Warnings: curse words, oral fem receiving, penetration (no protection, but you wrap it up), slight angst
A/N: hello, i'm a newbie here. I'm from Italy, so i don't know if my english is perfect or not, but this freaking man got me back into writing. So i though I'll give this a try. I always loved writing but through the years I lost the creativity and the passion. But I wanna start again, maybe I'll feel alive again. Soooo, this is a first try. If you can, start gentle with me but every comment and opinion and most importantly, correction it will be very much appreciated. ps. actually this is for @delulu-for-norman my new friend who on our first conversation sent me her favorite pics of Jon and for @societyfolklore who pushed me to write again. Thank you babes, this is for you.
The silence of the night was broken only by the buzzing of the shabby neon light hanging from the steel beam of the underground shelter. Frank had been hiding there since his last mission — a silent, surgical bloodshed, as usual.
Because that’s who he is: schematic, controlled. He studies the mission, checks the area and who’s around it, and once he has perfectly grasped the rhythm and secrets of the place, he acts.
He wields his guns, puts on his bulletproof vest — and Frank, as we know him, disappears. In his place remains only the Punisher.
He hadn’t said a word since you followed him there — stubborn, uninvited. Not that you needed permission. Between you and him, a new language had formed: made of looks and held-back tension.
You closed the door with a sharp click. You were still wearing your black jeans and an old grey T-shirt. The gun he gave you hung at your hip, but that wasn’t what distracted him.
It was that look.
Set, steady, on him.
Frank was cleaning his guns. His hands — strong, slow, battered — moved with precision. Every motion part of a methodical sequence, almost mechanical. He’d done it so long it was second nature, like brushing his teeth.
He didn’t look at you immediately, but his breathing deepened.
He felt you getting closer. Heard your steps echo softly on the concrete floor.
When you finally spoke, your voice was calm — but powerful.
“You can’t keep doing it alone.”
“I’m not alone,” he grunted. “You’re always there, even when you shouldn’t be.”
You stood directly in front of him. You grabbed the gun from his hands, using the disarming techniques he’d taught you, and set it aside. His fingers curled into a fist reflexively, and he took a deep breath — almost a growl.
But he didn’t stop you.
You bent down slightly, locking eyes with him. There was fire in him. Contained. Wild. But underneath it, hidden, was old fatigue — a pain he wouldn’t let out.
“I want to see you… when you stop fighting.”
Frank swallowed hard. His hands twitched — maybe to push you away, maybe to touch you — but you were faster. You climbed into his lap with purpose, arching your back against him. The contact between your bodies was like a sharp shot. Frank inhaled. His strong hands landed on your hips, holding you firmly.
But he didn’t push you away.
“You know I’m not good at this,” he said, his deep eyes glossy. “I’m not good at stopping myself.”
You challenged him with a slow smile — almost cruel in its tenderness.
“Then don’t. But stop running.”
He grunted — a deep, animal sound, like something sensing the cage opening.
Then he kissed you.
Anything but sweet. Nothing short of desperate and raw.
His lips were rough, hungry. His breath came in short bursts. His large hands slid up under your shirt, finding your skin hot and slick with sweat.
He lifted you up, carried you to the old wooden table, sweeping the tools away with a sharp gesture. You clung to him with a soft moan, fingers in his short hair, your mouth crushing against his neck.
“You’re real,” you whispered against his skin. “You’re not just blood and lead, Frank.”
He froze. Just for a second.
As if debating whether there could be more to life than pain, revenge, and rage.
Then he looked at you with his dark, haunted eyes.
And he gave in.
He lifted you again and carried you to his cot — the one that had seen too many of his nightmares. He laid you down carefully, his lips trailing along your neck, biting gently as if to mark you.
The shirt you wore came off quickly. You gave in to him, breathing in his scent — metal, sweat, gunpowder, and something deeply human.
Your hands ran over his chest, grazing the scars on his abdomen. You pulled up his shirt, eager to feel his skin.
The kisses turned messy, intense — all tongue and teeth.
Frank’s tongue traced your skin, slow and lethal.
The rhythm between you started to shift — not slow enough to risk exposing your hearts, but not fast enough to miss a single gasp.
His rough hands unzipped your jeans, removing them with urgency, kissing each newly exposed inch of your body.
He knelt in front of you for a moment, eyes devouring you. You looked flushed, and he thought he’d never seen anything so vulnerable — so yours, offered only to him.
You couldn’t wait anymore. You grabbed his hands, making him nearly fall on top of you. He cupped your face and kissed you again.
Your bodies were so close. You opened your legs, letting him settle between them. His bulge pressed against your clothed core, making both of you moan.
You’d always suspected he was big, but now that he was grinding against you, you wondered if you could take him all. You couldn’t wait to find out.
You fumbled with his jeans, unzipping them. Frank sighed with relief.
You broke the kiss to give him room to undress. He looked up at you as his hands landed on your thighs, caressing you slowly but firmly.
“Are you sure?” he whispered.
You nodded and he got his hands closer to your inner thighs, grazing your soft skin. Your body jumped at the touch of your skin and little moans left your mouth, trembling at the next touch.
Frank got very close to your lower stomach, leaving little kisses on your burning skin. His fingers interwined with your panties and he slid your panties off, and the cool air hit your wetness, making you shiver.
Frank paused — eyes glued to you, glistening and swollen, just like he was. Rocking hard and his tip dripping with precum inside of his boxer. He cursed under his breath and lowered his mouth to your core, planting kisses that made you moan.
His fingers teased your thighs, then moved between your folds, collecting slick and rubbing your clit and entrance.
“You’re so fucking wet… fuck.”
You cried out, your hips jerking upward, making Frank smirk. He did it again — and again.
Then his mouth replaced his fingers.
He buried his face in you, licking, sucking, devouring like a starved man.
He licks, sucks and ravish at your cunt, like captivated by your needy sounds and your intoxicating smell. He sucks your little bundle of nerves, spreading and tasting with his tounge the juices you made, twirling and flicking his tongue around it.
You were full on dizzy and warm, feeling things you've never felt. Your skin was hot and red flush, your chest rising on an off beat, whining at every movement of his burning tongue. His mouth and hands on you were so intense that you will be a fool to even thinking of pulling him away.
“You taste so fuckin’ sweet, baby doll. You’re killing me,” he groaned.
He slipped one, then two fingers inside you, pumping steadily. Your body tightened around him, and he growled, imagining how you’d feel around his cock.
You were so close. The knot in your stomach was tightening, your breath ragged —
And then he stopped.
You whined at the emptiness, but he only looked at you, lips shining with you, eyes dark with hunger.
“You don’t get to come just yet, sweetheart. I want to feel you come on my cock.”
The words made you clench around nothing. Your hand reached for his bulge, stroking him through his jeans. He moaned, hips bucking into your touch.
You freed him from his boxers, stroking his thick length, spreading his pre-cum down his shaft.
“Fuck, stop. I can’t take it anymore. I need to be inside you,” he growled.
He tossed his boxers aside. The shelter was quiet except for the distant hum of Lieberman’s computers and the symphony of lips, moans, gasps.
He lined himself up, teased your clit with his tip, watching you squirm.
Then — slowly — he pushed in.
Both of you hissed at the stretch.
He braced himself on his forearms, forehead pressed to yours.
“Are you alright?” he whispered, voice strained.
“Oh, Frank… it feels so good,” you moaned against his lips.
He filled you to the hilt. And stopped.
“You’re so fuckin’ tight, doll… squeezing me so hard…”
“You’re so big… fuck…” you cried.
He was deep — deeper than anyone. He ruined you for everyone else.
“I have to move… I need to move,” he growled.
You nodded, and he started thrusting — deep, deliberate strokes.
Your eyes rolled back, your body trembling as he found that perfect spot.
His pace quickened. He gripped your thighs, fucking into you faster.
“I’m gonna come, sweetheart. You gonna come with me? Yeah?”
His thumb rubbed your clit in circles.
“You gonna show me how good you are?”
The familiar coil twists in your stomach, a fire starting to burn low in your abdomen. A different sensation you've never felt, not alone not with anyone else. A sensation only Frank Castle could ever makes you feel. You clenched around him, crying his name as your orgasm ripped through you.
“Yeah baby, atta girl— I’m gonna come too,” he gasped, pounding into you a few more times before growling, releasing inside you.
You gasped for air, dizzy and trembling. You cupped his face, forcing him to look into your eyes as he came — watching something break in him. Something finally let go.
He collapsed on top of you, making sure you could still breathe. He kissed your nose, panting.
Then he slowly slipped out and lay beside you on the cot.
No more words.
Just breath, skin, sweat.
Silence.
You were still naked, close, in this forgotten shelter.
You spoke first.
“Now you’re here. Finally.”
Frank didn’t reply.
But he held you close.
And for the first time — he didn’t look like he was about to leave.
You and Frank tie the knot and he's taken quite a liking to his new title.. and yours
Warnings: husband!frank x wife!reader, protective!frank, feisty!reader, PinV, smut, MDNI, 18+, pwp, lots of plot, semi-healed frank, encounter with a-hole side character, lots of cute fluff, oral (m receiving), lowk breeding kink, lowk cumplay, lots of use of the word wife lol and husband but that’s kind the whole premise of this
w.c: 4.5k
@sochkila <- follow along on my new main for more writing 😚❤️
—
It was the perfect little ceremony, perfectly you and Frank. Small and intimate, in the backyard of your home. The closest people to you both gathered to watch you and Frank officially tie the knot.
In the few days after you notice how Frank loves using that word more and more. “Wife” it rolls off his tongue with so much pride.
He’d be on the phone to someone and you hear him say “gotta check with my wife” or “yeah I’ll drop my wife off then I’ll come” and how he would always emphasise the “my wife” each time. It made you chuckle a little when you’d look up at him with butterflies in your tummy. You’re not sure if it was the 'my' or the 'wife' or both words strung together that got you all giddy but everytime you look up at Frank you’d always see that big dumb grin on his face when he says it.
You also notice how Frank is just a little more… well, Frank. Outside of the house he was more protective, he hovered more, he was always there, more..yours and you were more his - if that was even possible. He made sure everyone around him knew it too. His hand always on your hip or around your waist, the glint of the wedding band on his finger ever present.
Inside the your home it was much the same, you and Frank still doing the same things you liked doing for each other. Like the way you made and packed his lunch every night and how he would always bring you your night time tea a little before you’d both head off to bed. But it all felt a little more intimate. Realistically you both knew a ring wouldn’t change how much you both loved each other. Ring or no ring you knew you were his forever and he was yours.
There was juuuuust one thing that had changed a little. A minor thing really - Frank was being so gentle in bed. You loved it, you did - it was slow and sensual and passionate.
But god you needed him to demolish you. He had you feeling like such a desperate little thing, you were almost ashamed.
Here he was - your loving husband making sweet sweet love to you, making you see stars every time. But you wanted the depraved version of him. The one that would sound like an animal when he'd pound into you. The way he would let his base instincts take over, how his pupils would blow wide when he’d fuck you so hard you could barely speak.
You weren’t sure why marriage had changed the way he was in bed. Maybe he was just feeling a little more ‘sentimental’? And this is how he could show it since you knew he wasn’t a big “words” guy when it came to this stuff.
You’d heard the horror stories of people who get bored of each other after they get married and have robotic mechanical sex till they eventually stop all together but stay together for the sake of staying together. But it had only been a couple of weeks, surely he wasn’t bored.. right? You tried your best not to spiral. No, you’d just try a different tactic - maybe it was a short term thing anyway.
What you didn’t know was that, Frank was trying really really reeeeally hard to not break you. He was still counting all of his lucky stars that by some good grace of the universe he was given another chance at this life. A life with you, as his wife - another chance to start over. When he was on top of you, pumping in and out of you he just needed to show you how much he loved you, how grateful he was that you had given this to him. And this is how he thought he could, by making love to you, slow and sweet. But when he would see the little piece of gold on your ring finger there was something that would start clawing deep in his gut. You were his, his wife he was your husband and fuck he just wanted to claim you over and over again.
But he wouldn’t fuck this up, is what he told himself. So he relented, slowing himself and his brain down. Little did he know that under the surface of your soft moans and cries was that side of you that needed him in that carnal, animalistic way.
🌀🌀🌀🌀
It's a Sunday afternoon and you both make your way through the grocery store, Frank steering the trolley and you linked on his arm. “Want that sub for lunch tomorrow?” You ask him with your eyes moving down your list checking items off. “Whatever’s easy honey” he hums, scanning the isle and the people walking through it as he usually does.
“Wanna make what you want baby” you reply pouting up at him. He looks down at you with a smile pausing before he continues “yeah subs good, thank you sweetheart” he says kissing away the pout on your lips. You smile as you walk forward to grab the baguettes you know he likes. When you turn to walk back to him he’s already there, right behind you. Like he can’t leave any room for someone else to get near you.
“Okay, all done I think” you chirp, checking off the last item on your list. When you look up you see Frank chuck a bag of chocolate covered pretzels in the full trolley. You look up at him confused “I ain’t driving back when you complain about not having a ‘sweet treat’ ” he chuckles, sandwiching the last two words between his air quotation marks. You roll your eyes but laugh anyway as you walk towards the registers.
It’s a Sunday afternoon so you’re not surprised that the line is long with everyone else doing the weekly prep grocery run, but it’s a little more full with the self serve registers not working. “Shit! I forgot the milk” you sigh in frustration “can you get it pleeeease we’re almost at the front frankie” you plead unnecessarily because he’s already moving. “Oh we need 2!” You call out to him “yes ma’am” he laughs as he weaves out of the line and disappears.
You’re smiling to yourself when you turn back. Triple checking again if you haven’t missed anything. When you look up you’re one person away from the register. You move to the front of the trolley to start piling items onto the conveyer belt when you see a man cut in front of you with a hand full of groceries.
He pushes your groceries that you had already placed down back and places his own down in front. “Uhh, excuse me? Did you not see the line?” You pipe up - annoyed. “Calm down lady I only got a few you got a whole trolley get over it” he drawl’s dismissively.
And honestly, sure if he had just asked politely, you would have absolutely let him go in front. But talking to you like that and telling you to ‘calm down’ ooooh no no no, you were not going to let that slide.
“Yeah, and if you had just asked like a normal person I would have let you, but since you wanna be an ass then go wait in line like everyone else” you retort, rolling your eyes at the fact that you had to teach common decency to a grown man in a grocery store line.
“What are you some fuckin bored housewife? Got nothing goin on so you gotta pick fights with people in the supermarket” he laughs arrogantly before he turns back around “what happened don’t get fucked enough?” he smirks looking over his shoulder.
Your nostrils flare as your mouth opens again to retaliate but in the blink of an eye all you see is the back of Franks hoodie. He slams the cartons of milk down on the conveyer belt. Staring down at the poor excuse of a man in front of him.
“Talk to my wife like that again and I’ll break your fuckin jaw - I suggest you listen to her and get your shit and go wait in the back” he grunts out like a bull ready to run at a red flag. You look down and see his hands twitching as they close and open. You pray for the guys sake that he doesn’t open his mouth and say something stupid. He looks up at Frank, his mouth opens as if he’s about to reply before he closes it. Atleast he’s got some sense you think to yourself.
He picks up his items and tries to move around Frank to go wait at the back of the line before Frank side steps and blocks him again. Frank tilts his head down, bringing him nose to nose with the man, chest puffed out, teeth clenched with his muscles around his jaw feathering out.
“And trust me, she gets fucked reaaaal good - the next time you so much as think about my wife like that you don’t get a warning, got it?” He growls out through bared teeth, in a decibel low enough for only the man to hear.
The guy doesn’t even say any thing he just gives Frank a hurried nod before scampering away.
After he disappears out of sight Frank turns to you, his eyes scanning your features. “y'alright?” He asks concern and curiosity in his tone, you nod as you stack the rest of the groceries on the conveyor. “what happened ?” Frank asks wanting to hear from the beginning. “He cut in, was a dick about it so I told him to fuck off” you shrug as if it was no biggie. A small smirk breaks out across franks lips
“that’s my girl” he laughs before grabbing the back of your head and kissing your forehead.
You stood there, a mess between your legs watching him to pay for everything as you try your best to not drop to your knees for him in front of everyone right there and fill your mouth with him. God you felt heated - he’d called you his wife before, sure, multiple times. But not like this, not laced with this much possession and protectiveness behind it. His wife, Frank Castle’s wife.
🌀🌀🌀🌀
On the ride home you give Frank a play by play of what happened. He’s listening intently with one of his hands on the steering wheel and the other intertwined with yours. “And THEN he LAUGHED, can you believe it?! Ugh asshole” you huff, finishing your recount. Frank is quiet as he spins the wedding band on your finger “fuckin jagoff, shoulda knocked his teeth out” he mutters, annoyed at himself.
“and then what? spend the night by myself while my husband sits in a jail cell” you say flatly, staring up at him with a pointed look in your face.
You catch the little smile on his face “your what?” he asks, squeezing your hand a little. You smile, pulling his hand up to your lips “what? My husband” you say in a playfully singsong-y way as you kiss the top of his hand.
He places his hand back down, palm wide on your thigh “yeah that’s right, your husband” he chuffs, squishing the meat of your leg as he pulls up into the driveway, not missing the way your legs squeeze together a little.
God he’s so cute, your heart swells when you look at him - the big bad punisher - gleaming from ear to ear at the title he gets to wear now - your husband and he’s never been more proud.
You hop out of the truck, and grab Franks keys. In the years of being together you’ve learned - there’s simply no use trying to help bring the bags in, he won’t let you. So you unlock the house and hold the door open for him instead as he lugs everything inside like a pack mule.
🌀🌀🌀🌀
After helping pack everything away Frank retreats to the couch. He sinks into the plush sofa as he clicks on the TV. Pushing himself further into the seat as his legs splay out wider while he gets comfy. You’re watching him from the kitchen as you start prepping veggies for the week to make life easier for yourself after work.
You keep getting distracted as your eyes keep floating up to him. He just looked like the perfect seat for you, the want still there between your legs. Growing more ravenous at the way he was just sitting here. One arm propped behind his head watching whatever game replay was on the TV. With his big meaty thighs spread wide, one foot resting on the coffee table.
As you continue to wash and prep for the week you keep thinking back to the store. The almost growl he had in his voice when he called you his wife. The way he was infront of you in a heartbeat, like an immovable wall not letting anything touch you. You try to ignore the sticky mess in your panties as you dry your hands off.
You grab a cold beer from the fridge, crack it open and pad towards him. He looks up at you then at the beer in your hand outstretched towards him “s’this for?” He asks with a curious smile on his face as he takes it from your hand.
“Just cos” you hum with an innocent little smile as you straddle him.
“I got the best wife huh” he says taking a quick swig of the beer as he places the it down on the side table to run his hands - cold and wet with the condensation of the bottle - up your legs, skimming just under your dress and resting on the curve of your ass.
