Sorry to break it to you but you literally have to face your fears and slaughter them. Otherwise you will live a small life that you do not want. You literally have to view your biggest fears and attack them head on. You have to fall into the abyss to find your way out. The easy path does not exist. There is no get out of jail free card. You have to allow yourself to die a spiritual death over and over again in order to reinvent yourself into the person you are actually supposed to be. And you have to be painfully honest with yourself and the people around you. It’s horrible but it’s truly the only way.
a/n: will anyone believe me if I say I capped myself at 2k for this???????? no proofreading bc I wrote this in between putting people in casts and splints and I'm tired and I have to do it all again for 12 hours tomorrow.
Pairing: Congressman Barnes x PR Manager!Reader
Warnings: SMUT!!! there's unprotected p in v, cream pie, fingering, fingers in mouth, a ripped Aritzia skirt (RIP), office sex, yearning?
Word count: 6.5k
Summary: You're the newly hired PR manager for Congressman James Buchanan Barnes, and you need to make sure New Yorkers keep voting correctly.
bucky 4 change masterlist
It started as every other day. 4am matcha latte. Yoga right after. A steming hot shower, a good blowdry to your hair, and some makeup, and you were sitting on the grey burgundy couch outside of his office with your legs crossed at the ankle promptly at 7:57am for an 8am meeting.
The office was buzzing with the low hum of early morning caffeine and political dread when you walked in. Some people looking at important documents, others just working through useless bureaucracy to make politicians look busy.
His secretary, sweet 64 year old Lizbeth, called your name and you followed her powdery rose perfume clad self into the open door of his office.
Him and his tall, muscular build got up from where he sat behind the desk, shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to prove you weren't dead inside, and soon he was standing in front of you, arm extended to shake your hand.
"James Barnes." He shook your hand with a smile. “You’re the new PR advisor?”
You smiled back at him with equal measure. "I'm your new PR manager." That earned a small twitch of his mouth. Not quite a smirk, but something close. You could see it already—he thought he could handle you. “We need to talk about your social media presence."
"I don't… have it." He looked at you like it was obvious, and to his credit, it was. He rounded his desk and sat down, "Please." He motioned for you to sit down on the chair across from him.
"I know. You’re a technically forty-something war hero withfacial hair and a jawline that could get teenagers to vote. If you’re not using social media, you’re robbing your base and the internet thirst machine.”
He blinked. “The what?”
You reached into your bag, pulled out your iPad, and slid it across his desk. The screen was already queued up to a compilation video someone made on TikTok titled Congressman Barnes being unintentionally hot for 2 minutes straight.
He stared at it. “This is real?”
“1.2 million views in three days.” You clicked your tongue.
“You’re fucking with me. What the hell is this?”
“Your constituency,” you say, coolly. “They’re starving. And you’re sitting on a goldmine, well, I am. Metaphorically. Also you just said ‘fuck’ in front of your PR strategist. Twice.”
He looked up at you, brow raised. “Are you offended?”
“God, no. But now that we got that out of the way. This campaign’s a fucking mess. And I’m here to fix it.”
This time, he did smirk. Something simmering just beneath the surface, in the way his gaze lingered a second too long. In the way his fingers tapped once, then twice, on the edge of his desk.
"Okay. What do I need to do?"
“Step one,” you say, opening your folder and flashing him a smile that makes his stomach flip in a way it hadn't since 1942, “is that you do exactly what I say.” You pause. Tilt your head. “And step two is that you start wearing tighter suits.”
By 4:30pm on the same day you’ve already reorganized half his calendar, fired one junior staffer, and rewritten three of his talking points by the time he walks back into his office. "Is it weird that I feel like I'm about to be interrogated?"
"No, because I'm about to interogate you."
Lights on. Mic clipped. You took your seat across from him, clipboard in hand. “Alright,” you say, voice crisp. “Hot mic, camera rolling, you’ve got sixty seconds. Voter in Queens asks what your top three priorities are. Go.”
You grilled him about his answers over and over again, until what came out of his mouth on a whim in a moment of pressure was the perfect amount of rehearsed honesty.
He laughed once under his breath. “You always this hard on your clients?”
"Only the elderly ones." You smirked and typed a couple notes, missing the blush that freckled his face.
It took you three days to completely revamp his campaign. All that was left standing from his previous days before his entire campaign was run straight out of your head was Lizbeth and her desk.
At the tailor's later that week, he's trying numerous amounts of colors, fabrics, and fits for the new leg of his campaign. A revamp of wardrobe. You need suits that fit you and don't look like they're from a random clothes chest from 1934. Was what you said to him.
“I don’t want to be another empty suit with a good smile,” and something in your chest lurches. Just a little.
"That's why we're sending all your suits to be taken in a little. So the suits are borderline obscenely filled." You looked up from your — his — color coded planner and sent Lizbeth a text about a meeting that would be difficult to reschedule, so you'd deal with it.
You were met by him pulling the curtain open and showing you the deep navy, single-breasted, peak lapel suit, snug through the shoulders and chest. He buttoned the shirt at the collar—no tie yet—and the way he rolled his wrists as he adjusted the cuffs was unfair.
"That one. That’s the one.”
He looks at you, then the mirror. “Why? What’s different?”
“The fit,” you say. “It’s clean. Intentional." You shift the planner and phone out of your lap and stand up, walking over to stand in front of him close enough he could really take in the fact that you were wearing 5 inch heels and he still towered over you. With plenty of room.
Your hands went up to the collar of the crisp shirt, adjusting it and then undoing the top two buttons. "Brings out your eyes too." It only got you a chuckle in response, his eyes never leaving yours, even though you avoided his gaze.
It was almost too quiet. He raised a brow. “That’s the look we’re going for?”
“You’re running for office, not sainthood.”
The tailor fussed with the hem. Bucky’s eyes were still on you. “And you’re the expert on that?” he asks, low.
“I’m the expert on you,” you murmur without looking up. “It’s literally my job.”
You stand in silence for another beat or two, and you go back to sitting on the couch once the tailor clears his throat. Bucky going back to the dressing room to try a beige-cream colored set.
You walk to his side of the desk and drop a stack of printed talking points beside his hand. “Review those before your segment with CBS tomorrow. They’ll want something polished but personal. I highlighted the lines you can say without sounding like a robot.”
You leaned on the desk, almost sitting on it but not quite,, just enough to make your skirt ride up when you crossed your legs. Not that they were bare, the sheer stockings you had on helped heep the outfit Congress worthy, and also deplorably inappropriate if you ask Bucky's hippocampus.
It had been three months since your first day, and each day he seemed to find something worthy to file away to the back of his mind, only to be retreived in the case of an unbearable hard on.
Which, thanks to you, had been pretty frequent.
You didn’t notice the way his pen froze halfway through a signature—well, not openly. You didn’t acknowledge the way his eyes flicked briefly to your legs and then resolutely back to the paper in front of him, jaw tight.
Or maybe you did. Because you leaned in slightly, perfectly manicured fingers tapping once beside his coffee cup, a gesture that brought your perfume that much closer to his senses. That clean, sweet scent he’d come to associate with damage control, late nights, and the exact moment his professionalism started fraying at the edges.
He cleared his throat. “These all got your approval?”
Your smile was all innocent. “Of course. Unless you want to go rogue and talk about your love for standardized testing and tax loopholes again.”
“Mm,” he hummed, not looking at you. “That went well.”
“I still have emails about it.”
He looked up at that, and for a second—just a second—his expression flickered into something wicked.
“Anything interesting?” he asked, tone smooth. “Fan mail? Death threats? Thirst comments?”
You gave him a teasing smile. "Look at you, catching up on the slang." You met his gaze without flinching. “Mostly people saying your PR manager should get a raise.”
“Oh?” he said, sitting back in his chair a little too casually, thighs spreading just a fraction wider beneath the desk. “Well, you’ll have to take that up with the Congressman. Heard he's a real hard ass with that sort of stuff.”
“I am,” you replied coolly, with a tilt of your head. “And I’d like to argue that your rise in approval ratings coincides directly with your improved tailoring and your willingness to be bossed around by a woman a foot and some change shorter than you.”
He let out a low chuckle, fingers curling slightly around the pen still resting on his papers. “If I recall correctly, you said I liked being told what to do.”
You smiled. “And?”
He leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk now, voice dropping just enough to make your spine straighten. “And maybe I do.”
There it was again—that thing in his tone that made your skin prickle with heat and your brain scatter like the click of your heels on Capitol marble.
You swallowed. Straightened your planner. “Good. Then you’ll review the talking points, wear the Tom Ford, and not flirt with the CBS anchor.”
“She flirts with me.”
“And you let her.” You pointed.
He smirked. “Jealous?”
You stood then, slowly, making sure your skirt didn’t slip too low again just to annoy him. "Just don't make my hard work be in vain."
You had four alarms set. Your color-coded planner was blocked in ten-minute increments. You were on track for a flawless CBS segment at 9:45 AM. And he was still in bed at 7:58, like some trust fund Golden Retriever who had never been yelled at by a producer with an earpiece.
You set the coffees down on the kitchen island with a loud clack and stormed down the hall.
You creaked the door open, and there he was. Shirtless.Hair a disaster. Sheets tangled around one leg. Eyes barely cracked open as the morning sun filtered in behind you.
“Mm,” he groaned, voice all gravel and velvet. “Why are you in my apartment?”
You held up the suit like it was a weapon. “Because you’re scheduled to be on national television in less than two hours and you overslept.”
