The Devil's Daughter Ch. 7
Master List
Pairing: The Winter Soldier X Reader (Bucky X Reader)
Summary:
Being born in the belly of the beast leaves you with two choices: Either become one with the monster, or be the thing that kills it. Catherine Clayton intends on becoming the former. Raised at the hands of a man who would make the Devil himself cower, she is bred to be as beautiful as she is brutal. The perfect jewel in Hydra’s crown. When she finds herself positioned to take her late father’s seat as second in command of the organization, she sets out with the help of The Winter Soldier and an embittered former Black Widow to use everything at their disposal to kill the beast from the inside out. But slaying monsters never comes without a cost and devils and heroes alike rarely get their happily ever after.
(This is a reader insert in that the ‘reader’ perspective is told in second person, however the character is named. So it is a little different than the standard y/n insert but think of it like a role play.)
Warnings:
MDNI, SMUT, BD/SM, and the general warning that this is a fairly graphic story (but this one is mostly just good filthy fun)
A/N:
OH MY GOD I AM BACK BABY! Or, I'm at least posting this chapter that has sat half finished for literal years. To those of you who responded so well to the teaser I put up, THANK YOU! I'm so glad y'all are still around and that you don't hate me for being gone for so long.
And ya know, for someone who thinks she doesn't have a switchy bone in her body... This makes me question that just a smidge.
I hope y'all enjoy this one.
(Oh and just a reminder most of my stuff doesn't have a beta. Just sending this out there raw.)
TAGS ARE OPEN
If I missed your tag please remind me.
Things had been going well since the night you burned The Soldier’s book of commands.
Your most recent blows to the beast that is Hydra were relatively bloodless. No one innocent was harmed and the intended impact was achieved. Globally, the organization felt the squeeze of losing some key supply lines due to—as far as anyone knew—nothing but hubris and infighting. The kind of entirely human self-sabotage that couldn’t be traced back to your Trojan horse of a team.
On the home front, you and James had managed to break your streak of tense and awkward exchanges, mostly. Mara was thrilled, announcing she could now table her plans to lock you and James in a room until you kissed and made up.
She didn’t need to know you’d done the kissing without her interference. Not that it had happened since.
It would be the single blemish on this blissful time if it wasn’t the one thing keeping you from expecting the other shoe to drop. Things were going well. And as long as James wasn’t in your bed, they were not perfect.
Which was how things should stay.
Maybe if you keep telling yourself that it will make you lean less into those lingering embraces when you were both home alone. Dampen the heat of those moments before you parted ways for bed, the ones that felt like a held breath–each of you waiting for the other to cross the invisible line between you.
You almost crossed it at that insufferable New Year’s event you had to attend the other day. Tried to tell yourself a wealthy socialite kissing her bodyguard was just the kind of fodder The Mirror loved. And wouldn’t that only help the image you were trying to build?
No amount of internal bargaining could make you do it.
Coward. That word your father had taught you from a young age to loathe. The weakness of the defeated you were meant to rip out by the roots. Yet, you knew that was exactly what you were when it came to James Barnes. A bloody fucking coward.
All of this runs through your mind as you stare at the ceiling above your bed.
For the last few hours, you’d been trying to force your mind into sleep. Staying prostrate under the covers out of spite more than anything. Before your thoughts can loop back to that night, to James’ look of relief when you burned the book, and inevitably to your single shared kiss, you fling the covers off.
Tossing your sleep shirt aside, you pull on sweats and a sports bra. Maybe a run in the frigid early January London night would make you feel better, or at least tired enough to get some sleep.
The scent of chocolate causes you to pause as you step from your room. You sniff the air. Not just chocolate. Warm chocolate. Dark and rich. Your mouth waters.
From the kitchen, the sound of James humming follows that delectable scent. You stay hidden, listening, a gentle smile working its way across your lips. Lyrics break through the humming here and there:
Why can't I let you know the song my heart would sing?
A few hummed bars and then:
The song is you.
James stops, silence filling the space. “Catherine?” Damn his perception.
You lean around the corner, waving awkwardly. “Sorry, didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Did I wake you?” His brows knit in unwarranted concern.
“No.” The soundproofing in your room had, not for the first time, completely muffled his late-night kitchen escapades. There were many mornings since you’d begun this journey together when you woke to some new treat—muffins, and crumpets, and cupcakes, anything that struck his fancy. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“You alright?” He wipes his hands on a cup towel, tossing it over his shoulder. White dusts the front of his dark gray shirt and black sweats.
