K.C🥴😴

my english is not good, 20

[zangoonse]

i love the phrase "cruel and unusual." not only is what you're doing mean but it's also quite frankly fucking bizarre

[hotchnerss]

this Spencer means very much to me

[babydiduy]

Dr. Spencer Reid

whipped pt.2 @luvlyk-13

3 time you make Spencer blush, 1 time he returns the favor @sirius-blacks-eyeliner

off the record @whoswitchybabyanyway

subtle flirting, not so much @luvlyk-13

making out with spencer reid to distract him @glossiercheek

“my wife?” pt 2 @luvlyk-13

Exile @reidrum

“statistically speaking.” @luvlyk-13

Masterlist @lis-likes-fics

Gatekeeper @lis-likes-fics

⎯⎯ EVERYTHING HAS CHANGED @hargreeves-duncan

Turning Page @spencilweidblog

“lost control.” @luvlyk-13

not her, just you @irisinlovee

perfect morning and sunshine @trashyyduckling

⭑ The Reid’s Exception. @certaimromance

We can't be friends @aliteralsemicolon

schrödinger’s relationship @mariasont

Cinnamon Sticks @mariasont

✦ Five Reasons To Date a Genius. @certaimromance

Hard launch @esote-rika

THE SHOWER PROBLEM. @reiding-writing

[wonderlanderings]

Qualitative Over Quantitative

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: spencer reid x fem!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.7k 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: early seasons spencer, a lot of data that might or might not be true, spencer rambling, talk about sex but honestly just pure fluff 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: In which Derek Morgan's teasing backfires spectacularly, and Spencer Reid accidentally reveals he's been keeping a very important secret.

: ̗̀➛ [𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧] [𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭] [𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱]

𝐚/𝐧: I've been rewatching criminal minds and i can't stop thinking about him

The bullpen is winding down for the evening. The usual frantic hum of phones and keyboards has faded into a low, comfortable murmur—the sound of exhaustion finally winning the long war against urgency. Desk lamps cast small pools of amber light across scattered case files, illuminating coffee rings and margin scrawls in warm, fleeting gold. Somewhere across the floor, the ancient breakroom coffee maker hisses its last, bitter brew of the night, a sound almost like a sigh.

Derek Morgan leans back in his chair, the old springs groaning in protest. He tosses a pen idly between his fingers, a familiar, teasing smirk curving his mouth. “You know, Reid,” he says, loud enough for half the unit to hear, “for a genius, you really don’t know how to prioritize. All those encyclopaedic facts rattling around in your head, and you still haven’t figured out that Saturday nights are for living. Not for whatever obscure Russian novel you’re dissecting this week.”

Across the bullpen, Emily Prentiss looks up with the patient expression of someone who has witnessed this exact argument forty-seven times before. She doesn’t intervene. She’s learned.

Reid doesn’t look up from his case file, though his pen pauses for just a fraction of a second—a tell so small only someone watching closely would catch it. “Dostoevsky is hardly obscure,” he says, tone perfectly even. “And for the record, my Saturday nights are perfectly fulfilling, thank you.”

“Uh-huh.” Morgan chuckles, swivelling toward JJ and Prentiss like a talk show host inviting audience participation. “Tell me I’m wrong. Between the two of us—genius boy and yours truly—who do you think gets lucky more often?”

But before anyone can answer, Reid clears his throat.

“That's an entirely misleading metric,” he says.

Morgan's grin widens. “Oh, is it?”

“Yes, actually.” Reid sets his pen down with a soft click, and the team recognizes the signs immediately: the slight straightening of his spine, the way his fingers begin to tap a staccato rhythm against the table, the subtle tilt of his head as he shifts into lecture mode. He's about to do the math out loud.

“First of all,” Reid begins, holding up a finger, “‘getting lucky’ is a subjective, self-reported measure, which introduces significant recall bias and social desirability bias. People overestimate. Significantly. By as much as forty percent in some studies.” Another finger goes up. “Secondly, you're comparing two data points—you and me—without controlling for variables like opportunity, environment, or personal standards. You have a tendency to equate quantity with quality, which is statistically unsound.”

Morgan groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Here we go.”

Reid ignores him entirely, already mid-stride into the argument. His voice picks up speed—not quite rambling, but close, the way it does when he's genuinely enjoying himself. “Let's say, hypothetically, you sleep with a different woman every week. Generous, but possible. However—” He holds up a finger, ticking off points like a professor during office hours. “—you've also mentioned, on multiple occasions, that you don't ‘mix work with play’ and that you need at least one night to decompress. That leaves Friday and Saturday as your only viable windows. So let's assume sexual encounters occur on Friday or Saturday night. That's roughly two opportunities per week—but even then, not every weekend yields a new partner. You have off weeks. You get sick. Sometimes,” he adds, with the faintest hint of smugness, “women say no.”

Morgan's smirk twitches. “Okay, first of all—”

Reid tilts his head, gaze going distant as he does the numbers behind his eyes. His fingers twitch like he's physically calculating in the air. You've seen him do this a hundred times—map a geographic profile, run a probability tree, recite the entire history of some obscure piece of trivia. 

“Accounting for statistical probability of rejection, scheduling conflicts, and the inherent inefficiencies of the modern casual dating landscape—which, by the way, is heavily skewed by algorithmic dating app fatigue—your actual frequency likely drops to one new partner every ten to fourteen days. Optimistically.”

JJ is already grinning, resting her chin on her hand like she's watching her favourite courtroom drama. “I feel like I should stop you both,” she says, “but I really want to hear where he's going with this.”

Prentiss leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “Oh, he's going somewhere. You can always tell when he does the head-tilt.”

Morgan points a finger at Reid, though his voice has lost its edge—there's genuine affection underneath the exasperation. “Alright, fine. Let's say I'm one every two weeks. What's your number, pretty boy? Hm? When's the last time you even—”

“That's not the point,” Reid interrupts, a little too quickly.

He presses on, gaining momentum now. His voice picks up that familiar, rapid-fire cadence—the one that makes unsubs' heads spin and makes the rest of the team feel like they're sitting in on a TED Talk they didn't buy tickets for. His fingers have resumed their tapping, faster now, keeping time with the race of his thoughts.

"Now, consider a person in a committed, cohabitating relationship. Let's establish a baseline: the average frequency of sexual activity for couples in the early stages of domestic partnership—say, the first two years—ranges from three to five times per week, depending on variables like work stress, health, and general compatibility. Let's take the conservative estimate: every other day."

Morgan opens his mouth—to argue, to deflect, you're not sure—but Reid holds up a finger without looking, and Morgan closes it again.

"Now," Reid continues, "multiply that over a four-week month. The partnered individual is engaging in sexual activity approximately twelve to sixteen times per month. The single person cycling through weekly encounters—assuming one new partner per week, which we've already established is an overestimate—is averaging four times per month."

Morgan crosses his arms, jaw tight. He's not offended—they all know him well enough to recognize the difference—but he's definitely recalibrating. "So you're saying—"

He delivers the final blow with clinical precision, but there's something softer lurking underneath. 

"And you're not even accounting for quality of experience, emotional investment, or—most importantly—long-term satisfaction metrics," Reid continues, his voice quieter now, less performative. "A single meaningful connection, maintained over time, statistically outperforms high-frequency, low-retention encounters in nearly every category of reported happiness. The Harvard Grant Study—one of the longest longitudinal studies on human development—found that the single strongest predictor of life satisfaction wasn't career success or financial security. It was the warmth and consistency of close relationships."

He pauses. Swallows. 

"So, really, the question isn't who ‘get’s lucky’ more." His voice drops, barely above a murmur now. Intimate, almost. Like he's forgotten anyone else is in the room. "It's who ‘get’s lucky’ enough."

For a beat, no one speaks.

Then Prentiss raises her coffee cup in a slow, deliberate toast. "I believe you just got murdered by math, Morgan."

The tension breaks—but not entirely. JJ snickers. Morgan rubs the back of his neck, shaking his head, but there's no heat in it. "Man, I just asked a simple question."

"You asked a misleading question," Reid corrects, but his voice has lost its sharpness. He's retreating back into himself, the way his shoulders curl inward slightly, the way his gaze drops to the case file again. Like he's said too much. 

Morgan blinks, his smirk frozen mid-spread. He holds up a hand like he's stopping traffic. "Hold on. Hold on." His eyes narrow, processing, replaying something in his head. "You're talking about you."

Reid's mouth opens, then closes. A faint flush creeps up his neck—not the blotchy, embarrassed red of someone caught in a lie, but something softer. Pinker. The colour of someone who hadn't meant to say as much as he just did. His hand drifts to the back of his neck, a self-soothing gesture he doesn't even realize he has.

Prentiss leans forward, delighted, her elbows on her desk like she's settling in for a season finale. "Reid. Are you telling us you're in a serious, every-other-day relationship?"

"That's… not what I said." He adjusts his satchel strap, suddenly very interested in the grain of his desk. His fingers find the edge of a case file and straighten it unnecessarily. Then straighten it again. The file doesn't need straightening. Everyone knows it. No one says anything. "I was speaking hypothetically. Broad statistical trends. Aggregate data."

"Uh-huh." Morgan plants both hands on his desk and pushes up slightly. His grin is slow, dangerous, and utterly delighted. "You just compared yourself to me. Which means you're the one having sex every other day. With a girlfriend." He drags the word out like he's tasting it for the first time. 

JJ crosses her arms, mock-offended, though her eyes are warm. "Spencer Reid, how long has this been going on?"

Reid swallows. Hard. His gaze flickers to the window—not looking for an escape route, but for a moment of stillness. A place to land. When he looks back at the team, they see something they don't often get from him: not deflection, not a lecture, not a rapid-fire recitation of unrelated facts to change the subject.

Genuine, quiet vulnerability.

"Several months," he admits, low enough that they have to lean in to hear.

The word lands like a stone in still water. Ripples spreading outward. Morgan's smirk softens at the edges. JJ's arms uncross. Prentiss sits back slightly, her teasing expression fading into something more careful. More respectful.

No one pushes. Not yet.

But they're all looking at him differently now. Like they're seeing a new version of Spencer Reid—one who exists outside the bullpen, outside the case files, outside the lonely apartment they'd all quietly assumed he went home to every night.

"Kid." Morgan shakes his head, and there's something different in his voice now—not teasing, not needling. Something almost admiring. "I take it back. Every single thing. Every joke, every 'maybe try a bar sometime,' every time I said you'd die alone surrounded by books." He squeezes Reid's shoulder, a brief, grounding pressure. "You've been holding out on us."

Reid ducks his head, but the smallest smile tugs at his lips—shy, yes, but unmistakably real. It's not his knowing smirk or his closed-off court testimony expression. It's something softer. Something private, accidentally spilled. Like he's been keeping a secret so long that the act of letting it see daylight feels physically strange—but not unwelcome.

"You asked about frequency," he says, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug that's almost bashful. "I just answered the question."

"You really did," Prentiss says, grinning wide enough to crinkle her eyes. "In excruciating detail."

JJ tilts her head, studying him like a case file she's only just realized she misread completely. Her gaze is warm but probing—that particular JJ look that says I see you, and I'm not letting you off the hook that easily. "And for the record," she says, her voice gentle but pointed, "I'm going to need to meet this person. Several months and you never even mentioned her name? That's practically classified information. I'm officially offended."

Reid opens his mouth—maybe to deflect, maybe to recite something about privacy and healthy relationship boundaries, maybe to quote a study on the importance of keeping certain parts of one's life separate from one's workplace—but then he catches something over Morgan's shoulder.

His words die in his throat.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft, mechanical chime—the kind of sound so familiar it usually doesn't register anymore. But tonight, it cuts through the bullpen like a bell.

And there you are.

Standing by the elevator bank, keys looped loosely around your fingers, a worn file folder tucked under your arm. You've clearly just come up from the archives—there's a faint smudge of dust on your sleeve, pale grey against the fabric, and your hair is slightly askew from leaning over old case boxes, a few strands escaping to frame your face. The overhead light catches the curve of your jaw, the concentration in your brow.

You're not looking at them yet.

Your attention is still on the files in your hands—a thick stack, dog-eared and labeled in fading marker. You're flipping through them absently, lips moving just slightly as you read, your thumb holding your place in whatever document has captured your focus. 

Reid forgets how to breathe.

It's not dramatic—not in the way movies make it seem. There's no swelling music, no slow-motion montage. Just the sudden, startling realization that he has been holding himself together all evening, and now, seeing you, every carefully constructed wall is coming down.

You look tired.

He notices it first because he always notices it first—the slight droop of your shoulders, the way you're blinking a little too slowly at the pages in your hand. You've been in the archives for hours. Probably forgot to eat. Definitely forgot to drink water.

But you're also smiling. Just a little. A small, absent curve of your lips as you read whatever case file has captured your attention. It's the smile you get when you've found something good—a lead, a connection, a piece of the puzzle that was missing.

He loves that smile.

He loves the dust on your sleeve and the mess of your hair and the way you bite your lower lip when you're concentrating. He loves that you exist in the same building as him, the same world, the same moment.

He loves you.

And now everyone is about to know it.

Reid's flush, which had been fading to a manageable pink, returns with interest—creeping up his neck, flooding his cheeks, brushing the tips of his ears. But here's the thing that makes Morgan's eyebrows climb: Reid doesn't look away. He doesn't duck his head or pretend to read something.

Instead, that small, proud smile stays.

Grows, even.

Morgan is the first to put it together. Of course he is. He watches Reid's face change—watches the shyness give way to something steadier, something almost protective—and then he follows Reid's gaze across the bullpen.

His eyes land on you.

His smirk doesn't just return. It blooms.

"No," he breathes, barely above a whisper. Then, louder, disbelieving: "No."

Prentiss notices Morgan's reaction before she notices you. She glances at him, then at Reid, then follows the sightline like a guided missile. When she finds you—dust-smeared, distracted, muttering to yourself over a case file—her eyebrows climb.

She doesn't say anything. She just tilts her head, watching, cataloging, filing away every micro-expression on Reid's face for later analysis.

But her silence is louder than words.

The bullpen feels suspended. Held breath and half-finished sentences. Even the ancient coffee maker seems to have stopped hissing, as if it, too, is waiting.

Morgan turns back to Reid, slow and deliberate, like a man approaching a wild animal he's just realized is actually a house cat. His expression cycles through about six different emotions in the span of two seconds—confusion, disbelief, dawning recognition, and finally, something dangerously close to pride.

"You told us you were 'helping her with research.'" He makes air quotes, fingers curving with theatrical emphasis. "That's what you said. 'The archives are extensive, Morgan, and she's new, and it's purely professional, Morgan, stop reading into things, Morgan.'"

Reid's flush deepens—creeping up from his collar, brushing the tips of his ears, painting his cheekbones in soft, tell-tale pink—but he doesn't deny it. He doesn't deflect. He doesn't launch into a rapid-fire lecture about privacy or workplace relationships or the statistical unlikelihood of his personal life being anyone's business.

"I was helping with research," Reid says quietly. "That's how it started."

"And then?" Prentiss prompts, leaning forward like she's watching the season finale she didn't know she needed. Her coffee cup is still frozen in her hand, forgotten. She doesn't blink.

Reid's eyes don't leave yours.

The bullpen falls away. The desks, the case files, the amber glow of the lamps—all of it fades into background noise. There's only him. Only the way he's looking at you like you've rearranged his entire understanding of the universe.

"And then," he says, and his voice catches slightly—just a breath, just a fracture, but you hear it. You always hear it. "I realized I didn't want to stop."

[esote-rika]

𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐚𝐳𝐚𝐫𝐝 | 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐢𝐝

BUD Chronicles

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader Category: Smut 18+ MDNI, FLUFF Summary: Spencer comes out of the shower looking like a wet dog and it’s enough to send you on your knees.  Content: 2.9k words, established relationship, size kink, hand job, blow job and deep throating, choking on dick, sub!Spencer undertones, dacryphilia, Spencer says something slightly mean but it’s resolved quickly, Spencer cums too soon.  a/n: My google search history will get me on a watchlist one day, and it’s all because of these fics. Combination of Rucha’s request, anon who gave me the “getting rid of reader’s gag reflex” idea, also hi to this anon who requested dacryphilia for kinktober, October came early hehe.

You make your attraction to your boyfriend very clear. Sometimes, perhaps, to the point of comical exaggeration, so much so that it makes Spencer Reid suspect that you may only be teasing him. His doubts aren't unwarranted—not because of you, of course. But growing up the way he did—knobby joints and limbs too long, too scrawny, too smart, too much yet somehow simultaneously still not enough—makes the notion of desire and romance feel out of his reach. 

He doesn't quite know how to deal with being the subject of your desire. To be on the receiving end of your undivided attention. An object of lust. Really, him, of all people?

You, meanwhile, revel in his confusion. Sending such a brilliant man into spirals is an achievement you wear with pride, and a challenge you consistently tackle head on. 

So when you drape your arms over his shoulders, the soft furrow of his brows makes something in your chest curl. Love. A sense of power. The heady, addictive combination of both. 

Droplets from his wet hair scatter all over your wrist and upper arms, still warm from his shower. The heat from your skin keeps them from cooling. Spencer huffs, a nervous smile on his face as his hands land on your hips. Warm, pruned fingers flexing and squeezing into your body, testing out the authenticity of your existence. An overactive imagination came with his genius, and he wants to make sure you aren't something conjured from his fantasies. 

You aren't. You're solid, and he isn't in the mood to test any more hypotheses as to why you're currently in his arms. 

“Hey, angel,” he whispers the nickname like he's holding the very thing, his unworthy palms making contact with something heavenly. 

“Hi baby,” You coo, light and pretty as birdsong, “Did you have a nice shower?” 

He chuckles, unsure of what you want but enjoying the guessing game all the same. He loves games. He loves them even more when it involves you, and your affection. “I did. I used the conditioner you got for me.” 

Your hands tangle into his hair when he mentions that, humming as you squeeze out the strands, “You didn't do the routine though.”

“I know, I didn't want to stay in there too long,” He says sheepishly. You'd lovingly pointed out a curly hair routine for him before, and on days where he has the time, he tries to do them. Often than not, he's a bit too busy with work. Right now though, there’s other reasons for his rush. “I wanted to spend as much time as I could with you.”

“Is that so?” you giggle, and he swears he's about to tip over. 

“Yeah. I missed you all week.”

“Really?”

“Really. In fact, I missed you while I was showering.” He smiles all dopey and soft, body flushed with his love for you. His breath becomes a prisoner lodged somewhere between his chest and throat when your lips widen into a bright smile as a result of his words.

“Did you?” your body presses into his nearly naked one, hips flush. 

He gulps, knowing you could feel his body reacting to your proximity. The slightest bit of affection from you and he’s already aching, fingers digging into your hips as he closes the distance between your mouths in place of a proper answer. The kiss muffles your giggles, a sound so precious he’s uncertain if he’d like to record it and play it for the rest of the world, or keep, selfishly, to himself.

You press into him further, and he’s following your lead, feet padding backwards. Stumbling. Slightly unsure, but he trusts your judgement, trusts wherever it is you’re planning to take him.

The couch, it turns out, so overstuffed it swallows his form when he sinks onto it. Somewhere along the way, his towel had slipped on the floor, no doubt by the insistence of your frisky, demanding hands. You break apart from him, lips kiss swollen and pulled into that familiar, cheshire cat smile as you sink to your knees between his spread legs.

Gently, he keeps you back, brows knit as he surveys your position. With worry dancing in his eyes, he cups your cheek and whispers, “You don’t have to do that, angel.”

“I wanna,” you insist, palms wrapping around the base of his already half-hard cock. 

The feeling chokes the breath from him, but he forces himself to focus. “But it hurt you the last time.”

“No, baby, it didn’t. I just gagged a little, that’s all.” You reply with a soft giggle. Your breath washes over the sensitive skin of his length as you do so. It’s dumbfounding that such a tiny shift of air could send shivers prickling down his spine, but perhaps it’s more because of the very existence of you (here, in his apartment, and against all odds, his) than the action itself. 

“Yeah, you did. It was honestly a little surprising."

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He doesn’t catch the edge in your voice, hurtling forward with a hasty reply, “Well you just seem so experienced.”

“Are you saying I got around?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant at all!” His eyes widen comically, large hands framing your face and gripping with a desperation that makes you laugh. “Please, that’s not—why are you laughing?”

“Relax, Spence, I know what you mean. I think.”

He burns, from the tops of his cheeks and crawling everywhere like spilled water. Fighting through the ache in his chest—you’re so, so bad for his breathing—he manages to croak, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything mean, just… surprised, is all.”

“That I had a problem last time?” another stroke, and another, slowly both hands in tandem. He can feel himself throbbing, and it’s a little embarrassing how little it takes for you to coax him into an aching erection.

His voice breaks as he responds, “Yeah. You don’t have to do it, if it’s an issue.”

“It’s no big deal, baby. You just triggered my gag reflex, it wasn’t life or death,” you pump his length gently as you explain, twisting your fists every time you move down. The twitch of his thighs tells you you’re having the exact effect you want from him. “I’ve never had anyone as big as you before.”

“You called me a choking hazard.”

As you laugh, your breath wafts over his heated length, and nearly undoes him.

“What? You did!”

“I know,” your tongue skims over the slit of his tip, before gently circling its circumference, collecting as much of his precum as possible, before your soft lips part wider, stretching wide to take the broad head. Carefully, your tongue caresses the underside, spreading sticky, warm wetness as far as it can go.

Spencer wonders if it’s socially acceptable to pass out in the middle of getting a blow job. If he did, it wouldn’t be his first social faux pas, but the thought of being unconscious while you wrap those sinfully plush lips around him feels like a waste. How dare he lose consciousness while he has you on your knees for him? No, the only way to get through this is by being completely wide awake, and focused on you.

So he distracts himself, if only to keep from fainting, the best way he knows how.

“You know, the biggest trigger for your gag reflex is usually psychological.” he feels your laughter vibrating from his length, up his spine. An endearing crack in his voice comes as a result as he continues, “It’s true—this is your brain protecting you because it thinks the matter is life or death.”

You pull off, pressing your sticky, curling lips against the side of his shaft. Spencer whines at the loss, large eyes already glassy as they plead with you wordlessly. Come back, he seems to beg, why did you stop? But he’s perfect and patient, and never demands, so he shuts his mouth.

Smirking, you mumble, “But I know I’m not in danger. You’re just huge.”

“Well, uh, yes admittedly, that’s a factor too. Somatogenic stimulus.” at your raised brow, he hastens to explain, “T-that means it hits trigger points inside your mouth that sends signals to your brain. In response, your pharynx contracts to prevent you from choking.”

“What if I want to choke?” your pout glistens with his slick and your own saliva. 

Spencer wants to weep.

“There’s certainly ways to, um, train your gag reflex.” 

“Yeah?” you brighten, tongue flicking out and tracing the vein on the underside of his length. 

He feels himself twitching in your hands, voice breathless and strangled as he responds. 

“Yeah. A lot of it involves simply relaxing,” slowly, his hand comes to your hair, pushing back the strands from your temple, “Breathe through your nose before going deeper. If it hits the back of your throat, don’t panic and make sudden movements.”

“Seems like you know a lot about giving head, baby.”

Spencer can’t help but laugh at your jest, thumbs caressing the softness of your cheeks. “Maybe I do. Maybe I did my research after the first time you tried it.”

“Mhm, nerd. That’s why I love you.” you giggle, lashes fluttering and skimming over the tops of your cheeks as you close your eyes and lean into his warm, steady palm. “Good thing you told me. Now we can test it out.”

Without warning, you take him into your mouth again, pretty lips stretching wide to accommodate his girth. A soft, tortured gasp tears past his mouth when your cheeks hollow in, sucking eagerly at the tip before your mouth relaxes. 

He manages to take a breath, labored and panicked despite his earlier advice for you to stay at a relaxed state. In contrast, you’re completely at ease, eyes sparkling mischievously and peeking up at him from beneath your lashes. He swears you’re smirking. Your mouth is wrapped around him but he just knows, okay, you’re smirking one of those sweetly mocking smirks you like to flash his way just because you know he’s utterly yours.

“Angel,” he exhales, and your head surges forward, jaw relaxing further, and he feels the slight drag of teeth against the oversensitive skin of his cock. It’s warm and wet, and his fingers reflexively tighten in your hair, curling around the strands for something to ground him. 

It stings, this new grip, but deliciously so, a pain that heightens your senses and makes your own thighs clench together. But this is about him, and you’re enjoying the view in front of you. Spencer Reid, reduced to the most pathetic whimpers. Spencer Reid who doesn’t know his own strength and is all but pulling you by the hair with how rigidly he’s wound your hair around his fingers.

God, you feel drunk.

Filled with more confidence, you breathe slowly as he’d instructed, before taking him deeper, watching as almost half of his length disappears into your mouth. Now faced with some confirmation that you can, indeed, take more, you push further until he hits the back of your throat and that treacherous reflex triggers.

The sound you make seems to shake Spencer from his trance, hazel eyes blinking rapidly as he shuffles his hips away. 

“Are you okay?” he blusters, all clear eyed focus now. He tries to pull you off of him, hands migrating to your shoulders.

You nod, brows furrowing into a stubborn, warning look. He immediately backs off, protests dying on his lips as you remain on your knees. Fisting over the rest of his cock that you couldn’t fit into your mouth while simultaneously bobbing your head up and down what you could take.

“O-oh my god,” Spencer’s hands return into your hair, pushing back the strands that have fallen over your forehead. 

Knowing that he’s overly sensitive, you moan around his length. His body tenses, shivers, filling you with enough confidence to bob your head up again, deeper this time, and more prepared. When his tip reaches the back of your throat, it feels more like a kiss than a nudge. 

“Fuck!” 

You moan in response, eyes flashing up to meet his awestruck gaze, before pulling away. Twin gasps for air; you from an exhilarating sense of accomplishment, Spencer from a flushed, dizzy haze.

“That was so good,” he slurs, body bending down to catch your lips. Your giggles are swallowed by his insistent kisses, tongue pushing into past your lips as though he wants to taste himself through your mouth. “So good, honey, you did it deeper than the last time.” he’s babbling into the kiss, hands cradling your head back.

You moan, shift to a more comfortable angle on the floor, before breaking the kiss, your lips connected by a glossy string of saliva. 

“I wanna try again,” you whisper, pushing him back, “Just sit back and enjoy, Spence.”

Without waiting for his response, you take him into your mouth again, relaxing and breathing as steadily as you can, before you begin the rhythm. He’s groaning above you, one hand fisted on his cushions, the other at the crown of your head, holding back your hair.

Again, spurred by his reactions and a sense of boldness, you pull back until only his tip remains in your mouth. Your cheeks hollow as you suck, preparing yourself mentally for another attempt. Holding his cock steady at the base, you lower your mouth slowly, slowly, over his length, blinking through the tears that prickle at the corners of your eyes when you feel him sliding past your tonsils and down your throat. 

“Fuck!” Spencer cries out. His whole body is tense, every single muscle flexing as he holds back the desire to thrust into the wet warmth of your mouth. He can’t tell which of you is more affected, more defiled. You or him? He thought you’d be in a position of power, as you usually are, as he usually surrendered to you, but right now it seems you’re both equally ruined.

The mere sight of you tearing up and gagging gently around him, struggling to keep him inside your tight throat nearly undoes him. When he feels your nose nestling over the skin of his lower abdomen, he can’t help it. A sob escapes. Big fat tears chase each other down his cheeks as he feels your throat contracting around him. 

He can’t lift his teary-eyed gaze from your prone figure. Somehow, despite it all, you’re still looking up at him, the tears down your cheeks mirroring his. Before he knows it, his cock twitches, and then he’s bursting thick, hot ropes of his spend directly down your throat.

It takes you completely by surprise. You were only trying to see if you could take him all the way; triumph had curled in your chest when you did, but only for a moment as you felt him swell impossibly bigger, and then he’s cumming. 

Down your throat.

You’re choking on both his cock and his cum.

It’s difficult not to panic, and once you start, your brain fires off at every self-preservatory neuron. Gagging around him, your own tears burn hot streaks down your cheeks, until he pulls you off his shaft and onto his lap.

“Oh, angel,” he sniffles, arms encircling your waist tightly, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, oh my god.”

He’s sobbing into your shoulder, one hand tucking your head against the crook of his neck. As you cough and regain your breath, his scent fills your senses, the familiar evergreen of his soap and the spicy aftershave, and for a moment, all you can think of is how you’re drooling all over his freshly washed skin.

“I’m fine, Spencer, really.” You hug him back tight, heart drumming in your ears as you calm back down, “I made a mess.”

He angles his head to take a look, eyes skimming over the mixture of saliva and cum dripping from your lips, down your chin and neck, and shakes his head. “No, you–I think you’re beautiful.”

“You’re just saying that cause I gave you great head.”

He laughs through his tears, hands moving to frame your face. His thumbs drag over your cheeks, brushing away your tears. “No, that’s not true. You know that.”

“I do.” You smile, leaning in tentatively, unsure if he’d want to kiss you with such messy lips. Spencer has no such qualms, meeting you halfway and groaning as he tastes himself on your tongue. 

“I think you’re divine.” he murmurs as he begins kissing along the corners of your mouth, cleaning off his spend by his own lips. You weren’t expecting him to do something so filthy, and every lick of his tongue gives you a delicious shiver. “The prettiest. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“Stop apologizing,” you admonish, shifting on his lap to wrap your legs around his waist, “I told you, I wanted it. Seems like you enjoyed it too.”

“Immensely,” he admits, lips now at your jaw, nipping playfully at the sensitive skin, “But now, I think it’s time I take care of you.”

You press your hips against his with a giggle, "Yeah? You want to make a mess elsewhere?"

He groans, embarrassed, but doesn't deny it.

i love them so much they make me so fucking sick. pls reblog and comment if you enjoyed, thank you for reading!!!!

[anna-lioncourt]

loser nerd boyfriend core

[bigandlong]

If you see this on your dashboard, reblog this, NO MATTER WHAT and all your dreams and wishes will come true.

[jae-felidae]

Oh hey! Haven’t seen this in forever! Didn’t reblog it when it came across me before, not gonna skip it this time, I need some good vibes.

[miasvelvetvoid]

tears,

pairings: steve rogers x f!stark reader mans best friend masterlist | part one series synopsis: Your coworkers notice you’re flushed. Distracted. Smiling at nothing. They don’t know that a man who looks like he could bench press a tank is absolutely wrecking you with basic human decency. warnings: mdni! steve being the perfect man, reader is horny for her man, smut (sex on the couch…. and the kitchen island….. and the shower, reader wants to be in control but submits to steve, soft!dom steve, spit kink, oral fem receiving, unprotected piv, reader bites steve, spanking/slapping, choking, maybe breath play, cumplay, spit kink, definitely missing some lol), pet names (angel, baby), reader wears lingerie, astrophysics talk, reader is lowkey a cute horny nerd, nat and wanda mention, fluff, no angst in this one, just them both being in love, not proofread. total word count: 7k mia’s love note: gif made by me, do not reuse. this is the second part to manchild, a fic that is apart of the mbf series. I encourage you to read that prior to this.

You groaned lightly as you shifted in Steve’s arms, turning until your back was pressed flush against his front. His body was solid and warm behind you, an anchor you hadn’t realized you’d been craving until you woke up wrapped in it. One of his arms was slung lazily around your waist, heavy and protective even in sleep, his other tucked beneath the pillow.

A light smile grazed your hazy features as the memories from the night before came rushing back, vivid and dangerous and entirely too tempting for early morning thoughts. The way Steve kissed. Slow at first, hesitant, like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast. And then the way that hesitation vanished, replaced by something darker, more confident. The way his hands had held you like he already knew exactly where you belonged.

God.

You were getting warm just thinking about it.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively, your breath catching as the sensation lingered longer than it had any right to. There was something almost dizzying about knowing that Captain America, the man the world worshipped for his restraint and honor, had kissed you like he wanted to forget everything else existed.

A part of you felt relieved.

Relieved that you had finally said it out loud. That you both had. That the tension that had been poisoning every shared space for weeks had finally snapped instead of suffocating you slowly. You had spent so long wondering if you were imagining it, if you were projecting something that wasn’t really there.

You weren’t.

Turning around fully in his arms, you didn’t care if you woke the super soldier next to you. If anything, you wanted him awake. Wanted him aware. Wanted him to feel the same certainty thrumming through your chest.

You pressed soft kisses over his bare, muscular chest, your lips lingering against warm skin, your hands braced on either side of him. His heartbeat was steady beneath your mouth, strong and grounding. You kissed along the faint trail of hair there, letting yourself enjoy the way his body reacted even before his mind fully caught up.

Steve let out a low, husky groan, his abs tensing beneath every kiss. His arm tightened reflexively around you, his fingers flexing against your back. “what are you doing?” he teased you.

This time it came way easier. His teasing sounded natural, unguarded, like he wasn’t afraid of the words landing wrong anymore.

“oh nothing,” you said with a cheeky grin as you shifted, kneeling between his bare thighs. You continued to lick and kiss along his chest, slowly, deliberately, tracing your way down until you reached the very prominent v line that disappeared beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.

Steve sucked in a sharp breath, his head falling back against the pillow. For a moment, he let himself get lost in it. His hands slid into your hair, not pulling, just holding, his thumbs brushing along your scalp like he was grounding himself there. His breathing grew uneven, his chest rising and falling faster as his hips shifted almost unconsciously toward you.

For a few seconds, the good soldier vanished.

There was only the man, heat and want and the intoxicating realization that you wanted him just as badly as he wanted you.

Then he caught himself.

Steve let out a steady breath, controlled but strained, before his hands moved up under your arms and he pulled you up his body suddenly. You let out a surprised squeal when he flipped the two of you around like it was nothing, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he braced himself over you.

He was over you now, eyes dark, jaw tight, breathing still a little rough. “none of that.”

You pouted up at him, deliberately exaggerated, your hands resting on his shoulders. “why not?” you whined.

His expression softened immediately, like your voice had flipped some internal switch. “because i want to take you out on a real date before i get you back in my bed like that again,” Steve said.

There it was.

The good boy was back.

You smiled despite yourself, something warm and fond blooming in your chest. “wasn’t good of me to do that last night shoulda waited,” he added, guilt creeping into his tone like he thought he’d crossed some invisible line.

“Well captain I personally had a great time, morals aside,” you teased, leaning up just enough to kiss the tip of his nose.

He let out a low groan at the nickname, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “not making this easy for me doll,” he said softly. “just so beautiful.”

Your heart stuttered at the sincerity in his voice.

“well guess what?” you said.

“hm,” he hummed, his nose brushing yours.

“I love you.”

You needed to say it again. Needed him to hear it when you were fully awake, when there was no doubt or haze to blame it on. You needed him to know that you meant it just as much in the quiet morning light as you had the night before.

His eyes softened instantly.

“I love you too baby,” he said, leaning down to kiss you.

The kiss was slow, unhurried, his lips moving against yours like he had all the time in the world. For a second, he forgot himself again, deepening it just a little, his hand sliding to your waist, his thumb brushing bare skin beneath your shirt.

Then he pulled back, breath uneven, resting his forehead against yours like he was physically stopping himself from going further.

The next week was torture.

Not because Steve pulled away.

But because he didn’t.

The torture starts quietly.

That’s the worst part.

It’s not dramatic or obvious or explosive. It’s subtle. Domestic. Soft in ways that get under your skin and stay there, burrowing deeper every single day until you feel like you might actually lose your fucking mind.

It begins the morning after.

You are standing in the kitchen, hair still messy, wearing one of Steve’s shirts that he insists is too thin to be appropriate but does not say anything about because he likes the way it hangs off your shoulder. You are halfway through making breakfast when you hear movement behind you.

Steve steps up without a word.

He does not grab you. Does not crowd you. He simply reaches past you to grab a mug, his chest brushing your back for half a second too long. His hand steadies the counter near your hip instead of touching you.

That restraint makes your stomach flip.

“I’ll get it,” you say automatically, reaching for the pan when it started to sizzle.

“I’ve got it,” he replies easily, already taking over, already flipping the eggs like this is his kitchen and his place and his life you are standing in.

You watch him for a second, confused by the calm competence of it.

Then he says it.

“Hey,” Steve adds casually. “Why don’t you sit. I’ll finish up.”

You blink. “You’re… cooking?”

He glances over his shoulder. “Yeah.”

“And you’re not doing the whole ‘I can’t relax unless I’m useful’ thing.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “I am being useful.”

You laugh, but it sounds breathless. “I live here. You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” he says gently. “I want to.”

That should not do what it does to you.

But it does.

Later that night, after dinner, you are rinsing plates when Steve steps in behind you again.

“I’ll wash,” he says.

You turn slowly. “What.”

He reaches for the sponge. “You cooked.”

“So?”

“So I’ll wash the dishes.”

You stare at him like he has just spoken an alien language.

“Steve.”

“Yeah?”

“No man has ever offered to wash dishes in my presence without being asked.”

He pauses, genuinely surprised. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Something crosses his face then. Not pride. Not smugness. Something quieter. Something like sadness.

“Well,” he says, rolling his sleeves up, “that’s bullshit.”

You stand there watching him scrub plates like it is the most natural thing in the world, forearms flexing, jaw relaxed, humming faintly under his breath.

Your brain short circuits.

Why are my clothes still on.

You don’t say it out loud.

But it sits there. Loud. Persistent. Pulsing.

The next day, you’re at work when your phone buzzes.

Steve.

Just a text.

“Hope your day’s going okay. Don’t forget to eat, you skip lunch when you get busy.”

You stare at the screen.

Heat curls low in your belly.

He didn’t need anything. He did not ask a question. He just thought of you and reached out.

You text back.

“You checking up on me, Captain?”

His response comes almost immediately.

“Always.”

You have to put your phone down.

Your coworkers notice you’re flushed. Distracted. Smiling at nothing.

They don’t know that a man who looks like he could bench press a tank is absolutely wrecking you with basic human decency.

That night, you try to fuck him.

You plan it.

You are sitting on the couch, legs tucked under you, watching something you are not actually paying attention to. Steve is beside you, close but not touching, like he is constantly aware of boundaries in a way no one ever has been.

You shift closer.

Then closer again.

Then you climb into his lap without a word.

Steve freezes.

Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. “Steve.”

His hands come up instantly. Not grabbing. Holding. Firm but controlled. “Hey.”

You kiss him.

It’s not slow.

It’s hungry and messy and desperate. You kiss him like you have been thinking about it all day, because you have. His mouth opens instinctively, responding before his brain catches up.

For a moment, he is lost.

You feel it. The way his grip tightens. The way his breath stutters. The way he kisses you back like he might forget every promise he made himself.

Then he pulls back.

Not abruptly. Reluctantly.

He presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

“I want you,” he says quietly.

Your stomach flips. “Then why are we stopping.”

“Because,” he says, voice rough, “I meant what I said. I’m taking you out.”

You groan softly, frustrated. “Steve, this is torture.”

He smiles faintly. “You have no idea.”

You lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “Why are my clothes still on.”

That makes him laugh. Low. Warm. Dangerous.

The next day, he comes over with a box.

“Ikea,” he says.

You squint. “What.”

“You mentioned your nightstand wobbles.”

You didn’t remember mentioning that.

He did.

He spends the afternoon on your floor, cross legged, screwdriver in hand, focused and patient and irritatingly good at following instructions. He asks you to hand him things. Says thank you every time.

You sit on the bed watching him, absolutely feral.

His hair falls into his eyes. His shirt rides up when he leans forward. His hands are steady and capable and gentle even with cheap particle board furniture.

You imagine those hands on you.

You shift.

Steve looks up. “You okay?”

“Fantastic,” you lie.

He smiles and goes back to work.

When he finishes, he stands, wipes his hands on his jeans, and looks at you like he just built a house.

“There,” he says. “Sturdy.”

You swallow. “You’re trying to kill me.”

He tilts his head. “What.”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath. “Nothing.”

He kisses your forehead instead of your mouth.

And somehow that is worse.

The torture escalates. It’s no longer subtle. It’s intentional. It’s devastating. And the worst part is that Steve still has no idea what he is doing to you.

It starts with communication.

Actual communication. Not vague. Not inconsistent. Not hot and cold.

Consistent.

He calls you when he says he will. If he’s running late, he tells you. If a mission changes, he explains. If he’s tired, he says so. If he misses you, he doesn’t dress it up or hide it behind humor.

You are sitting on your couch one evening, scrolling aimlessly, when your phone rings.

Steve.

You answer immediately.

“Hey,” you say, trying not to sound breathless even though your heart jumps every time.

“Hey,” he replies. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

You close your eyes.

“That’s it?” you ask.

“That’s it,” he says. “Didn’t want anything. Just thought about you.”

Your thighs tense.

You have never had a man call you without an agenda. Without wanting something from you. Without trying to steer the conversation somewhere physical.

Steve just listens.

Asks about your day.

Remembers details.

“You said your meeting was today,” he says. “How did it go.”

You blink. “I forgot I even told you that.”

“I didn’t,” he replies easily.

After you hang up, you stare at the wall for a full minute.

Why am I this turned on.

It gets worse.

You come home one night exhausted, shoes kicked off by the door, bag dropped wherever it lands. Steve is already there, sitting at your table, reading something on his phone.

He looks up immediately.

“You look wiped,” he says.

“I am,” you admit.

He stands. “Sit.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That sounded like an order.”

He smiles. “Please.”

You sit.

He brings you water. Then food. Nothing fancy. Just something warm and filling.

He sits across from you but does not eat.

“You’re not hungry?” you ask.

“I am,” he says. “But you are more important.”

Your chest tightens.

This isn’t fair.

This is not fair at all.

Later that week, you try again.

Harder.

You corner him in the kitchen. You press him back against the counter. You kiss him until your lips are swollen and your head spins. Your hands slide under his shirt, mapping muscle you already know too well.

Steve groans. He kisses you back. Deep. Hungry. His control slips. You feel it in the way his hands grip your hips, in the way his breath stutters against your mouth.

For a moment, he is gone. Then he pulls away again.

His hands stay on you. Firm. Steady.

“God,” he murmurs. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Then stop fighting it,” you say softly.

He presses his forehead to yours. “I’m not fighting you.”

“Then what are you doing.”

“I’m choosing you,” he says. “All of you. Not just this.”

Your heart slams against your ribs.

No one has ever said that to you.

You want to scream.

You want to rip his clothes off.

Instead, you step back, frustrated and flustered.

“You’re a menace,” you tell him.

He smiles gently. “You knew that.”

The date looms closer.

And Steve gets worse.

He confirms plans. Actual plans. Time. Place. Details.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” he says. “Wear something comfortable. We’ll walk a bit.”

You scoff. “That’s all I get.”

“That’s all you get,” he confirms.

You spend the next two days spiraling.

You can’t sleep. You replay every interaction. Every look. Every small touch he denies himself.

You vent to Natasha and Wanda.

“He washed my dishes,” you say like it’s a crime.

They stare at you.

“He built my furniture,” you continue. “From Ikea.”

Wanda crosses her arms over herself biting her cheek to hide a smile.

“He texts me to remind me to eat,” you add. “He asks before touching me. He calls just to talk.” you say rubbing your hands down your face. “And his dick is huge.”

Silence.

Then Natasha says, “Oh my God, you’re doomed.”

You are.

The night before the date, Steve comes over briefly. Just to drop something off. A jacket. Because he checked the weather and it might be cold.

He does not come in.

He stands in the doorway, hands in his pockets.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.

You look at him. Really look at him.

His hair is grown out just enough. His beard is trimmed but still rough. He is wearing dark colors again.

Everything you like.

Everything he knows you like.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” you accuse.

He smiles, slow and soft. “Doing what.”

“Being like this.”

“Like what.”

“Perfect.”

His expression changes then. Serious. Intent.

“I’m not perfect,” he says. “I’m just trying to be good to you.”

Your throat tightens.

You lean forward and kiss him. Soft. Brief. Controlled.

He doesn’t deepen it.

He just rests his forehead against yours for a second.

“Tomorrow,” he whispers.

You watch him walk away, heart pounding, body aching, mind screaming the same thought over and over.

And tomorrow is going to ruin you.

The date starts quietly. Which somehow makes it worse.

Steve shows up right on time, like he said he would. Seven sharp. No rushing. No knocking twice. Just a calm, steady presence at your door that already has your heart racing before you even open it.

When you do, he stops. Actually stops.

Not dramatically. Not like he’s trying to make a point. Just enough that you notice his breath hitch before he recovers.

“You look…” he trails off, visibly searching for the right word.

You lift an eyebrow. “You’ve faced aliens. Use your words.”

He smiles, soft and a little stunned. “Beautiful. Wonderful. Prettiest girl i’ve ever seen.”