His brow furrowed like the concept of time was still theoretical. You flipped on the bedroom lights. “Up. Now. You need to shower. Move.”
He groaned again but swung his legs over the side of the bed, body stretching in a way that should be illegal. Broad chest, scarred shoulder, boxers hanging dangerously low. A flex of abs as he stood and scratched the back of his neck, stumbling toward the bathroom like an exhausted soldier crawling into the trenches.
"Of course the one day you oversleep is one of the biggest ones for your campaign, TV-wise." You mumbled under your breath.
You tried not to look. You really did.
But Jesus. He was built like a 1940s fever dream and you’d be a liar if you said you didn’t take a brief moment to admire the curve of his back as he disappeared into the steam.
You cleared your throat. Focused.
You set the suit on the hook outside the bathroom and paced through his apartment while he showered, texting Lizbeth and CBS’s segment producer and checking his pre-approved talking points one more time.
By the time he walked out, new boxers hugging low around his hips, hair dripping, and looking every bit like a Greek tragedy with a congressional badge, you nearly dropped your phone. He started dressing like you don’t happen to be standing ten feet away actively fighting for your composure. You glance—once—and then turn so fast you nearly drop his damn planner.
He notices, of course. “You okay over there?” he asks, smug.
“Perfectly fine,” you manage, thrusting the tie toward him without making eye contact. “Power red was too aggressive. Navy’s better.”
He’s buttoning the shirt now, collar still undone, watching you through the mirror like he knows. You step forward, close the distance between you and tug the tie into place yourself. Your fingers brush his throat. His breath catches—and yours does too, just for a beat too long.
“You’re mic’d in thirty,” you murmur, focusing on the knot. “Don’t forget the lines I highlighted. Say them like you mean them.”
He’s quiet. Watching you. “I always mean it when you write it.”
You ignore the flip in your stomach. Step back. Compose yourself. "Car's waiting."
The black SUV is quiet. Just the soft shuffle of notes in your lap and the occasional rustle of his suit as he adjusts in the seat beside you.
It’s rare—this quiet. No buzzing phones, no barking campaign aides, no back-to-back meetings or Capitol chaos. Just the two of you, the city sliding past the tinted windows, and the low pulse of pre-interview nerves that you feel more from him than yourself.
You glance up and catch it—his left hand fidgeting slightly with the hem of his cuff. His knee bouncing once. His jaw set tighter than usual.
“You’re nervous,” you say quietly, almost amused. “You’ve given floor speeches about gun control with less tension.”
He huffs a breath, eyes still on the window. “Yeah, well… CBS has a bigger audience than C-SPAN. And you’re not glaring at me from the floor during this one.”
You smile, despite yourself. “I glare because it makes you focus.”
“I know,” he says, softer now. “That’s the problem.”
You shift toward him. “You’ll be fine,” you murmur, reaching over before you even think twice. Your fingers smooth along his lapel, adjusting the line of the fabric near his shoulder. Then you glance at his hair—of course it’s stubborn. You reach again, gently smoothing down a stray wave at his temple, brushing your knuckles against his cheekbone in the process.
He just watches you like he’s trying to memorize you. Like the whole city could vanish outside the car and he wouldn’t notice. There’s a quiet awe in it. Something unspoken and molten beneath the surface, something so raw it catches you off guard.
“You take such good care of me.”
Your throat tightens. “It’s my job.” And god if you don't want to take it back and say that it's more than that. It's that spending your Thursday nights barefoot in his office running points with nothing but dumplings in your stomach isn't your favorite part of the week. It's that when you don't have a text from him with a stupid question on a Saturday morning before your kickboxing class, you're a little disappointed.
He smiles—soft, a little crooked. “I know."
You sit back before you can say anything you shouldn’t. Before you can reach for his hand or smooth the collar again just to touch him. The planner is back in your lap. Your eyes are back on the city.
By 9:43 AM, he’s camera-ready—flawless in the navy suit, sharp jaw clean-shaven, talking points memorized. His voice is smooth, his smile just sincere enough to go viral, and you’re standing off-camera with your arms crossed, pretending your pulse isn’t still racing.
You try not to react. You’re the PR manager. You’re here to observe, manage optics, control spin. Not melt like a popsicle in July because your client looks like a Calvin Klein wet dream in a navy suit you personally picked, with a voice like the best old fashioned in the five boroughs and eyes that only ever seem to look at you.
The anchor asks a question about community reinvestment.
Bucky answers it flawlessly.
You didn’t write that exact phrasing—he’s improvising—but his tone is warm and real, and his shoulders stay relaxed. He even cracks a smile when the anchor jokes about how rare it is to have a Congressman “under forty, with charm, a military record, and a jawline that could cut glass.”
Bucky just chuckles. Then looks at you. Dead-on. Like you’re his anchor point.
And says, smoothly, “I have a great team. Especially my PR manager. She keeps me in line.”
The anchor raises a brow. “Sounds like she’s got her hands full.”
“Oh, you have no idea.” he replied, low and smiling in that way only you know means something else entirely.
The day goes by like a flash. A string of meetings, press calls, policy reviews, and constituent damage control that started at dawn and hadn’t let up since.
You blinked and it was 3:45pm, and you were standing by Bucky in a cabinet meeting. Staring at your iPad, jotting down notes from the meeting, good talking points you'd thought of so you wouldn't forget later, trying to pay attention to the twelve people in the room blabbing about clean water and rent control policies.
Not knowing the entire time, Bucky's head wasn't in the meeting. In fact, if it wasn’t physically attached to his body by that thick, sin-worthy neck, it would’ve rolled right off his shoulders, under the table, and right between your legs.
And frankly? That’s exactly where he wanted it.
It was almost mean, really. You had the same black skirt from a couple of days prior, the one that gave him all sorts of nasty, depraved thoughts about what was kept between your thighs. Oasis. Ecstasy, if you ask him.
The one that had haunted him two nights ago when he’d jerked off in the shower, cursing your name because he came embarrassingly fast just thinking about the way the back of it hugged your ass when you bent slightly over his desk to grab your bag before leaving, wishing you were bent over the dark mahogany for other purposes.
He had one hand in his pocket, not because it was casual, but because he was hard. Embarrassingly so. Right there in a room with twelve other people. Twelve people talking about housing vouchers and public utilities, and all he could think about was how your mouth looked this morning while sipping that iced matcha latte.
You glanced over once, briefly, to ask if he wanted to weigh in on the zoning clause. He managed a grunt and a nod. You didn’t even seem to notice his pupils were blown.
And maybe it was for the best—because if you did, he’d have to admit he’d been mentally tongue-deep in the idea of you squeezing your thighs shut while you scolded him about platform messaging. Again.
“…as long as the funds are reallocated under the clause in section three—” In one ear, out the other.
Absolutely nothing was sticking in Bucky’s head. The room might as well have been filled with static. Numbers. Acronyms. Someone saying the word "pilot program" for the fourth time. He blinked, jaw tight, nodding absently at a graph someone passed around.
Sitting in the middle of this boring-ass cabinet meeting, trying to focus on someone explaining municipal wastewater infrastructure, all he could think about was bending you over the desk in front of him. Right there.
Of hiking that cruel little black skirt up over your ass, tugging your pantyhose down just enough, and putting his mouth exactly where he knew you’d taste like power and honey and something ruinous.
In his mind, you were breathless—trying to stay composed, gripping the edge of the table, your notes forgotten, your toes curling inside those pointed heels. He knew you wouldn't be patient, and he wouldn't have the heart to deny you anything, let alone his mouth.
“—so we’d just need your signature by end of day,” someone said at the front of the room, and he was brought back to reality by the same pointed shoes nidging his calf to elicit a response from him.
The limo ride back is dimly lit, city lights slinking past the tinted windows in gold and blue streaks as the day winds down into something warmer, lazier.
You’re curled slightly toward him on the plush leather seat, legs tucked under you as you scroll through the comments on his Instagram—specifically, the snippet you posted of the CBS moment that has social media in a chokehold.
You snort. “Oh my god,” you mumble through a grin. “Someone said they want to be arrested by you in that suit.”
Bucky hums lowly beside you, tie loosened, top button undone, one arm thrown across the back of the seat like he’s not fully aware how casual and hot he looks doing it. Or maybe he is. Maybe that’s the problem.
“Arrested, huh?” He raises an eyebrow, voice a little hoarse from the hours of talking. “Should I be concerned? Is that how low public trust has dropped?”
You glance up at him. “No, trust me—these comments are not about policy. Unless ‘publicly rearranging my insides’ is part of your campaign platform now.” Your eyes perk up, and you turn to scribble something down on your planner. "Oh! Idea!"
He laughs—really laughs—and lets his head fall back against the seat. “Jesus.”
You scroll a bit more, still grinning. “I mean, not to inflate your ego further, but someone just called you ‘Congress Zaddy.’ With three fire emojis.”
He glances sideways at you, lips curled. “You okay over there?”
“Huh?”
“You’re glowing. Laughing. I didn’t know getting thirst comments on my behalf was your love language.”
You roll your eyes, cheeks warm. “Relax.”
But he doesn’t let it go. He watches you a beat longer, eyes a little softer now, a little slower. Then, with a smirk that makes your stomach flip, he adds “You know, next time, you can just tell me you like the way the suit fits. Don’t need to crowdsource it.”
You blink. "Since when do you know what crowdsourcing even is?"
He’s teasing. You know he’s teasing.
