Year of Birth 1988. Lover of Criminal Minds, Supernatural, TVD, TO, Marvel and celebrity fanfics(from those movies/shows)of all kinds. F. 🇨🇦 I refuse to take bullshit!
★ Stars: Dean Winchester x GN!Reader x Sam Winchester (no wincest)
★ Prequel: My Lover's Got Humour
★ Plot: Now, it's Dean's turn.
★ Run Time: 1.1k
★ Rating: Explicit/16+
★ Warnings: established polyship, unprotected penetrative sex, dirty talk, sub/switch!reader, soft dom!Dean, flirty comedy, fluff, swearing, Sam's adorably, quietly insecure, a lil comfort for Sammy, soft aftercare
★ Commentary: Through popular demand, we're back with a sequel!
꧁ Read my rules and send a request! ꧂
Masterlists | Pinned Post | Schedule | Taglist Form | Author Recs
Dean's hands tightened on your hips, guiding you up. Your bows pinched together, wincing slightly as Sam's cock slipped out of you, a rush of white sliding down your thigh.
"Aw look at that, baby" Dean cooed in your ear, voice honey-sweet with that little edge just waiting to come out "'s snowing"
"You're gross" Sam groaned from underneath you, breathing finally slowing back to normal.
"Dude, I say this in a completely not weird way, that's your cum"
"And you're talking about it"
"So are you"
"You're such a-"
"Hey, person the cum was just in here" You interjected, what a dumb fucking time for a fight "Can we not right now? Kinda killing the mood"
"Y'mean the mood where we're literally just fucking horny?"
"It's still a mood!"
"A damn good one too, whaddya say we get back to it?" Dean smirked against your skin, teeth catching, nipping.
"Well" You sighed, giving up "I suppose so"
"Hey, if you've got better plans-"
"Dumbass" You muttered, arm reaching behind you, moving in just the right way to shove Dean onto the other side of the bed.
You planted your hands on either side of him, moving to straddle him when he grabbed you just in time, flipping you onto your back in an instant.
"Nu-uh, Eastwood, you're not ridin' tonight"
"I get that you like cowboy movies, but do you have to make sex about Clint Eastwood?"
"He makes everything about Clint Eastwood" Sam rolled his eyes, reaching over to the nightstand in hopes for a drink, knocking over two of the five bottles sat there.
"My bad" You looked up at him with those sad puppy eyes, the ones he taught you.
He reached a hand over, fingers brushing your sweat-slicked baby hairs back, lingering softly. Your eyes trailed up to his, warm, happy. Sam always got fuzzy after he came, all dopey smiles and tender hands. Lighter than usual, like all the bad didn't really matter for a while, just you.
"Alright, Loverboy" Dean rolled his eyes "Deal's a deal, you had your turn, now it's mine"
"Knock yourself out" Sam grumbled "See if it matters"
"The fuck did you just-"
"Boys!" You scolded, you couldn't believe you let these two idiots fuck you "Enough"
"Relax Sweetheart" Dean murmured, back to that disgustingly hot tone "I'll help ya get those frustrations out"
He rolled his hips, grinding his clothed dick against you, pushing hard against his jeans.
Yeah, now you remembered why you let 'em.
Dean leaned down, lips trailing over your jaw, neck, down your collarbone. He was slow, taking his time. A fuckin' artist. A fuckin' fucking artist, he'd argue, garnering a look from both you and Sam.
You moved your hands around him, up to his back before he stopped you, grabbing them and pinning them by either side of your face. You stared up at him, eyes wide but not exactly in a puppy dog way.
"Y'wanna help me out here, Sammy?"
"I thought you were planning on showing me something, Dean. I might learn something, hm?"
"Stop being difficult and use that dumbass giant strength of yours for some good"
"Dude, we fight monsters everyday, isn't that good?"
You pressed up against Dean, begging for any form of friction you could get. Slightly trying to stop them, they were damn good at a lot of things, arguing being right at the top of the list. Almost.
"Would ya look at that? All desperate an' needy for me. Weren't like that with Sammy, were you baby?"
Before you could answer, Sam's jaw clenched, hands darting out immediately to pin yours to the mattress. You let out the quietest little gasp, eye shooting back to Dean.
He saw that look on your face, no more teasing, you meant it this time.
His palms landed on your inner thighs, teasing just a little too high before spreading you open for him, the drying slick coating you even more obvious.
"Damn" He muttered, amazed, like a kid in a damn candy store "I dunno 'f I wanna lick ya clean or make a new mess right on top'a this one"
It certainly wasn't a question, you could really tell that when Dean unzipped his jeans, his cock springing out, already glistening with precum.
He lined himself up, easing into you slowly, carefully, eyes locked on the spot he disappeared inside you.
Your back arched when he was balls deep, his body pressed to yours, Sam's grip on your wrists tightening just a little at the expression on your face.
Dean started thrusting shallowly, letting you get used to him, not wanting to push you too far. He talked a big game, but he was always careful with you. Sam's fast and rough and desperate. And you love it, but it makes multiple rounds a little too achy. Dean's slower, more precise, he knows what to do and when to do it, and now? You're falling all over again.
Dean worked you up, not fucking you into oblivion, just letting you climb up to that peak nicely, and damn he was good at it.
You felt your whole body tense, each muscle pulling in tight like strings were threaded through them. As he gave that final trust, he snapped them all instantly.
You shook, twitching, breaking. Good thing Sam held your hands down or Dean would've had some serious scratches on his back. Again.
He kept moving, drawing out the last sensations of your pleasure before he let himself go, face buried in your neck as he let out a low, broken sound from his chest, hips jutting weakly.
Sam finally let go, pulling away while your arms wrapped around Dean, panting in each other's ears as your palms slid up and down his back, soothing, grounding.
You stayed curled into each other for a little while, before Sam came back. You weren't sure how long it had been, but he came back with wet hair and by the length of his usual showers, you could guess a while.
"Where'd you run off'ta?" Dean mumbled, voice muffled against your shoulder.
He laid behind you now, latched on your back like a little koala.
"Got cleaned up, figured you two'd want a minute"
You smiled, sweetly blissful "C'mere ya big pup"
You dragged him back into bed, too tired to care about cleaning up, just happy with your boys.
He cozied up against your chest, damp brown curls smelling of that cucumber mint shampoo Dean steals every now and then.
"This was fun" You started, voice immediately giving away whatever mischief you were bound to be up to "But tomorrow, it's my turn"
What the fuck did that mean? No one knew, but you were sure as hell happy to figure it out together.
Taglist for all of my Supernatural writing - 49 + more in reblogs!
Yes, it's true, the apocalypse can change someone. After living on the edge for so long, doing the unthinkable to survive and keeping the people he loves safe, it takes a toll on a man.
And there is always one feeling that remains at the end of the day, hunger.
WC: 1.5k
Contains: Just numb, horny Rick. Mentions of blood, Choking, Hair pulling, Sexual coping, Oral (F! Recieving), Rough sex, Unprotected sex (obvs but WRAP IT UP!)
You stare out the window at the dimly lit street, the screeching of cicadas in the distance filling out the otherwise dead air. It had been quiet for hours and the last time you heard the gate open was when the sun had started setting; He hadn't come back yet. You rub at your shoulders to soothe the anxiety you were giving yourself, you knew he could handle himself against the dead, he was a resilient motherfucker, but people was what you needed to be scared of these days. You finally give up on the pacing, sitting on the steps to get lost in thought, eventually dozing off.
You feel your body floating like in a dream, almost weightless as the harsh smell of copper floods your senses. The soft thudding of boots up the stairs grow louder in your mind and your eyes flutter open to peek at the rugged man carrying you. "You're finally back.." Your arms tighten around him and you bury your face in his chest, feeling the cool, damp fabric that clung to his body. He adjusts you away from him, keeping a low tone when he speaks. "Don't." He lifts one foot to kick the door open and it hits the wall with a loud bang, he lays you gently on the bed and when he stepped back, you finally focus in on the full picture of him. His gray shirt had dark stains, almost black from the amount of blood that had soaked through, dried splatters across his neck and face.
His expression hadn't quite relaxed yet. "Are you okay?" You ask him quietly, scanning him for any injuries and he nods, short, assertive. His hands come up to rub his face, trying to push away the furrow in his brow as he turns around to walk in the bathroom. You hear water pouring in the sink, the soft splashing as he cleans himself, he comes out a moment later, shirtless, with a small towel to dry his face. You sit in silence watching him, he stands there a moment just balling the towel in his hands.
"I only think of one thing when I'm out there.."
A small pause, he takes a step towards you and then drops to his knees. His face desperately tries to keep up the softness he shows you in private but his eyes tell a different story, numbness, anger. Another day of something we lost.
You reach out to touch his face and he wraps his arms around your hips, resting his head on your lap. "Coming back to you." A deep breath from him, his fingers tugged at the flimsy, blue nightwear. "Rick.. We can talk." He shakes his head, yanking the shorts down roughly and ripping the fabric, tearing what was left of it off your legs. "No. Never time to talk, I need you." It was like driving a stake in your heart, he can lose himself in becoming the leader everyone needs him to be, but he wanted to be normal right now and you'd do anything to take the world off his shoulders. He pulls you by your hips, making your back hit the bed and he rests your legs on his shoulders. "You looked so pretty.. Waiting for me on the stairs." He leaves a trail of gentle kisses up your leg, his palm resting shakily on your hip. Your hand covers his, fingers softly tracing over his knuckles and feeling the wounds he had yet to bandage. "Can I wrap you up?" A innocent enough question, he didn't seem fazed. "After."
His face closes in the space between your legs, the stress melting off of him immediately and a low growl comes from his throat. His rough hands grip your inner thighs to part them, spreading you wide as he made eye contact with you, eyes dark and heavy, you knew the man underneath him, but what was painted on the outside was something you barely recognized.
You moan softly, running your fingers through his dark hair, he lays his head on your thigh while he watches the way your body moves against his mouth. "Mm, you're doing so good, baby.." His expression softens at the pet name, using his tongue to lick flat over your pussy then making out with your clit, lips wrapping around the sensitive bud and sucking softly. His hands drop to his lap and you hear the faint clinking of metal as he undoes his belt, he starts to stroke himself off as he presses sloppy, open mouthed kisses to your hole. The patience in him wears thinner, parting from you to stand up, his hand runs up the back of your head lovingly, then grips a fistful of your hair to force you to look at him. "I know you're gonna be good for me." His voice was low, too deep to be a whisper, you knew he would be rougher than usual but you could hear the promise underneath that he'd never hurt you. He walks around the side of the bed, lowering his hand to the back of your neck and squeezing tightly as he guided you up to press your back flat against the headboard.
His hand drops to his jeans to finish taking them off, letting them hit the floor as he climbs on the bed and positions himself between your legs. The tip of his cock intrudues your slit, sliding it up and down to lather it in the mixture of pleasure and saliva before he sinks into you. Your arms wrap around his neck instinctively, his hands grip your hips to lift you higher and sit you on him to take it all. "Ah!- Damn, Rick~" You curse him, clenching hard to accommodate the size, feeling the tension in his shoulders fade away as he melts into you, he rests his head in the crook of your neck for a moment before he starts kissing there sweetly. "God, so perfect, baby.." He whined, the southern accent dragging out the praise, sugarcoating the situation he had you pinned in. His arms dip under your thighs to spread them wide and he starts thrusting at an ungodly pace, feeling the tip of his cock abuse the pulsing muscle inside your core. You moan and cry out his name repeatedly, but he doesn't slow down, one of his arms wraps around your waist to pull you against him and his palm hits the wall. "Am I hurting you?" Through the harsh snapping of his hips, his deep voice was still sincere, his forehead touches yours to stare you in the eyes. You bite your lip to keep from babbling incoherently, shaking your head while keeping your eyes fixed on his.
He had a look of pride on his face, the pride he only shows you when everything was going to be okay, he knew how strong you were, he knew your limits, boundaries, he loved you more for wanting to take his pain. His lips crash against yours, soaking in every moment he was with you, you moan into his mouth and his tongue slips past your lips to muffle your cries. You could feel your high building as he bullies into you from below, his hand creeps up your neck and brushes his thumb over your throat. He breaks the kiss and wraps his hand around your neck to keep you in place, pulling all the way out to slam back into your pussy. "Fuck- Oh my God-" Your hand finds his wrist and grips tightly, your vision going black with each slam of his cock, the jolt of pleasure probably being the only thing keeping you from passing out on him. Pathetic whimpering is all that you manage to mew out as it hits you, your mind getting fuzzy as the waves course through your body, your finger tips felt numb as you held onto him. He lets out a broken groan while you pulse around him, the thrusts sounding sloppier as the juices practically spilled out of you. He lets go of your throat and the air fills your lungs again, both of his hands drop to your hips and grip harshly, pushing you passed the point of your high as he greedily chases after his own. "Shit- I-I'm sorry, honey.." He stumbles to find the words as his pace grows more erratic, mumbling apologies as his cock twitches and starts to shoot thick, hot ropes inside of you. He holds onto you tightly as he fills you up, your body feels heavy, pulses of pain and pleasure throbbing in your core. He leans his head against you for a moment, his chest rising and falling with his rapid breathing. "I'm so sorry.. Are you okay?" His question was whispered to your shoulder, his hand petting your hair affectionately. "Yeah, baby.. Stay home longer this time." You plead him and you almost feel him smile against your skin, he nods, placing a soft kiss on your collarbone, you feel his cock pulse inside you and you whine, grinding into him. "Rick, please.."
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as brainwashing and suicidal ideation and possible untagged elements such as noncon. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
If you are struggling, please seek help through a support line.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 1st's fic!
Bucky Barnes + “You can’t even take care of yourself, so why not let me.”
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
The wind rips across your face. The noise of the river roars beneath you, dark tides slapping and churning beneath a sliver of moonlight. From here, it looks so far but could be right beneath your toes.
Far enough. Deep enough.
You shiver and grip the metal beneath you. Just one push and it all goes away. You sniff, head so full it hurts, and breathe out through your lips. You can taste the river water.
One push.
One.
You can do it.
For once in your life, do something. A simple fall, a short end. That's all that's ahead of you. There's nothing else left for you. There never was anything for you. You never did anything.
So do this and be done with it. You close your eyes. You feel the rivets in the metal. You roll your shoulders.
"Well then." You say and push off.
Before you can plunge through nothingness and into the depths, a snag jars you. You dangle from some unseen obstacle, whimpering at the wrench that has your spine and neck ringing. You flail like a cat and look up at the unexpected safe fall.
The man is hunched and shadowed like a gargoyle on a stone building. You kick your legs and grab his hand, prying at in bendable fingers with a sob. "What are you doing?"
He says nothing. With no effort at all, he hauls you back onto the metal. You kick and smack at his grip. He ignores you.
"Let me go!" You plead. "I just want to go."
Not a word. Not a look. You couldn't see it in the shadow of the bridge if there was.
"Let me go." You beg weakly as you grasp wrists.
He flicks away your struggles and grabs your throat. You gasp. He squeezes until you can't breathe. Maybe he can still give you that escape.
You let your hands fall away. He tightens his hold until your throat burns and your head pounds. He lets you go and you fall back limp on your back, one leg dangling over the edge. He clucks.
Your vision pulses and your ears ring. He moves around you. He brings your hands together then your feet. You shiver and try to pull them apart. You can't.
"Why?" You croak.
The silence stirs with the noise of the water and the groan of the metal under his weight. He moves over you, feeling your pockets and clothing. He stops, his hand on your shoulder. His voice grates through the night as something dry and coarse fills your mouth.
“You can’t even take care of yourself, so why not let me.”
💓
You sink into a haze. Shock, dread, resignation. You wonder if maybe you did make it to the water and this is some twisted after life…
What else could it be? No one knew. No one cared. You didn’t tell anyone what you meant to do. Didn’t even write it in your diary. You just made up your mind. You just wanted it over.
Your lashes flutter as your eyes zero in. It’s all too real to be the last flashes of your synapses clinging to consciousness. The room is dim but vivid. Shadows gather in the mortar between thick cinder bricks; the air is still and frigid, and the chair beneath you is hard and unforgiving.
Your finger twitches and the tendon in your wrist strains. Your arms are trapped, your ankles too. Metal binds you to the wooden frame of the chair, another around your neck and forehead.
You shift futilely. What sick fate is this? Is it irony? You were so ready to give it all up that someone else stole your life away?
A sudden crackle makes you flinch. A light radiates in your vision and static fills a square screen. You blink, unable to move your head against the metal binding. You gulp as the black and grey speckles ache in your vision.
The monochrome dots blip away and white lines run up a black screen, a low click each time they reach the top of the screen. They ripple, the waves growing more intense until a vision fills the frame.
The silhouette of a bride in her veil kissing her groom appears beneath the classical wedding overture. A sterile voice says a single word as the image lingers. “Longing.” The couple begin to dance, feed each other cake, and the husband carries his wife over the threshold.
“Tidy.” The voice says.
The scene changes. A jacket being hung. Bristles dragging on tile. A tub full of bubbles surrounded by candles. The camera pans in on the spinning laundry through the window of a machine, making your dizzy.
“One.”
A man’s face flashes; blue eyes, sharp jawline, dark hair.
“Dawn.”
The morning beams warmly through windows, illuminating another pair of silhouettes before the scene switches to a garden and a trickling birdbath. The stir of water tickles in your ears and sends a cool flow down your spine.
“Apron.”
Thick hands tie the strings of an apron against a checkered dress, slowly looping and winding the bow, laying out the tails perfectly.
“His.”
The man’s eyes blink and disappear.
“Obey.”
A belt is pulled from the loops of a pair of trousers and bent in the same large hand, slapping the palm with an echoing noise.
“Bed.”
Pillows drop onto a bed, blankets are dragged down to the end, petals flutter onto the floor at the base of the frame.
“Only.”
The man again, arms outstretched.
“Home.”
The vision of a house, unmoving, standing on the screen, bold, so still it must be a picture. It stays there as the audio cuts out. The silence scrapes in your ear until you squirm then all at once it evaporates.
A whisper slowly rises from the speakers; “home, home, home, home.” The voice gets louder and louder and louder; until your eyes water and your ear drums thrum. Then, silence again. And darkness.
You sit in the void, shaking. You close your eyes and shudder. Then hear the television flick on again.
“Longing.”
💓
She’s soft, pliant as he leads her into the light. She shies away and he coaxes her further. She leans on him. She doesn’t notice that his arm doesn’t belong to him.
He takes her into the large bathroom and sits her on the small bench with the drawers in the bottom. Her clothes are dingy with the stale remnants of the river’s mist. That day on the bridge only remains in the soiled fabric.
As he tries to pull away, she grabs onto him. Her lashes flick wide. Bucky knows that look. He used to see it in the mirror. That glassy distance. On her, it’s not so bad.
“Doll, I’m just gonna get you washed up.”
She stares at him and nods, her hands slipping down his forearm. The sensation is like cool rain on a hot day, or sunshine after a grey winter. He smiles. Her lips tremble then she does the same.
“Yes, honey.” She lowers her hands to her lap and stares ahead.
He begins. He cuts off her clothes. She does react. Not even as he pauses to admire those parts of her that make him salivate.
When he is done with that, he fills the large basin of the tub. He goes to her but thinks twice of getting her up just yet. He undresses then goes to her.
He brings her in the tub with him. He can take his time. He doesn’t have to hurry. He leans her against him and sighs. She’s stiff and squirmy. He runs his hands up her sides.
“Doll, relax. I got you.”
He feels her obey. She slackens against his chest and lets her head rest on his shoulder. He strokes her stomach.
“Good.” He praises as he draws little swirls on her skin.
This is all he wanted. To feel someone close. To have someone who can never go away. To not have to be afraid.
This is what he deserves. And what she needs. After all, she was all too willing to throw her life away. He saved it, he didn’t take it. He’s giving her a new life. A life with propose; him.
Warnings: this fic could include dark content and possible untagged elements such as noncon. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Character: mob!baker!Steve Rogers, reader with arthritis
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
It’s rare that you see a rush in the small town. The lazy rhythm of the remote community is just your speed, not that you can go very fast. It’s not about when, just that you get there.
Ivy greets you as you pass by her pulling weeds from her garden. You wave, one hand still on your walker, and say good morning. You continue on, leaning into the metal frame as you roll the wheels over the cracks.
You turn onto the main street and focus on the wooden sign jutting out from the center. You noticed a few weeks ago when it went up. The banner announcing the grand opening has since been disposed of. You avoided the furour of the exciting premier, knowing you would only get jostled, even lost, in the chaos.