That should not hit the way it does.

You grab your jacket and step out, locking the door behind you. He waits. Doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t crowd you. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, watching you like he has nowhere else he would rather be.

He opens the car door for you.

You pause. “You know I can do that myself.”

“I know,” he says easily. “I still want to.”

That familiar heat curls low in your stomach again.

The place he takes you is small. Intimate. Warm. Nothing flashy. No Stark level extravagance. Just good food and quiet music and lighting soft enough that you can actually see each other.

You relax into it faster than you expect.

Conversation flows easily at first. Safe topics. Funny stories. Shared memories from when you met six years ago and long nights and the strange limbo of living in a world that constantly feels like it might end.

Then he asks you about your work.

Not in passing. Not politely. Not as a filler conversation topic.

He leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes intent. “Tell me what you’re working on now.”

Your face lights up instantly. Excited to be able to talk about your new project.

He notices. That alone nearly does him in.

“Well,” you start, already smiling, “okay. So you know how we’ve been mapping exoplanet atmospheres using spectral analysis.”

He nods. “I know the words you just said.”

You laugh. “That’s fair. Basically, we’re looking at light patterns to figure out what gases are present around planets we can’t physically see.”

“Which tells you what.”

You’re on the edge of your seat, his tone showing how deeply interested he is in what you’re saying.

“Whether they could support life,” you say quickly. “Or at least conditions similar to it. But what I’m excited about is that we’re starting to refine the noise reduction algorithms. Which means clearer data. Which means we can stop guessing so much.”

He watches you like you’re the most fascinating thing in the room.

“You’re excited,” he says softly.

“Always,” you admit. “I get to wake up and think about things that are older than time itself. That’s insane.”

“You’re so beautiful,” he says fondly.

You grin. “Thank you.”

You launch back in without hesitation.

“And now they’re talking about bumping me up to lead on the next project. Bigger funding. Bigger team. More responsibility.”

His eyes widen. “That’s huge.”

“It is,” you say, practically vibrating. “And I’m terrified.”

“Why.”

“Because it means I have to fight harder to keep it mine.”

He tilts his head. “What do you mean.”

You take a breath. “Everyone keeps assuming I’ll fold into Stark Industries eventually. Or jump into Avengers research. Like that’s the obvious path.”

“And it’s not.”

“No,” you say firmly. “I love my dad. I respect what he built. What you all do. But I don’t want my work to exist in his shadow. I want my name attached to something because I earned it.”

Steve’s chest tightens.

You don’t notice.

“I want to discover something because I chased it,” you continue. “Not because someone handed me a lab and a budget and said ‘here, be brilliant.’”

“You’re already brilliant,” he says quietly.

You wave him off. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he says. “You want it to be yours.”

“Yes.”

You talk faster now. Freer. You ramble. You sketch diagrams in the air with your hands. You explain concepts he absolutely does not understand. You offer to take him to your office to show him some of your work.

He asks questions. Simple ones. Thoughtful ones.

“So when you say expansion,” he says, “that’s the universe literally stretching.”

“Yes,” you say eagerly. “Exactly. And we still don’t know why it’s accelerating. That’s the part that drives me insane.”

His mouth curves into a smile. “I like it when you get like this.”

“Like what.”

“Like you forget the rest of the world exists.”

Your cheeks warm. “I’ve never had someone actually want to hear this stuff.”

“That’s insane,” he says. “You light up.”

He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t redirect. Doesn’t try to impress you. Not like other men would.

He just lets you be brilliant.

And it’s driving him absolutely fucking crazy.

Because you’re not trying to be cute.

You just are.

Your eyes are bright. Your hands animated. Your passion raw and unfiltered. You talk about dark matter and probability and models and failures like they are personal challenges instead of abstract concepts.

You talk about mistakes you’ve made. Equations that didn’t work. Data that disappointed you.

“I love it,” you say softly. “Even the frustration. Especially the frustration, that’s when I work my hardest.”

Steve swallows. “You’re incredible,” he says.

You shrug, suddenly shy. “I just really love what I do.”

“I know,” he replies. “That’s what makes it incredible.”

When the night winds down, he walks you home.

Slowly.

Like he’s not in any rush to end this.

At your door, he hesitates.

“I had a really good time,” he says.

You smile. “Me too.”

He leans in.

Just enough. Then stops.

“Can I kiss you.”

Your breath catches.

“Yes,” you

The kiss is soft. Controlled. Bief.

He pulls back like it physically pains him.

“Good night,” he says.

You watch him walk away, heart pounding, mind racing, body aching.

And the only thought in your head is this.

How is a man who respects me this much also driving me completely insane.

You’re trying really hard not to let your sexual frustration take over your entire life.

You really are.

But the kiss Steve left you with last night wasn’t enough. Not even close. It lingered like a bruise you kept pressing on, a memory that replayed itself every time you tried to focus on literally anything else. His mouth. His restraint. The way he stopped himself like it physically hurt.

You can’t stop yourself from wondering why he didn’t just take you right then and there.

Why he let you stand there shaking and needy and aching while he walked away like the strongest man in the world wasn’t barely holding himself together.

So on your lunch break, you venture down to Soho.

You don’t tell yourself it is a bad idea.

You tell yourself it is just shopping. You love to shop.

You find the lingerie almost immediately. Deep blue. Rich. Dangerous. The kind of blue that looks expensive and intentional and sinful. Lace so delicate it feels like a secret against your skin.

You smirk when you realize the color matches Steve’s suit.

That feels important.

It’s late by the time you finally leave your office and get home. You shower quickly, heat steaming the bathroom, hands lingering just a little too long where you wish his had been. You slide into the lingerie slowly, deliberately, admiring the way it hugs you, the way it makes you feel powerful and reckless all at once.

Over it, you pull on a silky slip dress. Modest enough. Innocent enough. Something that passes easily to anyone who does not know what is underneath.

But up close.

Up close, it is something else entirely.

You step into your black Louboutins, the heels sharp and unapologetic, and head toward the elevator. Each click against the floor feels like a countdown. Your heart pounds harder the higher the elevator climbs.

When the doors finally open on Steve’s floor, you step out with an air of confidence you don’t entirely feel but refuse to surrender.

“Stevie?” you call softly as you walk inside his apartment. You move toward the couch and sit down, crossing your legs slowly, deliberately. You fix your hair like you aren’t vibrating under your skin. “Baby?” you call again.

Footsteps sound from down the hall.

Steve appears in the doorway wearing nothing but a white towel slung low around his hips, water still dripping down his chest, sliding along muscle and disappearing into the fabric. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends, his skin flushed from heat.

And fuck.

You couldn’t be happier you’re wearing that lingerie under your dress.

Because you came here with a plan.

He looks at you, concern crossing his face instantly. His eyes trail over you, slow and thorough, like he’s checking for injuries, like his body is already cataloging you out of instinct.

That concern turns you on more than anything else could have.

“You okay angel?” he asks, stepping closer, sitting down beside you on the couch.

His legs widen.

He must have forgotten he is only wearing a towel.

Or maybe he doesn’t care.

Your gaze drops anyway. Thick thighs. Solid. Powerful. Your mouth waters even though you can see almost nothing.

“So good Stevie.”

The words come out softer than you intend.

He exhales slowly, like he’s grounding himself. His hand rests on his knee. Close. Too close.

You lean in closer, your hand sliding up his damp thigh, fingers brushing the edge of the towel. The heat from his skin radiates through your palm, and you feel your core clench with need. "I missed you," you murmur, your voice low and teasing as you push him back against the couch cushions. Your lips crash into his, tongue demanding entry, tasting the faint mint from his shower. He groans into your mouth, his hands gripping your waist, but you take charge, straddling his lap in one fluid motion.

The towel loosens under your weight, and you feel the hard length of his cock pressing against your thigh through the thin fabric. You grind down slowly, savoring the way he twitches beneath you. "Fuck, Steve," you whisper against his lips, nipping at his bottom one before sucking it into your mouth. Your hands roam his chest, nails scraping lightly over his nipples, making him hiss.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes darkening as they drop to the silky slip dress clinging to your curves. "What are you wearing under there, angel?" His voice is rough, fingers toying with the hem, inching it up your thighs.

You smirk, grabbing his wrist to stop him for a moment, asserting your control. "Something for you to discover." But even as you say it, his free hand cups your ass, squeezing firmly, and a shiver runs through you. You rock your hips harder, feeling the dampness between your legs soak through the lace.

Steve's restraint snaps when you lift the dress just enough to reveal the deep blue lace peeking out, matching the suit he wore earlier that day. His eyes widen, pupils blowing with feral hunger. "Jesus Christ," he growls, flipping you onto your back in an instant, pinning your wrists above your head with one large hand. The shift is so quick, your breath catches, and that initial spark of dominance you held flickers out, replaced by a rush of submission that makes your pussy throb.

"You did this on purpose," he says, voice laced with possession as he yanks the slip dress up over your head, tossing it aside. The lingerie hugs your body perfectly, the deep blue lace sheer enough to show your hardened nipples and the outline of your slick folds. He stares, chest heaving, before leaning down to capture your mouth in a brutal kiss, tongue fucking into you without mercy.

You moan, arching up, but he holds you down, his towel finally slipping away to reveal his thick cock standing rigid against his abs, pre-cum beading at the tip. The sight makes you whimper, and you strain against his grip, wanting to touch him. Instead, you turn your head, sinking your teeth into his shoulder in the first bite, hard enough to leave a mark but not break skin. He grunts, the sound vibrating through you, and thrusts his hips forward, his cock sliding along your lace-covered pussy.

"Naughty girl," he murmurs, releasing your wrists to trail his hand down your body. His fingers hook into the lace panties, ripping them aside with a sharp tug. The cool air hits your exposed wetness, and you gasp as he presses two fingers inside you without warning, curling them to hit that spot that makes your vision blur. You buck against his hand, but he pins your hip with his other arm, controlling the pace.

The heavy makeout resumes, his lips bruising yours, teeth clashing as you kiss like you're starving. You bite his lower lip this time, the second mark of your teeth on him, drawing a low rumble from his throat. He retaliates by wrapping his hand around your neck, applying just enough pressure to make your head spin, the feeling sending sparks straight to your clit. "Breathe for me," he commands softly, loosening slightly before tightening again, his fingers still pumping in and out of your dripping pussy.

You nod frantically, your control fully surrendered now, body melting under his touch. "Please, Steve," you beg, voice hoarse. He smirks, withdrawing his fingers and bringing them to your mouth, making you suck them clean while he lines up his cock at your entrance.

With one smooth thrust, he buries himself inside you, bare and deep, stretching your walls around his girth. You cry out, nails digging into his back as he starts a relentless rhythm, hips snapping forward. The lingerie top is still on, lace rubbing against your sensitive nipples with each movement, heightening everything.

He spanks your ass lightly once, then twice, the sting blooming into heat that makes you clench around him. "That's it, take my cock," he growls, hand returning to your throat cutting off your air just enough to make stars dance in your eyes before releasing. You bite his neck in response, teeth grazing his pulse point as he fucks you harder.

Sweat slicks your bodies, the couch creaking under the force of his thrusts. He angles his hips to grind against your clit with every plunge, building that coil in your belly tighter and tighter. Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his back, urging him deeper. The room fills with the wet sounds of skin slapping skin, your moans mixing with his grunts.

"Gonna cum inside you," he warns, voice strained, his soft dom side shining through in the way he watches your face, ensuring you're with him. You nod, lost in the haze, and when he pinches your nipple through the lace while choking you lightly one last time, you shatter. Your pussy spasms around his cock, milking him as waves of pleasure crash over you.

Steve follows seconds later, burying himself to the hilt and flooding your insides with hot cum, rope after rope painting your walls. He collapses onto you, both panting, his lips finding yours for a softer kiss now, the feral edge sated but the heat lingering.

"My perfect angel," he whispers, nuzzling your neck where your bites mark him, a satisfied smile on his face.

Steve lifts you off the couch effortlessly, his arms cradling you like you weigh nothing, cock still semi-hard and slick with your combined release as it slips from your pussy. A trickle of his cum leaks down your thigh, warm and sticky, and he notices, his eyes flashing with renewed hunger. "Not done with you yet, angel," he murmurs, voice husky from exertion, carrying you toward the kitchen. The cool tile floor contrasts with the heat of his body pressed against yours, the remnants of your lingerie bra the only thing left on you now, lace damp and clinging.

He sets you down on the edge of the kitchen island, the marble cold against your heated skin, making you gasp. Steve drops to his knees between your spread legs, hands gripping your thighs to pull you closer. "Look at that," he says, thumb brushing through the mess of cum seeping from your swollen folds. "My cum dripping out of your pretty pussy. Gonna clean you up first." His tone is gentle but commanding, that soft dom edge making your core flutter.

Before you can respond, his mouth descends, tongue flat and broad as he licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, tasting the salty mix of his seed and your arousal. You moan, head falling back, fingers threading into his damp hair. He groans against you, the vibration shooting straight through your nerves, and laps deeper, sucking his own cum back into his mouth before swallowing with a satisfied hum. It's filthy, the wet sounds echoing in the quiet kitchen, his lips smacking as he devours you, tongue plunging inside to scoop out more.

Your hips buck involuntarily, chasing the pressure, and he pins you down with one hand on your stomach, the other sliding up to fist your hair at the nape of your neck. He tugs sharply, forcing your head to tilt back, exposing your throat as he eats you out relentlessly. The pull sends a delicious sting across your scalp, and you love it, whining his name, legs trembling around his shoulders. "That's my girl," he praises between licks, his free hand kneading your ass, fingers digging in. "So responsive, taking everything I give you."

He works your clit with firm sucks and flicks, building that pressure again until you're grinding against his face, his chin glistening with the mess. Your release hits hard, pussy clenching as you flood his mouth, and he drinks it down, not stopping until you're shuddering, oversensitive and boneless.

Rising up, Steve wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on yours, dark with desire. His cock is fully hard again, super soldier stamina kicking in, thick and veined, ready for more. He pulls you forward by the hair once more, gentler this time but still firm, guiding you to lie back on the island. The marble chills your spine, but his body heat warms you as he steps between your legs, rubbing the head of his cock through your slickness.

"Open up," he says softly, and when you part your lips, he spits into your mouth, the warm glob landing on your tongue. You swallow eagerly, the act making you feel claimed, dirty in the best way. He thrusts in then, bare and deep, filling you completely in one go. You cry out, walls stretching around him, still sensitive from before. He sets a steady pace, hips rolling to hit deep, the island rocking slightly under the force.

His hand moves to your face, thumb pressing against your tongue as he fucks you, pushing it down to make you drool. Saliva spills from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin onto your chest, mixing with the sweat beading on your skin. You suck on his thumb messily, eyes watering, loving the way he controls even this, his thrusts growing harder, more insistent.

"Fuck, angel, I love losing control with you," he growls, voice rough and sexy, laced with raw need as he pounds into you, the slap of his balls against your ass loud and obscene. "You make me want to ruin you, take you apart until you're begging. No holding back, just us." As Captain America, he’d spent so long being the perfect soldier, always in control. But here, with her, letting go like this... it's freeing. Finally free to just feel, to fuck without the weight of the world. The thought races through his mind, fueling his rhythm, making him drive deeper.

You clench around him, the words and his thumb pushing you toward the edge again, drool slicking your lips as you moan around it. He spanks your thigh lightly, the sting adding to the chaos, before pulling out just enough to flip you over, but he pauses, breath ragged, cock twitching against your entrance. "Not yet," he whispers, nuzzling your ear. "Think you can handle the shower next? I want to bend you over under the water, make you scream my name again." His hand strokes your side possessively, setting the stage for more, his stamina far from spent.

Steve scoops you up from the kitchen island, your body limp and buzzing from the aftershocks, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. “Love you Stevie.” You smile lazily.

His cock, still buried halfway inside you from the last thrust, slides out with a wet pop, more of his cum leaking down your inner thighs to mix with the slickness there. “Love you more Angel.” he kisses your forehead. He doesn't bother cleaning up, just carries you through the apartment, the trail of mess smearing against his abs as he walks. The shower in his bathroom is spacious, all sleek tiles and rain-head fixture, and he kicks the door open, turning he turns the shower on before setting you down gently under the spray.

Hot water cascades over both of you the moment he twists the knob, steam rising fast as it soaks his skin and yours. The lace bra clings transparently now, nipples pebbled and visible through the wet fabric, but Steve doesn't remove it yet, his hands roaming your curves instead. “Bend over for me, angel,” he commands softly, voice cutting through the rush of water, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades to guide you forward. You brace your palms on the tiled wall, ass arching back toward him, the position exposing everything, your pussy still swollen and dripping his release.

He steps up behind you, broad chest flush against your back, the heat of him overwhelming even in the steam. Water streams down his face as he gathers your hair in a fist, pulling your head back just enough to expose your neck. The tug makes you gasp, a fresh wave of arousal pooling between your legs. “Good girl,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear before he nips at the lobe. His free hand slides down your side, over your hip, to spread your cheeks, thumb circling your entrance teasingly. “So full of me already, but I need to fuck you again. Can't get enough.”

Without warning, he spits down onto your pussy from above, the warm saliva mixing with the water and his lingering cum, making everything slicker. You moan, pushing back, and he lines up his cock, thick and throbbing, pressing the head against your hole. He thrusts in slow at first, letting you feel every inch stretching you open, the water making the slide obscene and easy. Once buried to the hilt, he groans low, hips snapping forward in a building rhythm, the slap of wet skin louder than the shower.

His grip tightens in your hair, pulling harder to arch your back further, forcing you to take him deeper. Each pull sends sparks of pleasure-pain down your spine, and you love it, crying out his name as he pounds into you. Water splashes everywhere, rivulets running down your body, over your breasts, dripping from your chin. Steve reaches around with his other hand, fingers finding your clit to rub firm circles, the pressure making your knees buckle. He holds you steady, body caging yours, dominating every movement.

“Open,” he says roughly, and when you turn your head as much as the hair pull allows, he leans in, spitting directly into your waiting mouth. You swallow it down, the filthy act combined with his cock hitting that spot inside you making your walls flutter. Drool escapes your lips from the intensity, mixing with the water streaming over your face, and he chuckles darkly, thumb pushing into your mouth now to hook against your cheek, stretching it as he fucks you harder. “Look at you, drooling for me like a needy little thing. My perfect angel.”

The words send you spiraling, and you bite down on his thumb lightly, not hard enough to hurt but enough to mark, drawing a hiss from him that turns into a growl of approval. He spanks your ass then, the wet smack echoing, skin blooming red under his palm before the water washes it away. Another spank follows, lighter but stinging just right, and you clench around him, so close. His hand leaves your hair to wrap around your throat from behind, applying that controlled pressure, making your vision spotty with pleasure as oxygen dips.

He chokes you gently while thrusting relentlessly, cock dragging against your G-spot with every plunge, the mess of cum and water squelching around him. “Cum for me again,” he demands, voice strained, his own release building. You do, shattering with a scream that bounces off the tiles, pussy milking him as waves crash over you. Steve follows seconds later, burying deep and flooding you with hot spurts, his groan muffled against your shoulder as he bites down there, marking you back.

He doesn't pull out right away, staying connected as the water rinses some of the evidence away, but not all, his cum starting to leak out around his softening length. Releasing your throat, he turns you slowly in his arms, kissing you deeply under the spray, tongues tangling in a softer but still hungry makeout. “You're incredible,” he whispers against your lips, hands cupping your face. “But I'm not done. Bedroom next? I want you on top, riding me until we both can't move.” His eyes gleam with that endless stamina, promising more rounds in the night ahead.

© 2025 miasvelvetvoid

[superbassbuck]

keep the lambs away.

pairing: lumberjack!bucky barnes x fisher!reader

warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, mean and dark!bucky, hairy bucky, size difference, rough animalistic sex behavior, blood and wounds, animal hunting, manipulation, touch starved, breeding kink, baby trapping, pet names: “sweets, sugar, little doll”

a/n: thank you @artficlly for taking the time to host such a fun, creative event for writers to enjoy! be sure to check out the other works in the masterlist!

word count: 11.4k main masterlist || 🎨 art's moodboard event

synopsis: After a fishing trip gone terribly wrong, you find yourself stranded and stumble upon a small cabin deep in the woods. The man who lives there ends up risking his life to save yours, and you take it upon yourself to stay, return the favor, and make it up to him. But what you didn't know is that Bucky has no intention of letting you go.

Twigs and dark leaves crunched beneath the heavy stomp of your boots, each step forcing you to draw a ragged, tired breath from your overworked lungs.

Your hands gripped the straps of your backpack; the fishing gear inside clinking inside as the weight pressed into your aching spine.

You had set out with friends, a group of self-proclaimed ‘natural adventurers.’ In hindsight, that confidence was your downfall. You had done the one thing every horror movie and survival guide warns against—and that was splitting up.

From there, the trip spiraled.

You lost signal, then your footing, and somewhere in the frantic scramble through the bushes and trees, you had lost your phone.

Now, deep within the woods under a sky of oppressive gray clouds, your legs were beginning to give out. But as you shoved past a dense thicket of damp leaves, the greenery finally parted.

There, nestled in the distance, sat a small cabin. A thin ghost of smoke drifted from its chimney, dissipating into the moist air.

Finally. A small, breathless prayer to whatever deity was watching over you. You weren’t alone out here after all.

The cabin looked small from a distance, but up close, it was plenty big enough to house a whole family.

Your body surged with a newfound spark of motivation at the possibility of finally finding salvation. Maybe they had a functioning phone you could use to call for help—or better yet, a truck to drive you back to the closest town, even if it was miles and miles away.

That hopeful feeling made the gear digging into your spine feel a little lighter as you trudged uphill past the rocks and bushes, closing the gap between you and the house.

As you got closer, you took in the land.

Chopped logs were piled messily at the side of the building. There was a long, wooden table with a large cutting knife sitting on top—presumably where the family cut and prepped their meat.

Drawing in a deep breath of encouragement, you carefully climbed the first few steps of the entry stairway. You reached the porch and raised a hand to knock on the heavy wooden door.

“Hey! Who the hell are you?”

You spun around.

A man was stomping toward the porch, a fresh pile of logs tucked under one massive arm and a grime streaked axe slung over his shoulder. He was intimidating, to say the least. His features were hard and unwelcoming, framed by matted, dark hair and an unkempt beard that shadowed a sharp jawline. A sweat stained red henley clung to his broad chest and muscular forearms, which were mapped with the scars of years of manual labor.

His cold blue eyes pinned you to the spot, glaring at you with pure, unadulterated hostility.

“U-um,” you stammered, taking a quick step away from the door. “I mean no harm, sir. I’m just here to—”

“Get the fuck off my property,” he growled.

He dropped the logs—but kept a firm grip on the axe—as he marched toward you, his heavy boots grating against the dirt.

Jesus Christ. What did you get yourself into?

Just when you thought you’d finally found help, it was just your luck to stumble across an axe-murderer instead.

You quickly scrambled down the steps, raising your hands to show you came in peace.

“Sir, please!” you winced, trying to stand your ground. “I’m lost. I… I promise you. I was out on a fishing trip and I—”

“I don’t believe you,” he hissed. He approached just enough to get a good look at you, yet staying just out of arm’s reach. He nodded toward the heavy pack on your back. “Take it off.”

“… Excuse me?”

“Remove your backpack,” the man clarified harshly. “If you mean what you say, then you should have no problem with me goin’ through your stuff.”

With a hard swallow, you slowly removed your backpack as instructed. It was far too heavy to carry with just two arms, but as you strained to pass it to him, he snatched it out of your hands in one quick motion. You couldn’t help but wince at both his strength and rudeness.

He set the axe on the ground, and you finally let out a small breath of relief. He began to rummage through your pack, taking note of the fishing rods and reels, and digging through the fishing lines and tackle boxes filled with various lures. He sifted through the other emergency supplies—a flashlight, a couple of granola bars, and some first aid stuff— a bottle of rubbing alcohol and bandaids.

“See?” you huffed, a little spark of pride returning to your voice. “I told you. I was out on a fishing trip and I got lost—”

“Hands up,” he instructed, stepping toward you. “I’m goin’ to pat you down.”

You blinked. “Pat me down?” you repeated in disbelief. “For what—!”

Before you could even finish the sentence, and long before you gave him permission, two large, rough hands gripped your arms and started patting down your sleeves. You squirmed a little under his touch, but that didn’t stop him. His hands then moved to your waist, patting firmly through the fabric of your clothes.

To save yourself from the awkwardness of the inspection, you cleared your throat and gave him your name.

“…What’s yours?” you then asked.

He ignored you.

Your breath hitched and your face grew warm as his hands continued further down—to your hips, and then between your legs.

Once the man was satisfied that you weren’t a threat, he pushed himself up with a groan and finally looked you in the eye.

“Bucky.”

“Bucky,” you repeated softly. “Great. Well, now that we’ve got all this…” you motioned to yourself and your bag that he left on the ground, “sorted out, do you have a telephone I can use to call my friends?”

Bucky’s dull expression didn’t change. “No phone.”

He didn’t bother to elaborate, either.

He reached down, snatched his axe off the ground, and headed back toward his pile of wood. Thunder started to crackle in the heavy clouds above you as you hurried to grab your pack, stumbling slightly as you tried to keep up with him.

“W-wait, okay—no phone. Fine. But do you have a vehicle or something? A ride to take me back to the nearest town, perhaps?”

“No ride,” was all he said, his voice flat as he started tossing the logs into the existing pile.

What?

No ride?

You couldn’t tell if this man was telling the truth—or if he was using these clipped, short answers just to fuck with you. But as you watched him lift his axe and deliver a swing to a log with perfect precision, you realized maybe this guy didn’t have time nor energy to play around.

That conclusion was almost worse than him joking.

“I’m sorry, you don’t have a functioning phone and you don’t own a vehicle?” you questioned in disbelief. “Then how do you get around?”

You could see the irritation building in his already grumpy features.

“Everythin’ I need is right here,” he grumbled. “Catch my own food. Build my own house. Don’t need to rely on anybody else.”

Your heart started to race as panic settled in.

“Do you know where the nearest town is?” you asked, your hands tightening around the straps of your pack. “Maybe I can get there before sundown—”

Bucky looked up at the sky, taking in the thick clouds and the moisture building in the air, before he looked back down at his logs. He delivered another hard chop before answering.

“Not a good idea,” he mumbled. “Looks like a storm is comin’.”

The forecast before you left this morning had promised a sunny day—but with the clouds thickening, the possibility of rain wasn’t low.

Still, a storm sounded like an exaggeration. A light trickle, at most.

“Can you please just tell me where the closest town is? The sooner you tell me, the faster I’ll get out of your hair.” You pressed.

He set the axe down and wiped the sweat streaking his forehead with his dirty forearm. He looked at you, letting out a slow, impatient breath.

“To the south,” he pointed behind you. “Go straight until you hit the road, then make a left. Though if you leave now, you’ll get caught up in the storm ‘fore you even make it to the street.”

You looked in the direction he was pointing—all you could see was a thick density of bushes and trees. You glanced back at him and gave him a short nod.

“Thank you, sir,” you said, though you hardly meant it because he had hardly been helpful.

As you began to turn and tread through the brush toward the south, Bucky called out, making you pause for just a second.

“I’m tellin’ you, lady, s’not a good idea to leave now,” he warned. “There are some dangerous animals out there—and the storm ain’t goin’ to do you any favors.”

You didn’t listen. You had to get back home. Adjusting your heavy pack and pushing through the dense treeline, you left both the man and his warnings behind you.

For the first twenty minutes, you felt pretty confident.

The woods were quiet, and though your legs were on fire and your back was aching, you felt like you were making good progress.

Then, the first cold drop hit the back of your neck.

A light trickle followed, tapping against the leaves above you. Within minutes, the sky seemed to open up entirely. The ‘light trickle’ you had predicted transformed into a heavy downpour, turning the forest floor into a messy slurry of mud that made your boots slip with every step.

The wind began to pick up, howling through the branches and making the trees groan around you. You squinted through the fog and the heavy curtain of rain, realizing you couldn’t see more than ten feet in any direction.

You were shivering, your hair was completely drenched, and your clothes were soaked through to the bone.

Just keep going straight, you told yourself. As long as you keep going straight, you'll be fine.

Then, a low snarl crept up behind you—and that sure as hell didn’t come from the wind.

Your whole body froze. To your right, partially obscured by dense ferns, a lean, gray shape shifted. It wasn’t a coyote—no, it was far too large. It was a gray wolf, its fur matted and dark with rain, stepped into the small clearing.

“Oh… my god,” you breathed to yourself.

Your heart was beating so fast you couldn’t hear anything else. Every survival tip you had ever read vanished from your mind; the only thing you could think to do was run.

And that’s exactly what you did.

The moment your heels spun, the forest became a blurry nightmare. Your heavy pack bounced violently against your spine as you bolted, not even daring to look back. You just ran and ran, your lungs burning with every inhale.

Then, like an idiot, your boot hit a mud covered root.

Your heart leaped into your throat as your feet slipped out from under you. You let out a sharp gasp, tumbling forward until your shoulder collided hard with the trunk of a thick oak tree. The impact knocked the wind clean out of you, leaving you gasping and dazed in the mud.

A hungry growl vibrated through the air, cutting through the roar of the pouring rain. You looked up just in time to see the gray mass of the wolf taking eager steps toward you, its jaws snapping for your throat.

In a blind, frantic panic, your hand slapped against the side pocket of your backpack. Your fingers curled around the cold canister of bear spray you packed but never actually used.

You ripped it out clumsily, shoved it forward, and squeezed the trigger.

A cloud of stinging orange mist exploded into the air. The wolf’s head snapped back as it landed a few feet away, pawing at its face and whining as the chemicals hit its sensitive nose and eyes.

You scrambled to find your footing, your hands shaking so hard you could barely push yourself up. Just as you were about to make another break for it, a massive shadow blurred past you.

“You idiot!” he hissed angrily, his voice a ragged pant. “What did I tell you!?”

Bucky.

Anger clouded his face, his chest heaving as he gripped a knife in one large hand. Without hesitation, he launched himself at the disoriented animal. As he pounced, the wolf lashed out, its claws swiping across Bucky’s leg.

He let out a pained yell. “Ah, fuck!”

It seemed like he had done this a dozen times before, adjusting his heavy weight until he finally pinned the weakened animal into the mud. The wolf snarled, snapping its jaws blindly, but Bucky’s grip was like metal. His large, scarred hand clamped down on the back of the wolf’s neck, the veins in his forearms tensing as he forced its head into the dirt.

With a loud groan of effort, he drove the blade deep into the side of the wolf’s neck, right behind the jaw.

The animal threw out one violent kick that nearly knocked him off before Bucky adjusted his weight again, twisting the knife to sever the artery.

The wolf let out a weak wheeze before it finally stilled. Bucky remained over the carcass for a moment, his clothes soaked with rain and blood dripping down his leg. He let out a slow, steadying breath before he stood up, wiping the blade on his already dirty jeans.

He turned his cold, blue gaze toward you, and for a second, his eyes resembled the wolf’s—angry and grim.

“I told you, stupid girl,” he growled, his voice barely audible over the storm. “I fuckin’ told you.”

All of it happened in a blur.

One second, you were tumbling through the woods, just a moment away from losing your life. The next, you were standing in the middle of Bucky’s cabin. Your body felt frozen, your pulse still thrumming wildly as your drenched clothes clung to your skin like a layer of ice. You only snapped out of the haze when you felt Bucky’s hands peeling the pack off your shoulders.

When he reached for the zipper of your jacket, you flinched.

“Hey!” you gasped, your voice cracking. “What are you doing—?”

“I’m helpin’ you,” Bucky grunted, sounding offended.

“I don’t need you to remove my jacket for me,” you snapped, though your hands were shaking too hard to even find the zipper.

Bucky’s brows furrowed, and you watched his jaw tick. He looked terrifying in the dim light of the cabin—water dripped from his matted hair, his chest heaved with the earlier adrenaline of the kill, and fresh blood stained the denim of his jeans where the wolf had lashed out.

He took a step forward, closing the distance between you until he looked down at you.

“Listen, girl,” he hissed impatiently. “I just saved your goddamn life. Now here I am, lettin’ you into my home, about to offer you my damn shower—and this is what you say to me?”

You let out a shaky breath, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. He was right. He had saved you.

Your eyes trailed down to the jagged cut on his thigh. “You’re bleeding,” you pointed out. “You need to take care of that wound, or it’ll get infected.”

Bucky only scoffed, stepping away and shaking his head at you as if you were the most frustrating thing he had ever encountered.

“Bathroom’s down the hall, make a left,” he gruffed, already turning his back on you. “And don’t take too long—I need to use it after you.”

Not wanting to risk upsetting him further, you took it upon yourself to head toward the bathroom.

The cabin was certainly large enough to house a small family, which only made you wonder more if he really lived here all alone. The walls were stripped of anything personal—no photos, no decor—aside from a few scattered post-its and scraps of paper covered in messy handwriting, tacked up with rusted nails.

As you neared the bathroom, you noticed the bedroom right next to it. The door was cracked open just barely and curiosity got the better of you.

Leaning back slightly, you caught a glimpse of his private space. It was sparse, but in the center sat what looks to be a queen sized bed. It looked massive in the small room—certainly big enough to fit another person.

“You found it?” Bucky shouted from across the cabin, snapping you back.

“Yeah—I did. Thanks!” you called back, your heart giving a small, startled jump.

After settling into the hot shower, the steam finally began to sedate the bone chilling cold from your limbs. You scrubbed the mud and gunk from your skin with the harsh lye soap. Stepping out, you quickly reached for one of the rough, oversized towels.

You had just managed to tuck the fabric securely around your chest, shivering as the cool air hit your damp skin, when the door suddenly creaked open.

“Jesus!” you yelped, clutching the towel tighter and stumbling against the counter. “Knock much?”

Bucky didn’t enter the room. He just stood stiffly in the gap of the doorway.

In his hand, he held out a bundle of folded fabric— a worn, massive white T-shirt and a pair of drawstring shorts that looked like they could fit two of you.

“Not used to company,” he mumbled. He reached out and set the pile of clothes on the edge of the sink without a single glance in your direction. “‘Sides, I’m not interestin’ in lookin’.”

He didn’t wait for a ‘thank you’ or for you to yell at him to get out. He simply pulled the door shut.

Eventually, you changed into the clothes he provided.

With every step you took out of the bathroom, the shorts threatened to slip past your hips, forcing you to yank the drawstrings tighter. The clothes didn’t smell like fabric softener, but it carried a scent that was distinctly him and the rest of the cabin— pine, and woodsmoke.

Returning to the living room, you found Bucky sitting in one of the wooden chairs, his leg propped up as he examined the angry red gashes on his thigh. He hissed, his jaw tightening as he accidentally grazed the wound with his thumb.

“Thanks for letting me use your shower,” you spoke up, catching his attention.

Your eyes caught the deep gashes on his leg.

“Do you need help?” you offered again. “I can help you clean that up. I have some antiseptics and bandages in my pack.”

Bucky didn’t look up, his fingers hovering stiffly over the torn skin.

“No need,” he said roughly, his voice strained.

It was clear to you that the adrenaline was finally wearing off and the real pain was setting in. He gripped the edges of the wooden chair, his knuckles turning white as he forced himself to stand. He took a single step, his breath hitching as he leaned heavily on his good leg, and began to limp toward the bathroom.

You frowned. “Are you sure—”

“I told you and I’ll keep tellin’ you,” he grunted through the pain, “I don’t need your help, girl.”

Then, he disappeared down the hall and shoved the door shut.

You tried to make yourself comfortable in the dim cabin, but a sudden, strangled shout of pain echoed through the walls. The sound made you jump—an involuntary yell painfully tore straight from Bucky’s throat. Something heavy hit the floor, maybe a stool? Or a basin? Then it was followed by the sound of ragged breathing and more muffled grunts.

“Bucky?” you called out, taking a careful step toward the bathroom. “Are you okay?”

There was no answer.

You stood outside the door, trying to respect his privacy, until another pained groan reached your ears. Your stomach twisted. Despite his prickly attitude, he was obviously struggling with a wound far worse than he wanted to admit—and standing here, not doing anything to help him after he saved your life, only made you feel worse.

“Bucky, I’m coming in,” you warned, your hand reaching for the doorknob.

You waited one more second, expecting him to curse at you to stay out, but the only sound was his labored breathing.

So, you took it upon yourself to push the door open.

Inside, Bucky was laid out in the tub—naked, of course.

His head lolled back against the porcelain as he fought to steady his breath. His dirty, blood stained clothes were piled in a heap on the floor, leaving trails of mud and grime everywhere. The tub was filled with soapy water, and while he was bare beneath the surface, your eyes didn’t wander—you didn’t care to look.

Your entire focus was pinned to his leg, which he had propped up on the edge of the tub.

Stripped of the dark denim, the damage was more visible. The wolf’s claws had dug deep, leaving uneven, angry furrows that were weeping blood into the water. The skin around the punctures was already beginning to puff and redden, and with the grime from the forest floor mashed into the open wounds, it looked even worse.

“Jesus,” you gasped, kneeling beside him to examine the damage. “Bucky, this looks like it’s already getting infected.”

Without giving him the chance to pull away, you reached out and pressed the back of your hand against his forehead. He was burning up—the heat radiating off his skin was alarming, a telltale sign his body was already struggling to fight the bacteria from the wolf’s claws.

“You’re overheating!”

Bucky’s eyes remained shut, his thick lashes casting long shadows against his pale, sweaty cheeks. A low, delirious mumble escaped him as his head rolled further to the side.

“...Tired,” he croaked.

Your frown deepened. “Stay right there. Don’t move,” you commanded, though it was obvious he wasn’t going anywhere.

Before he could argue, you scrambled out of the bathroom. Bucky’s vision was disoriented and blurry, his mind racing through a fog of fever.

Just my luck, huh?

He had been minding his own business until you showed up on his doorstep. His only excuse for following you was a half baked thought about picking berries to go with his meat before the storm broke—and he just happened to grab a knife, and he just happened to head south in the exact direction you walked off to.

Damn. He was a fucking idiot.

You hurried back into the bathroom, clutching the antiseptic, a roll of sterile gauze, and a small bottle of ibuprofen tightly in your hands.

You knelt by the edge of the tub again, popping the cap off the antiseptic. “This is going to sting. Just try to breathe.”

As the cool, medicinal liquid hit his cuts, Bucky’s body jerked causing the water to slosh. A sharp hiss whistled through his teeth, his fingers gripping the wet ledge of the tub. He stared at you warily through heavy, lidded eyes.

Just like the wolf he had saved you from, he looked as if he were ready to pounce.

He wasn’t used to this. For as long as he could remember, pain was something to be swallowed with a bottle of whiskey and a needle and thread. He had built his own house, caught his own food, and bled his own blood without a soul nearby to witness it.

That was the whole point of being out here.

But as you meticulously cleaned the wounds, your touch was... different.

It was soft, steady, and gentle. He hadn’t felt anything like it in years. He had forgotten what it was even like to be tended to.

Bucky’s breath hitched as he watched you focus, your bottom lip caught between your teeth in concentration as you began to wrap the clean white gauze around his thigh.

“There,” you said softly, setting the tools down and offering him a weary smile.

You looked at him as if you were expecting a thank you, but the words didn’t come.

He let out a slow, shaky breath and let his head thud back against the tub. He was a fool for letting a stranger in, a bigger fool for letting her see him like this—but as the pain started to dull into a throb, he found he didn’t really care.

Sensing his need for space, you got up slowly. “I’ll let you be. When the storm clears up, I’ll be out of your hair—for real this time.”

Just as you turned for the door, Bucky’s hand shot out of the tub, catching your wrist and splattering water across the floor.

“Take the bed tonight,” he said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

You blinked at him. The couch? That tiny thing?

“Sorry, but your couch is far too small for someone like you,” you said, half-insulting his choice in furniture. “Besides, you need proper rest to heal up. I’ll take the couch.”

Bucky’s hand lingered around your wrist for a moment. You expected him to protest further, but it seemed his energy was finally spent.

With a tired sigh, he dropped his hand, letting it hang limply over the side of the tub.

“Fine,” he grumbled.

He had a dreadful feeling it was going to be a long night.

By the time Bucky woke up, the storm had retreated, leaving behind a world that smelled of damp earth and pine needles. Sunlight pierced through the bedroom window, cutting a sharp line across the bed where he lay alone.

He groaned, his eyes snapping open as he braced himself for the throbbing pain in his leg. He reached down, his fingers brushing against the white gauze you had wrapped around his thigh.

To his surprise, the skin wasn’t burning anymore. The fever had also broken. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, testing his strength.

There was a dull ache, sure, but he was steady enough to stand on his own.

He pulled on a clean pair of jeans and limped out into the living room, expecting to find you still curled up on that cramped, uncomfortable couch. A stray thought crossed his mind… that maybe he should’ve invited you to share the bed, but even he knew that would have been going too far for a stranger.

When he reached the living room, he found the couch empty. The rough wool blanket he had given you was folded neatly at one end, and when his eyes shifted to the corner where your heavy pack had been sitting, he found nothing but the bare floor.

His jaw tightened.

A strange, lonely feeling settled in his chest. A feeling he hadn’t felt in years and didn’t care to name. Of course you were gone. You had hiked out the moment the rain stopped, just like you said you would.

All he could do now was hope you made it to town safely.

He grabbed his boots and stepped out onto the porch, intending to finish the woodpile he abandoned yesterday. The air was crisp, and the forest was alive with the sound of dripping eaves and morning birds. He took a deep breath, turning his gaze toward the lake to check the water levels after the storm.

He froze.

Down by the lake, silhouetted against the sparkling reflection of the morning sun, was a figure. You were crouching by the water’s edge, his oversized white T-shirt tucked into those ridiculous drawstring shorts with a fishing line in your hands.

As he watched, you reached down and hoisted a small wicker basket— likely something he kept in the shed for gathering berries—and he could see the shimmer of scales thrashing inside.

By the looks of it, you had already caught three or four good-sized trout.

Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He began to descend the porch steps, his limp much less pronounced than it had been the night before. The damp grass flattened under his boots as he made his way toward the bank, the sound of his approach masked by the gentle lapping of the lake against the stones.

“Thought you said you were leavin’,” he called out, his voice gravelly with sleep.

You jumped, nearly dropping the basket back into the water as you spun around. Your hair was a mess of tangled waves and there were smears of mud on your shins, but your eyes were bright—clear of the panic from the night before.

“Oh!” you smiled at the sight of him. “You’re still alive!” You hoisted the basket up with straining arms, making your way toward him. “I caught you some fish—you eat fish, right?”

Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. “More of a red meat kind of guy.”

“Well... fish is good for you,” you informed him, trekking past him barefoot with the heavy basket. “And I’m going to fix you up some breakfast.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed as you reached him. “Don’t waste your effort,” he huffed, still looking as grumpy as ever. “I like my breakfast done a certain way.”

You ignored him, walking right past and back toward the cabin. “You should lay back down and take it easy. Consider this a thank you for saving my life yesterday.”

“I don’t need you playing house,” Bucky mumbled grumpily, following you through the cabin and into the kitchen. “I’ve been feedin’ myself since before you were born. Put those down, I’ll do it.”

You didn’t even look back as you set the wicker basket on the wooden counter. “Sit. Down. Bucky.”

He opened his mouth to snap back—to tell you exactly whose house this was and who was in charge—but the stubborn confidence in your voice caught him off guard. Up until this moment, he pinned you as a naive, helpless girl who couldn’t survive a night without his intervention.

He huffed, sounding like a disgruntled bear, and finally lowered himself into the sturdy wooden chair at the head of the table. A low groan escaped his throat as he eased his shoulders, his injured leg pulsing— a none too friendly reminder of why he shouldn’t have been standing anyway.

From his seat, he watched you move.

“Not only can I catch fish,” you said, getting to work, “but I can also cook it well.”

The cabin, which usually felt cold and cavernous, suddenly felt smaller and more… domestic.

You moved around his kitchen, your bare feet moving across his rough floorboards. You looked ridiculous in his clothes; the hem of his white T-shirt tucked into the oversized shorts, and the sleeves rolled up in thick bundles just so you could use your hands.

He watched the sunlight catch the dampness of your hair as you began to prep the fish. The sight of a woman in his space—wearing his shirt, smelling like his soap, and ignoring his bad attitude just to make sure he was fed—hit him harder than he expected.

“Christ,” he cursed under his breath.

For most of his years, he believed isolation was his only sanctuary. But watching you, he realized things he never thought he would feel.

He liked seeing this—a beautiful woman, clean and comfortable, cooking just for him. He could already picture it, coming home from a long day of chopping wood or hunting, only to find you like this. Safe and sound.