“Of course.” You hop onto the side of the island facing the small dining space, tucking a knee under your chin.
He rounds the island, toeing one of the cushioned barstools, a fond smile on his face. “I don’t know why you bought stools if you never use them.”
“Can’t have people know how feral I am. Appearances, James.”
“I’m not people?” The question could have been dark but the teasing tone in his voice assures you he took your meaning.
“You’ve seen the beast,” you say with a wink. Bowls and measuring cups sit in perfect order on the countertop behind you, some with ingredients awaiting their purpose. “What’re you making?”
He sighs. “Well… It was meant to be a surprise.”
Your brows knit, “What was?” You pluck a chocolate chip from a bowl, grinning at his disapproval as the delicious bitter-sweet taste fills your mouth.
“The cake,” he says as though that made things more clear. When you just stare at him he moves a little closer. When you reach for another piece of chocolate he grabs your hand, stopping you.
“Do you know the date?” He shifts his grip, interlacing your fingers. Such an innocent thing and still your heart beats faster.
“The da-” The third of January. You try to pull your hand away but James tightens his grip, closing the remaining distance between you. “No,” you groan. “Please, no. I don’t- I haven’t…”
The words die on your tongue, turning the lingering chocolate taste to ash. How to say that you haven’t celebrated your birthday since your mother? True, you may be a beast, but it felt especially heinous to celebrate your birth after what you’d done to the woman who brought you into the world, regardless of whether that had been your choice or not.
“Catherine?” His fingers lightly trace your jaw. Confusion and concern color his features, deepening the blue in his eyes. It makes you ache.
“I don’t do my birthday. I-” A shudder runs through you. Rather than risk cracking in front of him you push him back, hopping down.
You barely make it two steps before strong arms wrap around your middle, pulling your back flush against his warm chest. “Don’t go.” His words and breath flutter against your ear.
“James-” you try to pull away but he holds you firm- “please.” Your voice cracks despite your efforts.
“It can just be another day. It can just be a cake. I’ll let Mara know.”
“Mara?” You manage.
His chuckle vibrates between you. “This was her idea. I’m pretty sure she’s filling your office with balloons as we speak.”
You can’t help the smile tugging at your lips or the warm feeling in your chest. Your head falls back onto his shoulder. “Why? Last year she didn’t-”
“She said last year she was still testing the waters but that, and I quote, ‘I’ll be damned if I let another pass without embarrassing her at least a little.’”
You laugh despite yourself and look over your shoulder at the kitchen. “And you were going to make me a cake?”
“Technically, I’ve already made it.”
“Could’ve just bought a cake at Tescos.”
“I wanted to make one for you.”
Why did that simple statement unleash a swarm of bees in your chest cavity? Why does the thought of these people trying to do something kind make you want to laugh and cry and scream all at once? This feeling, this warm and gentle feeling, is so foreign it feels like your body is rejecting it like a bad organ transplant.
For a few long moments, you both stand there, swaying ever so gently in the soft silence. He doesn’t ask you for an explanation you don’t feel ready or willing to give and you don’t pull away.
I’m sorry I let him make you think that being kind is being weak, that love is weakness. It isn’t.
You hadn’t thought about those words, some of the last your mother had spoken to you, in so long. She believed love and kindness made you stronger. And maybe she was right. Maybe allowing this softness to take root would lead to something good.
We’re going to be happy, baby.
You owed it to her memory to try.
“What if I didn’t want cake?” You say in as light a tone as you can manage.
His low laugh makes the bees swarm faster, “I’d say you’re a liar. You love dark chocolate.” It was true.
“But, if I wanted something else?” The words fall from your lips, much more coy and confident than you actually feel.
James loosens his hold, turning you to face him. “I thought you didn’t do birthdays?”
You shrug. “Seems foolish to try and go against both you and Mara.”
He tilts your face up to his. “So, what is it you want?”
Your heart lodges in your throat, making breathing difficult, much less speaking. This was madness. No one had ever left you speechless or breathless, it was such unknown ground you couldn’t find your footing.
“Should I guess?” The pad of his cool metal thumb grazes your lower lip. You nod, breath held. He leans in slowly, giving you space to stop him, as if you’d ever dream of doing such a thing.
The initial brush of his lips silences the swarm in your chest. All the chaos and guilt and doubt falls away.
He cups the back of your head, deepening the kiss. You melt into him, hands finding their way to his waist, holding him tight against you.
