It's a suggestion. A very, very urgent suggestion," he pants, his eyes lidded and dark with a hunger that has nothing to do with the gala.

He reaches down, his hands fumbling with the belt of your trousers, his movements uncharacteristically uncoordinated as he tries to bridge the gap between your skin and his.

You catch his wrists, pinning them against the seat for a moment to regain control. The friction of your thighs rubbing together, the heavy, rhythmic pressure of your weight as you settle deeper into his lap, is driving the tension to a breaking point.

Every movement is deliberate, every slide of your hips a calculated move to keep him right on the precipice.

The logistics of it all were very lost in the suffocating sensations emitting off you two. But you found the right angle, while he rummaged haphazardly through the seat pockets for the spare lube he always keeps for times like this.

Both yours and his ties were unfortunately sacrificed for this quick little mess in the backseat. Yours was used to tie his wrists tight above his head, making him grasp flimsily at the leather. Tony's effectively just silenced him — a bundle of smooth fabric shoved past those pretty lips.

A heavy, deep thrust forces a muffled, high pitched whine out of his throat. You’ve got his knees shoved so far up against his chest that he’s completely folded, his hips tilted up to take every inch of you. Every time you bottom out, his head thrashes against the leather, his eyes rolling back as the sheer depth of you makes him forget how to breathe.

Tony tries to pull the tie out of his mouth, a desperate attempt to snark at you, to tell you you're being too rough, but you just shove him back down, your hands clamping onto his thighs to hold him steady. 

"Shut up, Tony," you growl, your voice a low rumble as you drive into him again. "You're supposed to be a genius, but you can't even handle a little bit of attention without losing your mind."

He tries to let out a defiant scoff, but it comes out as a pathetic, wet sound — you're hitting him so deep he can't even form a thought. You reach down, your hand sliding between your bodies to wrap around his cock, your thumb grinding hard against his tip with every thrust.

He lets out a muffled, desperate whimper, his eyes blowing wide and glassy as he looks up at you, completely undone.

"Look at you," you smirk, watching the way his chest heaves, his ego completely stripped away by the sheer force of you. "Where's all that Stark attitude now? You're just a mess for me, aren't you?"

You don't give him the release he's begging for. You lean in, your teeth grazing his earlobe as you pick up the pace, your thrusts becoming faster and more punishing.

You can feel him trembling under you, his entire body vibrating with the effort of trying to stay composed while you're systematically destroying him.

"Should I cum in ya, Tony?" you murmur, your voice dripping with a cruel sort of playfulness as you drive into him one last time, bottoming out so hard he lets out a muffled, broken cry against the gag. "Make a little stain for the cameras to find when we walk in? Give them something real to gossip about?"

He’s completely gone. The billionaire, the genius, the man who always has a comeback is just a dazed, panting mess, his eyes glassy and unfocused as he stares up at you. He tries to form words around the silk in his mouth, letting out soft, desperate murmurs

"Please — mmph — please," he whimpers, the words barely intelligible through the fabric, but the desperation in his eyes says it all. Tony’s trying to beg, trying to tell you how much he needs it, his hips bucking instinctively against you in a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm.

But you don't give him the satisfaction.

You pull out of him with a sudden, agonising slowness, leaving him twitching and breathless in the sudden coldness of the air. He's left hanging on the edge — his body trembling with the unspent tension, his eyes searching yours for a mercy you have no intention of giving.

You take a moment to just watch him, a satisfied smirk playing on your lips as he lies there, a wrecked, dazed mess in the backseat. He looks like he’s forgotten there’s even an event waiting for him, his mind completely wiped clean by you.

Taking a bit of mild pity for your lover, you decide to leave him something to remember the ride by. You reach down, delivering a few stinging backhands to his arse — the sound of sharp skin shitting echoing in the small space. 

“Just leaving some handprints and good grips all on ya, honey,” you murmured sweetly, smiling at his low whines at each hit — you made sure to use a firm grip too. 

“Please, babe — ” Tony tried to beg, but half his syllables were muffled, “ — need’ta cum, please, don’t — ”

"Don't look at me like that, sweetheart," you coo, a low, dark chuckle vibrating in your chest as you watch his eyes plead for mercy.

You’re straining against your own aching heat, your pulse thrumming with the need to orgasm too. But you keep your composure. "I've got an image to maintain, too. We can't exactly walk into a gala looking like we just finished a marathon."

You lean down, your lips brushing his as you reach up to pull the tie from his mouth. The moment the silk clears his lips, he lets out a broken, needy groan, his voice a wrecked, desperate rasp. 

"Please, just — fuck — you're killing me," he gasps, his voice a wrecked, desperate rasp as he tries to pull you down, his head thrashing against the leather. He’s practically vibrating, his hips jerking in a futile attempt to find the friction you just snatched away.

Instead of giving Tony the orgasm he’s screaming for, you lean in and capture his mouth in a deep kiss. You drink in his pleas, swallowing his desperate murmurs of "Please, baby, please" as you make out with him with a frantic, hungry intensity.

Even with his wrists still tied tight above his head, he clings to you, his body arching toward yours as if he could force the connection back through sheer willpower.

You pull back just enough to smirk at him, watching the way his eyes are blown wide and glazed with pure lust. You're still aching, still straining against your own suit pants.

But, hey, you could just drag him by the spare tie after his speech, use his chatty mouth for a while.

The car comes to a smooth, silent halt, the engine's hum dying down to leave only the sound of your heavy, synchronised breathing. The adrenaline is still humming through your veins — an electric heat that makes your skin feel too tight — but the reality of the venue is pressing in.

"Over there," you murmur, nodding toward the grand entrance of the gala as the tinted windows reveal a swarm of flashing lights. "I swear I just saw the cameras flash. They're waiting for the golden couple."

Tony lets out a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a laugh, his head falling back against the leather. He’s a total wreck — hair mussed, lips swollen, eyes still dazed and unfocused from the sheer intensity of you.

He looks like he’s been through some marathon alright — his chest still heaving as he tries to pull his dignity back together from the floor of the Maybach.

You reach out, giving him a wry smile as you pat his jaw, treating him like a particularly well behaved, albeit exhausted, mutt. "There we go. Try to look like a billionaire and not a man who just got thoroughly dismantled in a moving vehicle."

Tony lets out a huff, a ghost of his usual snark returning to his eyes even as he winces from the lingering ache in his hips. "You're a menace," he mutters, though the way he leans into your touch tells a completely different story. "A beautiful, sadistic menace."

"Maybe," you shrug, your fingers lingering on his skin for a second too long as you begin to untie his wrists, though you don't bother fixing his hair or fixing his tie.

You leave him a little dishevelled, a little breathless, and entirely yours. 

"Well," you say, smoothing down your own suit and checking your reflection in the darkened window with a predatory glint in your eyes, "looks like we're going in tie-less. At least our suits are matching."

Tony lets out a low, shaky breath, trying to straighten his shoulders even as his legs still feel like jelly.

He catches your gaze, a wicked, knowing smirk finally tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the exhaustion. "Fine by me. Let them wonder why the great Tony Stark looks like he just won the lottery and lost his mind at the same time."

You laugh, a rich, dark sound, and reach for the door handle. The world is waiting, but as you step out into the blinding flash of the paparazzi, you know the real show is still happening right beneath the surface.

fic inpso:

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He's leaning in the frame, arms crossed, watching you with the particular expression he seems to wear as a default. Not unfriendly, exactly, just very still. It’s like he's turned most of himself down to a frequency you can't quite tune into.

You'd noticed him around the tower; it’s hard not to. He had this way of hovering near the edges of rooms — near enough to be present, far enough to have an exit, watching conversations like he was studying for a test on how to be a person again.

You'd clocked him lingering near the kitchen while Sam told a story, near the TV while Nat and Clint argued about something. Or near the window during debrief like a curious, brooding version of Thor.

You'd wanted to say something to him about a dozen times and each time you'd talked yourself out of it because you genuinely could not figure out what the opening line was. Hey, you seem lonely felt presumptuous. Good job not being a sleeper agent felt worse.

So you'd just decided not to..

And apparently he'd been doing the same math, which had resulted in him standing in your bathroom doorway at eleven at night watching you fail at first aid.

"Hey," you say, because something has to be said.

He nods, and you turn back to the mirror. "I've got it."

You don't have it. The gauze slips again, proof positive, and you watch his reflection push off the doorframe and cross the room and then his hand — the left one, the metal one, cool even through the cloth — covers yours and just takes it. Bucky wasn’t rough with it nor hesitant, just with the quiet certainty of someone who has decided a thing and is doing it.

You go still. "What are you doing?"

"Helping."

He says it like it's the most obvious thing — like you'd asked him what two plus two was. He's already repositioning, tilting the light, assessing. The efficiency of it catches you off guard, the way he moves through like a checklist: clean, irrigate, and assess depth. You can feel him deciding about the stitch before he says anything.

"This needs two," he says.

"I know."

"You were going to do it yourself."

"I was going to, yes."

He makes a sound, something not quite a laugh — something shorter, quieter. But it's there.

Bucky works without narrating it, which you appreciate. Some people talk through medical stuff to be reassuring and it always has the opposite effect. He just does it, and so the stitches are neat. Tighter than you'd have managed at this angle, if you'd managed at all.

You're watching his reflection without meaning to. He's focused — entirely, completely focused, the same way you'd clocked him watching the sparring sessions from the mezzanine last week. It’s like the thing in front of him is the only thing that exists.

"You had good angles tonight," he says.

You blink. "Sorry?"

"On the entry. The building." He ties off the stitch, reaches for the gauze. "Most people come in high. You came in low and right, cut off the exit before they registered you were there."

You process that for a second.

"You were watching."

"Everyone was watching. You were the interesting part."

It's delivered completely flatly; just a fact he's reporting.

"...thanks," you say.

He tapes the gauze down, smooth and precise, with no wasted movement. "The one by the stairwell. Your second engagement. You knew he was going to draw left."

"He was guarding his right side the whole time. Led with it."

Barnes nods like you've confirmed something. "He'd been hit there before, old injury. You read it in about four seconds."

"Three," you say, and then feel slightly stupid.

The corner of his mouth moves. Not a smile, exactly, but the shape of one. "Three," he allows.

He steps back, checking his work with the same assessing look. You pull your shirt back on and turn around, leaning against the counter. He's already moving to wash his hands, unhurried.

"I've been trying to figure out how to talk to you for like three weeks," you say.

He looks at you in the mirror.

"You're very — " you gesture vaguely, " — a lot to approach. You've got a whole thing going on. Very brooding-corner-of-the-room energy."

He's quiet for a moment, drying his hands. "I didn't know what to say."

"Yeah, me neither."

"So I didn't say anything."

"Same."

He turns off the tap and sets the towel down. Bucky looks at you with that low, even look, and you get the sense he's filing something away — cataloguing this. Perhaps in the  way he catalogued your entry angle and the guard's weak side and the two stitches. Just simply noting it.

"Your form on the last guy," he says. "The big one by the door."

"What about it?"

"It was reckless."

You stare at him.

"You had three cleaner options."

"I had him."

"You had him that time." He crosses his arms. "Different footing, you're on the floor."

You open your mouth, close it. "Are you critiquing me right now? You just stitched me up and now you're critiquing me?"

"The two things aren't unrelated."

You look at him, and he just stares back. Somewhere down the hall the laugh track goes off again, tinny and distant.