Now you feel good enough to make it down. Not without real purpose. You desperately need to do a shop after procrastinating for far too long.
You pause and wait for Len to pass in his dusty white truck. He gives a beep and a wave. Sometimes, he’ll drive you back home if he catches you on the way. He’s one of the nice ones; one of those who see you. Then there are those who pretend they don’t.
You cross and push your wheels over the curb. You can feel the inflammation in your hips already. You make slow progress along the crooked sidewalk. It dips at points and in places the grass along the edge is higher than the pavement.
You slow as you get close to the bakery and admire the handpainted calligraphy on the sign; Brooklyn’s Best Bakery. You stop in front of the windows and look at the baskets of buns and rolls on display. You can smell it all as the door opens after a customer.
You press on as a couple approaches. The man holds the door for the woman and follows her through. You try to catch the door after them and it hits your walker and knocks you back. The bell jangles above.
You wrench your walker away and let the door close. It’s not the first time it’s happened. You thought they would’ve seen you hurrying to get in after them. Of course, you can’t expect everyone to hold the door but you weren’t that far behind.
You angle and open the door, using your back to keep it open. You push on it and pull your walker close, turning it through the door. You grunt as you lift the wheels over the high step that leads inside.
As you roll through, the door swings shut and spurs you forward. You hit a shelf with the wheel and steady yourself. You check to make sure you didn’t knock anything over.
To your surprise and disappointment, there’s a line. Oh well, you have to wait. Other people exist too.
You join the line and turn your walker to sit on the seat, your bag dangling from the handle. You rub your hips and lean to the side. The last x-ray showed degeneration at the base of your spine and in your tailbone, a little in your hips.
“Excuse me,” a deep voice comes through.
You sit up but can’t see past the couple in front of you. The woman points to the croissants in the display as the man’s hand rests on her lower back. He doesn’t seem to be listening as he reads the chalkboard sign above the counter.
“‘Scuse me,” the same voice grits and several bodies shuffle apart in the queue. “Hey, you.”
You blink and look over, startled. You peek back, thinking maybe you didn’t see the mess you made after all.
You twist back as a man approaches in an apron. The red fabric is dusted with flour and other ingredients. He’s tall, his shoulders broad, and a dark beard trims his jaw. He wears a short sleeve shirt over a tank top, exposing tattoos on his chest and arms.
“You,” he points at the man ahead of you. “That wasn’t very polite.”
“Huh?” The man ahead of you snorts. You think his name is Donny or… Dustin?
“You dropped the door on another customer.” The man crosses his arms.
“Who?” Wait, his name is Devin, replies hotly.
“This lady right here,” the man in the apron points at you. “I’m sure you saw her.”
“Dude, I didn’t see her–.”
“How do you know you didn’t drop it on her if you didn’t see her?” The man’s forearms bulge.
“It was an accident.”
“So now you did see her?”
“No. I… look, uh,” Devin turns. “I’m sorry, really.” As he looks down at you, you stand, feeling smaller than ever. “I didn’t see you and if the door hit you–”
“It did.” The aproned man insists.
“I didn’t see you and I’m sorry I hit you with the door.” Devin scoffs and looks at the man. “Happy?”
“Not really,” the man retorts. “Get your food and get out.”
Devin huffs again and shakes his head. He mumbles as the woman beside him shifts away.
“Excuse me?” The man in the apron drops his arms. “You wanna say something, make sure I can hear you.”
“I said you’re a fucking tight ass.” Devin retorts.
“Common decency is being a tight ass? Well then, you can just go.” The man grabs Devin by his hoodie and drags him between a set of shelves.
There isn’t much of a struggle as the cafe employee is much stronger, even if he’s not as heavy as Devin’s rounder build. He shoves the door open and hurls Devin through. He claps his hands then turns back.
“You’re more than welcome to stay and order,” he says to the woman as he approaches. “And whatever you’re getting,” the man stops by you. “It’s on the house.”
“What? No. It’s… okay.” You babble dumbly, surprised at being addressed.
“Not okay. Not in my joint.” He sneers.
“Um, okay, uh, thank you, sir. You really didn’t have to–”
“I did,” he says and offers his hand. “Steve Rogers. It’s my place, my rules.”
You lean back on your walker, keeping your hand on one side and shake his hand. He squeezes and you nearly dissemble in his grip. You stare up at him, wide-eyed, and utter your name out of courtesy.
His cheek dimples as he nods. “Pretty. I’m almost finished a batch of strawberry turnovers. That’s my recommendation.” He lets go.
Summary: The tension between you starts to get unbearable, and you find out something you wish you hadn't.
Author's Note: I've been kind of MIA. Everything's fine, just got a writer AND reader block (it's hell here, please send help). Again, and as always, thank you to my @kileyking for betareading. I love you bb <3!
That evening was different. He seemed completely different. Even the way he came into the office was lighter.
He was really trying to maintain his serious façade, but it was almost impossible, even for a trained super soldier. The way he sat—slightly more confident, the way his shoulders didn't fall like they weighed double their size.
Bucky finally talked about something new. He mentioned a few things about his family. Just enough for Raynor to be sure about the decision she was about to take. Not enough for her to get to know him more.
Then, she mentioned your name, "How are things going with her?"
Bucky licked his lip, "She's been good. Working. She hasn't gotten a lot of free time."
"Why is that so?"
"She… works in a difficult field."
Raynor nodded.
"Things with her family got better?"
"Didn't get worse."
After some minutes of small conversation, Raynor closed her notebook and looked at him.
"James, we have been reviewing your case. We think it's time for you to bring a new Character Witness."
Bucky furrowed, "I don't have anyone else to bring. Natasha, Sam, and Steve had already declared."
She was expecting this. The way he would deny himself the freedom he wanted, just to not bring you into the whole deal of making a statement.
"Are you sure?"
Bucky didn't answer. He knew what she meant. He was not an idiot, but that didn't mean he was going to accept it. The further you were from this, the better. It was not something he would like you to be part of.
A couple of days later, Bucky's doorbell rang in the afternoon. He came out slowly, and you smiled when you saw him.
"I want to give a second try to our motorcycle lessons."
Bucky frowned.
"You hurt yourself too badly last time."
"Please."
He sighed and nodded. He knew perfectly well that you wouldn't let it go until he agreed.
He picked up the helmet that was sitting in the doorway of his apartment and handed it to you.
"Now?" You asked, startled.
"What? Do you need a formal invitation to do it?" he said as he walked towards the elevator. You grumbled but followed him.
You rode on the back of the motorcycle, holding onto Bucky's waist for balance. You arrived at a deserted part of the road.
Miles and miles of dry land, not a single car in sight.
He helped you off the motorcycle and stared at you, trying to find some fear in your expression.
"We'll start from scratch."
You nodded and got on the motorcycle and began to move slowly, barely able to keep your balance, but you nodded, remembering each of the instructions Bucky had given you a couple of months earlier.
"You're doing well, remember it's a matter of confidence."
You bit your lip as you nodded.
After a couple of practice laps, you were mastering the bike. You both laughed when you accelerated too fast and let out a frightened scream.
"I think I'm ready."
He nodded.
"I'll ride behind you, but I promise I won't hold you back. I'm just here for moral support."
You nodded nervously.
The first stretch was slow, with mistrust. By the time you had gained enough confidence, he was loudly telling you where to go.
Finally, you reached a part of the city where there was some life, buildings were coming into view, and cars were present.
You swallowed hard with fear. "Are you sure you trust me enough?"
He squeezed your arm a little to confirm.
When they arrived outside their building, she got out, almost kissing the concrete of the street.
"Good heavens," you exclaimed with a sigh.
"How are you feeling?"
You nodded, resting your hands on your knees, trying to catch your breath after the trip.
As you walked inside the building, one of the neighbors greeted you calmly. Bucky realized that it was the first time anyone had spoken to him after a year of living there.
For the first time, someone other than you saw him as just that, "a neighbor."
"Would you like to come up to my apartment for a while?"
You asked shyly. So much had happened in the last week that it felt strange to ask for the routine you had learned to share.
"Sure."
When you entered the light of the apartment, he noticed how the bruise was turning increasingly purple, with that greenish hue that Bucky had seen on himself countless times.
"Does it hurt?" he asked, staring intently as he took off his leather jacket. You shook your head.
"I'm used to it. Unfortunately, it's something... not so common, but common enough that it can happen to us when we deal with crises like this."
He pressed his lips together in what looked like an angry pout.
"I'm fine. I wouldn't continue in this job if I felt at risk in any way."
"I think your compass for what is dangerous and what is not is broken."
That sentence carried more emotion for both of you than he intended.
"I think my compass is intact. I've made good decisions over the years."
He rolled his eyes.
You drank coffee while you checked a few things on your laptop, and Bucky just stared at your face. Every feature he had learned over the past year. Every wrinkle and spot you had was embedded in his memory.
At that moment, he realized he was losing the battle, and for the first time, he didn't refuse to feel it.
"As soon as I'm done, we can watch a bad movie," you offered without looking up from the screen.
"No, for God's sake. I'm sick of your bad movies. I'm sure if I gave you a list of excellent movies from the 1940's, you'd choose the worst one on the list," he grumbled.
"Come on! They haven't been that bad."
"You made me watch Twilight for a week. No."
"Or would you rather go to a bar? I don't think we've left these walls in months after what happened in the cafe."
He shrugged as he remembered that afternoon.
"Do you really want to go to a bar?" He asked, frowning.
"I think we'd have a good time. We could ask Lola, Steve, Sam, and Nat?"
"You just want to see Lola get nervous in front of Steve."
"That's also an option, but I like the idea of hanging out with you as if we weren't two prisoners."
"Is that an option?" he joked.
You crossed your arms in anger.
"Fine, we'll watch a terrible movie today, and tomorrow we'll go out to the bar with the guys."
You celebrated both victories. You closed your laptop and walked over to the TV while Bucky made popcorn.
As he waited for the microwave to finish its work, he couldn't help but watch you scroll through every movie in the catalog, analyzing each cover, each description, as if you really weren't going to choose the most horrendously written movie by a screenwriter who just wanted to make enough money so he wouldn't have to create another horrendous proposal.
It took no more than one phone call for Sam, Natasha, and Steve to accept the invitation. They were willing to pay anything to see Bucky hang out in a bar just to keep you happy. On the other hand, Lola, for the first time in decades you had known each other, was nervous about going to a bar.
"Lola, for God's sake. How can you be nervous?" You shook your head.
"You're telling me we're going to a bar with Captain America. With Steve Rogers!"
You let out a stifled laugh. You were in Lola's living room, swimming among clothes and options to wear.
"Are you going to go like that?" Lola asked, looking at you in jeans and a black blouse.
"We're going to a bar!" You exclaimed loudly.
"No! You're going to a bar with Bucky Barnes! The man you've been crazy about for months!"
Before you could protest, Lola threw you a black dress. "Put this on."
"Oh, my God."
Despite Bucky's protests, you and Lola arrived at the bar alone. The rest of the group was already waiting for you at a table in the back of the bar.
You waved your hand to greet them, and Bucky immediately stood up to join you. Natasha smiled broadly and slyly.
Sam was at the back of the booth, followed by Natasha, with Steve on the other side, across from Sam. You made Lola sit right next to him, leaving you face-to-face with Bucky.
During the night, you could feel a slight brush of knees, unintentional, subtle, without a double meaning, but warm at the same time.
As you began to drink—Steve watched with amusement as Natasha immersed herself in a story about Budapest. Lola couldn't stop trembling every time her arm brushed against Steve's prominent bicep.
You tried to listen to the conversation until a song played on the dance floor. Damn it. That old song sparked Lola's memories. She pushed you with all her strength, causing both of you to fall off the table. In an act of rebellion common to Lola, she called Natasha, who nodded amusedly. Bucky got up, leaning on the wood surrounding the armchair so that Natasha could follow you.
Lola took both of you by the hands and made you dance. The three girls' hips moved to the beat of the song. Lola laughed with amusement while Natasha analyzed how you moved your hips with a precision she never thought she would see in you.
Bucky couldn't help but stare at you.
Not the way your hips moved, which was distracting enough—nor at the way that your dress moved with you.
No, he was looking at your smile, your crystal-clear eyes, your hand holding your hair while the other held Lola's hand. The freedom your body exuded with every movement your legs made.
Sam tried not to look at them, tried not to keep his gaze on you three for more than three seconds, who minutes before had been laughing at a bad joke Steve had told.
"Buck, I'm going to get a beer. Are you coming?" Sam said, getting up, somewhat affected by the scene he had just witnessed. He shook his head.
Steve found it funny to see how Bucky couldn't take his eyes off the dance floor. He nudged him with his shoulder to get him to follow Sam.
"This would have been scandalous in our day."
"Are we that old-fashioned?" he asked, still staring.
"We're over a hundred years old. I'd say we fit the description of old-fashioned."
"I didn't even know Natasha could dance like that," Sam confessed after ordering three beers from the bartender.
"I don't think Natasha will ever stop surprising us," Steve said, crossing his arms.
Natasha left them for a moment to approach the three men who were already at the bar.
"I can see the pool of drool on the floor, guys." She smiled slyly and snatched Steve's beer from his hands.
"Why did you walk away?" Bucky asked.
"Buck, those girls are quite a few years younger than me. They haven't spent their lives training to be war machines. I don't even know what I'm doing. I was just keeping up with them." She laughed.
"You seemed to know what you were doing," Sam confessed, taking a swig from his bottle.
"People say I'm good at faking it."
But before anyone could respond to that sentence, Steve noticed a boy approaching your personal space. You didn't even notice at first, as you were dancing face-to-face with Lola.
Bucky tensed, something inside him awakening. His heart began to beat faster as his hands squeezed the beer bottle so hard that it was a miracle the bottle didn't burst.
"That dress is distracting me."
The guy whispered in your ear, and you froze when you heard him.
"Thank you very much, but I'm not interested."
You replied without even turning to look at him, your hands still on Lola's shoulders.
Lola watched with fascination, expecting to see an explosion.
"Come on, don't tell me you're here with some guy and you're dancing all alone?"
You laughed at his arrogant response.
"Seriously, I'm not interested. I came here to have a good time with my friends," you said apologetically, trying not to sound rude.
The guy's hand brushed your hip a little more. Bucky tried to walk towards the dance floor, but Steve held his shoulder.
Something burned in his chest. He wanted to walk straight up to the man and rip his head off in one swift motion. He wanted to make every man in the bar leave so that you could enjoy your night without having to deal with an idiot.
"I think she can defend herself just fine, Buck."
He took a breath. He didn't want to make you feel helpless; he didn't want to make you feel like you couldn't speak for yourself, but honestly—you didn't have to if he was there.
You stopped and pointed to the bar where Steve and Sam were talking, while Bucky was leaning back in a bar-stool with his arms crossed, Steve's hand still holding him steady in his seat.
"I'm here with them."
Steve raised his bottle with that smug smile he knew how to flash so well.
"Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes," Lola said, approaching the boy and placing her hand on his chest, emphasizing the last name.
The boy bit the inside of his cheek and hissed before turning away.
"How is it possible that a woman can't have fun without some pervert following her around all the time?" Bucky growled, not taking his eyes off the man until he was far enough away from you.
The other three just shrugged.
While Lola drank a huge glass of amber liquid, she asked Steve to dance, but he flatly refused. Natasha pushed him by the shoulder before taking Sam to the center of the dance floor.
He sighed and nodded, following her. Lola celebrated internally—she now had the courage Steve had been taking away from her just by his mere presence.
You turned to look at Bucky with an intriguing smile, but he immediately refused.
He said your name in a clear, forceful voice. “No.”
"Bucky, please," you begged, "just one song."
"I don't even know how the hell to dance this."
"Just follow me," you said, taking his hand.
Now he felt the electricity you had explained when you said you wanted to learn to ride a motorcycle.
When you reached the dance floor, Bucky noticed how easily Sam moved to the rhythm with Natasha, how Steve followed Lola's hips—and something inside him froze for a moment. Everyone seemed so natural, and he looked like a sphynx holding your hands.
You took Bucky's hands and rested them on your waist. He stared at you, clenching his jaw, and you now rested your hands on Bucky's tense shoulders.
You began to move your hips to the slow but suggestive rhythm of the music, and Bucky tried to follow the movements that Sam seemed to have mastered.
"You're doing well," you whispered in his ear. He could feel your warm breath from the alcohol.
"God, no—" he pleaded, looking up at the ceiling, trying to focus on anything but the movement of your bodies.
Lola approached without warning or shame to pour an entire glass of liquor down your throat. She bracketed your cheeks with her hand, opening your mouth.
It was your last straw.
The last string of decency that was held in your body snapped, and any inhibition you had in your body disappeared.
Suddenly, he found himself with your back to him, your hair to the side, letting Bucky inhale your perfume. Your hips were swinging near his body. He was trying to hold himself. Trying to remain calm.
The rest of the group watched with intrigue as the man who seemed composed all the time was losing his sanity, just one touch away from losing all the training he had had over the years, just to feel you closer than he was used to.
However, before he could react to what you were provoking—one of your feet tripped on a piece of melting ice on the floor, and you almost fell to the ground. Bucky stopped you by pulling you close to his body.
You both tensed up.
"I think you're drunk enough for us to go home," he said tensely. You nodded.
Everyone agreed to call it a night there when you returned to the table.
The boys promised to take Lola home safely. You and Bucky walked towards the apartment building a couple of blocks away.
"Are you sure you can walk? We can call a ride." You shook your head.
"I want to take a little walk—the night is beautiful." You looked up at the sky.
He took off his jacket and covered your shoulders with it. You wrapped your entire body around his metal arm as you walked. Bucky didn't tense up; you had never shown any morbid or perverse interest in his arm. To you, it was just that: an arm.
"I didn't know you danced like that," Bucky admitted with a teasing tone.
"Lola has always been into bars. My ex-fiancé never went with me. Sometimes it was boring just standing at the bar—so I had to learn to dance with her."
"He never went dancing with you?" You shook your head.
"He said it was a waste of time."
"I think that too, but I'm a hundred years old. For God's sake."
He caressed his face for a second. You smiled.
"At least you tried to dance with me. That's enough to call it an excellent night."
He felt triumphant when he heard you say that. At least something he did made you feel good. That was more than enough for him.
As you walked near a park, you noticed two dandelions together.
"Oh! Wait! Look at that," you pulled him by his arm and knelt in front of them.
"They are just—dandelions…"
"I love dandelions… I love any lucky charm," You looked up at him.
He chuckled, then you stood up and placed one of them in front of him.
"What?" He tilted his head.
"You need to make a wish!" You giggled.
"Do—I what?" He furrowed, "Are you serious?"
"Yep. You blow the seeds away while you make a wish." He chuckled and nodded.
He was about to blow when you stopped him, "You need to close your eyes and really, really wish what you want."
He sighed and nodded.
He closed his eyes while you held the dandelion in front of him—he didn't want to admit it, but he was wishing for something that felt as real as that exact moment.
When he finished, he looked at you and nodded.
"What did you wish for?"
"It shouldn't remain a secret?" The corner of his lips twitched, almost showing a smile.
"I thought you didn't know what the dandelions meant."
"I never said I didn't know what it meant—I was amazed that you wanted to waste a dandelion on me."
You rolled your eyes and closed your eyes to blow your dandelion. He was looking at you while you still had your eyes closed. He just twitched a smile; it was refreshing to see someone enjoying those small things.
When you finished, you walked with him holding his arm again.
"I could assume you and Lola enjoy this kind of thing," He said, putting his hands in his pockets.
"Oh, yeah. We did this a lot when we were younger."
"Didn't even let the guy on the dance floor ruin your night." He looked at you, furrowing.
You raised your eyebrow.
"Of course not. That three-second interaction? Not at all. The last time I went dancing with Lola, a guy—"
And before you could speak, you mentally kicked yourself with the reminder that you had planned not to tell Bucky anything. You didn't want him to think that being his friend had caused you an awkward moment, even if he wasn't there.
"A guy, what?" he asked seriously, surprised by your sudden interruption.
"Nothing..." you said, sighing.
"You know you're a terrible liar, right?"
"It was nothing, just the same thing happened... He came over to flirt, and I wasn't interested."
He realized you were lying.
"I'll make you a deal," Bucky said slowly. "I'll tell you how my last mission went if you tell me what happened with that guy."
Your mouth fell open. You wanted to refuse, but something inside you told you that Buck was also hiding something that interested you—that morning, you both had hidden something, and he was offering an olive branch.