“Hmmm yeah you do” a breathy laugh leaves you as your hands slide up his chest and around his neck. You lower your lips down to his, kissing him slow. Before pulling away ever so slightly “hey, thank you.. for today” you whisper looking into his eyes, your tone more sincere than before.
He looks between your pupils “for what baby?” He asks confused
“Just, y’know the store, being you, being my husband” you smile kissing the tip of his broad nose.
He smiles again that proud one “say it again” he asks, voice a little more soft. You laugh into him “my husband” you coo, emphasising the my. You feel his hips shift up at the word when you lean back down to kiss him.
He wraps one arm firm around your waist as the other slides up your back, his hand cradling your head. He deepens the kiss and you feel his tongue open your mouth up further. You comply, easily.
You feel that mess in your panties as your hips push down on him, feeling him harden under you. You feel his shaky exhale into your mouth when he feels the way your hips are grinding on him. He can’t help but rut his hips up into you. A small sigh leaves your mouth as your hands trail down his torso to rub firmly over his hardening length causing a sharp hiss to escape franks throat which you swallow in your mouth.
You wiggle your hip back a little to pull his half hard cock out. Keeping your eyes locked on his as you spit a string of saliva straight down that lands right on his tip and trickles down. You see Franks eyes grow wild when you wrap one hand around his cock, smearing your spit before you start pumping his cock up and down. The action pushing your tits together between your arms "s-so fucking pretty baby" he exhales lowly his eyes falling down to your tits then back up to your eyes.
"take your shirt off frank" you almost order, not without a flutter of your lashes of-course. He doesn't even respond with words, just quickly ripping his shirt over his head and throwing it behind the couch.
"so fucking pretty" you whisper teasingly in his ear mirroring his words. But he was, just so. fucking. pretty. His pretty big chest, littered in his pretty scars that your tongue and lips had spent hours upon hours running over as he told you the stories of most of them.
You give him one last kiss before you lift your hips up and sink down on the rug in front of him between his legs.
“Baby-wh-what are you doing” he exhales out sharply
“Shh, just want my husbands cock-keep watching the game” you smile as you hook your hands around band of his jeans and pull them down. His eyes still trained on you still, you see the little furrow in his brow and the twitch in his nose at the word.. husband as he lifts his hips to help you pull them off.
Your eyes fall down to his pretty cock, hard and beading with that delicious pre-cum. Your tongue darts out licking your lips, hungry for it. Leaning forward you like a stripe up the vein that runs from the bottom of his shaft up to the tip and lick up the pre-cum before wrapping your lips around him.
"g-gggod baaby" he drawls, his head falling back on the couch. You start bobbing your head up and down. Humming around his cock as you savour the taste of his cock. The vibrations causing his hips to twitch.
You look up at him, his cock in your mouth and see his heaving chest his fists balled tightly by his thighs like he doesn't know what to do with them. He looks down at you through hooded lids, mouth slightly agape as he watches you slobber over his cock.
Your cheeks hollow out as you suck his cock , pushing him further down your throat. Frank starts breathing deeper, you see the muscles in his abdomen tighten. You bring your hands up and place them over his balled fists and caress up and down soothing him before picking them up and placing them on the back of your head.
You pull your mouth off him, eyes locked on his, tilting your head to the side as you start placing little kisses from the bottom of his shaft up. Franks hands start to card through your hair, sweeping it out of your face before lightly keeping them at the back of your head as he holds you hair. "its ok frankie, use me" you whisper sweetly as you take his cock in your mouth again and push it down do the back of your throat causing you to gag a little. "oh-fuck honey" he grunts, hips twitching up as you feel his grip tighten - his resolve starting to form tiny cracks.
You bob up and down a few more times before you feel Frank gently push your head further down, you smile a little around his cock - your pussy crying tears of joy, so proud of your big man for using you. You guzzle his cock down as Frank pants above you, holding you in place as he fucks your mouth gently before you feel yourself being pulled off him. You look up at him, lips still glistening with your saliva and his pre cum.
Both of your chests heaving, breaths deep and heavy "need your pussy baby p-please" Frank pants out reaching forward he scoops you up lifting you as you wrap your legs around him. His lips are on yours in an instant, your tongues tasting each other, the kiss so desperate it’s like you both need each other more than air.
Frank walks you both back into the bedroom and drops you down before climbing on top of you. And like he cannot handle a split second of not being connected you his lips are on you, kissing and licking down your neck as his hands grab your dress to pull it off you.
He starts kissing lower before he feels your hands grab his face "baby please I need you" you pant "but bab-" he starts before you cut him off, as much as you love the feeling of his tongue licking through your pussy you need him, inside of you, desperately. "frank-please" you beg and he concedes. The first crack in the wall, and you see glimpses of your animal coming back.
He kisses back up to your lips, and you feel his hands pull your panties down, you bring your legs together for him to peel them off your legs before you spread them wide for him again to settle between them.
Your hands run up his big arms, hooking behind his neck to pull him closer down to you. "you sure baby?" he asks softly, looking deep into your eyes. "y-yyessss frankie-baby please" you whine as you grind your hips up and down his cock. Frank groans when he feels your soaked pussy slick up the shaft of his cock.
He kisses you deep as he lines up his tip right at your entrance and pushes in slowly. "christ-youre so fuckin warm and wet baby, all this for me?" He groans as he fills you to the hilt. You moan into his mouth "mhmm all for you frankie" you mewl at the stretch of his thick leaking cock.
He starts moving in and out of you in long slow strokes. You feel the drag of his heavy cock through your walls as he splits you open. "feel so fuckin good baby" you hear frank muttering to himself above you. Your eyes flutter open as you look up at him, at the way his eyes are screwed shut, with his teeth gritted like he was still holding himself back. Your hands run up his tense veiny forearms, one caged on the side of your head and the other fisted in the sheet beside you.
Your mind thinks back the bob in his throat and the shift of his hips when you called him your husband, and a bright idea comes to mind to help him let go.
You reach your hands up and cradle his big face and he opens his eyes "c'mon baby, be a good husband and fuck your wife" you coo, trying your best to hide your cheeky little smile between your kiss on his lips.
and Frank absolutely looses it - the wall of restraint bursting open as he literally whimpers dropping himself down to you pressing your bodies close, wrapping his brawny arms around you tight before he starts hammering his cock into you - rough and deep.
"goddamn it-fuck-" he breathes heavy before kissing you hastily. All tongue and teeth "my little wife wants to get fucked huh that it?" he rasps between kisses.
He's fucking into you so hard that you cant even form a full sentence "uh-fu-ck-yess-puh-lease" is all you can pant out with each brutal thrust forcing your body to jut up with your breathy whimpers between each syllable as tears prick through your waterline.
He thinks back to that mans comment and a small part of his brain wishes he was here to see just how good he fucks you."what kind of husband would I be huh, not giving my wife what she asks for" he grunts, like he was trying to fuck the title all the way deep inside of you. You look up and see that hunger set ablaze in his pretty brown eyes. There he is, your Frankie that you missed so much.
You feel that coil tightening fast deep in your belly at his eyes, pussy drunk on you. The way he's growling as he shoves his cock deep in and out of you pushing the air out of your lungs with each harsh thrust. "ffffuuuck m'gonna c-come baby-god-f-fill me up frankie-please-wanna b-be so full of my husbands cum" you cry out into his mouth.
'yyyyeeahh? god baby-gonna fill ma fuckin wife up-fuck-gonna be so fuckin full of me huh, my good little wife, my beautiful fuckin wife" he hoarsely whispers into your mouth like he’s chanting a prayer to whichever god gave him you.
"mmmfuckk baby, please please please i'll be such a good little wife for you-please-cum inside of me frankie" you whine out before your cunt starts clamping around his cock. Your words and your slutty little pleads send him over the edge "yeahyeahyeah fuck im cummin honey-christ-so fucking deep baby" frank grunts out like an animal as he slams his cock into you - your walls pulsing as you milk his creamy sticky warm cum out "you feel it baby? Yeah? So fuckin full honey thatsss it gonna take it all yeah? my pretty wifes gonna take it all” frank all but whines out. His arms wrapped tightly around you keeping you there like his little fleshlight as he fills you full of his seed.
Frank swallows your moans and mewls as your body writhes in his hold as you come down from your high. You feel Franks full weight drop on top you, crushing you a little but you welcome it as you tighten your legs and arms around him. He litters kisses down your jaw and neck while continuing his lazy rut of his hips.
You feel the the sticky mess between where the both of you are connected and smile. You feel franks heart hammering away in his chest as you run your hands up and down his upper back. You run your hands through his hair as you feel his lips dot kisses up your neck.
“Missed you baby” you coo gently
Frank lifts his head up to look at you “been right here honey” he says a little confused. “Missed you, like this” you clarify with a cheeky little smile. “Yeah? Missed fucking you like this” he says somewhat shyly as he presses a kiss on the side of your head.
“Why’d you stop?” You ask hesitantly after a moment of silence. He looks down at you for a beat before answering “I don’t know baby, just wanted to show you how much I love you” he says so sincerely it makes your heart bloom and he smiles at the way he feels you pulse around his length, still sheathed inside of you.
“Baby you show me every day how much you love me, you don’t have to hold back… I thought you were getting bored of me already..” you say that last line a little lower.
Frank looks at you like you’ve grown three heads “bored of you? Sweetheart, there is no version of me in any universe that would ever get bored of you” he coos placing another gentle kiss on your lips. “Where am I gonna find someone else who likes fighting with guys in grocery stores huh” he jokes a little and “shuttt uuuup” you smile.
He gives you another kiss before he sits up and pulls himself out of you. His eyes fall down to your cunt, hypnotised by the way his cum oozes out of your hole. He runs his hands up your thigh, and you see the way his softened cock starts twitching back to life at the sight of you.
“What is it?” You ask him nudging him with your foot. “Hm nothin, you just look so pretty when you’re full of me” he says breaking out of his trance.
"gonna get a towel honey" he sighs as he attempts to get up. You pull him back down to the bed and climb on top of him "I don't think we're done yet frankie" you whisper licking up his neck.
"you're gonna fuckin' kill baby" he says in a low chuckle and a slap on your ass before flipping you on your back. You hit the bed with a shreik as you laugh "let me clean you up a different way then huh, heard you got a his & hers special between your legs" he says, voice laced with mirth as he snakes his hand down and runs two of his thick fingers through the mix of the both of you and pushes his fingers inside of you making you moan. “Gotta taste it myself baby, see what all the fuss is about” he whispers as he makes his way down your body.
Yeah you both had a bit of catching up to do.
—
a/n: I hope you guys liked this!! 🫣 lmk if yall wanna see more of husband Frank! Also this is like a semi healed version of Frank that lives rent free inside my head xx
(Sorry for any grammatical errors, I did proof read but I also have really bad period cramps rn and my brain was struggling)
@sochkila <- follow along on my new main for more writing 😚❤️
summary : i mean... its in the title. (basically frank is hung like a fkn horse and he's scared to hurt you)
word count : 11.3 k (mightve gotten carried away oops)
warnings : MINORS DNI please just don't, p in v, oral (m receiving) unprotected smut (wrap that shlong pls), swearing, reader uses she/her, praise, size diff kink if you squint, slight age gap, pet names, no use of y/n, pls lmk if i missed any :)
a/n : as usual my lovelies this is not proofread so please excuse any repetitions/inconsistencies or spelling mistakes ! also i loved writing this holy shit i'm nasty
It's clear to anyone dumb enough to spend time with you and frank that the two of you are completely enamored with each other.
I mean, it's hard not to tell when the man can hardly keep his hands to himself when you're near. It's like he's hardwired to constantly crave your touch, and that only gets worse when you're standing somewhere close and have the absolute gall to not sit on his lap.
Dating an older man has always scared you off. Until you met Frank. He's not much older than you, but enough for people to be skeptical when seeing the two of you together. But there's no denying that Frank loves you.
What started as a casual friendship because of Curtis, forcing the two of you to hang out a little bit more, and Frank showing up to Curtis's meetings just to see you, evolved into a soft understanding.
It wasn’t loud.
Nothing about you and Frank ever really was. Not at first.
It crept in—quiet, steady, almost invisible if you weren’t paying attention. The way he started sitting closer to you at Curtis’s meetings. The way his eyes would track you when you moved around the room, like he needed to know where you were at all times. The way his voice—usually rough, sharp, worn down to gravel—would soften just a fraction when he spoke to you. No one missed it. Not Curtis. Not Karen.
Hell, not even the guys who only saw Frank in passing.
Because Frank Castle—the man who didn’t linger, didn’t touch, didn’t stay—hovered around you like you were something he didn’t quite understand but couldn’t walk away from. And you… You let him. At first, it was small things. You’d patch him up without asking too many questions. He’d show up half-broken, blood soaking through whatever shirt he had left, and you wouldn’t flinch. Wouldn’t lecture. Wouldn’t ask him to stop. You’d just sigh softly, sit him down, and say,
“Take it off.”
And he would.
Every time. No fight. No attitude. No smart remark. Just quiet obedience in a way that didn’t make sense for a man like him. You were the only one he let see him like that. Not the Punisher. Not the weapon.
Just… Frank.
Bruised. Bleeding. Human. And somewhere along the way, that became your normal. You’d clean his wounds, your fingers gentle, careful—always careful—and he’d sit there watching you like you were doing something sacred instead of stitching him back together with shaking hands. Because you were different. You weren’t hardened. Not like the people he knew.
Not like him.
You still hesitated sometimes. Still winced when the cuts were deep. Still muttered soft apologies under your breath when he hissed in pain—even when it wasn’t your fault. And the first time he realized that?
It did something to him. Something quiet. Something dangerous. Because you weren’t used to this world. And he knew it. Knew it in the way your hands trembled just slightly the first time you had to dig a bullet out of his side. Knew it in the way you avoided looking at the scars that weren’t fresh. Knew it in the way you’d look at him sometimes—like you were trying to understand how someone could carry so much violence inside them and still sit so still for you. You weren’t untouched by life. But you were… soft. In a way he didn’t think existed anymore.
Frank Castle—impatient, relentless, brutal— Was impossibly gentle with you. Like he was afraid you’d break if he wasn’t. The first time he touched you—really touched you—it wasn’t greedy. Wasn’t desperate.
It was careful. A hand at your waist, slow, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn’t. Your breath caught instead. And that was all the permission he needed. Even then, he moved like he was learning you. Like you were something fragile and rare and completely unfamiliar.
Because you were. You weren’t like the women he’d known before. There was no practiced confidence. No ease. Just soft breaths, unsure hands, and wide eyes that flickered with something between fear and trust. Just Frank's soft voice as he bent you over your bed, and hoisted a pillow beneath your hips, muttering something about making it hurt less. All you could do was whine and crane your neck to try and look at him.
And God— The trust. That’s what got him. Because you trusted him.
Him.
Frank Castle. A man built from violence and loss and blood. And you let him hold you like he wasn’t. So he treated you like something sacred. Like something he didn’t deserve but couldn’t stop himself from keeping. He’d brush your hair back from your face like it mattered. Press his forehead to yours like it grounded him. Murmur soft, barely-there reassurances against your skin when you got overwhelmed—quiet “I got you”’s that sounded nothing like the man people feared. You brought something out of him no one else ever had.
As time went on Frank got my comfortable, slightly more rough in bed as he started to understand your body and it's needs, how that little shiver that passes through you means you're close. But the truth is-
You have never actually seen Frank's dick.
That sounds absurd.
I mean, after all, he's your boyfriend. Of course you've seen it.
Well, glimpses of it.
Pressing through his pants, the base of it as you crane your neck to try to look at him as he softly guides it through your folds.
Always the same thing. Your ass up in the air, facing him, a pillow wedged beneath your hips and then the inexplicable feeling of being so fucking full that you feel like you're floating until your knees start to shake and your pussy clenches around him- and then he's pulling out, kissing the backs of your thighs, murmuring praises as you come down from your high.
And then he vanishes into the bathroom- the sink turned on, not to be seen for another ten minutes- before emerging with his pants back on and a wet towel in hand to clean you up. Not to sound ungrateful- you loved Frank. You loved being intimate with him, grinding on his lap and feeling him go hard beneath you, his length pressed to your thigh. You knew he was big, I mean, he was inside of you almost every night. But you'd never actually seen just how big.
Everytime you dropped down to your knees in front of him, grabbing at his waist band, he'd tut and pull you up,
"Nah, don't wan' none o'that, sweetheart." Before splaying your thighs wide open and spending hours between your legs, beard tickling your thighs, tongue lapping at your cunt like a man starved, pulling orgasm after prgasm from you until his lips shine with the sheen of your juices. At first, you thought nothing of it. You thought it was sweet. He was so desperate to make you feel good.
But then your friend pointed it out.
“You’ve been with him this long and you’ve never actually… seen him?” your friend had said, brows raised in disbelief. You’d laughed it off at first. Shrugged.
“Of course I have,” you’d insisted, heat creeping up your neck. But even as you said it, something in your chest twisted.
Because… Had you? Really? You’d felt him. Knew the weight of him, the way your body reacted to him, the way he filled every inch of space until you couldn’t think straight. You knew how his hands felt, how his voice dropped when he got close, how he’d murmur soft praise against your skin like it was something private, something only meant for you. But seen him? Not properly. Not fully. And once the thought was there, it wouldn’t leave.
It replayed in your mind, over and over. The way he always guided you gently into position—always facing away, always careful, always focused on you. The way his hands would linger at your hips, grounding, steady. The way he’d press his forehead briefly to your shoulder sometimes, like he needed that contact before anything else.
And then after— He’d disappear. Like clockwork. Bathroom door. Running water. Silence. You never questioned it. Because it was Frank.
Because everything about him came with edges you didn’t push.
But now… Now it felt like something you couldn’t ignore.
Frank, who watched you like you were something worth memorizing. Frank, who traced your skin like he was learning it. Frank, who never once made you feel rushed, or used, or anything less than… cherished.
Why would he hide?
The question lingered. And it changed the way you noticed things.
The way his hand would stop yours if you reached too low, too curious. The way he’d redirect you—soft, gentle, but firm.
The way he always made it about you.
Always.
At first, it had felt like care. Like patience. Like love. And it still was.
But now there was something else underneath it.
------
You worry your bottom lip as you pace the length of your room, sighing annoyedly at the way your brain is running at a hundred miles an hour. You're convinced your feet have worn a dent in the hardwood floor, and your heart is racing so fast you can hear the blood rushing behind your ears.
Beyond the door, Frank is sat on the couch, legs spread wide, beer in hand- watching late night TV while waiting for you to come out of the "shower"- completely oblivious to what is really happening in the confines of your shared room.
Now or never.
It's now or never.
Determined, you tuck your hair behind your ears and make sure that the silk nightdress you slipped on is fitting you just right before tearing the door open and softly padding your way to the living room. Frank is lounging on the couch, shirtless and wearing a pair of gray sweats that hang deliciously low on his hips, legs spread apart like they're just begging for you to sink to your knees infront of him. The thought of feeling him, having the weight of his cock press against your tongue, feel the tip hit the back of your throat so hard tears fling to your eyes makes warmth pool in your belly and you clench your thighs at the thought. Frank's eyes snap up the second he hears you, sitting up properly.