The timer ringing causes you both to jump back, breaking the kiss. You stare at one another for a breath before laughter fills your flat.
“I have to check that,” James says, words still colored with that warm laugh of his.
You trail behind him, hopping back onto the counter as the rich smell of warm chocolate billows from the oven.
“How many cakes did you make?” You ask, watching him remove another cake after the first.
“Three.”
You don’t try to hide your surprise. “Are we feeding all of Hydra?”
“It’s a layer cake.” He finishes setting the cakes out to cool.
James chuckles as turns around, taking you in. “I think you’re part cat. Always sitting in places that aren’t made for it.”
A sweet sadness stabs through your chest, “My mum used to call me Kitty. Drove Eric crazy but she did it anyway.”
“Brave woman.”
“She was.” You take a shaky breath, focusing on the grout between the floor tiles. “I pretended to hate it, but… I didn’t. Not really.”
“Kitty,” he tests the name. It had been so long since someone had called you that, you’re unsure how to feel until you look up and see the tenderness on his face. “It suits this part of you.”
You don’t hide your confusion as he closes the distance between you, his palms coming to rest on your thighs, giving them a gentle squeeze.
“It’s who you are here. The version of you who sits on things that aren’t intended to be chairs. Who sneaks into the kitchen for biscuits late at night. ” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair out of your face. “The one who indulges Mara’s bizarre movie choices, and who never minds reading silently in the same room as me. That’s Kitty.”
“Is this a gentle way of telling me I have some kind of split personality?” You tease darkly.
He cocks a brow. “Don’t we all?” You shrug in acquiescence. “I’m glad to know Catherine but I’m honored you trust me to see Kitty too.”
A fierce blush spreads across your cheeks, the heat seeping into your chest.
On more than one occasion, you’d been—by your own consent—stripped bare in a room full of strangers. All of those times never left you as vulnerable as you feel now.
He places a kiss on your forehead, cheeks, the tip of your nose. Each sends a shock through you. Each makes you silently beg for him to make his way to your lips once more. When he finally does, you nearly melt from satisfaction.
Everything falls away.
When was the last time you kissed someone like this? Nothing but lips and tongues. Soft sounds. Hesitant caresses. Had you ever?
It doesn’t matter. This feels divine.
James breaks the kiss, lips barely an inch from your own. “Is this what you wanted?”
You nod. “Since that night. But I wasn’t sure if you-”
“I did.” He cuts you off. “I do.” He heaves a sigh, back straightening a bit. “Sorry. I-” He cuts himself off, eyes dropping to watch as his calloused fingers trace the cut of your collarbone. “I don’t know the… the rules.”
You recognize that feeling. Aching to touch, to feel, to experience, and not knowing how people went about doing that.
“Do you want rules?” You ask, tilting his face up. “Because, I can give you rules, James.”
Those beautiful steel blue eyes study you, looking for the trap that isn’t there, for the lie that would leave him shackled once more. Silently, you beg whatever hears the prayers of devils, for him to trust that you will not turn this against him, for him to trust you in this—in all things.
Let me prove myself to him. Please.
After what feels like an eternity, he nods. “I think… I think I’d like that.”
You smile broadly, excitement singing in your veins. “First rule: If you want something of me—anything at all—ask. I may not say yes but I want you to ask.”
He looks baffled. “Why is that the first rule?”
“Because…” You search for the words. “When you’ve been made to feel like you’re nothing, it’s powerful to allow yourself to want anything.”
James runs his metal fingers from the base of your ear down your shoulder causing you to shiver. “If…” He swallows hard. “And if I wanted to touch you?”
Your heart skips several beats. “How do you want to touch me, James?”
He considers, fingers flexing against your thighs once more. “I want to touch you in a way that feels good. For you. I want to make you feel good.”
A lesser man would have asked to have you on your knees or bent over the countertop. James Barnes wasn’t a lesser man.
“Do you want me to show you how?” You ask, voice rough with desire.
He nods. “Yes.”
You take his hands, moving them to your breasts. “Take my bra off.” As his deft fingers unhook the front of your sports bra, you wonder if he can feel the way your heart flutters against your ribcage. When he finishes, he slides the garment down your shoulders with such tenderness you feel a lump try to rise in your throat.
“Good boy,” you purr, stroking the stubble on his cheek.
His eyes shoot to yours, a familiar spark lighting deep within the dark of his pupils. You recognize that just as you’d recognized his hunger and need for guidance. Familiar as looking into a mirror.
