Originalwittyblogname

[veltana]

In a desperate attempt to rescue your family from debt, you decide to auction yourself off. The alpha who purchases you turns out to be quite different from what you imagined, leading to a marriage that exists only on paper. However, when an omega moves in with an alpha who hasn't experienced a rut in years and is determined to keep things strictly professional despite his instincts, complications arise.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

[moonselune]

The boys reacting to reader collapsing from exhaustion please?

Gale:

The stars had just begun to glimmer overhead, the velvet sky above the Shadow-Cursed Lands dimming into the kind of darkness that swallowed sound. The campfires crackled gently, casting flickering halos of warmth against the long stretch of gloom, but you were still going. Still walking. Still sorting. Still preparing.

You hadn’t rested. Not really. Not since that last fight, not since the argument with the goblins in the pass, not since the near ambush from twisted shadows. You’d kept your pace steady, your shoulders square, pushing through the weight in your limbs and the ache behind your eyes. You thought if you just did one more thing, the tension would stop building in your chest.

But your body had other plans.

You didn’t even remember falling. One moment you were standing, checking your gear, your fingertips trembling from fatigue, and the next—

Blackness.

A quiet thump. The faint scuffle of feet on earth.

Then a voice, fraying at the edges with fear: “Wait—wait! No, no, no—gods, please—!”

You came to slowly, like rising through molasses, every sound muffled by a distant ringing. The smell of lavender and parchment hit your senses before anything else—then warmth. Gale. He was crouched beside you, cradling your head with trembling fingers, his brow furrowed with frantic concentration.

His face was pale beneath the firelight, lips pressed in a tight line, panic storming behind his eyes like thunderclouds.

“There you are,” he breathed, voice rough, like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until you stirred. “You—by Mystra’s grace, you scared the life out of me.”

You tried to sit up. “I’m fine—”

“No, you are not,” Gale snapped. The edge in his voice shocked you—it was so rare, so unlike his usual soft-spoken warmth. But it cracked with strain, with the sharp weight of helplessness. “You collapsed. Not tripped. Not stumbled. Collapsed. You’ve been running yourself ragged, and you think I wouldn’t notice?”

You blinked at him, throat dry. “I just—there was a lot to do. I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t mean to?” he echoed, his eyes going wide, almost wounded. “That somehow makes it better?”

His hands trembled as he brushed dirt from your cheek, then stilled when he cupped your jaw gently. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself. You don’t have to carry it all.”

You looked away, ashamed—because you had been trying to carry it all. Because you didn’t want to be a burden. Because you thought if you didn’t slow down, maybe everything else wouldn’t catch up.

But Gale wasn’t done.

“You think I wouldn’t burn the very weave itself if it meant keeping you safe?” he asked, his voice suddenly soft again, but still fierce. “You think your worth is measured by how much pain you can ignore?”

Your lip trembled, just a little. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh, eyes glistening. “Then you’ve failed spectacularly.”

You smiled despite yourself, and Gale immediately folded forward, resting his forehead against yours, his breath warm and shaking.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

He closed his eyes, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Don’t apologize. Just let me help. You don’t have to prove your strength by hiding your exhaustion. Not from me.”

He helped you sit up, guiding you gently like you were made of glass—his hands constantly checking for bruises or signs of injury, his eyes flicking across your face like he might lose you again if he looked away too long.

“I’ll rest,” you murmured finally.

“You’ll rest now,” Gale corrected, brushing your hair back. “And you’ll let me stay, even if all I can do is hold you while you sleep. Agreed?”

“…Agreed.”

And so he settled in beside you, holding you close beneath the stars, heart still racing, fingers still trembling—but never letting go.

Astarion:

The campfire crackled gently in the distance, its glow barely brushing the edges of the clearing as the evening slipped into deeper shades of indigo. The world beyond was all hush and shadow, quieted by the oppressive weight of the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Everyone had started winding down, preparing for rest. Everyone except you.

You had been pacing—relentlessly. Repacking your gear. Polishing a blade you’d already sharpened twice. Pretending that the tremble in your limbs wasn’t there. That the weight behind your eyes didn’t burn. That you hadn’t been pushing yourself beyond the brink for days.

And then, quite simply—your body gave out.

Your knees folded. The world tilted. And the last thing you heard was a very undignified shout:

“Oh for—you dramatic idiot!”

You woke with a sharp inhale, but the moment you stirred, cold hands were already gripping your shoulders, a familiar voice hissing through clenched teeth:

“Don’t you dare try to sit up.”

Astarion loomed over you, silver hair in slight disarray, cravat askew, red eyes wild with something that looked like fury—but was far too sharp-edged to be anger alone. He was kneeling at your side, holding you like you were made of glass and pure trouble at once.

“You absolute menace,” he growled, inspecting you as if he might hex your exhaustion into submission. “I knew you were overdoing it. I told you. And what do you do? You drop like a sack of poorly stitched laundry!”

You blinked slowly, confused. “Astarion—”

“And not gracefully, mind you,” he continued, indignant. “You just crumpled. I had to catch you like some harlequin in a second-rate opera. I nearly broke a nail.”

Despite the scolding, his hands were maddeningly gentle, checking your pulse, brushing back damp hair from your forehead. He was so close you could smell the faint hint of bergamot and aged leather. You could feel the tension in his jaw, in the way his fingers curled ever so slightly into your sleeve as if grounding himself.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, voice hoarse.

He froze.

And then something shifted.

Astarion’s eyes softened—not much, but enough to crack the veneer of aristocratic outrage. He sighed, exasperated and... undeniably worried.

“Gods, darling, what were you thinking?” he said, this time quieter. “You looked like death warmed over hours ago. Why didn’t you say something? Or sit? Or, Mystra forbid, actually rest?”

You tried to offer a weak smile. “Didn’t want to trouble anyone.”

His face twisted like you’d just said the most offensive thing imaginable.

“Trouble—? Oh, how dare you,” he snapped, but now it sounded almost... wounded. “You think I waste my charms on just anyone? You think I go around catching unconscious fools for fun? You are my trouble, you idiot.”

He pulled you upright against his chest with surprising tenderness, wrapping his arms around you as he shifted you into his lap, cradling you like something precious and exasperating all at once. You could feel the way his thumb traced circles along your spine, even as he clicked his tongue in disapproval.

“I swear, if you ever scare me like that again, I’ll—well, I’ll write a very strongly worded sonnet about your irresponsibility.”

You laughed softly against his shoulder. “A poem? That’s my punishment?”

“I am an artist of many talents, thank you very much,” he said primly. “But don’t tempt me. I’ll make it rhymed and awful.”

You looked up at him through tired eyes, heart aching with affection. “You were worried about me.”

“Oh, perish the thought,” he sniffed dramatically. “I was worried about me. What would I do if my favorite pillow went and died from pure stubbornness?”

And yet he pulled the blanket tighter around you. And his hand never left yours. And he didn’t stop holding you—not for the rest of the night.

Furious, indeed.

Wyll:

The world drifted back in slow fragments—light, sound, breath. You stirred, faintly aware of something heavy draped across you, of warmth pressed along your side, of a steady rhythm pulsing through fabric and skin: a heartbeat, far too quick to be your own.

“Wyll?” your voice came out as a rasp, thick and uncertain.

He did not move.

Your eyes blinked open to find him kneeling at your side, bent low, his forehead resting just over your heart like he was listening for something—proof you were still there, still beating beneath his hands. His fingers gripped your shirt, knuckles white, the rest of him utterly still save for the occasional tremble that betrayed just how close he was to coming undone.

“…You’re awake,” he whispered, voice hoarse, like speaking louder might break whatever fragile reality he’d constructed around himself while you were unconscious.

“I’m fine,” you croaked, trying to push yourself up.

Instantly, Wyll surged upward, pressing a firm hand to your shoulder and another to your hip, holding you flat against the bedroll with all the strength of someone who had just seen the person they love go limp and collapse in front of them. His dark eyes were wide, frantic, and furious—not at you, but at the helplessness clawing at him from the inside.

“Don’t you dare try to move,” he growled. “Not after that stunt.”

“I said I’m fine,” you muttered, wriggling against his grip. “I just overdid it a little—”

“You collapsed,” he snapped. “Like a marionette with its strings cut. One minute you were walking, talking, and the next—” He choked, fingers tightening for a split second. “You hit the ground and I—I thought you were dead.”

You opened your mouth to dismiss him again, to soothe, but Wyll leaned in, his voice low and sharp like flint striking steel.

“You don’t get to tell me this is nothing,” he hissed. “Because if you keep running yourself into the ground like this, someday it won’t just be a collapse. It’ll be you not waking up. And I—” He shook his head, his expression crumpling. “I can’t go through that.”

“Wyll—”

“I need you to understand what it does to me,” he interrupted, suddenly, dangerously close. “To see you fall and not know if I’ll ever hear your voice again. So if I seem dramatic, if I seem over-the-top, it’s because I’m trying to teach you something.”

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his curls. His tail flicked with restless tension behind him.

“Because when the real thing happens—when I do lose you—I’ll be ruined. You are the flame I measure all warmth by. And if that flame ever goes out…”

He swallowed hard. “Then I’m nothing but ash.”

Your heart twisted at the way his voice faltered, how the last word was barely more than a breath.

You tried to sit up again, to offer some comfort—but he lunged, practically threw himself down, sprawling across your torso like an overgrown, armored cat with an overdeveloped sense of righteous vengeance.

“You are resting.” His voice was muffled against your chest, but the weight of his body was firm, final, and very much unmoving.

You blinked. “…Are you pinning me down?”

“Yes.”

“You weigh a thousand pounds.”

“I will increase it if I have to.”

You sighed, flopping back with a groan of surrender. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“And you’re being reckless,” he retorted, not budging. “So now we’re even.”

There was a long silence. Then a quiet chuckle slipped out of you, reluctant but real. You carded your fingers through his hair, letting the tension bleed from your limbs.

“Fine. I’ll rest.”

Wyll tilted his head just enough to press a kiss to your sternum, his voice a low murmur. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

Halsin:

The moment your eyes cracked open, you knew you were in trouble.

The air inside Halsin’s tent was thick with the scent of dried herbs and pine resin, heavy with the warmth of the furs layered beneath you. It was dim—his tent flap drawn shut—but soft light filtered in, revealing the familiar shape of his travel gear stacked in its usual meticulous order. The cot creaked softly beneath you as you shifted, muscles aching, limbs leaden. There was a wet cloth resting on your brow, cool and fragrant with some kind of forest mint.

You had absolutely, unequivocally passed out from exhaustion.

And Halsin had clearly been the one to find you.

A groan built low in your throat, and with it came your brilliant idea: sneak out. Maybe—just maybe—you could slink off before he returned. You didn’t relish the idea of a lecture from a near seven-foot-tall druid whose entire body seemed to be carved from oak and thunderclouds.

You swung your legs over the cot, wincing as the rush of dizziness hit you. But you were determined. Quiet. Graceful. Almost at the—

“Where,” came a low, thunderous voice from behind, “do you think you’re going?”

You froze mid-step. Slowly, guiltily, you turned.

And there he was—Halsin—massive, bare-chested, his thick arms crossed over his chest, golden eyes narrowed and jaw clenched with a sternness that belonged more to a storm than a man.

“Ah,” you said. “I was just—stretching.”

Before you could retreat or formulate another weak excuse, he closed the space between you with startling speed, scooped you up like you weighed nothing at all, and slung you over his shoulder.

“Halsin!” you protested, smacking at his back as he turned and carried you—without effort, without ceremony—right back to bed. “Put me down!”

“You’re lucky I’m not tying you to the cot,” he rumbled, voice edged with exasperated affection. “You collapsed in the middle of the clearing. In front of everyone. I had to carry you back here—twice, apparently.”

He set you down with far more care than his grumbling suggested, adjusting the furs around you, his large hands surprisingly gentle as they brushed a damp curl from your temple. Then, without another word, he reached behind him and produced a small bundle of cloth.

He opened it to reveal a collection of deep red and violet berries nestled in soft moss. “I foraged these. You need to eat.”

You blinked. “Halsin, I—”

“Eat,” he said simply, with that patient, immovable tone he used when dealing with stubborn animals and, apparently, stubborn lovers.

You gave him a sheepish look, but obeyed, popping a few of the berries into your mouth. They were sweet, tart, and immediately grounding. Halsin watched you the entire time, gaze softening only after he saw you swallow a second mouthful.

Once satisfied, he slid in beside you, the cot creaking in protest beneath his weight. You barely had time to blink before his arms wrapped around you, strong and encompassing, pulling you into the heat of his chest. One leg tangled with yours as he pulled the furs up around both of you.

“You frightened me,” he murmured, his voice low and close to your ear, breath warm against your hair. “I have seen wounds. Disease. Poison. But watching you crumble from something so preventable? It... it undid me.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice already thick and slipping into sleep again. “Didn’t mean to—”

“Shh,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “No apologies. Just rest.”

You tried to protest, but your words slurred, consciousness unraveling like smoke. You barely registered his arms tightening around you protectively, his deep voice rumbling softly as he murmured something soothing in Druidic, something meant to lull, to calm.

“I’ll watch over you,” he promised into your hair. “You are safe now. Just sleep.”

And this time, you listened.

IM BACK WITH THE BOYS ugh I love it, also I'm on a dark bg3 brain rot so that will be the next post. Hope you guys enjoyed this and thank you all for your contiued support!- Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[societyfolklore]

We Couldn’t Stop

Title: We Couldn’t Stop Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader x Steve Rogers 

Summary:  During a sweep of a forgotten HYDRA lab, you, Steve, and Bucky trigger an old aerosol dispersal system. No one realizes what hit you until it’s too late. Now stuck in quarantine- burning, aching, and caged in with two dominant, unraveling super soldiers- you’re forced to ride out the drug’s effects together.

Word Count:  7k

Warnings:  / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Sex Pollen / Drugged Lust, Threesome MFM, Dubious Consent (due to drug influence), Double Penetration, Oral (F & M receiving), Praise Kink, Rough Sex/Overstimulationm Fingering, anal ply, cum play, Competitive Doms

A/N: my entry for  @avengers-assemble-bingo  for April Kinky Bingo Square: A3- Threesome Card Number: KB003

The mission was supposed to be a simple sweep- an old HYDRA lab buried deep beneath the forest floor, long abandoned, just a routine retrieval run for leftover tech and encrypted files that could pose a threat if they fell into the wrong hands. You, Steve, and Bucky had done that sort of thing more times than you could count. Clear the rooms, grab the drives, secure any volatile tech, and call for extraction. In and out. Easy.

You should’ve known better the moment you stepped inside. The facility was too quiet, too intact. Dust settled thick on the floors, but the lights still flickered dimly overhead, and the security systems were half-alive, humming low like they were waiting.

You were the one who found the sealed door- reinforced, heavily protected, and drawing power. It was locked down tight, tucked at the end of a corridor where the flickering lights didn’t quite reach. You called the others over.

"You think it’s storage?" Bucky asked, frowning at the biometric pad.

"Locked and powered," you muttered. "Could be data. Or maybe just a lab they forgot to scrub."

"Let's not poke the bear," Steve said, but he stepped up beside you anyway, scanning the door. "Looks like it's sealed for a reason."

That should've been the moment you backed off. But your fingers were already dancing over the keypad, overriding the old security system. The panel blinked. Clicked.

"I’ve almost got- "

The door hissed. Not wide- barely a few inches.

A soft spray hit you all in the face.

It came fast. Silent. A puff of pressurized mist like compressed air, followed by the faintest scent- ozone, chemical sweetness, almost floral.

You stumbled back, coughing once.

"What the hell was that?" Bucky barked, wiping his face with his sleeve.

Steve grabbed your arm, pulling you away from the door. "You okay? Did you breathe it in?"

"Yeah, but- I don’t feel anything."

"We’re all covered in it," Bucky snapped, glaring at the faint sheen settling over Steve’s shoulders. "Fucking hell."

"Close it," Steve ordered.

Bucky slammed the door shut, sealing it again with a growl. "Old security measure. Shit."

"We’ll report it," Steve said, but his jaw was clenched.

The spray clung to your skin. Sweet. Heavy. And whatever it was, it was in all three of you now.

~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~

By the time the jet touched down back at the compound, you were already flushed and aching, your heart thudding too fast in your chest. Whatever had come out of that door- it clung to your skin, settled in your lungs, and made everything inside you feel off. You weren’t the only one affected. Bucky was pacing the perimeter of the quinjet like a caged animal. Steve hadn’t spoken for the last twenty minutes, but his white-knuckled grip on the back of a seat said everything.

You’d hoped the decontamination shower would be the end of it. But blood was still taken. Swabs run over your skin. Scans. More questions. Until finally, they left the three of you in the quarantine room- one sterile space, no outside contact, and cameras in every corner.

You wanted to apologize. This had been your mistake. But Bucky’s expression was pure storm as he continued to pace like a tiger in a zoo. Steve’s face was unreadable- steely, distant, controlled. So you kept your mouth shut and tried not to scratch at your skin like you desperately wanted.

Soft static crackled, and then Tony’s voice filled the room over the speaker. "It’s biochemical bonding serum," he said. "Looks like it's engineered to push subjects into a state of hyperarousal and submission, designed to override inhibition and drive instinctual behaviors."

Your stomach dropped. What kind of mess had you landed yourself in?

"How long?" Bucky snapped, voice sharp.

"We'll have to check back on the decay and metabolic rate, and we- "

"What Bruce means is- we don't know," Tony cut in. "For you guys, it might be a matter of hours. Little Miss Curiosity might be stuck with it in her system a little longer."

You flinched and shied away from the speaker, burying your face in your hands.

"We're working on it, don't stress. It shouldn't kill you," Tony added casually.

"Big fucking whoop," Bucky growled, pressing a fist into the wall. Steve shot him a look of disproval. 

"Buck.." His tone warning. 

"Just, try and stay calm, guys," Bruce said, trying to sound optimistic. "It'll be alright."

"Don’t make a mess," Tony said, his voice laced with sarcasm. "We’ll keep you posted."

And just like that, you were cut off again. Biochemical- engineered arousal.

"Well, you heard him," Steve sighed, leaning back against the wall, scrubbing a hand over his face. "We just have to keep our heads. It can’t last forever."

That was easy for him to say. Both Steve and Bucky had super soldier serum in their veins- enhanced bodies that could regulate, adapt, maybe even resist. You… you were human. And you could already feel your body reacting in ways that made your skin itch and your blood feel like it was boiling.

You didn't say anything. Just shifted your weight, trying not to squirm. The heat beneath your skin pulsed steadily now, like it was alive.

"This is fucked," Bucky muttered, pacing again. "They just dumped us in here like we’re some kind of experiment."

"They’re doing what they can," Steve said, tone calm but tight. "We don’t know enough yet. Getting worked up won’t help."

"Worked up?" Bucky turned on him, eyes flashing. "You don’t feel that?"

Steve’s jaw flexed. "Of course I feel it."

"Then quit acting like you don’t."

You glanced between them, heart racing. The tension in the room was building again, only this time it wasn’t from anger- it was something heavier. Thicker. Clinging to the air like smoke.

And under it all, that hum beneath your skin only grew louder. 

Hours had passed.

You'd started pacing a little while ago, unable to sit still. Movement helped. Not much- but it was something. You were going through the water they'd left in the room like you were dying of thirst. You were hot, sticky, your tank damp and clinging to your body, and you were doing everything you could to ignore the throbbing pulse between your legs.

You kept moving. Pacing. Trying to shake it off.

Steve watched from the far cot, jaw tight. His shirt was damp, his breath shallow, but he was sitting like he was trying to pretend everything was normal.

Bucky was pacing again, eyes locked on you more often than not, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. “She smells different,” he muttered. “Fuck.”

His words made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. The rough, raw sound of his voice made your head twitch like it was a physical thing pulling at you.

"Gonna try and sleep," you muttered, not looking at either of them.

Maybe you'd be able to sleep through the worst of it. Maybe if you were lucky, your body would calm down. You slipped behind the thin curtain, stepping into the tiny corner of privacy around your cot. Laying down, the heat of your body only seemed to intensify. Your skin felt suffocated, and with a frustrated sigh, you peeled your tank top over your head, leaving you in just your bra, hoping the exposure would help you breathe easier.

It didn’t.

You curled onto your side, arms around your stomach, thighs pressed tight together. The ache between your legs was a constant, heavy throb now. Maybe… maybe you could just handle your own needs. Just enough to take the edge off. Anything to ease the ache.

Your hands trembled as you pulled the thin blanket around you and lay on the cot. There was a small curtain for privacy, but it did nothing to muffle the sounds when your fingers slipped beneath your waistband.

You tried to be quiet. Tried to hold your breath. But your body was on fire, and even the gentlest brush of your fingers sent you bucking.

A whimper escaped, broken and desperate.

And then you heard it- Steve’s voice. Low. Strained.

“Don’t- don’t do that.”

You froze. “I- I can’t- ”

Still, you didn’t stop. You rubbed faster, then slower, your fingers diving inside of you, pressing deeper, trying every angle- but nothing worked. Every shift of your hand sent sparks across your nerves, your breath hitching with each pulse of pressure, but the fire wouldn’t break. Your legs trembled, your toes curled, but it all stayed out of reach.

You changed angles, tried circling your clit with trembling fingers while your other hand held onto the edge of the cot like it could ground you. You rocked your hips up, whispered pleas into the dark, but it wasn’t enough. Not even close. You needed more- needed them- but all you had were your own shaking hands and the unbearable ache growing between your legs.

Your breath hitched again as frustration bloomed hot and frantic in your chest. You were soaking, your thighs slick, the air sticky with the scent of your arousal. Your skin was flushed and clammy, your body locked in this endless loop of need- and yet you still couldn’t fall over that edge. Not like this. Not alone.

"You gonna keep pretending you don’t want her?" Bucky asked, voice low and rough, growling on the other side of the curtain.

Steve didn’t move at first, but his voice followed, strained. "I can smell her arousal from here, Buck. You think I’m not affected?"

"She’s whimpering, Steve. Sounds like music to me."

"We’re not doing this. We can’t- "

"Fuck this. She needs someone."

"Don’t you fucking touch her," Steve snapped.

"Then you do something," Bucky fired back.

Silence followed. You pressed your fingers deeper, hips rocking, but it wasn’t working. You were going to explode- your body was wound so tight it hurt.

Your fingers weren’t enough. You begged, voice cracking, desperate and broken.

"Please... please someone- "

Someone pulled the curtain back. Bucky’s eyes were dark. Blown wide. He didn’t speak. It hurt. “I can’t…” you whimpered, barely able to speak. “It’s not working…”

Your hips shifted again instinctively, your fingers still caught between your thighs, but the tension was unbearable. You were so wet, so swollen with need, it was maddening- and yet release stayed just out of reach. Your body craved more than your own touch could give.

They both appeared, stepping past the curtain without a word. You could see it in their faces- this was affecting them just as much. Steve’s eyes were dark, jaw clenched. Bucky looked wrecked, barely human with how sharp and hungry his expression had become.

You writhed again on the cot, body shaking, and Steve moved first- his weight shifting over you as he pressed your shoulders down into the mattress with steady, unyielding hands.

"Stay still," he said, voice gravel-thick.

At the same time, Bucky grabbed your wrist and gently pulled your hand away from you.

You whined, hips arched up, as Bucky’s gaze dropped to your slick fingers. He looked transfixed. Obsessed. His mouth parted before he dragged his tongue along your digits, groaning low in his chest at the taste.

Then- without breaking eye contact- he brought your hand to Steve.

"Tell me again we shouldn’t do this," Bucky said, voice rough and knowing.

Steve hesitated, staring at your hand, your eyes, then your body.

"...Steve?" you pleaded, chest heaving. A bead of sweat slid down your ribs, slicking your skin as the heat inside you pulsed like a second heartbeat. "Help... please."

Steve’s jaw flexed. His eyes raked over your flushed, trembling body, lingering where your bra had ridden up from the way you were squirming, the curve of your thighs glistening in the low light.

Bucky didn’t speak. He just stood there beside him, wild-eyed and rigid, chest rising and falling with short, shallow breaths. The scent of you filled the air. Thick. Sweet. Desperate.

Steve exhaled through his nose, heavy and slow like he was trying to exhale restraint. It didn’t work.

"You’re going to regret begging so pretty, sweetheart," he murmured, finally moving closer, the promise behind his words like thunder rolling through your veins.

~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~

They were both on you.

You didn’t know who moved first- Steve’s hand slid up your thigh, firm and sure, while Bucky’s mouth was suddenly at your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. The tension shattered. Clothing came off in frantic tugs- your joggers peeled away, your bra unclasped and discarded. Steve’s tank was tossed aside. Bucky’s sweats hit the floor with a low rustle.

Heat and skin and breath surrounded you. Their bodies pressed in, solid and hot and overwhelming. Steve's chest pinned you down as he kissed you- hard and consuming- his tongue sliding against yours as he groaned into your mouth. His hands cupped your jaw, fingers splayed, tilting your head how he wanted it.

Bucky moved lower, lips trailing down your throat, teeth scraping along your collarbone. His hands gripped your hips, dragging you down the cot toward him with a roughness that made you moan. He kissed your stomach, your ribs, your inner thighs, worshipping each inch like it belonged to him.

You gasped, arching into the touch of both of them. Their mouths- wet and demanding. Their bodies- slick with sweat, grinding against you like they couldn't get close enough.

You'd all held out for so long. Now there was nothing but the letting go.

Every nerve ending in your body sparked like live wires with every touch- every graze of skin against skin sent jolts of unbearable sensation through you. It was impossible to stay still. Your limbs twitched, your hips rocked, your breath came in short, gasping pulls as your body tried to process too much, too fast.

“Don’t move,” Steve growled, voice rough but laced with something gentler beneath. “Too sensitive? No. You’re just not used to being handled right.”

Bucky pushed your legs open wider, guiding your knees apart until your calves hung off the edge of the cot, completely exposed, completely theirs. “She’s soaking,” Bucky breathed. “Fucking hell- she’s dripping down her thighs.” The cool air kissed your slick folds and made you shiver. Then his hand slid between your thighs again, and fingers plunged into you- two, maybe three. You didn’t even know whose they were anymore.

Steve’s mouth found your chest, teeth grazing over the top curve of your breast before his lips closed around your nipple. You sobbed, your body already arching upward from the overload.

The blonde growled against your skin, one hand gripping your jaw while the other tangled in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to bow your spine upward. You gasped, helpless, writhing between them, your body trembling from overstimulation.

“You’re taking it so well,” Steve murmured, voice low and rough. “Just like that. Good girl.”

“Look at her,” Bucky snarled. “That’s it, sweetheart- ride my hand. Come on. Take what you need.”

His fingers worked deep inside you, curling and thrusting, hitting that spot that made your legs twitch and your hips lift off the cot. His palm pressed against your clit with every motion, grinding you into the edge of bliss, holding you there with cruel precision. You could feel everything. Every ridge of his knuckles, every flex of his wrist. It was too much and not enough all at once.

You whimpered, your hands scrambling against the sheets, seeking something to hold onto as your body rocked with each relentless stroke. Steve bit gently at the underside of your jaw, his hand still twisted in your hair as he whispered praises that barely reached your ears over the rushing roar of need building inside you.

Steve’s mouth was on your chest again, sucking one nipple into the heat of his mouth while his hand massaged the other, groping you with a needy rhythm that only made it harder to breathe. His other hand had tangled itself in your hair again, gently tugging until your spine arched up off the cot, your body straining toward both of them.

Bucky’s metal thumb pressed into your clit, circling with just enough pressure to make your thighs jerk. Your breath hitched, head tipping back as you let out a broken moan.

"OH FUCK." you cried, fingers clawing at the side of the cot, knuckles white.

He didn’t stop. His fingers pumped into you, slick and steady, coaxing the sound out of your throat again and again. You felt like you were vibrating- nerve endings lit up with fire, each touch sparking through you like electricity.

“You hear that, punk?” Bucky’s voice dripped with ego. “That’s the sound of my fingers making her cry.” Steve shifted beside you, sitting up to watch, his eyes locked on where Bucky's fingers slid in and out of you. One of his hands moved down, low and out of sight, and you could see the tension in his jaw as he fought to keep control.

Bucky glanced back at him, grinning as he curled his fingers just right and made you cry out again.

"Look at her, Stevie," Bucky growled, his voice rough and ragged with arousal. He didn’t even look up, just watched his fingers slide in and out of you like it was the most important thing in the world. "She’s writhing just from my fingers. What happens when I put my cock in?"

"You’ll wait," Steve snapped, voice sharp, strained with barely checked control. He was flushed, jaw tight, clearly fighting the same battle Bucky was already losing.

"God, look at her," Bucky muttered again, breath coming faster. "Fuck, I want her mouth. I want every part."

You couldn’t answer. Your vision blurred. Every nerve in your body felt like it had snapped tight, vibrating with unbearable pressure.

And then it broke.

You came- hard.

Your whole body convulsed as the orgasm tore through you. Your legs kicked against the cot, arms flailing blindly for purchase. Steve had to hold you down, one hand braced across your chest, the other still tangled in your hair as your back arched and a strangled sob tore from your throat.

It didn’t end quickly. The drug made it last- your climax dragging on and on, crashing over you in waves so powerful they left you gasping, wrecked.

You felt Bucky’s fingers slow inside you, easing off just enough to let you ride it out without breaking. But they didn’t stop touching you. They didn’t let you go.

And worst of all, the haze in your head didn’t clear like you hoped it would.

You were still shaking. Still needy.

Still burning.

You were a panting mess, your skin still hot and your chest tight when one of them scooped you up and lay you out on the cool floor. The shock of it made you gasp, the chill a sudden relief against your fevered skin. You blinked your eyes open, dazed, limbs slack and breath ragged.

"You’re such a mess for us, baby," Bucky murmured, crouched above you now. His voice was low, ruined with hunger. "That sweet little body of yours wasn’t made to handle all this, was it?"

Your eyes found him- Bucky, kneeling near your face now, his cock hard and leaking, so close it blurred your thoughts. He looked feral, undone, lips parted like he was barely restraining himself.

Your tongue slipped out to lick your lips without thinking. The taste of your own sweat clung to your skin, but all you could focus on was him. The way his chest rose and fell, the way his fist clenched at his thigh.

Your mind narrowed to a single point of clarity.

You wanted him in your mouth.

You leaned forward slowly, licking the bead of precum off his tip before taking him in fully- hungry, needy, your lips stretching around the thick, velvet length of him. Bucky’s breath stuttered, and he let out a ragged groan as your mouth sealed around him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he gasped, one hand flying to your hair, not to guide but to anchor himself. “So fucking pretty like this- taking me so deep. Look at those lips- look at that mouth.”

You moaned around him, the vibrations making him hiss. He was hot, heavy, pulsing against your tongue, and you hollowed your cheeks to take him deeper, until your nose pressed against the base and he swore low under his breath.

“Messy little mouth,” Bucky panted. “So eager. You needed this, didn’t you? Needed something to suck while we ruin the rest of you.”

You were lost in it- the taste of him, the heat, the way he twitched when your tongue flicked just right. Spit gathered at the corners of your mouth as you worked him with sloppy desperation, gagging slightly as you bobbed your head in a steady rhythm.

Just then, you felt Steve’s hands at your hips, steady and sure. He shifted your lower body, pulling your legs open and up until you were spread out for him on the floor.

“You liked Buck's fingers? Let’s see how you do on my cock,” Steve growled against your ear, his voice dark and thick with restraint.

You gasped around Bucky’s cock, the moan caught in your throat turning into a garbled sound of pleasure as Steve aligned himself behind you. His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you wide as his tip pressed against your entrance- already slick, fluttering, aching.

He pushed in slow, filling you inch by inch, and every nerve inside you lit up in electric spasms. Your muscles fluttered around him, clenching and pulsing as he stretched you open, the thick drag of him stealing your breath.

The pressure, the fullness, the stretch- it was overwhelming. You sobbed around Bucky, the vibration of your moan making him groan above you, his hips twitching as he fought not to thrust.

Steve bottomed out with a hiss, his hands gripping tighter like he needed the anchor. Inside you, he throbbed, deep and perfect. You felt stretched to the edge of your limits, your inner walls fluttering in frantic spasms around him, struggling to adjust and clench all at once. Your body didn’t know what to do- pull him in deeper or push him out.

It was too much. It was everything. Your head was spinning.

They started to move- slow at first. Steve dragging back only to sink in again, deliberate, controlled, while Bucky’s cock bumped the back of your throat as he rocked forward with a groan. You gagged, whined, clung to them both with your mouth and body.

You were stuck in it now. The lust. The drug. The heat. There was no thought left, only sensation. Only how it felt to be stretched open in two directions, trembling and gasping.

They didn’t talk to you anymore. They talked about you.

“She’s so sensitive,” Bucky growled. “Poor thing doesn’t know what to do with herself.”

Steve grunted, his pace picking up. “Tight as hell. She’s pulsing like she doesn’t know whether she wants to come or cry.”

You tried to moan but it came out a broken, garbled sound around Bucky’s cock. Your tongue dragged along the underside of him as he pushed deeper, your throat fluttering as you swallowed around the stretch. Spit dripped from the corners of your mouth, tears tracking down your cheeks, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

Bucky’s hand tightened at the back of your head, not forcing, just holding you there, gazing down into your wet, dazed eyes. “That’s it, baby,” he groaned. “Fuck, look at you drooling all over me. You love it, don’t you?”

Your hips rocked back into Steve without meaning to as he thrust forward again, harder this time, grinding deep. Your nerves fired like sparks, the friction of his cock dragging against hypersensitive flesh sending bursts of pressure low in your belly. Your insides coiled, pleasure building with every thick, deliberate thrust, your body wound so tight it felt like you might snap apart.

“You’re doing so well for us,” Steve grunted, leaning down, his mouth hot at your ear. “Such a good girl, letting us use you like this.”

He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, changing the angle, driving in deeper. The stretch made you cry out around Bucky’s cock, throat flexing as your moan turned to a sob.

"That's it," Steve growled, pace quickening. "Fuck, so fucking wet and warm... you gonna cum, sweetheart? Gotta feel you squeeze me while you swallow Bucky."

Your body arched, heat crashing through your spine as Steve hit that perfect spot again and again, each thrust sending a jolt through your core. Your throat tightened around Bucky's cock, the vibration of your desperate moans making him curse under his breath.

“Fuck- she’s so close,” Steve panted, driving harder. “You feel that? She’s fucking pulsing.”

You sobbed around Bucky, tears streaking your cheeks, the pressure in your belly a coil tightening with no escape.

“She’s gonna lose it,” Bucky panted, watching the way you writhed. “Look at how she’s trembling. She needs cock.”

And then it snapped.

Your climax hit like a bolt of lightning, seizing your body with white-hot tension as your inner walls clamped down around Steve’s cock. You wailed around Bucky’s length, the cry vibrating through him as he let out a guttural groan.

“Fuck, that mouth- ” Bucky growled, watching your teary eyes roll back. “I’m gonna- shit- ”

He spilled down your throat with a grunt, his cock twitching between your lips, his hand holding you steady as you swallowed every drop of him while he pulsed. 

The clenching spasms of your climax milked Steve mercilessly, dragging his own orgasm from him with a ragged curse. He slammed in deep, staying buried as he came hard, filling you with warmth that only made the pleasure burn hotter.

“Take it,” he groaned, his breath broken against your shoulder. “Take it all. Good fucking girl.”

Bucky sat back on his heels, pulling himself from your mouth with a wet pop, still hard, his cock glistening with your spit. “"Fuck... you’re unreal..." he panted, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing..pupils blown as he looked down at you.

Steve finally pulled out with a groan, the loss of him sudden and jarring, making you whimper. His cum followed, warm and slick as it dripped from your stretched pussy, pooling between your thighs.

His gaze dropped between your legs, transfixed. His eyes went heavy-lidded as he watched it leak from you, dripping down to your slick, twitching rim. Slowly, his fingers moved to your core, smearing the mess down lower, spreading it deliberately to your other entrance.

You gasped, twitching from aftershocks, your body still sensitive everywhere. His fingertip teased your tight hole, rubbing softly, slicking it with a practiced ease. You whimpered, already overwhelmed, but the moan that spilled from you was pure need.

“Damn, Stevie- you didn’t fuck her right if she’s still aching like this,” Bucky drawled, voice hoarse and edged with a smirk, watching the way your hips shifted restlessly on the floor.

You whimpered, the heat still rolling inside you, every nerve ending alive and twitching. The aftershocks made your muscles flutter, your body too sensitive and still so hungry. Steve didn’t bite back. He was too focused- his fingers slick with his own cum as he spread it lower, smearing it over your pussy and then circling your tight, twitching rim.

And then one thick finger pressed inward.

You gasped, whole body jolting, a broken sound catching in your throat as your body tried to clamp down instinctively. But Steve worked slowly, steadily, easing the finger deeper, the stretch sharp and slow as he began to work you open.

You felt your core clench around nothing as Steve worked his finger deeper. “I need- please, I need more, I can’t- ” you gasped, voice trembling. Your head was a mess, fogged with lust and the aftershocks still sparking under your skin. Steve kept up the slow pump of his finger, pushing in deeper, working more of his cum into your ass to keep you slick and open.

“Hear that, Steve?” Bucky said, voice thick with amusement, already fisting his own cock in lazy, slow strokes. “She wants more.”

Steve’s gaze didn’t waver, his finger sinking deeper, curling. You whimpered again.

“Can’t say no, can we?” Bucky added, grinning.

“Oh, I think I know exactly what our girl needs...” Steve muttered, voice thick with heat and control, as his hand disappeared between your thighs.

Steve pulled his finger from your ass just as Bucky got down onto the floor, reaching out to haul you up into his lap. Steve’s arms hooking under yours, supporting your limp, boneless body as they moved you together like you weighed nothing.

“Let’s get you on Buck now...” Steve purred near your ear, voice thick and smooth, a slow heat curling down your spine.

Bucky’s cock was already there- thick, hard, and waiting. They guided you together, Steve steadying you from behind while Bucky angled his cock to your entrance.

As Steve lowered you, your legs wrapped weakly around Bucky’s hips, and you felt the first stretch as his tip slid inside. A guttural groan ripped from Bucky’s throat, his hands tightening on your thighs.

“Fuck, baby,” he gritted out, voice rough and reverent. “You always take me so damn good. Still so fucking tight- even after Steve blew you open? Shit.”

“That’s a girl,” Steve murmured, voice low with praise. “Nice and slow... Want you to feel every inch of him, don’t you?”

You just whimpered and nodded, the need to be filled consuming, overwhelming, as the pair of them helped you sink down onto Bucky’s cock, inch by perfect inch.

Your head fell back against Steve’s shoulder as you settled fully onto Bucky, who thrust up into you with steady pressure. The heat and stretch made your whole body tremble. You could barely breathe, still twitching from your earlier climax. Then Bucky's hands gripped your hips tight.

“Oh fuck,” he hissed, hips rolling upward as he began to move you, guiding you into a rhythm. “Look at you. Still aching. Like how I feel doll?”

The moan that spilled from your mouth didn’t even sound like you anymore- wrecked, raw, and desperate.

You were unraveling under Bucky’s rhythm- the way he filled you had your mind slipping, your thoughts scattering with every deep, slow thrust, how every thrust hit deep, high inside, brushing against that spot that made you shudder. Your head lolled back onto Steve’s shoulder, eyes fluttering, lips parted around desperate little gasps.

“She bites her lip when I go deep. You see that?” Bucky said with a rough chuckle, voice wrecked but smug. “She likes my rhythm.”

You didn’t even notice the way Steve bent you forward over Bucky, hands guiding your body like you were something precious and fragile and already ruined.

You didn’t have time to think too much before you felt Bucky’s hands grip your ass, pulling you open as Steve shifted behind you. It wasn’t until the thick, spongy head of his cock pressed against somewhere you’d never let anyone touch that your eyes snapped open in surprise.

The first inch pushed into your ass slowly, carefully, but it still stole your breath.

“It’s too much- I can’t- wait- ” you gasped, voice cracking with overwhelmed panic as your body instinctively tried to jerk away.

