$ log - dean winchester has a horrendous crush on you. it's so bad that it completely rewires his cocky, flirty teasing to a basic need to please. example A.
$ warn --sfw --fluff --gn!reader --cutie!dean --hes-in-lovee
$ cd masterlist / dean-winchester
the impala smells like old leather and gun oil, and you've been in it so long you've stopped noticing. three days on this job, four hours of sleep between you, and the last thing dean said before you left the site was let's just drive, so that's what you're doing.
sam's behind dean. you've got the passenger seat, watching the dark edge of highway disappear under the headlights, and your head is getting heavy.
"tired," you say, not really to either of them. just out loud.
something frantic happens in the front seat.
dean's shoulders move, and then his hands. he says hold on, which is not a full sentence. he pulls over so fast that sam physically crashes into the seat in front.
"what the —"
"out."
"dean —"
"sam."
sam looks at him. dean's already opening the back door, shaking his jacket off his shoulders, and laying it flat against the seat with a focus that belongs in a surgery. sam gets out because there is no other option, and stands on the side of the highway.
dean goes to the trunk.
he comes back with a blanket you have never seen before, a smaller fleece thing that was definitely underneath the blanket you have also never seen, and a hoodie that's possibly sam's but he's been evicted so the point is moot.
he stacks them. he adjusts the jacket so the collar folds back. he tests the angle of the headrest, decides against it, finds a rolled-up flannel from somewhere in the door pocket and tucks it into the corner.
all of this takes approximately ninety seconds.
he steps back, looks at what he's built, then he looks at you.
you're already half asleep standing next to the car. you register: backseat, soft, dean holding the door open. so you get in, and you're lights out before he closes it.
dean gets back in the driver's seat. sam gets in after him, brushing gravel off his jacket, and buckles his seatbelt without saying a single word.
they drive. two miles pass.
"you have a hoodie in the trunk," sam says.
"yeah."
"and two blankets."
"so?"
"dean. i've been cold on stakeouts, multiple times. you've told me to think warmer thoughts."
dean doesn't answer. he's watching the road like it owes him something. both hands on the wheel, which is already unusual. the speed is strange too — sam clocks it at four, five under.
dean does a lot of things wrong behind the wheel of this car. going slow isn't one of them.
"you're driving like someone's grandpa," sam says.
"road's uneven."
"it's a highway."
"there's wildlife."
"dean."
nothing. sam looks out the window and comes back to look at his brother, who has the most painfully private expression on his face — jaw loose, eyes soft, one corner of his mouth doing something that sam is going to process later in the privacy of his own head.
giddy is the word. dean's driving five under the speed limit and trying not to look giddy about it.
sam pinches the bridge of his nose.
behind them, you shift, pull the blanket up. dean's eyes go to the rearview mirror for half a second. back to the road with mouth doing the grumbling thing again.
"dean," sam says, very carefully.
"don't."
"i'm not saying anything."
"good. keep not saying it."
another mile. the highway is empty and the radio's off, which has maybe happened twice in sam's life. he's not going to examine why it's off right now because he already knows.
"they're asleep," dean says. not to sam specifically, more to the windshield.
"yeah," sam says. "i know. i watched you build them a nest."
"it's not a nest."
"you found a travel pillow, dean."
"it was in the trunk —"
"from where —"
"it was just there, sam, some stuff just accumulates —"
you make a small sound in the back, as you settled deeper. dean's sentence stops mid-word.
the rearview again. two seconds this time.
sam closes his eyes, and opens them. outside, a mile marker goes by at a stately, considerate pace.
"if you wake them up," dean says, low, almost to himself, "i will leave you on this road."
"you're going forty-three miles an hour," sam says. "i think they're fine."
dean doesn't answer. he just drives, careful as anything, while the road rolls out ahead of them and you sleep through all of it — through the blanket he apparently owns, through sam's suffering, through whatever is happening in the front seat that dean will never in his life put a name to.
his thumb taps once on the steering wheel, then stops.
forty-three miles an hour.
sam looks out the window and decides, firmly, that this isn't his problem tonight.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @hisokamywaifu @elarapheonix
$ log - bucky barnes has a crush on you, and he's doing his best; his best is just terrifying!
$ warn --sfw --fluff --steve-and-sam-are-shit-wingmen
$ wc -w 1.4k
$ cd masterlist
$ vi dont-shoot-your-shot-v2 dont-shoot-your-shot-v3
Somewhere between the third mission and the second month, Bucky figured out that something was different about you.
Not in a way he could name at first — just that the noise in his head got quieter when you were around, that he'd catch himself in the middle of a debrief actually listening, because you were talking. That easy, unthinking quiet he hadn't felt in years just showed up, unprompted, in whatever room you happened to be in, and he didn't know what to do with it.
So he did what he always does: he watched, he catalogued, and he thought about it at three in the morning with the same focus he'd once applied to things that actually required it.
Steve called it a crush. Sam called it painfully obvious and immediately started offering unsolicited advice, which became its own problem entirely. Bucky called it none of their business and then spent the better part of an evening thinking about the way you laugh when you think no one's watching — the real one, not the polite one — and the fact that it had taken him four days to notice the difference and no time at all to memorise it.
The thing is, it's not one-sided. You're just as aware of him as he is of you. In that way you notice the shape of someone's absence before you register anything else about a room, where you find reasons to be somewhere he might be and then act surprised when it works.
You've replayed certain conversations more times than you'd like to admit, and you'd like to admit zero.
The problem was never the feeling. The problem is that Bucky, with the best intentions and absolutely no remaining social calibration, is now trying to do something about it. And you, with no context and no warning, are on the receiving end.
It goes about as well as you'd expect.
0001 — the staring problem (avengers towers, various locations, two weeks running)
You've been keeping a mental list with the grim focus of someone building a legal case, and it's up to eleven incidents. The evidence is circumstantial but it is consistent.
At this point you're less interested in understanding it than in figuring out at what number you escalate to Fury.
It starts at the coffee machine. You reach for the pot and when you look up he's already looking at you. Not glancing, looking — with an expression that gives you absolutely nothing to work with. You say good morning and Bucky says nothing. You take your coffee and leave at a quicker pace that is definitely not a jog.
It happens in the elevator, the common room, and even in the hallway outside the training floor. Always the same: you look up and he's there, already watching, and he never looks away first. You've started taking the stairs.
You run through the list of possible offenses. You were loud in the kitchen once. You accidentally used his mug, but you washed it? You beat his time on the obstacle course three weeks ago, but surely that's not, surely he's not still—
You mention it to Natasha, very casually, purely as a logistical concern for your continued survival. She looks at you for a long moment, says "hm," and walks away. It’s somehow the least reassuring response she could have given.
He is, for the record, not thinking about any of your eleven incidents. He is thinking about the way you laugh when you think no one's listening, and it's been living in his head for three days, and he has absolutely no idea what to do about that.
0010 — the rifle (pre-mission briefing, loading bay, five min before wheels up)
You're running through your gear check with a focus that has nothing to do with the gear and everything to do with the fact that Bucky has been watching you for two weeks and you are no closer to understanding why.
Especially when he appears at your left shoulder without sound and holds out his rifle like that's something people do.
You take it, obviously you do. You don't know what else to do. He gives a single nod and walks away to the quinjet like he hasn't just handed you something that costs more than your apartment and is probably also somehow an heirloom.
You hold it for the entire mission like it's a live grenade. You make every shot count. You are not going to be the person who scratched Bucky Barnes' rifle and lived to tell about it.
Your shots are, objectively, incredible. You don't register that at the time because you are too busy being careful.
He watches your form from across the ridge with an expression nobody else would clock as anything. Sam clocks it, filing it away.
You hand it back after debrief, two-handed, like returning something sacred. He takes it one-handed, casual, and there's something around his eyes that might be — you don't finish that thought. You go to your debrief, trying not to seem scared shitless.
0011 — "we should shoot together" (post-mission corridor, still in tactical gear, clearly he's been waiting)
You're tired in the specific way that comes from twelve hours of sustained adrenaline, and you want a shower and about eight hours of not thinking about anything, which is why it's particularly unfortunate timing when Bucky falls into step beside you. He’s got that calm, unhurried energy of someone who has made a decision and is simply waiting for the moment to be right.
He stops walking. You stop walking. He looks at you with the full weight of his complete attention and says, completely evenly: "Your shots were incredible out there."
You say thank you and mean it and wait for the other shoe.
"Use my rifle next time." You think about the last time. You think about how carefully you held it. So, you wonder if your performance didn't meet the standard and this is somehow a test.
"We should shoot together." He says it like it's a normal sentence, like those words in that order constitute a fun activity and not what your nervous system has just interpreted them as — a proposal, a hunt, prey selected.
He turns and walks away. And here is the thing, the thing that keeps you up later: he's smiling. Small, private, to himself. The smile of a man who just executed a plan perfectly.
He has, in his own assessment, just asked you out. It went great. You are currently reconsidering whether your go-bag is packed.
0100 — the smile (common room, morning after sam and steve got involved)
You have faced things that scared you — real things, things with actual stakes — and come out fine, which is why it's genuinely surprising that you're standing in the kitchen at eight in the morning holding a piece of toast and feeling, for reasons you cannot immediately articulate, like something is deeply wrong.
Sam and Steve, well-meaning and catastrophic in equal measure, pulled him aside the previous evening. The conversation reportedly involved the phrase "just smile more, it makes you seem approachable." Steve demonstrated, while Sam refined it. Bucky practiced in the mirror with the focused intensity he applies to everything.
He comes in, sees you, and then — and you will think about this for a long time — he smiles. At you. Directly at you. It is the most deliberate, considered, technically-executed smile you have ever seen on a human face. There are too many teeth. The eyes are not involved. It lasts exactly three seconds too long.
You put down your toast.
He holds it for another beat, nods once like a mission objective completed, and leaves. You hear Steve in the hallway say "how'd it go" and Bucky say "good" with complete sincerity.
You are still standing there when Natasha comes in. She looks at your face and says "what happened." You don't have the words yet.
Twenty minutes later — you're still in the kitchen, the toast long forgotten — he comes back for something and doesn't see you around the corner. Someone says something from the hallway and he laughs, actually laughs, and then this smile, this real one, quiet and a little crooked and completely unguarded, just sits on his face for a moment before he schools it back.
He doesn't know you saw it. You don't know what to do with the fact that you did. You look down at your coffee.
Something has shifted and you can't quite name it yet. You're not scared anymore; that's the problem.
$ tag @twentytomidnight (@froggibus here's the horror movie in play 🧍♀️)
$ vi dont-shoot-your-shot-v2 dont-shoot-your-shot-v3
$ log - you’re a very disgruntled sheriff, tired of a repeating offender trespassing. so, you decide to give dean winchester a proper reminder of how the heavy the law feels.
$ warn --nsfw --dark --dubcon --older!amab!reader --dom!top!reader --sheriff!reader --mean!reader --sub!bot!dean --bratty!dean --d/s(heavy) --power-dynamics --older-man-younger-man --age-gap --size-diff-kink --bondage(handcuffs) --anal --impact-play(spanking) --rough --overstim --finger-sucking --begging --titles(sir) --authority-abuse --orgasm-denial --sex-tape(hinted) -butt-plug(hinted) --pretty-crier --dirty-talk --praise --degradation(heavy) --no-aftercare
$ wc -w 3.3k
$ cd masterlist / dean-winchester
note = you're practically breeding him. sex on the impala. cum as lube. sleazy!sheriff!r.
The blue and red strobes of your cruiser cut through the heavy darkness of the outskirts, casting long, rhythmic shadows against the rusted chain link fence.
You watch through the windshield, a tired smirk tugging at your lips, as a figure tumbles over the top, landing in a clumsy heap on the dirt. You don't even wait for him to brush the dust off his jacket before you've swung the door open, the heavy crunch of your boots on the gravel sounding like a death knell.
You catch him by the scruff of his jacket before he can even scramble to his feet, your grip iron tight as you wrench his arms behind his back. The harsh, white glare of your headlights hits his face, and you recognise that insufferable, cocky expression immediately.
It’s Winchester. Again.
The tickets haven't worked, the formal warnings have been ignored, and the reports are just piling up on your desk like a testament to his stubbornness. This brat thinks he can just dance around the law, playing the part of the untouchable rebel, but he’s about to learn that the law has a very physical way of enforcing its boundaries.
Without a word of warning, you shove him forward, forcing him down until his chest hits the warm metal of the Impala's bonnet. He stumbles, a startled "Hey!" escaping him, but you don't give him a second to recover.
You pin him there, the weight of your authority pressing down on him, and you know that tonight, the paperwork is done. Tonight, you're going to give him a lesson he won't be able to write off so easily.
Bent over his hood, sirens colouring the bare treeline, and he wasn’t even a tad scared. In fact he was quite proud - this’ll be another grand story to brag about. He glances over his shoulder at your disgruntled look, shaking his hips with a tease.
"What are you gonna do, old man? Arrest me again? Fuck me?" Dean sneers, leaning back against the Impala with that insufferable, cocky grin.
You don't even give him the satisfaction of a smile. You wrench his wrists behind his back, the metal cuffs biting into his skin with a sharp click. As you roughly undo his trousers, you look him dead in the eye, voice flat and dangerous. "That’s exactly what I’m going to do. The ticket machine is broken; this will have to do."
The smugness vanishes instantly. He freezes, eyes wide as he stares at you, the reality of your intent finally sinking in. "Wait are you serious? You're actually — " He cuts himself off with a sharp gasp as you push his face down against the hot metal of the bonnet.
"Hey! Watch the hair, you old bastard!" he yelps, his voice cracking as he tries to regain some semblance of dignity.
You don't let him. You grab a thick fistful of his hair, yanking his head back so he’s forced to look at the dark sky, before shoving his face back down into the paint. "Shut up, Winchester. You've been a very loud, very annoying trespasser. It's time you learned some goddamn respect," you growl, your voice dripping with authority.
Smack!
The heavy sting of your palms against his bare, pale ass makes him jump, a muffled "Fuck!" escaping him.
"You think you're so tough, don't you?" you sneer, leaning over him, your heat radiating against his trembling skin. "But right now, you're just a brat who needs to be put in his place," you growl, your voice thick with a hunger that makes his breath hitch.
You don't wait for a retort.
You're already hard. You’re so goddamn easy, but can you blame yourself? The sight in front of you was gorgeous: Dean bent over his beloved car, fumbling at his cockiness while his cute ass sticks just easy for the taking.
Your cock’s leaking pre-cum that drips onto the metal of the Impala. You wrap your hand around yourself, a few rough, desperate strokes to ease the ache before you do leak, painting his trembling, pale arse in thick, hot streaks of cum.
So damn easy. Long night, sheriff, just been’a long night, and a long week.