“Kiss me.” It’s a gentle command but one he answers enthusiastically.
You take his right hand and slide it beneath the waistband of your sweatpants. He breaks the kiss, lips hovering over yours as he sucks in a breath the moment he feels how soaked you are.
“This is what you do to me.” With your guidance his fingers stroke you, barely grazing your clit as they explore. You don’t stop him as his touch dips lower, sliding his middle finger inside you.
A small sound slips out as he covers your mouth with his. He trails his kisses down your throat across your chest, until he takes one nipple into his mouth, metal hand braced behind your back.
You can’t help but grind against his touch. He might have asked to be shown but some part of him clearly understood how to touch a woman. Though some girlish romantic part of you wonders if he simply was made to touch you.
“Does this feel good?” He asks, a cheeky grin on his face as he adds another finger.
“Yes,” you gasp, lifting your hips for more. “Curl your fingers a bit- Oh god!” Your head falls back as he pulses strong fingers against your G-spot. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, doll,” he says, eyes searing you to your core.
You dig your nails into flesh and metal, holding on as you feel your orgasm coming to a head. “James!” You cry out his name as you come hard, your pleasure soaking both his hand and your sweats.
Panting, you let yourself fall forward, resting your forehead against his chest.
Without a word, he takes hold of your trembling thighs, lifting you off the counter as your arms wind around his neck.
A few hours later, you both lounge on the sofa. Half clothed, sweaty, and completely content to be eating unfrosted birthday cake from the pan.
When he carried you to the sofa from the kitchen, he made quick work of removing your sweats and underwear. James still wears his pants—he made it clear he wasn’t comfortable being touched below the waist and you had no problem honoring that boundary—but now you were in nothing but his discarded t-shirt. And while everything the two of you had done was incredibly tame by your standards, good god was it fun.
“Do you remember when you asked me why I enjoy BDSM?” You ask around a bite of truly divine chocolate cake.
He blinks up at you from his place on the floor. “That’s a hell of a way to start a conversation.”
You roll your eyes. “Not to be vulgar, but you just caused me to soak this sofa to such a level we may just have to burn it. I think we’re past propriety, James.”
“Fair enough,” he chuckles. “You said it made you feel human.”
You nod. “And after following my little rule of asking for what you want, how do you feel?”
“I feel…” He rubs your calf with his metal hand, taking a moment before continuing. “Warm. Content. And… Yeah, maybe a little more human.”
You twirl a lock of his dark hair around your finger. “When he—my father—let me leave for uni, I felt like a circus animal set free in the wild. I had all these tricks for a world I wasn’t in any longer.” A sardonic grin curves your lips. “Knowing how to kill a person with my bare hands wasn’t exactly useful when what I needed to know was how to talk to the person next to me in lecture.”
James snorts a laugh.
“People could tell.” You tangle your fingers with his. “They could sense something wasn’t quite right even if they couldn’t put their finger on it. I think that’s why he let me go.”
“Why he let you go to school on your own,” he clarifies.
You nod. “Being human was something he couldn’t teach me.”
“So he cut you loose to make you figure it out for yourself.” You don’t miss the look of hatred on James’ face.
“I don’t know how well it worked, mind you. If I ever did truly figure it out. But honestly, it’s the only kindness he ever did me, even if that wasn’t his intent. Because I did learn how to let myself want something more than just survival.” You sigh. “And I owe that to stumbling into the wrong club one night.”
“You didn’t seek it out?” He asks.
“No.” You smile at the memory. “It was kismet. I meant to meet a classmate—who I didn’t really like, but felt as if I should—at some insufferably posh nightclub. Went through the wrong black door and found myself watching in awe, as a beautiful woman in a bespoke suit paddled a man into blissful oblivion.”
His brows rise at that. “And that’s where you learned the rules.”
“It’s where I started.” You take a bite of cake, thinking. “That same woman I saw took me under her wing. Taught me about boundaries, about playing safely, mindfully. The balance between pleasure and pain. Submission and dominance.” You don’t think you imagine the spark of interest in his eyes.
“Most importantly, she showed me a world where consent was honored in a way I’d never known possible.” James looks away at that, but you know he understands the significance. “And it was in those spaces I was able to take back some of what he took from me.”
You don’t rush him to respond and you don’t dare to ask if he would be interested in exploring this world further. Either felt utterly abhorrent. It seemed best to present him with your own truth and let him decide how to proceed.
The silence that settles over you both feels easy if not exactly comfortable as James processes.
