Golden retriever energy

Bucky opens the door before you can even knock again. His expression softens when he sees you—lip trembling, eyes wet, heart broken. Then his jaw tightens, dangerous and calm all at once. “Who did it?” he asks, low and quiet.

“Doesn’t matter,” you whisper, voice breaking. “He—he cheated. I just—”

Bucky’s hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear. “C’mere, baby. You shouldn’t be cryin’ over a boy who doesn’t know what to do with a woman like you.”

You collapse against his chest, sob muffled into the soft cotton of his black tee. His arms come around you like a wall, like safety itself. The smell of smoke and whiskey and Bucky—warm, dark, steady—fills your lungs until your shaking slows.

He’s been waiting for this moment far longer than he’ll admit. Waiting for you to realize that every time your boyfriend ignored you, Bucky was the one answering your texts. That every time you needed help, he was there—money, muscle, heart—while pretending it didn’t kill him to let you leave with someone else.

Now, finally, you’re here.

And when you whisper, “Please don’t make me go home,” Bucky’s restraint fractures.

It starts slow.

You’re sitting on his couch, one of his big hands rubbing gentle circles on your thigh, voice soft as he murmurs, “He didn’t deserve you anyway, doll. Man like that doesn’t get a second chance.”

You nod, biting your lip. His thumb moves higher.

“Bucky…”

“Yeah?”

Your eyes meet his—blue fire, dark with something dangerous—and you breathe, “I just want to forget.”

That’s all the permission he needs.

He’s on you in an instant—mouth hot and hungry, hands gripping your hips, lifting you into his lap like you weigh nothing. His tongue slides into your mouth, slow and deep, tasting salt and heartbreak and months of unspoken want. You moan against him, nails digging into his shoulders, and he groans like it hurts.

“Been waitin’ for you to say that, sweetheart,” he growls against your lips. “Been waitin’ for you to come to your fuckin’ senses.”

He carries you to your bedroom—your apartment, your bed—and lays you down like a treasure he’s finally claimed. Then he ruins you for anyone else.

Clothes scatter. His rings flash. Your breath stutters when he drags his mouth down your chest, teeth scraping over your nipple before he sucks it between his lips. The cold metal of his ring presses into your skin when he cups your other breast, thumb circling just right.

“Gonna make you forget his name,” he murmurs, voice low and vicious. “Only one you’ll remember is mine.”

When he slides two thick fingers inside you, you cry out his name—broken and breathless. He smiles, darkly satisfied.

“That’s it, doll. Breathe for me. Good girl.”

By the time he’s pushing into you—slow, deep, stretching you around him—your nails are clawing the sheets. Every inch of him feels like fire, like home, like everything you’d been missing without realizing it.

“Fuck—Bucky—”

“I know, baby. He couldn’t fuck you like this, could he? Didn’t know how to take care of you.” His pace quickens, hips snapping forward until you’re seeing stars. “But I do.”

He drives into you, brutal and precise, one hand tangled in your hair to keep your head tipped back. Every thrust punches a moan from your throat, every growl against your ear makes you clench tighter around him.

Then—somewhere between the sound of skin and breath and the word mine whispered like a prayer—the door creaks open.

Bucky hears it before you do.

He doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t slow, doesn’t falter—he just looks over his shoulder and meets the wide, horrified eyes of your ex-boyfriend standing frozen in the doorway.

Bucky’s lips curl into a cold smile.

He pulls you tighter against him, voice dropping to a low, possessive snarl meant for the audience. “She’s fuckin’ mine now,” he says, loud enough to echo.

Your ex makes a strangled noise—half gasp, half humiliation—and backs out immediately, door slamming shut behind him.

You don’t even notice. Too far gone. Too wrapped up in the way Bucky grinds deeper, muttering filth against your ear.

“Don’t stop, baby. Don’t even think about him. You hear me? You’re with me now.”

“Bucky—oh god—”

“That’s it,” he breathes, biting down on your shoulder as he thrusts harder, faster. “Say my fuckin’ name while I make you come.”

You do. Over and over.

When the pleasure hits, it’s violent. Your body arches, pulse shattering as he fucks you through it, chasing his own release. His hand slips to your throat—not enough to hurt, just to hold you there, to claim you while he spills inside, groaning your name like a vow.

The room smells like sex and victory.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing. His weight presses against you, solid and real. His lips brush your temple, softer now.

“You okay, doll?” he murmurs.

You nod weakly, still trembling. “Yeah. I—yeah.”

He kisses your shoulder. “Good. ’Cause that was the last time you cry over him, understand? He doesn’t exist anymore. You’re mine.”

It should sound possessive. Dangerous. But coming from Bucky—rough voice gone quiet, hands gentle again—it feels like safety.

He cleans you up, tucks you against his chest, thumb stroking lazy circles along your hip. You’re half-asleep when he whispers against your hair:

“Should’ve been me all along.”

And when you wake the next morning—sore, marked, but smiling—you realize it is him now.

The man who ruined your ex, your bed, your past—then kissed your forehead like it meant something.

Mobster or not, Bucky Barnes was built to protect what he claimed.

to the point where the jukebox app is sick of you, the bartender thinks its hilarious, and the mechanic bull guy is having a little too much fun given that your top is cut that low

so when you're sat down in a haze next to nat, bucky brings you water and you scrunch your nose, "I don't want it."

"didn't ask if you wanted it, you need it" he held the glass closer to you now. "drink it"

huffing and puffing you took the straw into your mouth but not the glass, making bucky still hold it for you. and what was a glass in addition to the torch he dragged everywhere you went?

when you finished a couple of gulps, you looked up at him, tugging your skirt down to cover any extra centimeters of your thigh. "happy?"

bucky just smirked. "good girl"

you whined, furrowing your brows and pouting. like that vision hadn't been imprinted in his brain for when he felt like the pent up sexual frustration was too much.

"don't call me a good girl, it makes me wanna take my clothes off."

"what?" james barnes wasn't super easily stunted, but this one took the cake.

"what?" sam was wide eyed, nat and chucking, and Steve and Wanda looked like they were trying to process if what they heard was real.

You looked up from your tablet. He walked in with a presence that made the sterile air feel charged.

James Buchanan Barnes

Unit: Thunderbolts

Registry: Alpha-01

Notes: Vibranium prosthesis (left arm). Serum-enhanced physiology. Prior Hydra experimentation flagged in psychological history.

His combat shirt hung from one shoulder, blood soaked into the seams. His torso was bare—bruised, sweating, smeared with dried streaks of red. Deep brown hair fell in damp strands against his temples, jaw tight, body moving like something made to endure.

“Didn’t know we had new faces,” he said, voice gravel-rough as he eased himself down onto the med-bed. “Nice change.”

You nodded once and pulled on gloves. “Yes. I started this week.”

He dropped the shirt beside him, settling in like the cot was his personal recliner. The tone in his voice had suggested ease, maybe even a joke, but you didn’t react. You weren’t always sure when people were being sarcastic.

Especially not him.

You retrieved gauze, saline, antiseptic. You were focused on the wound low across his abdomen—a shallow blade graze, already clotting along the edge. As you cleaned around it, you recalled a conversation from earlier that week. Your first night shift had been filled with stories, warnings, casual gossip from the senior medics. They spoke about the team like they were walking myths. And Bucky Barnes, in particular, had been the centerpiece of several of those stories.

He can do anything if you tell him to, someone had said. Hydra programming, you know? Sit, kneel, come—just say it.

You hadn’t laughed. You’d written it down. Because you didn’t know it was a joke.

Now, he sat bare-chested in front of you, quiet, unmoving, skin warm beneath your gloved hands as you pressed sterile pads to the wound.

The question formed itself before you realized it was inappropriate.

You spoke plainly, genuinely. “I was wondering—can you get hard and ejaculate on command?”

The silence that followed was total. Not a pause. Not surprise.

It was a shift.

You didn’t notice it right away, too focused on folding gauze precisely, until the weight of his gaze pulled you back to the moment.

When you looked up, his entire body had stilled.

His eyes were on you. Unmoving. Brow low, mouth parted just slightly, as if he were still computing the words. The faint line between his brows deepened.

“Come again?” he asked, but his voice wasn’t casual. It wasn’t flirtatious either. It was something closer to caution.

You met his stare. “I asked if you’re able to achieve erection and reach orgasm on command. Based on what the other officers implied regarding your conditioning.”

He blinked once. Very slowly.

Your tone hadn’t faltered. You weren’t embarrassed. You were just curious—curious the same way you’d asked someone last week if the Hulk’s resting heart rate really was thirty-five BPM.

Bucky leaned back slightly, eyes scanning you like he was waiting for the punchline. When it didn’t come, his jaw worked, muscle flexing once under stubble.

Then he stood.

Not abruptly. But with enough weight behind the motion that you instinctively stepped back. The tray clinked behind you.

He stepped closer, enough that you felt the heat coming off his skin. Still watching you. Still trying to process.

“You’re seriously asking me that?” he said, quieter now. “Like, you’re not messing with me.”

“No,” you answered plainly. “I just wanted to understand the scope of the conditioning. Neurological control of physiological functions isn’t unheard of.”

He dragged a hand down his face. Let out a long breath through his nose. You saw the flicker in his expression—somewhere between disbelief and… something else.

“You really don’t realize how that sounded, do you.”

You tilted your head. “Should I?”

He huffed a soft, disbelieving laugh, almost under his breath.

Then he moved forward again—closer. Close enough that your hip bumped the counter edge.