But Bucky rocked his hips upward, pushing deep into your pussy again, and the shockwave of pleasure was enough to paralyze your resistance.

“Shh... it’s okay,” Steve murmured, arms wrapping around you from behind as he continued to press in. His voice was thick and coaxing, his control iron-tight. “I’ve got you. You’re doing so good for us.”

You sobbed, your whole body fluttering around them as Steve sank in deeper, the thin wall between your holes trembling with every inch he took. The two of them groaned in unison, voices rough and reverent as they filled you together.

You were caught between them now. Two super soldiers, all three of you lost in lust and need. Your face twisted with sensation as they held you there- one thick cock filling your pussy, the other spreading your ass open inch by inch. Both sunk to the hilt. You were impossibly full. You were shaking. Overwhelmed. Unable to process the stretch, the heat, the drag of their bodies inside you. It was too much. And you needed more.

“You’re both so… big- I’m gonna- fuck- ” you sobbed. You couldn’t believe how sensitive you’d become- how just being filled, just being stretched, could reduce you to this. You weren’t even moving, yet your body was already bracing to come undone again. There was no going back. No holding on. Just surrender.

You came without moving, the sensation of fullness alone tipping you over. Your body seized in the middle, core clenching violently, squeezing down on both of them at once as pleasure ripped through you like a lightning bolt.

Your voice cracked into a scream. You were gone- shaking, convulsing, burning from the inside out as your orgasm dragged through you with devastating force.

Both of them groaned at the way your body squeezed them- tight and hot and trembling.

“Fuck,” Bucky grunted, rocking his hips once more. “Didn’t even have to move. Just had to be inside you.”

Steve chuckled darkly, voice low and wrecked in your ear. “She’s that sensitive. That fucking perfect.”

You couldn’t even answer. Your lips parted in a silent gasp as Steve’s hands slid up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing across your stiff nipples as he started to move again. Slowly at first, easing back before pressing forward, dragging against that thin wall with every thick stroke.

Bucky's grip returned to your hips, steady and possessive, guiding you to rise and fall on his cock. Your body jolted with every motion, your moans soft and slurred.

“That’s it,” Steve cooed, hips snapping gently. “We’ll start slow…”

“I-I can’t- ” you whimpered, but your body was already moving, driven by instinct and need.

“I know you can take more,” he murmured. “Look how beautiful you are when you come apart. It'll feel better- just gotta keep going.”

And it did. It felt better than the denial. Better than the ache that came from holding back. The pleasure rolled through you like a drug, heavy and all-consuming.

Your hips started to move again, slowly grinding into Bucky as your walls fluttered around him. You didn’t know if it was need or instinct- maybe both- but you couldn’t stop. You were cock-drunk. Barely aware of anything except how good it felt to be filled this way.

“Breathe,” Steve whispered. “Just like that. Hold it- good girl.”

Then Steve pulled your hips back into him and pressed all the way in.

“You think you’re fucking her deep?” Steve growled at Bucky, voice low and wild. “Watch this.”

Bucky shoved his hand flat to your lower stomach and lifted his hips with a brutal thrust. You cried out, the stretch making your eyes roll back as he ground up into you. It was obscene how deep he reached, how thick he felt. You pawed at his chest, clinging to him with trembling fingers.

“..fuck fuck fuck...” you gasped, the breath knocked out of you before he eased his hips again, smug and steady.

“Told ya,” Bucky muttered with a grin.

But it didn’t stop there.

Bucky answered your gasps with harder thrusts. Steve listened for his name and answered with praise. His mouth latched to your neck, nipping and licking along your skin as he squeezed your breasts roughly, molding them in his palms.

“Did you hear that one? That was mine,” Steve muttered against your skin when you gasped his name.

Bucky answered with a sharp thrust that made your breath catch. “She moaned louder for me, sweetheart. Don’t get cocky.”

Each of them was locked into the game- testing reactions, adjusting pace, trying to claim the sounds that spilled from your lips. One made you cry out, the other drew a gasp. They used your body like a live wire for their competition, and you were helpless in the storm.

“She whimpers when I kiss her right here,” he growled, biting just beneath your ear.

Bucky’s hands gripped your hips tighter, fucking up into you hard enough to rock you against Steve’s chest. “She clenched around me when you said that,” he rasped. “Bet she’s trying to pick a favourite.”

You couldn’t keep up. Couldn’t think. You only managed to gasp whatever name escaped your lips first, and they both heard it- every time. And they responded with sharper thrusts, filthier praise.

“You’re so cock-drunk, you don’t even know who’s making you come anymore, do you?” Bucky said, voice rough.

“She’s beautiful like this,” Steve murmured, licking the sweat off your throat. “All wrecked. All ours.”

Then Bucky’s metal hand slid between your thighs again. His fingers brushed your clit, the coolness of steel a shocking chill of metal against your heat made you jolt, gasping as sparks danced up your spine.

“Oh- god - fuck- ” you sobbed, trembling uncontrollably as sparks shot up your spine.

“Breathe,” Steve ordered again. “Just like that. That’s our girl.”

They started to move faster now- driving into you in sync, pistoning in perfect rhythm. The slap of skin echoed, the slick sounds of your soaked cunt and the obscene wet pressure of being filled from both ends breaking whatever was left of your mind.

“You want to make her come, punk?” Bucky growled. “You gotta fuck her harder than that.”

“Shut up, jerk,” Steve snarled, thrusting harder. “We don’t need to break her. Just ruin her a little longer.”

“She’s shaking so bad. You keep her steady, Steve- I wanna see her face when she comes again.”

Your next orgasm ripped through you with a small wail, your features contorting as your body locked up tight. You clawed at them both- gripping Steve’s forearm, Bucky’s shoulder- as your walls fluttered around their cocks, milking them, begging for more without a word.

They didn’t stop. Didn’t give you time to come down. Steve groaned, his thrusts picking up as he rolled your nipples between his fingers. Bucky cursed, gripping your hips tighter, lifting and dropping you into him with growing urgency.

You felt them both losing control- felt their restraint slipping with every second you squeezed around them, heat and slickness pouring down your thighs.

“Fuck- fuck, she’s doing it again,” Bucky grunted.

Steve’s voice was a low growl in your ear. “She wants it. She’s not done. Not till we are.”

Then the pace shifted- harder, rougher, deeper. Their moans grew louder, matched only by the slap of skin on skin. Your head spun, your vision blurred.

And then they were coming again- Steve first, pulled tight to your back, his groan muffled in your shoulder. Then Bucky, buried deep beneath you, eyes locked on yours as he spilled inside you with a strangled moan.

You collapsed between them, limp and boneless, your body a trembling wreck held up only by their hands. You didn’t even try to move. There was no fight left in you- only the slow hum of satisfaction and overstimulation. Somewhere in the haze of your mind, a flicker of disbelief passed through you- how had you endured that? How had you survived the storm of them inside you? But there was no room for shame or second thoughts. Only surrender. And the quiet, overwhelming hum of being utterly, deliciously wrecked. You were too dazed to understand what was happening at first, the haze still thick behind your eyes. The humming under your skin hadn’t stopped, but it had dulled- muted to a low thrum that echoed in your bones. They were careful, even if your overstimulated body didn’t register it that way.

You whined, squirming, as they slowly pulled out of you. The stretch reversed, the heat slipping away, leaving you empty and raw. It wasn’t pain, but your body protested the loss with soft whimpers.

Someone pressed a water bottle to your lips, coaxing you to sip. You obeyed without thought, the coolness trickling down your throat a small mercy.

Another set of hands gently wiped you down. A cold, damp cloth slid between your legs, easing away the slick mess with slow, tender strokes.

Then your head was lowered into someone’s lap. Fingers carded through your hair.

“You did so well,” Steve murmured. “Look at you- perfect.”

You blinked slowly. Steve’s voice again, closer now: “Easy, sweetheart. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

Your limbs twitched weakly, still responding to phantom pleasure. A quiet laugh came from Bucky.

“Still twitching. Still fucking gorgeous.”

You felt him kissing up your leg, mouth trailing along your calf, your knee, your inner thigh.

Then your legs were being moved again- lifted, spread with a gentleness that contrasted starkly with the earlier frenzy. There was no rush now, no urgency- just the soft reverence of Bucky's hands as he cradled your thighs like something precious, something breakable, as though he hadn’t just wrecked you minutes ago. You blinked, barely aware, as Bucky settled himself between them, laying flat, his breath hot against your oversensitive core.

He pressed a kiss there, soft and reverent, and your whole body jolted in response.

“And I’m not done tasting her,” he muttered, voice thick with need.

“Buck- she needs to recover,” Steve warned again, but his voice had softened to something indulgent.

“I’ll be gentle…” Bucky promised, his mouth already lowering, tongue dragging slow and careful over your aching folds as your head lolled back into Steve lap, eyes fluttering closed, lost to the warmth and the wetness and the impossible pleasure building again

TAGS: @buckybarnesfic, @ruexj283, @yesiamthatwierd @trojanaurora, @hextech-bros

[vunblr]

Brown Sugar and Gunmetal

Pairing: Alpha! Winter Soldier x Omega! Female Reader

Tags: A/B/O AU. True mates. Smut. Porn. Debauchery.

Warnings: A/B/O dynamics. Knot. Breeding. Rough Sex. Scent Kink. Dub-con elements: breaking and entering, but all sex is enthusiastically consented. Non-traditional alpha purring. Size Kink. Premature Ejaculation. Feral/Possessive Behaviour.

Summary: Who would have thought that an inconspicuous vent in a bakery alley would be what brought them together: the omega who never felt right with any alpha, and the asset who wasn't supposed to want at all.

Word Count: 12.7k

note: I have been toying with this concept for a while, and wrote these character premises as a background: Alpha!Soldat - Omega!Reader

5:07 AM.

The sky hasn't decided yet whether it's going to dawn or surrender back to night. It’s that liminal hour when the city just stops, too late for the night crowd, and too early for the commuters. Just the street cleaners, the delivery trucks, and the bakers finishing their shifts.

She pulls her jacket tighter against the October chill and starts walking.

Twelve blocks, it’s not far. Close enough that she doesn't need the subway, but far enough that her legs feel it after eight hours on her feet, kneading dough. Her shoulders ache. Her lower back protests. She smells like the industrial-strength flour that gets into everything, no matter how many times she washes her hands.

She doesn't see him.

But he's there.

----

Three rooftops back, tracking her with the concentration it would use on a target: eyes cataloging her gait, her route, the way she favors her right leg slightly after a long shift. But this isn't a mission. There’s no handler voice in its ear telling it where to go, what to do, or who to eliminate.

Just her scent in the air.

Brown sugar and yeast, yes, but underneath that… omega. Warm and sweet and something that makes Soldat's chest constrict in a way that has no name, no designation, no mission-relevant purpose.

It doesn't understand why it's following her.

Can't articulate the drive that pulled it off its assigned route many nights ago, and keeps pulling it back to the alley behind the bakery, to the vent that breathes her scent into the dark.

It still has things to do that don't include stalking an omega through pre-dawn streets like something hungry.

But it can't stop.

Has tried. Twice. Completed the mission and returned to wait for new orders. And both times, it found itself an excuse to be back in that alley at 3:47 AM when the oven is hot, and her scent filters through the vent.

Omega. Mine.

The thought comes from somewhere deep. Some base-level recognition that bypasses protocol and conditioning, and makes Soldat's hands shake.

She turns the corner onto a quieter street.

Residential. Old brownstones with iron railings and window boxes that haven't been tended in years. It drops from the rooftop to a fire escape -silent, controlled- and continues tracking her from the shadows.

It shouldn't be doing this.

Knows it shouldn't.

Handlers aren’t here. It chastises itself.

There's no debrief scheduled for today. No extraction team waiting.

Only her scent on the wind.

----

Her building is old. Pre-war, maybe. Brick facade with a fire escape that's seen better decades. She lets herself in through the front door -no doorman, it notes, filing it away in the part of its brain that still calculates threat assessments- and disappears into the stairwell.

It waits sixty seconds.

Counts them, precisely. Giving her time to reach her floor, -the one that smells like her- to unlock her door, to be safely inside before-

Before what?

Soldat doesn't know.

Doesn't have a plan. Just the pull in its body that screams closer and the scent memory that's been driving it slowly insane for days.

It should leave, but it's already moving. Not toward the front door, but toward the fire escape.

Metal fingers find purchase first on iron rungs worn smooth by decades of weather. It climbs silently, the thing barely creaks under its weight because it knows exactly where to place its feet, how to distribute the load.

It moves up the side of the building like water flowing upward. Silent and inevitable to the second floor.

Her window faces the alley, so it crouches on the fire escape landing, perfectly still, and watches her shrugging off her jacket and draping it over the back of a chair, toeing off her shoes, and leaving them by the door.

It’s a small apartment, a studio layout, its mind automatically catalogs. Kitchen area, living space, bathroom door, and a bed in the corner.

She moves through the space and opens the fridge -light spills out, illuminating her for three seconds- grabs a bottle of juice. Drinks. Sets it down.

And pulls her shirt over her head.

Soldat's breath stops.

It can see skin it has no right to look at, and it can't make itself turn away. Can't make itself leave, like every remaining protocol says it should.

Because she's just there. Right there, separated from it by a pane of glass and ten feet of air, and the seventy years of conditioning that says don't want, don't need, don't feel.

But Soldat is feeling.

Chest tight, breathing uneven. Cock still hard. Has been hard since it caught her slick-scent through the bakery vent two hours ago, an ache it doesn't remember ever experiencing before.

And it wants.

She disappears further into the apartment.

A door closes. The bathroom, its mind supplies automatically. It hears water running through the pipes. Shower.

Every instruction it has left says to disengage now. Report the issue, because that's what this is, isn't it? An issue.

It isn't supposed to follow civilians home. Isn't supposed to be crouched on a fire escape at 5 AM watching an omega through her window like something feral.

Its hand moves to the window ledge.

Testing.

The old wood is swollen with moisture. The latch is visible through the gap in the curtains, a simple mechanism, not designed to keep out anyone who actually wants in.

Don't.

Its other hand goes to the knife at its thigh.

Leave. Disengage. Return to base.

But it's already moving.

The blade slides between the window and the frame. Simple leverage. The latch gives with barely a click, the wood is too old, and the mechanism is too worn to provide real resistance.

The window slides up smoothly, and the scent-

Fuck.

It escapes out of the open window like a physical thing. Concentrated. Undiluted. Brown sugar, yeast, and omega, coating the inside of its mouth, taking root inside its lungs.

Soldat is inside before really processing it.

The window slides shut behind it, and he just stands there, surrounded by her scent.

The shower is still running. It can hear it through the bathroom door. Can picture her under the spray, water running over skin it saw for three seconds and can't stop thinking about.

Its cock throbs.

Insistent. Painful. It looks down at the bulge behind its pants like it belongs to someone else, like it's a malfunction rather than proof that the drugs are failing, have been failing, because the body knows she's its.

It is biological, absolute, and completely outside of its control.

It crosses to the other window -the one that faces the living area, opposite the bathroom- and sits down on the sill.

It doesn't hide. Doesn't try to blend into shadows or position itself tactically, just waits.

Because she needs to see it. Some part of it that isn't entirely a weapon understands that surprising her, cornering her in the bathroom, or grabbing her when she's vulnerable, would be wrong.

Would make her afraid.

And it doesn't want her afraid.

Wants-

It doesn't know what it wants. Just knows it's going to wait right here until she comes out.

The water cuts off.

Its breathing goes shallow as it hears her moving around in the bathroom. A towel. The medicine cabinet opening and closing. Footsteps. The door handle turning, and finally, the door opening.

----

She steps out of the bathroom barefoot, wrapped in a towel, hair damp and dripping down her back.

And freezes.

Because a man is sitting in her window.

No, not a man. Something else. Something that makes every rational thought in her head go quiet, replaced by a single, primal recognition that bypasses her brain entirely and speaks directly to that omega part of her that had seemed dormant almost all her life.

Alpha.

He's engulfed in black. Tactical gear that looks military, maybe a mercenary, she doesn't know enough to tell the difference, just knows it's meant for violence. A polymer mask covers the lower half of his face as some kind of muzzle, and it should look wrong, should look like something out of a nightmare, but doesn't.

Above it, his eyes.

Blue. Pale, pale blue. The color of ice over deep water.

And they're locked on her.

Not looking. Locked. Fixed in a way that makes her instinct whisper predator even as her omega biology sings yes.

Black paint is smeared across the upper half of his face, crude, deliberately, the kind of thing meant to swallow the light and turn a man into a shadow. His hair hangs lank, brushing his shoulders, dark and tangled like it hasn't seen a brush in weeks. Maybe months.

And his left arm-

Metal.

Plates and articulated joints that catch the yellow light from her bedside lamp, silver and unmistakably not human. It rests on his thigh, fingers splayed, and she can see the micro-movements, the tiny recalibrations of servos and mechanisms that keep it alive.

She should scream.

She should run, lock herself back in the bathroom, call 911, something, anything other than just standing here dripping onto her floor in nothing but a towel that suddenly feels thinner than paper.

But her body doesn't respond with fight or flight.

It still responds with yes.

Because that scent, oh god, that scent.

It hits her fully now that she's out of the steam-thick bathroom. Leather worn soft with age. Gunmetal, cordite. And underneath it all, something alive and warm. Clean sweat, musk, cedar smoke, and a bass note she doesn't have a name for, but her body knows.

It's him.

The ghost she's been smelling through the bakery vent for days. The phantom that made her slick in the middle of a shift, made her hands shake while she shaped croissants, made her lie awake at night with her fingers between her legs chasing a release that never quite came because it wasn't him.

He's real.

He's in her apartment.

And some twisted, fucked-up part of her -the part that's never felt right with any alpha she's tried to want, the part that's been waiting for something she couldn't name- feels like he belongs here.

Her pulse hammers in her throat. She can feel it, hot and frantic, thudding against her scent gland. Her skin prickles with hyperawareness, the towel too rough against her nipples, and-

Oh no.

Oh no.

Warmth between her thighs. The telltale slick slide that means her body is already reacting, already preparing, already wanting in a way she's never felt with flesh-and-blood alphas who bought her drinks and asked politely and did everything right.

She's getting wet for a stranger sitting in her window like a bird of prey.

The shame of it burns, but not enough to stop it. Not enough to make her body listen to her brain's increasingly frantic commands to move, run, do something.

She hears him inhale and sees the way his entire body goes rigid.

Oh fuck.

He smells it.

----

It watches her freeze.

Sees the way her pupils blow wide, black swallowing the color until there's barely any left. Perceives the flutter of her pulse, rabbit-quick, omega-fragile. Sees the water droplets sliding down her collarbone, disappearing into the edge of the towel.

She hasn't screamed.

That's… weird. Civilians scream when it appears in their private rooms. They run. They freeze and shake, and sometimes they cry, but they don't just stand there staring at it like-

Her scent changes, and it takes it half a second to place it, and when it does, something in its brain fractures.

Slick.

It tenses.

That's not- omegas don't smell like that for it. Warm and sweet and wanting, with pheromones that pull at something on it, that the handlers said was fixed.

But it's surfacing now.

Clawing up from whatever dark place they tried to bury it, and it doesn't know what to do with it. It doesn't have a protocol for this. Just the overwhelming need to get closer, to bury its face in her throat and breathe.

Its cock throbs. Heavy, aching, trapped behind tactical fabric that suddenly feels painfully constricting.

It shifts slightly on the windowsill, trying to relieve the pressure, and the movement is clumsy. It doesn't know how to do this. Doesn't remember ever needing to.

Her eyes drop.

She's looking at the obvious bulge straining against black fabric, at the evidence of something it thought was dead.

She should be running.

Why isn't she running?

"How did you get in?" Her voice comes out steady. Not scared, or angry.

Like this is a normal question to ask a heavily-armed stranger sitting in her window at five in the morning.

It doesn't answer.

Doesn't know how to answer.

So it stands.

The movement is fluid and controlled because the body knows how to move smoothly even when the mind is fracturing.

She's still just standing there, still looking at it with those wide eyes, pupils blown. The towel is slipping slightly on one side, and it can see a droplet of water sliding down between her breasts, and its mouth goes dry.

It takes a step toward her.

Then another.

Her scent gets stronger with each foot of distance it closes. Thicker. Sweeter. The slick-smell underneath makes something in Soldat's alpha core growl with satisfaction because yes, omega wants, omega is ready-

No.

It doesn't think like that. Isn't supposed to think like that. Omegas are targets or obstacles or irrelevant sources of pain, not-

Another step.

She hasn't moved.

Hasn't backed up, hasn't reached for a makeshift weapon, hasn't done any of the things a smart person should do when a strange man invades her home.

Three more steps and it's close enough to feel the residual heat from her shower radiating off her damp skin. Close enough to see the way her chest is rising and falling too fast, shallow breaths that make the towel shift with each inhale.

Close enough to hear the slight hitch when it stops less than a foot away.

----

He is close enough that she can see the black paint smudged at his temple, the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow, the way his pupils have blown so wide the blue is almost gone.

Close enough to drown in his scent.

It's overwhelming this close, and her body responds like he's touching her even though there are still inches of space between them.

More slick. Warm and mortifying, sliding down her inner thighs beneath the towel.

She watches him scent the air, watches his pupils dilate even further -if that's even possible- watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

He knows exactly what her body is doing.

And some absolutely insane part of her is glad.

His metal hand comes up slowly, like he's giving her every chance to bolt, to scream, to do literally anything other than stand here and let him.

The hand hovers near her face.

Not touching. Just so close that she can see her reflection dancing in the fingers plates, warped and strange, and hear the whisper-quiet whir of mechanisms, as he holds it perfectly still.

Her heart is hammering so hard she's sure he can hear it, but she doesn't flinch.

Doesn't do any of the rational things a person should do when a stranger breaks into their home and reaches for their face with a metal hand that could probably crush her throat without effort.

Just stands there, meeting those burning blue eyes, her heart a war drum in her chest, and waits.

Because this feels…

Right.

Every alpha she's ever tried to force herself to want was just wrong. Wrong scent, wrong touch, wrong everything. Going through the correct actions because that's what omegas are supposed to do, supposed to crave, but her body never responded. Never wanted.

Until now.

A stranger in tactical gear with a metal arm and war paint, and her body is screaming yes louder than it's ever screamed anything in her life.

She watches his hand hover, and in defiance of every rational instinct, she takes a step forward. Closes those last six inches of space until the towel brushes against his thigh, and his scent completely surrounds her, drowns her, ruins her.

And reaches up.

Her fingers wrap around his metal wrist -still hovering, still waiting- and she guides it down, pressing that cold palm against her cheek.

----

She touches it, and Soldat furrows his brows.

Because no one touches the arm unless they have to. Handlers avoid it. Technicians maintain it with detachment. Targets flinch from it. Witnesses scream when they see it.

But she-

A sound is ripped out of it, low, subvocal, resonating in the hollow of its ribcage. It doesn't recognize it at first. Doesn't have a reference for the frequency, the pattern, or the way it seems to vibrate through its entire body.

Not a growl, not a snarl.

Something else.

Something the handlers never trained it for because alphas don't… alphas aren't supposed to-

Purr.

Soldat is purring.

It doesn't know how to stop.

Doesn't know if it wants to stop.

Because she's still touching the arm, still holding its wrist, and her eyes are closed now, her face tipped into the metal palm like she's seeking comfort from it.

From it.

The purr intensifies.

Its thumb moves -carefully, because the arm could hurt her so easily, and that thought makes something violent twist in its gut- and brushes along her cheekbone.

Her breath catches, and Soldat hears it, and wants to touch more.

Wants to map every inch of her body with both hands, with its mouth. Wants to bury its face in her throat and learn the exact composition of her scent. Wants to know what she tastes like. Wants to-

It hands grip her shoulders and pulls her closer, using the momentum to bend down and bury its face in the curve of her neck where the scent gland sits and inhales, or tries to.

Because the mask creates a barrier between its face and her skin. Only millimeters of separation, but it might as well be miles.

It’s not enough.

It presses closer, trying to get its nose flush against her throat, trying to eliminate even those few millimeters of distance.

But the rigid edge of the muzzle won't let it, and the frustration is maddening.

The sound that rips out of its throat is not a growl. Smaller than that. Sharper. Almost a whine, high and thwarted, vibrating through its chest in a way that makes it freeze because…

Because it doesn't make sounds like that.

It pulls back from her throat, hands still on her shoulders, and it stares down at the space between them like it's a tactical problem requiring assessment.

Remove it.

The thought surfaces clean and logical. A simple solution to a simple problem.

Its flesh hand releases her shoulder and lifts toward its own head. Fingers reaching for the straps at the back, close enough that it would only take a second, just release the catch, pull the strap free…

Then the hand stops, freezing mid-motion, and Soldat's jaw clenches beneath the muzzle.

The conditioning surfaces automatically and absolutely. Operational equipment stays on until a handler authorizes removal. The Soldat doesn't touch the gear. Doesn't adjust it. Doesn't remove it.

Waits for orders. Always waits for orders.

But there are no orders here.

No handler voice in its ear telling it what to do, what's permitted, what comes next.

Just the omega standing in front of it and the scent it can't reach, and the need clawing inside it like something trying to break out.

Its hand trembles. Actually trembles. Seventy years of conditioning screaming don't touch the equipment warring with the biological imperative howling get closer to omega.

She makes a sound.

Soft. Questioning. Her eyes watch the internal struggle in real time.

And it realizes, she can see it. The conflict, the frozen hand.

The Soldat's hand drops back onto her shoulder. It can't do this.

The frustration is physical. A tightness in its throat, a pressure behind its eyes, and the whine tries to surface again, but it swallows it down because it doesn’t want to show weakness to her, besides its uselessness.

The word surfaces bitter and cold.

Can't even take off its own gear. Can't function like anything other than a weapon waiting for orders that aren't coming.

----

She can see it in his eyes.

He wants the mask off. The way he's looking at the space between them with something that's not quite frustration, or confusion, but somewhere in between.

Trapped.

He's trapped by something she can't see. Some kind of rule he can't break, even though every line of his body is screaming that he wants to.

He's not going to take it off himself.

Can't, or won't, or has been trained so thoroughly not to that his hand literally won't complete the motion even though he's desperate for it.

And that… that's wrong. Whatever they did to him, whoever they are, it's wrong.

Her hands come up slowly, carefully, so he can see it coming.

She reaches past his shoulders, past his neck, finding the straps at the back of his head. Her fingers brush through his tangled hair, searching for the buckles hidden beneath.

"Can I?"

Her voice is barely a whisper. Rough with want and the absolute insanity of what she's doing, asking permission to unmask a stranger who broke into her apartment, like that's the wildest part of this situation.

But nothing about this makes sense, so why should this?

He nods, almost military in its precision.

And something in her chest aches at how strange that is, that he needs her help to remove something that's clearly bothering him. That he can't just do it himself.

She reaches up and carefully -so carefully- lifts it away.

The straps pull free from his hair. The contraption comes away from his face, and she can see the slight indentations it left on his skin, red marks where it pressed too tightly for too long.

How long has he been wearing this?

She doesn't ask.

Just holds the mask for a second, then drops it, and it hits the floor with a dull plastic thud that seems too loud in the quiet of her apartment.

For the first time, she sees his whole face.

Sharp jaw. Dry lips parted slightly as he drags in air like he's been holding his breath. A mouth that looks like it was made for smiling, except she doesn't think he remembers how. The black paint extends down past where the mask sat, smudged across his cheeks making his eyes look even more intense.

He's… beautiful. Devastatingly so.

Not pretty, not soft, but beautiful. All sharp edges and hard lines, and a vulnerability in his eyes that doesn't match the rest of him.

And he's staring at her like she's the only thing in the world that matters, like she just gave him something he didn't know he needed.

The moment the mask leaves his face, he moves.

Fast, faster than she can track, his face buries into the curve of her throat, and the sound he makes is wrecked.

A shuddering inhale that she feels all the way down between her thighs. His nose is pressed directly against her scent gland now, nothing between them, and his whole body goes rigid against hers.

Then he breathes her in again, deep and desperate, and the groan he makes is so raw it makes her knees weak.

She feels his lips part, and the wet heat of his tongue dragging directly over her scent gland, tasting her, and her vision goes white for a second.

Her head tips back.

Automatic. Instinctive. Omega nature taking over and offering her throat to an alpha she doesn't even know, and she should be terrified of how right this feels.

But she's not.

He licks her again, slower this time, deliberately, learning her taste. Then his mouth seals over the gland, and he sucks.

The sound she makes is high and breathy and omega, and she feels it, feels her knees give out, feels her body go liquid and pliant.

He catches her.

The metal arm bands around her waist instantly, hauling her up and pinning her against him so her feet barely touch the floor. She's pressed against tactical gear and body armor and all that heat radiating off his body, and the towel-

The towel is gone.

She doesn't know when it fell. Doesn't care. Can't think past the way his mouth is working her throat, licking, sucking, the scrape of teeth that makes her gasp and arch into him.

He's hard.

She can feel it against her hip, thick and insistent even through the clothing, and he's grinding into her like he can't help himself. Like his hips are moving on pure instinct, chasing friction and relief and something he doesn't have words for.

The purr is still going.

That deep, subvocal vibration she can feel everywhere they're touching: his chest against hers, his arm around her waist, his face in her throat.

Wrong, some distant part of her brain whispers. Alphas don't purr.

But he is.

And it's the most beautiful thing she's ever felt.

She tilts her head back further, giving him more access, and the noise he makes in response is purely animal. Grateful and starving and so far gone she knows -knows- that something is deeply wrong with him.

Not wrong like dangerous.

Wrong like broken.

The way he touches her is frantic but not cruel, demanding but not bruising, desperate but not violent. Like he's running on instinct with no learned behavior, no finesse. Just need, confusion, and the desperate drive to get closer.

His flesh hand grips her thigh and lifts, hitching her leg up around his hip and pressing in hard, grinding his erection against where she's slick and open and aching, and the pressure makes her whimper.

He pulls back just enough to look at her.

His eyes are wild. Just thin rings of ice around bottomless black. His lips are wet, the black paint smudged where his face was pressed into her throat. He's panting like he just ran miles, and she can see it-

The confusion.

The need.

The absolute terror of not understanding what's happening to him. He doesn't know what he's doing, what he seeks.

But she wants to pull him down to her bed and let him figure it out. Wants to guide those shaking hands, wants to teach him what touch can feel like. Wants to watch him come apart with her name on his lips, except she doesn't even know his name and-

"Please."

The word falls out of her mouth. Barely a whisper. Rough and desperate, and she doesn't even know what she's asking for.

But he seems to understand.

----

Please.

The omega says it like a prayer, and something in Soldat's mind just shatters. Because she's asking. Begging. Not for it to stop, not for it to leave her alone, but for more.

Her scent is everywhere. On its tongue, in its nose, soaking into its skin through the tactical gear. Brown sugar and yeast, and that salt undertone that makes its alpha instinct groan mine, omega, MINE.

Her leg is wrapped around its hip. Her body is bare and warm and pressed against it, and it can smell how wet she is, and its cock is so hard it hurts.

It feels pain. Real, physical pain, because it hasn't been hard in… it doesn't know how long. Doesn't remember what this feels like, this ache low in its belly, this pressure behind the zipper of its pants that won't go away no matter how it grinds against her.

And she's letting it.

Not just letting, she's arching into it, making those high breathy sounds that spike straight down Soldat's spine, and it doesn't know what to do.

It knows how to kill. Knows ten ways to incapacitate from this position. Knows where to put the knife, the bullet.

Doesn't know how to touch her without breaking her.

Its flesh hand is gripping her thigh too tightly. It can see its knuckles white with pressure, can calculate the exact force needed to bruise, and it tries to ease up, but can't make its fingers let go.

Because if it lets go, she might-

Soldat doesn't know what it's afraid of. That she'll run. That she'll stay. That this will end. That it won't.

Her hands come up.

Slide into its hair, tangling in the unwashed strands, and she pulls.

Not hard. Just enough to guide its face back to her throat, and it complies because it can't do anything else. Can't think past the need to have its mouth on her skin, to taste the scent gland again, to feel her pulse against its tongue.

It licks a stripe up her throat, tasting her, and the purr intensifies until its entire chest is vibrating with it.

She whimpers, and the sound goes straight to its leaking cock.

It doesn't know what it's doing. Just knows it needs to move, needs friction, needs something.

Its hips jerk forward, grinding the thick length behind its pants against her, and the heat there -wet and slick and ready- makes its vision blur.

Omega.

Wants.

Needs.

The thoughts don't form in words. Just primal drive, instinct clawing up from wherever they buried it. Its free hand -the metal one, careful, so careful- slides down her side. Traces her waist, her hip, until it reaches her thigh, the one not wrapped around him, and it grips, gentle as it knows how, which might not be gentle enough, and lifts.

Both her legs are now wrapped around its waist, her back against the wall, its both hands holding her up by her ass, and she's completely open against it now.

Nothing but its tactical pants between them. It can feel the slick soaking through, can smell it so thick in the air it's drowning everything else out.

It grinds forward.

The pressure makes her gasp -loud and sharp- and her nails dig into its shoulders through the vest.

Yes.

It does it again. Harder. Chasing the friction, the heat, the sounds she's making. Its hips move in a rhythm it doesn't remember learning, rutting against her like something feral.

She's saying something, but it can't process the words. Just the tone, breathy, desperate, wanting, and it's enough.

More than enough.

Its mouth finds her throat again. Finds the scent gland and bites. Not hard. Not breaking skin, just enough pressure to make her feel it, to hold her, to-

Mark?

The thought surfaces sharp and alien. Soldat doesn't mark. Doesn't claim. It's not supposed to-

But its teeth are on her gland, and she's keening, high and sweet and surrendering, and its primal alpha nature is screaming YES, MINE, OMEGA, CLAIM-

No.

Can't.

Not allowed.

It doesn't know who decided that or why, just knows it's true. It can't bond her. Can't keep her.

But it can't let go either.

Can't stop grinding against her, can't stop purring, can't stop holding her against the wall like she's the only thing that matters in the world.

She pulls its hair again, forcing Soldat's face up, making it meet her eyes. And what it sees there is want, need. But also something else.

Understanding, maybe.

Like she can see the fracture and the confusion inside its head.

Her thumb brushes its cheekbone, smearing the black paint. Gentle in a way nothing has been with it in years.

"It's okay," she whispers.

And Soldat doesn't know what she means.

Doesn't know what's okay. This isn't okay, none of this is okay. It had broken into her home and put its hands on her, and she should be screaming and squirming but instead she's-

"It's okay," she says again, and her lips brush against it like she's afraid it might break.

Soldat freezes.

Her lips are warm. Soft. Moving gently against its mouth like she's asking a question, but it doesn't know how to answer, doesn't know what to do with its mouth except keep it closed, rigid, and unresponsive while she kisses it with a tenderness that disarms it.

She pulls back.

Just a fraction. Just enough to look at it, and Soldat can see the question in her eyes even though she doesn't ask it out loud.

Is this okay?

It doesn't know.

She kisses it again, slower this time. A soft press of lips, then another, feather-light brushes that make its breath hitch.

Her hands slide from its hair to cup its face -cradling it between her palms like it's something precious- and she kisses the corner of its mouth. Its jaw. The edge of its lips again.

Patiently, like she has all the time in the world.

Like she's not pinned against a wall, held up by its hands under her ass, legs wrapped around its waist while completely naked.

Soldat's brain tries to process this, but her tongue flicks out. Just barely. A soft, wet touch against its bottom lip that sends electricity straight down its spine.

The sensation is-

Soldat doesn't have a reference for it.

Its breath catches. Actually stutters in its chest because no one has ever done that to him.

The tongue traces its bottom lip again, a little bolder this time, and something in Soldat's chest constricts. It's compelling, her mouth on its mouth. The promise of more if it just-

If it just takes it.

And something inside it just… snaps.

It surges forward, crushing its mouth against hers and takes.

Because it doesn't know how to do this softly. Doesn't know how to kiss like she was kissing it, all tenderness and patience. Just knows want and need and more, and its mouth opens against hers, demanding, claiming.

She gasps against its lips.

It swallows the sound. Licks into her mouth, tasting her -omega, sweet, mine- and her flavor explodes across its tongue like nothing it's ever experienced.

Its flesh hand comes up from her ass and grips the back of her head, fisting her damp hair and holds her still while it kisses her like it's starving.

She makes a sound, high and breathy, and Soldat growls.

Can't help it. The sound rumbles up from its chest, vibrating through the kiss, possessive and feral and alpha in a way it didn't know it still could be.

The metal arm under her ass flexes. Lifts her higher against the wall, adjusting the angle so it can kiss her harder, deeper, can tilt her head back with the hand in her hair and devour her mouth.

She whimpers into the kiss and her hips roll, grinding down against where Soldat's cock is straining behind its zipper, and the friction -fuck, the friction-makes its hips jerk forward on instinct.

It's still kissing her. Can't stop kissing her. Can't pull away even to breathe because breathing means not kissing, and that's unacceptable.

Its hips grind up. Her hips roll down. The rhythm builds between them, clumsy, desperate, uncoordinated, and it can feel her heat even through the tactical pants.

Slick. So much of it, soaking through the fabric.

For it.

It tears its mouth away from hers just long enough to breathe -one harsh gasp-and then it's dragging its lips down her jaw, her throat. Back to the scent gland that's calling to every broken alpha instinct it has left.

It bites down.

Harder than before. Still not breaking skin, but claiming the space, holding her throat between its teeth while she keens above it.

Her hands fist in its hair. Pull hard enough to hurt, but the pain is good. Grounds it. Keeps it tethered to this moment, this omega, this impossible thing that's happening.

Its metal arm shifts, adjusting its grip on her ass, fingers spreading wider, and it can smell everything. The heat. The slickness. How ready she is.

How much she wants.

Its hips are still grinding up against her in a rhythm that feels right, even though Soldat doesn't know why. Chasing pressure and friction, and the heat radiating from between her legs.

She's panting now. Harsh little gasps every time its hips thrust up, every time the thick length behind its pants grinds against where she's open and slick and wanting.

"Please-"

She says it again. Broken and desperate, and Soldat doesn't know what she's asking for, but it wants to give it to her.

Wants to give her everything.

Its mouth releases her throat. Licks over the mark its teeth left behind -soothing, claiming- and then finds her mouth again.

Kisses her hard. Deep. Swallowing her gasps and her whimpers while its hips grind up harder, faster, chasing something its body knows even if its mind doesn't.

The pressure is building, low in Soldat's belly, behind its cock. Something coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust, every slide of slick-heat against fabric, every sound she makes into its mouth.

It doesn't know what it is.

Just knows it's coming.

And it can't stop.

Can't stop moving, can't stop kissing her, can't stop needing-

Her teeth catch its bottom lip. Bite down just enough to sting, it snarls into her mouth.

Its metal hand grips.

Pulls her down harder against its shaft while its hips snap up, and the angle -fuck- the angle grinds the ridge of its cock directly against where she's hottest.

She cries out.

Breaks the kiss, head thrown back against the wall, and it can see the pleasure breaking across her face, can see her eyes roll back, can feel her thighs shaking around its waist.

Beautiful.

She's beautiful.

And Soldat is-

It's-

The pressure peaks.

Crests like a wave, and Soldat doesn't know what's happening, but it can't stop, can't do anything but grind up into her one more time, hard and desperate and-

Everything goes white.

----

She feels him go rigid against her, and then-

He makes a sound.

Low and guttural and broken, muffled against her throat where his face is buried now, and she feels it, feels him shuddering against her, feels the rhythmic pulse against her hip even through his pants.

Oh.

He just-

Her brain catches up a second too late, pleasure still sparking through her nerve endings from the way he was grinding against her, the perfect pressure against her clit, the desperate rhythm that had her right on the edge-

But he got there first.

And something in her breaks with something tender and possessive and achingly sad all at once.

Because this -this desperate, uncontrolled response- tells her everything she needs to know about how touch-starved he is, coming from friction alone.

Her alpha came untouched, shaking against her, and the intimacy of that moment makes her throat tight. And somehow she is glad her body, her scent, was enough to make him lose control so completely, that could give him this.