He liked the idea of having someone to protect.

Bucky was suddenly feeling very hungry now, and it wasn’t just for the fish.

“You’re gonna burn ‘em,” he muttered, though his eyes were soft as he watched your back. “Pan needs more grease.”

“I’ve got it, Bucky,” you replied, glancing playfully over your shoulder. “Stop worrying that old head of yours.”

“Old?” Bucky grumbled, though a faint, reluctant twitch of a smile played on his lips.

You turned back to the counter as you began to slice the trout into neat fillets.

“You know,” you began, tone light and teasing, “in my friend group, they called me the Fish Whisperer. Or the Fish Butcher. One of those. It depended on how much wine was involved in the cooking process.”

You let out a small, self deprecating chuckle, turning your head to see if you could pull another reaction out of him. But as you looked back down to finish a particularly tricky cut near the bone, your damp finger slipped on the smooth handle.

The blade skidded across the scales, coming dangerously close to your thumb. You let out a sharp, panicked gasp, pulling your hand back just as the tip of the knife bit into the wooden cutting board.

“Crap—!”

Despite his injured leg, Bucky moved with that same quick, almost predatory speed you had seen in the forest.

In a heartbeat, he was already hovering over you, his large hand reaching out to steady your wrist while his other instinctively moved to your lower back to stabilize you.

“Careful, sweets,” he rumbled into a protective growl.

You swallowed hard at his sudden closeness, his chest pressing against your shoulder. His grip on your wrist was firm but careful—the touch of a man who knew exactly how much damage his hands could do and was choosing, with every ounce of his will, to be gentle.

“Bucky…” you breathed, trying to still your heartbeat. “Are… are you okay?”

You stayed frozen, feeling his warm breath against the side of your neck. He let out a shaky breath, as if trying to stabilize his own heart, his thumb tracing a slow, distracting line over where your blood rushed in your wrist.

“I… just don’t want you hurtin’ yourself,” he said slowly, his voice thick and low. “That’s all.”

Since that little mishap with the knife, the tension in the cabin was suffocatingly thick—and you weren’t entirely sure if Bucky felt it, though he was certainly the cause of it.

By the time you finished preparing breakfast, you laid everything out on the table. Even with your back turned, you could feel his shameless stare burning through the thin fabric of the white T-shirt you wore.

“Where’s the cutlery?” you asked, turning to him.

He simply shrugged, his gaze glued on you before he looked down at the food.

“Your hands are the cutlery,” he said flatly.

You didn’t think it was possible, but eating with your hands only increased the tension tenfold.

You picked carefully at the fish, trying to maintain some level of decency, but Bucky was another story entirely. He went after the meal like a ravenous animal, picking the trout apart with his bare hands. You didn’t even need to ask if he liked the food; the way he was scarfing it down told you everything you needed to know.

You swore he didn’t look away from you once.

Leaning forward with his elbows heavy on the wooden table, he used his blunt, calloused fingers to strip the flaky white meat from the bone. Every time he finished a piece, he licked his thumb and forefinger clean with a slow, wet swipe of his tongue. His eyes remained glued to yours, dark and unreadable, as he licked his lips.

All of this made a strange heat crawl up your neck, and with no napkins in sight, you eventually had no choice but to follow suit.

You hesitantly lifted your hand, licking the salty grease from your own fingertips. The moment you did, Bucky stopped chewing. He went completely still, his gaze dropping to your mouth, his dark blue eyes tracking the movement with a sudden, sharp hunger. He watched every motion, his jaw clenching as he seemed hypnotized by the way your tongue moved.

Small, was all he thought as he felt his body warm. But it’ll do.

“I suppose I should take my leave after this,” you announced mid chew. “Thank you for everything—”

“You shouldn’t,” Bucky interrupted suddenly, a piece of fish still caught between his fingers. “There might be another storm tonight.”

Your brows furrowed. Another storm? While the mountain weather was notoriously unpredictable, the sky outside was currently a clear, piercing blue.

Although he proved himself right yesterday, another storm seemed today entirely unlikely.

Pushing out of your chair and grabbing your plate, you made your way to the sink.

“Well, in that case, I should leave now. The sooner the better—”

“Good luck with that,” he huffed, his tone sharpening with what seems like restless impatience. “The mud and the terrain from yesterday’s mess will only slow you down. You’ll be lucky to make it a mile before you’re stuck again.”

He took a quick sip of his water, letting out a satisfied exhale as his gaze settled on you. “Best you wait ‘til tomorrow.”

You stood by the sink, staring out the window as you weighed your options. Your friends and family were likely worried sick, perhaps already calling for a search party, and the thought of them panicking made your chest hurt with guilt.

But then, you remembered everything that had happened yesterday.

The storm, the wolf, the bone chilling rain, and the way the world had turned into a sliding, muddy trap. Bucky was right about the terrain—if you went out there and twisted an ankle or got lost in the washouts, there wouldn’t be anyone to save you a second time.

You were completely oblivious to the way Bucky’s eyes traced your body. You didn’t notice how he was manipulating the trauma of yesterday to keep you exactly where he wanted you.

In his kitchen, in his shirt, and under his roof—permanently in his sights.

“I… I guess you’re right,” you admitted softly, finally turning back to face him. “I don’t think I have another fight in me today. If the mud is really that bad, I’d just be a liability.”

Bucky didn’t smile—that would have been too obvious—but the tension in his shoulders eased instantly.

“Smart girl,” he rumbled, picking up another piece of fish before tossing it in his mouth. “No sense in chancing it. The woods don’t give second chances twice in a row.”

“I’ll just… stay out of your way, then,” you murmured, feeling a strange mix of relief and unease. “I can help with the chores? Or the woodpile?”

Bucky hummed, pretending to ponder the offer, though he already knew exactly what he wanted out of you.

“I’ll take care of the heavy liftin’,” he explained. “You can help me clean the place a bit—or catch some more fish for dinner.”

“You liked my fish?” you asked, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

Bucky pushed himself out of the chair with a grunt and met you at the sink, handing you his plate. “Guess you were right,” he gruffed. “You can cook, sugar.”

Your face warmed at the nickname. It seemed so at odds with a man as burly and grumpy as Bucky, yet it fell from his lips so naturally.

“Okay,” you agreed, setting the plates in the basin and turning on the tap. “Anything to help lighten your load. Thank you for letting me stay another night, Bucky. I really don’t know how to repay you.”

A swell of satisfaction and pride settled in his gut.

He liked this.

No—he loved this.

“Look at you, doin’ the dishes,” he noted with a nod toward the sink. “That’s already doin’ more than enough.”

He raised his hand to give you a gentle pat on the back, though his body yearned for something more—to press a kiss to your forehead, the way a husband might for a wife.

“I’ll go fetch some firewood to keep the place warm for when that storm hits,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Just stay here. Clean up, catch the fish. Don’t want you gettin’ hurt or lost again, little doll.”

The storm might not have been coming, but as far as he was concerned, you weren’t going anywhere.

For the rest of the day, you did exactly as instructed.

Despite your insistence that he stay off his leg, Bucky spent the entire afternoon outside. While you cleaned the cabin, the thud of his axe echoed against the trees.

Eventually, you headed back down to the water, but the moment you began fishing, you felt the pierce of a gaze tracking your every move. Every time you glanced over your shoulder, you found Bucky only a few feet away, wiping sweat from his forehead, his chest heaving from the labor— but his eyes never left you.

When you moved down the shoreline, or stumbled over a slick rock, or struggled with a particularly strong fish fight, Bucky was at your side in an instant.

“Careful, sweets.”

“Mind your step. Can’t concentrate on my own work if you’re stumblin’ all over the place, little doll.”

“I saw you fall just a moment ago. Sit down—let me check your leg.”

You kept promising you were fine, but nothing seemed to soothe his protective instincts.

You didn’t want to call him suffocating—he was certainly kinder than when you came across him yesterday—but the unwarranted attention he kept giving you felt restless.

As the day bled into evening, you noticed there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky.

You waited, even as you cooked dinner and set the table while Bucky washed up, but by the time the sun had completely fell below the horizon, the air remained still, dark, and clear.

There was no storm.

And it was too late to start the trek to town now.

You and Bucky were sitting at the dinner table yet again, but since the sun went down, neither of you had spoken a single word to each other.

“Hey, Bucky?” you called out.

He didn’t look up. His eyes were glued to the plate as he scarfed down the meal you made the same way he had earlier this morning. When he didn’t answer, you tried again, firmer this time.

“Bucky. There’s no storm like you said there would be.”

Bucky swiped a hand across his mouth, clearing the grease. “I guess not.”

A slow, impatient exhale left your nose. Bucky sensed your tension, and he narrowed his eyes at you, displeased. He rested both heavy forearms on the table and leaned in.

“It’s good that you stayed,” he pointed out, his voice low like a warning. “It’s better bein’ safe than sorry. You should know that by now—’specially after yesterday, sugar.”

Your frown only deepened, and Bucky’s jaw tightened. He clearly wasn’t pleased by how eager you were to leave him.

“I know,” you sighed, looking toward the dark window. “It’s just... my friends and family must be worried sick. If I had left earlier, I could have been home by now.”

“If you had left earlier, you wouldn’t have made me that delicious breakfast for savin’ your life,” Bucky reminded you, his tone sharp with impatience. He shoved his empty plate aside and leaned back in his chair, making it groan. “You should sleep in the bed tonight.”

“What?” You blinked, not quite comprehending his words. “No. Your leg still needs to heal, and that couch is far too small for you—”

“No one takes the couch,” he cut you off like a command. “We both share the bed tonight. There’s plenty of space.”

You hesitated, your gaze drifting toward the dark hallway that led to the bedroom.

The thought of sharing a bed with him—this hulking, unpredictable man, made your pulse race. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you pointed out softly. “I’m perfectly fine on the couch, really.”

“If you’re gonna trek tomorrow morning, you’ll need all the sleep you can get.”

He pushed his chair back, the heavy wood scraping harshly against the floorboards as he stood and began to limp toward the bedroom.

“Come on,” he grunted, not even checking to see if you were following. “I’ve got a set of clothes you can change into.”

With a defeated sigh, you followed him. By the time you reached the bedroom, Bucky was already rummaging through a heavy dresser in the corner. He pulled out another oversized white T-shirt and held it out to you.

“Here.”

“And the pants?” you asked, taking the soft fabric from his hand.

“All I’ve got are sweatpants that’d be way too damn big for you,” he said, shoving the drawer shut. “Unless you want to sleep in jeans?”

You swallowed hard. Sleeping without pants? You looked down at the drawstring shorts you had been wearing all day—stained with mud and smelling of the lake from your fishing trip.

“I’ll just wear these again,” you decided.

Bucky looked at you, his expression darkening with displeasure.

“No. Those are dirty,” he gruffed. “The shirt’s big enough to be a night dress. You’ll be fine.”

His tone left no room for nos or further objections. It wasn’t a request but rather an arrangement he had already finalized in his head.

After retreating to the washroom to change into the fresh shirt, you returned to find Bucky already stretched out on the mattress, his large frame covered by the sheets, taking up half the bed as he waited for you.

The sight of you standing in the doorframe wearing nothing but his shirt made the fabric of his pajama pants feel suddenly, painfully tight. He wasn’t sure he would even survive the night with you lying right next to him.

He scooted over, clearing a space for you while trying to discreetly adjust himself beneath the quilts.

You made your way to your side of the bed, sliding under the covers and lying stiffly beside him.

You stared up at the ceiling, feeling completely out of place in the quiet, suffocating cabin. Beside you, Bucky lay perfectly comfortable.

To him, this was exactly where you belonged.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t leave today,” he said, though the apology rang a little hollow. “I was just lookin’ out for you.”

You turned your head toward him, your hair fanning out across his pillowcase. Bucky’s heart strummed in his chest at the sight of you.

He could get used to waking up to this every morning.

“It’s okay,” you reassured him with a soft, tired smile, though he could still sense the disappointment behind it. “Better safe than sorry, right?”

“Exactly right, sugar.”

From your short time knowing Bucky, it hadn’t taken long to notice just how… blatant he was with his staring. Even now, lying together shoulder to shoulder, his blue eyes were piercing right through yours.

Unreadable and unwavering.

You swallowed hard, trying to break the tension. “How’s your leg?”

“Still hurts,” he mumbled lowly. “But I’m feelin’ a lot better lyin’ next to a pretty girl.”

So much for breaking the tension.

His words, intimate and entirely unexpected, filled you with embarassment. Staring back at him, you had known from the very start how handsome he was beneath all that grumpiness, the tired eyes, and the dark shadow of stubble.

You hadn’t pegged someone like him as the flirtatious type. But as you searched his expression, you couldn’t tell if he even realized he was doing it, or if he was simply saying the first thing that came to his mind.

Averting your gaze, you stared into the dark corner of the room.

“Y-you’re ridiculous,” you stammered, breathless.

Bucky’s large, calloused hand reached out, his fingers hooking gently under your chin. He tilted your face back to him, forcing you to meet his eyes yet again.

“For tellin’ the truth?” he rumbled, his voice filling the tense air between you.

You couldn’t move, held captive by his touch and the intensity of his stare.

You watched as his eyes began a slow and hungry journey. He traced the line of your forehead, the curve of your cheek, and then dropped to your mouth, lingering there until your lips parted involuntarily to suck in a breath.

“Pretty,” he mumbled so quiet, it was like he was speaking to himself.

His gaze continued downward, looking at the delicate column of your throat, then further still, taking in the way his oversized shirt draped over your body, shifting with every shallow breath you took.

When his eyes finally snapped back to yours, they were darker than before—pupils blown wide.

“So goddamn pretty.”

“I…” you started, not quite sure what to say, “t-thank you.”

There was a moment of silence between you two, and throughout the quiet, Bucky’s hands began to be more bold in its movements. He caressed your cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before trailing his thumb slowly over your bottom lip. He watched with a dark, satisfied grin when your breath hitched.

“You know, bein’ out here alone all these years... it makes a man yearn for things,” Bucky started to explain in a low, gravelly whisper. “Things a man like me thought he’d never have.”

“Like what?” you breathed.

“A family,” he answered with what sounded like a dreamy sigh. “I’ve seen it everywhere in these woods. Bears protectin’ their cubs, birds tendin’ to their nests. It’s the most natural, beautiful thing there is—that kind of connection. I just know havin’ somethin’ special like that... it’d finally bring me peace.”

You weren’t entirely sure where he was going with the confession, but all you felt you could do was nod and offer him sympathy.

“I hope you find that peace one day, Bucky.”

Then, his hand suddenly trailed from your cheek down to your throat, his fingers wrapping around the delicate skin of your neck in a gentle yet possessive squeeze that made you gasp.

“Feels like I already have, little doll.”

Bucky didn’t give you the chance to breathe, let alone retract the invitation he saw in your eyes.

He closed the space between you two, his mouth crashing against yours with a hunger only a man like him—starved and isolated for decades—could possess.

It wasn’t gentle at all. It was more like a claim.

His lips were rough, and his tongue swept against yours messily and hungrily. He moved like a man who hadn’t shared a kiss with a woman in his lifetime—like a man who was dying for the touch of another person.

You melted into the mattress as he moved more eagerly against you, the sheets ruffling as he hovered over you. One of his hands held you still by side of your neck while the other wandered your body through the thin fabric of his own shirt. His rough hand, warm and calloused, groped and fondled you through the flimsy white cotton, making you gasp into his mouth.

Bucky growled low in his throat as your fingers tangled into the thick, messy dark hair at the nape of his neck. His stubble tickled your skin, and the needy noises leaving his lips only made you squeeze your legs together, a deep ache beginning to build.

“Bucky,” you gasped, turning your head sharply to break the contact. You were panting, your lips swollen and tingling. “We... we shouldn’t. This is... I’m supposed to be leaving tomorrow.”

Bucky took this as an opportunity to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath searing your sensitive skin. He trailed a line of wet kisses toward your ear, his stubble grazing your jawline.

“Tomorrow’s a long way off, sugar,” he buzzed against your skin.

“Bucky, please—”

You were cut off with a sharp gasp as you felt Bucky grind his hips firmly against your leg.

Against the soft fabric of his pajama pants, he was hard, throbbing... and leaking. In the short time you two had been making out, he had already made a mess of himself in his own pants.

A shaky groan left his lips as he gripped your hip tight, making you wince slightly. “Fuck, baby,” he breathed, resting his forehead against your collarbone. “M’so hard. It hurts.”

Bucky began to rock himself—slow and shallow—against the soft heat of your leg. You couldn’t help but look down, watching the heavy outline of him throb against the fabric as he pressed into you.

“Just... we can fuck tonight—and you can forget all ‘bout me tomorrow,” he pleaded, his voice wrecked. “You can leave as early as you want—but please, darlin’. I need this.” He rocked his hips against yours again, drawing another gasp out of you. “It’s been so long.”

He drew the long hem of the shirt up and past your hip, and his breath hitched at what he saw.

“… No panties?”

Your face burned with embarrassment. “I… didn’t want to re-wear the ones I had on,” you explained, your voice small. “They’re dirty.”

You said that, but what Bucky was seeing right now felt far filthier. Your pussy, exposed and puffy and glistening, was laid out bare right in front of him—ripe and ready for the taking.

You knew exactly how this looked, and the way Bucky’s eyes darkened as they locked onto your cunt only confirmed it. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his gaz heavy as he took in every inch of you.

Bucky quickly slid down the bed until his broad chest was wedged between your knees. You tried to pull back—mostly out of shyness—but his large hands clamped around your thighs like iron shackles, pinning you wide for him.

“Bucky, wait—!”

But you cut yourself off with an involuntary cry as his tongue flicked out and lapped at your cunt. He was relentless and wasted no time. He buried his face against you, his dark stubble grazing your sensitive inner thighs as he began to feast like a starving animal.

He was messy and loud. The wet, slapping sounds of his tongue working against you filled your ears—vulgar and completely shameless.

You had never been touched or licked like this before. You had never felt the unabashed hunger of a man’s mouth on your skin, and your body was loving every second of it.

“Oh god,” you gasped, your fingers knotting the bedsheets.

Your hips bucked up against his face, seeking more, but Bucky held you perfectly still, his thumbs digging into your skin to keep you exposed.

He let out a low, muffled growl against your clit, his tongue flickering faster and faster against the sensitive peak until you were sobbing for breath. Every time you instinctively tried to close your legs or hide from the overwhelming sensation, he only snarled, forcing you back open for him.

He was devouring you.

He was treating you like the prey he had spent all day stalking.

Bucky finally pulled away, letting you catch your breath. His eyes were dark and his chin was coated with your sweetness mixed with his own saliva and drool.

“Taste s’fucking good,” he groaned so deep, sounding almost frustrated. “Only makin’ it harder for me to let you go.”

He sat back on his heels, still wedged firmly between your thighs, as he pulled his shirt over his head. You watched, enamored, as his broad chest moved— every muscle flexing under the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Dark hair traced the center of his chest, trailing down to where his hands found the waistband of his pants.

He pulled them down and kicked them to the side of the bed. Lying there between your legs was a man of pure masculinity. Thick hair decorated his body, and his hand—which you already thought was massive—could barely wrap around his cock as he stroked himself to his full length.

Bucky’s jaw went slack as he fucked his hand, his eyes shamelessly taking in the way you were spread out for him in nothing but his cotton tee.

Dark, curly hair sat at the base of his cock, and from where you laid, you could smell him—the salty scent of his precum, the masculine musk of pinewood, everything that was uniquely him. It made you ache, your pussy clenching around nothing as you watched.

“You’re drippin’ all over my sheets, sugar,” Bucky grunted. “Makin’ a reaaal mess.”

“Bucky,” you breathed, pushing yourself up on your elbows. “I don’t think you… I don’t think it’ll fit—”

“No?” he cut you off.

He didn’t let you finish—he didn’t need to—but he already seemed darkened by whatever doubt you were about to voice.

“I don’t care,” he grunted, his large hands grabbing your legs and hauling you flush against him. “M’gonna make it fit.”

Your body tensed as you felt the head of Bucky’s cock poke against your entrance. He groaned at the contact, his eyes fluttering shut in relief. You were already so wet, so warm, and so inviting. And judging by how easily his tip began to slide in, it wouldn’t be long before he was buried deep in your cunt.

Bucky held himself there for a moment, bracing his weight on his forearms as he let you adjust to the stretching pressure of his tip alone.

He looked down, a dark, fond smirk pulling at his lips as he watched you squeezing your eyes shut with the effort of taking him.

“Open ‘em up, sugar,” he rumbled the command. “I want you lookin’ at me for this.”

As your eyes fluttered open, meeting his blown out blue gaze, he began to push.

“Oh—fuck, Bucky!” you gasped as he slid deeper, your tight cunt stretching painfully and perfectly around his length.

A broken groan tore from his throat, his chest heaving as he fought every urge in his nervous system to just slam himself deep inside you. He was trying so hard to hold back that his face contorted into a snarl, his muscles locking with the strain.

You mewled and whimpered as he forced his way in, each movement of his hips more strained than the last. He was struggling with the tightness of you, the stretch a dizzying mix of burn and pleasure. By the time he was halfway in, it already felt like too much.

You began to squirm, your hips shifting and doing nothing to soothe the ache in Bucky’s balls. If anything, your movements only made him groan in pleasure.

When he realized you were trying to escape his length, his hands snapped down to your hips. His fingers dug into your skin, pinning you flat against the mattress and making you yelp.

“Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?” he growled, hovering over you with a snarl that made him look terrifying under the warm lamplight. “You aren’t goin’ anywhere. I told you, darlin’—I’m makin’ it fit.”

With that, his grip tightened on your waist and he hauled you flush against his body in a ruthless motion.

Your legs shook and your eyes rolled back as his cock buried itself completely, sinking to the hilt deep inside your cunt. Your head spun with the overwhelming bliss of being filled so thoroughly.

“Haaah—!” you hissed sharply, your back arching off the bed. “B-Buck—”

Bucky’s entire body was shaking, overstimulated with a desire he hadn’t felt in years.

He hovered over you, dark strands of hair shadowing his eyes as he watched your soft legs shake and squirm beneath him. His cock—the one you claimed was too large to fit—was sunk completely inside you, twitching as it savored every desperate ripple and clench of your tight walls around his shaft.

He watched himself grind his hips against yours, slow and steady at first, letting you adjust to every inch.

“Christ,” he groaned, the sound torn from the back of his throat. “You’re takin’ me so well, little doll…”

When your whimpers finally began to break into soft, needy moans, he took it as his cue to pick up the pace.

He started drawing his hips back and thrusting faster, making your body jolt and shake against the mattress with every thrust. The sight of his cock disappearing entirely into your cunt, leaving only his dark curls pressed against your glistening slit, made him throb and leak deep inside you.

“God… feels s’much better than my hand,” he grumbled to himself.

“Bucky…” you whined softly, the sound like music to his ears. “Feels good, don’t stop.”

Bucky was hypnotized.

He looked down, his vision tunneling as he watched the way you moved helplessly beneath him. Your body was rolling with every thrust against his mattress. Your hands came up to his shoulders, soft fingers digging into his hard muscles for stability.

And when you looked at him with those soft, trusting eyes, something in his chest snapped.

“Fuck. Fuckin’ hell—you… fuckin’… goddammit—fuck!”

His hips began drawing back further before slamming all the way in, drawing a loud, sharp cry from you that only made him want to fuck you harder—right through the bedframe and against the floorboards.

Bucky felt like an animal in heat, his mind clouding with a singular, primal thought that went far beyond just getting off.

He wanted to fill you. He wanted to plant himself so deep that it would take.

“Bucky—it’s too much, ah!” you moaned, clinging to him and wrapping your legs around his waist for support, inadvertently drawing him even deeper.

That didn’t help him at all.

“Oh—fuck, sweets!” he roared, pinning his weight onto you as your legs strapped him down. “Fuck—you’re askin’ for it now.”

The thought of breeding you, of keeping you right here in the cabin he built with his very own two hands, made his blood sing. He could see it so clearly—you, rounded and heavy with his child, tits full of milk, never having to leave the safety of these woods or the protection of his arms.

Every filthy thought of a future together was met with another hard thrust inside you.

“Mine,” he growled. He was so lost in the haze of lust that his mind was a jumbled mess. The only thing he could process was the need to fuck and breed.

Fuck and breed. Fuck and breed.

To breed.

Breed. Breed…

“You’re stayin’ right here, sugar. M’gonna fill you up so full, you won’t even remember how to walk out that door.”

His words were purely possessive. If you didn’t know any better, you would think it was just dirty talk—and god, did it work. Your pussy spasmed tight around his cock as you felt yourself getting close.

“Fuuck, Bucky,” you whined, “d-don’t stop…! I’m gonna cum—”

Every gasp that left your lips fueled the dark fire in his gut and the building ache in his balls. He didn’t just want tonight; he wanted years.

He wanted the connection he had seen the animals share in the woods—he wanted a son running around this cabin and you there to be called Mama.

Your cunt clenched as you tossed your head back, letting out a loud cry that rang through the cabin as you came undone all over Bucky’s cock. The feeling was exquisite, your pussy was milking Bucky with every pulse—and at this point, your body was practically begging for Bucky to cum inside.

“I’m gonna breed you,” he rasped, the words sounding like both a warning and a promise.

His eyes were crazed and wild as he looked down at the friction where your bodies joined. “Gonna give you everythin’ you need. Just stay... stay for me, little doll. Let me put a baby in you.”

Your head was rolling back against the pillow, your face drenched in sweat as your vision swam. You were still coming undone, your mind a hazy blur.

“H-huh…?” you managed to whimper with a tired slur of your words. “W-what was that—?”

One of his hands drew up from your hip to your neck, pinning you in place, while the other found your thigh, spreading you wider and bending it back so he could pound into you deeper—making the mattress and wooden bedframe shake and bolt against the cabin wall.

“Oh my god—!”

“Don’t you worry your pretty head ‘bout it,” he grunted, his breath hot and uneven against your ear. “M’just tellin’ you how it’s gonna be. I’m gonna keep this pussy pumped so full of me, you won’t ever remember what it’s like to be without it.”

He pulled back almost all the way, dragging out the pleasure until you cried out, before slamming back in until the hairs on his pelvis hit your slit.

“You’re gonna stay right here,” he reminded you darkly. “Nothin’ but my shirts on your back so I don’t have to waste time undressin’ you. Just easy access... every time I walk through that door, I’m gonna bend you over the table, the bed, the porch... and I’m gonna remind you who you belong to.”

The filth of his words and the overstimulated stretch of your walls was nearly enough to make you pass out.

“I’m gonna fill you up every single night, little doll,” he hissed, his pace becoming uneven and desperate as he felt his own climax nearing. “Until you’re waddlin’ around this cabin carryin’ my name... carryin’ my blood. You’re never leavin’, understand? You’re mine to breed.”

When you didn’t answer right away, he lightly squeezed your throat, making you gasp.

“Understand, sweets?”

“Y-yes,” was all you could muster weakly and tiredly, not understanding enitrely as all you felt was overwhelming pleasure. “Never leaving… fill me…”

You repeated the last few words you remembered him saying, and that was your downfall.

“Yeah?” he huffed a prideful laugh, like he finally had everything he wanted right here—right beneath him. “You gonna make me a daddy?”

His heart leapt in his throat, balls drawing tight as he felt himself finally reaching the edge. This was perfect—a pretty pussy to fuck whenever he pleased, and an even prettier woman to take care of.

Bucky’s entire body buckled, and he let out a loud roar that made you flinch—it sounded more like an animal than a man. His back arched as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself so deep it made you cry out again, his pelvis bottoming out against you.

A thick, hot rush of cum flooded into you, a heavy and pulsing warmth that seemed to go on and on.

His eyes rolled back and his teeth bared in a primal snarl as his entire frame shuddered with his release. He was pumping you full, emptying every bit of himself deep into your womb.

“Fuck—baby—!” he choked out, voice strained and cracking.

He didn’t pull out, even when his cock was completely spent and overworked inside you. Even as his body stilled and his length throbbed tiredly against your used, overstimulated walls, he stayed buried to the hilt.

He panted, his heavy chest heaving against yours as he kept you pinned firmly into the mattress. He was soaking you, making a complete mess of your insides just like he promised.

“There… fuck,” he rasped, his sweaty forehead dropping to rest against yours. “Puttin’ a baby in there right now—you feel it, don’t you? You feel how much I'm givin’ you?”

You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You had absolutely no energy left in your spent body.

All you could smell was the thick scent of sex and sweat, and the only light in the room came from the bedside lamp, which was now flickering weakly.

Then came the thunder. Rain began to pour, hitting against the cabin roof and the surrounding forest floor harshly. Bucky shifted his body, pulling you into his arms and dragging your limp body against his chest, pressing soft, and sweet kisses against your sweaty skin.

“There’s the storm, baby,” he cooed gently, his voice prideful as he proved himself right yet again.

“I told you. You aren’t goin’ anywhere.”

sitting in the drafts since new years oh nah someone save me 🥀 once again, this is my contribution for art's moodboard event hosted here! please be sure to check out the incredible writers who put out their work so far!

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[godmadeaterribleerror]

Goddamn, Manchild

✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦

✦summary: you and Bucky have been at odds since you first met. he can't stand you. you pretend you can't stand him. and if Bucky ever knew how you really felt, you think you might die. not when there's no chance he'd ever feel the same way. right?✦

✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, drinking, no use of y/n, mutual pining, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, drunken and sober love confessions, little plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, sex toys, overstimulation, squriting, bucky's packing, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink), soft!bucky outside of smut✦

✦wc: 13.5k✦

✦Author's Note: i think i got possessed with this one. was barking to myself writing. Enjoy!✦

He’s the kind of beautiful that makes you want to strangle him.

Bucky walks around your apartment like he owns it, laughing all loud and musical, smiling like he fell out of a movie, running a hand through his hair and forcing you to see his sculpted torso and tanned skin. He barely fits in his shirt as it is, there’s no need for him to show off about it.

You’ve pressed yourself right to the corner of you couch, watching him silently. Watching all of them, but mostly Bucky. And his shining eyes and full lips and thick arms. Those things should be classified as weapons, or at least hazards. It’s too easy to imagine him wrapping them around you, pining you to the couch, handling you like a doll but still so gently-

“You’re staring at me again.” He drawls, and you start.

You give him an unimpressed glare, hoping your flush stays hidden in the low light of the room. “Shut up.”

“So nice to me, sweetheart.” He mocks, leaning a little further down. “Bet you dream about me, don’t you. Up all night with that rabbit Nat got you-“

You shove your foot up, slamming it square on his chest. He’d been getting too close. You’d been able to smell his cologne, and it made your head spin like opium. Bucky laughs again, walking away like you’re not even worth the argument. Your heart stings, but you ignore it. It’s an old bruise. You’re usually good at not pressing it, at pretending it doesn’t exist.

But Bucky exists only to torture you. So it never fully heals.

He’d been teasing about the rabbit thing. It had been a gag gift for secret Santa, and after Nat had even gotten you a very nice pair of shoes when you were in private. But Bucky’s clung onto it, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever thought of. You, with a vibrator. You possibly being able to get off, when you’re the uptight little prude. The one who never brings back hookups, never dates, just sits in corners like an ivy, clinging to the shadows and watching everything else live around her.

You’ve never been fun. Never been someone Bucky would’ve chosen to know. He didn’t choose to know you. You knew a girl who worked with another girl, and that girl had a boyfriend who knew a girl who needed a roommate. You needed a roommate. You had good credit—because you’re boring—and the girl interviewing you had taken a liking to you.

Natasha rode a motorcycle. She worked in a job she was allowed to tell you about—something in black ops, that explained all the wigs in her closet—and spoke five languages. She baked calm down, and went to shooting ranges to calm down, and insisted on getting you a gun license so she’d feel more comfortable with all the hidden guns in the house.

“Hidden guns?” You’d asked, feeling your face blanch. She’d just smiled.

“You’ll never find them all. Let’s go, it’ll be easy.”

It had not been easy. But you understood how—to someone like Nat—it might be. She’d never lost patience with you, but she’d still made it look easy. When you’d gotten home and mumbled that you needed to go shower for an hour, she’d just patted your head like you were a bunny and smiled.

She might’ve been your first real friend in a while. Because it’s not that you’re not… personable. You’re just a little mean tongued. And nervous. And boring, and blunt, and you don’t like leaving the house unless someone grabs the scruff of your neck and drags you. You go to work, and you go home, and that’s mostly it. Your closest friends before Natasha had been co-workers. And you’d been really, truly happy with that.

But interesting people have interesting friends.

Natasha had a lot of friends. And they moved in and out of your apartment like they lived there. 

Tony was a tech titan who you used to watch on the news, and now he left crumbs all over your couch. Wanda was a refugee and artist, and Clint worked in that same black ops thing Nat did. Steve had worked in it, but left to start his own non-profit with Sam. They all went far back, to elementary schools and playgrounds and clubs. They had history, but they were kind to you. Treated you like your little bachelor’s degree and normal person job fit in with their grand showmanship and large personalities that had been sucked right off the movie screen.

Most of them treated you like that.

Bucky didn’t.

Before you’d been introduced to him, Nat had described his as basically Steve’s brother, and it had been a striking endorsement. Steve had been kind to you. He brought you to a movie you’d really wanted to see, and never made fun of your stuffed animal collection. No brother of his could be all that bad, certainly not one even Nat described as charming and kind and not bad on the eyes.

Only one of those things was true.

Bucky Barnes is not bad on the eyes. You’d classify as maybe a medicine for the eyes, a miracle for the eyes, a blessing on a weary and tired viewer. He works in security or something, and it shows in his body. Sometimes he lets his hair grow out, and it’s frames his strong jaw and nose perfectly, all while making you want to run your fingers through each lock. You’re sure it would be like petting a very well-kept dog. He cares for it better than you care for yourself.

He’s got those eyes that knocked all the thoughts out of you, the moment you saw him. They’d sparkled and shone with his polite, white smile, and you’d just been swaying there like a lost scarecrow in a tornado. Your brain had been reduced to a fuzzy TV static and loud blaring noise, like you’d lost your own connection. Bucky had flexed his hand, a silent reminder you were supposed to shake it, and you hadn’t been able to get enough control over your body to even smile back.

His hand had been big. Calloused, with thick fingers and a lot of tiny scars. You’d shivered just at the idea of his touch. It might’ve been warm.

Might’ve been.

If Bucky had ever bothered to touch you at all.

By the time you’d dragged control back into your body, Bucky had given up and moved on. His ears had been a little red, in the moments after. You’d opened your mouth to apologize, make any excuse that would get him to offer a hand again.

He’d turned and walked away. Hadn’t looked at you for the rest of the night.

And when he looks at you now, it’s with something sharp behind his gaze. He never looks at anyone else like that. Never teases or mocks them, either. Acting like their mere presence in the room is a plague on his refined, perfect existence. He certainly never suggests they won’t be able to make it up five flights of stairs or asks if they’re sure they want to go out for the night.

You hate stairs. And you don’t want to go out for the night.

There’s only one thing more powerful than your picky little aversions, though.

The petty, blistering feeling at the top of your chest, that refuses to let Bucky win.

“You’re really coming with us?” Bucky calls your name from the kitchen, and you lift your chin, trying to look down your nose at the massive man.

“I was invited.”

“You’re always invited, you never actually get off the damn couch-“

“Barnes.” Nat walks past him, whacking his arm. “Don’t question miracles.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not a miracle-“

“Yes it is.” She grabs your arm, hauling you off the couch like you weigh nothing. “I’ve been asking you to do this for years, I’m not letting Bucky frighten you off with his Buckying.”

That makes you giggle, and Bucky frowns. You catch him shooting Steve a look you can’t really read, and Steve just shrugs in return.

“I’m not trying to ruin it.” Bucky says, lofty and bored. “I’m just sayin’ she never comes out with us, and it might be a lot for the little doe to be shoved into the jungle or whatever-“

“You’re a poet.” Natasha says, giving him a flat glare. “Go wait in the car.”

Bucky scowls. “The car-“

“If you act like a dog, you wait in the car.”

“I am not acting like a dog-“

Sam raises his hand. “I caught him humping the furniture this mornin’ when he heard about it-“

“Sam.” Bucky hisses. “Shut the hell up before I knock your teeth out-“

“Steven.” Nat gives him a firm nod, and he sighs.

“Yeah, I got it.”

Bucky and Sam aren’t small men, but Steve grabs them by the collar and drags them out of the room without breaking a sweat. Leaving you and Nat in a suddenly very quiet apartment, a lingering smell of spice and pine still clouding the air.

Another reason you hate Bucky coming over. He’s mean to you, and he’s nice to everyone else, and he questions you then leaves the whole room stained in his presence.

“Ignore Barnes.” Natasha says it like an order, and it probably is.

You smile at her. “I always do.”

You think it comes off airy and convincing. Nat looks at you like she’s trying not to either scoff, or laugh. Before you can insist on anything, she’s grabbing your hand and dragging you into the bathroom. You did promise you’d let her get you ready. When you’d told her you could do makeup and prep yourself, she’d snorted and said maybe, but I’ll do it better.

One of the first lessons you learned was not to argue with Natasha when she’s sure of something. You let her sit you on the counter and sort through your makeup bag, finding everything she deems worthy of being on your face tonight. Your outfit hangs on the door, and you did choose that, but after Nat vetoed three others.

It’s nothing special. A short dress and heels that will blend right in a club. It hadn’t been that different from your other suggestions. But it had gotten a curt nod of approval and smirk from Nat, so it had something. You’re smarter than to question what.

“You should talk to Bucky tonight.” Nat says suddenly, and you blink at her in surprise.

“I- What?”

“Make him apologize. For being an ass to you.”

“That’s- It’s fine-“

“No, it’s not.” Nat gives you a firm look, and you sigh.

“I know, but- I don’t really care, okay? That’s just- It’s Bucky, right?”

You give her a weak smile, and this one doesn’t even convince you.

It is just Bucky. He’s charming and sweet and handsome, and he hates just you. So you hate him in return, just for being so perfect and deciding you’re the only person in the world not worthy of his attention. It would be easier if he really was a bad man. If you didn’t know he volunteered with kids and Steve’s foundation, if he didn’t advocate for his fellow veterans, if he hadn’t made his ma’s chicken soup when you and Nat had both caught something last winter, and taken the time to drop it off in person.

For Nat.

Because you’re just… Not worth it for him. Not worth his time, not worth his smiling, barely worth anything more than glowering stares and taunting words. And you’re not weak. You fight back every day, and keep all of your desires and affection buried deep in the pit of your stomach and swollen like an infection around your heart.

He never has to know that you think about him all the time. That you feel yourself bloom whenever your eyes meet, then wither when his gaze snaps away. Whenever he presses his body over yours just to tease you, the heat of his body makes your breath hitch. You spend long days daydreaming about how good a boyfriend he’d be, if he didn’t hate you. Attentive and caring and giving.

Every night you think about how giving he’d be. Flowers and coffee like he brings Wanda for galleries, or for Nat or Clint when they’ve been working late night shifts. He likes watching TV, you know, because he spends a lot of time sitting next to you on the couch and loudly making comments until you threaten to force-feed him bleach. But if that wasn’t the blunt and unforgiving knife of reality, you could just lay in his arms forever.

He could pick you up and carry you to bed. The same bed that you put that accursed vibrated between your legs, close your eyes, and dream of him railing you into the mattress. Fucking you until you can’t stand, until you can’t speak or thing, until your eyes are rolling back and your mouth can’t even figure out how to close, so he kisses you possessively or gives you some of those thick fingers to suck on-

“You should still talk to him.” Natasha’s words are blunt. If she’s noticed how you’ve been working yourself up, she doesn’t say a single word. “Before he does something stupid.”

You snort. “Bucky always does something dumb-“

“No. He does a lot of dumb things. Close your eyes.” Nat picks up an eyeliner, and you obey. “But there’s a difference between dumb and stupid. Stupid is harder to take back.”

You grunt, and you don’t think anything stupid Bucky does is going to have anything to do with you. But something scratches at your brain, and it’s green and bitter. Your fingers fidget in your lap, and you shouldn’t ask, but-

“Is he bringing someone?” You blurt, and just the idea makes you sick. Bucky with some model-type, holding her hips while she grinds onto him, all the honey he’d pour into her ears and down her throat while you just hugged yourself in the corner of the room. Her sitting on his lap in your apartment, you trying to hide the ugliness of jealousy but never being able to spare her more than a crude sneer. It’s the only reason Nat would possibly want you to talk to him. You and Bucky’s childish game of pulling each other’s hair and biting without teeth and seeing who breaks first, it ruins his picture of the perfect suitor. If you keep it up, you’ll ruin this for him, and he deserves to be happy but the thought of him being happy while you just sink into yourself like quicksand makes you want to die-

“Jesus, no.” Nat laughs. “That’s- Never mind.” She shakes her head, still chuckling about some secret you apparently don’t get to be a part of.

“What?” You try to push. “I’ve heard about his- You know. Promiscuity.”

Nat snorts. “From who?”

“Sam.”

“Sam’s an idiot.” She dismisses plainly, and you frown.

“Tony’s mentioned it too-“

“They’re both idiots.”

“Bucky’s told me, he said he leaves all his girls satisfied-“

“Bucky is the biggest idiot of all of them. Open.”

You listen again, and find Nat smiling at you with a strangely soft affection. Like you’re some wet kitten she rescued off the street.

“Put on your dress.” She says, wiping the corners of your slightly pouting lips. “Talk to Barnes.”

At the very least, you manage to follow one of those orders.

The dress is a little shorter than you thought it would be. It rides up your thighs, forcing you to pull it down with every step. In the car you cross your legs and stare at the floor, grounding yourself in the bass of Nat’s loud music as your heartbeat starts to pick up. You’re going out. You’re going out. Spiting Bucky was not a good enough reason to do this, it’s going to be loud and you can dance but not in front of strangers, and you’re going to be even more boring than usual and you feel like a fraud.

“Nice dress.”

Bucky’s voice is a low behind you, his breath fanning on your neck. You almost scream.

“Christ, calm down.” He’s grinning when you whip around, leaning forward in his seat to whisper. Sam and Steve are next to him, one very pointedly staring out the window, the other looking at something on his phone and humming like he’s already trying to drown out you and Bucky’s fighting.

“You scared me-“

“You saw me get in the car, sweetheart. Not my fault you’re jumpy-“

“I am not jumpy-“

“You are. Like a bunny.” His grin widens, and you scowl.

The shifting streetlamps make him look like an angel. Golden halo rays behind his head, long shadows that make him look even more rugged than usual. His lips look fuller, softer, eyes glimmering like a floodlight through the dark, and-

“Shut up.” You snap, turning back around. You can’t keep looking at him. It’s dangerous.

“I was just saying your dress was nice.” Bucky’s breath tickles your neck. You wrap your arms tight around your stomach.

“You also called me a rabbit.”

“Called you a bunny-“

“That’s the same thing.”

“No, it’s-“ He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

You flip him off over your shoulder, glaring firmly out the windshield. You can feel him retreat, but the closeness had lit up your nerves, and now they’re buzzing with hope that he’ll return.

Stupid fucking body. Stupid fucking Bucky.

You refuse to look at him when you arrive. You stumble a little bit in your heels—Natsha insisted on six inch, which is far too tall for anyone—and Bucky catches your arm, holding you upright. You brush his hand off like a fly and march on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of some other comment about how you’re like a baby deer.

When you get inside, you can smell it. The stench of sweat and alcohol and something fruity they probably use to cover the first smells. You cling to Natasha, letting her guide you through the crowd to the bar. She orders you two shots because you need them, and you don’t argue. Between Bucky and the club, you do. 

You down them both without flinching, and Sam whistles from behind you.

“Damn, you took those like a champ.”

You shrug, and Sam elbows Bucky.

“You see that, Buck-“

“Yeah. I saw it.”

Bucky’s voice is lower than usual. Almost sullen. You’d examine him, try to figure out what’s wrong with him, but you’re not supposed to be letting yourself care. He’s not your problem tonight. You’re here to indulge in fun.

You’re already not very good at that as is. Bucky’s consuming presence isn’t going to help.

Another drink might.

You’re three shots in when Nat brings you out to the dance floor. The liquor is pulling you lose, the frayed knot that’s always in your chest going slack enough to allow you to dance. You’re smiling and laughing like a normal person, almost completely able to forget to check where Bucky is in the room.

Near the edge of the crowd, drinking and talking to Steve.

A fourth shot might be needed.