"God, damn —" Dean stammers, his snarky bravado fracturing into a series of breathless, incoherent sounds. He tries to pull his head up, to find that defiant glint in his eyes again. "You think — you think a little jizz and — and a few spanks makes you the boss? You're still just an old —"
"An old what, Winchester?" you cut him off, your voice a low, dangerous rumble. You scoop up a handful of your own warm, sticky cum, prodding your fingers into his tight, twitching hole to coat him thoroughly.
The sensation of him clenching around your digits makes your vision swim.
Dean huffs, trying to sound indignant even as his voice trembles and his hips instinctively tilt back toward your touch. "Just — just get on with it! Stop playing with me!"
"Patience, boy," you growl, the sound vibrating deep in your chest as you angle your tip to his hole. You savour the tiny whimpers as you tease — you know damn well he’s fighting against himself to just beg for it.
Slow and steady was the way you’d decided to push in, but perhaps that was the worser option.
"Mmhm, fuck —" he groans languidly into the metal of the bonnet, his eyes rolling to his skull as he's filled to the brim. "God you're — you're too big! You're gonna break me, you crazy ol’ bastard — gah!”
"Shut your mouth and take it," you growl, your voice a low, predatory rumble. You don't give him a second to adjust to the sheer, stretching girth of you. You begin to move, your hips pushing into his ass with a rhythmic, punishing force that makes the entire Impala shudder.
"Oh god," Dean’s snarky bravado is completely gone now, replaced by desperate, high pitched moans that he tries and fails to swallow. "Is this — is this part of the — the fine? You're fuckin’ killing me —"
"Consider it a lifetime subscription to my personal attention, then," you growl, your voice thick with lust as you drive into him again, harder this time, making his entire frame shudder against the Impala.
You reach down, grabbing his chin to force his head up just enough so he has to feel the vibration of your voice against his skin. "You wanted to play rough, Winchester? You wanted to see what an 'old man' could do? Well, here it is. Every inch of me, claiming every inch of you."
"Fuck — fuck —" Dean gasps, his head lulling back as your girth stretches him to the absolute limit. The snark is almost entirely gone, replaced by a raw, desperate need. "You're — you're a goddamn animal —" he manages to choke out, his voice a wrecked, breathless mess. "Just, don't stop — don't you dare stop."
The sound of your hips hitting his arse is a wet, heavy slap that never stops. You aren't being gentle; you're driving that massive, thick cock of yours into him like you're trying to split him in half.
Every time you lunge, your girth wedges itself so deep into his tight, puckered hole that he lets out a choked sound, his whole body jerking forward against the metal of the Impala.
He looks fucking wrecked, his eyes rolled back in his head and his mouth hanging open, completely mindless because his brain can't even handle how much of you is shoved inside him. He’s just a mess of spit and tears, staring at nothing because you’ve stuffed him so full he can’t think.
Jesus, you think, your teeth gritting as you watch your cock slide in and out of him. The sight is fucking hypnotic, the way his skin stretches and pulls around your thick, heavy head with every brutal lunge. If he had a pussy, you'd have knocked him up real quick, you think, a dark, hungry heat blooming in your gut.
That tight little hole of his is making you delirious; you're just as gone as he is, lost in the sheer rhythm of breaking him.
"Look at you, sport," you growl, leaning down to his shoulder. "Fucked so hard you can't even remember your own goddamn name, can you?" You don't wait for an answer. You just drive that thick, heavy length back into him, bottoming out so hard his entire frame lurches.
He’s babbling, an incoherent mess of "sorry, sir — please — sorry," his voice cracking as he fumbled against the bonnet.
"You like trespassing, don't you, boy?" you sneer, your voice dripping with condescension as you pull back almost all the way, letting the cool air hit his stretched, wet hole before driving back in. "You like thinking you can just wander wherever you want, disobeying every little rule? You think you're too big for the law to handle?"
Every lunge is slow, deliberate, and fucking brutal. You aren't rushing; you're making sure he feels every goddamn inch of your heavy self as it slides in, pressing snug against his insides.
You want him to feel the exact moment your head wedges deep into his gut.
"Look at me when you're getting handled like this," you bark, grabbing his chin to force his tear streaked face toward yours. "Don't you dare look away. You're a delinquent, and it's time you learned some respect for your elders."
He can barely keep his eyes open, his head lolling as he lets out a broken, high pitched mewl. "No, sir — please — so big," he whimpers, the words barely intelligible through the sheer sensation of you filling him.
You cum deep inside him, a hot, thick flood of seed pumping into his core, filling him to the absolute brim. You can feel his insides spasming, clenching around your girth in a desperate, attempt to milk every last drop.
"There," you grunt, your voice thick with satisfaction as you hold yourself deep inside him, letting him feel the heavy, warm weight of your release. "Now you've got a real reason to remember the law, you little brat."
You aren't done with him. You're going to milk every last drop of submission out of that brat.
Even as your seed floods his insides, you don't pull out. You keep your hips moving, a heavy, relentless rhythm that forces him to endure the sensation of your thick, leaking cock sliding through your own warm release inside his tight, aching walls. The wet, slapping sound of your pelvis hitting his ass is constant, a rhythmic reminder of who owns him.
You glance down and see his cock, neglected and twitching, leaking a mess of pre cum all over the hood of the Impala. He lets out a desperate, choked sound, his hips bucking instinctively, trying to find some friction, some relief.
"Look at that," you growl, watching the thick, white cream overflow from his puckered, overstretched hole and drip down his trembling thighs, staining the rim of his own goddamn car. "You're leaking all over your own ride, you little delinquent. Can't even hold a single drop of the law inside you, can you?"
You don't slow down.
If anything, the slickness of the cum makes you even more aggressive. You're fucking him with a wet, slapping intensity, the sound of your cock sliding through the overflow making a disgusting, slurping noise that echoes in the quiet night. Every time you bottom out, you can feel the excess fluid being forced back in, only to squirt back out the second you pull back for the next lunge.
He's a total wreck, his voice nothing but a series of broken, high pitched whimpers and pathetic, wet sobs. "Please, sir, it's too much — so much —" he gasps.
He's completely at your mercy, his body reacting to the sheer, unyielding weight of you even as he begs for a break he isn't going to get.
"Too much?" you chuckle, a low, mean sound that vibrates through his spine. "You haven't seen anything yet, brat. You wanted to play in the wrong territory, now you're gonna take every goddamn bit of what comes with it."
You don't stop. You keep thrusting into him, the sound of your cock sliding through the thick, white mess of his own leaking insides making a disgusting, slurping noise. You reach down, your fingers slick and heavy with the overflow, and you scoop up a handful of your own warm cum from where it's dripping off his thighs.
With a mean smirk, you bring your hand up to his face. He looks up at you, eyes glazed and pathetic, and you shove your fingers, coated in that thick cream, straight past his trembling lips. Dean doesn't even fight it; he just opens up like a hungry, desperate puppy, his tongue swirling around your fingers, suckling at the taste of you with a mindless need.
"That's it, attaboy. Clean it all up," you murmur, watching him desperately try to swallow every drop of your essence. The sight of him, so broken and submissive, makes your blood boil with a fresh wave of lust. You can't help yourself; you want to see just how much of him you can dominate.
You pull your fingers from his mouth, leaving him gasping and dripping, and then you shove them into his throat.
He's so small compared to you, his throat constricting around your thick digits as he chokes, his eyes watering as he struggles to breathe.
You love the way he looks completely overwhelmed, his body reacting to the sheer size of your palm as it wraps around his throat, making him feel like he's being swallowed whole.
"You're just a little thing, aren't you?" you growl, your thumb pressing hard to force a choked, desperate sound from his lungs.
You can feel the frantic pulse in his neck thrumming against your skin, a rhythmic, terrified beat that only makes you want to squeeze harder. He's gagging on your fingers, his eyes rolling back as he tries to reconcile the sensation of being choked with the heavy, rhythmic pounding still happening in his arse.
He's caught between two kinds of ruin, and he's taking every bit of it like the good, obedient little delinquent he is.
"Look at you," you mutter, watching a string of saliva and cum stretch between his lips as he tries to catch his breath. "Completely owned. From your mouth to your ass. You're a fucking mess, Winchester."
You don't let him recover. While your fingers are busy stretching his throat and making him gag, you drive your hips forward in a devastating lunge. The impact is so heavy it makes the whole Impala rock on its suspension.
Heavy-hitter.
You bottom out with a force that feels like it's bruising his very soul, your massive cock burying itself so deep in his leaking, cum filled hole that there's no space left between you.
He lets out a muffled, strangled cry against your hand, a sound of pure, unadulterated ruin, as he's caught between the choking pressure in his throat and the overwhelming fullness in his gut.
"Don't you dare get greedy," you growl, your voice a low, commanding rasp. You reach down, not to stroke him, but to firmly press his hips down harder against the metal. "I'm not touching your cock, sport. You take it like a champ and you cum like one. You don't need a hand when you've got me filling you up like this, do you?"
Dean lets out a broken, high pitched sob, the sound of a man completely undone.
Pretty, shimmering tears track down his cheeks, smearing against the hot paint of the car as he whimpers, "Please, sir, please, just — sir —" He’s practically begging, his body trembling with the unfulfilled ache of his ignored cock and the overwhelming sensation of you continuing to hammer into him.
Smack! Smack!
Two heavy, stinging spanks to his reddened arse cut his pleas short, forcing a startled gasp from his lungs. You lean down, your mouth hovering just inches from his ear, your breath hot and smelling of lust.
"Hush now," you cooed, lowly. "Only need those pretty sounds outta you. Keep the whining for when you're actually in trouble. Right now, you're just being a good, quiet boy for me, aren't you?"
You watch with dark satisfaction as Dean tries to swallow his sobs, his breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches, his body forced into a state of pure, mindless receptivity.
He’s completely at your mercy, a broken, beautiful mess of a man, and as you continue to fuck into him, you know he won't be thinking about trespassing for a long, long time. He'll only be thinking about the weight of your hand, the heat of your cock, and the way you made him beg.
The morning sun bleeds through the dusty windows of the Impala, stinging Dean’s eyes as he groans, his consciousness returning in heavy, painful waves. His first sensation is the ache a deep, throbbing soreness in his hips and a raw, stinging heat in his arse that makes every slight movement feel like a monumental task.
He tries to roll over, but his body feels heavy, uncoordinated, and utterly spent. As he shifts, he realises with a jolt of disorientation that he’s lying face down in the backseat, his hips propped up at an awkward, vulnerable angle, his trousers pooled around his ankles.
The reality of the night before hits him like a physical blow. He remembers the heat of the bonnet, the heavy, rhythmic thrusting of your hips, the way you’d gripped his throat, and the sheer, overwhelming weight of you claiming him.
His eyes wander blindly to the seat pocket beside his face, finding a crumpled citation and a small, plastic tape reel. The label on the tape is written in your sharp, authoritative scrawl:
How the Law Works.
It’s a mockery, a dirty piece of evidence that turns his humiliation into a public record, a grim sex tape disguised as official body cam footage.
Beside it, the citation sits, but it's not just a list of infractions. There's a handwritten note scrawled in the margin, the ink dark and mocking:
Consider the plug a memoir, Winchester.
A little something to keep you full of me, and of the law until you learn to behave.
The realisation of the note sends a fresh wave of heat rushing to his face, a mix of shame and a terrifying, involuntary arousal. He reaches back, his fingers trembling as they brush against the cold, hard base of the plug still slotted deep inside him.
He stares at the tape reel, the thought of anyone anyone at all watching the footage of him being broken, of him whimpering "yes, sir" while you fucked him into the metal of his own car, making his head spin.
It wasn't just a punishment; it was a total deconstruction of everything he thought he was. He wasn't the rebel, the hunter just a messy, overstimulated boy who couldn't keep his hands off the wrong things.
He tries to shift his weight to sit up, but the movement causes the heavy plug to shift deep within his bruised walls, sending a jolt of unbidden pleasure and sharp ache straight to his core. He lets out a choked, pathetic sound, his forehead dropping back onto the leather seat.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger
BUCKY SIZE KINK!!! I NEED HIM CRYING, FUCKED OUT AND IN MATING PRESS!!!
(please)
amab reader :o]
- @rosemint-tea 🌹🌿
Muscle Memory
$ log - staying mobile and flexible is a crucial priority for a high-performing agent like bucky barnes. though, not to fret! you've got just the perfect technique to sort out his muscle stiffness.
$ warn --nsfw --amab!reader --dom!top!reader --mean!reader --big-dick!reader --sub!bot!bucky --needy!bucky --hes-in-awe --mating-press --anal --half-a-handjob --fingersucking --condescending-praise --dirty-talk --degrading --begging --cum-as-lube --crying
$ wc -w 1.5k
$ cd masterlist / bucky-barnes
$ echo "I love writing cliche porn plots ngl; next one's going to be plumber!reader" > authors-note.txt
Being assigned as the Avengers' private personal trainer wasn't just a job; it was your specialised niche.
You were there for the anomalies specifically — the gods, the monsters, and the super soldiers whose muscle density and bone structure required a much more... aggressive approach to flexibility.
Bucky had been your primary focus for weeks. He’d been surprisingly compliant, always eager to try your routines because his body felt stiff, his muscles often feeling tight and unyielding after a mission.
He trusted your hands, even if he couldn't quite put his finger on why he felt so fucking intimidated every time you walked into the room in those tight, sweat-wicking yoga clothes. He’d catch himself staring at the obvious bulge straining against the fabric, his throat going dry.
Tonight, the routine felt different. the air was thicker, the intent behind your touch far more predatory.
The yoga mat was a pathetic little island of stability in the middle of the training room, and Bucky felt like he was drowning on it.
He was folded in half, his thick thighs shoved violently toward his chest. It was a position meant for flexibility, but with you looming over him, it just felt like a way to expose his most vulnerable parts.
You’d already spent a good while prepping him, coating his puckered entrance in slick, heavy lube. But even with the moisture, he was still struggling to accommodate the sheer, terrifying girth of you. As you leaned forward, the heavy, blunt head of your cock began to inch bit by bit into his puckered hole, forcing its way past the initial resistance.
Bucky’s jaw went slack, his eyes dazed and staring blankly at the ceiling as he tried to process the sensation of being filled so completely. He thought he was a big, beefy man, a soldier built for war, but under the weight of your presence, he felt fucking microscopic.
"You feeling the burn of the stretch, Barnes?" you murmured, your voice low as you nudged his hips up by the tailbone, angling him to take more.
"Fuck, please," he sobbed, his voice breaking into a quiet whimper. His face was flushed with a mix of overstimulation and pure awe.
He was a mess of tears and friction — his super soldier stamina doing nothing to help him when his very anatomy was being pushed to its limit.