Even if she's still aching. Still empty. Still wet and wanting and so close to the edge she could cry.

The purr has stuttered into something irregular, broken, almost pained. And her omega instincts surge.

Protect. Soothe. Comfort.

Her hands move on instinct, one sliding into his hair, the other pressing flat against his chest, where she can feel his heart racing like a war drum.

His grip on her hasn't loosened.

Still holding her up, metal arm banded under her ass, flesh hand fisted in her hair at the nape of her neck. Still pressing her into the wall like she's the only solid thing in his world.

He's not moving.

He’s just frozen there, face buried in her throat, breathing hard and ragged against her skin. She can feel the wetness between them, his release soaking through his pants, merging with her slick, warm where their hips are still pressed together.

And he hasn't let go.

Won't let go.

She can feel it in the tension of his body, the way his fingers are still fisted in her hair, the trembling in his flesh hand that suggests he's fighting every instinct to squeeze tighter, hold harder, never release.

Like he's terrified she'll disappear if he loosens his grip even a fraction.

"Hey," she whispers, and her voice comes out… wrecked.

"Hey, it's okay."

She doesn't know if she's talking to him or herself.

Doesn't know what she's reassuring him of. That coming like this is okay? That she's not disgusted? That she's not going anywhere?

All of it, maybe.

She feels his face shift against her throat. A tiny movement, his nose dragging along her scent gland like he's seeking reassurance in her smell.

And her heart just-

Breaks.

Breaks for this broken alpha who doesn't even know how to accept comfort without making it into something instinctive and biological.

His breathing doesn't even out. If anything, it gets worse. Harsher. Like he's trying to pull himself together and failing.

And she notices it, the alpha shame. Of losing control. Of being weak. Of needing.

"Alpha," she says, and she's surprised by how steady her voice comes out. How sure. "It's okay. You're okay."

She doesn't know if he understands words right now -doesn't know how much of him is even there behind those pale eyes- but shesays it anyway.

Like she can make it true just by believing it hard enough.

The purr is starting to even out now. Still irregular, but less jagged. And she can feel the exact moment something changes in him, when the shame starts to give way to something else.

His grip tightens fractionally. The hand in her hair flexes, and his face presses harder into her throat, and the sound he makes is low and rough and utterly possessive.

Mine, it says without words.

Omega. Mine. Not letting go.

And fuck, she wants to be his.

Her thighs are starting to shake from the position. Legs wrapped around his waist, all her weight held up by his arm, and she's not sure how long they've been like this, but her muscles are beginning to protest.

"Hey," she says softly. "You can… you can put me down if you want. I can grab a towel, clean up a bit-"

No.

He doesn't say it, just makes a sound -low, immediate, almost a growl- and his grip tightens on her.

Metal and flesh both, holding her closer instead of letting go, and his face presses harder into her throat like the suggestion of separation is physically painful.

She feels him shake his head.

Just once. Sharp and definitive.

Not letting go. Not putting her down. Not giving her space to clean up or think or do anything except stay right here, wrapped around him, her scent in his lungs.

"Okay," she whispers, and she doesn't know why she's surrendering so easily. Doesn't know why the word falls from her lips like a vow. "Okay, alpha. I'm not going anywhere."

And she… should probably be concerned about that reaction.

Should insist on disengaging, because they're both a mess, his release soaking through his pants, her slick coating her thighs and the fabric, the obscene mix of it smeared between them where their bodies are pressed together.

But the way he's holding her, the way his breathing is starting to change again. Getting heavier. Rougher. Not the ragged gasps from before but something else. Something deeper.

His scent shifts.

Sharpens.

She smells it even through her own arousal, through the mess between them, leather and gunmetal going darker, muskier, edged with something that makes her inner omega sit up and pay attention.

Alpha.

Not just alpha.

Rutting alpha.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

He's-

Before she can finish the thought, he moves.

Turns from the wall, carrying her like she weighs nothing, and crosses her small apartment in a couple of long strides. Her bed is right there -unmade, sheets still tangled from when she left for work yesterday- and he doesn't hesitate.

Just leans forward and deposits her on it. Not rough, but not gentle either. Without ceremony, she's suddenly on her back on the mattress, legs falling open, and he's standing over her, looking down with those pale blue eyes engulfed in blown pupils.

Somehow, she feels more naked now, exposed. Sprawled on the bed, thighs still shaking, slick coating her inner thighs and probably the sheets beneath her.

He can see all of it, and he's staring where she's open. Wet. Swollen. Still aching from how close she was before he came, before everything stopped.

His nostrils flare.

And the sound he makes is-

Feral.

----

The scent is everywhere.

Brown sugar and yeast and the slick of her arousal, but now it's mixed with the smell of Soldat's own release, and it's-

Obscene.

The word pops into its mind, and it's correct. The mix of their scents shouldn't blend like this, but it does, and it makes its inner alpha go absolutely feral with possessive satisfaction.

Soldat's cock is stirring again.

Shouldn't be possible. It just came, hard enough that it's still feeling the aftershocks, still wet and sensitive under its pants, but it doesn't matter.

Because she's there.

Spread out on the bed, and it can see it now. Can see the slick coating her inner thighs, can see how ready she is, can smell it thick and sweet and calling to every broken instinct it has.

It doesn't think.

Just drops to its knees beside the bed gracelessly, metal hand bracing on the mattress, flesh hand going straight to her thigh.

Gripping, spreading her wider.

She makes a sound -surprise, maybe, or arousal- but it barely registers. Can't hear anything past the rush of blood in its ears.

It needs to taste her.

Not the scent gland this time. Not her throat or her mouth or any of the places it's already learned.

Here.

Where her scent is strongest, purest, where she's slick and open and-

It buries its face between her thighs.

Fuck.

The word detonates in its head, sharp and visceral, because she tastes sweet, and salt. Omega.

Its tongue drags through her folds -clumsy, unpracticed, chasing the flavor- and she gasps under it. Her thighs try to close on reflex, but its hands are there, metal and flesh both, holding her open.

Keeping her spread while it licks.

Learning her. The texture, the taste, the way she's so wet the slick coats its tongue, slides down its throat.

It growls against her.

Can't help it. The sound vibrates through her core, possessive and hungry, and she whimpers. Soldat does it again.

Licks slower this time, more deliberate. Dragging its tongue from her entrance up to-

She jerks.

Hips bucking up, a sharp inhale, Soldat freezes.

There.

That spot. Small and swollen, and when its tongue brushes it again, she makes the sound again, high and broken.

Clit.

The word surfaces from somewhere. Detached. But Soldat doesn't need the terminology. Just needs to know that touching there makes her react like that.

Makes her want.

It seals its lips around it and sucks.

----

She screams.

Can't help it. Can't muffle it. The sensation rips through her body like lightning, his mouth on her clit, sucking hard and wet and perfect, and her back arches off the bed.

Her hands fly to his hair, fisting in the tangled strands, and she doesn't know if she's pulling him closer or trying to push him away because it's too much, too intense, she's already been on edge for-

His tongue circles her clit. Flicks over it. Then sucks again, and she can't breathe.

He's-

He's devouring her.

Face buried between her thighs like he's starving, like this is the only thing he wants in the world. His hands are holding her open, and she can feel his nose pressed against her mound, can feel the vibration of the sounds he's making.

Growls. Deep and continuous, rumbling through her core every time he licks, every time he tastes her.

He doesn't know what he's doing.

She can tell. The movements are enthusiastic but uncoordinated, chasing reactions without technique. Licking everywhere, tasting everything, like he's trying to map her by flavor alone.

But it works.

Because he's paying attention. Learning what makes her gasp, what makes her hips buck, what makes her pull his hair and whimper his-

She doesn't even know his name.

The thought penetrates through her pleasure-drunk brain and dissolves immediately because his tongue just found her entrance and pushes inside.

"Oh fuck!"

The curse rips out of her. His tongue is inside her, licking, and the sensation is so foreign and good and wet that her thighs start shaking again.

He groans against her.

The vibration travels straight through her core, and she can feel it, feel him tasting her from the inside, feel the way his tongue curls and explores like he's trying to drink every drop of slick.

And there's so much.

She's never been this wet in her life. Can feel it coating her thighs, soaking into the sheets, and he's lapping at it like it's the best thing he's ever tasted.

His metal hand shifts on her thigh.

Adjusts its grip, and then-

She feels it.

The cool press of metal against her entrance. One finger, articulated and precise, pressing in and stretching alongside his tongue.

"Alpha-"

The word escapes her lips. Desperate. Pleading. She doesn't even know what she's asking for.

But he seems to understand.

His tongue pulls out. The metal finger becomes two, and he pushes them in -slowly, carefully, letting her feel the drag- and she loses it.

----

Soldat can't stop.

Can't pull away from her taste, the slick coating its tongue, the way she's whimpering and pulling its hair and making sounds that go straight to its cock.

Which is impossibly hard again. Aching, still wet from before, and it starts grinding against the mattress without conscious thought. Seeking friction, seeking relief, but it's not enough.

The pants are too restrictive. The fabric cuts into its cock every time it thrusts forward, and it's wrong.

They’re in the way.

It pulls back from between her thighs -just for a second, just enough- and its hands go to its belt, ripping it open.

The buckle clatters, the tactical webbing falling away, and then it is yanking at the fly. Buttons, zipper, whatever, it doesn't care. Just needs them off, needs the pressure gone.

The pants and undergarment peel down over its hips, shoved down to mid-thigh, and-

It looks down.

Its cock is twitching, flushed, and still wet from its release, cum smeared along the length, sticky and cooling against overheated skin. The smell hits immediately: the musk of spent alpha mixed with her slick-sweet omega scent in the air.

Its lip curls.

Not in disgust. In something else. Something possessive and satisfied because that's their scent. Mixed. Merged.

But it's also… messy.

Soldat doesn't do messy. Doesn't-

A sound interrupts its thoughts.

Her.

Whimpering.

Its head snaps up.

----

She's staring.

Can't help it.

He's... fuck. He's big.

Still wet from coming in his pants, she can see it, the streaks of his release coating it, glistening with the light from her bedside lamp.

And the smell.

It makes fresh slick slide down her thighs, makes her body ache with want so visceral she can barely think past it. She needs-

But he's already moving.

Already turning back toward the bed, dropping his gaze to where she's sprawled on the mattress, legs still spread, and she can see the intent written clearly on his face.

He's going back down. Going to bury his face between her thighs again, taste her again, and-

Yes, his mouth felt incredible. The enthusiastic, uncoordinated desperation of it, the way he licked and sucked like he was starving.

But that's not what she needs right now. Not when he's right there, hard and ready, and she can smell how much he wants her.

"Wait-"

The word tumbles out before she can stop it. Desperate. Pleading.

"Alpha, wait-"

He freezes.

Mid-motion. One knee on the bed, hands reaching for her thighs, and those pale eyes snap up to meet hers.

She sees the confusion dance across his face.

And then-

His expression shutters.

Goes from open and needy to closed and determined in the space of a heartbeat, and his hands land on her thighs, metal and flesh both.

And the grip is different now.

Firmer. Restraining.

His fingers dig in -not painful, but unmistakably harder- and he pushes. Spreading her thighs wider, pinning them to the mattress, and the look in his eyes-

Oh no.

He thinks she's telling him to stop.

Thinks she's refusing, resisting, and his entire body language has changed into something that makes her inner omega sit up and take notice.

Dominant. Controlling. Alpha.

"No, I just-" she tries again, voice coming out shakier than she wants. "I want-"

But he's not listening.

His gaze drops back between her legs. Fixed. Focused. And his hands press down harder, holding her flat against the mattress.

The message is crystal clear:

Stay still. Let me.

And-

Fuck.

She whimpers.

Can't help it. Can't stop the sound that escapes her throat because the dominance in the gesture, the way he's pinning her open, the raw alpha energy radiating off him…

It should scare her.

Should send up every red flag about consent, control, and danger.

But it doesn't. It just makes her wetter.

Makes her body respond with a fresh gush of slick because, apparently, her omega brain thinks being held down by this strange alpha is the hottest thing that's ever happened to her.

But that's not what she wants, not right now.

She needs him inside her. Needs to feel that thick cock splitting her open, needs to be filled and claimed and bred, and if she doesn't get it soon, she's going to lose her mind.

She writhes.

Twisting in his grip. Not trying to escape, just trying to move, to shift position, to show him what she wants.

But his hands just tighten, holding her down more firmly, his shoulders settling into a posture that says he's not going to let her move until he's done with her.

Okay.

New strategy.

She stops fighting the pressure pushing her thighs down, and instead, she uses it. Let him think he's won, let her legs go slack in his grip for just a second-

And then she twists.

Hard. Fast. Using the slickness of her sweat and the slick coating on her thighs to slip out of his grip, throwing her weight sideways.

It catches him off guard.

His hands lose purchase for half a second -just half a second- but it's enough.

She rolls onto her stomach.

Scrambling. Hands planting on the mattress, knees pulling up under her, and-

His metal hand lands on her hip immediately.

Firm grip. Already trying to maneuver her, and she can feel his intent: he's going to flip her back over, get her on her back again so he can put his face between her legs and-

She doesn't let him.

Plants her knees wide. Braces her weight forward on her elbows. And arches her back, hard. Pushing her ass up and out, spine curving in a deep arch that puts everything on display.

Presenting herself.

The effect is immediate. His hands go still on her hips, and the pressure trying to flip her over just… stops.

She can feel him freeze behind her. Can feel his gaze locked on her body, on the position she's in.

And she knows what he's seeing.

Her on her knees. Back arched so deep it almost hurts. Ass high in the air, thighs spread wide.

Completely open. Completely vulnerable. Offering.

"Please," she gasps into the mattress.

Her voice is wrecked. Desperate. Shaking with need.

"Please, alpha-"

She reaches back, both hands sliding over her ass, down between her thighs, and-

She spreads herself open for him.

Fingers pulling her folds apart. Exposing her entrance, slick and clenching and empty. Exposing her clit, swollen and oversensitive. Exposing everything.

Desperate.

Obscene.

Begging.

"Please- I need- please-"

----

Soldat's brain shutdowns. Every thought fragments into white noise because she's-

Presenting?

The visual input hits its alpha instincts like a tactical nuke:

Omega. On her knees. Back arched. Ass up, and thighs spread wide, holding herself open.

Showing Soldat exactly where she wants it. Where she needs it.

Begging for it.

Omega wants.

Omega needs to be bred.

Again, the thoughts don't form in words. Just primal recognition slamming through its neural pathways with brutal, devastating clarity.

This is what the body was built for. This moment. This position.

And they tried to kill it.

Tried to suppress, chemically neuter, erase this entire drive from its system. Seventy years of injections and conditioning stomping down every breeding instinct, every mating urge, every biological imperative that makes an alpha alpha.

And it's all coming back now, roaring back to life with devastating, unstoppable force. The Soldat's cock throbs again. Hard. Aching.

And it can feel it, the need building like pressure behind a dam about to break.

Need to mount her.

Need to breed her.

Need to fill her and knot her and make her MINE.

It moves before processing the thought, crawling onto the bed. Knees hitting the mattress on either side of her thighs, bracketing her, caging her in.

One hand -metal- grips her hip. Servos engaging to hold her steady, hold her exactly in position. The other hand drops to its cock, wrapping around the base. The skin is oversensitive, still tender from coming so hard before, but it doesn't matter.

Nothing matters except getting inside her.

It lines up, dragging the head of its cock through her folds -so wet, so slick, coating the tip- and finding her entrance.

There.

The head presses against her opening, and it can feel the resistance, feel her body starting to yield, and-

She makes a begging sound.

Desperate. Pleading.

And something in the Soldat's chest snarls.

Possessive. Feral. Every remaining shred of control burned away under the weight of pure instinct.

Mine.

Omega is MINE.

Soldat's hips push forward. Not slow, or carefully. And the heat-

Fuck.

The word detonates somewhere in its fractured consciousness because the sensation is-

Overwhelming.

Tight. Hot. Perfect.

It can feel her body struggling to adjust. Feel the flutter of her walls around just the tip, trying to accommodate the intrusion.

And Soldat-

Soldat doesn't stop.

Can't stop.

Just pulls back half an inch and drives forward harder, forcing deeper. Splitting her open. Burying itself halfway with one brutal thrust and-

The sound she makes.

High. Broken. Somewhere between a scream and a sob.

----

She can't breathe.

The sensation of being split open, stretched in ways she's never experienced, is so overwhelming that her mind goes completely blank.

Her body is struggling to accommodate the thick intrusion forcing its way inside, and god, there's so much slick, she can feel it coating her thighs, easing the way, her omega body preparing itself to be mounted.

The pressure of being filled too fast, too much, has her walls relaxing and clenching around him, trying to adjust, trying to make room, and it's so much more than any toy she's ever used, more than any alpha she's been with.

Just those first few inches, and she already feels impossibly full.

Her hands fist in the sheets as a high, shocked sound rips from her throat. Not pain or discomfort, but raw, filthy pleasure because she didn't know it could feel like this.

Didn't know her body could stretch like this, yield like this, open like this for an alpha's cock. Didn't know being filled could feel so right that her inner omega is practically screaming yes, this, MORE.

He pulls back half an inch -barely anything- and she feels the drag of every ridge and vein, feels the way her body is gripping him desperately like it doesn't want to let go, trying to keep him inside where he belongs.

And then he slams forward, harder and deeper, burying himself halfway in one brutal thrust.

The cry that tears from her is ragged and wrecked because oh fuck, YES, the stretch is perfect. She can feel her body yielding and surrendering even as it struggles to accommodate the impossible slide of his thick cock forcing deeper, filling her in ways that make her inner omega purr with savage satisfaction.

Because this, this is what she's built for. This is what her body has been screaming for every time she's gone into heat alone, every time she's fucked herself on toys that were never enough, every time an alpha touched her and it felt wrong because they weren't him.

This fullness, this alpha mounting her and forcing her body to yield and open and take him, this is what she's been waiting for her entire life without knowing it.

And it feels so fucking good.

"Alpha-" The word spills from her lips, broken and desperate and drenched in need. Not a protest but pure, filthy appreciation because he's so deep already and she can feel him shuddering above her, can feel the trembling restraint in his grip, and she wants him to lose it. Wants him to stop holding back and just fuck her the way his instincts are demanding.

His grip on her hips tightens -metal fingers digging in, flesh hand trembling- and she knows he heard it, knows what that word does to him.

He makes a sound, low and possessive and feral, and then he moves.

Pulls back so she feels every devastating inch of the drag, that delicious friction against her inner walls that makes her gasp and clench around him, and then he slams back in harder, deeper, forcing the rest of the way in with one brutal thrust until she feels his hips flush against her ass.

And the feeling is-

Fuck.

It's everything.

He's everywhere -inside her, around her, the weight of his body pressing her into the mattress, the heat of his skin against her back, his cock buried so deep she swears she can feel him in her throat- and the sensation of being stretched around him, stuffed full of alpha cock, mounted and claimed is so intense and perfect and right that her vision goes almost white.

Her body clenches around him reflexively, her inner walls rippling and squeezing his length, trying to pull him impossibly deeper even though there's no more room for it to go, and she feels her arms give out , her back arching deeper, presenting herself even more, and she can't do anything except feel him filling her.

She needs more.

Needs him to move, to fuck her, to use her body exactly like his instincts are screaming at him to do. Needs to feel him pounding into her, rutting into her, like the desperate omega she apparently is.

"Please-" she gasps into the mattress, and her voice is absolutely wrecked. Desperate. Filthy. Her hand reaches back blindly, finds his wrist, and squeezes hard. "Move. Alpha, please-”

Because if he doesn't start moving soon, if he doesn't give her what her body is screaming for, she's going to lose her fucking mind.

----

Soldat snarls in response.

Move?

Her begging comes from somewhere deep, somewhere primal. And it wants to give it to her. Whatever she asks.

Wants to fuck her. Breed her. Claim her.

Now.

Its hips pull back slowly, dragging its cock almost all the way out, feeling every inch of tight omega heat clinging to it, trying to keep it inside.

And then it slams back in.

Hard.

The omega screams and moans, high and sharp, and the sound goes straight to its heavy balls, flipping every remaining switch from control to breed.

It doesn't know how to do this gently.

Doesn't have the reference. Doesn't have the capacity right now with her scent flooding its system, with the feel of her wrapped around its cock, with seventy years of chemical castration breaking apart under the weight of pure biological drive.

So it just fucks.

Pulls out and slams back in, setting a brutal rhythm immediately. Hips snapping forward, the slap of skin on skin is obscenely loud in the small apartment, and she's taking it.

Taking every thrust. Her body yielding even as it struggles to adjust, slick easing the way, and Soldat can feel it, feel her getting wetter, feel the way her walls are clenching around its cock.

Its metal hand tightens on her hip.

Servos whirring as it grips harder, using the leverage to pull her back into each thrust. Making the penetration deeper, harder, and-

The omega makes another sound. A different moan, long and low and completely debauched, and her forearms lower completely, as she presses her face into the mattress.

Surrendering.

Letting it use her.

Soldat snarls again.

Possessive. Feral. Its flesh hand releases her hip and moves to the back of her neck instead, gripping. Holding her down while its hips thrust faster, chasing something its body knows even if its mind doesn't.

She's whimpering into the mattress.

High, continuous sounds with each thrust, and Soldat can smell it, can smell her arousal spiking, can smell the way their scents are mixing where they're joined.

Omega slick and alpha musk and the wet, obscene sound of the fucking as it drives into her over and over and over.

Its cock is still sensitive. Every thrust sends sparks of almost-too-much up its spine, pleasure edging toward pain, but it doesn't matter. Can't stop. Won't stop.

Because she needs this.

It can tell. Can read it in the way she's pushing back into each thrust now, can hear it in the sounds she's making, can smell it in the way her scent keeps getting sweeter.

Omega needs to be fucked.

Needs to be bred.

And the Soldat is-

Soldat is going to-

No.

The thought surfaces sharp and cold. The Soldat can't. Isn't allowed to breed. The handlers said-

But there are no handlers.

Just instinct. Pure and brutal and clawing through its system, demanding it claim this omega, fill her, knot her-

Knot.

Soldat can feel it. The base of its cock starts to swell, pressure building with each thrust. It's going to lock inside her and-

And she's going to take it.

Its rhythm falters.

Just for a second. Uncertainty flickering through the haze of need because this is- this is too much. Once it knots her there's no taking it back, no undoing it, and-

She pushes back hard.

Takes its cock to the hilt and grinds, pressing her ass flush against its hips, and the whimper she makes is so desperate, so needy, that its brain just-

Breaks.

Fuck the handlers.

Fuck seventy years of suppression.

Soldat is going to knot his omega.

Its hand leaves her neck. Both hands go to her forearms, and it lifts her, pulling her up until her back is arched almost vertically, until she's on her knees with Soldat pressed against her back.

Changing the angle completely.

And then it drives in.

Deeper than before. So deep the omega sobs, and it can feel it, can feel the head of its cock hitting something that makes her whole body shake.

There.

The Soldat does it again.

Pulls almost all the way out and slams back in at that angle, and she cries out. Loud, uncontrolled, her thighs shaking, and it can smell the spike in her arousal.

Close.

She's close.

It can tell. Can read it in her body language, in her scent, in the way her walls are starting to tighten around its cock.

Soldat's rhythm turns brutal.

Fast and hard and deep, hitting that spot, chasing her orgasm because it needs -needs- to feel her come on its cock. Needs to feel her clench and shake and break while it fills her.

Its metal arm bands across her chest, holding her upright, holding her in place, while its flesh hand drops between her legs and finds her swollen clit.

The omega shrieks.

Hips bucking, body jerking in Soldat's hold, but it doesn't let go. Just keeps fucking into her, keeps its fingers on her clit -circling, pressing, rubbing- and she's sobbing now.

Incoherent. Desperate. Completely overwhelmed.

"Please- please- alpha, I'm-"

She doesn't finish the sentence.

Just shatters.

Soldat feels it. Feels her walls clamp down around its cock like a silken fist, feels her whole body go rigid and then shake, feels the gush of fresh slick as she comes hard.

And it-

It roars.

Can't stop it. Can't control the sound ripping out of its throat as its knot swells, expanding rapidly, locking them together as the orgasm hits it like a freight train.

White-hot. Devastating.

Its hips jerk forward one last time, burying its cock and knot as deep as physically possible, and then it's coming.

Spilling inside her. Filling her. Breeding her the way every broken instinct is screaming at it to do.

The omega is still shaking.

Still coming, her walls rippling around the knot, milking it, and Soldat can't think past the pleasure, past the overwhelming rightness of being locked inside her.

Mine.

Omega.

MINE.

The knot pulses. Once. Twice. Pumping more into her with each throb, and she's-

She's taking all of it.

It can feel it. Feel her body accepting everything it's giving, can smell the way their scents are completely merged now.

Inseparable.

Her legs are shaking. The only thing keeping it upright is the metal arm still banded across her chest, holding her against it. The flesh hand has fallen away from her clit, braced on the mattress instead, because Soldat's coordination is gone.

Just-

Gone.

Pleasure still rolling through it in waves, aftershocks making its cock pulse inside her, and she's-

She's making sounds. Small, whimpering. Not in distress. Something else.

Its face drops to her shoulder, nose finding her scent gland on instinct, and it breathes her in. Brown sugar and yeast and satisfied omega, and the purr starts again.

Deep. Subvocal. Vibrating through both their chests where they're pressed together.

The knot is still locked. Not going down anytime soon.

She's not fighting it or trying to pull away. She’s just leaning her weight against its chest, trusting it to hold her up.

And Soldat does.

Metal arm secured under her breasts, flesh hand moving from the mattress to her hip. Holding her. Supporting her. Keeping her upright while they're locked together.

It doesn't know how long this lasts, doesn't have a reference for how long a knot holds. Just knows it can't pull out even if it wanted to, which it doesn't.

Can't imagine wanting to leave the tight heat of her body. Can't imagine letting go.

The purr continues, steady now. Soothing. It doesn't know if it's trying to soothe her or itself. Maybe both.

Her head tilts.

Just slightly. Turning toward Soldat's face still pressed against her shoulder, and it can see her profile. Eyes closed. Lips parted. Face heated and damp with sweat.

Beautiful.

The word surfaces unbidden.

It has never called anything beautiful before, because it doesn't have the framework for aesthetic appreciation. But she's-

She is.

Especially like this. Fucked out and knotted and completely trusting it to hold her.

Its nose drags along her scent gland, taking her in, and she makes a soft sound -pleased, satisfied- tilting her head, giving it more access, and Soldat's purr deepens.

----

She can't feel her legs.

Can't feel much of anything except him. Inside her. Around her. The metal arm holding her upright. The purr vibrating through her chest. The knot stretching her so full that she can barely breathe.

And it's-

God, it's perfect.

She's never felt like this before.

Never felt so completely claimed. So utterly taken. Every alpha she's ever been with was… adequate.

But this-

This is different.

This is feral and desperate and completely uncontrolled, and somehow it's exactly what she needed without ever knowing she needed it.

She can feel his nose dragging along her scent gland, can feel the rumble of that impossible purr, and her inner omega is just-

Singing.

Satisfied in a way she's never experienced. Sated. Content.

Because he, her alpha-

She doesn't even know his name, and she's already thinking of him as hers.

The thought should probably scare her. Should send up red flags about bonding too fast with a stranger. But it doesn't.

Because this isn't fast.

This is inevitable.

Like every decision she's ever made led her here, to this moment, knotted and claimed by an alpha who broke into her apartment and looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth having.

His knot pulses inside her.

She feels it. The throb, the gush of warmth, and her body clenches around it automatically. Milking him. Taking everything he's giving, even though she's already so full it's almost too much.

Almost.

But not quite.

Because her body wants this. Wants to be filled. Wants to be bred. Every dormant omega instinct she had is purring in satisfaction.

Yes. This. Him. Finally.

She feels him shift behind her.

The metal arm around her tightens slightly, and then he's pulling her more upright, bringing her back flush against his chest. She's properly kneeling now, her back supported entirely by his body, and the angle change makes her gasp because the knot-

Fuck.

The knot feels even bigger like this. Deeper.

And his flesh hand-

It slides down.

Over her hip, her thigh, and then between her legs and cups her mound, covering where they're joined. Where his knot is stretching her, where the mess of their combined release is slick and obscene between her thighs.

His palm presses gently as his fingers spread to cover all of it, her, him, the evidence of what just happened.

The sound he makes against her shoulder is possessive. Satisfied. A low rumble that's half-purr, half-growl.

Mine, the gesture says.

Bred. Claimed. Marked. MINE.

And she whimpers.

Because yes.

Yes.

His.

Completely and utterly his.

His purring deepens.

Smug. Like he knows exactly what that sound means. Like he's pleased she's responding to his possessiveness instead of fighting it.

His face shifts against her shoulder, nuzzling deeper. His nose drags along the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, breathing her in like he can't get enough.

And then she feels his lips.

A kiss.

Soft. Tender. Pressed against her sweat-damp skin.

Then another. Along her shoulder. Gentle and reverent and completely at odds with the brutal way he just fucked her.

His teeth scrape. The edge of a nip that doesn't break skin, doesn't hurt, just makes her shiver.

Her hand comes up and reaches back -awkward angle, but she manages- and threads into his hair, combing through the tangled strands while he continues his exploration of her shoulder, her neck, every inch of skin he can reach from this position.

He makes a sound against her skin, and she can feel him settling.

The frantic energy bleeding out, the feral drive giving way to something gentler. Still possessive. Still intensely alpha, but softer.

His forehead comes to rest against the back of her neck.

The hand between her legs stays there, rubbing slowly, smearing their mess on her knotted entrance. A constant reminder of what they just did, what they are now.

The knot still pulses occasionally. She doesn't know how long this lasts -thirty minutes, an hour?- but she's not in a hurry, can't bring herself to care, not when he's holding her like this.

Not when every instinct she has is screaming mate.

True mate.

Hers.

She lets her eyes close.

Leans her head back against his shoulder and lets the metal arm support her weight, lets the purr lull her into a haze of satisfaction and safety.

And for the first time in her life, she feels complete.

[sunday-bug]

Well, if anyone can make me think ABO is hot, of course it’s @vunblr 🥵

My goodness this was so sexy!

[polaroidsex]

᭡୧ thinking about size kink and bigdih clark ..

clark’s arms lock around your waist like steel bands and he hauls you straight off the floor, your feet kicking uselessly in the air while your hands scramble for the edge of the counter.

the kitchen tiles are cold under nothing but his bare feet and the slap of your bodies, but you don’t feel any of it because he’s already slamming back into you, thick cock stretching you open so wide your mouth drops on a shaky cry.

“did you seriously think you could get away?” his voice is low and rough against your ear, that farm-boy drawl gone dark and filthy.

sweat rolls down the carved lines of his chest and back, muscles flexing huge under your palms as he lifts and drops you onto every inch like you’re nothing but a toy for his cock. he’s taller, stronger, faster than anyone you’ve ever had, and he knows it. every thrust punches the air out of your lungs, the wet smack of his hips meeting your ass loud and obscene in the quiet room.

your legs dangle, toes barely brushing the floor before he yanks you higher and drives in again, cock so deep you swear you feel him in your stomach.

“sweet girls like you were made to be bred, y’know that?” he growls, teeth scraping your shoulder as he fucks into you a whole lot deeper, faster, the wet sound of your pussy taking him echoing off the walls. you’re dripping down his thighs already, slick running messy between you while he rearranges everything inside you with every brutal stroke.

he shifts his grip, one big hand sliding up to squeeze your tit, thumb flicking your nipple until it’s aching, the other arm banded under your ass so he can bounce you on his cock like he’s got all the time in the world. your back arches, head falling against his shoulder, and he just laughs again, low and smug, hips snapping up so sharp your vision whites out for a second.

“that’s it, baby… feel how deep i am? no running now. this cunt’s mine.”

you try to answer but it comes out a broken moan, your walls fluttering tight around the heavy length splitting you open. clark groans at the squeeze, pace turning mean, pounding up into you so hard the counter creaks under your gripping fingers.

sweat slicks your skin where you’re pressed together, his chest hot and solid against your back, cock dragging perfect over that spot inside you again and again until your thighs shake and your voice cracks on his name.

he doesn’t slow down. just keeps lifting you, dropping you, fucking you full with every thick inch while his breath fans hot against your neck. “gonna fill you up,” he promises, voice wrecked and hungry, “gonna breed this pretty pussy till it’s dripping my cum for days. you’re not going anywhere till i’m done with you.” his hand slips between your legs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles that make your whole body jerk in his hold.

the pressure builds fast, overwhelming, and when you come it’s with a sob, pussy clamping down around him so hard he curses under his breath. clark fucks you through it, relentless, hips stuttering only when his own orgasm hits. he buries himself to the hilt and stays there, pulsing hot and deep while thick ropes of cum flood you, so much it leaks out around his cock and runs down your thighs. he keeps you suspended, rocking slow and lazy now, milking every last drop into you like he really means to breed you full.

only when you’re limp and panting does he finally lower you, but he doesn’t let go, just keeps you pinned against the counter with his cock still buried inside, lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, “told you you couldn’t get away.”

[epiphanyrogers]

a fever he can't sweat out

steve rogers x roommate!fem!reader

summary: the HYDRA mission was successful. steve's a little off, sure, but medical cleared him forty minutes ago. it's just exhaustion. except his heart won't stop pounding, heat's crawling under his skin, and his jeans suddenly feel far too tight. and every cell in his body is screaming that the only cure is you. warnings/tags: SMUT, sex pollen (dubcon-ish elements), masturbation (m), oral sex (f receiving), p in v, multiple orgasms, creampies, overstimulation, hyperspermia, mating press, standing sex, aftercare, manhandling, size kink/size difference (reader is smaller than steve, but it's steve he's massive), praise kink, dacryphilia if you squint, sweat kink if you squint, roommates to lovers, guilty!pervy!steve who apologizes but can't stop, PWP but lowkey with plot?, sprinkle of yearning, no use of y/n, 18+ MDNI word count: 14.4k (wtf) from maddie: official, diagnosed, terminal case of the yapperitis for this one. i got stressed writing pt. 2 of ocayf, and so decided to take a "little break" from it, and accidentally wrote this instead. it's sort of inspired by this post by @blobfishlol (hope you don't mind the tag!) and it was meant to be a quick, filthy little pwp but apparently my brain said no 🤍 it’s been a hot minute since i’ve posted anything this long and i feel like i forgot how to write halfway through, so pls be gentle with me!! (pls don’t be mad this isn’t ocayf pt2, it’s coming 🥹) dt: my bb @love-stucky for letting me yap her ear off about this fic, and also for the edit of the steve pic <33

masterlist

Steve's still running through the debrief in his head when he pulls up outside his apartment block. 

The bike's engine cuts out with a rumble, but Steve still feels a deep thrumming vibration in his chest that won't quit. His heart's pounding - has been pounding since he left the compound, he realises - and that doesn't make sense for someone whose resting heart rate is forty-five. Frowning, Steve rolls his shoulders like he can physically shake off whatever this is. Adrenaline, probably. Leftover cortisol. 

Plus, the mission ran long, the debrief even longer, and he's been running on fumes for the better part of eighteen hours. Maybe this is his body reminding him that he's not actually invincible even if the serum makes it feel that way sometimes. He's tired. That's all this is.

Medical cleared him forty minutes ago. Routine checkup, vitals normal, no injuries to note. Mission success. Another HYDRA facility taken out, mostly inactive but still operational enough to need clearing. A handful of guards, computers full of encrypted files for Nat to sort through, and more dust than seemed reasonable for a place that was supposedly still in use. 

It was a weird amount of dust, actually. Steve keeps snagging on that. Active facilities don't accumulate dust like that, yet the lab was covered with the thick powdery kind that coats every surface and blooms up in pale clouds when you move through it wrong.

And move through it wrong Steve had. 

When he'd taken down three guards in the main lab, the force of the fight had sent up a particularly thick puff of it. Enough that his throat constricted and his chest went tight. A too familiar tightness, low and stubborn, like he was twelve again when every breath was a negotiation. The kind that used to plant itself behind his sternum on cold Brooklyn mornings and refuse to shift.

He'd actually coughed. Hard enough that he had to step out of the room, hand braced against the doorframe while he caught his breath like some rookie who couldn't handle a little particulate in the air. But medical had checked his oxygen levels, listened to his lungs, found nothing wrong. Probably just particulate irritation, they'd said. The serum would clear it. And they'd been right - his breathing's fine now. Everything's fine.

Steve shakes his head, swinging a leg over his bike, and heads into the building. He's overthinking. Natasha told him he looked like shit and should go home and sleep for once. He'd laughed, told her she was projecting.

But now Steve's starting to think she might've been onto something.

The building's stairwell is mercifully cool and quiet, and Steve takes the stairs two at a time like always. Five flights is nothing. He's done it a thousand times, usually without thinking, but tonight by the second floor he's warm - too warm for the mild evening. The leather jacket that felt fine on the ride home now feels stifling, clinging to his shoulders and back.

By the third floor, he starts pulling at his collar. By the fourth, he's unzipped the jacket entirely. And when he hits the fifth floor, there's a thin sheen of sweat on his neck and his breath is coming harder than it should.

Steve pauses, hand on the door to your shared apartment, and for a second he considers turning around. Going back to the compound, making medical run more comprehensive tests.

But the thought of another hour in that sterile medical bay instead of being home - instead of seeing you, sinking into that easy warmth you always seem to carry with you - stirs something wrong in his chest. Makes something tighten uncomfortably. He needs to be home. Needs the particular brand of domesticity that only exists in your shared space, where he gets to be Steve and not Captain America.

Yes. He just needs to get inside, see you, shower, and maybe eat something if you've made dinner. Then sleep for ten hours. Simple.

He pushes through the door before he can second-guess it, and the apartment wraps around him immediately - warmth, music drifting from the kitchen, the smell of garlic and pancetta that means you’re making his favorite pasta. Dropping his duffle by the door, Steve heads to the kitchen, drawn by the sounds of you humming off-key, moving around, the comfortable domestic soundtrack that usually settles something in his chest.

Some of the tension in his shoulders starts to ease. This is good. Normal. Exactly what he needs.

Until he rounds the corner and his brain stutters to a halt.

You're wearing his hoodie. Stood at the stove with your back to him, intently focused on cooking, and you're wearing his hoodie. It practically swamps your frame. The sleeves are pushed up past your elbows because otherwise they'd swallow your hands, shoulders so broad they slip off one of yours, exposing a lacy bralette strap and the curve of bare skin that Steve wants his mouth on.

And shorts. Tiny black shorts that barely qualify as clothing, just peeking out from under the hem of his hoodie, leaving your legs completely bare from where the hoodie ends. 

You're swimming in the hoodie. In something of his. The size difference so obvious it makes his hands itch at this sudden, visceral urge to grab you and see how you’d disappear under him. To see how easy it would be to cage you in, crowd you back against the counter. To get his hands under his hoodie and find out if you're wearing his scent on your skin the way you're wearing his clothes, if you smell like him now, if you thought about him when you put it on, if—

"Oh my god, Steve, you startled me!" 

The sound of your voice catches him mid thought, and his brain slams back to room. You've spun around, wooden spoon in hand, and despite the startled words your whole face lights up. There’s genuine relief there, happiness that seems disproportionate to him just walking through the door. "How was the mission? You look exhausted, are you—"

"Is that my hoodie?"

The words come out rough, almost accusatory, cutting across your concern. Steve doesn't even know why that's the first thing out of his mouth, why out of everything he could say - something normal like hello, mission was fine, dinner smells good - that's what his brain latched onto.

You blink, clearly surprised by the abruptness, then glance down at yourself like you'd forgotten. 

"Oh. Yeah." When you look back up there's mischief in your eyes. "It's way comfier than all of mine. You don't mind, do you?"

Mind. Right. 

Does he mind that you're standing in his kitchen wearing his clothes, drowning in fabric that smells like him, looking so at home and domestic and pretty that something in his chest is pulling tight enough to hurt? Does he mind that this is somehow more intimate than it has any right to be? That the sight of you in his hoodie is doing things to him that he absolutely cannot examine right now?