"Lola started bragging about the fact that we're friends." You lied. You preferred to lie about at least that part.
"And the guy started badmouthing you—nothing I hadn't already heard—and in the end, Lola threw a drink at him because he insinuated that I would sleep with serial killers," you said timidly.
"He implied that you would sleep with serial killers just because... You know me?" He knew you were lying.
"Something like that..."
He decided not to press the issue.
"Now will you tell me how your last mission went?"
He grunted.
"We had a mission where we found a very old HYDRA base. We'd had a lead on that base for over thirty years and couldn't spot it on the map, but—they found it."
You nodded, letting him continue.
"That mission was originally under the command of... a very well-known general. Maybe you know him, maybe you don't. General George…" You laughed nervously as you heard your father's name.
"Are you serious?"
"That's not the best part." He tried not to sound nervous, but he was. "To honor all the fieldwork your father did to find the information on that base, they gave the mission to his successors."
He dropped the bombshell as if he didn't want to be heard: quickly, almost whispering. You stopped, causing Bucky to halt in his tracks. Your hands felt cold for a moment.
"My brothers?" You said aloud. "You were with my brothers, and you didn't tell me?"
He nodded.
"If you call spending a couple of hours in the same space-time with your brothers, following Steve's orders and invading an abandoned HYDRA base, being with your brothers, then yes, I was with your brothers. But only with Noah and Robert. Derek wasn't there."
That caught your attention.
"Derek wasn't there?" He shook his head. "Do you know why?"
"You may find what I'm about to tell you surprising—but I didn't have a chance to talk to your brothers about your younger brother's whereabouts while we were having a few beers."
You rolled your eyes.
"Were you planning on telling me?"
"I didn't know if it was relevant, honestly. We didn't even talk about it."
Realizing you still had a couple of blocks to go, you stopped and put your hands on your hips. Bucky stroked your back, and you took a step back to catch your breath.
"I should have measured the distances better," you said, exhausted.
"We're less than two blocks away; there's no way a taxi will take us."
You grunted wearily.
"I can't walk another inch."
"Please, it's freezing. We need to get back to the building."
You shook your head, lifting one leg to try to relieve the burning sensation in the sole of your foot.
He reached out his hand to get you to move forward. "Come on, we're almost there."
You walked towards him and intertwined your hand with his. You didn't even think about it until you took the first few steps.
Your feet stopped for a microsecond to look at your joined hands. If you didn't look closely, you couldn't tell where your hand ended, and his began.
He noticed it too; it took him a moment to realize what he had done: he had offered you his hand without any shame.
Why did he feel ashamed? You had slept in each other's apartments, you had experienced so many things, and yet this was something more intimate than anything you had ever experienced before—even more so than the dance a couple of hours earlier.
You walked the rest of the blocks that way. Your fingers intertwined, Bucky talking about the mission as if his life depended on it. He had to keep his mind occupied with something other than how good your velvety hand felt against his.
When you reached the building and got into the elevator, you realized something you hadn't felt in months: you didn't want to be apart from each other. You needed that extra time; you wanted to make up for lost time over the last few months. Sadly enough, neither of you had the courage to ask for it explicitly.
Both of you were going over in your minds what the perfect excuse might be for not letting go of each other's hands, what the perfect reason might be for the other to stay a little longer in your apartment.
As the elevator door opened, Bucky began searching his pockets, his jacket. Once, twice. Nothing.
And then, almost like a miracle, as if the entire universe had conspired in his favor, it happened.
"Damn it," he said, feeling his pockets again, still holding your hand.
"Is something wrong?"
"I left my key card in Steve's car."
"Oh."
He shook his head irritably.
"I can drive you to his house to pick it up..." you said timidly.
There was a pause before you gathered courage.
"Or you could stay at my apartment, and I can drive you back tomorrow."
He stared at you. For the first time, you both realized that your hands were still clasped together. He nodded.
"I think we could go tomorrow to pick ‘em up."
You both nodded and reached your door.
Upon entering, reluctantly, you let go of each other's hands, and you quickly walked to your room. All you wanted was to be in comfortable clothes.
Bucky took off his jacket and left it on a chair.
"Here." You came out of the room, handing him a shirt that Bucky had lent you months earlier.
"I never gave it back to you. I think it's more comfortable than the one you're wearing." He nodded and headed for the bathroom.
At least it wouldn't smell like a bar.
When Bucky came out of the bathroom, you were waiting for him with some sheets and a couple of pillows. He sat down heavily next to you, his arm stretched across the back of the couch, almost on top of your shoulders.
"Did you enjoy the night?" You asked, playing with the sheet. He nodded with his eyes closed.
"I used to enjoy bars like an idiot, I guess you never forget that."
"We can do it more often."
"No way."
You both laughed.
He began to remember what bars used to be like, the monumental difference from how women weren't allowed in bars before, small details from literally the last century.
As he explained those details, you rested your head on Bucky's shoulder. You wanted to keep listening to him, but your brain was tired, your body still poisoned by alcohol. And Bucky's voice lulled you at that moment.
Without realizing it, you both fell asleep. Bucky couldn't even remember the last time he had fallen asleep mid-sentence, nor the last time he had fallen asleep with that ease.
The light that came from the window hit Bucky's face, waking him up annoyed, but a weight on his chest stopped him.
He realized he was trapped between the back of the couch and your body next to him—almost on top of him.
The metal arm held you by the shoulders, your arms gently wrapped around Bucky's body, your face resting on his chest, and your calm breathing. You hadn't even noticed that he had already woken up.
He smiled when he realized you had slept like that.
He decided to run his free arm over his eyes, covering them. Allowing himself to feel the warmth of your body a little longer. Allowing you to be the one to break that moment that was so... different between you.
After what felt like an eternity, or perhaps a sigh, you slowly woke up. Your hand began to feel Bucky's abdomen, trying to recognize where you were.
Both of your breathing stopped: he realized you were awake. You realized that you were practically asleep on top of Bucky's body.
He moved his arm from his face and noticed your eyes were half-open.
"I think we fell asleep," you said, smiling, now sitting on the edge of the couch.
He nodded.
"How about I take a shower, we stop by for coffee so we don't show up empty-handed, and then we go to Steve's house?" He nodded, just as confused as you were. Really trying not to focus your mind on the fact that you had woken up basically cuddling.
Next Part.
General taglist: @maplesyrizzup @wickedfun9 @herejustforbuckybarnes @w1nter-fairy @sassandscribbles @globetrotter28 @buckysouvenir @singulartoast @buckybsdoll @mathcat345 @elliestwoleftfingerss @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @phoenix-in-writing @onyx8514 @shitbewild @idkbeautiful @misswhiddless @buckybarneswife08 @beefybuckyplease @maxsaturdayhatesnarwhals @bunnybarnes1 @repsfolkwhore @rufles2 @eilish007 @greatenthusiasttidalwave @armystay89 +add yourself to my tag list!
Series tag list: @vicmc624 @queenofbeingvain @capswife
Summary: After bombing your European History exam, you seek comfort from your secret boyfriend, Professor James B. Barnes.
Pairing: Professor James Barnes x College Student!Reader
Word count: 2.5k
Warnings/tags: porn with absolutely no plot; secret relationship; age gap (bucky in his 40s, reader in her 20s); semi-public sex (office sex); student anxiety; student stress relief; kind of comfort sex?; oral sex (f receiving); fingering; praise kink/worship kink; one instance of pussy pronouns; use of petname (love & goddess); bucky is the gentlest lover; bucky loves being on his knees; no use of y/n; unbeta’d
Notes: so. we're all crazy about the new cartier photoshoot, right? right. i feel like every time a new Seb photoshoot comes out, some new inspiration for Professor Barnes comes to the light for me. here's the new hallucination somewhere in that universe.
Dim lights of the humanities building are practically vibrating as you walk through the hallway. There’s a chance it might just be the sheer volume of caffeine and panic coursing through your veins causing you to feel that way, too.
It’s half past six in the afternoon when you open the door to office 304, the one that has Professor James B. Barnes written on a small rectangle in golden letters. You don’t knock. Simply push the door open, slip inside and click it shut behind you, the sound definitely too loud in the quiet hallway now that most students have already gone home.
Inside, Professor Barnes, who has the reputation for being the toughest grader in the department and object of half the campus’ unrequited crushes, looks up from his desk, one brow arched, red pen hovering whatever he had been grading, silver-rimmed glasses perched on his nose and sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
You recognize it immediately, the slightly judgemental expression of someone who was not expecting to have his work interrupted with even as much as a knock; but the moment he notices the expression on your face, your hands still shaking with adrenaline, his own shifts from professional uptightness to something much softer. A soft look you’ve come to know, too, after the two of you began a secret relationship a little over four months ago.
“Sorry,” you say, already stumbling through words. “Sorry, I know I didn’t knock, I just—"
“Come in. Lock the door.” His voice drops, shifting from Professor Barnes to your James in the space of a few words.
You do just that. Then you stand there, backpack still hanging off one shoulder, hands twisting the strap.
“I’m freaking out about the European History exam,” you start. Professor Barnes shows no signs of being bothered by you immediately firing information his way.
“Sit down first.”
“I can’t sit down, James. I’ve been sitting for the past four hours, trying to—" You drop your bag onto the floor and start pacing the narrow strip of space between his bookshelf and the leather couch pushed against the wall. “I completely bombed it, okay? I know I did. Question three asked about the socioeconomic impacts of the Treaty of Tordesillas. I wrote about trade routes, James. Why did I write about trade routes? That wasn’t the prompt. And then I couldn’t remember some exact years, so I guessed, and I’m pretty sure I guessed about two decades off. If I fail this exam—”
“Please, sit—”
“—my GPA drops, and if my GPA drops, I lose my seminar slot for next semester, and then my entire track is ruined, and I'll end up living in a cardboard box—”
“Love.”
You stop, the way you always stop when he calls you that, like your mind still hasn’t quite learned to process that this man, older, more experienced, with a salt and pepper beard that makes your knees weak, would want to call you love.
James is leaning back in his chair now, arms crossed with muscles straining slightly against the shirt, and watching you with a particular patient expression, despite your serpentining conversation.
“The exam is done. You're spiralling," he tells you, and the second after he is getting up from his chair and stepping into your pacing path. A hand reaches for your wrist and makes you stop in front of him. “Breathe for me?”
“I’m not breathing, I can’t breathe, I have three more finals this week and I feel like my skull is gonna fracture from the pressure,” you whine, but are already leaning into his touch, seeking the warmth of him through your most stressful moments. He lets out a sympathetic sigh, fingers curling firmer around your wrist and pulls you fully to him before he presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head.
“There’s nothing you can do about it now.” And he’s not wrong. You open your mouth, close it, then sigh. Because there is nothing you can do about it now, and that’s somehow better, but also considerably worse. James tips your chin up with two fingers, ocean blue eyes meeting yours from behind his glasses.
“You have barely slept or eaten properly for the past week. I don’t like it. The way you chastise yourself whenever something goes wrong.” His thumb traces your jaw, and some of the tight coil in your chest loosens very much against your will. “Take a seat.”
“James, I don’t need to—"
“I’m not asking,” he says gently, which makes it incredibly more effective than if he had said it any other way, then nods towards the leather couch. “Sit. You’ve been white-knuckling it for days, give yourself ten minutes.”
You consider it. Not because you want to sit down, not because the exam is finally slipping away from your mind, but because James has shifted into that version of him he only ever lets out when he’s near you, with you, the one that breaks down all your defenses and leaves you bare, although not unsafe. You always feel safe with him.
Slowly, you agree and take a seat on the couch, back slumping against the cushions. Your body recognizes it as home almost immediately, letting the familiarity seep into your bones and making you relax.
James crouches down in front of you and rubs one hand over your right knee.
"Still thinking about it?" he asks.
"...A little."
You sink deeper into the worn leather of the couch, the tension in your shoulders only kind of melting under the weight of his gaze. James remains crouched between your knees for a long moment, large hands taking residence on your thighs, now, thumbs stroking soothing circles through the fabric of your jeans.
“You know I’ve always got you, right? Prettiest girl I’ve ever met. Smartest, too,” he murmurs, voice wrapped in velvet. That does it quickly, for you, and you know he knows it. He showers you in praise every time, because every time your body opens to him like a flower blooming in the sunlight.
Before you can overthink it, you simply nod. There’s a brief moment where you’re sure he whispers something like ‘let me take care of you’, and you do, you let him, the permission being the way your legs gently pry open right in front of him. A shaky exhale, head falling back against the couch. All the agreement he needs.
His long fingers travel upward and make easy work of the button of your pants before peeling them down your legs slowly. James pulls your boots off, then the pants along with them, and he leans forward, mouth pressing a kiss to your left knee. Upward, to the skin of your thigh, a bit to the side, to the inside of your leg. Three days' worth of stubble prickles against you as he moves, and you make a noise, something he sees quickly as desperation, and you know the complaint is futile. When has Professor Barnes ever given you anything quicker than the exact pace he wanted to?
“Relax,” he says against your thigh, then presses his lips to the skin again, an open-mouthed kiss before he bites down so gently you are barely even able to call it a bite. “Didn’t I just say I’ve got you?”
Large hands slide from your thighs to wrap firmly around the backs of your legs, fingers digging in with just enough pressure to tug you forward on the couch, sliding your ass closer to the edge so you’re perfectly positioned for him. That’s when you open your eyes again, just in time to watch him hook his fingers into the waistband of your panties and peel them down slowly, dragging the fabric along your thighs and off your ankles. And he does it all with his eyes on yours, two blue pits making you feel dizzy, but you still don’t look away. You couldn’t if you tried.
Cool air hits your now exposed pussy, making you shiver. James lets out a quiet hum of approval at the sight of you, already glistening with arousal.
“She’s always so beautiful,” a reverent whisper before his large hands wrap around your legs again and lift effortlessly to drape them over his broad shoulders, heels of your feet resting against his back. The new angle tilts your hips up towards his mouth, spreading you open for him completely, and before you can even catch your breath, or take a moment to push down the flush on your skin growing from the vulnerable way you are exposed to him, he leans in and drags his tongue through your folds in a filthy stripe from your entrance to your clit.
A breathy moan tears from your throat, echoing in the quiet office like a confession, and it unravels the last threads of your anxiety as pleasure rises in its place. Then James does it again, a little slower, savoring the taste of you, messy and unhurried, spit mixing with your arousal until your folds are slick and shining. On his knees in front of you, this brilliant man, esteemed professor, becomes nothing more than a servant doing worship at the altar of his Goddess. His broad shoulders carry your legs like an honor he would gladly take forever, and his eyes flutter shut as he presses closer.
He’s incredible at this; you’ve known it from the first time he fell to his knees, right here, in this office, always reading every twitch, every gasp, mouth moving with exquisite skill. Slow and indulgent at first, mostly for himself, drowning in the taste of your slick, before giving way to teasing flicks of the tip of his tongue around your swollen clit only to dip lower again, lapping messily at your entrance where your arousal flows for him.
Wetness coats his silver-streaked beard, glistening on his chin as he buries his face deeper between your thighs. The obscene sounds of his mouth feasting on your fill the room, wet slurping and sucking noises, a slick glide of his tongue, an occasional hungry groan into your cunt that sends sparks flying up your spine, all of it the actions of a man who could be on his knees for hours.
Your hands fly to his hair, gripping the dark strands as your thighs tremble around his head. “James…”
No words come out of his mouth then, none you can understand, anyway; instead, the response comes in the way he sucks your clit between his lips, wet suction making your hips jerk, before he releases it with a lewd pop. One hand claws at your thigh, keeping your legs right in their place, while two thick fingers slide into your welcoming heat, curling against the spongy spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids. James pumps them slowly, in time with the dance of his tongue over your clit.
Exam long forgotten, the world narrows to nothing but him, the way his blue eyes will sometimes flick up to watch you through fogged glasses, dark with lust and adoration. Only when he needs to take a moment to breathe, a quick one, enough to allow him to keep going for as long as you need him to, does he speak again.
“Goddess,” he whispers teasingly, slowing his fingers as if to get your attention. Your head tilts forward and you watch him through hooded eyes. “Will you cum for your most loyal subject?”
You huff in soft frustration, the sound breaking into another shaky moan as your body refuses to cooperate with your irritation. Because the edge is so close, molten in your belly, and here he is, being a wicked scholar and working you through comedic words.
“James, don’t… fuck, I’m so close, don’t play with me right now…” you manage, trying to reprimand him. But even as you say it, your cunt betrays you completely, clenching hard around his fingers, fluttering and squeezing with need and pulling them deeper as slick coats his hand.
Your favorite Professor gleams with amusement, lips curled into a devastating half-smirk, swollen and shiny. “You like it when I’m funny. You’ve told me before.”
You want to protest, but he curls his fingers again, strokes the perfect spot and dips his head again, sucking your swollen bud with perfect pressure, flicking the tip of his tongue rapidly in a rhythm that makes your vision spark white. For a second, he slips his fingers out and instead fucks you with his tongue, thrusting it inside you, before dragging it back up to torture your clit again while his fingers move back to their rightful place. His free hand grips your thigh harder, holding you open for him as you start to grind against his face, chasing the pleasure.
The combination is merciless. Frustration melts instantly into overwhelming pleasure, and another broken moan rips from your throat as your thighs tighten around his shoulders, heels digging into his back. Every stroke, every suck makes the coil in your belly tighten, pulling you deeper into a sea of sensation where exams and fears cannot reach. His beard scrapes deliciously against your sensitive skin with every movement of his head, and arousal drips down his chin onto the leather couch, but he only presses closer, as if he would gladly drown in you.
And just like that, your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, sudden and blinding. You cry out sharply, back arching off the couch as pleasure tears through every nerve in your body. James moans against your pussy like a man receiving divine absolution, your walls pulsing and fluttering around his fingers, gushing against his mouth. And he drinks down every drop of you until your trembling begins to quiet down, slowly easing his movements before pressing a couple of tender, open-mouthed kisses to your oversensitive pussy and to your inner thighs.
Still, he keeps your legs draped over his shoulders a moment longer, gazing at you through glasses that look slightly uneven with the most loving expression you have ever seen on a man. Breathless and floating, you manage to meet his eyes, and you smile at the sight of your brilliant professor on his knees, face glistening with the evidence of your pleasure.
“You’re trouble,” you whisper, though the words carry no real heat in them. James is busy kissing down your legs, lips reaching softly to every inch of skin, but he smiles in the midst of it.
“Trouble?” he repeats, feigning offense. “My goddess calls me trouble after I’ve knelt here and offered proper tribute? How cruel.”
You let out a breathless laugh that turns into a soft gasp when he nips gently at the crease of your thigh.
“You do know I love you, right? Even when you’re being silly while going down on me.”
That makes him smile wider. “I reckon you love me especially when I’m being silly while going down on you.”
Words: 300 words
A/N: Entry for June Jukebox Scribbles over @societynsoelsscribbles
Prompt: June 3rd - Season of the Witch – Donovan/ “What do you think I see?”
The worn leather of the couch creaked beneath you, a sound easily drowned out by the ragged, trembling breaths slipping from Bucky’s lips. You were straddled over his lap, the thick, aching weight of him stretched deep inside you. But as you set the pace, sinking down to take him fully, his hands suddenly slid away from your hips.
He gripped the cushions, white-knuckled as his head tilted back, his jaw clenching. That familiar shadow of doubt was creeping in a sudden, fierce wave of vulnerability making him want to pull back, to shield you from his own intensity. But you weren’t going to let him retreat.
“Look at me,” you whispered, leaning forward until your chest brushed his. You rode him with a slow, agonizingly deliberate tilt of your hips, forcing a low, wrecked groan from his throat. When his blue eyes finally met yours, they were clouded with quiet panic.
"You gotta stop... I don't want to hurt you," he mumbled, trying to shift beneath you, trying to deny what you were so eager to take.
Anchoring yourself, you cupped his face in your hands, forcing him to hold your gaze. "What do you think I see?" you asked softly, pressing your forehead to his. He swallowed hard, silent.
"Answer me, please," you purred, rolling your hips. The slick, friction-heated contact drew another aching groan from his chest. "I want you to watch me, Bucky. See exactly how much I love having you inside me."
Your hand slid down to his shoulder, rising up before sinking down slowly. The breathless sound that left you both was pure sin.
Bucky’s eyes darkened, the shy retreat instantly evaporating. "Fuck... remember, you asked for this." His hands locked onto your hips and he bucked upward, taking fierce control of the rhythm.
