im legally an adult (21) but at what cost☁18+ content☁just a place to stash all the marvel and dc crap filling up my main blog ☁ IW and EG never happened in my heart ☁️ john walker defender unfortunately
imagine waking up one morning, the sun gently warming your face as you turn over, expecting your husband’s side of the bed to be cold like it usually is, only to find him still dead asleep next to you.
To others, it might seem like a couple spending a cozy morning in bed together, but panic creeps up your spine so quickly your heart nearly beats out of your chest because this isn’t like your man at all.
Usually, Bucky is up and out of bed with the sun rise, as he never really managed to get rid of the habits he developed as a soldier.
Sure, he always comes right back to bed when he notices you’re waking up, ready to spoil you with cuddles and fresh coffee first thing in the morning, but this isn’t something that has ever happened before. Bucky never sleeps in, not even after a long and grueling mission or when he isn’t feeling well. Now, it’s 9 am already, and you can’t help but carefully shake his shoulder, trying to wake him up as gentle and calm as possible even though you are anything but.
“Buck?” Your voice isn’t much more than a whisper, but the urgency hidden underneath makes his eyelashes flutter immediately. “Everything okay?”
The sound that slips past his lips is definitely not one you would expect from a super soldier like him, a whine more than it is a groan.
“No,” he complains, blindly reaching for you so he can tug you closer and nuzzle his face against your stomach, voice muffled against the fabric of your shirt now. “You are a crazy woman, you know that? I won’t ever recover again. This is it.”
It takes you a moment to understand what the hell he is talking about, but when do, you can’t help the laugh that escapes you, your fingers comfortingly running through his hair. “That bad, huh?”
”Bad? I’m broken, sweetheart. Leave it up to you to completely wreck a super soldier. Not that I’m complaining, though.”
“Of course you’re not,” you agree, your thoughts going back to how good you’d made him feel last night, finding out just how much his enhanced stamina could actually handle, making him take you until your husband couldn’t give anymore.
Turns out, testing just how often your man can cum in one evening is enough to leave him spent and exhausted like nothing else ever manages to wear him out.
And if that is enough to give him a break from the buzzing energy usually running through his nerves?
Yeah, you are definitely going to do it again.
(yeah that’s it I think this is my sign to go to bed now.)
Until the Roof Caves In (John Walker / F!Reader / Bob Reynolds)
Summary: Filled request in response to:
could i make a request for some headcanons of john and bob? (separately or together 😈)
i wanted to get your opinion on what their love languages are!! (and ofc it would be rad as hell if it lead to smut but it doesn’t have to!!!!)
Life takes some adjusting when you have two superhero boyfriends, especially when they seem to be forging an unlikely alliance.
A/N: Back by popular demand, it's the trio from Until the Wheels Come Off. I love, love, love writing this throuple (swoon). High key I hope the requests for them keep coming. They are a freaky bunch so pls read the CWs if you're nervous about being icked out.
Rating: 18+ MDNI
WC: 3.3k (complete)
CW: Fluff, romance, smut, porn with plot, throuple, established relationship, bob is a freak, john is doing his best, domesticity with the new throuple, figuring things out, kink negotiation, use of pet names (babe, baby), dirty talk, reader is afab, reader is a new avenger/thunderbolt, butt stuff butt stuff butt stuff (fem receiving), pinv, sex toys, cum play, thigh riding, fingering, everyone is down bad.
Suggested Listening: Hot Wet Delirious by Rebecca Black
New parameters sketched themselves in slowly in the aftermath of that night.
It felt like you were starting over from one, from scratch, having to relearn two colleagues—two men—that you thought you understood pretty well. But everything was different and scary and touchy while you navigated…This. You hadn’t decided what to call it yet. Everything that sprang to mind was incredibly silly and glib, because treating it seriously would make it real, and real meant it could end.
What surprised you the most was how similar they were. Not in superficial ways, of course. Bob couldn’t live his life to the rhythm of alarms if said life depended on it. John’s day was scheduled and regimented from 5:30AM onward. Trying to convince Bob to step foot in the gym was like trying to persuade a picky toddler they loved broccoli, actually, they just didn’t know it yet. John couldn’t be kicked out of the gym early by anything less than a world-ending threat or Bucky’s protein shake farts. Bob’s diet looked like something conceived by a deranged clown, and John’s was virtually the same day in and day out, with precisely one cheat day, during which he maybe—maybe—indulged in chocolate protein pudding, of all fucking things.
But in broad strokes, they were more alike than either would care to admit. Consistency, understanding, validation. If either of them needed time alone, time away, someone was around to pick up the slack. You weren’t left wondering or alone, or worse, left feeling rejected. But you noticed those hard days for everyone coming less and less, like this new thing you were building was lending a stability you had all been missing. And immediately after any bedroom activities, particularly when it got wild, you were the priority, cuddling up to one or both of them to be shepherded out of the intense headspace that sometimes came with being the focal point in a triangle. In the daylight, though, you made sure they were both appreciated.
John was straightforward. He wanted to feel needed, like your protector. He was often out the door before you and Bob woke up, but you made sure to text him on the side as soon as you crawled out of bed to make coffee.
you were such a stud last night <3
i feel so safe in your arms
can’t believe you’re mine
John would heart every message and never bring them up in person, but you knew. You knew he needed the affirmation.
Bob required a defter approach. He wanted to be both protector and protected. When John wasn’t around, he liked to laze in your arms, face tight to your chest, melting into you while you combed your fingers through his hair.
“You’re safe with me,” you would promise. “Anything you need, you can have it.”
The apartment was John’s idea. He had reasonable concerns about optics, about how it would look if the three of you were disappearing into a single bedroom together in the Watchtower on the nights when group activities called to you. For the moment, This was a secret. You had no idea how long that would last, but having a shared private space might buy you a bit more time before an extremely awkward conversation was had with the rest of the team.
John was macho about it when Bob wanted to chip in for rent, but even a shoebox in Midtown was eye-wateringly expensive. He was even less enthusiastic when you insisted on paying the utility and Internet bills.
“We’re all going to have to get real comfy with sharing,” you told John, firm, Venmoing him the money against his will.
But the apartment made things easier. Smoothed out the bumps you were beginning to worry would jolt this unwieldy, overburdened circus right off the road and into a flaming ditch. And you watched as both men gravitated toward what they would—Bob liked finding random shit at flea markets to decorate, warming up the space with rugs and curtains, all thrifted, all mismatched. John replaced the showerhead with something more pressurized than a drowning man coughing up water and fixed the wonky toilet without anyone needing to call a plumber. Showering with company was a sensory nightmare for Bob, but John loved to hop in with you, shampooing your hair and kissing you slowly while he dipped you through the water.
John was an unexpectedly proficient cook, but you were no slouch, and if it was just you and him there, dinner got made in companionable silence, your most recent playlist fixation soft through your phone speaker, a bottle of wine shared between you. If Bob was present, he sat at the tiny breakfast table scrolling or reading, sometimes hitting you with things like, “Did you know the clouds are never the same color as the sky?”
Out of the corner of your eye, you would see John’s mouth wobble, and you would stare and stare, willing him to say something nice. “No, Bob,” he would mutter, with Herculean effort. “I didn’t know that.”
The two of you kept things running. Bob’s role was different. If you were there together, packed onto the single secondhand sofa, watching whatever all three of you could agree upon (Antiques Roadshow, Ken Burns documentaries, and increasingly, to John’s everlasting shame, Love Island), Bob would eventually get antsy. He would stand to stretch, collect some water from the cramped closet of a kitchen, drink it standing up, then bend down to brush a kiss against your ear.
“Anyone else bored?” he would say, or, “There’s only so much I need to know about Ben Franklin, right? I mean, we get it, you invented electricity, move on…”
John would reach for the remote while you were already crawling off the couch and into Bob’s arms. Bob liked to undress you, right there by the couch, the triple reinforced bed (a splurge John had waved off, though you knew it must have cost him a fortune) just a few steps away. While you were gently stripped, Bob’s lips attached to yours with feverish devotion, John turned off the lamps that weren’t necessary. Of course, Bob could do that with a thought, but it was just the way things unfolded. It gave space to the transition, allowed John to collect his thoughts while he turned down the covers, removed his own clothes, fetched towels, small domestic gestures that seemed to ground him.
There weren’t many rules so far except “no” was a full sentence and not the opening for negotiation, but another important one was that there were never any secrets as far as who was where and doing what. If you were alone at the apartment with John, Bob knew about it, and vice versa. Details of what transpired were shared upon request; Bob always wanted to know everything, John often less curious, sometimes only asking, “Did you have fun together?”
He was saying Bob’s name more and more, but you knew it was a challenge for him. This was an eeny-weeny itsy-bitsy departure from his previously vanilla experiences. But Bob liked to hear exactly what John had done to you, on the couch or the bed, for how long. How many times did you come, how many times did he. Sometimes this inventory was provided while John was right there next to you in bed, chest rising and falling hard as his eyes drifted shut in pleasure hearing you recall all the ways he had made you come undone.
Sitting with your back against John and his back against the headboard, Bob would kneel between your thighs, spreading them open, teasing playfully just outside the boundaries of your sex, eyes intent on you and then on John, like he was just as turned on by John hearing the replay of your exploits.
“Did he make you feel good?” Bob would ask, voice hushing as he watched you shiver and nod. “Where, babe? Show me.”
You’d hear John groan, jerking off underneath the sheet, occasionally still modest about that sort of thing being out in the open. He was getting there, thawing layer by layer, trying new things at a clip you found genuinely impressive.
And you would show Bob, taking his hand by the wrist and dragging his fingers to your pussy. “Here. It still aches.”
“I bet. I wanna make you ache too, should we do that?”
No was always on the table, but so rarely used it was starting to gather dust.
There was a language developing, too. Codes. While Bob undressed you and urged you toward the bed, a gentle inquiry began.
“How are you feeling tonight, babe?” Bob asked, sucking your lip between his teeth while you considered your answer. ‘Sweet’ meant it might be standard and somewhat brief, each of them making love to you in turn, the order never established until you were in the moment. ‘Sleepy’ meant there might not be sex at all, just three warm bodies sharing heat, cuddling, lazy fondling that sometimes went further, but just as often ended chastely, with goodnight kisses and Bob reading on his phone until he passed out against your back. ‘Messy’ was Bob’s favorite answer. You could see it instantly, the change in him, the way his eyes danced with gold, his kiss hungrier when he reached for you again.
Those nights were unpredictable, as close as you got to recreating the circumstances that initially inspired This. Bob kept an expanding collection of lubricants, clamps, collars, gags, flogs, cuffs, and vibrators in the bottom nightstand drawer. Once you were finally in bed, John lying on his side behind you, Bob would sheepishly draw out some new item, fidgeting nervously, eyes darting, like it was the weirdest show and tell imaginable.
John rarely had a strong opinion, although you got the feeling he liked you in the collars and the ball gag. You were working up to asking him to wear it, because there were weighty mental images visiting you in your cum-soaked dreams.
You both indulged Bob’s creative side when it came to these novelties. It excited him, fulfilled him, and you certainly had no complaints. It was never a complete surprise for you. Bob would text you on the side, sometimes while at the sex shop. Is this too weird? or Can we try this? or Babe you would look so fucking hot with this…
The lingerie was all John. Southern, traditional, ramrod John, could be a man of simple tastes. He liked a beautiful woman in a beautiful lacy thing. Bob was less interested in the outfits, but again, he was fine making the concession.
On ‘Messy’ nights, the only structure to it was the initial order. Bob wanted John to go first, he wanted you warmed up, fucked out, and a little sloppy before he had his fun. He liked your pussy swollen and full, got a thrill fingering John’s cum into you and spreading it all over your clit, painting like an artist at work, showing John how wet and sensitive you were. The first time it happened without the dust, you heard John make a sound like he was wounded, but then his eyes got dark and focused, and you saw his dick start to thicken again on his thigh, like the ghost of that night had possessed him, possessed you all, and there was no outrunning it.
There was only the giving in. There was only John holding you tight to his big, warm chest while Bob fucked you achingly slow, your legs hooked over his shoulders, his eyes eating up the way your tits bounced for him. On those nights, the towels never got used until the end, until it was so late you could hear the city waking up around you, until you couldn’t speak or think, just lie still while the bruises started to heal and your pussy leaked like a busted tap.
John liked to clean you up. Soothing words. Gentle kisses. A warm wash cloth. Ice-water. Tylenol.
It was after one of those messy nights that you woke up to something new.
Normally, all three of you were dead to the world until John’s fucking alarm, which he would silence with a mumbled apology. Certain aspects of that morning were in line with previous ones—you, sprawled halfway across the hairy wall of John’s chest and right thigh, a towel tucked under your hips for obvious reasons, and Bob thrown across your back and butt and legs like he had been dropped from outer space.
John’s alarm hadn’t ruined everything, so it had to be early early. You heard birds somewhere outside. Birds and the low rumbling of two male voices as they discussed something, under the impression that you were still fast asleep. Which you pretended to be, while listening harder than you had ever listened in your life.
“Come on, man, you’ve thought about it,” Bob was saying. He was on his side behind you, propped up on one elbow, his right hand stroking lightly up and down your flank.
“No, Reynolds, I really haven’t.”
John only used his last name when he was getting irritated. His fingertips swirled absent shapes across your scalp. What the fuck were they bickering about at the ass crack of dawn?
“Both of us at the same time,” Bob said, like he was picking up a dropped thread. “Think of how tight she’d be…”
“It would kill her,” John replied flatly.
“No, it wouldn’t. We’ll go slow.” Bob’s fingers moved inward, dancing up to your lower back, then down, hesitating just where your back became your ass. “I’ll train her.”
“Like a fucking dog? Jesus, Bobby.”
“No, dude, with toys and stuff,” he sighed. Bob’s forefinger moved in a disjointed circle on your spine. “I’m not gonna cram it in her ass tomorrow…”
“No you won’t, because I’ll snap you in half.”
“You’ll try.”
“You watch too much porn,” John told him, sounding exhausted. "That crap rots your brain."
“No, I don’t, I watch you fuck her.”
“You stare at her ass while I fuck her?”
Bob’s shoulder nudged yours as he shrugged. “Sometimes. Yeah.”
“This project of yours has to be okay with her,” John said, audibly exasperated. “If she wants it, then…” He trailed off, a hitch in his whisper when he started up again. “She has to want it.”
“I bet she will.” Bob’s fingers tickled across your right butt cheek, then the left, then swerved toward where they met. “Her little ass is so cute, man. I wanna play with it.”
