☄︎ Warnings: (consented) Filming. oral (f! receiving)
☄︎ Pairing: F!Reader x Dean Di Laurentis
☄︎ Rating/Genre: Mature (🔞). Smut.
☄︎ Words: 1647
☄︎ Summary: Your ex couldn't make you cum, so Dean promises to fix that
Original request here. 〣 Off Campus Masterlist here.〣 Dean Masterlist here.
You hadn’t planned on venting to Dean about how horrifically bad the sex with your now ex-boyfriend was, but the glass of wine you’d downed significantly reduced your filter.
You: there were times i genuinely considered sneaking into the bathroom and using his electric toothbrush.
You: it would have done the job better fr
The three-dot text bubble appeared, disappeared, and then appeared again. In the several minutes it took for his reply to arrive, a wave of anxiety hit you. You worried you’d overshared. Your relationship with Dean was... complicated.
Despite being in a committed relationship, the attraction you’d had to one another was palpable. It hung in the air, thick and obvious, and so you’d done the decent thing and not gotten too close while you were in a committed relationship. That was over now, had been for a few weeks.
The conversation you were having now was territory you had never broached before, and you weren’t sure if the attraction was built more because you were something he couldn’t have.
Your phone buzzed, and Dean’s texts proved your spiralling thoughts wrong.
Dean: you should come over.
Dean: let me apologise on behalf of all men ever.
30 minutes later, you were slipping through the unlocked front door of the hockey house. You tiptoed up the stairs to Dean’s room and knocked softly. The door swung open almost immediately. Dean stood there wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, his hair rumpled.
He didn't say a word. He just grabbed your wrist, pulled you inside, and shut the door behind you.
You walked over and sat on the edge of his bed, your eyes tracking him as he paced the length of the room.
“I can’t believe how useless he was,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
You wanted to laugh; he seemed madder about the situation than you were.
“Dean, it’s fin–.”
“It’s not fine,” Dean interrupted, stopping dead in his tracks right in front of you.
You knew exactly why you had come here tonight, but the sudden intensity in his gaze had you instinctively pressing your thighs together.
“The fact that any guy could have you in his bed and not make it his priority to make you cum multiple times is a crime,” he growled, stepping closer. “It’s insulting actually.”
You crawled back on his bed, moving until your back hit the headboard. “Well, what are you going to do about it, Di Laurentis? Show me how a real professional fucks?”
Dean sank onto the mattress, his eyes locking onto yours as he grabbed your ankle. With one gentle, deliberate pull, he dragged you down until you were lying flat on the mattress, before slowly manoeuvring himself between your legs.
“Yeah,” he murmured, a dangerous little smirk playing on his lips as he hovered over you. “I am.”
Dean closed the distance between you at an agonisingly slow pace, determined to drag it out until you were a begging mess under his arms. When he first pressed his lips to yours, it was just a gentle, barely there kiss. His lips brushed against yours, warm breath fanning your lips.
“Dean~,” you purred. “Stop teasing.”
“It’s not teasing,” he replied as his warm hand slid under the hem of your shirt. “It’s called seduction.”
And Dean was very good at seduction, you decided. His hand moved over your torso and chest expertly, caressing you in ways you didn’t even know you liked. When he finally finally kissed you for real, it wasn’t gentle. It was full of the passion, the fire, that you’d never had with your ex. Dean had a point to prove, and he used the kiss to prove it.
The time with your ex had made you rusty, your mind could barely keep up with all the sensations. His mouth sucking on your tongue; his hand running up your back; his hips rocking into you slowly, it overwhelmed you in the best way.
By the time he pulled away from you, you were left breathless with a dampness between your legs that bordered on embarrassing.
Dean’s thumb traced your plump bottom lip.
“Arms up,” he whispered, voice sounded strained.
You did as he asked and he made a point of slowly taking off your shirt, and then your shorts, humming in approval when he noticed you’d opted out of wearing panties.
Sitting back on his heels, he spread your legs further, taking a minute to appreciate how good you looked.
The way his eyes raked over your body should have made you feel embarrassed, but, somehow, the heat of his gaze only made you feel bolder.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he gasped. You shuddered as he ran a finger though your folds. “Soaking just for me.”
You didn’t even want to wipe the cocky grin off of his face. He deserved it. “You know what you’re doing.”
Dean’s smirk widened. “You know, I’m tempted to set up a camera right there on the dresser.”
Your mind was so focused on the way his fingers were moving between your legs that you weren’t even sure you heard him right.
“A camera?”
“Yeah,” Dean murmured. “A little video tutorial on how to fuck you right.”
Dean slid a finger into you, fucking you slowly on it as he experimented with how much you could take.
“How benevolent of you.”
Dean chuckled, dark and low.
“Okay, I admit. I want it for myself.” He added another finger, curling them inside you. “I want to be able to replay the look on your face when I make you cum.”
The thought of being fucked by Dean on camera and being able to watch that back whenever you wanted had your hear racing. “Yeah? You wanna watch how well I take your dick?”
“I do,” Dean grinned, his eyes blazing with a mixture of arrogance and arousal. “And then, the next time you're lying awake at night, aching to be touched, you can watch it too and remind yourself what a real man feels like.”
You swallowed hard, heat pooling low as his weight shifted over you. “Get the camera.”
He didn't take his fingers out of you as he frantically reached toward the nightstand, his fingers wrapping around his phone.
“Ready?”
“Yeah,” you confirmed.
He unlocked it quickly and turned the camera on, blood rushing to his dick as he saw you through the screen. He brought the camera closer to pussy, hoping the microphone could pick up the way your pussy squelched as he fucked you with his fingers.
Trying to hold the camera angled steady at your soaking pussy, he moved until he was flat on his stomach on the mattress, head between your legs.
Dean panned the camera to his face and spoke to the camera, “I wish you could smell how good she smells, I wonder how she tastes.”
“I’ll hold the phone,” you stuttered, holding yourself up on your elbows and looking at the hungry look in Dean’s eyes.
Taking the phone from him, you spread your legs wider. He used two fingers to spread your folds wider, his other hand guiding your wrist so he could position the camera over your clit.
“Look how flushed and swollen you are for me.” His breath fanned over your clit and it throbbed.
You forced yourself to stay propped up on your elbows as his lips closed around clit. Your hips bucked into his mouth as he sucked harder. He worked two fingers back into you, fucking you on them as he licked through your folds. He was sloppy with it, messily eating so the sounds could be picked up.
“So good,” you cooed.
He looked up at you with a cocky grin plastered on his face. There was a line of spit from your pussy to his lips that were glistening with your arousal.
“Say my name, let them know who’s fucking you.”
He looked up at you with eyes full of desire and you knew that, when you watched this back, this would be the part you had on repeat.
“Dean~ your tongue feels so fucking good, Dean.”
You moaned a little louder than you usually did, urging him on as he dived back into your pussy. It’s not like you’d never been tongue fucked before, but you’d never been eaten like this. Overwhelmed was the only word you could think of to describe it, but you didn’t want it to stop.
Head lolling back against the mattress, the hand holding the camera dropped. Dean moved swiftly, taking it from your hand and angling it down to where he was flicking his tongue against your clit.
“There are various techniques to eating it,” Dean told the camera. “My personal fave is sucking on the clit; it drives women crazy.”
Dean wrapped his lips around your exposed clit, sucking harder than before. He panned the camera over to catch your reaction, your back arched off of the bed, breathing heavily.
Panning the camera back, he wiggled his eyebrows.
All other vocabulary minus ‘fuck’ and ‘Dean’ left your mind, unable to form rational thoughts as he flattened his tongue on your clit, moving it over you as he tested how much pressure you needed.
“It’s all about getting the right pressure,” he said around your clit.
“Like that~,” you told him, hips grinding on his tongue. “Don’t stop.”
And Dean didn’t, he kept that exact pressure on you. he could feel that you were close, your thighs were shaking around his head, your moans unabashedly falling from your lips.
Flipping the orientation of the camera, he recorded your face as you cried out with your orgasm. Your body twitched with the unexpected force of it for a while.
“And that is how you make your girl cum,” he said to the camera. “Ready to go again?”
💭: i'm so sorry this turned out shit, i got burnt out halfway through writing the heat here is still dizgaztingggg. Defo want to write more filmed!reader fics in the future tho
pairing: bucky barnes x reader | 10.2k words | modern soulmate au
warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), soulmate bond/past life memories, multiple lifetimes, memory flashes, discussions of war, brief references to trauma/recovery, love at first sight across lifetimes, wedding night smut, destiny vs choice, happy ending
summary: when you and bucky reach for the same bag of lemons at the farmer’s market, the touch triggers flashes of the many lifetimes you’ve spent loving each other. as those memories keep surfacing, the two of you have to figure out what it means to fall in love again in the life you’re living now.
authors note: this is very loosely inspired by everything is romantic by charli xcx, and by “loosely” i mean i took several lyrics, made them devastating, and then built an entire soulmate reincarnation love story around them. many many thank you's for this fic! thank you to @/iamthatonefangirl and @/barnesonly for organizing our bwat summer collab; go check out everyone else's work! thank you to my baby, @/pinksplace for giving this idea and listening to me continuously crash out about it🫶 and a very special thank you to @/buckybsdoll for not only beta reading it, but for also encouraging this fic is indeed NOT buns, and i can do hard things. love you all🩷
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Saturday mornings belong to James Buchanan Barnes.
That is what Bucky tells himself, anyway—what he has been telling himself for the better part of three years, ever since recovery stopped feeling like a cliff edge and started, slowly, cautiously, feeling like a road. Not an easy road, not a straight one, but a road all the same. Something he can wake up and keep walking.
Saturday means the same coffee stand on the corner where the barista with the chipped purple nail polish starts making his drink the second she sees him coming. It means the farmer’s market under the green-striped awnings in the square, where he buys a loaf of crusty sourdough from the old Polish couple in stall fourteen and fresh eggs from the woman who always insists the yolks are brighter in spring. It means peaches if they’re in season, because one summer in Wakanda he had bitten into one so ripe it had run down his wrist and made him laugh out loud in the middle of a field, and ever since then peaches have felt like proof of life. It means flowers some3times, too, if the apartment feels especially bare. Something cheap and cheerful in a mason jar on the kitchen counter. Something that says a man can make a home even if he was taught for years he did not deserve one.
It is a good routine. A hard-won one. Bucky likes the honesty of it, the way these small rituals ask nothing of him except that he show up.
This morning, June sun already warming the pavement, his paper cup of coffee hot in his hand, he feels almost light. The market is crowded enough to buzz but not so packed he gets hemmed in. A violinist near the fountain is playing something bright and quick. Someone’s kid is trying to pet every dog within reach. The air smells like basil and strawberries and the faint yeasty sweetness of fresh bread.
Bucky buys his loaf first. Then tomatoes. Then a bunch of green onions. He pauses at the peach stand, testing one for give with his thumb, and decides they need another week.
By the time he reaches the citrus table, the vendor is rearranging pyramids of lemons in rough wooden crates, their skins bright and dimpled in the morning light. Bucky reaches automatically, already picturing chicken piccata for dinner, and another hand reaches at the same exact moment.
Your fingers brush his.
The world splits open.
One second he is standing in the farmer’s market with coffee on his breath and sunlight on the back of his neck, and the next—
Neon. Laughter. Chapel bells tinny through cheap speakers. Your mouth, painted the color of a ripe cherry, open on a breathless laugh. White satin clinging to your hips. A fake Elvis in a rhinestone jumpsuit grinning around too-big teeth beneath a plastic crucifix bolted crooked over the altar.
Bucky gasps.
The bag of lemons slips from both your hands and tumbles to the pavement, yellow fruit rolling in wild directions as if they’ve been startled too.
The vision doesn’t stop there. Visions of different lifetimes flash through his eyes like he’s watching the life of ten different couples all at once.
A steering wheel under his palms, worn smooth with use. Summer wind through open windows. You in cutoff shorts, feet on the dashboard, singing badly and loudly while the road curls ahead of you like a dare.
White sheets. Lace curtains breathing in a warm midnight breeze. Gold band on your finger catching moonlight where your hand presses against his chest. Your mouth moving against his throat with a broken little sound that is half laughter, half prayer.
A rough cabin wall. Splintered pine under his palm. You in a wool shift with your hair braided down your back, cheeks wind-burned, smiling over your shoulder as foxes cry somewhere out in the dark and a baby sleeps in a cradle by the fire.
Smoke and jazz and blackout curtains. East London. Silk black as sin against your skin. Your hand catching his by the wrist before he can disappear back into the war.
A beach. Bright afternoon. Children shrieking at the tide. Orange drinks sweating in glass pitchers while he kneels in the sand with his sleeves rolled up, helping a little girl press shell fragments into the turret of a sandcastle, and you walk toward him laughing, sunlight at your back so fierce it turns you to gold.
Then all of it is gone.
The market snaps back into focus so suddenly it hurts. Sound crashes in—vendors shouting prices, stroller wheels rattling, the violinist sawing away by the fountain. Bucky stumbles backward a step. Across from him, you catch yourself on the edge of the citrus crate, looking exactly as wrecked as he feels.
Your eyes lock on his.
“Oh my God,” you whisper.
Bucky’s heart is pounding hard enough to bruise. “You saw that too.”
It isn’t a question.
In this world, everybody knows about soulmarks and first-flashes. Knows that when you meet the person your soul is tied to, memory can strike like lightning. Some people get a single image. A porch swing. A train platform. A hand in a hospital room. Some get a rush of several lives at once, enough to leave them reeling for days. Most people dream of it when they’re young. Spend adolescence looking at every stranger a little too long. Wondering when it will happen, if it will happen, whether the person on the other end of them is alive or halfway across the planet or just around the corner.
Bucky stopped wondering a long time ago.
HYDRA did not leave much room for destiny.
You swallow. “That was not normal.”
“No,” he says, voice rough. “No, that was… not.”
The lemon vendor is gathering the fallen fruit with admirable indifference, the kind that says he has seen stranger things at this market and will see stranger still. “You two need a minute?” he asks.
You make a sound that could be a laugh or a near-sob. “Maybe five.”
Bucky buys the entire bag of lemons because it feels like the least insane thing he can do, then follows you blindly toward the edge of the square where there’s a row of benches under a sycamore tree. The shade dapples your face when you sit, and for one unmoored second he knows the pattern of it. Not from now. From somewhere else.
He stays standing until you glance up at him and pat the spot beside you with a shaky hand.
“You’re real?” you ask once he sits.
He almost laughs. “I was about to ask you that.”
You rub your palms over your knees as if trying to ground yourself. You’re wearing denim shorts and a white tank top and sunglasses pushed up into your hair, and you look like someone who belongs to summer. Not delicate exactly, but bright. Alive in a way that makes Bucky’s ribs ache. “I know this is a weird question,” you say, “but are you going to tell me your name, or am I just supposed to keep calling you fake-Elvis-groom in my head?”
“Bucky,” he says automatically. Then, because he has spent years relearning how to offer the softer pieces of himself without flinching, he adds, “James. But people call me Bucky.”
Your mouth curves, the first real smile since the vision hit. “I’m glad to know at least one of us looked better in Vegas.”
He huffs out a breath that is almost a laugh. “I looked good.”
“You looked reckless.”
“That too.”
You tell him your name, and the moment it lands between you something in his chest settles with a frightening kind of certainty. Not because fate says so. Not because the universe stamped your names together in some cosmic ledger. Because the sound of it moves through him like recognition. Like stepping into a room he did not realize he had been trying to get back to his whole life.
For a while neither of you says anything. The market hums on around you. Somewhere nearby, a dog sneezes. Someone drops a crate. Bucky stares at the paper sleeve around his cooling coffee and tries to swallow around the strange thickness in his throat.
“I’ve heard of people getting strong first-flashes,” you say at last, quieter now. “But not like that. That was… a lot.”
“A lot,” he agrees.
You tilt your head toward him. “How many do you remember already?”
He thinks of the chapel. The truck. The bed with the lace curtains. The cabin. The club in London. The beach. “Six,” he says. “You?”
“Same.”
A breeze stirs the leaves overhead. It smells like sun-warmed bark and citrus oil.
“I don’t know what to do now,” you admit.
That, strangely, is what steadies him.
Because Bucky knows that feeling. Knows what it is to be handed something overwhelming and not know where to put it. Knows that survival sometimes looks like doing the next smallest thing instead of solving the whole impossible shape at once.
He glances toward the coffee stand, then back at you. “You want to start with coffee?”
You look at him for one long beat, then laugh softly, incredulously, like maybe you can’t believe that is the question that just saved you from bolting. “Yeah,” you say. “I think I do.”
So that is how it begins.
Not with thunder. Not with immediate declarations. Not with some cinematic collision that resolves every loneliness in a heartbeat.
With coffee. With your hand wrapped around a paper cup. With the two of you sitting at the edge of the market, dizzy on each other’s borrowed memories, learning the outlines of the present slowly enough to survive it.
He learns that you come to the farmer’s market most Saturdays too, though usually later. That you always buy flowers you don’t strictly need. That you live twenty minutes away in an apartment with bad plumbing and excellent light. That you work in graphic design and keep odd hours and have a weakness for peaches even when they’re underripe. You learn that he is in therapy. That he likes routine because sometimes routine is the difference between drifting and staying. That his apartment in Brooklyn is small but his windows face west and the light there in the evening is good. That he cooks. That he bakes bread when the weather turns cold because kneading something until it rises feels like a miracle he can participate in.
He does not tell you everything that morning. Not about HYDRA, not about the winter that lasted decades, not about the names he no longer answers to. But you do not push. Maybe because you can feel, in the strange echoing chambers of whatever ties the two of you together, that he has already been dragged open too many times to count.
When you part, it is almost noon.
You both hover awkwardly by the fountain, neither one wanting to be the first to say goodbye.
“So,” you say, shifting the bouquet of daisies and feverfew you bought somewhere along the way into one hand. “Do soulmate rules say we’re supposed to immediately move in together now, or is there like a grace period?”
Bucky smiles before he can stop himself. “I think there’s paperwork.”
“Tragic.”
He glances at the lemons peeking out of your canvas bag. “You still owe me half of these.”
You grin then, bright and quick and devastating. “That sounds fake.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But it’s a reason to see you again.”
Something softens in your expression. “Okay,” you say. “Then I’ll take the fake reason.”
He gives you his number. You type your own into his phone and hand it back, your fingers brushing his again. No flash this time. Just warmth. Just the sharp, impossible awareness of skin.
“All right, Bucky Barnes,” you say. “Text me when you want to split custody of the lemons.”
He watches you walk away.
At the corner, you turn and look back.
The city seems to hold its breath.
Then you smile at him one more time and disappear into the crowd.
Jesus Christ on a plastic sign
The Vegas lifetime comes back first.
Not all at once. In drips. In flashes that catch Bucky at strange moments over the next few days, as if the memory has been jarred loose and is still deciding how much of itself to reveal.
He is washing dishes on Tuesday night when he looks down at a ring of soap suds circling the drain and suddenly he is twenty-six—or thirty, or some other age in some other body—and the air smells like desert heat trapped in asphalt. He can hear slot machines from the lobby below the motel balcony and your laugh from inside the room, where the air conditioner is fighting a losing battle and you are standing in front of the cracked mirror pinning your hair up with bobby pins you bought from the gift shop downstairs.
“Tell me again,” you say, smiling at him through the mirror, “why exactly we’re doing this.”
Because you had met forty-eight hours earlier in line for dollar margaritas and spent the night talking until sunrise on the motel roof. Because you had missed your flight on purpose. Because he had looked at you over watery eggs in a diner the next morning and known, with the same bone-deep certainty he feels now on a Brooklyn Tuesday in a kitchen lit by one warm overhead bulb, that life was sometimes simplest when it was ridiculous.
Because you had asked if he wanted to get married as a joke and then kept grinning at him after he said yes.
“Tax benefits,” he answers solemnly, sitting on the end of the bed in his borrowed suit jacket.
You laugh. “Romantic.”
“Practical.”
“Liar.”
You cross the room barefoot, white dress swishing around your thighs. It is not really a wedding dress. It is a satin slip from a resale shop with a tiny champagne stain at the hem and thin straps that make him forget his own name every time he looks at you. You stop between his knees and hook your fingers in the lapels of his jacket.
“Tell me not to do it,” you whisper. There is laughter in your voice but something trembling under it too, a softness that asks to be taken seriously. “Tell me we’re being insane and I’ll call it off.”
He looks up at you and feels his whole impossible life narrow into one clean, brilliant line. “I think,” he says, resting his hands on your hips, “that if we don’t do this, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life wondering why I let the best idea I ever had walk out of a motel in Vegas.”
Your expression cracks open into something so nakedly happy it almost undoes him.
The chapel is tiny and tacky and perfect. The plastic crucifix is screwed above a velvet curtain backdrop. The fake Elvis officiant keeps winking like he personally invented love. You say your vows through laughter because your bouquet is made of silk roses that smell faintly like dust and the minister’s sideburn is half detached. Bucky can barely get the ring onto your finger because his hands won’t stop shaking.
Afterward, you run into the sun with your shoes in one hand, your new husband’s name in your mouth as if you were born to say it.
On the sidewalk outside the chapel, there’s a sign for a twenty-four-hour wedding package with JESUS CHRIST LOVES YOU printed above a blinking arrow in red bulbs, and the whole thing is so absurd that you double over laughing. Bucky catches you around the waist before you can fall.
“Mrs. Barnes,” he says into your hair, tasting the words.
You lift your face to his, eyes wet from laughing. “That sounds made up.”
“Probably is.”
You kiss him anyway.
In the present, water runs cold over Bucky’s hands in the sink. He blinks hard and finds himself staring at a plate gone slippery in his grip.
He dries his hands, sits on the edge of the counter, and texts you before he can think better of it.
Got another one. Vegas.
The reply comes so fast it is almost a breath.
me too
Then, after a beat:
did we really get married because the line for margaritas was too long and we needed something else to do?
Bucky smiles helplessly at his phone.
we were committed to the bit
You start texting every day after that.
At first it is practical. Did you remember this detail? Did the chapel carpet have stars on it or was that just me? Do you think the fake Elvis was secretly judging us?
But the practical gives way to easy almost before either of you notices. He sends you a picture of a dog in a raincoat outside the bodega. You send him a photo of the flowers you bought even though your rational brain said you didn’t need them. He tells you when therapy goes badly. You tell him when work is making your eyes cross. By Friday, your name on his screen feels less like a surprise and more like the continuation of something that was already in motion long before lemons hit pavement.
The next Saturday, he finds you at the market before he reaches the citrus stand.
You are standing at the peach table, frowning at a fruit in your hand with the seriousness of someone evaluating a gemstone.
“You know those need another week,” he says.
You glance up and smile in a way that makes his whole body wake up. “I know. I’m being optimistic.”
“Reckless.”
“Wow. You meet one man in Vegas and suddenly he thinks he knows you.”
He laughs, and there is no fear in it this time.
You spend the morning together again. Coffee, bread, flowers. At the tomato stall your shoulder brushes his and warmth skates down his spine, but no memory comes. At the herb table he tucks a stray basil stem behind your ear and your breath catches, but still nothing.
It hits later, when the two of you are leaving the market and pass an old pickup truck parked crooked by the curb, windows down, classic rock spilling tinny from the speakers. You stop dead. So does he.
Your head turns toward him.
His chest caves in around a heartbeat that is no longer entirely his own.
Winding roads, doing manual drive
In that life, you are eighteen and everything feels enormous.
Summer stretches in front of you like a dare. The town is small enough to suffocate if you stay still too long, so you never do. Bucky has a beat-up blue truck with a sticky clutch and a radio that only works when you slap the dashboard in exactly the right place. He teaches you how to drive manual in the abandoned church parking lot at the edge of town, laughing every time the engine stalls because you keep popping the clutch too fast.
“You’re mean,” you tell him, gripping the steering wheel.
“I’m helpful.”
“You’re laughing at me.”
“Because you cuss like my grandpa.”
You cut him a glare so ineffective it makes him grin wider. He reaches across the bench seat to guide your hand to the gearshift, his palm warm over your knuckles.
“Slow,” he says. “Feel it catch. Don’t force it.”
Outside, cicadas scream in the heat. The sun is dropping behind the trees, turning the windshield gold.
You try again. This time the truck lurches, shudders, then rolls forward smooth as breath.
“Oh my God,” you say, startled into laughter. “I did it.”
Bucky looks at you the way boys in movies are always supposed to look but almost never do in real life—like the sight of you happy is enough to rearrange his whole future. “Yeah,” he says softly. “You did.”
Once you know how, you drive everywhere with no destination at all. Back roads. County lines. Winding stretches of blacktop between soybean fields and creeks and gas stations with flickering signs. You drive because gas is cheap and the cab of the truck is a world no one else can enter. You drive because Bucky’s knee pressed against yours feels better than anything either of you have a name for yet. You drive because being young and in love can make movement feel holy.
Sometimes you pull over on the shoulder just to watch the sky bruise purple over the fields. Sometimes you kiss at red lights until the truck behind you honks. Sometimes you park at the overlook above the quarry and share a bag of gas station peanuts while Bucky tells you all the places he wants to see one day, voice gone soft with wanting.
“Anywhere specific?” you ask.
He shrugs one shoulder. “As long as you’re there.”
You laugh because you think he is teasing. Then you look at him and realize he is not.
The air changes.
He reaches up, pushes a strand of hair behind your ear with trembling fingers. “I know we’re eighteen,” he says, trying for casual and failing spectacularly. “I know people say that means we don’t know anything. But I know this.”
Your breath catches.
Behind you, the truck ticks and cools in the dusk.
“I know,” he says again, “that I could drive with you forever and never get tired of the road.”
Then he kisses you, and the whole wide summer tilts.
The memory drops away while a bus sighs to the curb and someone nearby curses over a jammed stroller wheel.
You are breathing hard. So is Bucky.
“That one hurt,” you say quietly.
He knows what you mean. Not because it was bad. Because it was good in the simple devastating way only youth can be. Because watching some other version of yourself love with that much unguarded certainty feels like pressing a bruise you didn’t know you had.
“You drove stick,” he says.
“I was bad at it.”
“You were terrible.”
You laugh then, startled and watery, and he thinks he would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound.
There is a diner half a block away with cracked vinyl booths and a waitress who calls everyone honey. He nods toward it. “Come on.”
“Is this where we process our cosmic psychic episodes now?”
“Pancakes seem medically necessary.”
So you sit across from each other in a booth smelling faintly of syrup and coffee grounds while the waitress tops off your mugs and pretends not to notice that the two of you keep staring. The market bag rests by Bucky’s boots. Your flowers lie across the seat beside you like a witness.
“You ever think about what it means?” you ask after a while.
He traces a thumb over the seam of his coffee cup. “The past lives?”
“The soulmate thing. Any of it.” Your gaze is steady on his. “Like… are we supposed to just trust that because we loved each other before, we automatically will now?”
Bucky is quiet for so long, the waitress comes by to ask if he wants more bacon.
When she leaves, he exhales. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I think maybe it’d scare me if it worked like that.”
You nod once. “Me too.”
Because obligation is not love. Because destiny without choice starts to look too much like a cage.
Bucky leans forward, forearms on the table. “I don’t want this to be automatic,” he says, surprising himself with the urgency in his own voice. “I don’t want you because of… cosmic paperwork.” Your mouth twitches at that. He presses on. “I want to know you. Now. Here. I want whatever this is to be because we choose it.”
Something in your face softens so completely it leaves him winded.
“Okay,” you say.
“Okay?”
“Okay,” you repeat. “Then we do it the hard way.”
His mouth curves. “Dating?”
“Scandalous, I know.”
He looks at you across the table, sunlight striping the booth through the blinds, and feels a piece of his life click gently into place.
“Yeah,” he says. “Dating.”
The smile you give him then follows him home and waits with him through the week and sits with him at the edge of sleep. It is still there when he picks you up for your first actual date on Thursday, when you buzz him into your apartment building wearing jeans and a green top that makes your eyes look unfair, when he spends ten whole seconds forgetting why he came.
You cook together in his kitchen because restaurants feel like too much too soon. Lemon chicken. Roasted potatoes. Salad with too much parmesan because you insist there is no such thing.
It is simple. It is easy in the kind of way Bucky once would have distrusted on principle. You move around his kitchen as if you’ve already learned its shape. You lean against the counter and steal bites from the pan. You laugh when he pretends to guard the sauce from you and do not look startled when he laughs back.
After dinner, you help him wash dishes. After dishes, you stand by the open window drinking wine while the city breathes warm and loud below.
“I had a nice time,” you say, glancing at him over the rim of your glass.
His pulse kicks. “Good.”
“I’m serious. For a man who hoards lemons as a manipulation tactic, you clean up pretty well.”
He snorts. “I’ll put that on my dating profile.”
“You should. Honest branding.”
He smiles, and you smile back, and the air between you changes.
It is not sudden. Not violent. Just the slow, unmistakable tightening of a thread.
He sets his glass down first.
You do the same.
When he steps closer, you do not move away.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks, because in every life he has ever loved you there has been want in it, but in this one he wants the shape of your yes more than he wants air.
Your eyes go soft. “Please.”
He kisses you carefully at first, because he is not eighteen in a truck anymore and he is not some reckless fool in Vegas with rings in his pocket and a grin too wide for his face. He is a man who has taken years to learn how to touch gently. Who knows what damage carelessness can do.
But then your hand lifts to his cheek and your mouth opens beneath his and the careful part of him turns molten.
The flash hits so hard he breaks the kiss with a gasp.
You are hit by it too. He sees it in the way your pupils blow wide, the way your hand clutches the front of his shirt.
“Oh,” you breathe.
The apartment falls away.
Early nights in white sheets with lace curtains
The room is small and gold with lamplight.
In that life, you have been married for six hours.
Your shoes are by the door. Your veil lies in a pearly heap over the chair back. Somewhere downstairs the last of the wedding guests are still laughing over cake and champagne, but up here the inn is quiet except for the tick of rain against the lace-curtained window and your own uneven breathing.
You stand with your back to Bucky near the bed, fingers trembling where they rest at your throat. The silk of your nightdress skims the backs of your knees. Your wedding band glints like a promise.
He has never seen anything more beautiful.
You are not delicate. Nor candlelight that makes you look like something painted. You are real in all the ways that matter most—nervous and wanting and trying to be brave.
You glance at him over your shoulder, and the vulnerability in your face brings him to his knees faster than reverence ever could.
“We don’t have to,” he says softly.
Your brows draw together. “I want to.”
“I know.” He steps closer, slow enough to stop if you need it. “But I want you to know we don’t have to do anything tonight except be married.”
Something in you loosens. Relief. Love. A tenderness so intense it almost aches to look at.
“I want to be married,” you whisper.
He smiles, cupping your jaw. “You already are.”
“No,” you say, eyes luminous. “I mean like this. Here. With you.” Your breath shakes. “I want tonight.”
He kisses you then, gentle enough to ask, deep enough to answer.
The nightdress slips from your shoulders a little at a time. He learns your skin by lamplight and fingertips, by the soft sounds you make when he touches somewhere that matters, by the way you cling to him when pleasure finally starts to outrun nerves. The white sheets twist around your legs. The lace curtains stir in the open window. Rain cools the room, but your bodies are all heat.
You are not shy for long.
He kisses his way down the column of your throat, your collarbones, the slope of your breast. Your fingers knot in his hair when his mouth finds your nipple and he sucks gently, then harder at the sound that tears from you. By the time he lowers you onto the bed your hair is loose around your shoulders and your face is flushed and he is so hard it hurts.
“Bucky,” you whisper, reaching for him.
“Tell me what you need.”
You laugh softly, dazed with wanting. “You. Obviously.”
He smiles against your mouth, then works two fingers between your thighs and nearly loses his mind at how wet you are for him already. Your hips jerk. Your eyes flutter shut.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “There you go.”
He takes his time because he can. Because there is no war waiting outside this room, no clock to race. Because after the vows and the music and the endless hands grabbing at you all day, he wants this moment to belong only to the two of you. He strokes you until your body learns the shape of pleasure under his hands. He brings you apart once with his fingers, your back arching off the bed, then again with his mouth until you are clutching the sheets and crying his name into the rain-soft dark.
When he finally settles between your thighs, braced on one forearm, your gaze on his is wrecked and certain all at once.
“You still sure?” he asks, voice gone rough as gravel.
You wrap a hand around the back of his neck and pull him down until your foreheads touch. “I have never been more sure of anything.”
He pushes into you slowly, giving you every inch with a care that feels like worship. The stretch of you around him steals the breath from his lungs. Your mouth opens on a gasp. He stills.
“Okay?” he whispers.
You nod, biting your lip. “Move.”
So he does.
Slow at first. Then deeper when your nails dig into his shoulders and you lift to meet him. The bed creaks softly. Rain taps the window. He kisses you whenever your face crumples with feeling, every thrust turning more desperate as your body opens for him. You cling to him, legs wrapped around his hips, whispering his name like a secret you intend to keep forever.
When you come, it is with your mouth against his throat and tears bright at the corners of your eyes.
He follows with his forehead pressed to yours, his whole body shaking with it.
Afterward, you lie tangled in white sheets gone warm and wrinkled around you, the lace curtains stirring like breath. He draws lazy circles over your stomach while you trace the line of his mouth with one sleepy fingertip.
“This counts as a successful wedding night,” you murmur.
He laughs softly. “Good. I was hoping.”
You turn into him, already half asleep. “Anywhere is home,” you whisper, the words blurred at the edges with exhaustion, “if you’re in the bed.”
He never forgets them.
When the memory releases you both, Bucky is still standing in his apartment with his chest heaving and your hands fisted in his shirt.
The kitchen light is too bright. The city outside the window too loud. He can taste you without ever having had you in this life.
Your face is flushed all the way down your neck.
“Well,” you say after a stunned second, voice frayed. “That was wildly inconvenient timing.”
He laughs once, brokenly, because if he does not laugh he might combust.
“You okay?” he asks.
Your gaze lifts to his, honest and heated. “Ask me in five minutes.”
He brushes his knuckles over your cheek, a touch so careful it is almost absurd after what you both just saw. “I mean it.”
“I know.” Your hand slides down to cover his where it rests against your face. “Yeah. I’m okay. A little overwhelmed. A lot turned on. But okay.”
Heat hits him hard and immediate. He closes his eyes for a second.
You laugh softly. “Right. Sorry. That was—”
“Don’t apologize.”
When he opens his eyes again, your expression has gentled. “Bucky.”
He knows what you are asking. Not just whether he wants you. That is almost insultingly obvious. You are asking whether he can separate memory from present. Whether he can stand in this kitchen and want what is in front of him without letting the weight of every before crush what could be now.
He answers by leaning down and resting his forehead against yours.
“I want this,” he says quietly. “But I want our first time in this life to be ours.”
Your breath leaves you in a rush. So does some tightness in his chest he hadn’t fully realized he was carrying.
“Okay,” you whisper.
He kisses you once more, soft and lingering. Then he walks you home because if you stay the night he is not sure either of you will survive your own restraint, and because there is something holy in wanting badly and still choosing patience.
At your door, you touch his wrist before he can step back.
“For the record,” you murmur, eyes warm, “that other us had very good taste.”
He grins helplessly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I get it now.”
Then you kiss him quick and disappear inside with a smile that haunts him for days.
The weeks that follow feel like being built from the inside out.
The flashbacks do not stop, but they become less like ambushes and more like weather—still sudden, still powerful, but no longer catastrophic. A scent, a sound, a patch of light can call one up. Sometimes you text each other in the middle of the workday with fragments: did you remember the red truck in the mountain life had one broken taillight? or I think Bucharest-you stole that robe from the hotel. Sometimes a memory arrives whole when you are together and leaves both of you laughing or aching or red-faced in its wake.
In between, you date.
Real dates. Present-tense ones.
You go to a bookstore in Cobble Hill and accidentally spend two hours arguing about whether people who dog-ear paperbacks can be trusted. You sit in the park eating takeout and watch a wedding party take photos under the arch. You make pasta in your kitchen and burn the garlic because you are too busy kissing against the fridge. You let him meet your friends, who like him immediately and try not to look too smug about it. He tells Sam about you over beers and gets stared at for a full ten seconds before Sam breaks into the kind of grin that means Bucky will never hear the end of this.
And slowly, because slowness is another name for mercy, you get used to the fact of each other.
One night in late July, you fall asleep on Bucky’s couch halfway through a movie. Your head ends up in his lap, your bare feet tucked under his thigh, the credits rolling blue light over the room. He does not move for an hour because the weight of you there feels too precious to disturb.
When you wake, drowsy and disoriented, you blink up at him and smile.
“There you are,” he says before he can stop himself.
The words do something strange to the air.
You sit up slowly, blanket slipping down your shoulders. “What?”
He swallows. “Nothing. I just—”
But then the memory comes, not violent this time. Gentle as smoke.
You see it in each other’s faces as it arrives.
Sleepyhead ’cause all the fucking foxes kept me awake last night
The cabin is barely more than one room and a stubborn prayer.
In that life, winter has a vendetta against you. The land is raw and half-finished around you—trees felled and stacked, fields only partly cleared, the nearest neighbors hours away by horse. Everything aches. Your hands, your backs, your hope.
And still, you build.
By day Bucky swings an axe until his shoulders burn and your tiny patch of earth starts, slowly, to look like something that might feed you come spring. By day you mend, cook, scrub, carry water, keep accounts in a little ledger with cramped neat writing, and somehow still find the energy to laugh when the hen gets loose again and wreaks havoc under the table.
By night you sit by the fire mending his shirts while he carves handles for tools and the baby—your daughter, round-cheeked and solemn—sleeps in a cradle made from wood Bucky planed himself.
It is not easy. God, it is not easy. There are weeks when the roof leaks and the wind gets through the chinks in the walls and your flour goes sour and the loneliness of so much open land makes your chest feel flayed raw. There are days Bucky comes in from the field looking so worn you have to bite the inside of your cheek not to cry.
But there is you. There is him. There is the little sleeping weight of your child and the fire and the bed you built with your own hands.
Sometimes that is enough to make hardship look almost like devotion.
One night in early autumn, the foxes scream outside the cabin so long and loud that neither of you gets any real sleep. By dawn you are cross and bleary-eyed, hair half falling from its braid as you stand over the hearth trying to stir cornmeal mush that refuses to thicken.
“Sleepyhead,” Bucky says softly when he comes up behind you.
You elbow him weakly. “I’ll kill you.”
He laughs into your hair and wraps his arms around your waist anyway, his chin settling on your shoulder. Outside, the new fence leans and the world is still cold and demanding. Inside, his body is warm all along your back.
“We’re doing it,” he murmurs after a while.
You blink at the pot. “Doing what?”
“Building it.” He turns his face into your temple. “A life.”
The words are simple. They hit with the force of revelation.
You tip your head back against his shoulder and close your eyes. In the other room your daughter stirs. The foxes have gone quiet. Morning light pushes pale and stubborn through the little window above the table.
“We are,” you whisper.
He kisses your cheek. “Told you I’d build you something.”
You smile, tired and full to aching. “You built me everything.”
The memory fades with the warm dim glow of Bucky’s living room around you.
You are still on his couch, the television a muted wash of menu screens no one bothered to turn off. For a while neither of you says anything.
Then you reach out and lace your fingers through his.
“That one felt different,” you say.
He nods. “Yeah.”
Not youthful. Not fevered. Not all heat and spark and want. That life had been built plank by plank. Through work. Through weather. Through choosing each other when the choosing was made of practical things—fences, soup, babies, roofs, morning fires.
It lands in him heavier than some of the others. Maybe because recovery has taught him what it means to build anything worth having by hand.
“I liked them,” you say quietly. “That version of us.”
He rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “Me too.”
You glance around his apartment then, at the bookshelf he assembled crooked and fixed himself, at the herb pot on the windowsill, at the loaf of bread cooling under a dish towel on the counter.
“You’re doing it too, you know,” you murmur.
He looks at you. “Doing what?”
“Building a life.”
The thing in his chest, scarred and careful and too often braced for loss, goes very still.
You squeeze his hand. “It’s a good one.”
He kisses you then because there is no other answer big enough.
By August, you keep a toothbrush at his place.
By September, there is a sweater of yours folded over the back of one of his dining chairs, two hair ties on his bathroom sink, a half-used bottle of your fancy conditioner in his shower that he is under strict orders not to touch. None of it is dramatic. None of it is announced. The shape of your presence simply grows until it feels absurd to remember the apartment before it.
The flash that takes you next comes in early October, on a rainy Thursday when you duck with him into a jazz bar in the West Village to escape a downpour.
The room is all amber light and low ceilings and cigarette-scarred booths preserved from another era. A singer in a black dress stands by the piano, crooning into a microphone. Bucky goes still before you even make it to the bar.
You know before the memory hits what it will be.
The note hangs in the air.
Then London rushes in.
late nights in black silk in east london
The war has made everything look dimmer around the edges.
Bucky is young in the way only war can make a man young—old enough to be exhausted by it, young enough to still be surprised by beauty. He is stationed overseas for too long in a city stitched with blackout curtains and ration books and the bruise-colored exhaustion of people trying very hard to act as if life is still ordinary.
Then one wet December night, a fellow soldier drags him down a narrow stairwell off an alley in East London and the whole world changes shape.