"C'mon, Barnes, you've still got half of me left," you teased, your voice devoid of any real sympathy as you pushed your knees further toward his chest, forcing his pelvis to tilt up even higher.
You were too focused on one thing: the feeling of yourself sliding deeper, stretching the lining of his muscles until he was sure he was going to split.
"Can't — can't take it — too big — " he choked out, a sob racking his broad shoulders. He felt so small, so fucking helpless, pinned to the mat by someone who looked so calm while he was falling apart.
To make matters worse, you reached down to wrap your hand around his cock. Bucky let out a high, broken whine, his hips jolted against your palm, his hips twitching in a desperate, uncoordinated rhythm. He was so close to the edge, his body trembling from the sensory overload of being stretched wide while his cock was being worked with such clinical, ruthless intent.
"There we go," you hummed, watching with a dark satisfaction as he began to leak.
You didn't even wait for him to find his breath. Youu simply used your thumb to catch the thick, clear beads of his precum, smearing the slickness back over his arsehole to ease the friction of your next thrust. "Need a little more lubrication for the deep tissue work, don't you?"
With a sudden, heavy lunge, you buried the rest of your cock inside him.
Arching his back, a choked yelp died in his throat as he was completely pushed through. His vision swam, the ceiling blurring into a haze of white light as his entire existence narrowed down to you filling every single inch of him.
"That's it, take it all," you commanded, your voice a low, steady anchor in his sea of sensation. you began to move — a slow, punishing grind that forced him to feel every ridge — every heavy inch of your cock as it slid against his sensitised lining.
He couldn't even find the strength to fight it; he could only sob, his fingers digging uselessly into the mat as you drove into him with a relentless, rhythmic cruelty.
"Keep those hips up, Barnes. Don't let the pelvic floor slacken now," you commanded, your voice an authoritative rasp that cut through his sobbing.
You were driving into him with a heavy pace — each thrust designed to maximise the expansion of his internal walls. "We need to ensure the deep tissue is fully accommodating the new range of motion. You can't have your muscles seizing up just because you're a little full, can you?"
Bucky let out a broken, high pitched keen, his head thrashing side to side on the mat. "it's too much — god, it's too fucking much — "
"It's exactly what you need," you countered, your tone dripping with a condescending sort of mockery. "You're a super soldier, aren't you? Stop acting like a fucking amateur. If you want to stay mobile, you have to learn how to take the tension. Let it stretch, Barnes. Let it widen."
You increased the pace, the wet, slapping sound of your pelvis hitting his ass echoing in the quiet room. Every time you bottomed out, you felt his internal muscles clenching around you in a desperate, involuntary attempt to hold onto the sensation, but you just drove harder, forcing him to expand even further.
"That's it, take the tension," you growled, your hand moving from his cock to grip his jaw, forcing him to look up at you even as he sobbed. "Feel how much space you're making for me. You're doing so well, Barnes, so good f'me, aren't ya?"
His eyes rolled back, his vision fracturing into white sparks. his cock, already leaking and sensitive, gave a sudden, desperate twitch. He couldn't hold it back; the friction of your heavy fucking was the final straw.
With a choked, desperate sob, his body buckled, and he came in a messy spurt, the thick white cream splattering across his own broad chest. He was completely undone, his breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches as he stared up at the ceiling
You let out a low, dark chuckle at the sight of him, a broken, panting mess with his own cum splattered all over his chest. He looked so fucking pathetic, a goddamn legend of war reduced to a shivering heap because you decided to stretch him out a little too hard.
"Look at you," you teased, your voice dripping with amusement as you watched him try to catch his breath. "Cumming hands free like a fucking animal. So much for that super soldier discipline, huh?"
Bucky could only mewl weak whines, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Before he could even try to recover, you reached down, scooping up a thick glob of his warm seed from his skin with your fingers. Startled, he gasped as you pressed the slick mess against his lips, forcing his mouth open.
"Messy boy," you murmured, stuffing your fingers into his mouth to silence him. "You gotta shut up now. You'll wake up the Tower. It's a muscle strengthening session here, not some dirty porno."
He let out a muffled, needy sound against your knuckles, his eyes pricking with fresh tears as he swallowed the salty mess you'd forced on him.
Even though your words were sharp and your attitude was pure condescension your hands were surprisingly sweet — they moved to stroke his hair, smoothing the damp strands away from his forehead.
The contrast was driving him insane. You were being so fucking mean, treating him like a disobedient pet. But the way you touched him— the gentle, expert way you massaged his tense muscles even as you continued to stretch him out — made his head spin.
He couldn't even find the strength to be offended. He just leaned into your touch, nodding weakly as he sucked on your fingers, his eyes never leaving yours, completely surrendered to the new routine you'd established.
He was a soldier, a killer, a man who had seen the worst of humanity, But in this moment, he was just yours — stretched, filled, and utterly broken by the very person meant to help him heal.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus
Can you please do a story like a one-sided enemies to lovers where the reader thinks bucky hates them so they automatically just not like him but they eventually learn that..that's just how bucky looks. He always looks upset and angry all the time so it wasn't directed at them, he's just like that.
Face Value
$ log - you were convinced bucky barnes was a cold, arrogant agent who despised you — so you made it your personal mission to hate him right back. it took an assignment in riga, a broken sensor, and a remarkably good bowl of soup to realise that his intentions were far warmer than you ever imagined.
$ warn --sfw --fluff --gn!reader --awkward!cutie!bucky --enemies-to-lovers(one-sided) --miscomm(heavy) --stuck-in-the-safehouse-tg --only-one-bed --hes-adorable
$ wc -w 8.7k
$ cd masterlist / bucky-barnes
$ echo "okay I went crazy-style on this, enjoy" > authors-note.txt
0001 — one
The first time you met Bucky, he looked at you as though you’d keyed his car.
You’d been at the compound for all of three hours. You still had your lanyard on, alongside the new-hire packet tucked under your arm because nobody had shown you where to put it.
Upon walking into the common area kitchen to fill a water bottle, you found him already there — leaning against the counter with a mug in his left hand. The moment you stepped through the door, he turned his head and simply — stared.
It wasn't a glance, nor was it a polite scan-and-dismiss. It was a full, sustained, unblinking stare — brows drawn tight, jaw set, and his mouth pressed into a flat line. It was as if you’d interrupted something sacred, as though your mere existence in the doorway was an affront to whatever silent communion he’d been having with his coffee.
"Hi," you said. "I'm —"
"I know who you are." He took a sip, never once blinking. "Welcome."
It was the least welcoming greeting you’d ever received. The word came out as if he were legally compelled to say it — as though someone had a gun to his back, mouthing say the nice thing whilst he white-knuckled his way through the syllable.
You filled your water bottle in silence, fully aware of him watching you before you finally made your escape.
That, as far as you were concerned, was the entire thesis of Bucky: hostile on arrival, aggressive on eye contact, and thoroughly allergic to basic human warmth.
Case closed.
Nothing about the compound gave you any reason to revise that opinion.
Over the following weeks, you accumulated evidence much like a prosecutor building a trial — methodically and without the slightest interest in the defense. He glared at you across the briefing room table, just as he did in the lift. He glowered at you in the corridor while you were simply trying to reach the gym, continuing the routine once you were inside.
On one occasion, he held a door open for you. This might have passed for a kind gesture, had his expression not suggested he was actively weighing up whether to slam it shut on your hand. Passing through quickly, you muttered a thank you, subsequently spending the next ten minutes wondering what you’d done to personally offend a hundred-and-six-year-old super soldier.
To make matters worse, this treatment seemed exclusively reserved for you.
Sam gave Bucky relentless, industrial-grade grief on a daily basis, receiving nothing worse than a tired sigh in return. Natasha spoke to him in brief Russian phrases that made him almost — almost — soften around the eyes. Steve, naturally, could coax out something adjacent to a smile, provided the lighting was right and the conversation touched on baseball.
You, meanwhile, received the murder stare.
Consequently, you took the only reasonable course of action: you decided to hate him back. Nothing loud or dramatic — you were a professional, after all. Yet if Bucky insisted on looking at you like you were gum on his tactical boot, you were more than happy to match his energy. You ceased saying hello, just as you stopped making eye contact. Whenever his name arose in briefings, your gaze remained glued to the nearest screen, offering nothing beyond what was strictly required.
In your professional opinion, it was a perfectly proportional response. He had started it, after all.
Except, as it turned out, he hadn't started anything at all.
0010 — two
Steve, for all his tactical brilliance, possessed the interpersonal radar of a golden retriever at a dog park. Which is to say: he assumed everyone was having as good a time as he was, believing that if they weren't, they simply required a more intriguing chew toy.
"I want you two running point on Riga," he said, tapping something on his tablet without looking up. "Buck, your ground coverage coupled with their aerial support makes for a clean overlap. No blind spots."
You felt your left eyelid twitch.
"Seems efficient," Bucky remarked from across the table. He spoke in that low, even tone you had long since catalogued as dangerously neutral, which was, in reality, merely his natural way of speaking.
"Incredibly efficient," Steve agreed, radiating the enthusiasm of a man who genuinely loved logistics. "You'll insert here, sweep the perimeter in tandem, and report back. Forty-eight hours, tops."
You opened your mouth to suggest — diplomatically, calmly, and with exquisite professionalism — that perhaps literally anyone else on the roster might prove a better fit. Clint. Wanda. A reasonably trained Labrador. However, Steve was already moving on to exfiltration windows, whilst the moment sailed past like a ship you hadn't boarded.
Bucky glanced at you across the table. Although you didn't look back, you could feel it regardless: the stare. That ever-present, searing, what did I do to you in a past life stare, which you had fully reinterpreted as I am imagining your demise in vivid detail.
Riga was cold and grey, smelling faintly of rain-wet concrete. Bucky crouched behind a low wall, running through the sweep route as though he had memorised every sewer grate in the Eastern Bloc. Which, to be fair, he probably had.
"If we cut through the service corridor on the east side," he said, tracing a line on the projected map between you, "we avoid the camera cluster at the northwest junction. That shaves off thirty seconds and gives us a cleaner sweep."
It was a good call — objectively and tactically sound. Naturally, you hated it.
"Alternatively," you countered, "we take the northwest junction. The camera cluster has a six-second rotation gap offering more than enough cover, whilst saving us from rerouting through a corridor we haven't physically cleared."
Bucky looked at you. There was that look again: that infuriating, immovable expression. "The corridor's been cleared on satellite."
"Satellite isn't boots on the ground, a fact I'd have thought you of all people would appreciate."
A brief pause followed. He blinked once, slowly and deliberately, like a cat processing new information it had already deemed irrelevant.
"Right," he said simply. "Northwest junction. Six-second gap."
There was no argument, no pushback, and no retaliatory escalation. Desperate for him to fight you on it — to give you something concrete to push against — you were met instead with immediate agreement. He adjusted and moved on. You couldn't even determine whether his baseline glare had shifted, as it remained entirely one temperature: a perpetual overcast with no forecast of change.
Infuriating.
Taking the northwest junction proved successful; the six-second gap worked seamlessly. Bucky offered no comment afterwards, a silence you promptly interpreted as resentful, even if, by any objective measure, it was merely quiet efficiency.
By hour thirty, you had swept two-thirds of the perimeter, flagged three points of interest, and exchanged roughly forty words that weren't operationally necessary. Bucky held position whenever required, adjusted without complaint when you called an audible, and covered your flank with the mechanical precision of someone who had been doing precisely that for the better part of a century.
When you snapped at his suggestion to double back on the north quadrant — "We've already cleared that, so unless you want to walk the same block a third time, let's finish before the century's out" — he studied you for a long moment, uttered a brief "Copy," and carried on.
By every metric that mattered, you worked brilliantly together. That was easily the most annoying aspect of the entire operation.
Steve's check-in crackled through the comms at hour thirty-six. "How's it looking out there?"
"Clean sweep," Bucky reported. "On schedule."
"Good to hear. Really good. You two are a natural fit, so I'm going to keep this pairing going."
The line clicked off before you could object.
Somewhere across the rooftop, Bucky shifted his weight without making a sound, having never once felt the need to fill a silence. You, meanwhile, were mentally drafting a strongly worded letter to Steve regarding the actual definition of the word natural.
The extraction window opened at dawn. It was a simple retrieval — collecting an intel package from a secure drop followed by a confirmation sweep for surveillance, wrapping up before the city woke up properly. It was the kind of job that barely qualified as a mission, resembling more of an errand, assuming your errands typically involved fake passports and a concealed weapon in your waistband.
Bucky moved through the drop site with an efficient, practiced quiet. Covering the perimeter, you tagged two potential cameras before feeding him the all-clear. He retrieved the package, confirmed the seal, and stowed it without ceremony.
"Clean," he reported over the comms.
"Obviously," you shot back, unable to help yourself.
The walk to the vehicle spanned six blocks through early-morning foot traffic. Bucky fell into step beside you — maintaining not a companionable proximity, but rather the tactically sound distance of a partner keeping visual range. Keeping your eyes fixed forward, you occasionally caught the peripheral flicker of him looking over, despite his efforts to look straight ahead as well.
At the fourth block, he spoke. "You did good work on the north sweep."
You nearly tripped. It wasn't a physical stumble, but rather a sudden jolt behind your ribs, as the compliment arrived so entirely stripped of inflection that it took a full three seconds to confirm it wasn't an insult.
"Thanks," you replied, as though the word were costing you money.
He offered a single nod before looking ahead once more. His expression remained entirely unchanged throughout the exchange — neither when he spoke, nor when you responded, nor now. It was the same furrowed brow, the same hard-set jaw, and the same general aura of a man who held a personal grievance against the concept of sunlight.
Walking the remaining two blocks in silence, you climbed into the vehicle and pulled out of Riga without incident.
In the passenger seat, Bucky stared out of the window, thinking about absolutely nothing in particular.
In the driver's seat, you white-knuckled the steering wheel, contemplating how deeply, profoundly, and cosmically unfair it was that Steve had designated your personal nemesis as your ideal work partner.
Bucky glanced over at you once more. You caught it in the corner of your eye — the slight turn of his head and the weight of his attention settling on the side of your face like a physical presence.
He looked away a moment later. Had you been watching, you might have caught a fleeting micro-expression that, on a more animated face, could have passed for confusion: a subtle narrowing of the eyes accompanied by a barely-there tilt of the head. It was the physical equivalent of a quiet huh.
Yet you were not watching. You were driving, nursing your resentment, and dreading the next mission you would inevitably be shackled to him for.
Bucky turned his gaze back out of the window.
Feisty, he thought, though not in explicit words. It was more of a general registration of facts: Teammate. Competent. Annoyed for some reason. Right then.
He let the matter drop.
0011 — three
The second phase of Riga went sideways on account of Bucky, and he had the decency to admit it — which made the entire situation infinitely worse.