You’re smiling like a fool now. The room is tilted a little, all the colors neon, but they blind out your usual worried and the tilt helps your worries slide off your body. You’re able to forget about Bucky until you notice a girl talking to him, and you take a fifth shot. A sixth, when he vanishes for nine and a half minutes, and your brain starts to map everything he might be doing to that girl.

Seven, when the first stranger asks you to dance and you’re not drunk enough to forget about Bucky and say yes.

Eight, when he tries to kiss you and you shove him away, because his lips aren’t pink enough and he’s not broad enough for you to every pretend.

Nat tries to cut you off there. You slip past her, and take a ninth. The room is just a blur now. You can’t fully remember who Nat is, and why you’re trying to avoid her. There’s a man with his hands on your hips, and he’s got dark hair that looks too greasy for you to touch. Another man calls you sweetheart, but he says it a little wrong and it makes you want to cry. None of them have the right eyes, and the ones that are closer don’t have the right smile.

You feel like you’re going to cry, by the time you’ve rejected the eleventh man. Or only fourth. Numbers don’t feel real right now. Most everything doesn’t feel real.

Everything except Bucky.

Because your own name is just a sound in your head that sounds foreign, but Bucky says it and you know to turn around.

It’s less because it’s your name. More because Bucky called you.

You smile, swaying on your feet, and you’re not even sure where you are anymore. It’s somewhere with a lot of people. Loud music. It’s dark, but bright at the same time, and Bucky looks like a walking dream as he moves towards you. Your vision swims, but he’s made of clear lines and a stern expression.

He’s mad at you. Your face falls, lip wobbling, and you take a step back. You don’t want him to be mad at you. Your heart is already beating in your ears, Bucky’s anger or distain might make it burst.

“Where the hell did you go?” He snaps, and you bow your head.

“I- I dunno-“ You hiccup, hugging yourself tight.

“Nat’s been looking for you, Steve barely stopped her from trying to make the building go into lockdown, and I-“ He cuts himself off, running a hand over his face, and you blink the tears away.

You’re looking up at him under your lashes, and he’s still angry. Some distant voice in your head tells you it’s your fault entirely. That he must’ve been about to go home with someone when they lost you, and now he’s pissed he had to pause his night to find you. You sniff, wiping your nose with your arm.

Bucky’s frown deepens. He takes a step forward, and you try to step back but balance feels like an Olympic feat right now.

His arm loops around your waist, pulling you right against his chest. You stare up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks from feelings you can’t even name anymore. They’re hollow and big and full and made of a million little cuts. They burn in your heart and through your blood, but also freeze in your throat and muscles. You can’t move. You don’t want to move.

Bucky’s big hand is splayed on your back, and you don’t want to go anywhere you can’t feel him.

That voice from before reminds you that’s not allowed, so you wiggle a little.

Bucky holds you tighter, and you surrender in a split second. His frown deepens, and you think you’re still crying. Your cheeks are certainly burning, and your throat feels oddly tight.

Gentle fingers brush under your eyes, and you hum softly. Bucky’s nostrils flare, those fingers brushing hair from your face before cupping the back of your head, forcing your gaze onto his.

“Jesus, woman.” He mutters, those beautiful eyes scanning over your slack face. “How much did you have to drink.”

“I dunno.” You breathe. His brow furrows.

“Best guess.”

You shrug, shaking your head, and Bucky sighs. You want to shrink and hide from him, from his obvious annoyance and disappointment. It’s nothing new, but it’s raw like this. You can’t figure out anything, let alone how to pretend like his hatred doesn’t bother you. You try to turn and hide your face, but Bucky just pulls it right back.

“Over five?” He prompts, and his voice is so soft. Like he’s trying to coax the answer out of you.

“I- I don’t know.” You whine slightly, and he sighs.

“Yeah. Alright.” Bucky’s throat bobs, and he looks up. Glances around you, his hands never leaving your body.

You stare up at him in the dark. You’re not supposed to be looking at him, but it’s impossible. He’s magnetic, and beautiful, and you’ve never been this close to him without one of you trying to claw at the other.

But your fingers cling to the fabric of his shirt, and it’s not to draw blood. You just don’t think that if he walks away you’re going to be able to stand up.

Bucky looks back down at you, and his tongue flicks over his lips. His thumb drags slowly over your cheekbone, leaving a little trail of fire in its wake. Your breathing gets shallow, your eyes fluttering. Everything feels like a lot. Like you’re so high in the atmosphere the air is starting to get thin. Bucky’s brow furrows, and he works his jaw like he does when he’s thinking.

You’ve always wanted to reach up and touch the lines that form on his face, when he worries. They’re deep, and still handsome, but they only ever mark that he’s stressed. He shouldn’t be. It’s only you, and you’re nothing to him.

He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, his hand dragging down to cup the back of your neck. You tip your head back, waiting for him to do something. Kiss you. Bite you. Slam you back against the wall and relieve the ache, building up between your thighs. Maybe just smell you and let his lips brush over a sensitive spot on your neck, teasing you like always until you’re crying and begging for him. 

Instead, Bucky just sighs. He pulls you forward, twisting you until you’re in front of him. His arms cage you to his chest, and he’s almost herding you down the hall.

“Where’re we going?” You tip your head back, and find him glowering at everyone around you.

They’re all moving so fast, stumbling in your path then scrambling away under Bucky’s glower. His eyes flick down to yours for a second, and maybe it’s the delusions of grandeur and liquor, but you could swear they soften slightly.

“We’re gettin’ you home.” He mutters, shouldering the door open. “You need to sleep this off.”

You wrinkle your nose as the chill of night air hits you. “But it’s cold-“

“Car will be warm.”

“But we don’t have a car-“

“We’re taking Nat’s.”

You scoff. “Nat would never give you her car-“

“Well, she did.” He grunts, voice dropping under his breath. “You’d never give me your car.”

“I don’t have a car.” You snap, and Bucky chuckles dryly.

“Yeah, I know.” He opens the door, giving you an amused look. “Up and in, baby.”

Your whole world stops for a second. You feel like you’re floating, a ditzy smile crossing your face, and you start to giggle because he called you baby. Bucky called you baby, like you matter to him, and he’s touching you.

Bucky sighs when you don’t move, and bends down. He scoops you up and drops you in the car like you weigh nothing. You’re still giggling when he closes the door and walks around the hood, sliding into the driver’s seat. For a second you stop, looking out the club with a frown. The world is still hazy, but you can see the neon sign, and it feels like you’re forgetting things that are very important-

“They’re all goin’ back to our place.” Bucky grunts, and you look over to find him staring at you with one of those stone-faced, unreadable expressions that he only uses around you. “It’s closer, cab will be cheaper.”

You frown. “Why aren’t they riding with us?”

“’Cause we’re going back to yours.”

“Why?”

“’Cause.” Is all Bucky offers. He starts the car before you can ask another question, and puts his arm around your seat to back out of the spot.

Nat has a back cam. He just always does it like this, and you’ve always chalked it up to his big, responsible man thing. Usually when the arm is around you, you glare out the window and pretend you can’t feel how close he is. How his fingers brush your upper arm, or how his smell gets stronger.

Tonight you can’t really remember why you do that. And Bucky does really smell good.

You turn your cheek, pressing it into his bicep. Bucky freezes, the car jerking to a stop, and you can feel his attention. It sparks a tiny fire in your core, and seeps down between your thighs. Your lips graze his skin, and he coughs.

His fingers dip down, brushing near your collarbone. You hum happily, and the car starts moving again.

When you’re out of the parking lot, Bucky doesn’t remove his arm like usual. You’re grateful. If he did, you might have chased it right into his lap.

“You have fun?” Bucky breaks the silence, voice gruff.

You nod, turning to watch him drive. He always does it in a way that’s almost unfairly attractive. He holds the wheel lazily, like he knows it’s under his control. You want him to hold you like that.

Bucky clears his throat. “You, uh- You did good.”

“Good?” You murmur, not fully understanding the praise.

You know it makes you throb, and press your thighs together. Bucky’s eyes flick to the motion, and his throat bobs.

“Yeah.” His grip on the wheel is white knuckled. “Good.”

Silence settles again, and you let yourself stare at him. He’s beautiful. So beautiful it makes you unsure that he’s real. You’d like to trace the line of his jaw, hear his smooth, deep voice again. Hear it say your name, because it’s the only thing that reminds you that you’re real. You can’t remember why you ever deprived yourself of this. Of him, and all his quiet glory. He’s a loud man, but never boastful.

He’s only really boastful to you. When he fixes the shower for Nat or someone brings up his army service, he waves them off and laughs, and you’ve always loved that about him. You love most things about him, even when he’s being insufferable. You sort of love that he’s insufferable, too. You’re not that easy either. And if you wrapped around him, you’re hoping he’d be too chivalrous to cut you off. He could mock you all he wants, you’d just hide your face in his neck and breathe him in. Grounding. Handsome. Impossible to resist.

Your fingers are itching, to touch that sad little furrow. There’s nothing for him to worry about. The world revolves around him.

“Saw you got some numbers.” He grunts suddenly, and you pause.

“Numbers?”

“Phone numbers.”

“Oh.” You reach for you bag, checking that the hard line of your phone is still there. It is. You don’t know what he’s talking about.

“You gonna call any of them?”

“Any of who?”

Bucky gives you an exasperated look, then double takes slightly. His worry lines deepen. It makes you pout, grabbing at your own hands to stop them from reaching for him.

“The guys.” He says slowly, frowning at the road. “That you were talkin’ to.”

Oh. Phone numbers. “No.”

His brows raise. “No?”

You shake your head, and Bucky prompts you with an oddly tight voice.

“Why?”

They’re not you. Even your drunk brain seems to know it’s bad idea to say that. “I didn’t want them.”

“Hm.” Bucky taps his hand on the wheel, shooting you a strange look. “Why?”

You can’t tell him that, but you also can’t think of a good excuse this time. You make a lame, half-hearted sigh, and turn your face back into his arm.

He doesn’t push it. He doesn’t talk for the rest of the drive. His thumb drags little circles on your upper arm, lulling you into a half-sleep only interrupted by the bump of the road. You’re not sure how much longer you’re in the car, and when it stops you can’t really remember what you’re supposed to do now.

Bucky helps. He slides away from you, squeezing your thigh in a silent reassurance before he steps out of the car. Your hand traces over where he’d touched you. Bare skin on skin, hands still light and gentle. He seems to have burned his handprint into you, and it spreads until you’re tingly and weak-kneed.

The door on your side opens, and his voice is low in your ears.

“C’mon, pretty girl.” A strong arm loops around your stomach, pulling you back. “Let’s get you in bed.”

You hum, and let Bucky guide you. You trust him completely, with all your heart and not a single question.

He handles you carefully. Guides you inside, holds you steady in the elevator, takes your keys  from your shaking fingers and opens the door. You’re sent to take a shower, but start to trip over nothing the moment Bucky lets go of you, so he sighs and draws you a bath.

“How am I gonna stand?” You mumble, sitting on the toilet while he runs the water. “Or rinse.”

Bucky grunts. “I’ll help.”

You hum in approval, and start to pull off your dress. Bucky makes a strangled sound, eyes flying up to the ceiling, and you’ve never seen his face so red.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting ready for a bath?” You frown at him, and he groans.

“You- Fuck.” He takes a heavy breath through his nose, closing his eyes. “Just- Keep your underwear on, alright?”

You nod, trying to ignore the heavy sting that he doesn’t want to see you naked. Bucky won’t even fully look at you as he helps you into the tub. He leaves the room while you sit helplessly in the water, barely moving until he returns. You wrap your arms over your chest, suddenly consciously that maybe you’re not pretty enough for him to look at you. You pull your knees to your chest and sniffle, just waiting for him. You don’t even know why he left in the first place. You wanted him here.

Bucky sighs, when he opens the door to find you crying.  

“Christ, I leave you alone for five seconds- Hey, woah-“ He kneels on the bathmat, hand flexing before he reaches out and wipes away your tears. “It’s alright, you’re alright. Don’t cry, sweetheart, you’re okay-“

You bite down a sob and turn your face, pressing it right into his shoulder. Again, Bucky stiffens. His arms hover for a second, breathing shallow, and you think he’s going to shove you away.

But he doesn’t. After that single, million year heartbeat of a moment, he grabs you. Holds you tight into his body, cradling your head and rocking you back and forth. The water flows under you, pushing up on the lip of the tub. A little bit flows over, splashing his pants.

He doesn’t seem to mind.

“C’mon, baby.” He murmurs, slowly starting to rise. “Let’s get you to bed.”

You nod, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. When he gets you on your feet, he stops for a second. His lips brush near your ear, and an electric rush dart through you. Then, fast but certain, he kisses the side of your head.

It’s so quick you’d think you imagined it, if you couldn’t feel the burn of his lips long after he pulls away. You reach up to brush it, when Bucky deposits you on your bed. You watch him move around the room like he belongs there.

He does.

He’d belong with you, if he wasn’t such a massive butt about your existence.

“It’s your fault, you know.”

Bucky glances up from your dresser, fisting a shirt in his hands. “What?”

“You.” You say, because it’s that simple.

He’s the reason you’re drunk. That you didn’t score tonight, that you’d been crying, that you have to be coddled like a baby.

Not that you mind that last one. It’s wonderful, having him touch and speak to you like he cares.

It’s still all his fault.

“What’s me?” He says, and you roll your eyes at the ceiling.

“All of it.”

Bucky says your name, and you wave him off with a dramatic sigh. You can hear him pad slowly across the room, and when he pulls you up gently you flop over his body. A useless ragdoll he’s trying to get a shirt onto.

But the harder you make it, the longer he’ll stay. The longer he’ll be nice, and touch you, and-

“I love you.”

Bucky stills. Your words hang in the air, but you don’t understand why. You’ve said far worse things to him, and he must have known. You know. You’re pretty sure Nat does too, with all the looks she’s always giving you after Bucky teases you and you flush, or you bicker and he marches away with a scowl.

It’s not some grand confession. You love him like the seasons turn and the sun always rises. It’s a deep, mechanical part of you that can’t be rewired, and you know because you’ve tried. But Bucky’s leans back and stares at you like the sky is falling.

“What?”

His voice is a croak, and you frown at him.

“I love you.” You say it slower this time. Maybe you’d slurred the words, and he hadn’t understood. “It’s your fault, because I love you and you’re just… There.”

He blinks at you slowly, obviously still not understanding. You roll your eyes, and flop back down.

Bucky coughs, grabbing your knee as if to steady himself. He’s sitting down, and it’s not like he’s in love. The world is perfectly under his feet. You’re the one suffering.

“I’m here?”

“All the time.” You whine, and his grip on your knee tightens.

“But you love me.”

“Mhm.”

“So why’s it problem that I’m here-“

“Because you never do anything.”

You can hear the frown in his voice. “I do things. I do lots of things-“

“You never touch me.” You prop yourself on your elbows, glaring down at him. “You just- You’re there, and you don’t like me and it- It makes me-“

“Makes you what.” Bucky’s voice is deep, his eyes dark on yours, and you stick your tongue out at him.

“You don’t get to know.”

“I don’t get to know?” He snorts. “No, you can’t just- You can’t say that kinda stuff then-“

“I wish you’d touch me.” You tell the ceiling.

Bucky grunts. “Yeah, I’ve heard. But-“

“Think I could cum just from listening to you talk.” You hum, your voice sounding like a faraway dream.

Your eyes are getting heavy, and Bucky’s gone completely silent. The words start to float out of you, like steam escaping through windows, into the warm, open sky.

“I’d like to touch you, too. Put you in my mouth, or just- ride you.” You sigh. “I want everything. I’d do- Do anything you told me too if you asked. Anything.” You look back up at him, your lip wobbling again. “But you never ask me. Why don’t you ever ask me?”

Bucky’s gaping at you, and he shakes his head, his voice a low croak. “I, uh- You’ve never-“

He swallows, glancing down, and you follow his gaze.

He’s straining through his jeans, shifting uncomfortably. You giggle, flopping back down. Your eyes start to droop, the room fading in and out. Bucky rises over you with a sigh, pulling the blankets up.

“’S nice.” You murmur. “You. Bein’ here.”

You yawn, and Bucky’s laughs. Under his breath, like an inside joke he won’t bring you into.

“Yeah. I know.” His hand grazes over your cheek, and you hum sleepily, eyes closing.

His lips press to your forehead, and it’s like a spell. The world, slowly and easily, starts to slip away.

“Sleep well, baby.” He mutters, and under that command, you do.

He’s not there when you wake up, and you have to be okay with that.

You don’t know how you’re ever going to face him again anyway. There’s a fog hanging over your brain, but it’s not thick enough that you can’t remember last night.

Bucky saw you naked. He was in your room, and put you to bed, and you-

You told him you loved him.

That you wanted him. That you could cum just from him talking to you.

You have to move. You have to change your name and move as far away as possible. Maybe Siberia, or Russia, or Romania, or somewhere he’ll never find you again. Because you told him you loved him, and now he’s gone.

He left a water on your bedside table. Mocking you with the fact that last night was real.

You force yourself to sit up, rubbing your temples, and take the glass. If you’re never going to see Bucky again, and you don’t plan to, there’s no need to spite him with ignoring it.

When you stand up, it takes a few deep breaths to start moving. Nat isn’t home yet, and she probably won’t be for a while. That gives you plenty of time to wallow before you vanish forever. You can spend the morning moping and cursing yourself, then worry about consequences.

You make cereal and put on coffee. Stare at the little bits floating through the milk, and try not to think about Bucky. If he’s thinking about you.

If he is, you don’t want to imagine what. That you’re a whore for throwing yourself at him, a fool for think he’d be open to such a confession—from you of all people—or maybe just the same as he always did. Maybe he’d known the whole time, and he just thinks you were gutsy to say it aloud when he so clearly wants nothing to do with you.

Nothing at all, but taking care of you while you’re drunk. Giving you a bath and putting you to bed, handling you like something precious and kissing the side of your head.

That could have been just more mocking. The same game he’s always played, accusing you of wanting him then laughing. Like he’d already known.  

But playing that game while you’re out of it isn’t Bucky’s style. He likes you biting back, sometimes he dangles comments over your head and grins when you snap at them. So there’d be no reason for him to play when you weren’t even able to a join him. But then there’s no reason for  him to act like that at all.

It’s too early to be thinking this much. You put all your hopeful bets on Bucky having somehow forgotten everything, so you don’t have to move.

The door opens down the hallway, and you glance up. It’s early for Nat to be back.

But it’s not Nat that calls your name through the house.

“Where’d you- Hi.”

Bucky walks into the kitchen, and you stare at each other. He’s wearing his clothing from last night, his hair mussed, two paper coffee cups in his hands. You swallow, and he coughs, glancing around the kitchen.

“I got you coffee.” He mutters a little bitterly, and you follow his gaze to the rumbling coffee machine.

“Oh.”

“You don’t have to- It’s here.” He puts it on the counter, and you nod, focusing back on your cereal.

You’re both silent for another long moment. There air is thick, like a swamp at the height of summer. You’re not sure how you remember to speak.

“How’d you know I was up?”

“Your door was open.” He mutters. “Made sure it was closed before I went out.”

“Did you-“

“On the couch. Just, uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, eyes locked onto yours. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone, and- I think we, uh- You said some things. That we should talk about.”

You rip your gaze away as you flush, but if you’d had any hope of pretending you’d been too drunk to retain the night and just hoping he’d leave you be, that ruins it.

Bucky’s eyes narrow. He walks forward, until he’s right at your side. You can feel his presence buzzing through you, and swallow.

“You remember.” His voice is low, and he leans further down before you can protest. “Don’t lie to me. We’ve both been lyin’ way too much.”

You don’t dignify him with an answer. With even a glance.

Bucky leans closer.

“You said you wanted to touch me.” He’s almost growling in your ear. “You said you wanted me in your mouth, that you wanted me to ride you, that you’d do anything I told you-“

“James.” You hiss, twisting to glower at him.

Mistake.

He looks hungry. His eyes are blown out, only inches from yours, his tongue darts over his lips when you look down at them. He’s watching you like a dog that’s finally been told it can have its bone. Your grip on the counter tightens. It’s hard to stay upright.

“Full name.” He hums, the corners of his lips tugging up. “I’m in trouble.”

“You’re being a dick-“

“Yeah, but you like it.”

“I- You-“

“You love it.”

You freeze at that word. The air feels thin now. Your face is burning, and Bucky’s as collected as ever. Like this is all still just a game to him.

“Fuck you.” You spit. It takes everything you have.

Bucky doesn’t even flinches. “Yeah, you want to.”

Your mouth falls open, and he leans in closer.

“You meant it, right? Everything you said?”

Denying seems pointless. You try to anyway, but your lips barely prepare for the word no before Bucky’s giving you a stern look—don’t lie to me—and your voice dies.

He says your name, and it’s the same voice he used last night. Lighter, gentler, man trying to tend instead of force. You weren’t any match for it last night, but that doesn’t seem to be the drink’s fault. You give in just as easily right now.

“Yes.” You breathe.

Bucky’s eyes flash. “All of it?”

“Bucky…”

“Do you want me.” His voice is demanding now, and you try to look away.

He catches your chin, pulling you back. Forcing your gaze onto his, onto those beautiful, enchanting eyes.

You nod, and he hums in approval. The sound settles, molten and warm in your tummy.

“Do you love me?”

His words sound so sincere and taunting at the same time. You can’t look away, so you glare, and he chuckles.

“Come on, baby.” He brushes his lips over yours, his voice becoming something low. Something dangerous.

You don’t even bother to move away this time. You’re breathing in your chest, your stomach filled with too much desire to do much else. The brush of his lips let you taste coffee and mint, and his grip on your chin is commanding. You’re only putty in his hands. A lost cause that doesn’t really want to be found.

“Don’t make me fuck it out of you.”

Bucky’s eyes gleam, and he’s playing again. He knows he has you, that you want to be had.

His hand drags slowly, gently, on your waist. His fingers dip under your shirt, the soft touch making you gasp. You lean forward, and Bucky leans back. He tilts his head slightly, something stern still in his gaze. You blink hopelessly, trying to figure out what, and he squeezes your hips. It’s grounding and electric, and he presses back forward as you go still below him.

“Do you want me to fuck it out of you.” He growls, and your mouth falls open with a whimper.

Permission. He was holding himself on a leash for your permission.

Doubt drains from your head, far down south where a warm, summer storm is brewing between your thighs.

You spread your legs slowly, and grab his hand on your hips. Push it slightly down, until his attention follows.

Bucky’s jaw clenches, and his hand on your chin drops. You watch as he moves so tantalizingly slow, brushing the band of your panties before dragging down the seam at the apex of your thighs. He rubs you over the fabric, and your hips buck into the touch.

“Fuck.” Bucky hooks two of his fingers, tearing your underwear in one rip. “You’re so wet. Soaked through the panties, soaking my fucking fingers.”

You moan, pressing your face into his shoulder. Bucky dips his fingers into your heat, smearing the arousal all over your pussy, and you shake.

“Bucky-“

“You got this,” he spanks your pussy, then drags the mess down your inner thighs. “’Cause I’m here? Or just from thinking about me?”

“B- Both.” You mumble, trying to keep still as the broad pads of his fingers find your clit, rubbing in slow, tantalizing circles.

He hums. “You think about me a lot?”

Pressing hard on the sensitive button. Your knees give out, and you’re only caught by his arm around you’re lower back.

“Careful, baby-“

“All the time.” You whimper the confession, looking up at him with big, teary eyes. “Think about you all the time, Bucky, you’re- You’re so- Oh my god-“

Bucky yanks his hand from your pussy, grabbing your jaw and angling it back for a kiss.

It’s slower than you thought it would be, with how he crashed over you. You’d been expecting rough and harsh, all spit and ownership. Instead there’s a certainly behind it—a rough passion that’s demanding and hot—but it’s slow. Bucky doesn’t use his tongue until you open your mouth, and he hums in satisfaction when you grab at his hair, tugging slightly.

He grabs your ass, hauling you up on the kitchen counter. His hands wander your body lazily, tracing the softness of your hips and curve of your spine. He chuckles when you arch into the touch, deepening the kiss. Stars swim behind your eyes, and you realize you’re still grinding up into his torso.

“Bucky.” You plead, and he presses another tiny kiss to your lips, taking his sweet damn time.

“Off.” He tugs at the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms to help him.

He leans back when you’re uncovered, and this time he isn’t trying to cover anything else. He palms one of your breasts, licking his lips before he takes the nipple between his fingers and rolls it. You squeak and his eyes dart up, almost studying how you shiver and blink at him.

“So reactive.” He switches to the other breast, and your fingers dig into the nape of his neck. “Almost came before I even really touched you, sweetheart. If you can’t hold it, you’re gonna be a fuckin’ wreck before I’m even done with you.”

You shake your head, face heating further. “It- It’s been a long time-“

“Yeah, but that’s not it.” He drags his hand down, over your abdomen. Back between your thighs. “You got that little toy keepin’ you satisfied-“

“Not satisfied.” You breathe, head lolling to the side as Bucky resumes his tight circles on your clit. “Not you, Bucky, fuck-“

He groans, dragging you back into a deep kiss. You give him everything you have in return, nipping at his lips and yanking his hair. Bucky groans and picks you fully off the counter, walking you both to your room and kicking the door shut.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy.” He grunts between kisses, his own steps getting a little uneven. “The stuff I wanna do to you, no way we’re covering it in one night. Years to make up for, gotta ration it.”

“Years?” You pull back, and Bucky grins.

“Oh yeah. You’re not the only one who’s not satisfied, babydoll.”

“But-“

“Ah.” He kisses you, lowering you onto the bed. “Nope. Not now.”

You frown up at him. “Bucky, you said we needed to talk-“

“And now I’m sayin’ not now. And if my memory’s right,” he grins down at you. “You’re the one who said she’d do whatever I want.”

You flush, crossing your arms over your chest, and Bucky laughs. He pulls his shirt off, and you almost fall backwards on the sheets like it’s an atomic blow.

There have been glimpses. Moments. You’ve been to the pool with him before, and he’d been shirtless there too.

But he hadn’t been standing over you, massive and radiating power. You hadn’t been close enough to trace your fingers over the scars littering his muscle, remnants from his time in the army. You reach up in a trace, tracing one closer to his pant line, and he flexes under your touch. A low sound rumbles through him, and he catches your wrist with a warning look.

You giggle. “You’re not the only one who’s sensitive.”

Bucky’s eyes flash, his voice dropping impossibly low. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak.”

Your shift in the sheets, more desire building in your already aching pussy. Bucky’s attention darts to the movement, and his throat bobs. Every muscle in his body strains, and you give him a sweet smile.

“Prove it.”

Bucky makes that deep, growling sound again and grabs your face between his hands. He presses over you, shoving his tongue down your throat, and this is the kiss you’d been expecting from before. Rough and starved, almost marking you as much as kissing you. He bullies you down into the mattress with his weight, and you spread your legs wide to accommodate him.

“You’re so soft.” He mutters, kneading your thighs as his mouth starts to trail hot kisses down your neck. “Thought about touchin’ you like this forever, about how beautiful you’d be under me. And let me tell you, baby,” he nips under your jaw. “Better than I managed to dream.”

You grind up below him, trying to chase a little more friction. You keep meeting the rough fabric of his jeans, and the drag is beautiful, but it’s still not enough.

“Needy girl.” Bucky drags your legs apart, pressing his hips firmly over your core. The sudden pressure does the trick, and you moan, tipping your head back in brief relief. “Yeah, you like that. Feels so good and I’m not even doin’ anything.”

“Bucky, don’t- Don’t tease-“

“But it’s so fun.” He coos, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You get all nervous, makes me want to stuff you up with cock and see how you squirm-“

You make a loud, wanting sound, trying to fuck your hips up into the air. But Bucky’s heavy. You can only claw at his shoulders, and it just makes him tease more.

His rolls his hips, dragging the bulge in his jeans over your burning core. Your mouth falls open, and he kisses you, sneaking and arm tight around your back.

The forced arch of your back makes your legs open widen, giving him further access. He starts to rut against your bare pussy, and it’s perfect torture. Your arms are tight enough around him to choke, but it doesn’t slow him down. Bucky dry fucks you, your pussy throbbing desperately for release, arousal trickling down your ass and every thrust filling you with a burning pleasure.

You hadn’t been lying. It’s been a long time. But that’s not the only reason why you’re already so close to the edge again. Bucky’s body is everywhere around you, his thick arms holding you tight, his lips wandering over your neck and cheeks, leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. The friction is everything, he’s everything, and you don’t have enough restraint to fight it.

The orgasm is sudden and harsh, shaking your whole body. You claw at his back, twitching and whining in his ear. You didn’t know you could cum that hard, hard enough to make eyes close from the overwhelming sensation, and it’s just from dry humping.

Bucky groans in your ear and pulls back suddenly. His eyes are lidded, expression lustful, and his palm flexes near his bulge like he’s forcing himself not to rub it. Your breathing is uneven, your pussy still aching, and you reach down to try and rub your clit until he collects himself.

He catches your wrist and pins it to the mattress, shaking his head. “You just fuckin’ came, baby.”

“I- I know- I just-“ You try to turn, and Bucky slaps your cheek lightly. Forces your attention back to him.

“You’re a big girl. Use words.”

You want to glare at him, but something about the slightly mocking order makes your pussy throb. Bucky raises his brows, and you barely manage not to drool.

“Want more.” You mumble, and he grins.

“And?”

“And?”

“You what?”

You stare for a second, then roll your eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”

Bucky smirks, squeezing his hold on your wrist. “’S alright. We’ll get there.”

You stick out your tongue, and he hums.

“That’s not very nice, baby. Think we need to work on your manners.”

“My manners are fine-“

“You’re a brat.” He teases, and you flush.

“I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. You’re a wet, needy little fuckin’ brat.” Bucky starts to move your hand between your legs, and you pretend to try and pull away.

He sees the challenge, and yanks it down. Presses it against your core, making you shake. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky laughs.

“Look at you.

“You really still got that vibrator?”

You nod, and he pulls your hand up. kisses your knuckles, eyes sparkling. 

“Grab it.”

You scramble up the moment he lets go of you, yanking open your bedside drawer and pulling out the pink rabbit. Bucky grabs your hips before you can roll back over, pulling you backward with your ass in the air. You twist to look at him and find his attention entirely fixed on your core. On the mess between your legs.

He’s almost in a trance, as he drags two fingers through your pussy lips. You flutter, overly sensitive from before, and Bucky shoves his fingers right into your pussy.

You go limp, at the sudden stretch. Bucky’s fingers are everything you’d imagined they’d be, and more. Rough in all the right place, deft and thick, crooking right at the edges as he finds your g-spot faster than even you can sometimes. He hums like he’s figured out something interesting and kisses the curve of your ass. He starts to rub the tips of his fingers, massaging that happy, spongey place inside you, and you moan into the sheets.

“Bu- Bucky-“

“You’re tight.” He mutters, kissing between your ass and pussy, the tiny patch of skin that sends a shiver up your spine. “And wet. Gonna feel real good around my cock, babydoll. Got a perfect pussy for me to fill up.”

You make another desperate sound, and Bucky presses further in.

“Oh, that sounds good to you, doesn’t it. Getting stuffed full of my cum, being my pretty cockslut. I’d make you walk around with it after, wear a skirt so I can fuck you again whenever you run out. Fuck you until it’s stained on your legs, until everyone can fuckin’ smell it. ‘Till they know you’re mine.”

Your pussy clenches at the possessive promise, and Bucky groans.

“You wanna be mine, don’t you sweet girl.”

“Ye- Yes-“

Bucky yanks his fingers out of you unexpectedly, and you almost scream in frustration. You try to twist around again to chew him out, but he grabs the back of your neck and shoves you into the sheets. You go limp, trembling as tears prick at your eyes. Bucky arms snakes around your stomach, his thumb resting under your clit. Never touch it, or where your pussy is fluttering, desperate to be filled.

“Say it.” He grunts, and you shake your head. You’re not that easy.

Bucky doesn’t seem in any rush to give up though. He spanks your pussy, and you cry out in a mix of pain and delight.

“Say it.” He orders, and your hands fist in the sheets as he spanks your pussy again. You grind against him, chasing more, and he pinches your clit hard.

You almost fly out of your skin, a lewd, garbled plea escaping your lips as another orgasms rushes through you. This one is shorter, but no less consuming. You clench around nothing, mouth hanging stupidly open, and Bucky sucks near your throat, his teeth brushing and making the pleasure all the more intense.

“Fuckin’ brat.” He mutters, awe almost coating his voice. “I’m a damn saint, making you cum again when you’re so greedy. When you got this hungry little pussy, begging to be stuffed with cock, and I’m letting you go first.”

“Please,” you try to flip over, but Bucky’s hold on you is too strong. “Bucky, please- Please just fuck me.”

“Oh, I will.” He kisses under your ear, voice silken and taunting. “But not now, babydoll. Then we would’ve brought this out for nothing.”

“What’s-“

A buzzing sound fills the air, and your eyes widen.

“Bucky, wait-“

“You know, you get more sensitive after you cum.” Bucky drawls, dragging the thick tip of the rabbit up and down your pussy. You try to focus on your breathing, squeezing your eyes shut as your body starts to get swept away in a wildfire.

“God, fuck-“

“Quiet.” He grunts. “I’m trying to talk, sweetheart. Be good.”

You nod, biting on your lower lip, desperate to listen well. To be good.”

“Like I was saying.” Bucky drawls, shoving the vibrating dildo up against your clit, then yanking it away. “You get more sensitive. And I was thinking all night about your little confession. That you can cum just from listening to me talk.” Bucky hums, dragging the head down to rest right over your entrance. “I like a challenge, but I’m got enough on my hands with you today. And since I’m so nice.” He pushes the thick length a little inside you, and your pussy clenches around it. “I’m gonna give you some extra hands. Extra sensitive,” he gives your clit a series of tiny hits, shoving the rabbit in deeper. “Some fake fuckin’ cock to get you ready for the real thing, and me.”

Bucky drags you back into his lap, right as he shoves the dildo home. You almost scream as the smaller bit presses over your clit, the thicker part driven right against where Bucky already knew your g-spot was.

“Bucky- Holy shit-“

He pulls your face to the side, silencing you with a deep kiss as you shake. You’ve already cum twice. That’s more than usual, and you’re not sure if you’ve got another.

You don’t get to tell him that, though. You don’t think he’d care to hear it right now, and fuck, do you want to see him try.

“I said quiet.” He growls when he pulls away, and before you know what’s happening he’s shoving the same fingers that had been in your pussy into your mouth.

You melt immediately, sucking on them as your eyes flutter. Bucky groans in your ear, moving his free hand to hold the rabbit inside your gushing, oversensitive pussy.

“Good girl.” He drawls in your ear. “Didn’t even have to ask, you just knew didn’t you. Fuck, you suck my cock half this good I’m not gonna be able to last ten minutes.”

You moan, and Bucky kisses the corner of your jaw before continuing.

“I know you’d like that. What was it you said? That you wanted to touch me? When this is done we can get you on your knees. If you behave.” He nips at your sweaty skin. “I’ll let you suck my dick. I’ll even fuck your face if you ask real nice. I hope you’re nice, baby, cause I can imagine it. You crying, lips around me, fucking your fingers while you choke on my cock. My pretty baby, my sweet fuckin’ doll loving me so much.”

You slump back against him fully, hips rolling uselessly, and it’s more subtle this time. The heat building at the bottom of your tummy, winding tight and made of a strange pressure.

“You’re gonna say it.” He coos in your ear, and your pussy starts to fight against the rabbit. Like it knows you can barely take it.

But you can’t lend it much energy. You like this position well enough.

“After you cum for me again, I’ll fuck you. Fuck you properly like the brat that you are.” Bucky groans, pressing his nose into your hair. “Walking around, making me feel like I’m the asshole for wanting you, for loving you when you’re snapping off at me,you’re a mouthy fuckin’ thing, aren’t you babydoll. Lotta bark but,” he pushes his fingers further into your mouth. “Not even a little bit of bite.”

Your eyes roll back, head pressing into his shoulder, and you give him a silent look of pleading that’s only met with a mocking grin.

“So pretty like this, sweetheart. Stupid and quiet, I ain’t even fucked you yet. Won’t clean you up after you’re done, just let you walk around with it dripping. Maybe I’ll fuck you until it sticks. Until you’re mine.”

Your back arches, and you’re so close. You can feel Bucky’s dick twitch against your ass, and somewhere in the distance your thoughts manage to collect enough to tell you that he removed his bottoms at some point.

“Fuck, ‘course you’re into that. Shouldn’t have expected more from you, with how much you love this. You’re close, baby.” His lips tease the shell of your ear. “So close.”

You whimper, grinding down onto him as the dildo vibrates, and Bucky groans. He pins you down to his lap with a hiss, fingers flexing on your stomach.

“Shit- You can’t just-“

He presses his mouth where your neck meets your shoulder, kissing and sucking as his dick throbs against you, and his dirty talk becomes mumbled and deep. 

“My pretty fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for it, cum for me, babydoll, come on, fuckin’  show me how much your greedy pussy wants my dick-“

The pressure breaks like a flood. Your pussy gushes so hard it pushes out the rabbit, and your head flies back as you grind into the air. Bucky moans, fully moans, and starts to rub your clit back and forth with the palm of his hand. You grab his wrist, spasming and trying to chase it and escape all at once. You whine as it becomes all too much, batting at Bucky’s hand.

He stops, collecting your release on his fingers.

When he presses them against your lips, you open. Hum as he feeds your own juices to you. All you can do is lap at his fingers and look at him under fluttering lashes, and he smiles.

“Good girl.” He coos, and your body seizes up again. You moan around his fingers, and Bucky laughs.

He pulls them out, turning your head for a gentle, deep kiss. You’re boneless and cockdrunk, only able to let him give and give whatever he’s willing. You can’t even try to drag him close.

Bucky rolls you over, making sure your back is pressed into the mattress as he kisses you lazily. He rises up after a few moments, his gaze raking down your body, and you flush. If you had more strength, you’d cover yourself. You’ve never been good at being looked at.

But there’s nothing expect awe and affection in Bucky’s eyes. He traces a hand over your every curve and softer spot, rising slowly on his knees to part your legs.

“You’re a miracle, baby.” He murmurs, pumping his cock in his hands and for once, you feel like one. “Look at what you do to me.”

You do, and you might be about to burst into flames.

Bucky’s thick. Long, but not enough to worry you, and thick. He’s going to drag, be able to get balls deep and make you feel him everywhere.

You’re drooling, and he sees it. He smirks knowingly, and you wrinkle your nose.

“Come on.” He teases. “Say it, and it’s all yours.”

You shake your head, and Bucky hums. Crawls back over your body, notching his cock right at your entrance. His hovers his lips over yours, not quite fully kissing.

“Say it.”

When you find your voice, it’s raspy and broken.

“No.”

“But you know you want to.” He presses the first inch inside, and if you’d had any worries about not being able to take more, they’re knocked away with how good he feels.

You were right. He’s an even bigger stretch than his two fingers, and it perfect. There’s a slight ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the closeness. By how well he fits, how much you need more of this brimming, explosive pleasure already threating to take you over.

“Just say it, pretty girl. Say it for me.”

You shake your head, and Bucky pushes further in, and your hands fly into his hair like they were pulled there.

He groans, rutting into you, and bottoms out. You didn’t know you could feel this good. Be this full. Bucky moans in your ear, and you breath slowly, trying to adjust.

“You feel so good.” He smashes his lips over yours, the kiss demanding and long. “Knew you’d feel this good, always knew you’d feel this good, Christ-“

You roll your hips up, and it makes Bucky jerk. He slams into you, knocking the air from your lungs, and your toes curl in delight.

He barks your name, grabbing your jaw, and you beam at him.

“More.” You breathe, and Bucky’s eyes widen in slight surprise.

He recovers fast.

“Yeah?” He pulls out slowly, then slams back in, his tip kissing your cervix. “You like that? Like being fucked like a toy?”

You moan happily, and Bucky laughs.

“Thought you might surprise me, babydoll, but no.” He taps your cheek, and you open without a thought. “You’re just the pretty cockslut I thought you were.”

He drags all the way out again, but this time pushes in slower. You whine, but he doesn’t even acknowledge you, setting a slow pace that feels good, but is far too much. The roughness made you numb with a good, fuzzy sensation, but this makes you feel it. Bucky’s cock dragging against your gummy walls, the press of him over your g-spot and heat of him, right over your clit.

You can barely take it. You’re already so fucked out from the other orgasms, you’re barely able to hold onto Bucky properly. You think you might be about to black out from pleasure, but no part of you wants him to stop altogether, and how you’re trapped somewhere between paradise and hell.

“Look at you.” He grabs one of your breasts, palming it as he thrusts smooth and deep. “Nobody else does this to you, do they. Makes you feel so good, gets you so stupid on their cock.”

You shake your head, and Bucky taps your mouth again.

“Words.”

“Bucky…”

“Want to hear you, sweet girl.” He kisses your cheek, words pure filth in your ears. “Here you scream for me while I fuck you, hear how much you love it.”

“Can’t-“

“Yes, you can.” He slams a little firmer, giving you a pointed look. “Good girls listen. And when they listen,” he repeats the motion, holding your gaze. “They get filled up.”

You whimper, but nod. Bucky smiles in satisfaction, returning to his torturous speed from before.

“Anyone else do this to you?” He grunts, and you shake your head.

“No- No. Never, Bucky, only you-“

He groans, picking up his pace. “That’s fuckin’ right. No one fucks you like this, I’m gonna ruin you. If you wanna cum you’ll have to find me, I’m the only one who plays this perfect fuckin’ pussy- Shit-“ He groans, jaw clenching as he hits a little deeper than before. “Nobody takes care of you like me-“

“No one.” You echo, and you’re rewarded with another rough slam. “No one, Bucky, only- Only wanted you, needed you- Fuck-“ You cry out, pressing your cheek into his jaw. “You and your thick cock, needed you so bad-“

“I know. I know, babydoll, but I’m here now.” He kisses you quickly, speeding up again.

It’s enough to make you start to feel it again. Not slowly building, but being dragged out. The tip of Bucky’s cock drags through you, and that hot feeling in your core starts to fill up again. 

“Wanted to do this for so long.” He groans in your ear, and a loud moan escapes your lips. “You really got no idea, I thought I was gonna lose it every time I saw you, thought you’d never let me- God-“

You clench around him, and Bucky angles your hips up, allowing him to hit deeper. You moan, and he kisses the back of your neck, sucking a dark mark.

“My girl.” He mutters possessive, and you babble an agreement. “My smart, mean fucking baby, drunk on my cock. Prettiest girl in the world, mine-“

You moan, and Bucky cuts himself off with a groan. He kisses you again, then rises over you. Bracing his arms on either side of your head as he looks to where he’s fucking into you. Your gaze follows, and the warmth in your gut flares at the sight.

It’s the most vulgar, pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Bucky’s thick cock, sliding in and out of you with ease. Precum and your own need for him shining on the thickness of him, his chest flexing with restraint as he forces himself to keep the same pace. You watch his cock vanish into your body, and feel him deep inside you, and God-

You look up, checking if Bucky’s as strangely moved by that as you are, and find him staring at you. The moment your eyes meet, he grabs your jaw, pressing you back down into the pillows with a rough kiss. You’re unable to do anything but take it all. Bucky’s tongue pressing down your throat, his lips moving expertly over yours, his cock fucking every word but his name out of your head.

“Look at me.” He rasps when he pulls away, and you nod.

His eyes are almost wholly black, and shining. Tears prick at yours, but Bucky leans down, kissing them away before going faster again.

His balls start to slap on your ass, his cock pumping in and out of you until it’s all you can think about. Bucky deep inside you, lighting you up, how you can feel a rush up your spine with his every thrust. A lewd, wet sound is filling the room as he pounds into you. Your pussy burns and spasms every time, but it’s too good to fight.

Bucky’s too good to fight. You don’t know why you tried for so long.

“Bucky-“ You breathe, and he grunts.

“You’re close, sweetheart.” He mutters, and you don’t know how he knows, but he’s right.

You’re about to snap again. To lose it from how he’s fucking you like you’re a doll and the love of his life, all at once. You grab his wrist, squeezing tight.

“Pretty girl,” he teases. “Gonna soak this cock like a good girl, aren’t you. Give it to me, baby, show me how much you love it-“

“Love you.” You breathe out, and Bucky freezes.

Balls deep, he stills. His cock throbs in protest, but he doesn’t seem to care. 

You blink at him, praying you didn’t ruin it. Bucky swallows, and rasps out your name.

“What?”

“I- I love you- Oh.”

He jerks into you when you say it, and you almost fly out of your skin.

“Fuck, Bucky- I- I love you-“

It happens again, but you don’t think he’s doing it to mess with you. He can barely seem to control himself, his attention almost feral as his cock jumps inside you.