The club is hidden beneath a tailor’s shop with no sign out front. Music seeps through the floorboards before the door even opens. Inside, the room glows low and gold around the edges, tables crowded close, voices pitched just above the band. Women in silk and men in uniform and civilians with danger in their smiles. Someone is laughing at the bar like the war has never existed. Someone else is dancing with one shoe off.
And there you are.
You should not stick out. You’re not center stage or demanding attention. You’re leaning one hip against the bar in black silk gloves and a slip dress that gleams when you move, listening to the pianist with your head tilted slightly as if you know a secret about the song.
Bucky sees you and forgets how war works.
Maybe he forgets how breathing works too.
“Careful,” his friend mutters, following his line of sight. “That one looks expensive.”
Bucky barely hears him.
When you look over and catch him staring, you smile. Not coy. Curious, amused, entirely too direct. Then you lift your glass in a tiny salute.
He is doomed.
Later, after he has found enough courage or foolishness to cross the room, you tell him your brother runs supplies out of the docks and your mother thinks this place is scandalous and your favorite thing in the world is men who look like they’d fall apart if a woman in black silk talked to them too long.
“I am not falling apart,” he says, already half gone.
You laugh, low and delighted. “No? That’s a shame. You’d be awfully handsome doing it.”
You dance with him before midnight. Then again after. The band slows, the room blurs, and you fit against him so easily it feels less like meeting and more like remembering a step he somehow learned before birth.
Outside, the rain has stopped. The alley smells like wet brick and smoke.
“Are you always this easy?” you ask when he walks you to the corner.
“Only in London.”
“Convenient.”
You stop beneath a streetlamp draped in wartime dimming paint. Your lipstick has worn soft at the edges. His gloves are damp. Somewhere far off, a siren starts and then dies.
“I don’t know how long I’m here,” he says, because war steals the illusion of endless time from a man pretty quick.
You look at him with that same level, fearless steadiness you will carry in every life. “Then don’t waste the nights you’ve got.”
So he doesn’t.
He spends every free hour he can find with you in that black silk East London life. Dancing in hidden clubs. Eating chips from newspaper parcels by the river. Kissing in doorways while the city holds its breath between bombings. Falling in love so fast it would look irresponsible to anyone not living under the same shadow.
On his last night before shipping out again, this time to Bucharest, he finds you in the club after closing, curled barefoot on the stage in your black dress with your knees drawn up, humming to yourself while the pianist smokes by the door.
He sits beside you. The stage creaks.
You do not ask him if he is leaving. You already know.
For a long moment you just lean into him shoulder to shoulder, breathing in the dark.
Then you take his hand and lace your fingers with his as if you have always had the right.
“I hate war,” you say flatly.
“Yeah.”
“I hate that it teaches people to love in a hurry.”
He turns to look at you, but your face is tipped toward the empty room. “Maybe,” he says after a while, “it just teaches people not to waste time pretending they don’t.”
That makes you smile a little, though your eyes shine.
When you finally kiss him, it feels like grief and promise all tangled together.
“I’d have found you anyway,” you whisper against his mouth.
He believes you.
Presently, the jazz bar swims back around you in amber and brass.
Your hand is flat over your heart. Bucky is gripping the edge of the bar hard enough his knuckles ache.
“You were terrifying in that one,” he murmurs.
You blink at him. “Terrifying?”
“You had me done in about twelve seconds.”
Your laugh spills out warm and bright enough to make nearby heads turn. “Good.”
He stares at you, at the woman in front of him and the woman in black silk and the impossible thread between them, and something old in him loosens. That London memory is the first one that brushes directly up against the era he remembers in his bones. The first one that lets him feel, without the cold hand of history around its throat, that he once had youth. Flirtation. A version of himself that existed before damage became the loudest fact in the room.
Later, walking you home under a shared umbrella, he tells you more.
Not everything. Not all at once. But more.
About Brooklyn in the forties. About enlisted men and too much bravado and the way the world sharpened at the edges when war started circling. About the years after, in pieces, with pauses long enough to breathe in between. You listen without interrupting except to ask where it hurts. Not where it happened. Where it hurts. The difference matters so much he nearly stops in the middle of the sidewalk.
At your building, rain dripping from the umbrella’s edges, you cup his face and kiss him like he is something to return to, not something to be rescued.
That night he sleeps six straight hours for the first time in weeks.
The last of the big memories comes in November.
By then, the market has become yours together. Saturday mornings are no longer Bucky’s alone. They are yours in the plural, so natural now he sometimes forgets to be startled by it. Coffee for two. Bread for two. Peaches finally back in season for a heartbeat before the weather turns. Your fingers hooked through one of the canvas bag straps while he carries the heavier side.
At the stall with the glass-bottled lemonades and orange sodas, you reach for a bright neon-orange drink at the same time he does.
The glass knocks against his ring finger.
Sunlight slams through him.
Neon orange drinks on the beach
Salt lives in the walls of that house.
Here, you and Bucky live in a little coastal town where everyone knows everybody’s business and no one minds much as long as you bring enough food to the potluck. The house is white clapboard with a porch swing and chipped blue shutters. Sand collects in the doorway no matter how often you sweep. Wind rattles the windows in winter and smells like sunscreen in summer.
You have children in that life. Three of them.
A girl with your laugh and Bucky’s serious eyes. A boy who climbs everything he’s told not to. A baby still soft at the wrists who rides your hip with one fist full of your shirt.
The beach is five minutes from your front door. On hot afternoons you walk there loaded like pack animals—blankets, towels, snacks, toys, a cooler that bumps against Bucky’s leg every other step, the toddler already whining for the ocean before you’ve even crossed the dune grass.
It is a beautiful chaos. Your favorite kind.
The day memory gives you is bright enough to ache.
The sky is clear blue from edge to edge. Your youngest is asleep under the shade tent with one plump foot sticking free of the blanket. Your son is digging a moat around a sandcastle with all the focus of a man handling explosives. Your daughter, solemn with purpose, is handing Bucky shell fragments one by one so he can decorate the towers properly.
“No, Daddy,” she says with immense patience. “That one goes there.”
Bucky, thirty-something and sun-browned and already half buried in sand because the children have no respect for rank, nods gravely. “My mistake.”
You come down from the boardwalk carrying a tray of neon-orange lemonades in plastic cups, ice clinking. Condensation slicks your fingers. The sun catches on the rims of the cups until they glow like tiny lanterns.
Bucky looks up when your shadow falls across the sand.
Even after years, even with sunscreen on your nose and beach hair whipping your cheeks, he looks at you like there has never been anyone else worth the trouble of sight.
“You’re my favorite person,” he says as you hand him a drink.
You arch a brow. “Even over the tiny tyrants?”
“Depends. Are they giving me lemonade?”
Your daughter takes her cup in both hands and squints up at you. “Mama, Daddy made the castle wrong.”
You laugh. “I’m shocked.”
“It was sabotage,” Bucky says.
The children shout over each other. The baby wakes and starts fussing. A gull swoops dangerously low near the pretzel bag. The tide inches closer. Everything is loud and sandy and sticky and imperfect.
It is paradise.
Later, when the children are collapsing in a sugar crash on towels striped green and white, Bucky stretches out beside you and tugs you down until your head rests on his chest. The ocean hisses and folds itself a few yards away.
“You think,” he says after a while, fingers combing absently through your damp hair, “we’ll ever get tired of this?”
You tip your face up. “The beach?”
“This.”
The life. The family. The ordinary miracle of it.
You can feel the answer in him before he says it. In the steady beat under your ear. In the salt-warmed skin of him. In the children making sleepy, disgruntled sounds nearby because even paradise requires snacks and naps and somebody always getting sunscreen in their eye.
“No,” you say softly. “I don’t think so.”
His mouth brushes your forehead. “Good.”
Because in every lifetime, it turns out, what the two of you build is not grandeur.
It is a table. A bed. A road. A cabin. A dance floor. A beach towel in the sun. A thousand tiny places where love gets to put its shoes by the door and stay awhile.
When the memory loosens its grip, you are back at the market with cold glass sweating in your hand.
You are crying.
So is Bucky, though he only realizes it when you reach up and wipe at his cheek with your thumb.
“That one was rude,” you say thickly.
He laughs through the ache in his throat. “Yeah.”
It isn’t the children, not really. Though that got him. It’s the ordinariness of it. The ease. The way love in that life had settled into the bones of things so thoroughly that joy looked almost plain. A beach day. Lemonade. Sand. A family.
A future.
You look at him with tears still bright in your eyes. “Do you ever think maybe that’s why it keeps happening?”
“What?”
“Us.” You glance down at the bottle in your hand, the impossible orange brightness of it. “Not because we’re destined in some giant dramatic way. Maybe just because every time the universe throws us somewhere new, we keep making the same choice.”
The market blurs around the edges.
Bucky takes the bottle from your hand and sets both your drinks down on the stall so he can hold your face in both palms.
“I think,” he says, voice low and unsteady, “that no matter where I find you, you keep teaching me that a life doesn’t have to be extraordinary to matter.”
You inhale sharply.
He goes on because he has spent too much of his existence losing time, losing names, losing chances to say what needed saying. Because he will not waste this one.
“I loved you in a chapel with a plastic sign. In a truck on back roads. In a bed with lace curtains. In a cabin when we had almost nothing. In London when the whole world was on fire. On a beach with kids climbing all over me and sand in places there should never be sand.” Your mouth trembles around a laugh. His thumbs catch the tears on your cheeks. “And every time, it wasn’t because things were perfect. It was because it was you.”
Your hand covers one of his. “Bucky—”
“In this life,” he says, holding your gaze, “I don’t care what fate says. I don’t care what we were before unless it helps me be better to you now. I just…” He exhales, helpless in it. “I just know I am more myself when you’re in the room. And I want to keep choosing that. For however long I get.”
Something breaks open in your face.
Then you are kissing him in the middle of the farmer’s market, November wind cold around your ears and strangers surely staring and lemons probably within a three-yard radius somehow, and Bucky does not care about any of it.
When you finally pull back, you rest your forehead to his and laugh wetly.
“You took forever to say that,” you whisper.
He blinks. “I did?”
“Yes.” You kiss him once, quick and smiling. “It’s okay. I was going to let you.”
That night you come home with him.
Home, because that is what it is now no matter how recently he learned to say it.
The apartment smells like the rosemary chicken you cooked together and the bread he baked that morning and the cold air that followed you in when he opened the door. Your overnight bag sits by the couch. Your laughter is still in the walls from where you nearly dropped the oranges while making cocktails because he kissed your neck and ruined your concentration on purpose.
There are no visions this time.
No past lives pouring through the cracks.
Just the two of you in the warm gold hush of his bedroom, lamplight soft on the sheets, your sweater slipping from one shoulder as you sit on the edge of the mattress and look up at him.
“This is ours,” you say quietly.
He nods. “Yeah.”
You reach for him.
The first time you make love in this life is not a reenactment of any before. There are echoes, maybe. The same reverence. The same hunger braided with tenderness. But this is its own living thing, shaped by who you are now—older in different ways, scarred in different places, more careful and more certain all at once.
He undresses you slowly, like unwrapping something he intends to keep. You do the same for him, kissing each mark on his body as if introducing yourself to every chapter. When your fingers brush the long scars at his shoulder and side, you do not hesitate. You just look at him for permission and then kiss them too.
His throat goes tight.
On the bed, he takes his time. He is afraid this time, rather he wants to feel every second of being chosen with full knowledge. Your skin under his mouth. Your breath hitching when he drags his thumb over your clit. The way you smile against his lips when he says your name like a marvel. He works you open with his hands first, then his mouth, until you are clutching the sheets and half laughing, half sobbing because pleasure in this body, in this life, feels new and familiar all at once.
“Bucky,” you whisper when he comes back up over you, eyes dark and wrecked.
“I’ve got you.”
You nod, hands framing his face. “I know.”
When he pushes into you, slow and careful, your mouths are open against each other. He feels your body welcome him in inch by inch, feels your legs tighten around his hips, feels the tremor that runs through you when he finally settles deep. It is overwhelming in the simplest way. Not because of memory. Because of presence. Because you are here. Because he is too.
He moves. You move with him.
Outside, the city keeps being itself. A siren in the distance. Somebody laughing on the street. Heat clanking faintly through old pipes. Inside, his bedroom narrows to breath and skin and the soft wreck of your voice. You scratch lightly through his hair and murmur yes against his mouth and he nearly comes from the sound alone. He holds himself back long enough to watch the exact moment pleasure overtakes you, the way your eyes go bright and your body arches up into his with a cry he feels all the way to his ribs.
He follows soon after, buried deep, forehead pressed to yours, your names tangled together in the dark.
Afterward you lie under the sheets while the room cools around you. Your head rests on his chest. His hand drifts up and down your bare spine. The curtains are plain cotton, not lace. The sheets are soft gray, not white. The city outside is Brooklyn and not some inn in another century. It does not matter.
You draw lazy circles over his sternum.
“You know,” you murmur sleepily, “I think I liked every version of you.”
His fingers still for a second. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You tilt your chin to look at him. “But this one might be my favorite.”
Emotion catches him so hard it almost hurts.
He bends and kisses your forehead because if he tries to speak right then, he will probably embarrass himself beyond repair.
Months later, when winter gives way to spring and then, at last, to summer again, Saturday morning finds the two of you at the farmer’s market under the same green-striped awnings where everything began.
Bucky has two coffees in a cardboard carrier. You have a bouquet of sunflowers tucked under one arm. The bread guy waves. The peach stand is finally, gloriously in season. The lemon vendor clocks you both and grins like he has been expecting to see how this turns out.
“Need a bag today?” he asks.
You glance at Bucky. Bucky glances at you.
Then, smiling, you both reach for the same lemon on purpose.
No flash comes.
There is no need.
Your fingers lace together instead, easy as breath.
The square is bright with morning. The violinist by the fountain is playing something warm and sweet. Coffee steams between you. Peaches perfume the air. Beside you, your soulmate—your chosen person, your present-tense miracle—squeezes your hand.
And because love, in the end, is often this simple, you walk the market together like you have done it all your life.
Maybe you have.
Maybe you will again.
Either way, the peaches are ripe, the bread is warm, and Bucky Barnes is laughing at something you said with his whole face open to the sun.
It is not a dramatic ending.
It is better.
It is a life.
And every ordinary second of it feels, impossibly, like falling in love again and again.
c/w ᝰ.ᐟ oral sex (m. receiving), shower sex, unprotected p in v (consensual condom removal), using the shower head, dirty talk, praise, possessive!dean, pet names (baby, angel, bunny <- jokingly, sweetheart + no y/n), teasing, multiple orgasms, mild choking, wrist pinning, overstim., playful power dynamics, language + he fell first + he’s been pining ever since ⋆˙⟡♡
“You’re gonna love it,” he mumbles as he turns the handle, water spilling from the showerhead, introducing one of his favorite ways to hook up like the two of you don’t spend half your time together in here already.
“Never have I ever,” you laugh, stumbling a little as you kick off your bar heels.
“Really? It’s a crowd favorite,” he mumbles as he tugs down his jeans and boxers. “Shower sex is seemingly the third hottest thing, after me, then you.” He winks at you as he holds up a number one with his calloused finger before pointing in your direction, waiting for you to crack.
“You’re so annoying,” you laugh.
“You’re number one—”
“I caught that. Thank you.”
“Hot as fuck,” he breathes out, his dick already painfully hard. He glances down at himself before looking back up at you. “I’m excited. Can you tell?”
“A shame you’re so nonchalant,” you giggle as your dress falls into a puddle at your feet.
A dramatic moan rips out of his throat. You slap your palm over his mouth and his blue eyes twinkle on yours.
He peels it off his lips, amusement flickering across his face. “You can be rough with me, bun. I can take it.”
“Bun?” You echo with a raised eyebrow as you unclasp your bra.
“Bunny,” he grins, his eyes zeroing on your tits as the lace material falls as well. “Fuck me,” he mutters under his breath, his rough fingers reaching out, looping around the band of your panties at your hips, tugging them lower. A deep groan rumbles out of him, vibrating against your lips.
He dips in kissing his way up your stomach, over your chest, up your neck, his hands resting against your back, pulling you into him.
“I was minding my business, Di Laurentis. You are the one that begged me to come here—”
“I did,” he answers honestly. “And aren’t you glad you did?” The look he gives you makes your heart flutter, dimples popping into his cheeks. “You love me.”
“I like you,” you say, fighting a grin.
“Give it another week. You’ll be at the bar next weekend fighting for my attention. I know it. I’m perfect.” His mouth curves. “Boyfriend material.”
“Boyfriend material? Says the man that’s never asked me on a date,” you whisper as your lips press against his neck. You feel his pulse race and, as cool as he’s playing it, you can tell he’s nervous.
“Lies. Didn’t know that was still an option,” he says as your mouth traces a path over his chest and stomach as you sink to your knees. “You gonna say ‘yes’ this time?”
“You’re keeping score?”
“I always keep score,” he huffs out a breath.
Your fingertips skim along the sharp lines of his hips, making the muscles in his stomach tighten. “You’re growing on me, Dean. What can I say,” you whisper.
“Oh?” His eyebrows lift as a stupid-excited laugh slips out of him. Steam curls through the room as the water grows warmer. “You know what?”
“What?” You murmur as your hand wraps around the base of his cock. His breath catches in his chest when you press a kiss on his tip.
“I…” He mumbles, watching you lay out your tongue and glide up the side of him. The thought dies behind his eyes in real time. “S’unimportant,” he murmurs as your lips wrap around him.
You take him in your mouth inch by inch, his lips parting, brows softening. The wet sounds of your mouth on him leave him reaching out and squeezing the edge of the sink for support, his other hand resting on your head.
“There is no way you’re gonna stand there and pretend you don’t know what you’ve been doing all night,” he grits out.
You pop off his cock and the breath punches out of him, spitting on his dick before you smile, stroking him lazily with your fist. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Liar,” he grins. “You spent three hours winding me up.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did,” he snorts. “You love that shit.”
“Maybe a bit,” you whisper, your breath ghosting across him and making goosebumps fan across his tanned skin.
“Knew it.” Dean smirks, that smug little look he had when he walked out with his arm around your shoulders at Malone’s tugging at his lips again.
“I was just having fun,” you look up at him through your lashes, far too innocently for how you’re working him in your hand.
“Trust me, I noticed. Love when you tease me—love when I get anything from you.”
You roll your eyes, warmth pooling in your cheeks, running your nails up his thighs.
“I’d sit through another three hours of it.”
“That so?” You ask.
“Mhmm,” he hums as his hold on your head gets tighter, guiding you back toward him. You wrap your lips around him and his jaw clicks, eyes rolling back in his head when you let him use you a little. The head of his cock kisses the back of your throat, spit seeping from the corners of your lips.
“So fuckin’ good at suckin’ cock, baby. Jesus Christ,” he rambles breathily, thrusting deeply a few more times before giving you back the reins.
You moan around him and his eyes screw shut, the thick muscles in his thigh shaking as his dick swells on your tongue.
“Not gonna last if you let me use you like this. I’m gonna—Fuck,” he gasps when you release him from your lips, stroking him with your tongue flat and your breasts pressed together.
“Shit, baby,” he groans, white ropes of cum landing on your tongue and chest as steam hangs heavy in the air.
Dean catches your wrists, pulling you up off your feet and into his arms. You wrap your legs around his trim waist, melting into him as he breathes laboriously, coming down from his high.
“Goddamn, baby. You’re so fuckin’ good at that,” he mumbles breathlessly. “Do you know how good you make me feel?”
You hum into the kiss, catching his bottom lip between your teeth as he steps into the shower with you.
The water is warm, remnants of his release rise off your body, swirling down the drain. He tilts in, tongue slipping in your mouth before your lips even touch.
Your gasp breaks the kiss as your back presses against the cool tile wall, so cold it sends shivers straight through you.
Dean reaches for the shower head, taking it off the base and turning it to a steady stream. He sets you down on your feet and your brows furrow in confusion because no matter how many times you've found yourself in Dean Di Laurentis's shower, he's never done this.
He kicks your foot out gently. The corner of his mouth curls as he sees you start to put the pieces together.
“Dean?” You breathe out a laugh.
“You ever done this before?” His voice drops as he grips the detachable shower head in one hand, the other pinned just over your shoulder as he looks down at you.
“I mean maybe,” you admit.
“Well,” he laughs, clearly excited by the idea. “We’re gonna have to talk about that later. No one’s ever done it for you?” His eyes flick down as the warm water sprays against your thigh, working upward.
You bite your lip and shake your head ‘no’.
“How romantic,” he whispers. “I’m your first and only. Love that for me.”
“Shut up,” you chuckle, your focus falling to the narrow space between you.
You gasp when the water hits your pussy, surging over your clit and making your knees buckle. Your arms quickly wrap around his neck for support, a moan echoing through the bathroom.
“Baby… Fuck, baby. Too much?”
You shake your head rapidly, feeling your heartbeat climb, nails clawing into his skin. “So good,” you pant. “Don’t stop.”
Dean moves his arm from the wall to your waist, drawing you closer, rocking slowly, increasing and decreasing the intensity, making you throw your head back in pleasure. Dean’s lips quickly lock onto your skin, kissing you harshly before biting down, making you cry out.
He watches your face as you drift closer and closer to your breaking point.
You feel your pleasure building fast, the pressure mounting stronger than anything you’ve felt in a while.
“You like that, huh?” He grunts.
”Mhmm,“ you whimper as your vision starts to cloud.
“I can’t wait to fuck you, baby. This is just a warm-up—”
“Dean!” You cut him off, crying out in pleasure as you wrap your arms tighter, nails digging into his shoulder blades. He lets out a devilish laugh, forcing the stream a little closer. “D-Dean,” you stutter.
“What, angel?” Your body jolts as you fight him slightly in overstimulation, continuing to ride the waves of your orgasm, pussy clenching around nothing. ”Does it feel good, baby?“
“Yes, fuck!”
“Then just take it,” he soothes, your heart pounding in your chest as you reach for air. Dean returns the water head to the base, cranking up the heat, pressing you into the wall once more as you continue to kiss, ears ringing, body tingling head to toe.
“Fuck me?” You whimper, desperation laced in your tone, but he’s already reaching above the shower, patting around the windowsill until he finds a condom.
He brings the package to his teeth and tears it open, watching as you roll it on, the thick weight of his cock squeezed in rubber.
Dean reaches down, taking a grip on your thigh, looping it in his bicep, muscles flexing as he lifts you slightly.
“Shit,” you whine as he circles your sensitive clit with the ribbed rubber on his tip, making him smirk. Dean traces the tip through your folds, teasing your entrance.
“Dean. Please.“
“Please what?” He teases you again.
“Fuck. Me.”
“Baby…” He lets out a gravelly laugh. “Beg harder.” Dean swipes his head across your clit again, making you gasp.
”Dean, can you please fuck me? Ple—” He thrusts his cock into you, rutting up, breasts pressing flush to his broad chest as he steals your breath.
Dean grabs your ass and picks you up swiftly, causing you to sink deeper on his cock and moan onto his lips.
He pins you to the wall, tilting in, drilling you into the tile quickly. His strokes are merciless, incredibly deep as you cling to his shoulders again. The hot water cascades down your body, flowing between the two of you, the sensation on your clit alone almost enough to send you over the edge. But it’s not enough. You want to feel him.
“Baby,” you murmur and he melts at the sound of your voice, pushing himself even closer. “Can we… I—” Your voice stutters with each snap of his hips.
“What is it, sweetheart?” He murmurs against your mouth.
“I wanna feel you—”
His hips lose their rhythm and his reaction speaks for itself, but he’d never leave it like that. “You serious?” He pants, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.
“Please,” you whisper, and he growls out a breath. “Is that okay?”
“Begging too? Fuck me. You even gotta ask?”
“Take it off,” you whisper, and the look on his face is so pleased it nearly makes you laugh.
“Hands against the wall,” he mumbles, chuckling under his breath when he sees your legs trembling after he pulls out.
He grabs the condom by the tip, tugging it off, letting it slip down the drain without a second thought.
Dean grabs your hips impatiently, bullying you toward the wall before pressing himself deep. Your eyes slam shut as you tip your face toward the ceiling. Your mouth falls open as his big hand comes up, curving around your shoulder, the other drifting to your waist, using his hold to fuck into you harder.
“Holy fucking shit,” he pants, every muscle at work, water flying with each rough clap of his hips against your ass, his blonde fringe, wet and messy when you look over your shoulder, his parted lips curling into a smirk.
“Dean…” You sigh, feeling yourself about to cum again, your head throbbing with your heartbeat.
“Yeah? That’s the spot, huh?”
“Yeah,” you whine, cock-drunk, thighs quivering uncontrollably, making you lose your rhythm.
“Let me, baby. Let me,” he groans.
Dean fucks into you, striking the perfect angle, making your muscles tense up. “Shit… Right there, Dean. You’re gonna make me cum.“
“Pussy was made for me. Cum on my cock.”
You let out a cry far louder than intended in a house full of hockey boys. You cover your mouth with the back of your hand.
Dean quickly grabs your wrist, pulling it away from your mouth, shaking his head ‘no’ as he tacks it and the other to the small of your back.
“Never do that again,” he pants through parted lips, punctuating each word with a rough snap of his hips.
The knot in your stomach tightens—threatening to snap. “Dean,” you gasp.
“Me too, baby. Fuck. Me too,” he moans, as his hand shifts from your shoulder to your neck, squeezing just enough to have your eyes rolling back.
Your orgasm spills over, your hand coming back to wrap around his wrist, pussy squeezing him so tight he’s hissing out a breath.
“That’s it… Good fuckin’ girl.”
His hips snap into you one last time, filling you with his warmth, his blunt nails digging into your skin as his rhythm stutters out.
You can feel everything at this moment—the spasm of your sex and the throb of his cock. Your head falls between your shoulders in exhaustion, but he uses his hold on your neck to guide you back to his lips instead.
A soft laugh escapes him against your mouth, your post-sex giggles bouncing off the walls of the shower as you soften into his arms.
“Aren’t you glad you came home with me?”
You go to say something smart, but he kisses you instead, stealing the words before they leave your mouth. He turns you back toward him, not letting you get far at all. His big arms wrap around you, holding you close as he presses a kiss to your forehead.
“What I tell you, huh?” He grins, still trying to catch his breath. “Shower sex is hot.”
“Mhmm,” you hum into yet another kiss and he can’t stop grinning.
“Tomorrow. Seven PM. You and me. What do you say?”
Your lips brush over the top of his, the tension between you thick and charged as you make him sweat it out a little more. His fingers flex against your waist.
“Okay, Di Laurentis,” you say, unable to hide your smile.
“That a yes?” He asks.
“That’s a yes,” you answer, and he sighs in relief.
“I mean did you wanna hear the speech I had in case you said ‘no’ again?”
“Was it good?” You taunt.
“Amazing—pathetic as hell,” he answers simply, his hand following the rush of water down your skin.
Your fingers drift into his hair, tugging at the root and he smiles, the stupid-pretty dimples popping yet again, making you absolutely weak.
“See? You love me.”
“I like like you at best,” you smile, matching his hushed tone.
And for the first time all night, Dean goes quiet. A smile pulls at his lips as he tilts in, cupping your cheeks in his hands.
“No shit? Like like, huh?” He teases against your mouth, chuckling when he says it back. “That’s pretty goddamn close if you ask me—”
“Don’t start,” you whisper, fighting a smile before he kisses you.
summary 𓂃 when you admit you’ve never been on top before, dean decides there’s no better place to learn than his bed.
warnings 𓂃 18+ mdni, explicit smut, established relationship, insecurity, first time riding, protected sex, praise, dirty talk, boob play, clit stimulation, missionary, soft aftercare.
word count 𓂃 3,468.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
You'd been pretending to watch the movie for at least fifteen minutes.
Dean had been doing a terrible job of pretending he wasn't staring at you for just as long.
It was a terrible performance on both sides, especially considering the laptop was still playing some action movie at the end of his bed, and neither of you could've named one thing that'd happened in the last ten minutes. You were tucked under his sheets in one of his old Briar shirts, the hem brushing soft against your thighs because your underwear was the only thing you'd bothered putting on after your shower, and Dean was lying beside you with one hand behind his head and the other low on your hip like he was trying very hard to act like a gentleman.
He was trying to behave, which was sweet, really, but not exactly successful.
"You're staring again," you murmured, not even bothering to look away from the screen.
Dean's thumb moved in a slow circle over your hip. "You're in my bed wearing my shirt. You can't really blame me."
"You gave it to me," you pointed out, like that was supposed to make him less smug about it.
"I know." Dean's mouth curved like he'd been waiting for you to say exactly that. "Great decision, honestly."
You rolled your eyes, but the smile breaking through kind of ruined the effect. "You're impossible."
"Yeah." Dean leaned in, his lips brushing your shoulder through the fabric of his shirt. "But you like me anyway."
"Sometimes," you said, though your smile made it sound a lot less convincing.
"Right now?" he asked, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip.
You turned your head to answer, which was apparently all the invitation Dean needed, because then he was kissing you, slow and warm, one hand sliding up your side beneath the fabric like he'd planned the whole thing. It was easy to melt into Dean like that, a lot easier than you'd ever admit out loud. Dean kissed you like he knew exactly how much time he had, which apparently meant he had no problem spending it dragging every little sound out of you to see how much trouble it got him into.
His fingers slipped beneath the hem of the shirt, warm against your waist in a way that shouldn't have made you gasp as quickly as it did.
Dean smiled against your mouth, entirely too pleased with himself. "There she is."
"Don't start."
"I didn't even say anything."
"You were about to, and we both know it."
He laughed, low and entirely too pleased with himself, before rolling onto his back and tugging you over him like he already knew you'd follow. And you did, because apparently thinking was no longer part of the plan, one knee sliding across his hips until you were straddling his lap.
Then you froze beneath his hands, and Dean felt the change in you immediately.
His hands settled on your waist, thumbs brushing over your sides in a way that was soft enough to make your chest ache a little. "Hey."
You swallowed, suddenly very aware of the fact that you were in his lap with your thighs spread around his hips, his hard length pressing up beneath his sweatpants, and somehow his shirt still covering you didn't make you feel any less exposed.
"This feels like a lot of responsibility," you said, aiming for a joke and landing somewhere embarrassingly close to panic.
Dean's brow lifted like he wasn't sure whether to laugh or be concerned. "Responsibility?"
"I just..." You looked down, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt like that'd somehow make the words easier to get out. "I've never really done this before."
His expression softened, though that amused little spark in his eyes didn't go anywhere. "Been on top?"
Your cheeks warmed, which was annoying because Dean absolutely noticed. "Not really."
"Not really?" Dean repeated, thumbs still brushing over your waist like he was trying very hard not to look too pleased about that.
"Dean," you said, dragging his name out like a warning, even though the warmth in your cheeks made it pretty hard to sound threatening.
He smiled a little, his hands giving your hips a gentle squeeze like he'd decided to behave for once. "Okay. Not really."
"It's not a big deal," you said quickly, which was unfortunate because saying it that fast made it sound like it was definitely a big deal. "I just feel like I'd look stupid, or I wouldn't know what I was doing, and then you'd have to pretend it was hot, which is a very nice boyfriend thing to do, but also something I'd never emotionally recover from."
Dean stared at you for a beat, then laughed in this soft, disbelieving way that only made your face feel warmer. "Baby, I'm hard because you're sitting on my lap in my shirt. You could sneeze right now, and I'd find a way to be into it."
You blinked because, annoyingly enough, it had worked. "That was weirdly comforting."
"I'm great at comfort."
"You're absolutely not."
"I am when you're half-naked on top of me."
You tried to bite back a laugh, but it came out as this breathy little sound instead when Dean's hands guided your hips down, showing you exactly how slowly he wanted you to move over him. The pressure caught against your clit through your underwear, warm and steady enough to make your thighs tense before you could stop them.
Dean's eyes darkened like he'd felt the way your body reacted. "Does that feel good?"
You nodded, your thighs still tense beneath his hands.
His mouth curved. "Words, sweetheart."
"Yes," you breathed, because apparently that was the only word your brain had left to offer.
"There you go," Dean murmured, his voice soft enough to make your stomach flip.
The next kiss was messier, mostly because Dean kept guiding your hips over him like he had all the patience in the world, dragging it out until your underwear was damp, clinging to you, and making it pretty impossible to pretend you weren't affected. At first, the sounds you made were small and half-swallowed against his mouth, but Dean noticed every single one like he'd been waiting for them.
"Don't do that," he murmured.
You blinked at him. "Do what?"
"Hold back." His fingers tightened on your hips like he was making sure you couldn't pretend you didn't know what he meant. "I like hearing you."
Your stomach flipped, which was annoying because Dean absolutely felt it, and then he kissed you again until the friction dragged a moan out of you that you finally let him hear.
Dean groaned, as if he'd heard you'd done something terrible to his self-control.
That helped more than anything else could have.
By the time Dean had pushed his sweatpants down and rolled on a condom, your underwear was shoved to the side, your hands were planted on his chest, and the shirt was still hanging over you like a very pathetic attempt at feeling covered. Dean didn't try to take it off, which somehow made your chest feel tighter. He just held your hips, eyes fixed on your face as he guided himself through your wetness.
"Slow," he murmured. "Take your time."
You lowered yourself carefully, trying to take your time like he'd told you to, but your mouth still fell open the second the head of his cock pressed inside you. The stretch was familiar and different all at once, deeper like this, more intense because you were the one in control, which sounded nice in theory and felt a lot more terrifying with Dean watching your face like that. You sank inch by inch, trying very hard to look like you had any control over yourself, but the second he filled you, your fingers curled against his chest, and a shaky whimper slipped out before you could stop it.
Dean's jaw tightened. "Fuck."
You froze immediately. "Bad?"
His eyes snapped to yours as you'd just said something insane. "Are you joking?"
"You made a face."
"Yeah, baby, because you feel so good, I'm trying not to embarrass myself."
Your cheeks warmed, which was embarrassing enough on its own, but the praise still settled low in your stomach like your body had decided to enjoy it before you could overthink it.
"You're not just saying that?"
Dean's hands slid up your thighs, grounding you in a way that made it annoyingly hard to spiral. "Move once, sweetheart, and see if I sound like I'm lying."
So you did, moving slowly at first.
Your hips lifted, then sank back down, and Dean's head tipped against the pillow with this rough, helpless groan that made it pretty hard to believe he'd been lying about any of it.
"Oh," you breathed, and the second you moved again, it turned into something closer to a moan.
Dean's eyes opened, heavy and dark, like he'd been waiting for exactly that. "Yeah?"
"Feels good," you said, already sounding a little wrecked.
His hands squeezed your thighs. "Then keep going, sweetheart."
Your movements were awkward at first, mostly because your brain wouldn't shut up long enough to let your body figure it out, too busy worrying about the rhythm, whether you were doing enough, and whether you looked ridiculous hovering over him in his shirt with your thighs trembling.
Then Dean's hands tightened on your hips like he could feel you spiraling. "Stop thinking."
"I'm trying."
"No." His voice dropped, rough around the edges but still gentle. "You're trying to look good, which is insane, because you already do. Just move how you want."
The words hit harder than you'd expected, mostly because Dean sounded like he meant them, so you tried to believe him.
You rolled your hips instead of lifting so high, chasing the angle that made your clit catch against him every time you sank back down, and the moan that left you was loud enough to make Dean's cock twitch inside you like he was having a very hard time staying calm about it.
Your eyes flicked to his face, and Dean looked so wrecked that it made it pretty hard to keep worrying about whether you were doing it right.
His lips parted, jaw tense, and his hands kept flexing on your hips like Dean was having the world's hardest time remembering he'd told you to move how you wanted.
"You like this?" you asked, and even though your voice shook, it still came out bolder than before.
Dean laughed once, rough and breathless, as the question had actually offended him. "Like it?" His hips jerked up into you, dragging a gasp out of your mouth. "Baby, I'm trying not to lose my fucking mind."
That did something to you, mostly because Dean sounded like he meant it, and apparently, your body liked knowing you could mess him up that badly.
Your next movement was smoother, more confident, and the moan that came out of you wasn't even close to quiet, which Dean clearly noticed because his hands tightened on your hips immediately.
"Dean—fuck," you moaned, and the way his eyes darkened made it pretty clear he'd liked hearing his name like that.
"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."
You rode him slowly at first, then a little faster once you realized your body had apparently figured out what your brain kept trying to overthink, your hands sliding up his chest as his shirt rode higher over your thighs. Your cunt was soaked around him, every movement making it easier, wetter, and a lot harder to feel shy about, especially when Dean looked down to watch where you were taking him and groaned as he'd just lost whatever was left of his self-control.
"God," he muttered, hands tightening on your hips. "You were worried about this?"
You tried to laugh, but it came out closer to a whimper when he helped you grind down harder. "Maybe."
Dean looked like that answer personally offended him. "You're killing me."
His fingers tugged at the hem of the shirt, and you slowed immediately, like your body had decided to panic before your brain could tell it not to.
Dean noticed immediately, because, of course, he did, his eyes lifting back to yours, as if taking the shirt off suddenly mattered a whole lot less than making sure you were okay. "Can I see you?"
Your stomach fluttered.
His hands rubbed up your thighs, warm and steady. "You can keep it on if you want."
You hesitated for only a second before lifting your arms, which felt a lot braver than it probably looked.
Dean pulled the shirt over your head and tossed it aside, leaving you in your bra and still moving over him like your body hadn't quite figured out whether to be nervous or proud. His eyes dragged over you slowly, and for once, Dean Di Laurentis had absolutely nothing to say.
That made your chest tighten, mostly because Dean looking at you like that was a lot harder to handle than any stupid comment he could've made. "What?"
His hands slid up your waist, warm and certain. "You're so fucking pretty."
Your breath caught the second his palms covered your breasts through your bra, thumbs brushing over your nipples beneath the thin fabric, and your rhythm faltered immediately, because apparently, Dean touching you there made moving and thinking at the same time impossible.
"Oh—Dean."
His mouth curved, entirely too pleased with himself. "No, don't stop."
"You're distracting me."
"Good." His thumbs circled again, making you clench around him like your body had decided to prove his point. "Keep riding me anyway."
You moaned louder this time, hips rolling as his hands played with your tits through your bra, and every touch made you stutter in a way Dean very clearly noticed. Every bit of praise made you wetter, every look on his face made you a little bolder, until the embarrassment started slipping away as your body had finally decided to stop fighting him.
"Tell me," he said, voice rough. "Tell me what feels good."
You swallowed, still moving over him because apparently stopping would've been the worst idea. "Your hands."
"Yeah?"
"And your cock." Your voice was breathless enough to be embarrassing, but you said it anyway, and Dean's eyes went so dark that it made the embarrassment feel worth it. "Feels good when I move like this."
You rolled your hips harder to show him, and Dean's head dropped back as you'd just ruined him on purpose.
"Fuck," he groaned. "Don't stop doing that."
Hearing Dean sound like that ruined something dangerous to your confidence, mostly because it was a lot harder to feel embarrassed when he sounded like he was the one barely holding it together.
Your hands moved behind your back, unclasping your bra before your brain could show up and ruin the moment. It slipped down your arms and fell somewhere between you, and Dean stared as you'd just done something genuinely unfair to his ability to breathe.
"Look at you," he breathed, and the way he said it made your whole body feel warm.
The words made your chest warm in a way you weren't sure what to do with.
Then his mouth was on you, lips closing around one nipple while his hand covered your other breast, and you cried out so quickly it would've been embarrassing if Dean hadn't groaned like it'd done something to him. Your fingers slid into his hair, hips moving faster now as pleasure started building low in your stomach.
"Dean, I'm—" Your voice fell apart into a whimper when his thumb found your clit, because apparently your body had no interest in letting you finish a sentence. "Oh my god, right there."
"There?" he asked, smug in a way that would've been annoying if he didn't sound so wrecked.
"Yes. Fuck, yes."
He rubbed slow circles over your clit while you rode him, his other hand on your hip and his mouth moving from your breast to your throat like he wasn't already making it impossible to focus. You were close, so close your thighs had started shaking, but the rhythm was getting harder to keep, your moans turning messier and needier as frustration tangled with the pleasure your body kept trying to chase.
Dean caught it instantly, like every little shift in your body was something he'd been waiting for.
"Come here," he murmured.
Before you could even think about arguing, Dean rolled you beneath him and pulled the sheets over both of you, settling between your thighs without slipping out like he'd decided you'd done enough thinking for one night. The new angle made you gasp, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed deeper.
Then Dean caught both your hands and laced your fingers together, pinning them above your head so gently it made your chest ache a little.
Dean kissed you, slow and messy, like he had every intention of making good on that promise. "Let me finish what you started."
"Please," you whispered, and it came out a lot needier than planned, which Dean absolutely noticed.
Dean's expression flickered. Then his hips started moving. Slow, deep, steady thrusts that had you moaning into the space between you, thighs locked around his waist, your hands crossed with his over your head. The sheets tangled around your legs, heat building under the blanket, his body heavy and warm over yours.
"You did so well," he murmured, his mouth brushing your jaw like he knew exactly how badly the praise was getting to you. "Looked so fucking good on top of me."
"Dean," you whimpered.