"Hiya, sweet thing." He hums, grinning up at you as he pats his lap, an invitation for you to come sit on his lap.You can already see the hardening outline of his cock behind the sweatpants- meaning your night dress is doing it's job. "How was your shower, baby ?" he hums as you sit horizontally on his lap, curling into him. He kisses your forehead as he tucks you into him, his hand finding a familiar resting place on your thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the inside. The TV casts a sheen glow over the two of you, and you sigh into his chest, running your fingers along the hard ridges of his muscles.
"Would've been better if you were there." You hum, and despite himself, Frank chuckles.
"I'm sure it woulda been," He hums, chest rumbling against your cheek. He takes a small sip of his beer and sets it aside, sighing contentedly ash he pulls you in closer. Your thoughts are running faster than they ever have, your brain a whirlwind. You barely hear Frank when he asks,
"Did'ya eat ?" You nod wordlessly against his chest.
Frank frowns at the lack of response.
That's not like you at all. Usually you'd quip back something snarky, or witty- something to make him laugh, or make him frown and force you to eat something other than an PB and J made in a rush at seven am.
"Baby ?"
"I ate." You manage. You clear your throat and pull away from him slightly, gearing to get off his lap when he grabs your arm. He twists you to face him, your body wedged between his thighs. He sits up straight- and it's almost absurd how he's your full standing height like this.
"What's wrong ?" He asks.
Despite your best effort, your bottom lip starts to wobble. Frank's chest squeezes in worry and he softly drags his hands down your sides, palming at your ribs and waist to ry to guide you back into his lap.
"Baby ? What happened-"
"Do you not like looking at me ?"
The air between the two of you hangs suspended, filled with electric tension. Frank can't help but laugh,
"What the hell are you talking about ?" he mutters, shaking his head as he brings his thumb up to wipe a tear away from your eye before it has the chance to fall fully down your face. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. You're fuckin' goregous baby. Matter of fact- this dress you got on has me fuckin' reelin-"
"But you don't like to look at me when you fuck me ?" You manage, arms crossing over your chest. Frank's hear feels like it's been ripped out of his chest, and he suddenly feels like he can't fucking breathe. He stares up at you, your teary eyes, the way you're biting at the inside of your cheek, leaning backwards despite being trapped between his thigh, as if you want to just get away from him. Frank's eyes blow open a fraction before narrowing as he frowns.
"Okay, now you're talkin' crazy." He huffs, shaking his head.
"Am i ?" You manage, your throat tight. You look down at your hands, toying with the satin hem of your dress. "You never let me look at you- you're always behind me when you fuck me. You never let me suck you off, it's always you eating me out and i-"
"Woah, woah." Frank leans forward, wrapping his hand around the back of your knees, dragging you forward towards him. He runs his hands over your thighs, sighing heavily. "Baby, that has nothing to do with how you look." he says, his voice dropping to the low, comforting octave he always takes with you when you're upset. His hand reaches up and cups the back of your neck, his thumb forcing under your jaw to make you look at him. "You get that ?" You sniffle, jerking away from him.
"I've never even seen you, Frank." You blubber, your words sounding more stupid as you go on- but you can't stop them now. "And you've seen every square inch of me. You only ever take me from the back-"
"Sweetheart." He rasps, head dropping. He sighs, his hands leaving you momentarily to drag down his face. "I do that so that it won't hurt you." You sniffle.
"I can take it. I'm not a baby." You rasp. He laughs, a short gentle thing. He shakes his head.
"I'm not saying you are." He sighs, his hands smoothing over your thighs. "Look, when I was with Maria- and other women before her- they always told me that certain positions hurt, that it was too much. That one was the only one that didn't." You look down, biting at your bottom lip.
"I can take it, Frank. I have before. All those other times-" He shakes his head, hiding a small smile.
"No, you ain't, baby." You frown.
"What do you mean ?" He groans, tilting his head back, clearly not wanting to have this conversation out of fear to upset you.
"I don't... fuck- i don't put all of it in." He says. Your throat goes dry.
"What do you mean ?" You repeat again, your breath wobbly. He sighs, looking up at you.
"It means the full thing doesn't fuckin' fit, baby."
Your breath stutters. For a second, you just… stare at him. Because the way he says it - flat, matter-of-fact, like it’s not even up for debate -knocks the wind right out of you.
“…What?” you whisper. Frank huffs out a quiet breath, dragging a hand over his face again like he regrets even opening his mouth.
“You heard me,” he mutters. But you don’t move on. You can’t. Your fingers curl tighter into your dress, your mind scrambling to catch up with what he just said—what it means.
“That doesn’t-" you shake your head slightly, brows pulling together. “That doesn’t make sense. I would know, Frank.” He looks at you then. Really looks at you. And there’s no teasing in his expression. No smugness. No exaggeration. Just… patience.
“You feel full, right? You feel good ?” he asks again, quieter this time, as he presses a hand to your stomach. You hesitate, but ultimately nod, the thought of having Frank buried inside you making your insides churn with deep need.
“Yeah…” He gives a small nod back, like that confirms it all over again.
“Yeah,” he repeats. “That’s you already at your limit.” Your stomach flips. Because now - now it does make sense. The way he always moves so carefully. The way he never rushes. The way he stops the second your body tightens too much, even if you haven’t said a word.
“…So you’ve just been…” you trail off, not even sure how to finish that sentence.
“Holdin’ back?” he fills in. You look up at him. He shrugs slightly, like it’s nothing. Like it hasn’t been a constant, conscious effort every single time he touches you. “Yeah.” Silence settles between you. Heavy. Different now. Not insecurity anymore—but something deeper. Something that sits right in your chest and refuses to move.
“You think I can’t handle you ?" you say after a moment, softer now. Frank’s expression tightens immediately.
“That ain’t what I said.”
“It’s what you mean.”
“No,” he says, firmer this time. His hand comes up, gripping your jaw just enough to make you look at him again. “What I mean is - I’m not willin’ to find out the hard way where your limit is.” That shuts you up. Because there’s something in his voice - something serious. “You don’t… always tell me when somethin’s too much,” he adds, quieter, sighing as he continues to run his hands over you. “You try to take it. Power through it.” Your throat tightens. Because again— He’s not wrong. “I don’t wanna be the reason you’re in pain and don’t say it,” he continues. “So yeah - I control it. I keep it where I know you’re okay.” You sniffle.
"So what you're saying - is that your dick's too big ? Wow, real small ego you got there, Frankie." Frank laughs out loud, shaking his head. You can't help it- a smile tugs at your lips too.
"Jesus, woman." He grumbles, shaking his head. Frank huffs, dragging a hand down his face like he’s trying not to laugh again, but it’s already there - low and rumbling in his chest. “Yeah, real funny,” he mutters, shooting you a look that’s more tired than anything, but there’s warmth in it. Always is with you. “That’s what you took from all that, huh?” You shrug a little, the corner of your mouth still twitching.
“I mean… kinda walked right into that one,” you mumble. He shakes his head again, but his hand comes back to your thigh, thumb brushing slow, absentminded circles like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
“Christ,” he exhales, softer now. “You’re unbelievable.” There’s no bite to it. Just… fondness. The kind he doesn’t give out to anyone else. The tension that had been coiled tight between your ribs loosens, just a little.
“…You could’ve just told me,” you say after a second, quieter now. “Instead of makin’ me think you didn’t wanna—look at me or whatever.” That lands. It always does when it comes from you like that—honest, not accusatory, just… a little hurt. Frank’s expression shifts, something heavier settling back in.
“Yeah,” he admits. “Probably should’ve.” His hand stills on your leg for a moment before sliding up to your waist, grounding you closer without forcing it. “I ain’t exactly good at explainin’ things,” he adds, glancing at you. “You might’ve noticed.” A small huff of laughter leaves you despite yourself.
“Little bit.” He nods once, like - fair enough.
Silence settles again, but it’s different now. Not sharp. Not confusing. Just… quiet. Your fingers drift to his shoulders, pressing the pads of them into his collarbone.
“…So,” you start, hesitant but still curious, “that’s the only reason?” Frank’s eyes narrow slightly.
“What d’you mean ‘only’?”
“I mean,” you shift a little where you’re still half in his lap, “you’re not, like… avoiding it for some other reason?” There’s a flicker of something in his expression—brief, almost gone before you catch it.
“Like what?” he asks. You hesitate.
“Like you don’t want me,” you admit softly. That one hits deeper than the joke did. Frank’s brows pull together immediately, his hand tightening just slightly at your waist.
“Hey,” he murmurs, firmer now. “Don’t start that.”
“I’m just asking - "
“And I’m tellin’ you, no,” he cuts in, not harsh, just certain. His other hand comes up, nudging your chin so you’re looking at him again. “Ain’t got nothin’ to do with wantin’ you. You got that?” Your eyes search his face. He doesn’t look away. Your hands drift on his bare chest, and he grabs you by the waist and pulls you to him. He guides you so that you straddle his lap, and he presses your pelvis to his. "Feel that ?" He hums. "That's because you walked in, in that lil' dress of yours." He says, his voice a stark contrast compared to the hard length pressed against your thigh. You whimper as your hips instinctively grind against him, your nails digging into his bare biceps. He kisses a few open mouthed kisses to your neck. "Don't ever say that I don't want ya'. Fuck, baby, you're all i fuckin' want. You're all I crave. Day in and day out." He mutters and you whine, fingers digging into his hair.
"Frank.." He nods against your skin, arms wrapping around you before lifting you as he stands, before dropping you on the couch and placing you face down , your arms pressed to the arm rest in front of you.
"I know, baby." He hums. "Gon' make you feel good, hm ?" You're about to nod- to give in, to let him take you like this when your body jerks in sudden realisation. You wiggle away from him, and slide to the floor, landing on your knees. Frank laughs, sitting down with his arms stretched out, ready to grab you. "Baby ? Whatcha' doin' ? C'mere-"
"Frank." You say, your voice stern. "I don't want to do it like that." You manage. Frank freezes.
Clearly he had misread the conversation.
"Baby, c'mon."
"No I mean it. What I said earlier, i-" You gulp, shaking your head as you crawl over to him and kneel between his parted legs. You reach up and latch your fingers around the hem of his sweats, staring up at him. "I don't want you to hold back anymore." You mutter, shaking your head. Frank is about to protest, but then your soft hands find the curve of his V-line, and he turns to pure putty in your hands, his chest heaving as he watches you through heavy lids as you pull his sweatpants down his legs, his boxers following suit. His dick springs up like a solider at attention, the tip red and leaking with pre-cum that drips onto his stomach. Frank groans, a deep, chested groan at the feel of the cool air on his dick.
And you... Wow. You can't stop staring.
Not only is he big- bigger than you've managed to sneak a peak at- he's thick. Veins running up the sides of it, and you tentatively reach out and grab a hold of him at the base. He twitches in your hand, and you have to keep yourself from letting your hand snake down to pinch at your clit. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, and Frank's hips buck involuntarily into your hand.
"Shit- mmph- okay, okay, fine. You win. You can jerk me off. Just please, fuckin' do something, baby, or i'm blowin' my load right now and it'll be embarassing for both of us."
But you don't want to jerk him off.
Softly, you reach up onto your knees and press a soft kiss to the base of him, and his eyes fly open at the contact.
"Sweetheart-" he barely has time to fully voice his protest before your tongue darts out to drag against his tip, gathering the precum and tasting it. God the taste makes you moan around his tip, and Frank's eyes screw shut again as his hand darts down to wrap in your hair, pulling it away from your face- and effectively keep ing your lips away from his throbbing dick. He shakes his head, ragged breaths tearing out of him as you continue to move your hand alone him, your hat breath fanning of his length and making him go dizzy.
"You can't- fuck- you can't do that again, mama." He hums. "I won't be able to control myself- I'll hurt you, and I don't- " He rasps, shaking his head. You pout, shaking your head.
"I don't want you to control yourself. I want you to fuck my throat, Frank." Frank chokes on air.
His girl.
Such dirty things, falling from her perfect lips.
Usually Frank was the one spewing dirty things in your ear until you were spent frofromriding the fuck out of his fingers, leaving a wet patch on his pants.
"Baby-" His grip in your hair has loosened, probably from shock of your words, and you surge forward again, sucking him into your mouth. Frank throws his head back, a ragged moan escaping his lips. Your lips barely fit around him, and you bob your head up and down, trying your best to take more and more of him as you go.
You hollow your cheeks and try again, this time flattening your tongue more, tasting salt and skin and something so Frank it makes you whimper around him, and god—he wasn’t kidding.
You feel the stretch at the corners of your mouth, the push against the roof, the impossible thickness, and there's something about struggling a little that makes you shudder. You blink back tears when he hits the soft part at the back of your throat. Frank’s hand tenses in your hair, not shoving, not guiding—just holding, steady and warm.
“Jesus Christ, honey,” he hisses and you hear it, the roughened edge of his voice, the way it sounded so close to breaking. You choke a bit, eyes watering, but you don't stop.
You wanted this.
There's a different kind of ache now, low in your belly, a need that makes you bold as you drewdraw him in again, saliva gathering fast.
Frank is going to die.
This is it.
This is the end of him, right here on his own couch - his sweet girl on her knees, spit-slicked lips stretched around him, and not a single thought in his head except how goddamn perfect you look.
Christ, your jaw is trembling with the effort, tears clinging to your lashes, but you don't stop. Not even when he swears, not when he pulls you hair tight enough to make you gasp, not when his thighs start to shake.
He wants to stop you.
He really does.
He knows his own size, knows the thickness was a fucking problem for a mouth that small. But every time he starts to say something, you moan or squeeze his base a little tighter, and he looses all conviction, his brain reduced to static.
"Fuck, baby-" he rasps, hips bucking up into your mouth. Whatever doesn't fit that far is wrapped in your fist, and you give him a little squeeze before popping him out of your mouth, panting. His eyes fly open, staring down at you. "Shit, shit-" He pushes himself up, taking in the dazed look in your eyes and the way your whole body is shaking. "Was it too much ? Baby, did I hurt you ?"
You shudder, wiping tears from you cheek with your wrist, and look up at Frank through your damp lashes. He looks panicked. His hand hovers an inch from your face like he’s afraid to touch you, as if the mere graze of his palm might finish the job and knock your jaw clean off. His other hand grips the farthest end of the couch cushion, knuckles bone-bright, the way a drowning man might clutch a lifeline.
“Didn’t hurt,” you manage, voice shredded, throat raw. your lips feel bruised, stretched wider than a smile ever had, but you mean it. You give him a grin, a little shaky, and that seems to make it worse. He makes a noise—half relief, half terror—and pulls you up by the underarms, settling you in his lap like he needs to reassemble you from the mess you’d made of yourself at his feet.
“Jesus Christ,” he says again, kissing his way to your body. “You did so good.” You roll your eyes.
“I didn’t even finish the job.” You hum.
“Later.” He rasps, shaking his head. You shake your head in reply, grinding down on him.
“No, Frank. Now.” To Frank's horror- or pleasure, he’s not sure, thetwo seem to have melded into one by now, he can feel your folds gliding against him.
Fuck, you’re not wearing fucking panties.
Frank’s hands come to your waist, but there’s a caution to them now, a tremor of restraint that makes your skin prickle with want and frustration.
“Easy, honey,” he says, voice split between gravel and velvet. “Let’s just- let’s take it slow, yeah? Play it safe.” But you’re already tilting your hips, already grinding down on him, making the leaking tip of his cock glide slick against your folds. You’re soaked, thighs sticky with it, and you want nothing more than to see how much you can take—if you can take all of him. The idea of it, the challenge, makes every nerve in your body light up with electricity.
"M' tired of playing it safe." You whimper, hand reaching up to trace Frank's chest. Frank’s grip tightens, but not enough to stop you. If anything, it feels like he’s holding you steady, like you’re a hurricane he’s volunteered to brace against.
“You don’t have to,” he says, barely above a whisper, and it sounds like a warning, but there is barely any resolve there. You’re about to answer when you roll your hips one more time, and the tip of him breaches your entrance with a squelch, and Frank has to physically lift you off of him to stop you from trying to take all of him in one fail swoop. Frank’s hands lock around your waist as if you’re glass and he’d just caught you mid-fall.
“Hey, hey,” he grunts, face going taut and white as bone. “That’s enough. That’s—fuck, that’s not playin’ around anymore, sweetheart.” You want to laugh. You want to say,
You think I’m playing? but the words stick somewhere in your throat, knotted up behind want so abject it leaves no room for anything else. It isn’t just the ache between your legs or the rubber-band tension up your spine. It’s the way he keeps looking at you, mouth hard and tight with need and worry, the way his thighs tense and twitch beneath you like your body alone makes him nervous.
If you weren’t so wet you might’ve been offended.
Truth is, Frank has dreamed of taking you like this. Being able to move your hips in sync with his, watching your sopping cunt sink down and struggle to swallow all of him up, the way you would writhe and whine. But having it, right now- when he wasn't prepared for it ?
He can't helo but feel a little terrified.
You lift your hips off of his, softly reaching down between the both of you and grabbing his cock in your hands. He hisses at the contact, one hand wraped flimsily over your throat and jaw. He looks up at you, his chest heaving.
“You’re sure, baby ?” He rasps. You nod, whimpering at the emptiness.
“I’m sure, Frank.” You whine. He nods, his eyes wide. He gathers your nightdress up in his hands, bunching it up near your waist so he can see what you’re doing.
“Alright.” He groans. “We go slow, kay, baby ? Slow.” You're barely braced above him before Frank’s got both hands at your hips, the pads of his fingers digging into the soft flesh there, like he’s expecting you to take off running. You feel it, the tremor in his grip—less a warning, more a reminder, like he’s still not sure if you’re going to change your mind. But you won’t. Not when he’s looking up at you like that, mouth parted, breath coming just a little ragged at the edges. Frank runs his hands up and down your sides, steadying you with slow, broad sweeps.
“You gotta promise me,” he murmurs, voice so low it barely vibrates the air, “if it hurts too much, you say it. Don’t try to tough it out for me. You get me?” His eyes are dark, serious, but there’s a worry in them that makes your chest ache.
“I promise,” you whisper, and it’s the only thing that soothes his fear. He holds you steady, big hands bracing at your waist, eyes on your face instead of the place you’re both so desperate to look.
“Breathe, baby,” he says. His voice is as rough as the pad of his thumb stroking your hip, and shit, there’s more care in it than you can stand. “Nice and slow. You lead, I follow.” You nod, even though your hands shake against his chest.
Hell, your knees shake, your insides shake, but you want this.
You want every inch of him, even if it means tears streaking down your face and your jaw locking up. Even if it means he has to see you ugly-cry your way through the best sex of your life. You hover with his tip pressed right at your entrance. The stretch is immediate, so much more than what you’re used to, enough to make your whole body tense. You barely start to sink down before you freeze, breath catching in you throat. He tips his head back, a lewd moan slipping from his lips.