At that, your I’m so totally asleep couldn’t possibly hear you ruse hit a snag. Your ass tensed under his touch, a soft, breathy moan escaping your throat. You felt John hear it. His thigh jumped under your stomach, his hand flexing against your scalp. They were both silent, listening, waiting…
You didn’t want them to shut up, so you did your best to play dead, and you were pretty sure they bought it, because Bob was rubbing up on your ass again like he was showing John a prime cut of meat.
“You’ve seen it, right?” Bob asked, lightly.
“Yes, I’ve seen it.” John sounded annoyed.
“Not her ass, her ass.”
You spasmed again, you couldn’t help it. God, it was so fucking hot, both of them talking about what they were going to do or not do. You wondered if it had happened before, if you hadn’t woken up those times…
“Hold her open for me.”
You froze, wondering if John would notice that you were starting to hyperventilate against his chest. He hesitated, then shifted closer to you, and you slid deeper across his body. Either you were imagining things or his dick was getting hard against your right hip. His huge, powerful hands slid down your back, firm enough that you would absolutely wake from the pressure, before smoothing over your butt. Moving lower like that put his jaw right next to your right ear.
“Kinda rude to eavesdrop,” he said in a low growl.
He eased your cheeks apart, Bob groaning behind you as John exposed your asshole to him.
“It’s so pretty,” Bob said, tracing his finger down your spine, taking his time, letting you anticipate the millisecond he made contact with your hole. “It’s gonna look so good taking me.”
“He’s going to play with you, baby, is that okay?” John asked, nuzzling against your face.
“Yes,” you breathed. Whined.
You heard the sheets rustle as Bob got closer, his hand gliding up your back to your neck, then around. His finger searched along the seam of your lips, then pushed in.
“Get it nice and wet for me,” Bob murmured, swallowing thickly as he pumped his forefinger in and out of your mouth. When it was coated in saliva, dripping, he put it where you really wanted it, against the hot, sensitive pucker that had yet to be explored.
John kissed your ear, absentminded, because you could tell his attention was fixed elsewhere.
Bob fingered you sweetly, teasing, rubbing in coaxing circles until you relaxed enough for him to ease the tip of his finger inside. You trembled violently against John, crying out into his chest.
“She likes it, Bobby. Fuck, she really wants it.”
“She’s gonna have it,” Bob promised. “But we have to go easy, babe.” He didn’t push far, just enough to let you feel the burn and the stretch. It felt crazy, vulnerable and intense, both of them watching intently as Bob opened you up. You wriggled against John’s side, grinding yourself against his thigh. The friction made everything better, and you had never felt more wanted or more wanton as you humped John’s thigh and moaned so loud it shocked you.
“I think it needs a tail,” Bob said, twisting his finger, making spots bleed across your eyes. “A fluffy one, like a bunny. Our cute little rabbit who loves to fuck.”
“They make those?” John asked, like he was discovering fire.
“They make those.” Bob pressed in to the knuckle, pumping in and out carefully, groaning when you wailed again. “Are you gonna come from your ass, babe?”
You nodded, hiding your overheated face against John’s pecs, humping so hard he had to hold you in place by your butt cheeks, catch you before you hurt yourself. It didn’t matter. There was just the delicate pressure lighting you up from behind and the steel ridge of his quad there for you to rub your clit against, and all the tension gathering in between, turning you into a fucking animal as you came.
“Jesus,” you hard John murmur.
“Oh my God.” You were lost, still going, chasing the last flickers of lightning while Bob slid his finger out of your ass and played teasingly with the outside again. He snugged up close to your back, lavishing wet kisses across your shoulder, nearly forehead to forehead with John.
“Messy girl, coming from your ass,” he whispered in your ear. “You love it, don’t you? Coming for us like that…”
“Mmhm.” You couldn’t really do words.
“Yeah, this little butt needs a tail, babe, it’s gonna look so hot. What’s all that lingerie for if you’re not going to show off for us?”
You heard John make a thoughtful sound at that.
It was a match made in hell, you decided. They did not get along, now they were teaming up against you. For you.
John’s shitty fucking alarm blasted off. You groaned, collapsing against him.
“Sorry!” He shouted, rolling over to find his phone. “Sorry, shit. Sorry.”
You climbed into Bob’s arms as if he could shelter you from the noise. His sugary, pancake smell filled your senses, his soft hair brushing your forehead. He gathered you close, cuddly and sweet, nosing along your temple while John fumbled with his alarm.
“That was so hot, babe,” Bob said, praising you with fluttered kisses against your ear. His breath warmed across your neck, making you squirm and purr. Maybe one more round, why not? Everyone was awake now… “Whoa, okay. Easy. You want more?”
You whimpered against his throat. John finally rejoined, solid and steady against your spine.
Bob flicked up a glance over your shoulder. “She wants more.”
John kissed your nape. “That’s our girl, she always does.”
summary: in which you comfort john through the fireworks on the fourth of july
tags: fluff, hurt/comfort, john has heavily implied PTSD, gn!reader, festivities !, john centric, thunderbolts members mentioned, lightly proofread
words: 1.4k
a/n: ok i know I KNOW. that the fourth of july was two days ago. also i hate the fourth of july. BUT i had this idea and didn’t write it in time for the actual fourth, so im posting this for the first prompt of wyatt week 2026, ‘soldier boy’!! plz enjoy <3 @wyattweek
It used to be his favorite holiday. The Fourth was a time for family, and for celebrating all the good that John knew could and had come from the country he was proud to serve. But it wasn’t like that anymore. Now it was just a flashy reminder of everything he’d lost; the shield, his title, his wife and son, his best friend.
He always loved the food and the friends that came with the holiday. He never passed up a chance to break out the grill and watch everyone come together over delicious southern recipes. But ever since his time in the army, he wasn’t a big fan of fireworks.
Maybe things would be different this year, he thought. It was the New Avengers’ first Fourth of July as a team, he was seeing someone new—you—and the nightmares had been becoming less frequent. And John could cook, just like old times. They didn’t have a grill, but they had a stove. They also had Alexei’s box of ridiculous and likely highly illegal fireworks that they planned on setting off.
The first one goes off just as the sun is beginning to set. John is throwing another hot dog on the stove when a loud BOOM sounds from the balcony. He nearly flings his tongs across the kitchen from how hard he flinches.
You sit at the end of the kitchen island opposite the stove, and are startled by the sudden jolt of movement coming from your boyfriend’s direction.
“Yep, they work!” you hear Alexei call from outside, along with a couple curses from Bucky at the unexpected test run.
“You good?” you call to John, who is still facing the stove.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he responds quickly. “Just… didn’t expect them to start so early. I mean, it’s still daylight out,” he excuses with a twinge of irritation as he turns the hot dog with more force than necessary.
The next fireworks don’t happen until about half an hour later. The sun has set further into dusk and John is cleaning up the kitchen when another few smaller explosions ring out from the city. They’re farther away and don’t make him jump as hard as the first one, but his neck still twitches and his grip tightens on the pan he’s washing.
You’re helping Yelena and Ava set up chairs on the tower’s balcony to watch their makeshift display when Bob strolls into the kitchen to grab another ginger ale from the fridge. “Hey Walker, you need any help?” he asks as he sees John scrubbing the daylights out of the frying pan.
“Huh? Oh, no I got it,” John answers flatly.
“You sure?” Bob asks again.
“Yeah, it’s fine,” John insists.
“I mean, I think that’s the same pan you were cleaning the last time I came in. I just figure it might go a little faster if—”
“Jesus Christ, I said it’s fine, Bob,” John snaps. “I can wash my own damn pans.”
Bob shrinks a little and lets out a quiet apology as he exits the kitchen.
Finally, the time comes to start setting off the rest of Alexei’s rockets. You bring a blanket out for you and John to sit on, where he joins you after finishing the dishes. You put a hand on his bicep as he sits down with a sigh, noticing how tense the muscle is. “You alright? I thought you loved the Fourth,” you question.
“I do,” John says. “I just think fireworks are dumb.”
“What?” you chuckle incredulously. “How do you think that fireworks are dumb?”
He hesitates a moment. “I don’t know, they’re just… loud. And flashy. Kind of tacky, if you ask me,” he lies.
“Yeah, okay, Mister Star Spangled Taco Shield…”
“Okay—knock it off, alright? I just don’t like ‘em,” he says shortly. You’re caught off guard by his sudden attitude.
“Sorry, jeez… If the noise is the problem, I think Bob has some spare earplugs,” you offer to try and lighten the mood.
“I don’t need earplugs, I’m fine,” he insists. You just shrug it off again, slightly irked by how he was acting.
When the fireworks finally start, you expect him to lighten up a little, but he doesn’t. Every time one goes off his face twitches a little, eyes blinking a little too hard. He keeps rolling his neck and fiddling with the fabric of his jeans in between each one. Whenever one shoots up, he grips your hand just a little tighter as he anticipates the blast.
He was trying to be in the moment and enjoy himself like he used to, he really was. But he is plagued by everything that each loud boom digs up. Memories of Afghanistan, of everyone he lost and all the bloodshed he witnessed. Boom. His brain is invaded by Lemar and Olivia, smiling as the red white and blue lights illuminate their faces. BOOM.
John abruptly stands up, and without another word, retreats to his room. Everyone turns around to see him disappearing to the inside of the tower with widespread confusion. They all look to you for some sort of explanation, but you have as good an idea as any of them as to why he left so unceremoniously. You take a moment before following after him with concern.
You make it to John’s room where you find him laying on his side with a pillow covering his head to block the noise, shoulders shaking and hearing faint sniffles. He’s facing away from you, not completely inconsolable, but far from regulated.
“John?” you say softly. He jumps and sits up, whipping his head around at you and breathing quickly.
“I’m fine,” he insists before you even ask him anything.
You look at him earnestly and reply, “You really expect me to believe that?”
He shrinks a bit and turns away from you. “Just leave me alone.”
You do precisely the opposite and make your way over to his bed, the edge of which he’s now sitting on. You stand between his legs and cup his face, tilting his head up to look at you, though he can’t bring his eyes to meet yours. “You know I won’t,” you say gently.
You move to kneel on the mattress next to him, legs folded under you, and let him rest his head on your shoulder as you rub a hand up and down his back. He sighs and says, “I know.”
“The fireworks used to be my favorite part,” he continues after a beat of silence. “Then I got deployed and I…” He trails off and grips your knee tighter by just a fraction. “I thought I woulda’ gotten over it by now.” He thought it might be easier, that it had been long enough since the war. But after everything that had happened in recent years, it was like everything he’d endured was scrubbed raw and exposed again.
“It’s okay,” you soothe as John leans into you further.
“I’m sorry you had to see me like this,” he apologizes. “And I’m sorry I snapped at you. I—”
BOOM
John full-body flinches at the loud firework that bursts outside.
“God, fuckin’ ridiculous…” he mutters to himself.
He tries to sit up and pull away, expecting a laugh or a scoff at how reactive he was, but you don’t let him. You turn his face back to yours and say adamantly, “Hey, no, it’s okay. I get it. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. And you don’t have to be strong around me.”
His lip quivers just slightly before he fully returns your embrace, wrapping his big arms around you in a nearly constricting hug. He buries his face in your shoulder, not quite ready to let you see him cry yet. You still feel a faint drop of moisture reach your skin, but you decide not to mention it. You just hug him back and silently comfort him, soothing him through a flinch or two as more fireworks continue to go off.
An easy silence settles between you, only interrupted by the loud light shows across the city, washing the room in colorful glows.
“Maybe you were right,” you say with a lilt. “They are a little tacky.”
John looks at you and the way the red white and blue illuminate your smiling face. “Nah,” he sighs. “I think they’re beautiful.”
Until the Wheels Come Off (John Walker / F!Reader / Bob Reynolds)
Summary: After an experimental weapon detonates on a mission, you are put into a very awkward, very steamy situation with your crushes. AKA The Sex Pollen One
(I tried to incorporate enthusiastic consent as much as possible in this but obviously the scenario does involve some dubious circumstances, so please keep that in mind.)
A/N: THANK YOU SO MUCH for 100 followers. Here is my gift to you all for the love you've shown my stories. I adore reading your comments and getting your requests. <3
Rating: 18+ MDNI
WC: 9.2k (complete)
CW: Smut just smut, porn with a soupcon of plot, three-way but the men don't get that touchy with each other, angst, tension, romance (yes, really), sex pollen trope, fuck or you die trope, reader is afab, reader is a thunderbolt/new avenger, reader is younger than john, reader is into both john and bob, reader swears, light dom/sub vibes, john is down bad, bob is down bad, john is bossy, bob is a freak, sentry makes an appearance, dirty talk, use of pet names (baby, girl), light hair pulling, pinv, oral sex (f receiving, m receiving), fingering, teasing, adult language, unprotected sex, creampie, cum play.
Suggested Listening: Goosebumps by Astrality
It was light work, that’s what you told yourself, light work because missions tended to wrap up quick when you were paired with two super soldiers, one of which was technically or not technically a god. You weren’t sure. It didn’t matter. The last scumbag trafficker had beat feet away from you, but that was fine; John’s shield sang as it flew by you on the right, slamming into the guy from behind and sending him sprawling to the ground. You ducked as the shield recoiled, steel whistling over your head as it ricocheted back to John.
“Time’s up, asshole,” you growled, grabbing the guy by the hood of his sweatshirt as he scampered upright and tried to resume the chase. Wasn’t going to happen. You were exhausted, and there was actually a pretty decently appointed safehouse on the other side of this mission, plus takeout from the pasta place you had already eyefucked when you first arrived. So no, this idiot was not going to prolong an already tiresome day.
You slammed your foot into his calf, making him stutter-step, stopping him long enough for the Sentry to arrive, a blurred ribbon of gold before he pulled up short, ripping the target off the ground. He threw him back down onto the concrete like he was an empty sack. The body rag-dolled, then rolled a few feet away, but he was alive. Alive enough.
John pelted up to you, not even winded. The Sentry floated gently down to hover between you and John, dusting off his hands.
“Thanks for joining us,” John muttered. There was something about them being together on a mission and Bob in the suit; the second he put it on, the old, scabbed wounds burst. Neither of them could resist school yard jabs, but John was usually the more aggressive offender.
“You had it handled,” Bob said mildly. His eyes, faintly gold, lingered on you, on where your chest pumped against your suit. Before it could become a tell, he met your gaze again. You never knew what to call him anymore—he was generally such a sweetheart, but something in him shifted when the suit went on. He stood taller. His responses were clear, fast, sometimes glib. “I did a sweep. Looks like we’re clear.”