"I know." His hips rolled deeper, pulling your back into an arch. "I've got you."
His hand slipped between your bodies again, thumb finding your clit like he already knew exactly what you needed, and your whole body tightened around him.
"Oh—fuck, don't stop," you gasped, which was probably unnecessary considering Dean looked like stopping would've killed him.
He groaned anyway. "Wasn't planning on it."
The pleasure snapped through you suddenly, hot and sharp, and your moan broke against Dean's mouth as you came around him. Your thighs locked around his waist, fingers tightening in his above your head like you needed something to hold onto while your body shook beneath him.
Dean followed right after, his thrusts going uneven as he'd finally lost the last of his control, face buried in your neck as a rough groan broke out of him while he held you close and came.
For a while, neither of you moved, both of you too warm and tangled beneath the sheets to do anything other than breathe.
"You okay?" he asked softly.
You nodded, still trying to catch your breath. "Yeah."
His grin appeared slowly, which was never a good sign. "So."
"No."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"I was just gonna say you're definitely not bad at being on top."
Your face warmed, and you turned it into the pillow like that might somehow save you. "You're so annoying."
"And you were so loud."
"Dean."
"I liked it," he said, kissing your cheek like he hadn't just made you want to disappear into the mattress. "A lot."
You tried to glare, but it came out pretty weak, especially when he slipped out carefully and disappeared to clean up like he hadn't just ruined your ability to function. When he came back, he helped clean you with a warm towel, gentle when your thighs twitched, before pulling his shirt back over your head as it belonged there.
"Putting me back in this?" you asked, glancing down at the shirt.
"Obviously." Dean climbed into bed beside you and pulled you into his chest, looking far too pleased with himself. "It's my new favorite thing now."
You laughed softly, settling against him while his arm wrapped around you like he had no plans of letting you go anytime soon.
For a minute, Dean only rubbed slow circles over your back like he was trying to make sure you'd fully melted into him. Then his voice came again, softer this time, though obviously still teasing because it was Dean.
"So..." His mouth brushed your hair, and you could hear the grin in his voice before he even finished. "You wanna do that again sometime?"
You pinched his side, which only made him laugh because apparently even that wasn't enough to make him less pleased with himself.
Dean laughed and pulled you closer, sounding far too pleased with himself for someone who'd just been pinched. "I'll take that as a yes."
he’s staring at you from across the overcrowded frat party, sipping on his drink and smiling like a fool.
your in your usual element, bubbly and laughing while you’re dancing with your girls, looking utterly beautiful in the short mini skirt that’s so short you could flash the whole party with a slight bend, and a skimpy top that’s tied at your back, and dean’s pretty sure he could untie it with a tug of his teeth.
the outfit is beyond dangerous and scandalous, but that’s why your boyfriend’s here, right? and he can fight too, so that’s a bonus.
eventually that smile on dean’s face turns into an annoyed look when you move around all sweaty, trying to get a drink from logan, and that gives the perfect opportunity to some short frat guy making his way towards you, flashing you his cheap boy‑next‑door smile and trying to make small conversation while you look him up and down, answering his questions in boredom.
and dean’s teammate logan has the audacity to leave you alone as he makes his way towards his own girl. the conversation looks innocent, but not until shorty has the audacity to put a hand on your hip, whispering something in your ear, pretending like it’s sooo loud and you just can’t hear him!!
and that’s what motivates dean to leave his drink nearby on a table and strut his way towards you as he rounds a large hand over your tummy, pulling you into his hard chest and making you relax.
the guy you’re talking to falters slightly, letting go as he gapes at him.
“hey man, saw your game last night—” he blabbers, but dean could not care less, using his free hand as he tilts your chin to his smirking face while you grin at him.
not long before he brands his lips and tongue on you, you struggle to kiss him back.
the frat guy is long forgotten, melting away into the background as dean deepens the kiss. your hands find purchase on his shoulders, gripping the firm muscle through his shirt as you press closer.
you’re drunk on his scent.
he’s drunk on your mouth.
shamelessly, he takes full advantage, pressing open‑mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. his hand continues its journey upward until he reaches the knot of your top, his fingers toying with the strings.
“dean,” you whisper, a half‑hearted protest as your body arches into his touch.
he smirks against your skin. “what? just making sure it’s secure. can’t have you flashing everyone now, can we?” but his fingers continue to tease the knot, not quite untying it but definitely testing its strength.
you hear a loud “get a room!” and you both know it’s one of his idiot friends, but he doesn’t even care as he grins into you.
your own hands begin to explore, sliding down his chest to the hem of his shirt. you slip beneath it, your fingers tracing the ridges of his abs while balancing your drink on the other hand.
dean groans into your mouth at your touch, his hips pressing forward instinctively.
“maybe we should find somewhere more private hmm,” he suggests between kisses, though he makes no move to pull away.
you’re about to agree when someone bumps into you, breaking the moment. you both look up to find a drunk girl apologizing profusely before stumbling away. the spell broken, dean takes your hand.
“come on,” he says, his eyes gleaming with desire. “we’re getting outta here.”
who knew dean di laurentis. famous party boy was so desperate to leave a party.
I absolutely loved your last Dean story!! I was wondering if you would be able to write about a reader who has never been able to finish, with herself or anyone else, and dean helps her learn.
Beautiful writing!
I would've done that sober
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x childhood best friend!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-66
a/n: Well that was long, but such a delight to write and soooo so sexy
Classification: Smut +18 | Talks of ex's and sexual dysfunction/insecurity, emotional vulnerability, recreational drug use (NOT DURING SEX), dry humping/grinding, getting caught, fingering, tension and arousal descriptions, orgasm, praise and partial undressing/lingerie.
Word count: 12k
Divider by me ;)
You sat across from the fire pit in the boys’ backyard, elbows resting on the armrests of your chair while the flames cracked softly in front of you both. The night air had turned colder hours ago, but neither of you had gone inside. Dean kept talking and you kept letting him or trying to.
Every time he opened his mouth, you exhaled slowly through your nose as if physically releasing air might stop you from interrupting him.
“He’s an arrogant son of a bitch,” Dean repeated for probably the fifth time that night. He took another drag from the blunt before passing it toward you, smoke curling past his lips as he leaned back deeper into the chair.
“That’s what pisses me off the most,” he continued, staring hard into the fire like your ex-boyfriend personally offended him. “He had no clue what he was doing in the relationship from day one and still had the confidence to ask you out.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Usually I respect delusion like that, but that guy’s a fucking disaster.”
You accepted the blunt with a quiet sigh.
Dean had been ranting for nearly a week straight now. Anyone overhearing him would’ve assumed he’d been the one publicly dumped in the cafeteria instead of you but he’d been there when it happened, front row seats to your ex fumbling through excuses while half your friends sat frozen around the table pretending not to listen. Maybe that was enough for Dean.
Now, instead of being out partying with the rest of the team, he sat outside with you night after night, sharing weed and acting personally victimized by your breakup.
“Dean,” you finally interrupted, tone firm.
He stopped talking immediately.
You inhaled slowly before looking over at him through the smoke, holding his gaze while you exhaled. “It’s okay.”
Dean’s expression flattened instantly. “We have very different definitions of okay.”
His eyes drifted back toward the fire for a second, replaying the memory again. You could practically see it happening behind his eyes, the cafeteria, your expression and your ex stumbling through his speech.
“You should’ve let me talk to him,” he muttered.
“What good would that have done?” You brought the blunt back to your lips, inhaling before handing it over again. “It’s not his fault.”
Dean’s head snapped toward you so fast he nearly dropped the thing. “The fuck does that mean?”
You almost rolled your eyes at the offense in his tone. Instead, you looked away toward the fire again, watching orange light flicker against the patio stones.
“I’m lost here,” he scoffed. “Is being wrapped around another girl at a party three hours after dumping you not a dick move now?”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Dean,” you said gently, finally turning your head toward him again. “I think I’m the only person who wasn’t surprised by the breakup.”
His brows furrowed.
You shrugged one shoulder lightly. “He just beat me to it.”
“Oh.” The word left him quietly. Dean looked away immediately afterward, dragging a hand over his mouth while he gathered his thoughts before glancing back at you. “That’s the first time I’m hearing about that.”
He passed the blunt over again.
You took it carefully, staring down at it between your fingers for a second before answering.
“Yeah, well...” You inhaled deeply, smoke burning pleasantly in your lungs before you let it back out slowly. “You’ve got other business to worry about.”
Dean huffed out a laugh instantly. “You are my business.” The certainty in his voice made your lips curl before you could stop them. “So start talking.”
He always did that. Dean had this way of making honesty feel inevitable. The two of you talked about everything, always had. He knew things about you your closest friends didn’t. Hell, he’d bought condoms for you the first time you planned on sleeping with someone because you’d been too embarrassed to walk into the store yourself.
You moved deeper into the chair, pulling one leg beneath you while you searched carefully for the right words. “Um…” You inhaled again, then blurted it out before your brain could stop you. “I suck at the sex thing.”
Dean’s face twisted immediately in disagreement as you passed the blunt. “Bullshit.”
You laughed softly. “No, seriously. I do.” You rubbed awkwardly at your neck before continuing. “Turns out not being able to cum eventually becomes an issue when your partner realizes you never actually have with them.”
Dean’s expression changed instantly. Every conversation you’d ever had about sex clearly started replaying in his head at once because confusion hit him violently.
“But you told me–”
“I lied.” The words came out easier than expected. You shrugged lightly, though your stomach still tightened. “I’ve been lying for years...Faking it until I got tired of faking it and started bruising egos.” A humorless smile tugged briefly at your mouth. “Including mine.”
Dean stayed quiet now so you stared into the fire instead.
“I just…” You exhaled slowly. “I don’t think sex is really my thing.” Your shoulders lifted. “I like the idea of it. I enjoy parts of it…but everyone talks about this huge explosive ending and I just…” You shook your head. “Don’t get there…naturally people stop believing you when you say it was still good.”
Dean watched you carefully. “Was it?”
“The sex?” You let the silence drag for a second before shrugging again. “I think so.” Your lips twitched faintly. “It was good enough to build better stories around afterward.”
Dean stopped smoking entirely after that. The blunt burned slowly between his fingers while he stared down at it, suddenly looking far more sober than either of you probably were. He looked like he was trying to organize his thoughts before speaking again.
“How about alone?” The question came softly, carefully.
If you didn’t know him so well, you might’ve mistaken the look on his face for pity. Thankfully, you did know him, which meant you recognized concern immediately.
You shook your head slowly. “That’s why I’m saying it’s not his fault.”
“It’s not yours either,” Dean argued as he flicked the rest of the blunt into the fire pit before continuing. “It just hasn’t happened yet.” His voice softened further. “Doesn’t mean it never will.”
You let out a slow breath, eyes closing briefly as the weed finally started loosening the tension sitting on your shoulders. “It’s definitely not from lack of trying.”
You could feel him staring at you even with your eyes closed.
The silence stretched comfortably after your confession, softened by the crackling fire and the distant chorus of crickets surrounding the backyard. The flames had started dying down, wood collapsing inward with quiet snaps while smoke drifted lazily into the cold night air.
Dean still hadn’t looked away from you. “So what now?” he asked finally.
You swallowed slowly, still keeping your eyes shut. For a second or maybe an entire minute, Dean genuinely thought you’d fallen asleep mid-conversation.
Then your lips twitched. “Celibacy.”
The offended sound that tore out of him made your smile widen. You heard him trying to hold it back too, which honestly made it funnier but this was Dean. Subtle outrage had never once existed in his body.
“Think I’d look hot as a nun?” you asked lazily.
“You’d look hot in a banana costume wearing clown shoes six sizes too big,” he replied instantly. “And you’re absolutely not dropping out of Briar to become a nun. End of discussion.”
His tone came out firm enough to sound ridiculous considering he had absolutely no authority over your life whatsoever.
You finally peeled your eyes open to look at him. The weed had settled into your bones now, leaving you heavy and relaxed against the chair. Dean looked hazy too, hair falling perfectly while the firelight flickered warm across his face.
“You’re not giving up because some five-eleven idiot couldn’t be patient long enough to figure you out.”
You grinned. “He’s six-one.”
Dean scoffed. “He tried out for the Hawks freshman year. Trust me, he’s five-eleven.”
Your brows lifted. Dean kept going without needing encouragement, already slipping into that protective streak he pretended wasn’t there. He always collected information about people around you, quietly filing it away for future use whenever he deemed necessary.
“He was wearing lifts during tryouts,” Dean added smugly. “One bad pivot and the guy almost snapped an ankle.”
A laugh escaped you softly.
“If you wanna stop having sex altogether, God forbid–”
“You should become a priest,” you interrupted.
Dean barked out a laugh, tipping his head back. “Yeah,” he nodded. “It’d probably take a year and a half to cleanse my sins.” He pointed toward himself loosely. “And that’s assuming I don’t burst into flames the second I walk into a church.” His eyes drifted back to you. “Can I continue now?”
“Yes, Father,” you replied through a chuckle.
Dean shook his head, smiling despite himself before settling deeper into his chair again.
“If you really wanna do the celibacy thing, fine.” He shrugged dramatically. “I’ll support you. We’ll find support groups together and hold hands through the trauma.” His mouth twitched. “Though personally, I’d go through withdrawals first.”
“How solidary of you.”
He nodded solemnly. “Exactly. Plus I can probably add it to my extracurriculars somehow.”
You laughed harder at that, shoulders shaking slightly as you leaned back into the chair. “You’re so fucking stupid.”
Dean watched you carefully while you laughed. The sound came out lighter than anything he’d heard from you all week, chest rising and falling unevenly while your eyes squeezed shut again for a second and suddenly the conversation stopped feeling funny to him.
Because underneath the jokes, underneath the weed and the teasing, he kept thinking about what you’d actually said earlier. About you trying and nothing happening.
Dean loved sex. Everyone knew that much about him but you did too or at least you loved wanting it, loved feeling desired, loved the intimacy, the heat and everything wrapped around it and now all he could think about was how frustrating that must’ve been for you. Wanting something everyone else talked about so easily only for your body not to cooperate no matter how hard you tried.
The thought sat badly in his chest. Dean looked down at the dying fire for a second before his eyes lifted back to you.
“Use me,” he blurted out.
Your laughter faded gradually after his words, the smile still lingering at the corners of your mouth while your eyes settled back on him even more carefully this time.
“What do you mean?”
Dean didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll be your last resort,” he repeated easily, like he’d already thought this through far more than he probably had. “Aren’t you always telling me to make myself useful?”
You narrowed your eyes, blinking slowly through the haze settling heavier behind them.
“What exactly are you suggesting?” You rubbed at one eye with the heel of your hand. “Because I’m starting to think I hallucinated that sentence.”
“I hold my weed better than you,” he reminded you smugly.
That part, unfortunately, was true. Dean leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting against his knees now, all lazy amusement gone strangely sincere beneath the teasing.
“You wanna quit? Fine.” He shrugged. “Quit when you’re actually out of options.”
A quiet huff left you, somewhere between disbelief and laughter. “Didn’t realize Six Flags counted as an option.” Your lips twitched faintly. “I hate rollercoasters.”
Dean nodded decisively. “Then I’ll go out of business.”
“You’ll close the park?”
“I’ll shut the whole thing down,” he promised solemnly. “Just so you can ride the teacups.” The grin spreading across his face warned you half a second too late. “Remember when you threw up on the–”
“Yes,” you cut him off immediately, flat and horrified. “I remember.”
Dean laughed anyway. Full-bodied, warm and entirely too pleased with himself as he pointed at you. “You were crying,” he accused through the laughter. “You kept saying your stomach hated you–”
“I was fifteen.”
“And dramatic.” He added. “But so cute…less mouthy too.”
“You held my hair while I threw up into a trash can behind the funnel cake stand.”
Dean’s laughter softened slightly at that memory. Back then he’d been genuinely terrified something was wrong with you. He’d hovered beside you the entire night looking pale enough to pass out himself while you recovered on a bench wrapped in his sweatshirt. Now he just looked fond.
You glanced away first, eyes dropping back toward the dying fire while your thoughts started turning over his earlier suggestion again despite yourself.
It could go horribly. Actually, no, it would go horribly. There were at least seventeen reasons this crossed every boundary imaginable. You already hated rollercoasters, hated fast turns and hated giving up control over literally anything involving your body and Dean…Well, Dean was Dean.
Confident, experienced, annoyingly good-looking and unarguably good at sex if campus rumors counted for anything and unfortunately they definitely did. You hadn’t exactly conducted research firsthand but after years of hearing stories from girls around campus, the reviews were embarrassingly consistent.
“You really think that highly of your dick?” you asked finally.
Dean shrugged lazily against the chair. “Nobody said anything about using it.”
That made your eyes snap back to him fully. “And if nothing works?” you asked quieter this time.
The question slipped out more honestly than intended because suddenly you weren’t thinking about sex anymore. You were thinking about aftermaths, about what happened if this ruined things between you. Dean had woven himself into your life years ago so naturally that imagining him gone felt impossible now.
You genuinely didn’t know how you’d survive losing him too.
Dean studied you for a second and for once the confidence in his face softened into something steadier. “Then we fail,” he decided.
You swallowed.
His grin returned slowly afterward, softer around the edges. “Fail with me,” he corrected. “Fail better.” He pointed between you both lazily. “Fail together.”
A laugh escaped you despite every effort not to give him one.
You rolled your eyes hard enough to make him grin wider, shaking your head while the weed continued smoothing the sharp corners off your thoughts. The night air no longer felt cold against your skin and embarrassment had slowly stopped existing somewhere during the conversation. Maybe that was the dangerous part and not Dean’s suggestion but how easy it suddenly felt to consider it.
You didn’t bring it up again for the rest of the night and neither did Dean.
When the rest of the guys stumbled back into the house loud and half-drunk sometime after midnight, he changed back into normal so smoothly it almost irritated you. He made sure you had food, water, your charger and then bullied one of the sober freshmen into driving you home while standing outside by the car until you pulled away like he always did.
You slept absurdly well afterward.
A heavy sleep and dreamless night, the type that glued you to the mattress the next morning until sunlight was already cutting aggressively through your blinds. By the time you shuffled out with an oversized hoodie you were certain was your ex’s, your phone was buzzing with unread texts from Dean sent hours earlier, probably before morning practice.
You ignored every single one and it wasn’t because of regret. Embarrassment simply crawled into your chest somewhere between the first and third spoonful of cereal and decided to settle there permanently.
The entire conversation replayed so clearly now that you were sober. “Use me,” You nearly groaned into the bowl.
Three hours of class helped, at least temporarily. You sat near the back of the massive amphitheater classroom while your professor rambled enthusiastically about the new book he’d conveniently written himself and would definitely require students to purchase before midterms. You probably would’ve absorbed more information if you weren’t scrolling mindlessly through Instagram the entire lecture.
The doors behind you opened quietly midway through class.
You barely paid attention at first since nobody descended the stairs toward the lower rows and a second later the seat beside you groaned softly under someone’s weight.
You recognized the cologne immediately.
“How hard do you think you need to scrub for that scent to leave your skin?” you whispered without looking up.
Dean grinned beside you, leaning closer enough for warmth to brush your shoulder as his eyes dropped toward your phone screen.
You locked it quickly and finally looked at him. “You’re not in this class.”
“I see your phone works perfectly fine,” he replied.
The professor thankfully dismissed class early before you could answer, students immediately growing louder as backpacks zipped and people exited the space.
You stood quickly and started gathering your things. “Did you need something, Di Laurentis?” you asked flatly.
Dean remained seated on purpose, forcing you to awkwardly climb past him to leave the row. The asshole looked entirely too pleased with himself while you muttered under your breath and stepped over his legs.
The second you reached the aisle, he stood and followed.
You walked fast, actually, aggressively fast. Dean almost struggled to keep up at first, his legs clearly still wrecked from morning practice while you marched out of the building like escape itself was the objective. He finally caught you outside near the steps leading toward the quad.
“We need to talk.”
You slowed at last before turning toward him. “What we need is space,” you corrected, motioning firmly between your bodies.
Dean looked down between you both thoughtfully, then took exactly one step backward.
You almost laughed, especially because he looked unbearably smug afterward, standing there grinning in the middle of campus like he deserved a reward for basic listening skills.
“You’ve gone to New York with me enough times to know I don’t need more space,” he pointed out. “But fine.” His expression softened slightly afterward, amusement fading as he studied your face more carefully. “What’s going on?”
Of course, he was right. Dean practically crawled into people’s personal bubbles recreationally, so the fact he’d backed off at all made it harder to flee the conversation entirely.
You exhaled slowly. “We said stuff last night.”
He nodded once, blinking at the tension written all over your face. “Yeah. That’s usually how conversations work.”
“Stuff you might regret,” you clarified.
Dean’s brows lifted before a quiet laugh escaped him. “Regret?” He pointed toward himself loosely. “C’mon. It’s me.”
His voice gentled slightly after and the worst part was he looked relieved, because apparently the phrase ‘stuff you might regret’ translated in Dean’s brain to ‘good, she’s not upset’.
“I would’ve said that sober,” he assured you.
His eyes stayed fixed on yours while your attention darted briefly around campus before returning to him again exactly like he knew it would. Dean stepped closer instinctively, lowering his voice enough that the passing students around you blurred into background noise.
“You want me to repeat it?” he asked quietly. “Let me help you cum.”
Your stomach tightened at his tone of voice. “It might not work,” you reminded him softly.
You hoped your face conveyed the actual problem because this had never been about his ego. Dean could survive failure, he’d probably laugh through it, so that wasn’t what scared you.
Dean shrugged anyway, maddeningly calm. “What if it does?”
“And what if it doesn’t?” Frustration finally slipped into your voice. “Dean, I don’t want us to get weird.” You shook your head hard once. “I don’t need ‘optimistic Dean’ right now,” you muttered. “I need ‘realistic Dean’, so pull him out of your ass.”
“You already are weird,” Dean corrected easily, smiling down at you. “I accepted that years ago.” His grin widened then. “Actually, I encourage it.”
You rolled your eyes, though the corner of your mouth betrayed you.
“Let me try,” he insisted again, the confidence in his voice should’ve irritated you more than it did.
Instead, you found yourself studying him in silence, searching for something off in his expression. Some sign this was ego, curiosity or boredom disguised as concern but he just looked…earnest. Enthusiastic, sure, because he was Dean and apparently incapable of approaching anything halfway but not creepy about it and maybe this was partially your own fault.
You’d spent years talking openly with him about sex, relationships and attraction. About wanting something good someday instead of tolerable, about how when you were old and exhausted with kids running around, you still wanted a partner who looked at you and wanted you back because you were almost certain you’d still want them too.
Dean remembered everything you said…unfortunately.
You sighed heavily. “We need rules.”
“Fine.” He agreed so fast it almost startled you. Dean straightened afterward, nodding once with ridiculous seriousness like the two of you were entering business negotiations instead of whatever disaster this actually was.
You almost reconsidered your next words. Almost.
“No kissing.”
Dean’s shoulders visibly dropped. “Why?”
“Because!” you hissed. “And if we’re doing this, you don’t get to question the rules.”
His face twisted in disbelief. “We’ve kissed before.”
You crossed your arms tighter. “That was different.”
Dean scoffed softly. “We were literally each other’s first kiss.”
Again, he was right. You weren’t just each other’s first kiss either, a few firsts existed between you both scattered through years of friendship and growing up side by side, all except for sex. There was awkward teenage curiosity, truth or dare disasters and one regrettable spin-the-bottle incident Garrett still occasionally referenced against your will.
Which was exactly why kissing now felt dangerous. This couldn’t spiral into some ‘why didn’t we do this sooner’ conversation. It needed boundaries and structure, something detached enough that neither of you accidentally ruined the friendship orbiting underneath all this and selflessly, you also didn’t want the group dragged into the fallout if things exploded.
“We’re adults now,” you said firmly. “So no kissing.”
Dean stared at you for another second before exhaling dramatically.
“Okay,” he relented…Too easily, which immediately made you suspicious he’d already started planning arguments against it for later.
“I’ve also thought about what you said last night,” you continued carefully. “About Six Flags.”
Dean’s brows lifted.
“And shutting down the entire park feels unfair to you,” you explained. “Potentially devastating, honestly.” Your lips twitched slightly. “So you can still hook up with other people if you want. I genuinely don’t care.”
Dean actually looked offended. “Didn’t realize I needed permission.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.” His voice sharpened for the first time since the conversation started. “But no thanks.” He shrugged once. “It makes this more exciting anyway.” A grin tugged briefly at his mouth again. “I’ve got one ride right now and that’s all I need.”
Your face scrunched at his words. “Does weed somehow make you an even bigger asshole?”
Dean ignored that completely. “I’m not doing anything with anyone else until we’re done here,” he repeated firmly. The teasing disappeared entirely from his voice that time and there was no smugness either, just certainty.
You quieted automatically when a group of students passed nearby, a few of them recognizing Dean instantly and greeting him as they crossed the quad. He responded absentmindedly without taking his eyes off you once.
The second they moved far enough away, you continued. “Why?”
Dean’s expression softened at the question. “Because I need you comfortable,” he answered simply. “And I need you to trust me more than you already do.”
You groaned. “Oh my God,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re making this weird.”
He grinned at your reaction while you grabbed his sleeve and started pulling him further across campus before more people stopped to talk to him. Dean let you drag him along without resistance, looking far too entertained by the whole thing.
“We don’t even know how long this will take,” you pointed out.
“My fist works perfectly fine in the meantime,” Dean decided easily.
You looked up at him so fast your neck almost hurt.
Dean pressed his lips together, visibly trying not to laugh at the pure disbelief written across your face. His head tilted slightly, hair strands falling over his forehead while he watched you stare at him like he’d just confessed to tax fraud.
Your gaze dropped away first.
Contrary to what everyone on campus believed, Dean didn’t actually need constant hookups to survive. He liked the reputation, liked exaggerating it even more whenever it annoyed you enough to argue back or laugh at him but underneath all that, he could handle himself perfectly fine.
Unfortunately for you, he seemed almost smug about proving that now.
“Can I add rules too?” he asked.
You sighed dramatically. “Sure.”
The two of you kept walking through campus side by side, your pace slower now that the conversation had moved on from terrifying to merely humiliating.
“No scheduling things specifically for this,” Dean decided. “If it happens, it happens.”
You blinked once before nodding slowly. “Yeah. Okay.” Relief actually loosened something in your chest at that. “That’s good. I’ll stress less.”
Dean glanced sideways at you, probably pleased you agreed so quickly…Except his rule immediately created entirely new problems.
“Uh…” Your steps slowed slightly. “How do you…” You scratched awkwardly at your eyebrow. “Take it?”
Dean stopped walking altogether. “How do I take what?” he asked carefully. “My coffee?”
You groaned. “No.” Your hand motioned vaguely between the two of you in a series of gestures that explained absolutely nothing. “Like…how do you like it?”
Dean’s brows lifted as realization hit him almost visibly.
You looked away at once. “Fuck,” you muttered under your breath. “Do I need to be clean shaven constantly or not?” Your voice lowered progressively through the sentence while your eyes darted around campus to make sure nobody nearby overheard you discussing grooming preferences in broad daylight.
Dean stared at you for half a second too long before answering.
“Y/n.” The seriousness in his tone made your eyes flicker back toward him. “The day I tell you what to do with your body, you better knock me unconscious.”
Your mouth parted slightly.
“I’ll literally kneel for it if that makes it easier,” he continued firmly. “Do whatever makes you comfortable.”
And he meant it. Dean would enjoy it either way, obviously, but that wasn’t what mattered to him here. What mattered was getting you out of your own head long enough to actually enjoy yourself instead of performing comfort for someone else.
You blinked slowly at him because suddenly your ex’s comments replayed in your head with uncomfortable clarity. Little preferences disguised as jokes and suggestions repeated enough times to become expectations and judging by the expression tightening briefly across Dean’s face, he’d realized exactly where your question came from too.
That only made you feel worse somehow. Your attention drifted toward the students moving around campus nearby.
You suddenly wondered if people would notice eventually. The same way older women always claimed they somehow knew when girls became sexually active. Weird comments about posture and confidence, wider hips and glowing skin that sounded fake until suddenly you became the target of them too.
Your stomach tightened faintly. “What are we supposed to tell people?”
Dean barely hesitated. “To mind their own fucking business.”
You snorted softly.
He looked over at you again, entirely serious despite the amusement still lingering around his mouth. “Just like I’m doing mine.”
The rest of the week passed almost painfully normal.
There were parties, late-night food runs, afternoons sprawled around the boys’ house while someone yelled at a video game in the background and hockey games while Dean acted exactly the same as always. You spent time with Hannah and Allie between classes and after them, listened to Garrett complain dramatically about assignments he’d started twelve hours before they were due, watched Tucker cook enough food for six grown men while Logan disappeared upstairs with company more often than not.
Nothing changed.
Dean still touched your shoulder when he walked past you, still stole fries off your plate and still looked at you too long whenever you laughed at something stupid and somehow that made the entire thing worse because half the time you genuinely convinced yourself you’d imagined the whole conversation by the fire pit entirely.
Maybe the weed had made you both insane and none of it was real.
You sat curled up on the floor of the boys’ living room later that week with your knees tucked to your chest, a notebook balanced across your thighs while formulas blurred together across the page. Your back rested against the couch and the TV played quietly in the background though neither of you actually paid attention to it.
Dean sat opposite you in the armchair, long legs spread comfortably while he hunched over his own notebook with far more concentration than anyone would expect from him or maybe not because he took hockey so seriously. He took school seriously too, despite pretending otherwise whenever possible but unfortunately for you, he also looked unfairly good doing homework.
You tried focusing on your own work, tried hard. Instead, your eyes kept lifting toward him between equations, your brain repeatedly snagging on the memory of everything he’d said days earlier and the fact neither of you had taken any of it back…or done a single thing about it.
“What’d you get for number three?” Dean’s voice pulled you from your thoughts but still didn’t look up from his notebook.
You blinked down at your own page, trying to remember where your brain had abandoned the assignment entirely.
“C,” you answered eventually. “But I’m not confident about it.”
Dean hummed thoughtfully. “I’ve done the math twice and I keep getting B.”
You reread the problem slowly, trying to force your attention into place. “Then it’s probably B.”
Dean finally looked up at that, one brow lifting. “You’re admitting you’re wrong?”
You snorted softly. Honestly, it was extremely possible. Your brain hadn’t functioned properly all week because you kept thinking about him offering himself up like some absurdly confident science experiment.
“Don’t need to dig through my family tree to know I’m not descended from Isaac Newton.”
A smile tugged slowly across Dean’s mouth as he leaned back in the armchair. “If you are,” he said, eyes dragging over your face, “I’m glad the ugly recessive genes skipped you.”
Your nose scrunched instantly. “What kind of compliment is that?”
“The kind I’m hoping gets you over here to help me.” He motioned you closer lazily with his pointer and middle fingers.
You sighed before setting your notebook on the coffee table and padding across the room toward him. The house was quieter this late afternoon, though not empty. Hannah was upstairs with Garrett, Logan had disappeared into his room hours ago and Tucker was outside training.
“Let’s see,” you murmured.
You bent slightly over Dean and the notebook resting on the armrest, attention dropping fully to the equations scattered across the page. The movement loosened the collar of your shirt enough for cool air to brush your skin.
Dean noticed and his throat cleared quietly.
Your attention remained on the notebook while his eyes betrayed him completely, dropping for one dangerous second to the visible lace of your bra before forcing themselves back upward toward your face instead.
Dean had promised himself he’d take this slow and naturally because the second he acted weird about it, you would too. You’d overthink every movement, every look and accidental touch and unfortunately for him, you’d always been terrifyingly good at reading him.
He moved the notebook slightly farther from you as one hand settled carefully against your hip, guiding you.
You reached automatically for the notebook before he moved it entirely out of reach, successfully grabbing it just as he tugged you forward enough for your balance to tip. A second later you settled directly onto his lap, knees falling naturally to either side of his thighs.
You blinked once. “Smooth,” you muttered, adjusting yourself carefully without looking at him. “I’ll give you that.”
Dean grinned openly now. You balanced the notebook against his chest like it was a table and reached backward for the pen loosely held in his free hand. His fingers brushed yours before letting go.
“Should be a five,” you corrected while marking over the equation. “Not a seven.” Your brows furrowed slightly. “Your handwriting’s gotten worse over the years.”
“You still read it.”
“I’m not the one grading you.” Your eyes lifted straight into his.
You’d sat on Dean’s lap before, during packed car rides, group trips and random stupid moments over the years where proximity stopped mattering because he was just Dean. This didn’t feel like that, not even close.
“Not in math,” he said quietly.
Only one of his hands touched you still, resting warm and steady against your hip like he was making a conscious effort not to overwhelm you. Whether it was intentional or not, it worked. His eyes drifted downward slowly toward your mouth.
“You should be rating everything else though.” A grin ghosted briefly across his lips. “Pretty sure Six Flags has customer surveys.”
You shook your head once, slow enough that your hair brushed lightly against your cheek. “No ride, no survey.”
Dean’s mouth twitched. His legs spread slightly wider underneath you then, subtle enough that you still felt the change as the apex of your thighs aligned more directly with his. The hand on your hip tightened enough for you to notice. “Go on then,” he murmured.
Your gaze dropped before you could stop it, down to the visible tent pressing insistently against the front of his sweats. Heat climbed your throat immediately.
“Interesting moment you picked,” you muttered softly, eyes flicking briefly toward the rest of the house.
You felt comfortable there. Comfortable enough to leave clothes behind, to wander into the kitchen without asking and to nap on the couch when you got tired during movie nights but knowing the others were still around somewhere made your pulse jump harder instead of calming it.
Dean noticed. “Just focus on me,” he instructed quietly.
Not ‘look at me’, just ‘focus’ which you could do.
You looked at him, seeing the genuine curiosity and lack of judgment in his eyes and for the first time, the wall you'd built around your sexuality felt more like a shield and less like a cage.
Slowly, tentatively, you moved as the gravity of the moment pulled you toward him. You settled your weight directly onto him, feeling the distinct, blunt shape of his cock through the layers of your clothes. He wasn't fully hard yet, just a semi-firm pressure against your clothed pussy but it didn't make you recoil. In fact, it sent a low thrum of anticipation through your nerves.
The air between you grew thick, charged with a tension that felt heavy enough to touch. You remembered your own rule: no kissing. So, you kept your face inches from his but you didn't close the gap. Instead, you focused on the sound of his breathing, which had hitched the moment you sat down. You could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over your lips, a teasing, invisible touch that made your skin prickle.
Dean’s hand still hovered near your waist, trembling slightly but he didn't grip you. He seemed to be fighting every instinct to pull you closer, respecting the fragile boundary you had set.
"I'm gonna keep my hands off," he whispered, his voice strained and rough. "You just keep moving. Take whatever you're comfortable with."
He pulled his arms back, resting them flat against the seat beside him, leaving you in complete control. The sudden lack of physical contact made the friction between your pelvises feel even more intense. You knew what you were doing, you had enough experience to know how your body worked, even if the 'explosive ending' always eluded you. You began to rock, a slow, tentative grind that pressed your pussy firmly against the length of him as a sharp, jagged exhale escaped his lungs.
You felt him react instantly, the semi-firmness beneath you surged, his cock thickening and hardening rapidly against your center. You rolled your hips in a circular motion, aiming for the sweet spot, feeling the dampness beginning to soak into your underwear. You were getting wetter, the friction creating a sliding, sensual heat that radiated upward into your stomach.
"You still okay?" he breathed out, voice barely a murmur.
You simply nodded and tried to focus entirely on him, wanting to give him something perfect, something that would leave him breathless. You pushed down harder, grinding your clit against the hard ridge of his dick. You watched his face, head falling back against the headrest, leaving his throat exposed and pulsing but he forced his eyes to stay open. He wanted to see you. He wanted to witness the way your expression changed as you found a rhythm that worked.
The intimacy was suffocating in the best way. There was no kissing to distract you and no wandering hands to break the spell, just the raw, rhythmic pressure of friction. You could feel the heat radiating off his thighs, the way his chest heaved in time with your movements as your own breathing became ragged, mirroring his, the sound of your synchronized gasps filling the quiet space.
You felt a small, involuntary moan escape your throat, a soft sound of pleasure that made Dean’s hips jerk upward instinctively, trying to meet your descent. You pressed closer, your mind racing, trying to synchronize your pleasure with his but as the tension built, a familiar frustration began to creep in. You were so close to that peak, that elusive edge but the more you focused on his perfection, the more you felt yourself slipping away from your own. You wanted it, you wanted to break through the ceiling you'd lived under for years and the frustration made you grind harder, more desperately.
You were just beginning to lose yourself in the friction, your body humming with a desperate, electric need, when the spell was shattered.
The heavy thud of footsteps hit the wooden porch outside, then came muffled voices.
Tucker.
The sound slammed into you like ice water dumped straight down your spine.
You jolted backward instantly, panic snapping through your body so violently that your balance disappeared completely. The friction, the heat, the dizzy haze clouding your brain shattered in one humiliating second as you scrambled away from Dean in pure instinct.
Dean’s hands had actually stayed off, so when you lurched backward, there was nothing anchoring you in place, no arm catching your waist or grip steadying you. You slipped right off his lap in a graceless tangle of limbs and landed hard beside the chair with a muffled curse, your pulse hammering violently against your ribs.
Dean moved at the same time you did. One hand grabbed the nearest couch pillow and yanked it straight into his lap while the other instinctively reached toward you, fingers brushing empty air because you were already halfway onto your feet.
The front door opened and you froze.
Your breathing came embarrassingly uneven as you tried forcing your body back under control, thighs trembling faintly from the abrupt stop, nerves buzzing so hard beneath your skin it almost hurt. Dean leaned back into the chair with his head tipped toward the ceiling for one brief second, chest rising sharply beneath his t-shirt while tortured frustration flashed openly across his face before he forced himself together enough to look toward the entryway.
Tucker walked in distractedly, phone pressed to his ear while he kicked the door shut behind him with his shoe.
“–No, because that’s not what I said,” he argued into the phone before finally glancing up.
Dean’s voice came out rough and annoyed. “Can't you knock?”
The irritation in it made your eyes widen and before thinking better of it, you reached over and smacked lightly at his arm which made him look offended for half a second.
Tucker’s brows pulled together slowly as his gaze moved between the two of you…You standing there awkwardly and Dean spread out in the armchair with a pillow aggressively covering his lap.
The TV was still playing, forgotten in the background too.
“Wait,” Tucker muttered into the phone, eyes narrowing slightly. “Hold on.” He lowered the phone away from his ear and motioned vaguely around the living room. “I live here,” he pointed out flatly. “If you two wanna study in complete silence maybe turn the TV down or go to the library.”
Your mouth pressed into a painfully tight smile.
“Hey, Y/n.” he greeted, much more gently.
“Hi,” you replied weakly with an awkward nod.
Tucker gave you one more lingering look before wandering toward the kitchen, already returning to his phone conversation while opening the fridge like absolutely nothing life-altering had just occurred in his living room.
The second he was no longer looking, your eyes snapped back toward Dean, his were already on you, wide and still dark with frustration and lingering heat and approximately ten other emotions you absolutely did not have time to unpack right now.
You hurried toward where you’d abandoned your bag near the couch and started shoving your things inside far too quickly.
Dean muttered a curse under his breath behind you as the fridge door opened again. “Wait, wait, wait,” he whispered urgently.
You ignored him completely, nearly dropping your belongings while trying to zip your bag shut.
“You don’t have to leave,” he continued quietly, unable to stand for reasons both of you were painfully aware of. The pillow remained trapped over his lap while he leaned forward slightly, voice dropping lower. “Stay for dinner.” Then louder, “Right, Tucker?”
From the kitchen, still mid-conversation, Tucker lifted a distracted thumbs up without even looking over. Of course you could stay, you were always welcome there and it somehow made this infinitely worse.
“Y/n, c’mon,” Dean tried again, even softer this time.
You finally looked at him, at his flushed face and the way he still looked wrecked from you despite the interruption.
Your stomach flipped painfully. “You can text me that survey of yours,” you muttered.
Dean groaned quietly at the reminder, watching as you grabbed your bag and headed straight for the front door before your embarrassment could physically consume you alive.
You didn’t say goodbye or looked back. You slipped outside into the cold early evening air and shut the door behind you, immediately dragging in one huge breath like you’d been underwater too long.
Fresh air hit your lungs sharply, cool and tensionless.
Your legs felt weird as you walked down the porch steps and somewhere beneath the embarrassment sat an even more irritating realization. You needed to change your panties and somehow, you still hadn’t come.
For the first time in your academic career, you were thankful exam week existed.
The chaos of midterms had given you and Dean something else to focus on besides the fact you’d nearly climbed him in the middle of his living room while Tucker casually walked through the front door. Between study sessions, essays, last-minute cramming and the general emotional collapse that overtook Briar every semester, things had settled back into something manageable.
You and Dean had talked afterward, though absolutely not alone.
He’d insisted on meeting in a crowded coffee shop near campus where old women typed aggressively on laptops and students cried quietly over textbooks in the corner booths. Dean had spent most of the conversation reassuring you Tucker didn’t know anything, swearing repeatedly that if Tucker had known, the entire hockey house would’ve heard about it within twelve minutes. More importantly, he’d made sure you still wanted this and despite the embarrassment, the frustration and how badly your body still reacted whenever he looked at you too long, you did.