But the way he says it—low, almost indulgent, like he already knows exactly what that suit does to you and he’s been waiting for you to admit it—makes it hit lower than your spine and higher than your heart.
You recover fast, eyes narrowing as you sit up and slip keys out of your bag.
“Goodnight, Congressman,” you say, with a wry smile, just as the car pulls to a stop in front of your building.
He lifts his brows like he’s not done, not even close, but just nods. “Sleep tight, boss.”
It was well past midnight when the call came in.
You were half-asleep on the couch in his office, legs folded under you, Bucky’s jacket around your shoulders because the central heating in the building shut off hours ago. He was pacing behind his desk, still in that damn navy suit that fit too well, tie long discarded and top buttons undone. You blinked blearily at him when his phone rang—watched his eyes flicker, voice go quiet. And then:
“…You’re kidding.” A beat of silence. A grin. And a breathless, “Holy shit.” And then he was looking at you like you were the reason the world kept turning. “They folded,” he said, voice breaking on a laugh. “They’re backing the amendment. We’ve got the votes.”
You jolted upright, barely processing what he said before you were on your feet, grinning, eyes wide. “Wait—wait, really?!”
He crossed the room and grabbed you. Lifted you off your feet in a single motion, arms around your waist as you squealed and threw yours around his neck. He spun you once before setting you down gently, palms warm on your sides, that big, disbelieving grin still on his face.
You were breathless. “Do you know what this means?”
“Yeah,” he murmured, not moving, eyes fixed on your mouth. “Means you’re a fucking genius.”
His mouth crashes into yours, desperate and unrestrained, lips parting yours instantly. His nose bumps yours, his breath mixes with yours, and the taste—God, the taste of him—is whiskey and heat and every pent-up moment you’ve shared in dim hallways and elevators and late-night strategy sessions.
His hands are on both sides of your face, making it impossible to move away even if you wanted to.
Your hands grip his shirt, bunching the fabric at his collar as you gasp softly into his mouth.
He groans—quiet, low, involuntary—and it goes straight through you. His thumbs stroke your jaw, tilting your face just enough that he can kiss you deeper, harder, like he’s trying to solidify you into memory by tact alone.
It's messy and it's perfect and he kisses you like he's ready for it to be the last time he sees you, right before you slap him across the face, march out of his office and have a courier deliver a sexual assault lawsuit straight onto the desk he dreamed of bending you over.
And when he finally rips himself away with a strangled inhale, his forehead stays pressed against yours. “Oh my God—” he whispered. “I’m—shit, I’m so sorry. I didn’t— I shouldn’t have—fuck, I didn’t mean to just—”
You didn’t let him finish. You grabbed his face with both hands and yanked him back in. Open-mouthed. Hungry. Your teeth catch his bottom lip, his hands fly straight to your waist, dragging you against him like he’s been starving for this—for you—and can finally eat.
He stumbles forward, or maybe you pull him back, and the edge of his desk catches the back of your thighs. You barely notice. You’re too busy swallowing the sound he makes when your tongue slides against his.
"This is so unprofessional." You murmured against his lips, without any real intention of stopping. He exhales something helpless—almost a curse—and then he’s kissing you again, deeper than before, hands dipping low to grip your thighs and perch you up to sit on the desk — dark cool mahogany under your skin — standing flush against you between your knees.
His tongue sweeps into your mouth, slow at first, then needier when you sigh into him. His hand splays against your back, dragging your body up into his, and you feel how much he wants you—all of you—pressed against your hip.
You break the kiss just long enough to gasp a breath, but he follows, mouth tracing your jaw, your cheek, your neck where your carotid is pulsing his name in a morse code only he understood.
Your hands dropped from where they were tugging his tie loose to his belt, clinking the leather and gold hardware away from where you wanted to be sitting pretty on. As you unzipped his pants and let your hand find him under the confines of his boxers, Bucky groaned into your neck and nipped — hard — as you stroke the heavy, hot length of him.
His hips jolted forward with a strangled sound, something low and deep that escapes against your neck like he's ashamed of being so available at your mercy. His forehead pressed into your shoulder as you stroke him—slow, twisting just enough at the tip to make him groan quietly into your skin.
He was panting against your neck, every breath warmer than the last, and your hand hasn’t stopped moving. His cock is heavy in your palm, thick and pulsing with each stroke, and the way he ruts forward—controlled, precise—makes your knees tighten around his hips.
"Fuck," he mutters into your skin, hand sliding up your inner thigh beneath your skirt, bunching the fabric at your waist until the cool air hits your panties, as do his fingers, feeling the wet spot on the soft lace. “You’re soaked.”
You nodded, breathless. "Been soaked since you almost missed CBS."
He looked dazed for a moment, pulling away to look at your face for any signs you were fucking with him before actually fucking him. "That was months ago."
"Mmmhmm." While biting your lip was all you let out as your free hand pulled him to kiss you again — rougher now, teeth and tongue and months of unsaid things—and you barely register the shuffle of paper and pens falling to the floor as he sweeps your planner and notes off the desk behind you.
He makes quick work of your blouse, the silk falling behind you and turning to nothing around your wrists, sheer skill undoing the clasp of your white lace balconette bra. You brushed both fabrics away from you arms, finding yourself completely topless and helpless to the assault of his beard on your supple skin.
He hooked a finger on the sopping wet center of your panties while he kissed down your chest, and pulled the sticky lace away from you like it was offending him, and once it was just hanging off of the tip of your black heels, his calloused flesh fingers found the wetness he spent months thinking about.
Your leg wrapped around his hip while he teased your slit, spreading your wetness until you whined against him, and gave him a gentle squeeze just in case he didn't hear you.
“I think about this every fucking time I walk into this office,” he muttered against your skin, nipping at it, breath ragged. “Every time you argue with me in front of staff. Every time you call me ‘Congressman’ like you don’t know how close I am to bending you over this goddamn desk.”
His fingers dipped into you like he was curling them to scoop cake batter like a mischevious kid who caught the mixing bowl unattended. Your cunt clenched around his digits like you never wanted to let him go — and to be honest, you didn't.
You gasped into his mouth, letting yourself bite his chin and nip at his jaw. "Please, Bucky."
"Mmmm, is that my name, sweetheart?" Some other time you'd scold him for being so smug. Maybe during a time where he misused a slang, or dressed up too out of time.
Not when he stuck another finger inside of you to the hilt, and rubbed the rough surface of his palm against your clit. "Please, Congressman Barnes — fuck— I—"
The amount of noise coming from your mouth was humiliating enough without the obscenely loud squelch of his fingers pumping in and out of your pussy, fast enough to get you to the edge but slow enough to just keep you there.
“What do you need, sweetheart?”
You bite down on his chin again, try to grind down against his hand, unable to think straight, unable to pretend anymore. “You. I need— just— please—”
He curses softly under his breath, the kind of sound you’ve only ever heard when he’s frustrated at budget cuts or broken bills—but this isn’t frustration. This is hunger. This is agony. This was months of tension snapping like overstretched wire.
“You say please like that,” he whispers, “and I’ll give you anything.” He pushed your legs further apart, to the degree the crepe fabric of your skirt couldn't stretch to, so it gave away and ripped down the side seam about an inch.
He kissed you quiet, laying you down on the dark wood, cool against the hot skin of your back, and left a trail of kisses and nips down your neck and chest, the closer he got to where it would be covered, the harder the bit and sucked.
Bucky stood up again and took his cock out of his pants — finally — and it was everything you imagined it would be. Beautifully thick, long enough to hit every spot possible inside of you, leaking, and needy.
He fists himself a couple of times, dragging the blunt head of him over your slit and coating himself in your wetness before leaning over you. He didn't kiss you when he pushed in, instead he held himself just above you, hovering, swallowing the moan you let out right into his mouth.
Your foot urged him closer, even though he was trying with all his might to savor it. He could savor all the other times, you thought. Right now you needed him so deep inside of you, you thought you were gonna break in half.
And by the grace of everything that is holy, he did.
Bucky held both of your legs apart, straightening his spine to pump his cock in and out of your begging cunt. He didn't know where to look, his eyes danced between the pure esctasy on your face and the depraved image of your pussy swallowing him over and over again.
“All those nights we stayed late…” he murmured, eyes dropping to where you were spread open for him, voice raw and low. “All those times you bent over this desk and had no fucking clue I was two seconds away from bending you over it for real.”
You whined and he swore he'd make you let out that sound a thousand more times before the year was done. The drag of him, the pressure, the stretch—it was too much and still not enough.
Another broken sound spills from you, louder this time, and his jaw tightens, something primal and possessive flaring across his face.
“Okay,” he murmurs, “okay, I got you.”
He takes his hand from your hip and brings two fingers to your mouth — the same fingers he’d had inside you earlier, the ones that had you gasping and begging and shaking for him. They hover just over your lips, glistening, and your breath stutters.
He leans close, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Open.”
The second your lips part, he slides them past your tongue, giving you something to cling to, something to bite down on, something to muffle the sounds he knows you can’t hold back. His fingers rest heavy on your tongue, and his eyes flutter for a moment — ruined by the sight of you sucking them in without hesitation.
“That’s it…” he groans, hips stuttering once. “That’s my girl.”
You suck harder, desperate, and he swears under his breath, the sound half‑praise, half‑plea. Your hand slips up his chest and bunches in his shirt again as he drops his forehead to yours, breath shaking.
“Good,” he whispers, voice barely holding together. “Be good for me — stay quiet — just like that.”