“Jesus, baby.” The stretch is a white-hot ache, harsher than you’d dreamed, like someone’s hollowed you out with a blunt instrument. Your nails dig into the meat of Frank’s shoulders and he hisses, but his hands on your hips don’t budge, a steady anchor. You try to breathe through it, slow and shallow, but your thighs tremble, teeth gritting against a whimper. Frank’s voice is a low, shuddering growl.
“That’s it, baby,” he says, and there’s awe tangled in his filth, like he’s seeing something sacred. “You’re doin’ so good for me. So fuckin’ good.” His thumb rubs a circle on your hip bone, coaxing, and the pressure’s so gentle it almost hurts worse. “Let it stretch you, honey. I got you.” You force yourself to open your eyes. He’s watching your face, jaw tight, forehead furrowed, his own lips parted. “Look at you. My pretty girl, taking my cock so good.” He hums. You huff out a quiet laugh- he’s not even halfway in. Thighs shaking, you dig your palms into Frank’s shoulders and push yourself down a little more. It’s impossible, how much of him is left - how much you want to take, even as your vision blurs at the edges. Frank tracks every change in you, every twitch and stutter of your body. The way your lips wobble, brow crumpled in something between agony and pure want. He holds you steady, lets you set the pace, but you can feel him trembling under your hands, like it’s costing him everything not to just grab your hips and slam himself home.
"S'it to much ? You gotta tell me baby." He rasps, and you quickly shake your head.
"N-No. Can take more. Want more, Frankie." You whine. He groans, low and heavy, his chest heaving, his knuckles whitening.
"Alright, baby." You force yourself down another inch, then another. The pain and the pleasure are so wrapped up it’s impossible to tell them apart anymore. You’re already crying, little noises you didn’t even know you could make, and yet you can’t stop, can’t stop even as your thighs shake, moisture slicking his lap and your own skin. He’s so deep you swear he’s up in your guts.
“That’s it, fuck,” Frank groans, the sound ripped straight from his chest. “Ya got it, mama, you got it.” he hums. You throw your head back, spreading your thighs wide, and you slide down the other inch. An unabashed moan rips through you as your clit nestles against his pubic bone, and your body falls forward.
"Mmph- Frank !" Frank’s gripping onto your thighs, sitting up properly to kiss your cheeks. Frank kisses the salty streaks off your cheeks, his calloused hands steadying you, one on your lower back and one splayed across your thigh, thumb tracing the soft inner seam. You can hear his heart pounding, a frantic, drumline thrum right beneath your sternum, your ribs nearly pressed together with his. The world’s closed down to just the two of you: your thighs quivering around his, your hands clawed into the sweat-slicked muscle of his shoulders, the sharp, dizzy ache of being ripped and made new around the kind of cock you’d never believed possible.
“Fucking - goddamn,” he rasps, his voice so low it crackles. “There you go, there you go, baby. C’mon, that’s it. Fuckin’ take it, just like that.” The praise is a hot, electric wire down your spine. You can barely catch your breath, mouth open wide, gulping air with each new surge of pleasure. Your hips give a tentative roll, and the pain that shoots up your thighs and ricochets into your pussy is like never before. You bite your lip to keep the whine from escaping, but you can’t help it. It tumbles past your lips, and Frank gives your ass a small slap.
“Hey. Hey, look at me, baby.” He kisses your forehead. “Take your time.” You whine, rolling your hips again, the pain subsiding.
“Feels so good, Frankie.” You whimper. “M’so full. So fuckin’ big.” Your hips jerk and the movement sends another slither of pain up your spine, but this time it feels… better. Not all the way good yet, but on the right side of addictive. You can feel yourself stretching to fit him, the way every tiny shift sends him deeper, fuller. You cling to his shoulders, forehead pressed to the crook of his neck, panting through the burn.
“Christ, that’s it,” he breathes, hands splayed wide on your hips, not moving, not pushing, just holding you steady while your body learns what to do with him. “You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. Didn’t think it was possible, but look at you. My girl.” The way he says it makes a jolt of pleasure rush up your spine. Frank rocks his hips up, buried deep, and it’s a punch to both your lungs and your ego that you can even take his whole length. Your walls clamp around him, and the sweet, mean stretch lands somewhere between a cramp and a revelation. Sweat beads along the curve of his neck, his breath gone ragged. The hand at your hip slides up, spans your ribs, steadying you as you circle your hips again, chasing whatever sensation comes next.
“Christ, listen to you,” he mutters. “Sound so fuckin’ pretty when you whimper.” He slides a palm up your spine, fingers kneading at the handful of your back until it’s not clear if he’s holding you up or holding you together. “Never seen anyone take it like you do, baby. Shit, you’re perfect.” You want to laugh, to tell him you’re a mess—sweat-slick, trembling, nearly sobbing as he works you open. But what comes out is wordless, a string of broken syllables that might be his name or might be just a sound, a plea, a warning. You don’t know anymore. You don’t think you care. Frank holds you there, his breath ragged against your temple, his hands so big around your hips that you could almost believe he’s the only thing keeping your insides from spilling out. You’re still adjusting, still shaking, but the burn’s gone gold at the edges—sharp at first, then molten, then a kind of desperate, addictive ache. It’s hunger. It’s grief. It’s a craving that lives in the marrow, not just the skin.
“Never thought you’d take it like this,” he says, voice rough, barely more than a growl. The words crack against your ear, and you shudder all the way down. “Fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ the life outta me.” You can’t stop shaking. Your knees are spread wide, bracketing his hips, the insides of your thighs slick with sweat and slick with everything Frank’s ever dragged out of you. You thinks you'll never get used to the feeling of him, never stop being wrecked by the way he stretches you open—fuller than full, the kind of full that scrapes at yout sanity and sends sparks arcing up her spine. You try to move again, to work him deeper, but your body stutters, shudders, clamps up so tight you're afraid you'll never let him go. Frank’s hands slide beneath your ass, rough and steady, and he’s whispering again.
“Still good, baby? Still with me?” You hear herself answer before you've even thought about it.
“Yeah. Oh, fuck—”
“That’s my girl,” he growls, and his hands flex, digging into the meat of your ass, helping you find a rhythm. His hands force your ass up, switching from slow rolls to you bouncing up and down on his cock, the length splitting you open every time you fall back down. You whine, nails raking down his chest as he sets a cruelly slow pace. You nod wordlessly, as if saying, yes this is what i wanted, yout nails digging into his chest. He keeps his pace slow, hands bracing you, letting you ride out every inch.
The way you move is desperate, hips frantic, but you're still so fucking tight it’s like every thrust stretches you all over again. Frank can feel it in the way you shake, the way your nails score frantic down his chest, each movement another little gasp from you.
“That’s it, baby,” He says, rough and low. “You’re doing so good. You’re perfect.” IHe yanks down the top of your dress and softly coaxes your breast into his palm, rolling your nipple between his fingers and it makes you arch, your head falling back, mouth open in a silent moan.
“Fuck, you like that? You like being full like this?” He can’t help it, he want you to know, he wants you to hear yourself and know how fucking hot you are right now.
He reaches for your face, brushes the hair out of your eyes, and maks you look at him.
“Look at you. So pretty riding my cock.” You gasp, your body rocking forward.
“Fuck, Frank-” A desperate whine pulls from your lips, pussy clenching around his impossibly hard length. "Mmph- I need-" Your words are cut off by a whine, and your head falls back as Frank runs his lips over the plane of your neck.
"What is it, sweet girl ? What d'ya need, hmm ?" He asks, catching your face in his heads and tilting it down to force you to look at him. "Ya need me t'stop ?" You shake your head, slamming your hips down to accentuate your point.
"N-No ! Don-Don't you dare fucking stop." You whine, leaning in to press your lips to his. Frank’s mouth finds yours, heat and need and all the things he never says out loud, and he kisses you with a rough, desperate edge that’s never come out this way before. His hand tangles in your hair, holding you there, letting you bite and gasp and moan against his lips. You pull away, fingers tangled in his hair as you look up at him. You roll your hips again, and Frank’s head falls back, groaning as your pussy clenches around his thick length- buried inside you to the hilt.
“Need- Need to go harder, Frankie.” You whine. Frank’s hands squeeze your hips, bruising, and his voice unspools in a low, dangerous note:
“You sure about that, baby? I don’t wanna hurt you.” You dig your nails in harder, clinging to his shoulders like a life raft, and shake your head so he’ll quit asking, quit holding back, and just—fuck, just let go.
“Need it. Please, Frankie. Please.” That’s all it takes. Something in him snaps. A groan wrenches out of his chest, and his hands slide down, rough palms spanning your ass, and he’s pistoning up into you, hips snapping so hard you see stars behind your eyes. You yelp, then moan, shock and pleasure shooting through your body in a white-hot flash. He’s relentless, slamming into you, hitting so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat.He’s all breath and teeth now, his resolve snapping with every desperate roll of your hips.
He bucks up, his cock splitting you open even wider—impossible, you think, but then you feel it: the way he bottoms out, the edge of his blunt head pressing so deep it’s like he’s rearranging every nerve ending you have. You cry out, the sound ugly and perfect, but Frank’s hand is at the back of your head, his mouth over your mouth, swallowing the noise.He loses the last of his restraint and plants his feet, his thighs up and hips off the couch, and now every grind is harder, meaner, his cock punching into you until all you can do is sob and clamp tight around him. The sound is obscene: the wet slap of skin, the ragged gasps, the squeal of couch springs. Frank hauls you in, his mouth at your ear, his voice nothing but a ragged scrape.
“Fuck, you’re a mess for me,” he growls, each word a brand against your skin. “All that attitude, and you’re fuckin’ sobbing on my cock. So fuckin' tight f'me, huh ? Such a good girl.” His hand slides up, fingers digging into the back of your neck, holding you steady as he rams up into you, relentless, and the pain is gone now, replaced by something blinding—a pleasure so sharp it makes your vision white out, your whole body hollowing and clutching around him.You rock in rhythm with him and it’s obscene, the squelch of where you’re joined, the slap of skin on skin as he pounds up into you, the guttural noises you can’t keep inside.
“Fuck, you’re so wet for me, baby. Been dreamin’ about this, you taking all of me. Didn’t think you’d—I mean, Jesus, look at you.” He grabs your ass, kneading it and pulling you down, forcing you to take every last millimeter. “You’re squeezing so tight, you’re milkin’ me, fuck—” He grits his teeth, eyes half-lidded and hungry. “You wanna come? Wanna let go for me?”
“Yes. God, yes, please.” You whine. “M’s close, Frank-mmph.” Frank’s voice shudders into your ear, all rough pride and awe:
“Yeah? Gonna come for me, sweet thing? C’mon. Give it to me. I wanna feel you .” He doesn’t let up, hips slamming up so hard the world blurs at the edges, the couch frame groaning beneath both of you. You can’t move, you can barely breathe, his hand fisted in your hair and the thick length of him splitting you open again and again. The pleasure builds in your spine, a searing hot pressure that crests and breaks with each brutal thrust, and you’re babbling, words running together,
“Frank, fuck, Frankie, please—” He’s greedy for it now, for your noises, for the way your body clenches around him. His hand slides between your bodies, finds your clit with thick, callused fingers, and rubs it raw and fast. The touch is too much,paired with the rough upwards pistoning of his hips, and your thighs fly closed to clench together as your orgasm crashes over you, desperate spasms taking over your whole body. You can’t hear anything except the sound of your own heartbeat, pounding in your ears, synced up with the steady, brutal pace Frank sets. His cock drags out of you slow, then slams up so hard your vision goes black at the edges, every shockwave through your pelvis making your toes curl.
“Attagirl. That’s it baby, ride through it. Attagirl.” He’s making noises he’s never let you hear before—deep, raw, hungry things that sound like they’re being torn out of his chest. The look he gives you is wild, desperate, like he’s not sure if he wants to devour you or worship you. He pulls you down until your foreheads touch, the sweat on his brow mixing with yours.
“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he rasps, and something hot and dangerous sparks in your belly. You’re clawing at his shoulders, leaving half-moon imprints in the flesh, riding the edge of pain and pleasure so sharp you can’t find the difference anymore. Frank’s hand clamps around your throat to keep you steady, his other hand still clenched at your waist.
"Shit, baby, i'm close." He rasps, and you whimper as you try to move your hips along with his, but the overstimulation wracks up your spine and you tense, letting him drive his cock up into you. You feel Frank’s cock twitch inside you, the urgent pulse of it syncing with your own rapid heartbeat, and you know he’s close even before his hips stutter and the muscles in his thighs go taut beneath you. The fingers at your waist grip tighter—near bruising—and his other hand comes up, thumb tracing a line along your jaw, anchoring you. You want the mess, the loss of control. You want him to stop speaking in careful half-steps and just fucking let go.
“Where d’ya want me sweet girl ?” He rasps, his restraint showing, his hand already drifting down towards where the two of you are conjoined to get ready to pull out. The question wobbles in your throat, half-swallowed by the slick heat and the way Frank’s fingers press into the curve of your jaw. He looks you dead in the eye, searching your face like he can find a map to this, too. Some secret code in the way you blink, the way you sway and curl tighter around him.
“Want it inside,” you gasp before he can break the stare, before self-doubt or good sense or whatever kept him guarded can muscle in. “Please, Frank. Please.” For a half-breath, it seems he might refuse you anyway—might white-knuckle that last scrap of control for the sake of gentleness, for your own good.
“Yeah? Want me to fill you up?” His voice is unsure, his eyes searching yours for confirmation. You nod wordlessly and he shakes his head, the gentleness he showed earlier resurfacing. “Baby, i need ya to tell me, kay ? Use your words.” Frank watches your face like its a code he can finally solve. Sweat tickes along his brow, not just fatigue, but the kind of focus he reserves for dismantling bombs and patching artery bleeds—urgent, precise, a little terrified. The request hits different coming from your mouth: raw, pleading, no filter. He gets it in his bones, even if his brain lags behind.
Inside. You want it inside.
His girl.
He wants to tell you no. Not because he doesn’t want it, but because he’d convinced himself he’d break you if he let go—like every inch of himself he held back was the difference between love and violence. But your face, flushed and wet and so fucking sure, said you’d survive it. Would probably haunt him if he didn’t.
“I mean it, Frankie.” Your voice cracks, the words sticking. “I want to feel you. All of it.” He doesn’t answer, just locks his hands tighter around your waist, and for one split second you see all the war in him: the need to protect, the need to ruin, the need to have you in every way. Then he grips your hips, braces his thighs, and surges up into you with a force that makes your vision shatter. Everything in you clamps around him, every nerve ending you have going off at once—pain, pleasure, something between the two that has no name, no anchor. You’ve never felt anything like it in your life. You think you might die from the stretch alone, but when the heat of him floods you, pulsing in hot, deep shocks, it’s like being electrocuted from the inside out.
“Shit, shit, fuck-!” Frank cries out, his pinned to yours as you feel him twitch and empty himself inside of you. You slump against him and his arms come around you immediately, his breath ragged as he thrusts lazily a few times, just to make sure he's all spent. His lips press to the crown of your head, kissing the area there softly as he runs his hands down the small of your back. Your breathing is ragged, a statcatto rythym as you bury your face in the crook of Frank's neck, hand resting on the other side of his neck, craving the gentle closeness.
"Jesus- fucking - Christ." He rasps, shaking his head. "You're fucking crazy, yknow that ?" He hums. You giggle- a shirt thing interrupted by hiccups, and you lick at your dry lips. He kisse your forehead again. "Lemme go get ya some water, baby." He hums. His hands settle at your waist, and the sound that follows is so insanely obscene that you almost want to go again. The sound that your bodies make when they disconnect, squelching and liquid squirting as he slolwy pulls his length out of you wakes you clit hum with anticipation.
That hum though is quickly replaced with the sharp pain of emptiness.
Frank stills the moment you make that soft, broken sound. Not the kind you’d made before - not the desperate ones, not the breathless ones - but something smaller. Quieter. It catches in your throat when he carefully, carefully slips the last of his length out of you, hands firm at your hips like he’s handling something fragile.
“Hey—hey,” he mutters immediately, all the air knocked out of his lungs. “Shit—did I—?” You cling to him before he can even finish the thought. Your arms wrap tight around his shoulders, your face pressed into his neck, a small whimper slipping out as your body adjusts to the sudden emptiness. Your fingers curl into his skin like you’re trying to anchor yourself, like letting go might send you drifting somewhere you can’t quite follow yet. Frank freezes. Actually freezes.
Every muscle in his body locks up, his hands hovering for half a second like he doesn’t know where to touch you without making it worse.
“Baby,” he says, rough, bordering on panicked now. “Talk to me. Did I hurt you? I told you—fuck, I told you—”
“No—” your voice comes out soft, a little shaky, but not distressed. You nuzzle closer instead of pulling away, tightening your grip around him. “No, no… it’s not that.” He doesn’t relax. Not yet. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pressing you gently into his shoulder like he’s trying to shield you from something—even if that something is himself.
“Then what was that?” he presses, quieter now, but there’s an edge to it. Worry. Real worry. You huff out a tiny, breathless laugh against his skin.
“It just—” you shift slightly, wincing just a little, and his grip tightens instantly again, like he’s ready to stop the world for you. “It just feels weird when you’re not there anymore,” you admit. “I was… really stretched out, Frank.”There’s a pause. A long one.
“…Good weird?” he asks finally, cautious, like he’s stepping across thin ice. You nod against him, then realize he can’t see it and mumble,
“Yeah. Good weird.” That’s when he exhales. Not a small breath—no, it’s deep. Heavy. Like he’s been holding it in his chest this whole time and only now feels allowed to let it go.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, pressing his lips to your temple. “You scared the shit outta me.” Your arms loosen just enough to look at him, your expression soft, a little dazed but warm.
“I’m okay,” you promise. He searches your face like he doesn’t quite believe you yet. Like he’s cataloguing every little detail—your eyes, your mouth, the way your breathing’s evening out. Then, finally, he nods.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, I know you are.”
But he still pulls you closer. Carefully, he shifts the two of you, easing you down against the couch so you’re not straining, making sure you’re comfortable before he even thinks about anything else. One of his hands stays firm at your waist, the other brushing your hair back from your face, slower now. Grounding.
“You sore?” he asks.
“A little,” you admit, voice soft. He hums, like he expected that.
“Yeah… figured.” His thumb traces along your side in slow, steady strokes. “That was… more than we usually—”
“I wanted it,” you cut in gently.
“I know,” he says immediately. No hesitation. No doubt. “I know you did.” That’s not the issue. His jaw tightens slightly, and his gaze drops for a second before coming back to you. “But next time,” he adds, quieter now, “you don’t just decide that on your own, alright?” You blink at him.