Type: standalone smutty one-shot with a side of fluffy feels and basically a love letter to Steve's hands
Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word count: 4400
Summary:
You really, really like Steve’s hands; they’re a pair of strong, talented and tender hands and they tell a story. They are also capable of all kinds of wonderful things.
Your attention doesn’t go unnoticed. Or unrewarded.
Warnings: NSFW, 18+, smut, hand kink big time, mirror kink, praise kink (if you squint), light bondage, slightly under-negotiated kink, allusions to dom/sub and light allusions to subspace depending on how you read it, language, Steve Rogers (he’s a warning and a kink)
A/N: I was supposed to work on other fics, but this one just jumped out out of nowhere (the nowhere LINK). This is my first time writing referencing shibari, please be kind; divider by @firefly-graphics
It is not a new realisation that creeps up on you the fateful Saturday afternoon; but it hits you with a fresh blissful intensity nevertheless.
It’s one of those lovely moments you and Steve got up to sharing lately, precious time in precious company, yet spent each wrapped in your own pastime. It’s a sweet kind of intimacy, comfortable and comforting, even in your relatively new love: being together, breathing the same air, mostly in silence, this time in one of the Avengers’ garages providing a surprising sanctuary on a warm weekend.
You, every now and then sharing a sentence you just read, one you particularly liked or simply made you laugh or think of him or you two together; him, working on his bike, hands smudged with a streak of grease here and there:
And therein lies the problem.
You’re reading, comfy on one of the armchairs which is there just for occasions like this.
Steve is working on his bike, crouched of laid or bend, arms bare to avoid smudging a sleeve.
You’re failing your task spectacularly.
Steve, on the other hand, is excellent; he truly is wonderful at working with his hands.
It’s been a while since you shared a line you enjoyed.
Steve’s not complaining. He is distracting though.
Your gaze, instead of focusing on the page to feed your mind with vivid images and new thoughts born out of the story, keeps wandering to him, the solid lines of his muscle, the tendons and veins on his forearms, his dextrous fingers.
Steve hasn’t noticed. Maybe. Or maybe he’s just being too polite. Or he’s too pleased to point it out.
You catch yourself blatantly staring. Your eyes and mind zero on one single thought, on one single object.
Steve’s hands.
The skin on his palms is roughened by battle and hard work, his knuckles a constellation of little scars scattered across, for not even his enhanced healing can keep up with how often he splits, or bruises, or breaks them when fighting for a better, safer world. His skin is scraped from where he reaches for the world that would fit with the idea of how things should be through the thorny paths of reality, over and over again, for he wants to believe and wants to do his part.
They are hands of a man who fights every day.
They are hands of a man who has taken lives.
They are hands of a man who has protected millions more and inspired others to do the same.
The touch of those hands is the most tender you have ever felt, soft even where the skin is hard, flesh warm and pliant where it meets your skin, fingers careful and meticulous where they hold a pencil or a brush to capture the beauty he sees all around him instead of choosing to only see the pain and wrongdoings; delicate, dextrous and decadent where they play your body to create symphonies of gasps and moans and keens of his name.
His grip is strong, palms broad, made for as much violence as for cradling; long fingers of an artist praying to his muse. A few visible veins rise, trailing up his forearms and enormous arms, the vulnerable paths you sometimes trace with your fingers and can now only think of tasting on your tongue, inhaling the aroma of his skin and salt of the sheen layer of sweat you know he can work when making love to you.
You’ve forgotten to breathe, throat and core tight and burning, memories and not-so-shy manifestation of your desires filling your head, fingers digging into the cover of the book you’ve long forgotten to pay attention to.
The vein running over the thumb edge of Steve’s hand shifts under your gaze, hypnotizing and alluring, making you lick your lips.
The warm, amused and slightly concerned voice sounds from a terrible distance – criminal distance, you deem, once you realize where it’s coming from, who it’s coming from – as it calls your name, clearly not for the first time.
You blink, the ghost of a taste of Steve’s skin lingering on your tongue, the corners of your lips rising on instinct.
“Hm?”
His eyes, however tinged with concern, are just as beautiful, but they inspire softer thoughts rather than sinful ones. You try to focus on those, trying to clear your head, drowning in the lovely sea of blue with a drop of green instead, breath not quite restoring as he rises to his full height; another criminal distraction.
He can hoist you up, you already know as much— the wonderful heights, literal and figurative, he’s made you reach with your back pressed against the wall, one hand squeezing your thigh, the other cradling your face to lick his name off of your mouth-
“You okay, honey?” he asks, sweet.
You blink again, not quite innocent, shifting in your seat.
“Yes, of course. You done?”
He instinctively wipes his hands on a nearby rag, not catching the smudge on his forearm and you ache do to it for him.
“Almost… you zoned out on me, more than usual. Are you really feeling alright? Have you drank enough water today?”
I have, and yet I’m feeling thirsty. Parched, in fact, but not for water. Hand me some?
You gulp, tearing your gaze away from the way one of his thumbs rubs over the other over the cloth with a herculean effort, met with the brilliant blue full of light and genuine, innocent care again.
Tell me, his soft smile coaxes, the wish to know your thoughts to contemplate them or stock them away for later as sincere as maddeningly attractive.
Your lips part with an inhale and a shaky exhale, your heart pounding as you consider whether to answer his wordless plea and answer truthfully.
You lose the battle before it can even start.
“I… I like your hands,” you confess, your own hands fiddling with the cover of your book, something you’d scratch anyone’s eyes out for if you saw them do so. It’s soothing though, especially as it gives your eyes something to look at, heat flushing your face at your admission.
Somehow, admitting it out loud feels more compromising than some of the positions Steve’s lovely hands has arranged you into and there have been quite a few.
“Oh?” he hums curiously, and you can feel his gaze tracing your face like a caress, looking for any further explanation. “Uhm… thank you,” he adds when none comes.
It’s just after one breath, one of his and one of yours, when you cave easily; because you know Steve won’t think less of you, or so you say so to yourself.
“I-“ you sigh, releasing the air slowly, eyes slipping shut. “I really… like your hands.”
Steve understands at the speed of one realisation per ten beats of your frantic heart.
“…oh.”
When you dare to look at him, there’s a faint blush in his cheek, the tips of his ears turning an adorable pink, his smile a little shy, gaze downcast.
“Good to know,” he says and you know he means it even as he turns back to his work.
You finally breathe even as you can hear the wheels of his mind turning madly while he’s tightening whichever things needs tightening on his bike.
Steve acts at the speed of a one heart-stopping action per your mind getting nearly settled from overthinking your confession.
He wipes his hands decisively and properly this time, already stalking to you as he tosses the rag somewhere you couldn’t care to look.
His skin still smells roughly of grease, but it’s his touch all your senses plunge into, broad palms cradling your face most deliberately, thumb brushing over your cheekbone, fingertips caressing behind your ear, tipping your head up just slightly for the perfect angle to kiss you wholeheartedly and--- your brain is melting and words stop making sense.
Steve turns your body into a something pliant, eager and entirely his, one kiss at a time, breaks for air a lot more necessary than needed. It’s impossible to not be hyperaware of the brush and press of his fingers which seem more generous than usual, tingly heat spreading through your skin and veins all the way into your heart and lower stomach.
When you head spins enough for you to worry you might lose balance where you’re sitting, he retreats, brushes his nose over yours with a smile you taste and feel rather than see, one of his hands moving to your hip to steady you instead and the circle he draws there is a bit short of soothing and all the more sinfully warm.
“Careful, honey. Can’t have you falling.”
You can hear the unspoken cheeky ‘for me’ but you forgive him, because he too sounds a little breathy and at least half as affected as you are and as he goes back to fixing his bike, he offers the perfect view of his hands at work again.
For a moment, you watch unabashedly, knowing that trying to read is an entirely lost cause.
Then, when you can’t bear the smug broadness of Steve’s shoulders and puffed out chest, you hide the heat radiating off your face, burning especially where his hands have cradled your cheeks and jaw and hip, behind the book completely.
You don’t have the faintest idea what you’ve been reading about and what you’re reading now, or whether the book is even in English.
You think Steve knows as much.
You bet he also knows he’s ruining your underwear one pair at a time by being himself and pulling stunts like this.
You’re hundred percent sure that the loveable bastard is proud of it too.
You love him anyway.
“Love you,” he says as if he can read your nearly empty mind and all you can do, when you remember how words work, is to have the same fall from your kiss-swollen lips.
He doesn’t mention it.
He doesn’t call you out, doesn’t make fun of you – because of course he doesn’t— but you can tell he’s thinking about it sometimes when his gaze gets absent as you lie on his chest on the couch, snuggled into him like he’s your favourite blanket, your hands toying with his, his fingers toying with yours.
The wheels are still loud in his head, but they are but background noise drowned out in his soft love and quiet smiles and little inside jokes whose number is increasing as the light and yet suffocating overwhelming sensation of love keeps expanding in your chest.
You almost think he has forgotten at times. Which is a ridiculous notion not only because of his eidetic memory.
You might not have one of those yourself, but having been embarrassed and swept off your feet by a dizzying kiss all the same after your confession, you do remember that exactly two weeks have passed when it culminates at last.
You’re spending a quiet date night in, cooking and baking, delighting in making something together and seeing the tangible outcome of your efforts.
Enjoying making things with your hands.
And you have noticed, thank you very much, how dexterous Steve’s hands are, cutting the vegetables, his knife skills tremendous.
You have noticed too, how expertly his hands are kneading the dough, fingers digging in with gentle vigour, the tendons on his forearms working, veins rising before the dough does, the muscles on his arms straining just enough to highlight their alluring outlines.
If you could draw, you’d draw an entire set of studies on Steve’s hands and arms, alas you cannot and so you simply appreciate the sight all the more for it, attention diverted from the task at hand.
Steve’s had a content smile playing on his lips all evening, but when he leaves the dough to rise, washing his hands and turning to you only to catch you staring where his hands has been drying a moment ago, stray droplets of water lingering along the most prominent veins, long fingers slipping between the folds of the washcloth and the towel… you would swear one corner of his lips rises higher.
Two of those fingers slip under your chin like they were made to do exactly that for the entirety of your lives, tilting your head back just a fraction, kissing you on the mouth like the secret and most essential ingredient for the dough to rise is love.
There’s quite a lot of time before the dough is ready, flashes through your mind as your hands rise to Steve’s shoulders, the contrast of his warm skin and solid muscle and the soft pliant fabric of his t-shirt is divine and maddening; the way his large hand sprawls over your hip in a gentle but swift response is mostly the former, but you’re losing your mind anyway.
Several frantic beats of your heart and Steve’s lips gently slanting over yours and you barely bother to remember there is a dough, not caring for the logically terrifying power he holds over you when he cradles your face and kisses you more.
Deeper.
Softer.
Sharing a meaningful secret you’ve revealed and rewarding it tenfold, as you’re soon about to find out.
“Do you trust me?” he whispers to your lips, tone so serious it almost feels out of place in your blissfully domestic bubble, and yet so right at the same time.
With what? is the logical question that should have followed suit.
With all I am, is the only words making sense in lieu of asking.
“Yes.”
You seal your fate; Steve seals your promise with another kiss, dripping of gratitude and excitement.
Steve is careful with you, always has been.
You both fell as hard and fast, so you’ve been careful not to rush or otherwise mess it up; you work hard on communication, because you both had enough misunderstandings and miscommunications in the past and are dealing with those every day in your respective jobs.
Your yes is thus a little foolish and a little outlandish in that sense – but it the most truthful answer you can give.
Especially because Steve has been paying so much attention.
To the faintest hints of you being uncomfortable.
To you being hurt.
Or, Lord help him, to you being hurt by him, even if on accident.
He’s careful with his strength, incredibly mindful always, but he’s all the more careful with how he can hurt you as a person, not just a supersoldier.
You never not notice so; and so when you said yes, you meant it.
You always mean it.
You mean it now and your heart is racing when he gently pushes you to walk backwards to his bedroom, the coil of arousal having been stirring in your belly all night tightening, sending a fragment of rational thought through.
Steve knows all too well what he has been doing all night; because he has not forgotten in the slightest.
When his hands explore slower than usual, lingering like burning marks over your skin – and you wish he had dipped them in paint so he could leave true imprints of his touch, not only for your heart to remember and your body to be blessed, but for both of you to see the wonderful prove of his touches – when his fingers trace the lines and curves of your body and the hems of your clothes indulgently before you discard it, you feel in every minute contact how much he does so both for himself and you.
And it flickers in your mind, as long as logic can when his fingertips and palms and lips drive you mad with their slowly intent and most definitely sweet torture, that the whole evening has been nothing a carefully thought-through foreplay.
And damn has he been playing; but never with your heart.
Never with your trust.
When his lips part from yours with a wet pop, skin blazing with gentle fire, his pupils are blown as much as you imagine yours are; when the soft rope comes out with a quiet May I?, his gaze once again making sure you are on board, you might be surprised, but entirely willing.
It wouldn’t not the first time you’re at the mercy of Steve’s generous and teasing loving, hands tied to the headboard, but he has never used rope before. The material is not as silky smooth as the scarves he has used before and the rope’s length is stirring as much curiosity as arousal deep in your core; but as Steve cradles the back of your hand and guides you to feel the surprisingly unrough strings, you already know that whatever his plan is, he will try his damnest not to cause as much as the littlest pain.
You do gulp when he lays the rope on the bed, and with all but your panties left on, asks you to kneel on the bed sideways to the mirror.
Again, it is not entirely unheard of; Steve loves art and looks for beauty all around him and you have, much to your surprise, quite enjoyed seeing his body with yours, as unreal and all to perfect his is on its own; it warmed your chest and had your head spin to see and feel what being with you does to him, what you make him feel. How much he wants and needs.
Today feels different nevertheless.
His hands roam, tender and lingering, as does his gaze, long enough to have your skin flush and your breathing, already quick, hasten and turn thready, only for your nerves to be soothed by his lips and love.
By God, the way he looks at you erases all the worries the second they threaten to spurt.
Air catches in your lungs when the red rope – like a string of fate, you think with a shaky smile – is laid over your shoulders, Steve’s gaze flickering to yours.
“Is this alright, love?”
Do you still trust me?
You do.
It takes you a moment to find your voice as you have a faint notion of what is coming form in your mind and you find yourself stunned, almost feeling silly when you realize just how natural it seems for Steve to think of trying this.
Steve with his eye for all beautiful things and hands meant to create masterpieces.
Artistic bondage.
And when his fingers slip under your chin when you finally breathe a soft yes, clear enough to his liking, he turns your head towards the mirror.
Heat spreads all over your skin and seeps deep into your muscles and very bones, along with the loveliest of warmth, because it finally all fits together.
Because not only will you see the outcome of Steve’s talented hands’ labour, but you will have the privilege of watching him and feeling him create something wonderful; on your body, no less.
You meet his gaze in the mirror and find him observing your reaction carefully, seemingly more vulnerable and with skin more flushed than yours.
It’s not enough.
You turn to face him with an encouraging and the softest of smiles, your eyes a little glassy; whether from bliss already taking over or from being touched by how thoughtful he was, neither of you could tell and yet you both could. It was both.
“I love you. I trust you. Thank you,” you whisper, earning a small smile, a fraction unsure.
“Don’t thank me yet. I did not practice much.”
“I trust you,” you repeat and watch his chest, still clad in the grey t-shirt, expand with a generous breath.
“I love you too. The second anything hurts, if I pull too tight-“
“I will tell you,” you reassure him, reaching for his face to pull him for a kiss, gratitude and excitement, and perhaps, now knowing what’s coming, a side of cheeky and teasing since you face the very master of the art of that. “How do you want me?”
His irises flash dangerously, speaking volumes of rather general ‘a lot’ as he gives you a deliberately slow onceover, but he kisses you again to taste the small smirk in the corner of your mouth---and mirrors it
“Put your wrists slightly above your lower back, love, however feels the most comfortable… they will stay for a while.”
You do so.
He is not wrong.
He also has been very right thinking you’d love this; that you’d love seeing him do this.
You’re quick to avert your gaze from his when he gets into work, eyes trailing to the mirror when he ties knots on your back or too high on your chest for you to see directly. Your lips part as you marvel at the not all that quick but all the more precise, neat, and careful set of knots scattered over your torso, appearing one after the other, forgetting to breathe in as Steve’s fingers move with more and more ease.
Where the thin rope hangs lose, the pads of his fingers trace their lines; where a new knot appears, he presses with his thumb gently, tendons in his forearm moving in a hypnotic dance, a subtle question of whether the tightness is alright.
You’re not sure you’d be able to tell; your body and your mind alike are floating, your chest feels full enough to burst with every flutter of your heart, your underwear a lost cause as you are near damn sure you are soaking down your thighs.
Steve’s hands are a gift to turn pliant for, your body like clay for him to mould; the muse and artistic medium at once, his gaze and words caressing you as much as his hands and mouth.
Beautiful.
So good for me.
Comfortable, love?
Not too tight?
Precious.
Thank you for letting me do this, honey.
Thank you for being mine.
I’m yours, too.
I swear.
I swear you take my breath away.
All the praise and soft words in midst of sharp focus on his artwork and you, the two blending together in his eyes and consequently, yours.
When he’s done and finally sheds his clothes too, you barely have the time and headspace to admire the work when he kneels behind you and all your gaze is drawn to are his hands, one carefully tangled in the ropes on your front, while the other slipping over your belly to your ruined panties, one clever tug ruining them beyond saving if there any has been a chance in the first place.
The sight is divine.
His touch to your slick skin trailing where you need him the most is electrifying and blissful, heaven and hell aligned so perfectly you feel a sob threatening to spill.
You ride the wave of ecstasy before you know it, Steve’s sweetly sinful lips on your ear.
So fuckin’ gorgeous falling apart on my fingers.
So goddamn perfect at my mercy.
And at his mercy you are and he takes the opportunity and makes the most of it.
Yes, your hands get in a way a bit, grasping at every brush of his heaving abs pressed to your back when he enters you and fills you over and over again, easily despite his impressive length for he’s been preparing you for hours to no end, starting the moment you walked through the door, seducing your mind and body alike like never before.
Like no man before; the idea they could ever compare would have been laughable had you been able to laugh, had your breath not been stolen and punched out of you with every measured and powerful thrust growing sloppy after your third peak, on your knees, on your front, pressed to the mattress with no escape and feeling golden all over.
When Steve buries himself deep inside you, barely keeping on his elbows as his whole body sheaths yours, you catch a glimpse of his hands on you and the ropes and it occurs to you that one of the most beautiful things his hands can be is possessive, needy and all over you. The rope digs into your skin a bit at times, but it’s where Steve’s gripped you that you feel the most, a flicker of delight there might be an imprint or two after all even without paint.
You both pant and struggle to catch your breath as even his last minute thrusts cease, a few moments of Steve fighting not to crush you before you succeed in rolling you over in collective effort; boneless in post-orgasmic bliss, as clearly as you are, he still presses as close as possible, his lips, wet and sloppy and loving, peppering your skin with kisses and gentle, loving words.
Love you.
Thank you for trusting me.
You’re so perfect.
He moves with a curse on his lips to release you from your binds as soon as you hiss at a cramp in your arm; you miss his warmth so much you whimper and mutter for him not to leave. The supersoldier part of him comes in quite handy that moment, as he easily manipulates you on top of him just enough for you to find momentary relief even without untying you.
It is a relief to your muscles though when he finally cuts the binds in a few places, favouring freeing you quickly and efficiently rather than preserving the masterpiece of rope over your body.
You’d felt sorrier for it, hadn’t he muttered that the true work of art was unharmed, he hoped, and if you wanted to, he’d create another one some time. You nearly give yourself a whiplash with how fast you try to nod, earning an unfairly adorable laugh, with his eyes crinkling almost boyishly.
He looks at you, a mess himself, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, skin beautiful flushed and irises blown, and what you read in his face is nothing but love, undiluted safe for the little cheekiness you adore.
“You still like my hands then, I take it?”
You think about trying to scold him for downright fishing when the answer is obvious, but given how much he had humoured you, playing so thoughtfully into your kinks (and knots), you simply smile.
“Yes, Steve. I love them… and I love you.”
The smug jerk, the tender bastard, the wicked gentleman of yours grins briefly before his expression softens and he cradles your face carefully as you lay there, lifts your head like precious porcelain, and kisses you like he’s inviting the muses through your lips for the next time he’s already vowed to bring upon you.
“And I love you. More than anything.”
S.R. masterlist // Complete masterlist
Hello dear reader, thank you for reading!