Your moan vibrates around his fingers, and his eyes roll shut, breath leaving him in one long, broken exhale.
“Look at you,” he whispered, almost reverent now. “Fucking heaven. So tight. So wet. You’re everything I ever wanted and so much filthier than I deserve.”
You clenched around him, and he groaned.
“Next time,” he mutters against your lips, “I’ll take my time. I’ll get on my knees for you. I’ll eat that perfect little pussy until you’re crying and thanking me.” Another thrust.
You’re clenching around him now, back arching up to meet each thrust, and he feels it — he feels it — your whole body begging to let go.
“Gonna come for me?” he whispers, dragging his fingers down your body to find your clit, slick with need. He circles it expertly, groaning when you twitch beneath him. “You’re so close. I can feel it.”
His voice drops even lower, wrecked and filthy.
“Come on, sweetheart. Be good. Let me feel you. Let me feel this tight little cunt strangle my cock.”
Your hands are in his hair before you even realize it, yanking him down into a kiss so filthy, so unrestrained, that he nearly loses it right there.
“You gonna soak my cock like the good fucking girl you are?”
And when you do — when your whole body tenses and he feels you squeeze around him like a vice — he groans so loud it echoes, fucking you through it with deep, desperate strokes. You don’t even register the words that leave your mouth, some combination of yes and Bucky and please, but he does. He hears every single one and kisses them off your lips like a treasures only he gets to keep.
“Come inside me, Bucky.” His breath hitches. You smile, slow and wicked, voice thick with heat. “I want it. Want to feel you filling me up. Want to walk out of here knowing I’m leaking you all the way down my thighs.”
“Fuck,” he hisses, forehead pressing against yours, eyes squeezing shut. He growls low in his chest, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he thrusts once, twice, and then buries himself as deep as you’ll let him, spilling into you with a long, hoarse moan against your neck. “Fuck—fuck, fuck,” he gasps, every muscle in his body trembling as he pulses inside you, rutting into your wet heat like he never wants to stop.
You hold him there, both hands tangled in his hair, whispering praise into his skin. You stay wrapped around him, skin still slick, breaths still uneven, your skirt torn up your thigh, and his shirt clinging to his back where your nails raked him raw.
“You okay?” he murmured.
“Yeah. I just… forgot what day it was. Year. Name. That sort of thing.” You chuckled, sending vibrations to where he was softening inside of you.
“I, uh…” He clears his throat, suddenly sheepish, like he didn’t just rail you into his desk and promise to give you anything when you begged. “I was gonna wait, but…” He scratches the back of his neck, still flushed, hair askew. “There’s the Speaker’s Gala next Friday. Press’ll be there. Colleagues. Donors.”
"I'm aware. I make your calendar." You raise a brow. “Bucky Barnes trying to impress the suits?”
He grins. “I don’t give a shit about the suits. I want you there.” Your breath catches. He continues, softer this time. “Not as my staffer. Not as the person who saved my campaign’s ass. Just… as you. With me. If you want.”
You blink at him, your heart lurching in the way it has a thousand times these past few months— only now, there's nothing keeping it from showing on your face.
“Are you asking me on a date, Congressman?”
He tilts his head, that crooked smile back on his face. “I just had sex with you on government property. I think we’re past subtext.”
You snort, smacking his chest lightly. “Fine. I’ll go.”
“And?”
a/n: dribbles are open for this! and social media posts????????
A/N: this is a love letter to my dearest @houseofhyde, I hope whatever is wrong with me helps cheer you up, my love. I love u <3. The title was Hyde's idea too, the numbers I chose are the diagnosis code for generalized hyperarousal/hypersexualization.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Word count: 8.5k
Warnings: dub-ish con (sex pollen)?, SMUT!! (p in v, face fucking, mating press, oral (m receiving), overstimulation (m&f), tears of overstimulation, begging?, beefy bucky looking that feral is its own warning, BCB (big cock bucky), size kink?
Summary: How many times has Steve told you not to touch weird shit in old labs?
Easy mission. In and out. Get intel, meet at the extraction point, get in the Quinjet and make it back to the compound in time to get pizza delivered from Donatello's, watch trashy TV while Sam talking shit about said trashy TV, and pass out on the couch.
At least, it would've been, until Joaquin decided to touch whatever definitely not innocuous shit he found in one of the labs and, in an attempt to get Bucky's old HYDRA expertise, made the small vial explode into a puff of pink smoke right in front of his face.
You were sweeping the lower lab levels when the comms crackled.“Oh wow, this stuff is so old.”
You groaned. “That sounded like the voice of a man about to do something stupid. Joaquin, do not—” And then you heard Bucky choke, cough, and groan like he was about to twist Joaquin's neck like an old farmer would do to a chicken before dinner.
You jogged around the corner, footsteps echoing in the old no-so-sterile halls, and met up with both of them bumping straight into Bucky's chest in the process, making him grunt at the impact.
"Oh, hi." You smiled at him like you always did: sweetly, kindly, like you weren't trying to hide the fact that you'd rearrange the tiles on every subway station in New York if he asked you to. "You guys okay?"
Joaquin shrugged and nodded, "Just got some old school glitter all over grandpa."
Bucky gave you a breathy "yeah, all good." before all of you nodded your heads in agreement and moved along.
You got to another wing of the old base, and the three of you got stopped by a heavy reinforced door preventing you from moving further into the hallway. “You gotta be kidding me,” Joaquin sighed, smacking the reader with the heel of his palm.
You leaned in to inspect it, raising a brow. “Looks like the power line’s fried in this section. We’ll have to backtrack through—” You didn’t finish, because Bucky swayed out of the corner of your eye.
Not dramatically, not theatrically, just enough that your hand shot out, instinctively catching his elbow. “Woah, hey,” you blinked up at him. “You good?” He didn’t answer.
His jaw flexed, teeth grinding. His breath came sharp, deeper, as if the air had suddenly gotten heavier around him. His pupils were… wide. Obscenely, almost. Swallowing the blue.
Joaquin noticed too. “…Uh. Sarge?”
Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. Once. Twice. Like he was trying to blink something back into order.
“I said I’m fine,” he rasped, voice low and not fine at all. But his shoulders trembled, he felt the fabric of his shirt start to cling to him like he’d just stepped out of a sauna, the collar of the tac vest becoming chafy and uncomfortable.
You felt heat radiating off him—like his skin was cooking under the surface. Bucky inhaled sharply, not a normal breath, a slow, wrecking, deep inhale, eyes closing as he tumbled back, bracing himself on the wall.
“…Buck?” Your voice came out softer this time. You could see the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and the way his eyes were having a hard time focusing. His head lolled from side to side against the cold steel wall until you steadied his face to look at you. "Hey, talk to me."
"I feel—" He couldn't get words to come out, the throughts were there but his tongue felt heavy, like it wanted to give away secrets his brain hadn't allowed it to."I think I'm sick." And God, the way that you took a glove off and put the back of your hand to his forehead just barely helped relieve the heat his body was producing.
Heat that went up a degree or two when you touched your cheek to his forehead, and he inhaled the sweet scent of your skin. Nothing perfume-like, or lotion, just… you, right at the space where your neck met your shoulder, like the smell of you had hooked him by the throat and reeled him in.
"You're burning up." He felt a whine bubble in his throat when you pulled away to talk to Joaquin. "What exactly was in that lab?"
“…Okay. So remember that old glitter? Could’ve been, uh—bio-aerosol? Or something from that weird Cold War pheromone vault section?” It was almost cartoonish the way Joaquin's face formed into a wince. A very "we're so fucked and he's gonna kill me" wince.
You stared. “You mean sex pollen.”
“…I did not want to be the guy to say that out loud.” Both of you turned your heads to the sound behind you, not quite a growl, or a moan, but something animal and hurt.
"Okay, how long do we have?" Your mind was going a mile a minute. "Is he gonna die before we get back?" You walked back to crouch in front of Bucky, looking for his eyes with yours. “Hey,” you murmured, guiding his gaze back to you, “look at me.”
His breathing stuttered. “You shouldn’t—” he croaked, voice shredded raw. “I don’t—this isn’t—”
“I know,” you whispered. "Can you hang on until we get to the jet? Bruce and Tony must have something that can help." All you got back was a nod.
After talking the long way out, you managed to get back to the team, Steve's face like a worried mother hen when he saw the three of you, Bucky insisting on walking on his own, telling Joaquin to stand between the two of you.
Steve jogged down immediately. “What the hell happened?”
Bucky jerked back like Steve reaching for him was a knife being drawn. “Don’t,” he bit out—voice shredded, almost unrecognizable.
“Why do you look like you’re about to pounce on something?”
Steve pulled his hand back, palms up, tone softening instantly. “Okay. Okay. Not touching you. Just talk to me.” Joaquin stepped forward like he was testifying in court.
“So—fun story—turns out Cold War Russia kept, um… let’s call it biologically weaponized pheromone particulate in some of the older R&D labs and—”
Sam blinked, looked directly at Bucky, then you, then right back to Joaquin when he almost couldn't contain his laughter. “So he just inhaled airborne horny juice.”
Steve’s face did every emotion at once. Concern. Fear. Confusion. A level of Catholic repression so strong it could’ve powered a city. While Sam just exhaled through his nose like someone who was seconds away from clocking out of reality.
Your body went still.
"I just— I need to lie down, and—" You reached out to help him onto the jet, but his hand shot our making you jump back. "Don't—" He sighed, trying to level his voice. "Just stay away from me."