“Frank—”
“I mean it.” Not harsh. Just firm. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing just under your eye. “You tell me. Before. So I can take my time with you. Get you ready proper. Stretch you out properly so that it don't hurt when we're done.” There’s something in his voice—something protective, but not controlling. Careful. Thoughtful. “I don’t ever wanna be guessin’ with you,” he continues. “Don’t wanna be sittin’ here after wonderin’ if I pushed you too far.” Your chest tightens a little at that.
“I wasn’t too far,” you say softly.
“I know,” he murmurs. “But I need to know know. Not just hope.” That lands.
“Okay,” you agree. His shoulders loosen just a fraction.
“Okay,” he echoes. He shifts you so that your in his arms, he carries you into your bedroom. He sets you down on the bed, sighing sofltly. He brushes your hair away from your face, humming. "Don't fall asleep, baby. I'll be right back." You make a small noise of protest immediately, your fingers catching weakly at his wrist before he can pull away.
“Don’t go far,” you mumble, already half-melting into the mattress. He huffs out a quiet breath—something between a laugh and a sigh—and leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.
“Ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he mutters. “Just gimme a second.” You squint up at him suspiciously, even as your eyes threaten to close.
“You better not be doing your disappearing act again.” That earns you a proper huff.
“Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head. “One time I clean up and suddenly I’m a flight risk.”
“Every time,” you correct sleepily. He pauses at the edge of the bed, glancing back at you, one brow raised.
“…You keep trackin’ that?”
“Mm,” you hum. “Suspicious behavior.” He lets out a low, amused exhale through his nose.
“Yeah, real suspicious,” he murmurs. “Man takes care of his girl, real criminal.”
“Debatable,” you mumble, already sinking deeper into the pillows. That pulls a quiet laugh out of him.
“Don’t fall asleep,” he reminds you again.
“Frank…”
“I’ll be back in two seconds,” he promises, already easing out from under you despite the way you try to follow him. “Don’t go passin’ out on me yet.” You squint up at him, unimpressed.
“Bossy,” you mumble again, voice thick with sleep. He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.
“Yeah, yeah. Says the one who nearly killed me ten minutes ago.” Your lips twitch.
“I did great,” you mumble. He pauses mid-step, glancing back at you with a look that’s half disbelief, half reluctant amusement.
“‘Did great,’” he repeats under his breath. “Jesus.” He disappears into the bathroom, and you can hear the sink running, cabinets opening—familiar sounds, but slower now. Less routine. Like he’s still thinking about you, even when he’s not in the room. He’s not gone long. When he comes back, he’s got that same warm cloth in hand, and a glass of water balanced carefully between his fingers. The second he sees your eyes drooping, he clicks his tongue.
“Hey—hey. Don’t you do that.” You groan quietly as he sets the glass down on the nightstand and sits beside you again.
“M’tired…”
“I know,” he murmurs. “C’mon, up a little.” He slides an arm behind your shoulders, lifting you just enough so you can lean against him. You go willingly this time, head lolling against his chest as he brings the glass to your lips.
“Drink,” he says. You take a few slow sips, then pull back, already trying to sink into him again.
“That’s enough,” you mumble.
“Few more.”
“Frank—”
“Few more,” he repeats, softer, but there’s no budging him. You sigh dramatically, but you listen, taking another couple of sips before he finally nods, satisfied.
“Good girl.” You hum at that, eyes fluttering shut again.
“See? Not so bossy now.”
“Don’t push it,” he mutters, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth. He sets the glass aside and reaches for you again, guiding you back down onto the bed properly this time. The cloth in his hand is warm, and he’s careful—extra careful now, his touch light, attentive. You twitch a little at the sensitivity, and his brow furrows immediately.
“Still okay?” he asks.
“Mm,” you nod sleepily. “Just… sensitive.” He grunts softly.
“Yeah. That tracks.” There’s a pause, then—more teasing, but quieter— “Maybe next time you don’t try to prove a point all at once, huh?” You crack one eye open at him.
“I wasn’t proving a point.”
“Oh yeah?” he raises a brow. You shrug lazily.
“…Maybe a little.” He snorts.
“Unbelievable.” But his hand smooths over your thigh right after, gentle, reassuring. “You hurt anywhere?” he asks, trying to sound casual and failing just a little. You shift slightly, testing, then shake your head.
“Just… sore.” His jaw tightens for a second.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s on me.”
“No, it’s not,” you say immediately, reaching out to catch his hand before he can pull it away. “Frank.” He stills. You tug his hand gently, making him look at you.
“I liked it,” you say, quieter now. “All of it.” His eyes search yours again—that same careful, thorough look.
“…Yeah?” he asks. You nod.
“Yeah.” A small pause. Then you add, a little teasing— “Even the part where you looked like you were about to pass out.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “I was not—”
“You were,” you insist, smiling now. “Little bit.”
“Was not.”
“Little bit,” you repeat. He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no heat in it. He finishes up, then pulls the blankets over you, tucking them in. You immediately reach for him. He doesn’t make you ask twice. He climbs back into bed, settling behind you this time, pulling you into his chest so your back is pressed against him. One arm wraps around your middle, anchoring you there, his hand splayed warm against your stomach. For a minute, he just holds you.
Then— “You really okay?” he murmurs, voice low near your ear. There it is again. That thread of worry he can’t quite shake. You shift slightly, turning your head just enough to glance back at him.
“I said I am.”
“I know what you said.” You huff softly.
“I’m good, Frank. Promise.” He studies you for a second longer, like he’s debating whether to push it again. Then he exhales.
“Alright.” But his hand tightens just a little around you anyway. Your fingers drift down, resting over his where it’s spread across your stomach.
“…You were kinda panicking,” you mumble, a hint of teasing slipping back in. He scoffs quietly.
“I was not.”
“You were,” you insist, smiling a little. “You looked like I broke something.”
“Well,” he mutters, “you were lookin’ at me like you just went twelve rounds with a truck, so forgive me for bein’ concerned.” You laugh softly at that, the sound muffled by the pillow.
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah,” he says, nudging his nose lightly against your hair. “You keep sayin’ that.” There’s a pause. Then, quieter— “…Still gonna worry.” Your chest softens at that. You turn aroun and curl into him, head tucked beneath his chin.
“I know.” That seems to settle something in him. His thumb starts moving again—slow, absent circles against your hip, the same steady rhythm from before.
“Next time,” he murmurs, softer now, “we do it my way first.”
You groan softly.
“Frank.”
“I’m serious,” he insists, though there’s a hint of amusement in his voice now. “We doin’ that again, I’m takin’ my time with you.”
“You always take your time,” you mumble.
“Not like that,” he says. “I mean really takin’ my time." You tilt your head just enough to look up at him.
“…How much time are we talking?” His mouth twitches slightly.
“Enough that you ain’t givin’ me that look like you’re about to pick a fight with physics.” You blink.
“…That’s not what I was doing.”
“That’s exactly what you were doin’.”
“I was being adventurous.”
“You were bein’ reckless,” he corrects. You smile, nudging your nose against his jaw.
“And you loved it.” He goes quiet for a second.
“…Yeah,” he admits, softer this time. Then, after a beat— “Doesn’t mean I ain’t gonna do it right next time.” You hum, satisfied, your eyes finally slipping closed for real.
“Okay, Frankie.” His hand starts moving again along your back, slow, steady, grounding.
“And you tell me,” he adds quietly, more serious now, pressing a light kiss to your hair. “Before you go doin’ somethin’ like that again.” You nod faintly against him.
“I will.”
“Good.” A pause. Then, softer— "Ya did real good, baby,” he murmurs. You yawn, nodding against his chest.
"Told you I could take it." Frank rolls his eyes, peppering your face with kisses. You crack open an eye at him. "The only thing too big about you is your ego." You hum.
Frank lets out a quiet, offended huff at that, pulling back just enough to look down at you properly.
“Yeah?” he mutters, one brow ticking up. “That what we’re goin’ with?” You give him a sleepy, satisfied little nod, clearly pleased with yourself.
“Mmhm.” He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no bite to it—just that familiar, rough-edged fondness.
“Alright,” he says slowly. “Careful now.” You smile, eyes already drifting shut again.
“Why?” you mumble. “Gonna prove me wrong?” He snorts softly, shaking his head as his hand slides back into its place on your back, steady and warm.
“Nah,” he murmurs. “Already tried that tonight.” That pulls the faintest little laugh out of you.
“Didn’t go so well, huh?” you mumble. He leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple.
“Debatable,” he says. You hum, too tired to argue, curling further into him. There’s a quiet beat before he adds, softer now—
“…And for the record—” You make a small noise, somewhere between a groan and a hum.
“Frank…”
“—ain’t my ego you gotta worry about,” he finishes anyway, voice low and teasing. You crack one eye open just enough to squint up at him.
“Oh yeah?” His mouth twitches.
“Yeah." A pause. Then, with the faintest hint of a grin in his voice— “Pretty sure we already established what’s actually too big.”
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, perv!bucky, dom!bucky, touch starved reader, sexual tension, mutual pining, dry humping, mating press, oral (f receiving), p in v, fingering, edging, begging, degrading, size difference kink, praise, dirty talk, masturbation, breeding kink, overstimulation, name calling and pet names: "slut" "baby" "pretty girl"
word count: 13.7k
he's a busy man! masterlist
a/n: wanted to write a fic based on sabrina's song house tour. i was inspired by @houseofhyde's (literally sabrina carpenter) fics and if you haven't already, read her manchild series and check out her man's best friend inspired anthology coming soon! huge thank you to my girl @wildflowersandvibranium for helping me w/ the color gradient. thank you to @heldbybarnes and @its-in-the-woods for helping me w/ the moodboard. thank you to @juniebjonesin for being my beta-reader. thank you to @chateaubarnes for the divider. <3 much love.
synopsis:
Your house is big enough to host a hundred people, but the only one you want in it is your maddeningly hot pool cleaner. You want him—bad. Yet no matter how hard you flirt, he never seems to take the bait. What you don't realize is that Bucky wants you just as badly, he's just very good at hiding it.
You paused in front of the full-length mirror hanging in the foyer of your sprawling three-story house. A skimpy swimsuit was snug to your body, an expensive pair of sunglasses perched on top of your head, along with a chilled cocktail in your manicured hand to top it all off.
You adjusted the sheer cover-up knotted loosely at your hip that revealed just enough skin…though never quite enough.
With one quick glance out the window towards your backyard, your breath hitched immediately.
There he was again—your pool boy, hard at work.
The usual white tank he wore clung to his chest, already slick with his sweat. His arms flexed with every pull of the pole, muscles tightening beneath his sun-warmed skin, his hair falling into his eyes as his broad back bent and straightened as he moved around.
The sight alone sent butterflies to your stomach.
You sucked in a sharp breath, smoothing your hair and bringing your sunglasses down the bridge of your nose. Sliding open the glass door, you were welcomed with the hot sun and a slight breeze, bringing with it a faint smell of chlorine.
“Good morning, Bucky,” you called, your voice cheery with an inviting smile.
Bucky glanced up from the water, sunglasses reflecting you back at yourself.
“Morning.”
Then, a small nod before returning to his work.
It wasn’t much, but still, your smile didn’t falter. Ever since you hired Bucky to work for you as your designated pool cleaner, you couldn’t help but grow a little… attached.
You were a single woman living in a house big enough to hold a family of ten. Or twenty. Too much money, too much time on your hands, and not enough sex.
So when a strong, quiet, devastatingly attractive man showed up to work under your roof, what was the harm in having a little fun? Watching him became your guilty pleasure, like keeping your own personal eye candy by the pool.
First, it started with harmless admiration.
You’d catch yourself watching him from the corner of your eye, stealing glances under your sunglasses or through the window when you thought he wouldn’t notice. You’d watch very closely—the way sweat dripped down his neck and in between the crevice of his chest.
And his arms.
God, his arms.
You couldn’t help but imagine how they might feel cinched tight around your waist, or how those rough, calloused hands might look wrapped delicately around your throat.
Silly thoughts, really. Inappropriate, even.
He was just the man you paid to clean your pool. You never said anything, of course. Just… quiet looks, very long sips of your drink, and the guilty thrill of knowing you liked the view far more than you should.
You leaned back into the reclining chair, stretching your legs out before crossing at the ankle, your fingers idly twirling the straw in your cocktail.
“It’s so hot out today,” you said, tilting your head towards him. “But I can’t really complain with a view like this.”
Bucky didn’t react. He didn’t even look at you either. Just a quiet grunt, his expression unreadable behind the darkness of his sunglasses.
Very typical.
Second, it became something physical. A physical attraction.
The mysteriousness of him left too much room for your imagination to run wild. He rarely said anything beyond the occasional “Good morning” or a low grunt, and more times than not, you found yourself aching for just a little more.
“You know, if you ever need a break, my house is always open and well air-conditioned,” you offered lightly, finishing it with a soft laugh to make it sound playful instead of… well.
Predatory.
The truth was, for all its size, your house was lonely. A word, a glance, even the smallest scrap of attention would have been enough—and somehow, the person you wanted it from was the man fishing leaves out of your pool.
It was no different than coworkers developing crushes just from seeing each other every day—or feelings sparking within a friend group simply from being around one another so often.
So really, it was only natural to feel this way… wasn’t it?
You wanted to feel him. All of him. His muscles, his jawline, his back…
You wondered how hot his body would be pressed to yours—how his fingers would feel sliding into you, stretching you, filling you, instead of your own.
You hated to admit it, but you have touched yourself to that thought before.
Once.
Twice.
Maybe more.
Bucky barely looked up. “I’m okay. Thank you,” he said, voice quiet, rough, and dismissive, before turning back to the pool like the conversation had already ended before it even began.
Your lips curved up in a sly smirk as you tried again.
“Are you sure? Do you want anything to drink then? A lemonade? Water? Or maybe a cocktail?” your tone stayed breezy, playful, all as if you weren’t holding your breath for an answer.
“No, ma’am,” he replied casually, eyes still fixed on the pool. And he still didn’t look up.
You exhaled slowly, swirling your straw before taking another sip. God, he was infuriating. And yet, the more he ignored you, the more you wanted him.
And last but not least, it became a game. A challenge. As maddening and one-sided as it seemed, you couldn’t help but crave it.
You were a rich, young and beautiful woman. Realistically, you could have anyone you wanted and you knew it. You were used to being fawned over, used to nobodies tripping over themselves just to ask for your number. But the fact that you couldn’t so much as snag the gaze of your pool boy?
That ignited something inside you.
For once, you were the one chasing.
And you didn’t mind it one bit.
“So, do you have any plans after this? I was thinking of making a quick lunch if you would like to join me.”
Silence. Just the sound of water swooshing gently against the pool’s edge and the light scrape of the skimmer gliding across the surface. He paused, his eyes fixed on something in the distance, near your water pipes. His shoulders straightened like a thought came to mind.
Then, he finally lifted his head to look at you. Your heart thumped faster in your chest.
Finally.
“Can you come here for a second?” he asked, his voice straightforward and blunt as he set the skimmer down.
You couldn’t help the smile creeping on your lips. You rose from your chair, setting your cocktail down on the side table. You smoothed the cover-up around your hips as you made your way over, anticipation already fluttering wildly in your chest.
The entire time, Bucky’s gaze followed you from behind his shades. You hoped he noticed the way your bikini clung tight to your curves, the subtle sway of your hips as you moved towards him.
You flashed him a charming grin, crossing your arms over your chest—subtly accentuating the way your breasts pushed up against your arms.
Too bad his sunglasses hid his eyes. You had no way of knowing if he had even noticed.
“Follow me,” he said, curling his fingers to motion you closer.
“Okay,” you agreed softly, letting him guide you.
With his back to you, you couldn’t help but admire the view—the width of his shoulders, the way he moved. You were so caught up in the silhouette of him that you hardly noticed where he was leading you until you found yourself at the side of the house, standing before the jumble of water pipes and filters.
He stopped abruptly. “Stand here.”
You moved closer, your heart beating so fast it could leap out of your chest. The way he stood there, watching you, commanding you to come up to him… it all made your skin heat up in a way that had nothing to do with the sun.
“Closer.”
Your breath caught in your throat, one large hand brushing against your lower back to guide you into position. The touch was casual, almost incidental, yet it was enough to make your legs feel a little weak.
He held your gaze for a moment, his hand still resting lightly on your lower back. You wanted nothing more than to reach up and remove his sunglasses yourself—just to see his eyes, to know if he was feeling the same spark you were.
Then, finally, he broke his gaze and tilted his head towards the filter.
“There’s an issue with the filter,” he explained. “It’s clogged worse than I thought. I’ll need to check it a few extra times this week to make sure it’s running properly.”
Oh.
Your shoulders slump slightly, the thrill of his attention immediately colliding with a pang of disappointment.
You followed his gaze to the pool and let out a very long and disappointed sigh. “Is that so?”
He grunted quietly, his hand retreating from your back. “Yeah,” he said flatly. “I’ll start on it. Should take a while to get it fully unclogged.”
You swallowed, trying to force a nonchalant smile. Infuriatingly dry, and yet every word, every glance—or lack thereof—only made the fiery spark inside you burn brighter.
“How ‘bout you come inside for a second?” you offered quickly. “Cool off a little before getting back to work… I mean, look at you—you’re sweating like crazy.” You added a soft chuckle, letting the words hang teasingly in the air, hoping, praying he’d catch the bait.
Bucky’s head tilted up, looking past you and up at your three-story house. His expression was frustratingly unreadable, leaving you guessing at what might be running through his mind. After a long pause, he finally looked back at you.
“No, thanks.”
It was just as you expected. With a soft sigh, you masked your disappointment with a small shrug.
“Suit yourself,” you murmured as you already turned your back away.
“But…”
You paused, glancing over your shoulder.
“I’ll take a glass of lemonade,” Bucky said, his tone flat like he was granting you a concession.
Your lips curved slowly up into a grin, that warmth coming back to life in your chest. It wasn’t much—but it was something. And with him, even the smallest thing felt like a victory.
“Lemonade, coming right up,” you said lightly, your tone playful.
This time, when you turned toward the house, there was a little more pep in your step, the sway of your hips unconsciously enthusiastic. It felt good, being given something to finally work with—even something small.
What you didn’t see was the way Bucky’s eyes followed you, hidden safely behind his sunglasses. You missed how his gaze lingered on the curve of your ass through the sheer cover-up, how his jaw clenched once you finally slipped out of view.
From outside, he could see everything.
The way you moved around the kitchen with far too much energy for something as simple as lemonade. How you dragged out a step stool to reach the tallest cabinet, just to pick the nicest glass for him. How you filled it with ice, frowned because you put too much, dumped it out, then poured it again until it was perfect. How you even fussed with the lemon slice on the rim like you were serving royalty and not some random pool cleaner.
And the sight was fascinating.
He loved watching you—a wealthy girl who could have staff do it for you—going out of your way to make a drink for someone like him.
Of course he knew about your coy smiles, your lingering stares when you think he’s not looking, the way your hips sway when you walk away, the skimpy bikinis you wore despite never once stepping foot into the pool.
He noticed everything.