“Are you seriously not coming?” Allie paced dramatically across the apartment while speaking, changing outfits for what had to be the fourth time in under an hour. Both you and Hannah tracked her movements from the couch like spectators at a tennis match while she disappeared into her room only to emerge seconds later wearing something slightly tighter each time.
Hannah finally peeled her attention away from Allie to look at you instead.
“She’s right,” she agreed. “Exams are over. Maybe partying would actually help.”
You smiled lazily from your spot curled into the couch cushions, blanket draped across your legs while exhaustion sat heavy behind your eyes.
“What’ll help me is eight uninterrupted hours of sleep,” you informed them. “Which I plan on pursuing aggressively the second both of you leave.” Your mouth twitched slightly. “Now see some boys and make questionable use of your mouths elsewhere.”
Allie barked out a laugh loud enough to echo while Hannah groaned.
“When are we finding your rebound?” Allie asked as she finally settled on an outfit and bent down to tug on her boots.
“It’s too soon,” you decided immediately.
“It is,” Hannah agreed with a firm nod. “She doesn’t wanna think about men right now and we’re respecting that.”
You pointed gratefully toward her. “See? Emotional maturity.”
“Sure,” Allie snorted. “I’m still passing your Instagram around tonight though.” She grinned wickedly while crossing toward the couch. “You can decide what to do with the options later.” Before you could answer, she leaned down and squeezed you tightly against her side. “Don’t wait up for us.”
You watched them drag out the goodbye process intentionally, moving toward the door with exaggerated slowness like they expected you to suddenly change your mind and throw on heels at the last second.
You sighed and stood from the couch, physically herding them toward the exit. “Just go,” you laughed while they protested loudly.
“We tried,” Hannah reminded you with a smile while Allie opened the apartment door. “We’ll send you the address anyway.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
“You say that now...”
You waved them off anyway and finally shut the door behind them once they disappeared down the hallway already talking excitedly about shots and music and whatever terrible decisions the night would inevitably produce.
Silence settled across the apartment immediately afterward.
You exhaled slowly…now what? You considered your options while wandering aimlessly through the living space. You could curl up on the couch with your laptop and a movie or crawl into bed and disappear beneath blankets for twelve straight hours like a Victorian woman with mysterious exhaustion. Or…Your thoughts drifted elsewhere automatically, toward your room and the drawer beside your bed.
You grimaced slightly. Maybe tonight was the night you tried again, actually committed to figuring yourself out instead of giving up midway through frustration like usual. You’d bought enough toys over the years based entirely on optimistic reviews and late-night curiosity alone.
Were they even charged? You were approximately two steps away from your bedroom when knocking sounded at the front door.
You groaned at the sound. “Did you guys forget your condoms again?” you called out while turning toward the entrance. Honestly, it happened often enough that the assumption came naturally now.
You unlocked the door and pulled it open. Then blinked at who you saw. “Dean.”
Dean stood casually in the hallway wearing a baseball cap and dark sunglasses despite the fact it was nighttime indoors, which might’ve worked better if he wasn’t also carrying an enormous black bag beside him.
“I always carry condoms,” he informed you smugly.
Your face scrunched instantly as his answer only emphasized how thin the apartment walls actually were. You narrowed your eyes at him while glancing suspiciously down the hallway.
“Why aren’t you at the party?”
Dean lowered the sunglasses enough to properly look at you over the frames.
You looked soft tonight, comfortable. Wearing sweatpants and an oversized shirt, hair messier than usual from lying around all day. The sight quickly made something warm settle low in his chest.
“Because I’m here with you.”
“No,” you corrected. “You wanted to be here with me.” You pointed vaguely toward campus. “Past tense…You should currently be at that party.”
“No can do.” Dean slipped smoothly past you before you could stop him, nudging the apartment door shut behind him with his foot.
Only then did you fully notice the bag. It was large, rectangular, black and rigid with no visible branding whatsoever. It completely ruined the whole incognito outfit.
Your eyes narrowed harder while Dean looked far too pleased with himself.
“I come bearing gifts,” he announced, then he walked straight toward your bedroom like he paid rent there.
“How did you know I didn’t go to the party?” you asked while following him toward your bedroom.
Dean set the bag carefully onto your bed before finally turning around, fingers hooking beneath the brim of his cap as he pulled it off. The sunglasses followed next, revealing eyes already fixed on you with far too much satisfaction.
“I have my sources.”
You grimaced again. “That sounds vaguely threatening.”
“Hannah asked me the other day to convince you to come out tonight.” He shrugged casually. “I didn’t.”
You crossed your arms. “Who says I would’ve agreed anyway?”
Dean smiled instantly. “Me.” The confidence in his answer came without hesitation. “I’m very persuasive.”
You rolled your eyes before your attention dragged back toward the massive black bag sitting suspiciously at the foot of your bed. “What is that?”
Dean glanced over his shoulder toward it. “Our entertainment for tonight.” His mouth twitched slightly. “Well…mine.”
You narrowed your eyes harder at him before stepping around him toward the bed. The bag gave nothing away from the outside, rigid and sleek and annoyingly mysterious.
Cautiously, you reached inside and your fingers brushed lace first. You blinked then slowly pulled the item free into the light between you both, pinching it delicately between two fingers like it might suddenly attack you.
“Lingerie?” you asked, genuinely confused.
Dean nodded once. “I had to get rid of the boxes,” he explained. “Turns out Agent Provocateur packaging isn’t exactly subtle.”
Your eyes widened immediately. “Agent Provocateur?” You stared at him in disbelief before looking back into the bag. “Are you insane?”
One by one, you started pulling more pieces out. Black lace…cream silk and tiny straps. Things so soft they barely felt real against your fingertips.
Dean watched your growing expression carefully and only then seemed to realize he may have gone slightly overboard. “I got lost on the website,” he admitted. “And then there was free shipping after a certain amount which felt financially irresponsible to ignore.”
You straightened slowly, still clutching one lace bodysuit in your hands while looking at him like he’d lost his damn mind.
“Explain to me,” you said carefully, “how exactly this counts as entertainment.”
“Besides the obvious?”
Your stare sharpened. Dean exhaled quietly before answering, his tone softening as the teasing faded from his expression.
“When you were on my lap the other day…” His eyes flickered briefly toward the floor before returning to you. “You stopped focusing on yourself after a while.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the lace.
“You started trying to get me there instead,” he continued gently. “Like you were more worried about proving something than actually feeling good.”
Heat crept onto the nape of your neck because he was right. Dean noticed everything.
“And I get it,” he added quickly, voice staying careful. “Probably instinct. You wanted me to enjoy it.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Which I definitely did, by the way. Don’t start doubting that part.”
You stayed quiet while watching him and actually listened instead of acting on your urge to flee.
“Tonight,” he said after a beat, nodding lightly toward the lingerie scattered across your bed, “the lingerie can be for me.” His eyes moved back to yours. “So the rest can just be yours.”
The room went quiet afterward. The plan had probably sounded more coherent in Dean’s head at one in the morning while online shopping half-awake with his laptop balanced on his stomach but somewhere beneath the absurdity of it, you understood what he meant.
Lingerie wasn’t only about someone else seeing you in it, women bought it for themselves too, to feel pretty, desired and confident. Sometimes just to stand in front of the mirror and reclaim something private but eventually, with partners, it often became performative too, something shared and visual. Dean was trying to remove that pressure from everything else.
Your gaze drifted slowly back down toward the pile of lace but you still weren’t entirely sure what happened next. You tried things on and then, what?
Your voice lowered slightly. “What kind of mind games are you playing?”
You hoped it didn’t sound accusing because it wasn’t meant to. You were just struggling to process the fact Dean had seen through you so clearly after one failed attempt, that he’d gone and actually thought about it, considered it and returned with something tangible instead of empty reassurance and blind confidence.
Dean shook his head immediately. “No games.” His voice stayed soft and patient, ready to leave the second you told him this was too much. “Let’s just give it a shot.”
Silence stretched again before you finally reached for a pair of panties instead. The lace slid smoothly through your fingers as you lifted the panties between you both for further inspection.
Dean’s eyes dropped instantly and despite himself, one very clear thought crossed his mind.
‘Yeah. Definitely one of my favorites.’
“How do you even know these will fit?” you asked honestly. The fabric looked expensive enough to disintegrate if handled incorrectly, soft lace brushing against your fingertips while you inspected the tiny details stitched into it.
Dean opened his mouth…closed it and opened it again. “I’m…observant?”
Even he sounded unsure of the answer.
Your lips twitched as you bit back a laugh while digging through the pile until you found the matching bra, then gathered both pieces in your hands.
“Observant and persuasive,” you mused while backing toward the bathroom. “Let me know when there’s something substantial to add to that list.”
Dean nodded solemnly like you’d given him serious criticism to reflect on. “Will do.”
The bathroom door clicked shut behind you and the second it did, Dean exhaled sharply and looked down at himself...for fuck’s sake.
He adjusted himself miserably through his pants while staring at your closed bathroom door in defeat. Lately everything about you affected him differently, your voice, your teasing and the way you looked at him for half a second too long depending on the day.
It was becoming genuinely embarrassing.
Dean barely moved from the spot you’d left him in.
He stayed planted near the foot of your bed, one hand dragging occasionally through his hair while his eyes remained fixed on the bathroom door like staring hard enough would somehow let him see through it. Every few seconds he twitched awkwardly in his pants, dealing unsuccessfully with the consequences of occasionally hearing your hums through the thin wall while knowing exactly what you were changing into behind it.
Inside the bathroom, you stood frozen in front of the mirror for far longer than necessary.
You tried very hard not to think about how closely Dean must’ve paid attention to you over the years to somehow get the sizing exactly right because it fit perfectly.
The lace sat snug against your skin without pinching anywhere, soft black patterns curling over your chest and hugging your hips beautifully. The bra lifted your breasts enough to make your posture straighten instinctively while the matching panties rested low against your hips, delicate enough to feel expensive but comfortable enough not to make you tug at them every two seconds.
You looked good, not just tolerable under dim lights or acceptable after strategic positioning and reassurance and maybe that was what scared you most because now you had to walk back out there and let someone else see it too.
With one last glance toward your reflection, you finally reached for the doorknob and stepped back into your room.
Dean looked up immediately, the reaction was almost embarrassing.
He stopped breathing for half a second entirely, eyes dragging over you slowly enough to make heat climb straight into your throat. He barely blinked while following your movement across the room as you drifted toward your full-length mirror, fingertips lightly tracing the lace resting over your shoulders before moving lower toward the small details connecting the cups together.
The silence stretched thickly.
You kept looking at yourself mostly because looking directly at him felt dangerous right now, even as he moved behind you slowly without touching. He was just standing there close enough for warmth to gather along your back while his eyes followed yours through the reflection. Wherever you looked, he looked too, until eventually your gazes met in the mirror.
You swallowed. “What do you think?”
Dean inhaled deeply through his nose. “I think,” he said slowly, “Six Flags might be going out of business soon.”
Your brows lifted immediately before a quiet laugh escaped you despite yourself.
You turned around to face him fully then, stepping closer until only inches separated you both. Your hands settled carefully against the center of his chest, fingertips brushing lightly against the fabric of his shirt while you looked up at him.
Dean held your gaze steadily, too steadily, sometimes it genuinely felt like he could read your thoughts if he stared long enough. “What do you think?” he echoed softly.
You hummed quietly, eyes flickering downward toward his mouth before lifting back up again.
“I think…” Your hands began sliding slowly down his chest, fingertips grazing over the hard planes beneath his shirt one inch at a time. “Maybe…” Your voice softened further as your palms drifted lower. “I could show you something I actually know how to do.”
Dean’s jaw tightened as your fingers brushed the bulge straining against his pants.
“With my mouth,” you finished quietly.
You didn’t move afterward and neither did he.
In your head, the logic made sense. Dean already thought you were beautiful, so you didn’t need him witnessing your frustration firsthand too. You could give him something good instead, something you knew how to control.
For one dangerous second, he looked like he was genuinely considering it. Then Dean exhaled sharply and turned you around instead, guiding you gently back toward the mirror until your back rested against his chest.
A startled breath caught in your throat as your ass pressed unintentionally against the hard outline of his erection.
Your eyes met his again through the reflection.
“I don’t doubt you can do those things,” he murmured near your ear. “All of them.”
One of his hands settled carefully against your waist while the other slid slowly downward, fingertips brushing beneath the waistband of your panties enough to make your stomach tighten.
His eyes never once left yours in the mirror. “So why do you?”
The reflection showed the two of you, a study in tension and longing. You could see the intensity in his eyes, the way he watched you not just with desire but with a focused, intentional kind of devotion.
His hand didn't push further, he stopped before his fingertips brushed the outer lips of your pussy, leaving a teasing spark of contact. He held himself there, gaze locking onto yours in the mirror, waiting. He wasn't going to take a single inch more without your explicit permission.
You felt your heart hammer against your ribs, chest heaving. You looked into his eyes and gave a small, shaky nod.
The moment you did, he slid deeper. His fingers glided through the slick already gathering between your thighs, parting you with a gentle pressure that could’ve made your toes curl. He didn't rush, he navigated the wet lips until his fingertip found the small, swollen bud of your clit. He began to circle it slowly with agonizingly steady rotations that sent ripples of electricity shooting straight to your core.
"Tell me what you see," he whispered, voice a low and gravelly vibration against your ear.
You swallowed hard, voice trembling as you focused on the reflection. "You...you touching me," you breathed.
As you spoke, you watched your own body react. Your breathing picked up, turning into shallow, jagged gasps. In the mirror, you saw your breasts heaving, the nipples peaking and hardening into tight, sensitive points through the lace of your bra. As if reading your thoughts, Dean’s other hand reached around, his fingers finding one breast and gripping it. He massaged the hardened peak, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger and you let out a sharp, involuntary swallow, head tilting back slightly.
"And what's at the end of me?" he asked, voice humming with a dark, sensual curiosity.
"Me," you whispered, the word barely leaving your lips.
"What else?" he pressed, fingers continuing that relentless, circling motion. He was forcing you to stay present, stripping away your ability to hide in your head or focus on his pleasure. He wanted you trapped in your own skin.
You stared at yourself, hyper-aware of every inch of your anatomy. "Beauty marks," you murmured, noticing the small moles on your thighs and torso that you usually ignored.
"And here?" he asked, his thumb flicking the tip of your nipple.
"Hardened nipples," you gasped, eyes fluttering.
"And on your skin..." he prompted, his fingers quickening their pace, the friction against your clit becoming more insistent and demanding.
"Goosebumps," you whimpered. You could see them breaking out across your shoulders and arms, a physical manifestation of the arousal peaking within you.
The sensory overload was dizzying. Every time you named a part of yourself, the pleasure seemed to intensify, as if acknowledging your own body was unlocking a door you'd kept bolted shut. Dean’s fingers were no longer just circling, they were fluttering, vibrating against your most sensitive spot with a precision that made your hips instinctively buck back against him. You felt the wetness flooding out of you and coating his fingers, making the sounds of his touch wet and explicit in the quiet room.
You tried desperately to keep your eyes locked on his in the mirror but as the pleasure climbed, the world began to blur. Your eyelids grew heavy, the edges of your vision darkening as the sensation centered entirely on the point where he was rubbing you. You started to moan, the sounds raw but still shy, escaping your throat without your permission. You pushed your backside harder against the rigid length of his erection, craving the friction, the completion.
The tension in your lower belly coiled tighter and tighter, a spring winding up to the point of snapping. You were right there, on the precipice, the beginning of an orgasm shimmering just out of reach. Your breath became a series of broken sobs as your body trembled in anticipation. Was this it?
"I think...I–" you started, voice breaking as the first wave of a climax seemed to form but just before it solidified, just as you were about to believe it would, Dean abruptly pulled his hand away.
The sudden void was shocking. You gasped, body jolting from the abrupt loss of stimulation, the orgasm denied at the very last second of creation. You were left vibrating, aching and halfway undone but before you could process the frustration, he gripped your waist and turned you around in his arms so you were facing him.
Your eyes were wide, glazed with lust and confusion, chest heaving as you looked up at him.
"What the hell are you doing?" you asked, voice a breathless wreck.
Dean didn't answer immediately. He just looked at you, taking in the desperate hunger in your eyes. He gripped your hips firmly, knuckles white and began backing up toward the bed, pulling you with him.
"Trusting you to do it first," he murmured.
As the back of his knees hit the mattress, he let himself fall back, laying flat on his back and spreading his arms wide, leaving himself completely open and vulnerable to you.
You climbed over him, your movements determined, fueled by a desperate, humming need that had been wound tight in the mirror. You braced your knees against his sides, feeling the hard muscle of his thighs beneath you and planted one hand firmly on his chest. Beneath your palm, you could feel his heart hammering a frantic rhythm, a mirror to your own. With a renewed sense of determination, you slipped your other hand beneath the fabric of your panties, your fingers finding the slick, swollen heat of your pussy.
As you began to touch yourself, you closed your eyes for a moment, repeating the litany he had forced you to acknowledge in the mirror. You focused on the hyper-awareness he had instilled in you, turning that mental lens inward. You found your clit, already engorged and sensitive and began to circle it. Your breathing became ragged, each exhale a shaky shudder that vibrated through your entire frame.
You opened your eyes and looked down at your hand on his chest. You watched the way his pectorals heaved under your touch, his skin flushed and warm. Then, you felt his hands slide up your legs, his large palms gripping your thighs firmly. The sheer intensity of his gaze, the way he watched your every movement with a hunger that felt almost tangible, made a low moan escape your throat.
You had never reached this point before, never felt this close to the edge of something so profound. The pleasure was a rising tide, threatening to pull you under.
"Be patient," Dean breathed, his voice a low, grounding rumble that seemed to vibrate through the mattress and into your bones. "Listen to your body."
You nodded, eyes locked onto his and focused entirely on the sensation. You ignored the noise in your head, everything except the friction of your own fingers. You kept your hand working at a speed you liked, a steady, rhythmic pressure that built a coil of tension in your lower belly. You began to squirm, hips rocking in a slow, undulating motion against your own hand, chasing the spark.
In your haze of arousal, you shifted, pressing your soaking wet clothed cunt directly onto the rigid length of his erection through his pants. The sudden, blunt pressure against your clit sent a shockwave of pleasure through you and you let out a loud, uncontrolled moan. Dean groaned in response, a sound of pure, tortured restraint as he kept his hips from jerking upward to meet you.
You quickly lifted your hips again, holding them high in the air, body arching as you fought to maintain the rhythm.
“Holy fuck,” You were so close now, the world was narrowing down to the point where your fingers met your flesh.
"Attagirl. That's it," Dean whispered, voice thick with praise. "You're doing so good. Just like that...look at you, taking it all in. So fucking worth it."
His words were like fuel to the fire. The praise made you bolder and movements more frantic. You pressed harder, your fingers fluttering with an urgency that bordered on desperation until the tension reached a breaking point, a white-hot spark that suddenly ignited into a roaring flame.
The orgasm hit you like a physical blow. Your head snapped back, your spine arching as the first wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your lips parted and an unreal, unabashed sound, a high, keening cry of release slipped out of you, echoing through the room. It was your first time ever coming and the sensation was overwhelming. It didn't just peak and fade, it rolled through you in long, rhythmic pulses that seemed to last forever, shaking your entire body, leaving your muscles twitching and your mind a complete blank.
Dean didn't move. He looked at you, completely mesmerized, eyes wide and unblinking. He watched the way your throat worked as you gasped for air, the way your breasts heaved and the way your body shuddered under the aftershocks. Beneath you, his cock throbbed and twitched painfully against the constraint of his pants, a visible manifestation of the agony and ecstasy of watching you shatter.
As the waves finally subsided, leaving you limp and floating, you collapsed onto his chest with a sultry whine, skin damp with sweat and breathing heavy and synchronized with his as you caught your breath.
The silence of the room was thick, charged with the lingering electricity of the moment.
You swallowed hard while still catching your breath, voice a mere whisper against his skin. "Is it too soon to say that was the best orgasm I've ever had?"
Dean let out a heavy, uneven breath beneath you, the sound shuddering straight through his chest and into yours. Only then did his hands finally leave your thighs. Slowly, almost cautiously, they slid upward along your sides until his palms settled against your back.
Gone was the restraint that had kept his fingers tense and controlled earlier. Now he touched you lightly, almost reverently, fingertips drifting along the curve of your spine over the lace while he tried to steady his breathing. Every few seconds his hands flexed against you instinctively, like he still couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.
“Definitely the best one I’ve ever had,” he murmured.
His voice sounded wrecked, dizzy, like simply watching you come apart on top of him had pushed him somewhere dangerously close to losing it himself.
You lifted your head slowly from where it rested against his chest, pushing up enough to properly look at him.
Dean blinked up at you lazily, pupils completely blown.
You swallowed once. “Did you…?”
The question barely finished forming before Dean’s expression morphed into something sheepish and amused all at once. He swallowed too before nodding once against the mattress.
Your eyes widened slightly as his hand slid upward from your back, fingertips brushing softly along your jaw while he looked at you with an expression so openly fond it almost hurt to hold eye contact with him.
“Am I still not deserving of a kiss?” he asked quietly. Half joking, half absolutely not.
You hummed thoughtfully like you were genuinely considering it. “You want a cookie and a gold star too?”
Dean’s grin spread slowly across his face, matching yours instantly despite the pleasure still weighing down his features. “Better than the survey.”
You laughed softly through your nose before finally leaning down the rest of the way.
The kiss was warm, searing and long overdue.
Dean’s hand moved instantly to the back of your head, holding you in place like he’d been waiting weeks to finally do exactly this. It started slow for approximately two seconds, soft lips parting against yours carefully, almost disbelievingly, before weeks of tension snapped apart all at once.
You melted into him with a breathless sound as his mouth pressed harder against yours.
Dean kissed like he did everything else, thoroughly.
His thumb pushed lightly beneath your jaw, tilting your head back enough for him to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against yours slow at first, exploratorily, before the restraint he’d been clinging to all night dissolved completely. The taste of him, the warmth of his mouth and the low groan that rumbled out of his chest when you kissed him back with equal desperation made your stomach tighten all over again.
The kiss quickly turned messy, hungry. You could barely catch your breath between them, mouths reconnecting instantly every time you pulled apart for air like neither of you could tolerate the distance anymore. Dean’s grip tightened on your hair as his other hand spread wide against your back, dragging you flush against him while his tongue swept against yours again, deeper this time, making heat rush straight through your body.
So much for rules.
Seems like Six Flags had just been privatised for a single Agent Provocateur wearer…indefinitely.
a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! 🤍
summary your brother's best friend gets a boner when you sit on his lap
contains boner alert... mature content, dry humping, coming in pants, sexual tension, forced proximity, public sex (kinda...), reader is a tease, wc 2k
a/n this is not supposed to be realistic... at all... just fun and horny yay!!
Fitting eight people into one car isn't very ideal.
You tried to get past it, understand the situation you're in, but you can't wrap your head around it. How the hell did Garrett manage to convince seven people to squeeze into his car without holding a gun to their head?
The scene you're greeted with when you make your way downstairs is baffling, suffocating almost.
Garrett and Hannah sit comfortably in the front, giggling over a stupid joke he made as Hannah presses some random buttons to get the music working. Your eyes drift to the back, and that's when you see the disaster.
Jesus Christ.
You can't even tell people apart from how cramped it is inside. Logan's sitting by the window, with Jules on the edge of his lap. Tucker sits next to him, tense and looking very uncomfortable.
Beau is glued to Tucker's side, with Allie comfortably positioned on his lap. They're giggling together as she shows him something on her phone. It's a very warm sight, they've grown really close after their trip to New York together.
As if things couldn't get any worse, Dean is here. His side of the car is definitely... emptier. He's positioned in the seat behind Garret with his legs stretched over the rolled down window. The door to his side wide open, letting in much needed air.
He's busy scrolling on his phone, only noticing your presence when your voice erupts through the chaos.
"Wow, you should've invited a few more people," your tone fills with sarcasm, statement directed towards your brother. "Too much space."
An amused chuckle escapes Dean's throat at your snarky comment, legs back on the ground as his attention shifts to Garrett.
"Haha, very funny, Graham." Garret rolls his eyes, causing Hannah to shove his side. "Get in, you kept us stalling forever."
"Where am I supposed to sit?" You argue, pointing towards the rammed car.
Your eyes flicker back to Dean, who adjusts his position at your question. His legs spread apart, fingers lightly patting his lap, the silent gesture an invitation, something he voluntarily did to catch your attention.
The idea of straddling Dean's lap for the entire car ride makes your heart flutter, cause air to get stuck in your throat. You can barely act normal when he's around, turning into a stuttering mess as soon as he joins any conversation, and now you have to sit on his lap for the next thirty minutes.
"You're the only one complaining," Garrett interrupts through your thoughts, gesturing for you to get in the car. "Quit being a baby and find yourself a place to sit."
A sigh dreads past your lips, dragging a deep exhale out as you step towards the vehicle. Dean clears his throat, fumbling around to put his phone away and straighten his back. You almost scoff if not for how nervous you are.
"Hi," you start, avoiding Dean's gaze.
"Hi," he repeats, but his tone is teasing, amused by how flustered you seem. You pause for a second, mustering up the courage to ask him to scoot, but Dean beats you to talking. "What are you waiting for?"
"Huh?" You hum, caught off guard.
"Sit," his voice lowers into a whisper, gesturing you to sit on his lap. Your stomach twists into knots, the demand carrying so much tension, it makes your knees grow weak. "Sit on my lap."
You fight the choked breath threatening to leave your chest, flashing him a tight-lipped smile, but still doing as you're told. You shuffle around to get in the car, carefully propping yourself across Dean's lap.
Your whole body's tense, and you're sitting uncomfortably at the edge of his lap, barely providing yourself any space. The length of his legs is of no help, unnecessary long, you're practically holding onto the headrest to keep yourself from falling.
"I'm gonna fucking kill you, Garrett Graham." You mutter through gritted teeth, causing your brother to freeze in his spot.
"Alright, now that everyone's here," Hannah bursts into laughter at Garrett's change of topic, completely ignoring the threat you threw in his direction.
Annoyance fades into surprise when Dean slings his arms around your waist, using your astonishment as an opportunity to tug you close. Your back hits his firm chest with a thud, the proximity of the touch overwhelming you in an instant.
Your body radiates with heat, as Dean's breath fans over your ear, the feather-like sensation causing goosebumps to break out across your back. He's so close, you can smell his stupid cologne, the aroma intoxicating, it almost melts you in your spot.
You try to shuffle back into your old position, in case you're too heavy or causing Dean any discomfort, but the hand he presses to your hips interrupts those thoughts from rummaging through your head.
"You should get comfortable," he whispers in your ear, drawing circular motions to the sliver of skin just above your skirt. "It's a long ride."
Fuck.
Heat travels to in between your legs, gaze lowering to the arms caging you in place. His grip is firm, unwavering even when you move around to adjust yourself into a comfortable position.
Dean doesn't budge, he pretends you're not even in his lap. He laughs, makes jokes, sings along as Hannah plays music, and it's like you're not even there. Unlike him, you're having a hard time playing this off as casual, nothing about this is normal, you skipped from ground zero to a thousand in the span of minutes.
You try not to pay him too much attention, or his fingers as they're tracing small patterns to your hips, or his breath gradually blowing over your neck. All of it is so overwhelming, you want nothing more than to break free and breathe.
This feels intimate, maybe too intimate, even more so because you're aware his touches are for you only, everyone else is doing their thing, and you two are in your own little world.
After a while of resisting, you eventually settle back and relax against Dean's chest, satisfied by the way he tenses beneath you. His breath grows ragged, but he doesn't let you have it, tightening his arms in response, his hold engulfing most of your frame.
This is okay, it's totally fine that you're tangled in this position with your brother's best friend, whom you've had a crush on since forever.
You can get used to it.
But you can't. Not when he's pulling every string to get your attention and get a reaction out of you.
A few minutes pass by, and your body feels stiff from maintaining the same stance for too long. You shuffle around to find a comfortable position, hips stuttering when you feel something twitch underneath you.
You're mistaken, have to be. It's all in your head, there's no way what you felt just now is real.
"Fuck," Dean grunts, confirming your suspicions.
Oh.
Oh.
He sighs, very shaky, but delibaret, the sound ringing in your ear, and making you pulse in reaction. You can feel hie semi-hard erection growing beneath you, failing to keep it under control.
Fuck, Dean Di Laurentis is hard.
You hate how much it's turning you on, your heat heaving with arousal when you feel another pulse through the thin fabric of his sweats.
You angle your face towards the window, casually, without causing any suspicion, and Dean fights the embarrassment he feels to spare you a glance, regretting it soon as your hips move forward, instantly earning a choked breath out of him.
It's not on purpose, you only realize what happens after he reacts.
"Do you want me to–" he gives your hip another squeeze, locking you in place as the words die on your tongue.
"Don't fuckin' move," he warns, practicing restraint. "Please."
How can you not when his crotch is practically poking at your entrance, drenching your pussy from how tingly it's making you feel.
"Dean," you whisper through a breath, causing his cock to twitch with need. The reaction you receive is immediate, anticipated, the only sign you need to grind down against his hardened length.
His lips part in a hefty moan, barely dismissed by the loud music occupying everyone else.
"You did that on purpose, didn't you?" He whispers, toying with the hem of your skirt, as his other hand caresses the exposed flesh around your stomach.
"Maybe." You coyly offer him a response.
This is your brother's best friend, someone way out of your orbit. You shouldn't cross the line, and let your lust drive you over the edge when you fought to keep yourself under control.
Your brain short circuits, and panic rises in your chest before you can even stop it, but the pleasure surging through your body takes over when Dean's hips meet yours halfway, completely dismissing the guilt you're feeling.
You've avoided Dean just fine till now, so why is it that you're involuntarily rolling your hips down for a mere fraction of his cock?
Your pedicured nails dig into his arms, the force of the touch forming red marks all over his flesh. Dean smoothes out the fabric of your skirt to hide the circular motion of your hips. You ground him into place, repeatedly rubbing your wet cunt over his crotch.
Pleasure builds through your insides, and you start to lose control over your grinds, messy and needy. Dean encourages you with a hand to your side, guiding you down to chase his own high, slowly building.
His cock aches, leaking with precum that stains a a patch in his underwear, wet and sticky, but he doesn't feel disgusted from it, but more so turned on because you're the cause of it. You're the reason he's in this mess, risking one of the most precious things to him just to touch you, feel you, even for a little.
"I'm–" You fight the whimper threatening to leave your lips, leaning your head against the head rest to avoid locking eyes with anyone.
Your pussy drenches in your arousal, thrusts growing sloppy as you feel your orgasm reaching its peak. Dean can almost tell that you're close, grip tightening around your stomach as he thrusts into you, rolling his hips once more before you came undone.
Your legs shake from the overstimulation, Dean uses his hands to stabilize you in his lap. You ride him through your orgasm, sensitive, but desperate to please him and make him feel good.
"You don't have to," he whispers, like he knows exactly what you're thinking. "I can take care of myself, darling."
"I want to," you reply, out of breath, with sweat forming at your forehead. Your face flushes with heat, and your energy goes down the drain in an instant, but you're persistent on making Dean come.
His breath gets caught in his throat, and he uses your back as a shield to hide his expression as he reaches his own high. It only takes you a few more grinds for him to come undone.
He releases into his pants, sticky stripes of semen coating a mess in his underwear. He stills your hips as he comes down from his high, a sigh of relief escaping his throat in the process.
"That was– fuck." He chokes out, "So good for me, baby."
You almost mewl at the praise but hold it back for the sake of not being caught.
That was... insane. Probably the best orgasm you've had.
The rest of the car ride seeps into silence on both your ends, too tired to engage with the rest of the group as they broke into a whole karaoke session. It's not uncomfortable, nor is it unbearable, just... silence, you almost find it comforting.
Garrett announces your arrival soon after, wrapping up the karaoke session as everyone engaged in another conversation.
You use their banter as an opportunity to pull at the strings of your thong, wiggling around on Dean's lap in an attempt to get them off. They slide down your thighs, bunching around your knees before eventually falling down your legs.
Dean doesn't do anything, simply sits back and observes you with a hint of confusion, eyebrows pinching as you bent down to grab it into your hold.
And as everyone's busy getting out, you turn around and hand him the lacy material.
"Huh?" He questions, taken aback by the sudden offer.
You get off his lap, and land on the ground, smoothing down your skirt. Your gaze flickers back to him, a teasing grin smeared all over your lips.
"A gift." You reply, attention shifting down to the mess on his lap. "Good luck cleaning that up."
And with that, you take off with the rest of the group, barely sparing him a second glance.
Fuck, now he has to deal with another boner.
a/n lowk rushed towards the end but hey i wrote most of this at a gathering so it's something 😓 oh and i havent written in a while so i'm trying to get used to it again this is hard man my bad if this sucked i can't write smut to save my life 💔 also this was lowk lowkkkk inspired by that one scene from off limits it made me miss writing it sigh
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.
"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!
warnings: none. this fic is so sweet. i wish bucky was my fake boyfriend
summary: you hire bucky barnes to pose as your boyfriend for a chaotic family reunion. it’s supposed to be a one-weekend performance… until his possessive touches and the way he looks at you stop feeling like an act.
authors note: remember my 2k celebration i broadcasted a few months ago or whatever? yeah, i hardly do either!! here’s one of the fics for it lols
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The profile picture is blurry.
That’s your first thought when the app finally loads his profile, the spinning wheel replaced by a square of washed-out color. A broad-shouldered man in a dark Henley, leaning against a brick wall, a soft smirk under a scruff-shadowed jaw. His hair is pulled into a low knot at the back of his head. His eyes—gray, maybe blue—crinkle at the corners.
James “Bucky” Barnes. Thirty-six. Six feet tall. Professional companion.
And, according to the little green icon at the top, available.
You stare at the screen far longer than necessary, thumb hovering over the “Request Booking” button like it might shock you.
This is insane.
Except your mother’s text from this morning still sits unread in your notifications, taunting you.
Can’t wait to see you both next weekend! Your cousins are already gushing about finally meeting your boyfriend. Love you ❤️
Your imaginary boyfriend. The one you created out of thin air last Thanksgiving to stop the constant, suffocating questions about your love life. The lie snowballed—one offhand comment about seeing someone turned into a full-blown committed relationship by Christmas in your mother’s retelling.
And now, there’s a family reunion. A whole weekend at the lakeside cabin. With your relationship as one of the main attractions, apparently.
You exhale, thumb finally tapping the button.
Screw it.
You fill out the details: dates, location, expectations. “Play the role of significant other at family event. Minimal PDA. Must be convincing. Possessive is fine, but nothing over the top.”
You hesitate, then add one more line in the special notes: “Please be gentle with my grandmother. She’s nosy, not mean.”
You press send.
The app pings back a confirmation.
Booking request sent to: James “Bucky” Barnes.
You lock your phone, toss it onto the couch like it’s burning, and bury your face in your hands.
What are you doing?
He arrives ten minutes early.
The knock at your apartment door is firm, confident. You’re in the middle of re-tying your shoelaces for the third time, nerves chewing at your fingers. For a second, you consider pretending you’re not home.
Then another knock. “Hey, it’s Bucky,” a deep voice calls through the door, smooth and warm and real. “From the app. I promise I’m not a serial killer. I brought coffee as a peace offering.”
You inhale, straighten, and open the door.
The photo did not do him justice.
He’s taller in person, broader, the dark Henley replaced by a black t-shirt stretched over a chest that looks like it was custom-built by a sadistic personal trainer. A worn leather jacket hangs open, and his hair is pulled back again, a little messy. His eyes catch yours—blue, definitely blue—and his mouth tilts in that same smirk. There are two cups cradled in his hands.
“Hi,” you manage.
“Hi,” he echoes, voice softening as he looks at you. His gaze drops, quickly, taking in your jeans, the sweatshirt you debated changing out of three times, the nervous twist of your fingers. “You must be…” He catches himself, smile widening. “My girlfriend for the weekend.”
The words punch air out of your lungs.
“Yeah,” you say, stepping aside so he can enter. “Come in.”
He toes off his boots at the door without you asking, places the coffees on the counter, and looks around your living room like he’s cataloguing details.
“I grabbed a latte,” he says, tapping the cup with the caramel-colored lid. “And a black coffee. You strike me as a latte person, but I didn’t want to assume.”
“You can… read latte energy off someone?” you tease, grateful for the distraction.
“Comes with the job.” He shrugs, unbothered. “I can usually also tell who’s about to cancel at the last minute and convince themselves they don’t need help.” He looks straight at you. “Did I get that one right, too?”
Heat creeps up your neck. “I thought about it,” you admit.
He nods, like he respects the honesty. “But you didn’t. Which tells me this matters.” He leans a hip against the counter, folding his arms. “So. Why don’t you tell me what I’m walking into, sweetheart?”
The term of endearment slips out so easily it throws you for a moment. Not syrupy, not fake. It snaps something tight in your belly.
You wrap your hands around the latte, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. “It’s my family’s annual reunion,” you say. “We rent this cabin on the lake. Barbecues, board games, endless questions about what we’re doing with our lives.” You pause. “I told them I was seeing someone. Then I told them it was serious. And, um. Introduced you last Christmas. In theory.”
He considers that. “What’s my backstory?”
“I, uh…” You blink. “I… didn’t… make one?”
His mouth curves. “We’ll fix that on the drive.” He pushes away from the counter, standing close enough that you catch the spice of his cologne. “What do you need from me this weekend?” His tone is professional, but his focus is all on you. It feels like being pinned without being touched.
“Convincing,” you say. “Just enough affection that my mother believes I’m happy. My cousins are competitive—they’ll probably try to corner you, but… just be nice to them. And my grandmother will ask when you’re going to propose, so… maybe don’t have a heart attack.”
“Got it,” he murmurs. “Be your perfect boyfriend. Deflect proposal questions. Charm the nosy relatives.” His gaze dips to your mouth for a fraction of a second. “Any limits I should be aware of? PDA-wise?”
Your brain short-circuits. “Um. Holding hands is fine. Hugging. Maybe a kiss on the cheek. Nothing too—”
“Nothing too much,” he finishes for you, nodding. “We’ll start there.” He reaches out, gentle, fingers brushing your wrist. “I take this seriously. That sound okay?”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Then let’s get going,” he says, that easy smile returning. “I wanna meet the people who raised the woman I’m crazy about.”
You almost choke on your latte.
He winks.
Apparently, he’s not going to make this easy.
The drive is two hours.
By the time you pull up to the cabin, you know that “James” prefers Bucky, that he was in the military before this job, that he has a cat named Alpine who, in his words, “judges everyone, myself included,” and that he takes his work more seriously than you expected.
“You understand I’m going to act like your boyfriend,” he had said, eyes on the road, one hand loose on the steering wheel, the other resting on his thigh. “That means looking at you like I’m crazy about you. Remembering how you take your coffee, your favorite movies, the story about how we met. Touch comes with that. If anything makes you uncomfortable, you say so. Out loud.”
You nodded. “Okay.”
“You’re not a burden for needing boundaries,” he’d added, harder, like it was important you heard it. “You tell me, I respect it.”
It made something unclench in your chest.
Now, as the cabin comes into view, two stories of dark wood and big windows, smoke curling from the chimney, your stomach swoops.
Cars litter the driveway, familiar shapes and colors. Your cousin’s sleek sedan, your uncle’s battered pick-up. The noise of your family drifts on the cold air: laughter, someone shouting about the grill, the unmistakable shriek of one of your nieces.
“You ready?” Bucky asks quietly, putting the car in park.
“Not even remotely,” you say honestly.
His mouth twitches. He reaches over, taps two fingers under your chin, gently guiding your gaze to him. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Just you and me right now. Deep breath.”
You inhale. The air smells like pine and his cologne. You exhale slower.
“There you go,” he says. “Now. One more thing before we go in.”
You brace.
He leans in, close enough that his breath brushes your cheek. “I’m going to touch you,” he says, voice dropping. “I’m gonna hold your hand, put my arm around you. I might call you baby, sweetheart, whatever feels natural. I’m going to act like every person in that house has been warned not to hurt you. Because that’s what a good boyfriend does. Okay?”
Possessive. The word from your notes flits through your mind.
“Okay,” you whisper.
He smiles then, slow and genuine, as if he’s satisfied with your answer. His hand finds yours between the seats, fingers weaving through. His palm is warm, calloused. “Then let’s go knock ’em dead.”
Your mother spots you first, because of course she does.
“Oh!” she squeals from the porch, dish towel in hand. “There they are! There’s my baby!”
Bucky’s hand squeezes yours once. “You mind?” he murmurs against your hair.
“Mind what—”
He disengages his fingers only to slide his arm around your shoulders, pulling you in against his side as you climb the porch steps. At your mother’s excited wave, he lets out a soft, delighted laugh, like this is the best part of his week.
“There’s my future mother-in-law,” he says, extending his free hand to her. “Hi, Mrs.—”
She cuts him off with a hug, because she’s never met a boundary she didn’t steamroll right over. “Call me Linda,” she scolds, then leans back to look at him, hands on his biceps. “Goodness, you are handsome.”