“Can you tell me more?” He asks.
“About what part?”
“All of it.”
You smile broadly. “I’d love to.”
—
James’ gloved hands flex hard enough on his tense thighs to hurt.
He doesn’t know where to look.
Catherine’s attention is heavy, the weight of it seeming to pin him to the wingback she’d placed him in to watch her play with Asher. She looks stunning. She always did. But right now, her knees slightly raised, lounging against the back of the Queening Chair—the low-slung chair with a U-shaped seat she’d explained was custom-made—in her sheer robe and a pair of dagger-sharp black stilettos, she’s the embodiment of desire.
It feels impossible to look away from her as her lashes flutter and her cheeks flush. These silent signs are the only indication that Asher’s enthusiastic mouth was having any effect. Not that the poor man could see, laid flat on his back on the floor, wrists cuffed to the legs of the chair beside his head.
James couldn’t be sure if the lack of reaction Asher was receiving was the worst part or the other thing that kept drawing his eye. The man’s swollen erection. Throughout the session, Catherine had brought Asher right to the edge of release only to pull back, leaving him leaking and desperate.
It was a feeling James could relate to. The only difference was that no one was technically stopping him from the release he was aching for..
Catherine lifts one of those brutal heels, casually setting it on Asher’s slender chest. The man whimpers against her pussy and the wicked smile that summons… Good god.
“You aren’t thinking of coming are you, pet?” She asks Asher.
“No, Mistress,” he manages.
“Good.” She taps the head of Asher’s cock with the tip of her pointed shoe. James can feel the man’s strangled groan in his bones. “Because I know you’d hate to disappoint me in front of company, wouldn’t you?.”
“Yes, Mistress. I would.”
Catherine takes the riding crop she had leaned against the chair in hand. “Such an obedient pet. No more words now.” Her breath hitches.
The only rule Catherine gave James for these ‘play dates’ as she called them was that he couldn’t leave the chair unless he needed to exit the room, which he was welcome to do at any point. But as Asher puts his mouth to other uses, hot envy flairs through his entire body. He wants to pick Catherine up out of that chair, bring her pussy to his mouth, and be the one who was making her come.
What did she taste like? Why hadn’t he asked to find out? Why-
Asher cries out—something between pleasure and pain—as Catherine gently swats the area just below his balls with the crop. James feels his own anatomy seize even as his cock gives a truly painful pulse within the confines of his jeans.
“I didn’t give you permission to stop, sweet pet,” Catherine coos.
Her crop caresses Asher’s cock, as he continues to pleasure her. Each time it touches him James’ body reacts.
The wood of the chair creaks, threatening to give way under his grip. Better the chair than his femur.
Catherine’s eyes trap him once more, her breath stuttering. “That’s it, pet. You’re doing so good for me.” The praise is Asher’s. James knows that. But her attention is on him. And he drinks it in.
Her orgasm is quieter than the times she’s come on James’ fingers, but he can tell by the way her shoulders dip and her eyes soften that it was good. The restraint is a part of the scene.
This was the fifth time he’d played captive audience member to one of these scenes. Each time, Catherine explained her intention for the scene, what she knew of the person she was ‘playing’ with, how she wanted to make them feel. It helped James learn but also assured him that she wasn’t doing anything that was against the other person’s wishes.
Sighing, Catherine stands. “That’s enough, pet,” she says, almost bored. Asher’s cock pulses hard in response.
“Did I do well, Mistress?” James can’t blame the man for the desperate note in his voice. She doesn’t answer immediately and it seems like something in Asher snaps. “Please, I can do better. I- Mistress-” His hips buck as he tries to turn in his restraints, his leaking cock leaving moisture glistening on his thigh.
“Shh, shh,” Catherine soothes. She undoes the soft wrist cuffs holding him to the chair, guiding him upright. “You did do well my pretty pet.” Her long nails drag through his shaggy golden brown curls. “I’m so proud of you.” Asher buries his face in her neck.
James’ envy burns hotter.
“Does my pretty pet want to come?” She asks, a teasing touch trailing down Asher’s back causing both men in the room to sit up straighter.
Asher whimpers with relief. “Please, Mistress. Yes.”
“Yes, what?” Catherine purrs, tilting his chin up with the point of her nail.
“I’d like to come, Mistress. Please.”
“Of course, pet.” Catherine guides Asher, still on his knees, with gentle but strong hands, to face James’ dark corner. “Would you also like to give our shadowy guest a bit of a show?”