He just chose not to bite.
Because watching you try—watching you put all that effort into getting a reaction out of him—was far more entertaining than giving you what you wanted.
As you leaned into the fridge for the pitcher, your sheer cover-up rode higher over your thighs, the thin fabric stretching to reveal the curve of your ass underneath. You bent forward slightly to grab some more lemons from a lower shelf, and…
The sight made his throat go dry.
His cock stirred, thickening and rising slowly, an ache pressing against the confines of his work pants. He shifted his stance, trying to will the sensation away, but it was no use. The pressure was unbearable, insistent, and tight. Every movement reminded him of just how badly he needed you.
Bucky glanced toward the kitchen again, making sure you were still occupied. When the coast was clear, his hand slid to his crotch, fingers brushing over the straining fabric as if adjusting himself would ease the discomfort.
It didn’t.
The brief contact only made his cock twitch in his pants even more.
“Fuck,” he grunted, his hand palming his bulge through his pants.
He had to bite back a groan as his cock throbbed, begging for more. It was so risky squeezing himself when you were only a few steps away, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop.
You had no idea what you were doing to him. And the cruelest part was knowing you wanted him too—that fact alone made it harder to keep his control.
Bucky knew he could easily barge in and ruin you, ruin all that polished perfection you surrounded yourself with.
He’d dirty up your pristine house in an instant. He’d bend you over the arm of your thousand-dollar couch. He’d fuck you across all three glossy floors. He’d bury himself deep in your king-sized bed until you couldn’t bear to go to bed without him.
His hand pressed harder against the outline of his cock. “Fuck, baby,” he growled to himself as filthy images flooded in his mind.
He wanted to so badly drag that sad excuse of a cover-up off your body, bunching it around your bare waist and bending you over the kitchen counter that you hardly use to cook for your own. He wanted to take his time and savour you—make you finally crumble and beg for his attention instead of throwing out coy smiles and teasing comments.
His thumb circled the swollen head straining against his pants, the friction was delicious but it was not nearly enough.
Fuck, did he want to split you open on his cock, watch your spoiled composure shatter as you clawed at him for more with those greedy, manicured hands.
He squeezed himself harder, breathing heavy, eyes locked on the doorway where you could reappear any second. The risk of being caught only made his cock throb harder.
Imagine if you walked out right now, catching him red-handed—
The sound of the door opening snapped him back to reality. He yanked his hand away, standing up straight and turning his back just as you stepped outside with his glass of lemonade with a bright and oblivious smile on your face.
“Here you go,” you said brightly, handing him the glass.
“Thanks,” he muttered back, his fingers brushing against yours for the briefest second before he took it.
He tipped the glass back, his Adam's apple bobbing as swallowed, and you found yourself staring at his throat like you were thirsty yourself. He let out a satisfied sigh as he set the glass down on a nearby table.
He gave you one quick glance under his sunglasses before nodding his head once. “It’s good.”
Dry.
Flat. Like always.
And you, of course, didn’t notice the irony that just a mere seconds ago, he had his palm against his cock, groaning your name under his breath. Now here he was, still as stone, acting like you barely existed.
But for you, that tiny moment, your fingers brushing against his when you passed the lemonade, was enough to send your heart skipping like a schoolgirl’s.
It was ridiculous, really, how something so brief could make you feel so electric.
You forced a small smile and slipped back into your chair, twirling the straw in your now half-melted cocktail. You tried to play it cool, but your eyes kept dragging back to him again and again.
You were hypnotized with the way his hands toyed at his belt like he was adjusting himself, the movement of his shoulders as he crouched low by the pump system near the pool’s edge—everything about him just made it harder to resist.
Bucky leaned over the filter housing, twisting the valve to let off the hiss of trapped pressure. You watched as he unlatched the clamps holding the lid in place, muscles hard at work under his sun-warmed skin.
With a low grunt, he lifted the heavy top free, setting it aside before reaching down into the canister. He worked quietly, pulling free a clogged-up basket stuffed with leaves, stringy muck, and god knows what else. You weren’t really paying that much attention to the filter anyway.
“Mm,” he muttered, giving it a shake, water splattering onto the pavement. “The filter's jammed up worse than it should be. I’ll need to check on it a couple more times this week, make sure it doesn’t back up the whole system.”
He tilted his head. “Gonna take a look at the pump’s pressure next.”
He dropped the basket back into the filter housing and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. Then, with a low grunt, he hooked his fingers at the hem of his damp white tank and lifted up and over his head.
You nearly spilled your damn drink.
His chest stretched out, broad and solid. His muscles shifted as he tugged the fabric free and tossed it aside. Sunlight caught on every line—the ridges of his abs, the sharp cut of his V disappearing beneath the waistband of his low-slung work pants.
“Oh my god,” you breathed, heat flooding in your belly.
Your thighs pressed together, desperate to soothe the ache between them. You wanted to keep watching, but every flex of his back as he crouched over the filter only made it worse. You pictured your hands running down the hard grooves of muscle, his body hovering over yours—
God. It was so indecent, sitting here and openly staring at him.
You knew you couldn’t take it anymore when he started to grunt as he bent down to check the pipes. The sound was nothing but seemingly innocent, but to your ears, it came out unbearably filthy.
Clearing your throat, you scrambled to your feet, your drink wobbling dangerously in your hand.
“Well,” you said quickly, voice rising high in pitch. “It’s getting… really hot out here, so I’ll just—” You hiked a thumb over your shoulder. “I’ll be inside if you need anything.”
You didn’t wait for an answer—not that you were going to get one anyway. With your face burning, you hurried back towards the safety of your house, desperate for cool air and four walls protecting you from the sight of his addicting sweat-slicked body.
Bucky glanced up, peering at you through his shades as he watched you scurry off inside, your cover-up lifting around your bare thighs.
That was cute. For someone whose entire game was trying to catch his attention, you bolted the second you actually got it.
He bent back over the pipes, but his focus was shot to hell. Every few seconds, his gaze followed back to the house, tracking you through those wide, spotless windows until you disappeared past a wall… only to reappear again in your bedroom.
The blinds were wide open, curtains parted to give him a clean view of your perfect body. You hadn’t even realized—or maybe you did, and this was your invitation for him to watch you.
From where he stood at the pool’s edge, he had a perfect line of sight—your figure moving across the room as you wiggled out of your flimsy cover-up and tossed it carelessly onto the floor somewhere. He watched as you paced around the room, flustered and restless.
The sunlight peeking through your windows lit you up like a goddess, a carving that was made to be worshipped by him.
You looked edible.
And Bucky wanted a taste.
Just as he was about to force his gaze away to focus on the filter, you did something that made his throat go completely dry.
You let out bikini straps slip from your shoulders. The top fell loose and he felt his chest—and his pants—tighten as you stood there, bare and unaware. But what really got him was the sight of you crawling into your bed, removing your bottoms and letting your polished fingertips glide down your bare torso and disappearing in between your smooth thighs.
“Jesus Christ…” he muttered as his cock began to stir again.
Watching you make lemonade earlier was one thing. But this—this was just obscene. Standing out here in your yard, shirtless, watching you touch yourself like you were putting on a show for him alone.
It should’ve felt wrong. He should’ve felt like a creep—like a pervert. But it didn’t stop him.
Because this was exactly what you wanted, wasn’t it? For him to stare at you? After all, you were likely touching yourself to the thought of him anyway, so it was only fair for him to watch you in return.
Your hair sprawled across white silk pillows, your legs stretching open as you began to work yourself with desperate little touches. Bucky’s cock strained with every twitch of your fingers. He could already imagine it—how wet you’d be for him, how tight.
If it were his hand between your thighs instead of yours, you’d be clawing at him, begging to keep going—or to go easy.
Fuck. Watching you earlier had been bad enough, but this? This was pure torture.
He could already imagine it, how wet you would feel against his fingers, how easily you would open up for him if it were his hand between your thighs instead of your own.
His cock pressed hard against his zipper, begging for just an ounce of relief. Palming himself wasn’t enough, and if he wasn’t going to storm upstairs and fuck you into your mattress, he’d have to settle for his hand instead.
You had your head tossed back against the pillow, your eyes squeezed shut and your mouth hung open. Bucky couldn’t hear you, but God, he wished he could.
With a low growl, he unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants, zipping his fly down quickly and desperately. His hand slipped into his waistband, pulled out his cock, already warm and heavy in his palm. The rush of cool air against his swollen tip made him hiss through his teeth, and his fist tightened around the length.
Bucky watched as you rolled your hips against your own fingers, your lips parting to gasp, he couldn’t hear but could damn well imagine.
His fist worked over his cock, giving himself small and teasing strokes. But the longer he watched you, the harder he pumped himself. His breath hitched right along with yours, even if you couldn’t hear him.
“Yeah, that’s it, baby,” he rasped under his breath, this thumb sliding over the leaking tip of his cock. “Fuck yourself nice and deep… open up that pretty pussy for me.”
You gasped again, your head sinking deeper against the pillows, and he groaned, imagining it was because of him, because of the way he would sink his cock into you and split you wide.
“Bet you’d be so fucking tight around me,” he grunted, hips rocking into his hand as he pumped faster. “I’d stretch you out so good, make you scream my name instead of keeping it all quiet like that.”
Every shake of your body, every subtle move of your wrist, only made him harder, needier. His balls were tight and aching, but still he couldn’t stop, couldn’t drag his eyes away.
“Goddamn, look at you,” he muttered, voice strained. “So perfect… so fucking sweet—thinkin’ you’re in control all the time.” His hips bucked into his fist, precum smearing over his knuckles as he stroked harder. “You’ve got no idea, do you? How bad I wanna ruin that pretty little image of yours....”
Your thighs trembled, your lips parting in another voiceless cry, and he groaned deep in his chest, pumping himself faster. You were getting close, he just knew it.
“I’d fuck you stupid, baby,” he hissed, gaze locked on the way your legs started to shake. “Have you begging, drooling, makin’ a mess all over my cock until you couldn’t even say my name without whimpering.”
He braced one hand against the edge of the filter housing, knuckles going white.
“You’d be mine. Only mine. I’d keep you tucked away in this big house, fuckin’ you on every damn floor until you forget anyone else even exists,” he growled. “I’ll make sure you have no one else over but me.”
His hips jerked, strokes getting messier as the image of you whimpering beneath him filled his head. Through your window, your back arched, your eyes squeezing shut as your fingers moved frantically between your legs.
“Yeah… that’s it, baby,” he hissed quietly. “Cum for me, cum on my cock like I’m right there…”
Your body trembled, chest rising up and down rapidly. Bucky felt his own release rising hard and fast. The sight of you—silk sheets wrinkling beneath you, hair sprawled out over the pillows—tore a groan clean out of his chest.
Good thing you couldn’t hear him.
You turned your head, cheek brushing softly against your tousled hair, looking like a goddamn angel.
Then your eyes fluttered open.
Straight out the window.
And Bucky’s stomach dropped.
Shit.
He immediately yanked his hand off himself and stuffed his cock back into his pants, turning his body toward the filter like he had been working on it the whole time. His breathing came hard through his nose, heart beating fast as he grabbed the nearest tool and pretended to check the pipes, praying you hadn’t seen him.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath. His heart was thudding in his ears, his cock still aching—slick and completely unsatisfied in his pants.
He sucked in a deep breath as he tried to steady himself, trying to look like he hadn’t just been seconds away from blowing his load all over the pool deck.
Play it cool.
Work the pipes.
Don’t look back up.
Meanwhile, from above, you lay your back against your pillows as your gaze swept out the window and down to your pool.
Bucky was still out there, bent over the filter and hard at work. His broad back was gleaming with sweat, and even from here, you could see his chest rising and falling heavily, his breaths coming in sharp.
A faint smile tugged at your lips. Of course he looked wrecked—he had been out there all morning, under the sun, hunched over pipes and skimmers and God knows what else.
He was really, really hard at work.
Your smile dropped to something… guiltier. Poor guy, out there sweating through his work while you’ve been upstairs, sprawled out in silk pristine sheets, doing… well, not much of anything useful.
And even though he didn’t ask for it, he deserved another lemonade.
You sat up and threw on a simple shirt and shorts this time. It wasn’t like you were going for a swim with the filters all messed up, and it wasn’t like that bikini had done much to catch his attention anyway.
You stepped outside, the glass of lemonade slick with condensation. The sun hit you right in the face, forcing you to squint as you raised a hand to shield your eyes.
“Round two!” you called, your sandals smacking lightly against the patio.
Bucky’s shoulders stiffened before he stood up straight and turned to you. He cleared his throat, his fingers brushing over yours for the briefest second before he took the glass.
“Thanks,” he muttered, voice raspy and thick. He looked down at you, sunglasses hiding his eyes. His jaw clenched—like he wanted to say something but couldn’t, or… more like he didn’t trust himself to speak.
You were a different sight than before. Your hair was a little mussed, you had on a plain shirt—a few sizes too big—hanging over your body. It was so big that he barely noticed your tiny shorts riding up your thighs.
No skimpy hundred dollar bikini. No sheer cover-up. And this time, no obvious attempt at allure.
And still, he wanted you.
Because even like this—especially like this—he was still hard, still unsatisfied, his cock pressing hot and heavy against his zipper.
He swallowed hard before tipping the glass back. He downed the lemonade in one long chug, his Adam’s apple bobbing with every swallow until the glass was completely empty.
You smiled, hands behind your back. “Better than the first time?”
He exhaled slowly, handing the glass back to you.
“Yeah.”
It was another sweltering afternoon, and you were sprawled out on the pool chair with a book in your hands—a book you hadn’t turned a page in for the last fifteen minutes. Your eyes kept straying past the print, landing on Bucky where he knelt by the water pipes.
Today was even hotter than yesterday, and he was out there shirtless, sweat dripping down his skin as he worked. You had on a different swimsuit—still skimpy, still expensive—and the heat was making you sweat right through it.
Honestly, if it weren’t for the view, you would’ve already given up and gone inside to the comfort of your AC.
You set the book down on your lap. “Bucky,” you called, tilting your head towards him. “Are you sure you don’t want to come inside? It’s okay to take a break, it’s so damn hot out here.”
He didn’t even glance up from where crouched. He twisted a wrench, the metal clinking sharp against the pipe.
“I’m fine,” he muttered.
But the sun was glaring down on you both mercilessly, beads of sweat sliding down his temple, down his throat and over his chest. You were already burning up just by sitting still—so with him out there working, he seemed anything but fine.
You wiped at your damp forehead with the back of your hand, moving uncomfortably against the recliner with a huff. The heat was unbearable, and the bikini that was supposed to make you feel sexy felt sticky, suffocating, and gross.
“Bucky,” you tried again with a weary sigh, “come inside. Just for a minute. I’ll crank up the AC and grab you a drink. You’re going to pass out if you stay out here. The filter can wait.”
He didn’t bite. He never did. Even your own patience felt like it was melting under the sun.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said roughly, tightening the wrench with another twist.
He still didn’t look at you.
Normally you would laugh it off, throw out another playful line his way, and try again until you wrung even the smallest reaction out of him. But the heat, the sweat, and the mounting frustration of constantly chasing his attention had you clenching your jaw instead.
“Fine,” you muttered, sharper than you intended, snapping your book shut and rising to your feet. “Suit yourself.”
Without another word—or even glance—you turned and marched back into the house, letting yourself be greeted by the cool air over your skin as the door clicked shut behind you.
Bucky froze from where he crouched, wrench going still in his hand as he watched you stalk off and shut the door in a way that clearly indicated you were not coming back.
What the hell was that about?
You never just… got up and left.
You usually retreated in the house with a smile on your face, and every single time, you kept coming back, circling him with that playful little persistence of yours.
His jaw clenched, tossing the wrench aside with a heavy clatter. He dragged a hand down his sweaty face, cursing under his breath.
He stood up slowly, letting out a little groan at the strain. Sweat was dripping down his temple and soaking through the waistband of his pants. The sun was cooking him alive, and maybe that was why he was starting to feel a little frustrated himself.
Because the truth was, he wasn’t fine.
The heat was suffocating, and his head was spinning with an irritation he couldn’t quite put down. It wasn’t just from the sun—it was you.
The way that bikini clung to your curves, the shine of sweat down your chest, the needy whine in your voice when you begged him to come inside.
Christ. He was hard again, cock straining against his sweat-damp pants. He hated how quick it happened. He hated how easily wound up he got every time you looked at him, and he hated how you walking away only made it worse.
The pool gurgled behind him, the filter still clearly needing work, but his focus was all over the place.
All he could picture was you inside, cooling down with that little frown on your lips—disappointed that he wasn’t in there with you. You were probably already stripping out of that bikini. Maybe laying down, legs pressed together, trying to take the edge off the way you had yesterday.
And because of those thoughts—those relentless, stupid thoughts—Bucky lasted all but five minutes.
Five full minutes of pacing along the pool, knowing the pipes needed his full attention when all he could focus on was the tight ache in his chest and the heavier one pressing against his zipper.
When his gaze inevitably looked up towards the house, there you were through the spotless windows.
Laid out across the couch, your skimpy bikini straps were digging into your skin as you slouched against the cushions—not even caring that you were dirtying up the expensive furniture with your sweat.
You crossed your legs at the ankle as your eyes fluttered shut, chest rising and falling softly. You weren’t even looking at him.
And fuck—he couldn’t take it anymore.
He tugged off his work gloves and tossed them by the skimmer, muttering something grumpily under his breath that even he couldn’t catch. His boots stomped heavily against the patio as he made his way to the back door.
He paused at the door, his eyes glued on your body through the glass. He should knock. Hell, he should turn around and get back to the pipes before he did something stupid. But despite his thoughts, his fingers wrapped tight around the handle anyway.
This was exactly what you wanted, wasn’t it? The way you always lingered near him, flirted shamelessly, always tried to tempt him closer without ever saying it outright. You have been waiting for him to step inside this house for weeks.
In Bucky’s mind, he was finally giving you what you wanted.
The door slid open with a low scrape, the blast of cold air brushing against his warm body. He stepped in as if he already lived there, heavy boots already dirtying the once-pristine plush rug.
Your eyes fluttered open at the faint sound of the door closing.
“Bucky…?” your voice was soft and confused as you took him in.
A big, broad, sweaty Bucky, standing in your living room for the first time since he’d started working for you.
“What are you doing in here? Is everything okay—”
“Almost done with the filter,” he cut you off with a rough voice, his gaze trying to steer away from the tempting lines of your body. “Just needed to use the bathroom.”
You blinked at him, thrown off guard by the excuse but too caught up in the fact that he was finally in your house to even question it. “Oh—yeah, of course. Come on.”
You scrambled to your feet, suddenly self-conscious in nothing but your swimsuit. When you pictured Bucky entering your home, it wasn’t like this. In your head, you would’ve coaxed him in with a drink, maybe with a teasing smile here and there.
Not because he needed the bathroom.
So yeah, his unexpected presence threw you off. But still… at the end of the day, it was better than nothing.