“Are you asking because you want to know,” he said slowly, gaze dragging down your face, “or because you want to see?”

You stared back at him, unflinching. The intensity in his eyes didn’t register as threatening to you—just confusing. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides, still gloved. Still sterile. Still in the mindset of diagnostics and assessments, not flirtation. You weren’t sure what he meant by see, but the phrasing seemed to demand clarity.

So you gave it.

“I want to know,” you said plainly, meeting his eyes. “But if visual confirmation is possible, then yes—seeing would be helpful.”

His face didn’t move at first.

Not a blink. Not a breath.

Then his eyebrows lifted just a fraction—just enough to break the tension—but his mouth stayed parted like he’d lost his words somewhere between inhale and exhale.

You watched him, calm as ever. Not realizing that what you just said, to him, sounded like you were practically asking to watch him jerk off in the middle of med-bay.

His eyes narrowed slightly, still scanning you for a punchline. When there was none, something shifted. Not in you. In him.

Because that’s when it hit him—hard.

You weren’t fucking around.

You weren’t teasing. You weren’t flirting. You weren’t setting him up for some kind of HR trap. You were genuinely trying to understand the technical boundaries of Hydra’s physiological conditioning, like you were running through a checklist for your own notes.

He exhaled once through his nose and ran his palm over his jaw.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, half to himself. His gaze flicked to the side, like he needed to look anywhere but directly at you for a moment.

You could see it happening—the calculation behind his eyes. He was deciding whether or not to walk away. Whether to laugh. Whether to report this. But then something else moved through him, too—curiosity. You recognized the signs: pupils shifting slightly, breath shallower. He wasn’t sure either.

“I mean,” he said at last, voice rough, uncertain. “I’ve never… actually tried that. Not like—deliberately.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Would you be open to attempting it?”

His mouth parted again, like he wanted to respond but couldn’t decide which direction to take it. You sensed hesitation and tried to reassure him in the only way you knew how: by defaulting to protocol.

“If you’d prefer this be off-record,” you added, “we can skip the video documentation. I’ll log it manually.”

That did it.

His jaw dropped just a fraction further as he let out a breathless, incredulous noise. It wasn’t quite a laugh—it was something between disbelief and amusement, and it landed heavy in the air between you.

He looked back at you like you were some rare, alien creature. And maybe you were.

You hadn’t moved. You weren’t flustered. You weren’t seducing him. You were just… waiting. Like this was any other medical procedure.

Bucky dragged a hand through his hair, clearly still processing. Then his eyes returned to yours.

“You really wanna see if I can do that,” he said. It wasn’t a question. More like a final check. Like he needed to hear it in your voice one last time before he crossed the line.

“Yes,” you said simply. “For observation purposes.”

There was a long, still beat.

Then his stance shifted.

Something subtle in the way his feet planted, in the slow curl of his fingers at his side, in the way his shoulders rolled back with quiet intent. He wasn’t leaning anymore—he was centered now. Present. Watching you as something darker flickered behind his expression. Something curious. Something charged.

He nodded once. Low. Controlled.

“All right,” he said roughly, voice dipping just a bit lower than before. “Try me.”

—

You gave a short nod, already reaching back toward the tablet on the metal tray behind you, fingertips hovering to wake the screen. The chance to collect a new data point—something none of the other medics had dared ask for—was unexpectedly thrilling.

But the rustle of fabric behind you pulled your focus.

Bucky had stepped away from you again, his heavy boots padding quietly as he moved back toward the med-bed. Except this time, his fingers were already at his waistband.

You froze halfway between the tray and your chair.

He turned slightly toward you, eyes locked onto yours as his thumb worked open the button of his tactical pants. The zipper followed with a quiet rasp, slow and deliberate. He wasn’t speaking. Just watching.

And only then, only then, did your brain finally process the image forming in front of you.

His pants loosened around his hips, hung low now—unzipped and open just enough for you to see the black band of his briefs and the defined lines of his lower abdomen. The cut you’d just cleaned stretched faintly when he moved, muscles flexing subtly under the skin. His cock was still covered, but the shape of it—resting heavy against the fabric, shifting slightly as he adjusted—was impossible to miss. Still soft. Still untouched. But undeniably there. And Bucky wasn’t breaking eye contact.

Something shifted in your chest—an odd tightness you weren’t familiar with. A spike in heart rate. Not fear. Just sudden, confusing awareness. Your lips parted slightly, and your fingers fell away from the tablet screen.

Bucky let out a quiet breath. Not a laugh, not quite. A huff, amused and something darker beneath it.

“You’re realizing how bad everything looks now, huh?” he said, and his tone was different—still low, still calm, but tinged with heat. A crooked smirk played at the corner of his mouth. “Starting to piece it together?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t—not yet.

Because the tension in the air had shifted again. The weight of it wasn’t theoretical anymore. It was physical. Heavy. Warm. Centered on the space between you and the man now standing with his pants undone, cock barely covered, staring at you like this was still part of your little experiment.

You swallowed. Just once.

“I can stop,” he added, arching a brow. “But if you’re gonna ask me to do this… I need you to say it.”

“Say it?” you echoed.

He nodded, the line of his jaw tight, like something about this had challenged him in a way he wasn’t used to. “Yeah. The command. Give it. Let’s see if it works.”

You blinked, heartbeat tapping quick in your throat. Your gloves felt suddenly too tight.

It was for science.

Wasn’t it?

Except… now you were staring at the shape of a man’s cock through his briefs. At the subtle way it shifted behind fabric. At how he just stood there, open like a test subject, waiting for you to initiate the next step.

And suddenly, your carefully ordered brain started… glitching.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to look. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this—warm skin, eye contact, unspoken tension stretching tight across the space between you like a surgical suture about to snap.

You tried to stay focused. Tried to categorize what was happening as neuromuscular stimulus, externally initiated. That’s all. But the words slipped out of your mouth before you could repackage them more… appropriately.

“What kind of command should I say?”

Bucky’s brow arched. He shrugged one shoulder, still loose, still watching you like you were the show now. “Anything,” he said, voice smooth but quiet. “Try whatever comes naturally.”

Your brain immediately clicked into gear, cataloging possibilities, filtering for language precision. He’d said command. Singular. Direct.

“Get hard,” you said.

Bucky blinked once, slowly. “You might need to be more specific,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching. “There’s a lotta things in here that can get hard. Floors. Plastics. Steel.”

You paused. Blinked again. Fair. Logical.

Your eyes dropped to the bulge at his front, the soft outline of his cock resting slightly to the left beneath dark cotton.

So you recalibrated. Clarified.

Your voice was steady when you said it:

“I command the cock of Bucky Barnes to get hard.”

The silence that followed wasn’t quiet. It was crackling. Electric.

And then—it worked.

You watched, frozen, as the shape beneath his briefs shifted. Thickened. From a resting weight to something firmer. Fuller. The fabric tightened around him as the shaft pressed upward and outward, no longer soft, no longer passive. He twitched once—just enough to catch your eye—and then kept swelling.

Your lips parted. You didn’t move.

That wasn’t supposed to happen.

It couldn’t happen.

But it had.

And Bucky… Bucky exhaled something between a scoff and a groan, and tipped his head slightly back like he couldn’t believe it either. When he looked at you again, his pupils had darkened, narrowed, and the curve of his lips had turned into something far less amused and far more interested.

“You’re kidding me,” he murmured, shaking his head. “You actually meant that.”

You nodded once, slowly, as your eyes locked onto the now very-obvious bulge straining his briefs.

He smirked, but there was a heat beneath it now—a flicker of something dangerous. His voice dropped a notch deeper.

“More.”

“What?”

“Give me another command,” he said. “Anything. Let’s test your theory.”

You hesitated. A beat too long. Then your eyes dropped again, tracking the shape beneath the black fabric. Your breath hitched—quiet, but noticeable to both of you. Your gloved hand curled reflexively at your side.

You bit your lip.

And then, softly, clinically—

“Twitch for me.”

And it did.

Just slightly. A small, visible movement under fabric. But enough.

A pulse. A response. An involuntary contraction of arousal-based musculature.

Your throat went dry.

A chill spidered down your spine, despite the warmth flooding your neck. Your mind scrambled to reframe this—to maintain control—but this no longer felt like controlled scientific inquiry. This was crossing into something else. Something biological. Something reproductive.

This wasn’t a training module anymore.

This was a live demonstration.

And you were the sole witness.

—

Bucky’s fingers curled under the waistband of his briefs.

He held your stare for a moment—something unspoken hanging in the air between you—and then he pulled them down.

Not rushed. Not coy. Just practical. Like it was necessary for the demonstration.

“You wanna learn properly, right?” he said. His voice was smooth, but edged. “Gotta see it bare if you want the full data.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because your breath caught the moment it came into view.

You choked—literally—on your own saliva.

Half-hard, and already thick. Heavy. You could see the potential of it, the way the veins curved beneath flushed skin, the slight upward tilt even in its semi state. It looked obscene without even being fully erect yet, and you couldn’t stop your eyes from tracing it, from measuring it mentally like you were still running diagnostics.

But you weren’t anymore. You knew that now.

Bucky saw your stare, the way your eyes had locked there like you forgot how to blink. His voice dropped, barely audible over the thick hum of your pulse.

“Give me another command.”

Something in your body responded before your brain did. Your feet shifted—one step forward. Then another. And another. Four in total. Just enough to bring you closer. Close enough that you didn’t have to squint to see the twitch of him. The weight of it.