“Smooth as silk, gentlemen,” you said, kneeling to check the guy for weapons. There was a suspicious keycard in one pocket, which you took, thanks much, before tossing his pistol somewhere he couldn’t reach.
“I just think you could contribute a bit more when we’re in the shit,” John was saying, launching in. “He was getting away. You can fly, for fuck’s sake.”
“Are you saying she’s slow?” Bob asked, and judging by his tone, with total knowledge that it would give John an aneurism. Either you were imagining things, or the vibe was particularly tense when it was just the three of you on missions. Like they were competing. Like every word of their charged exchanges was a fist beating on a chest.
“I’m not…no. Jesus, Bob, I would never say that.” John started pacing. He dodged closer to you, dipping down to make sure you heard the next bit clearly: “I would never say that.”
“It’s the Sentry,” Bob said, calm. You smiled down at your work; he never corrected you when you slipped up like that.
“It’s eat my fucking dick,” John snarled, arms crossed as he finished pacing, placing you directly in the crossfire between them.
“Down, boys,” you said. Your hands moved firmly over one pocket of the man’s cargo pants. Something bulged inside. They went on bickering. You dipped into the pocket, withdrawing a cylinder that looked like a cologne or spray. Before you could examine it further, the man lurched upward, hand closing over yours, forcing your fingers down around the latch mechanism. “Shit,” you managed to whisper. “Get back—”
The cylinder broke, the amber liquid inside exploding into gas as the dispersal apparatus fired.
Bob’s hands closed around your waist, yanking you away from the mushrooming cloud that erupted. John staggered out of that same cloud as Bob set you down gently a few yards away. Without hesitation, Bob went to collect John, too, carrying him back to where you waited. There was no point pretending you hadn’t inhaled the mystery gas; you could taste it in the back of your throat.
“What the hell was that?” John asked, wet coughing into his fist.
Bob frowned, backing away from the cloud as it thinned and spread, the color fading as it diluted. “Smelled like…turpentine,” he said.
“And cotton candy,” you added.
John stopped coughing long enough to turn pale and then slightly green. “Shit.”
“What?” you asked, following as he strode down the walkway between the old, moldering construction machines, double timing toward the arched doors leading out of the warehouse. “Do you know what that was?”
“We need to get back to the safehouse,” he said. “Now.” Then softer: “God, I hope I’m wrong.”
Minute by minute, John knew that the agent you had all inhaled was exactly what he feared it was. The smell, the symptoms, the method of deployment, it all added up. He was just trying to decide how to deliver the news to two colleagues that they were in for a very intense, very awkward night.
You and Bob went ahead into the safehouse, John lingering outside to grab a few more cold breaths of wintry air before barricading himself inside. His poker face was failing him, because you looked panicked as you swished the curtains aside on the front window and peered out at him. Just the sight of your face and how his body reacted was further evidence that his theory was right. He turned around, paranoid that you would see how tight his pants were becoming.
This is not how I wanted to do this.
For God’s sake, he had pictured a leisurely date, maybe a place with a dress code, flirting with you over a few drinks, a meandering stroll back to the tower with plenty of stops to make out like teenagers in the shadowy alcoves between buildings. Not this. Never this. You were going to turn into animals, all three of you; losing all inhibition with you was one thing, but now Bob was part of it. Fuck. His collar was choking him. The unnatural heat clawing its way across his chest was damn near unbearable. He scratched open the toggles on his uniform, pulling until he could expose his neck to the cool air.
There was no point prolonging the inevitable. It was still possible, he thought, to get through this without detonating a bomb in your personal and professional lives. Maybe you could tie each other up, separate yourselves in different rooms of the house, figure out some kind of quarantine system. This wasn’t defcon, not yet. John strode in through the front door, closed it, and spun to engage every bolt and lock. He went window to window, making sure the curtains were tightly closed.
It was a quaint two-story cottage, nondescript, white plaster walls and black roof, a working fireplace, the first story dominated by a cozy sitting room with two sofas and a coffee table, and an adjoining kitchen with a farmhouse dining table. Nestled in the French countryside, it didn’t exactly scream orgiastic sex frenzy.
John told himself it wasn’t going there. It couldn’t go there.
“Guys,” Bob murmured, decidedly more Bob than Sentry as he smoothed his hands down the front of his suit, fingers spreading across his stomach. “I don’t feel right.”
“I know,” John said, massaging his temples. He threw you a helpless look, maybe a preemptive, silent plea for understanding. You hovered in the no man’s land between living room and kitchen. Nobody seemed willing to sit down.
“I feel…I feel like I need to barf or jerk off,” Bob continued, squeezing his eyes shut, swaying. “Maybe both.”
That didn’t draw a snarky response from John, which made you instantly suspicious. John never missed an opportunity to get a lick in. You rounded on him, marching over and poking him in the chest. There was already a glaze over your eyes, like you were halfway to wasted, but you were holding on, pushing through it. “John. What the hell is happening to us?”
“Rapid breathing, heart palpitations, fever, sweats, sweats and then chills, sensitivity to light and touch, did I miss anything?” John asked, listing out the symptoms. As he named them out, he watched you get more and more withdrawn.
“Feels like my dick is growing another dick,” Bob muttered.
“And that. Yeah. Whatever that is,” John said with a loose gesture. “Does anyone read the mission briefs? The addendums in the back? You know, we print those out for a reason.”
Bob said nothing, still holding his stomach like he might puke on himself at any second. You shook your head, blinking too fast, like you were having trouble following a simple question. That tracked. You had taken a full blast in the face of the stuff, and he had no idea if the serum would slow things down or speed things up. Either way, you stumbled forward suddenly, grabbing his arm to stay upright.
John held you by the waist, but loosely, aware that any touch at any time could make things descend into chaos. “Jesus, you two. It’s experimental chemical warfare. It depresses your central nervous system, inhibits memory formation, rapid GABA deployment, prioritizes blood to erogenous zones—”
“Erogenous zones?” Bob covered his mouth, laughing.
“Yeah. What? Is that not the right term?”
“No, it is, I just didn’t realize you were a grandma.”
John’s mouth fell open in exasperation. He considered how much torque would be required to tear off a god’s head. Probably more than he could generate just with his bare hands. “Okay, wise ass, try this instead: it’s fuck dust.”
That shut him up.
Your grip tightened on John’s arm. You stared up at him, dazed. “Meaning what?”
John’s tone softened as he addressed you, his heart pounding in his ears as his attention snagged on your beautiful mouth, the way your pulse fluttered in your neck, how lickable you had become all covered in sweat… He shook his head, fighting the urge to press you against his body. “Meaning we’re about to experience a real HR nightmare, that’s what. If the lab tests I’ve read are accurate, then the…the need for stimulation is going to become painful. It will feel life or death.”
The silence was almost comical. John usually yearned for a minute of peace with the two of you around, but now he was desperate for someone to fill the void with a genius solution.
“For how long?” Bob asked, frowning, brow furrowed. He was clawing at his suit like it was full of fire ants, tugging at the collar.
“Hard to say.” John wiped his hand down his face; it was getting tougher to form a clear thought. You smelled so fucking good, fresh meat to a starving man. “Depends on length of exposure, metabolic rate…” He trailed off, begging his last available brain cells to have mercy, cooperate. It felt like a veil was closing over his vision and all he could see was you. “If we’re lucky, twelve hours. If we’re not lucky—”
“Twelve hours?” Bob shouted, startling you. “I can’t do this for twelve more minutes.” Before either of you could tell him to calm down, Bob detached his cape, tore away his gauntlets, then flipped the latch on the back of his rubbery black neck guard, yanking it off and tossing it across the room. The lights overhead flickered ominously. He wrestled with the zipper on the back of his suit until it gave, and with a grunt, he pulled his suit down, letting it hang loose over his belt.
John felt you twitch in his grasp.
“Holy shit, Bob,” you murmured, glassy-eyed and gawking. You pointed first at his well-developed pecs, then his washboard abs. Even John could admit the definition was insane. “That was hiding under there this entire time?”
He absorbed your appreciation with a little toss of his hair, then flicked his gaze from your face to Johns. “Why?” he asked, voice rough with desire, full of the arrogance that the serum tended to bring out in him. “Like what you see?”
“Oh shit,” John groaned. Knowing it was fruitless to try and stop you as you tugged out of his grip and drifted toward Bob. “It’s starting.” He watched you cuddle up to Bob’s side, the other man’s hands immediately tangling in the zipper on the back of your suit, tugging it down. You didn’t notice or didn’t fight him on it.
“Whoa. Hey wait, okay? Are we not going to even try and figure out a way to fight this?” John asked, tearing his gaze away from the sight of you running your fingers up Bob’s ripped stomach. He paced back toward the door, hands in his hair, but each idea that sprang to mind was dumber than the last. “We could…we could find rope. Rope. Yes. Tie each other up. Do we have rope?”
Bob was listening but not looking. His attention was fixed entirely on you, his fingers catching on the open back of your suit, pulling until you wiggled and your arms came free. “Rope,” he murmured, laughing, eyes gold and hot as he leaned in to brush his lips across yours. “Do you think a rope will hold me?” He touched your chin with his thumb, the sheen of sweat across his bare chest so strong it looked like he had been dipped in oil. “I’d chew through it to get to you.”
You shivered, arching against him as he gave one more firm tug and stripped you to the waist. Like him, your skin-tight suit caught on your belt, but John wasn’t thinking about that, he was thinking about the big hand closing over your breast, squeezing it, testing the weight.
“I’d burn it to get to you,” Bob added, the fabric of your bra shimmering before it was incinerated off your body, there and then nothing, a whisper of ash scattering to the ground.
John knew he had to do something, but it was like every thought was on a five second delay. He had become a bystander. Incidental. A flurry of crucial memories passed in front of his eyes just then—you and Bob playing scrabble in the common room long into the night, bickering over whether or not bongwater was a playable word; Barnes taking Bob aside after one of his first missions back to lecture about not shattering anyone’s spine, which had been Bob’s enraged reaction after a goon got a clean punch on you; Bob hearting absolutely everything you said in the group chat, even things like okay; Bob bringing you back tiny mementos from his missions abroad…
John crossed the room in three immense strides, hooking his arm around your waist and spinning you until you squeaked and teetered against him, hands propped on his chest.
“Stop. Everyone stop. Slow down.” Maybe it was because he was the oldest, maybe it was because he was a father, whatever it was, he felt like it was his responsibility to protect both you and Bob. John wiped the sweat out of his eyes, holding up a hand toward the other man, who straightened up and grimaced like John had coldcocked him in the training room. “Don’t square up to me, Bobby. If we’re not going to sequester ourselves or…or…”
“Go ahead, man, sequester yourself,” Bob suggested lightly.
John was trying to be patient and fair, he really was, and this time out was as much for him as it was for Bob. But you were the one he worried about. It didn’t matter what the dust was whispering, you could get hurt, emotionally and physically, if they weren’t careful. You were trapped in a house with two of the most dangerous men on the planet, super soldiers who were about to lose all common sense.
John was trying to be patient, but Bob’s annoying little suggestion punctured his resolve. He wrapped you up in both of his arms, holding you tight to his chest as he leaned toward Bob over your shoulder. “If you have something to prove, that’s fine. I’m not letting her get hurt tonight.”
“I would never hurt her,” Bob whispered. He seemed to come back to himself all at once, noticing his own suit draped around his waist, then yours.
“I know we don’t always get along, Reynolds, but we set that shit aside here and now. She’s priority one tonight.” John said, using a tone of command he reserved for dire situations. The use of Bob’s last name seemed to reach him in a different way, like they were brothers in arms, maybe not friends but on the same side.
“Everything runs through you,” John continued, shifting you to stand at arm’s length. He winced. “Bad…bad choice of words, sorry. You get final say. On everything. We—” He glared across your shoulder at Bob. “—can’t let this spin out of control. We’re still a team.”
“Okay,” you said, softly, down toward John’s chest. You glanced up, nodding. “Okay. I say no and it all stops?”
Bob’s expression softened. He touched the back of your head, the gold fading from his eyes as he swallowed visibly. How the fuck would John make a god stop doing anything, he wondered, realizing their only hope was that Bob’s affection for you was strong enough to keep him in check. The Sentry with no inhibition, with the brakes off, scared the shit out of him.
You closed your eyes sleepily at Bob’s touch, then nuzzled forward into John’s neck, lips moving across his throat as you reached for the zipper on his chest. “And what if I don’t want to stop?”
Then we go until the wheels come off.
Bob had done a lot of crazy shit in his life, but this was right up there. He had never ingested an evil, experimental biological agent but there were times when he probably would have, if it meant a single night of numbed out bliss. But he was a different man now, in recovery, working on things, and Walker’s words of warning broke through the dark, thick haze that had hemmed him in on every side. Things could get seriously messed up if the three of you weren’t careful—he had seen significantly less complicated dynamics fracture just after a night of heavy drinking, and this was…this was…
“Can we at least do this in a bedroom?” John was asking, his huge hands wrapped around your wrists, stopping you from undressing him just feet from the front door of the safehouse.
Bob snapped back into himself, or as much as he could, the heavy, honeyed feeling sliding through his body making every non-sex related thought a chore. There were two bedrooms upstairs; the night before, you and Bob had each taken one and John used the hide-a-bed in the living room couch.
This was the first test. Bob could see John getting impatient for your answer, but he needed that answer. His chest was rising and falling like an overworked bellows, his throat bobbing around a cumbersome swallow as you looked at him and then Bob.
You nodded, unsteady on your feet.
“Words,” John grunted out.
“Take me upstairs.”
That was the gun firing at the starting line. John swept you into his arms, bridal carrying you out of the living room and to the narrow stairs, his boots thundering through the house. Bob stumbled after the two of you, noticing a weird, pink halo at the edge of his vision, a technicolor fog. His legs only cooperated when he began picturing what was waiting in that bedroom. Naked skin. Willing fingers. He groaned, shivering, pawing at the oversized S of his belt, unhooking it and letting it fall wherever. The hand railing creaked as he pushed his weight down onto it, pulling himself to the second level like it was a triumph of the spirit.
Time wasn’t making sense. He had no idea how long it took him to go from living room to bedroom, but it felt like hours, every minute without touch driving him a little crazier, making that fog creeping in denser, harder to push back. He paused at the top of the stairs, the sweat on his hands making the removal of his suit almost impossible. He had been on some serious drugs but this was something new. Just the feeling of his own hands sliding down his legs, peeling the suit away, pulling off his boots, made him want to fall to his knees and cry out.