You'd be lying if you said that didn't hurt a little. Like having the guy you've been pining over for the past two years tell you to buzz off didn't sting like lemon and rock salt on an open wound.
Okay, it hurt a lot.
It was visible the way that you retreated back into yourself, like it would protect you somehow. "Copy that."
Steve’s jaw ticked, Sam looked down like he suddenly found the floor very, very interesting, Joaquin winced like he’d just watched someone get smacked with a folding chair.
“Wait—” His voice cracked, caught in his throat. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” you said quickly. Too quickly. The verbal equivalent of throwing a sheet over a shattered glass and calling it clean. “We need to get you stabilized. That’s all that matters.”
“No. Don’t—don’t do that.”
You swallowed. “Do what?”
“That.” His eyes held yours, unsteady, and almost pleading. “That look. Like I pushed you into traffic.”
Steve took one step forward, voice gentle. “Buck, she’s just giving you space—”
“I don’t want space,” Bucky snapped. "I want—" Another wave of whatever the compound was hit him, and he doubled over in pain. Steve helped brace him and held a hand out to stop you when you instinctively stepped forward to help.
“Let’s get him on the cot,” Steve murmured to Sam and Joaquin, gentle, smooth, easing into triage leadership.
Sam mumbled to Steve on the way there. “We gotta get him to the medbay before his bloodstream goes full Discovery Channel.”
The flight home was torture in slow motion.
Bucky sat hunched forward on the med-cot, elbows braced against his knees, hands fisting and unfisting like he was holding on to the last thread of himself. Every breath shook. Every exhale came rough, uneven, punched through clenched teeth. The fever didn’t just burn—it crawled. Beneath his skin, along his spine, curling up behind his ribs like it was trying to get out. And every time the jet hit the slightest patch of turbulence, every sway of the cabin, every shift in yourbreathing—he reacted. His head would lift like he was tracking you by sound alone, pupils blown wide, like you were the only oxygen in the room.
And you—God—you sat across the jet from him, arms wrapped around yourself like that could hold you steady, eyes tracing the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but him. Because looking at him meant seeing the raw need he was fighting to keep contained. It meant seeing him hurt.
After briefing Tony and Bruce, and getting a “That man inhaled weaponized lust dust?” said over a pair of glasses and raised brows, Tony locked Bucky in a super soldier-proof room with bulletproof glass windows and an amazing vitals monitoring system. But if you asked for Bucky's opinion, the quarantine quarters were sterile in an unsettling way.
The lights were too bright, the sheets were chafy and uncomfortable against his skin, and everything was too white and clean. He managed to sweat through a shirt already, pacing around like a cautionary tale, and was on his way to doing so a second time. Not even the AC was able to help cool him off.
His eyes kept flicking—to the glass. To you, every few seconds, like his body knew exactly where you were even when he forced himself to look away.
Bruce was scrolling through old SHIELD and Hydra files on a tablet, voice low, clinical, steady.
“The compound works by hijacking limbic and hypothalamic pathways,” he murmured. “Drives instinctual bonding and reproductive compulsion. Increases cortisol and dopamine at unsafe levels. If we don’t neutralize it, he could go into cardiac stress within the next 12 to 24 hours.”
Your stomach dropped.
Tony glanced over. “But hey, great news. He won’t die from horny. Probably. Unless he, you know—” he mimed an explosion near his chest. “Pops like an over-microwaved hot dog.”
Steve glared. “Tony.”
“What? Humor is how I cope with things trying to kill us. Or in this case, trying to rail someone into a medically concerning state.”
“He’s getting worse,” you whispered. “His breathing’s all over the place. The pacing isn’t helping anymore. We can’t just let him ride this out.”
Steve scrubbed a hand down his face. “Bruce is working as fast as he can—”
“Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” Bucky's voice snapped through the intercom, ragged and pained, and incredibly frustrated.
The room froze for a second. Steve flinched just slightly—guilt flashing across his face, Bruce and Tony looked up, and Sam turned around from where he was, back facing the windows Bucky was now bracing his hand on.
And Bucky—
Bucky had turned around, from his pacing back and forth, and settled in front of the glass walls. His chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths. His jaw was set, eyes blown wide and dark, and sweat made his shirt cling to him like a second skin.
What stopped you dead in your tracks wasn't that, though. It wasn't his shirt starting to get soaked through, it wasn't his forehead shiny with sweat, it was the fact that the sweats he changed into did absolutely nothing to hide the state he was in.
You hadn't meant to look, but like the moon pulls the tide, your gaze found the almost offensive tent he was pitching in his pants. Long, heavy, solid, straining against fabric that was doing absolutely zero work as a barrier—just pressed up the left side, the outline unmistakable.
Your pulse thundered behind your ribs like your heart wanted to sprint out of your chest and run to him. Steve—poor, earnest, helpful Steve—instantly jerked his head away like he’d just accidentally opened a stranger’s bathroom door.
“Oh my God,” Steve muttered, eyes locked firmly on the ceiling tiles. “Yep. Okay. Yep. We’ve reached that stage. Great.”
Sam spoke, turning back around, voice flat and so exhausted it could have been legally declared a sigh. “Yeah, I’m not making eye contact with any of that. I’m barely managing my own dignity today.”
Tony lifted his coffee mug like a toast to misery. “We’re all fighting for our lives right now, Wilson.”
Joaquin muttered something that sounded like holy mother of thirst traps, and immediately shut his mouth when Sam elbowed him.
He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated and burning and so far past okay he had lapped the field. “This is ridiculous,” he snapped, voice hoarse. “There’s no reason for me to be locked up like some—some feral animal. I said I’m fine.”
“Bucky,” you murmured, tone unimpressed. “Your heart rate is at one-seventy and you are five minutes away from humping the corner of the room.”
“I’m fine.” He snarled the word like it personally insulted him.
He turned again—another pacing lap, another moving target distracting you from the actual problem. Or making you focus on it, depends who you ask.
Swing.
Swing.
Your eyes followed it like it had its own orbit. With every step he took, his breathing got worse, and his cock bobbed and swung with the movement. Did they even bother to get him a pair of boxers? For god's sake.
You tried to look away and failed. Spectacularly.
Bucky stopped mid-step when he noticed. Tilted his head once he followed your gaze, and then slowly focused his back on you, like he was studying you. The same way a jaguar tilts its head before crushing a prey's skull between its teeth. So slow, you felt it in your knees.
He wiped his face with the hem of his shirt—lifting it—exposing the deep, carved lines of muscle, the stretch of his abdomen, the line of hair disappearing down—
You nearly whimpered.
“Yeah,” he rasped, voice shredded, “now imagine what it feels like." Oh, you did. "Inside my skin. Constant. Pressure. Heat. And I can’t fucking touch anything because the second I do—” The thing is, Bucky didn't know every word out of his mouth at any given moment would, in fact, find its way to burrow under your skin.
Each word from his mouth meant another step towards the glass that was separating you both.
And against your better judgement, you had imagined it. You've imagined your hands wrapped around it, you've imagined the weight of it on your tongue, you've imagined it so far in the back of your throat that—
"Stop breathing like that—I can hear it.”
Your breath caught, like a well trained animal obeying its master. "I'm not breathing in any different way."
"I can smell you too." And that made your brain short circuit. "It's sweet, and—" He groaned, letting his head fall forward. "Fuck, you smell—" Not even Stevie Wonder could've missed the drool that was pooling on his bottom lip and falling onto the floor.
“Wanna taste it. Lick you open right here on the floor. Tongue-fuck your pussy until you can’t remember your own name.”
When he lifted his head again, it felt like the entire world narrowed to just you two. With thick super soldier proof glass in between.
His breath fogged the glass at the same time his eyes narrowed at yours, looking for a sign that he was affecting you as much as you were affecting him. “You’ve thought about it.” Damn him, James Barnes and his ability to read you like a book written in a language only he could speak. “Oh, sweetheart.”
It's almost like he could hear your thighs clenching together. “You smell like you’re already wet—fuck.” Definitely not what you wanted him to announce over intercom to the entire team, but the blush creeping up your neck really didn't allow you to focus on anything other than the image in front of you.
Bucky Barnes, in a heathered grey shirt that he was sweating through, with a sinfully thin pair of sweatpants that could be an HR violation if anyone didn't know the contect of why anyone in the room with eyes could tell that was a perfect outline of his hard cock swinging around like it owned the place.
With previous icy blue eyes that were now blown black with lust, looking at you like you were the next meal of a very starving beast. A beast that was frothing at the mouth at the though of the taste of you.
“You smell warm,” he murmured. “Like your skin would taste soft.” He continued, like taunting you was making anything better and not just riling both of you even more. “And you’re trying so fucking hard not to move,” he said, voice breaking into a whisper. “Not to come closer.”
"You're not exactly making it easy."
Another wave hit him and he winced. "I can't think with you here." He swallowed hard. "All I see when you're near is just your back hitting plaster and your legs around my hips.”
His breathing fractured—like something inside him had finally tipped past reason into pure, raw instinct. “I wish this glass wasn’t here,” he said, teeth gritted like the words hurt. “I’d have you on your knees already… drooling around my cock.”
The air left your lungs. The more he talked the more it felt like one of those moments in the late summer into fall, where the pool is too cold and you jump in anyway. The moment where your lungs feel too small and the atmosphere feels too much and all you can really do is hyperventilate and try to breathe the shock away.