Your gaze finally broke from his cock and lifted—slow, dazed—until you met his eyes again. There was something in them now. Not confusion. Not amusement.

Permission.

“Stroke it for me,” you said, voice quieter than before. Not clinical. Not innocent. Just… real.

And that was the moment the game changed.

Bucky’s breath stuttered once in his throat, just the smallest hitch. Because now, you weren’t analyzing—you were participating.

And he liked that. He liked it a lot.

He wrapped his flesh hand around the base, slow and deliberate, his thumb swiping just under the tip as he started to stroke upward in long, lazy pulls. His cock twitched again in his palm, growing harder with every pass. No sounds left his mouth. His jaw clenched. His brows pulled tight. But he didn’t moan.

He was waiting for you to tell him to.

You shifted in place, thighs pressing together with a sudden, instinctive squeeze. Your breathing went uneven, and the pressure building between your legs was no longer something you could rationalize away. Wetness pooled at the center of your panties. Your skin was hot. Your thoughts a blur of static and want.

Your eyes dropped again. His cock had grown—thicker, longer, flushed deep at the head. Veins thickened along the shaft. The slide of his hand was smooth, practiced. Deliberate.

Your mouth opened again.

“Stroke faster.”

He obeyed instantly.

The rhythm changed, tightened, faster now—fingers gliding up the length, thumb brushing the tip each time in a way that made the muscles in his stomach twitch. His breathing picked up, but still no sound. Still waiting.

You stared.

Hard. Thick. Veined. It should’ve been obscene, but you couldn’t look away. The way his cock reacted to your voice felt like an experiment gone wrong—or maybe perfectly right. And you were the one holding the data, holding the power.

Your pulse beat between your legs.

And then—a glint.

Your eyes caught it before you could process it.

A bead of pre-cum had leaked from the tip, catching the light under the bright med-bay fluorescents. It clung there, glistening.

You groaned.

Not intentionally. Not performatively.

It was raw, low, a breathy little sound dragged straight from your chest before you could clamp it down.

And when you realized what you’d done, your hand flew to your mouth.

Bucky’s fist slowed for just a moment.

Then he smirked—eyes dark, blown wide, a faint sheen of sweat forming across his collarbone.

“That wasn’t very professional,” he murmured.

—

Bucky’s fist moved faster now—stroking with a pace that was no longer lazy or exploratory. It was urgent. Determined. Testing both your commands and his own control.

His eyes flicked up to you again, and this time his voice had a rasp to it. Thicker. Needier.

“Come on,” he said lowly, just above a whisper. “What’s next, huh? Moans? Touch? You’re running the experiment, right? Gotta get all your data points.”

The words coiled low in your abdomen like a tightening wire. He was pushing you now—not resisting, not breaking the role—but tempting you to go further. Daring you.

And fuck, you were already too far gone to backpedal.

You watched the way his cock jerked in his hand, the head flushed and leaking. The pace was obscene—wet, rhythmic, fast.

“Stop,” you said, breathless but firm.

His hand froze instantly, mid-stroke.

You stepped closer, chest rising with shallow breaths.

“Now grip it tight. At the base. Like a cock ring.”

His jaw clenched. But he obeyed.

Fingers slid down, wrapped tight at the base. The moment he squeezed, his hips jolted just slightly—a tiny thrust he didn’t mean to give. The muscles in his stomach twitched. His lips parted.

A whimper escaped him. Soft. Strained. Like it had been forced through grit teeth. Not a moan. But close.

Your own breath caught.

Something about that sound—his frustration, his restraint, the way he held himself back on your order—sent a hot wave crashing through your core.

Your nipples peaked, the fabric of your bra suddenly too tight, too abrasive, like even the fibers couldn’t stand not touching you directly. Heat spread low in your belly, soaking between your thighs. You didn’t dare look down at yourself. You didn’t need to.

You already felt how soaked you were.

Your eyes didn’t leave his cock.

It twitched slightly in his grip.

Alive.

Waiting.

You swallowed, and then—

“Moan for me.”

He did.

Not a pornographic moan. Not some overdone, fake gasp. It was real.

It started low in his chest, almost like a growl — rough, full of restraint snapping open. It vibrated in his throat before it left his mouth, his jaw slackening as he let out a slow, masculine moan that sounded like it had been pent up for hours.

“F-fuck—” he gasped, voice catching. “That what you wanted?”

It was full of yearning. Of weight. Like he’d been aching to be heard, and now your voice was the only one he’d obey.

Your thighs squeezed again, tighter this time. You shifted on instinct, trying to ease the pressure building deep inside you. But it was no use.

He saw it.

Saw you squirm, saw your chest rise like you couldn’t catch your breath, saw the tremble in your fingers now clenched around the edge of the tray behind you.

And he smiled.

But this one… wasn’t mocking.

It was sharp. Almost feral.

His hand still gripped the base of his cock, skin tight and flushed. But he didn’t move. He just looked at you, pupils blown wide.

Then—his voice dropped to something darker. More commanding.

“Your turn.”

You blinked.

“What?”

His smirk widened just slightly, voice gravel-smooth, no longer soft or playful.

“Take the gloves off,” he said. “Then touch me. And let’s stop pretending this is still about Hydra.”

—

For a moment, you hesitated.

Just a breath.

Then you peeled off your gloves—one hand, then the other—fingers flexing slightly in the cool med-bay air. The sterile barrier was gone now. There was no pretending this was still clinical. This wasn’t about notes. This wasn’t about data.

This was about him. And you.

Your footsteps were slow, measured, as you stepped the last bit of distance between you and Bucky. He stood in front of the med-bed, body bare from the waist down, cock flushed and leaking, his chest rising just a little faster now.

You reached out.

Your fingers wrapped around him—replacing his own grip at the base. He let go immediately, lifting his hand away to let you take over, the breath in his throat catching as your skin made contact.

He was hot. Heavy. Alive in your palm, twitching slightly as your hand encircled the base. The skin was soft where it needed to be, velvet over steel, and the tip was slick and pulsing.

You looked up at him.

Your gaze met his, and his eyes were dark, narrowed—hungry.

His lips parted just slightly, voice rough and short.

“Stroke me. Then blow me.”

The order made your thighs clench.

You obeyed without speaking.

Your hand began to move, slow at first, adjusting to the shape and heat of him, your grip gentle, exploratory. You watched the way his stomach flexed with each pass, the subtle twitch of muscle when you passed your thumb over the tip, smearing the pre-cum slowly down the shaft.

You leaned in.

Just slightly at first, tilting your head forward, your breath skating warm over the flushed head. Bucky’s eyes dropped to your mouth.

Then your tongue slipped out—just a taste.

One slow lick, right over the tip.

He groaned. Low. Guttural. His head tipped back for a split second, throat flexing.

You licked again, bolder this time, then wrapped your lips around the head of his cock and drew him in—slowly. You hollowed your cheeks slightly, using just enough pressure to feel him respond, the weight of him dragging your mouth open more as you took him deeper.

Your hand didn’t stop moving.

You stroked while you sucked—your fist gliding up and down the base in sync with your lips pulling wetly around the top. The angle made it easy, almost natural, to slide into a steady rhythm. Before long, your knees found the cold tile beneath you, and you dropped fully down.

On your knees for him.

Bucky’s hand reached for you.

His fingers threaded through your hair—not yanking, not controlling, but guiding. His palm cradled the back of your head, gentle but firm, keeping you steady, helping you move with him.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Jesus—you feel…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.

You felt it—every twitch, every surge. You could taste him. Hear the sound of your mouth working over him—slick, lewd, hot. His cock throbbed under your tongue, and your hand was slick with saliva and pre-cum now, sliding faster, keeping pace.

Your thighs were soaked. You didn’t dare check.

This was no longer about commands.

This was about the way he moaned when your lips sank lower.

About how his hips gave a slow, helpless jerk when your tongue curled underneath.

About how your name—or maybe a prayer—slipped from his lips like he was giving in.

—

Bucky’s moans were getting ragged—too close. You could feel it in the way his hand tightened at the back of your head, the subtle twitch in his hips, the tremble riding down the backs of his thighs. He was losing control.

But then—he stopped.

His cock slid from your mouth with a wet pop, strings of saliva still clinging as he stepped back, and his hand released your hair with a gentleness that contrasted the tension still buzzing in the air.

You blinked up at him, breathless. Lips swollen, jaw slack.

Confused.

He leaned down suddenly, close, the blunt edge of his nose brushing your cheek, his mouth ghosting against your ear.

“I gotta stop,” he said, voice thick and wrecked. “If I keep going, I’m gonna come—and that’s not how I want this to end.”

Before you could speak, he inhaled sharply, slow and deliberate—right near your neck, your shoulder.

“I can smell you,” he whispered, so close you could feel his breath. “So sweet… fuck, you smell good. Like heat. Like need. It’s all I can fucking think about.”

Your throat tightened. Your thighs instinctively pressed together, but it was no use. Your panties were soaked through. You could feel it now—sticky against your skin, the telltale ache of need building deep and low.

He pulled back, eyes locking with yours.

“Get on the bed.”

You didn’t think. You just moved.

You climbed onto the med-bed, hands shaking as you laid flat, the sterile paper beneath your back crinkling under you. Your chest rose and fell too fast. Your heart was hammering.

Bucky stepped up beside you, fingers moving straight to the controls along the side panel. You watched him adjust the platform—angling it upward, shifting it higher, higher—until your hips were raised perfectly at the edge, aligned with the height of the rolling med-chair he pulled in behind him.