He actually blushes, a faint pink dusting his cheeks. “Thank you, ma’am,” he says. “I’d say I clean up nice, but honestly, she makes me look good.” His arm tightens around you just a fraction.
Your mother beams. “Oh, I like you,” she declares. “Come in, come in. Everyone’s dying to meet you.”
The chaos swallows you.
A dozen faces turn your way as you step inside. Names blur together—cousins, aunts, uncles, their kids—but Bucky navigates it like a pro. He repeats names back, shakes hands, takes each teasing comment about “finally showing up” with a good-natured grin.
When your cousin Mark, ever the asshole, claps him on the shoulder and jokes, “So what’s wrong with you that you’re with our disaster over here?” his smile doesn’t falter.
“Nothing wrong with her,” Bucky says lightly, but there’s an edge beneath it, a hint of steel. His hand on your hip tightens. “She’s the best decision I ever made.”
The room quiets, just a heartbeat.
Heat floods your face. Mark raises his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, damn. Didn’t realize you were whipped, man.”
“Proudly,” Bucky replies, tone cool.
He doesn’t glare. He doesn’t need to. The way he stands, the subtle shift of his shoulders, the way his thumb rubs slow circles at your waist—every line of his body says mine without a word.
Your pulse stutters.
He’s good at this, you think, a little dazed. Maybe too good.
It keeps happening.
You find your grandmother in the living room, ensconced in her favorite armchair with a blanket over her knees, the TV murmuring an old black-and-white movie. Her eyes light up when she sees you.
“There she is,” Grandma coos. “And this must be the mystery man.” Her gaze rakes over Bucky, assessing. “Hmm. He’ll do.”
Bucky chuckles, stepping forward. “It’s an honor, ma’am,” he says, taking her frail hand in both of his. He’s so gentle it makes your throat tight. “I’ve heard you make the best apple pie in the world.”
“Flattery,” she declares, patting his knuckles. “We like him.” Her eyes sharpen. “So. When are you gonna put a ring on her finger, James?”
You open your mouth, panic flaring, but Bucky is faster.
“Well, that depends, doesn’t it?” he says smoothly, glancing down at you with a soft smile. The tenderness in his eyes makes your stomach flip. “I want her forever, but I’m not gonna rush her. As long as she knows I’m not going anywhere, I’m happy.”
Something in your chest aches.
Grandma harrumphs. “Smart boy,” she says. “Don’t let her go. She’s special.”
“Believe me,” Bucky says, eyes never leaving yours. “I know.”
You have to look away.
Later, in the kitchen, one of your little nieces barrels into your legs, babbling about how Uncle Mark dropped the chips in the lake. You scoop her onto your hip, laughing, and Bucky watches you with an expression that makes your breath catch.
Soft. Open. Like he’s seeing something he hadn’t expected.
“You’re good with kids,” he says, voice low enough that only you hear it.
You shrug, bouncing your niece. “I grew up in this chaos. It’s second nature.”
He steps closer, brushing a stray crumb from your shoulder with a little frown, like the idea of something messy touching you irritates him personally. “You’d be an amazing mom,” he says.
The words hit you square in the sternum.
You swallow. “What about you?” The question slips out before you can stop it. “You want kids?”
His gaze drops to your mouth, then lower, to the niece clinging to your shirt. When his eyes meet yours again, they’re darker. “With the right person?” he says quietly. “Yeah. I’d want everything.”
Your heart does something dangerous.
He’s pretending, you remind yourself fiercely. This is his job. None of this is real.
You repeat that to yourself when he takes your hand during dinner, thumb stroking over your knuckles under the table. When he leans in to murmur a joke only you can hear, his lips brushing your ear. When he wraps an arm around you on the couch during game night, tugging you into his side as your cousin’s fiancée eyes him with open admiration.
“Where did you find him?” she whispers later, when you’re alone in the bathroom, both of you washing your hands.
“You’d be surprised,” you say weakly.
In the mirror, your cheeks are flushed. There’s a mark on your neck from when he’d whispered something inappropriate about what he’d rather be doing with you than playing charades, teeth grazing your skin just barely. Your body had jolted, heat pooling low, and he’d pulled back with a tiny, satisfied smile when you smacked his chest.
He’s not just convincing your family.
He’s convincing you.
Night comes, bringing with it the inevitable question of sleeping arrangements.
Your mother corners you in the hallway, whisper-hissing like you’re still a teenager. “There’s only one guest room left,” she says. “The one upstairs. The kids have the bunk room, Mark’s on the pull-out, your aunt and uncle have the downstairs queen. You two are fine sharing, right?” Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “Don’t be shy on my account.”
“Mom,” you groan, scandalized.
She just pats your cheek and flits away, humming.
A moment later, Bucky appears at your side, towel slung over his shoulder, hair damp from a shower. “Everything okay?” he asks softly.
“Apparently we’re sharing a room,” you say, trying for casualness and failing spectacularly.
His brows lift. He studies your face for a long beat, searching for discomfort. “Okay with you?” he asks finally. “We can always pretend there was a plumbing emergency and I had to sleep in the car.”
The mental image of him stretched out in the backseat, broad frame cramped, makes your stomach twist. “No, it’s fine,” you say quickly. “It’s just one bed, but… it’s big. And we’re adults.” You’re rambling now. “I can stay on my side.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I’ll build a pillow wall,” he promises. “And I’ll keep my hands to myself. Unless you say otherwise.”
Your pulse flutters hard enough you’re surprised he can’t see it through your shirt. “Got it,” you say.
The guest room is cozy, all soft lamplight and mismatched quilts. The bed does look big—king-sized, at least—but somehow still not big enough when Bucky drops his duffel on the dresser and shrugs off his jacket.
He’s in a thin t-shirt and sweats now, the fabric clinging to the lines of his back, the slope of his shoulders. He rummages for something, then holds up an oversized t-shirt.
“Figured you’d want something more comfortable than jeans,” he says. “They’re not exactly sleepwear.”
You stare. “You… brought me clothes?”
“I don’t show up unprepared.” He shrugs, a little self-conscious. “Didn’t know if you’d want to bring your own pajamas with your family around. This way you don’t have to walk through the house in anything you’d be embarrassed by.” His mouth quirks. “Unless you like the thrill.”
Your face goes nuclear.
He chuckles, the sound low and fond. “Kidding. Mostly.” He offers you the shirt again. “You can wear it or not. Totally up to you.”
You take it, fingers brushing his. “Thank you,” you say softly.
The bathroom is tiny, steam fogging the mirror as you change. The t-shirt smells like laundry detergent and something undeniably him. It falls to mid-thigh, soft and worn, and you catch sight of yourself in the mirror—bare legs, his shirt, hair messy from the long day.
You look like someone’s girlfriend.
You look like his.
Your stomach flips, and you flick off the light.
He’s already in bed when you emerge, propped against the headboard, scrolling lazily through his phone. The sight of you freezes him. His gaze tracks from your bare knees up to the hem of the shirt, lingering on the sliver of skin at your thigh, then higher.
His throat bobs.
“That okay?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious.
He drags his eyes to your face. For a moment, whatever’s in his expression is too raw, too unfiltered. Then he exhales, slow.
“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Yeah, sweetheart. It’s… perfect.”
You slip under the covers on your side, careful not to brush him. The bed dips under his weight. He flips off the lamp, plunging the room into soft darkness.
For a while, there’s only the sounds of the house settling, the distant murmur of the TV downstairs, the muffled laughter of your relatives. You stare at the ceiling, hyper-aware of the man lying less than a foot away.
“This is weird, right?” you murmur finally.
“What, the fact that your grandma tried to bribe me with pie if I knock you up before Christmas?” he asks, amused.
You snort. “That’s just her. I meant this. Us. You’re very… convincing.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “That’s the job,” he says eventually.
“Do you ever—” You hesitate. “Do you ever get tired of pretending?”
His voice is closer than you expect when he answers, like he’s turned toward you. “Sometimes,” he admits. “Usually when it’s clear someone doesn’t want me. Not really. They want the idea of me. A prop for their story.” The mattress shifts as he moves, maybe running a hand through his hair. “This doesn’t feel like that.”
Your heart stutters. “No?”
“You didn’t book me to show off,” he says. “You booked me so your family would stop tearing you apart. So you could breathe for a weekend.” His sigh is a soft thing in the dark. “You’re not using me. You’re asking for help. Big difference.”
Silence stretches, warm and fragile.
“What about you?” he adds. “This weird for you?”
“Yeah,” you say honestly. “But not in a bad way.”
“Good weird?” he teases.
“Annoyingly good,” you grumble.
He chuckles, low. “I’ll take that.”
The pillow wall is forgotten. At some point, you roll onto your side, and his hand finds your waist under the blanket, fingers splaying there like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You should protest. Remind him of boundaries. You don’t.
Instead, you fall asleep to the steady rhythm of his breathing.
The second day is worse.
Worse, because it feels easier. Your body starts to anticipate him. His palm at the small of your back when you walk into a room. The way his fingers find yours under the table. The soft brush of his lips against your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.
You tell yourself it’s just for show. That you’re playing your part, too, laughing at his jokes, leaning into his touch. But when your cousin’s ex-boyfriend, Luke, appears uninvited Saturday afternoon—because of course he does—something shifts.
You and Bucky are on the back deck when Luke walks up from the dock, all smug grin and cologne, a beer in his hand. He’s not technically family, but he’s been around long enough that everyone tolerates him.
“Hey,” Luke drawls. “Long time no see.” His eyes rake over you in a way that makes your skin crawl. “Didn’t know you’d be here this year.”
Bucky, standing at the railing beside you, goes very still.
“Luke,” you say, keeping your voice neutral. “Didn’t know you were invited.”
“I invite myself,” Luke says breezily. “So this is the infamous boyfriend, huh?” He looks Bucky up and down, dismissive. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Luke,” you warn.
Bucky’s hand slides to your hip, anchoring you. His expression is mild, but there’s nothing friendly in his eyes. “You must be the ex everyone pretends not to see coming,” he says pleasantly.
Luke snorts. “Cute. So, what, you two met how? Dating app? Work? Or did she finally start paying someone to put up with her?”
The words slam into you, dredging up old insecurities he’d planted. You flinch before you can stop yourself.
Bucky notices. Of course he does.
His fingers tighten, pulling you slightly behind him. The move is subtle, but Luke’s eyes narrow.
“Careful,” Bucky says, voice quiet. The humor has drained from it, leaving something cold and sharp. “You’re in her family’s house, talking about her like that.”
Luke raises his hands. “Just joking, man. Relax.”
“You made her flinch,” Bucky says. “Nothing funny about that.” He takes a step forward. He doesn’t loom—he doesn’t need to. The set of his shoulders, the steady, unblinking stare… it’s a warning all on its own. “You got a problem with her, you take it somewhere else. She’s not your punchline anymore.”
Blood rushes in your ears.
Luke scoffs, but there’s an edge of unease now. “Whatever. Enjoy the perfect boyfriend act while it lasts,” he mutters, turning away.
Bucky’s hand leaves your hip only to climb higher, curling around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. Even after Luke disappears back around the corner of the house, he doesn’t let go.
“You okay?” he asks, turning to look at you. Up close, his eyes are blazing.
You swallow around the lump in your throat. “He’s always been an ass,” you say. “It’s nothing.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Minimize it.” His thumb strokes your side. “If something hurts you, it’s not nothing. Not to me.”
Something in his tone makes your chest ache. “You really committed to this possessive boyfriend thing, huh?” you joke weakly.
His gaze drops to your mouth. When he looks back up, something has shifted behind his eyes. The air between you crackles.
“Maybe I’m not pretending as hard as I thought,” he says quietly.
Your breath stutters. “Bucky…”
He cups your jaw, fingers warm against your skin. “Can I kiss you?” he asks. On the surface, his voice is steady, but there’s a roughness to it. “For real. Not for them. For us.”
Your heart pounds. You glance toward the house—no one’s watching. The lake glitters beyond the deck, the afternoon sun soft and golden.
This is a bad idea.
“Yes,” you hear yourself say.
He doesn’t hesitate.
The first press of his mouth is careful, almost tentative, as if he’s giving you a chance to pull away. You don’t. You lean in.
He exhales against your lips, and then the kiss deepens, his hand tightening at your waist. His other slides into your hair, tilting your head to deepen the angle. It’s not gentle for long. There’s hunger there, banked but fierce, like he’s been holding back all weekend and finally, finally lets himself want.
You cling to him, fingers bunching in the fabric of his shirt. The world narrows to the heat of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth, the low sound he makes when you lick into him.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard.
“That felt…” you start, then trail off, at a loss.
“Real,” he finishes, forehead resting against yours.
You nod wordlessly.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, searching your face. “Tell me to stop,” he says, voice rough. “If this is too much, if you want to keep the line where it was—”
“I don’t,” you blurt.
His eyes darken. “You don’t.”
You shake your head. “I know this is complicated and probably impractical and we’re technically in a contract, but—” You swallow, forcing the words out. “I like you. You. Not the role. Not the performance. You.”
His breath leaves him in a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Is that a yes?” you press, heart pounding.
He cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek. “It’s a hell yes,” he says. “But we’re talking about this. For real. After this weekend, we sit down like adults and sort it out. No pretending. No app between us.” His mouth curves. “I’m selfish enough that I want you outside of this house, too.”
Your pulse stutters. “Okay.”
He dips in for another kiss, softer this time, then rests his chin on your head, holding you to his chest. For a moment, you just stand there, wrapped in him, the lake breeze cool against your flushed skin.
“Just so you know,” he murmurs into your hair, “if anyone else talks to you like that asshole did? I’m not going to be nearly as polite.”
You smile against his shirt. “You were kind of terrifying already.”
“Good.” His arm tightens. “They should be scared. You’re the best thing in this place.”
The rest of the weekend blurs.
There are no more exes to deal with, just the usual family chaos, softened now by the knowledge hanging between you and Bucky like a secret. Every touch feels charged. His hand at the small of your back. Your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. The way he says baby now, voice dropping, just for you.
Sunday morning, you wake with his arm banded around your waist, his chest pressed to your back, his breath warm against your neck. His fingers splay over your stomach, the metal of his dog tags cool where they’ve slipped out of his shirt.
“Morning,” he mumbles, voice gravelly with sleep.
If this is pretending, you don’t want to know what real feels like.
The drive back is quieter, but not awkward. His hand finds your thigh over the console, thumb drawing idle patterns on your jeans. You talk about nothing and everything—favorite breakfasts, your worst high school memories, how his cat got her name.
When he pulls up in front of your building, the afternoon sun slants warm through the windshield.
“Well,” you say, suddenly shy. “I guess this is where you drop me off and we give each other a professional five-star rating.”
He huffs a laugh, but his jaw flexes. “About that.” He turns in his seat to face you fully, one arm draped over the steering wheel. “We don’t have to decide anything right now. You’ve had a long weekend. But I meant what I said on the deck.”
Your chest tightens. “Me too.”
He nods, like he’d expected that but needed to hear it anyway. “Okay. Then this is what we’re gonna do.” He pauses, eyes searching yours. “I’m gonna give you my number. My real one. Not the app. You think about what you want. If you decide this was just a little reunion fantasy and you’d rather leave it there, you don’t call. I’ll respect that. No questions.” His mouth tugs into a crooked smile. “I’ll probably sulk about it, but I’ll respect it.”
“And if I call?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes darken. “Then I’m taking you on a real first date,” he says. “Flowers, dinner, the works.” He leans in, the corner of his mouth brushing yours. “And I stop pretending that I’m not crazy about you.”
Your heart feels too big for your ribcage. “You’re really leaving it up to me?”
“Yeah,” he says simply. “You hired me. I wanna make sure you’re the one hiring me again. As your boyfriend this time. Not as a service.”
You stare at him, overwhelmed by the gentleness of it. The way he hands you the power, no pressure, no manipulation.
“Okay,” you say finally, voice steady. “Give me your number.”
He grins, slipping his phone into your hand. “Put your name in, too. So I know it’s you when you call and not, like, my dentist.”
You laugh, fingers trembling slightly as you type your name and hit save. When you hand it back, his thumb brushes your knuckles.
“This isn’t a goodbye, you know,” he says. “Not if you don’t want it to be.”
You swallow. “It’s a… see you later?”
“Hopefully very soon,” he murmurs.
He leans in for one last kiss, slow and lingering, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. When you finally pull back, your head spins.
You gather your bag, open the car door. The air outside feels different somehow, sharper, infused with possibility.
“Bucky?” you say, pausing.
“Yeah?” he replies, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on his thigh.
You smile, heart pounding. “Text me when you get home. So I know you’re safe.”
His answering smile is blinding. “Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Anything for my girl.”
The phrase sends a thrill through you. Your girl. Not for show. Not with anyone watching.
You step out of the car, close the door, and watch as he pulls away. He glances in the rearview mirror, lifts his hand in a little wave.
You stand on the sidewalk long after his taillights disappear, your phone heavy in your hand.
You could tuck this away. Let it become a wild story you tell friends over drinks—remember that time I hired a boyfriend for a weekend and accidentally fell for him?
Or you could open your messages, scroll to the new contact, and type three little words that feel like the beginning of something.
You tap the screen.
Hey, Bucky.
You hit send before you can overthink it.
The reply comes almost immediately.
Been waiting for that. When can I see you again, sweetheart?
Your cheeks ache from smiling. Fingers flying, you type back.
Words: 8.7K
Warning: SMUT. Public teasing with use of sex toy, jealous!steve, a bit of gaslighting, steve being very demanding, hard edging, overstimulation, Oral (M and F), Cunnilingus, fingering, tit fucking, deep-throating, dirty talking, spanking, praising, unprotected piv.
Sneak Peak: Steve shifted in his seat, his hand slipping casually into his pocket. You didn’t think much of it at first—until a large shock vibrated through your core and made you gasp in surprise from the intense pleasure. For a second, you froze. A wave of heat rushed through your body as you realized exactly what was happening. Steve had the remote—the small, discreet device that was supposed to be in your handbag—and now, he has it and he was using it. Here. In front of everyone.
A/N: whew.
Bucky’s grin widened as you approached, his usual charm on full display. “Look who finally decided to show up,” he teased, offering you a drink. You took it, brushing your hand against his as you did, and laughed at something he said, the two of you falling into easy conversation like always.
Steve, standing a few feet away, felt his stomach tighten painfully at the sight. You and Bucky had grown closer—closer than Steve had anticipated, especially since your recent missions together. He hadn’t realized how much that closeness bothered him until tonight. It wasn’t that Steve hadn’t accepted the "break" you both agreed on, but seeing the way you leaned into Bucky’s space, laughing at every joke, brushing your hand against his arm, it was like salt on an open wound.
The knot in his chest tightened further with every glance you gave Bucky. It was the easy way you talked to him, the subtle, lingering touches. Little things that shouldn’t have meant much—unless you knew how Steve was feeling. And God, he was feeling everything right now.
As the evening wore on, the air around Steve grew thick with tension. He wasn’t the only one who noticed. Natasha, ever perceptive, caught Steve’s darkening expression from across the room. She smirked knowingly as she wandered over.
“Cap, you alright?” she asked, keeping her tone light but teasing. She knew exactly what was going on.
Steve grunted, his gaze never leaving you and Bucky. “I’m fine,” he muttered, though the edge in his voice made it clear he was anything but.
Natasha chuckled softly. “You sure? Because it looks like you’re about to burn a hole through Barnes with that stare.”
Before Steve could respond, Tony, as usual, appeared just in time to stir the pot. “Hey, Rogers,” he called out, clapping a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “You don’t look too happy. What’s up? Jealous that your old pal’s getting all the attention?”
Steve clenched his jaw, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m not jealous,” he replied, though the tension in his voice betrayed him.
Tony grinned wider, sensing weakness. “Oh, come on, Cap. It’s written all over your face.”
Steve didn’t respond, but the uneasy feeling only grew as the night wore on. Every laugh you shared with Bucky, every small touch, seemed to deepen the knot in his chest. He hadn’t even meant to dwell on the past, but here it was, staring him in the face.
The final straw came when Sam, ever the observer, caught on to the tension and decided to add his own bit of teasing. “Hey, Steve,” he called from across the room, “You gonna survive the night? Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Bucky’s got quite the new partner-in-crime.”
Bucky, always attuned to the energy around him, caught Steve’s glare. Sensing the tension, he leaned in closer to you, his hand resting gently on your lower back, a gesture that Steve noticed instantly. It was subtle, almost protective, and the sight of it made Steve’s blood boil.
“Yeah,” Bucky added with a playful grin, “We’ve been working very well lately.”
You laughed, completely unaware of the unspoken battle happening right next to you. “Bucky’s a good partner,” you agreed, nudging Bucky playfully.
Steve’s hand clenched in his pocket, fingers wrapping around the outline of the device that you dropped which he still hadn’t returned to you. His composure remained intact, but jealousy and frustration were etched into his features, plain for anyone paying attention to see.
It wasn’t just the obvious things getting to him—the laughing, the touching—it was the small details. The way your smile lit up when you were around Bucky, the way you leaned into his jokes. They might’ve seemed innocent enough, but to Steve, they felt like a subtle reminder of the growing distance between you and him.
Tony, always quick to sense when things could be pushed further, glanced at Steve with a smirk. “Well, Steve,” he said, voice dripping with amusement, “I guess you don’t really have the same… control over things anymore, huh?”
Steve’s eyes darkened, Tony’s words hitting a little too close to home. He said nothing, swallowing down the jealousy and frustration as the night wore on, watching as the bond between you and Bucky only seemed to deepen. The growing distance between you and him was becoming painfully clear, and there was little he could do but stand by and let it unravel in front of him.
× × × ×
You and Bucky sat close on the couch, exchanging teasing comments and unaware of how effortlessly you were riling Steve up. His friends had noticed too, and the teasing directed at Steve had only gotten more relentless as the night wore on. Steve, ever the calm and composed leader, sat across from you, trying to act unbothered as Tony and Sam continued their playful jabs.
“You sure there’s nothing going on, Cap?” Tony asked, grinning as he threw a look between you and Steve. “Because it’s looking like Barnes is making a move.”
Steve’s jaw clenched hard, though his face remained otherwise neutral. “There’s nothing going on,” he said calmly, but the tension in his voice was unmistakable.
Bucky, picking up on the shift in the atmosphere, leaned in just a bit closer to you, giving you a sideways smirk. “You hear that, Y/N? Seems like nothing’s going on with Steve. Guess we’re free to keep having fun, right?”
“Seems that way.” You chuckled softly, leaning into Bucky’s shoulder just a little more while giving his knee a squeeze, knowing exactly what effect it was having on Steve.
Steve’s eyes flicked to you, his blue gaze intense, his lips curving into a smirk that sent a shiver down your spine. You knew that look—like he had something up his sleeve. The game had been fun, but there was always a part of you that wondered when Steve would decide enough was enough.
Steve shifted in his seat, his hand slipping casually into his pocket. You didn’t think much of it at first—until a large shock vibrated through your pussy and made you gasp in surprise from the intense pleasure.
For a second, you froze. A wave of heat rushed through your body as you realized exactly what was happening. Steve had the remote—the small, discreet device that was supposed to be in your handbag—and now, he has it and he was using it. Here. In front of everyone.
You internally smacked your head for even trying the new toy last minute. You shot him a quick glance, your eyes narrowing, but Steve’s expression remained smooth, that infuriating smirk never leaving his face. He looked completely unfazed, as though he hadn’t just flipped the entire dynamic on its head.
“Something wrong, Y/N?” Steve asked, his voice as casual as ever, but there was a glint in his eyes—he knew exactly what he was doing.
You swallowed hard, trying to maintain your composure as the buzzing in your panties began again, on a low setting, with more intense pulses spread throughout. It was enough for your lips to part in a sudden gasp, though you promised yourself that you wouldn't allow any other sign of his tormenting you to show.
One look back at Steve and an unspoken message passed between you. He intended to make this evening as humiliating and tormentful as it would be pleasurable.
“No,” you managed, your voice a little strained, “nothing at all.”
Bucky glanced at you, raising an eyebrow. “You sure? You’re looking a little flushed.”
Your cheeks burned, but you quickly shot Bucky a smile, trying to play it off. “Just warm in here.”
Bucky chuckled, completely unaware of what was happening beneath the surface. “Right.”
Meanwhile, Steve’s hand remained in his pocket, casually increasing the intensity just a notch, making it harder for you to focus. Your legs shifted slightly, and you fought to keep your expression neutral, but Steve didn’t let up. His gaze locked on yours, a quiet challenge in his eyes as if daring you to keep up the act.
You clenched your fists, digging your nails into your palms to keep from reacting too visibly, but your body was betraying you. The low, steady vibrations were becoming more insistent, and every time you thought you could push it aside, Steve would change the intensity, keeping you on edge.
As your fists clenched on top of your legs Steve felt his cock begin to stiffen in his trousers. A memory of the last time he had plunged his cock into your tight little pussy swept over him and determined that he shouldn't suffer alone, he cranked the torment up cruelly high.
With satisfaction he watched as your back arched once, against the seat. You calmed yourself as much as you could a moment later. Steve could see the heaviness of your breath and the tell-tail tremors rocking up through your pussy all the way to your shoulders. He longed to bury his fingers in your long hair, while you licked and sucked and pleasured his cock. But he bit back his fantasies for later and stopped the vibrations for the time being. You weren’t going to get off that easy. You were going to suffer this whole evening like his hungry cock was suffering. You weren’t going to orgasm without him buried inside you. No way.
× × × ×
Steve smiled devilishly with smoldering eyes across the room as the heat built unbearably in your pelvis. All evening Steve had now been teasing you, vibing you on soft vibes some of the time and then intense waves so intense you had had to shove a fist in your mouth so as to not cry out. But always, always, he would end the bliss before you reached any sort of climax.
It was devastating and he knew it. You hid your feelings as best you could, but not from him, because he knew what to look for. He could see you biting your lip, and one hand holding the other in a punishing grip to keep it from straying south to finish the job he had started.
Bucky continued chatting away, completely oblivious, while Tony and Sam moved on to a different conversation, leaving you in this silent battle of wills with Steve.
Finally, unable to take it anymore, you shot Steve a look again—one filled with frustration. He responded by raising an eyebrow, that smirk deepening as he gave the control in his pocket another small flick.
A barely audible gasp escaped you, and Steve’s smirk turned downright devilish. He leaned back, as though nothing unusual was happening, and gave you a look that said New toy huh?—you naughty girl.
You pressed your lips together, determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing just how much he was affecting you. But Steve didn’t make it easy. He kept the vibrations going, perfectly timed, perfectly controlled, and all you could do was sit there, trying to keep your cool as your pulse quickened.
Satisfaction and possession twisted through him, a darkness that had him yearning to pin yoy down on the floor and fuck you until you screamed. His cock began filling, lengthening in pulses that matched his heartbeat.
Steve finally spoke again, his tone calm and collected as he leaned forward slightly. “You alright, sweetheart? You look like you’ve forgotten something.”
The double meaning wasn’t lost on you, and you shot him a glare, though it was hard to be truly mad when every nerve in your body was buzzing with anticipation.
Bucky, still oblivious to the power struggle happening right in front of him, glanced between you and Steve, looking amused.
You forced a tight smile, barely able to form words. “I’m fine, Steve. Thanks for asking,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady despite the tension.
The breathless tone of your voice stilled his fingers. Your chest rose and fell swiftly, and the points of your nipples were evident against the fabric covering you. Steve chuckled softly, his hand still casually in his pocket, the vibrations still going strong. “Are you sure? You seem a little… tense.”
You bit your lip, resisting the urge to react to the next wave of vibration as it hit. “Not quite,” you managed to say, your voice breathless, but with just enough edge to let him know you weren’t backing down.
Steve’s smirk widened. “We’ll see about that.”
Steve had delighted in teasing you by sending vibration after vibration through your slit when you had just opened your mouth to receive food. Several times you had been unable to prevent moans from spilling forth, which had brought the occasional eye from the others.
Now however, something clicked into place.
Every time you went further away from where Steve was now stationed—by the cooling balcony—the vibrations had become more intense, and whenever you'd approached Bucky, the waves had been so intense you'd had to hide away until you regained your composure.
Certainly you didn't want to experience an orgasm in front of all your colleagues. If Steve would let you come that was. Your eyes locked with him and you knew what game he was playing. He was now drawing you in. Enticing you, teasing you, daring you to meet with him.
Your legs felt shaky as you stepped out onto the balcony, the cool night air doing little to cool the heat raging in your body. Every step closer to Steve, he had intensified the vibrations that pulsed through you, sending you to the brink of losing control several times already. And now, standing here, knowing what he was doing—how he was doing it—you realized he’d been pulling you in, little by little.
He was leaning against the railing when you found him, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips, like he’d been waiting for you all along. His eyes flicked over you, taking in the way your chest rose and fell, the tension in your posture, the faint flush on your cheeks. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched as you struggled to keep your composure.
“Finally,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, “I was wondering how long it’d take for you to come find me.”
The soft hum of the vibrations continued to pulse between your legs, but here—out on the balcony, away from the others—it was somehow even more intense. Your breath hitched as you pressed your thighs together, trying to resist the overwhelming sensations that had been driving you crazy all night.
“You’re an asshole,” you managed, though your voice came out breathier than you intended. “You have no right to do that. You’ve been torturing me for hours.”
Steve chuckled deeply, pushing himself off the railing and taking a slow step toward you. His eyes were dark with amusement, and something else—something far more dangerous.
“Torturing you? No, baby. This isn’t torture. It's your fault you dropped your little control for me to find.” He reached out and brushed his fingers down your arm, his touch sending shivers across your skin. “I'm just giving you what you need.”
Your pulse quickened, but you stood your ground, refusing to back away. “And what’s that?”
Steve’s grin widened, his voice dropping even lower. “Pay back. You’ve been playing dirty games all night, teasing me, testing my patience. . . Bet you didn't think I could play dirtier?”
Your breath hitched as the vibrations suddenly increased, the intensity causing you to press your lips together to keep any sounds from escaping. You glanced at the door behind you, knowing the others were just inside, but the fear of being overheard only added to the tension between you and Steve.
“Fuck you, Steve.”
“By all means,” He took another step closer, his hand finding your waist, pulling you toward him until your bodies were pressed against each other. “I can see it in your eyes, Y/N. Don't pretend you weren’t enjoying it. I bet you were thinking about how you miss my cock inside you.”
You trembled, both from the force of the sensations and the heat of his words. He was right, of course. As much as you hated to admit it, Steve had known exactly what you craved.
His thumb stroked lazily along your hip as he leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.
“I'm so surprised you’ve been doing so well tonight,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. “But I don’t think you’re ready to come yet, are you?”
You gasped softly, your body tensing as he gave the control another flick, sending a pulse of pleasure through you that had your knees threatening to give out.
“Damn it, Steve…” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper.
His hand slipped down to the small of your back, holding you up, keeping you steady even as he pushed you further to the edge. You felt him pressing his solid erection on your thigh, your hand seemingly having a mind of its own, palmed his hard erection through the fabric.
“That’s it,” he whispered, his tone teasing but dark with intent. “Say my name again. Remind me who you belong to.”
You clenched your hand around his cock, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but it was slipping fast. “Steve, please…”
“Please what?” he asked, his lips ghosting over your neck, his voice dripping with amusement. “Do you want me to stop? Or do you want me to keep going?”
You didn’t answer right away, your breath coming in a shallow, uneven exhale. You could barely think, let alone form a coherent response. The vibrations continued relentlessly, driving you closer and closer to the edge, but Steve held all the power, and you knew he wasn’t going to let you fall unless he wanted to.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your jaw as he pulled you tighter against him. “So desperate. So ready to fall apart, but you’re holding back too, aren’t you? You don’t want them to hear you, do you?”
Your heart pounded in your chest as you nodded, the humiliation of being overheard mixing with the arousal that Steve’s teasing had been building all night.
He chuckled huskily. “You know what I love about you, baby? You try so hard to pretend like you can control, but right now…” His hand slid lower, his fingers brushing the hem of your dress, teasing. “Right now, you’re mine.”
You whimpered, your body trembling as the vibrations grew even stronger. You were so close, teetering on the edge of release, but Steve wasn’t going to let you go that easily.
“Do you want to come?” he whispered, his lips brushing against your neck. “Tell me, sweetheart. I want to hear you say it.”
You gasped, barely able to form the words, your body aching for release. “Yes…” you breathed, your voice shaky. “Please, Steve.”
He hummed softly, clearly pleased with your answer, but he wasn’t finished with you yet. His hand slid up your thigh, his fingers brushing the sensitive spot between your legs where the vibrations pulsed strongest.
You whimpered again, your entire body trembling with the effort of holding back. The sensations were too much, too overwhelming, and you were so close, but Steve’s hand on your hip kept you grounded, reminding you that he held all the power.
“Good girl,” he whispered, pressing his lips against your neck,“Now, be patient.”
You let out a soft, broken whine, your head falling back against his chest as you struggled to hold on, every nerve in your body alight with anticipation and desperation.
“Steve,” you whispered, your voice breaking, but he only smirked, his lips still brushing against your ear as his hand stayed poised on the control, his fingers lingering over the button.
“Should we just take this somewhere else?” his voice was dark with satisfaction.
You whimpered, barely able to hold yourself upright. Every nerve in your body was on fire, and all you wanted—all you needed—was for him to let you come. But Steve wasn’t going to give you that satisfaction just yet.
“I think…” he started slowly, his hand sliding down to grip your waist, “you’re not feeling too well, Y/N.” His tone was soft, but there was no mistaking the authority behind his words. He was making the decision for you, and you had no choice but to follow.
You blinked up at him, your body still trembling, trying to understand where he was going with this. “What… what do you mean?” you managed, your breath shaky and uneven.
Steve chuckled, brushing his thumb over your cheek as he pulled you closer, his voice dropping even lower. “You’re going to go home. You’re not feeling well. Isn’t that right?”
It took you a moment to process what he was saying. He wasn’t giving you an option—he was telling you how the rest of the night was going to go. You weren’t going to get your release, not here, not now. Steve was going to draw this out, make you wait, make you need it even more.
Your heart pounded as you nodded, too overwhelmed to argue. “Right,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I’m not feeling well.”
Steve’s smirk deepened, clearly pleased with your compliance. He brushed a lock of hair behind your ear, his fingers trailing down the side of your neck before stepping back slightly, his eyes never leaving yours.
“That’s my girl,” he whispered, his tone dripping with satisfaction.
Without breaking eye contact, Steve reached into his pocket and pressed the control one last time, sending a sharp, teasing vibration through you that nearly made your knees buckle. You gasped softly, gripping the railing for support as a fresh wave of need coursed through your body.
But just as quickly as it started, Steve turned the control off, leaving you trembling and on the brink, but without the release you so desperately craved. His eyes darkened as he leaned in, his voice low and full of promise.
“I'll take you home now,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear. “And when we get there later… then you’ll get what you’ve been begging for, if you remain a good girl.”
The breath caught in your throat at his words, your entire body trembling with anticipation and frustration. Steve pulled back slightly, his thumb brushing over your lower lip as his eyes locked with yours, dark and full of intent.
“You understand me?” he asked softly, his tone a quiet command. You nodded, unable to find your voice, your body still humming with the sensation he’d built up all night.
“Yes,” you whispered. “I understand.”
Steve smiled softly, almost tenderly, as he straightened up, giving you a once-over before taking your hand. He led you back toward the door, his touch firm and guiding as he stepped inside. The warmth of the party greeted you once again, the noise and chatter a stark contrast to the intimate darkness of the balcony.
But Steve didn’t let go of your hand.
He glanced around the room, catching Bucky’s eye first, then Sam’s.
“Y/N’s not feeling well,” he announced, his voice steady, calm, and in complete control. “I’m going to make sure she gets home safe.”
Bucky’s brow furrowed slightly as he glanced between the two of you, suspicion flickering in his eyes, but he didn’t question it.
“Yeah, alright,” he said slowly, shooting you a quick look. “Take care of her, Cap.”
Steve gave a small nod before turning back to you, his grip tightening just slightly around your hand as he guided you toward the exit. The others said nothing but waved bye as you passed, and you kept your head down, your face flushed and your body still trembling with the effects of his teasing.
Once outside, the cool air hit your skin again, and for a brief moment, you felt like you could breathe. But the moment was short-lived as Steve led you to the car, his hand still firmly wrapped around yours.
You had to lean on him a bit as he led you to his car. He helped you inside and strode around to his side exceedingly quickly for someone with a stiff load in their pants. One moment of heavy breathing passed as you looked at each other. You both knew what would happen. He was offering and you were accepting. Though there wasn't really a choice for either of you.
Steve unzipped his fly challengingly as he pushed the start button and vroomed the engine. You eyed him coyly, and lowered your lips agonizingly slowly onto his full blown erection. He was so big and tall, you'd actually forgotten. Carefully you licked his shaft and caressed it with your hands before dipping the head into your mouth. You looked up innocently towards him, eyes wide, Steve had one hand gripping the steering wheel so hard you thought it would break. He saw the way you were looking at him and in punishment set the controller to one of the higher settings.
Heat and pleasure spread through your pelvis and you approached his huge cock with a renewed desire. You dipped it in your mouth again and again, licking it, stroking it and teasing it. All the while you were wriggling in your seat with the intense pleasure from the vibrating underwear.
Steve roared out of the parking lot, eager to reach the destination as soon as possible. And though part of him was worried about causing a car accident due to his distraction, he had a much more pressing sense of urgency. And it's in your mouth. He buried his fingers in your hair as you sucked him off, despite the fact that his cock was far too large for your poor little mouth. But just when his cock was quivering and ready to come and deliver its payload all down your throat, you pulled back and stopped. Mischief in your eyes.
"No coming until you're inside me." You purred. "Your rules, not mine."
He grinned despite himself, and set the control to the highest setting. With pleasure he watched as you writhed in your seat from ecstasy. Your back arched and your hands flew out to hold on to something. One braced you against the roof, and the other against his shoulder. But just like before, just before you came he shut the vibrations off. This time for good. You turned to him indignantly.
"Oh my go—Steve! Please." You begged.
"Almost there." He promised, as he pulled into the driveway.
A quick look out the window revealed to you that you were at his apartment and not yours. You shrugged. So much the better.
Steve reached out a hand, his eyes locking with yours as he offered a reassuring smile, though the hunger in his gaze was impossible to ignore. You took his hand, but as soon as you swung your legs out of the car and stood up, the overwhelming sensations from earlier came rushing back. Your legs wobbled beneath you, unsteady and weak from the teasing Steve had put you through all night.
The second you tried to take a step, your knees nearly buckled. A soft gasp escaped you as you stumbled, but before you could collapse down, Steve’s arms were around you, strong and steady. He caught you easily, one arm slipping beneath your knees as he scooped you up without a second thought.
“Easy there princess,” he murmured, his voice soft but firm. His lips brushed against your temple as he pulled you against his chest, holding you like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’ve got you.”
You felt the heat of his body against yours, his strength cradling you effortlessly, and for a moment, you melted into him, letting the safety of his embrace calm the lingering tremors in your legs. Your head rested against his chest as he carried you, his footsteps steady and purposeful as he made his way across the driveway.
Steve tossed you onto the large, plush bed. You landed softly against the sheets, breathless as you watched him with eager anticipation. Satisfaction coursed through you as he began to strip, his eyes never leaving yours.
His jacket was the first to go, shrugged off and dropped to the floor without a second thought. Then came his shirt, fingers working quickly to unbutton it, his shirt slid off, revealing the defined, powerful muscles of his chest and arms—broad shoulders tapering down to sculpted abs that flexed with every movement. His skin was smooth, taut over the ridges of muscle that seemed to ripple with restrained strength. Each breath he took made his chest rise and fall, drawing your eyes to the hard lines of his torso. His biceps, strong and veined, flexed subtly as he tossed it aside, leaving you breathless, completely captivated by the raw power and grace he carried effortlessly in every inch of his body.
Next were his shoes and socks, kicked off with the same impatience, as though every layer of clothing was a barrier between the two of you. His gaze remained locked on yours, intense and commanding, he unbuckled his belt and tugged off his pants in one motion, leaving him standing there, muscles taut.
Jesus Christ, his body was unfair. His flat stomach had more definition than before, his hips more pronounced. That cock, though. Fully hard, it stood out from his body, every bit as perfect as you remembered—more than big enough to be a challenge. You can see his cock jutting out at you, long and girthy. Your pussy clenched, the stretch of his dick having imprinted there, and you had to grip the sheets to keep from lunging at him.
You were breathing hard, and your heart is beating so fast you feel like it might jump out of your chest. You were looking at each other—predator and prey, the conqueror and the conquered. He closed the distance between you hungrily, his powerful body even more beautiful without clothes in the way. You can feel the heat of his body, smell the scent of his skin—male and musky, strangely appealing. His chest muscles flex under your fingers, and you can feel his heart beating faster.
“Your turn.” He growled huskily.
Steve's hands moved to the hem of your dress, pushing it up slowly, his lips leaving soft, lingering pecks along your stomach as he worked his way up to your waist. With deft efficiency, he slipped the dress over your head in one smooth motion, leaving you breathless. Your bra followed just as quickly, discarded with ease, his touch confident and controlled, leaving you exposed beneath his gaze.