Asher’s brown eyes widen with delight. “I would.”
James doesn’t know why this sends a thrill through him. He doesn’t know if he wishes he was Catherine, her hands sliding down Asher’s smooth chest, pausing to toy with his dark pink nipples, grinning at the way his body responds; or if he wants to take the place of this beautiful boy, kneeling by choice, his pleasure and suffering in the control of a fair but demanding mistress.
As Catherine wraps her long delicate fingers around Asher’s cock, her emerald eyes on James, the wood frame under his hands finally gives way. The other man doesn’t seem to register the sound but Catherine does, a sly grin on her beautiful face.
There is one thing he knows. He hates this.
Hates Asher, reveling in the pleasure of Catherine’s hand stroking him to completion.
Hates Catherine for inviting him to witness someone have what he can’t seem to allow himself to.
Most of all he hates himself. Hates that he can’t shake these unseen shackles of shame and programming keeping him from release.
Asher’s head falls back onto Catherine’s shoulder, mouth slack as he moans. Without taking her eyes off James, she kisses him, teeth pulling at his bottom lip with brutal force. Asher bucks into her hand meeting her pace.
A desperate sound claws out of James’ core and up his throat. He couldn’t have held it back if he cared to. His cock hurts. If he just undid the zipper it would give him a bit of relief. He wants to do at least that. He wants to do so much more.
“That’s it, pet,” she coaches Asher. “You’re so close. Show me how good it feels to be touched by me.”
Asher’s low groan as he comes hard, his body practically convulsing with the intensity of it in Catherine’s sure hold, feels like salt in a wound.
Unable to stand it a moment longer, James quietly rises and leaves.
—
When you return from seeing Asher out you find James leaning against the door frame to your room–gloves gone, long sleeves traded for a t-shirt, tree-trunk arms crossed over his chest.
You’re glad you didn’t have to find him. After he left the room you worried tonight had been too much and that you’d possibly set him back. But him being here, even wearing an expression half stoic and half-starved, meant there was a chance things would go well.
“Did you enjoy this evening’s show?” You ask, strolling past him.
As you hoped he would, he grabs you before you get very far, pulling you in for a rough kiss. More than just about anything you want to melt into him, give yourself over to this. Let him touch you, let him explore your body.
But that cannot happen. Not tonight.
Tonight, you have a plan and it doesn’t involve James paying any attention to your body but rather to his own.
James traces your jaw with a finger sending goose flesh across your body. “May I touch you?”
“No.” You give him a reassuring smile as you place a hand on his chest, pushing him away.
“I’d like to ask you something.” You take a seat on the edge of the bed, looking up at him.
“Anything.”
“Why don’t you touch yourself when you watch?” He makes a small sound of surprise. “I know you’re aware you can and it’s clear that you’ve enjoyed what you’re seeing but-”
“Not something I want to do with an audience.”
“An audience can be quite fun,” you wink.
“We can’t all be skilled performers like you.”
You shrug, “True.” Leaning back on your hand, you run the tip of your heel up his thigh. “Do you touch yourself when you’re alone then? Thinking of the evening’s exquisite performances?”
He pushes your foot away. “Why are you asking this?” The defensive tone is answer enough.
“Because, if you can’t trust yourself to give yourself the pleasure you desire, why should I or anyone else?” You consider. “Unless you don’t actually desire release.” It wasn’t something you’d thought to ask him when you’d discussed his boundaries before. “Which would be fine. There are those who don’t.”
“I…” He paces away, running his fingers through his hair before turning back. “It’s not… I- I don’t- I mean. I do. I…” His shoulders slump. “I do want that… release. I just… I can’t.”
You stand, untangling his hands from his hair to let them drop by his side before pulling his broad back against you. “Can I ask you to trust me?”
“I do trust you.” He says without a moment of hesitation and your heart soars.
“Thank you,” you whisper into the shell of his ear. The muscles of his back ripple with tension. “Lay down,” you say gently, turning him toward the bed.
“What?”
“Lay down,” you gesture to the bed. “Make yourself comfortable in whatever way suits you.”
He stares at you for so long you think he’s going to say no but finally he does as you ask, leaning against the plush pillows, not looking comfortable but one thing at a time.
“Tell me your safeword.” You knew it but you always liked for your partners to give them before any kind of play.
His brows fly up, “Catherine, I don’t think-”
“I won’t be touching you. I don’t even need to be here. I am only asking to establish that you have control here.” Silence hangs. “And if you don’t want to humor me, that is absolutely fine, just say no and we can move on with our evening.”