He left behind a pile of clothing on the landing, ping-ponging against the hallway walls as he tried to remember the layout of the extremely tiny, manageable house. The dust wasn’t just settling in now it was taking hold, taking him by the throat and shaking. He slammed against the open doorway to the bedroom, hands curled into claws as he panted like an animal and watched the last of your super suit hit the floor.
“Jesus Christ,” Bob whispered, wiping the wet hair off his forehead and the sweat out of his eyes.
“Still with us, Bobby?” John asked. To his credit, he sounded genuinely concerned. His suit was gone, too, the towering V of his torso rising behind you as he held you lightly by the waist. The room was dark. That wasn’t good for Bob. He squeezed his eyes shut until two different lamps flickered on, bathing you both in wholesome, golden light. But what those lights illuminated was anything but wholesome—you, perfect and naked, head falling back against John’s shoulder as you reached for Bob, silently imploring him to join.
The amount of floor between the door and the bedside felt insurmountable. It was only the guarantee of skin to skin contact that got him there. Fuck, you were beautiful, held in the light, held by John, his scarred hands moving up your ribs to cup your breasts and pinch your nipples, pulling them toward Bob like you were an offering, an offering to a god.
That’s you, dingdong.
Bob raked his eyes up and down your body, taking in every delicious inch. He had pictured this many, many times, though admittedly never with John’s hands on your boobs. He hated it less than he expected. That was probably the dust talking, but the contrast between Walker’s huge, chiseled body and your softer curves made Bob’s head spin like a top. He dragged himself across the room, watching John’s calloused fingers tease your nipples into stiff, swollen peaks.
“This for me?” Bob asked, hands smoothing across your waist, head dipping to pull one of those buds between his lips. His tongue rolled out along with a groan; John hissed through his teeth at the contact, but he didn’t move his hand completely out of the way.
“Yes, for you,” you whispered, arching, fingers tangling in Bob’s hair, pressing him harder against your chest. He latched on, telling himself you had twelve whole hours of this to go, stuffing down the urge to disintegrate his own underwear and fuck you on the spot. No, he needed you to last.
John’s hands let go, scraping down your sides to your hips, one moved lower; Bob was only too willing to replace John’s hands with his own, squeezing and massaging you until your fingernails scraped across his scalp in response. He heard a soft, mouthwatering, wet sound as John started playing with your slit, dipping one finger inside, making it even clearer he had given up any pretense of trying to fight the dust.
Caught between them, your skin roared with heat, feverish to the touch.
“How does she taste?” John asked in a rasp.
“So sweet,” Bob murmured, eyes fluttering shut as he switched one from nipple to the other.
“Yeah?” John vented a wry laugh. “Bet I know something sweeter…”
His big hand slid into Bob’s hair alongside yours, jerking Bob’s head back and off of your tit until he released it with a reluctant moan. His disappointment didn’t last long; John slipped his fingers out of your body, offering a taste to Bob. If John was going to be a little bossy, Bob could put up with it if it was going to be like this.
“Words,” John prompted gruffly.
“Oh, hell yes,” Bob whispered, opening his mouth. Your eyes were wide and glistening, your lips parted in pleasurable wonder as John Walker painted your slick across Bob’s waiting tongue.
You watched Bob suck the shine off of John’s finger with a full body shudder. Holy shit. You had worried briefly about John’s ability to play nice and share, but whatever setting had clicked on in his head was exactly the right speed. Everything was moving forward, but not too fast, and even with the crazy-making dust screaming through your system, it quieted the panic in your chest to have John in control. The heat was building, but for now it was a controlled burn. You had no idea how he was managing, just gratitude that he was.
Bob slid down in front of you, knees thumping against the hard wood, hands clamping around your thighs as he pushed his chin between your legs. John met him there, fingers spreading, parting your folds, the combined pressure and presence of Bob’s mouth and John’s hand making you sizzle and buck.
“Oh my God,” you whispered, grabbing harder onto Bob’s hair. “No. No, no, no, too much, I can’t—”
“Actual no or good no?” John asked.
“Good no, so good.”
His breath warmed across your neck; those breaths came faster as you worked your hips against Bob’s face and back against the thick, heavy erection rubbing against your ass.
“Then you can,” John growled, biting the shell of your ear, tugging it. He laughed softly as you whined and twisted. “And you will.”
John held you open, Bob went to work, eating you like he was born to do it. You felt the atmosphere charge around the three of you—before it had been foreplay, but now the room filled with the wet sound of Bob dragging his face against you and you sighing at a higher pitch; his tongue speared up into you; there was no going back. Even if you wanted them to stop, you weren’t convinced you could dredge up the words.
Every part of you was too sensitive. It usually took much longer to get where you wanted to go, but now just the lightest graze of his nose across your clit pinched the world into a single, narrow slice. You could see the open door and Bob’s trail of clothing out in the hall, and if you glanced down, a pair of liquid fire eyes gazing up at you, half-lidded and dust-addled. He was watching you intently, keen on every new sound and every twist of your hips.
“Keep going,” you heard John mumble. His left hand slid from your hip, disappearing to tangle in his shorts, push them down, free the hard column of heat he had been pushing against your ass. You felt the thick, weeping tip dodge lower, nudging against your entrance. “I’m going to fuck you now, baby,” he whispered, gasping, probably to keep from tackling you to the ground in a blind heat. “And Bobby’s going to make you cum, isn’t he? He’s going to suck your little clit until you scream.”
Bob logged no complaints at that, hands gripping your thighs tighter as he licked a broad stripe up your slit to refocus on just your aching clit. He held you there while you shook, grabbing Bob’s head with one hand, the other reaching back to hook around John’s neck. He bent low to get the angle right, rearranging his hold on you until you could lean onto his forearm.
“You have to tell us,” John said, words a jumble as he pulsed against your entrance, his cock twitching in anticipation, jumpy, needy. “Have to say it.”
It was the dust. Had to be. You would never do this otherwise, never let one of your crushes eat you out while the other fucked you from behind. “Please, yes, please,” you whined, so wet you could feel yourself opening for John despite his brutish size. Maybe because of it. Fuck, he was gigantic, it was going to change everything, satisfy the burn, satisfy the dust, satisfy you. Then the pounding in your head would go away and the voice shrieking at you to screw everything in sight would be silenced.
“Please, please, god, fuck me, make me cum,” you moaned, half-swallowing the last word as John pressed forward, his teeth closing over your shoulder as he roared out the sound of a man in agony.
“She’s tight, Bobby, fuck, she’s tight,” John whispered, broken, hips stuttering as he worked you open. You could imagine the immense restraint required on his end to keep from ramming into you like a freight train because you were faced with the same brutal gambit—obey the insane demands of the dust and potentially hurt yourself or focus harder than you had ever focused in your life and wait.
John caught his breath, sweating against your shoulder, easing forward on another controlled thrust, claiming more ground. But even as you wanted to concentrate your entire being on the feeling of that glorious stretch, Bob wouldn’t let you forget he had been given orders. His thumb joined his mouth, circling your clit with firm strokes, tongue handling the more direct stimulation. Whoever had taught him to do that deserved a hundred million dollars.
Bob’s hungry little hum, the vibrations, undid what weak shame remained. You couldn’t hold on, and John was right—you couldn’t control what came out of your mouth. For a terrifying second you thought you were losing your vision entirely. The room bent inward, squeezing until you couldn’t breathe, and without air, without sight, there was warmth and pleasure, the shocks of stimulation and the pressure of John filling you up. You felt him slide deeper, hilting you, just as your orgasm shuddered from your navel to your throat.
The relief was incredible, but painfully short. You slammed back down to silence, both men watchful and still.
“Are…are you okay?” Bob asked, gazing up at you with wide, terrified eyes. “Did we kill her?”
“She’s breathing,” John said, his hand closed over your chest, over your heart.
“I…I…” You had gone completely boneless in John’s grasp, your toes dragging against the floor. You stirred upright with a shudder, clenching around John’s dick with a gasp. “Fuck, I’m good. So good. Don’t stop.”
With Bob sitting back on his haunches, chin slick and shiny, John took advantage, turning you to the right, toward the bed, hauling you onto it until you were on all fours. He did it so fast, so easily, you didn’t have time to overthink it or even react. John shoved his knees against the edge of the mattress behind you and fisted his hand in your hair, pulling just enough to send electricity across your scalp.
“God, you’re beautiful like this,” he rumbled, stealing your breath away with a dragging thrust in and out. “Can’t…can’t last, not when you look like this…”
The dust was hitting him as hard as it was hitting you. Your ass slapped against his thighs as he drove home once, twice, a sound of strangled surprise preempting what felt like a volcanic eruption, his fingers tightening in your hair as he burst against your depths. You didn’t expect it to feel like that, but then you’d never been fucked by someone juiced to the gills with serum. You cried out too, shocked by the sensation, he let go of your hair and your head dropped forward. It was so warm inside, so good; you squeezed around his half-limp dick, milking it, gifting yourself another little whined out orgasm.
John staggered back from the bed on heavy steps, shaking the house, leaving you sensitive and swollen but nowhere near satisfied. Your knees buckled; you rolled onto your side, eyes closing on heavy blinks as Bob gave John a good natured shove and climbed onto the bed beside you. He smiled at you, gentle, hand smoothing down your cheek, stroking away tears you hadn’t realized had slipped out.
“How’s my girl? Happy?” he asked, smile deepening at your frantic nod. You didn’t know how you could still want more, but Bob was so beautiful, shining with sweat, eyes deep and blue and sweet as he stroked his hand down your face to your shoulder, tracing the lines of your arm, transferring to your hip, over the curve of your ass before his fingers danced between your thighs. He rolled you onto your back carefully, shifting closer. At some point he had taken off his shorts. His dick was hard and throbbing, curved against his stomach, pulsing faintly with his heartbeat.
You heard John sink onto a chair somewhere behind Bob with a fwoomp and a groan. Bob didn’t notice, his eyes following your line of sight. He looked down at himself, fisted his cock, gave a few lazy pumps while you watched. He read the hunger in your gaze, fingers pushing between your thighs and dipping into your cunt, fingering you with the same unhurried pace of his jerking off.
“Is this okay?” he asked, shivering as he stroked himself faster, still watching you closely.
“Mmhm.”
“Words,” John grunted from across the room.
“Don’t stop touching me there,” you told them both, opening your thighs to give him better access. “I want it. I want you.”
Bob nodded, licking his lips, trying to gather his next thought into something coherent. “John got you all messy,” he said, fingers sliding deeper, fucking John’s cum back into you. “Are you our messy girl tonight?”
You closed your eyes, circling your hips and humping against his hand. “Yes.”
“You’re going to get a lot messier,” Bob murmured, but he sounded pleased about it. Excited. Curious. “Want to taste me? I’m kinda messy, too.”
His cheeks darkened, deep pink as he showed you how much precum was bubbling out of his tip. You whimpered, pulling yourself closer to him by his knee, flopping up partially onto his lap, resting your head on his thigh. Bob didn’t pull his fingers out of you, just shifted you around so he had a better vantage. With his free hand, he drove his thumb into your mouth, opening it, then urged his cock toward your widened lips, feeding himself to you.
Just the smell of him made your body flutter, made it feel like you could cum again. His salt musk taste pooled on your tongue while you licked him like a sweet. He groaned, abs clenched, stomach tensing while he let you take him in at your own pace. And your pace was eager but fascinated, tongue mapping the ridges and veins, the delicious length. You craned up suddenly, licking a smeared wet spot off of his stomach.
Bob laughed at that, cupping your cheek, just holding you, not pressuring you to go back to what you were doing. He knew you would; the crazed heat that burned in him still flamed high in your chest, in your abdomen. He inhaled through his teeth as you closed your lips around his tip, gliding over him, hollowing your cheeks and sucking experimentally, tongue rolling back and forth, teasing him.
“Shit,” he whispered, caving in slightly, shoulders slumping forward as he fought something off. “This is…I could fire off right now…shit.”
John huffed out a knowing laugh.
“Not yet, not yet,” Bob cautioned, shaking as he gently pried your jaw open, easing out of your mouth with a sigh. He pulled his fingers out of your puss and almost wiped his hand on the coverlet, then thought better of it and offered his hand to you. His eyes gleamed as you wrapped your lips around his fore and middle fingers and cleaned off your own arousal and what John had left behind.
“God, fuck yes,” he murmured, pulling his lip between his teeth. “Taste good?”
“Mmhm.”
“Want more?” he asked, scraping his fingers along your lower teeth as he shifted to reposition you on the bed, draping you across the mattress the short way, ass toward him and the wall, head dangling toward the rest of the room.
“Yes,” you said, knowing John would bark at you if you didn’t vocalize the answer. “More. I’m not…I can’t…”
“I know,” Bob said, voice full of sympathy. “It’s eating you alive.”
You whimpered, nodded, heat rocketing down toward your core as Bob settled on his knees between your legs, teasing his cock head up and down your sex. His gaze flicked from your heaving tits to the chair across the room, where John was seated beneath the glow of a golden and green stained-glass lamp.
“Look at that,” Bob whispered. “You’ve got Walker all worked up again.”
Upside down, you took in the harrowing vision of John Walker fisting his dick from base to tip, using a bruising grip as if punishing himself for liking what was happening on the bed. His face was red, his hair slick with sweat, eyes blue flames as he nodded and groaned with you as Bob dipped lower and fucked into you.
His path was smoother than John’s, your body so relaxed and ready for him, lubricated with your seemingly endless hunger and John’s cream. That didn’t lessen the pleasure, in fact, you couldn’t keep your eyes open or your mouth shut as Bob took his time on each devastating pump, fists pushed into the mattress on either side of your waist. What he lacked in sheer girth he made up for in length. And you felt it, scratching your fingernails across the blankets, meeting his thrusts with desperate shakes of your hips.
“More. Please more. Fuck me,” you urged him, a stranger to your own voice. Something deep inside you still longed to be dealt with, fed. If anything, your grip on sense and reality was only loosening. You didn’t know if this was the apex of the drug; you trembled to consider there was worse to withstand and what you would do to survive it.
“You heard her.” John’s voice was closer now, much closer. He had crossed the distance from the chair to the bed. Even before you opened your eyes, you knew he was close—you could smell yourself on him, and the heady scent of your mingled sex clinging to his skin. When you did open your eyes, you were greeted with the underside of John’s hard dick. His head tilted to the side in playful inquiry as he took up one of your hands and brushed your knuckles across the heated flesh.
“More,” you said, both to him and to Bob. Your hand closed around him, John’s fist still closed tightly around the base as he fucked against your palm.