"No, it's fine." His mouth is dry. When did his mouth get dry? "Keep it."

"Good," you reply, grin widening. "'Cause I wasn't giving it back anyway."

There’s a teasing lilt to it that Steve feels low in his gut. Or lower than his gut. Somewhere he’s definitely not supposed to be feeling things about his roommate, his friend, the person who should feel safe and comfortable in her own home without him losing his mind over a fucking hoodie.

But God, you turn back to the stove and Steve can’t stop watching. Even as you start chattering to him about dinner, about your day, something that would normally have him leaning against the counter asking questions, he's not hearing your words anymore. Instead, Steve's gaze drops without permission, returning to the way the hoodie shifts when you move, how it rides up when you reach for the spice cabinet and shows more of how those shorts cling to your ass.

He takes a step closer without meaning to. Then another. Close enough now that your scent hits him properly and floods his senses - that particular sweetness he associates with you, but underneath it, woven through, is him. His scent. 

You smell like you've wrapped yourself in him, like you're marked with it, and the possessive bolt of heat that shoots through Steve nearly buckles his knees. His fingers curl into fists at his sides, jaw clenching as his body responds with alarming intensity to something as simple as you wearing his clothes.

The kitchen feels too small suddenly - too hot, the air too thick, and Steve can't seem to get enough oxygen to his brain. No prizes for guessing where else it's heading.

And the heat under his skin, that constant low simmer since he left the compound, suddenly cranks up to something that makes him lightheaded. His jeans are getting tight, his cock beginning to harden. And there's this clawing need building in his chest that he doesn't know what to do with, doesn't know how to control.

Of course, it's not new, the attraction.

He's been attracted to you since you moved in six months ago. Since Sam had shoved your number at him and told him his apartment was depressing and lonely and that he needed a roommate. Since you'd shown up with boxes stacked in your arms and made some joke about not being a serial killer that surprised a laugh out of him. 

Living with you has been comfortable in a way he hadn't expected, all casual dinners and movie nights and inside jokes. And yes, maybe he's spent more time than he'd like to admit thinking about what it might be like to close that distance, to make this more than friendly, to kiss you. 

But Steve's not stupid. Asking you out could ruin everything. Could make you uncomfortable in your own home, make you feel like you had to say yes because of who he is, or worse, make you feel like you had to leave if you said no. The risk of destroying this easy, comfortable thing you've built together isn't worth it, no matter how many times Sam and Bucky tell him he's being an idiot and should just ask you to dinner already.

And yet, now his body doesn't seem to care. It's like every nerve ending in his body has suddenly rewired itself to point at you like a compass finding north. Something that's making his hands shake and his brain offer up increasingly detailed images of what he could do if he just closed the distance between you, if he just reached out and—

"Steve? Are you even listening to me?"

Your voice cuts through the spiral once again and he realizes you've been talking. You've turned back to look at him, and your eyebrows are doing that thing where they draw together with worry. 

"You look really flushed." You're studying him now, concern sharpening in your eyes, and then you're moving toward him. "And you're kind of just... standing there like something's wrong."

Your hand comes up, and the second your fingers make contact with his forearm, Steve jerks back like you've burned him. Nearly trips over his own feet putting distance between you. The brief touch sends electricity straight through him, and his cock responds immediately, twitching and thickening in his jeans until they feel obscenely tight. He shifts his stance, angles his body slightly away, desperately trying to hide what's becoming impossible to conceal.

This is insane. He's going insane.

Your eyes are darting over his face now, head tilted in that way you do when you're trying to figure him out, and there's genuine worry written across your features. Everything about it - you being this close, smelling like him, looking up at him with those big, concerned eyes - is making everything exponentially worse. The ache low in his gut intensifies, spreading outward until his whole body feels like a live wire.

"Steve, are you okay?" you ask, and he makes the mistake of watching your lips form the words. "You're really worrying me."

"Yeah." His voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable. He clears his throat, trying again. "Fine. Just tired."

"Are you sure?" You take another step closer and Steve's back hits the doorframe. "You're sweating. Like, a lot. And you're breathing hard."

He is. He can feel it now, a bead of it running down his temple. And his t-shirt is sticking to his spine despite the fact that the apartment isn't remotely warm. What the fuck was happening to him? His skin feels wrong. Too tight. Prickling with something that's not quite pain but certainly is more than uncomfortable. Every nerve ending feels raw and oversensitive.

His jacket is still on and it's unbearable, too tight across his shoulders and trapping heat against his skin. He needs it off. 

"I'm fine," he lies, and even he can hear how strained it sounds. "Just—I need a shower."

"A shower?" Your frown deepens. "Steve, maybe we should call Bruce or someone, you're clearly not—"

"I'm fine." It comes out harsher than he meant it to, and he watches you flinch. Fuck. Fuck, he's making this so much worse. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I just—it's just muscle tension. From the mission. My muscles are sore and the serum makes me run hot sometimes, you know that, and I just need—a cold shower will help, it'll help cool me down and—"

He's babbling. He knows he's babbling, throwing out excuse after excuse while you stared at him like you'd never seen him before, like he's a stranger wearing Steve Rogers' face, but he can't seem to stop.

"The mission was intense," he continues frantically, needing you to believe him, needing you to stop looking so worried. "Lots of close combat and I'm just—I'm tense. All my muscles are tense. A shower will help. Just need to cool down and relax."

He turns and practically flees down the hallway, before he can say what he really needs - you, spread out beneath him, wrapped around him, making sounds he's only let himself imagine in his weakest, most shameful moments when his hand is on his cock in the dark and he pretends it's you touching him instead.

Steve stumbles into his bedroom and straight through to the en-suite, shutting the door and leaning against it like something's chasing him. His reflection in the mirror looks frantic. Face flushed dark, pupils blown so wide, chest heaving. His lips look fuller somehow, plumper and pinker, like he's been biting them without realizing.

Guilt churns in his gut alongside the relentless heat. He'd scared you. Snapped at you when all you'd done was try to help. Made you worry. Been completely fucking weird and now you probably think he's losing his mind.

Maybe he is.

Because he's so hard it actually hurts. His cock is straining against his jeans, thick and aching, pressing against the zipper unbearably. He can feel his pulse in it, each throb sending a jolt of sensation through him that was equal parts pleasure and agony. When he shifts his weight, the friction of denim against sensitive skin makes him bite back a groan.

He's never felt like this. This desperate, all-consuming need that won't quit no matter how much he tries to think it away, logic it away, force it down with sheer willpower.

Sweat runs down his temple, his neck. The leather jacket is still on and Steve tears it off with shaking hands, letting it drop to the floor. It doesn't help. Everything still feels too hot, too tight, like his skin has shrunk two sizes and doesn't fit his body anymore.

Steve's fingers fumble with his belt, clumsy in a way they never are. They're shaking now, struggling with the simple mechanics of a belt buckle while his cock throbs insistently behind the zipper.

He gets it open finally, pops the button on his jeans, and the relief of pressure is so immediate and intense that he has to brace one hand against the sink. But it's not enough. Not even close. He shoves the jeans down his hips and they catch on his thighs - still damp with sweat, fabric clinging - and Steve has to peel them off with more force than should be necessary.

His boxer briefs are tented obscenely, a wet patch of precum already visible at the tip, and Steve can't even meet his own reflection in the mirror.

The shirt comes off next, pulled over his head and discarded without ceremony. His dog tags clink against his chest, metal warm from his overheated skin. Every piece of clothing that comes off should make him feel better, cooler, but it doesn't. If anything, being bare makes him more aware of how wrong everything feels. The hypersensitivity of his skin, the way even air movement feels like too much stimulus.

Steve hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his boxer briefs, and just the brush of fabric as he moves pulls a sound from his throat he doesn't recognize. When he shoves them down, his cock springs free, completely erect and already leaking.

This isn't normal. Even for him, even with the serum's effect on his libido, this is excessive. Steve looks down at himself and feels something close to shame. 

Turning away from the mirror, Steve reaches into the shower, cranking the cold tap as far as it will go. He steps in the moment the water starts flowing and the cold hits him like a physical shock. For a blessed moment, it cuts through everything else. His overheated skin welcomes the icy spray like a mercy, the temperature difference sharp enough to make him gasp in relief. Steve braces his hands against the tile, head hanging under the stream, and tries to breathe through it. 

Tries to think about anything other than you. Anything other than your scent and your touch and the sight of you in those shorts and his hoodie.

The water runs over his shoulders, down his spine, plastering his hair to his forehead. It should help. But his cock is still hard. Still throbbing. And as the initial shock of cold fades, the heat comes creeping back. That insistent burning under his skin that the water isn't touching.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut and immediately regrets it.

Because his mind is flooded with images of you leaning over the counter in those tight little shorts, making dinner. And his traitorous brain doesn't stop there, it keeps going, imagining you in that same position but for different reasons, imagining him behind you, imagining his hands shoving that fabric out of the way to find you wet and needy for him.

"Fuck," he hisses through clenched teeth.

His cock throbs in response, another bead of precum forming at the tip despite the freezing water, despite the fact that he's actively trying not to think about you. He looks down at himself - still achingly hard, heavy between his legs - and feels another wave of confused arousal crash through him that makes his knees weak.

Maybe it's just because it's been so long?

Steve tries to think back to the last time he actually took care of himself. Weeks? No, longer than that. A month at least, maybe two. He's been so focused on missions, on taking down HYDRA bases, on being Captain America, that he hasn't exactly had time for anything "extracurricular."

This is probably the longest he's gone without any kind of release since waking up from the ice.

The serum amplified everything about him, including ramping up his sex drive to levels that had taken some getting used to. Back in the forties, right after the transformation, he'd been blindsided by it. Suddenly he'd gone from Steve Rogers who could barely keep a girl's attention to someone who had urges that were damn near overwhelming.

He'd had to learn to manage it, to deal with needs that were sharper and more insistent than anything a normal man experienced. So he'd figured out his body's rhythms, what it needed, how often. Learned to take care of himself efficiently and move on. 

Except now he's apparently pushed too far, gone too long, and his enhanced biology is making its displeasure violently known.

That has to be it. Has to be why he's reacting like this. Not because something's wrong, but because he's pent up and his body is responding to deprivation the way the serum makes it respond to everything: excessively.

And you. God, you in those shorts, in his hoodie, being so sweet and domestic, had just been the trigger. The match to kindling that had been building for weeks.

It's not pervy. It's just biology. Enhanced biology, biology nonetheless. So if he just takes care of it, he'll be fine. The need will ease, his head will clear, and he can go back out there and have dinner like a normal person instead of someone who can barely look at his roommate without getting hard.

Steve's hand drifts down his stomach almost without conscious thought, and when his fingers wrap around his cock he can't stop the groan that rumbles from his chest. The touch sends electricity up his spine, pleasure so intense it's almost painful after being hard and neglected for so long. 

He strokes slowly at first, testing, and his head falls back against the tile with a dull thunk. The cold water streams over his chest but he doesn't feel it anymore. All his focus narrows to the heat building in his core, the slick slide of his fist over sensitized skin, the way his cock throbs with every stroke like it's been waiting for this. 

And in his thoughts, you're there. 

Steve's grip tightens involuntarily and he strokes faster, chasing friction, telling himself to think about something else, anything else. But his mind won't cooperate. It just keeps offering up increasingly vivid fantasies: what you'd look like without his hoodie, whether you were wearing anything under those shorts, if you'd be wet if he checked, if you ever touched yourself in your room late at night thinking about— 

"Shit—," he curses, the sound echoing off the shower tiles. 

God, what would you sound like? The question burrows into his brain and won't let go. Would you whimper? Moan his name? Would you be loud or would you try to stay quiet, biting your lip the way you do when you're concentrating? Would you beg? He thinks you might. Thinks you might say his name all breathy and desperate while he slowly thrusts into you, feeling you stretch around his cock inch by inch. 

A low groan builds in his chest and Steve has to bite down on his lip so hard that he tastes copper. You're just in the kitchen. The walls aren't that thick. And the thought of you hearing him like this should horrify him but instead it sends another bolt of heat straight through his gut.

Steve's free hand slaps against the tile, bracing himself as his knees threaten to give out.

His cock is leaking steadily now, precum making the slide slick and easy, as his hand speeds up, rhythm getting rougher, chasing the sensation. And Steve can't stop imagining it's your hand instead of his. Your smaller fingers wrapped around him, struggling to fit around his girth, looking up at him with those eyes while you learn exactly how he likes to be touched.

Or better yet, your mouth. Fuck, your mouth. Those pretty lips he'd caught himself staring at stretched around his cock, your tongue sliding along the underside, taking him deeper while he threads his fingers through your hair, guiding you, feeling your moans vibrate around him.

A strangled sound escapes his throat before he can stop it, and Steve has to sink his teeth into his shoulder to muffle it. He's so wound up, weeks of neglect and pent-up need making him hair-trigger sensitive. His hips thrust forward into his fist, searching for more friction, more pressure, chasing the orgasm building at the base of his spine with alarming speed. 

This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong. You're his friend, his roommate, someone who trusts him enough to live with him and wear his clothes and worry when he seems off. And here he is jerking off to fantasies of fucking your face. While you wait for him to come back for dinner.

But he can't stop. Can't make his mind go blank or think of anything else.

"Fuck—" His forearm isn't enough to muffle it and Steve bites down on his own arm as his orgasm slams through him. "Oh god, fuck—"

His cock pulses in his grip, and your name tears from his throat. Thick ropes of cum paint the shower wall, more than seems possible. The serum already makes him produce more than normal, but this is excessive even for him. It's almost painful in its intensity, pleasure so sharp it makes his legs shake, and he has to brace both hands against the wall to stay upright while it works through him.

For a few blissful seconds, pleasure drowns out every other sensation in his body

Then reality crashes back in, and with it comes the guilt.

Steve stares at the evidence of his release being washed away by the spray, chest heaving, and feels the shame burn through him hotter than the need had been.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, scrubbing both hands over his face. "What the fuck is wrong with me?"

But even as guilt churns heavy in his gut, even as he tells himself he's disgusting and inappropriate and a terrible friend, he looks down and his stomach drops. He's still hard. Not just half-hard, not softening. Fully, achingly erect like he hadn't just had one of the most intense orgasms of his life. The relief he'd expected, the clarity that should have come, was nowhere to be found.

Steve stares in disbelief. The serum gives him a faster refractory period than normal, sure, but this? This isn't normal. Even for him.

He wraps a hand around himself experimentally and has to bite back a groan. The touch sends sparks through his overloaded nerves, pleasure bordering on unbearable, but underneath it the need is still there. Still clawing at his insides, unsatisfied and demanding more.

If anything, the ache in his gut feels worse now. More insistent. Like his body is genuinely angry that he came and it wasn't inside you, that it was his hand and not your body taking it, not your pussy clenching around him and milking him dry.

"No," Steve says out loud, voice hard like he's ordering a subordinate. Like he can command his own body back into line through sheer force of will. "Stop it."

This can't be just pent-up sexual frustration. Something else is happening. Something must've happened at that Hydra base. It has to that - the dust. The way it had hung in the air, gotten in his lungs, made him cough like his body was rejecting it. What if it wasn't just particulate irritation? What if HYDRA had something in that lab, some kind of bioweapon that got into his system?

Steve's jaw clenches. He should call Bruce. Should've called him an hour ago instead of convincing himself this was normal. Bruce would run tests, figure out what he'd been exposed to, synthesize a counter-agent if needed. Or Tony. Tony has access to SHIELD's entire database on HYDRA weapons, might recognize the symptoms.

But the thought of making that call, of trying to explain, "Hey, I can't stop thinking about fucking my roommate, I'm hard enough to cut diamond, and I just jerked off in the shower while moaning her name," makes him want to die. Tony would never let him live it down, would make jokes about it for the rest of Steve's natural life. 

He'd probably tell Natasha, who would tell Clint, and then the entire team would know that Captain America got dosed with some kind of HYDRA sex drug and spent the evening jerking off to thoughts of his roomate. 

Maybe it'll pass on its own. The serum processes toxins faster than a normal metabolism; whatever this is might just need time to work through his system. He can get through dinner, make some excuse about not feeling well, go to bed early. Wake up tomorrow back to normal.

Turning off the water with more force than necessary, Steve reaches for a towel. Even the act of drying off feels like too much. The terry cloth dragging across his oversensitized skin makes him grit his teeth. He manages his chest and arms with rough, perfunctory swipes, but when the towel brushes his cock he actually hisses, the sensation sharp enough to make his vision blur.

He abandons the towel halfway through, still damp, and pulls his boxers back on, hissing at the friction of fabric against sensitive skin. The compression just makes him more aware of his situation. He's tenting the boxers obscenely, the outline of his erection impossible to miss, a damp spot already forming again where he's leaking. There's no hiding this. No way to pretend everything's fine when his body is advertising exactly how not-fine he is.

And the thought of putting anything else on makes his overheated skin crawl. Maybe he could manage sweatpants. Loose ones that won't cling. And then he'll return to the kitchen, try and act normal for dinner.

Steve takes a breath that doesn't quite fill his lungs, braces himself, and opens the bathroom door.

You're in his bedroom.

Standing there with frozen peas in one hand, and a pill bottle and bottle of water in the other. The shock of it - you, here, in his space when he's barely holding himself together, when he's standing here in nothing but his boxers with his cock still straining obscenely against the fabric - roots him to the spot. Your head snaps up at the sound of the door, eyes going wide.

"Oh! Sorry, you'd been a while and you were so weird earlier and I got worried..."

The words trail off. Steve watches it happen, the way your gaze catches on his bare, dripping chest. You're trying to be subtle, he thinks, trying to make it look clinical, concerned, but there's nothing clinical about the way your focus catches on the water beaded across his chest.

Your lips part slightly as you track a single droplet running down his sternum, over the defined ridges of his abs, following its path like you're memorizing it until it disappears into the waistband of his boxers.

And then your gaze drops lower.

Steve watches your pupils dilate the moment you see what’s impossible to miss, impossible to misinterpret. Time stretches. Your breath hitches just loud enough for him to hear, and neither of you moves.

"I thought—" Your voice comes out different. Breathier. You swallow so hard he can see your throat work. "I thought these might help. For your muscles."

You hold up the peas and pills like they explain why you're in his bedroom, but your gaze hasn't moved back to his face. It's still tracking over him - shoulders, chest, the V of muscle at his hips - and Steve can see the flush creeping up your neck in real time. 

He should grab something to cover himself, should apologize, should do literally anything other than just stand there letting you look at him like that.

You start rambling now, that nervous spillover of words you do when you're flustered. "Frozen peas for the soreness, and Bruce made these painkillers specifically for your metabolism, remember? For when—"

"You didn't have to do that." His voice sounds like gravel.

"Sorry," you say quietly, and your eyes finally drag back up to his face. "I'm just… you really scared me earlier. I've never seen you like that."

The concern in your voice is palpable. But then you shift your weight and he catches the way your gaze dips again, just for a second. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips - unconscious, he's sure, but it doesn't matter because the sight of it sends heat straight through him so fast it makes his head spin.

Did you hear him? In the shower? Is that why you came to his room? Because you heard your name, heard what he was doing? The thought should mortify him. Should make him want to disappear through the floor. Instead, his cock gives an interested twitch that he knows you can see.

"Steve?" 

Your voice pulls him back. You've moved closer. When did that happen? The peas and water are on his nightstand now and you're right there, close enough that when Steve pulls in his next breath, your scent floods his senses again. But there's something else now. Something sweeter, headier, that makes his enhanced senses lock onto you like a target.

Arousal.

You're aroused. The realization slams into him with physical force. He can smell it on you, subtle but unmistakable, and every instinct in his body that's been screaming at him all evening suddenly focuses with laser precision on that single fact.

"You're still really flushed," you say, and your voice has gone soft. Worried. "And you're breathing so hard. Are you sure nothing's wrong?"

Everything's wrong. You're too close and you smell too good and he can see your pulse fluttering in your throat and all he can think about is closing that last foot of distance and finding out if you taste as good as you smell.

"I'm fine," Steve lies, and it might be the most blatant one yet.

You turn to face him fully, and the genuine worry etched in your features makes his chest tight for different reasons.

"You do so much, Stevie," you probe, and the nickname lands like a caress. "You hold so much in. You've been working so hard lately, mission after mission." You step closer and Steve's breath catches, every muscle in his body going rigid with the effort of staying still. "I'm worried about you. If there's anything I can do to help, anything at all, please tell me. I'll do it."

Anything at all.

Steve's mind immediately offers up about a dozen graphic answers to that - vivid, explicit images of exactly what you could do to help, each one more detailed than the last. He has to close his eyes against the onslaught, has to physically fight back the thoughts of your mouth on him, your body under his, the sounds you'd make if he just gave in and took what his body is screaming for. 

You don't mean it like that. You're just being kind, being a good friend, offering comfort the way you always do. You have no idea what's running through his head right now, how close he is to snapping.

"You don't—" His voice cracks and he has to clear his throat, has to force the words out. "You don't need to worry about me."

But you're not listening, or maybe you're just too concerned to care about his protests, because your hand comes up toward his face and Steve's reflexes take over before his brain can catch up. His hand shoots out and catches your wrist mid-air, and the second skin touches skin everything goes white-hot.

The touch sears through him like lightning. He can feel your pulse under his fingertips, quick and fluttering, can feel the softness of your skin, and it takes every ounce of willpower he possesses not to yank you against him right then and there.

"Let me see," you protest, and before Steve can process the words you're pulling your wrist free of his grip. A determined tug that his lust-addled brain doesn't think to resist. Both of your palms come up to cup his face, cool against his burning skin.

Steve's lungs stop working. Your hands on his jaw, your thumbs at his temples, the way you're studying him with those worried eyes while standing close enough that he can see the individual flecks of colour in your iris is obliterating what's left of his control. "Oh my god, you're burning up. Steve, you're literally…"

He can't hear the rest. Can't process words when your hands are on his face and your arousal is flooding his senses and the coil of need in his gut has pulled so tight he thinks it might actually snap him in half. All he can think about is grabbing your wrists, pulling you flush against him, finding out if your mouth tastes as good as he's imagined when he finally stops being careful and takes what he wants.

Your fingers move to his neck - checking his pulse - and Steve stops breathing entirely. His cock throbs so hard it's painful and he can feel his control dissolving like sugar in water, going from solid to nothing in seconds.

He needs. God, he needs. Needs to touch you, taste you, needs to rip those tiny shorts off and find out if you're as wet as you smell, needs to bury himself inside you until this relentless burning finally stops, needs to pin you to his bed and fuck you until you're screaming his name and all of a sudden he can't remember why he was fighting this in the first place.

"I'm calling Bruce—"

"No!"

The word comes out too loud, too violent, and Steve watches you jump. He's scaring you again and he hates it but he can't stop, can't make himself be gentle when his whole body is screaming.

"You need to leave." The words sound strangled, barely human. His control is hanging by a thread and that thread is unravelling fast. "Please. You need to go. Right now."

"What? No, Stevie, I'm not leaving when you're clearly—"

"Please." It comes out like a whine, and some distant part of Steve registers that he's begging but he's too far gone to care about pride or dignity anymore.

He takes a step back, needing distance before he does something unforgivable. "You don't—you don't understand. You need to go back to your room. Lock the door. Don't come near me."

Your expression shifts to hurt and confusion, brow furrowing in that way that makes his chest ache even through the haze of need. "Why? Steve, I just want to help!"

"You can't help with this!" Too sharp, too harsh, and he watches you flinch like he's struck you. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, just—please just go. Please."

"You're scaring me." Your voice comes out small and it kills him, absolutely kills him. "Just tell me what's wrong. Whatever it is, we can figure it out togeth—"

"I can't stop thinking about you." The confession tears out of him before he can stop it, raw and desperate and too honest. "I can't—fuck, I've been trying, I've been trying so hard to hold it together but I can't think straight and all I want—all I can think about is—"

He cuts himself off with a harsh breath but it's too late. The truth is out there now, hanging in the air between you like something physical.

You stare at him with your eyes wide, and Steve can see your chest rising and falling rapidly. Can see the exact moment his words register. The shock flickering across your face, then understanding, then something that looks dangerously close to want. Your scent spikes so sharply it makes his knees weak, that sweet arousal flooding his senses until he can barely think through it.

"Steve," you breathe, and there's something in your voice he's never heard before. Something breathless and urgent.

You take a step closer. Then another. Your hand comes up to rest against his chest, right over his hammering heart, and Steve's breath stops entirely. He can feel the tremble in your fingers, can see the way your eyes flick to his lips, and he knows with sudden, devastating certainty what you're about to do.

You push up on your toes, tilting your face toward his, close enough that he can feel your breath ghost across his lips, and Steve's last thread of control frays to nothing.

Lunging that last inch, he captures your mouth in a kiss that tries, briefly, to be gentle - some buried instinct trying for something tender, wanting to do this right. But the moment your lips part under his, a deep rumbling growl tears up from his throat and his hands are suddenly everywhere. One hand fists in your hair, gripping tight to angle your head exactly where he needs it, while the other clamps onto your waist. Tight enough that you know you'll feel the imprint of his fingers tomorrow.

God, you want to feel it tomorrow.

He yanks you flush to his body and you stumble into him with a gasp that's his undoing. Your mouth opens for him and Steve takes immediate advantage, greedy for it, greedy for every breath you'll give him, tilting his head to seal his mouth over yours properly.

His tongue sweeps past your lips to finally taste you properly, and you're even sweeter than every fantasy promised. Better than anything he imagined in that shower with his hand on his cock and your name in his throat.

When he sucks your bottom lip between his teeth and releases it slowly, you make this small wounded sound that goes straight to his cock. You feel it twitch against your stomach through the thin cotton of his boxers, and he's so big, so overwhelming, radiating heat and the salt musk smell of his sweat that makes your head spin and your thighs clench.

Heat floods his system at the knowledge that you can feel how hard he is, how much he wants you. And he knows he can't satisfy the clawing need in his gut through your mouth alone.

Steve tears himself away from your mouth and every cell in his body revolts violently like he's ripping off his own skin. A needy little protest escapes you as you chase after him without thought, lips wet and swollen and so devastatingly pretty he almost stops caring. 

"You don't," The words come out between ragged pants, his voice wrecked, barely recognizable as his own. "You don't understand." His chest heaves against yours, breath coming hard and fast as he presses his forehead to yours, hand still fisted tight in your hair because letting go simply isn't something his body knows how to do anymore. "I'm not in control right now. I don't know if I can be gentle. Don't know if I can stop once I start—"

"Then don't stop," you whisper against his lips, and your hand slides up his chest to curl around the back of his neck. "Take what you need, Steve."

And there’s no universe, no timeline where Steve Rogers could survive hearing that from your mouth, not even if he were perfectly himself. 

His last thread of restraint frays to nothing.

Steve's mouth crashes back into yours with bruising intensity, all desperate hunger and zero control. You open for him instantly, no hesitation, just pure wanting, and the primal satisfaction that rolls through his chest is almost violent in its intensity.

Then his arms slide down to grip your thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh as he hauls you up against him like you weigh nothing. You're so light in his grip, so easy to position exactly where he wants you, and the rush of it - the physical proof of how easily he can manhandle you - sends a dark thrill surging through him. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively and your body moulds to his perfectly, soft curves yielding to hard muscle, and he can feel everything.

The frantic beat of your heart hammering against his chest. The clench of your thighs around his hips. The damp heat between your legs settling right against his cock through the layers separating you, and it makes him throb so hard he groans into your mouth.

But still, it's not enough. He needs you impossibly closer, needs to consume every inch of space between you. One hand shifts to palm your ass with a possessive squeeze that makes you whimper and roll your hips against him. It's an instinctive, needy grind that drags your core along the length of his still covered cock. 

"Steve, please," you whine against his mouth. "I need—"

Your desperation makes Steve's pupils blow completely black, swallowing the blue entirely. He turns and presses you against the wall, pinning you there with the weight of his hips, using the solid surface to hold you exactly where he wants you.

"God, I know, sweetheart. I know you do," he rasps against your neck, teeth scraping your pulse point. "Tried to be good. Tried not to think about this. But so damn sweet I can’t think straight." His hands tighten on you possessively, fingers digging into flesh. "'m gonna take care of you now, I promise. Gonna make you feel perfect. Gonna stretch you open on my cock and fill you up until you can't take anymore. Fill you up so good you'll feel me for days."

Heat curls low and tight in your belly at his filthy promise, and your body reacts instinctively, clenching around nothing so sharply that a needy little moan slips out before you can stop it. Your fingers clutch at his bare shoulders, desperate for something to anchor yourself against the overwhelming reality of finally having him like this. 

All that heated muscles under your palms, slick with sweat. He’s so much bigger like this, crowding every inch of space you have, caging you in, and your head swims with the sheer physicality of him.

But it’s the heavy, hard length of his cock grinding against you through thin cotton that nearly undoes you. Thick and insistent, pressed exactly where you’re throbbing for him, dragging against you with every subtle shift of his hips. The friction makes your breath stutter, your thighs tightening helplessly around him, trying to draw him even closer, to get more of that impossible, intoxicating pressure.

Steve moves with urgency that borders on frantic, carrying you the few steps to his bed and laying you down with slightly more care than the desperation vibrating through his body would suggest. But the second you're on the mattress, that restraint evaporates. He follows you down like he's magnetised, covering your body with his.

Heat radiates off him in waves, overwhelming, consuming. His breath fans over your cheek, uneven and ragged, and when his hips slot between yours, you feel just how hard he is. Thick, straining against the thin cotton of his boxers like he’s seconds from losing his mind entirely.

"Jesus," he groans, almost a choke, forehead dropping to your shoulder as if the contact alone might save him. "I need—sweetheart, I need you, I need you so bad."

He kisses you again, harder this time, nothing gentle left in him. His mouth is hot, frantic, stealing your breath as his hands slide over you in frantic sweeps, already pulling at your clothes. It's rougher than he intends - though he’s trying, god he’s trying - but whatever is burning through him is stronger than his control.

His hoodie is the first causality, tugged over your head and tossed aside without care for where it lands. Immediately his mouth is on your bare skin, lips and teeth working down your throat to your collarbone while his hands slide up to cup your breasts through the thin bralet. 

The delicate fabric does nothing to hide your peaked nipples straining against it, and the sight combined with the feel of them hard beneath his palms makes him groan low and desperate against your skin. His fingers hook under the elastic, pulling it up with greedy, impatient hands before it can register that he should probably slow down, be more careful with you. 

But he can't. His mouth trails lower, hot and demanding as he sucks one nipple between his lips, tongue circling the sensitive peak before his teeth graze it lightly, teasing. Your fingers thread into his hair, tugging. He groans at the sting of it and sucks harder, alternating between your breasts with ravenous attention. Licking, sucking, nipping until both nipples are peaked and glistening with his spit, until you're squirming beneath him and making those breathy little sounds that drive him insane.

His hand palms and kneads the soft flesh while his mouth works, and every arch of your back, every tug on his hair, every whining plea that falls from your lips just winds him tighter. Normally could spend hours here, mapping every response, learning exactly what makes you fall apart.

But it's not enough right now. None of it is enough.

The need burning through Steve's veins is almost painful now, an ache so deep and consuming he can barely think past it. He needs more. Needs all of you. Needs to be inside you with an urgency that's rapidly shredding what little control he has left. 

His mouth trails down your stomach, open-mouthed kisses that quickly become bites, small sucks that leave wet heat on your skin. He’s losing the thread of gentleness entirely, hands already at your shorts, fumbling with the waistband for half a second before impatience overrides coordination entirely.

He doesn't mean to - or maybe he does, he can't think straight enough to know - but his enhanced strength rips through the fabric like tissue paper, taking your panties with it. The startled sound you make is half protest, half arousal, because the ease of it, the sheer strength, makes heat pulse between your legs.

"Steve—!"

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he rasps into your skin as he chucks the ruined scraps aside. "I'm sorry, I'll replace them, I promise, I just—" His hands grip your thighs, spreading them wider for him. "I need—I can't—"

But the words die in his throat completely because the sight of your pussy, slick and glistening for him, combined with your scent flooding his heightened senses, makes something in Steve's brain simply stop working. Every coherent thought evaporates, consumed by primal need. He's gone. Completely lost to whatever's burning through his veins. 

All that exists is the need to taste you, claim you, bury himself so deep inside you that he forgets where he ends and you begin.

"Look at you," Steve breathes, tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip absently, like he can already taste you. "So fucking pretty and wet for me." 

His biceps flex as he drags you down the bed effortlessly, hauling you closer with enough strength that a startled gasp tears from your throat. Your thighs end up over those broad shoulders and he settles between your legs like he's exactly where he's meant to be. His breath ghosts hot over where you're aching for him and you arch involuntarily, seeking and retreating all at once.

He's staring at your exposed pussy with an intensity that borders on feral, like you're something he wants to devour. Like's he's been starving for you longer than he'll admit.

Your cheeks burn. Heat pools low in your stomach as you try to squirm away under the intensity of his gaze, suddenly hyperaware of how exposed you are despite how desperately you want this.

"Don't," he growls against your folds, the word a dark, commanding rasp in a tone you've never heard from him before but makes heat flash down your spine.

His arms clamp tighter around your thighs, spreading you wider, pinning you in place easily. Utterly at his mercy. The possessive dominance of his grip steals what little breath you have left.

Then his mouth seals over you and any coherent thought you have dissolves into nothing. There's no teasing; whatever's burning through Steve's veins has burned away every shred of patience. He buries his face between your thighs and devours you like a man who'll die without his mouth on every inch of you. 

His tongue drags through your folds in one long, devastating stroke that punches a broken cry from your chest that you barely recognize as your own voice. Steve's answering moan is one of pure relief, rumbling from deep in his chest and vibrating against your cunt. Your hips buck helplessly in his arms as he licks and sucks with focused, consuming desperation, and within seconds you're gasping his name. 

Broad strokes of his tongue work through your slick folds, greedy in his pursuit of your pleasure and you're writhing against him, biceps flexing to keep you where he wants you. He finds your clit and sucks it between his lips with perfect pressure, circling the swollen bud with his tongue, and you grind against him shamelessly, fingers twisted so tight in his hair it has to hurt.

But Steve just groans his encouragement and you feel it everywhere, feel the way he's grinding against the mattress below seeking his own friction, aching for a bit of relief from the pressure, while he loses himself completely in the taste of you.

God, the sight of him. All flushed skin and flexing muscle, sweat making his broad shoulders gleam, chin glistening obscenely with your arousal. And those perfect plush lips are pink and swollen now, parted around another appreciative moan that makes you clench around nothing. His eyes are closed like he's savouring you, and when they flutter open to meet yours they're so dark and blown wide with need it sends another pulse of heat straight through you.

The flat of his tongue drags up again, licking up through your folds before spearing inside, and the obscene wet sounds of it mix with your gasping moans and his rough growls. One of his hands shifts from your thigh to spread you wider with his thumb, opening you up so he can fuck you with his tongue properly while his nose grinds against your clit.

The combination makes your back arch violently, pleasure spiking so sharp and quickly it's overwhelming.

"Steve—fuck—Steve, oh my god—" The words tumble out incoherent, your brain shorting out under the onslaught.

But he doesn't slow down. If anything, your babbling spurs him on. Two thick fingers slide into you, curling immediately to stroke that devastating spot while his tongue works in tight, merciless circles.You're shaking now, thighs trembling uncontrollably in his bruising grip, that coil winding tighter and tighter until you think you'll actually break apart from it.

"Need you to come," he rasps against you, and there's desperation in his voice that matches the frantic grinding of his hips against the bed, like making you come is the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity. "Please, sweet girl, need to have it."

The raw pleading in his voice is what does it. That broken desperation, the way he's begging you like he needs this more than air, sends you over the edge so hard and fast you don't even have time to warn him.

Your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, violent and all-consuming. Your back arches clean off the bed, thighs clamping around Steve's head as you cry out his name - or try to, the sound coming out more like a broken sob. White-hot pleasure explodes through your nerve endings, radiating out from where his mouth is still working you relentlessly, and you can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except shake apart in his grip.

But Steve doesn't let up. He keeps his mouth sealed over you, licking and sucking like he wants to devour every aftershock, like he's trying to pull more from you even as you're already flying apart. It's too much, bordering on overwhelming, but when you try to squirm away his arms lock you down harder.

"Stevie—'s too much—I can't—"

He finally pulls back just enough to press open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, your hipbones, working his way up your body as you try to remember how to breathe. His hands roam restlessly over your skin and when he reaches your face his lips are glistening, hair dishevelled from your grip, face flushed and chest heaving.

"Perfect, you're so fucking perfect," he rasps against your mouth, kissing you deeply enough that you taste yourself on his tongue. "But I need to be in you, need it more than I've ever needed anything." His hips grind against you unconsciously, the hard length of him pressing insistently through his boxers, now soaked through. "Need it so bad I can't think, can't breathe. Please, pretty girl, need you so bad I'm losing my mind—"

He's already moving, pushing himself up just enough to shove his boxers down with shaking hands. The elastic catches on his cock and he makes a frustrated sound, yanking the fabric down his thighs and kicking them off entirely. When he springs free, your breath catches.

He's big. Thick and flushed dark, curving up toward his stomach with prominent veins running along the length. The head is already leaking, a bead of precum glistening at the tip, and he's so hard it looks almost painful. Your eyes widen involuntarily as your brain tries to process how that's supposed to fit inside you.

Steve notices your stare, follows your gaze down, and a sound rumbles from his chest that's pure male satisfaction. The visual does something to him, you can see it in the way his pupils dilate even further, the way his jaw clenches, the way the muscle ticks. How much bigger he is than you, how easily he could manhandle you, how small and vulnerable you look pinned beneath all that muscle and raw strength.

"It'll fit," he promises, voice rough and absolutely certain despite the tremor in his hands. He settles between your thighs, caging you in completely with his body, surrounding you with heat and want. "I know I'm big, sweetheart, but you can take me, 'm gonna make sure you do."

One hand drops between your bodies and the thick head of his cock drags through your folds, gathering your slick, and the sensation punches a desperate sound from both of you. Each time he rocks forward your hips chase the friction instinctively.

His mouth finds your neck, lips and tongue working over your pulse before he sucks with an impatience that you know will bruise. You gasp and tilt your head without thinking, offering more, and Steve groans his approval against your skin. Teeth scrape over the sensitive tendon before biting down hard enough to make you whimper, and he soothes the sting with his tongue only to move lower and do it again. Marking you deliberately. Claiming you.

He keeps talking in between - words tumbling out of him like he’s not even talking to you anymore, just spilling whatever delirious need is consuming him.

“Fuck…'m gonna stretch this pretty little pussy open on my cock,” he babbles, almost dazed, eyes locked on where he’s lining himself up with you. “Fill you up so good… so fucking full. You'll feel me for days, sweetheart. Days. Gonna make sure you never forget what it feels like to have me inside you."

He's so hot and hard against you, and when he notches himself at your entrance - just the tip of him pressing in - and even that has you whimpering at the stretch. Your arms fly up to wrap around his neck, nails digging into his shoulders as you try to anchor yourself against the overwhelming sensation.

Oh god—Steve—" It comes out high and shaky, almost a whine. "Please—"

The plea tears from your throat but you don't even know what you're begging for. For him to go slower? For more? For relief from the burning stretch that's somehow perfect and too much all at once?

"I know, baby, I know," Steve coos against your throat, pressing kisses between words, and there's that desperation threading through his voice again. "Shh, I've got you, pretty girl. Just breathe for me."

But even as he's soothing you his hips press forward incrementally, working himself deeper, and you can feel every thick inch as he pushes in and your body struggles to accommodate him. The stretch burns and you bury your face against his neck with a sound that's embarrassingly close to a sob.

"Wait—Steve, you're too big, I can't—"

"You can," he pants, his voice is strained, shaking with the monumental effort of going slow when everything in him is screaming to just thrust home, to bury himself completely in your wet heat. "You're doing so good f'me. So fucking good. Just a little more—fuck—just need you to take a little more."

His hands grip your hips tight enough to bruise, holding you still while he rocks forward another inch. You're so full already and he's not even halfway in yet, your body struggling to accommodate the sheer size of him, and the whine that tears from your throat makes him groan and press his forehead to yours.