It should have been straightforward. The intel package retrieved from the drop site pointed to a secondary location: a warehouse on the industrial fringe of Vecriga, flagged for potential weapons caching. Steve wanted confirmation before committing a full team, meaning it remained just the two of you — still purely recon, still strictly a matter of looking and reporting.
Bucky took the south entrance whilst you took the north — a standard split providing clean coverage without anything overly elaborate. Having swept your half in twelve minutes and tagged two points of interest, you reported clearly, subsequently waiting for his confirmation.
It failed to arrive.
What came instead was the muffled crack of a door being forced open from the inside. This was followed by three seconds of silence that felt significantly longer, before Bucky’s voice cut through the comms, clipped and flat: "Contact. Four hostiles, south corridor. I tripped a sensor."
You were already on the move. "You tripped a sensor?"
"There was a secondary grid. It wasn't in the schematics."
"So check for a secondary grid!"
"I'm aware of the oversight." A brief pause ensued, accompanied by the sound of distant, contained gunfire. "Heading to you. Thirty seconds."
He burst through the connecting corridor like a freight train with security clearance — fast, controlled, without a single wasted movement, yet carrying four exceptionally motivated hostiles funnelling in behind him. He had dropped two already, though the remaining four had evidently summoned reinforcements.
"An oversight," you hissed, falling into position beside him behind a concrete support column. "You call six armed hostiles an oversight?"
"I call the sensor an oversight; the hostiles are merely a consequence." Checking his magazine with a mechanical click, he remained as calm as a man sorting his morning post. "I ought to have caught it. That's on me."
There it was: no excuse, no deflection, and no complaints about incomplete schematics or how it could have happened to anyone. It was simply a clean, unvarnished admission of fault, delivered with the same flat affect he applied to everything else — as though accountability were merely another line item on the operational checklist.
You wanted to strangle him.
You wanted to seize him by the front of his tactical vest and shake him until something other than that granite composure gave way, purely because he had no right to be so utterly reasonable about it.
How dare he own his mistake with quiet professionalism when you had been actively gearing up for a proper row?
You had an entire speech prepared — reckless, sloppy, typical — only for him to dismantle it in two short sentences by simply agreeing with you.
"I'm going to kill you," you said.
"After the hostiles," he replied, which might have passed for a joke, had his face offered any confirmation.
They advanced in pairs. The warehouse consisted entirely of long sightlines and sparse cover — a layout ill-suited for defence and even worse for retreat, leaving forward progression as the sole option.
Bucky moved left, drawing fire toward the heavier cover near the loading bay, whilst you veered right to utilise the elevated walkway for a tactical angle. For thirty seconds, the response was clean and coordinated — the precise sort of synchronisation Steve would have had framed and hung on a wall.
Then the third pair flanked wide, resulting in one of them getting behind you.
You heard it before you saw it: the scrape of a boot against the metal grating of the walkway — far too close and coming from the wrong direction. Spinning round, you fired and caught him in the shoulder, yet his momentum carried him forward as a burst from his automatic weapon chewed through the railing to your left.
Dropping off the walkway to avoid the spray — rolling through a two-metre fall purely on instinct — you came up in the open on the warehouse floor, stranded between two columns of cover with nothing but concrete dust and bad options.
The remaining hostile on the upper level held the high ground. You could see him repositioning, his barrel swinging round to track your movement. Meanwhile, the nearest cover stood four paces away, which was roughly two paces more than you had time for.
At that moment, Bucky hit you from the side like a wall with a pulse.
It wasn't a tackle, nor was it a shove. It was something altogether more deliberate: his arm wrapping round your waist as his body pivoted to place himself between you and the muzzle flash, dragging you both behind the nearest column in a single, brutal motion that briefly lifted your feet off the ground. Your back struck the concrete just as his chest slammed against yours. His left arm braced against the wall beside your head, his metal fingers digging shallow grooves into the surface with a sound guaranteed to haunt your next several attempts at sleep.
He fired over your shoulder without once looking away from you. Two shots rang out, followed by the heavy thud of something hitting the floor above.
Silence settled over the warehouse like dust after a demolition.
You were breathing heavily; he was not.
His heartbeat against your collarbone remained steady, measured, and offensively calm — the resting rhythm of a man whose circulatory system simply refused to acknowledge combat as a cardiovascular event. His face sat inches from yours as he scanned past you, his eyes tracking the upper walkway, the exits, and the corners, conducting a very focused threat assessment.
You, on the other hand, could register nothing else.
He was warm, which served as your first entirely unhelpful observation. Beneath the Kevlar, the grime, and the faint metallic tang of discharged rounds, he felt warm, broad, and solid in a manner resembling architecture rather than a person.
Your hands were resting on his vest again — a recurring habit you genuinely needed to address — and from this distance, you could see that his eyelashes were dark and unreasonably long. Furthermore, a small scar sat at the corner of his jaw that you had never previously noticed, owing to the fact that you had never been this close, alongside the small detail that you hated him.
You hated him — that remained vital. You were furious.
He had tripped a sensor, dragged you into a firefight, and then possessed the sheer audacity to throw himself in front of a bullet meant for you as if it were nothing. Protecting your body with his was apparently just another Tuesday to him, and now he stood there with his arm caging you in, his ridiculously muscled chest pressed against yours, leaving you absolutely, categorically, and without question hot, bothered and —
"Clear," Bucky said, looking down at you.
The stare remained identical to always — completely unreadable — except that from seven centimetres away, it felt less like I want you dead and more like I am looking at you because you are here and I am thorough. "You good?"
"Peachy," you managed.
Stepping back, he holstered his weapon. He offered you a single, efficient once-over — not lingering or appreciative, but rather a simple field check akin to inspecting a piece of kit after a drop — before turning to clear the rest of the warehouse.
"Sorry about the sensor," he called over his shoulder, already moving away.
You stood there for a moment, back pressed against the column, vest askew, with your heart executing something architecturally unsound in your chest. Your face felt hot, your hands felt foolish, and somewhere amidst the wreckage of your higher reasoning, a small, traitorous voice pointed out that pure American muscle was not a phrase you ought to be associating with a man you'd spent months despising.
You instructed the voice to shut up. Naturally, it refused.
By the time you caught up with him at the south exit, you had reassembled your composure into something functional, if not entirely convincing. Bucky crouched by the door, checking the exterior. As you approached, he looked up with that exact, unchanging, immovable expression and said, "We should report the secondary grid to Steve. My error; I'll log it."
"Damn right you will," you replied, albeit with significantly less venom than intended.
He nodded once before turning his attention back to the door, completely failing to notice that your ears were bright red — because Bucky, as a rule, simply did not notice things like 'ears'.
0100 — four
The safehouse was Steve's idea, because of course it was.
"Sit tight," he instructed over comms, speaking with the serene authority of a man issuing orders from a heated facility several countries away. "The firefight flagged local attention, so I need twenty-four hours to reroute extraction without drawing eyes. There's a safehouse logged in the system — Bucky, you know the one off Avotu iela?"
"I know it," Bucky replied.
"Great. Supplies should still be stocked from the last rotation. Hunker down, stay off the radar, and I'll have you out by tomorrow evening."
The line went dead. You stared at the comm in your hand as though it had personally betrayed you.
Twenty-four hours. In a safehouse. With Bucky Barnes.
Steve would answer for this. Not today, nor tomorrow, but one day, in a time and place of your choosing, Steven Grant Rogers would look you in the eye and reckon with the cumulative consequences of his logistical enthusiasm.
The safehouse was a third-floor walk-up in a residential block that looked like every other on the street — beige concrete, narrow windows, and a front door requiring a keycode that Bucky punched in from memory without hesitation.
Inside, it was sparse in the way all safehouses were sparse: functional furniture, blackout curtains, a bathroom with aggressive water pressure and no hot water, a kitchen stocked with tin cans and dry pasta, alongside, inexplicably, a full spice rack.
There was only one bedroom. However, you had yet to discover that detail.
Bucky executed a sweep of the flat in under two minutes — checking windows, exits, sightlines, and the building's stairwell — before returning to the main room with a nod that signified clear and absolutely nothing else.
Having taken up position at the far end of the kitchen counter with your arms crossed, you watched him move through the space with the efficiency of someone who had spent a great deal of time in rooms he didn't wish to be in.
"I'll make something," he said, already opening cupboards.
"I'm not hungry."
Your stomach growled with immaculate comedic timing. Bucky paused, hand on a cupboard door, yet he offered no comment and made no attempt to smile. He simply resumed opening the cupboard, which was somehow far worse than if he had laughed outright.
He proceeded to make soup.
You didn't know what you had expected — something perfunctory, perhaps, assembled with the same grim pragmatism he brought to everything else. A tin of broth heated in a pot, perhaps with some pasta thrown in for caloric necessity.
Instead, Bucky stood at the narrow safehouse cooker and diced an onion with a knife never intended for onions, moving with the quiet focus of someone who knew precisely what he was doing and had no intention of explaining why.
He sautéed garlic — actual garlic, peeled and minced, from a bulb he had found in the crisper drawer alongside potatoes that had no right being that fresh in a safehouse. He added tinned tomatoes, a selection of dried herbs from the inexplicable spice rack, the potatoes cut into even cubes, and a splash of something from a bottle bearing a Czech label that might have been vinegar, wine, or lighter fluid.
It smelled incredible.
You watched this unfold from your position at the counter — still with arms crossed, still glaring — feeling the mounting indignation of a person whose nemesis was failing to behave according to the established narrative.
Enemies did not make soup. Enemies did not dice onions with careful, practised hands. Enemies did not stir a pot with a wooden spoon, taste from the rim, and subsequently add more salt with the measured consideration of someone who understood that soup was a dish worth getting right.
He set a bowl in front of you without ceremony before sitting down across the narrow table with his own and picking up his spoon.
You glared at the soup. The soup failed to glare back, sitting there instead and steaming gently, smelling like something a grandmother would make if she’d happened to have a vibranium arm and the emotional range of a concrete wall.
You ate the soup.
It was — and you would take this to your grave before admitting it aloud — delicious. The potatoes were tender without being mushy. The broth possessed depth — actual depth, featuring layers of flavour that had no business existing in a meal assembled from safehouse scraps by a man who looked as though he were being forced at gunpoint to participate in civilian life.
Across the table, Bucky ate in silence, just as you ate in silence. The only sound was the scrape of spoons against ceramic alongside the distant hum of Riga's evening traffic filtering through the blackout curtains.
You were glaring at him over the rim of the bowl.
You knew you were glaring and found yourself unable to stop. Every spoonful felt like a personal offence — not owing to the soup, which was infuriatingly above reproach, but purely on principle. He had no right to be good at this. He had no right to sit there, eating soup he had made with his own two hands — one of which was made of metal and had attempted to kill multiple heads of state — looking for all the world like a man entirely at peace with his evening.
He wasn't at peace with his evening; he was simply eating soup.
Yet he did notice you were quiet — quieter than usual, which was quite a feat given that your usual baseline around him sat somewhere between terse and legally admissible silence. Glancing up once, he caught the edge of your expression, filing it away as he filed most things about you: without reaching any conclusions whatsoever.
Rough day, he thought. The warehouse was a lot. The sensor business rattled them. Fair enough.
It had not occurred to Bucky, at any point in the preceding months, that your hostility towards him was personal.
Having considered and dismissed several theories — that you were private, focused, cold towards everyone, or merely adjusting to the team — he had landed on the most generous possible interpretation every single time. The notion that you simply didn't like him, specifically as an individual, had never crossed his mind, as Bucky did not assign himself enough importance in other people's emotional landscapes for that to feel plausible.
You finished the soup, as did he. Taking both bowls to the sink without asking, he washed them by hand, thorough and unhurried, whilst you sat at the table staring at the back of his head, trying desperately to maintain the structural integrity of a grudge that was developing hairline fractures.
He dried the bowls, put them away, and wiped down the counter.
You hated him — obviously. However, the soup had been exceptionally good, and the counter was immaculate.
"I'll take the first watch," he said, settling onto the couch with a clear sightline to the front door.
"Fine."
"Get some rest. Tomorrow's going to be a long extract."
"I know."
He looked at you. You looked away first — a new development, and one that neither of you chose to examine.
0101 — five
The bedroom situation revealed itself with the slow, inevitable horror of a punchline that ought to have been obvious from the start.
There was a single bed: full-sized, pushed against the far wall, and made up with military corners alongside a single wool blanket that looked as though it had been government-issued during a war — quite possibly the one Bucky had personally fought in. Accompanying it were a single pillow, one nightstand, and an overhead light with a pull chain that lent the entire space the ambience of an interrogation cell.
You stood in the doorway whilst Bucky remained directly behind you. Neither of you spoke for a long, damning moment.
"I'll take the floor," he offered.
"No."
"It's not a problem. I've slept on worse."
"I said no." Turning round — a mistake, as it turned out, given his proximity — you had to look up to meet his eyes, which were performing their usual trick of boring into you as if you owed him money. "I'll take the floor. You take the bed."
Bucky's brow furrowed. Or rather, it furrowed further — it was already permanently set that way by default, yet it deepened to a degree you hadn't previously known was architecturally possible. "That doesn't make sense."
"It makes perfect sense."
"You're smaller than me. The bed is more efficient for —"
"I don't care about efficiency, Barnes. Take the bed."
"I'm not going to let you sleep on the floor."
"You're not letting me do anything. I'm choosing the floor. Independently. Of my own volition."
This was — a fact you were distantly aware of even in the moment — not actually about chivalry, comfort, or any rational metric of who ought to sleep where.
It was entirely about the fact that Bucky had suggested the bed, and you would rather lie on cold hardwood until your spine fused than accept a single accommodation from a man who had spent months staring at you as if you were a code he was trying to crack, only to decide you weren't worth the effort.
Bucky looked at you, and you looked back at him. The standoff held for a stretched, ridiculous beat — two highly trained operatives with a combined century of combat experience, thoroughly deadlocked over a mattress.
"We could —" He stopped, recalibrated, and started again carefully, in the manner of a person approaching a suggestion they already know will go badly. "We could share it."
"Absolutely not."
"It's a full. There's room."
"There is not room."
There was, objectively, room.
A further eleven minutes of negotiation ensued — eleven minutes that could have been spent sleeping, maintaining perimeter awareness, or doing literally anything other than arguing about a bed with a man whose face hadn't changed expression once throughout the entire exchange.
In the end, the solution was reached not through compromise, but through mutual exhaustion: you on the left side, him on the right, with a gap between you wide enough to accommodate a respectably sized third person, or possibly a coffin, which felt appropriate.
You lay on your back, rigid, arms at your sides, staring at the ceiling. The blanket covered you to mid-chest. Although your boots were off, everything else remained on; you were certainly not changing clothes in a safehouse with Bucky on the other side of a bed you were sharing against every instinct you possessed.