“Give it to her, Bobby,” he said through clenched teeth. “She wants it. Give her—fuck—give her whatever she wants.”
“More, yeah, sounds good,” Bob repeated, prompting himself. He leaned down, taking your legs and bending them back until your knees almost touched your tits. You cried out, struggling to catch your breath as he opened you up and found that much more of you to pound. “How’s that? Is that the spot?” he asked, eager, giving you a taste of the angle. Your eyes rolled back, hand numb around John’s dick as Bob lowered his weight onto your thighs; your hamstrings burned as he leaned down to kiss you, folding you into the mating press.
“I’m gonna die,” you whispered, laughing.
“Relax, baby, he’s going to make you feel good,” John said, smoothing the hair back from your face. Something about his encouragement made you shiver and loosen, another wave of honeyed pleasure rolling up from where your body met Bob’s. John gazed down at you so lovingly, eyes watery as if he had never been this proud of anyone in his life. “He’s gonna fill you up again, is that what you want? Is that what you need?” John’s pale eyes flickered as he glanced down your sweaty torso to Bob. “It’s what he needs. It’s what we both need, to fill you up until you can’t take anymore, until you tell us to stop.”
“Don’t stop, John,” you said, so fast it made them both chuckle.
“No, baby, nobody’s stopping,” John assured you. Bob started dragging himself in and out, groaning like he was in pain. “Bob’s not going to last very long in that tight pussy.”
“N-No,” Bob muttered, shaking the wet strands of his hair as he almost collapsed on his next thrust. He kept going somehow, brushing an absent kiss across your lips, eyes screwed shut as he picked up speed. “Shit, John, she’s soaking.”
As if to prove him right, his next thrust came with a filthy squelch. You arched, your own slick and John’s dripping down between your cheeks, pooling on the bed.
“Jesus Christ, did you hear that?” John worked himself against your hand faster, moving his fist up to tighten around your fingers and make a combined sleeve for him to fuck. You could feel him swelling, getting close…
“Wet, tight, fuck,” Bob whimpered, lost, somewhere else entirely as he rocked into you. He dropped his hips lower, angling his dick to scrape a spot you could feel in your teeth.
“Oh god, Bob, oh god, oh god—” You blurted out words to the rhythm of his thrusts, sawed back and forth by the snap in his hips. John ran his thumb along the seam of your lips.
“Can you open up for me, baby? Wanna cum, wanna cum right now…”
You groaned, doing as he asked, drunk and dazed and fucked as Bob seized up, still for an instant before pounding into you on three quick strokes. Thick, salted heat poured down your throat from John as Bob finished, his face pressed against your throat as it worked to swallow John’s release. You felt Bob’s as the head rush ebbed, as you sputtered and coughed, John holding your head up and steady while Bob’s dick jerked against your depths. It was too much heat. It was just the right amount. It was on you and inside you and incinerating you from the inside out.
The come down nearly plunged you into a blackout. You couldn’t remember how all three of you wound up in the bed together, one bedraggled sheet slung over your bodies, Bob curled around your back, spooning you, the furred wall of John’s chest against your cheek. You could feel Bob’s erection pulsing against your lower back, his fingers toying idly with your nipples, his lips worrying along the ridge of your shoulder.
“Just relax, that’s it,” John was saying. You didn’t know what had come before that. Had you fallen asleep? It could be midnight or dawn, you had no idea. The burn in your chest was a simmer, but not completely gone. John reached down, feeling between your legs; you shivered, rubbing your face back and forth against his chest. “Are you done?” he asked, almost shy.
You tossed your head.
“Are you sure?”
“Come on, man, don't be an asshole, just give it to her,” Bob said, half impatient, half annoyed. “She likes it, she’s our messy girl. Aren’t you?” His tone changed, light and loving when he nuzzled into your neck, rutting slowly against your back. “If he won’t help you I will. I can go again. I can go again right now—”
John’s hand closed over the back of your head possessively, his long fingers still exploring you, as if searching for some physical sign it was time to call it quits.
“She gets to decide,” John said, firm. “Not you.”
You wiggled closer to John, hooking your thigh around his, inviting him in.
It just felt good when he slid into you, his erection as hard as the first time, far more controlled now, easy, like you were two lovers alone, tangled up in bed before going to sleep. He kissed you deeply, holding on like you could slip away. Time warped around you again, you remembered that kiss, not tipped with drugged fire but romantic, full of longing. And Bob’s steady heat against your back, his kisses along your shoulder tickling as his evening stubble scratched your skin. John held your waist while you ground against his pubic bone, shuddering and blissful and full.
When you opened your eyes again, John was holding your back to his chest, the steel bands of his arms anchored around your waist. Bob was crawling down the mattress, kissing his way down your body, detouring to suck and bite your nipples for so long John grumbled something at him.
“It’s all coming out, can’t have that,” Bob was saying, three fingers pushing into you like it was nothing. “Gotta keep us inside, can you do that?”
You wanted it, you supposed, anything to keep the pleasure coasting through your body. Anything to satisfy the demon, even if it was getting quieter, going to sleep. You came back to yourself minutes later, Bob fucking you against John’s chest. It felt like you were going to break, but it was too much in all the right ways. Every thrust sent you closer to yourself. Your arms fell back, looped loosely around John’s neck.
“One more time,” John murmured, nose against your temple as Bob shuddered and bucked. “Let us take you there one more time, baby. Have you ever been fucked like this? Have you ever felt this good?”
You shook your head, whispering nonsense.
You remembered a light clicking on, brighter. Someone carrying you. The cold bite of tiles on your bare feet. Soap that smelled like rosewater. Two hard bodies holding you up in the shower, gentle hands touching you everywhere, washing, caring. The towel was like a cloud. The bed was different, smaller, but you didn’t ask about it or complain.
Morning crackled behind your eyes like a seam of sunlight on the horizon.
You breathed into consciousness with a gasp, warm as bread in a toaster. You groaned; it felt like you had gone ten rounds with a grizzly bear. There was a persistent, intense ache between your legs. Someone had put your panties back on, but you could tell the crotch was wet. Fear lanced through you like a cold spike as you realized this wasn’t your bedroom back in the Watchtower.
What was the last thing you remembered? John and Bob fighting, bickering on the job. A white house with a black roof. France. Right. You tried to move, finding it very difficult indeed with two bodies pressed tight against you on either side.
What. The. Fuck.
Your bleary eyes traveled up a column of skin dusted with freckles, landing on a russet beard and the calm, angelic face of John Walker fast asleep. His arm was slung across your waist. It felt like a barbell pressing you into the mattress. Judging by the way your nipples were pillowed against wiry hair, he wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing.
“No, I’ll do it tomorrow,” someone slurred behind you.
Bob.
You carefully turned your head like a turret on a wheel, catching sight of Bob’s golden brown hair mussed against your shoulder. His nose was buried between your shoulder blades, his arm nestled just under John’s. They were naked. They were naked and they were touching.
The hyperventilating had just begun when John’s eyes blinked open.
“Whoa. Whoa. Look at me. Breathe.” He lifted his hand from your waist, cupping your jaw firmly until you did as he instructed. Worry tugged his brow down as he inspected you. “Do you remember last night?”
“N-No. John. John. What the fuck is going on?” you asked, trying not to scream. This was insane. A disaster. You were in bed with both of your crushes, with absolutely no memory of how things had progressed this far.
“When we were in the warehouse, when you chased down that guy, do you remember the cannister in his pocket?” John asked.
The specificity of the question lowered your panic. “I…Yes. Yeah. Something exploded. There was gas everywhere, it smelled like shit.”
“It was a chemical agent,” he explained, slow and clear. His thumb stroked gently across your cheekbone. “We all inhaled it. There’s really no professional or easy way to say this, but it made us all want to…” He closed his mouth, opened it, closed it, tried again. “We had a lot of sex. A lot.”
Memories started to percolate. Bob mumbled in his sleep, restless and shifting against you. His morning wood poked against your back. You closed your eyes and told yourself to breathe exactly sixteen times before saying anything else.
You remembered Bob’s suit piled in the hallway. The tremor in the usually unflappable John Walker’s hands as he helped you undress. Your own voice begging for more, more, more.
“Oh my fucking God,” you whispered.
“Yeah. Yep.”
“John, this is a catastrophe,” you added. Your eyes filled with tears as you forced yours to meet his. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t…I don’t know…”
“Sh-hh, hey, don’t apologize,” he said, voice just as careful and low. What was with him? Why did he care or not whether Bob Reynolds of all people had his peace disturbed? Bob was drooling down your back in his sleep. You were going to puke.
“No, you don’t get it,” you hurried on, scalding tears blistering down your cheeks. John hurried to wipe them away. “I…like both of you. Fuck. Like is such a stupid word. I mean I respect both of you, too, although I’m sure that’s fucked now…”
John suppressed a rumbled laugh. “Nothing is fucked.”
You stared at him. “How? You must think I’m some crazed slut…” You got up the courage to slip your hand down between your legs. The evidence was actually confounding. How was that possible? “Jesus Christ, John, how much sex did we have exactly?”
“A lot,” he said, cryptic, clearing his throat. His blue eyes searched every inch of your face. “Do…do you want the details? You’re owed them, obviously, I just--”
“How do you remember it all? My memory is gone…”
“The serum, I would guess,” he said. “Which, uh, means Bobby over there will also probably remember.”
“Oh my God.” You couldn’t breathe. You actually couldn’t breathe. “Yes. Details. Now. Tell me.”
John sighed, gathering himself. “You and me, um…” He turned a shade of red you weren’t sure until that moment was biologically plausible. “Four times, although once was—fuck, okay this is harder than I thought—”
“Once was what.”
“Once was in your mouth,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut.
“You and I had sex three times?” Your heart sank for reasons that were perhaps more embarrassing than the effects of the sex gas. Now you would never remember your first time with him. Them. More tears slipped down your face. John, as ever, was ready to catch them. “I don’t remember. I don’t…I can’t…”
“Hey, hey, hey.” John surged against you, pressing his forehead to yours. “Breathe. You have to breathe. You have to breathe and you have to believe me when I say that this doesn’t change anything between us, I’m still—” He caught himself, biting off the end of that confession.
“You’re still what?” you asked, hands curling against his chest.
“I’m still crazy about you,” he said. “Crazier, maybe.”
“Yeah, last night certainly sounds like it was fucking crazy.”
John laughed, and you thumped your fist on his chest. “I’m not going to speak for Bob, but I bet he’s going to say the same thing.” His eyes fluttered over your shoulder to where Bob was still peacefully drooling on your back. “We’re both crazy about you. I thought I was going to tear him in half when he touched you, but…I don’t know. I don’t know anything yet, I just know I’m not going to forget the way you said my name. And if you tell me to fuck off and die, I will, but I’m…here. Here and not going anywhere.”
It didn’t fix everything, but at least you could breathe again.
“Are there pancakes?” Bob asked in his sleep, flopping away from you and into the wall so hard he hit his head with a wheezed: “Ow.”
John looked at the ceiling for help, sighing. “Guess you can ask him yourself. Good morning, Bob,” he said, exasperated.
“Whoa. Hey. Morning?” Bob rolled back toward you both, his face appearing next to yours as he propped it on your right shoulder. “Is this, uh, the debrief? Does she—”
“She doesn’t remember much,” John said, and you were grateful for the assist. “I was just telling her how much we are not judging her for what occurred here.”
Bob snorted, ruffling your hair, his strong hands smoothing down your side to curve over your hip. “You were incredible.”
You raised your eyebrows at John, who raised his right back.
“Say: I told you so,” you muttered. “I dare you.”
“How’s our messy girl this morning? Sore? Tired? Fuck, you’re so beautiful…” Bob kissed your neck, hand sliding down your hip to your stomach, lower, playing in the absolute filth they had left inside you the night before. Judging by how otherwise pleasant you all smelled, they had tried to clean you up and done a very half-assed job of it. “God, you’re wet again, or is that us? Both, maybe? Shit, my dick has been poking you all morning, hasn’t it?”
“Bobby.” John’s voice sliced through the horny stream of conscious monologue Bob had decided to unleash first thing in the morning. “She’s still…figuring this out. Give her a break for God’s sake.”
“S-Sorry.” Bob’s hand stilled, his jaw tense against your neck.
But the fucked up part was, you didn’t want him to stop. Your mind raced, your traitorous fucking nipples hardening against John’s chest, your stomach unwinding, pooling toward the sensation of Bob’s hand cupping your sex.
“No, it’s okay,” you stammered out, licking your lips nervously.
John studied you, brows still at his hairline. “Baby—”
“Baby?” You snort-laughed, sizing him up. “Is that what you like calling me?”
His next blink was drowsy, his lips parting. “Next best thing after mine.”
“Ours,” Bob suggested, hand flexing around your pussy. When you twitched your thighs apart, his fingers slid right in. He groaned. “You’re ours.”
John leaned down to kiss your forehead, hands closing over yours where they rested on his chest. Bob went to work, John held you tight. “Everything runs through you,” he whispered. “Just say the word and it all stops.”
Your voice was your own voice as you arched against him, against Bob’s sweet touch, murmuring, “Don’t stop.”
Bob who hates affection in public but once he’s alone with you he’s an absolute mess. Kisses, hugs, cheesy compliments, anything of the sort.
absolutely
especially early onto your relationship. he's not used to having a healthy, real relationship, so the most he can do in public without feeling uncomfortable is holding your hand, maybe a quick kiss over your temple when he's sure nobody's watching
he's clingy as hell so when you get alone he's all over you. this man doesn't know personal space if it's only the both of you in a room. takes any chance he gets to cling to you and get as close as possible
I feel like he'd get less anxious and would learn not to gaf once your realtionship gets real serious and he would progressively do it all while the rest of the team is around (and that would make them gag)
Bob Reynolds who cries while fucking you because he just loves you so much and finds you so beautiful that he can't hold back his emotions which only makes him drive his hips faster and deeper into you
Notes: Just a little drabble. Alpine is a certified slob that leaves all her cat toys out for others to clean up and put away. She's a princess. It's what she deserves <3
ℕ𝕒𝕧𝕚𝕘𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝕃𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕤
"Hey, baby," you murmured softly, stroking his hair while looking around the living area; trying to catch some vibrant sight of those pesky cat toys that you had claimed would be cleaned up. The soft curls caressed your fingers lightly. You felt the slight pressure of him leaning against your hand instinctively, searching for more attention like some feline animal. He brought his ceramic mug up to his mouth, taking a mouthful of coffee while you traced your fingers through his hair.