"That's it, that's it," Steve breathes, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your temple - anywhere he can reach. "I know it's a lot, baby. But you're taking me so perfect. Look how good you're opening up for me." Another shallow thrust and you whimper against his mouth, nails raking down his back. "You're doing so perfect. Gonna make you feel so good, I promise. Just let me in, baby. Let me fill this tight little pussy up like you need."

The combination of his words and the relentless stretch is overwhelming in a way that makes your head spin and your nerve endings spark. Your body reacts instinctively, walls clenching tight around the thick length of him already inside you.

Feeling your wet cunt constrict around hi breaks whatever fragile restraint Steve had left. With a low, guttural sound he slams the rest of the way in, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

The cry that rips from you is sharp and broken - pain and pleasure so intense they're indistinguishable, blurring together into something that has you arching violently against him. You're so full you can barely breathe, stretched impossibly wide around him, and the sensation is so overwhelming you almost come from that alone. 

Your walls flutter and clench around his length, desperately trying to adjust to the sheer size of him. Tears spring to your eyes, spilling over to track down your cheeks.

"Fuck—I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" Steve's voice cracks as he kisses frantically at your tears, lips pressing to your cheeks, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. "I'm so sorry, pretty girl, I didn't mean to—you just felt so good, I couldn't—"

But even as he's apologizing his hips are already moving, pulling back and rocking into you with needy thrusts. He's not giving you time to adjust, can't seem to stop himself, his body operating on pure need now.

"So tight," he gasps against your skin. "So fucking perfect around me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just need—" Another thrust, deeper this time, and you sob against his shoulder. "Need you so bad. Can't stop. Please tell me you're okay, please."

You try to speak. Try to form words through the overwhelming sensation of being so impossibly full but your brain can't form coherent words. All that escapes is a pathetic, whimpering "Stevie." 

It's all you can manage before he shifts his hips slightly, angling deeper, and on the very next thrust the blunt head of his cock grinds right against your g-spot.

Pleasure detonates through you so suddenly you can't even cry out, mouth falling open on a silent gasp as he thrusts into you again. Your eyes fly wide, a shocked gasp tearing from your throat as white-hot sensation explodes through every nerve ending.

You're coming before your brain can even register it's happening. Two thrusts, maybe three, and your orgasm rips through you like lightning.

Your whole body seizes, cunt clamping down violently around his cock as you gush around him, soaking his length and making the slide obscenely wet. The sounds falling from your lips are helpless and incoherent, your back arching clean off the bed as wave after wave of pleasure shorts out your brain completely.

"Fuck—oh fuck, that's it, that's it—" Steve's voice breaks on a groan as your walls spasm around him. "Good girl, such a good fucking girl, coming all over my cock—"

You can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except convulse in his arms while your pussy milks his cock with desperate, rhythmic pulses that has Steve following you over the edge. With a guttural snarl he buries himself as deep as he can go as his cock throbs inside you, pulsing violently as the first rope of cum floods your pussy. Then another. And another. And it doesn't stop.

"Fuck—oh fuck!" Steve's voice breaks on a groan, hips grinding into you as he empties himself, and there's so much. Too much. Your walls are coated, flooded, completely painted white with his release, and he just keeps coming. Spurt after thick spurt filling you beyond capacity until you can actually feel it. Hot and excessive and so overwhelming your body can't contain it all.

"Steve—Steve—oh god." You try to squirm away instinctively, whimpering at the overwhelming sensation of being pumped so full. "I can't—there's too much, I can't—"

But Steve's hands lock onto your hips like a vice, fingers digging in bruisingly as he holds you in place and grinds you down harder onto his cock, forcing you to take more.

"Shh, shh, you can," he hushes against your neck, pushes you down harder onto him, forcing himself impossibly deeper even as his cock continues pulsing, and more cum floods into you. "You can take it, sweetheart. Take all of it. Every fucking drop, just a little more."

Cum starts leaking out around the thick base of him, even though he's still buried deep, still pulsing, still pumping more into you. It spills out of you despite how tightly your pussy is stretched around his length, dripping down your ass and pooling on the sheets beneath you.

"Please," You're babbling now, tears flowing freely as you shake your head helplessly. "Steve, please, 's so much, I'm so full." 

"Fuck, you're dripping with it," Steve pants against your neck, hips still rocking through the aftershocks, trying to fuck his cum further into your already overflowing pussy. "Taking all of it. Every drop. Knew you could. Knew this sweet pussy was made for me, pretty girl." 

His cock gives another violent pulse and you whimper helplessly, completely stuffed, cum sloshing inside you with every tiny shift of his hips.

Your limbs feel boneless, trembling with aftershocks, and you expect him to soften now, to give you both a moment to recover. But Steve doesn't slow down. Doesn't even pause. His cock is still rock-hard inside you and his hips keep moving - pulling back and thrusting in with the same urgent intensity, maybe even more now that you're slick with both your release and his excessive cum.

A broken whimper falls from your lips as oversensitized nerves spark with each thrust. You're so full, so overwhelmed, you can barely process that he's still going, still hard, still needing.

"I know, baby, I know—I'm sorry," He sounds almost pained, teeth scraping over your pulse point before biting down. "I'm sorry, I can't—fuck, just need one more from you—just one more, yeah? Need to feel this perfect pussy clench around me again. Can you do that for me? Please, baby, just one more."

His rhythm picks up, hips snapping forward with primal desperation. You can barely nod, can barely do anything except take it as he pounds into you, the wet obscene sounds of his cum squelching with every thrust filling the room alongside your breathless whimpers and his desperate groans.

But it's still not enough for him. With a frustrated snarl Steve pulls back, and before you can even whine at the loss of him, he's grabbing your legs, pushing them up and back. Your knees press to your chest as he folds you completely in half, and when he sinks back in this new angle has you seeing stars.

"Oh god—" The broken cry tears from your throat as he sinks back in, and he's so much deeper like this. Impossibly deeper.

"That's it—yes," Steve's voice is guttural as he starts moving again. "Need to get deeper, need to—fuck, you feel that? Feel how deep I am?"

You're completely pinned beneath him, folded in half and utterly helpless, unable to do anything but take the brutal pace he sets. The new position has gravity working against you too, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and you're babbling - words tumbling out that don't even make sense.

"Can't—oh god, Stevie, you're—'s too deep, I can't—fuck—s'good—please."

Your hands scrabble frantically at his back, nails digging in and dragging down, leaving angry red crescents that make him hiss and thrust harder.

Sweat drips from his temples onto your chest, your neck, and he leans down to lick it off with a groan, tongue dragging over your heated skin. His hips never stop that relentless grinding, working himself as deep as physics will allow. Driven by something beyond his control to keep fucking into your used, dripping pussy like his life depends on it.

"Taking me so well," he pants into your neck between messy kisses. "Look at you, so good for me. Letting me use this perfect cunt."

One of Steve's hands snakes down between your bodies, finding your clit, and the second his thumb makes contact you cry out - sharp and broken - because you're so oversensitive, swollen and puffy from two orgasms already

"Steve—no, I can't—can't again, 's too much."

"You can," he insists, and his fingers start circling that abused bundle of nerves with just enough pressure. "Can feel you getting tighter already. You're gonna come for me again, pretty girl. Need to feel you squeeze my cock one more time, please."

The stimulation is so intense you need to escape it. Every muscle in your body wants to flee the overwhelming sensation, but pinned beneath him like this there's nowhere to go, no way to twist away. You're utterly trapped, unable to do anything but take it. Take his cock pounding into you and his thumb working mercilessly over your puffy clit until pleasure starts building again despite your body's protests.

"Oh god, oh my god—Steve please." You're sobbing now, tears streaming as sensation builds too fast, too intense.

But your body betrays you. The combination of his fingers and his cock and being trapped beneath him with nowhere to go builds faster than should be possible when you're this wrung out. Your pussy flutters around him, clenching weakly, and Steve groans like it's the best thing he's ever felt.

"That's it, come on, give it to me."

And you do. Your third orgasm rips through you with less intensity than the others but somehow more devastating because you're so oversensitive every nerve ending feels raw. You clench around him with a broken sob, thighs shaking violently where they're pressed to your chest.

But this time when you come down, gasping and trembling, Steve doesn't stop. Doesn't even slow down. If anything he gets more frantic, more desperate, like your orgasm just made the need worse instead of better. 

His rhythm gets more erratic, more brutal, like he's chasing something just out of reach and it's driving him insane.

"Not deep enough," he mutters, almost to himself, and there's genuine frustration in his voice. "Still not—fuck—need more, need—"

Without warning he pulls out completely, ignoring your confused whimper, and his hands are on you - gripping, lifting. You barely process what's happening before you're airborne, completely off the bed, and Steve is standing with you in his arms like you weigh nothing.

"Wrap your legs around me," he orders, voice rough, and you obey on complete instinct, the words not even processing in your brain. The moment you do he's lining himself up and pulling back you down onto his cock with brutal force.

The angle is devastating. Gravity works against you, impaling you on his full length, and the depth has you choking on a scream. You can feel him everywhere, so deep and stretching you in ways that shouldn't be possible.

"There—fuck yes, there." Steve's head falls back on a guttural moan as he starts using you, biceps bulging as he fucks you on his cock like you're a toy made for his pleasure. Lifting you up and pulling you back down with ease that should be terrifying but instead has you clenching around him.

You're completely helpless, just a ragdoll as he manhandles you exactly how he needs. Your hands scrabble desperately at his shoulders for any kind of stability. Every time he pulls you down gravity does half the work, driving him impossibly deeper, and all you can do is take it. You can't form words anymore, just needy little sounds as he uses your body. 

Your brain is completely gone, drunk on the feeling of him, on being so full, on the obscene wet sounds of his cum leaking out with every brutal thrust and dripping down both of you to splatter on the floor.

"Look at you," Steve rasps, eyes wild as they lock onto where you're joined, watching himself disappear into you over and over. "Fucking look at you taking my cock. So small I can just—" He emphasizes with a particularly brutal drop that has you wailing. "Use you however I want."

Your thighs are shaking violently, muscles screaming, but it doesn't matter because Steve's holding you up effortlessly. Using his strength to fuck you on him at whatever pace he wants, and right now he wants it hard and fast and deep.

"Steve—fuck—oh god, oh god." You're babbling, tears streaming, completely cock-drunk and overwhelmed.

"Shh, I know, I know," he coos even as he doesn't slow down at all. "But you're doing so good f'me. My perfect girl, letting me use this tight little cunt. Can feel myself in your stomach, can you feel it? Feel how deep I am?"

You can only whine in response, completely overwhelmed, pleasure bordering on too much but your body keeps responding, keeps clenching around him like it can't help itself.

The last of your strength gives out entirely. Your head lolls against his shoulder, too heavy to hold up anymore, and you're just gone. Completely boneless in his grip, every muscle turned to liquid, unable to do anything except let him use you exactly how he needs. Arms hanging limply around his neck, your legs barely maintain their grip around his waist; if it weren't for Steve's hands on you, you'd slide right off him.

"Can't—can't—Stevie I can't." The words slur together, muffled against the sweat-slick skin of his neck, your brain too fried to form anything coherent.

"I know, baby, I know, almost there." Steve assures, his rhythm getting choppier as he gets closer. "Just a little more, need—fuck—need to fill you up one more time."

His muscles flex and strain as he bounces you faster, using you like you're weightless, like you're nothing but a warm sleeve for his cock. The wet sounds are obscene - cum and slick squelching with every brutal thrust.

You're not even moaning anymore, just making these small broken sounds with every impact, completely and utterly spent. But your body still responds, still clenches weakly around him when he hits that spot deep inside.

"That's it, that's—fuck—" Steve's breath hitches and his grip on you turns almost painful. "Gonna—fuck, I'm gonna—"

His hips slam up one final time, burying himself as deep as gravity and anatomy allow, and then he's coming with a snarl, sinking his teeth into your shoulder. His cock pulses violently inside you and somehow - somehow - there's still more. 

Hot thick ropes of cum flooding into your already overfull pussy, and you can actually feel this time, the way it has nowhere left to go, just gushing back out around his length to run down your thighs, down his, pooling on the floor. It's insane. He's already filled you once and yet he's still pumping more into you, his body shuddering with the force of it, and you can only mewl meakly against his throat as he empties himself completely.

His hips slow gradually, the frantic rhythm finally easing as his cock gives one last weak pulse inside you. Steve's breathing is ragged against your hair, chest heaving, but something shifts - you can feel it in the way his grip on you gentles, the way the manic edge bleeds out of his muscles.

The burning under his skin that's been driving him insane for hours finally starts to fade. His temperature drops, the desperate clawing need loosening its grip on his chest, and for the first time since he walked through that door he can actually think.

His cock softens inside you, and the relief that floods through him is so intense it's almost dizzying.

"Shit," he breathes, and his voice sounds like his own again. Clearer. "Oh god, sweetheart, I—"

You make a weak, mewling sound against his neck and Steve's heart clenches with immediate guilt. You're completely limp in his arms, trembling, and guilt crashes through him so hard it nearly takes him to his knees.

"Hey, hey, I've got you," he murmurs, voice going soft and gentle as he carefully lowers himself to sit on the edge of the bed with you still in his lap. His hands, which had been bruising just minutes ago, turn tender as they stroke up and down your back. "You're okay. I've got you now, baby."

He's still buried inside you and he knows pulling out is going to be uncomfortable, so he takes his time. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your sweat-damp hair, while the other supports your back.

"Gonna pull out now, okay?" He waits for some sign you've heard him - a tiny nod against his shoulder - before carefully lifting you just enough to slip free. You mewl at the loss, at the feeling of his cum immediately starting to leak out of you, and Steve makes a soothing sound. "I know, I know. I'm sorry, baby. Just let me take care of you now."

He shifts you in his arms, cradling you against his chest like you're something precious, and presses a kiss to your temple. His heart is still racing but it's slowing now, the frantic edge gone, replaced with bone-deep exhaustion and worry.

"You still with me?" he asks softly, pulling back just enough to look at your face.

With gentle fingers, Steve brushes the strands of hair plastered to your sweat-damp forehead, tucking them behind your ear with a tenderness that's almost painful after the brutality of moments before. Your head lolls without the support, too heavy for your exhausted muscles, so his hand slides down to cup your chin, thumb stroking your jaw as he carefully tilts your face up to meet his gaze.

"Look at me, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. "Need to see those pretty eyes."

Your lashes flutter, and when you finally manage to focus on him, Steve's chest constricts painfully. Your eyes are glassy, still wet with tears that cling to your lashes, pupils blown wide and unfocused in a way that speaks to exactly how far gone you are. The cloudiness there, the fucked-out haze, it's beautiful and devastating all at once.

Another wave of guilt crashes through him so hard he has to close his eyes briefly against it.

Keeping one hand cupped under your jaw to support your head, he reaches blindly for the nightstand with the other, fingers finding the water bottle you'd brought for him earlier - back when you'd been worried about him, before he'd lost complete control. The thoughtfulness of that gesture, the care you'd shown him, makes his throat tight.

"Gonna get you some water, okay?" He uncaps the bottle one handed, bringing it carefully to your lips. "Small sips, sweetheart. Just a little."

You make a small sound of protest, like even that is too much effort, but he persists gently.

"I know you're tired. But you need it, pretty girl." He tips the bottle carefully, supporting your head with his other hand, and relief floods through him when you part your lips and take a small sip.

The cool water touches your lips and you drink instinctively, slow and uncoordinated, and Steve watches with laser focus to make sure you don't choke. Some of it spills down your chin and he wipes it away with his thumb, murmuring praise the entire time.

"That's it. Good girl. Just a little more."

He coaxes a few more sips into you, before setting the bottle aside. And then his hands start hovering over you like he's not quite sure where to touch, if he should touch. The contrast between how he'd been manhandling you minutes ago and this careful hesitation would be almost funny if the guilt wasn't eating him alive.

"What do you need?" he asks quietly, and there's an edge of desperation to it. "I can—do you want food? A bath? I should probably get you cleaned up." His thumb strokes almost absently along your jaw, the only point of contact he seems to allow himself. "Just tell me what you need, sweetheart. Anything. I'll give you anything."

There's an edge of desperation in the offer, like he's trying to make up for everything, trying to fix what he broke.

With what little strength you have left, you burrow closer into his chest, nose finding the warm curve of his neck, and the small movement seems to surprise him. Your breath ghosts over his skin as you mumble, words slurred with exhaustion but unmistakable. 

"Jus' want you," you mumble against his throat, words slurring together. "Don' go."

Steve goes very still. Then something in him seems to unlock, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, the frantic worry in his eyes softening into something almost reverent. His arms finally wrap around you properly. Securely. Like he's allowed to hold you now.

"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. "Okay, baby, I've got you."

Carefully, like you're something infinitely precious, he shifts you both down onto the bed. He rolls onto his side and gathers you against him, pulling you flush to his chest with one arm wrapped securely around your waist and the other sliding up to cradle your head. You immediately melt into him with a soft, appreciative sound that's almost a purr, and Steve feels some of the horrible tension finally start to ease.

"That's it," Steve whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. "I've got you, pretty girl. Not going anywhere."

His hand trails down from your hair to stroke along your thigh with soothing, repetitive motions. Soft and steady, like he's trying to ground you both. Another kiss to your forehead, then your closed eyelids, his lips lingering there as you start to drift.

"Sleep, sweetheart," he murmurs against your skin. "I'll be right here when you wake up. Promise."

You make another small sound, already halfway gone, and Steve tightens his arms around you. As your breathing evens out and your body goes completely slack against him, Steve presses his face into your hair and tries not to think too hard about what happens when you wake up. Tries not to wonder if you'll regret this, regret him. 

He should probably be planning how to explain what happened. How to apologize for losing control. How to convince you this wasn't just whatever got into his system, that he's wanted you for months, that this meant something.

But exhaustion is pulling at him too, and you're so warm in his arms, and he's too tired to fight the way his body wants to curl around yours like he can keep the world out if he just holds on tight enough.

He'll figure it out in the morning.

For now, he just holds you closer and lets himself have this - your warmth, your weight, your trust - even if it's the only time he gets it.

more mads: thank you so much for reading this absolute filth fest (like… 7k of it is smut. i’m unwell.). i hope you loved it!! if you did, please hit like or, even better, please consider leaving a comment/reblog bc it would genuinely make me grin like an idiot. my leo moon means i will literally perish without external validation. i’m tinkerbell coded. love u <33 p.s. i hope someone got the panic! at the disco reference in the title 🙂‍↕️

taglist: @juniebjonesin @heldbybarnes @/love-stucky @badbitchsincebirth05 @phoenix-in-writing @tw1sters @blowingbarnes @sassandscribbles @alpinebarnesworld @sheriff-bodecker @buckybsdoll - if you’d like to be added to my taglist, please leave comment here!

[jujutsukaisen4]

kinktober p! links

NOTE: THESE ARE ALL ACTORS THAT WERE POSTED ON A REGULATED SITE. EVERYTHING IS BETWEEN CONSENTING ADULTS.

you must be logged into your account to view these. viewer discretion is advised.

part of my kinktober series!

its ok if as long as it's not inside, right? ᡣ anal + toys ᡣ backshots ᡣ cuddlefuck ᡣ this ᡣ riding ᡣ deeeeep breeding ᡣ (tw) ghostface ᡣ somno ᡣ stuck! ᡣ fingering both holes

pussy eating ᡣ eating you out ᡣ jerking off to you ᡣ toys ᡣ riding ᡣ public sex ᡣ pounding + hair pulling ᡣ hole swap ᡣ groping + rough sex ᡣ 69 ᡣ pussy eating ᡣ the condom broke!

kisses between thrusts ᡣ he won't let you play your game... ᡣ doggy position ᡣ titty fuck ᡣ dryhumping ᡣ thigh fucking ᡣ more thigh fucking ᡣ reverse cowgirl ᡣ ripping your panties

somno pt. ii ᡣ cuddles ᡣ fingering ᡣ this ᡣ mutual masturbation ᡣ more fingering ᡣ tummy bulge ᡣ using you as stress relief after work ᡣ princess treatment ᡣ riding and breeding ᡣ new position ᡣ anal

see more in my main masterlist

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[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!)✦

[lily-lilith26]

Love language : physical affection. Bucky Barnes x Reader

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis : You were one of those who love physical contact. That was your love language. So when Bucky arrives at the compound, the Avengers are surprised to see that you actually keep your hands for yourself and even more when Bucky is almost the one to ask for it.

Warnings : cuties, jealousy (from myself toward them), love love love, kind of slooooow burn, friends to lovers, long a** one shot.

When Bucky arrived at the compound, the first thing he did, without even realizing it, was assess everyone.

It was automatic. A reflex carved into him after decades of survival.

Steve didn’t need analyzing. He was familiar. Safe. A constant in a world that had changed too much.

He knew Sam was already getting on his nerves, no need to check twice.

The others, though… they were different.

And then there was you.

It didn’t take long for Bucky to notice something about you. Something subtle, but persistent.

You needed contact.

Not in an obvious, overwhelming way. You weren’t clinging or invasive. It was quieter than that, instinctive. You leaned into people when you laughed, rested your head on someone’s shoulder during movie nights, brushed against others without even thinking about it.

And the strange part?

No one seemed to mind.

Natasha would casually move closer to you, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Tony didn’t even react when you rested your head against him, just kept talking or watching whatever was on screen. Steve had simply shrugged when Bucky pointed it out.

“It grounds her,” he had said.

Bucky didn’t understand that.

Not at first.

He had spent seventy years learning the opposite, that touch meant pain, control, punishment. That it was something to fear, to avoid, to endure.

Even now, in a place that was supposed to be safe, he didn’t like it. Not really.

And yet…

You understood.

That was the part that unsettled him the most.

Because you never touched him.

Not once.

You never brushed against him in passing, never stood too close, never reached for him the way you did with the others. And it wasn’t out of fear, he would have recognized that instantly.

It was respect.

You moved around him like someone who knew exactly where the invisible boundaries were. Like someone who understood what it meant to have your body used against you. Like someone who knew that trust wasn’t given, it was earned, slowly.

So you didn’t push.

You just… existed near him.

And you smiled.

Every time he walked into a room, your eyes would find him, and you’d give him that same soft, genuine smile. Never forced. Never hesitant. Just… kind.

At first, he didn’t know what to do with it.

Sometimes he ignored it, not because you had done anything wrong, but because he didn’t understand it. Kindness without an agenda felt foreign. Suspicious, almost.

But you never stopped.

And slowly, something shifted.

After a while, he started nodding back. Small, almost imperceptible acknowledgments.

Then, eventually, a faint smile.

Barely there.

But real.

The first time you touched him, it wasn’t intentional.

It happened on an ordinary evening, during dinner.

The compound was loud, everyone gathered in the dining room, conversations overlapping. You had slipped into the kitchen to grab a glass of water, enjoying the brief quiet.

You thought you were alone.

Lost in your thoughts, you turned around with your glass and walked straight into him.

The impact was solid enough to make you stumble slightly.

“Oh my God,” you blurted out, startled. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you.”

Your hand came up instinctively to steady yourself and landed on his metal arm.

You didn’t even notice.

To you, it was nothing. A natural reaction. Normal.

Bucky, on the other hand, went completely still.

“Don’t worry,” he said after a beat, his voice quieter than usual. “I wasn’t very loud either.”

You smiled, a little sheepish, apologizing once more before heading back to the dining room, leaving him alone in the kitchen.

He didn’t move.

Not right away.

His gaze dropped to where your hand had been, like he could still feel the imprint of it.

It hadn’t hurt.

It hadn’t felt wrong.

You hadn’t hesitated. Hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t treated it like something to be careful of.

You had just… touched him.

Like there was nothing to fear.

And the strangest part?

It didn’t bother him.

Not even a little.

That was when things started to change.

At first, it was subtle enough that neither of you noticed.

You leaned closer when you didn’t hear him properly instead of asking him to repeat himself. Your arms would brush during movie nights, and neither of you pulled away. It just… happened. Naturally.

Comfortably.

Every morning, you made coffee for everyone and at some point, you had learned exactly how he liked his.

He noticed that.

Of course he did.

The first time your fingers brushed when you handed him his cup, he almost pulled away.

The second time, he didn’t.

And then, sometimes… it lingered.

Just for a second longer than necessary.

Always by “accident.”

Bucky didn’t know what to make of it.

Didn’t know what he was feeling.

Something unfamiliar. Something that didn’t fit into any category he understood.

And you, you were completely oblivious.

But the others ?

Oh, they noticed.

They noticed everything.

“Twenty bucks says they kiss within a month.”

“Forty-five says she hugs him without thinking first.”

“Hundred says they’re a couple by the end of the year.”

The bets had started quietly. Casually.

But they were very real.

It was October.

And things were only just getting started.

You and Bucky began learning about each other without ever sitting down and deciding to. It happened in fragments, in instincts, in the kind of details most people overlooked.

He noticed the small sigh that slipped past your lips whenever things started to feel like too much, the kind you tried to hide so no one would make a big deal out of it. He noticed it every single time.

Just like you noticed the way his expression shifted when the noise around him got overwhelming, how his brows would knit together slightly, the crease between them deepening as if the world itself pressed too loudly against him.

You learned the way he scanned every room the moment he walked into it, his gaze instinctively flicking toward exits, corners, anything that could become a threat. And he noticed that you did the exact same thing, just more discreetly.

There were other things, too. Smaller, almost ridiculous details. The way your tongue slipped out slightly when you were focused on something. The way his jaw tightened when he was irritated but chose not to say anything. None of it was ever pointed out. None of it needed to be. It settled between you naturally, like a language only the two of you spoke.

By November, something had changed again, something quieter, but heavier in meaning. Bucky felt safe around you. Not just comfortable. Not just at ease. Safe. It was a feeling he hadn’t allowed himself to experience in a very long time, and even now, he didn’t fully understand it. But it was there, undeniable.

One night, Tony decided to throw what he called a “small party,” which, in reality, meant loud music shaking the walls, voices overlapping until they became indistinguishable, and an energy that buzzed too intensely to ignore. Most of the team was drunk, laughter spilling too loudly, movements less controlled. The kind of chaos that filled every corner of the room.

You and Bucky stood apart from it, without ever explicitly deciding to.

You didn’t drink, you never really liked it. And Bucky couldn’t. So the two of you ended up sitting across from each other, not really interacting with the others, not really interacting with each other either. Just… existing in the same space, both too deep in your own thoughts to pretend you were enjoying the party.

Bucky hated environments like this. Ever since HYDRA, loud, unpredictable spaces had a way of putting his entire body on edge, like something bad was just waiting to happen. And you, your day had drained you completely. Every sound felt sharper than it should have, every burst of laughter just a little too loud. You stayed anyway, out of politeness more than anything else, but it was wearing you down.

Then it happened.

A loud bang echoed from the other side of the room.

It was sudden. Violent in the way it cut through everything else.

Both of you flinched instantly, your bodies reacting before your minds had time to process it. Your heads turned toward the noise, hearts jumping in your chests. It didn’t take long to realize it was just Tony and Thor, caught in some ridiculous competition that had clearly escalated too far.

Nothing dangerous.

But the damage was already done.

You let out a slow, controlled sigh, trying to steady yourself, trying to push the tension back down where no one would notice. Across from you, Bucky’s brows were drawn together, his expression tight in that familiar way you had come to recognize.

Your eyes met.

And in that moment, everything was said without a single word.

You tilted your head slightly toward the stairs, the gesture subtle, almost invisible to anyone else. A silent question.

Do you want to get out of here ?

Bucky didn’t hesitate. He gave the smallest nod.

You both stood at the same time, as if it had been planned, moving quietly through the room without drawing attention. No one stopped you. No one even seemed to notice you leaving.

With each step toward the stairs, the noise dulled, the pressure easing just enough to let you breathe again.

When you reached your room, you opened the door without thinking, stepping inside like it was the most natural thing in the world. But behind you, Bucky paused.

It was brief. Almost unnoticeable.

But you saw it.

And, like always, you didn’t push. You didn’t rush him, didn’t turn around to question it. You simply continued moving, giving him the space to decide for himself.

You crossed the room and opened the balcony door, stepping outside into the cool night air. Your hands rested lightly against the railing as you exhaled, this time without trying to hide it. The quiet wrapped around you, soft and immediate, like a shield against everything you had just left behind.

For a second, you were alone.

Then you heard the door.

Bucky stepped out beside you, the hesitation gone, replaced by something steadier. The tension in his shoulders eased almost instantly as the silence settled in.

He had chosen to follow you.

To trust you.

And from that night on, it became something unspoken between you.

A habit. A reflex.

Across crowded rooms, your eyes would find each other, and a simple glance would be enough. Sometimes a small nod. Sometimes, one of you would lean in just slightly, voice low enough that no one else could hear.

“Wanna get out of here ?”

And sometimes, it was Bucky who said it first.

But every time, without fail, you left together.

Trust didn’t come all at once. It never did with him. It was built slowly, piece by piece, in silence more than in words.

At some point, he had stopped tensing when you leaned closer during movie nights. Then, one evening, when exhaustion got the better of you and your head slowly tipped onto his shoulder, he didn’t move away.

He had gone still at first.

Not stiff. Not panicked.

Just… aware.

Aware of your weight against him, of your steady breathing as sleep pulled you under, of how natural it felt despite everything in him that used to reject contact.

And then, after a moment, he let himself relax.

He didn’t shift. Didn’t wake you up. Didn’t even acknowledge it out loud.

He just stayed.

Another time, in a crowded hallway, your shoulders brushed as people moved around you too quickly, too closely. Bucky’s body reacted before his mind did. His hand hovered near your lower back, not quite touching, but close enough to guide you if needed. Close enough to shield you from anyone getting too close.

Protective. Instinctive.

He didn’t even realize he was doing it at first.

And you didn’t comment on it.

That was the thing between you, nothing was ever forced into the open before it was ready. You both let things exist as they were, without questioning them too much.

It was… natural.

So natural, in fact, that neither of you really noticed how much things had changed.

But others did.

Steve was the first one to say something.

It happened one afternoon, quiet and uneventful. Bucky had just come back from training, his movements still carrying that residual tension that never fully left him. You were in the common area, sitting on the couch with a book in your hands, your posture relaxed in a way that always seemed to soften the space around you.

You looked up when Bucky walked in.

And you smiled.

That same soft, genuine smile you always gave him.

Bucky paused for just a second, barely noticeable, before nodding back, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he moved further into the room.

Steve had been leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching the whole exchange with quiet attention.

He waited until you looked back down at your book before speaking.

“He seems less on edge when you’re around.”

His voice was calm, observational, but there was something warmer beneath it.

You glanced up at him, slightly caught off guard.

Steve’s gaze shifted briefly toward Bucky, who was now moving around the kitchen, quieter than usual, more at ease than he had been earlier.

“I’m glad he has someone to trust other than me,” Steve added.

There was no jealousy in his tone. No hesitation.

Just relief.

Because for the first time in a long time, Bucky wasn’t carrying everything alone anymore.

By the very end of December, nothing had officially happened.

You hadn’t kissed. You hadn’t hugged, not really, not in the way people would define it. And if anyone had asked, you weren’t together.

But you were close.

Closer than either of you realized.

Without noticing when it started, you leaned on Bucky more than you did on anyone else. You were still yourself, you still walked side by side with Natasha, still leaned into others during conversations, still laughed the same way.

But something had shifted.

Your head didn’t find Tony’s shoulder anymore during movie nights.

It found Bucky’s.

In crowded rooms, your hand reached for his arm without thinking, fingers curling lightly around his sleeve as if it had always belonged there. It wasn’t desperate, not even conscious, it was instinctive. Grounding.

And he never pulled away.

Not once.

Bucky, in his own way, mirrored you.

Every time he entered a room, his eyes searched for you first. It became automatic, something he did before even realizing it. And once he found you, something in him settled.

Like he could finally breathe properly.

In crowded spaces, his hand no longer hovered near your lower back.

It rested there.

Light. Careful. Always giving you the option to move away.

But guiding you nonetheless.

Protecting you.

Trust, for him, had always been the hardest thing to give.

And yet, one night, you found him in the kitchen, long after everyone else had gone to sleep.

The lights were dim. The compound was silent.

He was standing there, leaning slightly against the counter, his posture tense in a way that told you everything before he even spoke.

You didn’t ask too many questions.

You never did.

You just stayed.

And somehow, that was enough.

Because that night, he told you.

Not everything. Not all at once. But enough.

Enough about the nightmares. About the things that still haunted him when he closed his eyes. About the memories that didn’t feel like memories, but like something still happening, over and over again.

It wasn’t easy for him.

You could hear it in the pauses, see it in the way his jaw tightened, feel it in the way his voice sometimes dropped too low.

But he trusted you with it.

And you didn’t try to fix it.

You didn’t interrupt.

You didn’t look at him with pity.

You just listened.

And when the silence came back, heavy but not uncomfortable, you stayed right there beside him.

That was enough.

It became… normal, after that.

In the mornings, it wasn’t unusual for someone from the team to walk into the living room and find the two of you asleep together.

You, curled slightly toward him, your head resting on his lap.

Him, slouched back against the couch, one hand absentmindedly tangled in your hair, like even in his sleep he needed to make sure you were still there.

Both of you completely at peace.

It was a quiet kind of closeness. One that didn’t need labels or explanations.

And Steve had been right.

Bucky was calmer around you.

The constant tension in his shoulders had eased, the sharp edge in his gaze softened. He wasn’t as quick to withdraw, not as guarded as he used to be.

But what no one had really expected, was that it went both ways.

Because somehow, in the same quiet, unspoken way, Bucky soothed you, too.

Tony, like every year, had organized New Year’s Eve at the compound.

The living room was overflowing, music blasting, people talking over each other, laughing, dancing, clinking glasses. Strangers mixed with old friends, investors, acquaintances Tony barely remembered inviting. It was too much, too fast, too loud. The kind of chaos that usually would have sent both you and Bucky slipping away within the first hour.

But this time, you stayed.

Not out of obligation, but because you actually wanted to.

You wanted to spend the night with your friends, to feel part of it instead of watching it from the outside. And instead of leaving the moment things became overwhelming, you and Bucky found a rhythm. Small breaks. Quiet pauses. You’d drift into the kitchen for a few minutes of silence, or step out onto the balcony to breathe in the cold air, letting the noise fade just enough to reset. Then you’d return like nothing had happened.

Bucky stayed close the entire night.

Not suffocating. Never that.

Just… there.

Sometimes he’d drift off to talk to Steve, a few steps away, but he always came back to your side without needing to be called. Like it was instinct now. Like you were the anchor he didn’t realize he’d been searching for.

At one point, he tilted his head toward the stairs, a silent suggestion, familiar by now.

You looked at him and smiled, shaking your head.

No.

He rolled his eyes dramatically in response, exaggerated enough to make you laugh under your breath. But there was no real frustration in it. His face was relaxed, his shoulders loose in a way that would’ve been unthinkable months ago.

Then the music shifted.

A song you loved came on, immediately recognizable, immediately yours.

Your face lit up before you even realized it, a wide, unfiltered smile spreading across your lips. It was the kind of expression that made everything around you feel softer just by existing.

Bucky noticed instantly.

Of course he did.

He followed your gaze toward the speakers, then back to you. And something in his expression shifted, not a full smile yet, but the beginning of one. Something warm, faintly amused, almost fond.

Before he could say anything, you were already standing in front of him.

Holding your hand out.

“Wanna dance ?”

You weren’t shy about it. Not hesitant. Just bright-eyed, smiling like the night itself belonged to you.

He blinked once.

Then again.

“No,” he said immediately, because of course he did.

You leaned in slightly, widening your eyes.

“Pleaseeeee, Buck.”

That was new too.

Buck.

Something about the nickname alone almost broke his resistance.

He tried to look unimpressed, he really did, but the corner of his mouth twitched despite him. His gaze dropped to your hand, then back to your face.

You were still waiting. Still smiling. Completely unbothered by his hesitation.

With a long-suffering sigh that fooled absolutely no one, he finally slipped his metal hand into yours.

The moment your fingers closed around his, something in him eased.

He didn’t even think about it.

Didn’t think about his arm. Didn’t think about the crowd. Didn’t think about anything except the fact that you were already pulling him forward.

You led him into the middle of the room where people were dancing, laughter and music blending into a steady pulse. You turned to face him, your hands finding their place naturally at the back of his neck, while his settled carefully at your waist, steady, grounding.

Something from The Beatles filled the room, loud and familiar, wrapping around everything like warmth.

You started to sway first.

Bucky followed.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

At first, he kept his expression carefully neutral, like he was only doing this because you had asked. But the longer you stayed there, smiling up at him, moving with the rhythm without hesitation, the more that act started to slip.

Especially when you laughed.

Especially when you pulled him just a little closer.

He made a point of acting annoyed every time you tried to make him move more, every time you encouraged him like this was some kind of performance. But the truth was in the way his grip stayed steady, in the way he didn’t step back even once.

And in the way he started to enjoy it.

It reminded him of something distant. Faded. A version of himself that used to exist before everything changed, before HYDRA, before silence, before he forgot what it felt like to be just a man in a room instead of a weapon in survival mode.

Dancing with Steve, back in a time that felt almost like someone else’s life.

Except this time was different.

Because this time, he wasn’t looking over his shoulder.

He wasn’t waiting for something to go wrong.

He was just here.

With you.

At some point, he spun you once.

Then again.

And again.

You laughed every time, louder each round, until he was laughing too, quiet at first, then more freely, like something had finally cracked open inside him.

The two of you collided lightly into an older couple at one point, earning a sharp complaint that neither of you fully heard through your laughter.

And for once, neither of you really cared.

Because for a moment, just one long, fleeting moment, the world wasn’t heavy.

It was just music.

Just movement. Just you and him.

“Come on, people! The countdown has begun!” Tony’s voice cut through the music, booming over the crowd as he waved his arms dramatically from somewhere near the center of the living room.

Ten minutes to midnight.

The energy in the compound shifted instantly, louder, brighter, more chaotic. People cheered, laughed, rushed to refill glasses, gather closer together, ready to welcome the new year as if it meant something different from all the others.

You and Bucky lingered for a few more minutes, still caught in the afterglow of dancing. The music had shifted into something less familiar, less alive, and you wrinkled your nose slightly at it like it had personally offended you.

Without much thought, you grabbed Bucky’s hand again and tugged him toward the kitchen.

He followed without resistance.

Not because you pulled hard, but because he let you.

The kitchen was quieter, though not completely. The muffled sound of the countdown and distant music still reached the walls, but it was softer here. Manageable. Breathable.

Seven minutes.

You reached the counter first, grabbing a glass and filling it with cold water, drinking almost immediately like you had forgotten how long you’d been moving, laughing, existing in the noise.

Bucky stayed by the doorway for a moment, watching you.

Just watching.

When you finally set the glass down and leaned back against the counter, you were facing him now. He had stepped further inside without you noticing, but still kept a bit of space between you, comfortable, familiar.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.

It wasn’t awkward.

It never was anymore.

Just quiet.

Then you broke it gently.

“Are you having a good night ?” you asked, voice softer now, like the question belonged in this quieter space.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, as if considering it far more seriously than necessary.

Then, with a lazy shrug and that familiar half-smirk tugging at his mouth, he answered:

“Worst night of my life.”

It came out dry. Teasing. Perfectly timed.

But his eyes gave him away.

Because there was no bite in it. No edge. Only warmth, hidden carefully under the joke, like something too honest to be spoken plainly.

What he meant was something entirely different.

Best night of my life.

But that stayed where it always did, behind his teeth, unspoken, safe.

You rolled your eyes immediately, a smile spreading across your face anyway, effortless and familiar. Like you’d learned how to read him without needing anything more than a tone, a glance, a pause.

“Liar,” you muttered, but there was no real accusation in it.

Only fondness.

Bucky’s smile softened just a little more as he leaned back against the counter, watching you like you were the quietest part of the entire night, and somehow the most important.

Outside the kitchen, the countdown kept building.

But in here, time felt slower. Quieter.

Like it was waiting for something too.

Five minutes.

“You know… I’m glad you ended up here,” you said softly, your voice honest in the way it always was when you weren’t trying to hide anything.