“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he said, like he was discovering something and confirming it all in the same breath. His tongue dragged over his bottom lip without him thinking—messy, desperate. “You’d open your pretty mouth and take me all the way down just to make me stop begging.”
“You’d look up at me while you did it,” he murmured, fever-slow, obscene in how sure he was. “Eyes wide, tears in the corners, letting me fuck your throat until you couldn’t speak.”
“Stop making me picture it.” It was barely above a whisper, really. You're not sure anyone heard it over the sound of both of you breathing as hard as you were.
The drool slid from his lip again—slow, heavy—hanging for a moment before it fell to the floor. He didn’t notice, he couldn’t. His hips shifted—just a slight forward roll—and you bit your lower lip so hard you nearly bruised it.
Bucky's voice cracked down the middle. “Fuck—please—” His metal hand scraped against the glass, fingers curling. “I need— I need to— I need you—” He swallowed, jaw trembling, breath stuttering like holding himself together physically hurt. “Just let me wreck you,” he whispered.
He asked like your answer would ever be no. Like being that close to him without having him inside of you didn't physically hurt sometimes. Like you didn't have vivid dreams of his teeth on the bare skin of your ass and his hand wrapped around your neck like jewelry that belonged in the Louvre.
Steve stepped in between you two, ushering you away from Bucky. "That's enough."
Bucky’s head snapped toward him, eyes blown wide and dark like storm clouds about to break “No,” he snarled, voice rough with panic instead of anger. “No—don’t—”
Bruce came forward, gentle hands on your shoulders. A doctor moving someone out of a blast radius. “Come on,” he murmured, soft. “Give him a second. His vitals are spiking—he needs distance to stabilize.”
“He doesn’t need distance,” Bucky barked, hands slamming against the glass—palms flat—every tendon in his arms standing out in painful, shaking relief.
“He needs her.”
“Buck. You need to stop.” Steve kept his voice low, even. “Listen to yourself.”
Bucky’s chest was heaving—breaths quick and hot and uneven. "I'm sorry, fuck— I—" He didn’t look at Steve, didn’t look at Bruce. He didn’t look at anything except you as Bruce’s hand eased you back.
“Don’t take her away. Please. Please—” Bruce kept moving you carefully, slowly—gentle pressure between your shoulders.
You tried to go about your night.
You really did.
You showered. You changed. You sat on the edge of your bed with your hair still damp, staring at the wall like it might offer you a door out of your own head. But every time you closed your eyes, you saw him—forehead pressed to the glass, voice cracking when he said please, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re falling and they already know the ground is going to hurt.
You lay back, staring blankly at the ceiling. You tried to count your breaths—steady, even, controlled. But your breathing only reminded you of his. That ragged, uneven, burning inhale that came when he was trying to keep himself from breaking.
You turned onto your side. Then your back again. Pulled the blanket up. Pushed it off. You tried to be rational. To be logical. To be the good, responsible, emotionally stable adult in this situation.
But there was something tugging at you, something far deeper and quieter than lust. Something warm and sore and impossible to ignore.
So you did what any sane (not) person would do, and snuck away from your quarters, through the corridors, and into the med bay to be alone and unsupervised with a super soldier under the influence of super soldier viagra mixed with preworkout to say the very least.
The med bay was washed in low overnight lighting, the kind meant to soothe but doing absolutely nothing to calm the electricity tangled in the air. Bucky had been pacing for long enough that it was surprising the floor hadn't given in to the shape of his path.
His hair clung to his temples, damp and curling where it stuck. His breath came in harsh, uneven bursts, chest rising too fast, like his lungs couldn’t catch air fast enough to match the fire under his skin.
Every few steps his metal hand flexed involuntarily, fingers clenching like he needed something—someone—to hold on to.
He didn’t see you.
He was somewhere inside the fever.
“Fuck—” he grit out, stopping long enough to brace both hands against the wall, muscles in his back rippling as he bowed his head, throat exposed to the floor like he was trying to bleed the heat out of himself.
He took another step—stumbled—caught himself on the exam table— and then something in him just broke. He dragged his hand up his chest like he was trying to tear the heat out of himself, jaw clenched so hard a vein pulsed at his temple.
Your voice came out softer. “Buck.” He froze completely. He had hallucinations of your voice earlier that day, sweet little mewls you'd let out if you were there with him to siphon them out of you, while he tried to take care of the issue on his own.
Slowly, he turned his head toward the sound, and his eyes found you. And something in his entire body gave out. His breathing stuttered—hard—like his ribs were suddenly too tight to contain the relief.
He took a full, instinctive step toward you—body moving before thought—and then something in him seized. The sensible part of his brain stopped him from getting closer to the glass.
"Get out of here."
Your brows furrowed in confusion. "Bucky, I—"
"Get the fuck out of here." He doubled over in pain again. "It hurts worse when you're so close and I can't—"
Your voice came out thin—fragile—almost unrecognizable to your own ears. “Bucky… I’m begging you. I can’t just stand out here and watch you suffer.”
"It wouldn't— I could—" If his brain started leaking out of his ears, you wouldn't be exactly surprised. "It's not safe for you." He flinched like the words actively hit him.
"You'd never hurt me."
"You could beg me to stop and I wouldn't be able to."
He was still bent over, hand braced on the wall, every muscle in his back trembling from restraint. His breath dragged ragged through his chest, sweat rolling down his sternum in a slow line that made your own pulse stumble.
“I’m begging you,” you whispered. “Let me help.”
He shook his head once—sharp—like the motion hurt. “Don’t sound like that—”
“Like what?”
“Like you want me.” The words tore out raw, like he’d ripped them straight from the center of him.
The room went quiet for a moment, and you had yet another brilliant idea that wouldn't get you in trouble bigger than you could handle at all. Your feet moved you to stand by the control panel, and his head snapped up—eyes blown wide, panic flaring under the fever.
“Don’t do that. Don’t come in here. I’m telling you—I can’t—” You typed in your override code with steady hands, changed a single setting in the lock, and despite Bucky's protests, the door hissed open, and you bolted into the room before it latched closed again.
“I’m not leaving you alone in here.” Bucky grabbed you by the arm and attempted to open the door, not knowing you locked it from the outside.
"Are you insane?!" He didn't sound angry, he sounded terrified. Terrified of not being able to hold back from everything he wanted to do to you.
You moved toward him—not with impulse, but with a quiet, controlled resolve that came from somewhere deep in your chest. Bucky didn’t step back this time. He just watched you, breathing unevenly, shoulders tense like every muscle in his body was wound tight enough to snap.
You lifted your hand slowly, giving him time to stop you if he needed to. He didn’t. So you let your palm settle against his bare chest, right over his heartbeat. His skin was hot—fever-hot—but under your hand the fire shifted, softened, just enough to change from a burn to an ache. The air left him in a long, shaking exhale, like your touch let him breathe for the first time in hours.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder, not in collapse, but in relief. A small shudder went through him, his ribs expanding against your hand as he tried to steady himself. You could feel his pulse hammering, fast and uneven.
“It’s a little better,” he murmured, voice rough against your collarbone.
“Not enough,” you said quietly.
He shook his head, and you felt the motion against your skin. “No. Not nearly enough.”
Your thumb traced a slow, grounding arc just beneath his sternum, the simplest touch offered as reassurance. His metal hand hovered near your hip, not touching you, shaking with restraint. Every part of him was working to not grab, not pull, not give in to instinct.
“Bucky,” you murmured. Your hand slid up, fingers brushing the line of his collarbone before you cupped the side of his jaw. His skin was hot beneath your touch, flushed. “Let me help.”
His eyes squeezed shut, his brow furrowing like the words physically hurt.
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Yes, I do.” Your voice stayed soft, steady. “I know you. I know you would never hurt me. And I’m standing right here choosing you.”
His breath caught, a shaking inhale that didn’t quite make it all the way in. You leaned in slowly, giving him time to stop you—even now—and pressed your lips to the sharp angle of his jaw.
He made a sound—low, involuntary—something between a groan and a gasp, his grip tightening on your hip without meaning to. The heat of him was overwhelming now that you were fully inside his space, and when you shifted closer, your thigh brushed the unmistakable, urgent press of him against the front of his sweats.
He jolted—like the contact shocked him—but he didn’t step back.
You whispered against his jaw, your lips barely moving. “Let me help, Buck.”
His breath stuttered, chest rising too fast against yours.
“Please,” you whispered, the word soft and warm and devastating. “Let me take care of you.”
His resolve buckled—not shattered, not broken—but gave.
You slid your hand down, slow and deliberate, until your palm hovered at the waistband of his sweats. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t speak. His eyes locked on yours—wide, dark, waiting.
So you touched him.
Your palm cupped him through the fabric, the heat and weight of him filling your hand instantly. He let out a sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest—raw, ragged, helpless. His forehead fell forward until it nearly touched yours, his breath shaking against your cheek.
You kept your touch slow. Gentle. Controlled. No teasing, no sudden movements—just steady pressure, your hand molded to him through the soft cotton, up and down in a rhythm meant to soothe the fever thrumming under his skin.
His fingers dug into your hip—not hard, just anchoring.
“Sweetheart—” His voice was barely a voice, just breath and need. “If you—if you keep doing that—I’m not gonna—”
You kissed his jaw again, slower this time.
“That’s the point,” you whispered. His breath collapsed against your neck and you stroked him again—firmer this time.
The roughness in his breathing started to shift, not easing but changing, gathering into something more focused, less chaotic. But the fever was still burning too hot, crawling under his skin like an electric current with nowhere to go.