“I- I love you- Oh my god-“

Bucky dives over you, kissing you like he’s trying to steal the words from your mouth. Like he can taste them.

“Damn right you do.” He grunts, cock dragging inside you as he starts to fuck you, shallow and brutal. “Love you, love you so much, you’re-“

He kisses you, and somewhere through the floating, hazy dreamworld his cock is fucking you into, you think he’s run out of words.

Bucky’s fucking you like an animal, because there’s nothing left for either of you to say. He pulls your hips back up to that angle from before, returning to that pace from before that pulled the confession out of you. You’re in incoherent, babbling mess, tugging at the sheets and watching Bucky above you like he’s God.

“Good girl.” Is all he’s grunting out, but it’s deep and every word of a noise than anything else. “Mine, my good fucking girl, gonna fill you up, you’re-“ He moans, doubling over your body as his thrusts become short and harsh. “You’re perfect-“

From nowhere, you find the strength to reach up and grab Bucky’s face. You pull it down, kissing him with every word you’re too ruined to say, and he moans.

Bucky slams home, muttering your name against your lips like a prayer. You can feel him everywhere. Hot and sticky, pumping deep into your own heat, coating your walls, dripping out and running down your ass. When Bucky starts to move again, slow and lazy, he presses it deeper, spreads it everywhere.

It’s hot on your clit, and Bucky’s still jerking and spraying inside of you. You’ve never been this full, it’s addicting. Your brain is empty, body alight with the feeling, Bucky’s cum so thick and demanding that you could swear you feel it washing through your whole body.

He reaches between your legs to rub your clit.

You get there all on your own.  

Your vision goes white, as you cum. You’re so out of it you feel it the same way you feel a cool breeze. Light and relieving, washing over the heat inside you and pulling a happy sigh from your lips.

Bucky kisses you, and this time it’s only sweet. All his mean words and taunts so easily dissolve as you reach up, running your fingers through his hair. He smiles against your lips, and you smile back.

“Told you I’d do it.” He mutters, and you shove his chest with a weak laugh.

“Shut up.”

He grins, moving up to kiss your brow, then the side of your face. He’s still buried inside you. Neither of you are in a rush to move any time soon.

“You mean it, though.” He pauses, moving back over your body.

There are those worry lines again. You reach up with a tiny smile, and soothe your fingers over them. Bucky hums, leaning into your touch, and you smile.

“Yeah.” You whisper, and his shoulders sag.

“Thank god.” He presses his face between your breasts. “That would’ve been bad.”

You laugh, running your fingers through his hair, and he wraps his arms around your body. He’s slid out a little, but you’re still connected to him, and you never want to move again.

“How long?” He mutters against you, tilting his head to meet your gaze. “Cause mine was when I saw you.”

You flush stupidly—he’s inside you—and mumble, “Me too.”

Bucky frowns. “But you were always- “

“And were you any better?”

He snorts, leaning up to peck your cheek. “Fair shot.”

“I know.” You snip, then, “You- You meant yours, right? I mean- What you said while…”

You trail off, because you didn’t imagine it. I love you and mine, too sincere to just be dirty talk.

Bucky rises back over you, gently guiding your gaze back to his. He smiles when your eyes meet, and kisses the tip of your nose.

“With everything I fuckin’ got.” He mutters, and you smile.

“Good.”

“I know. I mean, I did really well for myself- I’m complimenting you, woman!”

You’d shoved him, and Bucky grabs your wrists, wrestling them down into the mattress. He looks at you with a rough, fond exasperation.

“You’re a gremlin.”

“You like it.” You beam up at him, and he lower back down, kissing you lightly.

“Tough curse.” He mutters. “But I’m enjoying it.”

You roll your eyes at him, and he grins. Beautiful and all yours.

“Can we stay here for a while?” You ask, just because you want to have this, and sit in it. “Please.”

Bucky nods, and you feel your heart shine like it’s been given new batteries. Beating out of your chest and comfortably all at once, as Bucky rolls you both onto your sides, wrapping tight around you.

“We can do whatever you want.” He mutters, rubbing your hips and kissing the marks on your neck.

You relax, because you believe him. About all of it.

And now, you have him with you for all the time in the world.

✦End note: big fan of that horny old man in every universe.✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[blowingbarnes]

Neighborhood Watch

Pairing: DILF!Neighbor!Steve x Reader Word count: 10.6k Warnings: cheating (steve is in a loveless marriage), voyeurism, peeping tom!steve, reader plays with this man wayyyyy to damn much, masturbation (m&f), age gap! (reader is like mid 20s, Steve is pushing 40), sweat kink, size kink, fingering, finger sucking, "we shouldn't", mention of a daddy kink, reader is pervy too, p in v, car sex, mentions of road head (m receiving), mating press. Summary: Your neighbor Steve just wants to make sure you're safe, surely, that's why he's always watching you. And what kind of friendly neighbor would you be if you didn't at least give him something pretty to look at? +fran: all I have to say is that I meant to only write a single scene out of all of this and somehow this monstrosity came to be. terminal case of yappitis. dt: my cuteness aggression queens: @epiphanyrogers and @pinksplace, thank you for letting me pick your brains and giving me feedback on some of these lines.

Steve was a good man.

He's always been kind, none of his high school or college ex-girlfriends even had a bad word to say about him. He was a good friend, always willing to lend a hand and help.

He was a good husband, Peggy had no complaints. He was a neat guy, gorgeous in his own way, humble, and great in bed. Except the spark had died about 4 years into their now five year marriage.

Nothing specific just... A roommate situation.

In a last ditch effort to save the marriage instead of fully separating, they got drunk, trying to find the spark that brought them together senior year at Columbia again, and... Jamie came to be.

The now eight month old boy was the light of Steve's life. Named after his best friend, who he thought couldn't be anymore smug about it, Steve loved being a dad. He loved showing his kid how things in the world work for the first time, even if Peggy would dismiss it with a simple "he's not gonna remember this, darling".

The thing is, Steve was a good man.

Which was why it was so hard to come to terms with the fact that whenever his eyes weren't fixated on you, his mind would be imagining all kinds of things that included your perfect existence.

He was sure you came into his life to test him. Test his discipline, his will. Test the strength of the vows he exchanged with Peggy years ago, which now were not strong at all.

It started simple, harmless almost.

He'd see you when he was out for a run early mornings, usually doing yoga in the sunroom of your parents house, the one you moved into after college while you saved up to buy a condo in the city.

At first, he'd avoid his gaze, tell himself this is not how a married man behaves.

Then he'd find excuses.

They started to replace the sidewalk on a patch at the end of his run, so he'd have to stop halfway, and come back the same way, just in time to see you on the elliptical that faced the window, and the beads of sweat dripping down your chest between your breasts in that skimpy sports bra.

He was running more often, while Peggy had Jamie and was adamant on sleep training him. Steve couldn't bear to listen to her let him cry it out.

One scorching day he came back from a run, sweat darkening his grey tank top, checked the mailbox on his way in, grabbed a couple packages that we're sitting on the doorstep and bee-lined to the cupboard to grab himself a glass for ice water.

He really needed to like treadmills more, at least then he'd have his water bottle next to him.

As he gulped the last few sips of the cup, he went on about his day, waiting for his heart rate to come down a bit, waiting to stop sweating enough for a shower to be productive.

He went through the mail, threw the junk mail out, put the things needing attention in a neat pile on the kitchen isle to take care of later.

Then, came the packages.

Mindlessly opening them, a couple were things he'd got for a new little greenhouse project, different things to keep bugs away from the out of season flowers he was trying to grow, then an Amazon package had some new pacifiers for Jamie, and when he got to the last one, Steve choked on his own saliva.

The tiniest thongs, all sorts of colors, themes, just... there.

A pale pink lacy one, another light pink with mesh on the front and cherries embroidered in it, some black ones, white ones with pretty little blue flowers on them, and even a crotchless one.

The tissue paper crinkled as he went through the box more and more.

Was Peggy planning something? These aren't even her sty—

His thoughts got cut short by the doorbell, and he put the box back on the counter.

He wiped his palms on his hands and crossed the kitchen and living room, and when he opened the door, there you were. 

In your little yoga wrap top, and leggings, looking like you just got demolished by the elliptical in the best way. 

“Hi, Mr. Rogers,” you said, all breathy and sweet, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I think a package of mine might’ve been delivered here? FedEx picture looked like your porch.”

Steve stared at you. Just for a second too long, he was dumbfounded. What were you— oh. Oh. 

The Victoria's Secret box wasn't his wife's. It was yours. He just went through his neighbor's thong shipment like a fucking creep. 

Your cheeks were a little flushed from the heat, there was a bead of sweat on your temple, and you looked so young, standing there in the bright morning light, all bright eyes and no idea how hard his heart was pounding.

"Mr. Rogers?" You pulled him out of his trance and he almost wished you didn't. The inside of his head was less tempting than whatever could happen with you this close to him, even with his wife in the nursery with his kid.

"Uh, yeah—I, uh—hang on.”

He turned around to get the box, deliver his guilt to you wrapped in pretty lace and pink tissue paper. You shamelessly dragged you eyes over him. The sheen coat of swet on his arms, the damp hair on the nape of his neck, the way his shirt was sweaty enough your pervy little brain wanted to suck on it until it was dry. 

Meanwhile, he was cringing at the thought of delivering you the box. He couldn't even pretend he didn't go through it. If it was any other type of merch it would be fine, but it was lingerie, and it was you, and now he'd have to physically stop himself from picturing you in them. 

Should he apologize? Say he opened it on accident? Say he thought it was Peggy’s? Say nothing?

“Here,” he said, avoiding your eyes. “Sorry—I didn’t check the name before opening.” You took it with both hands, your fingers brushing his.

You took one look at the box and shrugged. “That’s okay,” you said, meeting his eyes now. "Just regular underwear. Everyone wear 'em, right?" A playful chuckle left your lips and a light went off in the back of his mind. 

So this was just your everyday? You were walking around smelling like roses and waffle cones, looking teh way you did, and under all of that, some sort of skimpy thong?

Steve’s brain short-circuited.

You turned, walked away down the driveway with a little sway in your hips, and Steve stood there like an idiot, still half-hard, with guilt bubbling like acid in his throat.

He let the door click closed behind you, his forehead touching the cool wood while he tried to pull himself together. He pushed away from the door with a dissatisfied goran, barely there, ready to shower the afternoon off.

When he turned around, Peggy stood there, at the bottom of the stairs, holding an obviously freshly up from a nap Jamie. 

She had one of his old college tees on, worn soft from years of sleep and laundry. Jamie was gnawing on the corner of a stuffed giraffe, looking around with wide curious eyes.

“Who was at the door?” Her voice was light, worriless. Just making conversation after a well deserved Saturday nap.

“Uh… just a delivery mix-up. One of the neighbors.” Steve tried to keep his voice even, indifferent. 

Jamie babbled something unintelligible, and Peggy kissed the top of his head before heading into the kitchen.

"You'd think a delivery company would check an address more closely." She chuckled. 

Steve gave her a nervous chuckle back and followed her to the kitchen. Jamie cooed at him, wanting to speak so bad but not quite having the words for it yet. 

A few days later, Steve thought to himself, get a grip. 

This isn't how a married man behaved, he reminded his stupid brain, and his even stupider cock, this isn't how a married man behaves towards a girl half his age and not his wife.

So he went on a run earlier. Not too much, just about an hour.

The air wasn't as warm now, he has to run a little harder to get the same sweat going, but the fair noise of the critckets through his earbuds soothed him. Mixed with the deep indigo of the sky lightening by the hour, it was like the world slowed down for a moment.

And it came to a full stop when he was at the end of his run, almost to his house, passing yours, and the lights in your room were on, your curtains being forgotten wide open and inviting the wandering eyes of a guilty ridden new father next door. 

Lit from the side by the soft, amber glow of a lamp—skin flushed, still dewy from a shower, he saw you drop your towel, and walk around your room looking for things. Just a little thong stretched across your hips, your body relaxed, soft, beautiful in a way that felt dangerously intimate.

That was enought to stop him dead in his tracks. You gathered your hair up into a loose, careless bun, strands falling free at your temples, at the nape of your neck. The kind of messiness that made him ache with the sudden, visceral urge to reach out—to tangle his fist in it, to pull, to put you exactly where he wanted you.

He wathed you pump lotion into your hands and rub it all over your chest, your breats, shoulders, and all the way down your legs, turning around to look at yourself in the mirror and put some on your ass too. 

He wondered if that's what smelled like vanilla and roses and a dissoluting marriage.

He should have looked away. He knew that. The thought barely registered anymore, drowned out by the way your nipples were visibly tight, pebbled, the way his body reacted instantly, predictably, traitorously. His cock stirred in his shorts, heavy and insistent, and shame flooded him right alongside desire.

And then you looked.

Straight.

At. 

Him. 

There was no confusion in your expression. No panic, no scramble for the curtain, just recognition.

He was already blushing from the run, the heat of his blood pumping faster to move his muscles, but the way you grinned and waved your fingers instead of looking ashamed had him turning a whole new shade. 

He held your gaze for a few seconds, enough to get his cock to stir in his pants, until the light on the house next door came on. His house.

He saw you quickly draw the curtains closed, and he sheepishly made his way in the door and up to his shower. 

Steve had just finished changing Jamie’s diaper when Peggy appeared in the doorway, arms crossed gently, that familiar half-smile on her face.

“We’re going out tonight.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Dinner. Just us. I made a reservation at that place on Monroe. The one with the garden patio you like.”

He scooped Jamie into his arms and straightened. “Peg, I don’t think we—”

“We need this, Steve.” Her voice stayed calm. Measured. “It’s been a while since we did anything just the two of us. You said you wanted to try.”

His jaw flexed. Guilt already tightening in his throat.

“There’s no one to watch Jamie.”

“Already handled. I asked the girl next door. She’s got babysitting experience—says she used to nanny when she was in school. And she’s always been so sweet when I’ve run into her with him.”

Peggy stepped closer, brushing her hand over Jamie’s head, then turning to the pile of onesies to her left. 

“She offered to babysit,” she said casually, while folding Jamie’s tiny laundry into perfect stacks. “She’s got experience, and she’s so sweet with him. Honestly, I think he lights up more for her than he does for your mom.”

The second he agreed without putting up much more of a fight, he knew he stepped into a trap of his own making. 

“What time?” he asked, voice barely steady.

“Seven-thirty.” Peggy kissed his cheek. “She’ll come by a little after seven.” He forced a tight smile. Nodded. Said nothing as Peggy walked off to pack the diaper bag just in case.

He stared down at Jamie, who was blinking up at him with the easy, gummy innocence of a baby who didn’t know his father was a fucking mess.

The hours that followed crawled. 

He was sure she knew of all of it. But what all of it was there to know? Nothing had, or would, happened. The only proof of his existing temptation was the throughts swimming in the groves of his brain, and he kept those under lock and key at the bottom of the article ocean. 

Steve couldn't focus. He kept wiping the counters even though they were clean. Rearranging mail that didn’t need touching. Every sound from outside made his heart stutter.

At 7:04, the doorbell rang its usual tone, and he answered the door, Peggy still upstairs finishing getting ready, and Jamie on his play pad in the living room. 

He was met with the sight of you in the plainest clothes he's ever seen, black leggings that hugged your lower body just right, a white tank top, and an oat-colored cashmere wrap sweater over top, holding a tote bag and a warm smile that made his stomach flip.

“Hi, Mr. Rogers,” you said brightly. “I brought some books and little toys. Hope that’s okay.”

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “That’s… yeah. Thanks for doing this.”

“Happy to help,” you chirped, stepping past him, your shoulder brushing his arm, pretending the sight of him in a dark dress shirt and his beard looking like he just trimmed it, and hair pushed back didn't make your knees weak.

Peggy appeared just behind him, purse in hand, perfume light and citrusy and familiar.

“Thank you again for doing this,” she said warmly. “He just needs his bottle around 8, he might fuss a little, but he’s been good all day.” She gestured to the living room, making sure she had the right belongings in her purse. 

“He’s an angel,” you replied, reaching for Jamie, watching him extend his arms to you like it was second nature. “We're gonna have a good time, aren't we, sweet boy?” Jamie cooed and curled into your chest like he’d belonged there all along.

He wanted to stay. Wanted to sit too close on the couch. Watch you bat your lashes while pretending to focus on cartoons. He wanted to watch your hands move, wanted to feel the weight of your gaze, wanted to see if you’d say something—anything—about that morning. About the window. The wave.

But instead, he took Peggy’s hand. Walked out the front door.

And wondered if hell felt exactly like this.

The restaurant was beautiful. Romantic, even. Everything Peggy said it would be.

Flickering candles. String lights woven through ivy. That faint, expensive smell of rosemary and wine and fresh bread. Soft music and even softer chatter all around them.

Peggy was saying something about a new gallery opening. Or maybe it was her Pilates instructor. Steve wasn’t listening. He was trying.

Really, he was.

He nodded at all the right moments, let out soft mhm’s and chuckled where appropriate. But every time he blinked, it wasn’t her voice he heard. It was yours.

He took a sip of his wine and Peggy sighed, noticing the distance, the distraction behind his expression. “I brought the monitor,” she said, proud. “See? We can still relax. Nothing to worry about.”

She turned the small screen to him, low volume to not disturb anyone else as the waiter refilled their waters. And there was Jamie. 

Sitting up in the crib, like he just woke up from what should've been an entire night's sleep, whimpering softly like he was about to start fussing. Little mouth twisted in that almost-cry, fists rubbing at his eyes.

You came into frame like something out of a dream—hair tied up, neckline of your soft cardigan slipping just slightly off your shoulder. Your hands moved with such careful affection. No tension. No rush.

“Hey, hey… sweetheart, what’s the matter?” you whispered gently. “Oh, bubba, you had a bad dream?” you cooed, scooping him up into your arms. “I’m right here. You’re okay. You’re okay, honey.”

Jamie’s cries softened the second his cheek hit your shoulder and you swayed back and forth, his tiny little fists quickly finding the cashmere fabric you wore and clutching it. 

“You just missed some snuggles, huh? It’s okay. I get it. Me too sometimes.”

His eyes stayed glued to the screen, chest tight. Something heavy pressed behind his ribs as he watched you whisper something to Jamie. 

Your hand curled around his foot, absently rubbing over the little sock, and Steve didn’t even realize his jaw was clenched until his teeth ached.

Because Peggy—Peggy, whom he loved, or used to, or wanted to love again—never touched Jamie like that. She never murmured soft things for no reason. Never stroked his cheek or held him just because. 

She followed the schedule. Let him cry it out. Laughed when Steve said he wanted to rock him longer. She mothered, but she didn’t nurture.

“See? Nothing to worry about.”

The house was dark when they got home. Just the warm, amber glow of the hallway lamp spilling faint light across the hardwood floors.

Peggy slipped in ahead of him, kicking off her heels with a little sigh. “God, I forgot what it feels like to eat without a bib being thrown at me.”

Steve chuckled lightly as he put the keys in the key bowl by the door, both of them walking towards the living room where you were, watching the sizzle of the TV light washing both your face and Jamie's back in all kinds of colors.

You were curled up on the couch, socked feet planted in front of you so your legs could be flexed, Jamie fast asleep on your chest while one of your hands lightly grazed your nails over his back. 

His cheek was pressed right above your heart, his little hand fisted in the fabric of your top, thumb resting in his mouth. You had a cheek flush with the top of his head, enjoying whatever movie you had put on.

“Sorry,” you whispered, a little sheepish when you saw both of them. “He's just so cute, I didn’t want to move him too soon. I kinda… love baby cuddles.” 

Peggy smiled, already walking over. “Oh, no worries, honey. Thank you so much for staying late. You’ve been such a help.” She reached down, carefully gathering Jamie from your arms.

Jamie stirred a little, let out a sigh, and curled right back into her like a habit.

You stood, smoothing your top, brushing invisible wrinkles from your leggings. “He’s so sweet,” you said softly. “You’ve got such a good baby.”

"He's all Steve's personality." Peggy turned around and, already halfway up the stairs with Jamie cradled in her arms, called over her shoulder, “I’ll go lay him down. Be right back.”

Silence fell between you two, and it didn't take long for you to turn to Steve, who as now looking everywhere except you.

“You guys have a good night?” He blinked, swallowed hard.

“Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse. “Yeah, it was nice.”

“That restaurant’s supposed to be amazing.” You shifted on the balls of your feet, eyes raking over him, and finally stopping at his, holding his gaze like both of you knew what unspoken words wanted to be said. He just nodded, not trusting his mouth to say anything. “I’ll, um—I should go.”

“Right,” he said, but didn’t move. You gave him one last smile, then stepped past him, grabbing your bag from the side table. “Night, Mr. Rogers.”

And with a soft click of the front door, you were gone. 

Gone from his house, but not from his thoughts.

He didn't see you for the whole weekend. 

You spent it in the city with your best friend, something about watching Hamilton, having rooftop cocktails, and dancing until your feet hurt. 

He heard you come back the same night Peggy left for her monthly girls' dinner, which consisted of wine, fine dining, and their own version of a book club in someone's house after. 

He watched the shadow of the leaves outside on his ceiling, almost staring a hole into the floral texture he let Peggy so carefully pick. It was 1:32am. 

He knew it becuase he looked at that clock probably four times in the last thirty seconds, hoping it would say it was four hours later so he could wake up and get his day started.

He tried closing his eyes, letting his mind wander into more peaceful scenarios, a quiet day at home, drinking tea, snow outside and just watching some random show while the fireplace ran. 

Except you also quickly intruded into those thoughts. 

And before he realized, he was imagining forcing your back into the plush cushions of his couch as he buried his face between your legs, lapping up between your folds like he'd never get the chance to again. 

His hand palmed himself through his grey sweats as he imagined your moans, getting more and more high pitched by the minute, as he drove you closer and closer to the ed—

Ring! Ring! Ring!

He heard the soft ringtone and vibration of his phone on the nightstand, groaning in disapproval, thinking it was Peggy calling to tell him she was on her way home and talk through her drive. It made her feel safer, but also right now it definitely made his frustrated he couldn't take care of himself. 

He turned on his side, picking up the phone without paying much attention. "Hello?" 

His voice was dripping with annoyance, a feeling he tried to keep at bay when talking to the woman he was supposed to be trying to have a happy marriage with. 

“Hey, Mr. Rogers. Sorry—it’s late, I know.” Your voice came through the speaker and he actually closed and opened his eyes a couple times thinking he was dreaming. 

"Is everything okay?" He cleared his throat when his voice failed him for a beat. 

"I keep hearing this noice outside my window, can you see anything from yours? Maybe a branch or something?"

It was pathetic how he did whatever your sweet voice told him to. Like a sailor to a siren, luring him to his own demise. 

He threw the covers off of himself, the shuffle being audible on your end of the line, and as soon as he stopped in front of his big bedroom windows that faced the side windows of your room, there you were.

Your bed faced the glass, soft glow coming from your barthoom light being on and the street lights coming in, and your frame was spread on the bed like you wanted to invite the Devil through the gates of Heaven yourself. 

The gates of Heaven, in this metaphor, being your spread thighs, pussy only covered by the white cotton of your thong, getting more sheer by the second, the more you touched yourself, rubbing two fingers up and down, making the fabric dance over your slit. 

Steve could hear your shaky little breaths through the phone, no point in trying to keep your voice level now. "What the fuck are you doing?"

He watched you shuffle a little, trying to angle your body in a way that you could steal glances at him if you contorted your neck enough. "I missed you the other night."

You let out a shaky breath when your hand finally dared to go under the fabric, touching the wet heat of your slit, dragging your fingers up and down.

Steve was speechless. What in the actual fuck was he to do?

"I'm married." He didn't know if he was trying to reason with you or himself. Either way, there was no talking sense into this situation. 

You gave a dismissive huff, reacing down to pull the thong off and throw it somewhere across the room, spreading your thighs wider. "I don't think either of us cares about that right now."

Steve’s free hand braced on the windowsill. The other still held the phone to his ear like it might collapse otherwise. “You shouldn't be doing this,” he rasped. That just made you chuckle. 

"Oh? You're gonna talk me through what I should be doing?" You bit your lip at the thought. 

Steve groaned. "You should be hanging out with people your age, not—"

"Not my obscenely hot neighbor?"

"Married neighbor."

You sighed. "You keep saying that like you're trying to convince yourself you're not enjoying this… a pretty young thing just wanting you." You heard him breat heavily, like he was absorbing the truth in your words. 

"C'mon, Steve. Let— fuck," you inserted your middle finger into yourself, a moan breaking your sentence in half. "Let your hand wander… just… touch yourself, don't make me do it alone." 

As if he needed anymore guilt to eat him alive. 

Steve’s hips shifted forward without thinking, his breath coming heavier. His cock pressed hard against the front of his sweatpants, throbbing with every shallow inhale.

You moved a little faster now, fingers slick, lips parted, and he could see the exact second your brows pulled together, your thighs tensed, and your chest heaved.

"Please, Steve…"

He shoved his sweats down just enough, cock springing free at full attention, getting redder with want, a hiss of relief leaving his lips as he wrapped his hand around himself, pumping slowly.

"God, I bet you'd feel so good —" You kept going, making him dizzy with your words, to the point where he forgot the circumstances for a moment. "I'd keep you warm, Steve, wouldn't be able to pry me off of you."

"Wouldn't want you to —" He spit in his hand, the filthy sound coming into your ears and shooting straight into your core. "Would keep you filled up, always, sweetheart."

You whined. "Want you to, oh God, Steve—ah!"

"You're close, aren't you?" He taunted, stroking himself faster. You nodded as if he could ssee you, and then realized he couldn't.

"Yeah, yeah, yes—"

Breathy and shaky and out of your mind was how you came around your fingers, imagining they were his, as he choked on his own spit across the way, watching you pump your pussy until he came on his hand, ragged breaths coming through the phone. 

You wanted to giggle to yourself, but settled for a quick "Good night, Mr. Rogers." and left him, quite literally, standing with his dick in his hands. 

Somehow, the next day brought more shame along the sunlight. 

Steve didn't know what had possessed him to cross the line. A look here and there, he had convinced himself, was fine. People looked, you could admit someone was objectively attractive without being attracted to them. 

Jerking off on the phone with your hot, younger neighbor while watching her finger herself thinking of you? 

There was no mental gymnastics that could morally justify that.

He commanded himself to keep his head screwed on straight, better and tighter than before. So he started the day gardening.

And since God hates Steve Rogers, He made you be at your parent's pool, in a nice little bikini, getting eaten by the warm sunshine like Steve wanted to devour you. 

You looked at him from a distance first. The hose is coiled around his forearm, the water spraying in slow arcs across the flower beds. You let your eyes shamelessly linger on his arms, the beads of sweat around his neck, his hair, his beard… You gave his groin all the attention it seemed to want from behind your sunglasses. 

And then, like the living divine punishment you were, you decided to get up from the tanning chair and approach him, slinging your arms over the fence and looking around him aove your sunglasses. 

“Morning, Mr. Rogers.”

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” he says quietly, not taking his eyes from the roses he was trying to keep alive in the summer heat. 

Maybe you loved playing with him a little too much. “Doing what?”

“This.” He nods toward the street, toward the sidewalk, toward you. “Flirting. Teasing. Whatever game this is.” His voice was hushed, rightfully so. 

You raise a brow. Innocent. “I’m not playing anything.” Then your voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "And I think we're way past flirting… don't you?"

“You are. You have been for weeks.”

You tilted your head, looking for him to meet your gaze. "You're gonna tell me you didn't like it? I thought it was pretty clear when guys did."

You were going to be his demise. He was sure of it. Just might as well get the shovel and start digging the six feet he'd need so Peggy could bury his ass.

“You should be going after guys your age,” he says suddenly. Quiet. Bitter. “Not married men twice your age with babies at home.”

You chuckled, turning your gaze to the street and back at him. "Boys my age are boring."

“You think I don’t lie awake every night wishing I could stop thinking about you?” He finally gave into admitting it, hoping the pathetic confession would make you want to at least help a man keep his dignity. 

He was about to keep going with his rant, when he saw you look over your shoulder and wave. "Oh! Hi, Mrs. Rogers!" You gave her a beaming smile, like you weren't trying to tangle her husband in your vines. 

Steve stiffened. Turned his head just in time to see Peggy walking across the yard with a tote bag in one hand and Jamie bouncing on her hip, dressed in a little onesie with stars on it.

“These flowers are so pretty,” you chirped, stepping back toward the fence line like you hadn’t just told Steve he was unraveling under your fingertips. “Did you plant these? They’re gorgeous.”

Peggy beamed. “I did, yes! But Steve keeps them alive. I just pick the colors.”

Jamie clapped softly, and you waved at him. “Hey, cutie.”

Peggy stepped closer, shifting Jamie to her other hip, and smiled wide at you. “Hey, we’re doing a little thing for the Fourth—just some food, neighbors, maybe sparklers in the driveway. You should come.”

Fuck me and all my life, was what Steve thought. 

“Oh!” You put a hand to your chest. “Really?”

“Of course. Bring a friend if you want. We’ll have a kiddie pool and a grill and probably too much potato salad.”

“That sounds so fun,” you said sweetly. “Thank you. I’d love to come.” You nodded. 

Peggy turned to Steve then, completely unaware of the tension vibrating off his skin.

“Babe, can you grab the sunscreen from the patio table? I left it when I brought Jamie’s snack out.”

Steve nodded mutely and stepped away without a word, fingers twitching at his sides. When he got inside he watched you two through the window, watched Peggy get Jamie closer to you and the little boy beam at you, and he wondered just how he was supposed to get out of this. 

It was the hottest day of the year, like the sun and warmth Gods were shining upon all the little kids who wanted to play in the water all day.

And like the Devil himself wanted to drag Steve Rogers down by the balls. 

Plastic chairs scattered across driveways. Coolers open. Kids shrieking over bubbles and popsicles. The scent of grill smoke hung in the air with fireworks anticipation, and patriotic bunting flapped lazily on every porch.

Little by little, everyone arrived. And with each clink of the backyard fence, Steve caught himself looking towards the sound to see if it was you. 

Exactly twenty-three minutes into the party, it was.

You had a flowery sundress on, red roses in the print contrasting with the white background. The sleeves were short, barely there, white lace straps, really. And it had a white lace trim to the sweetheart neckline. 

To anyone else, you waved at him like you'd wave to Mr. Pierce down the street, or Stark Sr on the house next to his. 

To him, he knew you were looking at him like you wanted to unhinge your jaw and swallow him whole. 

He manned the grill with such precision one would think he was trying to cook the burgers by staring them into broiling. 

You said hi to Peggy. Hugged her. Kissed Jamie’s cheek and cooed at him like you were made for it.

And Steve knew, in the marrow of his bones, that if he didn’t get himself under control, someone was gonna notice how tense he was. How the veins in his forearms were flexing under the weight of a thousand unsaid things. How his eyes lingered too long on your collarbones, your thighs, the slight sway of your hips when you laughed at something Peter Parker said across the lawn.

Steve hated how easy it was for Peter to make you laugh. And he hated that he hated it. 

He dropped another patty on the grill, the sizzle matching what his brain sounded like ringing between his ears, trying to be distracted by anything and everything that didn't smell like roses, didn't smile like an angel, and didn't sound like the Devil.

You came up behind him slow. Soft. So that no one noticed. Not Peggy chatting at the lemonade table, not Stark keeping score on the cornhole game, not Peter pretending he wasn’t watching.

“Mr. Rogers,” you murmured, the title curling at the edges like sin, “Can you make me a rare one with double cheese?”

You stepped in closer—too close for propriety, not close enough to look suspicious. Just enough to press the lightest drag of your fingers along his lower back, right above the waistband of those godforsaken powder blue shorts. 

Your nails trailed up his spine like you had every right to be there. Like your touch was casual.

You leaned in like you were checking the condiments. Your voice was so low only he could hear it. "I like mine a little more raw."

“You don't know when to fucking stop, do you?” You didn’t pull back. Instead, you picked up a paper plate from the stack and traced your thumb over the rim.

“I figured I’d get the good cut, since you’re the one handling all the meat.” That got him. He inhaled visibly and before he could say something back, your demeanor changed, and he heard someone call out your name from the other side of the party. 

A couple hours later, between watermelon margaritas and little mini quiche, Steve saw red. 

Peter was too touchy, too eager, too young for you. You'd eat him alive. There's no way he could handle you in the way you deserved. 

Everyone was still having fun, mingling at the party, and Steve, disastrouns bull-in-a-china-shop-Steve, bumped into Peter while he was carrying a bag of charcoal for more grilling, making the red liquid from Peter's glass splash all over your pretty dress. 

Peggy wasted no time, getting you a cloth and a handy tide pen, pointing you to the washroom way down the hall inside, tucked around the living room and the stairs that led to their room upstairs. 

Your footsteps were quick, not wanting to stain the fabric you knew would be a pain to clean, and as you waited for the sink water to warm up a little to make your cleaning easier, you admired your own reflection. 

Seconds later, the doorknob rattled, and you turned around.

The door opened quickly, and closed just as fast. Slow enough that Steve's big frame was now occupying the small washroom facing the mirror, your backside now pressed to the marble counter as you braced your hands on it.

Steve stood there for a second, dressed in the blue shorts and white tank top, blue eyes burning through you like he could see through skin and bone straight to the part of you that was waiting for this.

If you were Superman, you'd be able to see the cogs turning inside his skull, almost like he was trying to talk himself down of whatever he came here to do.

There was still time to turn back.

Pretend he didn't know you were in here, wrong door, let out an apology and move on with his life. His jaw flexed like he’d bitten the inside of his cheek to keep quiet, and he ran a hand through his hair like he didn’t know what else to do with it.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” you murmured, even as your fingers smoothed over your neckline. “Someone could see.”

His eyes dropped to your hands. “Don’t,” he said roughly. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Your lashes fluttered with mock innocence, tilting your face. “Fix my dress? The fabric is delicate, y'know.”

"I'm not talking about that and you know it." He paused, just to see if you'd admit it. Admit you were evil and horrible and living to ruin his life. When you didn't, he kept going."

'You think this is funny? Flirting with Parker, prancing around like that, like he has a chance, in front of—”

“I think you told me to hang out with people my age.”

The audible sound of air fuming out of his nostrils was enough to make heat travel down to your core. You could feel his restraint looser and looser by the second, you were almost there. Almost getting what you wanted. 

"You’re staring," you said lightly, fingers drifting down the cleavage of your dress as if tempting him to tear at the lace trim. "I thought it was the young guys who were supposed to have trouble keeping their eyes up."

Steve blinked, as if coming out of a fog, finally realizing just how close he had gotten to you, almost flush with you, as your eyes looked up at him with innocence that was surely long gone from your mind. 

Your breath mingled with his. He could feel it, light and teasing and so damn warm. You raised your hand to graze your fingertips on the side of his wrist, gauging how far he'd let you go.

Once you were met with no resistence, you grabbed his hand, your gaze never leaving his face while he didn't know if he should look at your clevage, your lips, or your eyes. You brought his hand under your dress, his thick fingers making contact with the wettening cotton, making you let out a shaky breath. 

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” you murmur, searching his eyes for any sort of feeling but haze. I mean, it’s polite to check on your neighbors, right?”

His lack of response was even more inviting. Like he was some helpless fool walking into a trap, only to realize he wanted to be caught.

"Doesn't it feel good? Mmm?" You tilted your head the other way. "Feeling someone who actually wants you?" 

“It must be so exhausting,” you whispered, “pretending like you don’t think about it. Like you don’t wonder.”

And that's when his control fully snapped. 

His right hand came up to grab your face, squishing your cheeks together, while his left kept its place between your thighs, his trance broken now. 

"Shut the fuck up." Steve spoke through gritted teeth but being more mad at himself for not pulling away than anything else. 

"C'mon, Steve—" Your voice was arrogant even thought you looked downright silly with your cheeks like that, and he finally looked you in the eyes. 

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says. “And you know damn well I’m the one paying for it.” He held you gaze for a second, and the rotten part of him took over. 

His index and middle fingers, previously still, moved in tight, slow circles around your clothed clit, making you let out a low chuckle against his mouth. You watched the shift in his eyes—that flicker of something hot, dangerous, uncontrollable—and you knew you had him.

“This what Peter does to you?”

A sharp little whimper escapes your throat.

“No?” His voice is cruel now. Mocking. “Then why are you dripping like this, sweetheart?”

He presses just a little harder through the cotton, dragging two fingers along your slit, slow and mean, until your knees start to buckle.

“Careful,” he murmured. “Wouldn’t want the neighbors to see what a filthy little thing you are. Can’t even make it through a block party without begging for attention.”

You tried to snap back—something snarky, something bratty, but he took his hand away, and put it back on the inside of your panties, the feeling of the pads of his fingers through your folds enough to shut you up instantly.

“Go ahead,” he whispers, eyes blazing. “Say something smart now.”

He slipped two fingers past the fabric, found your bare, swollen folds, and you went limp with a soft, broken sound. He held your face in place, watching every single twitch and tremble like he was memorizing it.

“God, you’re so desperate,” he groaned. “You want everyone to see what I do to you? Is that it? Want me to fuck you through your pretty little sundress while Peggy serves talks about cocktails twenty feet away?”

You whimpered, shaking your head even as you grind down on his hand.

“No?” He laughed, dark and malicious. “Then why aren’t you stopping me?”

“That’s what I thought,” he whispered. “My good girl’s all mouth until someone makes her use it.”

You were trembling, trying to breathe. Not even bothering to hide how hard you were clenching around his fingers, how badly you wanted him to give in, pull his hand out and unzip his jeans and just ruin you right there against sink.

You shake your head, gasping.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he muttered, more to himself than you. “Knew you were walking around this party leaking for me.”

You try to answer—try to say something—but his grip on your face wasn't giving up, and the slow pump of his fingers grazer the sweet spot inside of you was agonizing.

“Bet you were hoping I’d see you with him,” he sneers. “Bet you wanted to make me jealous.”

You nod, and that’s all it takes.

“So fuckin’ needy,” he breathed, lips just a smidge shy of being against yours. “So wet for your neighbor. For a marriedman. You know how sick that makes you, baby?”

You choke on a moan.

“Use your words.”

“I don’t care,” you whisper, brows furrowed, sweat forming on your hairline from the sheer effort of staying as quiet as possible. “I don’t fucking care, Steve—please—”

That breaks something in him, and he finally kisses you, tasting the strawberry flavor of your lipgloss, little specks all over his lips.

His tongue explored your mouth, not even making ceremony of the fact that he was comandeering you as a whole.

He pulled his fingers out, and presses harder, teasing circles over your clit with one hand while the other slips behind you to cup your ass, grinding you down on his fingers shamelessly.

“You wanna come right here, whil'e they're all out there?” he hisses. “While Peter waits for you inside, wondering where you went?”

You nod frantically, and he chuckles darkly—mean, condescending, filthy.

“Yeah, of course you do. My filthy little girl just can’t help it, can she?” He leaned in, breath hot against your ear.

“Come for me,” he growls. “Be a good girl and come just like this, too desperate to wait for my cock.”

Your mouth falls open in a silent cry as your whole body spasms, hips stuttering, thighs trembling, eyes rolling back as slick coated down his fingers and your own inner thighs.

Steve watched.

He watched like he was starving.

And then—slowly, deliberately—he brought his glistening fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean. One. By. One.

He straightened your dress with infuriating care. Smoothed the fabric over your hips like nothing happened, slipped out without raising suspicion and left you to look at your wrecked reflection in the mirror of his house.

The fireworks were long over.

Peggy had been asleep for hours, curled up with a sleep mask and earplugs while Steve wandered back outside to finish putting away the chairs and rinsing out the pool house. The air still smelled like charcoal and chlorine and jasmine—the last ghost of a summer night that didn’t know how to quit.

He was halfway through folding up the last tablecloth when he heard it: soft footsteps on concrete. A shuffle behind him that was barely there.

When he turned, there you were.

Barefoot with your hair tied up, lips shiny with reapplied gloss. Wearing the same little sundress from earlier, only now it’s loose and rumpled, slipping off one shoulder like you couldn’t quite decide if you were getting ready for bed or not.

“Forgot my sunglasses,” you say, but your eyes are fixed on him, not looking anywhere else.

Steve straightens slowly, wiping his hands on a dishtowel, trying not to show the way his pulse kicked up.

“They’re on the counter by the grill,” he says, gesturing toward the pool house. “Probably with the other stuff people left behind.”

You walked past him without another word, your shoulder brushing his arm.

The pool house was dark, except for the amber glow of the overhead string lights Steve hung last summer. You stepped inside like you own the place, lean over and easily find the sunglasses in their little makeshift "lost and found" bin, dress riding up just enough to show the backs of your thighs.

Steve lingered at the door, watching, wanting.

“Find ’em yet?”

You glanced back at him over your shoulder. “Not yet. But I’m sure they’re in here somewhere.” You were 100% lying and he knew it.

It’s quiet again. The kind of quiet that buzzes with everything unspoken.

Then you straighten, slowly, holding your sunglasses, and turn to face him—closer now than before. Too close. Steve can see the shine on your collarbone, the little mark he left on your inner thigh with his knuckles, the hint of lace peeking out beneath your hem.

“Thanks for keeping an eye on them,” you murmur. “You always watch so carefully.”

Something in his face flickers. He knows he should leave, knows he should walk further from the line he crossed earlier, but now that he has, he couldn't bring himself to care.

He couldn't not wonder if you tasted as sweet from the source as you did on his fingers. Couldn't stop imagining your moans if he had his cock in you, since you lost your mind over only his fingers earlier.

He's painfully aware he should bring the trash inside, and go sleep in bed next to his wife.

Instead, he let the door swing shut behind him. He stared at you. Your face, your mouth, your eyes.

“What are you doing?”

You tilt your head slightly. “You tell me.”

There’s a long pause. Steve breathes out slowly, like he’s holding back the last thread of the rope he's gonna hang his sins with.

He doesn't answer.

“It’s okay, Steve,” you whisper. “You don’t have to be good right now.” His hand caught your wrist and he leaned in.

His mouth crashed into yours, swallowing the smug smile that adorned your face, his hands grabbing at your body like he could anchor himself to your skin. You gasped softly into him when he pressed you flush against him, and you could feel his hard-on through his shorts.

He fisted the back of your hair and tilted your head until you gasped again. “You knew what you were doing,” he hissed. “Wearing that little sundress, letting him follow you around like a damn puppy—”

“I only ever wanted you to see,” you interrupted, voice shaking as he backed you against the little sofa in the corner. “You were the only one I was trying to make jealous. I didn’t even like him like that—I never wanted anyone else.”

It unravels something in him.

Steve narrowed his eyes and turned you around, pressing you down into the cushions. The gold of the lights inside mixed with the lights reflecting off the pool made it dirtier and more secret in his mind.

As if pulling your hips up and flipping your dress up to rip your thong down your leg wasn't dirty enough.

He slid two fingers between your folds, taking way too much time for someone who was sneaking around, and saw your cunt clench around nothing at the feeling

“Soaked,” he growled. “You were like this when I had you at the party, weren’t you?”

You whined, hips rolling back into his hand, and that’s all the answer he needed. His fingers breached your opening from behind, curling towards him and rubbing the pads of his fingers over the spot that had shivers running up and down your spine.

He draped himself over you, other hand curling around your jaw pressing hard, your eyes fluttered open, glazed over, pupils blown to hell.

“Say it,” he whispered right in your ear. “Say who you were wet for. Who you wanted.”

“Y-you—”

He pushed his fingers in deeper, curling just right, making you try, and fail, to hold back a whine.

“That’s right. You wanted me. Not Peter. You wanted a man to ruin you.”

He gets you right at the edge, where he can feel your body trying to pull him in closer, throb around him, and pulls his hand out.

You were so dazed you barely let out a little hum of a question before your ears picked up on the shuffle of a zipper, the drag of clothes down his legs, and finally, the squelch of him running the head of his cock up and down your soaking pussy.

You’re half draped over the pool house couch, dress bunched at your waist, panties pulled to the side while Steve fucks you with his hand like he hates you for it. Like he hates how badly he wants you.

"Steve—"

"You wanted it, huh, sweetheart?" He pushed, not even inside, just dull pressure. "Wanted to make me jealous?" The hand that was previously fingering you is stroking his cock, and the one on your face moved to tangle into your hair, making you arch your back more and tilt your head towards him.

"Then take it."

He pushed inside you in one slow, hard thrust.

You sobbed at the feel of him finally buried inside to the hilt, feeling him twitch at the sound that left your mouth.