Bucky’s gaze lifted to you immediately, like the words had pulled him out of whatever quiet space he’d been standing in.

“Yeah ?”

“Yeah.” You nodded once, gentle. “You keep me sane.”

Something in his expression softened, so slight it could’ve been missed if someone wasn’t looking for it.

“Well,” he replied after a beat, voice low, almost careful, “I’m glad, too.”

You blinked once, a little surprised by how quickly he answered.

“Yeah ?” you asked again, quieter this time.

“Yeah.” He mirrored you, a faint hint of amusement in his tone. “You keep me out of my head.”

The honesty of it settled between you instantly, simple, unguarded, heavier than either of you treated it.

Your gaze dropped to your glass, suddenly very aware of your own heartbeat, like it had decided to make itself known at the worst possible moment. Your face felt warmer than it should’ve, and you didn’t quite understand why.

So you stayed quiet.

Three minutes.

“Maybe we should go back before the countdown ends,” you murmured eventually, breaking the silence gently.

Bucky nodded without hesitation, pushing off the doorway. “Yeah.”

You walked side by side back into the living room.

The atmosphere had shifted completely. The lights were lower now, replaced by neon glows and scattered reflections bouncing off glasses and windows. Everyone had gathered in the main space, bodies packed closer together, anticipation buzzing through the air like electricity.

One minute.

People were already counting loudly, voices overlapping in messy unison. Some were laughing, some were shouting, some were already turning toward the people they cared about most.

You and Bucky stayed slightly apart from the center, not fully stepping into the crowd. Not quite retreating either. Just… existing on the edge of it together, like you always seemed to do without planning it.

Fifteen seconds.

Someone bumped into you from behind while pushing toward the center. Instinctively, you stumbled forward slightly.

Bucky’s hand was on your back before you even registered the movement.

Steady. Immediate.

Grounding.

And just like that, your breath caught.

Because it wasn’t just contact.

It was him.

Ten seconds.

He felt it too.

You could tell by the way his hand stayed there a second longer than necessary, not pulling away, not adjusting. Just… present. Anchoring you in place like he’d done so many times before without thinking about it.

Five seconds.

Your eyes lifted.

His were already on you.

It wasn’t loud in your head anymore. Not the room. Not the countdown. Just him.

You didn’t need words.

Not now.

Three.

His gaze flickered, just briefly, to your lips.

Then back to your eyes.

Two.

Your breath hitched, subtle but real. Your hand shifted slightly at your side like you were trying to decide what to do with it.

One.

His hand on your back tightened, not pulling you, just holding you closer without force.

“Happy New Year!” the room erupted.

The sound hit all at once, cheers, laughter, shouting, glasses clinking, kissing, the world exploding into celebration.

But you barely heard it.

Because in that exact moment, you leaned in.

Slow enough that it wasn’t taken from you. Confident enough that it wasn’t uncertain.

Bucky met you halfway without hesitation.

His lips were warm against yours, steady, certain, like something that had been waiting far too long to finally happen. There was no rush, no chaos in it. Just everything you had both been saying without words for months finally collapsing into something real.

When you pulled back slightly, it was only enough to breathe.

Your foreheads almost brushed, your eyes still half-lidded, soft with something neither of you bothered naming yet.

“Happy New Year, Buck,” you whispered.

His mouth curved faintly, breath warm against yours.

“Happy New Year.”

And then, like restraint had finally run out completely, Bucky kissed you again.

This time deeper.

Less careful.

His hand slid fully to your waist, pulling you in like he was done pretending there was any space left between you. Your fingers immediately caught in his hair, holding him there just as firmly, like you had been waiting just as long as he had.

The noise of the world didn’t matter anymore.

Not the countdown.

Not the crowd.

Not anything except you and Bucky, finally understanding that your relationship hadn't been even close to friendship for a long time.

[jamesbbcrnes]

PEOPLE WATCHING

SUMMARY: after the funeral of his sister, bucky finds himself sitting in a park. your dog crashes into him, spills his coffee, and the rest is history.

WORD COUNT: 3.1k

WARNINGS: death, sibling loss, alzheimer’s disease, grief, angst, hurt/comfort, no use of y/n (lmk what/if i should add other tags, i’m so bad at it lmao)

NOTE: hi everyone!!! this is my first tumblr fic so a little nervous 🙈. this is sort of loosely based off of my own attempt at grappling at grief?? my grandad passed away a year ago this month, and he was my best friend. my interests were mainly from interests of his own, like marvel. he was my favourite person ever. grief truly is love with just no place to go, and especially this month i resonate with that so deeply. i could talk about him forever, but i don’t won’t trauma dump the past year on my first fic post lmao— just know i love him very much. anyway!! i hope you enjoy this, hopefully the first of many. thanks for reading!! 🫶🏼

inspired by sam fender’s song, people watching.

It's a beautiful day out in Brooklyn.

The sun peeks through the clouds, shining golden rays down into the park. People are soaking up the sunshine, there are teenagers running around with their friends like they own the place, children playing games with their parents, and others just passing through. Joy radiates throughout the park, and yet here Bucky sits; grieving, aching, longing.

He misses the life he used to live. He misses the hustle and bustle of the Barnes household, the laughing of one of his sisters and the reprimanding of the other, the soft and soothing voice of his mother and the rasp of his father's gravelly voice from indulging himself to one too many cigarettes. He misses being roped into playing games with little sisters, or hauling them onto his back when one of them complained their legs were tired and he'd pretend to be put out, groaning something about his back, and they would giggle at his theatrics.

He misses when his mother insisted Steve stay for dinner, and every time he tried to decline, Bucky's mother would shake her head and practically drag him inside.

Someone's got to feed you, she'd always say, guiding him in by his shoulders, I'm worried you'll wither away!

And today, Bucky had buried the last of his past.

Rebecca had been suffering with Alzheimer's for a few years. It started off with small lapses in her memory that were just written off as forgetfulness. But then it started to occur more frequently, and then confusion followed, her personality started to alter, and she was getting stuck in memories that had long since passed.

This day was inevitable, but it doesn't make it hurt any less than it does.

Bucky had been there when he could manage, when Rebecca's daughter, Sarah, had told him she was having a good day because seeing Bucky sometimes put her in distress. Sometimes she'd look at him and remember Bucky as he was now—six foot of pure muscle with a glinting vibranium arm. Then there were others where she would blink and suddenly she transported back to an earlier time, to just a little girl clutching onto her brother extra tight, making him swear to 'fight the bad guys and then just come back home.'

When she was that little girl from the 40's, more often than not she would be angry. Shouting and telling him that he lied, that she waited and waited but her big brother never came home. Then she'd catch the glint of sleek black metal under his left jacket sleeve, and tears would stream from her eyes and the anger would morph into horror of what had happened to him.

Who did that to you, Jamie?

Why would they do that?

Ma will be home soon, she'll be so happy you're back home.

That last one always made his heart ache.

But sometimes that little girl would be happy to see him. Sometimes that little girl would insist he sat on the edge of her bed whilst she chatted about her day, naming people and places that were from a time long gone, but he would sit and indulge her anyway. Bucky would nod like he understood, make a comment that would send her giggling, and suddenly his heart would crack wide open at the sound.

His little sister, sitting in her room in the nursing home, clutching his hand with her frail one whilst she spoke.

His little sister, dying before he did.

It shouldn't have to be this way, but it was.

Just another thing to add to the long list of things that Hydra had so cruelly stolen from him.

He had left the funeral feeling numb. Sam had attended with him, sat next to him in the church pew whilst Sarah and her brother presented their written eulogy to their mother. They talk about her passion for teaching and how they grew up in a house full of laughter and love, of park trips after school and Fridays that were exclusively for movies and pizza. They talk about the endless kindness that lived in their mother's heart that she extended to everyone she had crossed paths without fail. 

Proof that Bucky's little sister had lived a wonderful life, one that she so rightfully deserved. 

But looking at the service portrait of her made his chest tighten and his eyes burn. Weathered sunkissed skin, laughter lines etched into the corners of her smiling mouth, greying hair replacing the once dark chesnut brown that she shared with her brother. 

Everyone else looks at it and sees Rebecca as she had been before she died, but Bucky looks at it and sees a younger version staring back at him. He sees the girl before he was shipped off to England, her smooth porcelain skin, rosy cheeks and that signature Barnes grin that their mother always said they inherited from their father.

Bucky swiped a lone tear from his cheek and clenched his jaw tight, looking away from the portrait before he let himself break completely.

There was a wake after the service, but Bucky didn't attend. He didn't feel like he belonged, he felt like an intruder— even during the service, filled with so many faces he didn't know. Rebecca's family and friends, people she loved and who loved her back. 

At his own sister's funeral, he felt like a stranger.

When it came to a close, Bucky wished Sarah and her brother well and slipped out quietly through the church doors. Sam offered to drive him home, but Bucky declined. He'd done enough for him already, and Bucky wanted to be alone for a while. 

So, he walked. 

There was no end goal, just unsure of what to do with himself which is how he ended up here— with a coffee from the café a block away in his hand as he sat on a park bench, people watching.

A woman marches through the park in heels, clicking with a mild sense of urgency against the paved ground. She holds her phone to her ear, her expression pinched. Bad news, or maybe just an irritating coworker. Judging by her attire and the clip of ID on her blazer label, she looks like she works in an office.

Bucky's gaze shifts to a father who jogs after his small daughters. Two identical twin girls that evidently have a penchant of mischief, with rosy cheeks, honey-blonde ringlets that bounce wildly as they bolt down the path in a fit of giggles with a stolen bag swinging between them from their hands. He doesn't look upset, he just grins as he shouts out a promise of catching them as follows after them. 

A young couple then walks past him, a boy and a girl. His arm's wrapped around her shoulders and hers is wrapped around his waist, tucked under his denim jacket. They look happy, laughing at each other and grinning like they're know something nobody else does, fingers intertwined together at her shoulder. 

He doesn't know how long he sits there for, observing the people strolling through. His coffee stays untouched, his hand curled around it still as he rests it on his knee. Bucky's attention is suddenly caught by someone's dog, a golden retriever that is seemingly on the mission of its life, as it slips through someone's spilt puddle of water on the path. The dog careens right into his knees with a yelp as its head barrels into solid bone. Cooled coffee from Bucky's takeaway cup spills and stains the dog's golden fur with espresso.

He barely has time to blink and register what just happened before the dog is scrambling back up onto four paws and tilting its head, ears perked at the sound of a voice yelling, "Daisy!"

Bucky follows Daisy's line of sight to see you jogging down the path, out of breath and swiping hair that's fallen from your ponytail away from your face. Daisy sits by his feet and wags her tail like she's the best girl in the world. Your gaze catches Bucky's, and then lowers slowly to the bitter liquid that drips down his fingers and the side of his cup, the stain on his trouser leg and then the damp patch of fur on the side of Daisy's neck.

You rub at your face with a resigned sigh.

"Fuck, I'm so sorry," You breathe out, "That's... I can pay for that—"

"It's all good, it's cold anyway," Bucky dismisses quietly, "I'm sorry that Daisy smells of espresso."

You laugh softly, "Well, honestly, there's worse things that she can smell of trust me."

"I'll bet." He murmurs, watching Daisy sniff at his coffee-soaked fingers and deciding that she should lick off the excess.

Bucky cracks the first real smile he has in days, and scratches behind her ears. Daisy wiggles happily.

You huff at her audacity, gesturing weakly to the space beside him, "Mind if I sit for a minute?"

Bucky shakes his head, "All yours."

You practically collapse into the space next to him.

"She must be half Whippet," You sigh, looking down at Daisy with furrowed brows as she wiggles closer to him and pushes her head insistently into his fingers.

"She looks very Golden Retriever to me." Bucky comments.

He stops scratching behind her ears for just a second, and Daisy snuffles as she whips around to look at him in betrayal.

Daisy nudges as his hand and he arches one amused eyebrow, fingers slowly resuming their gentle scratches. Her tail whips from side to side in a blur of happiness.

You smile, and there's a moment of silence where you both watch Daisy and her wagging tail before you offer him your name.

"James," He introduces," Well, Bucky— people usually call me Bucky."

"That's an... unusual nickname for James."

Bucky chuckles, tips of his ears turning pink, "Buchanan's my middle name."

"Old school, I like it." You quip.

Conversation slowly starts to flow, and there's an odd sense of familiarity between you. There's no rush to think of something to say to combat the usual awkwardness people sometimes experience when meeting new people. Instead, any silence between your sentences comes as a comfort more than anything else without having that need to fill the gap.

Daisy lays down between you, panting softly, her head resting on Bucky's shoe.

You smile, "She likes you."

Bucky blinks, "I'm sure she likes everyone."

"She doesn't actually," You tell him, "You must've passed her test."

"What test is that?" He chuckles, and you sigh with shrug, "I don't know, but she secretly judges people and stares into your soul with those brown eyes of hers. If only I could figure out what's on that checklist."

"Free pets," Bucky offers, "And scratches. Unlimited treats."

You click your fingers like he's cracked the code, and Daisy pushes herself up and whips around at the sharp sound but smacks her nose into your knee and you wince. But in true golden retriever fashion, she shakes it off and rests her head atop your knee instead like nothing happened.

You're not entirely sure how long the two of you stay seated on that bench talking, but it's enough time for Daisy to fall asleep under your legs for shade.

Bucky asks about your job and you tell him about your work as a kindergarten teacher and your love for it. The kids who look up to you and enjoy every class you teach and how they call you miss so sweetly when they want help. You tell him about that childlike determination that makes their eyebrows furrow and their tongues stick out the corner of their mouths when they want to get something right and how you find it endearing.

When you ask about his job, Bucky answers vaguely about a job within the government. He says he can't talk too much about it, and you respect that.

You both fall into the topic of reading for a while, and Bucky looks at you like you've grown three heads when you tell him you've never read the Hobbit.

"I'm just— I don't know," You laugh, flustered, "I've just never read it!"

"Well, you should," Bucky says like his words carries great importance.

You roll your eyes, "Maybe I'll give it a go, since you're so insistent."

"You should." He repeats simply, and you huff out a soft laugh.

"What're you doing at the park in a suit, anyway?" You ask him with a tilt of your head, "On your super-secret government job lunch break?"

Bucky thinks about lying for a moment. Laughing and saying yeah, and making something up. But he's tired.

He's so tired. Of trying to navigate the world as it was now, of missing home, his parents, his siblings and Steve.

He's so tired of the resentment he still holds in his chest for Steve leaving, the overwhelming guilt of what Hydra made him become, of trying to be normal when he was anything but that.

But in this park, on this bench with a dog napping on his foot and her owner sitting beside him, talking to him normally without walking on eggshells, Bucky feels that tension in him loosen. 

You've treated him like a friend, despite having only known each other for mere hours, as someone who deserves your kindness.

So, he tells the truth. 

"I had a funeral to go to," Bucky murmurs, "it was my sister's."

You blink.

"Oh," Your voice is soft as it quietens, a small frown starting to pull at your lips, "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have. . ."

Bucky shakes his head, flashing you a quick smile, small and reassuring, "It's alright, you couldn't have known. My sister and I, we. . ."

His words trail off and then he shrugs, lowering his head, "It's complicated. She had Alzheimer's."

"That must've been difficult." 

Bucky nods, "Yeah, she. . . she had her days, good and bad, y'know? Sometimes she'd be present, and then others she'd be. . . stuck in her head, getting the days confused and not knowing where she was."

"Can't imagine what that was like." You whisper softly.

"Yeah," He breathes in deeply and holds it for a moment before he exhales shakily, catching the time fromt the watch on his wrist, "I've uh— I've got to go to her house actually, start going through stuff and help clear it out."

You frown, "Now?"

"No, but I'd rather get it over with, so it won't be hanging over my head like some dark cloud." He rubs his hands over his thighs, his jaw clenched, "I promised her kids."

"I get that," You nod, slow and soft, picking at a loose thread on Daisy's lead, "Would you. . . would you like me to walk you there?"

Bucky blinks, his head turning quickly at the offer, "You. . . that's, uh— you don't—”

You wave a hand lazily in the air, "It's alright, I'd like to. But, of course, I'd understand if you didn't want me to."

Bucky lets the offer sink in before giving a slow nod, "No, that would. . . be nice."

You wake Daisy up with a soft shake to her back, and she stumbles up to her feet sleepily, but her tail's already starting to wag ferociously.

Bucky tells you where you're going and then you both stand from the bench, Bucky throwing his takeaway cup in a trashcan, and start to walk. 

You fall into step beside him with Daisy's lead wrapped around your hand and clutched tight as she trots in front of you.

Neither of you talk now. There's no need to fill the silence with mindless chatter, you just accompany him to the house. A solid presence beside him, grounding and there if he needs someone.

Just to remind him that he's not alone.

After a few minutes of walking, Bucky clears his throat and slows to a stop outside a well-kept brownstone, "This is me."

A large door awaits him, No. 80 in gold lettering plastered on the glass pane above it. Two small flower pots of blooming red-and-yellow tulips stand on either side of the doorway with an old doormat between them.

Bucky looks up and swallows thickly at the sight.

You notice, "You can take a moment, before you go in."

He shakes his head, "If I don't go in now, I don't think I ever will." 

Bucky turns to look at you.

"Thanks, for walking me here."

You give him a small smile, "I actually just live on the next street over road, so it was no problem. . . good luck in there."

He huffs out a nervous laugh. Daisy nudges his hand with her nose, like she can sense the wariness in him. He gives her one last scratch behind her ears, and she licks his hand as he pulls away to grasp onto the stair railing, and mutters a quiet thank you as he starts up the stairs.

You take that as your cue. 

You continue down the street, hearing the click of Bucky’s shoes get quieter as the distance grows. You don't get very far until you pause for a moment, eyebrows furrowed. Daisy nudges at your leg when you stop. Your hand gently pats her on the nose before you turn on your heel.

"Hey, Bucky?" 

He head lifts from where he was staring at the lock, the key half raised, "Yeah?"

"127 is my door number, if you... ever feel like you need someone to talk to, to listen to you," You clutch Daisy's lead tighter in your grasp, "You don't always have to be alone, Bucky, you're welcome anytime."

His heart clenches at your generosity, "That's... thank you."

You nod, "It's okay. Take care of yourself!"

"You too." Bucky says softly.

You give him a wave and parting smile that turns into a huff of laughter as Daisy barks in his direction and jumps in the air, "C'mon, silly girl!"

A girl and her dog made of sunshine.

Bucky never would've thought the misery of the day would start to dampen, but it did. And he never would've guessed that the light peering through the darkness would be in the form of a kindergarten teacher and her clumsy golden retriever.

Everything happens for a reason, his mother used to say.

Bucky used to roll his eyes and wave her off like it wasn’t something worth remembering. But perhaps his mother had a point.

Maybe finding his footing in this new world wouldn't be so hard after all.

Maybe it would just take one bark at a time.

[buckybarneslittledoll]

Vanilla and Honey

Pairing: alpha!Buckyxomega!reader Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega, p in v, overstim, smut, size difference, breeding kink, size kink, biting, bite marking, scent marking

Summary: In which you try to help out your neighbor.

You moved into the apartment complex a couple of weeks ago. It wasn’t much, but it was yours. The walls were thin, the plumbing whined in protest whenever you showered, and the elevator had a mind of its own—but the rent was cheap, and for the first time in a long while, you had a door that locked behind you and no one telling you when to eat or sleep.

The landlord didn’t seem to mind that you were an unmated Omega living alone, as long as your bills were paid on time. Most people in the city didn’t. Still, you kept your scent as neutral as you could and avoided drawing attention.

The people on your floor were all kind to you, though, especially Bucky. He, too, was unmated, but an Alpha. Every time you ran into him, he always offered you a smile or a kind word, that’s how you became- not friends, exactly, but more than mere acquaintances. 

You remembered the first time you met him, like it had just happened yesterday.

You’d been struggling with a box, one of those heavy ones filled with books you absolutely couldn’t leave behind, even if your wrists ached from carrying it up three flights of stairs. You’d been too proud to ask for help, too wary of attracting the wrong kind of attention, when a quiet voice spoke behind you.

“Need a hand, sweetheart?”

You’d turned around and nearly dropped the box. He stood there in a faded henley that clung to his shoulders, hair tucked behind his ears, eyes impossibly blue. His scent, clean pine and something fresher, like mint, had brushed over you in a warm wave, and your knees almost gave out.

“N-no, I’m fine.” you’d lied, breathless, clutching the box tighter.

He’d tilted his head, the corner of his mouth lifting, “You sure? You look like that thing weighs more than you do.”

Before you could argue, he’d taken it gently from your hands as if it weighed nothing at all, “Which apartment?”

“Uh- 3B.” you managed to stutter, cheeks warm.

He’d carried it up for you, chatting casually about the building, pointing out which pipes rattled, which window never quite closed all the way. When he set the box down in your empty living room, he’d offered you that same smile you’d come to recognize.

“Welcome to the neighborhood, sweetheart.”

You hadn’t known then how comforting his presence would become, the quiet reassurance in his voice, the way his scent lingered faintly in the hallway long after he passed. But that first meeting stuck with you, replaying in your mind every time your paths crossed after that.

A couple weeks later you stood in front of his apartment with a tray of fresh baked cookies in your hands.

Bucky was in the middle of unbuttoning his shirt, hot and uncomfortable from his suppressants wearing off. He opened the door and nearly dropped his jaw. You were standing there with a tray of cookies that smelled like heaven and you smelled even better, “What’s this for?”

“I made cookies.” you extended your arms, offering him the sweets, “Since you said you liked the one I baked the other day I thought you’d like some more.”

He had to force himself to breathe slowly through his mouth to avoid inhaling your scent directly. You smelled like warmth and comfort and home- everything he hadn’t had in decades, “You didn’t have to do that, sweetheart.” “I wanted to.”

He took the tray carefully, his fingers brushing against yours. He saw you shiver slightly at the touch. His Alpha instincts immediately went on high alert. He stepped back to let you in, closing the door behind you. The apartment suddenly felt much smaller with your scent filling it, “Come in.” “Thank you.”

He watched you walk further into his space, your eyes wide and curious. You had no idea what you did to him. His Alpha side was pacing internally, loving that you were in his territory, offering him food. It was so… Omega-like. He unconsciously growled softly, “Sit.” You sat on the couch, where he followed you moments after, careful, making sure to keep some distance between you. He knew if he got too close right now, he might do something reckless. Like pull you onto his lap and bury his face in your neck. He cleared his throat, “You’re… really sweet, taking care of me like this, I think I’ve grown a size ever since you moved here.”

“Not my intention.” you chuckled, “But I’m happy to know that all the food is not going straight to your bin.” 

He watched as you smiled shyly at him. His heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t seen something so pure and innocent in so long. He picked up one of the cookies and took a bite. It was heaven, just like you. His Alpha side wanted to keep you forever, “These are amazing.”

“Thank you…” you hesitated a moment, fidgeting with your hands, “Can I… Can I speak freely?”

He watched your small body language change. You were nervous. He unconsciously lowered his own body language, trying to project calm and safety.  He nodded, “Of course.”

“I couldn’t help but sense your hormones in the last few days-”

His ears immediately perked up. He stared at you intensely. How the fuck did this Omega know he was in rut? His body reacted instantly to your words, his pheromones filling the room. He took a deep breath, trying to suppress them, “And?”

"And I...” your voice cracked.

He watched you bite your lip nervously. His Alpha side roared to life. He wanted to pull that lip out from between your teeth and replace it with his own, “What is it, sweetheart?” “I wanted to know if you needed help with your rut.”

He stared down at you. No one had ever offered to help him through his ruts. He was used to suffering through them alone, paying for a hooker if things became too unbearable. He felt his resolve breaking, “Are you…”

You nodded, too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

He growled softly, his Alpha side taking over more. He reached out and gently grabbed your chin, tilting your head up to look at him. His pheromones were thick in the air now, intended solely for you, “Do you know what helping an Alpha through his rut entails?” You nodded, “Yeah, yeah I know.”

He searched your eyes. You were too young for him. Too young to be offering yourself to an Alpha like this. That’s why he never engaged too much when you two bumped into eachother. But your scent… God, your scent… It was like vanilla and honey, sweet and innocent. 

He released your chin and took a deep breath, his voice low and rough, “It’s not just... comforting. I’ll need to knot you. Repeatedly. Until my rut is over. You’ll be locked onto my cock for hours at a time.” He waited for you to back out. No Omega in their right mind would offer themselves up for that to an Alpha they were not mated with.

“You’ve been kind to me, I want to repay the kindness.” His heart shattered. This beautiful, pure Omega wanted to repay his kindness by allowing him to use their body repeatedly for hours on end. He felt a tear slip down his cheek. No one had ever been so selfless for him, “Fuck.” he pulled you into a gentle hug, his face buried in your neck. You hugged him tightly.

He held you close, your scent surrounding him. He felt safe for the first time in years. He knew you were offering more than just comfort. You were offering your body, your time, everything an Omega could offer an Alpha in rut. He broke the hug and pulled back slightly.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked softly, his hands resting on your hips. His Alpha instincts were screaming at him to claim you, to knot you right here and now. But he had enough control left to ask for your consent, “I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this.” “I want to, Bucky.” you whispered, caressing his cheek.

He leaned into your touch, his heart swelling with affection. No one had ever cared for him like this. He felt like he was going to cry again. He caught your wrist gently, bringing your hand to his mouth and pressing a kiss to your palm, “You’re too perfect. Too perfect for someone like me.” You shivered.

He smiled softly, nuzzling your palm. He set your hand back down gently, before wrapping his arms around your waist again. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply, “Let’s go to bed.” he said softly, his voice muffled by your skin. You stood up, your legs shaking slightly as you followed him

He led you to his bedroom, his hands trembling slightly. He felt like a beast, ready to ravage you. But you walked beside him calmly, trusting him completely. He felt a surge of protectiveness towards you. Once inside the bedroom, he closed the door and locked it.

He turned to face you, his Alpha instincts taking over completely now that you were alone. His pupils were dilated, his breathing heavy. He started to remove his shirt slowly, “My rut will probably last a few days.” he warned you softly. He watched you swallow hard, your body language unconsciously inviting. Your Omega scent was driving him crazy. He unbuckled his belt next, his voice dropping lower, “I’ll be really rough. Really big.” he threw his belt on the floor.

“I figured.” you whispered as he pushed you down gently but firmly onto the bed. His hands were shaking with need and restraint. He crawled over you, his large frame hovering above yours. He kissed you deeply, pouring all his Alpha instincts and pent-up rut into it, “Hold onto me.” he whispered against your lips. Your arms flow around his neck.

He kissed you deeply again, his hands roaming your body possessively. His rut was taking over completely now. He ripped your shirt open, buttons flying everywhere, “Too many clothes.” he growled against your neck. He unhooked your bra quickly, exposing your breasts.

“I liked that shirt.” you pouted as his mouth found your nipple.

He looked up at you with a feral grin, his mouth full of your breast. He suckled hard, making you arch your back. He bit down gently, marking you, “I’ll buy you a new one.” he promised, before moving to the other breast. His hands were already unbuttoning your pants, “Lift your hips.” You obeyed.

He pulled your pants and underwear off in one swift motion, revealing your form beneath him. He threw them aside carelessly, his eyes locked onto your body hungrily. He undid his own pants, freeing his massive length that was throbbing and leaking already, “Look at that.”

“You’re uhm- you’re very big.” you whispered.

He chuckled, his voice low and rough, “I warned you.” He spread your legs wide, his eyes glinting with Alpha possessiveness. He lined himself up with your entrance, not entering you yet. He was too big to just thrust inside without preparing you first.

He rubbed his length against your wetness, making you whimper. He was soaking his huge member with your fluids. He felt your small hole trying to swallow the head of his dick, but it was too big, “Fuck, you’re tiny.”

Your mouth fell open as your body tried to accommodate his size. His Alpha instincts were driving him wild. He wanted to fuck that mouth, that pussy, that ass. He wanted to breed you until you were full of his cum and his knot, “Breathe, sweetheart.” he cooed, before pushing the head of his dick inside you. You nodded, trying to relax your muscles.

He pushed more inside you, his massive girth stretching you open. He was only halfway inside you, and already you were whimpering and clinging to him. He knew he was too big for you, but his rut was making him crazy. He wanted to be inside you completely.

He pushed the rest of his massive length inside you, filling you completely. He was so big that his balls were pressing against your asshole. You let out a long, high-pitched whimper, your tiny body trembling around his huge dick, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Ngh-”

He bottomed out inside you, his massive crown pressing against your cervix. The feeling of your tight, wet Omega hole wrapped around his dick was almost enough to make him lose control completely. He started to move, thrusting his length in and out of you roughly.

“Bucky-” you whimpered, your nails leaving red marks on his skin.

He growled at the sensation of your nails digging into his back, marking him like an animal. He loved it. He fucked you harder, deeper, faster. “It’s Alpha when I’m claiming you.” His huge length was hitting spots inside you that made stars explode behind your eyes. He reached between you and rubbed circles around your clit.

“Oh Alpha-”

He smirked against your neck, knowing exactly what his cock was doing to you. He was an Alpha, he knew Omega physiology better than most. He knew that his size was hitting that sweet spot inside you that made you see stars, “That’s it, such a good pup.” he thrusted deeper.

You nodded, biting your lip.

He watched your face twist in pleasure, your eyes squeeze shut. He knew you were trying to hold back your moans, your orgasms. But he wasn’t going to let you. He pulled your hair gently but firmly, making you look at him, “Look at me.”

Your Omega instincts made you comply immediately.

He looked into your dilated Omega eyes, seeing the pleasure written all over your face. He felt proud and possessive. He was the one giving you this pleasure. He was the one fucking you so deeply that your tiny body was trembling beneath him, “So pretty.” he murmured against your lips.

You whimpered at the praise. He smiled softly, his hips never stopping their brutal rhythm. He knew he was treating you roughly, but his Alpha side was too far gone to care. He nipped at your bottom lip, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, “You like that, pup?” He thrust particularly deep.

“Y-yes Alpha.”

His smile darkened at the title. He loved hearing you call him that. It made his Alpha side purr with satisfaction. He snapped his hips faster, hitting that sweet spot inside you with brutal precision, “Good pup.” he growled, his voice low and animalistic.

He felt your tiny body start to tense around his massive length. He knew you were close. He leaned down and captured your lips in a deep, claiming kiss, swallowing your whimpers and moans as he fucked you through your orgasm, “That’s it.” He murmured against your lips,

“A-Alpha-” your voice was a broken sob.

He swallowed your broken sobs with another deep kiss, his Alpha marking you inside and out. He felt your pussy clamp down on his massive cock as he kept thrusting through your orgasm, drawing it out until you were a sobbing, trembling mess beneath him, “Too big for you?”

“Y-yes.”

He smirked against your lips, knowing exactly how big he was compared to your tiny Omega body. He pulled back slightly, looking at where his massive length disappeared into your tiny hole. He was stretching you open so much that his hips looked huge compared to your waist, “Poor pup.”

He leaned down and kissed your tear-stained cheeks softly, his brutal thrusting slowing down slightly. His Alpha side was satisfied that he was properly claiming and breeding you, but his human side felt tender towards his Omega, “You’re taking your Alpha’s big cock so well.” he cooed.

You felt something start to swell at the base of his massive cock, making him even bigger inside you. Your eyes went wide as you realized he was growing his knot. “Shh, shh.” he soothed, seeing the fear in your eyes.

While you weren’t new in the world of sex per se, none of your previous boyfriend ever knotted you. Your wide eyes found his.

He looked down at you, his eyes dark with Alpha lust and something else, something more tender. He knew this was new territory for you. He also knew that once his knot locked inside you, it would be game over. He’d be breeding you properly.

He leaned down and kissed you deeply, trying to distract you from the growing knot inside you. His hips started to move again, slowly pushing the knot deeper into your tight hole, “It’s okay.” he murmured between kisses, “Let your Alpha do this… Let me take care of this.” You nodded, “Yes Alpha.”

His eyes flashed with satisfaction and desire at your obedience. He kissed you deeply as his knot slipped past your tight entrance, stretching you even wider. You cried out into his mouth, your nails digging into his back, “Breathe, love.” he gasped against your lips, “Breathe through it.”

You took a deep breath, feeling your tiny body stretch even further as his massive knot popped inside you. You felt it throb and expand, locking the two of you together. You whimpered, realizing that you’d be stuck like this for hours, “Good pup.”

He nuzzled into your neck, his scent markers already showing. He bit gently, testing your reaction before he marked you more permanently. His knot was throbbing, already releasing spurts of seed to breed you. His Alpha side was singing with satisfaction, “My Omega, my pretty Omega.”

“Mark me.” you whispered softly. He froze, “What?” “Mark me.” you repeated, “Please, I wanna be yours.”

His heart swelled with possession and love at your submission. You weren’t just letting him mark you, you were asking for it. He kissed your neck deeply before sinking his teeth in, marking you permanently as his, “Mine.” he growled against your skin.

You hissed, nails scraping his shoulders.

The sight of his marking making you scratch him turned him on even more. His Alpha side loved seeing its Omega get all needy and possessive. He captured your wrists above your head, continuing to mark and bite at your neck and shoulders possessively, “Easy, baby.” “Sorry.” He shook his head against your neck, his voice low and soothing, “Don’t be sorry. Your Alpha likes when you get scratchy. It means you’re feeling possessive, just like he is.” 

He kissed along your jawline, his massive knot pulsing inside you. You clenched around him as his knot pulsed.

He groaned, his forehead pressing against yours, “Keep doing that, sweetheart, and you’re gonna get another load of cum.” he rubbed his nose along yours, his eyes locked onto yours, “You want that? You want your Alpha to breed you full?”

You nodded, it was addictive, at every drop you got you found yourself wanting more. His fingers found your clit again, finding you already sensitive.

He smirked, his Alpha side loving your addictive nature. He knew Omegas could get like this, always needing more of their Alpha’s cum and scent. He started to gently thrust his knot inside you, each movement making his seed spill deeper into your uterus, “That’s it, take it all.”

He felt your body start to shake with another orgasm, your tight hole clamping down on his massive knot. He growled possessively, his hips jerking forward as he released a massive load of Alpha cum inside you, breeding you deeply, “Fuck, yes, take it all.” He snarled, his knot pulsing rapidly.

“Can’t take it anymore.” you whined, your hole clenching tightly around him.

He chuckled darkly, his knot still locking them together. He knew Omegas could be overly-sensitive during a breeding, especially with an Alpha like him who was known for his large size and potent semen, “Too much for you, sweetheart?” He nipped at your earlobe.

“Y-yes.”

He soothed you with gentle kisses and petting, his knot slowly deflating but still keeping them locked together. He knew you were overwhelmed - both emotionally and physically from the intense breeding session. His Alpha instincts kicked in to comfort his Omega, “Shh, sweetheart… You did so good.”

You shook your head, tears spilling from your eyes due to overwhelming.

He kissed the tears away gently, his massive body curling around your tiny one protectively. His knot was still inside you, still releasing small spurts of cum to make sure you were thoroughly bred, “I overwhelmed you.” he realized softly, feeling guilty.

“It’s alright, it’s in your nature.”

He nodded, knowing you were right. It was in his Alpha nature to breed deeply and thoroughly. He couldn’t help himself around such a beautiful Omega like you. But seeing you overwhelmed made him feel protective instead of dominant, “Let me hold you.” he murmured softly.

He wrapped his strong arms around you, pulling you close despite his massive cock being buried balls deep inside your tiny body. He nuzzled into your neck, inhaling your sweet Omega pheromones mixed with his own musky Alpha scent. His knot slowly deflated more, allowing some of the cum to leak out.

He felt the cum leaking out of your stretched hole, pooling beneath you. His Alpha instincts urged him to keep marking and breeding you, but his human side knew you needed a break. So instead, he gently pulled out, his softening cock slipping out with a wet plop, “Let’s get you cleaned up.” he murmured.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t take more… I know Alphas need more than just one round during the rut.” He shook his head gently, his eyes softening as he looked at you. He knew Omegas had limits, especially when it came to Alphas with strong rut drives like him. He also knew that just because he could go multiple rounds didn’t mean his Omega had to take it all.

“Sweetheart…” he cupped your face gently, his thumbs brushing away the remaining tears, “I don’t need to breed you 5 or 6 times to be satisfied. I’m an Alpha, yes, but I’m also a man who cares about his Omega’s limits. You took my knot once, sweetheart.” he kissed your forehead softly, “That’s more than enough for now. Your body needs a break, and so does my rut-crazed mind. We’ll clean up and cuddle for now, got it?”

“Thank you.” you whispered as his arms wrapped around you. 

He carried you into the large shower, turning on the warm water and stepping inside with you. He sat down on the shower bench, keeping you in his lap as he gently washed your hair and body. He made sure to be extra gentle around your sensitive, well-fucked holes, “There we go.”

He dressed you in one of his big shirts that swamped your small body. He shrugged into a pair of sweats, then tossed you into bed, wrapping you up in the blankets like a burrito, “Better?”

“Yes, thank you Alpha.” you muttered. “Call me Bucky sweetheart, it’s Alpha only when I claim you.” “Thank you, Bucky.”

He smiled softly, climbing into bed behind you and spooning you from behind. He wrapped his strong arms around your tiny frame, holding you close as he nuzzled into your neck, inhaling your soothing Omega scent. His Alpha instincts settled slightly now that he had marked and bred you., “Sleep now, you must be tired.” 

Your eyes closed, but his didn’t. He stayed awake for a while, just holding you and enjoying the peaceful moment. Your scent had changed slightly, now carrying his Alpha marking pheromones mixed with your Omega aroma. It was comforting, familiar, it was right. 

Kinktober Masterlist

[wkemeup]

Sunrise - Master List

summary: After an explosion takes his arm and his only sense of belonging, Bucky is discharged from active duty and sent back to civilian life. Left with a storm of unchecked guilt, Bucky is content to live out the rest of his days in the hollow comfort of the dark. This is, until Sam drags him down to the local VA and he meets you. (Modern AU) parings: bucky x reader (veteran!bucky x librarian!reader) series word count: ~57k warnings: heavy emphasis on Bucky’s PTSD and depression (panic attacks, nightmares, dissociation, flashbacks, survivor’s guilt), a super sweet and shy Bucky, a bunch of book recs, smut (18+, will be marked by chapter with *), a surprising amount of fluff given these warnings 🧡

Keep reading

[donutloverxo]

My smutfest

Drabbles and headcanons masterlist

Kinktober 2020

7 days of ficmas

Steve Rogers

One shots

Auntie flow | 1391 words

Steve takes care of you while you’re on your period. Cue some hot period sex.

White horse | 2295 words

Keep reading

[kaydekarios]

Booster Gold x Bruce Wayne's Neglected Daughter

"Yeah right. Who would be so stupid as to try and date Bruce Wayne- no- Batman’s daughter?"

☆ (booster gold x f! reader) ☆

warnings: mentions of neglect? idk this is fluff mainly i think

word count: 2295

a/n: this one has been one of my favorite scenarios to think of before bed and is now the longest fic i've written! there will likely be a part two of everyone finding out if anyone asks! i love booster gold he is so silly and charming <3

part two is here! part three is here!

Most everyone knows about Bruce Wayne’s daughter. A girl who seemingly appeared out of thin air in her early teens, dumped by her mother who had enough of trying to raise her on her own in what quickly became a huge scandal. However, not everyone knows about Batman’s daughter. The Justice League and batfamily not included, your existence in connection to the bat was a complete secret. You had no interest in putting yourself out there in the night and becoming a crime-fighting vigilante, and you didn’t have the training to do it anyways. That was what created the large gap between the two of you. Bruce didn’t know how to connect with someone so detached from the superhero world. Someone so plain- who had never endured the pains of losing someone close to them, to death and murder- to true struggle. 

It was an isolating next few years, as you grew accustomed to your new life in the manor. You realized quickly that Bruce’s attention was never going to be focused on you. As the years went by, more and more young people would come in and gain that privilege with their powers or their strength or their superior intellect. These vigilantes- these robins, were nothing like you. Kind in passing, but busy. Dick was the only one who had been there before you. He was nice. Entertaining and funny, but he was also busy. He became a part of the Teen Titans, and once again the manor became boring and unwelcoming. 