It's been a while, again. I am aware I was supposed to work on other fics, but this one just jumped out out of nowhere (*cough cough* the nowhere being seeing a tumblr post about Steve's hands at the funny cosmic alignment *cough*). I hope you will enjoy reading nevertheless. I'm always happy to hear from you as interaction is love - but please, this was my first time writing referencing shibari, so forgive me any misconceptions and missteps.
I hope that as May blooms into June, life is being kind to you.
$ log - a sultry reunion at the bar with your childhood best friends, cpt. steve rogers and sgt. bucky barnes!
$ warn --gn!reader --dom!reader --dom!bucky --sub!steve --darkfic --dubcon --praise --humiliation --objectification --groping --dry-handjob --sensory overload --semi-public-play --power-imbalance --childhood-friends-to-lovers(twisted) --power-play
$ wc -w 3.2k
$ cd masterlist
$ echo "playing w steve's sense of duty was lowk fun to explore" > authors-note.txt
$ tag @twentytomidnight !
# 1940s era, post-serum steve is so sensitive, it's delicious! all of you work somewhere on the base, but steve planned to catchup tonight with his two best people
The air in the base bar was thick enough to choke a man, a heavy blend of stale tobacco, spilled rye, and the sweat of soldiers trying to forget the war for a few precious hours. But in the corner booth, tucked away from the raucous laughter of the main floor, the atmosphere was different. It was stifling, charged with a predatory sort of heat that had nothing to do with the summer night.
Steve sat between you and Bucky, looking like a god carved from granite. The serum hadn't just fixed his lungs and his stature; it had turned him into a fucking masterpiece. His shoulders were broad, straining against the fabric of his uniform in a way that made your mouth go dry. He was talking something about the strategic importance of the next sweep through the Ardennes but his voice sounded strained, an octave higher than the steady, rhythmic baritone you remembered from the old Brooklyn streets.
You didn't care about the Ardennes. You cared about the way his chest rose and fell with every heavy breath.
You let your hand slide from the table, your fingers tracing the hard, unyielding line of his pectoral muscle through the thick wool of his jacket. Beside you, Bucky was just as relentless, his hand resting heavily on Steve’s thigh, his thumb tracing slow, suggestive circles just above the knee.
"And the unit... they've been... performing well," Steve stammered, his eyes fluttering for a fraction of a second as your palm pressed firmly against the center of his chest, feeling the frantic, powerful thud of his heart.
Those muscles seemed to be stretching the seams of his uniform until the fabric looked ready to burst.
"Is that so, Stevie?" you murmured, leaning in closer until the scent of his clean, masculine skin mingled with the whiskey on your breath.
You let your hand wander lower, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his slacks, feeling the heat radiating from his core. "You seem a little distracted. Is the mission really that taxing, or is it us?"
Bucky let out a low, gravelly chuckle, his grip on Steve’s thigh tightening, his fingers digging into the dense muscle there. "Don't let us stop you, Steve," Bucky teased, his voice a sultry velvet. "We're just catching up. It's been a long time since we've seen you looking quite this... impressive."
Steve swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing convulsively. He tried to fix his gaze on the half empty glass in front of him as if he could find any solace in the amber liquid.
But his eyes kept betraying him, darting toward your hand as it wandered with increasing boldness, or flickering toward Bucky’s predatory grin.
You leaned in even closer, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, your voice dropping to a filthy, conspiratorial whisper that cut through his military discipline like a knife. "America's sweetheart? More like America's poster boy," you purred, your fingers finally finding their mark, palming the heavy, solid swell of his groin through the thick fabric of his slacks. "I bet you could last a whole night on that stamina, couldn't you, Steve? All that strength... just waiting to be put to use."
Steve let out a choked, strangled sound, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the table. His face was flushed a deep, burning crimson, and for a moment, the legendary Captain America looked completely undone.
Bucky's hand slid further up Steve's inner thigh, his touch possessive and unyielding, mirroring the way you were currently kneading the heavy muscle of Steve's groin. The Captain was caught in a vice of sensation, his breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches that betrayed the sheer effort it was taking to remain seated in a public bar.
He looked like a man teetering on the edge of a precipice, caught between the duty of a soldier and the primal, desperate needs of a man being hunted by his oldest friends.
"I... the missions... they require focus," Steve managed to choke out, though his eyes were glazed, half lidded with a mounting, undeniable lust. He tried to straighten his posture, to reclaim some semblance of the hero the world saw.
But as you leaned in to nip playfully at his earlobe, his head fell back slightly, exposing the vulnerable, pulsing line of his throat.
"...and the infantry... they've been... remarkably efficient in the latest sector," Steve stammered, his voice hitching precariously as your palm pressed firmly against the heavy, solid swell of his groin through his slacks.
He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the wooden table, trying to anchor himself to reality while the sensation of your hand kneading him sent jolts of pure electricity straight to his spine.
Just as he tried to swallow the groan rising in his throat, Bucky leaned in, his lips grazing the sensitive, pulsing curve of Steve's earlobe. Bucky’s breath was hot, a low, teasing hum against his skin that made Steve’s entire frame shudder.
"What's gotten into you today, Steve?" you asked, your voice dripping with a mock innocent sweetness that contrasted sharply with the heavy, rhythmic pressure of your hand against his crotch.
You gave his jaw a playful, sharp smack with your fingertips, a little sting to snap him back to the conversation. "It’s a little rude to leave us hanging. You were telling us about the new unit commanders."
Steve let out a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a whimper, his head lurching back slightly as Bucky’s tongue darted out to lick the shell of his ear. The super soldier serum had turned his nerves into live wires; every touch was a goddamn explosion. He felt like he was vibrating, his skin humming with a sensitivity that made the simple friction of his uniform feel like a caress.
"The... the commanders..." Steve managed, his voice dropping an octave, thick and strained. He tried to pull himself together to reclaim some semblance of the hero the world saw.
But his body was betraying him with every frantic, shallow breath. He tried to focus on the mission reports, on the tactical advantages of the terrain, on anything that wasn't the feeling of your fingers curling possessively around his groin or Bucky’s teeth grazing his neck.
"The commanders... they're... they're quite strict," he choked out, but the sentence died in a broken whine when you leaned in, your teeth catching his earlobe and tugging just hard enough to make his hips jerk involuntarily against your palm.
"Strict? You sound like you're having trouble focusing, Stevie," Bucky teased, his voice a low, predatory rumble near Steve's temple. His hand slid from Steve's thigh to his back, pulling him even tighter into the corner of the booth, effectively pinning him between the two of you. "Maybe you're just a little distracted by the company?"
Steve let out a strangled, pathetic little sound, his forehead dropping toward the table as he fought the urge to just unravel right there in the middle of the bar. He was a man of iron, a symbol of strength, but under the coordinated assault of your hands and Bucky's mouth, he felt like he was melting into the leather of the booth.
The experiment had made him a god, but it had also made him a slave to sensation; he could feel the heavy throb of his own blood, the way his skin burned where you touched him, and the agonisingly slow crawl of Bucky’s fingers up his spine.
"I... I'm fine," he lied, the words coming out as a breathless, desperate rasp. He tried to straighten his shoulders, to look the part of the Captain, but you weren't having it.
You leaned in, your lips brushing his jaw as you whispered, "You don’t have to be fine when you're acting so damn shy," you purred, your hand shifting from a knead to a slow, deliberate stroke that forced a sharp, jagged gasp from his lips. "Tell us more about those duties, Steve. Tell us how much stamina you really have."
You didn't stop. Instead you leaned into the cruelty of it, your hand moving with a slow, rhythmic, and utterly shameless pressure. You weren't just touching him anymore; you were giving him a heavy, clothed handjob, your palm sliding up and down the rigid length of him through the thick fabric of his slacks.
You could feel the frantic, hard throb of him against your palm, a pulse so strong it felt like it might burst through the seams. Bucky’s mouth was a constant, searing heat against the side of Steve’s neck, his hands roaming Steve’s broad shoulders and chest, pinning him into the very center of your combined lust.
"You going to be good for us, Stevie?" you whispered, the old nickname tasting like a delicious sin on your tongue. You leaned in, your eyes locking onto his glazed, blown out blue ones, watching the way he struggled to even keep his head upright. "Are you gonna let us do this to you? Or are you too busy being the big, brave Captain?"
Bucky let out a low, mocking hum against Steve's skin, his fingers digging into the muscle of Steve's thigh. "He looks a little overwhelmed, sweetheart. Maybe the hero needs a little help finding his footing."
Steve’s eyes were blown wide, the blue of his irises nearly swallowed by his pupils as he stared at you, his jaw working fruitlessly. He was caught in a brutal, beautiful tug of war.
On one hand, the serum was screaming at him to surrender, to let the pleasure crash over him like a tidal wave, to finally let go and spill himself right there in your hand.
On the other, the soldier in him — the man who had become a symbol for an entire nation — was fighting a losing battle to maintain his dignity. He could feel the dampness of his own arousal, the terrifying possibility of ruining his pristine, honorary slacks in the middle of a crowded base bar.
"Just… just... it's not... the right place..." he managed to choke out. Though the protest was utterly ruined by the way his hips bucked upward, seeking more of your relentless, rhythmic pressure.
You leaned in, your eyes glinting with a wicked, teasing light as you watched him struggle. You didn't soften your touch; instead, you increased the speed of your hand, your palm working the heavy length of him through the fabric with a shameless, unhurried intensity.
"Not the right place? But Stevie, you're the Captain. Surely you can handle a little excitement without losing your composure," you purred, using that old childhood nickname just to watch the way his eyes fluttered in a mix of nostalgia and pure, unadulterated lust.
"Yeah, Stevie," Bucky added, his voice a dark, velvet taunt as he leaned in to nip at Steve's jawline, his hand on Steve's thigh squeezing with a heavy, possessive rhythm that made Steve’s entire frame shudder. "Or maybe you're just scared you won't be able to keep that 'Captain America' face on once you finally break."
Steve’s breath was a series of broken, high pitched hitches, his hands clenching the edge of the wooden table so hard the grain groaned under his strength. He was teetering on a razor's edge, the sensation of your hand working him so firm, so rhythmic, so utterly unconcerned with his reputation driving him toward a precipice he wasn't sure he could survive.
The friction was maddening, a slow burn torture that made his vision swim. He could feel the heat pooling, the desperate, heavy ache in his groin that demanded release, yet the thought of the mess, of the sheer, unmitigated scandal of the great Captain Rogers coming in his uniform in a corner booth, held him back with a white knuckled grip on his own self control.
He was a man caught between two worlds: the disciplined soldier who stood for everything pure and unyielding, and the raw, hyper sensitized man who was currently being driven to the brink of madness by the two people who knew him best.
Every time your palm slid up the length of him, he felt a jolt of electricity that threatened to shatter his very bones, and every time Bucky’s teeth grazed his skin, his resolve crumbled just a little more.
"Look at him," Bucky teased, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial growl as he watched the sweat bead on Steve's forehead. "He's practically vibrating. You think he's gonna hold it, honey? Or is the Captain about to lose his war?"
You leaned in, your face inches from his, your eyes dancing with a cruel, beautiful mischief. You slowed your hand down, making the friction agonisingly light, a teasing, feather light drag that made Steve's entire body lurch as if he'd been struck.
He let out a strangled, high pitched sound, his eyes snapping shut as he fought the urge to thrust his hips into your hand. "Don't be a tease, Stevie," you whispered, your voice a sultry command. "Show us how much of a man you've become."
He was teetering on the very edge of a cliff, the sensation of your hand slow, deliberate, and agonisingly precise driving him toward a total sensory collapse.
The heat in his groin was a physical weight, a heavy, pulsing ache that demanded he just give in, let the dam break, and ruin those expensive slacks for the sake of a single, glorious moment of release. But the soldier, the legend, the man who carried the weight of the world on his broad shoulders, was still there, fighting a silent, desperate war of attrition.
The dam finally broke. Not a dignified surrender; rather a violent, shuddering collapse of every ounce of discipline Steve possessed.
As your hand tightened its grip, delivering one final, heavy, and unapologetically rhythmic stroke, Steve’s head snapped back against the booth with a muffled cry. The world flooded into a blinding white haze of pure, unadulterated sensation. He felt the heat bloom, the heavy, pulsing release flooding his slacks, a warm, messy testament to his total defeat.
He slumped forward, his forehead resting against the cool wood of the table, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps that sounded more like a sob than a triumph.
The shame hit him immediately, the heat of his own release soaking into the fabric, the sheer, unmitigated scandal of it all but it was quickly drowned out by the overwhelming, heavy lethargy of the serum induced afterglow. He felt undone, stripped of his Captaincy, left as nothing more than a man who had been thoroughly, shamelessly conquered by the two people who knew his soul better than anyone.
But as the initial shock of his vulnerability settled, the cruelty of the teasing melted into something far more tender.
You and Bucky didn't mock his mess; instead, you leaned in, your movements softening as you provided the aftercare he so desperately needed. Bucky’s hand, which had been so predatory moments ago, now moved with a gentle, rhythmic grace, smoothing the hair back from Steve’s sweat-dampened forehead like he was soothing a wounded puppy.
Steve was still shivering, his eyes half closed and glazed with a mixture of relief and lingering, heavy lidded shame. You leaned in, your voice a soft, honeyed purr that vibrated against his ear. "You did so well, Stevie," you whispered, your hand moving from his groin to lovingly stroke his hair, smoothing the golden locks back from his flushed face. "Such a good, obedient soldier."
Bucky let out a low, rumbling chuckle, his lips grazing Steve’s cheek as he added his own praise, his voice thick with a playful, cruel edge. "Yeah, look at you. All that power and all that muscle, and you couldn't even handle a dry handjob without coming undone like a damn amateur," Bucky teased, his thumb tracing the line of Steve's jaw with a tenderness that stood in stark, jarring contrast to the filth of his words. "Poor thing. You'd be a real mess if we actually got you out of these clothes, wouldn't you?"
You let out a soft, melodic laugh, your fingers lingering in his hair, petting him like a prized, well behaved puppy even as you whispered the next barb. "He really would, Bucky. Our big, strong Captain, completely helpless under a little bit of attention. It’s almost a crime how much of a toy you are, Steve."
Steve could only let out a weak, humiliated huff of a laugh, his face buried in the crook of his arm, too exhausted and overstimulated to even attempt a proper protest. He knew he should feel insulted, but there was a profound, grounding comfort in the way you both looked at him not as a god, not as a symbol, but as the same Steve he had always been, just... more.
He let himself sink into the sensation of your hands, accepting the beautiful, twisted duality of your affection. You loved him, but you also loved to break him, and in the quiet, hazy aftermath of his release, he realised he wouldn't have it any other way.
You both are his two closest people ever, always by his side, even hen he was roughed up on the streets, and you two even agreed for this little bar reunion tonight too — why would he ever want to pull away?
"We'll leave you to clean up your little accident, Cap," Bucky murmured, his voice softening one last time as he pulled away, though his eyes still danced with mischief. He stood up, tossing a few crumpled bills onto the table, making sure to leave an extra handful of coins specifically for Steve’s ride home.
You followed suit, leaning down to press one last, lingering kiss to Steve's heated temple. "Don't think this means you won't be paying for this later," you whispered, your eyes twinkling with a promise of even more delicious torment the next time you were all alone.
As the two of you stood up, the heavy, boisterous laughter of the bar seemed to swell around you two, but for Steve, the world was still quiet, centered entirely on the heavy throb of his pulse and the lingering warmth of your touch. He watched through half lidded, dazed eyes as you and Bucky sauntered toward the exit, two beautiful, chaotic forces of nature who had just completely dismantled the most powerful man in the world and then walked away laughing like you hadn't just committed a goddamn crime.
He sat there in the dim light, the scent of you and Bucky still clinging to his skin, feeling the damp, heavy reality of his ruined slacks against his thighs.
But as he sat there in the dim light, the scent of you and Bucky still clinging to his skin, he realised he had never felt more alive. He was the Captain, the hero, the man of iron, and he was a complete, beautiful wreck and he wouldn't trade a single second of it.
𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: Steve Rogers, the best student in class, knew just the way to help you study.
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+/MDNI. [Pussy slapping, clit play, hes being like that on purpose], name calling.
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 374
𝐀/𝐍: day one of June Jukebox Scribbles hosted by @societynsoelsscribbles!!!! Coming in strong with my newly found degradation kink hehe🤭
𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭: “I never understood a single word he said”
⤷June Jukebox Masterlist ⤷Steve Rogers Masterlist
“Say that again, sweetheart.” He purrs against your throat, licking a long stripe up your soft, sweaty skin.
Steve Rogers.
The golden boy with the dark edge. Everyone hated him. But they knew.
Knew he was the best.
"I didn't understand today's lecture..."
"Why? Professor Adler not teaching you right?" He asks with casual ease, as if his fingers weren't inching closer and closer to your bare, dripping pussy.
It was a rule— you want him to teach you, you take off your panties. Simple. Just like all things were for him.
“I— I never understood a single word he said,” you whisper, guilt underlining each word, “because... you sent me your picture.”
You could feel his grin on your skin, shameless and proud, “You're so dumb, baby. One picture and all you could think about was my cock. You're such a filthy slut under all that good girl guise, yeah?”
He lands a quick smack to your cunt, the wet sound echoing in his dorm room. You cry out his name, clutching onto his thick forearm as he soothes the stinging burn with his fingers rubbing soft circles on your throbbing clit.
“My poor, dumb baby loses every thought when she's horny for me, right?”
His words made you burn with shame. As much as you prided yourself for being good, Steve always succeeded to bring out this side in you, the damned side you didn't even know existed.
“Now, why don't you go ahead and read your notes?"
You nod, leaning forward to grab the notes he made you write last week, but couldn't possibly read a single word as he pinches your clit between his fingers, chuckling when you yelp in pain, your body writing to get away from his hold.
“Tsk-tsk… don't move around too much, we haven't got all day.”
Another slap to your pussy. This one much sharper than the last, making your pussy drip down his lap, staining the faded denim.
Not that he'd mind wearing the wetness all day long, showing everyone just how perfect he was even when he was a mess.
“Steve! Please….”
“You beg so pretty, sweetheart. Might just let you suck my cock after you get your questions right…”
𑣲⋆ if you'd like to be added to my taglist, send a letter via a pigeon...or just a reply down below🫶🏻 (i write for ce babes and bocky. if you'd like to be tagged for someone specific, please feel free to let me know 🤭🤭)
Warnings: Suggestive tension, brat-taming dynamic, soft-dom Steve
Words: 298 words
A/N: Entry for June Jukebox Scribbles over @societynsoelsscribbles
Prompt: June 2nd - “No I can't promise that I won't do that.”
Steve’s hand rested on your knee beneath the table, warm and heavy enough to feel like a warning.
You ignored it on principle.
Across the room, Sam laughed at something Bucky said, but Steve’s attention never left you. Not after the third little contradiction. Not after the smile you gave him over your glass or after you brushed your mouth against his jaw and whispered something entirely inappropriate during dessert.
Now, in the car outside your apartment, he cut the engine and turned to you.
“Question.”
You bit back a smile. “Answer.”
His eyes narrowed, but smiled anyway despite himself. “Are you going to be a good girl tonight and ask for what you want?”
Your thighs pressed together.
“Or,” he continued, voice dropping, “are you going to make me drag it out of you because you’d rather act like a brat until I have to boss you into behaving?”
You swallowed, heat crawling up your neck.
He waited.
That was the worst part. Steve could wait forever. He could sit there in the driver seat, looking righteous and impossible, while you ruined yourself with anticipation.
You looked out the windshield. “No, I can’t promise that I won’t do that.”
A quiet exhale left him.
He was prepared for that answer.
“Look at me.”
You did, slowly.
Steve’s hand slid from your knee to your thigh, fingers flexing once. “You know what happens when you make me work for it.”
“You like working for it.”
His mouth curved. So did yours.
“There she is,” he murmured, leaning closer. “My pretty little troublemaker.”
“I didn’t admit anything.”
“Course you didn’t.” His knuckles brushed your cheek. “But you’re about to.”
PAIRING: Steve Rogers x Reader
WORD COUNT: 2.6k
WARNINGS: domestic fluff, established relationship, steve is tired okay?, SMUT (free use implication, so much oral (f receiving), steve is a munch, fingering, tonguefucking, spit kink, spit as lube, couch sex, p in v, mating press, creampie, cockwarming if you squint, cock pronouns (like ONCE), multiple orgasms) porn with very little plot.
SUMMARY: Steve gets home and there's no better way to get his head out of thinking about work than to put it right between your thighs.