Perhaps you should have known the inspired response. It was more of an action that resulted from repetition than anything else. You hadn't thought about it. Easily, you dropped to your knees in front of him, the movement fluid and familiar. There was nothing suggestive, or so you had thought, in the action. You only wanted to pick up some of the displaced cat toys that Alpine had left discarded. She often did that; scurrying away with a felt mouse or bell before abandoning it under the couch. There was one, you could see, laid on the floor behind Bob's sock-clad feet. It was the pink mouse, the one that Alpine would trot around with as if it were real and she had done a good job by retrieving it from the basket of toys.
And unfortunately for your boyfriend, the mere sight of you dropping to your knees and sitting on your haunches in front of his feet had him adjusting his position; shifting down the couch with a quiet sigh and spreading his knees. A movement that was remembered over time; your hands delicately trailing up to his waistband, the lulling of your tongue and mouth full of him, his cock nudging against the back of your throat as you took him so sweetly, those delicious vibrations that had his breath stuttering when you hummed around the throbbing length of him without mercy.
Your eyes widened instantly, knowing what would happen next. The dreaded sound of laughter. And you tilted backwards, exhaling deeply while holding the little cat toy in one hand. "Seriously, guys?"
"Hey," Yelena was grinning at the display, almost laughing with how highly amused she was. "In the tower or not, can you do that in your room."
"Yeah, Jesus," Walker murmured while collecting the mugs on the coffee table. "Keep it in your pants, Bob."
Bob threw down his book beside him, placed his mug onto the coffee table and groaned loudly at the attention, rubbing his face with lethargic exhaustion and embarrassment. "Don't be an asshole, Walker."
"What? We will have to start announcing ourselves before going into any room," he shrugged with a chuckle, walking out of the penthouse living area. Alpine trotted through the swinging door that separated the living area from kitchen; her fluffy tail high in the air and a high-pitch meow announcing her requirement for attention.
Summary: Making out with Bob. That's it. That's the plot.
Warnings: heavy making out. dating Bob Reynolds. kissing & touching. no use of y/n.
_________________
The tower is quiet. Suspiciously quiet.
Most of the team is gone on a three-day mission overseas, leaving the compound weirdly peaceful for once.
No arguing in the kitchen.
No training alarms.
No Yelena stealing food directly off other people’s plates.
Just soft music drifting from the speakers and rain tapping lazily against the windows. And that peace has gone very, very intimate.
“I’m trying to have a conversation with you,” you mumble breathlessly.
Bob nods immediately against your mouth. “Right. Yeah. Totally.” Then he kisses you again anyway.
Your laugh dissolves into another kiss almost instantly. God. Kissing Bob is dangerous. Because underneath all the sadness and carefulness is someone who loves intensely. Someone touch-starved enough that every soft sound you make seems to unravel him further.
Right now he’s standing between your knees while you sit on the kitchen counter, his hands gripping your waist carefully but possessively enough to make your pulse flutter.
“You’re distracting,” he murmurs against your lips.
“You lifted me onto the counter.”
“I know,” he says weakly. “That was my first mistake.”
Your fingers slide into his hair and Bob physically melts. Like actually sags slightly against you. It’s adorable. And kind of hot.
“You know,” you whisper teasingly, “for someone who thought I’d never like him back, you got confident fast.”
Bob groans softly into your shoulder. “Please don’t make me self-aware right now.”
You laugh. And maybe that’s what does it. The sound and the warmth. The way your legs tighten slightly around his waist when he kisses you deeper.
Because suddenly Bob’s restraint snaps completely. His hands slide beneath your thighs and before you can even gasp, he pulls you harshly against his hard body and digs his fingers into your flesh.
A vase immediately crashes to the floor behind you. Neither of you notices. Because Bob’s kissing you like he’s trying to memorize you.
Slow one second. Desperate the next.
Your hands are tugging his shirt halfway off his shoulders while his forehead rests briefly against yours, breathing uneven. He grabs the hem of your top and drags it painfully slow over your head. His eyes following every inch revealing your naked skin.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers suddenly. The sincerity in his voice almost kills you.
“Bob—”
But you couldn't finish the sentence because suddenly the elevator dings. Both of you freeze. Voices echo through the tower entrance.
“Oh my God,” you whisper.
Bob goes pale instantly. “No no no no—”
The team was supposed to be gone until tomorrow. Heavy footsteps approach rapidly. You hear Yelena laughing about something.
Then John saying: “Why is there dramatic music playing?”
Panic. Immediate panic. Bob looks around wildly. You point frantically toward the tiny storage room beside the kitchen. “THERE.”
Neither of you has time to think. Bob grabs your hand and practically stumbles toward the door while grabbing his shirt from the floor and pressing into your free hand.
You barely manage to shut the storage room door before voices enter the kitchen. Darkness swallows both of you instantly. And unfortunately the storage room is tiny.
You’re pressed completely against Bob’s chest while he braces one hand against the wall beside your head trying very hard not to breathe too loudly. You could feel something hard pressed against your belly and bite down on your lower lip. Bob presses his eyes shut and he looked absolutely tortured right now.
Outside there was silence.
Then Alexei’s voice: “…Why vase broken?”
Oh no. Your shoulders start shaking immediately with suppressed laughter.
Bob looks horrified. “Do not laugh,” he whispers soundlessly.
His hair is completely wrecked.
His shirt is covering you, so his upper body is completely naked.
His lips are swollen from kissing.
You almost die on the spot.
Outside the room, footsteps move cautiously.
Then Bucky’s voice goes flat. “Something’s wrong.”
Oh God. Not Winter Soldier mode.
Ava immediately speaks up. “There’s broken glass.”
John: “Could be an intruder.”
Yelena: “Or raccoon.”
Bucky: “…What kind of raccoon breaks ceramic?”
Yelena: “Very determined one.”
Inside the storage closet, Bob presses his forehead silently against your shoulder like he’s begging the universe to kill him quickly.
You bite your lip hard enough to hurt trying not to laugh. Then a gun cocks outside.
Bob’s eyes widen in horror. “Oh no,” he mouths silently.
The storage room door flies open. And there stands Yelena with a gun pointed directly at both of you.
The silence that follows is catastrophic. Yelena blinks once. Twice. Then slowly lowers the gun. Because Bob is standing there shirtless with messy hair while shielding you from the looks of the others. Your lipstick is literally smeared across his mouth.
Yelena stares. Then her expression transforms instantly into pure delight. “Oh my God.”
Behind her, the others crowd closer. John squints. “…Oh.”
Ava immediately covers her face. “NO.”
Alexei bursts into thunderous laughter so violently he has to grab the wall.
Bucky looks directly at Bob. Then at the storage closet. Then back at Bob. “…Seriously?”
Bob makes a tiny miserable sound. “I can explain.”
“You cannot,” Yelena says immediately. “And I pray you do not try.”
Your face is burning so hot you think you might evaporate. Bob looks seconds away from walking directly into the ocean.
Yelena crosses her arms smugly. “So THIS is why vase exploded.”
“Nobody exploded anything,” Bob mutters weakly.
Alexei points dramatically. “You were doing romance!”
“Oh my God,” you whisper into your hands. "Please don't say it like that."
Bucky looks genuinely exhausted now. “You made us clear the entire floor because you were making out?”
Bob’s voice goes strangled. “I didn’t know you were back!”
Yelena grins wickedly. “You hid in closet.”
“There was a gun involved!” He chokes.
“Not at first.”
Ava is still hiding her face. “I hate all of this.”
Then Yelena notices something. Her eyes narrow slightly. Then immediately light up with evil. “Ohhhhh.”
Bob visibly tenses. “What?”
Yelena points dramatically at his neck. “You have hickey.”
The room absolutely erupts. John nearly falls over laughing. Alexei starts applauding. Ava walks directly away muttering that she deserves financial compensation for witnessing this.
And Bob? Bob finally gives up completely.
He drops his face directly into your shoulder with a groan of absolute despair while everyone laughs around him.
But underneath the embarrassment you can feel him smiling. Just a little. Because despite the chaos and teasing and complete tactical humiliation ... He’s happy.
And judging by the way his arms tighten around your waist while he hides against you, he still can’t quite believe he gets to be loved like this at all.
______________
Thank you so much for reading! All interactions are highly appreciated
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 (MINORS DNI) BUCKY BARNES doesn’t use his metal hand during sex with you… unless he’s jealous.
he knows you can handle his metal arm, you love it so much that he knows you would love it if he used it during sex— but he never does. he never uses it because he doesn’t want to risk anything. he’s been told nothing will happen, maybe be gentle but he never pushes it…
until bucky sees your pretty little self flirting with some other dude at the bar you two were visiting— he didn’t even know if you were flirting, but you were smiling hard enough and the other dude was looking at you too flirty for him to handle. he doesn’t make a scene in public, only wrapping his arm around you… but at home, he breaks.
your legs were spread out on the bed as your forearms kept you up; watching as bucky spit on your cunt.
“you wanna flirt with him, mhm?” he challenges, leaning in and presses kisses to the inside of your thigh— his right (non metal) hand rubbing up and down your sobbing folds. “so wet f’me but so fucking happy to be around him.”
you whimper at feeling his hand, legs shaking as his body kept them open. “buck— buck— i-i wasn’t flirting with him… just k’keeping conversation— oh!” your words get cut off when he presses two of his normal fingers into you— not completely, but just the tips, just to tease you.
he frowns, leaning in again and finally pressing a kiss on your cunt. “i know you weren’t flirting and that makes it worse; your poor pretty self being flirted with because men can’t handle themselves…” he whispers, licking a strip in between your folds while at the same time, his fingers don’t go any further, in fact they retract, his right hand implanting on the bed right by your forearms.
moans fill the bedroom as he licks up and down, bringing his left hand up as you moan for him. “b-bucky! oh fuck!”
bucky looks up at you as he puts the metal hand close to your cunt— and you can immediately feel the difference in coldness at the sensation— it makes your eyes snap open and look down at him. fuck. no he wasn’t. “let’s see if this pussy can handle my other hand…” he whisper.
you shudder as your right hand reaches down into his short hair, watching with both anticipation and nervousness— it’s just fingers… just a pair of metal fingers. “buck— baby, i-i don’t think i can handle it.” you try to say but the moans of him licking your cunt again break it up again.
he frowns in between your thighs, glee in his eyes that only comforts you. “oh but baby, you always tell me you want ‘em… always asking me to use them… so why not? since this pussy needs a reminder on who she belongs to.”
oh fuck him. your mind internally tells itself. you try to not encourage it... but your pussy flutters at just the right time as he lines up the first finger— his middle, with your folds, feeling your slickness against the cold grey metal of his finger.
he looks up at you as he presses another kiss to your clit. "i'll go gentle, promise, sweetheart." he says; a tonal difference from how he was just speaking— even when this dickhead is jealous, he still is checking to make sure.
you nod your head in understanding, threading your fingers through his brown hair as you begin to feel his slow metal finger insert inside of you. instantly; your body feels the coldness. his arm always ran cold for some reason, he never felt it but everyone who has touched the outside has always said it was cold as fuck... and you fucking shiver the moment his finger presses into you, each inch of his finger disappering into your cunt.
"there you go... good girl, good fucking girl taking my finger... taking it like a champ." he moans, watching with almost awe as your pussy sucks his finger right in.
"it's- it's 'o-so cold, buck." you moan, throwing your head back as your fingers can't help but tug on his hair in response, your other hand grabbing his right forearm.
he chuckles, licking your cunt again, from his finger to the top and back down, moaning at the taste of you. "don't worry baby, it will warm up in this pretty pussy... now, let's see if this girl can handle more than just one."
masterlist is here! click here for more!
ⓘ KENTLUV3R’S WORK. all my fanfics (not the characters) is my very own, coming from my own efforts and my time. do not copy my work, rewrite it, shove it through an ai machine and shit out slop, and don’t repost to wattpad/ao3/c.ai!
⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⠀ just thinking about bob reynolds being the most submissive man for you. to say he’s little to not experienced at all wouldn’t be a lie; but when it came to you, bob just loved to learn new things. you wanted him tied up to the bed? consider it done. you wanted him blindfolded? consider it done.
it was so overwhelming to not be able to see you, to touch you as you fucked yourself up and down onto his cock, making him moan your name out loud. “please, please… oh god, it feels so good. i feel so good.” he cried out as you lowered yourself down his length and clenched your walls around him. he tugged on the restraints, like begging to touch your soft skin, but you wouldn’t let him. “shhh, baby, relax. it feels good, doesn’t it?” you only voiced back at him, which he nods in reply.
bob can only bit down on his lips to not moan too loudly as you start to bounce again; slowly and steadily, squeezing his cock inside your warmth. his head rolls on the pillow, you hear whines escaping his mouth as his thighs shake. “i love it so much… i wanna come. can i come? please? i’ll be a good boy, i promise.” he begs you, trembling and begging all while his cock leaks pre-cum inside you, mixing with your juices. you would have loved making it last a bit longer but bob is so sweet, so obedient for you that you can’t help but give him permission.
and when he shoots his warm load inside you, hips jerking up to meet your core with whines; you tell yourself he’s definitely made to be the submissive one in this relationship.
a/n: READ THE WARNINGS! I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR MEDIA CONSUMPTION. This has not been proofread, I feel like I just got out of a gangbang.
Pairing: Soldat!Bucky x SHIELD!Reader (takes place a little before CATWS)
Warnings: SMUT! 18+ MINORS DNI!!! DARK!Bucky, NONCON/DUBCON, masturbation (f&m), somnophilia, p in v, creampie (?), fingering, oral (f receiving), drug/roofie usage, dumbification if you squint, dacryphilia, nicknames. The Asset is an unreliable narrator <3
Word count: 6.4k
Summary: The Soldat had been observing you for weeks. One day, looking at you from the rooftop one building over isn't enough anymore.
part 2 here
It had been 245 days since the Asset was assigned to do surveillance on HYDRA's most sensitive operation to date. Project Insight was going to launch soon enough, and for that Nick Fury had to be gone.
Efficient. Precise. Mechanical.
Surveillance. Intelligence. Elimination.
Like blinking. Like breathing.
He sat on a rooftop across the street from Steve's apartment, using the scope of his rifle to see more clearly across the way. Empty, as it always was at 8:03pm on Thursdays. Steve wouldn't be home for another 28 minutes.
The Asset didn't feel much. Didn't feel anything, really. Nothing but the uncomfortable grip of the muzzle around his face, and the stiff leather and kevlar around his body.
And he didn't say a single thing about it. Because the Winter Soldier never complains, only complies.
But one day, he felt really, really bored. And his scope wandered to your apartment balcony windows, right to the left of Steve's.