“This way,” you said over your shoulder, leading him down the hall.
Your house had never looked better—freshly waxed floors were reflecting under the light, except Bucky’s dirty work boots were now leaving a trail. Your walls were decorated with curated art and frames that were probably worth more than most people’s salaries.
But Bucky didn’t spare a glance at any of them.
His eyes were locked on you.
And you could feel his heavy stare weighing down on your nearly bare back.
The walk to the bathroom was short, yet it felt endless. Because for once, you had nothing to say. You stopped in front of the door, fingers twisting the knob before pushing it open.
You could feel him behind you, close enough that his breath ghosted over the back of your neck. Your pulse quickened, and your mouth went dry.
If you turned around, if you so much as looked up at him, you weren’t sure you’d be able to keep your composure.
You cleared your throat. “Well… this is it,” you said, flicking the lights on.
The mirror above the sink lit up instantly, creating a warm glow across the tiled room. And in the reflection, you saw the two of you framed in the doorway.
And then you caught him.
His gaze wasn’t on the bathroom at all—it was on you.
You saw the way his jaw was clenched tight as his eyes trailed over the slope of your bare shoulders, his gaze lingering on the thin bikini straps pressed against your soft skin.
You didn’t say a word. And truthfully, you didn’t want to—because if you spoke, you would snap him out of it.
You wanted him to keep staring at you. You wanted to feel his eyes dragging over your body slowly, down your shoulders, over the curve of your waist and hips, to every inch of bare skin your bikini left exposed.
He wasn’t touching you, but his eyes felt like a touch—scorching, intimate. It made your stomach twist and your thighs press together. Through the mirror, you watched as his tongue swiped over his bottom lip, a low groan slipping from his chest like he was fighting something back.
God, did that stare burn so bad.
You wanted him to touch you—just a light graze of his fingertips, the heat of his palm against your waist. Anything.
For a second, you’re convinced he might actually do it—close that little bit of space between you, press you up against the doorframe, and give you what you’ve been craving.
But instead, he tore his gaze away. He stepped past you into the bathroom, his shoulder brushing yours. The brief contact had a soft gasp catching in your throat, your body already trembling at something so small.
“Thanks,” he muttered before reaching for the door and shutting it behind him.
You were left standing in the hall, your pulse thudding loudly in your ears. You felt your skin warm where his shoulder brushed yours—you almost felt feverish. You should’ve gone back to the couch and pretend like nothing happened.
But instead, you found yourself pacing in the living room, restless and unable to sit still.
Bucky was in your house. He was actually in your damn house.
And yet, the worst part was knowing that the second he came back out, he’d go right back to normal—back to his work, back to being dismissive, like none of this had ever happened.
But as the minutes dragged on, your heart couldn’t help but slam harder in your chest with each second he remained behind that closed door. Any normal person would assume that he was… taking a number two. Instead, a dangerous thought crept in—the idea that maybe he was in there because he felt it too.
Because he couldn’t hold back any more than you could.
That he was in there touching himself.
Because of you.
By the time the bathroom door creaked open, your breath was shallow with anticipation and your palms clammy.
Your head whipped to the hall just as Bucky stepped out, broad shoulders filling the doorway. His hair was damp, and you couldn’t tell if it was because of the sweat, or from splashing water over his face.
“Uh—are you… are you okay?” you asked, your voice softer than you meant it to be.
He dragged a hand over his stubbled jaw, his expression unreadable as his eyes took you in.
“I’m fine,” he said, dismissive as ever—yet his voice was rougher, like gravel.
At this point, you expected him to brush past you, head back outside and lose himself in the pipes. That’s what he always did, and that’s what you told yourself to expect.
But he didn’t move.
You interlocked your fingers as your hands rested in front of you, looking prim as if he was the owner of the house and you were the one serving him.
“Um—do you, uh, want something to drink before you head back out?” you offered. “Or you could sit down for a bit, maybe relax for a second? It’s hotter today than yesterday, and—”
“I want a tour,” he cut you off.
“A house tour?” you blinked, flustered. “O-okay… let me just change—”
“No need,” he interrupted calmly, his eyes flickering briefly down to your body before coming back to your face. “It’ll be quick anyway. Gotta fix those pipes.”
Your cheeks warmed up. A house tour was the last thing you expected out of him, but you weren’t complaining. Maybe this was his version of a break. You straightened your shoulders and tried to play it cool.
“Alright… well, we’ll start here,” you said, gesturing to the living room couch where you had been lounging earlier. You walked him past the coffee table, and with your back now turned to him, you couldn’t help but if his eyes were lingering on your body the same way it did at the bathroom
“This couch,” you continued, forcing yourself to sound light and casual, “is where I usually read or watch movies. Very comfortable, and it gets plenty of sunlight.”
Bucky stood close behind you. “Vitamin D,” he said. “Very important.” He glances down at the couch. “Do you mind if I take a seat?”
If it were any other man, you would’ve been revulsed at the thought—your pristine, expensive couch soaking up sweat from someone who had been working in the sun all day.
But Bucky wasn’t any other man.
“Please,” you reassured, motioning with a smile. “Be my guest.”
He let out a quiet huff as he settled down, the cushions sinking under his weight. His broad shoulders stretched across the backrest, making your large couch look small. One hand slid along the cushion, testing the give of the fabric.
“It’s comfortable,” he said flatly.
You laughed a little too quickly, the nerves getting at you. “I get only the best. I… spend a lot of time here.”
Bucky tilted his head slightly, and for a second, you thought that he’d get up and give one of his usual gruff responses. But instead, he patted the empty cushion beside him, inviting you as if the house wasn’t under your name.
“Have a seat.”
Your breath got stuck in your throat. “Uh—okay,” it was unexpected, but you shrugged and settled down anyway, your bare thigh grazing against his. “Sure.”
He leaned back into the couch, arms stretched lazily across the top, one long leg crossing over the other. For someone stepping into your living room for the first time, he sure sat there like he owned it.
You perched on the edge of the cushion, hands folded primly in your lap while he looked as though he belonged—like this was his space, not yours.
“Can I ask you something?”
You turned, eyes slightly wide at the sudden question. “Anything.”
He looked around the room with an unreadable expression, taking in the expanse of the clean kitchen, the wide dining area, and the chandelier dangling on the high ceiling.
“Your house is big,” he said. “Most houses I work for, there’s a family, or people coming and going. But here…” his eyes land back on you. “You’re always by yourself. Why is that?”
You felt yourself going stiff. The bikini you put on to draw him closer suddenly felt like a mistake—because right now, with the way his eyes pinned you, you wished you were wearing anything else.
“I don’t really…” you hesitated, fingers fidgeting in your lap. “I don’t really like having that many people over. It makes it dirty, and I like the solitude sometimes, you know?”
His head tilted slightly. The silence that followed felt tense, until his mouth quirked up in a faint smirk. “So that’s why your house is so clean?” his voice was rougher, almost teasing. “Would be a shame if someone like me were to come in and dirty it up, wouldn’t it?”
“W-what?” you stuttered, but tried to hide it with a small laugh.
Spurred on by your flustered reaction, his smirk grew wider as he leaned in closer, his voice coming to a growl.
“What’s wrong? Thought you always wanted me to come inside your house.”
The way he said it, voice deep and husky, made your stomach twist and your legs press together. He wasn’t just talking about the house, and you both knew it.
Bucky’s eyes swept lazily around the room before settling back on you.
“I want to see the rest of your place,” he said, “but your couch… it’s pretty damn comfortable.”
You opened your mouth, unsure if you should argue or joke, but the words never made it out. He shuffled, leaning closer, his thick thigh pressing harder against yours.
“Scoot closer,” he murmured.
You swallowed, suddenly feeling nervous, but you did as he asked and slid closer until the heat of his body filled every inch of space beside you.
That’s when his hand glided gently on your bare thigh. His fingers were rough. Warm. His thumb moves in slow circles against your skin, testing you.
“Tell me more about the living room,” he coaxed, his tone deceptively casual.
He looked at you and spoke as though he wasn’t even touching you, as though his hand wasn’t resting heavy and warm on your thigh. His touch was deceptively gentle, but it was enough to make your whole body tremble.
Enough to leave you aching for more.
“Um… well, I usually… uh—read here… watch movies and sometimes, you know… just nap,” you stammered.
It was insane, really— how confident you were when trying to coax him in. But your words faltered as his head leaned closer, his lips brushing against the curve of your neck. A soft kiss, then another, each one carving into your skin as his hand traveled higher.
“And the rug…” you blurted out, desperate for composure. “It’s one of my favorites—it’s a limited-edition Oushak. Handwoven, cream and pale blue… only ten of them in the world.”
A soft press of his lips, followed by the scrape of his teeth and the slow glide of his tongue over your neck, left your breath caught in your throat. His hand squeezed your thigh, creeping dangerously higher to the thin fabric of your bikini bottoms.
“Where is it from?” he muttered against your skin.
You knew he didn’t care for the answer, yet you gave it to him anyway. “An—ah—it’s, uh… it was imported, um—from… f-from Turkey? Or Persia—somewhere like that—I don’t, I can’t—”
Your words were barely making sense now, every syllable trembling off your tongue. Because it had been so long—so long since anyone touched you like this. And being touched by the man who you secretly sought after made your head spin like crazy.
His hand slid up higher and wrapped tight around your waist, pulling you close against him. You let out a soft gasp, your body trembling as you pressed into his hard, warm, and muscular frame.
“Bucky…!” you breathed, your hands rising instinctively and brushing against his bicep.
But before you could go any further, his hand shot out immediately and caught your wrist. His grip on your wrist was gentle, but the movement was rough as he guided your hands back down to your sides with ease.
“Keep your hands at your sides.”
You sucked in a deep breath, both embarrassment and arousal tingling inside you. The audacity of him—to be so commanding here, in your own damn house. He worked for you. It should’ve been the other way around. And yet, you cursed yourself for nodding because you were just simply too flustered to resist.
He grinned faintly at your obedience.
“Go on,” he said, lips ghosting over your ear as his hand caressed your naked waist. “Tell me more about the house.”
“Bucky,” you hesitated, blinking up at him. “What are you… what are you trying to do—”
“C’mon, pretty girl,” he grunted, his nose brushing against your jawline. He pulled away slightly to catch your gaze, his blue eyes dark and desperate, pinning you in place. “Isn’t this what you wanted? For me to come inside?”
“Well… yes, but—”
“Then go on.” He pressed, leaning closer. “Let’s relax for a bit, yeah? Just lay back…” he looked around the living room slowly, “and tell me more about your beautiful home.”
His hand slid down your waist and around your back, his touch firm but careful as he guided you back against the couch cushions. He moved with you, settling himself between your legs, his broad shoulders nudging your thighs apart.
“Bucky..” you whispered, your voice shaky even though you made no move to stop him.
He lowered himself slowly, his stubble grazing against the sensitive inside of your thigh. One kiss, then another—each torturously gentle, each one leaving your body trembling even harder.
“Go on,” he encouraged as he pressed another kiss higher. “Tell me more about your living room.”
Your head fell back against the couch, a soft sigh escaping your lips as you tried to string words together.
“Um… the… the ceilings are high—so high, and the chandelier… it’s uh, imported crystal. Very… elegant.”
Bucky’s lips curved up against your thigh, a soft, raspy chuckle vibrating against your skin. His mouth traveled higher until, finally it pressed firmly against the thin fabric of your bikini bottoms. The sudden heat of his lips over your most sensitive spot made you jolt, a sharp gasp escaping your throat as your body shook.
“B-Bucky…” you panted, your hips bucking up instinctively, desperate for more contact. “Please…”
You felt the teasing curl of his smile against you. The thin fabric was already damp with your arousal, and the realization that he could feel it—that he could smell it—sent a hot flush of shame and need up your neck.
“Mmm,” he hummed against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core.
“You’re soaked, baby. And you smell so fucking sweet,” his tongue flicking over your clothed folds. “What was that you said about your… chandelier? Imported crystal?”
Then, his tongue flicked out, dragging over your wet folds through the fabric, the damp barrier doing nothing to dull the sensation. The light, tormenting trace of him had your hips rutting up shamelessly, chasing more friction, more of him.
“Oh, God—Bucky. I need you—”
Your thighs quivered around his head as his tongue traced you again, the sticky fabric preventing you from feeling the real thing. He was playing with you, tormenting you, making you unravel with just the smallest movements of his mouth.
“Need me? What could you need from me that you don’t already have, baby?” he taunted, his hand rubbing up and down your thigh. “You’ve already got a fancy rug, a chandelier… so don’t be greedy now, sweetheart.”
Your hands fisted the cushions harder, nails biting into the fabric as your legs quivered around him. “I can’t—I need more, please, I need—”
Before you could finish, he shoved your bottoms to the side, exposing your slick heat to the cool air. A guttural groan escaped him at the sight, his eyes darkening as if he had been starving for this. He didn’t hesitate—didn’t want to waste another second as his mouth dropped back down, tongue flattening against your folds in one long, hungry lick.
“Oh my god!” you cried, your back arching as your hands flew to cover your face, too overwhelmed to do anything else. “Bucky—”
“Mm..” He hummed against you, savoring your taste before dragging his tongue even slower, teasing your sensitive clit. “Tell me more about the house, baby. The floors… they’re waxed, aren’t they?”
God. Here you were—sprawled out and nearly naked on your couch with your pool cleaner’s head in between your legs. This very moment felt like straight out of a dream, but here he was, asking about your wax floors.
“Y-yeah…” you panted. “The… the floors, they’re… w-waxed every—oh, fuck—every week.”
“Every week, huh?” he muttered into you, lips curling before he dove back in, sucking hard on your swollen clit until you cried out. “That why they shine so pretty?”
You have a very good feeling he isn’t just talking about the floors anymore. You could barely answer, choking on your moans, thighs shaking violently around his head. Your grip on the couch cushions grew desperate, clawing at the fabric for any ounce of stability.
Then came his fingers. Two, thick and rough, sliding through your soaked folds, teasing, spreading you open.
“F-fuck…” you gasped, hips twitching uncontrollably.
Without warning, he shoved them inside deep, curling instantly against your softest spot. Your cry was sharp, needy, your back arching off the couch.
“B-Bucky!”
He didn’t let you adjust—his tongue fucking your clit in rhythm with the hard thrusts of his fingers, pumping into you wet and fast, filling the room with the sounds of your pussy squelching against his hand along with his deep grunts and groans.
“That’s it, baby,” he grunted. “Cry for me. Fuck—you sound so fuckin’ pretty…”
The sound of his mouth, your wet pussy squelching from his fingers filled the air. Your body was unraveling, every nerve tightening as your stomach knotted hard, the edge of release coming into you with brutal speed. “I—fuck… feels so good. I’m so close, I’m—”
But just as you were about to come undone, he stopped.
His mouth pulled away. His fingers slipped out with a wet pop as he left you trembling, wet, and aching for more.
A broken whimper left your lips as he casually tugged your bikini bottom back into place, covering the mess he’d just made of you.
“Bucky—why—” your voice cracked as you tried sitting up.
He smirked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like it was nothing.
“You’ll get more when I’m ready.” He leaned back, calm as ever, while you trembled beneath him. “Now… are you going to show me the rest of this pretty house?”
You whimpered, legs still trembling. “Bucky… please…”
He pushed himself up slowly, adjusting himself in his work pants, the heavy outline of his cock impossible to miss. His eyes dragged over you—every curve, every shake of your body as you arched unconsciously toward him. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip at the delicious sight. Watching you come apart for him was already driving him mad.
When he took a step back from the couch, you moved without thinking.
“Wait…” you scrambled, crawling to the edge of the cushions. Your hands trailed along the thick muscle of his thigh until they found the waistband of his pants. You tugged gently, voice desperate and a quiet whisper. “I… I want to taste too—”
His eyes darkened instantly, locking on yours, and before you could pull him closer, his large hand wrapped around yours. The grip was firm, authoritative, and deliciously commanding.
“No,” he growled. “Tour first.”
Your brows furrowed, lips parting in disbelief.
You were frustrated, aroused, and utterly confused. Why was he torturing you like this? Didn’t he know that you needed him so bad? You were so close, and you can still feel your pussy fluttering against the thin fabric of your bikini—aching for him. A frustrated whine left your mouth as your nails dug into his hand, trying to tug him closer anyway.
But Bucky only shook his head, smirking faintly at your desperation. He leaned down until his lips brushed against your ear, his breath making your skin prickle.
“You wanted me inside,” he said quietly. “Now show me your house.”
None of this made sense. You couldn’t understand why he was dragging this out, why he wouldn’t just give you what you were begging for. But God, you couldn’t stop yourself from listening. You were already addicted to him enough—the sound of his voice, the warmth of his hand… it could undo you completely.
So you swallowed hard, nodded, and stood up. Your legs were weak, trembling with every step as you moved ahead of him, leading him towards the staircase.
“That’s it,” Bucky purred behind you, deep and mocking. “Good girl. Lead the way.”
Your fingers held onto the banister as you climbed, your thighs brushing with each step, the subtle friction of simply walking making you go mad. The fabric of your bikini felt suffocating and sticky, and you knew he could see it in the way your hips swayed as you walked.
“You’re shaking,” he taunted softly. “Legs that weak already? And I’ve barely touched you.”
“Bucky…” you whispered, not sure if you were pleading or warning.
“Keep going,” his hand brushed against your lower back, steadying you like he owned your body. “Show me more of this big, empty house that you’re so proud of.”
When you reached the landing, you paused, swallowing hard and desperate to catch your breath. But Bucky was already closing the gap, his chest brushing against your bare shoulder blades.
“This is… the hallway,” you said quickly, gesturing down the long stretch of polished wood and soft lighting. “I, um… had these sconces imported from Italy. They’re—”
“Imported,” Bucky cut you off, his tone slightly mocking and amused. “Everything in this house’s imported, huh?”
Your cheeks burned, and you tried to keep walking, pointing towards a piece of art hanging on the wall. “That’s an original oil painting, early 19th cent—”
His chest pressed harder against your back, trapping you between him and the wall. Warm breath brushed over the shell of your ear, and then his mouth was on your neck again—soft kisses, then rougher as his hands slid around your waist.
“B-bucky…” you sighed, “please, can we just—”
“Keep going,” he murmured. “Don’t stop.”
His hands gripped your waist tight as he rolled his hips forward, his hard length grinding against your ass through the barrier of his work pants. The friction was maddening as he rutted up against you, hard and slow.
“Th-that… that painting… it’s, um, early 19th century—ah!”
Your words broke apart the minute his lips found that sweet spot just under your ear, sucking until you whimpered.
“You already said that, baby,” he growled. One hand slipped up, cupping your breast through the tiny triangle of your bikini top, thumb flicking over the hardened bud. “C’mon, give me something new.”
His other hand pressed lower, flattening against your tummy as he rutted against you harder, each thrust of his hips pushing you forward a step.
“F-fuck…” he hissed through gritted teeth, his breath ragged in your ear.