The battle between his desires and his fears is written across his face. You wish you could make this choice for him. But he has to decide for himself.
James draws in a long deep breath, some of the tension seeming to leak out of him. “Brooklyn.”
When he chose that word before the first time you had him watch, you wondered if he’d read more of his file or if the choice was something his subconscious spit out. It seemed wrong to ask.
“I will also honor red, yellow, green, no, and stop.” He nods, swallowing hard.
“On the bedside table, there’s a small basket in it you’ll find lube and a towel.” You’re shocked his neck doesn’t break with how hard he snaps his head around. “And at the end of the bed, there is a blanket if you’d like to cover up.” His breathing picks up.
You give him a moment before continuing. “As I said, I don’t have to be here. But, James, I want you to make yourself come.” You hate that he looks terrified. Still, you smile before saying, “Because you deserve to take your pleasure as you please.”
He doesn’t speak, just stares at the basket for so long you decide to make the decision easier, “I will go to the-”
“No,” his voice is ragged. “I wanna see you.” You feel a flush work its way across your face. “I just…”
“Take your time.” As he settles in, you retrieve the chair he’d used earlier–the arms now thoroughly brutalized–and move it to the end of the bed.
James closes his eyes, pulling in deep measured breaths. You take a seat, propping your feet on the edge of the bed.
God, he was gorgeous. In his dark denim, he looks like a gift waiting to be unwrapped. But, even if he asked you to right now you wouldn’t. As much as you want to, as much as you want to have him–or rather let him have you–you know he needs this. He needs to know what it is to take control of his pleasure, to find his way back to himself.
You’d been so lost in your thoughts that when he abruptly sits up, tearing the shirt off, you jump a little.
Those blue eyes of his burn as he studies you. His broad muscled chest heaves with a few more deep breaths. You practically salivate.
Not taking his eyes off you, his right-hand settles between his thighs, rubbing where the denim swells.
How could that relatively tame action make your pussy throb with need?
Something of your hunger must show because the corner of his mouth ticks up the slightest bit. He leans back into the pillows, still holding you in his sight, as he strokes harder, his breath a bit more ragged.
Fuck.
“Mind if I join you?” This hadn’t been your plan. But you also didn’t anticipate being this ravenous after already having spent several hours playing with Asher. You fling one leg over the arm of the chair, opening yourself up and hoping he understands what you mean.
“Please, do,” he says, voice all gravel.
When you trace your already soaked pussy he lets out a sigh that borders on a gasp.
James undoes his jeans, sliding the zipper down slowly before surprising you by lifting his hips to work both them and his boxers down to almost his knees.
God help you. Technically, you’d seen him nude before. But that had been a nightmare. This? This was a dream. He was allowing you to see him. And he was a work of art. Sinful decadent art. Those powerful thighs alone would have sent you spiraling but what was between them, rock solid and deliciously thick. You swallow hard.
James Barnes was truly a sight to behold.
You assumed that even if he wanted you to stay, he’d still cover himself, which would have been fine. But when he doesn’t reach for the blanket and goes straight for the lube you thank the patron saints of sex, whoever they may be, for this gift.
When he hesitates, you leisurely begin stroking your pussy once more, hoping that maybe by taking your pleasure he’ll be more comfortable to do the same. The expression on his face is a muddle, his jaw tense, brows knit tight.
“James,” you say, barely above a whisper. “Eyes on me.”
The intensity of his gaze makes you shiver, your pussy clenching. His own hand begins to work.
He’s tentative at first, moving slowly, almost mechanically at first. You sink deeper into the chair, knowing he has to find his own path to his pleasure and willing to stay here as long as that takes.
This offers a unique moment for you to likewise take your time. Lately, if you were getting yourself off, you chose much more direct battery-powered options. Not that there was anything wrong with those, but you’d forgotten how nice it could be to feel your own body, unhurried, with no intention other than savoring the feeling. The fact that you were doing it under James’ eye made it even sweeter.
In time, his pace quickens, along with his breath. He twists his hand, working it up and down his length. When the smallest sound claws it's way from between his clenched teeth, you notice his body tense, and he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip like doing so will hold any further expressions at bay.
“Who are you being quiet for, James?” His lip slips from between his teeth, swollen and so kissable, you wet your lips, aching to taste him. “Because it isn’t me. I’d love to hear you.”