He took in the little string lights you had put on the railing, twinkling like stars against the warm summer weather, and the little outdoor mat you put out along with a comfy outdoor chair for when the weather was nice enough for a cup of tea looking down to the city lights.
He adjusted the scope. Slowly.
Curtains not quite closed.
There. You.
Back turned to the glass, you moved across your living room barefoot, your arms lifted above your head as you tied your hair. Loose shirt. Soft shorts. Skin.
Soft, supple skin his eyes took in as he moved his gaze from your ankles, to your calves, and up your leg, until he reached the smallest hint of ass cheek that was peeking out from under your shorts.
Soft, supple skin he wanted to bite. And suck. And spank if you gave him a reason.
But in his mind, he wouldn't need to. Cause you'd be so good for him, wouldn't you?
That was 94 days ago.
And in 93 nights, he watched you. Sure, yeah, he had to watch Steve, make sure intel was up to date, but Steve got home a little later than you, and went to bed a little earlier.
Which allowed him exactly 186 minutes of just observing you. He allowed himself the small treat of letting his eyes follow your every move for about three hours a night.
He knew your routine. He knew you liked takeout from the little Japanese place three blocks down, the knew chamomile and lavender tea was your go to when you couldn’t sleep, and he knew you fell asleep with a spoon in your mouth from late-night ice cream more than once.
That was easy. He got that intel about 9 days in. And then something else started brewing.
Not duty, not rage. Something so much worse in the eyes of HYDRA. Curiosity.
Hunger for something he thought was lost about 62 years prior after many times in the wiping chair. Hunger in the shape of heat pooling low in his stomach, hunger in the shape of you spilling something on your shirt and taking it off to reveal nothing underneath before tossing it in the hamper and pulling another one on.
68 days ago, he lingered too long.
He saw you turn off the lights and light a candle in your room, placing it in the dresser by the door, across your bed. He watched you put on little white earbuds, get comfy in bed while downing your second glass of red wine, and figured you were gonna listen to rain sounds like you did a couple other times.
The Asset was packing up his rifle, and then he saw movement. Followed by the shadow of your oversized shirt being thrown carelessly onto the armchair by the bathroom door.
He tilted his head, crouching down again with the scope, eyes narrowing at you until he processed the image before him.
The sweet, sweet image that was definitely not for his eyes. No, his eyes have seen the insides of dead bodies who only met their end because of him. His eyes have seen torture, murder, arson, and every other bad thing you could think of.
Surely, the same eyes could not be graced with seeing you bite your plush lips as one of your hands rolled a nipple between your index and middle finger, and the other tickled its way down your stomach until in found the heat between your thighs.
He shifted uncomfortably on the rooftop across the way. Heat blooming up his chest and down his crotch, making his neck chafe and his pants feel impossibly tight.
He groaned deep when he saw you curve your back forward and plunge two fingers inside of yourself. Fingers he knew were much thinner and shorter than his, and not even comparable to the dimensions of what’s resting heavy between his legs.
It was cute, really.
The way your brows furrowed and your hand pumped your digits in and out like that was going to satisfy you. No… you needed about two inches of width and nine of length.
Which Bucky would gladly give to you.
He watched you chase a high, a whimper escaping through your curtains and into his serum enhanced eardrum, making it vibrate like the air above hot asphalt: soft, barely there.
Somehow, his tactical pants got tighter.
He watched your body contort, watched you turn on your stomach, making the sheet fall from your body. His eyes grazed the curve of your tricep, evident in the candle light as you worked your fingers in and out, slapping your clit with the heel of your hand.
He didn’t miss the expression on your face when your hips moved faster, chasing friction until a relieved look took over your face and you buried your face in your pillow to catch a breath.
That same night, his boots made the first contact with the soft fabric of the rug in your room.
He waited until you were asleep, all cleaned up, having discarded the panties you had on before into the hamper. He was silent, stealthy, deadly.
The thud of each step was soft, muted. He kept an eye on your sleeping frame, and told himself he was gathering more intel. He removed his glove off of his flesh hand, letting himself revel in the fabrics hung in your closet and tucked away in your dresser.
As if HYDRA would care that your perfume smelled like orris and vanilla, or that your lipgloss had tiny little specks of golden glitter in a sea of pink, or that you color coded the softest sweatshirts in your closet.
They would, however, care that he went through your hamper and took a pair of lacy, powder blue panties and put them in his back pocket. The Soldat had no wants of his own, and they certainly did not order him to do that.
That was the night he crossed a line.
He stood by your hamper with every intention to leave, he couldn’t be gone much longer or they’d wonder where he was and send his handler.
But then you moved.
Mindless, conscience far away in some dreamland brought to you by the sweet smelling wine leftover in your glass.
You turned to face him, eyes still closed, cheeks still flushed, body still entirely too naked. Your leg swung up to rest flexed, making you cuddle your pillow in a mountain-climber position, giving the hungry beast inside of him a view of the perfect feast: the needy, wet lips of your pussy.
He really, really should’ve left. But the hardness of his cock and the heaviness in his balls told him differently. Told him to make a choice for himself for the first time in God knows how long.
And he chose to take a deep breath inside of your safe haven of a bedroom, inhale a scent that was sweetness, soapy from your bath bombs, and just you, and pull his pants open with the most agonizing pace ever known to man, to make the least amount of sound possible.
The second his hand wrapped around his cock, he bit back a hiss. The discarded blue lace still tangled in his fingers, rubbing the skin, making the leaking tip even more needy.
His breathing got heavy behind the muzzle. His eyes couldn’t decide where to stay planted on: your cheeks, one squished into the pillow; your lips, letting out soft little puffs of breath in response to whatever dream you we're having; the slope of your waist, the curve of your ass, or the barely spent folds of your pussy.
God, he’d make good use of you. Rut into and rub you until you were puffy and sore and slick, and then do it some more just for good measure.
You tossed in your sleep again, laying on your back with your right leg tilted outwards and he just about lost it. One day he’d paint you with his release, leave you sticky with his cum until the morning, after hours of making you cry and sob on his cock driving in and out of you.
For tonight, he’d settle for cumming in your panties just picturing you beneath him, willing and wanting, while his hand jerked him faster.
He spilled over his own hand and the blue lace, the discreet little pink bow on the front of it now soaked, covered in cum. Like you would be, soon enough.
He placed bugs in your apartment that night.
One behind a painting of a cheetah you had hanging on your wall in the living room, one behind the bookcase by the TV, closer to the door, and two in your bedroom. One in the light fixture and one hidden on the underside if your bed frame.
It took you three days after that to notice something was... different.
It was laundry day, and no matter how many promises you made to patron saints that didn't exist, you just couldn't find your favorite pair of panties.
"You probably just forgot it in the dryer and now it's in some random hamper in the building causing relationship problems to an unsuspecting couple." Nat joked when you told her about it.
You just chuckled and agreed. Had to be, right? Wouldn’t be the first time something travelled to the wrong hamper. Hell, you got one of Sharon’s scrub tops in your laundry the other day.
It had been a particularly taxing day on the sparring mat, Steve probably made you sweat about six pounds off, and there was a bruise blooming somewhere from a hit you were too fatigued to dodge.
So, a little glass of wine and your favorite audio would surely solve the problem. Loosen all the tight muscles in your body and help lull you into a restful seven hours of sleep.
Your AirPods were dead, so on speaker it was. The link was much too easy to find. A solid performance you often came back to.
The Soldat saw both Steve's and your lights flick off at the same time, and his scope focused in on the open window that brought the warm summer breeze into your room.
Static crackled low in his ear as he turned on the device, and shortly after he heard your dreamy little sigh as he saw you set the phone on your nightstand and get comfortable in your bed.
The voice coming through the speakers was low, manly, rough. Commanding. He thought you were on the phone with somebody, and the thought of you touching yourself to please someone other than him made jealousy bloom in his chest, bitter little monster it was.
It didn't take him more than a couple of lines to realize it was a recorded audio, relief washing through his chest for a split second before it tightened again, with desire this time.
Hearing you follow the instructions the faceless voice gave you, it wasn't soft or slow. It was deliberate. Commanding. Every word an order disguised as pleasure.
"Hold still… I didn’t say you could move."
"You can take it. Just like that."
He could hear how wet you were through the audio, the slick sound of your wetness mingling with the whimpers you let out when the voice told you to "Hold it... You haven't earned it yet."
"Say you're mine."
"I'm yours, please..." Oh the sweetness in your voice, pleading so pretty. Wouldn't be enough for him, though. He watched you make yourself cum way too fast, not even keeping pace with the recording this time, and thought about all the ways he could punish you for disobeying.
Would he edge you for hours? Maybe every night for a week? Or since you wanted to cum so bad you disregarded his orders, you should. He'd make you cum over and over again until your eyes crossed and your brain gave out.
The night when he snuck in, he added another line to his newly acquired collection. He touched you.
Passed out and deep in your subconscious, you didn't even flinch. You nuzzled into him, actually. The cool metal of his hand coming to graze your cheek bringing relief from the hot humid air.
You had your leg flexed again, and he just had to feel your skin against his. He told himself he'd go after that.
And his hand grazed lower, warmer, until it reached the curve of your hip, and the flesh of your ass cheek.
He squeezed, making you sigh into the pillow, not even budging, just one little grip and he'd go. He swore it.
And then another.
And then his hand travelled lower, until it found the warm slick of your pussy. The smallest whimper left your lips, almost imperceptible, at the feel of his index and middle finger parting your folds, once, then twice, then collecting the wetness that started to tease out of you.
Responsive little thing, weren’t you?
You stirred, brows furrowing when he rubbed lower at the bundle of nerves that hardened beneath his fingertips, and the crease between your brows deepened when he stuck two fingers inside of you.
Just a feel.
One feel of your velvety walls tight around his fingers, fluttering around him when he curled them to rub against the sweet little spot inside of you.
Then he’d go.
He had to.
You had come plenty that night, he didn’t have to make you do it again. In fact, he shouldn’t, you came too fast. Didn’t listen to directions.
He made the mistake of pulling his fingers out of you, and your hips instinctively chased after the friction.
He should go.
His lips wrapped around his fingers, licking the sweet juices off of them and reveling in the taste like someone would a sweet, juicy peach.
He groaned low in his chest, and the line got pushed just a little further. He knelt by the bed and spread your cheeks, movement that had your pussy clenching around nothing, attracting him like moth to a flame.
His mouth watered. Actual drool pooling between his teeth and onto his tongue, begging to make you slick all over. Ordering him to taste your sweet nectar and suck you dry.
The Soldat never complained, only complied.
Before he could think about how terribly bad of a decision that was, he leaned forward, tongue darting out of his mouth and onto your glistening folds, eliciting something between a whine and a gasp from you.
If there was any kind of super soldier MDMA, he was sure he found it then.
Both of his hands cupped your ass now, grabbing firmly enough to dig into the skin, pulling you closer to his face as he nuzzled further, flattening then curling his tongue up and down your slit before it plunged in and he sealed his lips around you.
Your whines got a little louder, still very obviously asleep, and he rutted his hips against the bed.
When he flicked your clit and gazed it with his teeth, you yelped, and he was sure he was thoroughly fucked. But you didn't move further, didn't get up and scream and try to grab for the gun he knew was under your pillow, you just kept pliant, unconscious, and delicious under his control until he decided you'd been good enough to cum.
You'd let him in, been a good little toy for him to play with, put on a show, and let him taste you. He could let you cum.
He felt your walls tighten around his tongue while his thumb rubbed your clit, and took that as a sign to see just how tight you could get. Deft fingers pumped in and out of you again while he sucked your clit until you came with a breathy whine, and barely a shuffle of your body chasing friction.
Needy little thing.
“Okay,” Natasha said as she breezed in, flipping through a classified file like it was a fashion magazine. “What’s with you?”
You blinked. “What?”
“You’ve looked like you’ve seen a ghost all morning.”
You hesitated. "I just… had this weird dream last night.”
Nat’s brows arched immediately. “Weird how?” You sipped your coffee instead of answering. Her eyes narrowed. “You’re flushed.”
You rolled your eyes. “Jesus, Nat—”
“Oh my god.” She dropped the file and grinned like a shark. “Was it dirty?”
You stared at her for a second too long. “No way,” she gasped. “You did have a dirty dream.”
“It wasn’t like that—” you started, but your voice caught. Because it was. You'd had your share of dreams like that, but none like that. None that you could still feel the next day.
Nat leaned back in her chair, folding her arms with a smug look. “Let me guess: tall, mysterious, dangerous eyes, probably some masked psycho from one of the horror movies you insist on watching before bed you’ve convinced yourself you could ‘fix’ with your mouth—”
“Nat—”
“Was it Steve?” she teased, waggling her brows. “Tell me it was Steve.”
“No,” you said too quickly. And maybe too defensively.
She tilted her head. “So… who, then?”
You stared at your coffee. “I don’t know. Didn't see his face.”
"Oh, so it was from the back, huh?"
"Natasha!"
The candlelight flickers the same way it always does. Your sheets are clean. Your hair’s damp from a shower. The same wine bottle from the night before sits untouched on your nightstand.
Everything should feel normal.
Your phone is already queued up with the usual — the audio you’ve played dozens of times when you need to forget the world, to relax, to release. You slip your earbuds in, press play, and sink back against the pillows.
The voice starts — low, commanding, steady.
"Don’t move. Hands where I left them."
You shift slightly, waiting for that familiar ache to start in your stomach, for your body to respond on autopilot. But nothing stirs.
You blink at the ceiling, adjusting your position. Maybe you’re just tense. The audio keeps going.
"You’re mine. Say it."
You close your eyes, but it doesn’t hit the same. You press your thighs together to no avail, feeling only static. You huff, and you puff, and you look for other audios. A couple peak your interest, you try them, and the same thing happens.
Then you stumble so far back into the username's plethora of posts that you ended up right back onto last year's Kintober, and an uncommon title catches your eye.
You get comfortable and press play.
It's rougher. There's special effects. The clicking of a lock, the rustle of fabric, a muffled scream against hands too rough to touch, and the soothing but rough voice just shushing the listener.
"Wouldn't want to be bad now, would you?"
For some dark and twisted reason, that's the audio that makes you gasp into the pillow on your stomach, knees propping your hips up while your shoulders stay down, touching yourself in the privacy of your own home, alone.
Well, with Bucky.
He heard you.
He heard you beg, and plead, and all of your "no, please!", "please stop!" with barely any conviction at all turn into "please let me cum" and "I'll be so good." like you weren't in complete control. Like you weren't pretending he was doing all of that to you.