+fran: I'm in such a Steve kick lately, this ovulation he has me by the clit and he's not letting go. I love how fluffy this is and I too need this man to eat me out until there's nothing in either of our heads. This is straight up blond man propaganda. Here's a little nugget of a fic while I write bigger ones.
Steve Rogers, way back when, wouldn't be called uptight.
He wasn't much of a rule follower to begin with, seeing things morally grey instead of black and white. He's always been someone that just wants to do the right thing, whatever the cost of that may be.
Steve Rogers in present day, however, would be uptight by 2020s Manhattan standards.
His entire presence commanded obedience. Authority.
Steve's star-spangled broad shoulders, squared when he stood with his hands on his belt ever the proper man, drew every eye in the room to him like a magnet.
His voice never wavered when barking orders left and right, always a man with a plan. If strategy A failed, he was already halfway through strategy B, and had already thought of a third alternative.
The entire weight of the world had always been on his shoulders, for the better part of 108 years.
Steve is, however, much like a working dog. He's restless. He needs a job to do, and do well, even when his actual job stresses him the fuck out.
So when he's walking up the stairs of your condo in the Village, his throat tired from yelling over gunfire, his feet exhausted from running miles in combat boots, and his shoulders tense from holding back frustration during the debrief, the sound of your voice while you talk on the phone is a soothing balm for his soul.
He unlocked the door and walked in, the dimly lit apartment making him feel like he could finally let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
You were curled up on one end of the couch, throw blanket lazily over your legs as a candle burned on the kitchen isle and some trashy reality TV on, while you talked with your best friend on the phone about the events unveiling in front of your eyes.
Your weekly debrief, you called it. Steve thought it was cute.
"Okay, but here's the thing," you were saying into your phone, eyes glued to the television. "I don't actually think she's mad about the text messages."
Steve really didn't understand half the appeal of those shows. Every week he'd come over and find some new catastrophe unfolding. Someone was cheating on somebody, someone was throwing a drink, someone was crying in a confessional interview, someone was apparently there "for the wrong reasons."
And somehow you knew every single person's name, history, motivations, and interpersonal grievances.
Steve let the door latch with a soft "click" and he dropped his duffel by the counter and shrugged his shoes off.
You turned your head at the sound immediately, your face softening the instant your eyes locked with his.
There was something about being looked at like that after a day spent getting shot at, yelled at, and blamed for things outside of his control.
Something about knowing there was one place in Manhattan where nobody expected Captain America.
He was just expected to be Steve, or Babe, or Honey, or Stevie, or—
"Hold on," you told your friend, reaching out to him with one hand, which he knew was code for "come here and kiss me".
He smiled with the side of his mouth and complied, walking over until he was behind you, making you tilt your head back to kiss him, a little murmured "I missed you." against his lips before you went back to your conversation.
He finished walking around the couch, laying down on top of you as you made space of his waist and torso between your legs, his arms instinctively wrapping around your waist as he nuzzled his face into your sternum.
Steve Rogers melted.
That was the only word possible for the exhale he let out as soon as your fingers tangled in his hair, nails gently scraping at his scalp as he let his entire weight just rest on you.
"You okay, baby?" Your voice was low, not even a hair above a whisper, and he just hummed in agreement against the soft fabric of your tank top.
"Do you need to go? Baaabyyyy." You rolled your eyes at the phone.
"Don't start."
"Oh, I'm absolutely starting. Did Captain America just come home and immediately turn into a golden retriever?"
Steve huffed a quiet laugh against your shirt. Your hand immediately moved to the back of his neck, nails grazing softly until you pushed your hand past the collar of his cotton shirt, scratching lightly at his back.
If he was a cat, he'd be purring right at that moment.
"No, because listen," you told your friend, eyes narrowing at the screen. "The issue isn't that she lied." Steve watched you. "The issue is that she lied badly." Completely, utterly, disgustingly in love. "Those are different crimes."
Blue bird sky eyes that look up at you like you invented spring. Like your voice alone makes flowers bloom and birds sing.
His chin rests comfortably on your stomach, one arm draped across your waist while your fingers absentmindedly travel back up to continue scratching at his scalp.
The way you laugh when someone says something stupid on the show makes him understand poetry. Because regular sentences in language aren't enough to explain what it feels like when somebody becomes your favorite thing in the entire world.
Steve had always been… tactile when he was tired. Like a working dog, he'd find something to occupy his mind until he was so tired, the inside of his skull was nothing but tv static.
Not clingy, exactly just drawn toward you in the same way a sunflower turns toward sunlight.
His fingers slipped beneath the edge of your thank top, resting against the warm skin of your side, fabric riding up and exposing your stomach to him as he pressed absentminded kisses against the skin there.
Your eyes flickered to him, another kiss on the lower left side of your stomach, big calloused hands pushing your shirt a smidge up again.
When he grazed the skin with his teeth and soothed it with his tongue, you realized what he was getting at. Some flavor of "I gotta go, love you, bye" and the call was disconnected.
"Steve." No answer. His hands slowly came back down the length of your waist, "Steve." He was in his own little world, fingers hooking them hem of your sleep shorts and pulling them down.
You let him, because what woman in her right mind would prevent Steve from seeking comfort, specially if that comfort was eating your pussy until you saw double?
He threw the shorts somewhere in the room, nothing but a grunt here or a groan there coming out of his mouth in the meantime.
You put your right foot on his chest softly, as to catch his attention, sparkling eyes looking up at you with a little "hmm?" to match.
"Are you okay?"
He sighed happily. He knew you knew you didn't have to worry about him, he's a super solder, a hero, a goddamn Avenger, what could a mere civilian like you do?
But he still loved your worry. Loved… your love.
Steve chuckled softly and kissed the inside of your ankle, something along the lines of "always okay when I'm with you" being printed against the skin of your leg as his kisses went higher and higher and higher.
He stopped quickly when he got to your core, place a wet kiss over your panties and pulling them down your legs in one swift motion. The plane of his chest resting against the couch as he settled your legs over his shoulders.
His arms wrapped around you legs, hands resting on top of your thighs to keep you open for him. He nuzzled his face against you first, eyes closed as he licked a flat, wide strip up your cunt.
The soft gasp coming from your lips only spurred him on, your left hand reaching down to tangle in his blond locks again while your right hand rested on his forearm.
Steve looked like he was in a trance. Hypnotized by the taste of you. He hummed against you, satisfied you were giving him what he wanted. Letting him take what he wanted.
His tongue was soft, warm, wet as it lapped against your folds. He'd tense the muscle closer to your clit and circle it with his tongue before sucking it between his plush lips, only to slow down and do it again.
The day had scraped him raw in a hundred tiny ways, and now he was tucked into the safest place he knew.
You.
"Mmmm, that feels good…" You settled further into the couch, letting your legs fall open around his head as he lazily made out with your pussy. His right hand reached up to shove your shirt further up, massaging your breasts once they were exposed, rolling and tugging on the nipple.
His tongue zig-zagged between your folds, bottom to top, and he sucked your clit briefly, setting it free with a soft "pop" once he felt your thigh twitch.
"Needed this," he kissed your inner thigh. "needed you." Steve leaned further down, tensing his tongue to tease your entrance, and then burying his face in your heat.
"Oh! Oh, G— Steve, f—mmm…" you were already babbling. The feel of his hot tongue inside of you made your hips jerk, his nose nudging your clit in the process.
The wet noises were loud enough he could hear them even though your thighs were squeezing around his head. And God, this is what he needed, plush skin and muscle tensing under him, suffocating him in all that was you.
"Gonna co—hah!—come all over your pretty face." Steve moaned, he moaned into you, hips grinding onto the couch cushions as yours did so against his face, pushing himself to be impossibly close to you.
He sucked your clit into his mouth again, his tongue flicking it while it was trapped between his lips.
Your moans grew louder, sharper, until you soaked Steve's lips and chin in wet pleasure. He let you ride the wave of your first orgasm, aftershocks flowing through your body like electricity through water.
He dragged his right hand down from your breast to rest above your pussy, keeping you where he wanted you, and used his thumb and index finger to spread you further.
"Baby, please…" It was a mix of oversensitive and hungry pleas, which Steve took as a green light to keep going. He flattened his tongue again, licking long paths bottom to top, dipping his tongue in your entrance, and then keeping the path up.
You supported yourself up mostly by your right elbow and your grip on Steve's hair, staring at the scene in front of you with your mouth hanging open, panting.
His left hand travelled down and he covered his index and middle fingers in your slick, pulling away ever so slightly to pool spit in his mouth and let the hot saliva flow softly from his mouth onto your clit.
His fingers drove into you slowly with a wet squelch echoing into the room, curling them towards him when he got your folds to touch his palm. "Was only gone a day, sweetheart." He pumped his fingers. "How come you're so tight still, mmm?"
He chuckled when you had no response but a needy whine, the scene was a sight, really. Captain America absolutely lost in the pleasure of seeing his girlfriend completely pliant, missing any bottoms, with her tank top bunched up above her breasts, while he had a soaked face and a raging hard on.
Humming as he licked and teased your clit once again, this time pumping his fingers in and out, and again, again, again, until he slurped every single drop of your second orgasm, feeling you squeeze your cunt around his fingers while your thighs squeezed every thought that didn't revolve around you right out of his skull.
You pulled him up forcefully by the collar, crashing your lips together, moaning as you tasted yourself on him. Your tongue licked into his mouth like you alone could make him forget everything that happened during the mission, even without knowing details.
Your hands grazed down his chest over his shirt, quickly finding the hem of his sweats, palming him through them. "Did you touch yourself while I was gone?" His voice was breathy against your lips, almost strained.
You shook your head, biting your lip. "Not as good when it's not you."
Steve whined, like audibly whined at your praise as you pushed his pants down enough to free his cock. "Good girl."
It slapped against your stomach heavy, hard, and leaking, and Steve immediately reached down to rub the head up and down your slick.
"Put it in, baby, please." You sucked on his bottom lip. "Missed you so much."
Steve chuckled as he lined himself up with your entrance. "Me or him?" He didn't wait for an answer, in days like these he never did. He just pushed his entire cock in to the hilt, knocking the air out of your lungs. "Me. Or. Him?" He asked again.
Your eyes squeezed shut, "You, baby, fuck—" you panted against his mouth, tiny puffs of air matching his every thrust. "Missed your voice, your scent, your laugh—" another harsher thrust knocked the thought out of your head. "Missed your cock too, ah!"
You felt every drag of him inside of you, the vein on the side that split into two, the bulbous head of him that notched so perfectly around the spongy spot inside of you, you'd think they made him in a lab.
Well, they did. But you're pretty sure the SSR had no involvement in how perfect Steve Rogers' dick was.
That was all him.
He reached down to snake his arms under your knees, bringing your legs further up and out, until his pelvis was flush with your entire bottom.
"That's a good girl." He sighed, pulling all the way out only to slam all the way back in again. "Always so good."
The more Steve fucked you, the less oxygen you felt you had in your lungs. Every muscle in your core was tightening by the second, everything becoming too loud, too hot, too heavy, too good.
"Gonna fill you up, sweetheart. You want that?" His lips dropped to your neck, sucking and licking on the skin there. You nodded. "But I need you to come on my cock, Princess. Can you do that for me?"
You nodded even more enthusiastically.
Steve licked his thumb and down to your clit it went, making your eyes cross and roll and the wave of pleasure crashed onto you again. He felt you clamp down on him, shudders licking up his spine as rope after rope of cum leaked out of him.
Steve thrusted both of you through the aftershocks, until he finally let his entire weight rest onto you as your nails once again grazed his back and neck.
He lifted his head from where he was resting his forehead against your collarbone and gave you a peck on the lips, then another, then another, until it turned into a slow, deep kiss.
He motioned to pull out and start to clean up, but you squeezed your legs around his waist. "Just stay with me a little longer here, Stevie." He looked at you like he always did when you asked that, when he knew you asked for it more for him than for you, but still gave in, staying with you until your breaths evened out while the TV played in the background.
bro honestly idk what took over my body in this ovulation... I already humped my husband every single day this week. THE SHACKLES.
$ log - steve rogers is stuck in a moral dilemma of indulging in his recruit’s sins and maintaining the good captain image!
$ warn --nsfw --fem!reader --dom!reader --manipulative!reader --reluctant-dom!steve --servicing!steve --dubcon --darkfic --age-gap --older-man-younger-woman --moral-dilemma --power-dynamics --mentor-student --office sex --secret --praise --dirty talk --size difference --worship --semi-clothed-sex --creampie --muffling --doggy --fingering --aftercare
$ wc -w 3.5k
$ cd masterlist
$ echo "i came like 3 times while writing this" > authors-note.txt
$ tag @twentytomidnight !
The memory of it was a fever dream of sweat and uncharacteristic desperation. Steve had walked into that dim, neon lit bar looking for a way to drown out the echoes of a century he didn't belong to. He hadn't intended to be the man who took a stranger to bed with such primal, unbridled hunger, but the modern world felt too loud, and his restraint had finally snapped.
He remembered the heat of your skin, the way you didn't recoil from his strength but met it with a ferocity that left him breathless. He had left before the sun could judge him, leaving water and snacks on your nightstand, a final, lingering instinct of the gentleman he was supposed to be before retreating to the sterile safety of the Avengers Tower.
Everything felt normal until the briefing. He sat at the head of the table, the stoic Captain, until the doors opened and you walked in. The air left his lungs. Seeing you in tactical gear, looking bright and unbothered, sent a jolt of pure, terrifying electricity through his spine.
"Captain," Tony’s voice cut through the haze, announcing the new recruit, but Steve could barely hear him. "This here's our new recruit, assigned for—"
All he could see was the curve of your hip and the memory of how that hip felt pinned beneath his palms just hours ago. He spent the rest of the briefing in a state of quiet, agonising paralysis, his mind a battlefield of duty versus desire.
Once the team dispersed, he retreated to the sanctuary of his office, desperately trying to bury himself in tactical files to regain his composure. A sharp, rhythmic knock shattered his focus.
"Come in," he managed, his voice sounding far too strained even to his own ears.
The door swung open, and there you were. You didn't look like a soldier; you looked like a temptation. You sauntered toward his desk with a confidence that made his heart hammer against his ribs, a playful, knowing glint in your eyes that told him you hadn't forgotten a single second of the night before.
Tony’s voice drifted off into the background, a meaningless hum compared to the thundering pulse in Steve's ears. He watched, paralyzed, as you closed the distance between the door and his desk. You didn't offer a salute or a formal greeting; instead, you leaned over the mahogany surface, your eyes locking onto him with a predatory sweetness that made his throat go dry.
"Captain Rogers," you purred, the title sounding like a delicious mockery in the quiet room. "Ready for my orientation?"
Steve cleared his throat, desperately trying to summon the commanding officer he was supposed to be. "Yes. Well. We'll start with the tactical overview, and then— "
He was cut off by the sensation of your hand sliding across the desk, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his uniform trousers. He gasped, a low, broken sound, as you pulled yourself closer, your body humming with a shameless, unbothered energy.
"Then we'll… we'll go over the training schedule," he stammered, his eyes darting toward the heavy office door as if the Avengers themselves might burst in at any moment. His moral compass was spinning wildly, screaming at him that this was unprofessional, scandalous, a complete betrayal of the discipline he stood for. But then your fingers tightened on the fabric of his trousers, and the scent of your skin that intoxicating, familiar warmth hit him like a physical blow.
"Forget the schedule, Steve," you whispered, leaning in until your lips were a breath away from his ear, your voice dropping into a low, obscene velvet that made his blood boil. "You were much more focused on my 'training' last night. Why are you acting so shy now? Is the big, brave Captain Rogers afraid of a little misconduct?"
He let out a choked groan, his hands instinctively reaching out to steady himself on the desk, his knuckles turning white.
The air in the office was thick enough to choke on, heavy with the scent of your perfume and the suffocating weight of Steve’s conscience. He tried to stand, to reclaim the authority of the uniform, but your hands were already moving, brazen and unyielding. When your fingers hooked into his waistband, a frantic, desperate sort of tug, his breath hitched in a jagged sob of pure conflict.
"This is… highly irregular," he rasped, his voice cracking as he tried to force a sternness that was rapidly dissolving into lust. "You are a recruit, and I am your commanding officer. There are protocols, there are rules, for a reason!"
He was lecturing you, his blue eyes wide and pleading, as if he could convince his own soul to stop betraying him. He was a man of honour, a man of the old world, and here he was, being dismantled by a woman who looked like several faces younger than that scruffy face of his.
"Steve," you whispered, the use of his name a direct assault on his remaining defences. You both were standing up now, his attempts in placating the situation losing at each step of yours, till you stood right in front of him, past his desk.
Before he could protest again, you reached down and seized his large, trembling wrist. With a strength born of pure intent, you guided his hand beneath the hem of your pencil skirt. The moment his warm skin met the slick, heated silk of your inner thigh, his eyes blew wide, his entire body jolting as if struck by lightning. You nudged his large palm further up, making his knuckles bump against your clit momentarily.
"See how wet I am for you already?" you murmured, leaning in so close his beard brushed your cheek. "Do you miss me? Because I do. I really loved our night together… let me have more."
"We… we shouldn't," he groaned, though his fingers were already curling, instinctively seeking more of you. "The team… Tony could walk in… and you’re too you—fuck, I’m your damn Captain now."
His thumb brushed against your most sensitive heat, and the way you arched into his touch unashamed and hungry sent a wave of pure, unadulterated sin through his veins. He was a man of principle, a man who believed in the sanctity of the chain of command, but as he looked at you, the 'Captain' was losing the war to the 'man.'
"Christ, you're so young," he continued, the words a frantic, dying plea for a restraint that no longer existed.
Then, you changed tactics. You pulled back just enough to tilt your head, widening your eyes into a look of pure, innocent vulnerability. Those big, doe eyes, so wide and seemingly earnest, were the ultimate deception. "Please, Captain," you whispered, your voice dropping into a sweet, melodic lilt that sounded like the perfect, obedient recruit. "Your recruit is calling on you."
The sheer audacity of it, the way you played the part of the innocent subordinate while your body practically screamed for his touch was the final blow to his crumbling resolve. Steve let out a defeated, guttural sound, a noise that was half prayer and half growl. His moral compass wasn't just spinning anymore; it had been tossed out the window entirely.
"God help me," he breathed, his hands moving with a sudden, desperate purpose.
He didn't even wait to fully undress; the urgency was too high, the tension too thick. He stepped forwards, his large hands catching your waist to guide you. With a frantic sort of grace, he grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair and spread it across the polished mahogany, a silent, instinctive gesture of the gentleman he still desperately tried to be, even as he prepared to ruin his reputation.
He turned you around, pressing your chest down against the soft fabric of his jacket, shielding your skin from the cool, hard wood of the desk. He moved behind you, his breathing heavy and ragged, a stark contrast to the disciplined soldier the world knew him to be.
Those tentative hands scoured the hem of your skirt, massaging those hips like last night, before hitching up your skirt. Steve fiddled with his drawer briskly, grabbing the lube and slickening his fingers.
You sigh sweetly at the familiar feel of a finger breaching in, then another, forming a steady rhythm. It was just enough to get your pussy to loosen up a bit, even despite the mess you’d already been making.
As he guided his cock into you, a low, primal groan escaped his throat, his forehead dropping to rest against the nape of your neck. He was still fighting it, still feeling the phantom sting of his conscience telling him this was wrong, that he was supposed to be your mentor, your protector not the man currently driving you into the mahogany.
But as he began to move, the rhythm of his hips became a desperate, driving force that drowned out every single moral objection. He was lost to the sensation, to the way you gripped the edge of the desk and the way your breath hitched in perfect sync with his.
Meanwhile, you simply leaned into the friction, a silent, satisfied smirk playing on your lips as you felt him lose himself in you. You knew exactly what you knew exactly how to break him. As he drove into you, his movements were heavy and uncharacteristically frantic, a man trying to outrun his own guilt with every thrust.
He was still the Captain, still the man of honour, but the way his fingers dug into your hips told a different story: a story of a man who was utterly, hopelessly conquered by the very person he was supposed to be leading.
The rhythmic thud of his body against the desk, muffled by the expensive fabric of his jacket, was the only sound in the room besides his ragged, desperate breathing. He was lost in the friction, the heat, and the sheer, delicious wrongness of it all. Every time he tried to pull back, to find some semblance of professional distance, you would let out a soft, needy whimper or tilt your hips back to meet him, dragging him deeper into the sin.