His head lolls back onto the padded headboard. A soft moan from him somehow pulls the breath from your lungs.
James reaches for his balls with his left hand, his eyes now focused on his own body. The sight of the metal fingers glinting, cupping this sensitive part of him, toying with himself drives you wild. You slide a finger into your throbbing cunt imagining how those fingers would feel inside of you, stretching you wide for-
His hips buck up, a rumble of pleasure reverberating in your bones. You can’t stop the small gasp that draws from you. His eyes settle on you again, and you know he can see just how obscenely wet you are.
The muscles in his thick thighs flex. “Ca- Catherine.” His voice, thick and heady, saying your name… It almost undoes you. “I… Oh god.” His head falls back. “Fuck,” he pants, looking down at his grip on his cock.
His gaze meets yours and you smile. “Come for me, James.”
Nothing could have prepared you for just how delicious this moment would be. Your hand stills as you watch his head fall back, that strong back bowing, hips thrusting into his grip. His body tenses as a roar–there was no other word for it–breaks out of his chest with such force you wonder if he’ll have a voice after this.
When his body falls back limp onto the pillows–hand still loosely holding his cock, come glistening on his lower stomach, sweat sparkling on his skin, expression relaxed and practically beatific–you can’t help but think he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
After a few minutes, he looks at you through half hooded eyes. And smiles. Your heart flips in your chest.
You don’t dare speak until he reaches for the small towel. “Thank you, for trusting me.”
He huffs something like a laugh shaking his head, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, kicking off his jeans, leaving himself fully exposed.
You can’t breathe.
In two long strides, he’s in front of the chair, looking down at you. It takes every bit of your self control to not grab hold of those powerful thighs, to lick the small bit of moisture still at the tip of his half hard cock. Before your control slips he drops to his knees, eyes looking from your pussy, still on display, your hand hovering frozen where it had been when his orgasm had wiped everything else from your mind.
“I should be thanking you,” he takes your hand, eyes holding yours to give you the chance to deny him before he sucks your moisture from them. His eyes close as if he’s savoring the taste. “Can I show you just how grateful I am?”
“Yes,” you rasp.
James smiles wide and you know the sun will never hold the same appeal again.
Gripping your hips, he pulls your ass to the edge of the seat. He hooks your other knee over the arm of the chair so that you’re spread wide for him. His hands run gently down the inside of your thighs, followed by his mouth, littering kisses over the sensitive skin.
When his mouth finally reaches your throbbing pussy you’re practically shaking with need. It wouldn’t have mattered if he was good, you would have come regardless given how wound up you were. But for all that was holy that mouth knew exactly what to do.
He sucks your clit, explores you, clearly enjoying every moment until you come, hard. There isn’t even a moment of pause as he drinks you in, he just keeps going, sliding in one finger, pressing directly on your G spot.
Your fingers tangle in his hair, urging him on. “More,” you groan. He slides in a second as he nips at your clit and you come so hard you begin to feel your hold on any kind of control slip.
Still, he doesn’t stop.
James removes his mouth, slowly lifting his head so you can release your grip. You whimper a bit until his thumb finds your clit, the cool metal of his left hand pressing down on your lower abdomen.
“I wanna see that pretty face better,” he says, in a voice like honey.
His fingers fuck you harder than he’d ever allowed himself before. Giving you what few others could take.
The already damaged arms of the chair crack under your grip. “James,” you cry, his name like a hallelujah.
“Come,” his voice a low growl.
You lose every ounce of control you possess. Gushing over his hand, you barely make a sound, waves of pleasure crashing over you with an intensity you’ve never known. Tremors shake you, the aftershocks almost as delicious as the orgasm itself.
When he removes his fingers you whimper but know it’s for the best. Much more of that you’d be tempted to abandon all reason, abandon society, and just live in the woods letting this man make you come until the end of days.
Before you realize it’s happening, he scoops you into his arms, carrying you to the bed. With one hand he tears the duvet back and settles the both of you into the next of pillows.
He settles you in his lap, your head tucked under his chin. The heat of his body burns through the sheer robe you wear and you’re all too aware of how close his cock is to your pussy. But you know this isn’t the time for that.
“You, ok?” He asks.
You nod. “Very. How are you?”
After a long pause, he says, so softly, “Human.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, refusing the burn of tears that one word summons. “Good.”
“Can I just hold you?” He asks, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“Yes,” you breathe, “please.” You bury your face in the curve of his neck, breathing in his clean spicy scent until sleep falls over you like a warm blanket.
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