“Tight little cunt,” he groaned into your shoulder. “Fuck—of course you feel like this” You moaned, high-pitched and desperate.

“Too loud,” he warned, hand coming to press hard against your mouth. “Wanna wake Peggy? Huh? Wanna get caught getting split open by your married neighbor?”

You choked on a sound behind his palm—half cry, half yes. He pounded into you harder, jaw clenched, breathing ragged right at the junction between your neck and your shoulder.

“Spent so long— fuck, imagining what you'd feel like,” he muttered suddenly, angry. “Fucking tease.” You pressed your hips back into him harder, his other hand tugging a nipple, then the other, absolutely trying to drive you insane.

How the fuck did Peggy let this man leave the bed? At all?

One of your hands reached back to tug at his hair, nails scraping his scalp, and his kept wondering, until it found your clit. And God, did he.

"Gonna come— fuck, inside—"

You nodded behind his hand, your own coming to pull it off of your mouth as you whispered as best as you could. "Please, Steve, cum— cum in me, fill— oh God— fill me up."

It doesn't take much longer of your dirty talk and his body for both of you to see starts blooming behind your eyelids, his sweaty body draping over yours as you both caught your breaths, his cick throbbing inside of you while he shot ropes of while along your walls.

It was never supposed to go past that. Not in his head anyway. 

Steve couldn't erase the sound of your moans, the vibration of your whines, or the sight of you dripping with his cum from his mind even if he tried. 

So it quickly morphed from a one time bad decision into a pattern. A need. A terrible, addictive rhythm. 

He was always the first to step back after—voice rough with guilt, muttering something about how it couldn’t keep happening. 

But then came the next excuse. Another late walk. Another locked door. Another night when Peggy was out with friends or upstairs asleep and he found himself drifting toward you like gravity had chosen sides.

And the worst part? You were kind, warm. You made him feel wanted. You were good with Jamie. You folded Peggy’s dish towels after book club and helped her clean up. You looked like innocence wrapped in summer dresses and vanilla lotion—but when you looked at him, Steve felt anything but pure.

Steve adjusted the cuffs of his button-down, the soft click of the watch clasp echoing faintly in the quiet of the house. Jamie was already asleep, and Peggy sat on the couch, flipping through her latest book club pick, legs curled under her and a glass of wine half-full on the end table.

He stood near the hallway mirror, pretending to check his reflection one last time, even though his mind was far from the dinner he claimed he had. The silence stretched, thick with something unspoken, until finally, he cleared his throat.

“I’m heading into the city tonight,” he said, straightening the collar unnecessarily. “Couple people from work—there’s a dinner. Could be good for networking.”

Peggy looked up, her expression unreadable. “On a weeknight?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. Short notice. You know how Stark gets when he wants to talk shop over steak and scotch.”

She let out a quiet laugh, amused but distracted. “Well, try not to get too drunk. You still have to take Jamie to swim class tomorrow.”

He gave a tight smile, grateful she didn’t ask more. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Except "work dinner in the city" was actually driving you to Cipriani for a nice, candle lit dinner away from everyone else. 

The radio buzzed softly, some easy classic rock playing low, and you shifted in your seat, getting already a little impatient on the drive over when he looked that handsome and so close to you. 

“Steve?” Your voice was soft, syrupy. He hummed a little in acknowledgment, eyes on the road. You leaned in, hand resting lightly on his thigh. “You’re tense.”

“I’m driving,” he said matter-of-factly, confused with your sentence, but you didn’t miss the way his fingers tightened on the wheel.

“Mhm.” You let your hand slide up just a little higher, almost unbothered, thumb stroking the inseam of his pants. “Just wanna help you relax…”

“Sweetheart,” he warned. But his voice cracked halfway through your name.

You grinned. “C’mon, what’s the worst that could happen? I’ve got two hands and a very soft mouth.”

He shot you a look. Dangerous. Heated. “You trying to get us killed?”

“I trust you to keep your hands on the wheel,” you said sweetly, already toying with the button of his pants. “But I am gonna need you to pull over soon if you want me to take care of that properly.”

He groaned, head thumping back against the headrest briefly. “Jesus Christ.”

You giggled, fingertips brushing over the growing bulge beneath the zipper. “That’s not who you’re gonna be thanking in a minute.”

And just like that, the turn signal clicked. The SUV veered off the main road and into the shadowed entrance of a secluded overlook. Trees above, stars flickering like witnesses, and your name already forming rough in the back of his throat.

The velvet booths at Cipriani glowed under golden lighting, the hum of polite conversation and clinking glassware wrapping around the two of you like static.

You looked too pretty for your own good. That dress should’ve been illegal—silky, deep navy, spaghetti straps, something about the way it hugged your body made Steve’s pulse throb.

You leaned forward, arms folding delicately on the table. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m thinking,” he muttered, eyes on your collarbone. “About how I’m gonna keep my hands off you for another forty-five minutes.”

You grinned, biting the inside of your cheek. "You had me like, not even an hour ago—"

"That doesn't count." He interrupted you playfully, "And if I remember correctly, I was the one that had the most fun in that."

Ah, yes, road head usually only has one beneficiary. You shrugged. "I still like it."

Steve raised his brows, and the waiter arrived, taking your orders. You watched the way Steve’s voice dropped an octave when he said “thank you,” the way he held your gaze across the table like the two of you were in on a private joke no one else could hear.

After the waiter left, you chirped up again, “You’re still hard, aren’t you?”

Steve narrowed his eyes slightly. “Keep your voice down.”

You giggled behind your glass, sipping your wine. “I think you like this,” you murmured. “Lying to your wife. Sneaking around. Getting off with someone who actually wants to be seen with you in public.”

His nostrils flared. His jaw ticked. “Careful,” he said roughly. “You won’t make it to dessert.”

You smiled like you weren’t even slightly afraid of that. And beneath the table, your foot slowly slid up the inside of his calf.

It's exactly shit like this that made you be bent in half in his backseat somewhere along the backroads on the way back, panties somewhere unknown inside the car, legs over his arms until your feet touched the car ceiling, and his cock drilling into you like he wanted it to take. 

“You’re gonna be the death of me.” His voice was low, dark. Rough with restraint. “You get off on making me lose my mind, don’t you?”

You only smiled, biting your lip—barely, wickedly—nodding and tilting your hips up in response.

Later that month, he told Peggy it was a work trip. Just a quick overnight conference two towns over, some panels, a couple meetings—nothing she needed to worry about. He kissed her on the cheek, slung his bag over his shoulder, and drove off with the windows down. 

But the real destination was the little bed and breakfast tucked off the highway, where no one knew your names. And where you were already waiting for him wearing nothing but a smile.

That weekend was unhinged. No hiding. No pretending. No risk of being overheard except by the wind through the trees and the nosy old couple in the room next door. You got to be loud—really loud—and he let you.

Hands all over you like he’d been starving for weeks, grunting in your ear as you clawed at his shoulders and moaned his name without apology. You didn’t need to pretend you were just neighbors. 

Didn’t need to worry about muffling the headboard or shoving panties into the glovebox or slipping out the back door. You were his, fully and openly, for forty-two stolen hours. 

And God help him—he wasn’t sure he could go back to pretending after that.

Steve, however, should be careful what he wished for.

Two days after he came back, to be exact, Steve was working from home, in between meetings all day.

Peggy took the SUV to run errands and take some time for herself, a facial, a massage, and unexpectedly, getting pulled over. 

The sun was starting to dip behind the trees as Peggy merged onto the main road out of the neighborhood, humming absently to the radio while the SUV rolled through the quiet, late-summer traffic.

She didn’t even notice the patrol car behind her until the lights flashed.

“Damn it,” she muttered, glancing in the rearview. She pulled over, flicking on her hazard lights and turning down the radio.

The officer approached on the driver’s side, polite and calm. “Evening, ma’am. Just a heads-up—your left brake light’s out. Thought you should know before dark.”

She let out a breath, already reaching for the glove compartment. “Oh—thanks for letting me know. Let me just grab the registration.”

The latch stuck a little. Steve always said he’d fix it. She jiggled it loose with a soft grunt, and it popped open—sending a few old napkins fluttering out, the registration half-tucked beneath a folded flyer from Jamie’s swim class.

And then she saw them.

A delicate tangle of blush-pink lace.

At first, she didn’t register what she was looking at. Her brain processed the color, the texture, the vaguely familiar shape. She blinked. Tilted her head.

Then her fingers reached for it before she could even think better of it.

Her stomach turned over—first in confusion, then in something sharper. Something hot and cold at the same time, crawling up the back of her neck like an insect made of betrayal.

She gave the papers to the officer, and as he made sure it was all up to date on her end, she sat there, completely still, the car quiet around her except for the gentle hum of the A/C.

She stared down at the scrap of lace in her hand, trying to rationalize it.

When she saw the reflection of the officer coming back, she quickly put the lace in her purse, smiled at the man, and drove off towards home. 

By the time she got back, Steve was out on a run. 

She waited patiently by the kitchen isle, the panties neatly folded on the cool marble, and as she looked at the minutes go by on the clock by the stovetop, she realized both her and Steve had been trying to ressucitate something that had been dead long ago.

She didn't feel hurt, sad, or mad.

Peggy was relieved. 

And when she heard the front door open, heard the creak of his spine as he exhaled from the run, and saw him come in, sweaty, and ready to gulp down a gallon of water, she didn't even feel the fire in the pit of her stomach that she used to years ago.

“Hey,” he said, breath still a little ragged, getting a glass and then water from the fridge. “Did you get the—”

He stopped as his eyes moved to the counter. To the panties. Then slowly, up to her.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t raise her voice. She just cocked her head slightly, one brow lifting, “You forgot to clean out your glove box.”

🥯 glazed donut taglist: @earthsmightiestbenders @love-stucky @epiphanyrogers @pinksplace @chateaubarnes @tw1sters @bartonsparrow25

fic taglist: @nekoannie-chan @fictionbookworm5 @badbitchsincebirth05 @lokirogersgirl @skxawngg @buckyshots @sweetybunnyy @bottldcries @ghoul-rider @pillow-princess-69

everyone that isn't tagged and asked, I couldn't confirm your age on your blog sorry!

[godmadeaterribleerror]

messy

✦Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦

✦summary: You know Steve doesn't see you like that. You know because you asked him, and he said no. So it's not really fair, that he'd reject you and keep making you love him after, is it. ✦

✦warnings/tags: steve rogers x female!reader, modern!au, no use of y/n, pining, rejection (at the start, off page, and steve's a liar about it), no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, some plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dry humping, teasing, making steve lose control, fingering, light spanking, praise kink, manhandling, big dick steve, squriting, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink, soft!dom steve), soft!steveoutside of smut✦

✦wc: 10.9k✦

✦Author's Note: this one hit ME too hard bc i based it on real life too much. oops. all the better for the horny ig. Enjoy!✦

You’re not looking for him in the crowd. And if anyone says you are, they’re a big, fat liar.

Active scanning is not looking. It’s a part of the job, to see who’s here. What kind of interviews you’re going to be able to get, who’s already closing in on who, who’s snuggled up and gossiping and might not notice you eavesdropping. If you’re smart about this—and you always are—you’re going to walk away from tonight with a comment from Secretary Ross, Pepper Potts, or even an Avenger themselves.

But not him.

You have no interest in walking away with a comment from him.

“They’re here.” Your coworker Stacy bumps your shoulders, her eyes wide and fixed across the room. “Holy shit, they’re actually here-“

“It’s their fundraiser.” You mutter, keeping your attention on a senator bumbling about near the drinks. “It would be crazy if they weren’t here.”

“Yeah, but- It’s all of them. I’ve never seen all of them-“

“Yes, you have.”

Stacy glares at you. “Well, not so close.”

You glance over, pointedly only looking at their feet. “They’re not that close.”

“I could touch one.” Stacy breathes, and you snort.

“You should go try that.”

That earns you another glare, and a smack on the arm. And you deserve it, but you just laugh and look back to your target. The tipsy, red-eyed senator who’s going to have a few more drinks, and tells you all about that bill congress is trying to pass about the Enhanced. You’ve read it three times, and it’s a disgusting invasion of privacy, but those documents were off the record. If you can get a Senator, talking about how he wants to force all superheroes to either be sterilized or record their sex lives-

Stacy pinches your arm, and you squeak so loudly it echoes off the domed, ballroom ceiling. Some attention darts in your direction, but everyone quickly loses interest when they realize it’s nothing all that interesting. Your face is burning as you smooth your dress, and it doesn’t stop burning. It feels like someone is tending to the hot embarrassment, fluttering in your tummy and restless in your fingers. Like someone is looking right through you, monitoring you, watching you-

“He’s looking at you.” Stacy hisses in your ear, buzzing with so much excitement you’re sure she’s about to turn into glitter and explode like fireworks, and you’re going to throttle her.

“He is now, because you,” you shove her shoulder. It doesn’t do anything to stamp out her thrill at your worst nightmare. “Fucking made him notice-“

“No, he was looking before-“

“No, he wasn’t-“

“Yes, he was-“

“No, he wasn’t-“

“Who wasn’t what.”

You freeze, and Stacy looks over your head with a fawning, dazed expression. You’re going to kill her. You’re going to cut her up into tiny pieces and burn them all in separate furnaces, and then you’re going to steal her dog and make it forget all about her, and marry her husband and make her cute little kid your Cinderella as bloodline punishment-

“Hi, Mr. Captain Sir.” She giggles, looking back down to you with a wide-eyed it’s him expression.

I’m going to kill you. You mouth. She doesn’t seem all that bothered by the threat.

“Uh- Hi. You don’t have to-“ You hear him shift on his feet behind you. “Steve is alright.”

You can picture him rubbing the back of his neck, trying to look smaller. More humble and approachable, when he’s a modern walking Hercules. A better version, who doesn’t kill his wife and kids. Who gets you drinks and tries to be your friend and is so stupidly polite and kind and you hate him, you hate him so much-

He says your name. You plaster on the widest, most plastic and sickly sweet smile you can manage. You want him to feel like you’re a bit of plastic that’s stuck between his teeth. To give up talking to you, because it’s not fair.

Steve’s just as handsome as the last time you saw him. And the time before that. And the time before that. If anything, he’s more handsome. You don’t know how he does it, changing absolutely nothing about his appearance and looking hotter every time you get eyes on him. His hair is styled the same as always, but it looks so soft. You could run your fingers through it and it would probably feel like a cloud. His stupid, sharp jawline is slack as you glare up at him, and he’s so tall it makes you dizzy, and he’s fixing you with that puppy look that makes you feel like you’re important to him.

And you’re not. You know you’re not.

You went down that road once. You tried to be important to him, and he said no. And he’s Steve, so he was sweet and perfectly kind about it, and still wanted to be your friend, and you’d thought you were already over it so you’d said yes.

You thought you could just be his friend. He hadn’t made anything weird. Neither of you had ever even brought up your failed attempt to ask him out again. And at the time, you’d thought you were over it.

But Steve is Steve. And he’s got some titanic hold over your heart that’s left finger marks dug in through the landscape. There’s a depression over the cavity of your chest, and your ribs have molded to fit it, and now it’s far too late to go back. You only know how to have feelings for him. You’ve tried to get over it. To ignore it. To forcibly re-mold your love into something platonic, or clawed your way through some relationships in the hope they’d help you move on.

They don’t. They won’t. Nothing can.

The big stupid boy-scout standing over you owns you completely, and you can’t even tell him without making it a problem.

Your new strategy had been to ignore him. Stacy ruined that.

She thinks he secretly has feelings for you. You tune her out every time she starts to crow and preach about it, because you know your heart is going to take it as gospel and not parody, and you can’t afford false faith. All you have is what’s grounded between your fingers.

Steve’s right here. He’s smiling at you, all pretty and nice, and you have to smile back or else it will make him feel bad. He’s got a drink in his massive hand for you. You’ve had a million wet dreams about that hand around your throat or cupping your pussy.

You’re aching thinking about it. In an ideal world, this would be the part where you ran without looking back.

In an ideal world, you’d be standing on his arm right now, instead of all stiff and weird in front of him.

You need to get a fucking grip.

“Hi.” You say, and it’s sounds lame and idiotic and pathetic-

Steve’s face splits into a big, happy smile. “Hi. How’s the night going for you, do you have your victim picked out?”

You scowl. “It’s not- They’re not victims-“

“You treat them like they’re victims.” His grin widens. “Sometimes I feel like I should be saving them.”

“They’re all fine. It’s not like I’m drugging them or something.”

Steve’s brows raise. “That makes me think you are drugging them.”

“Nuh uh.” You stick out your tongue, and he laughs under his breath.

“One day you’re gonna say something that actually gets you in trouble, you know.” He holds out the drink he brought you.

It’s your favorite. It’s always your favorite.

You told him what your favorite drink was, the very first time you attended one of these parties. He’s never forgotten since, and it makes you love and hate him all the more.

“I don’t think I will.” You mumble, both trying and desperately failing not to brush his fingers. His skin is warm. He’s warm. He’s like a walking furnace, and you’d like to just bury your face in his pecs and breathe him in and-

“Kid, you already have.”

Steve looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. His eyes are sparkling, and in the background you think Natasha Romanoff is circling like a shark, trying to get his attention, but if he notices he pretends he doesn’t. He just looks at you and calls you kid, and the word plummets like a cold stone into your gut.

Kid. That’s all you are to him. Kid.

“But if I got in trouble, you’d save me.” You take a long sip of your drink, and you like to torture yourself.

With his presence. His closeness.

How fast he nods. How certainly he answers.

“’Course I would. Already saving you by pretending I don’t see you getting all those Senators drunk.”

You laugh softly, but the sound hurts. When you look over your shoulder, Stacy’s abandoned you for the food table. You catch her eye, and she shoots you an excited thumbs up. She probably thinks this is going great.

“Are you feeling alright?” Steve says suddenly, and he sounds like he really, really cares. “You been looking kind of sick- Not that you look bad- You look good, uh- Really good, but-“

“I’m fine.” You turn back to Steve, and you wonder if he can see it.

The pain, leaking down like a toxin from your eyes. Everything kind of blurry. You’d throw up, if you didn’t think he’d take care of you after.

“Everything’s fine.”

Steve’s lips twitch. You’re not sure he believes you.

But it doesn’t really matter anyway. You’re not his to get an answer out of. He decided that.

And you’re just doing exactly what Steve wants, all the time.

“You do look nice.” He mumbles, taking a sip of his own drink, as if it could even do anything to him.

You smile, and there it is again. The shameful, unrelenting heat in your stomach. “Thanks.”

I dressed up for you.

“I think he’s in looove with you.” Stacy says, spinning around in her chair. You flip her off, not looking up from your computer.

“Is the printer out of paper still?”

“I don’t know, you print everything for me.” She pokes your chair with her foot. “Pay attention to me, I said Steve’s in love with you-“

“No, he’s not.”

“Yes, he is.”

“No, he’s not-“

“Yes, he is-“

“Is this the same thing you were fighting about last time?” Steve’s voice comes from over your shoulder, and you freeze. “Or is that just… How you two talk.”

Stacy looks awfully fucking pleased with herself for a dead woman. “It’s the same fight as last time.”

“Oh.” He pauses. You can hear his concern, and it makes you want to vomit. “Is everything okay?”

“Mhm.” Stacy beams. “Hi, Steve.”

You glance up, and Steve looks properly bemused and adorable about her whole demeanor. It makes you want to hold his face and kiss the tiny, pouting frown off his lips. You smack yourself internally. Get it together.

“Hi, Stacy.”

She almost glows. “You remember my name?”

“Yeah.” He glances down at you. “I try to remember most people’s names.”

Stacy swoons. “Of course you do.”

Steve blinks, and you clear your throat.

“What are you doing here?”

“Uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, giving you a small smile. “Lunch, remember? We planned it last week.”

Oh. You did do that. “I told you to wait outside, my boss is going to try to interview you-“

“Oh, she already did.” He laughs. “But I’m here for you, not a front page.”

You flush, and Stacy giggles like she’s watching TV.

“So…” Steve shrugs. “Lunch?”

Right. Lunch.

“How’d you even get in the building.” You grumble, grabbing your jacket as you stand. He shrugs sheepishly.

“I took a photo with the guards.”

“Steve, I told you to stop doing that-“

“It made them really happy, okay? And I went through all the metal detectors, same as everyone else-“

“I know, but you hate taking the photos, you can tell them no.”

Steve frowns. “It’s not that big an inconvenience for me-“

“But you hate it.”

“I don’t hate it-“

“Steven Rogers.”

You glare at him, arms crossed over your chest. Steve sighs, slumping like a scolded child.

“I don’t love them.” He mumbles, and you nod.

“Next time, tell them no.”

“But then I can’t come upstairs.”

You shrug, starting at the door, your shoulder bumping against his. “You can text me. Like you’re supposed to-“

“Or I can just do the photos-“

“No-“

“Bye, guys.” Stacy calls from behind you, and you look her with wide eyes. You’d forgotten she was there.

“Um… Bye.” You wave awkwardly, and she grins.

He’s here for you. She mouths, and you roll your eyes.

No hope. It just makes everything else harder.

If Steve wanted you, he’d say something. And you’re a big girl. You can handle just being his friend, because he won’t leave you alone long enough for you to properly avoid him. You can handle it.

His hand finds your lower back, when he opens the door for you. You almost trip over your feet from the dizzying touch.

You can’t handle this at all.

The most annoying part about having undying feelings for Steve Rogers is that it’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. Golden Boy Number One. Mr. Perfect Specimen.

You’re in love with the little blond boy with abs and a dopey smile and sweet blue eyes. You’re obsessed with Mr. Muscles. You lose sleep over the guy who looks like he could crush you in a headlock then kiss you to sleep after.

Incredibly original. Groundbreaking, even. The love of your life is the masculine celebrity who’s respectful and kind. Never before heard of stuff. You’re really shattering glass ceilings with that one.

You want to shoot yourself in the face.

It’s impossible to avoid even thinking about him, when he’s everywhere. You go out to the corner store, and he’s on the little TV mounted in the corner. Avengers brand yogurts line the grocery store, and you glare at Strawberries and Cream and Justice until your head hurts. He told you about that. He was pretty proud of how all the proceeds were going to charities.

“It’s a stupid name, though.” You’d said, and he’d shrugged.

“Tony says the name doesn’t matter, as long as it’s got our faces on it. Apparently that’s what people are buying for.”

He’d frowned at that, and you’d given him an affectionate smile. He hates the glory of all of this. You know he does, and you’d told him gently you’re sure people will also buy for charity.

You’d been lying through your teeth, though. When you grab the yogurt and shamefully shove it into your basket, it’s not for cancer research or orphans or to save the bees. It’s because Steve’s face is smiling at you from the plastic, and you’re no better than the fangirls who get all doe-eyed over his every breath.

Not that you’re much better about that, either.

“I could give you an interview.” Steve offers on day, when you’d been complaining to him about slow news. “It can be about whatever you want-“

“I don’t want your pity journalism, Steven.”

He frowns. “It’s not pity. I’m trying to help you.”

You shrug, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “Well, I can’t accept your help.”

“Why not-“

“It’s unethical.”

“I… don’t think that’s true-“

“Well, I didn’t earn it.”

“You don’t have to earn it.” He says, all earnest and sweet and kind, and you want to die. “You work hard, I know you work hard, and if this can help you- Here, we can do it right now-“

“I don’t have questions ready.” You cut in quickly. Flatly.

Steve just shrugs. “Make some up. I know you can.”

You wish he’d stop believing in you. It makes your heart flutter.

“I have nothing I want to ask you.” You mumble hopelessly, and he frowns.

“I don’t believe that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you always have something to ask me. To ask anyone.”

You flush, turning to the side to avoid his gaze. “Maybe I just know everything about you,” you mutter, and he snorts.

“No. You don’t.”

That gets your attention. You snap your head in his direction, and he smiles at you. Like he already knows he won.

“There she is-“

“Shut up.” You lean across the table, and his smile widens. “What don’t I know about you.”

“A lot.”

“Like what-“

“You have to ask me to find out.”

You narrow your eyes. He keeps fucking smiling.

“You suck.” You grumble.

He shrugs. “I know you think that.”

You’re both leaning across the table. If you reached up, just an inch, you’d be able to trace the line of his nose. He’s so handsome. It’s unfair, and you can feel a smile tugging at your lips in response to his.

“I’m going to punch you in the face-“

“I’d like to see you try, kid.”

Kid.

You lean back, ice water feeling like it was poured through your veins. Steve notices the shift. He frowns, but you don’t give him the chance to question it. You just push on.

“I need a napkin.” You mutter., leaning back into your seat. “To write questions.”

“Yeah. Right.” He rubs the back of his neck. Opens his mouth, then closes it again, shaking his head slightly. “I’ll go get that for you.”

Of course he will.

And when he’s talking to the waitress—paper and a pen in his hand—she twirls her hair and giggles. Same as you would, if you got to know him where he didn’t know you. Where he might just find you pretty, and give you a chance, because you were friends first and you think that’s where you all went wrong.

This all might’ve been easier, if he really was just a celebrity crush. If you loved him because he was Captain America and not Steve. Your Steve. Who brings you back two pens in case you don’t like the first, and shares his food with you while you gloss through the interview—feeling little detached from your own body, like he’s a million miles away—and touches your lower back again when you finally leave lunch.

You might’ve gotten to touch him more, if he didn’t mean something to you.

But you wouldn’t trade knowing him for the world.

And that just makes it all hurt even more.

Steve’s been trying to get you out with his team for years. You’ve said no, over and over and over. You don’t need to feel even more mortal than you already are. Don’t need the reminder that he probably rejected you because you’re not even a quarter of what he and his friends are.

Not that you think Steve would think you’re any less because you’re not enhanced. You know he wouldn’t.

Consciously. 

But that doesn’t change the reality of it. He wouldn’t want you, when he’s surrounded by other Gods, like he himself, far more worthy of his attention. You can be mean and sharp, but you don’t have the cool, collected, deadly beauty of Black Window. And you’ve heard the rumors about them.

You’ve heard all the rumors. About Steve with everyone, because people like to talk. There isn’t a pair of people on the Avengers that the public hasn’t theorized about secretly dating.

And you know none of it’s true. Steve’s told you himself.

But that doesn’t make it hurt any less, when you think about him with someone else more worthy. Someone he wants.

Which is why you didn’t want to do this. And Steve had always respected that—because he’s perfect, and he respects everything—so you’d thought you’d never have to. He asks. You say no. He doesn’t push it, or demand to know why. He waits months before asking again, and you know he only does that because he thinks you’re just too busy to go out the other times. That you’re saying no because you simply don’t have the energy, and not because the idea makes you feel itchy. And you don’t want to tell him. You like that he asks you. It makes you feel important.

But you still kept saying no.

Until Stacy overheard him ask you, and said yes for you. And Steve beamed, and you couldn’t stand to burst the delicate little bubble of his joy, and now you’re here.

Huddled in the corner of a bar with the fucking Avengers all around you. Hawkeye and Thor are throwing darts in the corner. Hulk, Black Widow, and Falcon are playing pool. The Vision is eating onion rings, and everything feels like a very, very bizarre dream.

Steve hasn’t left your side since you got here. It’s been the only anchor you have. You’d been able to hide in his shadow and duck under his arm, avoiding pressing questions and conversations you don’t really want to have. It’s not too weird for him to bring a civilian friend, at least. None of them have commented on it, besides throwing you passing looks. Steve mentioned that they all do it, from time to time.

But you’re the only one here right now. And if you could, you’d sew your hand into Steve’s so he couldn’t leave you alone.

And that’s always a little true. You want that all the time.

More than usual right now. But all the time.

“I’m going to get drinks.” He mutters, and you grab his bicep like a scared child.

“Wait- I’ll come with you-“

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” He grins down at you, patting your head like you’re a dog or something. “You don’t have to stand up.”

You want to shout at him that this isn’t about him being a gentleman, it’s about him not leaving your sight. But you’re weak. And pathetic. So you just nod, and Steve smiles at you before walking away.

You try to hide in the shadows, avoiding any attention. It doesn’t work.

“You’re the journalist.” A cool, lazy voice cuts through the air, and you look up to find Tony Stark standing over your table.

“I’m a journalist-“

“No. You’re Roger’s journalist.” Stark drawls, sliding into the booth. You stiffen, but don’t dare to move away.

That’ll make it seem even more obvious, when Steve comes back and you don’t inch away from him.

“I understand what he’s been going on about.” Stark continues, looking you up and down slowly. “Didn’t know they made them like you anymore.”

Your eyes narrow. “Like me?”

“Mhm.” Stark smirks, and you raise your chin.

“What am I like, Mr. Stark?”

He chuckles, leaning back. “Little spitfire, aren’t you-“

“Only to people who deserve it.”

That makes him laugh louder. Everything feels more and more like a fever dream by the second.

You look out to the bar, trying to find Steve. Internally begging him to come back. He’s by the bar, your drink already in his hand. It’s the same one you always get. He’s holding it close to his chest, like it’s something priceless.

There’s a woman standing next to him. Just another random girl, in a tiny dress with some pretty good makeup, giggling and batting her lashes at him.

And Steve’s entertaining her. smiling at her.

The same way he smiles at you.

You don’t want to be here. You didn’t want to be here. You don’t want to see how it’s not even the Avengers that he’d want more than you, it’s everyone else. She’s getting the same attention you try to drown yourself in, but you’re not the one who might go home with him. His grin is a little tighter with her, because he’s probably restrained and trying to play his cards right. She looks like she’s talking sweet, and he’d probably want that more than you, poking and mocking him all the time. He’s a God. He’ll say he’s not but he is, and what kind of god would want to be worshipped by someone who shows love with insults and eye rolls.

There’s a tight feeling, around your throat like rope. Your eyes are burning, and the world is blurring, and you don’t want to see this. You can’t see this.

You tried to be his friend. You really tried.

But you can’t.

“What’s wrong with you?” Stark asks, and you look over to find him watching with a strange expression.

“Nothing.” You clear your throat, fumbling for your bag. “I just- Remembered something. That I have to go do.”

You glance over to Steve again. He’s laughing at something she’s saying without shaking his head and tipping his head back, without looking away from her. Like he does with you.

“Right now.” You mumble. “I have to go do it right now.”

Stark hums, tapping his fingers on the table. “Right now, huh.”

“Yep.” You stand up, and he gives you an almost amused look.

“What is it? If it’s so urgent.”

“Stuff.” You snip.

Stark chuckles, shaking his head. “Jesus, he’s batting in a whole other sport with you.”

“What the fuck does that mean-“

“Nothing.” Stark smirks again. Like he knows something. “Go on. I’ll tell Cap you had stuff.”

You scan over his relaxed features, and he just keeps grinning, lazy and unworried. You could get an answer out of him, if you tried.

But you look up, back to Steve. And he’s grabbing his own drink from the bar. Still chatting with the girl. If he brings her back to the table, you’re going to vomit.

You have to go now.

“Thanks.” You mutter, giving Stark a tight grin. “Have a good night.”

And Stark laughs, as you turn away.

“Oh. I’m sure I will.”

You avoid Steve for a week.

Properly avoid him.

He calls ten times, just the night you leave the bar. He texts almost every hour for the days after that, and you mute him. If you look at the messages, you’re going to respond to them. If you respond to them, he’ll convincing you to talk to him. If you talk to him, or see him, or even stand near him, you’re never going to get over him.

You’re going cold turkey on him, like he’s a drug.

To you, he is. And you need to get clean. You need to move on.

Steve doesn’t come into the building to steal you for lunch, but he calls you every day. Your fingers fidget, still trying to pick up the phone.

You don’t know how you manage not to, but you do. When you ask the guards downstairs, they say he’s walked through the door and walked back out five times. You force yourself not to think about it, and somehow manage to do that too. And you’re going to be able to do this. You’re finally going to move on.

Moving on means moving. Not staying in the same little pit, waiting for his sun to change its path and shine on you. You have to climb out, and find a new place to be. Someone new to want.

You’ve done this part before. The whole dance of downloading the apps and going on the dates and telling yourself you want them, even though they aren’t Steve. But this time is going to be different. If you tell yourself that enough, it will feel more and more true.

There’s a guy you’ve been chatting with all week, and he seems sweet. He compliments you, and he was polite when you met for coffee, and he’s far from bad to look at. And it’s not like you’re going to marry him. You just need someone to be close to you that isn’t Steve.

And maybe this guy—you can’t really remember his name, but you’ll learn it—is blond haired and blue eyes and broadly built. Maybe you swiped through photo after photo, looking for a phantom of him, but that’s nobody business expect yours, and your pillow’s. It knows better than anyone that there’s only one way you can fake it.

Which is exactly what this game is. Faking it until you make it. Until you’re over Steve, and there’s never any temptation to look back.

You dress up, telling your brain you’re going on a date with Steve himself so you put in all the effort. Another thing that’s nobody’s business. You’re doing what you need to, and it’s going to get you over him. You’ve got lashes and glossy lips and heels that are going to hurt in the morning, and this guy doesn’t seem strong enough to carry you like Steve would, but that’s where you need to shut your brain up. There’s not going to be anyone who’s like Steve. This guy looks like him enough to get you out the door, but it’s not him, and that’s okay. That’s good. It’s going to help you move on. You’ve got your jacket, and your purse, and you’re going to do this and move on-

You yank the door open, and freeze.

Steve stares at you, hands his pockets, mouth hanging open.

This is usually the part where one of you says hi, but you can’t remember how to speak. He’s here. Why is he here. He’s been giving you space, because he’s amazing and polite, and it had been so much easier to pretend it was just because he didn’t care when he wasn’t right in front of you. Looking like you’d just punched him in the face, all pale with sagging shoulders and sad, dull eyes. As if he’s lost sleep.

He scans over you. Over your revealing outfit and makeover. His throat bobs, and you could swear he slouches further. When he meets your gaze, he doesn’t smile. It makes you want to cry.

“Steve-“

“You’ve been avoiding me.” He mutters, the words thick and low. “And- I’m not here to fight about it. I didn’t think you were going to open the door, I didn’t- I wasn’t going to bother you. Just- Never mind.”

 You blink. “I- What are you-“

“You got a date?” He nods to your outfit, and something in his pockets shift. He’s fisting his hands.

“Um-“ You glance to his pockets again, then back to his weighted gaze. “Yeah. I do.”

“With whom.”

Shit. You still can’t remember. “Someone I met on an app. Steve, what are you-“

“On an app.” He echoes, the words sounding hollow. He chuckles under his breath. “You know, Stark made me try those once.”

You swallow. You don’t want to hear about his dating life. “How did that go.”

“Bad. And I tried, I just…” He trails off, shaking his head, and you think you can feel his stare burrowing into your heart, shaping it even further in his name. 

This is exactly what you were trying to avoid. Seeing him makes you love him more, think about him more, need him more. He’s got a gravity over you, and he doesn’t know it, and why is he here.

“Is he nice.”

Steve’s voice is low. Pained. You don’t understand the question.

“Who?”

“Your date.” He grunts. “Is he nice to you.”

“Oh.” You forgot about that part. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

Neither of you speak for a second. Steve stares at you so hard our head spins, and you can’t look him in the eyes.

“What did I do?”

His voice breaks suddenly, and you feel the crack in your ribs. It yanks your gaze up, and you’ve never seen him so sad. Frustrated and annoyed, sure. Tense, all the time. But never just… Sad. Defeated. Like even he isn’t sure what to do. It feels wrong. Like the world is bleeding together and caving over itself.

“You didn’t do anything-“

“I must have.” He scans over your features, his own so openly aching. “You’ve never been mad at me before, and- Now you’re-“

He waves to your outfit, and you frown.

“It’s just a date-“

“Just a date.” He mutters under his breath, and your mouth falls open.

“I’m allowed to date, Steven-“

“I know you are!” His voice raises for a second, but he quickly pushes it back down. “I- I know, but that’s not- Why are you avoiding me?”

He’s pleading. It’s almost bleeding out of his voice, staining all over you, and you wrap an arm around your stomach like you can stop yourself from bleeding back. This isn’t fair. Steve’s not stupid. He can’t have just forgotten your mistake of expressing your feelings, he’s not nearly oblivious to be unable to put two and two together, and he certainly can’t be dense enough to not tie together that you’re avoiding him, and going on a date. You don’t go on dates. You’re usually too busy trying to steal some love from his shadow.

Yet here he is. Looking at you like he really doesn’t understand. Being so nice about it, when it’s clearly been bothering him. No demanding to understand. No shouting about how hurt he was. Just pleading.

Because he’s golden and perfect. All respectful, like you’re just another lady to him.

Like you’re not worth enough for him to fight a little dirtier for.

A lump is pressing up your throat. It’s a battle to hold his gaze.

“Why do you think I’ve been avoiding you.” You mutter, and he shakes his head.

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” Steve rubs his face, working his jaw. “I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what I did-“

“Steve-“

“And I’ll fix it, whatever I did, I’ll fix it-“

“You can’t fix it!” You shout.

He stumbles back like you slapped him, and tears burn at your eyes.

“You- You can’t fix it, Steve.” You whisper, staring down at his shoes. “Just- Stop.”

“Stop what?” He rasps. “I- I know I messed something up, but-“

“Stop being so nice to me.”

He’s silent for a moment. You don’t even know how to justify that one. It sounds pathetic to your ears.

“I... I’d rather not.” He mutters, and you sigh.

“Then please leave me alone.” The words hurt, but you push them out like an apple lodged in your throat. “I- I tried, okay? I really tried, but I can’t.”

“Can’t-“

“Can’t be your friend.” You whisper. The tears burn on your cheeks. “I can’t be your friend, Steve, it’s too hard. I- I-“

You sniff, and Steve rasps your name. You have to shake your head. He can’t talk right now. It’s already too hard.

“I love you.” You say, barely a breath. It doesn’t matter. He’ll hear anyway. “I love you too much, and- It’s not your fault that you don’t- That it’s not the same. But please.” You shift on your feet, hugging yourself tight. “I- I need space.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. There isn’t anything he could say to make it better, not anymore. But something in you still fractures, when he just steps to the side. Giving you a path out.

Letting you go.

You think it’s hope. The hope that one day he might feel the same, the dream that you’d tried so hard not to feed, but tended to bloom on its own. That one day he’d look at you and realize he made a mistake.

But he steps to the side. And that’s all it’s ever going to be.

A dream.

You bow your head and shuffle past him, face burning and skin crawling with shame. You’re going to go on this date and pretend like everything is fine, if you can even make it out of the hallway without breaking down. Your knees are wobbly and tears are coming faster than you can wipe away, but you just need to get out. Out of this hallway with its suffocating air.

Away from Steve, and your heart, broken at his feet.

You’ll get over it. You’ll get over it. It’s hard to breathe right now but you’ll get over it-

“God- Screw it.”

A strong hand wraps around your wrist. It takes you by such surprise you don’t even think to fight.

Steve spins your around, grabbing your jaw and picking you up in a single movement. You gasp as his lips slam over yours, sudden and demanding. He kisses you like he doesn’t know he’s already got a claim on you. Like he’s trying to brand your lips with a bruising, hungry desire. All you can do is breathlessly kiss him back, scraping at his shoulders and trying to keep up with what’s happening. Steve tastes a little like honey and salt, and you’re sure he ate something earlier but you don’t really care what. His hair is just as soft as you thought, and you’re being crushed under the force of him but it’s intoxicating and exhilarating and you feel like you’re being remade-

It’s over. Just as fast as it started. Steve stumbles back, fumbling with his hands like they’re still trying to reach you against his will. He braces them on his hips, staring at you with wide eyes.

You gape at him, trying to catch your breath. You reach up to brush your own lips, trying to make sure the tingly feeling there is real. Maybe press it deeper in, until you can feel it forever.

Steve clears his throat. You blink at him through the slowly drying tears, not really sure what’s happening.

Neither of you dare to speak. Or move. You’re breathing shallowly, like anything too big is going to tip the whole world over, and it will all slip through your fingers.

He takes an uncertain step forward, and you should take one back.

But you’ve never been all that good at moving away from him before. You have no interest in learning that skill now.

This time, you grab him at the same time he grabs you. You stumble into each other, uncoordinated and desperate, unbothered by bumping noses and smushed limbs. You just need to be close to him. To feel him as much as possible, as fast as possible.

He’s never been a drug. You’d been getting a secondary high, but this-

This is a hit.

And you need to have more.

You grab at his collar, pressing up to meet his every kiss, and you’re quickly making out with teeth and tongue in the middle of the hallway. Steve’s arm wraps around your ass, lifting you effortlessly off your feet, and you moan into his mouth.

He trips as he walks back into the apartment, and you end up pressed against the wall at least three more times before you make it through the door. Every time Steve slams you back, devoting all his attention to kissing you until you’re drooling and sloppy and just trying to push further into his open mouth. At one point he slots his knee between your thighs, and you start to shamelessly grind down as he sucks your lower lip between his teeth.

You giggle, dazed and sore with overflowing need for him. He kicks the door closed behind you, and you think you’re going to end up riding his thigh against the wall, but he starts down the hall. To your bedroom.

He makes it about five steps before you rake your nail through his hair and start kissing over his jaw. Steve moans into your ear, lagging a little sideways, and you shriek as you both topple down onto the couch.

It takes you a second to catch your breath, and that’s all Steve needs to get the upper hand. He grabs your jaw, tipping your head back as he starts to suck and nip at your neck. You squeak, grabbing his head, and he moans against your skin. His knee pushes back between your thighs, and this angle is even better than before. You can’t help the roll of your hips, down onto the muscle of his thick leg.

“St- Steve-“ You voice is high, and he hums, licking up your throat before making out with a soft spot under your jaw. “Jesus fucking- God-“

“I know.” He mutters, dragging his hand down your thigh and grabbing under your knee. He squeezes gently, hiking it up to your chest, pushing his knee down even harder than before.

“Fuck- You-“ You gasp, your pussy clenching around nothing as your clit gets rubbed through his jeans, through your panties.

At this angle, you’re almost exposed to him. Your dress pooling around your tummy, the wet spot on your underwear growing bigger and bigger. You grasp at the skirt, trying to tug it down a little. It’s one thing to be riding his knee, another for him to see you.

Steve grabs your wrist, pushing the fabric further down than it had been before. Your eyes almost cross when he starts to rub his knee back and forth, the pressure overwhelming and perfect. You didn’t think you could cum like this, but there’s a familiar pressure building up in your stomach, and you have to bite your tongue to stop a wanton moan from escaping your lips.

He sits up to look at you, and you’re sure it’s a shameful, lewd sight. Your makeup smudged, your hair ruined, a picture of depravity and sin as you chase pleasure on his leg. This isn’t the kind of thing you thought he’d be into. He’s too perfect, too good, and maybe you’ve wanted to be put in a headlock and manhandled and used, but Steve’s all about honor. You’d been so sure that, even if you got to have him, it would be lovely, vanilla sex that was filled with such emotion it would make up for the simpleness.

But that’s not what you see in Steve’s eyes. They’re hooded and black with lust. His jaw is clenched as he watches you, and he pushes your leg further up with a gentle squeeze.

“Oh-“ You gasp, trying to reach up to grab him.

Steve grabs your second wrist without letting go of the first. Holds him in one hand, and leans over you as he pins them both over your head. Your mouth falls open, breathing fast and needy. 

His own chest is heaving. He looks down to his knee against your core, and a deep sound rumbles from his chest. You’re wound so tight you’re certain you could snap, sudden and fast like a rubber band. You strain against Steve’s hold, and his attention snaps back up.

“You’re good, doll.” He coos. “Relax for me.”

You blink at him, shaking your head. You can’t stop grinding against him, but you need him close. Need to be under the pressure of his body, to feel like there’s nothing else in the world.

Steve picks up the speed of his knee, almost drilling it down into your cunt without touching you at all. You gape, head lolling to the side, and he grunts.

“Look at me.”

His voice is deep. Not a suggestion. An order.

You blink up at him, almost drooling, and he leans down until his lips are ghosting over yours.  

“I don’t want space.” He mutters. “I want you.”

You swallow, still rubbing your pussy up into his knee. “You- You can’t just-“

“Shh.” He pushes further down, until it feels like he’s almost inside of you. You snap your mouth shut. “Is that all I did?”

“Wha- Oh-“

He drags his knee in slow circles, and you make an incoherent, starved sound. Steve doesn’t even break a sweat.

“You and me.” He mutters, studying your every expression. “That’s it. That’s what was gonna make me lose you.”

“You- You didn’t lose me-“

“Almost did.” He squeezes your knee. “You walked.”

You glare up at him. “You let me-“

“No, I didn’t.” 

Steve’s lips slam back over yours, and you can’t really argue with that. Your eyes flutter as you give into the kiss, your body sparking with a million, delighted nerves. Steve groans against your lips, fucking his knee against your core, and he’s hitting your clit just right, the fabric soaked and filled with rough friction.

Your back arches off the couch as you cum, and Steve lets go of your wrists. You grab his face, trying to pull his lips closer, and he wraps around your back, holding you up. Your toes curl, body shaking as the pressure becomes sensitive, your pussy gushing and clenching around nothing.

Steve rubs your spine, kissing along your shoulder, up your neck, over your cheeks. You hum softly, floating down and tucked into his arms. He leans back against the couch, taking you with him. You slump over his chest, burying your face in his neck as his hand slips under your dress. Thick, calloused finger pads gently graze your hips and waist, and you squirm. 

“I- I didn’t want to ruin something.” He murmurs in your ear, and you pause.

“Ruin…”

“Us.” Steve’s face presses into the curve of your neck, warm breath tickling your skin. “You were my friend, we work in a lotta the same places, and I just- I didn’t want to risk that.”

You swallow, leaning back and waiting until he meets your glossy, sad gaze. You take his face between your hands, and he covers them with his own.

“I was willing to risk it.” You whisper, and he sighs.

“I know. But-“ He looks away, words choked and low. “I thought it was a crush. That you’d get over.”

You laugh weakly. “Well, it wasn’t.”

“I know.” He sighs. “Mine wasn’t either.”

You lips part with a sharp breath, and Steve looks back to you with nervous, hopeful eyes.

“I love you.” He squeezes both your hands, guiding them to his lips. “It is the same. So- Tell me that fixes it. Please.”

It does.

Just as fast as they’d shattered, your dreams weave themselves back together. They’re clearer than before. More colorful. It’s no longer like looking through a mist, or watching a reflection in the water. When you touch Steve, he doesn’t ripple away. And that’s more than enough.

You lean down and kiss him. It’s slower than the other kisses. Steve grabs your hips, but lets you press his head down. You wrap your arms around his neck, tracing his lips with your tongue, and he hums in content. Drags you further forward in his lap.

Something thick and hard presses right against you, and you almost go limp. Like your body is already trying to get ready to take it. To take Steve’s cock that can’t be as large as it feels, straining against his jeans and twitching when you drag yourself slowly back and forth.

“Hey.” Steve grunts, grabbing your hips firmly. You hope he’s holding tight enough to leave a bruise. “Easy.”

You snort, leaning back to give him a pointed look. “Easy?”

“Yeah, that’s what I-“

“I just came on your knee.”

His ears turn a little pink, and he coughs. “I, uh- Fair.”

“Mhm.” You hum, smiling smugly, and you take all the strength in your jelly legs and grind right now onto his clothed cock.

Steve hisses, his fingers digging into your soft skin. “Jesus- Baby-“

You brace your arms on either side of his head, dragging back and forth as slow as you can. Steve’s eyes flutter, his tongue darting over his lips as he watches you move on him. His muscles flex with the effort not to grab you.

You’d very much like to see him give up.

“Does that feel good?” You whisper, making your voice sweet and innocent.

Steve grunts. You’re going to have handprints on your body in the morning. The thought just makes you move faster.

“I don’t want to go slow, Stevie.” You purr, and his chest heaves under you. “I want you to fuck me. Pleeease.”

You whine dramatically, thrusting forward, and Steve’s face drops against your chest.

“Jesus, woman.” He lips graze over your breast, and you moan. “Come on, ‘s not playing fair-“

“Don’t wanna play fair.” You hum, slowly reaching between your bodies. “Wasn’t fair how you turned me down.”

“’M sorry about that-“

“You should be.” You kiss under his ear. “Hurt my feelings.”

“Thought-“ He grunts as you palm his balls through his jeans. “Thought I was helping-“

“You weren’t.”

“I got that now-“

“But you know what would make it better?” You lean back up, holding Steve’s gaze with a lazy smile.

He nods quickly, and you giggle, wiggling down onto his bulge.

“Fucking me.”

Steve looks down, and a rumble echoes through his chest when he sees it.

You’d peeled off your ruined underwear without him noticing. Leaving your bare, sweet and soaked pussy pressed against him. You moan, watching him as you grind down, and he’s so close to snapping. You can see it in the tension of his jaw, feel how his fingers keep twitching on your hips. You smile at him, licking your lips, and that dark look flashes over his features. The same one from earlier, that had him overtaking you like a storm.

Steve’s a good boy. A sweet boy.

He also doesn’t like things that he can’t account for. Used to pick fights in alleys as a kid, always wanted to be the person everyone looked to for help.

You’re sure that, between the two of you, you can let him have a little fun without compromising his moral compass.

He has to, if you’re begging him for it. Not very chivalrous, to ignore a lady in need.

“Pleaseee.” You whine again, ghosting your lips over his. “Fuck me, Stevie, fuck me until I can’t walk-“

He mutters your name under his breath, and you just pout at him.

“Make me yours, make me cry, fuck-“ You throw your head back, the teasing him going straight to your own core. “God, fucking- Please, Steve-“

That does it. The explicit, wet cry of his name seems to snap something in Steve’s resolve, and he’s on you in a blur of hands and lips. Grabbing a fistful of your ass before hauling you up his chest, kissing you breathless as he stands. He keeps carrying like you weigh nothing, and you want to be trapped in his arms forever.

“Steve- Shit-“ Your jaw drops he tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Fuck, slow down-“

“You said you didn’t want to slow down.” He reminds you in a deceptively soothing voice, big hands rubbing on the back of your thighs. “Said you didn’t wanna play fair.”

“I- Um- Ooooh-“

You drop your head against Steve’s shoulder, biting at his shirt as thick, strong fingers tease the lips of your pussy.

“Wet fuckin’ pussy.” He muses, spreading you open so the cold air hits your cunt. “Knew you got soaked for me, princess. Didn’t know it was this bad.”

“You- You-“ He needs to stop humiliating you and touching you at the same time. It makes you feel like you’re burning alive in the best way possible. “You knew?” You squeak, and Steve chuckles.

“Always knew. Told you, thought it was a crush.”

You try to twist and glare at him. “And you didn’t tell me-“

“Like you would’ve wanted me to tell you I could smell how badly you wanted my cock.” Steve smacks your ass with a scoff, and you flop right back over his shoulder.

“Fuck-“ You whimper. He’s right. You can barely even stand that right now. “Steve, please- Please-“

You’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore. Mercy, maybe. More mocking attention. Anything he can fucking give you, because you feel like you’re about to explode.

Steve spanks you again, this time on the other cheek, and you moan.

“’Course you like that.” He mutters. “Dirty girl, testing me every fucking day.”

He drags his thumb through the mess between your legs, and your pussy clenches, trying to drag him in. He laughs, pushing down for half a second before dragging down to your clit and rubbing in quick, tight circle. You gasp, pushing uselessly at his back, already overstimulated and still needing more.

“Felt that.” Steve flicks your clit, and your whole body shakes. “Greedy, princess. You’ve been waitin’ this long, you can hold it a little longer.”

“Ca- Can’t-“ You gasp, pressing your cheek against the broad muscle of his back. “Can’t, Steve- Can’t wait-“

“Yeah, you can.” He grunts. “Christ, you’re dripping all over my hand. Going to take me no problem, aren’t you, baby.”

He’s playing with your clit like it’s just a little button for his whims, and you have to bite your inner cheek to stop yourself from falling apart all over his hand.

“Steve- I- I’m going to- Oh my god-“

Steve slaps right over your pussy, the wet sound echoing in your ears as he shoves those two fingers right into your pussy. He finds your G-spot in a second, crooking his fingers and dragging them over your sensitive walls. You cum with a cry of his name, sudden and harsh. White dancing at your vision, your body seizing up as Steve dumps you down onto the soft mattress.

He presses his wrist further, folding your body up. You grab his neck for an anchor, and he kisses your wrist as he slides a third finger into your dripping mess of a pussy.

“Getting you ready.” He mutters, wiping some hair from your face. “It’s okay, babydoll, you’re doin’ real good.”

You whimper, the orgasm still shaking through you. You’re struggling to breathe when Steve finally pulls his hand away, and the loss makes you whimper.

Steve laughs softly, leaning down to kiss you all sweet and loving, like you haven’t been turned to a puddle under his hands.

“Breathe.” He murmurs, squeezing your breast gently, and you take a loud, stuttering gasp. Steve kisses your nose, smiling like he’s being offered ice cream, and you watch him in a starry-eyed daze.

You hear the click of his belt, and as much as you’d like to reach down and feel him, you can barely manage to hold onto his shoulders right now. Steve pulls slowly up with one last chaste kiss on your lips, and your breath hitches in your throat.

He’s massive. That’s the kind of dick you’ve only seen in cartoons, because even the porn industry can’t replicate it. You’re not sure how he gets around so easily in his tight suit, with that fucking horse cock acting like a third leg. Thick and veined, already beading with pre-cum as he strokes it slowly in his hand, a sheepish expression on his face.

“I was… Endowed.” He mumbles, ears red. “Before the serum. Then…”

He nods to his cock, and you laugh breathlessly.

“Jesus, Steve-“

“It won’t hurt you.” He says quickly. “I know there are those rumors ‘bout be being a virgin, but-“ He sighs, pouting slightly. “God forbid a man tell Tony Stark he doesn’t want to talk about his sex life, suddenly he’s never even touched a boob-“

“Dude.” You smile up at him, and he cuts himself off. “Look me in the eyes and tell me if I still think you’re a virgin after that.”

You tilt your head to the hallway, but Steve just frowns.

“Dude?”

“Um-“

“Don’t call me dude when I’m about to fuck you.” He grumbles, and you’d laugh at him if that didn’t make your heart skip. e

“Sorry, sir.”

You say it half to mock him, half to test something.

Steve’s jaw ticks, and his already rock-hard cock twitches in his hands. You giggle as his eyes narrow, and you’re still laughing as he prowls over you, that dark, hungry look back on his face.

“You think something’s funny?” He grunts, and you shake your head.

“No, sir.”

Steve groans, dropping his face between your breasts.

“Gonna be the death of me.” He mutters under his breath, and you’re still laughing softly.

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

You laugh again, because you’re really not. It’s hilarious, and he’s adorable, and this is going to yield some fantastic results.

Steve assesses you like you’re a mission to be accomplished. And you know him.

He never does anything halfway.

“Alright, princess.” He mutters, tapping the head of his cock on your clit. “Open.”

You squeak, still giggling, and spread your legs slowly.

The last laugh is pushed from your chest as Steve slowly starts to sink himself into your heat. Your mouth falls uselessly open as you bow off the bed, your body almost unable to rationalize how full you are. 

Steve splits you open, his cock slowly driving through you and hitting spots you didn’t even know you had. He grinds slowly down into your pussy, bullying you further open, and you think he’s found a button inside you that just makes you a limp, sensitive fuck-doll, because you whine out his name but it takes everything you have.

“I know.” He grunts, the tip of his cock pressing into your cervix. “You’re taking it, baby, there you go.”

“Steveee-“

“Feels good, doesn’t it.” He presses at sweet kiss to your lips as he bottoms out. His fingers lace slowly through yours, and you nod.

You’ve never had so many pleasure points being hit at once. Steve’s still got a hand on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers as you try to breath around him. He’s patient. You don’t want him to be.

“More.” You push out, and he raises his brows.

“Sweetheart-“

“More.” You roll up into him, moaning loudly as he hits even deeper. “Fuck me, Steve- Mmm-“

He kisses you, passionate and messy, and you almost scream in satisfaction as he starts to move.

He’s unrushed. Completely in control of you, and aware of it. His dick pulls almost all the way out before slowly pushing back in, the torturous pace making you feel like a live wire.

“Yeah, that’s it.” He coos, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “Pretty girl, you like being stuffed up with my cock, don’t you.”

“Ye- Yes-“ You tip your head back into the pillows, your free hand grasping at the sheets. “Yes- Oh my god, yes-“

Steve’s started to grind against your g-spot whenever he hits it, letting his thickness press and drag over the sensitive, gooey spot until you’re moaning and writhing around him.

“Feel that, don’t you.” He mutters, pushing in a little harder than last time. “Feel my dick inside you, baby, feels so good, doesn’t-“

“So good.” You babble, but who can blame you. “So good, Steve, you’re so-“

Your words turn into a broken moan as Steve drives back into you, and he’s going harder and harder every time. Still pulling almost fully out slowly, letting your arousal gather and drip down your thighs and ass, but then slamming back into you so hard it makes you think the world is shaking.

A breathy sound escapes your lips, maybe a plea, and Steve moves your tangled hands between your bodies, pressing you down into the mattress as he rises up for a better angle.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet.” He growls, pounding into your cunt like he owns it. “If I’d know you wanted me this bad I woulda had you all over this city.”

You whine, squeezing around him. Steve chuckles.

“Oh, you like that. Like the idea of being my good little cockslut, letting me play with you wherever I want.” 

Big, steady hands press your knees up, letting Steve hit even deeper than before. A strange, tight feeling is building in your gut, but it feels good. All of this feels so good. You’re spent and cockdrunk, but you feel used in the best possible way. The filth Steve is drawling in your ears makes your brain go all quiet. You’re just a happy, humming bundle of pleasure, Steve’s massive body draped over yours, and you’d probably do anything he wanted, if he just fucked you like this after.

“You were made for me.” He groans, lips wandering all over your face as his cock drills into you. “I’m gonna take such good care of you, baby, swear it, just sing for me, come on-“

You moan, long and loud. Steve grins, kissing under your ear.

“Good girl.” He coos. “There you go, just like that. Come on, doll, I know you’re getting close.”

You are. You’ve been close the whole time, but this feels more and more different by the second. There are wet, sinful sounds filling the room as your skin slaps together, and Steve’s breath is hot in your ear as he starts to lose a little control of himself.

He moans when you start mindlessly humping up to meet him, forcing his cock into the tightest spot into you that makes everything all colorful and hazy. You gasp softly, chasing up from a little more, and Steve wraps and arm around your back.

“Fuck- Fuck- You feel so good,” he groans your name in your ear. “So good, it’s- Christ-“

That strange pressure in your tummy is going to burst. It feels like Steve is driving right against it, daring it come undone.

“Steve.” You breathe out. “Steve- I- I’m gonna-“

He growls, deep in his chest and rolling through you.  Steve grabs you and wrestles you down into the mattress, pushing your legs up to your chest and fucking you fast and brutal.

It’s a sight above you. Steve, panting and moaning as your pussy sucks him in, glistening arousal shining all over his cock when he pulls out and smearing on your tummy. Your tight walls are starting to contract, and he doubles over, groaning your name as his thrust become shallow and unmeasured.

Tears start to stream down your face. Steve looks at you like you’re an angel, fucking you like you’re just a toy, and you can’t even remember how to tell him how good it feels.

“Steve…” You wiggle below him, crying out as he just fucks you hard. “Steve- Ooooooh-“

Your eyes roll back, the tears burning on your cheeks from the impossible to handle pleasure. Steve leans down and kisses them off your cheeks, the softness in such contrast with how he’s turning you into a bundle of nerves and tears.

“My pretty girl.” He mutters, kissing your lips sweetly. “Close. We’re so close. You can make it. Make it for me.”

You nod, almost hypnotized into agreeing. And Steve’s abusing that spot inside of you. Sensitive and overwhelming, making your toes curl and eyes cross.

“Steve- I- I can’t-“

“Yes, you can.” Not a suggestion. Steve’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing it back and forth as he ruts into you. “Come for me, now.”

The command rolls through you, and that pressure bursts. Heat washes over you, making you bow off the bed as a funny, wet feeling gushes out between your thighs. Steve groans, slamming his mouth back over yours, groaning your name as you start to milk his cock.

“Fuck,” he groans, and you wrap your arms tight around his neck. Tight enough to strangle him, if he was a normal man. But Steve just splays his hand possessively over your back and moans against your lips, driving home into your cunt as his release rippling through him.

It’s almost as good as your own orgasm. You’re tucked into a shaking, flexing heat of muscle, his deep voice moaning your name in your ear, his cock still thrusting and twitching inside you. Over, and over, and over-

You can barely breathe in the best way. You’ve never had a man cum so much. It starts just hot and sticky, then it’s drooling out, down your ass and onto the sheets. You can feel it in your throat, almost taste it, and even after Steve pulls out it’s everywhere. Painting your pussy creamy and white, branding your abdomen, your tits, your thighs.

Steve stares down at you with a gaping mouth as you both come down from the high. You laugh, hoarse and breathy.

“Woah.”

“Shit.” Steve mutters, grabbing at the remainder of the clean sheets and wiping them over your body. “I- I didn’t- I usually pull out, you just-“

“Steve-“

“We need to get you in the shower, it’s everywhere-“

“Steve-“

“I’m so sorry-“

“Steven.” You smack his shoulder, and he stops dead.

You’re already bridal style in his arms, naked and covered in his cum, some of it dripping all over the floor. You’re going to need to hire a cleaner. Or invest in really, really big buckets that you’ll keep next to the bed.

“Does that happen every time?”

He swallows, and nods.

“Uh- Not that much.” He mumbles. “But yeah.”

Pride glows in your chest. You get the most of him. “Okay.”

Steve blinks. “Okay?”

You nod, and he shakes his head.

“I ruined your room-“

“I liked it.”

He stares. You smile.

Steve rolls his eyes, and presses a kiss to your brow.

“You’re impossible.” He mutters, and you giggle.

“Yeah, but you love me. And you can’t take it back now, you already said it-“

He grabs your chin, turning it so he can fully capture your lips.

“I do love you.” He mutters against your lips. “And no one could make me take it back if they tried.”

You smile. You have no plans to do that.

Steve is somehow more than you ever dreamed. And there’s no way you’re letting him go now.

✦End note: this was so fun for me to write i love a puppy dog man. i hope you enjoyed it!✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[mickimoo1409]

Insane

Pairing - Insane Asylum Patient Bucky Barnes x Reader x Steve Rogers

Summary - Your new job is going well. Your colleague Steve is sweet, but one of the patients, Bucky, keeps staring at you. You're not sure you want to find out why.

Warnings - DARK - NONCON Sex, Dubcon, Bondage. 18+ Only! My warnings are not extensive so enter at your own risk!

Word Count - 5k

You'd been at your new job for a couple of weeks now and had settled in relatively easily, despite the issues the job brought with it.

You walked through the pristine white halls, heels clicking loudly and the distinct smell of cleaning supplies filled your nose, so strong it blocked out anything else.

The term insane asylum had been boycotted years ago, but that's what it was, home to some of the most criminally insane, long abandoned within these walls. The state says it aims to 'help', yet most of these patients are here for the long haul, lucky if they ever get to see freedom again, although its hard to find sympathy when some of them are guilty of the most obscene crimes.

You entered the rec room where a handful of patients were spread out joining in with activites. The centre only allowed a maximum of 10 patients in a communal space at any one time to reduce "accidents", some patients were never allowed to be in the room together at all.

As always there were 4 guards stationed around the room just in case of incident whilst you and two other colleagues interacted with the patients if they needed you.

You were loitering around, checking on the three patients engaged in a large puzzle together to make sure they were okay when Steve walked in with James Barnes.

James immediately looked your way and you averted your gaze. You didn't know why but he always made you feel nervous. You didn't know whether it was the way he always stared at you or the fact he wouldn't speak a single word to anyone except steve, even then it was usually mutterings or whispers. Or maybe it was the fact that he had been reprimanded for killing over a hundred people, apparently blacking out with each kill.

Steve was by far your favourite colleague, always offering you a hand or advice and generally being a gentleman, not to mention how good looking he was. You wondered why James would speak to him, how long it took Steve to build that rapport with him, despite James unnerving you you still wanted to be able to help him.

He was doing it again, staring at you relentlessly with his brows furrowed and his jaw clenched. When you looked his way and caught his gaze, offering him a small smile, he looked disturbed, turning to Steve and beginning to mutter as Steve placed a calming hand on his shoulder to placate him.

Despite the stares and an elderly patient tossing the puzzle in frustration, it was a fairly calm day and you went home without having to fill in any incident reports, which was always a plus.

A few days later you were supervising lunch time for some patients. James was amongst them, sat on his own at a table with his head down as he ate his food.

Lunchtimes were the most peaceful part of the day and so it was only you and one other colleague, though you had panic buttons available should you need assistance. It had never worried you, as there were only 4 or 5 patients in and out of the lunch hall at once in a steady flow and there hadn't been an incident during this period in over 20 years (or so the director told you when you got the job). So far you had no reason to doubt him.

The next patient filters in as one leaves, Brock Rumlow. You knew this one well, he was an outrageous flirt though you never feared he would ever act on anything, it was his way of coping with his situation you figured.

He collected his lunch on the plastic plates and made his way towards the seating, surprising you by making his way to James' table and sitting across from him. You were immediately on alert, knowing James didn't like being disturbed.

Within seconds it all went to shit. James swiped his own food and Brocks off the table before standing and glaring at him while Brock laughed maniacly.

James lost it, flipping the table over and beginning a rampage through the room, tossing tables and chairs, plates and cups went flying. The other three patients were screaming and Brock was still laughing away.

You had already pressed the panic button on the wall and two guards rushed into the room, making their way straight for James, making him look like a deer caught in headlights.

"Wait!" You yelled suddenly, making the guards and James all stop at once.

"Get the other patients out, I'll deal with James." You said calmly as James' eyes locked with yours, turning dark.

"You sure?" John, one of the guards said in concern, but you nodded quickly, waving your hands at them and watching as they quickly ushered the others out of the room to safety.

James' chest was rising and falling rapidly, nostrils flaring as he watched you.

You placed your hands in front of your chest placatingly before lowering your voice.

"It's okay James, you're okay." You began.

His jaw ticked and you swallowed harshly, trying to ignore the way your heart was beating faster than a hummingbird.

"He's gone james," You continued, "Did he upset you?"

You dared to take a slow step forward, immediately jumping back when James growled audibly, sending a shiver down your spine.

"Okay okay." You said quickly, trying to placate him, "I'll stay back here okay? I just want to make sure you're okay, that's all."

He tilted his head inquisitvely and all of a sudden he marched towards you at speed. You barely had time to react before he had you backed up into the wall, looming over you with a dark expression in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." You whispered as you placed your hands flat against the wall by your sides, "I didn't mean to upset you."

James brought both of his hands up and slammed them onto the wall besides your head, caging you under his enormous body and you let out a loud squeak as you attempted to cower away from him, angling your head to the side.

He brought his face down closer to yours, pressing his nose into the crook of your neck and inhaling with a satisfied grunt.

He kept his face buried there as you quivered in fear and pushed his core towards you, alerting you to his obvious arousal as it pushed into your abdomen.

A tear slipped free as the fear overcame you, you realised what a huge mistake you'd made thinking you could get through to him.

"Buck." Came Steve's stern voice suddenly and Bucky's head finally separated from your neck, tilting to the side.

"Step away Bucky, you don't wanna do this." Steve ordered.

Bucky's nostrils flared once more and he let out a rumble from his chest.

"Come on Buck," Steve said, placing a hand on James' shoulder and you watched as his body relaxed in front of you, "It's me, it's Steve, step away buddy."

You let out a shaky breath as James' body heat finally released you and he turned to Steve with his head lowered in submission.

"Come on Buck, let's get you to your room." Steve said softly.

James didn't reply, only stepping forward and beginning to follow Steve away from you, head still lowered like a kicked puppy.

As they reached the door Steve turned to you, offering you a reassuring smile.

"Go wait for me in the break room, I'll be there soon." He offered and you simply nodded in return, taking deep breaths as you tried to settle your heart rate.

Your hands were still trembling around your coffee cup when Steve finally entered the break room and sat down across from you with a sigh, rubbing his palms over his face.

"Is he okay?" You asked quietly.

Steve raised a curious brow at you before settling his hands on the table, curling one around the other.

"Are YOU okay?" He countered.

"Yeah, I mean.. I.. I think so.. Sorry." You muttered.

"You don't need to be sorry." Steve smiled reassuringly, "Bucky can be a lot, I'm sorry he did that."

"It's okay, he was worked up." You said shyly, though part of you wondered if that was all because of Brock or something else.

"I feel like I owe you an explanation." Steve said nervously and you gazed back at him curiously.

"What do you mean?" You asked.

"I'm sure you've noticed that Buck will talk to me," He began as you nodded, "We know each other, knew each other. we grew up together."

"Oh..wow.." You stuttered in surprise.

"Yeah," Steve sighed, "He wasn't always like this. He was an average kid 'til we joined the army. After we served, Bucky just...fuck..he didn't cope well, he was drinking, doing drugs and then he went off the rails. A few years later the police found out he'd been..."

Steve swallowed deeply like he couldn't finish the sentence.

"It's okay." You whispered, reaching across the table to put your hand on his and you saw his shoulders relax.

"I couldn't believe it," He muttered, "I did my best to be there for him through the trial and all the psych evals and such. Is it wrong that I'm glad he wasn't in his right mind when he did it?"

You raised a brow as you pondered the question. You supposed knowing your best friend did these things on purpose was a lot worse than this alternative, so you shook your head.

Steve let out a loud sigh.

"When they sentenced him to serve his time here.. I just couldn't abandon him.." Steve said as a tear slipped down his cheek, "I had to help, so I applied immediately and I've been here the whole time, watching over him."

"You're a good friend Steve." You whispered with a soft smile, as you ran your thumb over his knuckles.

"Thanks." Steve sighed

You pulled your hand back and placed it in your lap when the contact started to tingle in your core.

"Why do you call him Bucky?" You asked.

"Oh," Steve smiled, "He prefers that name. It's his nickname, short for buchanan, his middle name."

"Ahhh makes sense." You smiled.

You both just looked at one another for a moment before Steve began to rub the back of his neck shyly.

"So listen," He began, "I know the timing of this sucks, but I was wondering...well I wanted to know...if maybe...you wanna get dinner with me? Sometime?"

Your smile widened as a blush spread to your cheeks.

"Yeah. I'd like that." You grinned back.

"It's a date." Steve smiled and you felt a flutter in your heart.

The next day work returned to normal, despite the fact that you had a constant blush to your cheeks every time you were in Steve's proximity. He would constantly send you flirty winks or make flirty comments, clearly feeling a little bolder now he knew you were interested, but you didn't mind one bit.

You had a skip in your step that wasn't present before, as heat bloomed under your skin from Steve's attention. A permanent smile had made its way to your face.

You made your way to the rec room, finding it almost empty besides Bucky and two of the others. Bucky was in the corner looking through the bookshelf and with the added confidence in you that day you decided to approach him, you didn't want him to think you were afraid of him after yesterday. Besides there were four guards and two other staff members, so that chance of something happening in that room was unlikely.

"Hey James." You smiled softly as you approached.

His eyes flickered to you, lips pressed in a flat line and he quickly diverted his attention back to the book shelf.

"You looking for anything specific?" You asked, looking to where his fingers were drifting over the spines.

You heard him grunt before stopping and pulling out a copy of The Hobbit. It was weathered with wrinkled pages but then, most books on the shelf were.

"Ahh good choice," you smiled, clasping your hands together behind your back, "That's my favourite."

Bucky's eyes flickered back to yours, seeming to soften and the corner of his lip twitched.

"Me too." He mumbled and you had to fight hard not to jump up and down and scream with joy that he'd spoken to you.

"Well you have good taste." You said instead, keeping your voice soft and steady.

"Mmm." He hummed simply as he crossed the room towards the arm chairs in the corner, slumping down into one.

He looked up at you expectantly before looking at the chair next to him and you swallowed down the pride as you strutted over to sit next to him, smiling when your colleagues began to notice and raise impressed brows in your direction.

"So what's your favourite part?" You asked as you sat.

Bucky flipped the book over in his palms, looking down with furrowed brows, like he was fighting an internal battle as he thought.

"Smaug." He said with a nod.

One word, simple yet you'd learnt more about him in the last five minutes than any one except Steve had in his entire incarceration.

"Hey, you okay?" Came Steve's voice as he joined you in the room, looking concerned when he saw you sat next to Bucky.

"Yeah we're okay." You smiled with a gleam in your eyes. "James and I were just discussing the hobbit."

Steve raised a brow as a smile spread across his lips, looking over at his old friend with pride.

"Bucky." Bucky murmured lowly. "Call me Bucky."

You breath caught in your throat at the offer and you looked up at Steve with a smile, seeing him smile back at you happily.

"Okay. I will. Bucky." You said back.

Bucky hummed once more with a nod before opening the book and settling in to the story.

You were on cloud nine. First Steve asked you on a date, now Bucky was talking to you. The bad parts of the previous day were now completely forgotten.

The next few days were amazing. Work was great. Bucky continued to make progress with you, offering more than just one word answers though still keeping his answers short and clipped. He continued to stare regularly but it wasn't unnerving you as much as it did before.

You and Steve went on your date and it was a dream. He was such a gentleman, picking you up with flowers, holding doors. His hand would stay respectfully on the base of your spine.

At the end of the night you even offered for him to go inside for a coffee, but he politely declined saying he shouldn't but that he'd love to go out again and he gave you a soft kiss on the cheek.

You really did feel like you were walking on cloud nine, everything was perfect.

Everything had been normal at work one day during the next week, there were no incidents, the evening shift was smooth and quiet.

You had assisted making sure everyone got to their rooms to settle for bed and sat yourself in the floors security room with the night guard, Lee, watching the monitors while you had a coffee to keep you going.

There were a couple other guards stationed around the large building and a few colleagues, but in general the night shift was quiet and boring. You knew Steve was working so he was around somewhere. You were sure you'd find him and pass the time talking with him at some point.

Suddenly everything went dark and the guard muttered a low "shit" before fumbling on his belt for a torch while you sat in shock, not knowing what to do.

"What's going on?" You said nervously.

Lee stood and flashed the light at the control panel.

"Powers gone. Gonna have to do a manual reset from the breaker room." He grunted.

"What about the patient doors?" You asked, standing and looking over the control panel with him, though you had no idea what you were looking at.

"Shit." He grunted again. "If the powers out the locks won't engage but they were all asleep, so I wouldn't panic."

Don't panic? The doors to all the patients guilty of severe crimes and with serious mental illnesses weren't locked in, while you had limited staff and guards on duty. But yeah, don't panic.

"You're gonna need to go check the rooms while I reset the breaker." He suggested and your eyes widened in fear.

"Me?" You whispered while your hands shook.

"Yes. You. You don't know how to reset the breaker and I've got no way of calling on anyone else so I need you to check." He began with an annoyed huff, "Just this floor, in the event of a power cut the doors to the stairs manually lock so no one can leave the floor they are on. We're bloody lucky we're on the ground floor, I can get to the breaker through the service tunnels."

"Okay I can do it." You agreed feebly.

"Here," Lee said passing you another torch from a nearby cabinet, "Take this and these cuffs, just in case."

"Cuffs?" You whispered shakily.

"You'll be fine." He continued, "They are sleeping."

You nodded and walked off towards the corridor where the patients from this floor slept, light on your feet as you flicked the light around the hallways, making the place look even more eery than it already did.

When you reached the correct corridor, the row of doors seemed to look over you. Each one presented a danger that you couldn't even comprehend. Sure you were with these people on a daily basis, but now, at night with no support, they presented a real and present threat.

You walked to the first door, carefully shining your flashlight through the small observation window, breathing a sigh of relief when you saw the patient asleep in bed.

The same happened on doors two and three and you finally began to feel more confident as you continued down the hall.

You checked on all five out of six patients before cautiously moving along to Bucky's door, flashing the light through his window.

You swallowed harshly as you observed the bed, noting that he wasn't there and you moved the beam of light slowly around the room until you landed on his figure, stood staring out of his barred window with his back to you.

As the beam of light reached him, his head tilted towards the door and you quickly flicked the switch off and backed away.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. This was Bucky, he was coming around to you, he liked you, he wasn't a threat, this would be okay. At least you hoped it would be.

You flashed the light back through the window, jumping back and hitting the far wall as his face appeared in the window.

Your heart was hammering, hands shaking around the torch while he stared out at you.

The door slid open slowly and you had to make a decision. Run or stay put and hope it was still Bucky, that you could placate him.

As the door hit its hilt, you gasped loudly, accidentally dropping the torch from your sweaty hands. Bucky's body filled the door frame easily, the shadows casting over him dangerously.

You didn't move, he didn't move. It felt like time stood still while you decided which move to make.

You inhaled deeply, steeling your shoulders in preparation and placing your hand tightly around the cuffs.

"Bucky..." You stuttered.

All of a sudden he was charging towards you, clamping his hand over your mouth and grabbing the cuffs with the other, easily pulling them from your grasp as you attempted to push at his chest, eyes widening in fear.

The next thing you knew he was pulling you away from the wall and easily dragging you back into his room where he tossed you onto his bed.

You attempted to sit up but were pushed back down immediately by a strong palm.

Bucky grabbed the cuffs, quickly opening one end and attaching it to your wrist before attaching the other end to the cuff loop that the patients had near their beds. Supposed to be for them if needed, now being used to hold you hostage.

You began to scratch at the cuff manically with your free hand as Bucky stepped back from the bed, flaring his nostrils.

"Bucky. Let me go." You whimpered, but he didn't move. He just stood by the side of the bed, breathing heavily as he looked at you.

"Bucky. Please." You pleaded in desperation.

"No." He grunted before he lowered himself to his knees at the side of the single bed.

He looked over your body, licking at his lips with a pant before he reached out and placed his palm over your breast.

You gripped his wrist and attempted to pull his hand away but he slapped you away with his free hand.

"No." He grunted in annoyance.

He began massaging your breast, squeezing the flesh with a tense jaw before moving onto the second and giving it the same treatment.

You could only lay silently in horror as he continued to grope you, wondering how the hell you were going to get out of this.

Bucky pulled both his hands up to your top, gripping it firmly before ripping it straight down the middle. It splayed out either side of you revealing your lacy bra and you heard him growl while tears began slipping from your eyes.

A loud bang on the door had Bucky jumping up and the door swung open.

Steve stepped through, looking around with his torch until he saw you laid on the bed, cuffed to the wall with tear stains on your cheeks.

The door slammed shut behind him and he moved his gaze to Bucky who was standing hanging his head.

"Bucky."Steve said softly. "What are you doing?"

Bucky began to mutter incoherently as Steve carefully crossed the space, leaning over you and brushing your hair from your face.

"Are you okay?" He asked, glancing down at your uncovered breasts and back up at your face.

"I'm okay." You whimpered softly. "He took the key."

"Okay. You're gonna be okay." Steve assured you before returning to Bucky.

He set the torch on the window sill, allowing it to gently bask the room in a little light and approached Bucky, placing his hand on his shoulder.

"Buck. Explain yourself." Steve said more sternly as you watched on from where you lay.

"I want her." Bucky whispered, but the admission seemed to echo in the space.

"Buck. You can't take her buddy. You know this." Steve scolded.

"Please stevie." Bucky whimpered, placing his hands in front of his body and rubbing them together nervously.

"Buck." Steve sighed.

Bucky finally raised his head, making eye contact with Steve.

"Please stevie. Let me have her. I need her." He began pleading, "I love her Stevie."

Steve glanced over at you with a strange look on his face before looking back at his friend.

"Buck. You can't do this." Steve scolded once more. "I won't let you hurt her."

Your heart rate was sky rocketing as you glanced between the two men, praying that Steve could talk sense into him.

"I won't hurt her Stevie." Bucky pleaded. "I promise I won't. I just wanna love on her. Please."

"Fuck Bucky." Steve sighed shaking his head. "What am I gonna do with you?"

"Please." Bucky whined once more and Steve looked at you, exhaling heavily through his nose.

"Steve." You whimpered as you tugged on the cuff.

Steve looked back at Bucky with a soft adoration. He patted his shoulder and released him, stepping back.

"Okay Bucky." He relented, "But don't hurt her okay?"

Bucky nodded as you began to panic. Steve stepped to the corner of the room sitting down in Bucky's armchair as Bucky moved back towards you.

"Steve." You yelled as more tears trickled over your skin, "Please. You can't let him."

"I'm sorry sweetheart. He needs this." Steve sighed.

"What the fuck Steve." You spat, glancing at Bucky with a shiver as he began taking off his clothes.

"I told you. We have history." Steve said calmly.

"I can't...I don't...you can't do this..." You cried.

"I'll do whatever he needs." Steve replied. "I always have. When he'd come to me after another episode, if he needed help getting rid of another body, I've always done what I needed to do to look after him and I always will. He's my best friend."

You began to sob harshly as the reality of your situation sank in.

Bucky stepped in front of you and you had to hold back a gasp at the size of his cock as it bobbed prone in front of you.

You tilted your head to the side and looked away as Bucky stepped around you and began to tug down your trousers and panties in one swoop.

"Please don't do this." You whimpered once more, though you knew it was useless.

"Spread her legs Buck. Let me see." Steve said suddenly and you looked back to glare at him, only to find him with his trousers down and his own cock in hand as he watched.

"Sure Stevie." Bucky said softly, grabbing your thighs in his strong palms and pushing them apart with a low groan.

"Fuck." Steve moaned as he stroked himself.

"Can I fuck her now Stevie?" Bucky whispered, staring between your legs and poking his tongue out to wet his lips. "Please?"

"Go for it Buck." Steve agreed, "Make it count."

He quickly shifted over the top of you, staring down at you with his mouth agape as you shook. You knew there was no point in fighting him, he was strong, too strong and dangerous. 

Bucky nudged his cock at your entrance with a loud groan as the head slipped between your lips.

You did your best to suppress the spark it sent to your groin, refusing to admit your body found the action pleasurable, but it didn't last long as your body began to dampen the more he pushed at your clit. 

Bucky pushed the head past your entrance, letting out an animalistic growl as he did, bracing himself on his arms at either side of your head.

"She's getting wet Stevie." He moaned loudly while you whimpered.

"Course she is Buck, you're a good boy, you'll fuck her good.' Steve grunted from the other side of the room.

"I'm a good boy." Bucky repeated in a whisper before thrusting harshly through your walls and burying himself to the hilt, causing you to let out a loud gasp at the obscene stretch. 

He dropped his weight on top of you, burying his face in your neck as he began to fuck his cock into you with no remorse, hitting your cervix with each thrust. 

You couldn't hold the moans in any longer as you felt the signs of an orgasm building at speed. His cock dragged along your special spot with each pull of his hips before hitting deep inside your cunt with each push.

"That's it Buck," Steve rasped, "She likes it, keep goin'."

"Feels so good Stevie." Bucky groaned into your skin, hips slamming against your pelvis.

Your free hand fisted at the bed sheets harshly, bunching them up as you got closer and closer to the edge.

"Gonna cum Stevie," Bucky whined, "Need to cum."

"No." Steve grunted, "Ladies first Buck, you know that."

Bucky responded to this with a low groan before assaulting your cunt with even faster, harder thrusts, plummeting you towards bliss.

You fell over the edge, letting out a loud moan as your pussy clenched around Bucky's cock, gripping him tightly.

"Fuck, go on Buck," Steve moaned, "Fill 'er up."

Bucky groaned against your neck, pushing his cock as deep as it could go. You felt his release, warm and wet flooding your pussy as Bucky stilled and your mind began to clear in the post orgasmic haze.

"Fuck, fuck." Steve muttered from the chair and you looked up just in time to see him spilling over his hand.

Bucky slipped out of you and carefully pulled your pants back up while you breathed heavily, trying to recover.

Steve tucked himself away and stepped towards you cautiously.

"Key Buck." He ordered, holding his palm out as Bucky collected the cuff key and passed it to him.

Steve hovered over you, holding the key by the cuff lock.

"Now I think this goes without saying," He said sternly, 'But this stays in this room, you tell no one."

You nodded furiously, pressing your lips together.

"I mean it sweetheart." Steve said sternly, "I won't hesitate to protect Bucky if I need too, you say nothing."

"Okay." You whispered.

He sighed before slipping the key in the lock and freeing you finally. You gripped your wrist as you sat up, rubbing it gently.

"Here." Bucky said, head now back to hanging low as he held out his t shirt for you.

You quickly slipped it on, removing your damaged shirt and then followed Steve out of the room, clutching your arms around yourself protectively as Steve shut the door behind him.

Just then, as though you were living in some kind of written fiction, the power came back on, mocking you.

Steve looked up at the lights with a smirk.

"Well then sweetheart," He said as you both began walking towards the security office, "What do you wanna do for our date this week?"

The End

SS Tag - @late-to-the-party-81 @the-wandering-wonder

[littledes1re]

Could you do one with Joel and the ovulating but stubborn reader? They're at a party, maybe Tommy's, but she wants him now. I love your writing, good luck!!

Sorting you out

Warnings: 18+, smut, unspecified age gap ig, pinv, unprotected sex, ovulation sex, creampie, clit rubbing, masturbation (just once), dom!joel, stubborn reader, praise kink, slightly mean!joel, outbreak, Tommy and Maria mentioned,

A/N: Okey…i’m finally doing some requests??? Omg??? I still have soo many sitting in my inbox🫣but one at a time! Actually i love this idea cuz who wouldn’t want Joel to be there when ovulation hits?? I hope you enjoy this anon and thank you for requesting!!!

The bass from the speakers thumped through the crowded living room of Tommy's house.

It was one of those rare, but distracting Jackson nights. No patrols, no infected, no canteen fights. Only good music, a few cold beers, snacks and the easy, lively mix of laughter and chatter filling the air as friends and neighbors mingled under the warm glow of string lights.

You leaned against the arm of the worn leather couch, nursing a drink in your hand, trying to play it cool, enjoy the music, listen to some conversations but…

…your body had other ideas.

Ovulation hit you like a train this time, that deep, insistent ache blooming low in your belly, spreading heat through your core. Your nipples, hard and pebbled, were straining against the thin fabric of your tank top, every brush of the cloth sending sparks straight to your clit. 

You shifted your thighs together, feeling the slick wetness gathering in your panties, your pussy throbbing with a need that made your skin flush hot. 

Stubborn as ever, of course, you weren't about to let it show. Not here, not with Joels dark eyes flicking to your way every few minutes from across the room.

He stood by the kitchen doorway, broad shoulders flexing in his flannel shirt, a beer bottle dangling from his hand. Joel had that quiet authority in him, the kind that didn't really need words—his gaze said everything, sharp and knowing, like he could read the tension coiling in your muscles from just twenty feet away. 

You caught him watching you earlier, when you'd laughed a little too forced at one of Tommy's jokes, your hips subtly grinding against the couch cushion for friction you oh so desperately craved. 

Now, as the song shifted to something slower and quiter, he pushed off of the wall and made his way over to you.

"You alright?" His voice was low, eyes locking onto yours. His eyes narrowed slightly, taking in the flush on your cheeks, swollen lips, the way your chest rose and fell a bit too quick.

You nodded, forcing a smile, even as another wave of heat pulsed through you, your clit swelling with need. "Yeah, just...the party's great." 

Lie. Your body screamed for relief, for him to pin you down and fill the emptiness aching inside you.

Joel's jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to your fidgeting hands, then back up. He leaned in, voice dropping to a rumble only you could hear. "Can take you to the bathroom right now. Get you all sorted."

Heat flooded your face—you already knew what he meant, that stern look in his eyes promising he'd handle it, take control like he always did. But stubborn pride still flared over you; you weren't some kind of damsel crumbling at a party.

You shook your head, meeting his stare. "I'm fine, Joel. I can handle it."

He straightened, exhaling a rough breath through his nose, those dark eyes pinning you in place.

"Then keep yourself together," he gruffed, voice like worn leather. "You're practically humpin' the couch, doll. Don't make me come drag you off it."

Your breath hitched at the words, the way he said them so matter-of-fact, no filth, just that authoritative edge that made your knees weak. 

He lingered a second longer, eyes tracing the curve of your neck where your pulse hammered, before turning back to the kitchen with a nod, like the conversation was over. But you felt his gaze on you the rest of the night, heavy and watchful, stoking the fire he was trying to tamp down.

And you tried. God, you really tried. Mingled with Maria, laughed at stories from the guys, even swayed a little to the music when Tommy cranked up an old country tune. But every step rubbed your soaked panties against your swollen folds, every laugh sent a quick jolt through your sensitive breasts.

The ache built, so relentless, cunt clenching around nothing, begging to be stretched, filled. 

Joel's words echoed—keep yourself together—and it only made you wetter, imagining him enforcing it.

It got too much at one point, the room spun with too many bodies and too much noise. 

You excused yourself with a mumbled "be right back," weaving through the crowd to the hallway bathroom. 

The door then clicked shut behind you, lock snapping into place, and you sagged against the sink, breath coming in shallow pants. Your hands trembled as you hiked up your skirt, fingers diving under your panties to find your dripping slit. You were completely soaked, arousal coating your thighs, clit throbbing under your touch as you rubbed frantic circles. 

"Fuck," you whispered, eyes squeezing shut, picturing Joel's thick cock replacing your fingers, pounding into you until the need shattered.

A sharp knock rattled the door—three firm raps. "Open up," Joel's voice cut through, low and demanding, no room for argument.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, fingers freezing mid-stroke. "Joel? I'm busy—go away."

Silence, then the knob rattled, his boot thudding against the wood like a warning. 

"Now, darlin'. Don't make me break it down."

Stubbornness warred with desperation, but your body won. With a shaky sigh, you pulled your hand free, slick fingers glistening, and twisted the lock. The door swung open, and there he was, filling the frame, jaw set, eyes dark with that knowing intensity. He stepped in without a word, kicking the door shut and locking it himself.

"Couldn't handle it, could you?" He murmured as he crowded you back against the sink. His hands gripped your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, grounding you while your pussy clenched in anticipation.

You shook your head, breath hitching. "I—"

He cut you off with a look, those eyes speaking volumes: no excuses. One hand slid up your thigh, rough palm dragging your skirt higher, fingers brushing the damp fabric of your panties. 

"Shh. Let me take care of it." He hooked his fingers in the waistband and yanked them down, letting them pool at your ankles. Cool air hit your exposed pussy, making you gasp, folds slick and puffy from the earlier touches.

Joel's gaze dropped, taking you in with that stern approval, a low hum in his throat. 

He unzipped his jeans, freeing his cock—thick and heavy, the head already leaking pre cum, veins pulsing along the length. 

Your mouth watered at the sight, but he didn't let you drop; instead, he spun you around, bending you over the sink with firm hands on your waist. The mirror reflected your flushed face, his broad chest behind you, eyes locked on yours through the glass.

"Look at you," he growled softly, rubbing the blunt head of his cock through your soaked slit, coating himself in your arousal. "So ready for me. That's my girl."

His praise made your walls flutter. 

He pushed in slow at first, the stretch burning deliciously as inch after inch sank into your tight heat. 

You moaned, gripping the sink's edge, feeling every ridge and vein dragging along your sensitive inner walls. He was huge, filling you completely, the tip nudging deep against your cervix, right where the ovulation ache pulsed hottest.

"Goood," he cooed, eyes never leaving yours in the mirror, that stare holding you captive. "Take it all. You're doin' so well, openin' up like this." 

His hands gripped your hips harder, pulling you back as he thrusted forward, bottoming out with a grunt. The fullness was overwhelming, your pussy clenching greedily around him, juices dripping down your thighs.

He set a steady rhythm, hips snapping with controlled power, each plunge hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. The sink creaked under your weight, your breasts bouncing with every drive, nipples scraping the cool porcelain. 

Joel's breath fanned your ear, one hand sliding up to cup your jaw, tilting your head so you couldn't look away. 

"Eyes on me," he ordered, voice stern but laced with heat. "See how good you look, takin' my cock. Perfect, darlin'. So fuckin' perfect."

The praise sent you spiraling, your clit throbbing untouched as he pounded deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the small room. 

The party noise filtered through the door—laughter, music—but it faded under your pulse, the building pressure in your core. His free hand dipped between your legs, fingers finding your swollen clit, circling with rough precision. 

"C’mon, baby.” he murmured, eyes intense. "Let go. I've got you."

It hit you like a wave, your orgasm crashing through you, pussy spasming wildly around his cock, milking him as you cried out—muffled against his palm that clamped over your mouth just in time. 

Waves of pleasure ripped through your body, thighs shuttering, arousal gushing out to soak his balls. Joel groaned, thrusts turning erratic, his grip bruising as he chased his own release.

"That's it—fuck, yes," he rasped, burying himself to the hilt one last time. Hot spurts of cum flooded you, painting your walls deep, the warmth seeping into your fertile core. He held you there, cock pulsing as he emptied every drop, his forehead pressing to your shoulder, breath ragged.

Slowly, he pulled out, a trickle of his seed leaking from your stretched pussy, dripping down your inner thigh.

"Look at you," he said, thumb brushing your cheek, voice a low praise. "Handled that like a champ, huh? So beautiful, comin' apart for me."

You leaned into him, boneless, as he helped straighten your skirt, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. "Now, let's get back out there. And keep it together this time—unless you want round two."

Taglist: @vickie5446 @thatgirlmendo @ihearttdilfs @pickyeater13 @sweetiegirl16 @afyreinjuly @shivispunk @kyloispunk @marisemonteiroo @meetmeatyourworst @joelmillerswife9 @iveseenstrangerthings50 @idrkman @blueberryfruittart @vanishintoyoubby @dlwrish @brittmb115 @xcallmetaniax @umadirectioner @millersweetheart @wildthyng @armandispunk @chick66i @bratty-spicee @am1a-niigo @hopelessromantic727 @styleslfreak @psclcain @susieqorion24 @rxsemarinusx @jandtmillersgirl @fertilise-me @mitskilover88 @lostboys1987girl l @begginforthread @pinkangelglitterdusttt @facethepascal @ddiana111 @twilightblogss @cheeseizts @pedrosgirl03 @swimmingnightcolor @gabfromgreedycity @bartzabel4 @blueflowerstranger @madnessofadaydreamer r @sadie6sinks6slut @hopelessromantic727 @miramindlesslywriting

[nyimasu]

──── 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻𝒀 𝑴𝑶𝑵𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹

SYNOPSIS — what’s better than a boyfriend? Two boyfriends who spoil you rotten the day of your birthday. You can ask them anything you want… and you do so in the bedroom, where Shane and Ilya will give you the ultimate birthday gift.

CONTENT WARNING — f!reader, established poly relationship, canon divergence, consumption of alcohol and tobacco, reader has some tattoos, dry humping, voyeurism, bit of throat-fucking, rough sex (m/m), mirror sex, brat taming, use of a d!ldo, tit sucking, size kink because yes <3, spit and cum used as lube (don’t do this at home, please), spit kink if you squeeze, multiple orgasms, quirofilia (I’m afraid my fixation with hands really shows here), v4ginal sex with a lil’ twist, aftercare ‘cause our boys are sweethearts <3

WORD COUNT — 4.4 ; ao3 link!

ANYA'S CORNER — this fic can be interpreted as a second part to this one; also, if I had a nickel for every time I wrote a fic settled in a nightclub with reader’s boyfriends, I’d have two nickels... which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice (truth is, I love nightclubs’ vibes, not their crowdedness lmao)

P.S. — the same disclaimer I put in the first part applies here, too; that being said, enjoy and bye! <3

Your boyfriends really outdid themselves. Not only did they wake you up that morning by bringing a giant cake to your bed, then gave you some of the best presents you’ve ever received, oh no.

The greatest gift came in the form of a surprise birthday party at your favourite nightclub in Montreal.

How they managed to do that without spoiling anything, you didn’t know.

What you did know, though, was that you were surrounded by the most important people in your life, including your friends. Some of them you befriended at your old job, but most of those who were at the club tonight were part of your boyfriends’ friends’ inner circle.

Someone put a drink in your hand.

Turning, you saw Svetlana and Elena a few inches from you, the bright lights almost blinding.

“Birthday drink for the birthday girl.” Svetlana said in a singsong voice, her curls a fiery halo around her face.

With that, you were at your fourth tequila shot of the night, yet you were still reasonably sober.

You flashed both girls a smile, then chugged down the alcohol. Elena clapped her hands and all but dragged you and Svetlana on the dance floor.

While making a bee line to get there, you managed to stop long enough to give Shane the little glass and steal a kiss from Ilya.

They were both sitting at the bar counter, their gazes never leaving you.

“Join us, my loves,” you breathed, hand stretched towards them. “The dance floor is waiting for you.”

“In a bit,” Ilya smiled, his dominant hand on Shane’s thigh. “We want to watch you dance with your friends.”

You pouted, eyes shifting to Shane. Out of the two, he was the one who folded faster whenever you asked for something.

“Are you sure? Work kept us apart, lately. We haven’t seen each other a lot, this week.”

After Shane gave a quick look to your outfit and sighed — according to him and Ilya, you looked a little too good in flared jeans, high-heeled boots and the velvet top Yuna got you for Christmas —, his eyes softened as they landed on your pouty face.

“I know, but we need to discuss something about next month’s match, first. Go ahead, we’ll be with you soon.”

“Come,” Elena rolled her eyes and took you by the hand as she said loud enough for them to hear over the music, “Let them plot while me and Svetlana show you what a good time truly looks like.”

And with that, the girls spanked you at the same time, making you giggle. “Incorrigible, the two of you.”

Still, you looked over your shoulder as you reached to the dance floor. Even if they feigned indifference, you knew them too well not to notice they’d been staring intently at your ass.

You had to admit it: they were right. Those jeans hugged your every curve just right.

And you were going to use every weapon in your arsenal to make them drop the act.

Sandwiched between the girls, you had to shout over the music to inform you were going to take off your jacket. They stepped aside as you shook the leather jacket off your shoulders.

A collective gasp behind you.

“When did you get this?”

You ditched the piece of cloth on the nearest chair and smiled.

“Last week. It healed quicker than expected, but it itches.” You knew your friends’ eyes were on your freshly tatted back, as two other pairs were, too. “The tattoo artist gave the all-clear to keep it uncovered, so here we are.”

“Girl.” Without touching them, Elena traced the fine lines inked on your skin with her fingers. The design started from the shoulder and ended just below the hipbone.

“You got a damn tiger tatted on your back a week ago and didn’t think to tell us? Wait. Did Ilya and Shane know about it?”

“I think they do now. Look at their faces.” Svetlana pointed out with a smirk.  

The three of you turned and it took a lot of effort from your part not to run to your boyfriends and kiss them both stupid.

They were shocked, aroused and pissed off all at the same time. You had wanted to surprise them later, in the intimacy of your bedroom, but they had left you with no other choice.

Blowing them a kiss, you started to dance with the girls, hypnotized by the flashing lights around you.

Two men flanked you, Svetlana and Elena as another song started to play. To your surprise, they weren’t Shane and Ilya, but another couple you had cherished for forever.

“Guys, you made it!” You all but flew in Scott’s open arms, while Kip hugged Elena and smiled at Svetlana.

Considering your line of work, you had crossed paths with Hunter’s team more than once and, over time, a friendship blossomed between the two of you.

Then, when the bond deepened, Scott introduced you to Kip, and you fell deeply for the barista.

No wonder Scott loved him so much.

“Happy birthday, gorgeous,” Scott happily huffed as he wrapped his arms around your middle, careful not to touch the tattoo. They'd seen it from afar as the entered the club, Kip informed you.

“So, how does it feel to be old?”

“Funny, shouldn’t you be answering that?” Laughing, you slapped Scott on the shoulder, signalling him to put you down. Once he did, Kip came to stand by his husband and kiss your cheek, wishing you a happy birthday.

After saying hi to the girls, the hockey player asked: “Where are your debouched boyfriends, anyway?”

“Right ther-” You cut yourself off.

They were not at the bar counter, anymore.

“Uhm…” Svetlana’s voice focused your attention elsewhere, right on the dance floor.

Shane and Ilya were dancing some meters away from your group.

And as the teasers they so loved to be whenever you acted like the brat you so loved to channel, they were grinding against each other, backs turned on you.

“Oh,” Kip commented, blushing. “Did you fight or something?”

Stunned, you picked your jaw up from the floor and inhaled so profoundly you felt your lungs adhere against the ribcage. Those two got back at you in the nick of time.

“If we hadn’t before, we will once I get my hands on them.”

Svetlana looked at Elena, then turned to you. “Wanna give them tit for tat?”

“You don’t even have to ask.”

Elena smiled, waved at your friends to stay there to enjoy the show and dragged you and Svetlana a scarce meter away from your boyfriends.

“Let’s see how long they can resist having to watch you while you touch somebody else.”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

First you leaned against Svetlana, and she grabbed you by the hips, laughing, while you mirrored her movements. All while Elena danced close to you both, her eyes beaming with mischief.

Not even bothering to see if Ilya or Shane were watching, you turned to look at Scott and Kip from across the dance floor.

And if the hockey player’s smile was anything to go by, then you were dead certain your boyfriends were going to be livid.

Good.

“Come closer.” Elena prompted with a little grin.

As you did, the dark-haired beauty candidly kissed Svetlana’s cheek, then brushed her lips against yours.

“Остопизденеть.” boomed a very familiar voice beside you three.

“Wow, that didn’t sound nice.” Elena looked at you and Svetlana. “Did he just cuss me out?”

Svetlana shook her head, her own flirty demeanour suddenly reignited by Ilya’s exclamation.

“No, don’t worry. It’s more like ‘I’m so sick and tired of this shit’ sort of thing.”

The girls giggled, but you? Oh, you were having the time of your life.

As the icing on the cake, Scott and Kip joined you for an impromptu shot battle; as you linked both arms with the men’s, one shot in each hand, something in the air shifted.

Pretending you didn’t notice anything weird going on — or that a pair of hands you would’ve recognised everywhere had got hold of your hips —, you stared directly into your boy friends’ souls and smirked.

“On the count of three. One, two-”

 Blonde, long curls was all you saw as one of your shots disappeared behind them. Ilya drank the tequila as if belonged to him all along, indifferent to everyone’s annoyance.

“You really got to stop doing that, Ilya.” Svetlana told him in Russian, because you had told her and Elena what he had done the first night you met.

He ignored her and, unflinching, he angled your head upward to meet his hungry eyes, then furiously pressed his lips against yours.

Still dazed by the stunt he just pulled, you melted into the kiss, but it took you a while to understand what he was doing.

He hadn’t swallowed the shot, rather he was making you drink it directly from his mouth.

Again.

“Double shots for the birthday girl, right?” Shane whispered in your ear. “Wait for the other one, now.”

You fought back a moan yet regained your sanity by pushing them both away to drink the shot still tangled with Scott’s arm. You wouldn’t give them the satisfaction to see you all hot and bothered so soon.

Then you leaned low enough for Kip, Hunter and the girls to let them hear you say, “If by tomorrow at noon you don’t hear from me, just know I will be passed out in my king-size bed. Come rescue me, please.”

“Nah, I think you will be exactly where you want to be, girl.” Kip commented with a sly smile.

His husband nodded and ruffled your hair like the gentle-mannered giant he was.

“Go get them, tiger.”

“You’re so not funny.” You wailed, then turned to Svetlana and Elena. “Girls?”

“Sorry, babe,” the auburn of Svetlana’s hair burned as bright as her eyes were shimmering with malice. “I’m catching an early flight to Boston.”

“And I’m working all day. Go be with your men, love.” Elena added.

All pleas fallen on deaf ears, you waved your friends bye and went to retrieve your leather jacket, ready to accept your fate; needless to say, both Ilya and Shane were shadowing you.

They continued to do so in silence even after you got home and undressed.

Clothes discarded on the floor, and still in your underwear, you climbed onto the bed, crossed your legs and stared back at them.

“Well?”

“Well, what?” Shane asked.

“Are you just going to stand there and do nothing?" You clarified and pointed a finger at where they were. “The night’s still young, you know.”

“We might,” Ilya crossed his arms and tilted his head. “You lied to us. You deserve no other gift.”

“Oh, come on! I didn’t lie per se. I was just waiting for the right moment to disclose this to you,” you turned to show the tattoo in all its glory. “But you missed the clue. I had to improvise.”

“Still, no sex for you tonight.”

For me? That’s oddly specific, you thought to yourself with sudden clarity.

Then you noticed the boys’ bulges and a huge, gigantic wave of insolence washed over you.

Smiling, you jogged to where they stood and patted their erections with the back of your hand, eliciting soft moans from both.  

“Go on, then. You can have the room. Once you’re done, you can join me in the living room.”

Your fingers fished around Ilya’s back pocket for a second, then grabbed the cigarette packet. “But I’m taking this with me.”

Before taking it out, however, you gave his ass a good squeeze.

As you pulled back your hand, though, Shane wrapped his fingers around your wrist and yanked you closer.

“You picked up a nasty habit.”

“And whose fault is that?” you purred, unwavering, eyes diverting to Ilya. “Have fun, my loves.”

You tried to get past them to reach your living room, you really did, but they both had moved with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine long before you realised what they were doing.

You ended up on the bed again, but before you could attempt to get up once more, Ilya’s hand was on your stomach, pinning your whole body to the mattress.

“No, no, no. You stay. You watch.”

His lips touched your ear shell gently as his fingers played with your panties’ lacy front. “Shane is good boy and he deserves to be fucked by me. If brats like you don’t behave, they get nothing.”

Instead of stinging, the words went straight to your core.

Leave them to toy with your arousal without lifting a single finger.

Yet you held your ground and pushed your chin upward in defiance.

“What are you waiting for? Do your worst. Tame me.”

Totally unfazed by your arrogance, Ilya unzipped his jeans and his cock slapped against your lower stomach.

The sheer girth of it always had your mind buzzing, but this time you had no time to do it because he positioned himself right above you, one of his hands grabbing the headboard as the other tapped your chin.

“Open.”

And you did as Ilya ordered with narrowed eyes, taking every inch with ease. You’d done it plenty of times by now.

Still, you found yourself gasping for air when he suddenly thrusted into your mouth, the tip bruising the bottom of your throat.

“Fuck.” Shane was now at the side of the bed, eyes gone huge. “Are you sure you’re not choking her?”

“Of course. I’m teaching lesson to her, and she is loving it, trust me.” was Ilya’s cooly response, totally contrasting with the white-knuckled grip on the bedhead.

He was unbelievably hard in your mouth, every little movement a fine stroke on his flesh.

Out of frustration, you moaned around him and a string of Russian curses escaped his lips. The hand on your stomach raised to get in your hair.

“Behave.”

And with that, Ilya started pummelling in your throat, quickening the pace as he felt you growing restless underneath him.

“Look at this,” Shane’s index pressed against your throat, right where the indent of Ilya’s cock was. “You’re taking him so, so well.”

“True,” your other boyfriend agreed, punctuating that matter of fact with a sharp thrust that left you breathless. “But you will do better.”  

Rozanov halted his movements and got off slowly, leaving you to yearn for more.

Astonished, you watched as he extended a hand towards Shane. The dark-haired man spat on Ilya’s palm, then moaned as he was hauled closer by the Russian to start a heated kiss that had both backing off to your wardrobe’s mirrored doors.

After stroking their erections together with his spit, Ilya turned Shane on the stomach, then stroked his girth with what was left of his and your saliva.

And as you finally regained control of your body, hand sneaking to the cigarette packet, Ilya eased himself in Shane with a single, relaxed thrust.

Both panted at the same time, but Shane was a goner as soon as Rozanov started to thrust deeper, one of his hands pushing his boyfriend’s face against the door as the other one pumped his cock.

You had just lit a cigarette and brought it to your lips when the two stared at your sprawled form on the bed through the mirror. Shane’s laboured breath had fogged the surface, yet his eyes had been on you for a moment before Ilya delved harder repeatedly, each thrust matching the equally maddening pumps of his dick.

You fought against the brutal need building in you to touch yourself while watching them, an act you’ve been doing since the three of you became an item.

Ilya and Shane had talked you into doing it more often, to be honest, for you had considered it an intrusion of their privacy for the longest time.

“This is such a sensitive topic… I don’t want you to think I’m fetishizing you or anything like that.” You’d been on the verge of tears when you had told them that three months earlier, the three of you lounged on Ilya’s couch.

“You both are gorgeous as hell and I adore the life of you, that’s why I have the impulse to do it, but I’d understand if you feel uncomfortable. Plus, I know people talk behind my back about my relationship with you two, it’s just that I don’t want to caus-”

Shane had stopped your yapping with a finger to your lips. “Fuck them. We don’t give a shit about anyone else’s opinion but yours. If you want to do it, do it.”

“But-”

“He’s right,” Ilya had guided your hand between your thighs, his thumb dragging along the crotch seam of the jeans. “Don’t feel bad about it, because we do not. We like when you touch yourself.”

Green orbs met yours in the clouded mirror, cutting through the memory. As always, he knew Shane’s body language as well as yours.

“Do it.”

One hand sneaked past your panties, fingers quicky spreading your other lips apart as you watched your boyfriends love each other. Moaning at the sensation of being filled, your fingers slotted inside you, you timed their rhythm with Ilya’s thrusts.

They were both so close to their orgasms that you could feel Shane’s moans in your bones, as you did with Ilya’s.

“Wanna cum for me, baby?” Ilya breathed in his ear and Shane keened in response, a hand grabbing his ass to go faster. The other one flew to the mirror door, leaving a sweaty handprint on it as Rozanov did take up pace, the tempo he set so frenzied it made the whole wardrobe shake.

Shane came with a panting whimper, legs trembling as the orgasm washed over his body.

Ilya held him but didn’t stop thrusting until he shoved his face against Shane’s neck and cursed, his own release coming down on him as hard as the other boy’s. “You let your hair grew too much, Hollander. It tickles.”

“Fuck off, you love it.”

When they both returned to planet Earth, Ilya removed his hand from around Shane’s erection to lick it clean. The Russian teaser was aware of his effect on his lovers, so it came as unsurprising when Shane got another hard-on.

“Later,” Ilya kissed him. “We have other thing to do, now.”

“Uhm.” Shane turned to look at you and smiled. “I need to rest a bit, first. You fucked my brains out.”

You had another puff of the cigarette, the other hand still buried between your thighs, when Ilya walked over to you. 

“Did you like it, birthday girl?”

“Not as much as Shane. You did fuck him stupid.”

The aforementioned gave you and Ilya the finger, yet he wasn’t as offended as he wanted to sound like when he stated, “Stop stroking his ego or his head will grow so much he won’t be able to put a helmet on again.”

“You two can stroke other part of me,” Ilya cooed, his gaze fixated on your panties. Well, what was left of them, anyway. The flimsiness of the underwear didn’t go unnoticed.

His smile grew impossibly bigger. “You’re soaking wet. You like us a lot, uhm?”

“Duh.” You rolled your eyes; both observations were the understatements of the century. “Hey, how did you get so good with dirty talk in English?”

“Audiobooks.”

As if that answer sufficed, he put out your cigarette in the ashtray on the bedstand and hovered over you once more. He tried to nudge away your hand but failed.

“Take off panties.”

“No.”

He narrowed his eyes, tone as deep as he could drive himself into you and Shane. “I’m not asking again. Take them off, or I will not play nice.”

Suppressing an irritated sob — as a new wave of slick painted your thighs —, you removed your fingers.

But the brat in you awakened with a fierce roar.

Mischievous as ever, you lifted your hand to his face, tapped on the lower lip and the moment his lips parted, your fingers glided inside his mouth.

“I said no. You do it.”

An exasperated but very horny sigh from Ilya, the sound reverberating around your drenched fingers as he sucked on them, the taste of your arousal as intoxicating as Shane’s.

“Still haven’t lost the attitude, have we?” your other boyfriend asked, completely compelled by the scene playing in front of his eyes to do nothing more but sit by the bed, voraciously eating up every second.    

“Ah, my love. We all know you’re the angel, here. Rozanov and I are the imps who corru- Ilya.”

All thoughts went down the drain because the fair-haired demon’s mouth was now on your clothed nipple, sucking and biting through the lace of the bra as if his life depended on it.

He used a hand to knead the other one, his fingers pinching and rubbing and- my God.

He took a breather just to stare up at you and growl, “I warned you”, then continued the relentless attack.

You grabbed him by his hair and mewled, the orgasm you denied yourself to watch them come rushing back to light your entire body on fire.

“Close already?” Ilya asked innocently as if he hadn’t started that whole mess himself in the first place. “But brats don’t deserve to come so soon.”

His entire presence vanished from over you.

You hadn’t realised you had your eyes closed until you opened them again to glare at your boyfriend.

“You just fucking didn’t.”

“Oh, I did.” He indulged in the sight of you, bothered and a breath away from coming just by having his mouth on your tits. “First, I want to try something. Shane.”

You whipped your head in his direction as he leaned towards your nightstand and opened the bottom drawer. Already see where it was going, you squirmed and tried to get away.

All to no avail, because Ilya’s hand was pinning you down again.

“Guys, come on…”

“Ah, not so brave anymore,” Ilya motioned for Shane to pick up the object you kept in that specific drawer and made space for him to join you two on the bed. “The feisty kitten got her nails clipped, yes?”

“I will claw both your backs while you sleep if you don’t stop teasing me.”

Your self-control crumbling before their very eyes, both your boyfriends shared a meaningful look.

Two things happened at the same time: Shane spat on your beloved blue-purple dildo, coating its entire size while Ilya’s teeth came to grab your panties, pulled it down your legs as his fingers went behind your back to unclasp the bra.

Now completely naked, underwear tossed somewhere behind them, Ilya gestured for you to get up; too riled up to disobey, you obliged.

“Get on your stomach.”

 Again, you did as he ordered and changed position to get on your hands and knees and then down, back arched enough to draw a moan from both men.

 “Beautiful.” Shane brushed his fingertips against the tiger. “Can’t believe you didn’t tell us the moment you got it.”

“I wanted to,” eager to feel them closer, you pressed your ass against Ilya’s cock, its tip poking at you. “Didn’t wanna spoil the surprise, though.”

It was Ilya’s turn to touch the tattoo. “It suits you. With this view, we can’t wait to fuck you forever.”

A startled scream bubbled in the back of your throat as he pushed inside you, your inner walls so sleek he hadn’t needed to prep you further. He buried himself to the hilt, balls pressing against your skin.

“Ssh,” Shane cooed and without missing a beat, he slipped in the dildo under Ilya’s girth, stretching you out in ways you hadn’t experienced before. “You’re doing well. Breathe.”

“And she likes it, too.” A playful slap on your ass, Ilya rotated his hips to help you adjust to the new feeling. “She is clenching like crazy around my cock.”

“S-shut up.” You stuttered, out of breath, as you accommodated both lengths through gritted teeth.

By the time you did, you shot a glance to your boyfriends and grinned. “Go on. Isn’t what you were waiting for?”

Shane and Ilya moved in synchro, coordinating their antics to never leave you empty, but at some point, they were always inside you at the same time.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I’m cl-“

“Yes, me too,” Ilya gave a sharp thrust as he bent down to kiss between your shoulder blades. “Come around us, pretty girl.”

You were tensing around them all too soon, the so-long denied orgasm slammed against your ribcage so violently you fell on your front, lower back still encased by Ilya’s hands as he and Shane continued ramming into you.

Eyes watery with pleasure, your head turned to look at them kissing, and a strangled moan from your part was all it took for Shane to remove the dildo and for Ilya to do the same.

He came on your back with a slow hiss, careful not to hit your tattoo.

Meanwhile, your other boyfriend had disappeared into the bathroom for a minute or two, walking back to you both with hot towels and the soft promise of a warm bath.

He helped you and Ilya clean yourselves, then awarded you with a smile. “Let’s get you into the bathtub.”

“Can’t soak into water for long. The tattoo…”

“I have you, don’t worry. Come on.”

With that, Shane lifted you by the back of your thighs as you, too spent and sated to function properly, got carried by him into the bathroom.

He eased you into the tub as Ilya got behind you, his fingers already in your hair to detangle it; Shane, on the other hand, was giving little pecks to your scrunched nose.

 “I really need to get a jetted tub. Enough space for you both to fit.” Your voice came off slurred, almost a whisper.

 Both men kissed your face, then Ilya beamed. “You are pro at that, already. We have no complains.”

“Idiots,” you scuffed, raising both arms to pat their annoyingly beautiful faces. They were beaming with sheer adoration. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Shane squeezed the hand on his cheek.

“Liar. You love us.”

As always, they were right.

© nyimasu — do not copy, translate, repost and modify my works.

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

young ladies shouldn’t waltz with vampires

a/n: happy halloween!!! here's the fic you guys voted on and shaped a few weeks ago

polls for this fic: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

summary: “so, here’s the thing,” his ocean eyes then flickered in the same manner Steve’s had, mystically bending your mind to his will, “you’re gonna come with us, be ours to play with for the night. You can go home when the sun comes up, but without remembering the time we shared…” 

warnings: vampire!bucky barnes x innocent!reader x vampire!steve rogers, smut, dark content, dubcon/noncon, historical au (1840s), mind control/vampire compulsion, blood, biting, age gap, ball, dancing, polyamory, threesome, first kiss, kissing, loss of virginity, somno, cockwarming, dirty talk, size kink, pain kink, pussyjob, overstimulation, penetrative sex, anal, double penetration, unprotected sex

word count: 3511

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“I have to admit, out of every rose here, you’re the most breathtaking.” 

Glancing up from the table before you, cluttered with crystal glasses brimming with refreshments, your eyes flickered to the man now standing beside you, his own piercing blue stare firmly directed at you and no one else in the buzzing ballroom. 

Your stunned lips parted slightly before the gentleman boldly spoke up again, “how come I’ve never seen you before?” 

Feeling your breath hitch, you managed to babble, “oh, it’s probably because this is my first time at a proper ball. I haven’t really previously been allowed to come stay at my family’s London estate and–, I’m sorry…” you swiftly stopped yourself, sensing the heat that had ridden in your cheeks, “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this…”

“Well, lucky us that you got let out of your cage and the rest of us finally get to gaze upon your beauty,” he flashed you a dazzling smile before his eyes flickered to someone behind you, “if you’ll excuse me, I see someone I recognise, but would you perhaps grant me the pleasure of a dance a little later?” 

Averting your gaze, a smile tugged at your lips as you uttered, “you’d have to ask my brother.” 

“But I’m asking you,” he dipped down to catch your vision, “would you care to dance with me?” 

Blinking back at him, you couldn’t help but let out the truth.

“Y-yes.” 

As a smile swiftly tilted his lips, the gentleman then bowed slightly before you as he plucked up your gloved hand and pressed his lips to the back of it before disappearing into the merry crowd. 

Feeling slightly dizzy, you finally snatched up the drink you’d originally wandered to this corner of the chamber to fetch. 

Though as you granted yourself a small sip, fingers suddenly grasped your arm and yanked you deeper into a corner. 

“Sister!” you blinked up into your brother’s eyes as he’d evidently spotted you from across the ballroom and, judging by his tone, not approved of what he’d seen, “what in the world do you think you’re doing?”

Ripping your arm free, you furrowed your brows, “what are you talking about? I was just getting some punch.”

“No,” he hissed at a hushed volume, “why were you talking to him?”

A confused scoff then bubbled out past your lips, “I’ve talked to plenty of men at this party, with and without you at my side, so why is he any different?”

“Because, sister,” he leaned down a bit further, “he’s not a man. He’s one of them,” his eyes scanned your own before he spelled it out, “a vampire.” 

Though you’d never previously encountered one yourself, you still weren’t so naive to not be aware of the known influential status such creatures of the night had in the society you lived in. Them being in attendance at a fine ball was nothing compared to the other privileges they had achieved over the centuries. 

“Really?” you couldn’t help but glance back over your shoulder, though didn’t spot the bloodsucker again. 

“God,” your brother groaned quietly, “I know mother and papa have kept you rather sheltered compared to myself, but trust me, you have to stay away from them. They’re monsters, killing is in their nature,” with a hand on your cheek, he guided your gaze back to his, “promise me you won’t speak to one ever again.”

Blinking back at him, you then uttered sincerely, “I promise.”

“Good,” a visible weight then faded from his shoulders as he let go of you and straightened back up to his full height. 

As you stayed on the outskirts of the party, one of your fingers curved to trace the lines of the fine glass still clutched in your grasp. 

Soon your eyes flickered up from the liquid remaining in the goblet and landed on the other guests. Elegant crinoline gowns swooshed and swayed to the music emanating from the small string quartet in the corner, acting as a heartbeat for the lords and ladies of London as they danced the night away. 

“Well, as I live and breathe,” a voice then found not only your brother’s ears, but yours as well. 

Twisting slightly, you watched as a wide grin swiftly stretched your brother’s lips, “Thomas!” he spread his arms out for the redheaded man nearly within his reach. 

As they pulled each other into a tight hug, your brother’s friend chimed in his ear, “how you doing, old chap?” before withdrawing from the embrace, though still kept one palm fast on your sibling’s shoulder. 

“Not bad, not bad–, oh, Tommy,” your brother then suddenly glanced back at you, “this is my little sister,” gesturing betwixt you both, “sister, this is Thomas, we went to boarding school together.”

Extending a hand, you smiled politely, “it’s nice to meet you.”

“You too,” he shook your palm before casting his gaze back upon your chaperone, “would you mind if I stole your brother for a moment?”

“Uhm,” you glanced to your sibling before uttering, “no, of course not. Go, have fun, catch up.”

And before the pair slipped away, your brother leaned down to whisper in your ear, “be good till I get back,” to which you offered him a nod in return right before they both vanished from your sight and left you alone at the edge of the dance floor. 

Though as you slowly began to wander along the perimeter, your gaze once again affixed upon the sea of swaying pairs in the centre of the ballroom, your gentle stride then abruptly halted as a bulky figure shifted to pass you, though as the stranger attempted to, the two of you collided and the remainder of the drink in your hand splashed across his jacket.

You both froze as you slowly peeled your wide eyes up from the stain of your drink, that lightly dripped from his clothing, and instead flickered up to find the stare of the aristocrat you’d accidentally bumped into. 

“Oh god…” your heartbeat swiftly hammered in your ears, deafening out the elegant music that filled the chamber, “sir, I am so sorry, I-I wasn’t looking at where I was going and–”

“It’s alright,” he hastily put an end to your blubbering as he eyed the soaked patch, “it’ll dry,” he uttered, running a broad palm down over the wetness. Though as his gaze flickered back up to find yours, a slight smirk tugged at the corners of his lips as he then said, “well, spilling your drink on me, the least you can do is offer me your name so that I know who to warn about to the people who actually are precious about their attire.”

“Lady Y/n Y/l/n,” you averted your gaze as your knees bent in a gentle curtsy, “delighted to make your acquaintance, even under the circumstances–, again, I am so incredibly sorry…”

“You’re a lady but with such lack of grace? Well, now I understand why you aren’t on the floor dancing with someone,” he jested in a teasing tone. 

The heat that had already crept up in your cheeks fiercely worsened, “I am a great dancer, I’ll have you know!”

“Oh really?” a smile dazzled his features, “I think I’ll have to see that to believe it,” he spoke as the current song came to an end and he extended a hand out to you, “shall we?”

For a moment, you let your glance flicker about the chamber in search of your brother, though when you couldn’t spot him, you found your own palm thinking for itself and gliding into the man’s standing tall before you. 

Once he’d led you out onto the floor, the palm he slid across your waist, and used to guide you a smidge closer to his own frame, caused a shy gasp to slip past your lips long before your feet began to shift below your poofy plum coloured gown. 

“Well, I guess you weren’t lying after all,” you soon heard him note after you’d danced for a minute, your movements having been nothing short of perfection since the very first step. 

Blinking up at the blonde man holding onto you tight, you finally asked, “what is your name, sir?”

“Lord Steven Rogers,” the title rolled off his tongue as his own gaze kept yours captive, “at your service, my lady.”

“Are you from here? You don’t sound it,” you commented on his accent, “but are you?”

“That’s a good question,” a slight tilt found his head, “London is one of my favourite places and I have spent many of my years here, but it’s not where I’m from, no.”

“So, you’ve travelled a lot?” you asked as he spun you an arm’s length away from himself. 

“You could say that…” he smirked as he twirled you back into his hold, “are you?”

“Am I what?” you found yourself slightly dizzy, though not from the dancing. 

“From London?”

“Well, my family does have a place here, but I haven’t spent much of my time in the city. At least not yet, I’m hoping I can begin to now that I’m grown, though to be quite frank, I have no idea where to start.”

“I could be your guide,” his offer caught you off guard, “it might have been a few years since I last called this city my home, but I still know it like the back of my hand.”

Mouth shyly agape, you simply blinked back at him a second before uttering, “perhaps if my brother came along as a chaperone.”

“I thought you said you were grown,” the tone he used to deliver his teasing seeped directly into your bones and made you thankful of his firm grip on you as the pair of you continued to sway to the music, “a girl asks for permission and can’t be trusted on her own, but a woman however, takes exactly what she desires and doesn’t let anyone or anything stand in her way…” his smouldering stare then briefly dipped before you heard him murmur, “so, what are you? A little girl or a woman?”

“I–…” you blinked back at him, struggling to navigate the exhilaratingly foreign situation you found yourself in. However, before you could stammer any further, the song came to a close and the surrounding couples parted ways. 

Though before you could take even one step back, his hand kept you close a moment longer as he dipped down for his breath to tickle the shell of your ear. 

“Meet me in the garden,” he whispered, causing even more goosebumps to erupt across your skin, “then you can give me your answer...” 

The cool night air kissed your cheeks as your glance flickered away from the candlelit terrace you’d abandoned only moments prior in order to stand beside the bushy mouth of the dark hedge maze further down the expanse of the estate’s garden. Faint music still found your ears as it echoed out the open windows of the grand manor where the ball still boomed. 

Then suddenly, as you were lost in your thoughts of disbelief at what you were doing, just before you could talk yourself into returning to the party, you felt your hand be grabbed before your eyes fluttered up to find the lord you’d been awaiting, his arrival haven been so sudden that it nearly caused you to jump straight out of your skin. 

Without a single word, Steve began to drag you into the maze, far away from any prying eyes and where the darkness could swallow you both whole.

“Where are you taking me–,” you attempted to ask, though as the man then abruptly stopped, what he did next stunned you to your very core. 

Pulling you close, closer than you’d ever been to any man before, he then pressed his lips to your own, sufficiently shutting you up before you could elaborate your question any further. 

The kiss was abrupt, fevered and entirely your first, leaving you dazed and reeling to catch up to the reality, to the dream you were finally expecting.

When Steve finally felt you relax into him, his feet began to shuffle and shift you back till your spine was pressed up against the denseness of the hedge behind you. 

But just as a shy whimper from you vibrated against his tongue and your fingers drifted up to whisper around his silky necktie, the snapping of a twig suddenly found your ears and caused you to jump away from your dance partner. 

Casting your glance over Steve’s broad shoulder, you spotted as the dark-haired gentleman, that your brother had so fiercely warmed you about, slithered out from the embrace of the shadows. 

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” the man smirked, folding his arms across his wide chest as he continued to stare. 

Eyes wide, you then began to stammer, “Steve,” lightly patting your partner’s arm as he hadn’t yet shifted to protect you with an air of understanding, “h-he’s a–” 

“A vampire?” the aristocratic creature raised an eyebrow, “how about you take another look at the lord that just had his tongue down your throat.” 

Your panicked glare then fluttered back to Steve in front of you, however, before you could manage to push him away, his hands flew up to either side of your face and he dipped down to stare into your eyes with an intense you’d never witnessed before, somehow locking you up in his gaze as he then compelled you, “don’t scream,” and under the moonlight, you swore you saw his pupils briefly dilate as his wish slithered into your soul, “stay calm.” 

Continuing to cup your cheeks, Steve then kissed you once again. Even though his previous words had turned you completely docile in his hold, the sensation of his lips as they soon pecked away from your own, on a determined journey down over your jaw, caused you to melt away that much further.

The neckline of your deep purple gown was so wide that it exposed not only your shoulders, but also crept down scandalously low on your chest. 

Your eyes fluttered shut once more as his kisses tickled in their path down your neck, the sensation shooting straight down between your thighs. However, as soon as Steve’s lips were devouring the tender spot where the base of your throat blossomed into your shoulder, a sharp pain suddenly caused your eyes to snap back open as the vampire had sunk his teeth into you. 

You winced slightly as blood began to trickle free, your gaze locked with the other man’s as he took a step forward and closed the gap. Standing directly behind Steve, his hand then raised up to stroke your hair.

“So, here’s the thing,” his ocean eyes then flickered in the same manner Steve’s had, mystically bending your mind to his will, “you’re gonna come with us, be ours to play with for the night. You can go home when the sun comes up, but without remembering the time we shared…” 

Though you’d barely gotten to sleep an hour, you began to stir as the vampire sprawled out in front of your slumbering form kissed down your neck and swiftly sank his fangs into your shoulder. 

Wincing awake and still weak from the blood the two lords had already drained you off, your hiss soon faded into a mumble, “Buck…”

Tilting his chin back a bit, Bucky lapped up the crimson that trickled down from the bite before he whispered, “shh, you can just stay asleep…” and you noticed his hardness straining against you below the covers, “it’s okay, I don’t mind…”

You couldn’t fathom how the vampire still wasn’t satiated after everything that had happened that night, things a lady such as yourself had never dared to even imagine possible. Even now, you were still slotted in between the two naked men under the canopy of a bed in the grand estate they’d taken you to, your virgin blood still staining the sheets, or the little of it that they hadn’t lapped up for themselves to savour. 

Though the restless one before you had stirred you for another taste, Steve was still sleeping like a rock. He was laying directly behind you, his burly chest still pressed up against your spine as earlier, when he’d impulsively tried to stretch out your ass, made the decision to do something about that impossible tightness and have that little hole warm his intimidating girth while he slumbered. It made it difficult, to say the least, for rest to come to you as the sensation of his fat cock plugging you up was nearly too much for you to bear. 

“Oh, what is it?” Bucky chuckled lowly at the wince you let out as he began to nudge his dick against your puffy pussy, “are you sore?” he asked in a mocking tone, grinning wider as you nodded hazily in response, “but you like it, don’t you?” he torturously tapped the weight of his length against the creamy mess between your thighs, the sensation causing both your holes to throb and clench, making Steve’s cock still embedded deep within you seem that much more enormous, “you like it when it hurts, when the sting of pain mixes with pleasure…” he then caught your eye and compelled you, “tell me that you like it.”

“I like it,” you hear the desperate word flow out your lungs, “please don’t stop, please keep hurting me, keep biting me, drink every drop of my blood, use me however you wish, it all feels so good–, ah!” the pleas he’d made you utter were then cut off by a rippling moan as his bulbous tip suddenly caught your entrance and greedily slid back into your warmth. 

The fierce rhythm Bucky swiftly found rocked you so roughly that the movements didn’t just split your poor pussy open as he bucked up into you, but it also caused your frame to shift back against Steve and sink you down that much further on his cock, letting his heavy sack nuzzle tightly against your slick skin. 

As your whimpers filled the room and mingled with Bucky’s own grunts of pleasure, you felt the girth in your ass twitch and rapidly grow painfully hard before the arm the slumbering bloodsucker had slumped around your waist tightened as he stirred with a low rumble directly in your ear. 

“Mmm… having a little midnight snack, are we?” Steve groggily hummed from behind you as he nuzzled his nose into your tousled hair, “you know she’ll pass out soon if we keep drinking like this.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Bucky then slid his palm down the length of your arm, plucking up your hand till his lips ghosted against it. However, just as you let yourself hope that he’d just plant a peck upon your palm, his teeth instead pierced the flesh, right below your thumb. Although, the vampire did show some restraint as he only offered you a little nip before ripping your hand away from his mouth and holding it out for his partner to grasp, “here, you look parched,” blood already began to pool like a little puddle in your palm from how it slowly oozes out of the wound. 

Accepting the delicacy, Steve first dragged his silky tongue over the bite, before he let his fangs sink into you with a deep groan, the taste of you only making him harder. As he began to drink from your palm, his hips greedily began to rock, making you tremble between the two lords of the night from the dizzying manner they both now fucked you. 

As your moans filled the night air, Bucky’s fingers found your face in a caress before he leaned in to snuff out your sounds and let you taste the tangy iron of yourself on his tongue. Soon, his kisses began to dance down over the column of your neck, till his face was buried in your heaving tits, leaving a blossoming trail of hickeys to mark his path as he moved down to capture your nipple between his lips.  

“I know we usually only keep our dinner till the morning comes,” Bucky muttered as he nipped at your boobs, only pausing to briefly glance over your shoulder at the man behind you, “but there’s something different about this one, don’t you agree, Steve?” 

“She’s fucking delicious…” you heard him purr in your ear, “maybe you could be more than just a quick bite to eat…” both of their cocks continued to rock in harmony, filling your holes up to more than the brim, “maybe you can be our girl…” 

Sucking in a shaky breath, you tilted your head to catch both of their eyes, “for how long?” 

Keeping his neck tilted, Bucky blinked up at you and uttered, “…forever,” before he buried his teeth into the soft peak of your tit.

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[cpn-hydra]

shackle her from wrist to wrist (with sterling silver bracelets) - masterlist

Status: in progress

Pairing: Dark!Stucky x reader, past dark!Steve x reader

Synopsis: Four years ago, you entered a loving relationship with Steve Rogers. Three years ago, you faked your death to escape when things started to turn dark. Now, he’s found you and he’s not going to let you go.

part one

part two

part three

part four

part five

part six

part seven

ao3