Last but not least he lifted your legs and pulled off the vibrating panties, which were soaked. He tossed them away with a rueful smile before spreading you out so that he could admire you. He took in your breasts that fell to a narrow waist, before flaring out in generous hips that echoed your breasts.
Steve's fingers trailed up your inner thigh and between your legs, and he let his breath warm the skin of your stomach. He brushed his thumb over your slit until he found your clit. He rubbed back and forth a few times, letting you have a taste of the pleasure he planned to give you more of.
Your eyes spoke of impatience, and then he spoke, almost sounding disappointed.
“You’ve really tested my patience tonight, but I guess we're even. Now, shall I take care of you?” Steve stroked you again, harder this time.
“I-I'm sorry, Steve, please—” you whispered, your body swaying slightly. He kept stroking your clit, the smell of your arousal filling his nostrils and making him crazy.
“I am dying to taste you. I bet you're dying to know how good it will feel when my tongue flicks your clit.” he rasped, his mouth watering, pushing to his feet. “Be a good girl and go further up the bed.”
You turned and crawled on the bed, nearly making him come with the seductive sway of your ass as you positioned yourself. When you were on your back, he ordered, “Now spread your legs.”
You complied eagerly, showing him the flesh between your thighs, which was already glistening from arousal. He was ready to make a meal out of you. Wedging himself between your thighs, he lowered himself until his stomach met the mattress.
Steve kissed your inner thigh, his strong hands held you in place. Hands that have been calloused through years and years of combat. The tip of Steve's tongue touched your folds—and you jumped.
“Relax,” he breathed. “Put your hands on your tits and feel what I am doing to you.”
You cupped your breasts, which were already heavy and aching, and squeezed your nipples. Pleasure streaked through you. Steve dipped his head and licked you, and heat suffused your lower half. Growling, he pressed closer and tongued your entrance.
“Fuck, you are so wet for me.” Then he began moving his lips and tongue, exploring your folds, until he reached your clit. The first swipe of his tongue over that tiny bundle of nerves caused you to slam your eyelids shut and throw your head back. Tingles ran up and down your legs and you could only lie there as he did it again and again, flicking and circling the nub with his tongue. His finger worked its way into your pussy, stretching me, and you moaned.
“Oh, my God. Steve!”
The reaction earned you another finger and a long suck of your clit. Your toes curled and you could feel the orgasm building in your belly.
“I’m so close,” you told him. “Keep going, please.”
Unbidden, your hips started rocking against his face, your body desperate for release. You thought you would have to agree to anything at that moment, but luckily Steve didn’t try and take advantage. He continued to work your clit and pump his fingers into your pussy.
It wasn’t enough though. You really wanted him to fuck you. The thought of his muscled body, so manly and strong, pounding into you pushed you over the edge.
You shouted as your walls convulsed around his fingers, your limbs trembling uncontrollably. The euphoria washed over you, more intense from the teasing he's done to you all night. These weren't the gentle waves of an orgasm. This was a tsunami dragging you to depths you had never imagined before, drowning you in endorphins you hadn’t felt in so long.
When it finally ended, you sagged into the mattress, limp. Steve's mouth gentled but didn’t stop as he lapped up the wetness at your entrance. His eyes were closed as if he were savoring you, and you couldn’t look away from his beautiful face. Why did he have to be so incredibly good looking?
His lids opened and blue eyes pinned you to the spot. They were wild and hungry. Feral. A little scary, even. He continued to taste you while staring up at you, as if he were gauging your reaction. You couldn’t move, your muscles are now lax.
Then he crawled over you, kissing your skin along the way, until he reached your breasts. Your hands were still on your breasts, so he nudged your palm aside with his nose to draw a nipple into his mouth. He sucked hard, with long pulls that echoed between your legs, directly in your clit.
Everything was heightened, your body even more sensitive now that you'd come, and he seemed in no hurry to move on as he lavished attention on your breast. Soon you were writhing, your heart racing as you panted, your nails digging into his shoulders. He switched to your other breast, his tongue flicking your nipple then biting it before bringing the nipple into his mouth to suck.
You were a shuddering, mindless mess, unable to stop moaning as it wore on. Was he trying to foreplay you to death? His fingers slipped between your legs, rubbing your clit with light steady pressure, and you came a second time. When you finally calmed, he released your breast and kissed your neck.
Steve crawled over you, not stopping until his knees were on either side of your ribcage, his cock inches away from your face, “Suck my cock and make it slippery for me.”
You opened your mouth and he thrust inside, the warm salty taste of him gliding across your tongue. Fuck, you liked that. you closed your eyes, but he snapped, “Eyes on me, hands on your tits.”
Your clit pulsed in happiness, your body drunk on him, completely turned on by his dominance. You complied, keeping your gaze on his and putting your hands on your tits, massaging it in circular motions as he started to tunnel in and out of your mouth. You tried to keep your jaw and throat relaxed, and Steve took advantage, thrusting deep until you gagged.
“That’s it,” he said. “I want to see tears streaming down your cheeks from having your mouth fucked.”
You couldn’t help it—you moaned. His nostrils flared. He pushed and you gagged, but he didn’t withdraw. Instead, he waited until you recovered and took another breath. Then he advanced a tiny bit more. Tears spilled over your lashes and you struggled to breathe. You started to shake your head no, but Steve just smirked down at you as he held you in place.
“You can do it. Fill that filthy mouth with my cock.” He shoved in deeper and you tried to relax and breathe through your nose. You tried to swallow, it took a few tries but you managed and he slipped in deeper. Then you couldn’t breathe at all and you started to panic, your eyes searching his face. His expression was soft, pride shining in his eyes as he watched your mouth. You shook your head again, tears falling faster, your hands slapping on the mattress so Steve withdrew himself.
You coughed violently as he left your mouth, you felt his demeanor shift as he caressed your cheek while shushing you.
“I-I'm sorry.” you tried to say but it came out broken due to the fire in your throat.
“Shh, you’re okay, baby, you're okay.” Steve hunched down and kissed you, long licks of his tongue against yours, it was gentle, your lips locking before he pulled away, “Are you okay?”
You look him in the eye, nodding with a weak smile, “Yeah, I'm okay—Continue.”
Steve stares at you for a few seconds, raising his eyebrow, “If you say so.”
He gets into position but instead of getting a mouth full of dick, his cock slapped between your breasts.
“Let’s save that for a different time.” He winks at you, “Now hold them. Press them tight.”
You squeezed your boobs around his cock, and he groaned, his arousal coming back to him. His stare was fixed on your chest as his hips started to move, his stomach muscles flexing.
“Tighter,” he rasped. “Pinch your nipples like I would.”
You did as he asked, gasping at the electricity that jumped in your veins as a result. It was like you were stroking your clit without using your hands. You pinched harder and your head rolled back as the bliss washed over you. He pushed a thumb into your mouth and you sucked instinctively, swirling your tongue over the rough skin like you couldn’t get enough. Which wasn’t really an act. You were desperate, your sex throbbing for relief, and you craved his touch everywhere.
“Look at me when you suck,” he ordered and you instantly obeyed. His bright eyes burned fire while he watched your mouth and he reached to stroke two fingers over your clit. You tensed and made a desperate noise in the back of your throat. He continued to pet you, and you could feel how wet and slippery you were, the sounds of your slickness as loud as your breathing. The climax was right there, just a few seconds away….
The fingers between your legs disappeared and you let out an angry growl around his thumb.
“Get up.” he told you, retreating down your body until he stood on the floor. You rose up on your knees, mindless to anything but having your craving satisfied.
“Feet on the floor.”
You scrambled to do as he asked, and his hands positioned you between his legs as you leaned over on the bed. You sagged onto the bed and let him do as he wished. His slick erection slid into the crevice between your cheeks, which he pushed together. Then he was sliding between your ass cheeks the same way he’d fucked your tits. His strong hands held you still while his rough thighs met the backs of your legs. It was like he was fucking you from behind, but without the stimulation.
Miserable, you shoved your ass higher. Hair covered your face and you could feel the sweat on your temples.
“Roll your hips,” he panted. “Work my cock and I’ll reward you.”
Steve didn’t need to ask twice. You started rolling your hips, giving him friction while he held still. You were gyrating and sliding your flesh over his, that thick rod hot and heavy between your cheeks. You barely felt his hand leave your skin before he slapped your ass, fire exploding under your skin.
You sucked in a breath and lost your rhythm.
“Don’t stop.” Another slap. “Keep going and make me come for you.” The pain from the slaps turned into heat, the kind that made your knees go weak. Your clit throbbed in response, and the slickness between your thighs ran down your legs. You kept moving, and he spanked you again and again, his palm landing blows all over your backside.
Your body burned, but there was no pain. your skin sang with pleasure, sensitive and bright, and as if on instinct you slid your fingers down between your legs, the need to come undeniable.
“No,” he said, pinning your arm down as he covered your back. Your sore ass pulsed against his cool skin. “Not yet.”
You humped the mattress, your urges uncontrollable. This caused his tip to skim the entrance to your pussy. You both froze, the temptation right there.
All he had to do was push a tiny bit forward and he would fill you. Stretch me. Give you every bit of his hard cock. You couldn’t stand it. You needed him like you needed air. “Please, Steve. Put your cock inside me.”
“Are you mine?”
You pressed your lips together, unable to say the words, while you clawed and tore at the comforter, your miserably body at war with itself as your lust remained unfulfilled.
“I will not fuck you until you tell me. I want to hear the words.”
“No, please. Just once.”
“Say it, and I will fuck your pussy. I will make you come so hard.” He teased you with a shift of his hips, the tip of his erection skimming your entrance again. “I will make it so good for you.”
Your resistance folded.
“I’m yours, Steve.” You blurted. “Please. I’m yours.”
Before you could blink, he shoved inside you, your walls stretching to accommodate his girth. It wasn’t easy. He was large and you hadn’t been prepared, so it took a few pumps of his hips before he was fully seated.
“Look at you letting me inside. Sucking me in.” Steve straightened and grabbed your hips with both hands, “Do you like it? Do you like taking my cock in your tight little pussy?”
If only the others knew about his filthy, filthy mouth. But if you’re being honest with yourself, everytime he talks to you like that you would do anything he asks. And he probably knew it.
He drove deeper, making you gasp.
“Yes,” you whispered, dragging the word out on a long whine. “I like it very much.”
You clutched the duvet, your fingers sinking into the plush fabric, the sensation of having him inside you was something you hadn't felt in so long. You could feel him everywhere, from your swollen lips and aching breasts, to your sore ass and full pussy. It was like an overload for your nerve endings. Then he started moving, and it felt even better.
Your nipples scraped against the sheets as he worked himself in and out of your body, his grunts mixing with your gasps.
“So tight. You are squeezing me so hard.” He pulled out slowly, leaving in just the head, and then plunged forward once more until he bottomed out. You both groaned. “Tell me who is fucking your pussy, Y/N. Tell me who you belong to.”
“You, Steve.” The words fell from your lips, partly because you knew they would drive him wild. And partly because you loved this game you played.
He spanked you, hard, “That’s right. Now, play with your clit and make yourself come.”
He didn’t need to tell you twice. Your hand shot between your legs and you circled your clit. Steve spanked you again and again, his palm raining slaps on your butt cheeks. The heat spread from your skin through your groin as your fingers worked over the taut nub.
When he wrapped your hair around his fist and pulled, using it to jerk you back onto his cock, riding you, you came so hard, the orgasm deep and intense. You clenched around him and he thickened inside you, his hips growing uncoordinated as you heard him suck in air.
“That’s it come all over my cock, you dirty little slut.” Steve grunted in the heat of the moment.
Steve fucked you like he was punishing you, each punch of his hips slapping into the skin he’d spanked a moment ago. He drove deep, holding your hips still so he could pound as hard as he wanted. You loved it. He was rough and unforgiving, everything you needed. The bed rocked, the frame creaking as he worked himself in and out of your body.
His fingers slipped between your legs and found your clit. He pinched the swollen nub then circled it, and the world exploded. Sparks shot through your limbs as they convulsed, and your brain completely shut down, the pleasure almost brutal in its intensity. Changing his rhythm, he flexed his hips, withdrawing slightly before returning, the thick length dragging over your sensitive walls.
“Oh,” you moaned, clenching around him tightly. “I liked that. Will you do it again?”
“Fuck, Y/N.” he hissed, his eyelids slamming shut as if he were in pain. He hissed through his teeth when your body clamped down on him. “Yes, squeeze my dick again.”
You did it once more and he groaned.
“You are trying to make me come? Because it is working.” he grunted when you did it a third time he smacked your butt cheek and pulled out.
He looked bigger than before, you couldn’t do more than roll your head to watch him shuffle to one side of the bed, spitting on his hand before jacking himself, coating his cock and making it slippery. You watched the muscles of his forearm shift as he worked, and you swallowed hard, finding it absolutely hot. You made a mental note to ask him to masturbate in front of you.
“I want you to ride me. I want to see your face when I claim that pussy again.” Steve got into position on the bed, flat on his back, then lifted you over him until you straddled his hips. Bringing you toward his face, he kissed you hard, his tongue invading your mouth and letting you taste his desperation. The tips of his fingers probed your entrance, smoothing, massaging, opening you.
Eager, you rolled your hips, dragging your slick pussy over his shaft.
“So needy,” he murmured against your mouth when you whimpered. “Don’t worry, princess. I am going to fill you up.” His fingers slipped inside, but there was only pressure. It was as if the pleasure center of your brain was firmly in charge. He pumped his fingers slowly, widening your, while his mouth remained demanding. You took it gladly, letting him use you.
He broke off and grabbed your hips. “Up, baby. Take me inside.”
You braced one hand on his stomach, then reached with the other to take his thick cock, lining him up at your entrance. His warm skin was slick and hard, and you began pushing down, hissing when the head slipped in. He threw his head back, his expression nearly feral in its intensity, and you loved watching this powerful man come undone by your body. You dropped down a little more, gave yourself time to adjust, again, then continued, working steadily, with Steve’s big chest heaving the entire time.
His fingertips sank into your skin, pressing on your hip bones and you knew you would have bruises there tomorrow. The thought sent a punch of arousal through your core and you lowered your hips all the way down, meeting his pelvis.
“Fuck, Steve, it feels so good,” You whined as your sore ass rubbing against his rough skin. The width of him split you open and you panted, loving the way he overwhelmed you.
“Baby,” You whispered, hoping he understood. He knew. Of course he did. No one could read you better than Steve.
He cupped your breasts with both hands, pinching your nipples. “Tell me, baby. Ride me and tell me. Don’t hold anything back from me.”
You began moving then, churning your hips slowly, dragging his shaft in and out of your pussy, all the while watching his face. His eyes burned hot as they raked over your body, possession stamped on his features, and you let the words fall out.
“Fuck, I love you and your cock.” His reaction was instant. Snatching you in his big hands, he leaned up and brought you to him for a blistering kiss. Then he braced his feet on the mattress and began pounding into you, his body thrusting upward in short jabs that bounced your tits up and down. His hands kept your hips steady, your bodies straining and working together. Whatever spot he was hitting deep inside you sent sparks down your legs, along your spine, sending you higher and higher.
When you started trembling, he said, “Your clit, baby. Play with it and make yourself come. Right now.”
You didn’t question him. Your hand flew between your legs and you rubbed your swollen flesh, desperate for release. The rush was instant, a wave of color and light that exploded behind your eyes. Your muscles contracted around him, clamping down, and you heard Steve grunt wildly as his movements became uncoordinated, his cock swelling inside you. Then he held you still, his back arching, as his cock pulsed in your pussy, hot jets filling you.
Your back arched as you trembled, your walls convulsing around his cock. He threw his head back and shouted, his body sealed tight to yours like he never wanted to leave. Like he didn’t want to waste a single drop, like all his come needed to stay inside your pussy.
“Fuck,” he panted. “I hadn’t expected you to say that.” He pulled you down to lay on top of him and wrapped his arms around you, his cock still buried deep inside you.
You allowed yourself to catch your breath before laying beside him, glancing at Steve, who now looked more like his usual self—calm, collected—not the hungry, sexually frustrated asshole he had been just moments before.
“What now?” he asks, his voice softer now, the tension between you both having settled.
“Yeah, what now?” you echoed, unsure of what to do next but still riding the energy from earlier.
“Are you tired?” he asks, turning his head toward you, a hint of something playful in his eyes.
“No. Are you?” You faced him, the corner of your mouth twitching into a small smile.
“No,” he says, smiling sheepishly, both of you sensing the same lingering spark.
“Should we… take it to the shower?” you suggest, the thought hanging in the air between you.
Steve’s grin widens, a flicker of mischief in his eyes. “After you.”
warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), size kink, dom!Bucky, oral sex (f & m receiving), teabagging, breeding kink, creampie, overstimulation, praise kink, jealousy of a plastic plant, mutual pining, kitchen sex, doorway sex, neighborly temptation, holiday filth under the mistletoe, and one very chaotic child who unknowingly sets the plot on fire
summary: You didn’t expect anything from tonight—not beyond cookies, cocoa, and maybe a warm smile from your impossibly handsome neighbor. But the moment Bucky sees you under the mistletoe, something changes, and you’re swept into a Christmas moment that starts with a kiss and ends with far less innocence.
authors note: this fic is dedicated to my very good friend @superbassbuck. paul, i have looked up to you and your writing long before we knew one another. everyday it is a fever dream to me that i actually am privileged enough to talk to you. your creativity and passion inspire me every single day and i hope this fic brings you even an ounce of the amount of joy your writing brings others! merry christmas my love, i wish you the nastiest dilf!bucky to come upon you and deliver the best teabagging of your life this holiday season 🤍🤍
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The first snow of December was really leaning into the drama.
Big, lazy flakes drifted under the streetlamps, swirling past the glowing wire reindeer on Mrs. Hargrove’s lawn and the slightly crooked candy cane lights lining Bucky Barnes’ driveway. The whole cul-de-sac looked like it had been dusted in powdered sugar and wrapped in warm white LEDs.
You stood on his porch clutching a tin of still-warm Christmas cookies and your own nerves.
This was for Violet, you told yourself. Totally, completely, one hundred percent for Violet.
The same Violet who’d stood at the mailbox last week and announced to the entire street that “Daddy burns the bottoms of all the Christmas cookies. It’s tragic.”
You’d laughed, made some sympathetic noise, and then gone home and immediately pulled out flour and sugar like your life depended on it.
And okay, maybe you were also weak for the very large, very handsome man who’d moved in with her in September.
Bucky Barnes. Late thirties. Single dad. Wore flannels that strained over his chest and gray sweatpants that should count as a public menace. The HOA pretended to be concerned he’d put up “noncompliant” decorations; really, they just wanted excuses to loiter by his driveway when he carried heavy things.
You’d tried very hard not to stare when he’d hauled a Christmas tree off the roof of his truck like it weighed nothing, biceps flexing, cheeks pink from the cold.
You inhaled, balanced the cookie tin on one hip, and knocked.
The door opened almost immediately.
Bucky filled the doorway like he owned it—broad shoulders, scruffy jaw, hair pushed back with his fingers and already falling forward again. He was wearing a dark green henley and worn jeans, one socked foot and one bare, as if you’d interrupted him mid-puttering.
“Hey, neighbor.” His smile was slow and easy, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You out here spreading Christmas cheer?”
Your breath puffed white between you. “Something like that,” you said. “Violet mentioned your tragic cookie situation.”
He groaned. “Did she?”
You held up the tin. “I come bearing reinforcements.”
His face softened. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said, stepping back and swinging the door wide. “But I am absolutely not turning down free cookies. C’mon in before you freeze.”
Warmth wrapped around you as soon as you stepped inside, the house smelling like pine and cinnamon and the faint spice of his cologne. The living room glowed with Christmas: too-big tree in the front window, multicolored lights, paper snowflakes under Scotch tape, a lopsided angel on top. Animated snowmen sang on the TV.
“COOKIE FAIRY?” Violet barreled in from the couch, socks sliding on the hardwood. She slammed into your middle, tiny arms wrapping around your waist. “You did it!”
“Hi, bug,” you laughed, juggling the tin to hug her one-armed. “I brought some. Think you can help me eat them?”
“Yes.” She grabbed the tin with both hands like it was a sacred relic. “Dad, look! They’re in a real tin and everything.”
“Nothing but the best for my favorite elf,” you said.
“I thought I was your favorite elf,” Bucky muttered.
Violet gave him a look. “You’re Santa. Obviously.”
He pressed a hand to his heart. “Upgraded. I’ll take it.”
He glanced back at you, eyes warm. “Kitchen?”
“Lead the way.” You bent down to pull off your boots.
He stepped behind you without thinking, one hand settling at the small of your back, guiding you around the edge of the rug. It was nothing, really. He touched you like that a lot—steadying you on icy sidewalks, nudging you through thresholds, fingers warm and broad and safe.
Your body, naturally, made a massive deal out of it.
You followed him toward the kitchen archway. Violet scampered ahead, already wrestling with the lid of the tin.
You were just lifting your foot to step through when she shrieked.
“WAIT!”
You froze. Bucky’s hand tightened slightly on your back. “Vi?”
“You can’t go under yet!” she yelped, scrambling off the step stool. She skidded across the floor to the pantry and dove into a pile of boxes and craft supplies. Glitter snowflakes. A garland that had lost half its fake berries. Plastic holly.
And a cluster of mistletoe tied with a red ribbon.
Oh.
She clutched it triumphantly. “Gotta put this up.” She ran back, standing on tiptoe in the middle of the doorway. She stretched. The nail above the frame was just out of reach.
Bucky sighed, but his mouth was tipped up at the corners. “C’mere, trouble.”
He scooped her up like she weighed nothing. She looped the mistletoe over the nail with grave concentration, tongue stuck out in focus, then patted it.
“Now you can’t go under without kissing,” she declared when he set her down. “It’s the rules.”
Heat shot straight to your face. You suddenly became incredibly aware of exactly where you were standing.
Right under it.
Bucky’s gaze went up to the mistletoe, then down to you, then away so fast you almost heard his vertebrae crack.
“Vi, we talked about weaponized mistletoe,” he said weakly. “You can’t just… ambush people.”
“It’s Christmas.” She shrugged, unbothered. “Anyway, you never kiss anyone, Daddy. It was getting bored.” She hugged the cookie tin and trotted into the kitchen, humming under her breath.
You wished you could join her in obliviousness instead of wanting the floorboards to open up beneath you.
Bucky rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, cheeks pinker than the cold warranted. “Uh. Sorry. She’s been on a holiday rom-com binge.”
“It’s okay.” You forced a laugh, looking up at the plastic berries. “It’s cute.”
“Yeah, that’s what my blood pressure says.”
He stepped carefully through the doorway, avoiding brushing the mistletoe with his shoulder like it was booby-trapped. You followed—definitely not staring at how his shirt stretched across his back—ducking just slightly.
The kitchen was warm and bright, counter already scattered with Violet's craft debris. She’d opened the tin and arranged a dozen cookies on the Santa plate, humming to herself.
“Those snowmen have seen some things,” Bucky remarked, leaning against the counter.
“Don’t be mean, they’re sensitive,” you said. “Besides, you try piping frosting with cold fingers.”
“I never said I could do better.” He reached for one, broke it in half, steam curling from the center. “Oh, that’s…doll. You’re going to ruin store-bought for her.”
“Good,” Violet said through a mouthful. “They taste like sadness.”
You laughed, the tension easing. The next half hour blurred into something easy and golden—coffee brewing, cocoa for Violet, stories about disastrous childhood Christmases. Bucky talked with his hands, wrists rolling, veins shifting under skin every time he reached for the sugar. Violet tried—and failed—to get more sprinkles than cookie onto her reindeer brownie.
Eventually she yawned mid-ramble, blinking slow.
“There it is,” Bucky said softly. “The crash.”
“No,” she argued reflexively, rubbing at her eyes. “I wanna watch the Grinch.”
“You can watch the Grinch tomorrow. Right now, it’s bedtime for elves.” He wiped frosting off her chin with his thumb, kissed her forehead. “Go brush your teeth. I’ll be up in five.”
She slid off the chair, clutching another cookie. “Can I say goodnight to the cookie fairy first?”
“Of course,” you said, heart squeezing as she hugged you again. “Sleep well, kiddo.”
She shuffled off down the hall. Bucky watched her go, something soft and fierce all at once in his face.
He looked back at you, shoulders loosening. “I’m gonna go do battle with the bedtime routine,” he said. “If you wanna crash on the couch, I’ll walk you home when I’m done.”
“I can walk myself,” you said automatically, warmth flooding you anyway. “But I’ll stick around. You know. In case you need backup against the Grinch.”
He smirked. “Pretty sure you’re the reason she’s asking for a puppy and a pony now, but okay, you can be backup.”
He hesitated, then brushed his fingers over your elbow, just once. “Hey,” he added, voice quieter. “Thank you. For this. She’s gonna be talking about ‘cookie fairy night’ until June.”
Your chest ached. “You’re welcome.”
He went upstairs, his tread heavy and familiar. The house settled around you. Cartoon snowmen grinned silently from the TV in the next room.
You cleaned up without really thinking—stacked plates, ran water in the sink, wiped stray smears of frosting off the table. It all felt domestic in a way that made your heart ache. Easy. Natural. Like you’d always been here.
When you finished, you wandered back toward the living room, tying your hair up off your neck.
And paused under the arch.
The mistletoe dangled above, casting a small, smug shadow on the floor.
You tipped your head back, looking up at it. Stupid plastic thing. Stupid rom-com rules. Stupid way your body buzzed just thinking about Bucky’s mouth on you for more than the brief brush of his knuckles guiding you around furniture.
You were still glaring at it when the floor creaked behind you.
“Victory,” Bucky murmured. “The elf has fallen.”
You turned. He was at the top of the stairs, one hand on the banister, henley rumpled, hair even messier than before.
“How many stories?” you asked.
“Three. And a song. And a solemn vow to make gingerbread houses tomorrow that could withstand a hurricane.” He padded down the stairs, eyes on you. “You still—”
He stopped halfway through the sentence when he realized where you were standing.
His gaze flicked up. Caught on the mistletoe. Came back down to you.
You felt his whole body go tight.
“Look at that,” you said lightly, your heart hammering loud enough you were sure he could hear it. “Ambushed again.”
He blew out a breath, something like a laugh, something like a curse. “Yeah. Seems to be a recurring theme tonight.”
He started to skirt wide, like he had before.
Recklessness surged up under your ribs.
“Aww,” you said, letting your mouth curl into a slow smile. “Is the big brave single dad scared of a little Christmas tradition?”
He stilled.
Slowly, very slowly, his head turned back toward you.
“Careful,” he said, voice deeper now, the word more warning than joke. He closed the distance in a handful of measured strides, stopping just inside the doorway, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. “You keep tempting an old man like that…”
Your back bumped the opposite side of the frame as you instinctively leaned away and he followed, one large hand coming up to brace on the wood beside your head. He wasn’t blocking your path so much as caging you there, his chest nearly brushing yours, his scent all around you.
“…he’s gonna forget he’s supposed to be the responsible one,” he finished, eyes gone dark.
Your pulse fluttered against your throat. “Since when do old men look like you?” you managed.
He huffed out something that might have been a laugh if it wasn’t so strained. “You think I don’t notice you?” he asked, low. “You think I haven’t seen the way you look at me? The way you always just happen to have leftovers, or spare coffee, or—” his mouth twitched “—emergency cookies?”
Heat crawled up your neck. “Maybe I’m just a nice neighbor.”
“You’re a lot of things,” he said. “Nice. Smart. Way too good to be stuck in my kitchen letting my kid con you into crafts. And you’re driving me insane.”
Your breath caught. “Bucky—”
“I’ve been trying real hard to leave this alone,” he went on, like a confession he couldn’t stop now. “You’re younger. You got your whole life ahead of you. You didn’t sign up for a package deal with a cranky old man and a seven-year-old who thinks glitter is a personality trait.”
“First of all,” you said, voice stronger than you felt, “you’re not old. You’re just…well-marinated.”
His brow shot up.
“Second,” you went on, heart pounding, “you and Violet are kind of my favorite people on this street. And I don’t bring homemade cookies to people I don’t want to impress, you know.”
There. Out in the air, trembling but solid.
Something helpless and hungry flashed across his face.
“Say that again,” he murmured.
You swallowed. “You’re my favorite,” you whispered. “Both of you. I like being here. I like being with you.”
He sucked in a sharp breath.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
Then he was kissing you.
It wasn’t careful this time. It wasn’t tentative. It was months of glances and almost-touches and late-night fantasies crashing together. His mouth slanted over yours, hot and demanding, his other hand sliding to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair.
You made a surprised noise that melted into a needy one, your hands fisting in the front of his henley. He tasted like coffee and sugar and warmth. The slight scrape of his stubble against your skin grounded you even as your knees threatened to give out.
He pressed in, body pinning yours gently but firmly to the doorframe, thigh wedging between your legs like it had always belonged there.
“Bucky,” you gasped into his mouth when he finally broke for air.
“Been wanting to do that since you brought us that lasagna in October,” he said against your lips, words roughened. “You know that? Walked back into the kitchen, saw the note you left for Vi, and thought, ‘Well. I’m fucked.’”
You laughed, dazed. “It was just lasagna.”
“Yeah, well, you didn’t see the handwriting.” He kissed you again, softer this time, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured. “If you want me to, you say it once and we forget this ever happened. I’ll go back to being your neighbor with the tragic cookies.”
You looked up at him, at the worry buried under the heat in his eyes, and any nerves you’d had burned away.
“I don’t want you to stop,” you said. “I want you.”
Everything in him seemed to exhale at once.
“Good,” he breathed. “That’s real good, doll.”
He kissed you again, then again, then along your jaw, down the column of your throat. His hand slid down your side, rough palm cupping your hip. You arched into him, a whimper slipping free when his thigh pressed higher between your legs.
“Look at you,” he murmured, mouth against your pulse. “Already rubbing all over me. So needy.”
“That’s your fault,” you shot back, breathless. “You and your stupid henley.”
He chuckled, teeth scraping lightly against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “Stupid, huh?”
“Deeply offensive,” you confirmed, rolling your hips down against his thigh, chasing friction.
He groaned, low and rough, hand flexing on your hip. “Keep doing that and I’m gonna end up fucking you right here in the doorway like a teenager.”
Your brain shorted out on the word fucking.
“Wh-what if I want that?” you managed.
That pulled his head up, his eyes snapping to yours.
“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he said, voice gone dangerous-soft.
“I really, really do,” you insisted, fingers curling in his shirt. “I’ve had…a lot of time to think about it.”
He swore under his breath in a language you didn’t know, something that sounded like a prayer and a curse all at once.
“Kitchen,” he decided, like the word hurt. “First. If I take you against this frame I’m gonna put your head through the drywall, and then I’ll have to explain that to my landlord.”
You almost suggested the drywall might be worth it, but he was already guiding you backward with surprising gentleness, his mouth never straying far from yours. You stumbled into the kitchen, bumping the counter with your hip, the faint glow from the living room tree turning everything gold.
He lifted you onto the cool countertop like you weighed nothing, stepping between your knees, palms braced on either side of your thighs.
“Last chance to back out,” he said, searching your face.
You wrapped your legs around his hips and tugged him in. “You’re wasting valuable mistletoe time, Barnes.”
His answering grin was quick and wicked. “God, you’re gonna be trouble.”
His hands slid under the hem of your sweater, calloused fingers skimming your skin. Goosebumps rose in their wake. He pushed the fabric up, mouth following, teeth scraping lightly along your ribs, making you gasp.
“Too many clothes,” he muttered, already tugging at the waistband of your leggings.
You lifted your hips to help, letting him peel them down, your panties going with them. The cool air made you shiver; the heat of his gaze made you burn.
“Fuck,” he breathed, taking you in, pupils blown. “You’re so pretty.”
You shifted, suddenly self-conscious and aroused in equal measure, feeling the slick heat between your thighs.
“You gonna just stare at me?” you tried to tease, voice wobbling, “or—”
He gripped your hips and dragged you to the edge of the counter, dropping to his knees in front of you.
You barely had time to suck in a breath before his mouth was on you.
Your head thumped back against the cabinet with a dull thud. His tongue stroked through your folds like he’d been memorizing you in dreams, slow and deliberate. He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core.
“Oh my god,” you gasped, fingers flying to his hair. “Bucky—”
“Taste so good, doll,” he murmured between licks. “Been wondering…fuck…been wondering about this for months.”
Any coherent response dissolved into a strangled noise when he wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked. His hands kept you open, thumbs pressing gently into the creases of your thighs, anchoring you there while he took his time.
He was unfairly good at this—unhurried, entirely focused, like the only thing on earth that mattered was the way you moved under his mouth. He listened, adjusting pressure and pace with every whimper, chasing every gasp like it was a star on some private map of yours.
“Please,” you whined, not sure what you were begging for. More. Less. Everything.
“I’ve got you,” he soothed, one hand sliding up to your stomach, keeping you pinned. “Let go for me, sweetheart.”
You did.
A white-hot wave crashed through you, your thighs snapping around his head, heels digging into his back. You bit down on your fist to keep from shouting, a high, broken sound still escaping your throat. He groaned into you, tongue and lips never letting up, riding you through the aftershocks until you were shaking.
When you finally slumped against the cabinet, boneless and breathless, he eased back, licking his lips like he was memorizing the taste.
“Good?” he asked, voice rough, a little smug.
You laughed weakly. “Kind of wanna start a religion.”
“Blasphemy,” he said, grinning as he rose. “We’re strictly a Christmas operation here.”
He kissed you, and you tasted yourself on his mouth, something heady and intimate in the slick slide of tongues. You felt him, hard and thick, pressing against your inner thigh through his jeans.
You reached between your bodies, fingers tracing the outline, and he groaned, hips rocking into your hand.
“Fuck,” he rasped. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You fumbled with his belt, heart pounding. He helped, fingers surer than yours, buckling and unzipping in quick jerks. His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed, and your brain flatlined for a second.
“You’ve been walking around the neighborhood like that?” you blurted.
His mouth kicked up at one corner. “Had to keep up with the festive décor somehow.”
He wrapped his hand around the base, stroking once, slow. Even in his palm he looked big—thick and long, veins standing out along the shaft, the head already damp.
Your mouth watered.
“Jesus,” you whispered. “That’s…that’s not standard issue.”
He laughed, breathless. “I’ll put that on my next dating profile. ‘Not standard issue.’”
“You better not have a dating profile,” you muttered, fingers circling his wrist, urging him closer.
“You’re bossy when you’re turned on,” he noted, stepping back into the space between your thighs. “Gonna remember that.”
The head of his cock nudged your entrance and everything in you went tight.
“Wait,” you managed, one hand on his chest. “Condom—”
His eyes flicked to yours, serious cutting through the haze.
“I’m clean,” you said quickly. “I get tested regularly. And I’m on the pill. I just…you said…”
That you wanted to breed me. That you wanted to fill me and watch it take.
The words stuck in your throat, your face flaming.
Bucky swore softly, thumb brushing your cheek. “I meant it,” he said hoarsely. “But I’m not making that call for you. You sure, doll? You wanna feel me?”
You nodded, heart in your mouth. “I want all of you,” you whispered. “Inside.”
His jaw tightened, something like awe flickering across his face.
“Fuck.”
He adjusted his grip, the blunt head pressing more firmly. “Deep breath,” he murmured.
You sucked in air, fingers digging into his shoulders.
The first push burned.
Not in a bad way, just—stretching. Your body resisting and then yielding, the thick slide of him slow, deliberate. Your walls fluttered around him instinctively, trying to make room for the intrusion.
“Christ,” he gritted. “So tight. You feel that, sweetheart? Feel how good you’re gripping me?”
You whimpered, biting your lip. “You’re…you’re big.”
“We can stop,” he said immediately, every muscle taut with control. “Say the word, doll. I pull out, we go back to cookies and Christmas movies like this never—”
“Don’t you dare,” you snapped, then winced when it came out too loud.
His eyes blazed.
“Thought so,” he said, voice dropping.
He kissed you as he pushed in further, swallowing your gasp. Inch by inch, he buried more of himself inside you until finally his hips met the curve of your ass, his pelvis flush against your thighs.
You felt impossibly full. Stretched. Stuffed.
“Oh my god,” you breathed. “You’re…you’re in my lungs.”
“Not quite the anatomy lesson I’d give,” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours as he fought for control, “but I appreciate the imagery.”
You flexed experimentally around him and he groaned, head dipping to your shoulder.
“Don’t do that,” he warned. “Or this is gonna be a very short show.”
You smiled, dizzy. “Kinda nice knowing I have that power.”
He lifted his head, eyes hot. “You have no idea how much power you’ve got over me, doll.”
He drew back an inch, then slid in again, testing.
The friction made you see stars.
He started slow, letting you adjust, each thrust shallow but sure, his hands gripping your hips firmly enough you knew you’d have bruises tomorrow. The counter creaked faintly under you.
“You okay?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“So good,” you managed. “You feel…huge.”
Pride flared bright in his eyes. “That right?” He shifted, angle changing, and suddenly he was hitting something inside you that made a strangled sound tear from your chest. “There it is.”
Every drag of his cock now rubbed against that spot, the sensation toe-curling, your whole body clenching around him.
“Look at you,” he murmured, watching your face. “Taking all of me. Such a good girl.”
Heat rolled through you at the words. You hadn’t realized how much you wanted that praise until he gave it to you.
“Like that, huh?” he said, reading you easily. “My good girl. Sitting on my cock in my kitchen like you were made for it.”
Your fingers curled tight in his shirt. “I—Bucky—”
He caught your mouth with his, swallowing whatever sound you made next. His thrusts picked up, faster now, deeper, the wet slide of him inside you obscene.
“You feel this?” he murmured against your lips, hips snapping. “Feel how deep I am? I’m right up against your cervix, sweetheart. Right where I need to be to fill you up.”
Your eyes rolled, the words slicing straight through what was left of your restraint. “Please,” you gasped. “Please, Buck—”
“Yeah?” His hand slid from your hip to your lower belly, pressing lightly. You could feel the drag of him from the outside, the firm bulge of his cock pounding into you. “You feel that, doll? That’s me, right here. Stuffing this tight little pussy full.”
It was filthy and insane and you loved every second.
“Gonna come inside you,” he gritted. “Gonna pump you full of me until it leaks out around my cock. You walk home tonight, your panties are gonna be soaked with my cum. You’re gonna lie in bed and feel me still there.”
You made a broken noise, orgasm barreling toward you.
He was relentless now, hips driving into you, the hand on your belly keeping you right where he wanted you while the other cupped the back of your neck, holding your gaze.
“Tell me you want it,” he demanded, voice harsh. “Say it, doll. Say you want me to breed this pretty little cunt.”
Shame and arousal and something like longing tangled deliciously in your chest.
“I want it,” you choked out. “I want you to…to breed me. Want you to fill me up. Please, Bucky.”
His entire body jolted like you’d shocked him.
“Fuck,” he groaned. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
He dropped his hand back between your legs, thumb circling your clit in snug, ruthless circles. The extra stimulation sent you careening over the edge.
You shattered.
Pleasure ripped through you, your muscles clamping down around him, milking his cock. You bit his shoulder to muffle your cry, nails digging into his back, whole body shaking.
He cursed violently, thrusts going erratic.
“Jesus—shit—keep squeezing me like that, doll—”
He buried himself deep with a final, brutal snap of his hips, grinding against you as he spilled inside. You felt it—hot pulses of cum flooding you, filling you so full you swore you could feel each warm wave.
“Fuck,” he gasped into your neck, shuddering hard. “Oh, fuck.”
You clung to him, riding out the aftershocks together, the world narrowing to shared panting and the wild thud of your hearts.
He didn’t pull out right away, just stayed pressed to you, chest rising and falling, cock softening gradually inside you. The intimacy of it made your throat tight.
“Still okay?” he murmured after a minute, lips brushing your cheek.
You turned your head, catching his mouth in a soft, lazy kiss. “Yeah,” you breathed. “More than okay.”
He smiled into it.
When he finally eased back, slipping out of you, you made a small, involuntary sound at the loss. Warmth immediately seeped down, slick and obscene.
Bucky’s eyes dropped, watching his cum trickle out of you. His jaw flexed.
“That’s…” His throat worked. “That’s all mine.”
Heat flared in your cheeks. “I mean, biologically…”
“Don’t ruin my moment,” he said weakly, still staring. His fingers brushed along your inner thigh, catching some of the mess, smearing it higher, back toward your entrance like he could push it back in. “Jesus.”
“You’re making it worse,” you pointed out shakily.
“That’s the idea,” he muttered, clearly not talking about your comfort.
Your pulse kicked when you saw the way he was looking at you—like he’d never seen anything hotter.
“You, uh…you have that look again,” you ventured.
He dragged his gaze up. “What look is that?”
“Like you wanna do something stupid.”
He huffed a laugh, stepping back so you could breathe. “I already did something stupid.”
“Pretty sure we both did something very smart,” you countered.
His mouth curved. “You keep saying things like that, and I’m gonna forget I’m supposed to let you walk home tonight.”
Your stomach flipped.
He grabbed a dish towel, dampened a corner with warm water, then stepped between your legs again, slower now. “Can I…?”
You nodded, suddenly shy.
He was gentle, cleaning you up with soft strokes, kissing your knee when you flinched at a residual jolt of oversensitivity. He helped you slide your panties and leggings back up, fingers lingering at your waist.
By the time you were more or less presentable, your legs were wobbly again—for entirely different reasons.
You slid off the counter, immediately sinking into his chest when your knees tried to buckle. He caught you, an arm around your waist.
“Easy,” he teased. “You sure you don’t want me to just carry you home? Less risk of you face-planting in the snow.”
“That’d be hard to explain to Mrs. Hargrove,” you said, words muffled in his shirt. “No, I’m fine. Just…gonna feel that tomorrow.”
“Good,” he said, entirely too satisfied.
You pulled back to sock him lightly in the chest. “You’re so smug.”
“Can you blame me?” His grin was crooked and boyish. “I just had the prettiest girl on the block come undone on my cock in my kitchen. Under mistletoe. I’m basically a Christmas legend now.”
You rolled your eyes, but your heart did an embarrassing little swoop at “my.”
You were about to say something equally obnoxious when your gaze flicked past his shoulder.
You could see the living room doorway from here. The mistletoe still hung there, framed by the glow of the tree.
A wicked idea slid into your brain.
“You know,” you said, tugging lightly at the hem of his shirt, “we technically only fulfilled half the mistletoe obligation.”
His brows pulled together. “Pretty sure we overshot the obligation, doll.”
“Mm-mm.” You shook your head, lips tipping up. “Everybody does the classic ‘kiss under the mistletoe.’ But I was thinking…”
You trailed off, deliberately letting your eyes drop to the obvious bulge reappearing in his jeans.
His breath hitched.
“There’s another way to…uh…honor the tradition,” you said sweetly.
His eyes darkened, the air between you thickening all over again. “You are going to be the end of me.”
“You already said that.” You slid your hand down his chest, fingers grazing lower, testing. He was getting hard again faster than you’d expected. That did wicked, thirsty things to you. “Consider this my Christmas contribution to the cause.”
He stared at you for a long second, something like worship and pure filth battling in his expression.
“Kitchen,” he rasped. “Door. Now.”
Your pulse spiked. “Yes, sir.”
His nostrils flared.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “You have no idea what that does to me.”
He laced your fingers together and led you back toward the archway. The mistletoe swung gently above, almost innocent.
“On your knees,” he said quietly, stopping just under it, voice like velvet over gravel. “Right here.”
A thrill bolted through you. You sank down, the hardwood cool under your knees, the heel of his puppy socks just in your peripheral vision. This close, he seemed even bigger, his thighs thick, his torso a solid wall.
He cupped your chin, tilting your face up. “You good?” he asked, some of the gravel smoothing into concern. “We can stop. I don’t need—”
“I want to,” you said, cutting him off. “I want to taste you too.”
Something hot flared in his eyes.
“Open,” he ordered softly.
You parted your lips. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and pushed them down, along with his briefs. His cock sprang free, half-hard and already swelling.
Even after feeling him inside you, seeing him this close made your stomach drop and your mouth water.
He stroked himself slowly, lazily, watching your face. In a handful of pulls he was fully hard again, thick and heavy, the head flushed a deeper shade.
“Look at that,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Can’t even get through cleanup without wanting you again.”
“Not complaining,” you said, a little breathless.
He smiled, dark and fond. “You’re so good to me, sweetheart.”
He stepped closer, thighs bracketing your shoulders, until his cock hovered just a few inches from your mouth.
“Hands behind your back,” he said.
Heat punched through you. You laced your fingers together at the base of your spine, shoulders tightening with the position, chest pushing forward slightly.
“Pretty,” he murmured, thumb stroking your jaw. “You look so pretty like that. All submissive. All mine.”
He brought his cock closer, the head brushing your lips, smearing pre-cum. “Taste,” he said.
You darted your tongue out, licking a stripe along the underside. He hissed through his teeth, hand flying to your hair.
“Fuck.”
You took him into your mouth, as much as you could, jaw stretching. He was a lot—thick and heavy, crowding your tongue. You relaxed your throat, breathing through your nose, letting him slide deeper.
“Jesus,” he groaned, grip tightening in your hair. “That’s it. Take it, doll. Take it for me.”
You hollowed your cheeks, sucking, tongue swirling, experimenting, listening for every sound he made. You couldn’t get all of him inside, not even close, but the way his cock throbbed against your tongue told you he didn’t mind.
After a dozen strokes, he gently pulled back, easing himself from your mouth. You tried to chase him, but he held you back with a hand on your crown.
“Gotta pace myself,” he managed, breathing ragged. “Want to enjoy this.”
“You don’t have to be gentle,” you said when he let you breathe, voice rough.
His eyes flashed. “Careful, doll.”
He shifted his stance slightly, widening his feet for balance, then slid his cock along your face, smearing slick along your cheek, your lips. You sighed, eyes fluttering.
Then he took himself in hand and guided the heavy weight of his balls to your mouth.
“Tongue out,” he said softly. “Lemme rest you properly under this mistletoe.”
Heat rush-flooded you.
You stuck your tongue out, flattening it. He lowered himself, his balls settling warm and heavy on your tongue, the soft skin contrasting with the weight behind it. The intimacy of it made your head spin.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “That’s it. Hold still.”
You did, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded as he rolled his hips just a little, letting the weight shift, his cock bumping your forehead. You flicked your tongue up, tracing the seam, tasting salt and skin and him.
A low, broken sound tore out of his chest. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
You sucked gently, dragging one into your mouth, tongue swirling. He groaned, his thighs tensing beside your head, fingers flexing in your hair.
“You like that?” you asked when he let you breathe again, voice wrecked, eyes shining.
He stared down at you like he couldn’t quite comprehend you, like you’d just done some impossible magic trick.
“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah, I like that.”
He nudged forward again and you took him, alternating between sucking his balls into your mouth and licking them, running your tongue along the tender skin, savoring every ragged noise you pulled from him. His cock bobbed against your cheek, leaving streaks of slick you could feel cooling on your skin.
He was talking again now, the words slurred by arousal. “Look at you. Kneeling under my doorway, under my mistletoe, with my balls on your tongue. My sweet little neighbor, such a good girl, letting me use her mouth like this.”
You moaned around him, the praise turning liquid in your veins.
“You’re driving me out of my fucking mind,” he rasped. “You know that? Gonna have to repaint this frame because every time I walk through it I’m gonna remember you right here on your knees, looking up at me.”
You glanced up through your lashes, cheeks flushed, drool starting to slick your chin. The way he looked down at you—wild, tender, possessive—made your stomach flip.
He let his balls rest against your tongue again, heavy and full. “Hold them for me,” he murmured. “Yeah, just like that.”
He slid forward, his cock pressing past your lips once more, filling your mouth. You relaxed, letting him guide the pace, the stretch of your jaw borderline overwhelming and exactly what you wanted. With his balls resting on your tongue and his cock sliding in and out, you felt completely used in the filthiest, most delicious way.
“Fuck, doll,” he groaned. “I could come just looking at you like this.”
Your hands twitched behind your back. You wanted to touch him, to trace every muscle, to feel the way he shook. But the restraint—knowing he had you like this, knowing you were letting him—made everything hum.
He pulled out again, letting his balls roll off your tongue. You sucked in air, drool shining on your lips.
“Hands,” he said abruptly. “Gimme one.”
You freed a hand from behind your back. He wrapped it around the base of his cock, his larger palm covering yours, guiding you in a slow stroke.
“Squeeze,” he instructed. You did. He hissed. “Good. Look at that. You’re a natural.”
You leaned in, tongue laving over his balls as your hand worked his shaft, the double stimulation making him curse.
“So fucking good to me,” he panted. “On your knees, under my roof, under my mistletoe, letting me put my cock and balls wherever I want. You know how dangerous that is, sweetheart? You’re never getting rid of me now.”
Good, you thought, dizzy and turned on beyond reason. That’s the point.
His breathing stuttered, hips twitching.
“Open,” he said suddenly, pulling your hand away. “Mouth wide.”
You obeyed automatically, lips parting, tongue out.
He cupped your head with both hands, cock aimed at your mouth, balls hanging heavy just above your chin.
“Such. A good. Girl,” he gritted, voice broken, as he slid back into your mouth.
He didn’t fuck your throat, not really—just shallow thrusts, the head bumping the back of your tongue, letting you control the depth. Your jaw ached, your eyes watered, and you never wanted it to end.
“I’m close,” he warned, voice wrecked. “Gonna come, doll. You gonna take it for me? You gonna swallow like a good girl?”
You hummed, the vibration making him curse.
He pulled out just enough that the head rested on your tongue, his balls once again dropping onto it, the weight and heat pressing down.
“Fuck,” he groaned. “Say ‘ah’ for me.”
You did.
He came with a strangled sound, thick ropes of hot cum spilling onto your tongue, some splashing against your palate, some streaking your lips. You kept your tongue out, his balls still resting there, letting him paint your mouth exactly how he wanted.
He watched, chest heaving, as you closed your mouth and swallowed.
“Holy shit,” he whispered. “Do it again. Let me see your tongue.”
You opened, tilting your head back just a little. Your tongue was mostly clean, a few pearly streaks glistening that you chased with the tip.
His knees actually buckled.
“Fuck,” he said helplessly. “Marry me.”
You laughed, the sound ragged and delighted, then coughed when a bit of cum went down wrong. He hauled you gently to your feet, big hands steady, thumb swiping at the mess on your chin.
“Easy,” he soothed. “Jesus. C’mere.”
He kissed you, slow and deep, tasting himself on your tongue, groaning into your mouth like the whole thing was rewiring his brain.
When he finally pulled back, you were pressed against the wall, his hands on your hips, both of you panting.
“You okay?” he asked for what felt like the tenth time that night, eyes scanning your face.
You nodded, dazed and happy. “I’m—yeah. I’m really okay.”
He laughed softly, forehead dropping to yours. “Good. Because I’m gonna be thinking about that every time I walk under this doorway for the rest of my life.”
You glanced up at the mistletoe. “Guess Violet did us a favor.”
His expression shifted, some of the heat melting into fondness. “She’s never hearing about this particular tradition,” he said firmly.
“Absolutely not.” You snorted. “This is strictly adults-only mistletoe usage.”
He gave you one more lingering kiss, then smoothed your sweater where it had ridden up. “All right,” he sighed. “Before I do something even dumber, I should probably get you home.”
“Dumber than this?” you teased.
He flashed you that crooked grin. “You have no idea what’s on my list, doll.”
He made good on his earlier promise and walked you the thirty feet to your front door, his hand dwarfing yours, the snow squeaking faintly under your boots. The air was sharp and cold, your cheeks still hot from everything.
On your porch, he hesitated, thumb rubbing the back of your hand.
“Text me when you’re in bed,” he said. “So I know you didn’t slip and crack your head on the tub or something.”
“I’m very coordinated, thank you,” you lied. “But…yeah. I will.”
He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering along your jaw. “You good? Really?”
You nodded, throat tight in the best way. “Really.”
He brushed his lips over yours, gentle and sweet and so at odds with the filthy things he’d just done to you that your heart squeezed.
“Goodnight, cookie fairy,” he murmured.
“Goodnight, Santa.”
You slipped inside, leaning back against the door as it shut, your pulse thudding in your ears. You could still feel everything—his weight on your tongue, his cum warm in your belly, the deep, ache-sweet fullness low in your body where he’d spilled inside you earlier.
You washed your face, changed into pajamas with slightly shaking hands, then slid under your covers, phone clutched in your palm.
It buzzed a minute later.
Bucky: elf’s out cold. house is quiet. i miss you already.
You bit your lip, typing back.
You: my knees might never recover from your hardwood floor. but it was worth it
There was a beat.
Bucky: the doorway AND the kitchen counter? i’m gonna have to avoid those at family gatherings now
You: we can christen the rest of the house later, it’s fine.
Another pause, longer this time.
Bucky: i meant what i said earlier. pancakes tomorrow. and a date. like…on purpose, not just you rescuing my cooking.
Warmth flooded your chest.
You: i’ll bring syrup. and maybe more cookies. strictly for violet ofc.
Bucky: careful, doll. you keep tempting an old man like that and you’re gonna end up with my last name.
Your breath caught.
You stared at the message, fingers hovering.
You: sounds like a pretty good christmas tradition to me.
Outside, the snow kept falling, soft and steady, wrapping the world in white.
Inside, you fell asleep with the phantom weight of him still between your thighs, the taste of him lingering on your tongue, and the image of mistletoe hanging over a kitchen doorway that felt more and more like home.
I saw a Tik Tok of this earlier and it hasn't left my head yet sooooo....enjoy!
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The morning sun slipped through the sheer hotel curtains, casting a soft gold over everything it touched. You sat on the edge of the plush bed, hands shaking slightly—not from nerves about marrying Bucky Barnes, but from anticipation. Because in addition to promising forever to the love of your life today, you'd orchestrated a little surprise.
A very… revealing surprise.
The boudoir shoot had been your idea. Natasha had helped set it up—naturally—and Pepper had booked the photographer. You’d spent an entire afternoon in silky lingerie and lace robes, laughing with your closest girlfriends and occasionally trying not to die of embarrassment as the camera clicked.
But the moment you’d held those printed Polaroids in your hands… you knew they were perfect.
You hadn't told Bucky. Not a word. The man who could dismantle a Hydra cell in twenty minutes flat somehow never caught on. And now, those little pictures—each tucked into the suit jackets and clutch purses of the most mischievous Avengers—were going to make their way to him.
One by one. All day long.
You grinned to yourself as you stood and smoothed your robe. “Game on, Barnes.”
10:34 AM – Steve Rogers
Bucky adjusted the cuffs of his white dress shirt, brows furrowed in concentration. He looked good—absurdly good. His hair was slicked back in that way you loved, metal arm gleaming faintly beneath the fabric.
Steve entered the groom’s suite, already smirking.
“You nervous?” he asked, tossing a water bottle toward his best friend.
Bucky caught it midair. “Excited. And maybe a little scared I’m dreamin’.”
Steve pulled something from his pocket and handed it over.
“What’s this?”
Bucky unfolded it. A Polaroid. You. In white lace. Kneeling on a velvet chair, one strap of your lingerie sliding off your shoulder, eyes locked on the camera with a softness that said mine.
His mouth dropped open slightly.
Steve clapped him on the back. “She wanted you to have a piece of her before the ceremony.”
Bucky’s face flushed red to the tips of his ears. “Jesus. I wasn’t ready.”
Steve chuckled. “There’s more.”
Bucky looked up sharply. “More?!”
11:18 AM – Natasha Romanoff
Bucky had barely managed to tuck the first photo safely into his jacket pocket when the door cracked open and Natasha sauntered in, sipping a green smoothie with the smugness of a well-executed plan.
“You clean up nice, Barnes.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You in on this?”
She didn’t answer. Just slid an envelope across the table and turned to leave.
When he opened it, another Polaroid fell into his palm. This time, you were lying on your stomach across a bed of white sheets, wearing a sheer bodysuit and the garter belt that had haunted his dreams more than once. Your lips were slightly parted, a soft smirk curling the corner of your mouth.
Bucky exhaled sharply, blinking.
He glanced up at Steve, who was pretending to scroll through his phone.
“Did she give these to everyone?”
Steve didn’t look up. “You’re marrying an Avenger. You should’ve known.”
12:30 PM – Sam Wilson
“Barnes,” Sam said with a wink, sidling up next to him as the final tie adjustments were being made.
“I swear to God, Wilson—”
Sam held up his hands. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.”
Another Polaroid. This one in black and white. You, facing away from the camera, looking back over your shoulder in a silk robe that had just started to fall down your back. Bare skin. Delicate curves. Your name written in cursive on the bottom edge, in your own handwriting: For your eyes only.
Bucky pressed the photo to his lips for a moment.
“...I’m gonna combust.”
Sam patted his shoulder. “Then hurry up and marry her before you short-circuit.”
2:03 PM – Tony Stark (during the ride to the venue)
Bucky sat stiffly in the backseat of the black car, gripping the armrest like it was keeping him tethered to Earth.
Tony twisted around from the front, handing over a silver tin.
“What the hell is this?”
Tony smirked. “Your wedding gift. A few… warm-up exercises.”
Bucky popped the lid and nearly choked.
Inside were three perfectly preserved Polaroids. One of you straddling a chair backward in a black corset, one in a satin robe slipping halfway off with a come-hither look that nearly ended Bucky then and there—and the third…
You, lying back on a bed with one hand between your thighs, your engagement ring catching the light.
“Mother f—”
“Language,” Tony chirped. “Big day ahead. Try not to pass out before she walks down the aisle.”
4:45 PM – The Ceremony
When you stepped out into the garden aisle, the world stopped.
You could see it on his face, how he took you in like it was the first time he’d ever seen you—eyes wide, mouth slightly parted, completely and utterly awestruck.
It didn’t matter how many photos he’d seen of you today. Seeing you like this—in your wedding dress, heart bare, love radiating from every step you took toward him—was entirely different.
By the time you reached the altar, he was already misty-eyed.
“You okay?” you whispered, fingers brushing his.
He gave you the smallest, most reverent smile. “I’ve been lookin’ at you all day, doll. Still not enough.”
6:08 PM – Reception, First Dance
The band began to play, something slow and familiar. Bucky held you close, both hands around your waist, forehead nearly resting against yours.
“You got me good,” he murmured, swaying with you. “Those pictures…”
You laughed softly against his chest. “Too much?”
He leaned back to look at you, a grin breaking across his face. “Not even close.”
Your heart soared.
“You gonna show anyone else?”
“Hell no,” he whispered. “Mine.”
7:22 PM – The Cake Cutting
You wiped frosting from Bucky’s nose while the crowd cheered. Natasha handed you a glass of champagne, and as you tilted it back, she winked.
“I think Bruce still has one left.”
You nearly choked.
8:37 PM – Bruce Banner
“Bucky,” Bruce said nervously, clearing his throat. “She… uh. Asked me to give you this.”
The final Polaroid.
You. Sitting on the edge of a windowsill in the early morning light. Wearing nothing but the veil you’d chosen for today. Your knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them, smile soft and shy—like you were waiting for him to come home.
Bucky didn’t say anything for a while.
Then he looked up at Bruce, eyes glossy. “Thanks, Doc.”
10:01 PM – The Getaway Car
The door shut behind you with a gentle thud, muffling the laughter and music from the reception.
You leaned back against the seat with a sigh. “We did it.”
Bucky turned toward you slowly, pulling you into his lap in one easy motion.
“You really did it,” he murmured, brushing his nose against your jaw.
“What? Married you?”
He kissed the curve of your throat. “That. And completely wrecked me.”
You laughed, pulling him in for a kiss, slow and deep.
“Wait ‘til you see the ones I didn’t give them.”
He groaned. “Doll, don’t tease me.”
“Who’s teasing?” you whispered, brushing your lips against his ear. “Those are just for the honeymoon.”
11:32 PM – Honeymoon Suite
Bucky’s jacket hit the floor with a soft thud, followed by the gentle clink of cufflinks landing on the nightstand. You stood near the bed, hair loose now, veil long gone, dress puddled in a corner. All that remained was the matching set from the first Polaroid—the one Steve gave him.
Bucky paused in front of you, eyes roaming slowly.
“Just like the picture,” he murmured.
You reached for his hand, tugged him closer. “Not just like. This time, you get to touch.”
He cupped your face, forehead resting against yours. “I love you so much it hurts.”
You kissed him, smiling. “Then let me ease the pain.”
The rest of the night passed in whispers and bare skin, soft moans and tangled limbs. He traced every inch of you like the photos hadn’t been enough. Like he needed the real thing. Needed you.
And as the sun started to rise behind gauzy curtains and your limbs draped lazily across his chest, Bucky pressed his lips to your forehead and whispered the only thing he’d been thinking since the first photo landed in his hand:
♡ tags/warnings: f!reader, established relationship / first time together, fingering, multiple orgasms, use of pet names (sweetheart, honey, one use of 'good girl'), hickeys, dirty talk
♡ word count: 6k
♡ synopsis:
you’ve been dating steve for a while now, and you’re both more than okay with taking things slow after less than ideal past relationships on both ends. he’s been the perfect gentleman - picking you up for dates with fresh flowers, pulling out your chairs and getting the doors, kissing you goodnight so sweetly it makes you weak in the knees before he goes. he takes whatever you’re willing to give him, and he never pushes for more. you’ve always liked that about him.
but now you’re getting a little impatient. and when the topic of sex comes up and steve finds out that none of your past partners have been able to get you off before, you see a side of him that’s as surprising as it is exciting.
steve rogers has never done anything in halves.
♡ please note! i am new to this format and am primarily used to posting on ao3, so if you see anything I forgot to mention and should include here, please ~kindly~ let me know for next time. thank you! x
[ also, this has not been checked yet for mistakes. ]
You’re backtracking.
“It’s nothing against them,” you insist. “And I’m sure if I’d tried a little harder, I could have found someone that knew what they were doing.”
Across the table from you, Steve seems unconvinced. You’re in the back of a modestly decorated Italian place—upscale enough to have a private dining room but affordable enough that you can attempt to pay your half of the bill before Steve snatches it up anyway—and you’ve both already finished your meals. A slice of chocolate cake sits in the center of the table cloth next to a flickering candle, both of your forks stealing bits of it in between conversation. Dates with Steve usually end this way; both of you doing everything you can to make them last even longer.
Except this time you’d metaphorically shoved your foot into your own mouth, and you’re struggling to get it back out again.
“I’m sorry,” Steve says placidly, “are you implying that someone else’s inability to be an attentive lover was somehow your fault?”
“No. I’m not doing that. I’m just saying that—well, I facilitated it, a lot of the time.”
Steve’s head tilts. “How so?”
“I—” you start quietly, searching for the right words to use to describe this in a public establishment.
You’re not sure Steve’s looked away from you for the last five minutes. You’re not usually easily embarrassed, but you can feel your face heating under his gaze. It’s not scrutiny, but something, decidedly, else—it’s a way he hasn’t looked at you before.
“I’m just saying that sometimes it was easier to, you know…fake it.”
Steve blinks expectantly.
“Sometimes,” he hedges.
You blow out a sigh. “Okay. All the time,” you admit. “But it’s not like they were bad people, or bad at sex in general, really. We just didn’t click quite right and if I already knew it wasn’t going to be anything long term, I just thought—what’s the point, you know?”
From the way he’s looking at you now (and also the fact that he is, despite everything, a man) you’re guessing that he doesn’t actually know. You glance down at the table, slicing your fork through the remaining cake and bringing it to your mouth. You’re hoping the action will be cue enough to change the subject.
But Steve doesn’t understand that, either.
He abandons his own silverware to reach for your wrist, stopping it halfway to your mouth with a gentle grip. The motion brings him in close atop the intimately sized table, decorum discarded as he leans over the top of it.
Still watching you, Steve rubs the pad of his thumb over your pulse, and you’re sure he can see, hear, and feel the way it jumps underneath his attention.
“If I ever get the privilege of getting my hands on you,” he says, eyes dipping to your lips and back up again, “you’re going to have a very, very different experience.”
If your face had been hot before, you’re burning up now.
Caught off guard, you’re inordinately still as Steve curls his fingers around yours and uses them to guide the fork to its destination, slipping the sweet bite past your lips and into your mouth. It takes a conscious effort to chew and swallow when he’s so close, hyper aware of the dwindling space in between the two of you and the newfound electricity that’s begun to spark inside of it.
You’ve always been attracted to Steve. That wasn’t a question. But it really has been nice to take things slow for once, knowing that both of you cared enough to see if you were a good match before taking anything further.
That said, the waiting has added a layer of anticipation to things that you don’t usually feel. It makes you a little worried that the disappointment will be harder if things don’t live up to expectation, but Steve hasn’t given you any reason to believe that could be the case. In fact, all he’s really done is give you reason to believe that you’ve severely underestimated him.
You’re beginning to think he might be right.
Steve pulls back, steals your fork to pick up another bite of the cake, then slips it into his own mouth, pointedly tonguing at the barely-there stain of your lips on the steel.
“Big talk, Rogers,” you tease, but it comes out breathier than you mean for it to. Steve’s lips slant sideways into a smirk. He lifts a shoulder.
“Just honest.”
You clear the rest of the plate together in comfortable but charged silence, abundantly obvious that you’re both envisioning each other in ways you haven’t really allowed yourselves to before. You feel like you’re on your very first date all over again, an aching sort of hope inside of you that hasn’t been there in a long time.
Steve looks at you with all of that eagle-eyed precision that he typically reserves for things more along the lines of life and death than a few faked orgasms, and you get the distinct feeling that something’s shifted between the two of you tonight.
He’s never met an objective he didn’t thoroughly fulfill, and you’re his next mission.
Suddenly, waiting feels like a much less interesting idea.
Even so, you end up waiting longer.
Now that the coil of tension between you has found a crack in the molding, desire seems to shine through regardless of things like work schedules or general propriety.
The weekends are easiest for you, but Steve’s calendar is a little more unpredictable. Depending on the mission, there’s not always things he can disclose. Something that’s supposed to last twenty-four hours might turn into a week, or a month long project might end up only taking half the time. You’ve learned to let go of the expectation of normalcy at this point, for your own sanity as much as the fact that you can tell Steve beats himself up every time something doesn’t go according to plan.
This mission was one that was supposed to be a couple of days and had taken nearly triple as much, and then he’d been called into another the following day. You’d seen him for lunch in the small overlap, with him exhausted and you in a hurry to get back to work afterward, brief and unsatisfying.
Even those touches feel weighted, however fleeting they may be. A kiss to your cheek, a hand on your waist in passing, fingers twined with yours walking down the pavement. It was all so sweet and romantic before—it still is—but now, now you also can’t stop thinking about those kisses, hands, and fingers in other places.
You’ve enjoyed everything up to this point; it’s been sort of thrilling, the way that Steve openly wants you without pushing your boundaries or ever getting mean about it. It’s a low bar, but it’s one many guys don’t care much about passing these days.
You’re still thinking about that when he calls you, three days into the second mission and previously no-contact. It makes your pulse kick up on instinct, your body reacting to him even when he’s not even here.
“God, it’s good to hear your voice,” he sighs over the line when you pick up, and you hide a smile in your own shoulder.
“How is it?”
There aren’t a lot of things you’re allowed to ask sometimes, at least not while it’s all still in progress. But you’ve learned to phrase questions open-ended enough that Steve can share whatever he wants. The specifics don’t matter anyway—both of you know that you’re not asking for a mission report, you’re asking about Steve.
So he tells you all he can, but most of it’s classified, even the personal parts, until he gets home. It leaves a gap in the conversation before either of you are ready to say goodbye, so you fill it with the first thing that comes to mind.
“I miss you.”
“Yeah?” Steve asks, and you can see the slow smile that spreads across his face in your head. “You been thinking about me?”
“You know I have,” you mutter. You’ve never been the clingy type in relationships. Never had much of a reason to be. At first you thought you only felt like that with Steve because he was gone a lot and you wanted what you couldn’t have, but you think the real answer’s a lot more straight forward than that.
You just like him. A lot. And care about him. Are on the way to loving him, even, but—one thing at a time.
He exhales, long and slow, into the phone. “Been thinking about you too.”
“Are you alone?”
“I am.” He huffs a laugh at the bluntness of your question, but you do hear the creak of a bed in the background of the call that confirms it. “I’m feeling the need to ask if my virtue is at risk somehow.”
You roll your eyes, biting back a grin. “Not yet, it’s not.”
“Scandalous,” Steve teases. He sobers afterward, then says more softly, “What’s on your mind?”
“I know all of it’s still up in the air, but I was thinking, when you get back to the city…” you trail off, picking at the side of your nail in a nervous habit. “Maybe you’d like to spend the night?”
There’s a pause. You’d phrased it deliberately, enough that you know Steve would understand what you’re saying without actually having to say it. You’d rather that part be in person, if possible.
Eventually Steve’s voice returns, lower than it’d been moments before. Controlled.
“You want me to?”
“Yes,” you say, past caring about sounding anything other than honest. “Very much.”
Steve takes another slow breath in and out, this one more grounding. You hear him shift on the bed again. “Sounds like we’ve got a date.”
“Sounds like we do,” you echo.
“Do something for me in the mean time?”
“Sure.”
“Keep thinking of me,” he tells you, as deliberate a choice as your phrasing of spend the night. “I wanna hear all about it when I get back.”
The implication rattling around the inside of your head, you press your thighs together and clear your throat.
“I can do that.”
When Steve talks, he sounds like he’s smiling again.
“Good.”
You were on each other the minute you opened the door.
Steve had fumbled through yanking off his jacket and kicking off his shoes, and there’s a fresh bouquet of flowers haphazardly laying across the dining room table which you’re sure you’ll appreciate later—when Steve isn’t kissing you like you’re the first meal he’s had in weeks.
You were right before; something had shifted between you. Steve has more self restraint than any other member of the population does, and he’d been using every bit of it to make you comfortable. Keeping things brief, never lingering for too long or pressing too hard or asking for too much. But since that dinner and especially since that phone call, he’s different.
He doesn’t pull away this time, doesn’t stop touching unless you redirect him somewhere else. You’re dizzy with the feeling of his hands on you, making you feel smaller in the way that would have scared you with anyone else. Knowing you’re safe with Steve makes you feel all the more confident, all the more willing to give pieces of yourself you’d kept locked away with anyone else.
You’d ended up on the couch, Steve taking the brunt of the fall back onto the cushions with you in his lap. You’d shifted to the side at some point, turned into his chest, the backs of your thighs across the top of his, your hand on the back of his neck to keep him close. His own fingers drift randomly, squeezing your knee, rubbing at the small island of your ankle with his thumb, running his pointer finger along the inside of your thigh further than he’s ever dared to before, until they’re teasing the edge of your sleep shorts.
“I like kissing you,” you mumble against his mouth, catching your breath.
Steve laughs, his breath fanning against your lips. “Yeah? I like kissing you too.”
He leans back in as if to prove it, kissing you again, messy and intentional about it. You’ve done a lot of this with him over the last few months, and you’ve come to crave it as much as anything else. Steve kisses for the sake of kissing itself, seems to genuinely enjoy it the way that you do.
It’s somehow always more intimate than you remember it being. Sharing breath, the heat on top of flushed skin, the swollen, spit-slick teardrop curve of a mouth as it returns for more and more—and getting it, no questions asked. You like how much it allows you to touch, Steve’s neck and shoulders and chest, all composed of strong, corded muscle, his soft hair in between your fingers, the way he groans when your nails catch his scalp.
He doesn’t understand, though, that you don’t just like kissing. You like kissing him.
“Was never enough, before,” you explain, hazy as his kisses slant toward your jaw. “Wasn’t like this.”
At the confession, Steve pulls back to look at you. He smiles a little unexpectedly and wraps a bit of your hair around two of his fingers, watching it slip through his grasp. “Not sure what those other idiots were thinking, but you’re welcome to kiss me all you want.”
You trade a few more just because you can, but they’re shorter and more pointed than the rest. Steve makes his way toward your jaw again with his mouth, but this time he doesn’t stop.
“They just jump straight in, then? If they didn’t like kissing?” he asks, wetting the side of your neck with his tongue and a tease of teeth. You tilt your head to the side.
“Pretty much. A couple minutes of making out, and then—” you mime something vaguely suggestive with your hands, lacking in passion as much as the memory calls for. Steve makes a noise.
“Idiots,” he breathes again, settling on a spot on your neck and sucking gently.
You inhale sharply, certain that the jabbing of other people’s canines hadn’t felt quite so scorching before. But Steve isn’t stabbing at you with blunt edges, no—it’s a gradual thing, an intentional mark. He’d chosen the spot, primed it with his lips, then his tongue, using his teeth only once the skin was all suctioned and sensitive, your brain lagging several moments behind the initial sensation.
You slip a hand further up the back of his head and lean in close, but Steve doesn’t stay in the spot. He releases your skin, grazes his lips to it a final time and then finds his way back up to your mouth again.
“So they didn’t take their time. Get you all warmed up first,” he continues.
“I mean…” you hesitate, wanting to laugh but failing to find the humor at the moment. “Not unless you count grabbing at my chest for a few minutes as foreplay.”
Steve looks at you flatly.
“I don’t.”
You’re in pajamas, which didn’t feel like much of a revelation before. But Steve had gotten in late and come straight here after dropping his things at his apartment and showering off, and you hadn’t had time to get dressed for anything by the time he let you know he was on his way. The mention of your chest has you remembering that you’re not wearing anything underneath your t-shirt, and a part of you thrills at the oversight; your breasts have been pressed up against Steve’s side this entire time—has he noticed? Can he feel them now?
Is he thinking the same things you are?
As if having heard your question, his fingers climb further up the outside of your thigh, over the material of your sleep shorts and barely nudging against the bare skin of your stomach resting just above the band. You suck in a slow, measured breath.
It’s just Steve, sure—but it’s also Steve. With the others, you felt like you were pretty much on even ground. But you’re pretty sure that Steve would be a lot to compete with even if he weren’t enhanced somehow, spending so much time running and working out and on the job. You’ve made him wait, and even if you wish it weren’t there, there’s still a big part of you that wants to impress him. That wants him to like what he sees.
“We can stop here, you know,” he says, quiet and kind as his lips trace the shell of your ear. His thumb rubs slow back and forth over your hip, but he doesn’t go any higher. He must’ve heard your heart rate pick up.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab his wrist and slide it higher, until his palm is pressing into the fleshy blank space between your ribs, soft and searing. He practically hisses in a breath, his senses more heightened than all of yours, and you feel his fingers twitch against you in some semblance of self restraint.
“You can keep going,” you whisper.
You’re not sure that you want your shirt off yet, but this, the touching, is okay. It’s nothing he can’t tell from the outside of your clothes, anyway—he can already hear your heart beat, has already felt that all that’s separating the two of you is an old t-shirt and nothing else. The only thing he hasn’t felt before is—
Both of you falter when his hand rises enough to cup the underside of your breast, your careful breaths leaving you in a gasp of air. Steve’s eyes are half lidded above you, unwilling to look away from your face, even as he closes that last bit of distance and cradles the weight of you more properly, swiping a thumb over one of your peaked nipples.
“Sweetheart,” he breathes, almost a moan, and his grip cinches tight for a second before going sweet again. It’s enough promise that it makes you tremble, and the noise you make gets lost somewhere in his mouth as he touches and strokes and pinches, enjoying drawing more out of you.
“Tell me what you didn’t like about the others,” he says as he switches to the other to give it the same attention.
You raise a brow, slow to answer. “You want me to talk about other guys while your hand’s underneath my shirt?”
“If it’s more proof about how much better at this I am than they are,” Steve says pragmatically, like he already knows that it will be, “then yes, I do. Very much.”
“That’s a little—ah,” you lose your train of thought when he rolls your other nipple in between his rough fingers, then smooths over it again with his thumb. “...Presumptuous,” you finish breathlessly.
He grins, crooked.
“Is it?”
It’s really not. If you’d said something like that to any of the others, they’d have driven themselves crazy with some baseless need to prove their own self worth and probably been irritated with you for inadvertently insulting them in the process.
But Steve is unshaken. He’s so casually confident about all of this despite it being new territory with you, and the quietness of his certainty is refreshing. You’re not even sure what to do with the lack of insecurity you’ve been accustomed to, but you’re glad for the fact that you don’t have to worry about coddling anyone while you’re trying to focus on getting off.
It’s nice. It’s…really doing it for you.
His mouth descends on the side of your neck once more, slow and indulgent, while he alternates touches between your breasts, never predictable enough to let you get used to them. His other arm tightens around your waist to bring you closer against him, heat building quickly between you.
“Keep talking,” he urges.
As soon as he says it, his hand starts moving again, stealing your attention. His hand feels like a brand against your skin, down, down, until it reaches the hem of your shorts again. He strokes a finger underneath the elastic, and you don’t stop him—even when he deliberately pauses for your reaction—as he dips fully underneath.
“For starters,” you manage, attempting to refocus as he drifts toward the heat at the apex of your thighs, “I guess most guys aren’t really joking when they talk about not knowing how to find what they’re looking for down there.”
“You mean this?”
Counterpoint to his casual tone, two of Steve’s fingers curve down over your vulva and in, pressing directly up against your clit over the top of your underwear. You open your mouth, just barely holding back the noise in your throat, as your face flames and Steve watches raptly.
“Yeah. That’s—mhm.” You nod.
“Hm,” Steve hums, considering. “They touch you here instead?” His fingers leave you, and you have to keep yourself from chasing after the brief touch. He presses instead to the crease between your thigh and your labia, then again on the other side, too high to give you any relief. “Here, maybe?”
“Tease,” you huff, grinning.
Steve chuckles, warm against your cheek as he nudges you into another kiss. “Nah. Not a tease. Not when I can feel every twitch you make each time I touch you somewhere new. Not when you know I’m gonna give you exactly what you need.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself again, I think,” you sigh, even as a touch against your inner thigh nearly makes you jump.
“You’re right. I’ll slow down.”
“Steve,” you whine.
With a laugh, Steve relents, his fingers slipping back on top of your underwear and finding the seam of your folds easily. The material isn’t doing much for you at this point; they’re not the high end, fancy set you’d always envisioned yourself wearing the first time Steve touched you. They’re just cotton—thin and plain and not doing much at all to conceal the way you’re getting wet, have been since Steve started kissing you earlier. They cling to your every curve at this point, and Steve has no issue feeling out the bump of your clit as it practically begs for his attention.
“So, they didn’t know how to find this,” he reminds you, rubbing in small, slow, deliberate circles. “What else?”
You struggle to think. “Um. Even if they did, they—they were too rough about it. Too fast and—hard.”
Steve nips at the bite he left on your neck, but his fingers don’t change pace. “Not a fan of fast and hard?”
“Not thirty seconds in, I’m not,” you quip. He grins against your neck.
“Fair.”
“I like a little roughness,” you admit after a moment, “but—intentional. Not just on accident because they were impatient.”
The arm wrapped around your waist shifts, Steve’s free palm sliding up over your back, between your shoulder blades, up into your hair. He spreads his fingers wide and then brings them back together and tugs, just enough to ignite all of those pleasure-pain receptors you’d never struck a good balance with before now.
Your head follows the movement as you hiss in a breath, the roughness of his grip and the sweetness of the kiss he places to the underside of your chin a sharp, thrilling contrast.
“Shh,” he murmurs as his fingers press against you a little firmer, a little faster now. “Got you.”
For several minutes, all you can focus on is the slow build of heat in your stomach. Your breasts feel heavy and sensitive, your nipples hard and rough against the typically soft material of your t-shirt, left wanting from Steve’s attention. Your stomach is rising and falling with quickening breaths—you’re not close, not yet, but you could get there, like this. That’s new.
“Hey. Stay with me, huh?” Steve kisses your mouth again until you blink some awareness back into yourself. “Gotta question. How many orgasms you think you’ve faked before?”
“Steve,” you protest.
“I’m serious,” he says. “Ballpark. Doesn’t have to be exact.”
You do your best to rack your brain for a number, flicking through memories that all pale in comparison. You haven’t really been with that many people, mostly relationships that lasted a few months but hit a dead end eventually, and each of them would try several times. You hadn’t really thought it worth keeping count.
“I don’t know. Eight or nine? Maybe?”
“We’ll round it up to ten,” Steve decides.
You hum noncommittally, lost in the sensation of his fingers, before some coherent part of your brain comes back online and you lift your head from where it’d fallen against his shoulder to look at him.
“Round what up to ten?”
“Let me worry about it,” he assures you, rubbing the back of your head as his fingers quicken slightly again. “Only thing you gotta do tonight is feel good. Sound okay?”
“You’re not seriously planning on—” you start, only to have a moan startled out of you when Steve uses the two fingers he’s been rubbing your clit with to land a gentle slap against it instead. You tremble, fighting to keep your thighs apart for more. “Fuck.”
“Yeah, there you go,” Steve exhales, going sweet again. “We’ve got all damn night. You n’me, nowhere to go, nothing for me to do but touch—” he presses down, “—and taste—” he sucks another bruise into your neck, “—and give you something no one else has before.”
His fingers drop down a bit, pressing on the soiled cotton covering your entrance for a moment before drawing back up to rub tight circles on your clit again.
“Ain’t that right? Gonna give it to me, sweetheart? Gonna let me make you feel good?”
You nod, but… “What about—you?”
“Maybe later,” Steve dismisses. “I’ve got some other priorities first.”
His other hand drops from your hair down your back and to the outside of your thigh, peeling it open further. You’ve slumped over against him since he started touching you, your sides nearly pressed together and feet out in front. He uses a leg to nudge yours up onto the edge of the coffee table, giving himself a better reach down your front and between your legs. It changes the angle just slightly, just enough, and you toss your own hand down on top of his to keep it in place.
“There,” you gasp, pleasantly surprised when Steve’s pacing and trajectory doesn’t change at all.
“Yeah? That’s the spot?”
Hoping that was rhetorical, you slide your clammy fingers over the top of Steve’s on your thigh for something to hold onto, and he obliges easily, turning it over to hold your hand. It’s so much after months of nothing at all—his mouth beside your ear, his hands in places you’ve been dreaming about, unable to hide from sensation as he says things you hadn’t known Steve—kind, respectable, gentleman Steve—was even capable of.
“Look at you, pushin’ against my hand,” he marvels, and you flush even deeper at the taut stretch of your torso as you roll your hips in time with his fingers. “Could get used to this if we’re not careful, sweetheart.”
“You can—” you gasp, unable to articulate anything past that. “You can.”
“Oh yeah? Can have this whenever I want it now, s’that it? Not sure if I deserve that, honey. Gonna get me spoiled.”
It’s too much. It’s exactly what you’ve been picturing, and Steve’s just giving it to you. You didn’t have to give him something first, and you didn’t have to dress up or put on a show, and suddenly, you realize with giddy surprise, you’re close.
You squeeze his hand. “Steve, I’m—”
“You close?” he asks, hooking his chin over your shoulder to watch. “Gonna get my fingers in you for the next one, so I’ll know. Feel you inside, tightenin’ up around me, keeping me close. You want that?”
“Please,” you beg, turning your face into his neck as you pant.
“Mm. Not goin’ anywhere. Couldn’t if I tried. Got all I need right here, don’t I?”
“Steve,” you warn, choking on air as your hips buck up into his hand and the tension in your abdomen seizes.
You’re right on that edge where you usually have to stop, where one right move could send you over but the dozens of wrong ones could keep you frustrated and unsatisfied and pretending. You’re tired of pretending.
“Come on,” Steve murmurs against your cheek, seemingly as invested in this as you are. Even still, he’s encouraging, not demanding, and you appreciate the difference. “C’mon, honey. Little more, just a little, give you whatever you need. You know that? Just wanna see you fall apart for me, want you to feel so good—”
The frantic thread of urgency in his voice, like he can feel you hovering there, sends you over the edge. His chest swells behind you with an inhale as you lose your breath altogether, letting him hold you still as you take his advice and fall, thoroughly, apart.
He stays steady, constant, lets you ride out every last bit of it against his persistent fingers, your tangled hands that he’s pressed to your stomach to hold you in place, to watch, and it takes you apart from the inside. Whatever you’ve been building up these last few months unravels in a wave of sensation and white heat, and you can only—like Steve said—sit back and let it happen, feel it in twitches and snapshots.
Steve’s fingers are slowing by the time you force your eyes open again, his voice still in your ear, your legs and the muscles in your stomach twitching with oversensitivity. You like to go for a second orgasm when you’re alone—they’re always deeper and more intense than the first one, lasting longer and leaving you more satisfied. But now you’re getting ahead of yourself; no one else has ever made you come before at all, and Steve’s just done that. It’s enough. It’s more than enough, even if it’s only—
“Shit,” you breathe as Steve’s fingers bypass your underwear altogether and go straight for skin.
You can feel your pulse between your legs, still reeling from your release, and you know he can too. The orgasm’s made you a mess, sticky and hot, your clit swollen enough that it bumps against Steve’s knuckles and palm even without meaning to. But he gives you a break from that for a moment, one finger sliding through your excitement, spreading it around, hovering at the seam of your entrance that feels egregiously empty at the moment.
He pauses there, and you tilt your hips in response. The digit, eased thoroughly with slick, slips inside of you between one breath and the next.
Your reactions differ. You whine, you think, or maybe make some other kind of noise, hyper aware of the size and length and warmth of the welcome intrusion. Your body recognizes that you can take more before even you do, clenching around the lone digit and bucking your hips up for more.
And Steve—Steve groans behind you as he sinks in as far as he can fit, pausing there for a second with his forehead pressed to your shoulder as he gathers himself. You can feel that restraint running through him again as if you’re the one who’s enhanced, and you don’t want it anymore. The first one had only broken the dam on your desire, and now you want to cash in on the rest.
“Oh,” Steve sighs as he eases in a second one and curls them up, like a filthy sort of embrace. “You’re so tight, sweetheart. So wet. This all for me?”
Sure enough, every movement he makes between your legs is audible in the quietness of your apartment. His hand is only making more of a mess, spreading your wetness on your shorts and the insides of your thighs, undoubtedly getting closer to the cushion beneath you the more you shift your hips, restless.
It’s so easy to come a second time if you get the timing just right, if you’re still sensitive from the first one. You reach down and hold Steve’s hand still as you grind up against it, slow circles at first, then sharp snaps of your hips, up and down. You’re past being able to articulate what you need but Steve seems to intuit enough, keeping his fingers curved and pressed upward, not trying to do anything fancy with them, just listening to your body and letting you use them to get yourself off for a second time.
The thought of it makes you even hotter. You like pleasing your partners, like being good. But there’s something to this too, you think—something about the fact that Steve could have given up on this and gotten himself off ten times over by now and he hasn’t. Priorities, he’d said.
It’s been a long time since you’ve been treated like one of those.
And he’s still watching you, splitting time between your face and the spot between your legs, pausing at your heaving breasts on every upslide of his gaze. There’s open want there, the same way you look at him, and the fact that you’re gasping and writhing and practically on top of him while he keeps his composure is—it’s going to get you there again.
You don’t have to warn him this time. Just like he’d predicted, he feels it from the inside when you’re close, clenching in rhythmic intervals as you work yourself higher and higher, your noises matching in pitch. This is—you didn’t know it could feel this good with someone else.
“You gonna come for me again? Gonna let me see you? Let me feel it?”
You can only give him the proof as your response, keeping your eyes open this time to watch his face as he pushes you over the edge. You feel tears burn at the edges of your vision this time, feel the bottom of your stomach dropping out the way it always does the second time around, replaced with so much pleasure it’s a little scary for a second.
But that’s only the tip of it, and the rest is the landslide that comes afterward—waves of it coasting through you, noises pulled from your throat as you tremble with it, Steve’s sharp blue eyes the one fixed point as sparks dance along your skin and replace any other receptors with the sweet relief of endorphins.
“Fuck. Good—” Steve stops, looks at you, then commits as his eyes darken while you shake in his arms. “Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”
He kisses you through the last of it, stubborn aftershocks racking your limbs as he slows his fingers incrementally and then warns you before he pulls them out. He squeezes your upper thigh with his hand as he pulls away, leaving a brand of heat and your own wetness behind, casually proprietorial in a way no one’s ever been with you before.
Leaving that hand on top of your leg next to the crooked mess of your shorts and underwear, his other one comes up to push the hair back off your forehead and press his lips to the sweat gathered there as you catch your breath.
“Need a break?”
You think about it for a moment, checking in with yourself. You bend your toes, stretch your legs a little, shift your hip to a more comfortable angle. You’re still a little shaky, but you’re not sore. And on your more adventurous nights alone, you’ve managed to hit five times before you felt like stopping.
Granted, those times had all been with a trusty, fully charged vibrator, but. You have a feeling Steve’s got that sort of stamina anyway.
And you can feel him now, hard between his own legs where he’s pressing into your back, but if he’s offering…
You shake your head no.
“Good.” He pats your thigh, then scoops a hand underneath you and lifts you straight off the couch as you cling to him, reflexes delayed. “Not nearly finished with you yet.”
oh my god this was so sexy and so perfect your writing is absolutely delicious and your dialogue?!? sent me feral…
“If I ever get the privilege of getting my hands on you,” he says, eyes dipping to your lips and back up again, “you’re going to have a very, very different experience.”
HELLO?!? STEVEN?? the way i would need him right there and then after hearing that like okay pretty boy i was unfamiliar with your game
“We can stop here, you know,” he says, quiet and kind as his lips trace the shell of your ear. His thumb rubs slow back and forth over your hip, but he doesn’t go any higher.
love a man who checks in it makes everything 10x hotter like omg u actually care about me (the bar is in hell, haha)
“Round what up to ten?” “Let me worry about it,” he assures you, rubbing the back of your head as his fingers quicken slightly again. “Only thing you gotta do tonight is feel good. Sound okay?”
i think i died right here… the confidence, the skill to back it up, I NEED THIS STEVE IN MY LIFE RN
Hiii, can you do a smut request for Steve x avenger!reader where the reader has been on the team for awhile now and the others really like her, she’s super outgoing, empathetic and a party girl but Steve has kept her at arm length despite being deeply attracted to her mostly because her aesthetic and personality is so bold and hot compared to him which makes him feel boring but after watching other men and women flirt with her, he makes his move 😗. Please and thank you :)
౨ৎ INTO YOU.
pairing - steve rogers x avenger!reader
synopsis - steve rogers is the complete and total opposite of you; stoic, serious, calm. while you're wild, bold, and outgoing. he can't help but feel drawn to you no matter how hard he tries to distance himself, and he eventually has to face his emotions head on.
content - smut. reader is a bit of a yapper! mentions of partying and drinking. steve is reallyyy insecure. p in v sex. mentions of male masturbation. public sex? (they have sex in the avengers tower bathroom). use of pet names (sweetheart, can't remember if there are others lol), small use of pussy pronouns, degradation (?)
word count - 4.3k
annie yaps - hi anon!! i had so much fun with this request! its a bit messy as i am currently working on a longer fic regarding bucky ( stay tuned ;) ) but i hope you enjoy nonetheless! <3
being pulled from the ice, seventy years into the future, was already enough whiplash for a man. but meeting you was the cherry on top.
you were everything steve wasn’t. literally. chaotic, comfortable, playful and silly, a bit ditsy, loudly extroverted, and impulsive. you were sunshine with lip gloss and glitter, a walking burst of color in a world steve still saw in wartime grayscale. ultimately, complete polar opposites. and the other avengers loved you, adored you, even. you made missions lighter just by bursting into a room and talking at a mile a minute.
he still didn’t know much about your backstory; an ex-assassin turned hero? maybe. you sure had the training set of one. all he knew was that your instincts were too precise, your reflexes too fast, and your combat training was far too clean to come from a normal life. no matter where you came from, you were an important asset to the team, he knew that much. but being the newbie on the team meant that your bubbly self had been set on him the moment he was assigned.
the first few weeks of him being part of the team, you had dedicated yourself to giving him a tour of the tower. your voice was honey sweet, contrasting with how fast you spoke, like lightning. you had dragged him from floor to floor, glittery nails hooked around his wrist as you gave an extreme amount of lore on each individual room and area in the tower.
“so, uh.. what’s wrong with this elevator again?” he had asked, remembering how in the earlier tour you had mentioned something about this specific lift. of course, too fast for him to understand.
you grinned, unbothered by his forgetfulness. “oh! right, the wonky elevator. this one is a bit emotionally sensitive, if you press any of its buttons too hard it malfunctions. it could’ve been from the big guy punching through it. i don’t really remember. but it never recovered. it might be emotionally scarred.. sooo.. just be careful with it!”
“the.. big guy? the one with the hammer?”
“no! i mean bruce. y’know. the nerdy scientist one! when he turns into the scary big green guy. you haven’t seen that happen yet, have you? good. just don’t get on his bad side and you’ll be fine! it’s like.. a little traumatizing. i have first hand experience, y’know. one too many drinks led to me trying to pick a fight with him.. and i got my ass beat. i was in the hospital for weeks! he forgave me, though. i’m still holding a little grudge. i mean, can you blame me? anyways, if i was the elevator, i would have just as much emotional damage. and physical damage, i guess. but i recovered pretty well, didn’t i?” you ended your yapping session with a cute twirl as if to show off your appearance
his face went through a series of expressions at your little story, but eventually he gave you a simple nod. “i’ll keep that in mind, then.”
a few months later, it was october. tony had decided to host a huge halloween party. and if he thought you were wild enough, he hadn’t seen you while you were partying.
he knew you were one to party, of course. that’s where you usually disappeared to after missions. you weren’t like the others; your resting didn’t consist of a nice hot bath, a quiet night alone in the tower, or a trip to the nurse. your version of resting, even while bruised and scraped, was to slip into the tiniest dress known to man, head to the club, and get as drunk as possible. you always stumbled back to the tower in the early hours of the morning, glitter in your hair, sometimes a broken heel in your hand, the scent of perfume and sweat sticking to your skin. but somehow you were always ready for the following mission.
but he had never seen it first hand until that halloween party.
your costume was.. a choice. definitely a choice. it was a mischievous little number. a dark red devil outfit, short and fitted, the fabric clinging to each and every individual curve. the velvet mini-dress hugged your waist and flared just enough to sway when you walked, and it did little to hide your ass poking out from underneath. the final touch was a tiny pair of horns that sat crookedly on your freshly styled head of hair, making you look more adorable rather than intimidating.
you were the sexiest damn thing he had ever seen. he couldn’t believe his eyes. he’d never seen something so.. provocative right in front of him like this.
he had been by his lonesome, just observing everyone else as he sat at the bar, sipping his drink, not like he could get drunk anyways. when suddenly, he felt a pair of small hands on his bicep, and the smell of vanilla perfume. he looked over, seeing your wide eyes staring up at him.
“oh, hey there,” he said with a polite smile, taking a sip from his drink. he peeked up at you curiously. “uh.. you need something?”
“i need to know..” you started, trailing your finger down the button-up on his chest, “..why you’re sittin’ here all alone when you’re looking this handsome?”
he just stared at you, baffled. but you continued, biting your lower lip.
“and also,” you added with a drunken poke on his chest, “i need you to quit acting like a sad little puppy, sitting here all alone.. it’s halloween! you’re supposed to be..” you squinted, as if thinking of what you were going to say. “..having fun! you can have fun with me, y’know.” and before he could even register what was happening, you were leaning in, your lips nearly touching his before he stopped you, placing his hand on your chest.
“hey, hey. you’re drunk.” he said firmly, though the tips of his ears were burning red. clearly you were having some sort of affect on him that he didn’t want to admit. “you don’t know what you’re saying, okay?”
you responded with an awfully adorable pout. “i know what i’m sayin’. y’know, drunk words are just sober thoughts? i wanna fuck you, steve. let me. please.. i’ll make you feel good.”
he pushed you back, not rough, just firm. he was still a gentleman even in his flustered state. “no. yo.. you’re drunk. i won’t take advantage of you.” he adjusted in his seat, taking another sip from his glass before speaking, “plus, you don’t want me. trust me, sweetheart. go bother tony or something.”
you groaned, rolling your eyes and stepping back towards him, “tony has pepper. everyone else has someone except me and you. plus, all the other guys here can’t compare.” you looked up at him with those beautiful eyes, eyelashes fluttering. “c’mon, steveee. ‘m not even that drunk. i’ll make you feel real good, promise..”
he sighed, standing up. you almost got excited, your heart fluttering. but that was quickly set aside as he put his hands on your shoulders, gently guiding you back towards the crowd. “no. you’re not in the proper headspace.” he stood back, “have a good night, sweetheart. i’m tired anyways, need some rest for tomorrow.” he gave you a final pat on the shoulder, and before you could respond, he was already walking away.
and for the few weeks after that, he had been avoiding you. whenever you tried to talk to him, he would always find some excuse to slip away. you’d wave at him in the kitchen and he’d suddenly remember he “left something upstairs.” you’d plop down beside him on the couch and he’d mumble something about “paperwork." you’d call his name across the training room and he’d pretend he didn’t hear you.
steve rogers, the man with super-soldier senses, pretending he didn’t hear you. how ridiculous was that?
and it wasn’t subtle. every time you entered a room, he would tense like someone had just pulled the pin on a grenade. he’d straighten his spine, avoid looking directly at you, run a hand over the back of his neck like it was suddenly the most interesting part of his body.
you would bounce up to him with a bright “steeeeve!” only for him to stutter out a weird, strained “hi! uh.. sorry, busy, uh- gotta go,” before practically sprinting in the opposite direction.
the team noticed. you noticed. hell, everyone around you could notice.
and you weren’t oblivious. of course you noticed. you noticed how much he avoided you, like you had personally wronged him in some way. if only you could ask him what you did wrong, but he would probably run away from you then too.
it wasn’t that he didn’t like you. no. the complete opposite. he was insanely attracted to you. more attracted to a woman than ever in his life. his absolute want for you hit him low and hard, deep in places he had no business thinking about when it came to a teammate.
because the thought of taking you up on that offer was so fucking tempting. the thought of how you would look with runny mascara, smeared lipstick, pretty tits spilling and bouncing out of your dress as he pumped into you.. it was so tempting.
he kept having wet dreams about it at night. he would wake up, feeling the sticky substance inside his boxers. and if he hadn’t cum in his sleep, he would reach into the fabric and jerk himself off until he did. to the thought of you, of course.
but that gut-wrenching feeling always hit him after. those fantasies he had would never come true. how could you ever be attracted to a man like him. an old, traditional, downright boring man? he would never be able to keep up with your party-girl lifestyle. with how fun and interesting you were. you would eventually become bored of him and find someone else who could really please you.
so he kept his distance from you. maybe if he did this, his feelings would eventually dissipate. maybe you would take the hint and not talk to him anymore. but he had been doing this long enough, and the feelings only got stronger, the fantasies only got worse.
it was the night of new years eve. once again, tony had planned a grand party in the avengers tower.
the entire top floor had been transformed into something between a nightclub and a royal gala. gold streamers hung from the ceiling in messy clusters, confetti cannons already half-emptied because tony got bored and tested them out early. strobe lights and warm fairy lights clashed in every direction. a massive digital countdown hovered across the glass windows, visible to half of manhattan. the music was loud enough to rattle the floors, a mix of 80s pop and current club hits that FRIDAY shuffled at random.
the bar was overflowing. three bartenders tony definitely hired last minute were shaking cocktails nonstop, pouring neon drinks into sugar-rimmed glasses. someone had already spilled something sticky on the marble floor, leaving an interesting looking stain.
where steve found himself, the main floor, was packed. bodies moving, laughing, grinding, spilling drinks, shouting the lyrics to whatever loud pop remix was playing. a disco ball spun lazily above the chaos, showering everyone in tiny shards of silver light. this was not the type of night steve would find himself in, and he was not enjoying it. it reminded him of when he was younger, seeing couples dancing around while he had nobody.
but you? he knew this would be your crowd. luckily, he hadn’t seen you around just yet. maybe he would be able to sneak out of the tower before you actually arrived. the next day, he could just lie and say he was starting to feel sick and went home early. a weak excuse? probably.
his ideas quickly fell short as he spotted you in the crowd, a sight he could see from miles away. and everything he had been trying to shove down was swiftly brought right back up to the surface.
you were wearing a gorgeous dress, a tiny one, of course. it was drenched in glittering rose-gold sequins that caught every flicker of the flashing strobe lights. the hem just barely covered your ass, showing off your legs and the soft sheen of shimmer lotion. around your shoulders was a fluffy fur-stole in a blush-pink shade. and your heels made your legs appear even longer. they were delicate, with thin straps winding around your ankles, the same pale pink color as your fur.
it was as if he were seeing you in that little halloween outfit for the first time again, but ten times more impactful. you weren’t just sexy, you were drop dead gorgeous. you looked like the type of woman a man would’ve kept a photo of in a locket to take to the battlefield. he would know, of course.
he mentally prepared himself for you to approach him. use your adorable little charms on him to make him fall in love all over again, but you didn’t. you acted as if he wasn’t even there. as if he had been wiped from existence.
he watched as another man approached you, whispering something in your ear and guiding you to the bar. he was definitely much shorter than steve, though that wasn’t too crazy with his incredibly tall height. and he definitely didn't have as much of an impressive build.
you laughed at something he said, probably something stupid, steve thought. and he heard that adorable little girlish laugh he could easily identify out of a group of people. steve watched, taking a sip from his sugar-rimmed cocktail. if looks could kill, the man talking to you right now would drop dead.
he knew it. of course you didn't want him. he was an idiot to ever even have the thought cross his mind. it was just drunken horniness you experienced that night. all those nights he spent awake, thinking of you, jerking his hard cock off to the thought of being with you, meant nothing now. he was just a creep perving on his coworker. thats all it ever was.
but after a few more drinks, and a lot more staring at you two, it was as if a sudden urge of confidence hit him. he knew damn well he couldn't get drunk, but maybe his body gave him a pass this one time, because this wasn't anything like him. he watched as the man slid away from you and off to the restroom, leaving you alone to sip your drink.
you were leaning against the bar, swirling the straw in your drink, legs crossed and glittering under the lights. he appeared behind you, his form tall and imposing.
“hey,” he said softly, almost timidly.
you blinked, surprised, then turned. your smile starting playful, then turning downright wicked when you saw who it was. “steve? hi!”
he cleared his throat, trying to keep his composure even as his palms suddenly felt warm and clammy. “you, uh… you look really nice tonight.”
you giggled, twirling a curl of hair around your finger. “nice? that’s it? i spent three hours getting ready for nice? you really know how to make a girl feel special, stevie.” you were just being silly, of course.
steve’s ears went red, and he let out a fond chuckle. he stepped a little closer, voice dropping lower without him meaning to. “okay… you look beautiful.” he swallowed. “really beautiful, sweetheart."
your lips parted slightly, not expecting that from the man who had been avoiding you for weeks. “well, you don’t look too bad yourself, cap.” you smiled, gently poking his chest.
it was quiet, you two just looking at each other for a moment before he cleared his throat, leaning against the counter and speaking.
“um.. can i speak to you privately? i just need to clear the air with you, if you don’t mind.” he said, avoiding your gaze.
you squinted your eyes as you looked at him, as if trying to figure out what he wanted to talk about. you then smiled kindly, standing up and adjusting your dress. “yeah, sure! just follow me. we can go to the women’s restroom.”
steve’s eyes widened in horror as you yanked his wrist and started pulling him along, stronger than he expected. “wait! the women’s restroom? no way. i can’t-”
you rolled your eyes, “c’mon. there won’t be anyone in here. i used it a few minutes ago and it was completely empty, and i haven’t seen anyone else go in.”
as you two entered the bathroom, the loud music quickly muffled, leaving you two all alone. it really hit steve now, there was no getting out of this. he looked around, it was pristine, pink led lights were the only source of light.
“tony really went all out, huh? had to decorate the bathrooms too?” he laughed softly, running a hand through his hair.
you smiled, “makes for a nice mood, doesn’t it?” you said innocently, but it came out more intimate than intended. maybe that was just in steve’s mind, though.
another awkward moment of silence.
he sighed, just wanting to get it over with. “i.. i just wanted to say i’m sorry. i’m sorry for avoiding you. you didn’t do anything wrong, and i’m sorry if i made you feel that way. it was all me. i just-” he exhaled, frustrated with himself. “i got overwhelmed. not by you, but by… how i felt around you.”
your eyes widened, your interest peaked. you leaned closer as you listened to him.
he continued, stumbling through it, cheeks warm. “you’re this… bright, incredible woman. and i.. well, i’m not exactly the easiest guy to be around. i didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, or say something stupid, or…” he swallowed, voice dipping lower. “or let you see how much you affect me.”
he sighed again, running a hand through his hair anxiously. “and then that night at the halloween party.. you were drunk, and you were so close, and i… i didn’t want to take advantage. i didn’t want you to think i’d ever do that. but ever since that night i can’t stop thinking about you. about it. about what i missed out on. and.. i wanted to do it with you while we could both experience it.. properly.”
for once, you were quiet. he couldn’t tell if you were thinking, surprised, disgusted, or just processing all this information. or maybe everything all at once.
then, you spoke, voice gentle. “steve.. i.. i want you just as much as you want me.” you whispered, stepping closer. “you’re not boring. i need someone like you in my life. we’d be perfect for each other. i can add a little spice to your life, and you can bring calmness to mine.” you took a step closer, causing his breath to hitch.
“and i don’t blame you for not wanting to.. y’know. with me while i was drunk. i was just being a perv.” you laughed, putting your head down as if in shame.
he hesitated, then gently reached out and placed his hand on your cheek, gently cradling your face and tilting it back up to meet his gaze. “if anyone’s the perv here, it’s me.” he admitted with rosy cheeks, looking down at you shyly.
you quirked an eyebrow, a cocky smirk appearing on your face. “oh? do tell?”
he let out a shaky breath, running his hand through your soft hair this time. “every night.. since that night. i can’t stop dreaming about you. what i would’ve done to you. i can’t help myself.”
the mood in the room suddenly switched, it felt hot, suffocating. your breathing became synced, heavier than before. you licked your lower lip, lubricating it before gently biting it.
“what do you wanna do to me, steve?” you whispered, your eyelids feeling heavier.
his hand gently trailed down to your neck, caressing it before whispering back. “why don’t you let me show you, sweetheart?”
and with that, he smashed his lips against yours in a sloppy, messy kiss. he cupped your jaw with a trembling hand, thumb brushing the edge of your lower lip as he pulled you in deeper. his free hand gently rest on your hip as he gently backed you into one of the stalls. the faint taste of champagne lingered on his tongue, mixing with the warmth of his breath as he kissed you again, harder this time.
you broke the kiss, just to lock the stall door behind you. he lifted you up, hooking his arms under your knees and lifting you up against the stall door, pressing his lips back against yours. your hands tugged and pulled at his blonde hair, causing him to wince.
your dress had hiked up around your hips, the only thing hiding your dripping wet pussy was the damp fabric. he began rolling his hips against yours, the rough fabric of his jeans prodding at your sticky panties.
“so wet for me, sweetheart.. making me think you might’ve been having wet dreams about me too.” he whispered against your ear, peppering light kisses along your jaw.
“stevee!” you moaned, writhing in his grasp. “please fuck me. please! been waiting too long..”
“yes, ma’am.” he murmured.
you nearly sighed in relief as you heard the sound of metal clicking, he was finally undoing his belt. “need to feel that pussy so bad. bet it’s even better than i’ve been dreaming.”
your gentle fingers helped him to loosen his belt and shimmy his jeans and boxers down, his large cock springing out and slapping against the fabric of his shirt. the tip was an angry red, already glistening from pre-cum. “see what you do to me, sweetheart? see how hard you make me?”
a shaky breath left your lips, you literally had no words. your lacy thong was pushed aside, revealing your leaking cunt. “look at her.. she’s so wet for me.” he cooed, spreading your folds to gently rub at your clit, a loud moan escaping your throat. “fuck, steve! please fuck me. need to be full already.”
“don’t wanna make my best girl wait, now do i?” he whispered, and you felt his tip prod and nudge at your dripping entrance. your pussy gave almost no resistance with how wet it was, his cock sliding in easily. his mouth opened in a silent moan, brows furrowing. “so.. damn tight.” he reached up, one hand gripping the top of the stall door, the other holding up one of your legs. he began thrusting up into you.
your arms hastily hooked around his neck, your eyes rolling back at the feeling of just how huge he was. he was pressing against places inside of you you didn't even know existed, and he was stretching you deliciously.
he pulled the straps of your dress down, your breasts spilling out, bouncing with every thrust into you. he leaned in and sucked a nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking your hardening nipple. “steve! oh, fuck! yes!” you cried, adding even more overstimulation.
he pulled off your nipple with a wet ‘pop’, “these are even better than i dreamed of.. look at these.” he moaned, then went back to kissing at your neck. the room was filled with the lewd sounds of wet squelching and body parts smacking against each other, his heavy balls slapping against your ass.
you were letting out a string of pure incoherent babbles, completely drunk off his cock. he looked up at you, a faux pout on his face. “awh. sweetheart, don’t be like that. you usually have so much to say. unable to run that pretty little mouth of yours anymore just from a bit of cock?”
that was the final straw, a broken and loud moan ripped straight from your throat as your orgasm washed over you like a wave. “fuuuckk! yes!”
his thrusts never faltered, he continued to help you through your orgasm until he finally released his load inside of you. it was like it was never ending, hot ropes of his cum spurting inside of your cunt for what felt like forever until it finally stopped. you two stayed there for a while, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling.
“i.. i didn’t know you could talk like that.” you said in a breathless laugh, running your hands through his tousled and sweaty hair.
he smiled fondly, nudging the tip of his nose against yours. “mm. and i didn’t know you had the ability to never not talk.”
you rolled your eyes and pressed a soft peck against his lips. he finally pulled out of you, a trail of hot cum following and dripping down your thighs. he hissed under his breath, reaching over to grab some toilet paper. “gosh, i’m sorry. i didn’t know i had that much.. in me.”
you giggled, allowing him to clean your downstairs area while you fixed your bra and dress, stuffing your tits back into the fabric. “it’s okay, i like it.”
once he finished cleaning you up, he threw the dirty paper in the toilet and put your panties and dress back into place. “you alright? was i too rough? did you feel good?”
you finally put your feet back on the floor, a bit wobbly. “it was perfect. would be better if it wasn’t in a.. yucky public restroom.” you joked, your hands on his chest.
he grinned, flashing you that adorable smile you’ve learned to love. “sorry about that. next time we can do it at my place.. if you want?” he asked hopefully.
your eyebrow raised, “yeah? is that a date, pretty boy?”
“if that’s what you want it to be, sweetheart. it’s a date.” he then pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “we should go before the others come looking for us, hm?” you smiled and nodded in agreement before you both left the women’s restroom.
that was the first fantasy he finally got to fulfill with you, and it definitely won’t be the last.
pairing: steve rogers x fem!reader
summary: reader is tired of her and steve only ever having sex one specific way, (missionary), and she wants to try something new!
content: established relationship, smut, oral (m & f receiving), face sitting, unprotected p in v sex, quick mention of breeding (?), use of pet names (honey, baby, good girl, reader calls steve 'stevie' at some point), praise
word count: 2.7k
annie yaps: i had more ideas for this but i had to hurry and finish because i started dealing with some medical issues in the middle of writing and i just wanted to get it over with, so im sorry it's a bit rushed towards the end!! also.. this is literally my first smut fic, so i hope it's good! okay enjoy now!!
the first night you had with steve was one of the best of both your lives.
when you met him for the first time, he was still a virgin. you weren't too surprised. he had told you he had his first kiss just a little bit before he was put under the ice. but at that point, everything in his life had turned into a whirlwind of responsibilities. he was too busy being captain america, too busy being a soldier, too busy trying to save the world to even think about dating, let alone anything more intimate.
and before the war, before the serum, before the uniform and the expectations, he had been this skinny little thing that didn't have the courage to ask a girl out. and even if he did, he'd probably get rejected. when would he ever have the time to have sex?
once you two started officially dating, you made out here and there, but the second you reached for his belt, he would end it. he was too nervous of not being able to please you right, or hurting you with his big super soldier body. such a sweetheart. but you couldn't help but wonder, what would having sex with him even be like? he’d probably be a gentle giant, only ever having you in missionary, not wanting you to have to lift a single pretty little finger. he’d be so sweet, so attentive. he’d probably whimper at how tightly your slick walls squeezed him, and he would probably whisper sweet praises in your ear the whole time, constantly making sure you were okay and still wanted to keep going.
after about seven months of no sex with him, the only thing getting you off being your vibrator, you had enough. you wanted to be irresistible for him. so, one night, you dressed in a pretty little pair of baby pink lingerie, black lace sewn around the edges. you had shaved everywhere (even though you knew he wouldn't mind either way), made sure to wear no panties underneath your mini dress, and you wore that certain perfume that always had him in a chokehold the second he leaned in for a kiss. you were sure to be irresistible.
and you sure as hell were. that night, your theories were confirmed, as he urged you two to be in no other position than missionary. he said he wanted to look into your eyes as he made love to you, which was so sweet you couldn't deny him, especially because it was his first time.
and, well.. you weren't exactly right about him whimpering. no. he was loud. something you would've never had expected from him. the second he rolled his hips forward, bottoming out inside of you, he let out a long, low moan right into your ear.
you had reassured him that he didn't have to ask if you were alright every second, that you'd been craving this for so long. every thrust earned a high and broken moan from not just you, but also him, until he spilled into the condom he insisted on wearing. and gosh, the aftercare was heavenly.
he had carried you to the bathroom, preparing a nice, hot bubble bath for the two of you. he washed you himself, lathering the feminine smelling soap all over your body with careful and gentle precision before washing it all off. not without telling you how absolutely beautiful you were throughout the whole thing, of course.
most of the time you two had sex now, it was just like that. the simple missionary with a little bath afterwards. you loved steve, adored him so much. but, can you blame a girl for wanting a little more spice? you were tired of playing it safe, you wanted to try new things with him. you wanted to take his cock in your mouth as he thrusted up into it, ride his face until your legs were quivering, have him bend you over the bed and fuck you senseless until your brain was pure mush…
when steve came home that night, he was exhausted. he’d had a long, draining day of combat training with his teammates, and every muscle in his body felt sore and overworked. “honey? you home?” he called out, sliding the duffel bag off his shoulder and setting it on one of the kitchen chairs with a dull thud. he grabbed a cold water bottle from the fridge, taking a quick swig that did little to ease the tension in his body, then began making his way toward the bedroom. “honey?” he tried again, voice a little softer this time.
as he approached the bedroom and opened the door, he was met with the sight of you. all of you. you were sitting at the end of the bed, clothes stripped off. his eyes widened comically, stopping in his tracks.
“well, hello to you, too.” he laughed, trying to recover from the sudden heart attack you’d clearly just given him.
you stood up and practically strutted over to him like you were on a runway in paris instead of your shared bedroom. “hi, stevie,” you chimed in a sing-songy voice. “how was your day? you look absolutely drained…”
he ran a hand through his sweaty hair, still visibly thrown off, his eyes wandering all over your very bare, very unbothered body. “uhm… it was normal. i—” he broke off with another surprised laugh. “honey, what is this about? where are your clothes?”
you didn’t bother entertaining that question. instead, you hooked your fingers into his belt and started walking backward, guiding him toward the bed with suspiciously little resistance on his part. he hit the mattress with a soft “oof!” as it dipped under his weight.
before he could even finish forming whatever lecture he was about to give you, you were already working on his belt like a woman on a mission.
he let out a surprised grunt, gently grabbing your hands like you knew he would do. “woah— hold on a minute. what are you doing? what’s going on? talk to me.”
you sighed, looking up at him from between his spread legs, your hands still resting on his thighs. “steve… i... i love the way we have sex, i really do. but… i just feel like we’re playing it safe. i wanna show you other things, how good other things can feel. i’m tired of pretending to be well-behaved, i need more.”
his brows furrowed in that soft, earnest way he had, the expression that always made your chest ache a little. he propped himself up on his elbows, nodding slowly as he processed your words. “i’m just nervous,” he admitted quietly. “don’t wanna hurt you, sweetheart.”
you smiled, “then let's have a safe word. i’ll say a specific word that means stop, okay? you can say it too if what i’m doing is too much.”
“okay… what word should we use?” he asked, looking a bit skeptical, like he already knew this was about to be chaotic.
you tapped your chin dramatically. “how about… uhh… chocolate?”
he raised an eyebrow, already fighting a grin. “chocolate? really?”
“hey! it’ll definitely catch your attention. plus, it’s a great safe word. loud, clear, impossible to confuse.” you shrugged, then added, “and i’m craving some right now, so honestly it’s kind of a win-win.”
he laughed fondly, shaking his head. “alright. chocolate it is.” he adjusted his jeans, where he was already visibly straining against the denim. “just.. don't push yourself, okay? don't want you to feel like you have to do this.”
“don't worry, i know. i want this.” you whispered, before finally resuming getting his belt off, slipping the leather through the loops. he lifted his hips to allow you to pull his jeans down, where you were met with the delicious sight of his bulge straining against the thin cotton of his boxers. a dark spot was visible from where he was leaking pre-cum.
unable to wait any longer, you tugged his boxers down, his large cock springing out and slapping against his stomach. the sight had your mouth watering, and you couldn't hold yourself back.
you leaned in, tracing your tongue slowly along the prominent vein running down his shaft, and the reaction was immediate, a low, shaky moan spilling from his lips as his thighs tensed beneath your hands. his hand lifted instinctively, hovering above your head like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.
“it’s okay,” you murmured against him, breath warm. “you can touch me. you can do anything you want.”
the second the words left your mouth, he finally let his hand settle on your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. his chest rose sharply, a groan catching in his throat.
“gosh, baby… feels s’ good…” he whispered, voice thick, like he could barely hold himself together.
once you had his cock all lubed up with your saliva, you slid his length into your mouth. your eyes nearly rolled back at just how big it was, and you had barely half of it in. as you set a steady pace, the sounds of wet slurping filled the room. he let out a broken moan, hips bucking up against your mouth, causing his cock to slide deeper down your throat.
he came almost immediately, thick ropes of salty cum spurting out and coating the inside of your throat, forcing you to swallow. he whined loudly, hands gripping your hair hard, which he would've noticed and adjusted if he wasn't so lost in pleasure.
once his body was done dealing with the long orgasm, he pulled his hand away. “oh.. honey. that was so good. are you okay?”
you licked your lips, and ran your tongue over his cock to pick up any cum that didn't make it into or spilled out of your mouth, causing him to shiver. “mhm..”
he groaned. “c’mere, baby.” he leaned up so he could grasp your hips, tugging you to straddle his chest like you weighed nothing. “let me eat that sweet pussy.”
you turned a bit pink, he was really confident for a usually shy man who you knew had never eaten out a woman before.
“are you sure?” you asked softly, threading your fingers through his now-tousled blonde hair, the strands sticking up in every direction.
“mhm. i.. i watched videos. to try and learn how to pleasure you. i think i remember what to do.” he laughed shyly as he admitted this, which made him look even cuter in your eyes.
“okay. fuck. steviee.” you moaned, feeling his hands grasp your ass and tug you onto his face, the tip of his nose brushing against your clit. you felt him begin to kitten lick at the little nub, before licking a long stripe through your folds, causing you to rub down onto his face. “stevee!”
“s’ wet.. tastes s’ good..” you heard him mumble from underneath you, the vibrations mixing deliciously with his licking. he gripped your ass and began helping you ride his face, his mouth working over your leaking pussy. your eyes rolled back into your skull as he flattened his tongue against your clit, increasing the speed of his sucks and licks.
“steve! steevee!” you cried, grinding down onto his face desperately, the knot in your belly getting tighter. “i'm gonna cum!” you looked down, you couldn't fully see his face.. but you could imagine his eyes were closed in focus, your juices dripping down his chin.
you let out a loud, squeaky moan as you had your first orgasm of the night, helplessly being moved by his hands as he makes you ride through the pleasure. he licks and slurps it up, lapping at your sensitive heat.
your legs were trembling, and once he was satisfied, he gently guided you off of him. he admired your puffy, dripping cunt, pressing a small kiss to your overly sensitive clit, causing your body to jerk.
“did that feel good?” he asked softly, running his hands up and down your quivering thighs. his chin was shimmering with your juices.
you nodded, “yes.. yes.” you rolled off of him. “i want you to fuck me now, steve.”
he sat up, not before leaning in and pressing a heated kiss on your lips. his hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb stroking your skin with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the urgency of his mouth. as your tongues melted together, you could taste yourself on him.
“want you in a new position,” he murmured gruffly between kisses, “want you on all fours.”
you could feel butterflies emerge in your belly again, your pussy clenching around nothing. “whatever you want, captain.” you teased, earning a rough chuckle from him.
you eagerly maneuvered on the bed, getting on all fours. your ass sticking out for him, your body on display for him to do whatever he pleases.
you could feel the bed dip as he got in position behind you, gently placing his hands on your waist, your body involuntarily arching for him. “if i’m too rough or anything, say chocolate, okay? i want this to feel good for both of us.”
a giggle slipped from your lips at the mention of the safe word. “i know, i know. i came up with it, remember?”
he smiled so adorably, at least you imagined, because you couldn't see him. but, you could feel him gently pull you closer to him, causing your back to arch more. you gasped as you felt his head press against your entrance, already lubed up from your arousal.
“please, steve.. hurry..” you writhed under him, desperate to be fucked already. you'd waited long enough.
“i know, baby. i know. i got you.” and with one thrust, he buried himself inside you to the hilt. a broken moan was pulled from both of you. “you're so tight.. like this pretty cunt was made just for me..”
you'd never heard him talk like this before, and it made you clench around him even tighter. he began slowly thrusting, before speeding up in record time.
“you like that, honey?” he moaned over the lewd, wet sounds of him pounding into your drenched pussy. you felt so extremely full, he was everywhere. his chest was pressed firmly against your back. one hand holding your waist, the other snaked around to rub at your clit. he was so heavy on you, and it felt amazing.
“such a good girl.. taking my cock so well. so good f’me. so good.” he groaned, fucking into you harder. you couldn't help but cry out his name over and over like it was the only thing you knew. he took up all the space inside you, his heavy balls slapping against your already sensitive clit.
you knew he was close when you felt his steady pace begin to stutter, and your brain got even more hazy at the thought of being filled by him.
“i'm close, hon.” he whispered into your hair. “where do you want it?”
“inside me, please, steve! i need you to fill me up!” the thought of feeling his warm cum deep inside you was driving you closer to the edge.
“yeah? wanna be full of my babies, sweetheart? i can give that to you..” he moaned into your hair. and with one, final thrust, he released his load into your cunt. you felt the long spurts of cum fill you up, you couldn't help your own orgasm washing over you.
after a long while of him staying inside, he gently pulled out, the sound following it was a squelch that had your cheeks turn pink. he stayed there, pressing light kisses to your shoulders and back, whispering praises in your ear.
and of course, steve had gotten you in that warm bubble bath, gently washing your trembling body with a washcloth. his touch was so soft, so gentle, this was more of the man you were used to. but honestly you really enjoyed the new side he showed tonight. and you hoped to see more of him.
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