So you sank to your knees.
The floor was cold beneath you, a stark contrast to the heat bleeding off of him. Your fingers found the waistband of his sweats and tugged. He didn’t stop you. Couldn’t. His head hit the wall behind him with a dull thud, chest heaving as he tried—failed—not to look down at you.
You freed him from the confines of the fabric, and he sprang forward—thick, flushed, already leaking, and twitching with need. Your breath caught as you wrapped your hand around him properly for the first time.
He let out a strangled groan so loud it echoed off the sterile walls. One hand reached down blindly, threading through your hair like it was the only lifeline he had left. He whispered your name like a curse, like a prayer, like salvation.
Your tongue flattened against the underside of him first, tracing the thick, pulsing vein that ran along the length of his cock. You felt him twitch in your hand, heard the harsh stutter of his breath above you as his grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting. When your lips wrapped around the flushed, leaking tip, Bucky actually whimpered.
“Fuck—” he choked, hips jerking despite himself. “Jesus, baby, that mouth—”
You hollowed your cheeks and took more of him, inch by inch, until your lips kissed the base and your throat fluttered around him. The way he gasped—it was like he’d been drowning and finally broke the surface.
“God, you’re—fuck, I knew it, I knew you’d take me like this,” he hissed. “So good. So fucking good. Like you were made for this.”
His knees almost buckled.
The sweat rolling down his chest gathered at the sharp lines of his abdomen, and he looked down, glassy-eyed and wrecked, watching his cock disappear past your lips over and over. You stroked what you couldn’t fit, twisting your wrist, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth to join the obscene, wet sounds echoing off the walls.
He didn’t last long.
He couldn’t—hadn’t been touched in hours, hadn’t let himself feel anything in months, maybe years, and now here you were, mouth full of him, eyes blown wide with submission and need, and he could feel the fever receding under your touch, like you were the cure he didn’t deserve.
His head slammed back against the wall again, both hands in your hair now as he held you there, not forcing—just anchoring—just begging. “Just a little more, baby. Just—fuck, I’m so close, please—”
“It’s still bad, isn’t it?” He didn’t answer. “You don’t have to hold back with me.” You rose up just enough to press your mouth to the inside of his thigh—soft, slow, intentional—then looked up again, voice thready but determined. “Take what you need from me, Bucky.”
You take him into your mouth again—no hesitation this time, no slow pacing. You hum around him; you don’t even realize you do it. His whole body jerks—hips twitching forward, instinct overriding restraint for a split second.
His hips roll forward—slow at first, testing, like he’s afraid of how much he needs this. But when your hands grip his thighs and you pull him closer, the last of his restraint just… slips.
“Sweetheart—” His voice drops, a gravel-soft moan. “Okay. Okay, I—shit—”
His rhythm finds you, and it pushes his cock inside of your mouth over and over again, bruising the back of your throat, making your eyes water.
Bucky, on the other hand, was losing his mind. He feels like this could only really be a fever dream. The vision before him being one that he only saw seconds before waking up in a sticky mess of his own cum in his room some nights.
“You have no idea—” A thrust, shallow but desperate. “I’ve wanted—” Another, deeper now, hips stuttering. “God—this—this—” He chokes on your name.
Your moan around him sent him right to the edge.
He came hard, with a broken cry that echoed with pain and relief and something that sounded suspiciously like your name. Hot, thick ropes spilled onto your tongue, down your throat, and you took every drop, swallowing around him while his body trembled, legs unsteady, heart thundering behind his ribs.
He looked down at you afterward, wrecked beyond recognition, jaw slack and pink lips parted like he couldn’t believe you were real.
“…holy fuck,” he rasped.
You didn’t even need to say anything—your eyes said it all. Your fingers curled tighter around the base of him, guiding him back to your lips, already red and slick with spit and the remnants of his release. You pressed a slow kiss to the tip, and Bucky swore under his breath, hips twitching.
“You’re still hard,” you murmured, voice low, almost disbelieving. “You need more.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you—head cocked, eyes wild and glassy, like he was still fighting himself even while his cock throbbed in your grip, fully hard again. His breath hitched when you opened your mouth, letting your tongue flatten against the underside of him again, licking him like you missed it.
That was all it took.
A rough groan tore from his chest as his hips surged forward, pushing himself back into your mouth. You moaned around him, taking him deeper, your throat already used to the stretch. His grip tightened in your hair, holding you steady this time—not pushing, not yet, just anchoring as he began to roll his hips, slow at first, dragging himself against your tongue.
But he couldn't hold back. Not when you looked like that. Not when you made those sounds.
“Open wider,” he grit out, voice almost guttural. “Let me—fuck, let me use your mouth.”
You did. You relaxed your throat, looked up at him through heavy lashes, and let him have it.
He began to thrust—deep, slow at first, but building with every breath. Each time he bottomed out, your throat flexed, gagging just a little, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. And he loved it. Ate it up like a man starved.
“Shit—shit, baby,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “Look at you—taking it so fucking well, like it’s what your mouth was made for.”
He was leaking again, throbbing inside you, grunting with every pass of his cock down your throat. You could feel him fighting the edge again already—his whole body shaking, hair falling into his eyes, thighs tense beneath your hands.
He came again. Harder this time. The first shot hit the back of your throat as he choked out your name like it was the only word he knew. His hips didn’t stop moving. Even as he emptied himself into your mouth, he was still hard, still needing.
When he finally stilled, breathing like he’d just run ten miles, he looked down at you—ruined, wrecked, flushed—and exhaled your name like a plea.
“I still need more.”
Your lips were swollen, spit-slick, eyes glossy and dazed as you slowly released him from your mouth with a wet pop. Bucky was panting above you, flushed all the way down his chest, body still trembling from his second orgasm—and still hard. Angry and flushed and leaking again, like his body didn’t understand that two should’ve been enough.
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, but your gaze never left him. Not for a second. And he looked down at you like he was about to fall to his knees. Or break through the floor. Or both.
Then you stood.
Without a word, you reached for his wrist and guided him—slowly, steadily—toward the exam table. The padded med bed sat cold and untouched, the thin clinical comforter shuffled under your grip as you leaned against it and looked over your shoulder at him.
His hands were on your hips before you even breathed, gripping you like you were the only tether he had to this fucking world. He yanked your sleep shorts and underwear down in one swift, rough motion, groaning when he saw how wet you were—slick, glistening, thighs trembling.
“All this for me?” he muttered, almost in disbelief, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds. You gasped—more from the weight of it than the tease.
“I’ve been yours,” you panted, looking back at him over your shoulder. “You just haven’t fucked me like it.”
That did it.
He lined up and shoved in with one brutal, gorgeous thrust—splitting you open on his cock so deep you almost screamed. Your hands scrambled for purchase on the med bed, fingers clawing at the sheets as your body struggled to accommodate him. He was thick, long, heavy—and unrelenting. No time to adjust. No warning. Just full.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed, bottoming out inside you. “You feel like heaven. Hot, tight—fuck, I can feel your pussy fluttering already—”
You were already trembling under him, already dripping down your thighs. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and tugged your head back gently, just enough to murmur in your ear as he rocked into you.
“You wanted this,” he growled. “Wanted to help? Mmm? Did you? Or did you just want and excuse to have my cock inside of you?”
You whimpered, unable to speak—your brain blank, body overstimulated, mouth falling open.
“Say it,” he snarled, thrusting harder. “Tell me you begged for this cock.”
“I—I begged for it,” you gasped. “Bucky—oh my God—you’re so—fuck—you’re so deep, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he said, and then he was railing into you—brutal and beautiful and ruthless—his cock driving into you so hard your toes curled and your walls clamped down around him. Your stomach was pressed to the cold med bed now, knees buckling as he fucked you through it, chest bouncing with every thrust.
“Please,” you sobbed. “Please don’t stop—”
“Never,” he growled. “I’m not stopping until you’re filled up and leaking for me. Until you can’t walk straight. Until they smell me on you.”
His rhythm faltered.
You could feel it—how his thrusts turned erratic, his breath shortened into harsh, broken gasps against your skin, every nerve in his body set to burn. He was so deep inside you, so swollen and throbbing, and even though he’d already come twice, he was barely holding on now, just riding the edge with ragged desperation.
“Too—fuck—can’t—” he growled, hips snapping hard and fast as his chest collapsed against your back. “You’re gonna—fuck—milk me dry, baby.”
You barely got a gasp out before he slammed into you one last time and bit down on the curve of your shoulder—hard.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t controlled. It was animal.
Teeth sinking into skin just below your neck, like claiming you was the only thing keeping him alive. The sting of it only made your orgasm crash harder, clenched around him like a vice just as he spilled inside you—thick and hot, cock pulsing violently through the aftershocks, moaning into your skin like it broke him.
But Bucky didn’t pull out.
Didn’t move away like someone who just had his third orgasm in less than an hour. No—he collapsed over your back for a moment, panting, shaking, and then lifted his head, wrapped his arms around your waist, and lifted.
You gasped as your spine straightened, as he manhandled you into the center of the bed with strength that made your head spin.
“I need to see your face,” he muttered, voice wrecked and low. “Need to watch you come around me this time.”
He flipped you over, sweat-slick hands gripping the undersides of your thighs and pushing them up, folding you into a tight mating press before you could even think. Your knees were practically pinned to your chest, legs spread wide, cunt exposed—wet and puffy and already leaking with him.