As the tension reached a fever pitch, a sudden, sharp sound from the hallway the distant, muffled laughter of Tony and Clint sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through Steve. His eyes went wide, a flash of panic momentarily eclipsing the lust. Before you could let out a triumphant, loud moan of pleasure, his large, calloused palm slammed over your mouth, muffling your voice into a soft, vibrating hum against his skin.
He was frantic now, his movements becoming a desperate, driving rhythm, his hips slamming into yours with a force that made the heavy desk groan under the weight. He was caught in a maddening loop of self inflicted torment.
With one hand pinning you down, silencing you, and the other gripping your hip so hard his knuckles were white, he was fighting a war within himself. He didn't know if he was trying to save his own legendary reputation or protect yours from the scandal of being the girl who "corrupted" the legendary reputation or protect yours from the scandal of being the girl who "corrupted" the paragon of virtue.
"Shh, honey… please, just a little longer," he whispered against your ear, his voice a ragged, broken thing.
He was shaming himself with every thrust, his mind a frantic litany of this is wrong, this is madness, she's your responsibility, yet his body was telling a completely different story. He was worshiping you, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your neck, his rough beard scratching deliciously against your flesh as he peppered you with sweet, desperate kisses.
He was murmuring praises into your skin, the same low, gravelly tones he’d used in the dark of your apartment, telling you how incredible you felt, how beautiful you were, how he couldn't get enough of you. It was a beautiful, chaotic contradiction: a man performing an act of pure, adulterated act of devotion while simultaneously feeling like a common sinner.
Every time he felt the swell of a moan building in your throat, he would press his palm harder, his eyes darting toward the door with a frantic, wide eyed intensity that was almost comical if it weren't so intense. He was a man on the brink of a total breakdown, caught between the urge to pull you close and weep with the sheer, delicious wrongness of it, and the urge to pull away and hide his face in his hands in shame.
"You're so good… so perfect," he groaned, the words a whispered confession against your skin, even as his inner monologue screamed about the breach of protocol. He was losing himself to the rhythm, to the way your body seemed to mold perfectly to his, and to the intoxicating realisation that despite all his rules and all his duty, he was utterly, hopelessly addicted to the way you made him feel.
Even in the throes of a scandalous, desk bound frenzy, Steve could not help but be the man he was raised to be. He was hyper aware of your pleasure, his focus shifting from his own mounting desperation to the way your body was beginning to tremble and tighten around him. He felt the tell-tale tremors of your orgasm beginning to ripple through you, and instead of rushing his own end, he leaned into it.
As you began to whine, the sound muffled and desperate against the heavy heat of his palm, he didn't pull away. Instead, he cooed to you, a low, soothing rumble in his chest that was pure sweetness.
"That's it, sweetheart… just let it go. I've got you," he murmured, his voice a gentle anchor in the storm of your sensation. He guided you through the climax, his movements becoming rhythmic and steady, providing the exact stimulation needed to push you over the edge to the very end. Those familiar digits returning to rub feverish circles to your clit was just enough.
He held you through the waves of your release, his hand still firm but tender over your mouth, his eyes closed tight as he fought the urge to groan your name to the rafters. Only when your breathing began to level out, and the frantic tension in your muscles subsided into a soft, post orgasmic glow, did he allow himself to lose his own battle.
Steve was teetering on the precipice, his muscles coiled like a spring, his entire being focused on the singular, driving need to finish. But even as his control slipped, that ingrained, old fashioned gentleman surfaced one last time. He slowed his pace just a fraction, his voice dropping to a gravelly, desperate whisper that vibrated against your ear.
"Where…" he gasped, his eyes searching yours with a raw, unshielded intensity. "Where do you want it, honey? Tell me."
He was giving you the choice, a final, frantic attempt to maintain some semblance of respect even as he was losing his goddamn mind. You didn't hesitate. With your face pressed against the cool fabric of his jacket, you let out a muffled, needy mumble against his palm.
"Inside…"
The word hit him like a physical blow. It sent a violent spark of moral ambiguity deep within his soul. It was the ultimate transgression to leave his mark inside his own recruit, to be so intimate, so unashamedly primal in the very place where he was supposed to command respect.
For a split second, his eyes squeezed shut, his mind screaming about the mess, the impropriety, the sheer audacity of it.
But then, a more practical, almost protective thought flickered through the haze of his lust. He looked down at the expensive mahogany of his desk and the fine fabric of your pencil skirt, and he couldn't bear the thought of a messy, unseemly spill that would leave a trail of evidence for the rest of the team to find. He wanted to be careful with you, even now.
With a final, shuddering groan that he had to swallow back into your shoulder, he drove himself home. He let out a long, low breath as he surrendered to the sensation, filling your pussy completely. He let out a long, shuddering breath, his entire frame trembling as the heat of him flooded you.
For a moment, he just stayed there, anchored to you, his forehead pressed hard against the curve of your shoulder as he tried to process the sheer, glorious sin of it all. The silence of the office felt deafening, broken only by the frantic, uneven rhythm of his breathing and the distant, muffled sounds of the Avengers Tower continuing its life outside his door.
He felt a profound sense of both exhaustion and a strange, terrifying exhilaration. He had broken the rules, shattered the decorum, and completely compromised his position. Yet, as he felt the warmth of himself inside you, he couldn't bring himself to regret a single second of it. He was the Captain, the paragon of virtue, but in this moment, he was just a man who had been utterly, beautifully undone by the woman he was supposed to be leading.
As the final tremors of his release subsided, the heavy, primal fog in Steve’s mind began to lift, replaced by the sharp, stinging clarity of reality. He stayed draped over you for a few moments longer, breathing in the scent of your skin and the musk of their shared sin, before the Captain in him forced his eyes open. The war between his desire and his duty wasn't over, but the immediate crisis of the moment demanded action.
True to his nature, even in the aftermath of such a scandalous encounter, he didn't leave you a mess. With a focused, almost frantic sort of care, he moved to clean you both, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he used tissues to ensure no trace of his surrender remained on your skin or the fine fabric of your skirt. He straightened your clothes, smoothing the wrinkles in your pencil skirt and adjusting your blouse with the precision of a man preparing a soldier for inspection. He was trying to erase the evidence of the last minutes of absolute chaos, acting as though you two had just finished a standard tactical briefing rather than a frantic, desk bound tryst.
When he was finished, he reached into his desk drawer and handed you a bottle of water, his eyes lingering on yours with a mixture of lingering heat and profound, weary affection. "Drink," he commanded softly, his voice still a bit too low, a bit too husky. "You need to stay hydrated."
He watched you with a bated breath as you took a sip, your eyes dancing with a mischief that told him you were perfectly aware of the havoc you had just wreaked on his soul. You stood up, smoothed your skirt one last time, and began to saunter toward the door with that same, unbothered confidence that had drawn him in at the bar.
Just as your hand reached for the handle, you paused. You turned back, casting a playful, wicked glance over your shoulder. A triumphant, knowing smirk played on your lips, the kind that promised this was far from the last time you'd be breaking his composure.
"Thank you for the orientation debrief, Captain!" you called out, your voice bright and perfectly professional, though the underlying lilt of mischief was impossible to miss. "Can't wait to see you on the op!"
The door clicked shut behind you, leaving the office in a sudden, deafening silence. Steve remained frozen, the ghost of your touch still burning against his skin and the weight of your words hanging in the air like a challenge. He didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't even attempt to fix his own dishevelled hair. Instead, he slowly sank back into his heavy leather chair, the strength seemingly drained from his very bones.
He let out a long, shuddering exhale and dropped his head into his hands.
His fingers pressed hard against his temples, as if he could physically squeeze the scandalous images of your body against his desk out of his mind. He was the leader of the Avengers. He was the moral compass of a nation. He was supposed to be the man who did things the right way, the man who stood for discipline and decorum.
And yet, here he was, sitting in his high backed leather chair, feeling the lingering, heavy warmth of you still deep inside him, his heart hammering a rhythm that felt less like a soldier's march and more like a sinner's confession.
He could still hear the echo of your voice that bright, teasing lilt ringing in the quiet room. Can't wait to see you on the op! It wasn't just a professional sentiment; it was a promise. A promise of more stolen moments, more broken rules, and more of the delicious, terrifying way you could make him forget every single thing.
TROUBLE
Pairing: Rick Grimes x Original Character x Daryl Dixon eventually.
Summary: Trouble… Sam Walsh don't know her life without that word.
It was always one trouble, after another, after another.
And her only certainty and security was that her brother would always do everything for her.
Even if "everything" meant more trouble.
Tags: Parental neglect, eventual smut MDNI. slow burn. Dad with alcohol problems, maternal abandonment, the first part takes place before the outbreak, small town, drug use, violence due to alcohol use, cheating (if this is not something you like, just dont read it?), small age gap (Sam is 23, Rick is 29), Brother's Best-Friend. I'll tag each chapter if there's more stuff.
This will be a two part of multiple chapters. Starts around a year before the outbreak, and the second part will hopefully cover seasons 1 and 2 of the show.
This is a Translation of an on-going fanfic (English is not my first language, let me know if there's something to fix)
START HERE:
GRAPHICS
SOUNDTRACK
MOODBOARDS
01 - NIGHT SHIFT
02 - THREE/SIX
03 - BY THE POOL
04 - BABYSIT DUTTY
05 - TROUBLE IN FLESH
06 - TWENTY FOUR
07 - THANKS FUCKING GIVING
08 - LEAVING
ONGOING
you aren’t a big part of the group, but you always try to help out, especially if it meant daryl would notice you. constantly crossing the line all for the sake of trying to swoon daryl, trying to take care of him too often, offering to help him on runs, even start keeping track of the places he goes to… he doesn’t take too kindly to strangers minding his business, and tries to shut you down. but after much consideration, maybe daryl could play along.
warnings: lowkey dub con but not at all, asshole daryl, hinted stalking, obsession, fangirl reader, a hint of dacryphilia, blowjobs in the woods, she’s dumb and ditzy but is that on purpose? you’ll never know. maybe other tags idk lmk
since being picked up by rick and his group, you never wanted them to once doubt your loyalty. the lucky chance to see human life after aimlessly running through the thick, neverending forests of georgia, the day that marked your official survival. if it wasn’t for the people here, at this little camp, you’d be good as dead.
despite all your tireless efforts, they often saw you as next to useless. not good with weapons, not very brave, not quite tactial enough to keep up with others. you could sure as hell get the blood out their clothes and be a damn good listener. good advice, though?
“what about you y/n, what’s your input on all this?” the group was having a heated debate about what to do with the kid they had chained up in a shed. everyone shouting at each other made you nervous, but you had no clue what was really going on. you just enjoyed helping the greene family in the house and keeping clean.
“umm,” you swallowed the knot in your throat, tilting your head to the sides as you thought about your answer. “well, i’d say,” you bunched your shoulders up to a shrug, already unsure. “if he turns out to be good, he should stay. if he’s a bad guy, we should let him go.”
the room was finally silent for a good while. a lot of blank stares, disappointed or confused looks, and sheer embarrassment rising to your warming face. you could’ve passed out.
“what she means- what she’s trying to say- we can’t make judgments right now!” dale tried to help you out, and you nodded excitedly, relieved he was going to save you.
“hey, don’t use her to push your narrative man.” shane would shake his head with his arms crossed, and you mirrored him, suddenly not taking kindly to dale trying to twist your words around. everyone erupted into new conversation, and you slowly shrunk down, unnoticed once more.
one person you couldn’t seem to properly thank for their charity work was daryl dixon. brooding, quiet, your savior. an older, fine piece of man that you can’t shake the memory of being wrapped up in his big arms to shield you from a falling structure of a building. the way he cooly stepped away from you, shaking off the debris and drywall like a dog drying off from a bath. the way he took it and came out with no scratches.
so god forbid a girl gets a little crush, does a little staring from across the glowing fire, tries to slip into his routine unnoticed. you thought you’d start with something easy: helping out on a run!
“nah.” daryl didn’t even spare you a glance when you showed up in front of him suited up in a stocked up bag, a refilled water bottle, and some of his arrows you gathered from the trees he practiced shooting on. he wordlessly snatched the water and arrows from your hands, not even saying thank you, just a neanderthal-esque grunt.
you quickly tailed him as he already began to make his way out. “but i know the layout of the shops you’re going to! there’s a basement area too, where they used to keep extra shipments.”
“already said no,” daryl looked around a small workbench for something, picking up the tarp and kissing his teeth when he came up empty handed. he looked at you, peering over your shoulder.
“the areas already clear, just gotta go clean up missed spots. where’s that basement you were on about?” he spun you around, hands briefly squeezing your shoulders, sending goosebumps down your neck.
“well- by the- uh, main building,”
“uh-huh.” he carefully slid off the straps of your backpack, you let your arms fall through the loops. he loosened the straps, slinging it across his broad shoulder.
“and like, in the back, by this employee only door, this red door on the left. it has a circle doorknob…i think…” you could’ve been absently drooling at what he was- unknowingly- doing to you. he was basically undressing you. did he know what this was doing to your starved body?
“alright, there you go,” he spun you back around to face him once more, patting your shoulders. he had everything he needed now, courtesy of you. “you want to help me out?”
“yes!” your eyes lit up, you would’ve saluted if he asked.
“leave my plate of whatever they cook up tonight right on the table here when i get back.” he pointed to the workbench he just rummaged around. your face fell, and he was already making his way to his motorcycle. your backpack bouncing on his back as he strolled off, your water tied to it, the weapon you freshly reloaded. the nerve…!
you covered the tray with a cloth to protect whatever animal and heated up canned goods was grilled up for the night, placing it right in the middle of the wooden table. it was already getting dark, and daryl still wasn’t back. you dragged your feet, head down, all the way back to the campsite, maggie waving you over to sit with her and her family.
“you okay, y/n? something happen?” maggie noticed the pout on your lips immediately.
“just wonderin’ if daryl will be back soon, he took my pack and-”
some rowdy laughter from inside interrupted you, leaning back to try and peer in through- there he was, chatting it up with rick and carol casually.
the next time daryl went out, you were smart enough to not lend over your supplies so naively. you were going to follow him around, on your own, be so sneaky and undetected. if he ended up in trouble, you’d be there to save his day. that was your genius plan and if god was real and loved you he’d let this work.
daryl was a hound, so you kept a big distance. any small snap of a twig or rustle of leaves made you cringe, half expecting every careful step you took, he would just shoot an arrow in your direction. from a mile away you still watched him- his ease of taking down walkers, his perfect aim, the way he could tell exactly where the animal he was hunting down turned and breathed and would do next.
he cleared over a small hill, you nervously picked up your pace and rushed over the arc, heart dropping when you couldn’t see him anymore. did he keep going straight, cut off into the trees? without daryl, right now you were… lost.
you tried to channel your inner dixon, squinting at the muddy ground. everything looked like dirt. the leaves didn’t look misplaced, the air was still, everything was quiet.
a hand was over your mouth, preventing the scream from piercing your attackers ears and echoing across the forest. it was just daryl, just daryl, daryl… your racing heart slowed down to a gentle beat, eyes softening at the sight of him. you didn’t care that he was mad, didn’t care for his quick apology for coming onto you ‘like that’, didn’t care for him trying to push you away.
“go home.”
“well i’m already this far, why don’t you let me help you?” you sighed in defeat, and daryl crossed his arms.
“don’t need it,” he looked you up and down. “you ain’t got a gun, ain’t got a head on your shoulders, and you’re not wearing clothes.”
you couldn’t help the skip in your chest hearing him mention you and no clothes. oh, so he thought this was revealing? did he think it was… cute, sexy, hot??!!
“it’s humid, what’s wrong with shorts?” you swayed around, biting back a smile. daryl’s mouth parted for a second, then his face twisted up and he just shook his head. he waved you off, uninterested.
you grabbed him by his elbow, pulling gently.
“wait!”
“what do you not get-”
“is there any… other ways i can help you?” you tugged his arm a little more, a little lower, a little closer to the space between your legs. he nearly laughed, you could’ve sworn, that small tug of the corner of his lip, the tense of his forearm.
just as quick as he had surprised you earlier, he pulled his arm away and his hand was on the back of your neck. you hung your head in shame as he pushed you the way you came, embarrassment flushing your entire face. god hated you.
“imma get you home, and you can think about what you’re doin’, all by yourself, you heard?”
you hummed sadly, defeated.
“whaddya’ even thinkin woman. followin me out here, just to what, huh? what was your big plan here?”
“ok, im sorry daryl, i just…” you were stuck in your head thinking of a good response- should you be honest? let it go? tell a little lie?
“cmon, use that little head of yours an’ tell me.” you shivered.
“i’m… you’re… hey, where are we going-”
“don’t you worry about all that. go head and tell me what kinda help you woulda gave me.”
your head and heart and stomach spun. he trailed off the side of the path, his grip on you barely budging. your hand raised to feel him, fingers brushing against his arm, holding his wrist gently.
“i just… wanted to show my gratitude. in a way you’d actually like. is that so wrong?”
“hmm… nah. just think we got two different kinds of gratitude.”
“i think we’re more similar than you think, daryl.”
he held you still, his hand slowly releasing its firm hold, ghosting across the nape of your neck and down your spine. your lip trembled in excitement, holding your hands together and squeezing your fingers. your time to shine was here, but you were worried at how soon it came. now you were on the spot and feeling something akin to shame.
“don’t think a pretty thing like you goes too well with someone like me,” he took some strands of your hair between his fingers, gently feeling it.
“i-i think the opposite… i think, you deserve it, daryl.”
“you got this all twisted in your head, girl. im not-”
“i know, daryl,” you held your hands to your heart. “i know im not your ideal, but you’re ideal to me, and i wouldn’t care how you want it, just that you want me-”
he got real close, leaned down to your ear, brushed your hair out the way so you could hear his low grumble: “you just wanna be my bitch, don’t ya?”
you grabbed him by the back of his head, fingers curling around his hair, so so desperately pressing your lips to his as you turned your head to meet him. he was salty with sweat, tobacco hitting your tongue, made your head dizzy in more ways than you could handle.
he mouth engulfed yours, along with some teeth, but you didn’t care. not one bit- daryl dixon could bite you till you bled and you’d thank him. his hands hurriedly went to unbuckle his belt, tugging off his pants to mid-thigh.
“god girl, haven’t gotten like this, this fast, in…” he pushed you away, hands on your shoulders with his big fingers spidering on your throat. his thumbs rubbed your exposed collarbone, wondered if that was also considered revealing to him.
“is that cause’ your old or cause’ you like me so much!?” you cheesed, but his expression didn’t look so pleased. he pushed you down, bare knees hitting the muddy ground, faltering smile.
“tha’ supposed to be funny?” the pure heat of his dick warmed your cheeks, unconsciously leaning into it. you shook your head, pulling his pants down more, eyes wide when he sprung out the confines of the zipper.
daryl groaned, clutching your hair tight. he helped you close the gap, pushing your face against the tuft of a happy trail on his firm stomach. you’d seen it before when he stretched too far, or when he changed clothes by a tree after getting too dirty, or when he was washing himself where he thought no one was watching.
“sooo… you must really like me then.” you glanced up at him, mouthing at the tip, leaking through his old boxers.
“don’t fuckin’ like you, jus’ offered. and im takin’.” he spat, impatiently holding your head still and freeing his dick and letting it slap across your lips. your stomach dropped, but the drool pooling out didn’t.
daryl groaned as he inched himself past your pout and down your tongue, bucking his hips in the same spot, fucking the little entrance of your throat. you frantically gripped his legs, trying your best to keep your eyes open and keep eye contact, just how guys like it-
“stop fuckin’ looking at me.”
your eyes squeezed shut and you whined, legs trembling as you kept yourself up. maybe even something nothing short of a sad tear slipped past your eyelid, rolled across your cheek and mixed in with the spit soaking your chin.
“yeah, keep cryin’ just like that.” he whispered, nudging your head a little further, thrusting a little faster.
you gagged as you took more of his cock in, shaky hands pulling him closer by his legs, letting a choked sob escape you when he pulled out. you let your jaw loll open, holding still. with a deep, guttural groan, daryl finished on your trembling tongue. he wiped the sweat from his beard, but you caught the coy smirk he made anyways.
“you gonna swallow or what?”
you frowned, even with an open mouth. stuck in place because you really didn’t want to. no one, especially daryl, had a very clean diet. back in the day you were a notorious spitter, on the rare chance you ever actually went down on a guy. yet you found yourself letting his (gross) cum slide down into your stomach, a revolted shudder followed down your back.
daryl chuckled, hands on his hips triumphantly.