But you didn't wanna be, did you? You wanted someone — him — to take control of you, of your body, so you could be a brainless little thing for him to use. So he could fuck you until you couldn't think of anything else but how full you felt with every ridge of his cock dragging in and out of you.
So he snuck in, beelined to your fridge, and dosed the bottle of wine you had in there.
Not too much, just enough to keep you pliant, loose, willing to understand that he was doing that for your own good — and his.
The cork gives that soft little pop and you pour the wine onto the glass, fresh sheets on the bed and the smell of violet, star anise, and vanilla from your bath bomb was clinging to your skin.
By the third sip, you’re back on the couch. Your limbs feel fine. A little loose, maybe. Relaxed. That’s what the wine’s supposed to do, isn’t it?
But your fingers feel slower on your phone screen. Like there’s static between thought and action. You thought about watching a TV show or a movie, but nothing seemed interesting enough.
You made your way to your room, and the room spun for a second when you got up at first. "No more port wine on an empty stomach, got it." You chuckled.
Ditching the robe in your bathroom, you grabbed the lotion and a pair of underwear from the dresser in your closet, light dusty pink this time.
How nice of you to make your skin even softer for him, dressing it in the prettiest lace you could find. He decided to observe from closer tonight, sitting right outside your balcony window.
You didn’t even register the lights outside were off.
The swoosh of the sliding door opening was muted by you humming something under your breath, spreading the lotion up and down your legs as it absorbed.
He was quiet like a cat coming in, sneaky beast ready to ambush you. God, you were so pretty. Like an innocent little doe not even knowing what was about to hit you.
When you registered the weight of a broad chest pressed to your back, leather digging into your skin, his hand was already over your mouth, muffling your screams.
You kicked your legs around trying to escape, but it didn’t even phase him.
Did that make him chuckle?
He tried to shush you, in between the ghost of a “let me go!” and a sob, the plopped you down on the bed, straddling your hips with his hand still over your mouth, the other one holding your wrists above your head.
Icy blue eyes stared at your tear rimmed ones. “If I take my hand away are you gonna be good?” Your squished cheeks nodded under his grip, harsh breath coming out of your nose, his brows perked up slightly and he slowly took his hand away from your mouth.
“HELP! PLE-“ He groaned in disapproval and his hand went right back to where it was before.
Clicking his tongue, he spoke again. “That was a bad, idea, baby.” A sob ripped through you and you squeezed your eyes shut. This had to be a nightmare, that was the only conceivable explanation. “No, no, don’t close your pretty eyes.”
His voice was low with desire, but soft and adoring like he was giving you what you always wanted. You could feel his breath over your face when he talked, the heavy weight of him covered in kevlar, dirty boots digging into your crisp white comforter tainting the fabric like how he was about to taint you.
"I heard all that begging, sweetheart." Wet lips kissed your jaw, and it made your skin crawl with the same strength it send jolts down your body. "You wanted me to take control, right? Wanted me to do whatever I wanted to ya."
Your eyes widened and you shook your head, another sob ripping through you, words muffled behind his palm. "Gonna give you another chance to tell me what you want, okay? Don't make me punish you."
You nodded, a little more dizzy than a couple of minutes before.
A beat of reluctant silence after he removed his hand let your hiccup be heard loud and clear in the room. "Please, just go." Your lips trembled around the words, like you didn't fully mean them. "I'll stop looking into-"
"Oh, honey.. This has nothing to do with that." His hands released your wrists and held your face in between both palms. "Though they're not gonna be happy about it either, I'll tell you that much."
Confusion flashed before your face, and that damn furrow between your brows and the pout on your lips as the gears turned in your head made him want to rip you apart just so he could be the one to put you back together.
"No, you... This... This is all mine." His hands roamed lower, thumb grazing the curve of your breast by your ribs.
"You don't have to do this-" He grabbed your face in his hand and got impossibly close to you.
His tongue came out to collect the salt of your tears pooling by your temple. "I do." He took a moment to savor the taste. "I really do." He caught your arm as it was aimlessly exploring under your pillow. "I took care of that too."
And you looked at him in horror. "You didn't think you were alone all this time, did you?" And as if looking for a weapon he had already discarded took the bit of grace he was about to give you away, he grabbed both of your wrists in one of his hands again, tying them to the headboard with something from one of the many pockets in his suit.
“Please, don’t do this, please…”
He just smiled at you. Wolfish and knowing. “But you’re enjoying it, baby.” He kissed down your neck and bit your collarbone, making you wince. “See?” Rolling the stiff peak of your nipple between his fingers.
You shook your head again. “No, I don’t, please—“
“No?” His face tilted, as if the question wasn’t rhetorical. “What’s this? Mmm?” His hand went to the front of your panties, rubbing slowly, making the fabric dance on top of your skin with the barrier of slick that had pooled there. “So wet, sweet thing… just like the other night.”
He saw a flash of recognition on your face, and you don’t know why your tummy flipped instead of bile rising in your throat. “You thought it was a dream, didn’t you?”
His fingers pressed harder, and you got dizzier. “No dream could make you cum like that, baby… I didn’t mean to… was greedy…” he kissed down your body, lips brushing against you with every word.
He nuzzled against the fabric of your panties. The lace felt softer against his face than it did against his cock all those nights ago.
“Y’can’t blame me, though… smelled so good, I had to get a taste.” He bit your lip through the lace and you hissed.
Bucky pulled it all the way down your legs, thick string of arousal connecting your pussy to the fabric until he pulled it far enough from you.
Stray tears kept coming here and there, and you kept squirming, flexing one leg quickly to try to kick him away, but he was too fast.
Holding your left thigh with his right hand and the other ankle with his left, he clicked his tongue again. “Now, angel, what did I tell you about being good? Mm?” He kissed over the bone of your ankle and bit down on it, not hard enough to leave a mark but hard enough to sting.
His lips soon found the crease of your thigh where it met your hips. “Please, stop…” He didn’t respond to that. Well… not verbally, at least. Your eyes squeezed shut at the eerily familiar feel of his lips on you, kissing you open as he held your thighs apart. “Oh, God—“
He licked, and sucked, and bit like the solace for his miserable existence could only be found in the oasis between your legs. Squelching was loud in the room already and it only got worse when he put two fingers inside of you.
"S'tight, baby." He looked up at you for a second before his gaze dropped down to where he was drinking you from, chin shiny with your wetness. "Don't want me to stop, d'you?"
You nodded your head and he shook his. How long was it gonna take for you to realize the only answers he'll take are the ones he wants? "'Fraid I can't."
When he curled his fingers inside of you, you felt like you were underwater. Your chest felt too tight and the coil in your stomach kept getting smaller and smaller, thighs clamping around his head like you wanted to keep him safe from the Siberian cold he would inevitably return to.
You tried squirming away from him at the same time your feet pressed hard onto his back to prevent him from leaving. As if he'd go anywhere.
You came on his face with a mewl and against your conscious will, which was wearing thin by the second. All of your limbs felt heavier, looser, you blinked slowly, only for your eyes to get back their focus on the fly on his pants, getting undone by flesh and metal.
"See how good it is when you behave?"
Tears welled your eyes again when you realized what he was doing, hovering over you pushing his bottoms down just enough to free, quite literally, the biggest cock you've ever come in contact with.
It hung heavy and thick from his waist, red with want as he kissed under your ear. "S'gonna feel so good, sweetheart. You'll see." He reached down and grabbed the base of his dick, rubbing the head up and down your puffy slit.
He kissed you, all tongue and teeth and you've never been disgusted to taste yourself before, but the fact that the wetness was proof of your own betrayal made it bitter.
"Please, you don't have to do this, please, don't!— ah!" Begging so sweet just wasn't enough, cause he knew your body was begging sweeter. He pushed in, blunt head of his cock breaching you open.
"Fuck! No, no, no, please!"
"More?" He pushed in another inch. "Well, sure, angel, anything for my eager little slut."
"No! Stop! I- mmmnnghhh!" He pushed all the way in until he felt your folds on his pubic bone. You eyes closed in pain and he grabbed your face to make you sit still.
"No hidin' from me, darling. C'mon. Look at me." Your brows were scrunched up in discomfort, disgust, glossed over lips shining up at him. Teary eyes spilling. "Crying so pretty f'me."
He pulled out, then pushed back in, whimper coming out of you along with the feeling of the sting from his thickness. "Yeah? Jus'like that."
"Please, just—" Your words came out muffled by his hand squeezing your cheeks together.
He chuckled, as if that wasn't the worst thing that ever happened to you. "Please, what? Fuck this pussy harder? Being too soft, too caring, too good to you?"
You had no answer. "If you keep being good maybe I'll give you my cum. Mm? You'd like that wouldn't you?"
"No, I'm not on— please—"His fingers stopped bruising your thigh and started rubbing your clit, and he felt you clench around him. "Oh, she would."
Schlick. Schlick. Schlick.
"S'okay, pretty thing. Y'can feel good, nothing wrong with that." Except there was everything wrong with that. The more you pleaded the less the words felt like actual words to be said, and not just what you were supposed to say. "Feels so good having you wrapped around my cock."
You bit your lip to stop a moan from coming out and let out a whimper instead. "You can tell me, it'll be our little secret." Another punctuated thrust. "Feels good, doesn't it?"
You'd blame it on the wine if anyone asked. You'd blame it on your want and will to live. No one besides you and him would ever know you nodded when he asked you that, even less that you meant it. "Atta girl."
His other hand came to pull your bottom lip from between your teeth, way too gentle for what was actually going on. "Let me hear you, baby... Need it."
You released the flesh from its prison, and something between a moan and a yelp made its way out of your throat, scratching and burning in its wake. "Feels... so- oh! Good! Good.. So full."
He smirked against your breast, taking a nipple into his mouth. "Mmmhmm, and you don't want me to stop, d'you?"
You shook your head fast. "Please..."
"Please, what?"
A beat of silence.
And then surrender. "Please, don't stop." If your voice was any quieter, it would be silent.
Whatever demon possessed Bucky in that second, it had teeth so pretty you just wanted him to sink them into your skin and eat you whole.
He kissed you more forcefully, and this time you kissed him back, arms straining against the restraint, legs tightening around his waist, moaning into his mouth when he spoke to you. "There she is. Was that so hard, sweetheart?"
Your eyes rolled back when he put your legs over his shoulder, kissing the inside of your knee before leaning over you and pressing his chest against yours. "Pussy so good, gonna make me cream all over it."
Another clench, and the chuckle vibrated deep in his chest, making your nipples harden more in the process. "What was all that "no" nonsense, hmm?"
"I don't...?" Your head was spinning. Swimming in a sea of oxytocin and whatever roofie he definitely put in your wine.
"S'okay, you don't have to do anything but what I say." His thrusts got erratic, faltering, almost as if he was holding himself back from falling from a precipice he wanted to jump off of with you in his arms. "Can feel y'choking me."
"So— fuck, I'm so close, please."
"Gotta ask nice, baby. You've been trouble tonight." If he was any deeper inside of you he would literally split you in half. You were sure you'd be sore for at least a fucking week.
"Please let me cum on your cock, please." Your tears tasted different now, like he finally tainted something good, spilled red wine on white silk. "I'll be good, I promise! Ah!" A specially harsh thrust made you hesitate.
"Don't know if you deserve it, angel..."
"Please!" You were sobbing now, raw burn of his fingers against your clit driving you mad, you were so close you could taste it. "I'll be good! I'll comply!"
That snapped something inside of him. Whether it was familiarity, rage, or whatever other blindly carnal feeling it was, it made Bucky see red, bloodthirsty to wring every single drop of free will from you.
"Y'promise?" You nodded. Please, please, please. "Slova, kukla." Words, doll.
"Da." Yes. You bit your lip again, straining your neck to look up at him so closely your lips brushed when you talked.
"Gotovyy?" Ready?
"Ya gotova otvechat'" Ready to comply.
His fingers rubbed harder, both deeper and faster circles, and his hips did not cease their movements driving his cock in and out of you. Every drag of his leaking head inside of you felt like fireworks exploding inside of your veins.
He bit your lip so hard when you came around him that it bled, and his tongue soothed the skin.
He fucked you through your orgasm, and pulled out much too soon for your liking, leaving you empty with a whine from you and a dissatisfied groan from him. "Don't think you deserve my cum t'day, angel." What the actual fuck was wrong with you? "Next time, yeah?"
Next time?
Why did your pussy throb at that?
His flesh hand came to jerk himself off on top of you while the metal one kept your thighs spread for him, it took barely any time for him to spill thick ropes across your lower stomach and pussy with a groan of your name and sweat glistening on his forehead.
"Y'look good all painted with my cum."
You didn't realize your eyes were closed until you forced them open in response to his fingers tickling your stomach, playing with his cum, dragging the thick fluid further down and smearing it over your spent folds.
She's not even as spent as he could make her.
You moaned in response, and your gaze caught his. Without looking away he repeated the motion, except he pushed it further down, stuffing his cum inside of you, contradicting himself.
"That's it, sweet thing... Just take it." You really couldn't do much of anything else. If the roofie didn't turn your brain to mush, the two orgasms and the 19% wine would've done the trick just fine.
His voice seemed so far away, but so close. Like a siren calling out your name ready to drown you in damnation. "Fuck, look so good all used up."
You felt the coil in your belly tighten again, not even you with the hottest of audios had gotten yourself over the edge and back at it again so fast. "Too much." You tried to squirm away, but his grip was too strong.
"Never too much, baby." He put a third finger in and rubbed the heel of his hand against your clit every time his palm slapped down as he went all the way in. "Just right."
You might've been the first human being ever to see your own frontal lobe live. Or at least that's what you through when your eyes rolled back again and you became a babbling mess under him, soaking his fingers and the sheets beneath you.
The next day, he was gone just as swiftly as he had come in. Nothing was out of place, everything was perfectly normal save for the throbbing ache between your legs and the cum stain in your sheets.
Like it hadn't been the best thing that's ever happened to you.
Months later, when he was chasing Steve down the causeway in Washington, he didn't even remember you. His hand wrapped around your throat and threw you onto a parked car's windshield like he hadn't made you face the deepest, darkest parts of yourself.
A/N: ANYWAYYYYYYY thanks to the BWA for freaking out with me over this. Hopefully we all got wet together <3 I have too much free time and a mind much too dark. thanks @heldbybarnes for telling me to write this <3 I literally gave myself a 4k word cap and this monstrosity came to life. I make plan, @houseofhyde laughs in my face:
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 meant for me.”
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 an 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—ahhh—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!!!!
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