His rutting grew rougher, his cock thick and heavy against the curve of your ass through his pants. Your palms splayed flat against the wall, the sconces rattling faintly from the impact.
You were a shaking, whimpering mess under him. “The—th-the flooring,” you babbled, “mahogany… oh god, imported from Brazil…!” Your words were caught off by a sharp moan as his hands slipped under the bikini, squeezing your breast and pinching your nipple.
“Imported,” he repeated mockingly, panting as he ground against you. “Fuck, baby, you feel that? You’re makin’ me so fucking hard.”
“Bucky—please, please,” you whined, shamelessly pushing your hips back into him, grinding against the thick outline of his cock. The friction sent sparks up your spine, your thighs quivering and clit throbbing.
“Shit,” he cursed, forehead pressing into your shoulder as his hips rutted against you harder, sloppier. His hands roamed and fondled you roughly as he fucked against you through his pants. “Gonna make a mess in my work clothes if you keep wiggling that ass against me.”
You gasped, head tipping back helplessly against his chest. “Then do it—fuck, please—”
“Goddamn, you’re fucking desperate,” his hand circled up around your neck, not choking, but squeezing gently as he held you in place and rutted faster. “Keep talkin’ about the house, pretty girl. Go on. Tell me about your perfect little hallway while I ruin you right here.”
You nearly collapsed and his hand finally slid under the thin band of your bikini bottoms, his fingers brushing through your slick heat.
“B-Bucky!” you gasped, hips jerking when the pad of his finger circled your clit. The contrast—his hand working you, his hips grinding rough and needy into your ass, it had your body unraveling in seconds.
“That’s it,” he rasped against your ear. “Fuckin’ soaked for me. So good, baby.”
You whimpered and clawed at the wall, your body caught between his rutting cock and those ruthless circles around your clit. “Please—I can’t—I’m gonna—”
“Yeah?” he panted, hips stuttering as his cock pulsed and leaked hard against you, the friction almost unbearable for him too. “Gonna come for me right here in your pretty hallway? Fuck—me too, baby, me too—”
But just as your body tensed, pleasure right there at the edge, he tore his hand away. His hips stilled, chest heaving against your back as his grip on your waist tightened before letting you go.
The sudden loss felt like ice water in your veins.
“N-no, no,” you begged, looking over your shoulder with pleading eyes. “Please, not again. Why—”
He chuckled as he pressed a mocking kiss to your cheek. “Not yet,” his hand caressed down your thigh while the other tugged your swimsuit back into place. “Tour’s not finished.”
Your body was trembling beneath him. You’re about to turn around, grip onto his shirt and start begging, but his rough voice cut through.
“Show me your bedroom.”
You swallowed hard, cheeks burning, every nerve frustrated from being denied. “Bucky…” you whispered in plea, but you didn’t dare to finish your sentence with the dark look he was giving you.
His fingers came up and brushed your cheek in a teasing stroke, making you jolt. “You gonna keep me waiting? Or do I need to find it myself?”
Your knees nearly buckled, the thought of him striding into your private space—into the most intimate part of your house made your heart beat even faster in your chest. With a shaky breath, you straightened up while still clinging to the wall for support, and nodded.
“This way,” you said, legs trembling as you took small steps down the hallway.
Behind you, you could hear him exhale a soft laugh, amused at how weak and needy you were from so little.
Your hand trembled as you turned the knob, pushing the door open to your bedroom. The soft scent of your perfume was floating in the air, laced with fresh linen and the faint sweetness of flowers from the vase on your nightstand.
“This is it,” you said softly, stepping aside so he could see.
The room looked pristine. Large windows—where you could get the full view of him, of course—with sheer curtains to let in the afternoon light. A perfectly made bed with ivory sheets, not a thing out of place.
It was your sanctuary. Your most private place.
And now he was in it.
Bucky leaned against the doorframe, his eyes taking in every inch of the room before landing on you again.
“Figures,” he said. “Perfect. Clean. Polished. Just like the rest of the house.”
You fidgeted, your palms brushing nervously over your thighs. “I… I like to keep things neat. It helps me feel—”
“Safe?” he interrupted, his voice almost a growl. He pushed off the frame and stepped closer to you. “Then why’d you invite me in, sweetheart? I’m the messiest thing that could ever happen to this house.”
Your breath caught, your heart hammering in your chest. “I didn’t let you in,” you whispered. “You… invited yourself in, actually.”
His jaw ticked, a dangerous flash of amusement glinting in his eyes. “Lay down,” he ordered suddenly, his voice rough and demanding. “On the bed. Now.”
Your gaze darted from his still-sweaty and still-dirty work clothes to your untouched, pristine sheets. The contrast made your stomach twist.
“Uh… I don’t know—”
“Are you kidding me?” he scoffed, crossing his large arms over his broad chest, muscles flexing. “You’ve been eye-fucking me since the day I started working for you, and now that I’m standing here, you’re telling me you don’t want me in your bed?”
“Well,” your eyes flicked from his sweat-stained shirt to your spotless sheets. “I don’t mean to offend, but… you’re dirty—”
Before you could even finish, his mouth crashed against yours. The kiss was rough, greedy, stealing the rest of the words right off your tongue. His rough stubble scraped against your skin, his lips bruising yours.
“I was rubbing all over you in your hallway—” another hard kiss, “had my tongue and fingers buried in your pussy—” his hand grabbed your hip, dragging you closer against him as he kissed you harder, “and now you’re worried about cleanliness?”
Bucky’s mouth left yours, lips stealing kisses down your jaw and down your throat. You were panting, clutching desperately at his shirt.
“You think I care about these clean sheets?” he muttered against your skin. “You think I don’t notice the way you look at me—every damn day, like you want me to ruin every inch of this perfect house?”
Your heart was beating so hard it hurt. “Bucky…”
He leaned back, eyes boring into yours with a hunger you couldn’t quite explain. His thumb brushed over your trembling bottom lip.
“Fine,” he grunted. “If you’re that worried about the bed, I’ll just have to fuck you on your pretty waxed floors like a slut, then.”
Before you could respond, his hands wrapped around tight around your waist, lifting you up and gently setting you down on the floor. The cool hardwood hit your bare back, your hair spilling across the glossy wax as he hovered over you. The contrast made your skin prickle—your perfect, polished sanctuary versus the filthy way he was pinning you down in it.
“You like that, don’t you?” he rasped, spreading your thighs wide with one big hand while his other gripped your jaw to keep your eyes on him. “The thought of me ruining all your hard work—dirty boots, sweaty body, cum dripping down your nice clean floors.”
A broken moan tore from you, your back arching under him as your thighs trembled. “Bucky—please…”
“Please what?” he taunted as he ground his hard cock through his work pants against your barely covered pussy. “Please fuck you like the needy little slut you are? Right here, on the floor you polish every damn week?”
He pulled away slightly to pull his shirt over his head. Then his fingers made quick work of his belt, tugging his work pants down until his cock sprang free. Thick, heavy, the flushed head already slick with precum.
A hiss escaped his lips as his fist wrapped around the hot shaft, working himself with a few steady pumps as his hands tugged at your bikini, while his other hand yanked your bikini bottoms down your thighs in a single rough motion.
You gasped, trembling, your pussy slick and finally bared for him.
“Fuck,” he groaned, running the tip along your warm folds. He tapped against your clit once, making your hips jerk. “Look at you… already dripping.”
He smirked, leaning over you. “You’ve been trying to get me in this house for so long. Always flirting, always begging. This is what you really wanted, isn’t it?” he nudged himself against your entrance, just enough to make you cry out. “Don’t be shy now, baby. Say it.”
Your hands clawed at his shoulders, your voice turning into high, breathless moans. “Yes—yes, I wanted this, I wanted you—please, Bucky—”
“That’s a good girl,” he cooed as he pressed the head of his cock against your entrance. The stretch was immediate and overwhelming as he pushed in slowly. Your mouth dropped open with a whimper, fingers digging into his broad shoulders.
“God—you’re so tight,” he grunted, jaw clenching as he eased just an inch deeper. “Relax, baby. I’ll be gentle… just—let me in, fuck…”
But gentle wasn’t easy with you clenching and fluttering around him like that. You whimpered louder, your back arching off the floor as the thickness of him split you open. “Bucky—too big—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he rasped, his lips brushing your ear. “Just breathe… let me in, baby.”
He tried to push in deeper, inch by careful inch… but every time he pushed forward, the tightness of your body made his breath hitch. The control he promised you was slipping with every squeeze of your body.
“Too damn tight,” he groaned, forehead pressing to yours as his eyes flutter shut—trying to keep it together, because damn, did he want this just as badly as you did.
“Could’ve had it on the bed… make it nice and comfortable for you,” another inch, another cry from you. “But no, you didn’t want to dirty it up. So now you’re taking it here, on the floor, like a dirty slut.”
He pushed deeper, almost halfway in before pausing at the tight sensation. He tipped his head back, lips falling to let out a frustrated groan.
“Fuck—but I’m too big, aren’t I?” he slowly pulled back, then back in, fucking you with what’s already inside your clenching pussy.
Your walls fluttered around him, your body trembling as it slowly began to adjust to his large size. The initial sting turned into a deep, burning and delicious stretch, each shallow thrust easing him in further.
“Th-that’s it,” he coaxed sweetly, voice breaking as his hips rolled carefully, testing your limits. “Good girl—taking me so fuckin’ sweet…”
Your nails dug into his shoulders, hips shifting beneath him to meet his slow movements. The pain was melting into pleasure, and every tiny adjustment of your hips let him sink a little deeper.
You were opening up for him, and he could feel it.
His jaw clenched, hovering over you with one hand against the floor to balance himself, and the other gripped in your hip.
“Spread your legs a little higher, baby,” he rasped, voice restrained.
Before you could move yourself, he caught the back of your thighs and pressed them up, folding you into a desperate and messy version of a mating press. The angle had you gasping, crying out at the sudden, deeper stretch.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned. “Look at you—pretty little thing… takin’ me like this.”
But just as he adjusted his knees on the polished wood, his boot slipped against the waxed and smooth surface.
He lost his grip for just a second, and the slip forced his hips forward in one hard, uncontrolled thrust.
Slamming all the way in.
“Oh my god!”
A helpless cry ripped out of you as your back arched off the floor—hot pleasure and pain shot through your body. Tears blurred at your eyes at the overwhelming stretch, the sudden fullness of him stealing breath from your lungs.
Bucky’s moan was just as wrecked, his forehead leaning against yours as his body shook.
“Shit—fuck—baby… I didn’t mean to—oh, goddamn…” he tried to pull back, but your cunt fluttered too tight around him, clamping down so hard he groaned again, shuddering from the sensation.
You clung to him for support. “S-so full—oh my god, Bucky, don’t—don’t move—”
“Fuck… I–I can’t… s’too late, baby. Feels too good now.”
His words were a growl, ripped straight from his chest as he drew his hips back and slammed forward again, burying himself to the hilt. The waxed floors squeaked beneath you with every rough thrust, the sound swallowed by your moans and his ragged grunts.
“My god… look at you,” he rasped. “All that whining about me being dirty, but here you are—getting ruined on the fucking floor.”
You couldn’t answer or even form a single word—the only thing leaving your lips were strangled moans and broken gasps. The stretch, the fullness of him—it was overwhelming.
And addictive.
“Bucky—” you sobbed, head falling back against the polished floors as tears spilled. “I—oh my god—”
“Shh,” he hushed, voice mixed with gentleness and possession. “Take it. Take all of me. You wanted me in your house, baby? Then fucking have me.”
His thrusts grew harder and deeper, his cock hitting a spot inside you that made your vision blur. Every slam of his hips resulted in another cry from your throat as your body shook beneath him.
You were gone.
Utterly undone.
You were reduced to a babbling, slutty mess.
Bucky’s thrusts were relentless as he fucked you deep. His hand clamped down on your jaw, forcing you to look at him.
“Bet you regret not going on the bed now, huh?” he gritted between shaky groans. “Could’ve had me stretch you out all soft on those pretty sheets… but no—you had to take me right here. On the floor like a dirty little slut.”
Your walls clenched hard around him, and his eyes darkened. His cock twitched deep inside you.
“What do you say, baby?” his voice was rough and possessive as his pace quickened, impatient for an answer. “Want me to breed you while you lay there nice and pretty on your comfy bed?”
You tried to answer, but only broken whimpers and pathetic gasps left from your lips. The words wouldn’t come out, but your body gave you away—your thighs trembling, pussy fluttering desperately around him, already begging without words.
“Uh-uh,” he pinned you down harder, his nose brushing yours as he stared into your eyes. “Don’t just lay there. Tell me.”
But your brain was fried. Completely scrambled by the way he was splitting you open—so you gave the only answer you could.
You nodded, frantic and whiny, tears brimming as your lips formed a silent plea.
Bucky groaned in approval, his control snapping. “That’s my good girl.”
He pulled out, and the sudden emptiness left you whining. His hands gripped your waist firmly, lifting you effortlessly off the floor. A startled yelp escaped your lips as your legs curled around him for support, clinging to his broad body.
He set you down gently on the bed, but his hands didn’t stop exploring—grabbing, gripping, teasing every curve.
He stepped back to the edge of the mattress, and before you could even say anything, he yanked your bikini top off in one rough motion. The straps snapped, falling away to leave your chest bare, nipples already hard and flushed from the heat between you two.
A low growl rumbled from his chest at the sight of you, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. “Fuck,” he groaned, already tugging down the rest of his clothes until he stood completely bare. “So fucking beautiful.”
Bucky got on the bed and pressed himself against you, the heat of his heavy cock meeting your dripping folds yet again. You let out a soft gasp as he filled you again slowly this time.
“Think you can take me again, baby?” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips tight, tilting your body up to meet every stroke. Each movement was hard, fast, and unrelenting, making you gasp and whimper with every hit.
“F-fuck… yes, Bucky!”
Bucky’s eyes rolled back, jaw tight, as he leaned over you, pressing his forehead to yours. He shifted your legs back into the mating press, hands gripping your hips to tilt you up just right.
“Gonna go even deeper this time, baby,” he panted. “Need you to feel every inch of me.”
“Oh my god, Bucky—fuck… you feel too good,” you moaned, looking up at him with soft and pleading eyes as he fucked into you.
“Look at you, all fancy and perfect… and I’m the filthy pool boy inside you,” he growled, voice rough and raspy. “Taking my rich girl… making you mine.”
Your hips jerked instinctively at the words, thighs trembling around him. “P-please…” you whimpered, fingers tight on his shoulders.
He smirked darkly, teeth grazing your earlobe. “Shut it, baby… you don’t get to talk right now. You just get to feel me—filling you up, making that tight little cunt all mine.”
His hand dug into your hip, pulling you closer as he slammed in deeper.
“Bet you never thought someone like me would get you this wet… taking your perfect little pussy and using it, huh? Fuck, you love it… don’t you?”
Your back arched, hips rolling with his thrusts, and the heat building tight in your stomach, building fast. With a loud and deep groan, he drove into you harder, faster, every stroke pushing you closer.
“Fuck—cum for me, baby,” he growled. “I can feel you squeezing me so tight… fuck, I’m right there too—”
“Bucky—” you gasped, nails dragging down his bare back as your legs trembled violently around his waist. “I’m gonna cum—please, don’t stop, don’t stop!”
That was all it took for him.
“Fuck, sweetheart!”
He slammed into you one last time—hard. Hot streams of his release spilled deep inside you, filling you up while your own orgasm shook you, your body convulsing around him. The wet, messy sound of your cunt milking every drop only drove him further, leaving the both of you trembling, coming undone together in a haze of sweat.
The two of you collapsed onto the bed, limbs tangled and sweat-slicked, your chests rising and falling as you caught your breath.
“Good girl,” Bucky’s arm draped possessively across your waist, his hand tracing lazy circles along your hip. “That was so good, sweetheart. You took all of it, baby.”
You rested your head against his naked chest, the warmth of him calming you down. All the while, he’s pressing soft kisses to your sweaty forehead, fingers treading your hair in a gentle and soothing manner.
“Have you… really noticed the way I’ve been trying to catch your attention?” you asked softly, your fingers tracing idle patterns along his chest.
Bucky let out a quiet and amused huff, his big palm gliding lazily up and down your spine.
“Yeah,” he said casually. “It was pretty damn obvious.”
There was a brief pause for a moment, just the sounds of your breathing filling the air.
Then, a teasing little smirk curved your lips.
“Well, did you think I didn’t notice you too?”
He raised a brow and tilted his head down to look at you, confused. “What do you mean, baby?”
But you didn’t look up at him.
“When you… stood outside my window. Watching me…” you dragged your nails down his ribs, feeling him tense beneath you. “…jerking off… while I touched myself, thinking about you?”
Bucky froze beneath you, his lips parting but no sound coming out at first. His blue eyes widened and his face flushed in embarrassment.
“You—fuck, you saw that?” his voice broke, suddenly not so cocky anymore.
“Mhm,” you hummed, grinning as your hand slid down his stomach. His abs twitched under your touch, and before he could even process it, your fingers wrapped around his still-hard sensitive cock.
He gasped, body jolting at the contact. “Shit—baby, wait—”
But you didn’t wait. You stroked him slow and steady, relishing the way his entire body trembled under yours. He was the one in control, taunting and commanding… but now?
He was a mess, chest heaving, fists clutching the sheets as he tried and failed to keep his composure as you worked him with your hand.
“You looked so desperate out there,” you teased, leaning down to press your lips against his ear, your voice a sultry whisper. “Stroking your cock while you watched me play with myself. Did it make you crazy? Knowing you couldn’t touch me?”
“Fuck,” his hips jerked up and his legs trembled. He squeezed his eyes shut, head shaking. “Baby—please… I’m too sensitive—oh!”
His head fell back against the pillows, a strangled moan coming from his throat as your wrist twisted just right, drawing another bead of precum from him.
He was so sensitive, every stroke making his thighs twitch and his hips buck up helplessly into your hand. “Please, please…” he moaned, “please… my god, it’s too much. Fuck…”
“Not so smug now, huh?” you purred, giving him a firmer squeeze that made him hiss through clenched teeth. “My poor, dirty pool boy. You’re just as needy for me as I am for you.”
Before he could respond, you straddled him slowly, the head of his cock nudging against your puffy and wet folds as you settled onto his hips. His whole body went taut, a groan ripping from his chest as his hands instinctively gripped your thighs, trying to stop you.
“Fuck…” he whimpered, eyes glued to where you were teasing him, your wetness smearing over his flushed tip. “Baby, I can’t—shit, I’m still—”
A soft and not-so-innocent giggle left your lips. You leaned down, lips brushing his jaw as your hips rolled just enough to make him twitch beneath you. He sucked in a sharp breath, his cock throbbing helplessly against your drenched heat.
“House tour’s not done, Bucky,” you whispered, your smirk brushing against the corner of his mouth. “We’ve still got a third floor.”
❝ my house was especially built for you! ❞
thank you for reading <3