He lay on his back, equally rigid, with hands folded over his stomach as he too stared at the ceiling. The blanket covered him to the waist. Having removed his jacket and gloves but nothing else, the plates of his left arm caught the ambient glow of the streetlamp outside in the dim light filtering through the window.
Silence followed — a long, heavy, weighted silence.
Steve Rogers, you thought, with the focus and clarity of a prayer, I am going to find you, and I am going to make you understand what you've done. When the history books document your demise, they will note that it was thoroughly deserved.
Somewhere beyond the curtains, Riga hummed its quiet nighttime hum. A car passed, a dog barked, and the kitchen refrigerator cycled on with a low rattle that settled into white noise.
Bucky shifted. Not towards you — if anything, he pressed further into his own edge, as though attempting to grant the gap between you additional square footage through sheer force of will. The mattress dipped slightly with the movement before settling into stillness once more.
More silence followed. You could hear him breathing — a steady, measured rhythm suggesting either deep calm or trained control. Unable to tell which, it bothered you that you were listening closely enough to wonder.
"Can I ask you something?"
His voice was quiet. It wasn't soft — Bucky didn't do soft, or if he did, you had never been granted access to it — yet it was low and careful. He directed his gaze at the ceiling, speaking in the manner of someone who had determined that eye contact would prove a tactical error.
"What?" you said, flat and with your guard firmly up.
A pause followed while he chose his words with the deliberation of a man disarming a device he didn't fully understand — which, in a sense, he was.
"Why do you glare at me?"
The question landed in the dark between you like a stone dropped into still water: simple, direct, and genuinely, painfully confused. It was neither accusatory nor hurt, but merely curious — like a puzzle he had been turning over in his hands for months and had finally decided to open here, in the dark, lying on his back and addressing the ceiling, having apparently calculated that looking at you while asking would make whatever was already wrong significantly worse.
You didn't answer immediately, far too blindsided by the fact that he had noticed. This was insane in retrospect because, of course he had noticed — you had been glaring at the man with the intensity of a sustained laser for the better part of six months.
"Why do I glare at you?" you repeated, as though the question had been delivered in a language you didn't speak.
"Yeah." Still staring at the ceiling, still careful. "I've been — I don't think I've done anything to you. I've tried to run through it, and I can't find the point where I —" He paused. "I've been professional. I've followed protocol, and I've done everything by the handbook. Yet you look at me like I've murdered your cat."
"Because you glare at me!"
It came out louder than intended. You felt the bed shift as he reacted —not flinching, but merely offering a slight turn of his head, which he immediately corrected back to facing the ceiling. "You've glared at me since my first day at the compound. You looked at me like I'd committed a federal crime simply by walking into the kitchen. Every briefing, every corridor, every — you just stare at me, Barnes, as if I've personally wronged your bloodline. So yes, I glare back. What did you expect?"
Silence.
A long, heavy silence.
The sort of silence that possessed a distinct shape.
"Oh," Bucky said.
A single syllable, loaded with the slow, dawning weight of a revelation he hadn't seen coming, precisely because it had never once occurred to him as a possibility.
You heard him exhale through his nose — neither a sigh nor a laugh, but something in between that sounded like a man arriving at a destination he wished he hadn't.
"That's —" He stopped, then started again. "That's just my face."
"What?"
"That's how I look." His voice had grown careful again, though in a different register now — less disarming-a-bomb and more confessing to a crime he hadn't realised he'd committed. "Sam told me about it last year. He said I — the word he used was intense. I've been working on it."
A beat passed.
"Apparently, I have not been successful," he added, with the quiet devastation of a man confronting a failed self-improvement project. "My sincere apologies."
You lay there motionless, staring at the ceiling Bucky had been using as a conversational safe harbour, feeling the entire scaffolding of the last six months begin to buckle.
That was simply his face.
The glare, the stare, the flat, searing, unblinking hostility around which you had constructed an entire narrative of enmity — it was merely his face. It wasn't directed at you, nor was it directed at anyone else. It was simply the natural resting state of a man whose features had been frozen, thawed, wiped, reset, and reassembled enough times that they had settled on murder as their factory default.
He had been working on it. Sam had told him, and he had tried. He had been making an active, conscious effort to look less like he was plotting the downfall of everyone in his immediate vicinity, yet the gap between his attempt and his result was apparently so microscopic that you hadn't detected a single pixel of difference.
"Barnes," you said slowly.
"If it helps, I — it's not intentional. It's not — I'm not thinking hostile thoughts when I look at you. I'm usually not thinking anything specific. I'm just..."
"Looking."
"Looking. Yeah."
Another silence descended, though this one differed markedly — less loaded and more bewildered, representing the shared quiet of two people arriving at the same understanding from opposite ends of a very long, highly unnecessary misunderstanding.
"I owe you an apology," you said, the words tasting like something you ought to have uttered months ago, which made them harder to get out, not easier.
"You don't."
"Barnes, I've been horrible to you."
"You've been direct." He said it as though he meant it — not being generous or diplomatic, but simply accurate, by his measure. "I've had worse."
"That's not a particularly high bar."
"It's an honest one."
You lay there with that thought for a moment, letting the recalibration settle.
Every interaction — every terse exchange, every ignored greeting, and every pointed refusal to acknowledge his existence beyond operational necessity — replayed in fast-forward with the new context overlaid. Each one landed differently, and considerably worse. He had held doors open for you, complimented your sweep work, and made you soup. In return, you had met every gesture with the warmth of a closed fist, simply because his eyebrows didn't move the way you thought they should.
"I should also probably tell you something," Bucky said, still addressing the ceiling.
His voice had shifted once more, and had you not been lying close enough to hear the minute changes in his breathing, you might have missed the new tension within it. It wasn't discomfort or reluctance, but rather something closer to the careful steadying of a person about to step off a ledge they had been standing on for longer than planned.
"What?"
"I like you."
The words hit the dark ceiling and hung there, suspended, whilst your brain ran them through several rounds of processing, returning an error every time.
"I —" He cleared his throat. "I like working with you. Your tactical instincts are — the northwest junction call was good. It was better than my call. Furthermore, the way you handle aerial overwatch possesses a precision that — it makes my job easier, which isn't something I say about many people. I actually like that you argue with me, too. Most people don't; they either defer or avoid, whereas you just — " He made a vague gesture towards the ceiling with his right hand. "You come straight at it."
He was rambling.
Bucky — who usually communicated in sentence fragments, silences, and single-word affirmatives — was rambling. The words spilled out in a steady, almost helpless stream, as if he had uncorked something he didn't know how to reseal. The ceiling received the full force of it, given that he still hadn't looked at you and, at this point, probably couldn't.
"And the — the attitude. I know it was directed at me, and I understand that now, but even before I understood it, it didn't bother me. I thought it was simply how you were with everyone. I thought, they’re sharp, they’re focused, and they doesn't waste words, and that's —" He paused, swallowing hard. "I like that. I like all of it. And — you're not going to believe this — the glaring. Even the glaring. You commit to it. There's a — you're very —"
He stopped, breathing out as the sentence died a merciful death somewhere between his intention and his ability to articulate it.
"I don't care if you snap my ears off," he said quietly. "I never have."
On your side of the bed, behind the safety of the gap that now felt less like a demilitarised zone and more like the only barrier preventing you from doing something irreversible, you stared at the ceiling as the universe rearranged itself.
He liked you.
He liked you.
Bucky — whom you had spent six months hating with the dedicated focus of a doctoral thesis, whom you had categorised, filed, and sealed under enemy with absolute certainty — liked you.
He had liked you, quite possibly the entire time. He had appreciated your tactical calls, your aerial work, your stubbornness, and your glaring — which he had apparently found more charming than threatening.
This recontextualised every single moment you had ever shared into something so fundamentally different from what you had believed that your brain was essentially executing a factory reset in real time.
The Big Bang, as they said, originated from a single point of infinite density before expanding outwards in every direction at once. This felt remarkably similar, except the point of infinite density was Bucky saying I don't care if you snap my ears off in the dark, whilst the expansion represented every assumption you had ever made about him detonating simultaneously.
He had gone quiet. The ramble had passed itself, leaving him lying there, still aimed at the ceiling, presumably regretting every word he had spoken while steeling himself for whatever you were about to throw back at him.
The gap between you felt enormous — and suddenly, completely absurd.
0110 — six
You rolled over.
Not gradually, nor cautiously, and certainly not with the measured calculation of someone who had spent the last several hours maintaining the maximum possible distance from the man beside them.
You simply turned, crossing the gap as though it had never existed, before propping yourself up on your elbow on his side of the bed — close enough that your shadow fell across his chest.
Bucky went very still: the sort of still that had nothing to do with training and everything to do with the fact that his entire operating framework for this interaction had just been upended without warning. He had been braced for a multitude of possible responses — silence, anger, dismissal, or a scathing deconstruction of every word he had just uttered — yet certainly not this. He had not anticipated you being right there, leaning over him and looking down at him with an expression he had never before seen on your face, leaving him without a filed reference for it.
You were smiling.
It broke something in him — not loudly or dramatically, but with the quiet internal shift of a gear slipping into a position it hadn't known existed. He had seen you focused, furious, mid-combat, mid-argument, and mid-glare. He had catalogued every version of your face that you had ever shown him, yet none of them — not a single one — had included this. Open and bright, your eyes creased at the corners whilst your mouth curved in a way that made you look like an entirely different person, or perhaps the exact same person with a wall removed.
"Are you serious?" you asked.
He blinked. "About what?"
"Barnes. Are you serious? You like me?"
"I — yes. I just said — I spent a significant amount of time just saying —"
"You like me." You said it again, not because you required confirmation, but rather because the words were new and you wished to feel them in your mouth a second time. A grin spread across your face—wide, uncontrolled, and entirely without your permission — and you couldn't have stopped it had national security depended on it.
Bucky stared up at you, his lips parting, closing, and parting again. The ramble that had poured out of him minutes ago had emptied his tank entirely; confronted with the direct, beaming, up-close reality of you smiling at him, he was left with nothing.
Every word he had ever learned in two languages, alongside a handful of operationally acquired phrases in four others, had vacated the premises.
"Yes," he managed, the word sounding as though it had been dragged out of him with a hook.
You laughed.
It wasn't at him, but rather at the situation, at yourself, and at six months of wasted hostility collapsing in real time. The sound landed on Bucky like something physical, making his chest shift beneath it. You watched his throat work through a swallow, observing his eyes as they tracked across your face with the bewildered focus of a man seeing a new colour for the first time and not yet trusting that it was real.
"You absolute idiot," you said, as your hand found his jaw.
His breathing changed. You felt it — the catch, the skip, and the barely perceptible hitch of someone whose body had just been informed of a development his brain hadn't authorised. Your fingers rested against the edge of his jaw, your thumb lying along his cheekbone. His skin felt warm beneath your hand — warmer than you had expected, which was a foolish thing to have expectations about, given that thirty seconds prior you had still been on your side of the demilitarised zone pretending to hate him.
"You —" he began.
"Shut up. I'm having a moment."
Your other hand landed on his shoulder — not in a grip or a shove, but in simple contact. With your palm resting on the curve of muscle through his shirt and your fingers settling against the junction of his neck, you felt him tense beneath you. He didn't pull away, but held himself in the rigid stillness of someone who didn't trust himself to move, having not yet determined what the correct movement ought to be.
You were slightly draped across him now, with one hand on his jaw, the other on his shoulder, and your weight shifted onto his side of the bed. You were close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and the way his pupils had widened in the low light. This was uncharted territory for both of you, obviously.
Yet watching it happen to him was something else entirely: observing the composure that had survived decades of ice, combat, and reprogramming falter over the simple, devastating fact that you were touching his face and smiling about it.
"Hi," you said, foolishly.
"Hi." His voice had dropped into a register you hadn't heard before—rough at the edges and quiet in the middle. His right hand came up slowly and carefully, as though reaching for something he expected to be snatched away, hovering near your elbow without quite landing. "You're — this is — I thought you hated me."
"I did hate you."
"And now?"
"Now I'm re-evaluating my methodology."
His hand landed. Gentle and uncertain, his fingers wrapped round your forearm with a pressure so light it was barely there, as if holding something he had been told was fragile without being informed where the cracks were.
You watched his eyes search yours — back and forth, quick and unguarded, stripped of the flat intensity you had been misreading for half a year. He wasn't glaring, nor was he staring; he was simply looking at you. For the first time, you could see what was actually present beneath the granite: a banked, cautious want, held at arm's length for so long he had forgotten he was doing it.
"For the record," you said, "the soup was incredible."
A sound escaped him — not quite a laugh, nor quite a breath, but something in the middle. It was an involuntary noise that seemed to surprise him as much as it did you. The corner of his mouth moved; it wasn't a full smile, nor even half of one, but a subtle shift — a fracture in the architecture — that transformed his entire face in a way that made your stomach drop pleasantly into your shoes.
"Noted," he said.
"And the business where you threw yourself in front of a bullet for me —"
"Standard protocol."
"It wasn't, actually."
"It felt standard."
"Barnes."
"Yeah."
You leaned down and kissed him.
It wasn't graceful, as the angle was wrong. You were still propped half on your elbow and half on his chest, your hand sliding from his jaw to the side of his neck as you closed the gap, your nose bumping his because geometry refused to cooperate with the urgency of the moment. Yet his mouth was warm, and when he took a full second to respond, you almost pulled back — nearly retreating to your side of the bed to die of mortification in peace — before his hand tightened on your arm. His other hand came up to the back of your head, and he kissed you back with a quiet, focused intensity suggesting he had been considering this for significantly longer than the duration of your conversation.
He kissed in the same manner he did everything else: thoroughly, unhurriedly, and deliberately, without a single wasted movement. His fingers slid into your hair whilst his thumb traced the line behind your ear, tilting his head to fix the angle problem you had created.
Distantly, in the remaining functional portion of your brain, you thought, Ah, so this is what it's like when he isn't on the other side of a room looking as though he wants to murder me.
It was better — categorically, unreservedly, and across every imaginable metric.
You broke apart just far enough to draw breath, his hand remaining in your hair while yours stayed on his neck. The gap between you had been reduced to practically nothing, leaving the wool blanket as a lost cause somewhere around both your waists. He was looking at you with an expression that, for the first time since you had known him, you could actually read.
"Just to be clear," he said, his voice slightly hoarse, "this means you don't hate me."
"This means I don't hate you."
"Right." His thumb moved against your scalp — slowly and absent-mindedly, as though he were doing it without realising. "Good. That's — yeah. Good."
You kissed him again — because he had said good like a man who had just been told the war was over, because his hand was tangled in your hair, and because his voice was wrecked.
You had six months of hostility to make up for, and you intended to be exceptionally thorough about it.