Then his hands went to your waist.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your uniform pants—flicking the button open, tugging down the zipper slowly.

His eyes stayed on yours the whole time.

The fabric slid down your hips, over your thighs, exposing your underwear—already ruined.

His gaze finally dropped, and the sound he made was primal. A low, breathless groan punched straight from his chest.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at that.”

Your panties were dark with arousal, wet from center to seam, clinging to your folds. His thumb grazed the soaked cotton, dragging it along the sticky heat there.

“You’re this wet for me?” he murmured. “Just from watching me stroke my cock?”

You swallowed but didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your hips tilted slightly into his touch, searching for more.

He hooked his fingers under the waistband and peeled your panties down, slow. As he pulled them off your legs, he paused—his eyes lingering for a heartbeat too long on the soaked gusset—and groaned again under his breath.

If he brought them to his nose, you didn’t see it. You were too busy trying not to tremble as he settled between your thighs.

He grabbed the chair, dragged it forward with one hand, and sat—his eyes level with your cunt now, bare and glistening, exposed completely on the edge of the bed.

“You ever had someone eat you out?” he asked, voice deep and low.

You shook your head. Small. Honest.

A flicker of something passed over his face—dark and pleased. His pupils blew wide, tongue wetting his bottom lip.

“Good,” he said, breath ghosting hot against your inner thighs. “I want to be the first.”

Then he leaned in—and licked you.

The first pass of his tongue was slow, wide, and devastating. A drag from your entrance up to your clit in one long, shivering stroke.

You gasped, back arching. “Oh—!”

He moaned into your cunt, low and deep.

Again.

He licked you slower now, more deliberately, the slurp audible. He nosed into you, spread you with two fingers of his flesh hand and devoured you like it was the only thing he was built to do. His tongue circled, then flattened. Then flicked—messy, wet, perfect.

Your hips twitched. Your hand flew to the bed rail, fingers clenching tight.

“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice trembling.

He grunted into you—sound vibrating straight through your clit.

Then you felt it.

Cold.

His vibranium fingers slid between your folds.

One pressed at your entrance—gentle, firm. A slow stretch as he slipped it in, knuckle by knuckle, filling you in one smooth thrust.

You cried out. Your thighs jerked.

The coldness of metal inside your hot, fluttering walls was overwhelming. You clenched around it instinctively, hips rocking into the sensation.

“Shit—yeah,” Bucky rasped, pulling back enough to speak. “Clenching already? Fuck, you feel good.”

His mouth returned to your clit, tongue circling, then sucking, lips closing around it just right.

At the same time, that finger started to move. A slow, deliberate rhythm. In and out, curling just slightly.

You whimpered. Your eyes squeezed shut. The heat building between your legs was unbearable.

“More—” you gasped. “I want—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

You didn’t have to.

Because your body had already betrayed you—back arching, hips bucking, slick dripping down to his palm.

His mouth sucked harder, tongue flicking faster, finger fucking you deeper—and you felt yourself start to unravel.

His breath hit your cunt when he spoke again.

“You want more?” His voice was rough, dark. “Say it. Tell me what you need.”

—

Your back arched as the first vibranium finger curled inside you, drawing another soft whimper from your lips. You needed more. The pressure was good—but not enough. Not yet.

Your hips rocked forward instinctively, searching, rolling toward his mouth, his hand, anything he’d give.

“Please,” you breathed, voice trembling. “Another…”

Bucky didn’t hesitate.

Another cool, sleek finger joined the first, easing in slowly with a delicious stretch that made your thighs jerk open wider. He groaned against your cunt as he watched your body react.

“That’s it,” he murmured, lips brushing against your inner thigh. “Take it. Just like that.”

Your hips rolled, desperate for more friction. The pressure was growing deeper, stronger—but it still wasn’t enough. Your moans grew softer, more frequent, broken by panting breaths. You couldn’t form words. Couldn’t ask.

But he knew.

Without needing permission, he slid a third vibranium finger inside you, and that made you cry out.

“F-fuck—” you gasped, legs shaking.

The stretch was intense—your walls clenching tight around the cool metal, fluttering with every slow curl of his fingers. You didn’t know you could feel this full from just fingers. But the pressure was perfect. Overwhelming. Too much and not enough at the same time.

Bucky groaned, his own voice ragged now.

“Fuck, look at you,” he said, voice thick and reverent. “Clenching around me like you’re starving for it.”

He set a faster rhythm, fingers pumping into you with slick, wet sounds that filled the space between your own needy moans. His thumb slid up, circling your clit while his tongue flicked beneath it, and it was too much—your thighs shaking, your breath coming in shallow, desperate bursts.

Your hands gripped the rail above your head. Your body was so close, teetering, right there—

And then he stopped.

Just like that.

You whimpered, a broken sob of air as your hips bucked forward, trying to chase the friction he just took away.

“No—” you gasped.

He didn’t answer. He just sat back slightly, eyes hooded with heat, breath heavy, fingers soaked in your arousal.

He raised his hand to his mouth.

Licked the wet off one finger.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You taste so sweet. Addictive.”

Then, to your surprise, he brought those same fingers to your lips.

You parted them without thinking.

The taste of yourself hit your tongue—salty, musky, warm. It made you moan softly, eyes fluttering closed.

Bucky’s hand dropped, and he leaned over you, one arm curling around your waist as he pulled you upright from the bed in one swift, effortless move. Your legs wrapped around him loosely, chest pressed to his, your soaked cunt still throbbing.

He kissed you.

And it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was claiming.

Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that spoke everything his mouth couldn’t say. Tongue sliding against yours, hands anchoring you close, his cock thick and hard between your bodies.

You broke the kiss first, breath catching in your throat. A soft moan escaped you as you leaned into the crook of his neck, lips brushing his jaw, your breath hot against his ear.

“I need your cock,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Inside. Now.”

He jolted. Just slightly—but you felt it. The way his fingers dug into your hips, the way his cock twitched hard against your stomach.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice rough. “We don’t have to go that far. I can just—keep going. Oral only. Or I can stop.”

But you weren’t having that.

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.

Your voice steady now. Low. Commanding.

“It’s a command. Fuck me. Use your cock.”

Something in him broke.

His expression shifted instantly—lips parting, pupils dilating, breath punching out of him like you’d knocked the air from his lungs. And then his hands were on your hips, dragging you down the bed, adjusting your angle.

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed.

—

Bucky stepped in close, hands firm on your thighs as he aligned his cock at your entrance. You were still clinging to him from the kiss—legs locked around his waist, hips tilted forward—and the tip of him slid through your slick folds, gliding right up to your clit.

You gasped. Your arms tightened around his shoulders.

He let his forehead rest against yours, breath hot between your lips.

“Gonna split you open real slow, doll,” he whispered, voice dark and low. “Wanna make sure you feel me for days. Wanna make you think of my cock when you’re sittin’ at that medic desk, squirming in that chair…”

You whimpered, breath catching hard in your throat.

He shifted his hips slightly, the fat head of his cock nudging right at your entrance. There. Warm. Heavy.

“Still okay?” he asked, eyes scanning your face.

You nodded quickly—too fast.

But Bucky didn’t move yet.

He was patient. His flesh hand slid to your lower back, supporting you. His vibranium arm cradled under your thighs. You were secure. Held. Open.

He pushed in slowly.

The stretch was immediate.

Your breath hitched. Your brows pinched tight.

It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t discomfort.

It was just—a lot.

So thick. So full. Your walls struggled to accommodate the girth of him, every inch pressing into you with that impossible, deliberate pressure.

Your fingers clawed slightly at his back, seeking grounding. Your lips parted around a breathy, trembling moan.

He stilled halfway.

“Talk to me,” he whispered. “Need me to stop?”

You shook your head. “Just—need a second. You’re…”

“I know,” he muttered, placing a soft kiss against your temple. “You’re taking it so well.”

His cock twitched inside you, and the sensation made your core flutter around him again.

You adjusted your hips subtly, trying to find that sweet angle, and he caught your eyes—dark, hungry, but still gentle.

You gave him a tiny nod.

“Okay.”

He eased forward again, the rest of him slowly sheathing inside—inch by thick inch—until his hips met yours and you were completely full.

You both paused.

You gasped softly, still trying to breathe through the stretch. He stayed still, letting you feel everything: his length, his weight, the way he filled every space inside you like he was made for it.

Then—he began to move.

His hips rolled forward, slow and deep. A drag of thick cock against tight, soaked walls. You moaned quietly into his neck, your arms around his shoulders as he rocked into you with careful, steady rhythm.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he groaned. “Tightest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever felt. Gripping me like you don’t wanna let go.”

You didn’t. Couldn’t. Your body wrapped around him like instinct, taking everything he gave, hips jerking slightly with each push forward.

The pace stayed tender, but every thrust got a little deeper.

He lifted you slightly with each one, your thighs trembling around his waist.

But after a while, he slowed again—kissed your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

Then his voice dropped.

“Turn around for me.”

You blinked up at him, dazed. “What?”

“Wanna see you bend over that bed,” he said, voice rough. “Wanna fuck you from behind. Real slow. Let you feel every inch while you arch that back for me.”

You moaned.

He slowly pulled out—slick and thick and aching—then gently set you down on the mattress.

The bed hissed slightly as he adjusted the height down, just enough to allow your knees to hit the floor if needed. You leaned forward, hands braced on the mattress, spine arching as he guided you into place.

Your cunt throbbed—open and wet, dripping for him.

“That’s it,” he muttered behind you. “Just like that.”