Everyone who came after him was the same. Right by Bruce’s side their whole day, working all throughout the night and sleeping whenever they could during the day. You’d sometimes go weeks without talking to Bruce at all. The whole city of Gotham depended on you getting out of his way and letting him think. 

So you did. You never tried to join him, you couldn’t conjure up any mindblowing, incredible answer to whatever mystery plagued him at night- even if you really wanted to. So, you changed courses. You focused yourself on your own life. School, homework, friends. You had a good amount of money now, might as well spend it. You frequented malls and shops after school, flew out of the city often, and tried to convince yourself that there was more to life than just the lonely feeling you got whenever you entered the manor and Alfred was too busy to come dote on you. You could matter to someone, even if it wasn’t your father. 

It worked for a while, it really did. You made a small community in the group of girls you got close to at school. Alfred was there to keep you entertained as well. After he realized you had no interest in becoming a heroine, he took up the mantle of a guardian figure of sorts instead. They’d ask how your day was, and you’d do the same. Life was content. 

That was until Damian came home. Damian, who was just like you. Another child of Bruce’s. Someone who was now in a new environment, just like you were. You were delighted at first, but that delightment was quickly crushed when he shot you a sharp glare at your first greeting. He truly had no interest in getting to know you, but unlike the others, he didn’t make an effort to disguise it at all. At his harshness, you curled back up into your room, ignoring the feeling of any hope you had being extinguished, and shut yourself out once more. 

His existence was truly a turning point in your homelife. Not just because he was rude to you, but because he fit in so well with everyone else. They all made an effort to talk to him, to get to know him. Bruce gave him more attention in a week than you’d gotten in a month. Putting it bluntly, the little shit was starting to get on your nerves. So, Wayne was capable of showing affection for his kid, just not you. 

You grew sour and bitter, unable to explain the issues you were having at home to your friends who couldn’t even know who your dad really was, you just tried to confide in Alfred whenever you could. Alfred gave you an empathetic nod, some words of wisdom maybe, but didn’t offer much else. He knew you were hurting and the fact made him sad, but your issues were constantly being compared with the issues the others were facing- matters of life or death- and theirs often took priority. 

That is until one night, one glorious night- when everything changed. You were well into university by now, choosing to commute into Gotham U, as you didn’t want to deal with the paparazzi coming to your dorm (even if it meant the alternative was to stay at the manor). You were sitting in the batcave, halfassing some psych homework when a bright flash appeared in the middle of the lair. 

Through the bright lights, you could make out an even brighter figure. A blur of gold and blue materializing into the finest man you’d ever seen. A tall, strong figure with blond hair and blue eyes covered by a yellow visor. He stood straight, looking around all panicked before his gaze rested on you. “Uh…” He coughs, adjusting his voice, “Hello miss. Do you know where the bat is?” 

You’d never seen a man like this. So shining, so cool. His gleaming suit was a harsh contrast against the dark and dreary atmosphere Gotham provided. So different from the cold, lonely feeling the manor gave you. You shake yourself out of your daze, “Uh, I think he’s out on patrol with Robin… hold on I can check.” You say, standing up and walking over to the console. As you stood you felt a little embarrassed to be seen in your pajamas with your bare face and messy hair. You make a small attempt to fix it, but it’s a lost cause. 

Your access to the computer was incredibly limited, but you were able to check Bruce’s location whenever you needed. As you're checking, the man leans in just enough to make your face warm. “So, I haven’t seen you around before. Name’s Booster Gold- but you probably know that already, right?” He says with a grin. The name ‘Booster Gold’ does ring a bell, he had recently been admitted to the Justice League- and it was a controversial decision at best. He was considered by the public to be a complete sell out. But how could a sell out be so… charming? “You’re his daughter right? The bat’s?” He asks, leaning in to get a better look at you. 

“Yeah, I am.” You confirm, not really knowing what else to say, you add, “I’ve seen you on TV. Congratulations on the Justice League invite.” His smile widens, leaning obnoxiously on the console he says, “Ah, no big deal for a guy like me. They’ve been begging me to join for ages, just figured I’d do something about it now.” For the first time since you could remember, you laughed. A genuine, happy, laugh that echoes through the walls of the cave. “You’re funny.” You say with a small smile. Booster gives you a taken aback smile that tells you he wasn’t expecting things to go this well. 

“I got the location,” You say, pointing to a red dot on a map. “He’s on the rooftop of that pizza place near the station.” Booster nods, tapping the coordinates into a little screen on his wrist before giving you a nod. “Thanks. I- uh- I gotta go but… don’t tell Brucie I broke in, m’kay? He probably won’t be too happy about that.” You just nod your head, sad to see him leaving. It had been so long since someone from the superhero world gave you attention (and it helped that he was so dashing). Despite yourself, you called after him, “Will I see you again?” That made him pause, one finger hovering over the teleportation pad on his wrist, he shot you a smile, “Of course! How about dinner down by the pier? I’ll text you the details later.” He hands you a business card, and with a wink, leaves without a trace. 

When Booster meets Batman, he admits to going to the batcave to try and find him, but doesn’t mention you to him at all. Luckily, there were more pressing matters at hand, so Batman felt no need to look into it. For all anyone other than the two of you knows, he just took a quick look around before figuring things out for himself. 

After that little date to the pier, life was perfect. You were visibly more chipper and happy, waking up early to make breakfast, and greeting everyone without a care. The change was drastic, and it didn’t take much for any of them to see something was up. That’s how your relationship with the bat family changed. You gave them a mystery. 

Dick was the first one to notice, after he caught you humming and making pancakes at a reasonable hour. “Someone’s happy.” He says, a polite smile on his face as he leaned on the door frame. “What’s up?” You just shake your head. “Nothing. I just got a good grade on a test.” You say. “I can’t explain it, but life feels good.” That was enough for Dick, but maybe not for everyone else. The enigmatic, brooding girl they shared a house with was suddenly so cheerful, and they wanted to know why. 

Steph, who heard about this new you from Dick, took the chance to try and rekindle a friendship between the two of you. She always felt bad for how she treated you when you’d first met. She was so busy trying to prove herself- busy trying to save the day, she kind of forgot you’d existed. By the time she had any free time to get to know you, it was just a bit too late. She caught you watching a movie in the home theater, and took it as an opportunity to come say hi. 

Before you knew it, these vigilantes seemed to be more and more interested in you. Asking about what you’d been up to, how school was, telling you about what they’d been doing. If they had tried this any other period of your life, you’d have been spiteful. Why would they turn around and try to undo all the pain they’d caused by being nice all the sudden. However, you were in a perpetually good mood after a certain blond came in and you found yourself letting go of your broody past. Even Damian was a bit nicer. His idea of nice being not leaving a room whenever he saw you enter. One night, he even let you have some of the food he’d made. 

On patrol, Tim and Steph were theorizing what brought on your sudden happiness. “Maybe it’s just the new university setting? I mean she is getting out of the house more.” Steph says. Tim shakes his head, “Nah, that can’t be it. Maybe there’s a man in her life.” Steph laughs. “Yeah right. Who would be so stupid as to try and date Bruce Wayne- no- Batman’s daughter?”

Booster Gold eagerly awaited your text. He’d stand no chance sneaking up to your window to pick you up if it wasn’t for Bruce’s attention constantly being elsewhere. Luckily for him, the two of you had a lot of alone time. He’d fly up to your window and take the two of you wherever and whenever you wanted, a tad bit irresponsible maybe, but a whole lot of fun. You met Ted and Rip and his sister, Michelle, and life was perfect. That is, until you made the mistake of letting out a dreamy sigh in front of Alfred, who was cleaning the study you were in. 

“Is there something on your mind, miss?” He asked, a single eyebrow raised. “Nothing!” You said, putting your phone down quickly. Not quickly enough, however, as Alfred caught a glimpse of the blue and gold on your phone screen. “Who was that?” He asks, moving by your side. “Someone’s caught your eye?” He can see it in the way your eyes widen, the way both of your hands guard your phone- you weren’t even trying to hide it. “Do tell.” 

You sigh, looking up at him with a guilty expression. You had been wanting to tell someone about how amazing Michael was… “You promise you won’t tell Bruce?” Alfred nods, “Your wish takes just as much priority as Master Bruce’s does my dear.” You huff, preparing yourself mentally. “Okay… fine.” You relent, turning the phone so Alfred could see. 

You’ve never seen Alfred look surprised before. He stood there, face blank, before taking a quiet step back. “I-... Is that Booster Gold?” He manages- though he knows the answer already. “What an interesting celebrity crush to have…” He says, trying to give you the benefit of the doubt. There’s no way the two of you had met before right? He would’ve known… right? At your guilty expression, he starts to fear the worst. 

“You promised you wouldn’t tell!” You shout, holding his shoulder in desperation. “I… will make good on that promise, miss.” He says as if it pains him. “Your secret is safe with me.” He sighs, “But only because I’ve seen the way he’s brought you out of your shell. If he ever does anything that would cause me concern,” He adds, eyes boring into yours, “You will let me know immediately.” 

With that, Alfred turns on his heel and begins straightening up in the next room.

[navybrat817]

Dialed In: Motocross AU

Pairings: Various men with female readers. ❤️

AU Summary: On or off the track, these men are dialed in to get what they want: you. 🔥

AU Warnings: Explicit sexual content, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), oral sex (m. and f. receiving), dirty talk, fluff, flirting, feels, slight angst, porn with feels (it's me, lovelies), more to be added.

A/N: This was inspired by an edit the beautiful Nix provided me with! I hope you all enjoy this AU and the various pairings. Please heed the warnings before each post and I will update as time allows. Banner and moodboard by yours truly. Banner by the amazing @sgt-seabass and divider by the lovely @saradika . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky Barnes x Reader - Hothead and Spitfire

→ Starting Gate

→ Break Check

→ Friendly Competition

→ Epinephrine

→ Jump Scare

Jake Jensen x Reader - Loser and Lucky

→ Lapper

→ All Tied Up

→

Ari Levinson x Reader - Beast and Sweetart

→ Downshift

→ A Phone Call Away

→

Hal Carter x Reader - Cowboy and Belle

→ Whip

→ Picture Perfect

→

Destroyer!Chris x Reader - Blue and Kitten

→ Over the Hood

→

Curtis Everett x Reader - Rusty and Princess

→ Soiled

→ Hardpack

Steve Rogers x Reader - Champ and Daisy

→ Focus

→ Roosted

Moodboards inspired by this AU

Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[lonleeseoul]

siblings day I

bruce wayne x bat-mom!reader + platonic!bat-kids x bat-mom!reader

writing idea: a sibling day with the bat boys and their youngest sibling.

cw: manipulation by a child, arguing, slight assault(?)

w/c: 1.8k

a/n: this is my first writing in like 7 years TT please be kind to me

at the family dinner on sunday your daughter had heard the boys talking about going out for a siblings day. as soon as she heard that all her brothers were going to be hanging out together, she wanted in. regardless of the fact that they wanted to go paintballing, and she was clearly too young to go at her big age of six.

after her instance and many adorable pleas to her older brothers they allowed her to join.

she was smart, you had to give it to her. she had started with dick who required nothing more than a sad smile before he caved. it took less than a minute.

then she worked her way to jason, who was also not too hard to convince. once she managed to get him to look down at her puppy eyes and jutted out lip, he was like putty in her little hands. it took less than two minutes.

tim was a bit more difficult than the first two. like bruce, he was worried that she would get hurt or overexert herself from playing with her much older siblings. she insisted that she was both strong and brave enough to play with the big kids.

she put on a show, tugging at his hoodie sleeve while hugging his leg under the table and pulling the same tricks she had with dick and jason. it took less than five minutes.

more so because tim was getting embarrassed for her than actually believing she would last the day.

then came her final foe.

damian.

you were sure she would fail here, but you were pleasantly surprised. after collecting herself from her show with tim, she confidently walked to where damian was sitting, a smirk on his face daring her to give it her best shot.

the rest of you watched with curiosity of how she'd manage this one. to everyone's surprise, she dropped to the floor in hysterics, tears streaming down her now red face as she pleaded with damian to let her join them on this seemingly legendary siblings day.

alfred, who stood at the door of the dining room, wished he had his camera on him to capture the faces of everyone in the room. wide-eyes, mouths dropped to the floor, surely gathering flies if there had been any in the room.

and damian.

pale as a ghost.

then your daughter grabbed at damian's ankle and slowly hoisted herself up his leg as she cried out.

"damian pleaseeee! pleaseeee let me go! pleaseeee!"

damian stared in horror for a minute at the scene unfolding before him. he had thought his younger sister was a real piece of work with her earlier theatrics with tim but this was something else entirely.

"fine. fine you can go. now get off of me." he grumbled as he shook his leg to get her off him. it took her less than five minutes.

"yay! did you hear that daddy! they all said i could go!" she yelled and she climbed into bruce's lap. her emotional state doing a complete flip from distress to overwhelming glee. you all stared at her in astonishment.

"i see that sweetheart, but i don't think it was fair the way you did it. also your mother and i haven't said yes" bruce said as he wiped away the wet remnants of whatever his daughter had just done to convince her brother.

you glared at him and gave him a light kick under the table for the tail end of his comment. he knew you were ok with the sibling day. you trusted that the boys could take care of their sister for a one day outing. you had said so at the beginning of the conversation, and you weren't about to let him drag you down with him.

"but they said yes. and mommy said yes. and you'll say yes too, right daddy" her voice getting thinner with each word, eyes beginning to well with tears again, and bottom lip slowly jutting out more and more.

you and the boys looked at each other with amusement as the panic began to rise in bruce's eyes and show on his face. it was a unusual sight to see bruce wayne so unsettled.

"yes sweetheart. you can go" your husband said a little too quickly for his liking.

"yay! thank you daddy!" with a kiss to his cheek, your daughter jumped off her father's lap and ran over to alfred. bruce leaned forward, placing his head in his hands, already regretting what he had just said and plotting on how to take it back.

"did you hear that alfred i can go to on the silbings day!" she was practically buzzing as she told alfred.

"yes very well miss wayne. i will prepare snacks for the day what would you like?" a small smirk briefly flashed on his face as he watched bruce, thinking about how much trouble she would cause in the future.

the rest of dinner consisted of the boys deciding to change the original plan from paintball to laser tag and the promise of a meal at the nearby mall food court in order to appease bruce's concerns over his six-year-old daughter going with them. you rested your hand on his, giving it a squeeze when you saw him starting to spiral into all the possibilities of what could go wrong on this supposedly cursed siblings day.

when the day finally arrives, she wears her special flowy purple princess dress for her very special day.

a siblings day with her four older brothers.

a day she claims she has been waiting for her entire six-year-old life. you braid her hair into a ponytail to avoid the inevitable rats nest it would become if you didn't. when you finish, she all but bounces down the hall and stairs into the arms of her oldest brother, dick, who picks her up and throws her onto his shoulders as she giggles.

"hey there kid. ready for today?" he asks her with a laugh at how excited she is to tag along.

"yes! yes! i'm so excited! are we going now? let's go!"

unfortunately for her, she'd have to wait seeing as damian and jason are entangled in an argument over the seating arrangement, and you don't entirely blame them. the image of the four robins and your daughter in her car seat cramped into dicks day-to-day civilian sedan for a two hour round trip to the sports emporium makes you snicker.

"i simply stating that i should get to sit in the front while grayson drives" damian boldly states.

"and why's that short stack? don't have enough space for those non-existant long legs in the back with drake?" jason quips, irritated that it's even being suggested he should sit in the back.

as they continue to ague you observe bruce from the top of the stairs as he stands off to the side with a scowl, still not fully satisfied with the fact that the boys have refused to allow him to go with them to chaperone. it was a siblings day and not a siblings and father day after all. you can see that the argument between damian and jason is eroding at his already hesitant agreement to this whole sibling outing that they have planned.

"hey guys, don't you think you should be heading out?" you interrupt, hoping to get them out the door before bruce changes his mind about letting them take your daughter with them.

"yeah let's go, we can always change the seating order on the way back" tim adds, hoping they agree to this since he was ultimately sentenced to the dreaded middle seat.

you snicker again, imaging him squeezed between your daughter's car seat and either an annoyed damian or a pissed jason. both of whom would grumble about their dismay with the arrangement the whole ride.

with that you begin to usher them all out the door being held open by alfred, the two of you making eye contact and sharing small smiles. you watch as alfred hands jason a small lunch bag, containing some grapes, blueberries, and cheese sticks meant for your daughter but you're sure the boys will also sneak some aswell.

once alfread closes the door you move to join bruce at the window overlooking where dick's silver is parked.

"what if something happens?" he asks with a worried expression and eyebrows furrowed as you both stare at your children getting into the car.

Dick has your daughter in her car seat and is buckling the middle clasp before working the two at the bottom. Tim has dreadfully resigned himself to his fate and shuffles into the middle seat beside her.

damian opens the front passenger door and begins to slide in before being pulled back at his shirt collar by jason, who then smacks his head with the lunch bag, pushes him to the side, slides into the passenger seat, closes the door, and locks it before damian can reach the handle to get his revenge. you giggle as damian incessantly pulls the door handle while surely threatening jason, though you can't hear what he says to his brother.

when you turn to look at bruce you notice his jaw is now clenched as he watches the scene between the two boys.

"hey it'll be fine. she'll be fine." placing a hand on his shoulder you try to comfort your husband, trying to ensure him that this whole sibling day thing is fine.

you get no reply other than a disgruntled huff.

when you look back out the window dick is closing the door to your daughter and ushering damian to the other side of the car with him, where damian gets in beside tim and slams the door behind him. before getting in himself, dick looks up at you and bruce and gives a reassuring wave and smile.

when he slides in and closes the door you see him turn around, maybe to tell damian to calm down or ask your daughter if she's ready to go. regardless of the reason, the car soon starts, and you and your husband watch as it goes down the drive way, pausing at the gates as they open, and then taking off to start the sibling day.

you can see the tension in bruce's shoulders as he stands there, still staring at the gate probably trying to will the sedan to come back. when it ultimately doesn't and he resigns himself to the fact that his only daughter just left with four of his sons for what could quite possibly be the worst day of his life.

"you worry too much. she'll be fine." you say as you move to give him a hug. he remains stiff at first but slowly melts into you.

"i know." he whispers.

"maybe i'll go down into the cave to get some work done." he mutters into your hair. you quickly pull away and look at him, only to see he's avoiding your gaze.

"you're not going after them." you say sternly. knowing he was likely going to try and follow them as batman.

"you're stuck with just me today handsome"

preview of pt2:

"please, please, p-please. can we pick this one please." she says excitement making her stutter, with her hands clasped together as she begs for the object in front of her.

pt. 2?? maybe?? if you guys like it????

next part

m.list

[epiphanyrogers]

O Come All Ye Faithful pt. i

husband!congressman!bucky barnes x wife!diplomat!reader

summary: you'd both agreed it was for the best. bucky's new role as congressman, yours as US ambassador in london, meant that time zones, distance, and duty had slowly, but inevitably, unravelled what had once been a passionate marriage. but a divorce would be “bad for optics”. so the decision was made - publicly married, privately not. it works. mostly. until bucky shows up unannounced to your embassy christmas party, finding you very cosy with your lawyer. and it turns out bucky barnes doesn't share what's his.

warnings/tags: SMUT, oral sex (f receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink, possessive!jealous!bucky, (slight?) soft dom!bucky, semi-public sex, praise kink, private separation but still together for public/PR (no cheating), overstimulation, marking/biting, come play, dirty talk, angst with a smut chaser (if 4k is considered a chaser), ft. matt murdock, use of pet names (baby, sweetheart, doll, pretty girl, good girl), reader insert no use of y/n, 18+ MDNI!

word count: 12.5k

from maddie: happy christmas eve! thank you so much for the love on my first ever fic. it was truly very appreciated and i am super grateful. (if slightly terrified that nothing i write will every be as good as that again). i totally totally underestimated how much i'd write for this fic (idk how it happens, i swear i never mean to write so much), so consequently i'm only getting 1/2 of my planned christmas-themed fics out before christmas. oops. mostly proofread (there are probably still errors). the idea for this came from watching the latest season of the diplomat on netflix. i got super inspired by one of the episodes and thus this fic was made! congressman bucky was the perfect fit, and since it's december i made it a lil festive too. will stop yapping now. p.s. if u r wondering what matt murdock is doing in london, so am i <3333 edit: changed confusing "open marriage" tag to "public/PR marriage but private separation", and slight wording in the fic to hopefully better represent the nature of bucky & reader's relationship - i.e. at the start of this fic, bucky & reader are privately separated but staying married for appearances. by the end? well, let’s just say it’s complicated 😉

Masterlist Series Masterpost

London’s winter presses like a damp second skin against the embassy windows, the kind of petty drizzle that refuses to become snow no matter how many Christmas cards pretend otherwise.

But no matter, because inside the embassy, it’s practically snowing glitter.

Embassy garlands shimmer red and gold. The ballroom lighting is warm without being indulgent. The guests are arriving in sparkling waves of government-issue Christmas cheer. And the string quartet has already begun the first set, their notes floating gentle and evergreen through the foyer.

Polished oak floors, imported pine garlands, crystal chandeliers dressed in frostlight. All of it pretty and polished and perfect, sparkling with the kind of manicured holiday charm that makes ministers nod and dignitaries relax.

Just like you. 

Tonight’s dress is dark green silk, backless, and perfectly inappropriate for the London chill that never seems to leave your bones anymore, even inside. Your hair is pinned up in an updo so deliberate it’s meant to look effortless, all arranged to bare the elegant slope of your back like a threat. 

A few strands have been strategically allowed to fall loose, of course, just so your perfect polish doesn’t come across as unapproachable. 

Enough edge to say I’m young enough to still care, and enough statement to say I’m powerful enough that I don’t have to. Or at least that’s what your stylist said.

You’re already on your second glass of champagne before the canapés have come out. Not because you’re having fun. God no, but because it gives your hand something to do, and your mouth something to occupy so it can’t twist into something impolite the next time someone leans in with a concern-lilted inflection (read: thinly veiled curiosity barely dressed as sympathy) and asks, “Will your husband be joining us this evening?”

You’ve fielded three of those in the first hour. Possibly four. At least one from someone who absolutely knew the answer before they asked, which somehow makes it worse.

But you laugh gracefully the way you’re supposed to, like none of this touches you, as you make his excuses, each one rehearsed until the syllables shine. ‘He couldn’t make the trip across the pond this time’, or ‘he’s buried under committee meetings back in D.C.’ or ‘he sends his warmest regards and deepest regrets’. Just the right blend of fond and disappointed, like a woman who’s used to being loved from afar.

Because this is the shape of your life now: standing in a ballroom decked to the halls, mingling with perfect poise whilst you field questions about the ghost of Christmas past you still wear a ring for.

You realise you're rubbing said ring - the band sits there, warm and familiar. You'd tried taking it off once, two weeks ago, just in private. Got as far as twisting it halfway before your chest went tight and you shoved it back on.

Optics, you’d told yourself. Optics.

That’s what it means to be married to a congressman. Or not married. Or somewhere in between, depending on the version of yourself the situation calls for. Tonight, apparently, you’re playing the loyal half of a perfectly functional power couple.

People come to you for proximity to him. Not your work. Not your office. Not your accomplishments, which have included several strategically defused trade disputes, four successful summits, and a quietly brilliant manoeuvre that kept a NATO rift from turning into an international crisis. None of that matters anymore, not since Bucky became congressman. 

Now you’re just greeted as the glossy envelope for a message they actually want delivered elsewhere. 

Which is almost funny, albeit in that bitterly ironic way, because you, of all people, can’t even get him to pick up the damn phone. 

You don’t even remember the last time he told you anything first. Then again, you're not sure you've told him much either. When did you stop calling? When did the texts become logistics instead of love?

More often than not these days, you find out about most things in his life the same way everyone else does - via press release. Which, you suppose, is fitting. After all, isn’t that what your marriage is now, too?

And on the rare occasion that you do get a heads-up, it doesn’t come from him. It comes from his assistant. That bright-eyed, overly efficient, little blonde who answers his phone like she’s guarding national security secrets and always calls you Mrs. Barnes with a certain kind of pointed sweetness that makes it clear it’s a job title she’s planning to be promoted into.

And no, you are not wondering if he’s fucking her. You’re not. You are not.

It’s none of your business anymore. That was the agreement. Publicly together, privately separated. It was mutual, rational, and clean. Or at least that’s how you both pitched it: two adults, two careers, two calendars so catastrophically misaligned that marriage started to feel more like a diplomatic effort than a romantic one.

But divorce was out of the question, of course. His PR team thinks it’s better for his approval ratings if he’s still seen as the devoted husband. And yours thinks the word divorce reads as crack in the polished surface they’ve spent years selling to the world. Apparently, your marriage is the American dream. 

Which tracks, really, because no one actually lives it, and it falls apart the second you stop performing.

So you both play the part. Smile for the cameras. Stay in step when the flag is watching. And when it’s not? He can do who what he wants. You certainly are.

Which means you’re definitely above petty jealousies and quiet suspicions and the deep, crawling irritation that rises in your throat every time her name appears in your inbox with a subject line like Congressman Barnes regrettably will not be attending…

That was this morning’s smug little gem. She can’t even bring herself to write your husband. Or even Bucky. It’s always Congressman Barnes, like she’s writing to a stranger and he’s just another man in a suit. Like love was never part of it. Like you haven’t kissed that mouth goodnight a thousand times. Like you haven’t memorised the weight of his body curled into yours on nights when the Hydra ghosts came knocking and all you could do was hold him until morning forgot them.

You wonder if anyone holds him now. If he even lets them.

But none of that matters right now. Because by every metric, be it press, presence, or political timing, you’re hosting the social event of the season. Months of planning. Countless moving pieces, negotiated to the inch. And it shows. Yes, everything is perfect. It has to be.

So why won’t your pulse stop tripping?

“Your heart is racing. I could hear it from across the room.”

The breath of Matt’s voice at your side is low, warm, and intimate. He doesn’t announce himself. He never does. He just materialises, quiet and effortless, slipping through the cracks in your composure like he was always meant to be there. 

It’s a skill he's perfected since he flew in 3 months ago for what should’ve been a routine case: American grad student, wrongful detention, violated rights. Except it wasn't routine. It was a nightmare. And Matt Murdock had walked into your office, brilliant and relentless, and fixed it in seventy-two hours.

The embassy had him on retainer the following week. You had him in your bed a month after that.

Matt is careful at events like this. Always is. He ghosts in from the side, lets his shoulder hover close to yours like he’s just another guest drifting through the conversation, entirely harmless.

You don’t look at him right away. You don’t need to. You know that voice like you know the soft give of his mouth against your neck. You know the heat of him beside you. The weight of him when he presses in. The way his suits are always far too pristine for what he does to you in them.

“Are you spying on me, Counsellor?” you murmur without turning, keeping your eyes trained on the sea of glittering conversation ahead. As though you don’t already feel your pulse changing shape at the scent of his cologne when he leans in just enough to brush your ear with his hushed voice.

“Just keeping an ear out,” he replies, warm and maddeningly innocent. The same kind of innocent as the hand that finds the small of your back mid-sentence, warm, steadying, and just slightly lower than is professionally advisable. “It’s hard to ignore a distress call.”

“I am not distressed,” you counter, not yet glancing his way, though you subtly lean into the pressure of his hand, aching for more.

The game is half in the glances withheld. But when you do turn, it’s with the barest tilt of your head, an upturned corner of mouth. The practiced sort of acknowledgment that reads friendly at a distance and something far more dangerous up close. He’s wearing a black suit with the silk tie you picked last week.

“You are… composed under duress,” he says at last, his smile curving slow, a touch crooked, edged with that particular brand of trouble that always sounds like charm when he wears it. “Which is very sexy, by the way. If deeply inadvisable for long-term blood pressure.”

You purse your lips like you’re holding back a retort, but your mouth betrays you at the corners - traitorous, flickering with the ghost of something softer. His hand is still there. Warm against your bare skin. Just above the low dipped back of your dress, strategically, yet infuriatingly still.

Except for his pinky. That traitorous thing begins to move in a subtle back and forth, just at the hem of propriety, tracing slow, idle lines. Lower than he should. Like he can’t help himself. Like he’s not really thinking about it. Like his body is betraying him in the way yours already has, heat blooming beneath his touch in that unbearable space between too public and far too intimate.

“Mm, thank you, Dr. Murdock,” you hum lightly, taking a sip of champagne, like you’re not acutely aware of every nerve ending along your spine. “Remind me what I’m paying you for again? Because it’s certainly not health advice.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Legal counsel. Keeping Americans out of foreign prisons. The occasional corporate sabotage. Managing your rapidly escalating sexual frustration.”

The last part lands lower, his voice dipping into something rich and pointed. You let your gaze flick to his lips for the briefest second, drawn by memory more than choice. The press of his lips against your throat last night surfaces uninvited, threading heat through your body in slow, deliberate coils. The kind of heat you have absolutely no business carrying right now.

“Your retainer doesn’t cover the last one,” you flatly retort, trying to hold on to the seams of your composure.

“Oh,” he laughs, entirely too pleased. His smile turns razor sharp, a contrast to the velvet of his voice, which remains smooth as sin and just as indulgent. “I do that part pro bono.”

His hand drifts lower, no longer pretending at subtlety. You inhale, sharp and involuntary, and your pulse stumbles in your throat. You know he can hear it. Your whole body prickles with awareness, strung too tight beneath the weight of restraint.

“Matt,” you hiss, quiet, dangerously close to breathless.

“Madam Ambassador,” he returns, mockingly reverent.

“People are going to notice,” you manage, aiming for cool and missing entirely. Instead, it lands somewhere just above a whisper, too thin to carry any weight.

“No, they won’t,” he murmurs, dipping his head just enough to make it feel intimate, almost conspiratorial. “They don’t see you the way I do.

“You look incredible tonight by the way,” Matt adds, offhand, like it’s just a fact.

You turn toward him, brow arched, lips already parted to ask how exactly he knows that - but he’s quicker. Of course he is.

“I counted nine heartbeats spike the second you walked in, four shallow breathers, and one guy even stopped talking mid-sentence,” he murmurs, head tilted, mouth curving into that slow, knowing smile. “That usually means you’re wearing something dangerous.”

You look away. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, and his voice is a breath too close. “I’m not starting anything.” An intentional pause. “Yet.”

Oh fuck. You know that tone. And you know how easily it undoes you. Your hand grips the stem of your champagne flute with too much pressure.

“That’s for later,” Matt continues, still smiling, still playing innocent, still entirely unbothered about the molten situation he’s creating beneath your thighs. “When we’re locked in your office, and you’re bent over the desk—” It’s humiliating, how quickly he short-circuits you. Especially here. Especially now. Surrounded by diplomats and donors and enough political firepower to start a polite war. “—this dress pushed up to your hips, hands flat, legs shaking. Trying so hard not to make a sound while I—”

“Madam Ambassador!”

You nearly drop your glass. 

Your head spins to the source of the sound as your aid appears at your side like she’s been launched from a cannon, all breathless urgency and faintly flushed cheeks, clearly trying not to run while absolutely running. The intimate bubble created between you and Matt bursts in a flash. You blink, once, twice, trying to remember how to put your professional mask back on.

She leans in closer, lowering her voice in the practiced way of someone attempting to make a scene look like not a scene.

“I’ve just got word that your husband is—“

But whatever seconds of warning you were about to get arrive too late. The doors don’t slam open with drama. They part neatly, elegantly, like every other perfectly choreographed detail of the night, just another entrance in a long parade of them.

Except, somehow, you know better.

So you turn. And there he is. Congressman Barnes. Bucky. Your husband.

Or rather: the six foot tall coal in your diplomatic stocking.

He stands in the open mouth of the ballroom, all broad shoulders and presence, like the media trained version of the man who once touched you like he was afraid you’d disappear. The rain’s left it’s fingerprints across the upturned collar of his coat, which he shrugs off, politely handing it to the doorman waiting. One dark strand of hair falls forward as he does, damp from the chill. He doesn’t bother brushing it back; he’s too busy scanning the room.

Steel blue eyes track the crowd with practiced efficiency. Old habits, older instincts. The assassin’s gaze never really left him, just learned to wear nicer suits.

But he’s not looking at the buzz of people, he’s looking through them, searching, until finally, they find their home.

His gaze finds yours like it always does, like there’s some old wire between you still conducting power, even now. And something in his expression goes soft. Fractional. Sharp edges dulled for one split second, like the look he used to give you across your kitchen island before the day’s chaos took him back to D.C. and left you with your coffee going cold. For a moment, the room shrinks to the two of you. 

But then, inevitable, his gaze drops, precise and burning. And you remember, in the same second he sees it, that Matt’s hand is still resting against the small of your back.

And for the first time all night, your thoughts empty, like someone yanked the power from the control panel in your brain and left you blinking through static. 

Instead, you’re just very suddenly aware: the low scoop of your dress, the heat of Matt’s fingers against your skin, the exact angle of Bucky’s jaw as he processes what he’s seeing, and the absolutely godawful presence of your aide standing next to you, still chattering on, blissfully oblivious to the way you’re internally appealing to every higher power on record, including a man in a red suit with a sleigh, to grant your Christmas wish and make the floor open up.

Bucky doesn’t react - at least not outwardly. His face is still carefully arranged, cloaking the real him. But it doesn’t reach his eyes. Oh no, they’re doing something else entirely. Calculating. Reading. Remembering.

Your spine locks. Your lungs forget how to do the one thing they were designed for. And before you can think, before you can help yourself, you step forward. Out of Matt’s touch. Like you’re guilty of something, even though this is exactly what you’d both agreed to.

Matt’s doesn’t protest. But his head tilts slightly, and his mouth flickers with the ghost of something less assured than earlier.

“Were you expecting him?” he murmurs, voice barely above a breath, pitched only for you.

You might answer. 'No'. You think you say it. But you’re not sure. Because your pulse is a snare drum in your ears and your dress is suddenly too tight and Matt is still behind you and before you can recalibrate, Bucky’s crossing the room. Big, purposeful strides, no detours, like gravity’s involved. Like the shortest distance between him and you is an inevitability. And maybe you blink. Maybe your fingers twitch. Maybe Matt says your name and you don’t hear it.

And then you feel it. Bucky’s arm curling around your waist, pulling you close and sliding into place like it never left. Like it belongs there. His fingers press into the curve of your hip, twitching slightly, like he’s reacquainting himself with the feeling of you. 

“Sorry I’m late, sweetheart,” he drawls, pressing a kiss to your cheek that’s more claim than greeting. “Did I miss anything important?”

You smile before you even register the impulse, before your brain catches up with your face. It’s even not performative - it’s worse. It’s reflex, that old, honey-warm reaction buried somewhere in the marrow of you, where all the bad decisions live. 

Of course his presence short-circuits your better judgment and rewires your body like a fucking Pavlovian trigger.

"Bucky," you breathe, and it comes out softer than you mean. Laced with something warm and involuntary and utterly stupid. Almost relieved. Which is objectively ridiculous, because he wasn’t supposed to be here, and you certainly weren’t waiting for him. ”You made it."

“Couldn’t let you do this alone,” he murmurs, and he leans in just enough to make it feel tender. And then you catch it, the lingering scent of his cologne - warm, spiced, sinfully familiar. It still curls under your skin, bypasses logic, and goes straight to that inconvenient place between your legs like your body hasn’t been thoroughly updated on the terms of your separation. 

His mouth brushes the line of your cheek with a deliberate softness. “You look gorgeous tonight, baby.”

Baby.

Oh, fuck you, actually. That word is a landmine, and you step on it hard. It detonates in your chest, all heat and memory and involuntary muscle reaction.

Your breath catches in the space between your collarbone and your pride. You can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t do anything except stand frozen, wondering how the hell you ended up here, in a ballroom full of politic’s most powerful, between your husband and your lover, and a not nearly enough alcohol in your system to deal with whatever chapter of your memoir this will eventually be filed under.

And you’re suddenly violently aware of how absurdly close and entirely too perceptive Matt is. Of how his hand has only just left the bare skin at the base of your spine. Of how the air between the three of you has tightened into something sharp and charged and idiotically male.

Bucky smiles at Matt. Or rather, Bucky does the thing he does instead of smiling, that faint curve at the corners, that almost-polite flicker of civility that’s more like a veiled assessment than an actual expression of warmth.

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?” He asks, just barbed enough to jolt you straight out of the spiralling mess in your brain.

You open your mouth. Something resembling a noise emerges, high pitched and useless. You opt to close it again. Then you flick a glance toward Matt, who still hasn’t moved, though the slight tension in his jaw says enough. You are, by every measure, out of protocol, out of champagne, and rapidly running out of coherent thoughts.

You laugh. It’s automatic. Bright, brittle, entirely unconvincing. The kind of laugh that would get flagged in a hostage video.

“Yes—of course,” you say, in a voice less convincing than the one you used to persuade a room full of foreign dignitaries that a rogue drone strike was merely an ‘unfortunate timing issue’. You turn to Matt, hand gesturing somewhere vaguely between them both. “This is, uhh…”

And that’s when your brain decides to eject itself from the conversation entirely. Instead, the Rolodex of introductions spins uselessly behind your eyes: This is Matt—no, too casual—This is Mr. Murdock—who is he, your high school principal?—This is the embassy’s legal counsel—sure, fine, if you’ve never met the guy before—This is the man currently fucking your wi—Jesus Christ.

Your mouth opens. Something half-shaped and unapproved begins to form. Abort. Abort. Abor—

“Matt Murdock, legal counsel for the embassy,” Matt introduces smoothly, mercifully stepping in before your mouth does something catastrophic. He extends his hand toward your husband like he wasn’t just whispering filth against your ear five minutes ago, his smile a masterclass in lawyerly charm.

Bucky doesn’t take it right away. Just stares at him. That quiet, unreadable thing he does, the one that always made other politicians uneasy and your staffers nervous, the one that means he’s doing more than thinking. He’s judging, asessing, cataloguing, slotting information into place like a sniper sighting his target, only this time the ammunition is social and the terrain is your fucking embassy Christmas party.

After leaving it almost a second longer than what’s polite, Bucky takes Matt’s hand. Firm, and a fraction too tight. But Matt holds his ground, doesn’t flinch once.

“Bucky Barnes,” he returns at last. “I’ve heard your name come up a few times.”

Matt, ever composed and gracious, nods easily. “All good things, I hope.”

Bucky’s mouth twitches - technically a smile, if you’re being generous. “That remains to be seen.”

You shift just enough to face Bucky, one hand ghosting across his shirt like you’re smoothing out his tie. “James.” You warn under you breath, into his chest, just loud enough for him. 

His eyes, those ridiculous, impossible blue eyes, cut down to you. “What?” He replies, pretending innocence. 

You give him that polished, razor-thin smile you’ve perfected over a decade of high-stakes diplomacy and rooms where the only language permitted was subtext. 

“Don’t,” you hiss through it, lips frozen in place, pressing the words through your clenched jaw like a trick of ventriloquism. “Not here.”

“Don’t what?” he shrugs with maddening innocence, like he’s never once in his life started a conflict he didn’t fully intend to finish. “I’m just talking, doll. Just acquainting myself with the man who, in my absence, has so gallantly been entertaining my wife.” 

And there it is. My wife. 

It lands like a slap from silk gloves. Yet it was slipped into the sentence like it belongs there, and, you suppose, technically it still does. Especially with how your body reacts. 

Because it’s not just a word. Not from him. And you hate that it still works on you. Hate that it makes your throat tighten, makes your skin heat where his arm sits so casually around your waist. Hate the ache that curls low in your belly, sharp as it ever was, your body still tuned to his frequency like no time has passed at all.

You try to breathe. Try to smile. Try not to picture him saying it under different circumstances - rougher, close to your ear, with your name caught between his teeth and your nails dragging lines down his back. Try, desperately, not to picture the version of him that still lives somewhere under your skin.

Instead, you so bravely try and do what any self-respecting woman with two degrees, three diplomatic awards, and several glasses of champagne in her system does. You try to salvage the conversation with dignity. 