0111 — seven
Steve opened the safehouse door at 0600 with his shield strapped to his back, a cereal bar in hand, and the calm, satisfied expression of a man who had successfully rerouted an extraction under pressure — feeling, frankly, rather pleased with himself.
"Rise and shine, I've got us a window —"
He stopped dead.
You were on the bed, and Bucky was on the bed.
More accurately, you were on top of Bucky — your fingers tangled in his hair, his arm hooked securely round your waist, and your mouths occupied in a manner that had absolutely nothing to do with a mission debrief. The wool blanket had been kicked onto the floor at some point during the night, alongside, apparently, every professional boundary either of you had ever maintained.
Steve stared.
Breaking apart, Bucky's hand remained precisely where it was. You looked at Steve, Steve looked at you, and Bucky looked at Steve with the exact same unreadable expression he always wore — which, given the context, was doing a spectacular amount of heavy lifting.
The cereal bar lowered slowly to Steve's side.
"I —" Steve began.
"Morning," Bucky said.
"You —" Steve pointed at you, then pointed at Bucky, before pointing at the non-existent space between you. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again. The strategic mind that had orchestrated the fall of HYDRA and the defence of three continents was, for the first time in recorded history, attempting to process something it had failed to anticipate.
"This is —" He took a step backwards. "I'm going to — I'll be in the — you have ten minutes."
The door clicked shut, followed by footsteps retreating down the corridor at a pace that could only be described as fleeing.
You looked at Bucky, and Bucky looked back at you. His hair was a disaster, whilst your shirt was untucked. Neither of you had slept for more than two hours, both of you looked it, and somewhere on the other side of the door, Steve was having a private reckoning with the direct consequences of his own tactical genius.
"He's splitting us up," you said. "You realise that, don't you? After this, he'll never put us on the same mission again."
Bucky's mouth executed that familiar movement — the subtle shift, the fracture in the architecture, the not-quite-smile that remade his entire face and caused your chest to do something structurally inadvisable.
"Yeah," he said softly. "Probably."
He didn't sound remotely bothered by the prospect.
From the corridor, muffled and vaguely traumatised, came Steve's voice: "Ten minutes, Buck!"
You kissed him again — partly because Steve had set a deadline, and mostly because spite had always been your love language.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @elarapheonix @hisokamywaifu @froggibus @axtira @rosemint-tea @sheriff-bodecker
$ log - dean winchester's not supposed to crave you like this — to the point his pussy aches at the sight of you. you're bobby's best friend, you're double his age, probably even slain thousands of demons compared to dear ol' dean. so, when the opportunity spreads itself wide in front of him, boy does he hang onto it tight like a fucking vice.
$ warn --nsfw --(mild)dark --dubcon(at end) --older!amab!reader --dom!top!reader --mean!reader --afab!dean --sub!bot!dean --older-man-younger-man --age-gap --wet-dream --masturbation --prep --praise --condescending --degradation --humiliation --fingering(vag) --impact-play(spanking) --size-diff-kink --anal(mentioned) --mirror-sex(light) --reverse-cowgirl --dirty-talk --dumbification --orgasm control --overstimulation --clit-play --pussyjob --thigh-grinding --doggy --p-in-v --begging --dacryphilia --creampie --rough --somno(hinted)
$ wc -w 7.2k
$ cd masterlist / dean-winchester
$ echo "the demon of crude, mean sex possessed me while writing this" > authors-note.txt
note = dad bsf!reader. he's fucked to passing out. heavy unresolved sexual tension.
You’ve been a fixture in the hunting world for as long as Bobby can remember, a seasoned veteran whose reputation for grit and wisdom precedes you.
When you’re called in to help the Winchesters with a particularly nasty case, your presence brings a heavy, grounded authority to Bobby’s place. Sam’s immediately drawn to your expertise, eager to soak every bit of hunting knowledge you have to offer. But Dean?
Dean’s struggling to even breathe.
He watches you move with a calm confidence and his pussy actually pulses. Every time you walk into a room, the air feels thicker, and he can feel that familiar, humiliating heat pooling between his legs, his pussy getting ridiculously wet from just the sight of you.
During hunts, you offer brief commendations with a hand on his shoulder or a simple good work on that trap that sends jolts of electricity straight down his spine.
You drink heavily and smoke long into the night, but unlike John, you carry your strength with a lazy grace that never turns into anger. Seeing you laugh with Bobby makes him crave the heated stability.
Sometimes, Dean finds himself staring, unable to look away from the way your jeans, staring against the heavy, unmistakable bulge of your cock, a silent promise of the size he knows he needs.
The darkness of the room was suffocating, thick with the scent of old wood and Dean’s own frantic arousal. He lay sprawled on the mattress, his body trembling with a need so sharp it felt like a physical wound. His fingers were slick, sliding deep into his needy pussy with a desperate friction, while his other hand slapped hard against his own jaw, trying to sting himself into silence.
“Fuck — please — ” he mewled a tiny sound, before swallowing it back.
Every time a quiet, broken moan escaped his lips, he froze, heart hammering against his ribs — absolutely terrified that Sam or Bobby would hear the sound of him unravelling late at night.
Then, the fantasy took over, pulling him under like a tide. Suddenly, he wasn’t alone. The scent of leather and stale smoke overwhelmed his scenes, while all he felt was the unyielding weight of you crushing him into the cushions. His legs were shoved wide and his back curved as you hovered over him.
“That’s it, Dean,” your voice rumbled in his ear, low and commanding. “Take it all. You’re so fucking greedy for it, aren’t ya?”
Then, the phantom sensation of your cock hit him thick, hot, and unyielding, driving straight into his messy, overstimulated pussy. He let out a choked sob real-time, his hips jerking upwards to meet the imagined thrusts.
“God, you’re so wet f’me,” you murmured, voice a rough vibration against his skin. “Wrap those legs around me, take it all, Dean — show me how much you want it —”
His fantasy seemed to reach its peak in tempo, followed by a white-hot sensation that sent Dean over the edge.
Back straining off the sheets, he buckled hard as he orgasms — a silent, shaking mess in the dark. He buried his pace into the pillow to muffle the desperate, broken cries of your name, his heart was a frantic patter against his ribs.
“Fuck — you're —,” he gasped with a trembling whisper as he lay there in the cooling dark, trembling and spent from the illusory feeling of your weight. That soothing voice was still echoing in his mind, leaving him more desperate for the real thing than he’d ever been in his entire life.
Minutes later, Dean stumbled towards the bathroom, his legs feeling like jelly and his skin still flushed from the friction. He cleaned himself up with the cool water doing little to dampen the remaining pleasurable sensation of you. He felt wrecked, a shivering version of himself, desperately trying to pull his composure back together before the sun came up.
Thirsty and feeling the post orgasmic ache in his core, he crept down towards the kitchen, hoping to grab a glass of water without making a sound. But as he rounded the corner, the sight of you stopped him dead in his tracks.
You were sitting on the couch, a half finished whiskey in your hand, a stack of lore books spread out on the coffee table in front of you. The low light of the lamp casting long shadows across your face, making you look even more formidable, even more grounded.
“Can’t sleep?”
The question came in that same coarse rumble that had been haunting his dreams only minutes before. Dean felt his knees actually weaken — a traitorous heat instantly blooming at his clit as if he hadn’t just finished coming to the thought of you. He had to physically grip the doorframe to keep from swaying.
“Nah,” he managed, forcing his voice to stay steady, though it came out a fraction higher than usual. He plastered on his best ‘tough guy’ nonchalance, leaning against the wall with a practise ease that felt entirely fake, “Just… thirsty. Brain won’t shut up, ya know?”
He kept his eyes averted, terrified that if he looked at you too long, he’d lose his fucking mind. But, he could feel the heat of your gaze on him, a heavy masculine weight that made his skin prickle. He focused intensely on a random spot on the floor.
“I hear that,” you replied before taking a slow sip of your drink, the movement effortless. “Sometimes the world’s too loud, even when it’s quiet.”
Dean nodded, a very jerky and unconvincing movement. “Yeah, tell me about it.”
He finally risked a singular glance at you, and his heart nearly stopped. You were looking at him, your expression unreadable, but your eyes sharp. It’s as if you could see right through his ‘tough guy’ facade and straight into the trembling mess.
You set the whiskey down, your gaze softening with a genuine, steady warmth that only makes his heart hammer harder. “What’s going on, Dean?” you ask, voice dropping into a comforting register. “You know you can talk to me about anything, sport. Whatever’s on your mind — I’ll help.”
Sport.
The term of casual, masculine endearment hits him like a physical blow, that makes his pussy throb with a sudden, shameful ache.
How the fuck am I supposed to tell you that?
He wants to scream it. He wants to grab the front of your shirt, pull your frame down until your lips are inches from his and tell you that the only thing keeping him sane is the desperate, pulsing need to feel you inside him. He doesn’t want you to just be a listening ear; he wants you to act on your words firmly too.
Ugh, fuck.
He needs your calloused hands pinning his wrists or your thick fingers stretching him wide till he sobs — or better yet, your heavy cock driving into his weeping pussy till his brain’s fucking empty. The ache is getting unbearable by each grovelling minute. It’s a heavy, wet throb that him want to sink to his knees right there on the kitchen linoleum. He needs the pressure, the weight, the stable masculinity.
He needs you to stop being his “mentor” and start being the person who ruins him.
“Just… thinking about the case,” Dean lies, the words feeling like ash in his mouth. He forces a lopsided, cocky grin — the kind he’s used a thousand times to hide the fact that he’s falling apart.
Unfortunately his eyes betray him. Pining green lingers a second too long on the way your throat moves when you swallow or the way your large hands were splayed upon the case studies.
“The case can wait ‘til morning, Dean. You look like you’re wound tighter than a guitar string.” You chuckle while gesturing to the empty spot on the couch beside you, “Sit, drink your water — you’re pacing like a caged animal.”
Dean hesitates, his heart performing a frantic drumroll against his ribs. He should go back to his room, back to the safety of his blankets and his lonely aching silence.
But the pull of your presence is too fucking strong.
With stiff movements, he moves towards the couch, trying to mask the way his thighs rub together with every step. He sinks into the cushion beside you, careful to leave a respectful distance — though every instinct in his body is screaming at him to close the gap.
“Yeah, well, the Winchester brain never really shuts off right?” he says, as he takes some heavy sips of his water.
As he drinks, he can’t help — he really can’t help — but steal a glance at you.
Composed and steady, you’re leaning back with the lamp light catching the rugged lines of your face. You look so damn comfortable, so entirely in control of yourself, while he feels like he’s one second away from shattering.
The silence between you stretches thick with everything he isn’t saying. He sets the glass down, his knuckles white as he grips the cushion’s edge. He’s trying to play it cool, trying to be the legendary hunter, but the heat radiating from your body is making it impossible to focus on anything but the proximity of your thigh to his.
“You’re a terrible liar, Dean,” you say softly, not even looking up from your book, though the corner of your mouth twitches with a knowing smirk.
He stiffens, a flush creeping up his neck. “Yeah? And since when did you become an expert on me?”
“Since you started looking at me like you’re starving — and I haven’t even fed you yet?”
The sheer audacity of the comment leaves him breathless. Dean opens his mouth to snap back a witty retort, but the words die in his throat.
You don’t even look up from the page as you reach out, your large hand landing on his thigh. You don’t move it far, but the stable heat was enough to make his breath hitch. His reaction is instinctive. His legs don’t move nor straddle; they widen, his knees falling open in a silent, desperate invitation that he can’t control.
Then, your hand shifts.
Your fingers slide upward, moving with a terrifying, calm precision. Because he was so frantic to get back to bed, he hadn't even pulled his boxers back up, leaving himself completely exposed to the cool air and your sudden touch.
Your digits find the wet heat of his bare pussy, grazing a stripe of his labia, your blunt fingertips catching on the sensitive flesh. Dean lets out a strangled, high pitched gasp, his entire body jolting as if he’d been struck by lightning. He tries to pull his legs back together — to hide the evidence of his shame — but your hand is a heavy anchor, holding him wide and vulnerable.
You finally shift your gaze from the book, your eyes dark and knowing as they land on his flushed, trembling face. You don't pull your hand away; instead, you press a little deeper, your finger curling slightly into his wetness.
"You're soaking," you murmur, your voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates right through him. A smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth. "Naughty boy, been watching some porn late at night?"
"I — it's not — " Dean stammers, his cocky facade completely demolished. He's staring at you, his eyes wide and glazed with terror and lust. He looks like a man caught red-handed, his chest heaving as he tries to find a lie that doesn't sound pathetic.
"It's not — it's not like that," he breathes, though the way his hips instinctively tilt toward your hand tells a completely different story.
You let out a low chuckle, finally closing the book and setting it aside. You don't pull your hand back; instead, you increase the pressure, your thumb beginning to grind slow, heavy circles against his clit, catching on the wetness he's been producing all night.
"Then what is it, Dean?" you demand, your voice dropping an octave, becoming that commanding tone that makes his insides melt. "Because you're dripping all over my hand, and you're shaking like you're waiting for me to do something about it?"
Dean can't even find the breath to argue. His head falls back against the couch cushion, his eyes fluttering shut as he lets out a broken, needy whine. The sensation of your thumb grinding against his clit is too much; it’s the exact friction he’d been trying to mimic with his own fingers in the dark, but your hand is larger, heavier, and infinitely more authoritative.
"Please —" he whimpers, the word slipping out before he can censor it. He doesn't even know what he's asking for. More pressure? More fingers, or the real thing he just knows the ache in his pussy is screaming for relief?
You lean in closer, your shadow swallowing him whole. The scent of your skin, mixed with the faint aroma of alcohol and tobacco, wraps around him like a physical weight.
"Please what, Dean?" you murmur against the shell of his ear, your warm breath hot against his skin. "You want me to stop — or do you want me to show you exactly what you were dreaming about?"
Dean's eyes snap open, glazed and unfocused, as he lets out a shuddering breath. He can't even lie anymore; the truth is written in the way his hips buck weakly against your hand, seeking more of that brutal, grounding pressure.
"Don't stop," he chokes out, his voice a mere thread of sound, stripped of all its usual bravado. "Please — don't stop."
You grin, a slow, predatory curve of your lips, as you slide a second finger deep into his tight, pulsing heat. The sudden fullness makes him cry out, a sharp, needy sound that echoes in the quiet kitchen, but you don't let him recover. You start to move, your fingers working with a rhythmic, punishing pace that drives him straight back toward the breadth of you.
You haul him up effortlessly, dragging his body until he's straddling your massive thigh, his back pressed flush against your chest. Your left hand fists in his hair before sliding down to grip his jaw, tilting his face at a sharp angle. You press your lips to his in a bruising, demanding kiss, then abruptly yank his head to the side, holding him there so he can feel your breath against his ear.