Then he slid back in.

Your mouth dropped open with a gasp as his cock filled you again from behind—this time deeper, the angle hitting something different, something devastating.

He kept his hands firm on your hips, pulling you back gently as he rocked forward. The rhythm wasn’t hard—but deliberate. Controlled. Every stroke sank to the hilt, then withdrew just enough to let you feel the drag before he shoved back in.

You whimpered, braced against the bed, flushed from the neck down.

And he just kept going.

“Still good, baby?” he murmured, thumb brushing over the curve of your lower back.

You nodded, nearly trembling. “S-so good…”

But the words were starting to fall apart.

So was your mind.

And neither of you had even come yet.

—

Bucky’s thrusts deepened, hips rolling into yours at a steady, dragging pace. Each stroke hit just right, and you were keening for him—barely holding yourself upright, knuckles white as you clutched the edge of the med-bed beneath you.

But then his rhythm slowed.

You gasped when he slipped out, your empty cunt fluttering at the sudden loss. Before you could speak, his hands were already guiding your hips—flipping you over with a gentleness that made your heart twist.

You landed on your back.

He hovered over you for just a beat, gaze sweeping your face.

Then he leaned down and kissed you—slow and tender. Like a thank you. Like a promise.

“Lie back,” he murmured against your lips. “Wanna see your face when you come.”

Your cheeks burned. But you obeyed.

You slid further onto the mattress until you were lying flat, arms at your sides, heart pounding in your ears. He followed—climbed onto the narrow bed, the space barely enough for him, but he made it work.

He settled between your thighs again, and without a word, lined himself up.

Then—he pushed back in.

Your body stretched around him once more, the delicious fullness making you gasp. He groaned softly above you, head dropping to your shoulder.

And then he started to move.

Still gentle—but faster now.

Deeper. The strokes came in a rhythm designed to wreck you, his hips driving into yours, the mattress squeaking faintly beneath the both of you. His mouth hovered over yours, your foreheads touching, breath shared.

You looked up at him—really looked—and something in your chest cracked open.

He was flushed. Focused. Eyes trained on every expression you made. Every gasp. Every tremble.

“You’re so close, huh?” he whispered, voice rough. “Can feel you squeezing me.”

You nodded, breath caught in your throat. Your hands gripped his shoulders now, fingers digging into his back.

“Bucky—” you choked. “I’m— I’m coming—”

His mouth found yours as you shattered beneath him.

Your entire body clenched around his cock, heat surging through you like a wave breaking. Your walls pulsed tight around him, spasming with every beat of your climax. Your legs shook. Your fingers trembled. Your voice caught somewhere between a moan and a sob.

And he kept going—just enough to help you ride it out, hips rocking in slow, shallow thrusts as your body twitched and trembled beneath him.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Just like that. You did so fucking good…”

When your spasms started to ease—when your cunt stopped fluttering and your hips finally slumped against the mattress—he pulled out, slick and twitching.

His hand wrapped around his cock, stroking hard and fast.

You could barely watch, breathless and dazed, but the sight of him, flushed and towering above you, fucking his fist with your arousal still shining on him—it was filthy in the best way.

A few strokes later, he came.

Hot ropes spilled across your lower belly, streaking your thighs in thick, warm pulses. He grunted low, teeth clenched, brows furrowed as his release overtook him.

You lay there, wrecked. Chest heaving. Skin slick with sweat.

Bucky? He panted for a moment—but that Super Soldier thing had him steadying fast. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your stomach, just above the mess he’d made.

Then he reached for the tissue box by the tray.

You flinched when the cool wipe hit your thigh, but he was gentle—careful as he cleaned the sticky remnants off your skin. His touch wasn’t sexual anymore. It was care. Quiet. Wordless.

He helped you sit up, tugging your pants back into place like it was second nature. Buttoned them for you. His fingers lingered at the waistband.

Neither of you spoke right away.

You didn’t need to.

There was no awkwardness. No guilt. Just… this unspoken truth between you.

This would happen again.

You both knew it.

Bucky looked around the room once everything was cleaned—bed straightened, gloves tossed, no trace left.

Then he turned to you, mouth tugging at one corner in a crooked grin.

“Maybe next time,” he said, voice low, “we try sex on command, too?”

You laughed softly, breath still shaky.

You nodded.

“Yeah,” you said. “For documentation purposes.”

“Why are you walking funny? Were you hit?” Yelena’s voice is the first thing to greet you as you walk onto the jet. There’s a note of concerned curiosity as she eyes you up and down.

You release a soft groan and try to correct your gait. “Not hit, just uncomfortable. It’s laundry day,” you provide the minimal explanation while pulling open your weapon locker and starting to pull off all the guns and knives you have stashed all around your person.

“Ah,” Yelena smirks knowingly.

“I’m confused,” Walker pipes up from the other side of the jet. “What does laundry have to do with the way you’re walking?”

Before you can tell him to mind his own business, Ava cuts in, grinning wickedly. “Means she’s got sexy panties riding up her bum.”

You shoot her an accusatory glare and flip her off, which only makes her laugh. “The only thing riding up my bum is all of you pains in the ass.” You make a circular motion with your hand, indicating to everyone on the jet.

“Who are you calling a pain in the ass?” Bucky asks from behind you, making his way up the loading ramp.

“You, especially.” The sass in your tone does not go unnoticed.

He shoots you a conspiratorial smile as he walks past. He then moves to the front of the jet and activates the touchscreen console. “Data package secure. Returning to base,” he sends off the transmission and starts running through the takeoff procedures.

You settle into your seat and clip in, releasing a sigh of content now that you’re heading back home. Your relief is short-lived when you realize the conversation isn’t over.

John leans forward in his chair to catch your attention. “I thought women usually saved their granny panties for laundry day.”

You, Ava, and Yelena all scoff in unison. “Not that it’s any business of yours, but in our line of work, comfort usually outranks fashion.” The smile on your face is feral at best and deranged at worst.

“Yeah,” Yelena agrees. “Have you ever tried to dropkick someone with a thong so far up your crack, it felt like it was flossing your asshole?”

John winces and shifts in his seat, looking incredibly uncomfortable. “Can’t say that I have…”

“This conversation seems incredibly work appropriate,” Bucky interjects, eyes focused out the windshield as he initiates the jet’s vertical ascent.

 “Well, this one thought it would be work appropriate to wear lingerie today,” Ava points at you over her shoulder.

You roll your eyes. “Jesus, Ava. It’s not like I’m going to take them off and start waving them around on my fingers.”

“Actually, I would pay good money to see that,” Yelena grins.

“You couldn’t afford me,” you smirk back.

“I’m just saying,” she shrugs. “If you are already wearing them, you may as well show them off.”

Bucky keeps his eyes focused through the windshield as he reaches a hand up to flick a few switches and then engages autopilot. “No one is showing off anything.”

Yelena pouts, “Party pooper.”

You laugh and pull a tablet out from under your seat to get a head start on your mission report. You want to have it done before landing back at the Watchtower, that way you can go straight to your room immediately upon arrival.

You hit Submit on the tablet right as the jet touches down on the tower landing pad. Everyone clips out of their seats and prepares to disembark. With it being such a short mission, you just have your bare essentials. You grab your tactical bag with your emergency rations, first aid kit, and a few personal items, and toss it over your shoulder. Your eyes catch Bucky’s from across the jet. His gaze flashes with a look that makes your blood hot. You have to look away to keep your body from reacting.

This little cat-and-mouse game between the two of you is getting harder to keep concealed from the rest of the team. In the beginning, all the sneaking around was sort of fun, in a way. It was thrilling to see what you could get away with under the noses of literal assassins and enhanced individuals. But the problem with Bucky Barnes is that once you get a taste, you can’t help but crave more. Heated glances turn into feathered touches. Words whispered like secrets in empty halls change to incomprehensible cries of ecstasy. Stolen kisses in darkened corners become a frenzied exchange of body heat behind closed doors. The more he gives to you, the more you want of him. Like an insatiable hunger and an endless thirst. You’re very quickly approaching the limit of your ability to keep the secret of how much you want him.

Walker has already hit the mechanism to lower the back ramp, and you’re all but running off the jet as soon as it’s down. Bob and Alexei are already waiting for your return.

“How’d it go?” Bob asks, eyes darting between each of you to assure himself you’ve all returned safely.

“Fine,” Yelena gives him a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Easy extraction, minimal complications.”

“Where are you off to in such hurry?” Alexei prompts as you breeze past them with only a nod of greeting.

“She has a date with her laundry hamper,” Ava smirks, vigilant eyes tracking your every move.

Alexei frowns in confusion. “If this is joke, I don’t get it.”

The rest of their conversation is cut off by the automatic doors shutting behind you once you’ve stepped off the landing pad and entered the building. You take the elevator to the dormitory level. A heavy sigh of relief bursts from your chest while the tension leaves your shoulders. Yelena was correct in saying that the mission had been easy, but you never take for granted being able to come home unscathed. In this line of work, there are no guarantees, so any time the whole team makes it back all in one piece, you can’t help the grateful relief that floods you as soon as you’re off the jet. You might all be one bad day away from an emotional trainwreck, but this dysfunctional family is yours, and you wouldn’t trade them for anything.

You step out of the elevator and walk down the hall to your room. Your laundry basket is sitting just behind the front door. Exactly where you left it before getting called into this last-minute opp. You glare at it with your hands on your hips, like it’s the basket’s fault you were put into your current predicament. With a huff, you unzip your tactical vest and hang it on a hook on the wall, then you kick off your boots and shrug out of your uniform, tossing it into the basket. You add your sports bra to the pile and pull on the oversized sweatshirt that had been tossed over the back of your couch.

You hike the laundry basket up onto your hip and step back out of your apartment. The dormitory level is still blissfully empty. Bucky is likely giving his post-mission debrief to Valentina and handing over the data package. Yelena and John always hit up the cafeteria after returning from missions, and they probably took Bob and Alexei with them. Ava tends to wind down after missions with a run on the treadmill in the gym. Your bare feet pad quietly on the polished floor as you make your way to the communal laundry room.

There are rows of washing machines on one side of the room and dryers lining the other, with a folding table and cabinet against the back wall. You set your basket down in front of one of the middle machines and go to grab your detergent and fabric softener from the cabinet. You’re bent over, loading your clothes into the front opening of the washer when you feel the sudden brush of cool metal fingers against your lower back.

“Are these the panties that had everyone in a tizzy today?”

You hadn’t realized, but the way you were bent over caused your sweatshirt to ride up and put your barely-there lacy thong on full display for whoever happened to be passing by. You gasp and attempt to dart up, not realizing that your head is still halfway in the opening of the washer. Pain explodes against the back of your skull when it hits the lip of the machine. You yelp from the pain, one hand clutching the back of your head, while you slowly extract yourself from the opening and stand back up.

The deep laugh behind you is both exasperated and amused. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

You rub at the sore spot and glare at him over your shoulder. “I find your lack of concern disturbing.”

His eyes actually sparkle when he grins. “Was that a reference from The Star War?”

You roll your eyes. “You know that’s not what it’s called. Also, no one says in a tizzy anymore.”

“I do.”

“Thanks for the reminder that I’m dating an old man.” You finish loading the last of your laundry and shut the door to the machine. You feel him press against your back while you get the machine into the correct setting and start it up.

“I’m young in all the ways that matter.” His words flutter against your ear, full of sin and promise.

You can’t help the shiver that runs through you, awareness creeping into your veins. “Yeah, and what ways are those?”

His hands come around you, pulling you even more against his chest before dipping under the hem of your sweatshirt, ghosting up your thighs and over your hips. “In the ways that make these work inappropriate panties damp.”

Your core throbs at the implication of his words. A needy whimper escapes you before you can stop it, your head falling back against his shoulder. His stubble tickles your skin when he places a kiss on your temple.

“You gonna tell me why you’re wearing date night panties on missions now?” There’s no accusatory inflection in his tone, just gentle curiosity and tender amusement. “Hoping to get lucky in between stealth crawls and shootouts?”

“No,” you scoff indignantly. “But someone keeps shredding or losing all my normal underwear, so I don’t have enough to get through a full laundry cycle.”

He hums thoughtfully, fingers tapping a rhythm only he hears against your lower abdomen. “Have you tried checking between the couch cushions?”

“Yes, actually. I found two of mine and one of yours.”

His laugh vibrates against your back. “And you didn’t return them to me?”

“They’re my sleep shorts now. Also, you still haven’t returned the ones that landed on top of your wardrobe.”

“Oh, I’m keeping those.” His voice dips low. Dangerous. “When you’re on missions without me, I wrap them around my cock and think about you while I fuck myself.”

“Jesus Christ.” If he wasn’t holding your body against his, you probably would have fallen into a puddle of goo on the floor. You turn around to face him and pin him with a glare. “You’re not playing fair.

He gives you a cheeky grin, entirely unashamed. “You’re the one wearing lingerie and waving your sexy ass in front of my face.”

You jab at his chest with your pointer finger. “You’re the whole reason I had to wear them, and you’re the one who snuck up on me. Now, not only are they uncomfortable, but they’re also wet, and it’s too late to throw them into my laundry.”

His eyes glow with pure male pride and wicked satisfaction. “If they’re that uncomfortable, then there’s a very simple solution.” His hands flex against your hips, and it's the only warning you get before he’s hoisting you up and onto the washing machine. He kicks your basket out of the way and stands in front of you. His fingers curl against the thin scrap of material before he pulls them down your thighs, revealing your glistening, pulsing folds, and the embarrassingly large wet patch on the inside of the fabric. After he’s pulled them completely off, he balls them up and shoves them, soaked and all, into the front pocket of his tactical pants.

He divested himself of the upper portion of his uniform before seeking you out, leaving him in a tight, navy undershirt with his dog tags hanging out. You hook your fingers around the chain and pull him in closer. “You going to keep those ones too?” You spread your knees to bracket his hips as he slots himself against you.

His eyes roam over your features like he’s trying to memorize you. “Maybe,” his mouth tilts into that adorable half smile that makes your knees weak.

You huff out a short laugh. “You’re staring,” you mutter quietly, as if speaking any louder might break the spell of this moment.

“I know,” he whispers back.

“Why?”

His gaze turns soft. “Because you’re beautiful.”

Your heart skips a beat. Only Bucky Barnes could have you literally dropping your panties for him one moment, then make your heart flutter with words so sweet, they make you want to cry, in the next. This is exactly why being with him is so dangerous. If it were just sex, that would be one thing, but when he says stuff like this, you can’t help but fall in love with him a little bit more.

“You know, you’ve gotten way better at flirting,” you tease after wrestling your wayward heart back under control.

He gives you an amused smile. “I wasn’t trying to flirt.”

You reach up to cup his face and pull him even closer to you. “Well, either way, it’s working.”

His chuckle ghosts over your lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you confirm, eyes falling shut moments before his mouth slants over yours.

You moan into his mouth, one hand sliding into the hair at the nape of his neck while the other curls around his shoulders. He sighs like he’s been waiting for this all day. His flesh hand grips the edge of your jaw, deepening the kiss. His metal fingers press into your lower back, holding your body tight against him. You feel the hard seam of his tactical pants against your unprotected pussy and whimper when the rough material catches against your clit. He sinks his teeth into your lower lip and grinds against you, either uncaring or utterly delighted by the mess you’re making against the fabric of his uniform. Probably the latter.

The washing machine vibrates under your ass, sending tremors right to the place where you’re grinding against Bucky’s clothed erection. His tongue slips into your open mouth, hot and wet and tasting like spearmint. He devours your moans like they’re sustaining his lifeforce. He kisses you like his very existence depends on leaving you shaking and wrecked and begging for more. It’s intense and makes your head spin.

When he pulls away, you’re left panting for breath and blink up at him blearily.

“Still uncomfortable?” he questions with a tilted smirk.

Your pussy clenches in hunger. “Yes, but now for entirely different reasons.”

He looks down and shifts his hips back enough to see the mess of slick and needy wetness splattered across the front of his pants. “Fuck, I love this messy pussy.”

You place your hands behind you against the top of the washing machine and lean back, spreading your thighs even further, and tilt your hips up, your body moving on instinct. “Bucky… please touch me.”

His responding chuckle is dark, laced with heavy want and yearning desire. “Now, how could I possibly say no to that?”

Vibranium fingertips drag across your skin, moving from your lower back to curl around your hip and down to your dripping center. The metal plates are no longer cold, having absorbed the body heat from your burning flesh. His fingers swipe over your slick folds, causing the simmering heat to bubble up low in your belly. He circles teasingly around your clit, never quite touching it, but close enough to have you keening. You’re so fucking wet, so fucking desperate, so fucking needy. And he relishes in it. In the way you beg for him, not only with your words, but with your eyes, and your body, and every fiber of your being.

Your lips part with a guttural cry when he finally pierces you with his middle finger. He sinks in all the way, without resistance, your body welcoming the intrusion with squelching fervor. He gives a few experimental thrusts, feeling how you squeeze and flutter around the single digit. After a few seconds, he adds his index finger. “Ah!” you gasp at the way his thick fingers stretch you out.

He watches your face closely, eyes lidded, pupils blown, while he fucks you with his vibranium fingers. He shoves them as deep as they’ll go, then curls them against your upper wall. “Fuck—Bucky—!” Your hips jolt against his palm of their own accord. That tight coil of pleasure deep in your gut thrums with energy.

He looks utterly delighted by the way you’re falling apart in front of him. “Careful, sweetheart, or you’ll alert the whole floor.”

Your wide eyes dart to the open doorway of the laundry room. Literally anyone could walk past and they’d have a front row view of you getting finger fucked by a metal-armed super soldier. Your breath hitches in your throat with a flicker of panic, but then your nipples tighten and your pussy clenches hungrily around Bucky’s fingers. Is it bad that you kind of want to get caught? Not because you want someone else to see you in this depraved state, but because then it would mean that being with Bucky would no longer be a secret. No more sneaking, no more waiting for a moment alone, no more trying to be quieter than the humming machine vibrating under your ass.

He must recognize the direction of your thoughts, because he tsks his tongue. “Someone’s having naughty thoughts.” He punctuates his words with another solid thrust of his fingers into that spongy place that shoots a jolt of pleasure directly up your spine.

“God—Bucky!” You can’t help but cry out his name again.

“You tryin’ to get caught?” He asks, that slow smirk spreading his lips. His wrist tilts a little, and then you feel the hard edge of his thumb press against your clit. He circles directly over the tight bundle like he’s trying to polish a penny.

Your teeth clamp down hard on your lower lip as you try and fail to keep your whimper inside you. “M-mm,” you shake your head in denial.

“Hey, only I’m allowed to bite that.” His voice is more tender than teasing as his other hand eases your lip from between your teeth. His thumb rubs gently over the swollen flesh, then pulls away. “Here.” His fingers then grip the bottom hem of your hoodie and drag the material up to your mouth. “Bite this.”