"Okay," you say. "Fine. What were the three cleaner options?"

And he tells you. Quiet and precise, standing in your bathroom at eleven-fifteen at night, talking about leverage and sightlines and weight distribution like he's narrating a documentary only he can see.

You find yourself arguing back. Though, not defensively, just because you have a different read. He seems like the kind of person who wants you to push back, actually, who comes alive slightly when you do, the stillness shifting into something more alert.

The laugh track goes off again and you both ignore it.

You're still leaning against the counter. He hasn't moved toward the door yet. There's something in the quality of the silence that doesn't feel like an ending, so you don't treat it like one.

"Can I ask you something?"

He looks at you.

"The — " you gesture vaguely in the direction of the rest of the tower, " — social stuff. Is it hard? Like, actually hard, or is that a stupid question?"

A pause. He seems to be deciding something.

"It's loud," he says finally.

"The tower?"

"Rooms. When everyone's — " he stops, and tries again. "When people already know how to talk to each other. There's a frequency. I can't find it."

He says it the way he said three — like a correction. It’s as if he's been carrying the precise language for it and hasn't had anywhere to put it. "I stand there and I know what a normal response would look like but by the time I've worked out how to enter it the moment's already gone."

Letting the conversation sit, you stay silent.

"Steve tries," he adds. "He's — he tries very hard. So does Sam. It's worse when people try."

"Because then you know they're watching to see if it works."

He looks at you; something shifts slightly. "Yeah."

"I noticed you," you say. "Around, for weeks. I kept almost saying something."

"Why didn't you?"

"Couldn't really figure out the opening line. You've got a very — " you make the same vague gesture from before, " — don't approach energy."

"Hm." He considers this without apparent offense. "What changed?"

"You walked into my bathroom and took the gauze out of my hand."

The shape-of-a-smile thing happens again. Brief and almost involuntary.

"I didn't think about it," he says. "I just — did it."

"Yeah." You pause. "That's usually how it works, actually. The thinking is the problem."

He's quiet for a moment. Then, like he's noting something: "You patch yourself up alone."

"I had it."

"You didn't."

"I almost had it."

He tips his head slightly, but not agreeing. "You came back from a mission with a laceration that needed two stitches and you didn't ask anyone."

"I didn't want to bother anyone."

He looks at you with an expression that is very flat and very pointed and somehow manages to make you feel slightly called out without him saying a single word.

"That's different," you say.

"Is it?"

"I'm not — " you stop and start again. "That's just not wanting to be annoying. That's not the same thing as not being able to read a room."

"You were alone in a bathroom at midnight with a needle."

"Barnes."

"I'm just noting it."

"You're critiquing me again."

"The two things," he says, deadpan, "aren't unrelated."

You stare at him, and he does the same. The laugh track plays. You both continue to ignore it.

"Okay," you say. "Fine. We're both bad at it."

He considers this for a moment, like he's checking it for accuracy. Then, quietly: "Yeah."

It's not a big admission, as he doesn't really make it one. But you get the sense it's the kind of thing he doesn't say out loud very often — the small ordinary version of the truth, without the armor around it.

He's still here, you think, and that's the thing. He walked in and he stayed and he answered. He's still here, which for Bucky at this particular point in his grand life is probably the whole sentence.

"We should spar sometime," you say. "You could show me. The three options."

He goes quiet.

Though not the closed-off quiet from before — something different. Smaller, like a door opening somewhere very far inside, in a room that hadn't been unlocked in a long time. Something that, if you knew him better, if you'd known him before — back when he had a whole laugh and an easy grin and twenty-five cents in his pocket for the Coney Island ferris wheel — you might have recognised it as the very beginning of giddy.

He doesn't let it reach his face, but it's there.

"Yeah," he says. A pause. "That sounds good."

It's four words, but it shouldn't land the way it does.

He leaves, and you're standing in your bathroom, alone again. The laugh track plays one more time.