"Look at you," you murmur, your voice a controlled, gravelly purr. "You're fucking soaking, Dean. Every time I move my fingers, you squelch. Tell me truthfully, have you been touching yourself like this all night?”
Dean swallows hard, his throat working against your grip. "No," he gasps out, the lie tasting bitter even as his hips betray him by grinding harder against your palm. "Just, some lousy porn — nothing else."
You don't call him out immediately. Instead, you let the silence stretch, the only sound is the wet, rhythmic slap of your fingers working inside him.
In the corner of the room, Dean's eyes catch your reflection in the dusty mirror. The sight of himself completely exposed, helpless, and being handled like a toy sends a fresh wave of shame and arousal crashing through him. He knows he's lying; he knows you can see every tremor in his body. But he can't stop looking.
His gaze drops down the mirror's reflection, trailing past your broad shoulder to where your hand is buried between his thighs. He watches as your fingers disappear into his slick folds, working with a ruthless efficiency that makes his vision blur.
In the mirror, he sees your thumb hook under the sensitive edge of his flesh, pulling his labia wide to expose the raw, swollen pink of his entrance.
"Look at that," you murmur against his ear, your breath hot enough to scald. "Look how fucking open you are for me. Look at how you're begging for it."
Dean's breath hitches as he stares at the reflection. Seeing it from the outside — seeing how your thick fingers stretch him apart — how his own pussy glistens and pulses around your knuckles makes the reality of his degradation hit him like a freight train.
"Fuck," he chokes out, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as his hips buck involuntarily. "Fuck, please — please!"
"Shhh, easy now, Dean," you coo, your voice dripping with that infuriatingly calm, patronising affection. You sound less like a lover and more like someone soothing a needy puppy — which only makes his blood boil and his pussy clench tighter. "There we go. Just let it happen, don't fight it."
You pick up the pace, your fingers working with a cruel, precise rhythm that targets every nerve ending he has. Dean's hips buck violently against your thigh, his back arching until his spine cracks audibly.
A wrecked, high pitched keen tears from his throat as his orgasm hits sudden and overwhelming. His body shudders uncontrollably as he spills over your fingers, his vision swimming behind closed eyelids.
But you don't slow down. You don't let him collapse into the afterglow. The moment his tremors begin to subside, you immediately resume the punishing stroke.
Dean gasps, his eyes snapping open in genuine shock.
"Wait fuck no, I can't — " His voice breaks as he glances back at you over his shoulder, his expression one of pure bewilderment.
His brain is short circuiting; he knows he's already come multiple times tonight, alone in his bed, exhausted and desperate. His body should be spent, his nerves fried, but the way you're touching him the overwhelming authority of your hand is forcing new waves of arousal through him that shouldn't exist.
"What's wrong, champ?" you murmur, your thumb finding that sensitive spot again with unerring accuracy. You tighten your grip on his jaw, forcing him to meet your amused gaze. "Already spent? After all that lying?"
"I'm — I'm already —" he stammers, his hips jerking involuntarily as your thumb finds that perfect, swollen nerve again. "I can't — I'm already fucking empty, I swear to God — "
"Empty?" you interrupt, your chuckle dangerously as you lean closer, your lips brushing against his ear. "You don't know shit about being empty, Dean. You're just sensitive. Your body is still screaming for more."
You increase the pressure, your fingers sliding deeper, stretching him wider with each thrust. You're working him open, your blunt fingertips slick with his arousal as you relentlessly massage the walls of his pussy.
"If you want the real thing tonight, you need to be ready for it," you murmur, your voice dropping into something darker, more utilitarian. "You need to be loose — you need to be fucking dripping so I can slide right in without tearing you apart. Consider this an investment."
Dean's head lolls back against your shoulder, his breathing coming in shallow, confused pants. "An investment? What the fuck are you — "
His words die in his throat when he shifts slightly, his ass grinding against your thigh.
In that movement, he feels it: the unmistakable, rock hard ridge of your cock pressing through the denim of your jeans, poking insistently against the sensitive cleft of his ass. The heat of it radiates through his clothes, a promise of something far more devastating than your fingers.
The realisation hits him like a physical blow. You weren't just tormenting him for sport, nor were you being cruel. You were prepping him. Every punishing stroke, every forced climax, every stretch of his labia had been calculated to make his body surrender completely to what was coming next.
"Oh," he breathes, the syllable more of a whimper than a confession. His clit throbs painfully, slick with the evidence of his own undoing, while the hard bulge behind him promises a different kind of fullness entirely.
"Oh," he repeats, his eyes blown wide as they fix on your reflection in the mirror, seeing the way your erection strains against your jeans right where his ass meets your thigh. "Oh god," he chokes out, his hips stuttering in a helpless attempt to both escape and press closer.
"I'll pull one or two more orgasms out of you, Dean," you state plainly, your tone as matter of fact as if you were discussing the weather. "Maybe three, if you're as good as I think you are."
"No — fuck you, I can't — " Dean protests, his voice cracking as he tries to twist away from your relentless fingers. But there's nowhere to go.
Your body is a wall behind him, and your hand on his jaw is an iron vise that keeps him exactly where you want him. He can only squirm, his hips bucking uselessly against your thigh in a desperate, futile attempt to regain some semblance of control.
Smack!
The sound of your palm connecting with his jaw is sharp and startling in the quiet room. It isn't enough to hurt him, but it's firm enough to shock the protest right out of his lungs.
You hold his face steady, forcing him to meet your gaze. "Listen to me, Dean. What you see in those stupid fucking porn videos — that's all bullshit. Real sex requires preparation — and I'm the one teaching you how to actually handle it. You need to learn how to take this."
You lean in closer, your lips grazing his earlobe while your fingers work deeper, stretching his slick walls with increasing urgency. "Now, you're going to be a good boy and accept this. Say it, say you'll take whatever I give you."
"I — I won't —" Dean starts to protest, but you tighten your grip on his jaw, applying just enough pressure to remind him who holds the power here.
"Wrong answer," you command, your voice dropping to that stern register that leaves no room for argument. "I want to hear you say it properly, through every one of those pathetic little gasps."
Dean's body betrays him completely. His hips roll forward in a desperate, involuntary search for friction as your fingers stretch him to his limit. A broken, strangled noise escapes his throat as he finally surrenders to the authority in your voice.
"I'll — fuck — I'll take it," he manages to choke out, his words punctuated by sharp, hitched gasps that leave him panting. "I'll take — whatever you give me."
"Good boy," you murmur, the praise dripping with that same patronising satisfaction. You give his jaw one last firm squeeze before releasing him, though you don't pull away.
Instead, you let your hand slide down from his face to rest heavily on his chest, feeling the frantic, rabbit quick hammering of his heart beneath his ribs.
"See?" you whisper, your breath hot against his neck. "That wasn't so hard, was it? Now we know you're listening."
The room falls into a heavy, charged silence, broken only by the ragged sound of Dean's breathing. His body has finally gone boneless against you, his muscles twitching with the aftershocks of the orgasm you forced out of him. He drips freely, sending warm rivulets of cum down your thigh.
You withdraw your fingers slowly, the wet sound of your exit making him whimper. Without hesitation, you take those slick, swollen fingers and press them against his mouth.
He doesn't resist, leaning into the touch, his eyes rolling back as he begins to suckle on your fingers — tasting the salty, unmistakable evidence of himself. He heaves against your chest, his mouth working around your knuckles with a desperate, unconscious hunger, seeking comfort in the very thing that just broke him.
While he is momentarily occupied, lost in that haze of shame and sensory overload, you give him a moment to catch his breath against your shoulder. Your fingers slip free from his mouth, leaving him panting and dazed, but you don't release your hold on his waist. You keep him pinned against you, anchoring him while you shift to the next phase of your plan.
With one hand still possessively wrapped around his middle, you reach down with the other. Your movements are efficient, practiced, and utterly calm as you unbuckle your belt with a metallic click that sounds deafening in the quiet room.
You work the zipper down, and then, with a gradual motion, you free your aching cock from your jeans.
Dean's breath hitches audibly as he feels the sudden change in temperature and weight beneath him. He shifts his hips slightly, and his eyes go wide as he sees the thick size of you lying just beneath his thighs.
The heat coming off your cock is staggering, a physical force that makes his entire lower body tremble. His gaze drops to where your cock presses against his swollen pussy, already wet with the mess of his own orgasms.
"Oh god —" he murmurs, his voice barely a thread of sound, thick with awe and terror. "It's so — it's so big —"
He can feel the sheer girth of you spreading his folds apart even before you make contact. He's terrified of how much he wants it, terrified of how perfectly his body seems to be reaching for you despite the exhaustion still clinging to his limbs.
As you prepare to make your move, your hand dips into your pocket. The crinkle of plastic fills the space between you as you tear open a sachet.
Dean catches the sound, his eyes darting to the packet in your hand. A weak, self deprecating laugh escapes his lips — a pathetic attempt to reclaim some dignity through humor.
"You — you always carry lube around with you?" he manages to wheeze out, trying to sound teasing when his voice is clearly trembling.
"I was going to go out to the bar tonight," you reply, your tone casual, and utterly unbothered by his attempt at levity. "But then I heard your pretty little whines coming down the hallway." You let out a dark chuckle at the way his face instantly floods with a deep, mortified crimson. "Figured I'd come see what all the noise was about instead."
The implication hangs heavy in the air between you.
You begin to lather the sweet scented slick over your cock, the clear gel catching the dim light as you coat yourself from base to tip. Then, with deliberate slowness, you smear the rest over his dripping labia, ensuring every inch of his entrance is glistening and ready.
Even after the work you've put in, you can feel the resistance beneath your touch; despite the lube and his arousal, his body is still coiled tight.
"Your walls are quite thin, Dean," you murmur, watching how his pupils dilate at the implication.
His heart hammers against your chest. The realisation that you've been listening to him every desperate moan, every wet slap of his own hand against his thighs every single night since you arrived here threatens to overwhelm him. But there is no room for shame now.
His entire universe has shrunk down to the point of contact between his pussy and the massive heat between your cock and his pussy. He's too far gone, too consumed by the physical presence of you to even process the humiliation of being caught.
So, he gives a tentative, desperate grind, his hips rolling against your cock in a silent plea for friction.
You glance down at the sight of him in your lap, watching how his hips stutter against you. His desperate self is thinking exactly the right way. You can see it in the way he arches, seeking that contact, begging for the fullness he knows is coming. Good. You'll let him have this — you'll let him work for it, getting a job out of him first, letting him ride that slick heat until he's begging for mercy.
But you aren't planning on being gentle when you finally decide to fuck him mean. You've spent the last hour preparing him, stretching him, and breaking his resistance, all so you can fuck him without hesitation.
"Slow down, Dean. I told you we're still prepping."
You grip his hips with bruising force, your fingers digging into the soft flesh above his pelvic bones to anchor him. However, you don't let him sink down. You simply hold him just at the threshold, forcing him to hover there, suspended between desperate need and the agonising promise of fullness.
"But please — " Dean gasps, his voice breaking as he tries to push downward, his hips stuttering in an involuntary attempt to impale himself on your cock. "I need — I need you inside — fuck, please."
"I said slow," you growl, your voice dropping into that stern tone that brooks no argument. "You're still too tight. If I push you now, you'll tear, and I'm not interested in hearing you scream from pain instead of pleasure."
It's a lie, and his younger, desperate mind knows exactly what you're doing, but he's too far gone to care about the deception. He can feel the truth in the way your cock pulses against his pussy, teasing the very edge of his folds without giving him the release he's starving for.
"I'm not fucking you yet," you murmur, your breath hot against the nape of his neck as you begin to move him. "We're going to work this friction until you're completely slick, until you're begging me to ruin you."
Instead of pushing inside, you begin to guide his hips in a slow, punishing grind. You force him to slide his pussy along the entire length of your cock, but only on the outside.
You make sure his clit catches repeatedly against the sensitive ridge of you, the friction sending sparks of electricity straight to his brain. The wet, squelching sound of your cock sliding between his labia fills the room as fills the space between your bodies.
Every time he grinds down, you make sure he feels the full, unforgiving texture of your cock sliding between, never letting him slip past the entrance
You keep him exactly where you want him: hovering on the precipice of ecstasy, his pussy’s stretched taut and glistening with lube as it rubs relentlessly against you.
"Please, please, please —" Dean whines, his head tossing back against your shoulder as his hips stutter in a desperate rhythm. "It's — it's too much, I can't — "
"You can, and you will," you cut him off, your grip tightening on his hips to control the pace. "Feel that? That's what happens when you don't know how to prepare yourself properly."
You deliberately angle your cock so that each downward roll of his hips forces his clit to scrape directly against the edge beneath your cock's head.
"Please — fuck, please just fuck me already," Dean sobs, his voice breaking into something raw and pathetic. His hips are working in frantic, uncoordinated jerks, trying to force his way down, but your hands are like iron shackles around his pelvic bones.
You move him with effortless, terrifying strength, sliding his pussy up and down your cock as if he weighs nothing at all, controlling every millimetre of friction.
"Shhh, easy, sport. Don't get ahead of yourself," you coo, pressing tender kisses to his sweat slicked temples.
You sound like a guardian angel soothing a frightened soul, but internally, you're scoffing at how goddamn easy this is. His body is responding to every single movement with desperate, unguarded need; his pussy is practically begging for the invasion, slick and pliant under your expert torment.
"I can't — I'm gonna — " he gasps, his entire body trembling as he teeters on the razor's edge of another orgasm, his breath coming in short, broken whimpers. His hips stutter helplessly against you, his pussy already raw from the relentless grinding — each movement sending fresh waves of overstimulation through his already fried nerves.
"I'm gonna fuck, I'm gonna cum —"
"Not yet," you murmur against his ear, your voice dripping with mock concern. You maintain that torturous rhythm for three more agonising seconds, pushing him to the absolute brink where his vision blurs and his muscles lock up, before suddenly stopping.
You pull back just enough to feel the cool air hit his slick skin, then you give his ass a cheerful, affectionate pat. "Okay, now you're ready."
Before he can even process the sudden absence of friction, you manhandle him. With practiced ease, you flip him over on the couch, pressing his chest down into the cushions while forcing his hips high into the air. You plant yourself behind him, your knees bracketing his thighs as you spread his ass wide with both hands.
The sight is perfect — his pussy all flushed a deep shade, glistening with lube and his own releases, stretched open and waiting.
"There we go," you murmur, the tenderness gone from your voice, replaced by something hungry and predatory. "Now we can actually begin."
You don't pound into him straight away. You don't give him the violent release he's begging for. Instead, you press the broad, blunt head of your cock against his entrance and begin to push, inch by agonising inch.
Dean's entire body jerks as he feels the intrusion. "Ah fuck! Oh god, it's — it's too — " His voice cracks as he realises you aren't rushing. You're taking your time, forcing his tight walls to accommodate your girth one excruciating inch at a time.