You’re so used to trusting his commands on missions that you don’t even question the order; you just do as he says. You don’t realize the dual function of his actions until he flashes you a satisfied grin and dips his head low over your freshly exposed chest. He sucks one peaked nipple into his waiting mouth and pinches the other between his thumb and forefinger. The fabric in your mouth muffles your groan of pleasure, but just barely.

The fingers inside your pussy don’t stop. If anything, they seem to work you even faster, curling into you like they’re holding down the trigger of an assault rifle. Expert marksman that he is, he knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows right where to press and how much pressure to apply to get you primed and ready for ignition. His thumb continues its barrage on your aching clit, occasionally swiping down near his other fingers to collect more of your slick. You’re so wet at this point that there’s an audible squelch with each movement of his fingers. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t so turned on by it.

Bucky devours your breast like it’s the most delicious thing to ever pass his tantalizing lips. His tongue laps at your stiff bud as he sucks it deeper into his mouth. Leaving one of your hands back to keep you propped up, the other sinks into the hair at the nape of his neck. You cradle his neck, nails scratching encouragingly at the back of his scalp as you arch against him. He plucks, pulls, and tweaks at your other nipple in a way that shoots straight to your aching core. Your cunt practically drools from all the attention he’s showering over your body. The fabric in your mouth grows damp from your saliva.

The machine under you shifts into a higher gear, the drum spinning even faster, the vibrations kicking it up a notch. Bucky takes it as a personal challenge and increases his own pace. A third finger enters your body; your drenched, quivering walls, greeting it like an old friend. At this point, you’re not sure if the wet sounds filling the laundry room are coming more from you or the washing machine.

“Ngh!” Your teeth clamp down on the bunched fabric as a tremor travels down your legs. Bucky’s fingers thrust and pulse against your G-spot, the stimulation becoming too much to bear. They press and curl against that spongy tissue inside you, over and over, pushing the height of your pleasure further up with every overwhelming touch. Your brow furrows, muscles twitching in other parts of your body from the overstimulation. Something feels different this time, but you’re too overloaded with pleasure to be able to concentrate on anything long enough to figure out what. There’s almost too much pleasure that you feel like you’re about to burst. It presses against the inside of your skin, making it feel too tight, like there’s not enough room to contain it.

Your thighs shake, hips convulsing, breasts heaving. Every place that Bucky touches you feels like sparks scattering across your skin. You can’t take it anymore; it’s entirely too much. You have to let it out somehow, or you’re going to explode. Just as that thought crosses your mind, you feel the pressure intensify between your legs, before it bursts out of you like a broken fire hydrant. Liquid sprays in an arc, past Bucky’s fingers, and soaks immediately into the front of his shirt. The bottom of your sweatshirt falls out of your mouth as your jaw slackens, no longer muffling the wail of your pleasure in acoustic form. Your back arches and your hips jerk into his unrelenting touch. He makes you squirt again with a perfectly timed thrust into your sopping cunt.

“Fuck! Oh my God—Bucky!” Your entire world has tilted off its axis. Gravity is skewed; physics off balance; hell, even the law of thermodynamics could be reversed, for all you know. There’s only you, Bucky, and an endless ocean of pleasure and release.

His mouth gives a parting suck to your breast before he lifts his head to watch you fall apart. His eyes sparkle with wonder and awe, like he’s witnessing something holy and sacred. Like the offering he’s provided to his deity has been met with all the answers he was looking for. He’s been baptized in your pleasure and come out the other side as a new man.

Your legs still jolt with the aftershocks of your orgasm when Bucky carefully extracts his fingers. Wet metal leaves streaks against bare skin where he rubs soothingly against twitching muscles in your thigh. His flesh hand is a steadying weight against your rib cage, just under your pounding heart. Your sweatshirt is still bunched up to the armpits, leaving your heaving breasts on full display, one shiny with spit, the other still achingly hard. You look like a downright mess, but by the look in Bucky’s eyes, you’ve never felt more beautiful. In an unhinged, debauched sort of way…

He glances down at his soaked shirt, then back at you. “Didn’t know you could do that.” His mouth curls into that half smile again.

The embarrassment hits you nearly as hard as the orgasm. “Didn’t know either. I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t be.” He cuts in before you can spiral into your mortification. He cups the back of your neck, flesh fingers massaging the base of your skull. “I’m already coming up with 37 ways that I can get you to do it again.”

You scoff, half incredulous, half in relief that he’s not mad or disgusted. In fact, he looks quite pleased with himself instead. “Only 37?”

His grin turns positively feral. “I’m sure more will come to me in time.”

“That’s not the only thing coming.” The two of you share a laugh at the innuendo. “We should probably get out of here before the team comes back.” You try to be the voice of reason, but with the way you’re still clinging onto him, your mind and body appear to be at odds.

His eyes flicker between yours. “Mine or yours?” Clearly, he’s not done with you either.

You smile back. “You have a bigger shower.”

He lifts you off the washing machine and carries you down the hall to his personal suite. You’re grateful that the dorm level is still empty, since your bare ass is definitely in full view. Discarded clothing litters the floor of Bucky’s bathroom, steam making the air thick. Hot skin presses to cold tile, both slick with water and soapy suds. He kisses you long and slow, like someone who doesn’t need to worry about their water bill. Your fingers card through his wet hair, made soft by conditioner and smelling of rosemary and peppermint.

He hikes your knee higher up against his hip and rocks into you like he has all the time in the world. Rivulets of water drip down his chest and mix with the wetness from where he’s buried inside you. All the tension from the day has melted from his shoulders and now circles the shower drain. Your heady moans and breathy mewls echo around the space, making him feel like he’s entirely surrounded by you. He kisses your neck and shoulders reverently, worshiping the body that means more to him than his own. He thrusts into your moist heat, feeling every shudder, clench, and squeeze of your cunt around his cock.

There’s no rush. No frenzied urgency to reach the end. Just two bodies moving as one, skin hot, eyes glassy. Shared breath, nimble kisses, lingering touches. It’s more than sex. It’s souls intertwining. He doesn’t say it with words, but you feel his love, breathe his devotion. He’s attentive and careful, making sure you’re right there with him, every step of the way. He doesn’t treat you like a tool. He thrives off your pleasure as much as his own.

He sinks into you, as deep as he can get, and grinds his pelvic bone into your clit. He recaptures your mouth, tongues tangling, tasting, and consuming your pleasure. Your next orgasm rolls into you like rumbling thunder, not quite as sharp and sudden as lightning, but no less powerful. Bucky grunts low in his chest as your pussy clamps down around him. A few sloppy thrusts later, and he’s spilling into you, thick milky cum painting your walls white.

He continues to hold you close, chin resting against your damp hair, his skin turning pink from a combination of the hot water and postcoital bliss. You press your cheek to his chest while you attempt to catch your breath, fingers tracing the gold patterns on his shoulder. You listen to his heartbeat as it steadily evens out; his recovering much faster than yours. Words aren’t needed to fill the silence. Everything’s already been said in other ways.

Metal fingers slowly lower your lifted knee off his hip, then travel up your outer thigh and settle at your waist. They follow the trails of water droplets in reverse, like they’re jealous of the tracks those droplets have left behind and want to cover your skin in traces of their own. His fingers leave behind marks that can’t be seen physically, but they’re painted on your soul.

You’re not sure how long you spend wrapped up in each other. And thanks to the great mind of Tony Stark, the hot water in this building is practically limitless. The bathroom is starting to turn into a sauna by the time you and Bucky finally part and finish cleaning yourselves up. He wraps a large, extra fluffy towel around your shoulders and makes sure it’s secure before casually wrapping one loosely around his waist.

A cloud of steam billows out as soon as the bathroom door is opened. You follow Bucky into his bedroom, using the edge of your towel to scrunch your hair dry. He opens one of his drawers and pulls out a Henley he knows is your favorite. Then he opens a different drawer and pulls out a set of boxer briefs and a pair of undies. He casually hands you the shirt and undies, then drops his towel and pulls on the briefs.

Your brow furrows in confusion. You lift the panties up, leaving the fabric to dangle from your fingers. “These aren’t mine…”

He bends down to grab his towel once more and dabs at the water droplets on his chest, barely even glancing at the underwear in question. “They’re new.”

You blink several times in shock, probably looking a little too much like that one guy in the meme. You look at the drawer Bucky pulled these out of, then back at him. “You bought me new underwear?”

He smiles, half sheepish—half cheeky, all charming. “I figured you were getting low.”

You give him an incredulous look, but have to laugh. “And you couldn’t have told me earlier?” You pull his Henley on and then drop your own towel. You step into your new panties and pull them up your legs. They fit perfectly. Comfortable, soft, just the way you like it.

“I’m telling you now.” Humor makes his eyes sparkle like gemstones.

You reach for the side of his face and pull him in for a kiss. “Thank you,” you mumble against his lips.

“My pleasure,” he breathes before kissing you back. He cradles your face between his hands, holding you so gently, you’d never guess what sort of gruesome things those very hands had been forced to do in another life. His nose brushes against yours, lips ghosting across your cheek. There’s a brief moment when you feel him seem to hesitate before his lips part and he speaks. “I want to tell the team.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. “What?” You search his eyes, wondering if he’s truly saying what you think he’s saying.

He looks back, like he’s searching for the same thing in your eyes. “I want to tell them about us.”