Bucky looked down at you like a starving man finally given permission to devour. And even though his cock was still twitching from the last orgasm—sensitive, too sensitive—he lined himself back up, and pushed inside again with a groan that bordered on agony.
“Fuck, fuck—hurts so good,” he panted, hips rolling slow this time, deep. “Too much. Too fucking much, but I can’t stop.”
You moaned, head thrown back, fingernails digging into his arms.
“Look at me,” he growled. “Want you looking at me when I fuck you full again. Want you remembering who did this to you. Who made you this wet. This messy.”
His hands pressed your thighs deeper, nearly folding you in half, angle so intense you could feel him in your stomach.
“Feel that?” he whispered, voice rough and wrecked. “That’s me. Right fucking there.”
Your fingers reached for him, tangling in his sweat-damp hair, needing him closer. He dropped his forehead to yours, breath mingling, mouths nearly brushing as his cock dragged slow and deep inside you—wet and squelching from how much he’d already spilled.
“Tell me you want it,” he panted. “Tell me you want more.”
“I want it,” you breathed. “Want everything.”
His cock twitched at the sight. At the mess he’d already made of you.
But it still wasn’t enough.
“Fuck, look at this pussy,” he groaned, lining up again. “Stuffed and still begging for more. You’re leaking down the backs of your thighs and I haven’t even gotten serious yet.”
Then he slammed back into you.
You whined, mouth falling open, hands scrabbling at his arms, nails dragging down his sweat-slicked biceps. The sound of his cock driving into you, the wet slap of skin against skin, was obscene—echoing off the cold med bay walls. Each thrust was brutal, hungry, unrelenting.
“Yes,” you gasped, back arching, eyes wide and wild. “Fucking ruin me, Bucky.”
He snarled like you’d just handed him a license to break you.
“Gonna stretch this pussy until I mold you to the shape of my cock,” he growled, sweat dripping from his temples as he drove deeper, harder, each thrust punching a breath out of your lungs. “You were made for this. For me. Just like this.”
Your thighs trembled where he held them pinned. Your cunt clamped down on him like your body didn’t want to let go, and it made him growl—low, animal, primal.
“I can feel you squeezing me—fuck—milking my cock.”
“Because you’re fucking perfect inside me,” you moaned, wrecked. “So fucking deep, Bucky—I feel you in my throat.”
He didn’t let up. He wanted you boneless. Brainless. Gone. He needed you raw and crying and fucked full. His balls slapped against your ass, cock driving into the tight, wet clutch of you over and over, chasing the next high like a man possessed.
“Gonna breed you, baby,” he whispered in a wrecked, breathless voice. “Wanna fuck it in so deep you’ll be dripping with me for days. Wanna see your belly swollen from how much I put in you.”
You cried out—clenching around him like your body wanted that, like it needed it.
His thrusts turned downright feral, pounding into you so hard the med bed squealed beneath your bodies. You held onto him like you’d fly off the earth otherwise, like he was the only real thing in the universe.
“You’re mine,” he snarled into your ear. “This pussy? Mine. This fucking body? Mine.”
“All yours,” you sobbed, overwhelmed and blissed-out. “Please, Bucky—don’t stop.”
“I won’t.” He pressed your legs even tighter to your chest, bent down until his chest was against yours, and fucked you into the bed like the world was ending.
You didn’t know how long it had been.
How many times he’d come. How many times you had. You were shaking, soaked, stretched so wide around him that it felt like you were being fucked into another dimension. Your thighs burned from being pinned open in the tightest press imaginable, your body locked beneath his. Sweat pooled between your bodies, his skin slick and hot, his muscles trembling with effort.
You sobbed when he thrust again—slow, deep, dragging the head of his cock along every oversensitive inch of your cunt.
“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice broken. “I can’t—I can’t—”
“You can,” he groaned, still moving inside you. “You are.”
Your tears were hot as they spilled down your cheeks. Not from pain. Not from fear. From bliss. Pure, ruined, brain-melting pleasure that had nowhere else to go but out through your eyes.
And still—he didn’t stop.
He couldn’t stop. Not when your walls were fluttering around him again, your cunt choking his cock like your body was begging for one more release.
“Baby,” he rasped, voice wrecked beyond repair, “I can’t—fuck—I’m so close—again—”
You were babbling now, hands clawing at his back, words slurred through cries. “Please, please, come again—fill me up, Bucky, don’t stop, don’t stop—”
That shattered him.
His hand found your jaw, gripping it firm but careful, tilting your face to the side, tears still streaking your flushed cheeks. His mouth dropped to your jawline, teeth grazing your skin before he bit down—just enough to make you cry out. To mark you. To claim.
His lips dragged against your wet cheek, breath hot and ragged as he whispered filth directly into your skin.
“You’re gonna be ruined for anyone else,” he growled. “No one else’ll ever fuck you this deep. No one else’ll fill you like I do. You’ll think about this—every time you sit down and feel me leaking out of you.”
You gasped, your pussy clenching tight again, and that made him snarl.
“Oh, you like that,” he panted against your cheek. “You like knowing I’ve come in you three times and I’m still fucking going—filling you to the brim like this pussy belongs to me.”
“It does,” you sobbed. “It’s yours—it’s only yours.”
He bit down again—right beneath your cheekbone—and his hips bucked hard, cock twitching, and then he spilled inside you again.
Hot, thick, endless—your body taking it all, your womb aching with how much he was pumping into you, filling you again and again like some primal need had taken hold and wouldn’t let go.
You clung to him, nails dragging down his sweat-slick back, body convulsing with overstimulation, your own orgasm cresting again, tears slipping freely down your cheeks, wet between your legs and everywhere else.
And through it all—his voice stayed right in your ear.
Sunlight filtered through the high, frosted windows—gold and soft, painting long lines across the floor and sterile white counters. Machines hummed faintly. The scent of antiseptic still clung faintly to the air, but it was dulled now, overpowered by the unmistakable smells of sweat, sex, and fabric softener.
Tony pinched the bridge of his nose before they even turned the corner.
“I’m just saying,” he muttered, tablet in hand, “if he exploded in the middle of the night, it’s your fault, Rogers. You’re the one who insisted on the glass enclosure.”
“He didn’t explode,” Steve replied, voice calm but tight. “But we need to check his vitals. And see if the fever’s gone for good.”
“And you don’t think maybe knocking first would be—”
The door hissed open.
Tony stepped in first, looking up from his tablet. Steve followed—and froze halfway through the threshold.
There, on the exam bed, tangled in sheets and wrapped around each other like two vines too stubborn to separate, were you and Bucky.
Naked.
Dead asleep.
His arm was slung over your waist, metal hand curled possessively around your hip. Your leg was draped over his. His nose was buried in your neck. One of your hands was splayed on his chest, and both of your mouths were parted in very unflattering, very loud, synchronized snoring.
And the sheets?
The sheets were barely covering anything.
“Oh Jesus,” Steve hissed, immediately turning around so fast his shoulder knocked into a tray of sterile wipes. “Nope. No. That’s—nope.”
Tony took one look, blinked, and quietly said, “So the mating press was successful.”
Steve groaned. “Tony.”
“What?! They’re alive. They’re breathing. No heart attack. Just a—y’know—thorough night of… clinical bonding.”
“Stop talking.”
Tony didn’t stop talking. He just raised the tablet and started typing. “Gotta say, though, Barnes is kind of a legend.”
Steve made a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a choked-off scream. “I am not listening to this.”
“You know,” Tony continued, ignoring him completely, “most guys tap out after two. Maybe three if they’ve got performance enhancers. But your boy over there looks like he went five, maybe six rounds. Give the man a medal.”
Steve was red in the face now. “Tony.”
And on the bed, completely oblivious, Bucky grumbled something about peaches and tight little throats in his sleep, nuzzled deeper into you, and pulled you even closer.
Tony paused.
“…okay, maybe a warning label instead of a medal.”
a/n: as always, if this is buns don’t perceive me!!!! I'll blame it on the fact that I had to write most of this while working a slow 12.
"You could beg me to stop and I wouldn't be able to."
“I’m begging you,” you whispered. “Let me help.”
He shook his head once—sharp—like the motion hurt. “Don’t sound like that—”
“Like what?”
“Like you want me.” The words tore out raw, like he’d ripped them straight from the center of him.
yeah i'm rereading this shit later holy. bbl you have a way with words and storytelling. your plots eat up every time and i know i'm going to eat this shit up too. ALSO BCB (big cock bucky) ?????????????????????????????
Bucky getting you off only by rubbing the head of his cock on your clit and refusing to penetrate you until you’ve learned your lesson after bratting out 🤭
ugh god. and i can think of how frustrated he gets lowkey, because, “why won’t you behave, pet?”
and the fucking nickname gets you to shut the fuck up for once that evening and he’s found the key to getting that pretty brain of yours to shut off
“that’s what you need? being used like a pet? just a hole to stick my cock in whenever i want?” and you dumbly nod like a good girl
he grins. sticking just the tip into your wet hole.
“that means i can punish the pet for being a fuckin’ brat all day, too.”
Sebastian Stan Being Bullied Cranky: A Compilation
Bonus (regarding the Dishwasher Scene):
No one cares more about Bucky Barnes than Sebastian Stan. If there's one thing that gave me reassurance going into this movie it's that I knew Seb would fight tooth and nail to make sure Bucky was done justice. He clearly didn't win every battle but by god did he try and I appreciate that more than he'll ever know.
jacobvanloon
prguitarman
gummygunk
areudirty
yousharknotpass
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