Except you don’t get the chance. Because James Buchanan “my wife” Barnes opens his stupid mouth again.

“I’m sure I’m not the only one curious,” he adds, that casual little lilt in his voice. “Not with the way he’s hanging around you like a lost puppy.”

Your smile collapses. Even Matt’s practiced charm falters. And that’s when your hand lands flat against Bucky’s chest.

A perfectly innocent motion, of course. If someone took a photo right now, it would look like a poised, affectionate gesture - and not the silent threat it absolutely is - as you steer him away from Matt before the night can get any worse.

“Okay,” you smile so sweetly it could rot teeth quicker than Christmas candy, ‘I think the Congressman and I are just going to take a little moment, have a bit of a, you know, marital catch up,” you keep talking to Matt over your shoulder, “I’ll find you later, Matt.”

And then you’re gone, dragging Bucky through the crowd, pulling him by the hand now. Not laced fingers, oh no, just your palm wrapped around his wrist like a diplomatic escort and not, say, a woman seconds from finding the nearest unoccupied corridor and verbally eviscerating her husband behind a ficus.

His gait is maddeningly casual. Because of course it is. Of course he follows half a step behind, letting you lead him through the crowd, letting you fume and fluster and curse, while he’s all composed amusement like he’s exactly where he wants to be. Like he hasn’t just detonated a perfectly groomed social event with one laced remark and a single possessive noun.

“You cannot do that,” you snap, breath sharp through your teeth, as you throw a glare over your shoulder. “You do not get to show up late and piss all over the conversation like a jealous husband.”

And just like that, he stops walking. 

Which means, by default, you’re suddenly yanked to a graceless halt mid-stride, tipping you off balance and straight back into him.

The full inertia of your forward momentum meets the immovable object of one emotionally constipated super-soldier, and your composure unravels in the three seconds it takes for your body to register proximity. Your palms slap flat against the wall of his chest to steady yourself. 

And Christ, he’s still so solid. Stupidly, impossibly solid. Your treacherous fingers hesitate a beat too long against the fabric of his shirt, caught in the gravity of muscle memory, like they’re trying to map old territory. You tell yourself it’s balance. Not the slow, aching part of you that still wants to hold on.

Eventually, eventually, you peel yourself off him and step forward again, spine straightening with diplomatic precision. 

That’s when he crosses his arms. And the way the fabric of his suit strains across the thick lines of his biceps nearly short-circuits whatever righteous indignation you’d been clinging to. Your brain stutters. Your pulse jumps. Because that body - your husband’s body - still knows how to shut your thoughts off like a flipped switch.

You swallow hard. Try to remember what it was you were furious about, and hang onto that like a lifeline.

“Didn’t know I had to RSVP to my own wife’s events,” he quips, voice all smug indifference and no apology. Like the words just slipped out of his mouth by accident, and he’s not choosing this fight on purpose. “Just in case she’s plus-oneing with her boyfriend.”

Truly, a flawless demonstration of how neither of you are good at detachment, despite insisting otherwise when you agreed to privately end your marriage and that seeing other people was allowed. 

And it hits harder than it should. Unfair and sore. Not just a jab, but a full, winding punch to the ribs.

You don’t let your face flinch, still holding his steely gaze, but the fury tightens in your throat, and the taste of champagne goes bitter in your mouth, making it hard to swallow past the taste of every unspoken thing between you.

And maybe something in your silence hits him harder than your words ever could. Maybe Bucky realises he’s pushed it too far. Maybe he even starts to feel a little guilty. Because that telltale little crease that starts to pull between his brows - the one that always used to show up when he hurt your feelings.

He looks away. Just for a second. Slides his hands into the pockets of that immaculate suit like he needs something to do with them besides reach for you.

“I should’ve called,” he admits.

“You should’ve done a lot of things,” you counter, but it comes out quieter than you expect. Not soft, nor gentle, just tired. Worn at the edges in the way you only ever are around him. 

And maybe, god, maybe this is the moment. The liminal, flickering heartbeat between fury and something vulnerable. Maybe you’re both on the edge of something real. Maybe—

“Oh, there’s my favourite couple!” 

God forbid you finish a thought this evening. Never in your life have you wanted a Christmas carol to come true quite so desperately as you want Silent Night to live up to its goddamn promise.

You don’t even get a moment to brace before both your hands are swept up in a pair of perfectly manicured claws belonging to a retired ambassador. Generous with her compliments, sparing with her actual opinions, and somehow always convinced you and Bucky are the very picture of domestic bliss.

“Oh, just look at you two,” she coos, with the kind of warm familiarity that only comes from never actually having a real conversation with either of you. “It’s been far too long since I’ve seen you in a room together, but aren’t you just luminous. Gorgeously luminous.”

Her gaze darts between you like a bloodhound on the scent of high-society gossip, pupils practically dilating at the sight of you and Bucky together. “James, dear, you must be keeping her happy with the way she’s glowing.”

You smother your scoff in a polite little cough. But Bucky, damn him, doesn’t miss a beat.

He smiles, a little crooked, and reaches instinctively for your waist like he’s done it every day of his life, and will do every day after this. “Trying my best, ma’am.”

“Of course you are,” she says, patting his arm in that way older women do when they’ve decided you’re a particularly well-trained husband. Then her attention swivels back to you, 

“My husband says your James speaks about you all the time, you know.” Her smile grows indulgent, like she’s letting you in on some private, precious detail. “He’s all ‘my wife says’ this, ‘my wife thinks’ that. Quite devoted, for a man drowning in committee meetings.”

And just like that, the air thins. 

Your chest folds in on itself, and you’re not entirely sure if it’s your lungs or your sense of reality collapsing first. Because you hadn’t considered that. Not once. Not in all the months of press releases and dodged calls. That he might still talk about you. In present tense. In rooms you weren’t in. Casually. Like you mattered. Like you still belonged to him in some way that wasn’t just tactical optics and expertly coordinated photo ops.

Something urgent and ugly coils tight beneath your ribs. The sharp ache of hope’s ghost. Like everything you told yourself you’d stopped wanting was still curled up somewhere inside you, only playing dead.

Your gaze lifts before you can stop it, peering up through your lashes, drawn to him like a tide to the moon you never really escaped. Your eyes search him, scrambling for something, soft in a way you hate. Even your lips part uselessly as though the questions lodged in your throat might spill out if they knew how to take shape.

But Bucky’s frozen.

Not visibly. Not in any way that would register unless you knew him like you do. You feel it in the way his hand tightens infinitesimally against your waist, in the way his jaw is tight, in the way his eyes remain pinned somewhere past the woman’s shoulder. Like he can pretend you didn’t just hear that.

But you don’t get to sit with any of it. Of course you don’t. Because she barrels onward, entirely unaware of the existential grenade she’s just lobbed into the centre of your fake marriage.

“And when,” she adds, all conspiratorial mischief as she clasps your hands again, “can we expect a baby from you two, hmm? We can’t let these genes go to waste - your children would be beautiful. Just imagine, a little diplomatic darling running around. What a legacy!”

Your smile calcifies, and your eyes strain so wide that your soul starts clawing for an exit through your sockets. You laugh, something brittle and not at all human.

“Oh, wouldn’t that be something,” you reply, and you really do mean it, just not in the way she’ll take it. “But you’ll have to excuse us, because my husband and I need to compare notes before the speeches start.”

You don’t wait for a response. You’re already turning. Already seizing Bucky’s wrist, which is annoyingly warm and comforting in a way that only makes everything feel worse. Your fingers curl around it in a firm grip that makes your intentions painfully clear and doesn’t leave room for interpretation. 

You drag him, again, through the crowd, but this time there’s no half-hearted attempt at a pasted on smile.

He follows again, of course. But this time with the sheepish obedience of a man who knows he’s two seconds from being flayed with nothing but words. His steps lengthen to match yours, just brushing close enough to trip every circuit in your body that hasn’t already shorted out.

This time, you don’t make the mistake of heading for the first empty corridor. No. This time, it’s your office. Four walls, a lock, and a door you can slam.

‧͙⋆•̩̩͙˚❅*̩̩͙•̩̩͙⋆‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛⋆˚❅•̩̩͙⋆‧͙

The second the door clicks shut, it’s like the whole room inhales with you. You twist the lock with a flick that borders on violent and turn just in time for him to speak.

“Now, to be fair, I think—”

“No, absolutely not,” you cut in, voice already high and tight, finger coming up like a weapon. “You do not get to ‘now to be fair’ me right now, Bucky.”

He blinks. Holds his hands up, palms splayed like that’s going to stop the hurricane already building in your chest. “Okay—”

“No. Not okay. You don’t get to waltz into my event, late, might I add, and unannounced, and then start growling at my colleagues like you’re marking territory you haven’t touched in months.”

“Oh, I’m the problem?” he says, and there it is, that goddamn smirk that only comes out when he knows he’s getting under your skin. “Sorry, sweetheart, didn’t realise my wife would be so protective over her boyfriend.”

Oh, you are one inch from throttling him.

“Jesus Christ!” You seethe, glaring at the impossibly stupid man before you. You’re pacing now, slow and sharp like a predator in heels. “Can we drop the jealous bullshit? You agreed to this, Bucky. Remember? Your suggestion, actually. We keep the optics, we drop the intimacy. I believe your exact words were ‘no strings, no hard feelings.’”

Bucky’s jaw tightens, the smirk wobbling just enough to show the real teeth behind it. He crosses his arms, that stupid tailored jacket pulling tight across his biceps again, and it pisses you off even more.

“I’m not jealous,” he shoots back, too quick and too defensive for a man supposedly unbothered. You scoff in utter disbelief. “I’m not.” He insists, and you’re not sure who believes it less - you or him. “But you and your boyfriend weren’t exactly subtle, and that’s not what we agreed to.”

The space between you shrinks without either of you meaning to close it, the argument pulling you inward like gravity instead of pushing you apart, heat collecting in the narrow strip of air between your bodies until it feels charged, unstable, one wrong movement away from ignition.

“We agreed to discretion,” you snap back, heat flaring. “Not fucking invisibility. And for your information, I’ve been seeing him for two months and nobody’s noticed a thing.”

His jaw tightens. A muscle feathers just under the skin and his eyes darken a fraction, blue sharpening into something raw and furious and hurt. But it’s gone as fast as it came, smoothed over by the cold anger he wears when he’s protecting something more vulnerable. 

His voice, when it comes, is lower. More dangerous.

“I noticed,” he states. “Immediately.”

Your stomach lurches with butterflies, but you just roll your eyes, because it’s easier than admitting the way that makes your pulse trip. 

“Congratulations, you want a medal?” You bite back, sarcasm thick enough to wade through, “You noticed because you’re a freakish cyborg with a surveillance complex and abandonment iss—”

“Because he looked like he wanted to eat you alive!” Bucky argues, eyes flaring as he steps in, voice louder now, more petulant.

His words hit like punches but land like confessions. And he’s close. Too close. The way only Bucky can be oppressive and intoxicating at once.

“Well, he wasn’t the only one in that room tonight with that look! Your wife is quite the catch, you’d know if you were ever actually around,” you fire back, loud and mean, the words leaving your mouth before you can stop them.

That lands. Hard. His nostrils flare, his posture shifts. Silence slams down between you, thick and volatile. You’re breathing hard now. So is he. The air feels too small, the walls too close.

“You never call,” you continue, stepping closer now, daring him to move first. “You never check in. I find out what city you’re in from CNN half the time, and the rest of the time? I get a neatly worded email from that pretty little blonde assistant of yours.”

“It’s her job to manage my calendar!” Bucky exclaims, exasperated. 

“Is it also her job to make it nearly impossible for me to speak to my own husband?” The words slip out before you can stop them, sharp and bitter. “Or is that just a perk?”

He stares at you now, brows drawn together, openly incredulous. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

You shrug, brittle and furious, barely hiding your hurt. “Don’t you think she’s a little young for you?”

The line is bait. He knows it. You know it is. And you also know it’s below the belt, unfair and loaded and seething with all the things you’re refusing to admit. It sits in the air like a lit match.

For a second, he looks genuinely startled. Then, infuriatingly, his mouth curves, not soft, not amused in any kind way, but sharp with recognition. Like he’s just spotted your tell. “Jesus Christ. You’re jealous.”

“I am not jealous,” you snap, too fast. “I’m pointing out your hypocrisy.”

“Bullshit.”

“You’re the one who walked in and picked a fight like you still get a say—”

“I am your husband.”

You don’t even remember how you got this close, or how you ended up with your back to the wall. But there’s no space between your bodies now. Just heat.

“Oh, now you remember? Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like you left me to rot across an ocean and then got offended when I didn’t wait quietly for you to come back.”

“I didn’t leave you,” he snaps, the control cracking just enough to let the heat show. “You knew what this job was. You knew what Congress would mean.”

“And I knew what I meant to you,” you fire back, sharper now, because something in your chest is starting to feel too tight, too close to splitting. “Or at least I did once. Before it got inconvenient.”

His jaw works. You can see the muscle jumping there, feel the tension rolling off him in waves. “You’re the one who took the London post! You think it didn’t feel like you chose your career over me?”

“Because you told me to.”

“I told you to take the opportunity,” he corrects, voice rising now despite himself. “I didn’t tell you to move your entire life three thousand miles away and replace me with the first man who pays you attention.”

That one lands. Harder than the rest.

Your chest tightens, sharp and sudden, like he’s punched straight through the ribs instead of around them. “Don’t you dare reduce Matt to a placeholder,” you say, voice shaking despite your best efforts. “He showed up when you didn’t.”

“Oh, he showed up, alright,” Bucky says, dark amusement curling around the edges of his voice. “Real hero. Must’ve been tough for him, swooping in while the husband’s away, busy doing the job he was elected to do.”

“There it is,” you whisper. You glare up at him, furious and full of something you refuse to name. He’s so close now your lips graze when you breathe. “That’s the one you keep coming back to. Like your job absolves you of everything else.”

“It explains it.”

“No,” you snap, anger flaring bright enough to burn through the hurt. “It excuses it. To you. Not to me.”

You’re so close now that you can feel the heat of him, the way his presence fills the room and presses against you, the familiar weight of him triggering memories your body is not equipped to handle right now. His hands flex at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to reach out or maybe to shove you away. You’re not sure which would be worse.

"You think I wanted this? You think I like being Congressman Barnes?”

Your heart is a snare drum, pulsing so loud you can barely hear your own thoughts over the thunder in your chest.

"You chose it.” 

"I chose it for us. To build a life where I wasn't just the Winter Soldier. To be someone you could be proud of," he pauses a moment, and when he speaks again, it's quieter than before, almost like he's embarrassed. "To be someone who deserved you.”

Your heart lurches.

Skips once, hard and ungraceful, like it’s trying to crash its way out of your chest. You hate him for saying it. You hate the weight of it, the honesty in it, the you in it. The part of you that’s still too soft for him stumbles on it, almost falters. Almost breaks. Almost

But you’re angry, and you’re proud, and he still hasn’t earnt the softness. So you weaponise the one thing you shouldn’t. You push deeper. Twist the blade just to feel the sting.

“Yeah?” you say, voice quieter now, sweeter too, but edged with a cruel bite. “Then maybe you should’ve thought about that before suggesting we separate just so you could screw your assistant the second it got difficult.”

His reaction is immediate.

Bucky’s eyes flash, and for a second you can see the moment the fury slams into him, banks hard against his ribs, and claws for purchase behind his teeth.

“I’m not sleeping with her,” he spits. “Jesus Christ.”

You blink surprised, not by the denial, but by how wounded it sounds coming out of his mouth.

“I’ve never touched her,” he bites out again, louder now, breath hot against your cheek, his body pressing in so firmly now there’s nowhere for the anger to go but straight through you. “Not once. If you want her fired, I'll have her gone tomorrow.”

Your gaze flicks, traitorously, involuntarily, to his lips, pulled taut in anger but still so impossibly inviting. You hate yourself for it.

“Oh, how gallant of you,” you sneer, though your voice is starting to betray you, coming out thinner than you want.

Neither of you moves. Neither of you backs down. You’re breathing the same air now, chest brushing chest, the heat of him unmistakable, unavoidable, a memory your body never quite forgot how to respond to.

“Stop being a brat,” he warns, eyes burning as they rake over your face, your mouth, your throat. “Stop using her as a shield because you don’t like what you’re feeling right now.”

His chest brushes yours with every inhale. You can feel the heat of him through the silk of your dress. His gaze drops again, to your lips this time, and stays there just long enough to be dangerous.

“What I’m feeling?” you bite back, breath shallow, your back flat to the wall, his presence swallowing every inch of air between you. “You don’t know what I’m feeling.”

Your breath mingles, sharp and uneven, hot from the argument and the hum of tension coiled between two mouths that know exactly how the other tastes.

“I know what you’re feeling,” he replies, low, slow, and devastatingly calm. “Because it’s the same way I felt when I walked into that room and saw another man touching what’s still mine.”

His pupils are blown wide, ringed with a storm-dark blue, locked on your mouth like he can hear the lies forming before you speak them.

But it’s all too much - his heat, his scent, the familiar weight of him against you, and when you open your mouth to argue, to snap, to say something, all that punches out of your lungs is a quiet, needy little whimper.

And that’s all it takes. 

Bucky’s on you before you can even process it, crashing forward like a moth to flame, dragging your mouth to his like he’s starving for you, and swallowing the sound like it’s his to claim,.

His metal arm wraps around your waist with bruising surety, yanking you flush to him like he’s taking back what was always his.

Your bodies collide like punishment, or proof even, like maybe this is the only way either of you still knows how to communicate anymore, with heat and ache and the frantic drag of bodies trying to rewrite something they agreed to erase.

His other hand fists in your hair, gripping the updo your stylist spent far too long perfecting, fingers sinking in until strands slip free, soft and ruined already, just like you. He uses the hold to tilt your head back, guiding you into the kiss the way he wants it - deeper, harder, a kind of possession dressed up as need.

Your hands clutch at his lapels, desperate for purchase, pulling him impossibly closer even though there’s nothing left to close. You moan into his mouth, helpless and high pitched, and Bucky takes it like an invitation, tongue sliding past your lips with a groan of satisfaction that vibrates straight through you, hungry and all-consuming.

He kisses you like he’s still angry. Like he’s trying to prove a point you didn’t let him make.

Because the argument doesn’t stop. Not really. It just changes shape, becomes the rhythm of his body against yours, the way your nails dig into his shoulders, the broken little sound in the back of your throat when he mouths at the hinge of your jaw like he’s furious it still fits so perfectly there.

Bucky groans against your neck, low and guttural, like the sound is being torn straight from his chest, like the taste of you does something to him he can’t reason with. His teeth scrape your skin, not yet hard enough to mark, but enough to make you keen and arch into him, craving more. 

“Fuck, I missed this,” he mutters against your throat between kisses, panting, like he’s not even trying to pretend it’s controlled anymore. “Missed you.”

He drags his mouth back up to your lips, tasting you again, all wet heat and tongue and desperation. It’s messy now, slick and breathless, spit-slicked lips and the hot rasp of groans exchanged like promises you don’t trust either of you to keep.

Your stomach tightens as his hands start to roam lower, trailing greedily down your sides like he’s trying to remap territory he’s been exiled from.

The cool metal of his left hand is a stark contrast to the heat in your skin, and it slides lower with a possessive kind of precision, fingers spreading over your thigh through the split in your dress, gripping hard enough to bruise. He lifts your leg around his hips, dragging you closer until your hips are flush to his.

You gasp into his mouth as you feel the strain of his thick cock against his slacks, blunt pressure hot and insistent against where you’re already soaked for him.

Your head tips back against the wall with a quiet, broken moan, your mouth falling open as your hips roll instinctively against him, because your body remembers exactly what that cock feels like inside you. The stretch, the pressure, the delicious, devastating fullness. 

And it’s already begging for it again. 

You’re soaked already. Embarrassingly so. Your panties cling damp between your thighs, useless, and your clit throbs with every tiny shift of his hips.

You try to hike your other leg up around him, desperate now, frantic for more - more friction, more contact, more of him grinding against the place that’s throbbing for him. But the length of your dress restricts the movement of that leg, trapping you, keeping from what you need.

“Shit—” you whine, frustrated, nails digging into his shoulders as you pant against his mouth. “Bucky—”

He just groans, deep and low in his throat, utterly pleased at your reaction, then drags his mouth to your jaw, your throat, kissing you like it’s an addiction he’s relapsing into. “S’okay, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, voice heavy with unbearable fondness. “I’ve got you. I know what you need.”

And then he’s moving, shifting his grip with that maddening, unthinking super soldier ease. One hand firm around your thigh, the other gripping your hip, turning you, then walking you backward without breaking the kiss.

Your ass hits the edge of your desk, scattering the carefully arranged stack of briefing notes and security clearances like they never mattered. And before you can catch your breath, he’s on you again, crowding out every thought but the press of his body and the iron heat of his grip as he pushes your back flat to the polished wood with a kind of desperation that says this has been clawing at him for far too long.

Then his hands are already working the silk of your dress up your thighs with a force that doesn’t care about the designer label or the tailor’s handiwork. He shoves it high around your hips until the air hits your thighs and your panties are all that’s left between him and what he wants.

They’re practically translucent from how worked up you are already, clinging to your pussy like a second skin. You feel the rumble of his groan before you hear it, low and visceral and punched from his chest like he’s the one being touched.

“Fuck me,” he mutters, more breath than word, hands spreading wide over your hips, palms rough and hungry, splaying across your thighs like he’s trying to brand himself into the curve of you. “Look at you.”

You writhe under his grip, your hips canting forward without conscious thought, chasing his cock, his mouth, his hands, anything. “Bucky—please—”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Never has. Not when it comes to you.

He drops to his knees, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties and he peels them down slow, slow enough to tease, fast enough to keep you begging, slick strands clinging and breaking as he pulls them down. He barely tosses them aside before he’s pushing your thighs wider, nudging you open like a gift he’s about to unwrap with his mouth.

Then he's dragging your legs over his impossibly broad shoulders, spreading you wide with the strength of someone who could split you in half if he wanted.

His mouth is maddeningly close. His breath fans over your soaked folds, and it’s fucking torture, the heat of it, the knowledge of what’s coming, the way he’s just staring like he hasn’t seen you like this a hundred times before.

“You have no fucking idea,” he growls, eyes dark and locked on the mess between your thighs, “how long I’ve been thinking about this pussy. How many fucking nights I’ve jerked off in that goddamn DC apartment, fist around my cock, thinkin’ about my wife’s pussy. Wet. Open. Dripping for me.”

Your fingers claw uselessly at the desk underneath you, your back arching, nerves on fire from the heat of his breath alone. He kisses along the inside of your thigh, open-mouthed drags of lips and teeth and tongue that make your hips twitch, his every movement deliberately slow just to enjoy watching you squirm.

“God—” It comes out ruined, breathy, pathetic, all broken pride and pent-up hunger. You buck your hips toward him, shameless now. “Bucky—just, please!”

He smirks then, dark and satisfied, looking up at you from between your legs, “Well,” he drawls, “since you asked so nicely, sweetheart.”

And then there’s no thought left at all. Just his tongue parting you, licking into you with a kind of single-minded worship that borders on obscene. Wet, filthy sounds echo off your office walls as he devours you like a man starved, moaning into your cunt like he’s missed the taste more than he would air.

His tongue curls against your clit with maddening precision, the angle perfect, the rhythm devastating. He knows your body too well. Every moan. Every twitch. Every sweet, aching spot that makes you fall apart.

“Always so fuckin’ sweet for me,” he rumbles, the words pressed directly to your soaked pussy, more vibration than voice, and you gasp at the way it hits. “Knew you’d still taste the same. Knew this pretty little cunt would remember me.”

His mouth is relentless, tongue dragging slow, firm circles until your thighs tremble against his broad shoulders and your hips try to chase the rhythm, greedy for more.

Your hands find his hair, fingers sinking deep into the brunet strands. You tug, hard, like you want to punish him for how good it feels. His groan is immediate, wrecked and needy, and it vibrates against your clit in a way that nearly breaks you.

“Shit—Bucky—fuck—”

You’re barely coherent, hips rocking helplessly, fisting his hair tighter, grounding yourself in the slick mess he’s making of you. He groans again, louder this time, grinding his face deeper between your legs like he’s trying to bury himself inside you with his tongue alone.

Each pass of his mouth pulls another high, broken moan from your throat. Each curl of his tongue sends your nails raking across his scalp, hips bucking, thighs clenching, the heat building so fast you’re already spiralling, too close, too fast.

The pleasure tips past sharp into overwhelming, every nerve ending screaming as his mouth refuses to ease up, tongue relentless, precise, cruel in how well it knows you. Your hips jerk, then stutter, then try to pull away, but his grip tightens instantly, strong hands locking around your thighs, anchoring you in place, keeping you spread and open and right where he wants you.

The sounds that come out of you aren’t dignified. They’re messy, breathless, broken little noises you can’t seem to stop, each one punched loose by another flick of his tongue, another hum of satisfaction against your clit. 

“Bucky—” you whine, voice thin and wrecked, already shaking. “Please—it’s—I—”

You don’t even know what you’re asking for. Less. More. Mercy. Ruin.

“Oh, you poor thing,” he purrs, voice hot against your folds. “Your boyfriend not takin’ care of you right? Leavin’ my wife all wet and aching like this?” His tongue presses firm and slow, possessive, making you gasp. “She’s weeping for me, baby. Guess I gotta do everything myself.”

Your whole body arches, trembling, legs wrapped around his neck like you’re trying to pull him inside you. Your thighs shake. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your cunt. Your moans are broken things. Your release coils tauter and tauter.

Bucky feels it the second your thighs start to tremble, the way your body tightens, oversensitive and desperate, and he makes a pleased little sound low in his chest

“Be a good girl for me,” he whispers, licking your clit in tight, insistent circles, his voice dripping filth and possession. “Let your husband have what’s his.”

Your orgasm hits like a snapped wire. 

You shatter with a strangled sob, “Bucky—oh my god—”, the orgasm hitting like it’s been waiting months to rip its claws through you, every muscle seizing, your hands white-knuckled in his hair.

Your cunt clenches around nothing, pulsing, spasming, slick pouring down his mouth as you come undone on his tongue, your whole body shuddering like it’s too much, too bright, too intense to survive.

His tongue keeps moving, slower now but heavier, pressing and licking through your oversensitivity with a cruel patience that makes your thighs shake even harder, makes your breath stutter into sharp little gasps you can’t control.

His mouth eventually drags off you with a wet, obscene sound, as he exhales hot across your cunt one last time. You can’t even speak. You’re just gasping, fucked-out and twitching and wrecked.

You barely register the movement until he’s rising, towering over you, the heat of his body swallowing everything. Your slick coats his mouth, his chin, his stubble darkened and wet, and the sight of it makes your stomach flip all over again. 

His mouth catches yours in a kiss that’s filthy, tongue sliding against yours so you can taste yourself on him. It’s needy and deep, and you groan into it, dizzy, swallowing the filthy remnants of your own cunt off his tongue.

His hands cradle your jaw, tilting your face up, holding you steady like he’s trying to anchor you back into him, into this, into now.

He presses in between your thighs, and you can feel how hard he is, still trapped under his slacks, thick and pushing against your oversensitive pussy. You cry out into his mouth, legs reflexively trying to close, but his hands are there, firm on your hips, keeping you open like he owns the right.

“Easy,” he murmurs against your lips, but there’s nothing gentle about the way he grinds into you, slow and torturous, letting you feel exactly how hard he is, how badly he wants this. “Stay open for me, pretty girl. Just like that. That’s my girl.”

You’re whining again, desperate, keening, need crawling back into your skin. The heat is molten, sending your pulse racing, overstimulation and desire crashing into each other in a dizzy blur.

Your hips roll against him without permission, chasing the hard press of him, the wet heat of your cunt aching to be filled by his cock again, after so long, despite the tremble in your thighs.

“Fuck,” you whimper, breathless. “Fuck, Bucky—please—”

His eyes flash with need, the black of his pupils swallowing the blue entirely. And then your world flips.

His hands clamp down, and he spins you with effortless force, twisting your body and pushing you forward in one fluid motion until your chest hits the desk with a heavy thud.

“Bucky—!” you gasp, palms catching against the polished wood. More papers scatter. Something glass rolls and shatters on the floor. You don’t care.

He crowds behind you immediately, one hand pressed between your shoulder blades to keep you bent, the other yanking your dress up higher, baring your ass, exposing your soaked cunt completely to the cool air and his greedy stare.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” he mutters behind you, rough and ruined. “Look at this pussy. Still dripping for me.”

You whimper, high and wrecked, pushing your ass back against him, greedy for pressure, for friction, for him.

Behind you, there’s the unmistakable zip of his trousers undoing. Your breath stutters, a needy little gasp punching out of you as you feel him free himself, hot and thick and close.

But he doesn’t sink into you.

Instead, he presses in just enough to let you feel him. The thick, heavy length of his cock slides slow and deliberate between your slick folds, catching your clit with the head, dragging through you without breaching the place you’re begging him to fill. The friction alone makes your knees wobble, a broken sound tearing out of you as your hips jerk back on instinct.

“Uh‑uh,” he murmurs immediately, one hand snapping to your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as he stills you. “Easy.”

You whine, long and pitiful, the sound vibrating through your chest as your palms press harder into the desk, knuckles whitening. Your body feels too open, too exposed, every nerve lit up and screaming for him.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, “You miss this cock that bad, baby?”

You choke on a sound, hips pushing back helplessly, chasing him, begging without words. His cock nudges your entrance, fat and hard, and your walls clench uselessly around nothing.

But he keeps teasing, that thick, perfect head catching, dragging, pressing, never breaching. “Need your husband’s cock, huh? Your pretty lawyer not fillin’ you up right?”

Your answer comes out as a wrecked, wordless moan, your head dropping, your body rocking back against him like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. You can’t even form a denial, can’t gather the pieces of your pride off the floor.

He taps the head of his cock against your puffy clit twice, still swollen from his mouth, just sharp enough to make you cry out and bring your focus back to him.

“Come on, pretty girl” he murmurs, possessive and coaxing all at once, thumb digging into your hip. “If my wife wants her husband’s cock, then she can ask for it.”

You sob, the frustration sharp and humiliating. “Bucky—please—please—I need your cock. I need my husband—please—”

The growl he lets out behind you is raw and unfiltered. The kind of sound that shakes down your spine and settles somewhere in the hollow between your legs, and then he’s moving, cock in hand, pressing in with a slow, punishing thrust that steals the breath from your lungs.

The thick head finally breaches you, stretching you wide, your walls clenching, trying to pull him in faster. Greedy and soaking and helpless against the thick, brutal stretch of him.

“Oh—fuck—” you gasp, voice strangled and high, hands slipping against the polished desk as your hips push back, instinctively trying to take more, take all of him.

“Jesus Christ,” he grits through his teeth, watching himself disappear into you. “You’re still so fucking tight baby—fuck—this pussy missed me, huh?”

And then hips snap forward, the last few inches slamming in until he’s buried to the fucking hilt, his pelvis flush to your ass with a sharp smack that echoes off the walls.

You scream, high and wrecked and wanton, your legs nearly giving out under the feel of him, the stretch, the heat, the fullness. Your cunt clenches around him again, fluttering helplessly like your body’s trying to pull him deeper even when there’s nowhere left for him to go.

“Listen to you,” he hisses, tone dark and filthy, thrusting just once, shallow and firm, enough to make you jolt. “You hear that, sweetheart? That’s my girl. My pretty wife. Cryin’ for her husband’s cock.”

Then he pulls back and fucks into you, hard and deep, no warning, no preamble, just a ruthless snap of hips that sends your body jolting forward over the desk, a ragged cry spilling from your lips. 

The desk creaks under the force of his continued thrusts, your skin slapping loud against his, each drag of his cock in you knocking the air from your lungs, stealing the words from your throat. All you can do is moan, wrecked, your walls gripping him like they never learned how to let him go.

And god, you’re gone. Helpless. Shaking. Crying out his name like it’s the only thing you know anymore, the world narrowed to the pounding weight of him inside you. Your pussy pulses around him, your orgasm already building again, sharp and fast and unbearable.

You turn your head, cheek dragging across the polished desk, because it’s not enough just to feel him. You need to see him, your husband, the man whose cock is currently buried so deep in you that you swear he’s knocking the breath from your lungs.

Your vision is already blurring, glassy, lashes wet with unshed tears, but you can just catch him in the corner of your eye.

Cheeks flushed, his head tipped back, strands of hair out of its careful styling and sticking damp to his brow, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he fucks you with a single-minded focus that’s almost worship.

God, he’s beautiful. You could cry just looking at him. You might, if you weren't already.

It’s obscene, how much you need to touch him, to claw your way back into his arms, to have his mouth on yours and his hands everywhere at once. You reach back, needy, desperate for any part of him you can grab, but you’re too far gone, fingers scrabbling against empty air like that’ll be enough to bridge the chasm between you.

“Bucky…” It’s a pathetic whine, the only word you can manage. Your hand still claws at nothing, pleading for contact, for reassurance, for him.

His gaze snaps to yours instantly, pupils blown and mouth curling into a pleased, wicked smile as he takes in the sight of you, cheek smushed into the desk, tears on your cheeks, still trying to reach for him even when you can barely breathe.

“Yeah, baby, I know,” he coos, voice somehow both rough and syrup-sweet, and he lets one hand slip from your hip to find your outstretched hand, holding tight through every brutal, perfect thrust.

“You're perfect, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice thick with praise. “My pretty wife, all fucked-out and still wantin’ more.”

You can only nod, breathless and wrecked, tears still spilling down your cheeks, and the sound you make is nothing short of ruined. 

He presses his forehead to your shoulder blade, breath hot on your skin as he pounds into you. One arm braces beside your head, the other stays gripping your hand, holding you like an anchor while his hips keep driving into you, every thrust dragging another sound out of you that you don’t recognise as language anymore.

He mouths along your throat, teeth catching first, a sharp nip that makes you cry out, then another, and another, claiming skin with greedy little bites that leave your breath shattering apart.

He kisses over each mark immediately after, slow and deliberate, tongue hot and wet as he soothes the sting away.

“God,” he breathes against your neck, the sound vibrating straight into your bones. “Feel you squeezin’ me. You’re right there, baby. I can feel it.”

Your whole body shudders at the words, cunt clenching tight around him like it understands before your brain ever could. You whimper, arching your neck, exposing more of your throat to him as his mouth keeps moving, marking, kissing.

“Can’t—can’t think,” you manage, the words falling apart as soon as they leave your mouth. “Oh my god—Bucky, please—I can’t think—just wanna—wanna—”

“Wanna what?” he rasps, slowing his thrusts just enough to make it unbearable, grinding deep and holding there so you feel every inch of him buried inside you. His mouth hovers by your ear, lips brushing your skin as he speaks. “Say it, sweetheart. Use that pretty little voice.”

Your words tumble out in a broken rush, babbled and needy, breath catching on every syllable. “Wanna come—wanna feel you come inside me—need it—need it so bad—need you—”

He laughs, deep and pleased, the sound ripped from his chest as he rolls his hips again. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “You want me to fill this tight little pussy up? Let it all leak out so everyone sees what I did to you?”

You’re nodding frantically now, 'yes' tumbling out of you in gasps and whines, 'please please please' the only prayer you know how to say. Your body is shaking, legs barely holding you up. Your cunt is fluttering and clenching around him like it’s begging just as hard as you are.

“Shit, baby,” he groans, thrusts picking up again, deeper, harder, bruising in the way that makes your vision go white at the edges. “Maybe I should put a baby in you like that ambassador said, huh?”

Your breath catches sharply, a needy little sob ripping out of you as his words sink in.

“‘Cause you wear that diamond so fuckin’ pretty, sweetheart,” he continues, voice filthy and reverent all at once, mouth pressed to your ear. “But it’s not enough. I’m should fill you up right now. Fuck a baby into you. Make damn sure they all know who you belong to.”

Your response is incoherent. Barely a stream of whines and broken sounds, hips pushing back desperately to meet his thrusts, to take everything he’s giving you and more.

“That’s right,” he groans, snapping his hips into you hard now, claiming, punishing, every thrust landing deep enough to knock the breath from your lungs. “Should’ve done this months ago. Fuckin’ knocked you up and had you round and swollen at this party.”

Your orgasm is clawing up your spine now. Every nerve screaming, your walls clenching so tight around him it makes him curse under his breath.

“You gonna take it all for me?” he growls, voice breaking as his own control starts to fracture. “Gonna keep it inside like a good little wife, let it take, let me mark you from the inside out?”

You gasp, voice cracking completely as the edge hits you. “Yours—m’yours, Bucky—”

That’s all it takes.

He slams into you one last time, a raw, broken sound tearing from his throat as he buries himself as deep as he can go and comes hard, spilling into you with a groan of your name. You come with him, shattered and blinding. Your body locks up as pleasure rips through you, milking every last pulse from his cock.

Your breath comes in little hiccuping gasps, lips parted, eyes glassy with come-drunk bliss, lashes sticky with tears. 

And all you can feel is the throb between your legs and Bucky’s cock softening inside you, still twitching. 

Behind you, Bucky’s chest presses warm and broad against your back, his breath ragged against the hollow of your throat. He kisses your cheek. Your jaw. Your shoulder. Soft now, whispering things you barely process. You feel the cadence of praise more than the words themselves, sweet nothings soaked in filth and affection.

“Good girl…” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear like a secret. “Took me so well. So fuckin’ good for me. Such a perfect little wife.”

You whimper, barely more than breath, and his hand slides slow over your belly, holding you there like you’ll float away otherwise. 

You can't move. Can't think past the hot weight of his come cooling inside you, the ache in your thighs, the taste of him still on your tongue. Somewhere beyond this office, Matt is still at your party, waiting. 

And for a moment, guilt starts to creep into your thoughts.

Then Bucky pulls out with a sharp hiss, and your body snaps back to him. A small, wrecked, little cry punches from your lungs at the loss of him. Your cunt clenches, fluttering open and aching empty.

“Shhh, sweet girl,” he soothes immediately, cooing as he drops to his knees behind you, large hands guiding your thighs open wider, one of them cold and sure where it braces your quivering body. “I know, baby. You didn’t want to let me go, huh?”

Your only answer is a shuddering moan as his warm breath ghosts across your bare, messy cunt. You twitch, whimpering again, as you feel Bucky’s come sliding slow between your thighs in wet little trails.

He hums, pleased, like a man admiring his masterpiece.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice far too soft for the words he's saying. “Fuckin’ wasting it. All that come, and you’re leaking already…”

You feel his thumb graze your thigh, catching a thick, slick trail as it drags slow and molten down your skin. His thumb slides through the mess, smearing it, lazy and indulgent, and you jolt when it nudges your entrance again.

“Bucky—” you gasp as his thumb presses firm, spreading you open again.

“Easy,” he coos, guiding his spend back into you, thumb rubbing slow, coaxing, pushing it deep while your hips try and shy away, your cunt overstimulated and twitching with every touch. “I know, sweetheart, I know. It’s alright. Gotta keep it where it belongs, yeah? That’s it. Good girl.”

Your fingers curl on the desk, lower lip trembling as your thighs clench with every slow, squelching drag of his thumb.

“Hope your lawyer likes his pussy sloppy,” Bucky murmurs after a moment as his thumb slips free, his hand dragging one last slow stroke up your inner thigh. “Because if he wants you tonight, he’s gonna have to settle for leftovers.”

You mewl helplessly, and that just earns you a kiss to the back of your thigh before he reaches down and plucks your panties off the floor. He slides them back up your legs, snapping the waistband into place with a little flick, sealing his come inside you.

His hand lingers, lazy, giving your ass a fond squeeze, fingers sinking deep into your flesh, followed by a sharp slap that makes you yelp and clench around the come he’d left behind. His palm stays there, rubbing soft over the sting, possessive as ever.

“D'you think he’ll thank me for the appetiser, baby?” He teases, amusement curling around every word. “My good little wife. Serving up seconds.”

i make no apologies for the utter filth the last quarter ended up being. thank you for reading! if you enjoyed, please like & especially reblog/comment, as i would be super grateful for feedback <3