Huh, you think. Okay then.

He finds Steve and Sam in the kitchen at half past midnight. They're doing nothing in particular.

Sam has a bowl of cereal he's clearly eating out of boredom, Steve has a book open that he hasn't looked at in a while. They both clock Bucky in the doorway and do the thing they always do, which is very carefully not make it a big deal that he's there.

"Hey," Sam says. "You eat yet?"

Bucky doesn't answer that. He comes into the kitchen and stops a few feet from the counter — hands at his sides, shoulders back, the posture of a man delivering a report to people with the appropriate clearance level — and says: "I talked to Y/N tonight."

Steve closes his book.

"Yeah?" Sam says, neutral, cereal spoon frozen.

"They came back from the mission with a laceration on their upper back. I assisted with the stitching." A pause. "Then we talked about the mission. Their tactical instincts are good. They read injury patterns. They noticed I'd been — " a very brief stop, " — around. They said I had brooding-corner-of-the-room energy."

Sam's mouth twitches. "They’re not wrong."

"We talked about the social stuff. I told them about the frequency thing." He says it plainly, no preamble, the way he'd report a weather condition. "They didn't make it weird."

Steve's expression does something complicated and tender that he is trying very hard to keep off his face and completely failing at.

"They patch themself up alone," Bucky continues, with the faint air of someone filing a complaint. "They came back with a two-stitch laceration and didn't ask anyone. Y/N said they didn't want to bother people."

"That does sound like them," Sam says carefully.

"It's the same thing. What I do. They just don't see it that way." He pauses. "I told them the two things weren't unrelated."

Sam sets his spoon down very slowly.

"We're sparring next week," Bucky says. "So I can demonstrate the three alternative approaches they should have taken in the final engagement. Their form on the last target was reckless."

Silence.

Steve is gripping his book, but his jaw is doing something. His eyes are doing something considerably worse. He has the look of a man watching a sunrise he'd been told might never come and trying very hard not to ruin it by crying about it in a kitchen at midnight.

"That's — " his voice comes out slightly higher than intended. He clears his throat. "That's really good, Buck."

"They’re good," Bucky says, with a faint defensive edge that no one asked for. "Technically. Their entry angles are efficient. And they process fast. They even asked me a question and then actually waited for the answer."

"Mmhm," Sam says, nodding. Neutral and completely fine. Absolutely not affected by any of this.

"I'm just saying. As context."

"Useful context," Sam says. "Very useful."

Bucky looks between them, and they look back. Sam with a careful, nonchalant stillance. Steve with the barely-contained energy of a man who is sitting, technically, but only just.

"What?" Bucky says.

"Nothing," Steve says immediately.

"Nothing at all," Sam agrees.

A beat.

"I'm going to bed," Bucky announces.

"Good night," Sam says smoothly.

"Night," Steve manages.

Bucky leaves; his footsteps go down the hall, then a door closes.

Steve and Sam look at each other.

"He made a friend," Steve says, at a volume that is too loud for midnight.

"Steve — "

"Sam. He made a friend."

"I know, I was there — "

"They waited for the answer — "

"Steve — "

"They just waited — "

"I will pour this milk directly onto you," Sam says. "Look at me. I mean it."

Steve presses both hands over his face. His shoulders are shaking. It takes Sam a second to clock that it isn't distress — it's laughter, the silent kind. The one that gets away from you when you've been holding something careful for a very long time and something small and good finally tips it over.

Sam looks at the ceiling, picking up his spoon and takes a bite of cereal.

"...they sound good," he says, after a moment. Quietly. "The frequency thing. That they just — let it sit."

"They’re going to be so good for him," Steve says, into his hands.

"We don't know that yet."

"Sam."

Sam takes another bite and looks at the ceiling again. "...yeah," he says. "Probably."