“want yer’ turn too?”
“really?!” you weakly got up, knees aching and indented with small twigs.
“hell no,” he laughed again, zipping up his jeans and packing up. “i’d take a guess and say a girl like you deserves a real bed to lay in when…”
he holds his palm against the back of your neck again, gently leading you back on the trail home.
“when…?” you hummed, taking a quick chug of water to… cleanse your palate.
“when i finally fuck you,” daryl states, obviously. “y’know, cuz’ you want it so bad. maybe it’ll leave you bed-ridden, so you don’t make the stupid decision to follow me around again. did anyone see you go?”
you wiped your hands across your face, sticky with cum-saliva. your throat was already raw and used… you couldn’t imagine- actually, you could, and you have. in great detail on many nights alone in bed. you matched his sly little smirk, covering your blush with your fingers.
“that doesn’t matter… you better hope no one sees you crawling into my bed dixon, might think you’re up to no good…” he squeezed his hand in response, shaking his head in feign-disgust. you knew he wouldn’t be caught dead with you around the others, but daryl knew no one cared- just someone like you worked harder when there was a secret to maintain…
↝a/n: Short chapter just to get something out for you guys! I finally got around to watching Fear the Walking Dead and I want to write for it so bad. Send in requests!! I've only gotten to the start of season 3.
↝pairing: season1!Daryl Dixon x wife!reader
↝warning: illusion to smut but not detailed, reader has a bra and female anatomy, usual TWD stuff, not proofread, kissing, showering together, domestic Daryl, foreshadowing 🫣
↝⎙ 4.10.25
|| Disclaimer: I do not own Daryl Dixon, or any character from The Walking Dead. I only own y/n and any characters I create with my own brain. ||
Series Masterlist | Character Masterlist
Jenner led you all through the hall, motion-sensing lights turning on the further you walked and off the further you walked away. Tenson still laid over you all, after what had happened in the cafeteria. Shane dragged behind the rest of you, feeling the distaste and judgment.
“Most of the facility is powered down, including housing, so y'all have to make do here. The couches are comfortable, but there are cots in storage if you’d like. There’s a REC room down the hall that you kids might enjoy,” He turned, kneeling to Carl and Sophia’s height, “just don’t plug in the video games, okay? Or anything that drains power. The same applies–”
He stood, looking at the group as you all carried packs on your backs and bags in your hands. “If you shower, go easy on the hot water.” Jenner turned, walking down another hall.
You stood there, registering what he had said.
Glenn turned around, grinning from ear to ear with boyish hope radiating off of him. “Hot water?”
T-Dog smiled from beside him, “That’s what the man said.”
They laughed in surprise before racing off down the hall.
You turned to Daryl, suddenly becoming aware of all of the caked up grime on your skin. Daryl watched your face as you scrunched your nose in disgust.
Water streamed out of the showerhead, beating down against the shower floor. Daryl turned the knob more, sticking his hand under the stream to feel the temperature.
You stared at your reflection in the mirror, watching as steam clouded it. Still, the fluorescent lights highlighted everything. Your lips were pale aside from where the sweet wine had stained the skin. Eyebags dragged from under your eyes, puffing outward. New wrinkles had formed, especially your frown lines.
Sweat, dirt, and blood coated your skin. Hairs stood up every which way while simultaneously having oil caked on each hair- of which were knotted together. Blood still coated your arms and under your fingernails. Daryl’s shirt you had put on was stained with sweat.
“Missed ya.”
Your eyes flickered upward, watching as Daryl stood behind you in the mirror. The water beat hard against the shower in the background.
“Missed all of ya.” He stepped forward, arms rounding on your waist. He pulled the shirt you had fully unbuttoned off, throwing it to the floor. Your worn-out bra was on display. Blood had soaked through your shirt, staining the fabric slightly, from having to drag the bodies to their graves. But you didn’t want to think about that. Not at this moment.
He swiftly unhooked the clasp, letting it fall down your arms. Your fingers moved to untie the string that held your pants up. You stepped out of them, before turning to face Daryl.
He picked your hands up from where they hung by your sides. He undid the make-shift bracelet, gently laying it on the counter, before gripping your wedding ring. It left a visible band on your finger, where dirt couldn’t get.
There was a moment of tenderness and vulnerability between you two.
His rough, calloused hands gently engulfed your jaw, as he stared at you in awe. That look was strictly reserved for you.
Steam fogged up the mirror and shower door.
He leaned forward, thin lips kissing right beside your lips. This was the side of Daryl reserved only for you. Hell, he didn’t even know he had this side of himself, until you.
Your eyes squeezed shut, voice a soft whisper, “I need a minute.”
Daryl let you pull away, pulling your last undergarment off, before stepping under the water. Warmth immediately flooded over you. Your muscles instantly relaxed. Your hands went to smooth your soaked hair back. You watched the gunk swirl down the drain, before tilting your chin to the roof, water soaking your face.
After a few minutes, the shower door opened, a naked Daryl looking at you. Moving away from under the water, you let him have his turn. He slicked his hair back, water droplets clinging to his lashes as he looked at you.
“How far do you think we’re going to make it?”
Daryl contemplated your question.
“Duh’n matter.” His tongue poked out, swiping the water from his lips.
You slowly nodded, moving to wash your hair.
-
You sat on the edge of the cot that Daryl had pushed to be flush with the couch. He was adamant on you taking the couch since there was only room for one, and him the uncomfortable cot. You eventually gave up trying. There was no point.
Daryl walked into the room, using a towel to dry his hair.
Disregarding the towel, he walked to you. He grabbed the hand you had been biting the fingernails off of subconsciously. He hated how you had that habit, which was hypocritical since he did the same thing.
“What’re ya worried ‘bout? We’re safe here.”
“For how long?”
“Don’t know.” His calloused hands ran up your arm, to the scratch. “Let’s just make the most of the time we do have, hm?”
He cupped your face, smashing his lips against yours. His lips moved in a liquid motion of need.
You smiled against his lips, following his lead as he pushed you back on the cot. “Missed this.” He hooked one of your legs over his hip, leaving sloppy kisses from your cheek, down your neck, to the valley of your breasts. Your hands roamed his naked top half, over the scars on his back. Your nails dug into his shoulder blades. “Really missed this.”
-
You laid comfortably on your side on the couch, looking down at Daryl. He laid on the cot, facing toward you. His hand laid underneath his scrunched pillow, giving his neck support that he hadn't had at the camp or sleeping in his truck. His lips were parted as he slept, emitting a small snore.
He looked so peaceful.
So oblivious to what the next day would bring.
Next part
•2021-2025 by xoxo-sarah on Tumblr•
•My work is not to be translated, copied, modified, and/or reposted on any other site without my permission. [I do NOT give permission!]
notes: daryl has 0 game, 0 experience, and is eager to please. I thought about this as I was falling asleep last night and couldn't wait to write it for you. Inspired by Norman saying if Daryl ever got down and dirty there would be premature ejaculation
She/her pronouns, foreplay only, gets straight to it
The invitation had been innocent enough, though Daryl had found a way to make it a minefield in his head. Dinner at her house. Nothing fancy, she’d said. Just them, some canned spaghetti, and maybe a drink.
He’d almost said no, but the way she’d looked at him—smiling soft and easy, like she wanted him there more than anyone else—made him mutter, “Yeah, alright.”
Now, he’s sitting on her couch, shoulders stiff, his crossbow propped awkwardly by the door. She hums in the kitchen, clinking dishes together. He wonders if it’s too late to leave.
“Don’t sit too quiet in there,” she calls, teasing. “You’ll scare the furniture.”
Daryl huffs a laugh through his nose. “Furniture don’t need me to make it nervous.”
She steps into the room, carrying two mismatched bowls. “You kidding? You’re terrifying. Real menace, Dixon.” She hands him a bowl, sitting close enough for her thigh to press against his.
Daryl shifts, his grip tightening on the bowl. “S’not what people usually say.”
She gives him a sidelong glance, lips quirking. “What do they say?”
He doesn’t answer, staring into the spaghetti like it’s gonna save him. She leans in, the bare skin of her arm brushing his, and he forgets how to breathe.
“You’re not used to this, huh?” Her tone is light, but her eyes are searching.
He shrugs. “Dunno what ‘this’ is.”
“Someone flirting with you,” she says, blunt as ever, setting her bowl aside. “How’s that feel, by the way?”
He almost chokes. “Ain’t what you’re doin’.”
“It’s exactly what I’m doing.”
His ears burn, and he fights the urge to stand up and bolt. “Y/N—”
She cuts him off, leaning closer, her voice dropping to something softer. “If I haven't made it abundantly clear lately: I like you. A lot.”
The words hit him harder than any walker ever could. He swallows, glancing at her, then quickly away. “Ain’t right.”
“Why not?”
“I’m… too old.” He shifts again, looking anywhere but her face. “You could do better.”
Her laugh is quiet, almost disbelieving. “You really think that?”
He nods, his jaw tightening. “Don’t got think ‘bout it. It’s true.”
She tilts her head, watching him for a long moment. Then, setting her hand lightly on his knee, she asks, “When’s the last time someone told you you’re wrong?”
He tenses under her touch but doesn’t pull away. “Not wrong—”
“Daryl,” she interrupts gently. “You’ve got this whole big, twisted idea in your head about what you deserve. And it’s bullshit.”
He stiffens. “Ain’t—”
“Bullshit,” she says again, firmer this time. “And I’m gonna prove it.”
She stands, setting her bowl aside, then his, and turns to face him. Her hands are on her hips, her gaze steady as she looks down at him. “Can I ask you something personal?”
He frowns but nods hesitantly.
“Have you ever… been with someone?”
His face flushes crimson, and he drops his gaze to the floor.
“That’s a no, then.” Her voice is warm, not teasing, but it makes him flinch anyway.
“Don’t mean nothin’,” he mumbles, fidgeting where he sits.
“It means everything,” she counters, stepping closer. “Because if no one’s shown you what it feels like to be wanted, how’re you supposed to know?”
His heart hammers against his ribs as she moves between his knees, crouching down and resting her hands lightly on his shins. He stares at her like a deer caught in headlights. “What’re you doin’?”
She smiles, tilting her head. “Only what you want me to. But you have to tell me if you do.”
He swallows hard, his hands gripping the edge of the couch. “I...I dunno.”
“It’s okay to want, Daryl,” she murmurs, moving her legs up and onto his lap with a slow, deliberate movement so she's straddling him, her hands now resting delicately on his shoulders.
His breath catches, and he freezes, his hands hovering uselessly in the air, "Okay," he breathes.
Her voice drops lower, softer. “You don’t even know where to put your hands, do you?”
“I— I can’t—”
She gently lifts his wrists, guiding his hands to the curve of her hips. “Start here.”
He stares at her, wide-eyed, his fingers twitching against her waist. “You sure ‘bout this?”
“I’ve never been more sure.” She says, her hand coming up to cup his jaw, the touch sending electricity into his skin, “I’ll show you what you’ve been missing. Only if you want me to.”
His grip tightens slightly, a shuddering breath escaping him. “Yeah. I want it. I want you.”
Daryl barely has time to process anything before she tilts his chin up, forcing his gaze to meet hers. Her hands are steady, her expression soft but laced with something deeper-desire, maybe? His throat goes dry.
"First things first," she murmurs, brushing her thumb along the line of his jaw. "You ever kissed anyone before?"
He shakes his head, his breathing becoming irregular.
Her smile softens as it spreads across her face, endearing and non judgmental. She leans in, her breath warm against his lips. "Then let me teach you."
Her mouth brushes his softly, testing, like she's giving him the chance to pull away. He doesn't. Instead, his hands tighten on her hips as she deepens the kiss, her lips moving against his in a way that makes his head spin.
"Relax," she whispers against his mouth, pulling back just enough to guide him. He exhales shakily, his shoulders dropping slightly. When she kisses him again, he leans into it this time, his lips parting hesitantly.
She hums in approval, her hands threading into his hair, tugging gently to encourage him. He nearly lets out an inhuman noise at the feeling of her fingers curling in his hair, but he swallows it down, instead focusing on her soft lips on his.
"That's it," she breathes, her voice low and sultry. "Just follow me."
Her tongue traces the seam of his lips, and he jerks slightly, his breath hitching. She pulls back, laughing softly. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he rasps, his face burning. "Just... wasn't expectin' that."
"Well, get used to it," she teases, leaning in again. This time, when her tongue slides tentatively into his mouth, he meets her halfway, mimicking her movements as best as he can. It's clumsy, but she doesn't seem to mind, her soft moans sending heat straight through him. It suddenly occurs to him that she might be enjoying this just as much as hime.
As the kiss deepens, her hips begin to move, rolling slowly against his lap. Daryl tenses, his fingers twitching against her sides as she grinds against him, finally drawing a low, shaky groan from his throat.
Her lips brushing against his stubble and eventually against the shell of his ear where she whispers, "You like that?"
"Yeah. Feels-feels good." he nods, swallowing hard.
She smiles, pressing a kiss to his jaw before pulling back just enough to grab the hem of her shirt. Slowly, she lifts it over her head, tossing it aside to reveal bare skin and soft curves that leave him staring, wide-eyed and trozen.
"You're beautiful," he mutters before he can stop himself, the words tumbling out unfiltered.
Her smile softens, and she cups his face in her hands, searching his eyes. "Could say the same about you. Touch me, Daryl."
His hands flex nervously on her hips, now pressing into bare skin that feels hot to the touch. "Don't wanna mess it up."
"You won't." She reaches for his hands again, guiding them upward until his calloused fingers brush the swell of her breasts. He sucks in a sharp breath, his touch featherlight and hesitant.
"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice rough with uncertainty.
"It's perfect," she murmurs, arching into his touch. "Here, let me show you."
She places her hands over his, guiding his fingers to knead and explore, her soft sighs of pleasure encouraging him. He grows bolder with each movement, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, drawing a gasp from her lips.
"Like that," she breathes, her hips grinding down harder against him. "You're doing so good, Daryl."
Her praise sends a jolt of heat through him, and he pulls her closer, burying his face against her neck as his confidence grows.
"Never done nothin' like this before," he admits, his voice muffled, his lips tracing the column of her neck and moving down to her shoulders, onto her clavicle and chest.
"You're a fast learner," she says breathlessly, tugging his hair gently to make him look at her. Her lips find his again, hungrier this time, and he responds with a desperation that surprises even him.
His hands continue their kneading of her breasts, traveling around her to hug her tight against him, the swell of them pressing into his clothed chest, his hips beginning to move instinctively beneath her. The thought occurs to him that he hates clothes.
She gasps against his mouth, breaking the kiss to press her forehead to his.
"You're incredible," she whispers, her voice breathy. "I've wanted this for so long."
Daryl swallows hard, his chest heaving.
"Don't know what you see in me, but... I don't wanna stop."
"Then don't," she murmurs, kissing him again. "I'll take care of you. Just let me."
With newfound confidence—or maybe just desperation—Daryl leans forward, pressing his lips against the soft skin of her chest. He works his way down, his kisses slow and clumsy, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Her breath hitches when his mouth brushes between the swells of her breasts, and when he kisses the top, then the underside, he swears she arches into him on purpose, trying to drive him out of his damn mind.
Then, tentatively, he takes her nipple into his mouth. The sound she makes—low and ragged—has his cock straining so hard against his jeans he thinks he might lose it right there. Her hands bury themselves in his hair, tugging lightly as his tongue flicks out, testing, tasting her. She gasps, and that sound drives a hunger in him he’s never felt before.
His hips shift beneath her as she continues grinding against him, her movements deliberate and unrelenting. The friction is almost too much, the ache in his lap unbearable. He grips her hips hard, trying to slow her down. “You’re gonna drive me crazy,” he mutters, his voice rough, lips brushing against her neck.
She exhales a shaky laugh, a smile teasing her lips. “That’s kinda the point.”
Before he can respond, she leans back slightly, her hands moving to the waistband of her jeans. “Here,” she says, popping the button open with practiced ease. His breath catches as she begins to slide the zipper down, revealing the curve of her hip.
His mind races. He’s never had a woman like this before—so wanting for him, so sure of herself. His chest tightens at the thought of messing this up, of not being enough for her. But at the same time, his heart pounds with anticipation. God, he’s thought about her like this more times than he can admit. What her skin would feel like. What her lips would taste like. And now, it’s happening, and he feels so far out of his depth he doesn’t know where to begin.
She must notice his wide eyed stare, because her other hand tilts his chin up then, catching his gaze, "Only if you want to," she says again.
His throat is suddenly very dry, and all he can do is nod.
She smiles, and his chest tightens. She guides his hand beneath the waistband of her jeans, the soft skin of her pubic bone brushing his fingers first. The light tuft of hair there is the only thing rougher than her skin, and when his fingers graze lower, they slide easily over the slick heat of her center.
A growl rumbles in his chest, unbidden, as he realizes how wet she is. For him. His head spins, his blood roaring in his ears. When his fingers dip lower, pressing into her, her walls clench around them greedily. She moans—loud, uninhibited—and the sound nearly undoes him.
"Yes, Daryl, that's it," she breathes. "Curl them, baby."
He does as she says, his fingers pressing into her, finding that soft, spongy spot that makes her cry out and buck against him. His palm brushes against the swollen nub at the apex of her sex, and the way she moves against him, grinding against his hand, has him gripping her hip with his free hand to ground himself.
“Goddamn,” he mutters, his voice raw as he watches her, awestruck.
She’s beautiful—blissed out and needy, her body moving with his like they’ve done this a hundred times before. He can’t take it anymore. His free hand comes up, fingers curling lightly around the back of her neck as he pulls her down to kiss him. The kiss is desperate, hungry, and the little sounds she makes against his lips make his body tighten unbearably.
“Don’t stop,” she gasps against his mouth, her voice trembling. “I’m so close.”
Her words send a jolt through him, and he groans low in his throat, the tension in his core mounting to an unbearable peak as he groans against her lips, gasping for breath as his high flushes through him. Before he can stop it, his release hits him hard and stars break against his vision. Her whimpers rise to full on ragged moans as she presses into his hand then one last time, his fingers knuckle deep inside her as they press against her spongey walls as she tightens around them, sucking his digits further into her as the climax breaks over her.
His chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, her kisses trailing down his jaw and neck as her hips slow, her ragged breaths giving way to soft, contented sighs.
When she pulls back, her cheeks flushed and her eyes hooded with lust, she looks down at him and smiles. “Did you just…?” she asks, her gaze dropping to his lap.
His face burns as he remembers himself, the wetness in his pants prominent as they both look down. Slowly, he pulls his hand from her, the loss of contact making her frown slightly. He bows his head, shame tightening his chest as he presses his hands into his lap.
“That is so hot,” she murmurs, her voice rich and warm, not even a hint of laughter behind it.
Daryl’s head jerks up, his breath catching in his throat. “Hot?” he rasps, his voice cracking slightly.
She nods, her smile soft and utterly disarming as her fingers trail along his jaw. “Yeah. You’re so worked up just from me, Daryl. That’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Her words make his head spin. She’s serious—dead serious—and it hits him like a freight train. She isn’t mocking him, isn’t annoyed or disappointed. She likes him. Wants him. And not just in some passing way.
“You really mean that?” he mumbles, his hands twitching where they return to rest awkwardly against her hips.
Her brow furrows slightly, her expression turning tender. “Of course I mean it. You have no idea how crazy you drive me, do you?”
He stares at her, stunned silent, his heart hammering in his chest. He doesn’t understand it—can’t wrap his head around why someone like her would want someone like him—but the look in her eyes leaves no room for doubt.
Her lips brush against his, slow and teasing. “Wanna go again?” she whispers, her voice like honey. “I’ve got a few more things I can teach you.”
His heart stutters, and he swears the heat in her gaze alone could undo him all over again. She’s not just enjoying herself—she’s reveling in it, like she’s been waiting for this moment as long as he has.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, rough and hoarse. He swallows hard, his body stirring again despite the lingering haze of his release. “Yeah, okay.”
Her smile widens, and it’s nothing short of radiant. She leans in, her mouth covering his in a kiss that feels deeper this time, more confident. He lets himself relax, his hands finding her waist, and for the first time, he lets himself believe this is real—that she’s here, wanting him, and not judging him for a second.
Her hips roll against him again, slow and deliberate, and his fingers tighten instinctively on her waist. When she breaks the kiss, her lips curve into a smirk, her voice dropping to a sultry purr. “Good. ‘Cause we’re just getting started.”
Part II
MultiFanWorld @multifanworld - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