You reach forward, threading your fingers through his hair and yanking his head back just enough so you can watch his face. His eyes are blown wide, pupils swallowed by irises as they fix on yours, glassy with tears and overwhelmed by the sensation of being split open.
"Look at me, Dean," you command, your voice a low, dangerous purr. "See how well you take it?"
You push again, a slow, inexorable advance that forces his pussy to stretch to its absolute limit. The wet, sucking sound of your cock sliding past his tight entrance echoes in the quiet room.
Each inch feels like an eternity, each millimetre a new lesson in surrender. His walls flutter around you, clenching desperately as they try to accommodate the invading girth, but you don't give an inch of slack.
"Fuck — it's so big — you're stretching me so much " Dean whines, his fingers clawing into the couch cushions.
His breath comes in ragged, terrified gasps as you continue your methodical assault. The resistance is delicious the way his muscles spasm and fight against the intrusion before finally yielding to the overwhelming pressure.
"That's it, Dean. Take it all," you whisper, your voice devoid of any real sympathy as you drive deeper. "Every single inch."
You watch with clinical fascination as his body reacts to the fullness. The sensation of his tight pussy gripping you is intoxicating — a warm vice that threatens to undo even your own composure.
"I'm — I'm full, oh god — you're so deep — " he chokes out, his back arching involuntarily as you finally bottom out against his cervix.
The teasing is over. The performance of the gentle mentor has been discarded like yesterday's trash, replaced by something far more primal.
You shift your weight, planting your knees wider to brace yourself as you settle into a brutal, relentless position. One hand remains buried in his hair — not to soothe him this time — but to hold his head exactly where you want it tilted back. Just enough so you can watch every expression of his degradation.
"That's enough playing around, sport," you growl, your voice dropping the pretense of sweetness. It's cold now, hard as flint, the voice of someone who has stopped asking permission and started taking what belongs to them. "Time to actually fuck you properly."
Without warning, you drive forward. You don't ease in anymore; you thrust into him with powerful, piston-like paces that send his entire body bunching forwards against the couch cushions.
Each thrust is deep and utterly relentless, forcing the air from his lungs in ragged, broken cries. You're not interested in his comfort anymore; you're only interested in his capacity to endure you.
"Look at this pussy," you sneer, your free hand coming down to slap against his thigh as you drive home again. "So fucking messy. So fucking desperate." You lean down, your mouth close to his ear as you continue the brutal rhythm. "Bobby talks about you like you're some kind of legend, Dean. A grand hunter — the best there is. But right now? All I see is a needy little boy who can't even handle being filled up."
Dean can't even form coherent sentences. He just nods dumbly against the cushion, his brain short circuiting from the intensity of the penetration.
He's lost in the sensation of you stretching him apart, shattering under the onslaught. He can only manage weak, incoherent sounds that dissolve into wet whimpers every time you bottom out against him.
"Listen to those moans, Dean," you chuckle darkly, the sound vibrating against his spine as you pick up the pace, your thrusts becoming faster, more punishing. "Goddamn, they're fucking pornographic. If Sam or Bobby heard you right now, they wouldn't be able to tell the difference between you and some R-rated video — you sound exactly like what you are: a fucktoy."
The words hit him harder than the physical impact, but he has no defense.
His body betrays him with every word, his pussy clenching around your cock in desperate, involuntary spasms that only make you want to fuck him harder. You reach around, your palm connecting with the meat of his ass in a sharp, stinging spank that makes him cry out.
"Such a pretty ass, too," you drawl, your voice dripping with cruel amusement as you deliver another smack that leaves a blooming red handprint across his pale skin. "All flushed and shaking for me."
You watch with predatory satisfaction as his body arches involuntarily, his hips stuttering against your cock in a futile attempt to find some kind of rhythm amidst the chaos you're creating.
His tears have begun to spill freely now, dampening the couch cushions as he sobs through each deepening thrust, but you don't stop. If anything, the sight of his breakdown only fuels your hunger.
"God, you're gorgeous when you're breaking like this," you murmur, your grip tightening on his hair to yank his head back further, forcing him to meet your cold, hungry gaze. "So helpless — so fucking perfect."
As you drive yourself into him again, your cock sliding through the slick, messy heat of him, your free hand slides down, fingers tracing the sensitive edge where his pussy meets his ass.
You pause there for a heartbeat, the tip of your cock grinding against his inner walls while your touch lingers dangerously close to his tight, puckered hole.
"You know what I'm thinking about, Dean?" you chuckle darkly, your breath hot against his ear as you watch his hips quiver in terror. "All this mess, all this wetness — it's a shame it's only coming from one hole."
You deliver one last, devastating thrust that makes him cry out in a high, broken note, before leaning down to whisper the promise that makes his entire body freeze.
"Next time, I'm not stopping at your pussy — I'm going to open you up right here, too. I'm going to stretch that pretty little asshole until you can't even remember how to walk straight."
You watch as the threat sinks in, his entire body going rigid beneath you, every muscle locking up in terror at the prospect of what's to come. The way his breath hitches, the way his pussy clenches around you in a desperate, instinctive attempt to protect itself — it's intoxicating.
"That's it, freeze for me," you growl, feeling the delicious tightness of his internal muscles as they spasm around your cock. "Let that fear sink in. Let it make you even wetter."
You don't give him a moment to recover. You resume the mean rhythm, each thrust more punishing than the last, driving him further into the cushions.
You want him to remember this feeling — the feeling of being completely owned, completely exposed — and utterly powerless against the promise of what you'll do to him next.
The final thrusts come with an unrelenting force that leaves Dean completely undone.
His body has reached its absolute limit; his muscles have gone beyond exhaustion into a state of pure, boneless surrender. As you feel your own orgasm building your balls heavy and aching with the need to release you lean down, your voice rough and demanding.
"Should I cum inside you, Dean? Should I fill you up with everything I've got?"
He doesn't even hesitate. His mind is too fried, his body too overwhelmed to consider the consequences. He simply nods dumbly against the cushion — a pathetic, desperate movement that says he doesn't care if he gets pregnant, doesn't care about Bobby, doesn't care about anything except the relief of your cum flooding his abused insides.
"Attaboy," you growl.
With one last, bone-deep lunge, you bottom out against him, cumming in hot, thick pulses that fill him to the brim.
Dean's body convulses beneath you, a final, weak tremor running through his spine as the overwhelming sensation of being filled sends him spiraling past the point of conscious thought. His breathing becomes shallow, erratic gasps before smoothing out into the heavy, unconscious rhythm of someone who has simply given up.
"Fuck, sport," you grumble, a snarky, almost disappointed sound escaping your throat as you feel his strength drain away entirely. He's teetering on the edge of passing out, his limbs going limp as his brain shuts down to escape the sensory overload. "Look at you. Can't even stay awake for the best part."
You feel him slipping away, his forehead pressing limply against the couch cushions. You lean down, your voice dropping into that dark, possessive comfort that promises no escape. "Don't worry, you'll stay right here — I'll continue fucking my fill. After all, this is exactly what you've been craving all these weeks, isn't it?"
You watch with cruel satisfaction as his consciousness finally fractures.
Dean's body goes completely boneless, his face pressed limply into the fabric of the couch, tears still wet on his cheeks. He has passed out, his mind unable to process any more of the exquisite torment you've inflicted.
He lies there in a state of beautiful, broken surrender: face down, ass up, completely exposed to your whims.
Even as he sleeps, you aren't finished.
The rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh fills the room as you continue to claim him, your thrusts methodical and unhurried now that he can no longer fight back or beg for mercy. Poor boy.
Maybe he should’ve thought twice before desperately chasing after the heat of someone double his age, double his intelligence, and double his lust.
Watching his tired form twitch under your touch brings a surge of dark triumph that no supernatural battle could ever match.
You think to yourself how fortunate you were that you agreed to take on Bobby's request for this particular case; it had promised danger, but it delivered something far more intoxicating. The raw power of breaking a legend, the feel of his flooded pussy clenching around you even in his stupor is undoubtedly the most exhilarating sensation you have ever experienced.
It surpasses every hunt, every demon slain, and every supernatural victory you've ever claimed. As you drive yourself home one last time, you realise that this conquest is the only reward that truly matters.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @hisokamywaifu
$ log - riding steve rogers reverse cowgirl because the argument will continue even while you crave his cock.
$ warn --nsfw --dom!afab!reader --sub!steve --reverse-cowgirl --whiny-and-devoted --begging --clit-play --lowk-using-him-like-a-toy
$ cd masterlist / steve-rogers
even though you're absolutely fuming, you're still grinding down hard with the friction of his cock filing you up spending pleasurable sparks through your nerves. you keep your back to him, shoulders tense, refusing to give him the satisfaction of eye contact.
"could you please turn around, honey?" steve's voice is rough, strained from the way your pussy grounds out around him.
"shut up, steve," you huff, rolling your hips in a slow, punishing circle, "i'm still pissed at you — you completely blew off our planned date tonight."
his massive palms slide up from your thighs to settle onto your waist. his thumbs find the base of your spine, massaging the muscle there in a way that makes your clit throb despite your anger.
"as much as i love your —" he pauses, gazing down at the way you sucked him, rode it out, grinded and repeated. " — tush, i do love seeing your gorgeous face, sweetheart," he whines softly.
you roll your eyes, leaning forwards slightly to prod his tip at a different angle within you.
"tush? what the — i told you, no one says that anymore," you mutter, though your hips betray you by stuttering against his cock.
"ah, my apologies," he breathes out, voice dropping an octave as his hands slid down to cup your arse. he squeezes firmly as you ride him. "i meant your ass is beautiful. but i would like to see my love, so please could you turn arou —"
you don't listen, instead reaching down to work your clit while you maintain that gruelling find. the friction is too good to stop. you can hear him whining behind you like a pathetic puppy (you almost give in).
steve soon realises his little pleas were getting him nowhere past your stubbornness. he opts to just watching you ride him like so. that is till he notices your thighs trembling in that familiar manner.
"why are you doing that?" he whimpers, sounding genuinely distressed. "why won't you let me make you cum?"
he hates being useless, especially when he knows he's the one who messed up.
"let me do it, please," he begs, voice cracking with desperation. warm hands move from your backside to your inner thighs, forcing them wider so he can get closer to where you're touching yourself.
he's practically imploring for permission to make amends, his girth twitching inside you as he watches you just use him like a toy.
"you don't get to make up for tonight by just being good in bed, steve," you snap, ignoring the way your voice breaks when his fingers finally make contact with your clit — replacing your own unsteady touch with a his steady, practiced pressure.
he groans at your defiance, but he doesn't stop. he increase the pace of his hips beneath you, trying to meet every punishing grind you give him. "i know, i know, i'll make it up to you — tomorrow, next week, whatever you want — just let me take care of you right now, please —"
his thumb digs into your hips, anchoring you to him as he drives upwards with increasing urgency. the combination of his thick cock stretching you open and those calloused digits working magic on your clit was just enough to send you over the edge.
you gasp out his name — with some swear words due to residue annoyance — as your hips stuttered in a desperate rhythm as your orgasm washed over.
"that's it, honey — let go, m'giving you everything —" steve murmurs against the nape of your neck, breath hot and shaky, sounding so damn relieved as you cum. he's even holding back his aching hardness! his entire body's rigid as he fights the overwhelming urge to cum along with you.
maybe that will land some gold stars by his name later in the night.
once the remnants of your orgasm pass over, you let out an amused growl over your shoulder.
"fine. you can use your fingers," you huff, voice slightly breathless, but you can feel that underlying tenacity resting. "but i'm still not looking at you."
steve's breath catch audibly — a win is a win. he will put on his best performance tonight, watch the freak out. he wants to hear you cum, to hear you lose control even if you're still pretending to hate him. so devoted to your pleasure he is, as he leaves a chaste kiss to your forehead, murmuring a sweet anything you want, sweetheart.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus @hisokamywaifu @lj-to-lz
$ log - bending steve rogers over his desk to teach him a lesson on writing proper, professional mission reports, since he clearly couldn't do it right!
$ warn --nsfw --mean!amab!reader --dom!top!reader --sub!bot!steve --begging--degradation --spanking --edging --over-the-desk --dumbification
$ cd masterlist / steve-rogers
you had steve bent double over his own desk, broad shoulders trembling as you thrusted into him, punishing force. one hand was clamped cruelly on his waist, while your other hand casually held the printed mission report, skimming the lines of his failure.
"incompetent," you scoffed, "can't hold a perimeter without losing sight of the flank. this report is as sloppy as your lead during the recon. and i'm to blame?"
steve let out a broken groan, eyes unfocused as he stared at his desktop monitor. his hands trembled, fingers slipping on the keys as he tries to correct the errors you were mocking.
you leaned forwards, your chest pressing against his back — which coincidentally lodged your cock even deeper into his tight arse. the sudden deep intrusion made steve cry out, high-pitched, strangled.
his fingers jerked on the keyboard, sending a string of random characters across the screen.
"i think you're missing a semicolon there," you chuckle, your free hand dropping to thumb his nipple with a bruising pressure.
"god, please," steve gasped, eyes water as he stared at the monitor to find the cursor through his hazed pleasure. "i'll fix it, just — fuck, please — harder —"
"too formal," you scoffed, reading the second paragraph, "tone's far too stiff for a report, stevie. reads more like a damn textbook than a log."
smack!
you delivered a stinging slap to america's fine arse, making him jolt too violently that his forehead nearly hit the screen. "watch your typing, captain. a mistake in the syntax and you're getting another one."
"i'm trying — s'too much, oh god," steve sobbed, his voice a slurred mess. tears of pure sensory overload leaked from the corners of his eyes, as he stared at the screen. his vision was swimming; he was being fucked dumb.
his brain was turning to mush under the relentless, heavy thrusts that kept him hovering on the mean edge of an orgasm he wasn't allowed to reach.
every time he tried to focus on the cursor, you'd drive into him with a sickening squelch, churning through the mess of your previous releases already coating his insides.
"there's an error in the third sentence — 'deployment' is spelt wrong. steve, are you really that distracted?"
smack!
another harsh palm landed on his backside, making him let out an undignified yelp. his fingers danced clumsily over the keys, hitting 'delete' far too many times as he struggled to regain his composure.
"i'm sorry — god, please — just one minute of peace —" he was begging desperately, voice cracking with the frustration of being kept on the edge, his ignored cock twitching and leaking uselessly past his desk. you held him there, practically buried to the hilt.
"peace is for people who get their work done right, steve." you countered, your voice dropping to a predatory growl. he whimpered at your words, eyes rolling back at your prodding tip. "you're far from deserving of that."
you pat his reddening arse —soft but it stung lightly — "chop, chop, get on with the third paragraph now."
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus