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus

his hot groans right by your ear were enough to flood out other sounds. he's got one hand braced above your head, metal digging into the wall. he might actually break into the plaster at this point thanks to your twisting strokes on his cock. his flesh hand placed firmly on your hip, thumb dipping under your shirt, circling heated skin.

"fuck's sake, you're a slut for this," you scoff at his large frame pressing you further into the wall, as his hips buck after your hand. "just had to get hard during a press review. great fuckin' idea —"

your nonchalance and strict words set him ablaze. even better so with how not a piece of your prim, suited clothing is out of place. all the while bucky's shirt is half-buttoned, crumbled up, belt undone, zip down, aching cock just hanging out heavy, precum spurting at the reverent pace you're dragging at.

"ke — keep talkin' like that," he rasps to your shoulder, god he wants to kiss you so bad, but you're very strict with pda, it messes up your whole attire. he resorts to just pressing his forehead to his arm, orgasm building up deliciously.

"like what?" you roll your eyes, your thumb rubbing tight circles to the sensitivity of his tip, an almost pained huff flooding out him, "talkin' like you're a nuisance? like you're a distraction from my work? like you're nothing but a piece o' work?"

he nods feverishly, hand tightening at your waist. idiot, he's crumpling your ironed shirt.

" — supposed to be focusing on the governmental policies and the cyclical unemployment aid scheme, but no — " you continue, eyes focused on how damn close he's getting, tch, bastard. " — you just had to test me, just had to get dragged out here. some grand figure you are, buck — you're just a cheap whore chatting up for a sleazy treat tonight."

he moans unabashedly at that. thank god for the loud shuttering cameras the walls across. he would've made the papers again; though this time not for grand city schemes.

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steve let out a broken groan, eyes unfocused as he stared at his desktop monitor. his hands trembled, fingers slipping on the keys as he tries to correct the errors you were mocking.

you leaned forwards, your chest pressing against his back — which coincidentally lodged your cock even deeper into his tight arse. the sudden deep intrusion made steve cry out, high-pitched, strangled.

his fingers jerked on the keyboard, sending a string of random characters across the screen.

"i think you're missing a semicolon there," you chuckle, your free hand dropping to thumb his nipple with a bruising pressure.

"god, please," steve gasped, eyes water as he stared at the monitor to find the cursor through his hazed pleasure. "i'll fix it, just — fuck, please — harder —"

"too formal," you scoffed, reading the second paragraph, "tone's far too stiff for a report, stevie. reads more like a damn textbook than a log."

smack!

you delivered a stinging slap to america's fine arse, making him jolt too violently that his forehead nearly hit the screen. "watch your typing, captain. a mistake in the syntax and you're getting another one."

"i'm trying — s'too much, oh god," steve sobbed, his voice a slurred mess. tears of pure sensory overload leaked from the corners of his eyes, as he stared at the screen. his vision was swimming; he was being fucked dumb.

his brain was turning to mush under the relentless, heavy thrusts that kept him hovering on the mean edge of an orgasm he wasn't allowed to reach.

every time he tried to focus on the cursor, you'd drive into him with a sickening squelch, churning through the mess of your previous releases already coating his insides.

"there's an error in the third sentence — 'deployment' is spelt wrong. steve, are you really that distracted?"

smack!

another harsh palm landed on his backside, making him let out an undignified yelp. his fingers danced clumsily over the keys, hitting 'delete' far too many times as he struggled to regain his composure.

"i'm sorry — god, please — just one minute of peace —" he was begging desperately, voice cracking with the frustration of being kept on the edge, his ignored cock twitching and leaking uselessly past his desk. you held him there, practically buried to the hilt.

"peace is for people who get their work done right, steve." you countered, your voice dropping to a predatory growl. he whimpered at your words, eyes rolling back at your prodding tip. "you're far from deserving of that."

you pat his reddening arse —soft but it stung lightly — "chop, chop, get on with the third paragraph now."

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus

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