You suck in a harsh breath. Yes, he is definitely saying what you thought he was saying. You stare up at him, eyes wide, and suddenly you’re envisioning everything you’ve been desperately trying not to for months. Cuddles on the couch during movie nights. Giggling at the breakfast table, stealing each other’s toast and coffee. Flirting openly during sparring sessions. No more hiding, no more sneaking, no more dark corners.

“…Or not?” Bucky frowns when you don’t respond to his proposal.

“No!” you shout unnecessarily loud, given your proximity. “I mean, yes—I mean…” You take a breath and try to steady yourself. You place your hands on his chest and meet his gaze straight on. “I want to tell the team, too.”

His mouth lifts into a tilted smile, eyes going soft and tender. “Yeah?”

You smile back, your heart pounding in excitement. “Yeah,” you confirm.

“We should probably prepare ourselves, then. The teasing is about to become insufferable.”

You laugh openly. “Well, then we can just start making out obnoxiously until they all get uncomfortable and leave.”

He chuckles back. “I like the way you think.”

You share another heated kiss before you pull away with a groan. “I need to go move my laundry.”

“I’ll go with you,” he offers immediately.

You shoot him with a dubious expression. “I’ll be back in like five minutes.”

He looks back solemnly. “That’s entirely too long.”

You scoff in amusement and begin heading for the front door of his suite. “Who knew metal-armed super soldiers were so needy?”

“The neediest,” he confirms.

You push open the front door and stumble out into the hall with Bucky’s arm around your waist and half glued to your back. You’ve barely taken two steps when the ding of the elevator has you freezing in place. There’s no time to react before the doors open, revealing all the remaining members of the team. They stare at the two of you, and you both stare back. Time suddenly comes to a screeching halt. A beat passes, then two.

Bucky’s arm tightening around your waist snaps you out of it right before he lifts you up and turns his back toward the team, shielding you from view. “Don’t look. She’s indecent.”

You gawk and sputter for words. “You’re wearing even less than I am!” you protest, fidgeting in his hold.

“I knew it!” Yelena screams in validation. Her hand darts out to stop the elevator doors from closing as she points at you both accusingly with the other. “I knew you were making kissy faces at each other when you thought we weren’t looking!”

“Ah…” Ava makes a sound like she’s just reached a profound conclusion. “Now the box of women’s underwear that was delivered to Barnes makes more sense.”

“You looked through my packages?!” Bucky glares incredulously over his shoulder.

She shrugs casually. “More like phased through them. Security protocol. And personal curiosity.”

Everyone pauses for a second, minds scrambling to figure out what packages of theirs might have been discovered by Ava.

Bob clears his throat and raises his hand before speaking. “I accidentally heard the two of them in a compromising position through the wall once.”

Ava narrows her eyes and points toward him. “Noise canceling headphones?” She guesses, recalling the purchase he made a few weeks back.

He flushes in embarrassment and nods. “Yep… got those after it happened.”

You want the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

Alexei laughs heartily and goes next. “I saw lipstick stain on Barnes’ neck at fundraising gala. Same shade as what she was wearing,” he gestures toward you.

“Wait…” John looks around the group. “So, am I the only one that didn’t know about this?”

“Yes,” they all collectively respond.

“Oh my God…” you groan behind your hands as you cover your face in mortification. So much for thinking you were getting away with this the whole time.

“Well, on the bright side,” Bucky starts, whispering directly into your ear. “Looks like we don’t have to tell them.”

his thumb swipes over the head of his cock, smearing precum as he strokes himself slowly, matching the rhythm of the memory.

valentina’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp as a blade. “—and if we don’t secure the votes by thursday, this entire deal collapses.”

his fingers tighten around himself, his breath catches and stops as your mouth parts on screen, peering at him over your shoulder. “mhm,” he hums, not even pretending to listen, his hips twitching up into his fist.

he should pause it. he should. but his thumb just skims the screen, rewinding to the part where you whimper around him

she slaps a folder onto his desk. “are you even paying attention?”

his eyes flicker down—just for a second—to where you’re clenching around him in the video.

“christ, barnes,” she snaps, mistaking his distraction for disinterest. “this is serious.”

"i am paying attention," he lies, voice rough as gravel. his free hand fists under the desk, knuckles white.

she scoffs, crossing her arms. "bullshit. you’ve been staring at your lap like it’s got the nuclear codes."

if only she knew. his cock throbs in his hand, flushed and leaking, the video looping as valentina rants about policy.

he doesn’t correct her. just strokes himself slower, savoring it.

the screen captures every filthy inch of him sinking into you. "fuck—christ—" his hips snap forward, the desk creaking under your weight, and the wet sound of skin on skin fills the room. "you’re so tight."

his grip tightens, forcing your back to arch, and the camera catches the way your mouth falls open, breathless. "take it. take my whole fuckin’ cock like a greedy whore," he grunts, his voice rough and wrecked.

the lens doesn’t miss a thing—the way your fingers scramble for anything to dig into on the desk, the way his metal hand digs into your hip hard enough to bruise, the way his thrusts turn sloppy when he gets close.

"gonna watch this later," he pants, "gonna watch how fuckin’ pretty you look takin’ me." the phone clatters to the desk as he loses control, his free hand smacking your ass just to hear you whimper. "fuck—goddamn—"

and then he’s coming, hips slowing their thrusts, his groan loud enough the mic picks it up.

- It's a good thing they didn't," he replied, looking at your mouth as you swallowed. - Because I was going to carry on anyway. With or without an audience.

The silence of the early morning fell over you for a moment. The smell of sex was still in the air, on the bench, on your skin. His warmth too.

- So - you began, with a naughty smile on your lips - where's next?

He looked at you as if you had just thrown gasoline on a fire.

- Do you really want to play with me like that? - he asked, moving closer, standing between your spread legs, his big hands resting on your thighs as if he owned every inch of them.

- I want to," you whispered, biting your lip. - Speak. Surprise me.

He looked up at the sky, thoughtful. His cigarette dangling from his fingers. His face dirty with sweat, enjoyment and desire.

- There's that alley behind the workshop," he said slowly. - Hardly anyone passes that way at night. High wall. Cold floor. And there's a metal ladder against the wall. I always imagined putting you on your back there. One leg on each step. Your panties ripped off with your mouth. And fucking you with my hand covering your mouth so no one would hear you begging.

You felt the heat rise again.

- Fuck, Bucky...

- Or... - he continued, his voice lower, dirtier - in the elevator of the empty building where Sam dumped me that day. Remember? The one that only goes up to the third floor. Five minutes locked in. Just enough time for me to put you up against the wall and fuck you like the elevator was going to explode.

- Have you thought about all this? - you asked, laughing with surprise and arousal.

- Baby... - he leaned in, his mouth brushing against your ear, hot, dragging - I have a list.

- I want to hear it.

- Do you really want to?

You nodded, and he pulled you close, his gaze dirty, his breath hot again. His hand was already down your leg again, as if the break was over.

- To the hood. To the alley. To the elevator. And then what? - he whispered. - In a store fitting room, with you sitting quietly on my lap. On the back of a motorcycle. On the workbench in the garage. Or with you kneeling in the bathroom of an expensive restaurant, your mouth full and your eyes staring at me as if you were going to die of lust.

You swallowed, your body responding before your mind.

He smiled.

- Pick one. Or all of them. But don't make me wait too long... or the next promise I'll keep right there, on the hood again. With the door open. And you shouting my name.

Days later the conversation 

It was a muggy night in Brooklyn, and the garage had finally closed. Sam had already left, and everything was dark, silent. Only the light from the streetlamp near the alley blinked on and off, illuminating the side of the building with a dirty yellowish hue.

You didn't even have time to ask where Bucky was dragging you. He grabbed your wrist and pulled you out the back, pinning you against the rough brick wall with his whole body.

- Keep quiet," he said in a low voice, his accent heavy, his gaze burning into you. - If anyone passes... bad luck for them.

The hands went straight in. They went up her blouse, pulled her bra up. Her nipples shivered as the night breeze touched her exposed skin.

He knelt down right there, on the dirty sidewalk, and pulled her panties down her legs, slipping them into his pocket. You could barely think. His mouth was already between your thighs, hot, wet, hungry.

He sucked hard, licked as if he wanted to devour you whole. Metal fingers held your legs open, your head pinned against the wall, and the sound of his tongue slapping against your clitoris echoed in the narrow alley.

You moaned too loudly.

- Shhh - he growled against your skin. - Do you want someone to see?

He continued. Faster. Harder. Wetter. And when you came, you came trembling, your legs failing you, your body pressing against the bricks as if you had nowhere to run.

But he didn't let you catch your breath.

He stood up, unzipped his zipper, pulled out his cock and brutally flipped you onto your back. He pulled your hips back, placing your hands on the rough wall.

And in he went.

Deep. Fast. Raw.

The impact was brutal. Dry thrusts, the sound of skin against skin, his breath hot against the back of your neck.

- This pussy was made for me," he muttered between his teeth. - All mine. I told you I was going to fuck you here, remember?

You nodded between moans. Almost crying with pleasure.

- Say it. - He pulled your hair. - Say it's mine.

- It's yours... fuck, Bucky... just yours...

He increased the pace, his hand on your clitoris, fucking you as if he wanted to nail you to the wall. When you came again, you almost fell over. But he held you with his strong arms, still filling you up, and he came right after, deep, with an animalistic grunt.

You stood there, panting, leaning against the dirty wall, you on wobbly legs, him licking the sweat off the back of your neck and saying against your skin: