Obsession
possessive!bucky barnes x reader
summary: You don’t even really like Bucky Barnes — he’s grumpy, kinda mean, and totally clueless about how you feel. But damn, he’s so hot it’s driving you crazy. Every time he walks in, all you can think about is what it’d be like if he just took you right there. You try to play it cool… but yeah, that’s not happening.
word count: 6021
WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, masturbation, dirty talk, degrading, praising, desperation, fingering, teasing, PiV, unprotected sex, rough sex and he talks through it, breeding, overstimulation, oral (m receiving), possessive behavior.
A/N: i’m horny, okay?…
You don’t have a crush on Bucky Barnes.
That would imply affection. Admiration. Maybe even a little emotional investment.
You don’t have any of that.
What you do have is a deeply inconvenient, soul-destroying case of lust. A constant, throbbing ache between your legs every time he walks past. A full-body reaction to the way he stretches, or leans on the counter, or wears those fucking grey sweatpants like a goddamn weapon.
It’s chemical. It’s hormonal. It’s not personal.
Because Bucky Barnes is grumpy. Bucky Barnes is quiet. And Bucky Barnes has absolutely no idea that he’s the reason you can’t go three days without needing to fuck yourself stupid.
Like right now.
He’s just standing there in the kitchen, back to you, broad shoulders stretching that worn black Henley like it’s a second skin. His hair’s short now, freshly trimmed at the nape, the kind of cut that shows off the sharp line of his jaw, the back of his neck.
You’re staring. Again.
You don’t mean to. But he makes a little grunt when he stretches — just a tired noise, nothing sexual — and you nearly whimper like a kicked dog. Instinct. Pavlovian response.
And he doesn’t notice. Not even a flicker of awareness as he pours his coffee and walks out, oblivious, muttering something about the mission report.
You just stand there, holding a spoon, clenched thighs and flushed cheeks like you’ve just been fucked by the idea of him.
It’s getting worse.
Like, medically worse.
You’ve gone from horny to feral to clinically unwell, and it’s all because of one man.
One grumpy, emotionally constipated, vein-poppingly hot man who can’t say a sentence without sounding mildly irritated. Who barely even looks at you unless you’re in the way. Who definitely doesn’t like you — and yet somehow owns your nervous system like a fucking landlord.
And it’s not fair.
Because he’s not even nice to you.
He’s short with you in meetings. Scoffs when you crack jokes. Gives you that look when you say something mildly reckless on a mission — like you’re exhausting. Like you’re annoying.
But then he’ll do something that ruins you completely. Like grunt your name low and gravelly when tossing you your gear. Or casually push you out of the line of fire with one big, rough hand and say, “Watch it, sweetheart,” like you’re some dainty little thing.
You pace your room that night, ranting to no one.
“I don’t even like him,” you mutter, folding laundry with violent purpose. “He’s so rude. He never smiles. Doesn’t talk to anyone unless he has to.”
Your shirt gets yanked onto a hanger too hard. You nearly snap it.
“And he doesn’t even like me. Not even a little. I’m just some girl who laughs too loud and gets in his way and—oh my god, I would let him ruin me.”
That’s probably the most honest thing you said all week. You’d let him manhandle you. Throw you over his shoulder. Rail you into the mattress like a war crime. That arm? The metal one? You’ve thought about it. God, you’ve thought about it so much it’s starting to feel like a sin.
You can’t help it.
You collapse onto your bed, still in your T-shirt and underwear, legs kicking uselessly against the sheets. Your body is hot — too hot. Your skin prickles, stomach twisting tight with the sheer need of it.
You shouldn’t do it.
But fuck it — you do.
Your hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties like second nature, no hesitation. You’re already soaked — of course you are. One fucking grunt from Bucky in the kitchen and you’ve been like this all day, wound tight and throbbing.
Your fingers slide through the slick heat of your folds, and your hips twitch. You let out a soft, breathless whimper, biting your lip like it’ll help.
It doesn’t.
He’s all you can think about.
Bucky, with that low rasp of a voice. Bucky, sweat-slicked and panting, muscles straining above you. Bucky, staring down at you like you’re a mess he likes making.
You rub lazy circles around your clit, teasing yourself, letting it build slow. Letting the images crawl behind your eyes:
His hands gripping your thighs, spreading them open.
That cold metal arm wrapped around your throat, holding you in place while he pounds into you, relentless and filthy.
His voice in your ear, rough and possessive —“You been thinkin’ about this, sweetheart? Been touching yourself like a needy little thing?”
Your fingers move faster.
You arch into the mattress, breath stuttering, hips chasing the pressure. Your other hand slides up under your shirt, finds your breast and squeezes hard, tugging at your nipple.
“Fuck,” you whisper, squirming, already so close it’s pathetic.
You imagine his hand — that hand — between your legs. Imagine him shoving your panties to the side with those cool, precise fingers and just… watching you squirm. Watching you come undone with that unreadable expression of his, like he’s filing it away for later.
You imagine him making you come like this. Telling you you’re not allowed to stop. That you’re gonna do it again, and again, until you’re crying.
Your thighs start to shake.
You gasp, pressing harder, grinding down. Your toes curl, muscles tensing, pleasure tearing through you like lightning — sharp, wet, overwhelming.
You come hard, moaning into your pillow, breathless and ruined, hand still trembling between your thighs.
And then?
You lie there. Sticky. Hot. Unsatisfied.
Because no matter how many times you make yourself come, it’s never enough.
Not when it’s him you want.
Not when it’s Bucky fucking Barnes.
———
You’re minding your business. Truly. Peacefully. Drinking your stupid little smoothie, scrolling through intel reports on your tablet, trying so hard not to think about last night and the shame spiral that followed.
You’re in the common room, feet tucked under you, hair up, living a clean and quiet life.
The front door hisses open. Voices filter in—Sam laughing, Nat muttering something dry, Steve’s boots heavy on the floor.
And him.
Bucky.
You don’t look up at first. You don’t need to. You can feel him. Like some sixth sense activated just by his presence, like the air itself is different when he walks into it.
But then you do look up and you regret it immediately.
He’s just back from the field. Tactical gear still clinging to him, black shirt soaked through with sweat in that way that makes it stick to every hard line of muscle underneath. The sleeves are tight around his biceps—dangerously tight—making it look like the fabric’s seconds from giving out under the strain of his arms.
His hair’s damp, just messy enough to be criminal, a few strands sticking to his forehead. Dog tags resting against his chest. Black cargo pants slung low on his hips, clinging to his thighs like they were custom-made by someone with your exact problem.
He’s flushed from exertion, a little dirty, jaw tight like he’s still coming down from combat.
And he doesn’t notice you. He just walks past, arm flexing as he drags his glove off with his teeth.
You actually—physically—have to grip the edge of the couch.
You squeeze your thighs together so tight your eyes almost roll back. Your smoothie is sweating in your hand, condensation dripping onto your leg, and it’s the least of your problems right now.
Because that man?
That man could rail you into next week with the anger he carries in his shoulders alone. You’d let him wreck you in the debriefing room, up against the wall, still wearing that gear and not saying a word.
You’d tear those tactical pants off with your teeth.
And he just keeps walking. Oblivious. Like he’s not singlehandedly dragging you through the gates of horny hell.
“God,” you mutter under your breath, heart hammering. “You’re gonna kill me.”
He pauses for half a second like he might’ve heard you. Glances over his shoulder—just once.
And then he’s gone, down the hall.
You stare at the door for a long time, smoothie forgotten, thighs still clenched like your life depends on it.
You need help. You need prayer. Exorcism. A cold shower.
Or maybe you just need him to ruin your entire existence.
You barely make it back to your room.
Your legs are shaking. Your mind’s a blur. All you can see is him—sweaty, panting, muscles strained beneath that black t-shirt. His arm flexing, the curve of his jaw, those goddamn tactical pants hugging every inch of thigh like a threat.
You lock the door behind you with trembling fingers.
You don’t even bother taking your clothes off properly—just shove your hand down your shorts as you collapse back onto your bed, legs spread, head spinning.
He looked so good.
Your fingers slide through your folds, already wet, your body acting like it’s been starving for him. Like it’s been waiting all day, all year, for a glimpse of that man so it can break down on command.
You rub your clit in tight, needy circles, moaning quietly.
Your eyes flutter shut.
You picture him over you, sweaty and still in gear, that black shirt pushed up just enough to show the cut of his stomach. You imagine his voice, low and rough, right next to your ear—“Couldn’t even wait, huh? Needed me that bad?”
Your hips buck, thighs shaking, pleasure building fast and desperate.
“Fuck—Bucky,” you gasp, breath catching.
You don’t hear the quiet footfalls in the hall.
Don’t hear the door next to yours click shut.
Don’t know he’s just gotten back to his room.
But he hears you.
Bucky stops with one boot halfway unlaced.
He frowns—still half in mission mode—until he hears it again: a faint whimper through the wall. A soft gasp. Then—his name. Muffled. Almost whispered.
His blood goes still.
He steps closer to the wall, heart suddenly pounding, every nerve pulled tight.
Another moan. Higher this time. Desperate.
He can hear the rhythm now—quiet, wet sounds, a bed creaking slightly with every movement. You’re touching yourself. Saying his name. Whimpering like it’s been torturing you.
His mouth goes dry. Something low in his stomach twists.
He shouldn’t listen.
But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe.
You don’t know he’s there—don’t know you’ve already ruined him. That he’s standing on the other side of the wall, jaw clenched, cock straining against his pants, while you moan into your pillow and come with his name on your lips.
———
The next day, you tell yourself you’re fine.
You look fine. You act fine. You sit in the common area with your laptop open and a mug in your hands like a picture of peace. The night before? Never happened. The hand between your thighs? The breathy moans into your pillow? The orgasm that left you limp and half-ashamed?
A delusion. A private, pathetic delusion.
Until he walks in.
And your entire body remembers.
Bucky enters like it’s nothing. Like he’s nothing. Joggers low on his hips, black T-shirt riding up in the back, hair damp from a shower and curling just slightly around his ears.
You look up instinctively.
And he looks right at you.
Your breath catches. Your stomach drops. He holds your gaze for half a second—half a second too long—then nods, casual as ever, and heads to the kitchen.
No hello. No smirk. Nothing to suggest he heard the way you moaned his name with your fingers stuffed between your thighs like you were starving for him.
He doesn’t say a word.
You try to refocus, try to look at your screen and breathe, but your eyes keep flicking back.
He’s moving around the kitchen now, calm, quiet, efficient. Forearms flexing with every movement. The joggers cling when he crouches to grab something from a low cabinet, and your mouth actually goes dry.
Your thighs squeeze together.
He knows.
He has to know.
But he’s pretending like he doesn’t, and it’s driving you fucking insane.
You don’t even want to like him. He’s grumpy and rude and dismissive. He doesn’t flirt. He barely talks. He exists like a thundercloud with muscles and you still want to cry from how badly you want him.
And now he knows.
Now you’ve moaned his name with a hand between your legs, and he’s seen you since and said nothing.
You want to crawl into the floor.
You want to jump him.
You want him to ruin you until you can’t even say your own name.
He walks past you again with a cup of coffee, eyes flicking toward you—slow, heavy, unreadable.
And this time?
You swear there’s a hint of a smirk.
He leans against the counter, sipping his coffee, that black mug dwarfing in his gloved hand. The steam curls around his face, catching the light, and he’s just staring at nothing—completely unreadable.
Until he speaks. “Sleep okay last night?”
You freeze. Your heart flatlines. Then kicks into overdrive.
You glance up too fast, trying to act casual, but your grip on the mug betrays you—tight, white-knuckled.
“Yeah,” you say, blinking. “Why?”
Bucky shrugs. Sips again. His face is all calm, cold stillness. Like he’s discussing the weather. Not like he heard you moaning his name behind the paper-thin wall like your soul was leaving your body.
“Nothing,” he says, low and even.
You swallow hard. Try to hide the heat crawling up your neck.
You stare at him. Waiting for something. A look. A smirk. A single flicker of anything.
But he gives you nothing.
Just turns back toward the hallway, casual as ever, coffee in hand, like he didn’t just dangle a loaded gun over your head and walk away.
And as he disappears down the hall, your thighs press together again.
You’re so fucked.
———
You try to sleep.
You really, really do.
You toss. You turn. You fluff your pillow. You kick the blankets off and pull them back up. You stare at the ceiling and beg your brain to stop replaying the way he looked in that shirt. The way his voice dropped when he asked about your night. The nothing he gave you like a damn grenade and walked away.
It doesn’t stop.
It won’t stop.
You squeeze your thighs together for the fifth time in twenty minutes, but it only makes it worse. Your whole body’s aching—burning. Tight with the need that’s been building for the entire day.
You glance at the door. You know you should get up and lock it.
But you don’t. Because you’re tired. And turned on. And pathetic.
“Fuck it,” you whisper, dragging your hand under the sheets. “I’ll be quiet.”
You bite your lip as your fingers slide down, already warm, already soaked. You work slow at first, trying to stay silent—just enough to relieve the pressure. Just enough to breathe again.
But then your mind starts drifting.
To him.
Always him.
Bucky in the gym, sweat-slick and scowling. Bucky walking past you post-mission like a walking sin. Bucky pressing you into your mattress with that big metal hand wrapped around your throat, voice rough in your ear—“You’re so fucking loud for me, baby.”
You gasp. Then whimper. Soft. Barely audible.
But he hears it.
He’s in his room again. Reading. Trying to pretend like he didn’t spend all day imagining the look on your face when he asked about your sleep. Trying not to picture your hand between your thighs again.
And then he hears you.
Again.
A muffled moan, breathless and aching, like it’s being pulled out of you against your will.
He stands without thinking.
Crosses the hall with quiet, deliberate steps. His pulse is steady, but something low is stirring—something primal. Something possessive. The kind of heat that doesn’t burn—it consumes.
He stops outside your door.
Closed. Not locked.
He doesn’t even knock.
The handle turns with the softest click, and then—
He steps inside. The door shuts behind him with a quiet snick.
You don’t hear it.
You’re on your back, one knee bent, your hand buried under the hem of your shorts. Your head is tipped back against the pillow, mouth open in these soft, gasping little whimpers as you chase the edge, hips twitching, breath fogging in the dim light.
You have no idea he’s there.
Not until you hear him speak.
“Didn’t I just ask if you slept okay?” The voice—his voice—cracks through the quiet like a whip.
You bolt upright.
Everything inside you lurches, heart ramming against your ribs, a violent rush of heat and panic rising through your chest like you’ve been caught in a fire. Your hand yanks back from your shorts like it’s been scorched, and you scramble to pull the blanket up, dragging it over your thighs as your breath shatters.
Your eyes fly to the source of the voice.
And there he is. Leaning against the door like he’s got all the time in the world. Arms crossed. One brow slightly raised.
His expression is unreadable—casual, maybe—but there’s a flicker in his eyes. Something dark. Something hungry. Like he’s taking inventory of every inch of you in one glance.
You can’t move. Can’t think.
Your heart’s thudding like a drumline, and your cheeks go hot, burning as your stomach flips over itself in full-blown horror.
You can still feel your arousal—sticky, heat pressed between your thighs, your pulse fluttering in places he’s not even touched.
“Bucky—” you croak, throat tight. “I—what are you doing—how—”
“The door wasn’t locked,” he says flatly.
Matter-of-fact. Like that explains everything.
And it kind of does.
You just sit there, still clutching the blanket to your chest like it can undo what he saw. As if it can erase the sound of you moaning into your pillow while your fingers worked yourself over to the thought of him.
He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t leer.
He just watches.
Like he’s curious. Patient. Like he’s giving you a chance to dig your own grave or shut up and let him lower you into it.
You look at him and it hits you how big he is. Broad and solid, filling the doorway like a wall. The black t-shirt is stretched across his shoulders, tucked into his pants just enough to show the lines of his waist, and that goddamn metal hand is flexing at his side like it’s already made its decision.
And still… he doesn’t leave.
Your voice breaks trying to fill the silence. “I didn’t mean— I thought I was quiet— I didn’t know—”
“I heard everything.”
That shuts you up.
His voice is calm. But it’s not soft. Not gentle. It sinks into your gut like a stone, and your thighs squeeze together before you can stop yourself—before your body betrays you again.
You look away. You can’t look at him. Not when you’re like this—hair messy, skin flushed, caught in the act like a filthy little secret with your want written all over your sheets.
He moves. Not quickly. Not harshly. Just decisively. Like this is inevitable. Like he knew the moment he opened that door that he wasn’t going to leave until you were ruined.
He crosses the room in two slow steps. Sits on the edge of your bed, right next to you. His thigh brushes yours, warm and solid, and your breath hitches—your entire body tensing as his presence crowds the air.
Then his hand—the metal one—reaches out.
He takes your wrist. Your fingers are still damp. Still twitching from where they were buried between your thighs. He stares at them for a second, then meets your eyes.
“Touch yourself.”
You blink. “What—”
“I said touch yourself,” he repeats, a little lower this time. “Show me.”
Your heart slams. His grip stays locked around your wrist, not forcing—but not letting go either. He doesn’t need to threaten. Doesn’t need to beg.
He’s already heard you fall apart for him.
Now he wants the show.
And fuck—your body obeys before your brain can stop it.
You shift beneath the covers, breath shaking, eyes wide as your hand slides back down, slipping under the waistband of your shorts.
Your skin’s hot. Everything throbs and you’re soaked.
Shame prickles in your chest, but it’s drowned by the way he watches—focused and still, his hand still gripping yours like he owns it.
You let your fingers find that spot again, slick and swollen, and you shudder.
“Fuck,” you whisper, breath catching.
His voice cuts through it. Soft. Direct. “You’ve been touching yourself thinking about me?”
You nod, cheeks burning.
“And now you can’t stop, can you?” he murmurs. “Poor thing. You want me this much, baby?”
You let out a tiny, broken sound—something between a gasp and a whimper—and press harder.
His metal thumb strokes over the inside of your wrist, slow and thoughtful, like he’s testing your pulse. You’re so wet your fingers glide without resistance, your hips moving on their own.
“Messy little thing,” he mutters. “God, you’re desperate. Didn’t even lock the door.”
His flesh hand moves too now—reaching up to push your hair from your face, tilting your chin toward him.
“You wanted to get caught, didn’t you?”
You shake your head, but your body betrays you—back arching, thighs tensing, rhythm faltering as your orgasm creeps up again, fast, tighter than before.
He sees it. Feels it. And he knows.
“You gonna come for me?” he whispers. “Right here, baby? With my hand around yours and your pussy soaking your sheets?”
You sob his name and he finally leans in—breath warm against your cheek.
“Good girl.”
Your fingers slip again—rhythm stuttering, body caught in that maddening edge.
He watches you falter. Watches your mouth fall open, brows pull together, your thighs start to shake with the pressure of holding yourself there. So close. Too close.
And that’s when he moves. His grip on your wrist tightens just enough to make you freeze.
“Let go,” he says.
You whimper. “But—”
“I said let go.” His voice leaves no room for argument.
You obey. Your hand slips from your shorts, fingers slick and trembling, and your chest rises in short, desperate breaths as he shifts closer.
“Bucky—” you gasp.
But he’s already there. His fingers slide between your folds—just one, at first, cool and unreal, brushing over your clit in a slow, torturous circle. Your hips jerk like you’ve been shocked.
“God,” you moan, clinging to the sheets, “fuck—”
“So sensitive,” he murmurs.
His eyes are locked on your face, hungry, focused—like he’s memorizing the way your mouth falls open for him, the way your lashes flutter when he presses a little harder.
You can’t stop the sounds you make.
You’re already too close—too much—your body wired tight from teasing yourself for nights and thinking of him, only him.
One metal finger dips lower—in now, slick and slow—and your breath punches from your chest.
Your hips grind into it, chasing it like you’re starving.
He fucks you with it slow at first. Deep. Deliberate. Watching you unravel inch by inch.
“You’ve been dreaming about this?” he says, voice like gravel. “Getting off to the thought of my hands on you?”
You nod helplessly, fingers clenching around the sheets.
Another finger slides in.
Your body wails for it—so full, so good, the metal stretching you just right—and your thighs tremble, back arching as your orgasm builds so fast it almost hurts.
“Then come for me,” he growls. “Right now. I want to feel how tight you get when you finish.”
You choke on a cry.
And then you fall apart.
Hard.
Your walls clamp down around his fingers, body convulsing as the wave hits you—sharp and electric—shaking through your entire frame with a loud, wrecked moan that echoes in your room.
His hand doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it—slower now, drawing it out, holding your body steady with his free hand while you tremble and sob and drip around him.
You don’t know how long it lasts. You just know you’ve never come like that before.
Not in your life.
Not until him.
You’re still gasping, thighs twitching, brain static from how hard you just came—but he’s not done with you. Not even close.
His fingers slip from you slow, drenched, and he brings them up to his mouth, sucking them clean without taking his eyes off you.
Then?
He smirks.
That low, dangerous smirk you’ve only ever imagined. Dreamed about. Touched yourself to. And now it’s real.
“You’ve been thinking about me so much,” he says, voice thick with heat, “I bet you want to feel my cock, huh?”
You don’t even answer. Can’t. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out but a broken moan.
He laughs. Dark. Rough. “You fucking slut.”
He stands. Hands go to the waistband of his pants.
Your breath catches, watching.
He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t need to.
The black tactical pants slide down slow over those solid thighs, revealing the outline of what’s beneath—thick, heavy, hard. You feel your whole body clench at the sight.
He steps out of them, shirt already discarded somewhere between your moans, and he’s standing there now in nothing but black briefs—soaked at the tip.
And holy fuck, he’s big.
Your lips part, staring. You want to drool.
He notices.
“Go ahead,” he murmurs. “Look at what you’ve been aching for every night.”
He pulls the briefs down—slow, shameless.
His cock springs free, thick and hard and flushed at the tip, veins running along the length like something out of a wet dream. You whimper, thighs pressing together reflexively.
“You wanted this inside you so bad you couldn’t keep quiet,” he says, climbing onto the bed again, crawling over you until his weight cages you in. “Moaning my name with the fucking door unlocked.”
Your body arches up to meet him.
“Please,” you whisper.
He fists his cock once, dragging his head through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance.
You’re still sensitive. Still pulsing.
“Is this what you want?” he growls, notching the tip right against you. “Want me to stretch you open and fuck the brains outta that filthy little head of yours?”
You nod, desperate.
His cock sits heavy in his hand, the flushed tip glistening as he slides it through your slick folds again. Over and over—up and down—until you’re squirming beneath him, hips chasing every motion like you can’t stand another second of not being filled.
But he doesn’t give in. Not yet.
He drags the thick head over your entrance, slow and deliberate, just barely nudging inside before pulling back again.
“Fuck—Bucky,” you whimper, body arching.
“You’re soaked again,” he growls, almost to himself. “You got this wet just thinking about my cock?”
You nod, but it’s not enough. Not for him. He taps your clit once—sharp and teasing—and your whole body jerks.
“Say it.”
Your breath catches. “I—I thought about it every night,” you gasp. “I wanted it so bad. I still want it. Please, Bucky—”
He groans, low and ragged. The tip of his cock presses at your entrance again. Just a little. Just enough to make you feel the burn of it—how thick he is, how your body tries to pull him in even as he holds himself back.
“You feel that?” he murmurs, circling your hole with maddening precision. “How much your pussy needs me?”
You moan, desperate. Hands clawing at his shoulders, his arms, anywhere you can hold onto.
He grins. “Needy little thing.”
Then he pushes. Just the tip—slow and thick, stretching you inch by inch.
Your mouth falls open. Breathless. Wide-eyed.
“Oh my—fuck,” you cry.
He pulls back.
You sob.
“Patience,” he mutters, teasing your entrance again. “Wanna feel you beg for it.”
“I’m begging,” you gasp. “Please, Bucky—please, I need it, I need you to fuck me—”
His mouth crashes over yours, swallowing your cry as he thrusts in deep—all the way—filling you to the hilt in one thick, devastating stroke.
Your back arches. Your vision whites out.
“So fucking tight,” he growls against your mouth, rolling his hips, grinding in deeper. “Fuck—you were made for this, weren’t you?”
He stays there for a moment—buried inside you—his cock stretching you open so wide it burns in the best way, hips pressed flush to yours. You can barely breathe, your body trembling with the shock of just how full you feel.
Then he moves. A slow pull out—just a few inches—before slamming right back in.
You scream. Not from pain. From everything. The pressure, the friction, the heat of his skin, the weight of his body pinning you down like he owns you.
“Goddamn,” he hisses, his jaw clenched tight. “You’re fucking dripping around me.”
Your nails dig into his back.
He starts thrusting—hard and fast, hips snapping against yours with brutal rhythm, the head of his cock dragging over every sensitive spot inside you like he knows exactly where to hit.
And all the while, he talks.
“Been thinking about this tight little cunt every night since I got here. Didn’t know it was mine to take.”
You moan—choked and desperate.
“You wanted it so bad, didn’t you? Wanted me to catch you with your legs spread and fuck you like the filthy little cock-drunk slut you are.”
“Y-Yes—please—” you’re a mess beneath him, eyes wet, mouth open.
He grabs your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek, forcing you to look up at him.
“Look at me,” he growls. “Don’t you dare look away while I fuck your pussy.”
You blink up at him, dazed. And fuck—he looks insane. Hair a mess, sweat dripping down his temples, that metal hand gripping your thigh so hard you might bruise.
And still—he doesn’t stop. He fucks you like it’s punishment. Relentless. Ruthless.
Every thrust knocks the air out of your lungs, your body jerking with the force of it. The bed creaks beneath you, headboard slamming against the wall, your moans echoing like you’re meant to be heard.
“You gonna come again, baby?” he murmurs, lowering his mouth to your ear. “You gonna soak my cock just like you soaked your fingers last night?”
“Bucky—Bucky, I’m gonna—fuck, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.”
His hand slips down between you, fingers rubbing fast circles over your clit as he keeps fucking you open with brutal thrusts.
“You’re gonna come with me inside you, sweetheart. You’re gonna come on my cock like a good little toy.”
And it snaps.
You cry out—loud and broken—as your orgasm slams into you hard enough to steal your breath, your pussy clenching around him like a vice.
“Fuck, yes,” he growls, grinding deep into you as you come, riding you through it. “That’s it. So fucking tight—so good for me—”
He’s close now too. You can feel it—his thrusts stuttering, muscles tensing.
“Gonna fill you up,” he groans. “You want that, baby? Want me to come inside this perfect little pussy?”
You’re still shaking, but you nod. Whimpering. Needy.
“Please—inside—want it so bad—”
He buries himself deep and groans loud—raw and wrecked—as he spills inside you, hips jerking, cock twitching as you feel every hot pulse of it.
You’re ruined.
His weight sinks down on top of you, breath ragged in your ear, and for a long moment, all you can hear is the sound of both of you panting.
The room’s heavy with heat and sweat, skin sticking where it meets, your body still twitching with the aftershocks of how hard he fucked you.
Then he lifts his head. Eyes drag down your flushed face. Your parted lips. Your chest rising and falling fast. Still dazed. Still ruined.
He shifts back onto his knees between your thighs, hands gripping your hips, keeping you spread open wide beneath him.
“Look at this,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
Then he pulls out—slow and thick, his cock dragging against your fluttering walls before slipping free with a wet sound that makes you whimper.
And fuck.
You feel it immediately. The warm spill of him leaking out of you—thick and hot and so much—trickling down your folds and onto the sheets in sticky, glistening streams.
Bucky groans under his breath, his eyes locked on your pussy like it’s the most perfect thing he’s ever seen.
“Goddamn,” he mutters. “You took it all. So fucking good for me.”
You try to close your legs on instinct, flushed and wrecked and so overstimulated—but he stops you with a firm grip, holding you open with his metal hand.
“Uh-uh. Keep ’em open. I wanna see it.”
His thumb slides down, spreads you further, letting him watch as more of his cum drips from your aching hole.
“Look at that mess,” he murmurs, gaze heavy-lidded, voice thick with pride and hunger. “You’re leaking all over the place, baby.”
You shiver under him.
He swipes his thumb through the slick, then presses it back in—just a little—pushing some of it inside again while your body jerks from the sensitivity.
“Fuck,” he growls. “You were made to be filled like this.”
He leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath hot and uneven.
“You’re gonna clean me up, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice thick with command. “Gonna taste every drop.”
Your pulse spikes. You barely have the strength to move, still reeling from the wreck he’s made of you—but you obey, because you need it, because he told you to.
He shifts forward, settling between your thighs again. His metal hand spreads you open, keeping you wide for him, raw and messy. His other hand trails down, steadying his cock where it rests—still hard, still slick with both of you.
He throbs against your skin, flushed and glistening.
You lean forward without hesitation, tongue flicking out to catch the first salty bead that clings to the head. He lets out a quiet groan above you.
His eyes burn as you take your time, licking slowly around the tip—teasing, deliberate—before your lips part wider and you sink down, wrapping him in heat.
Your cheeks hollow as you draw him in deeper, your mouth soft and eager.
“Fuck,” Bucky grits, his hand sliding into your hair, curling tight. “You’re good at this.”
You moan around him, letting the praise sink in as you begin to move—slow, controlled bobs of your head. Your tongue swirls, tasting the mix of him and yourself, and it only makes you hungrier.
You’re not just cleaning him up. You’re savoring him and he knows it.
He pulls you up by your hair, not rough—controlled. Intentional. His mouth crashes onto yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and heat and claiming, like he’s branding you from the inside out. His metal hand clamps around your waist, anchoring you, holding you still as he devours you like he owns you.
And fuck, maybe he does.
When he finally breaks the kiss, his breath ghosts over your lips, low and ragged.
“That’s enough,” he murmurs, voice thick with something dark and satisfied. “You did so well. That’s my good girl.”
Your stomach twists, body still trembling, as you melt into him — breathless and soaked, the taste of him still slick on your tongue.
He doesn’t move for a while, just lets his weight settle into you, chest rising and falling against yours, heart still pounding beneath sweat-damp skin. His breath is warm where it fans over your cheek, his metal hand still possessively wrapped around your waist.
Then, gently, he shifts. His fingers slide up, brushing your hair back from your face with a tenderness that makes your throat tighten. He kisses your forehead—soft, slow—like he’s claiming you all over again, but quieter this time.
“My good girl,” he murmurs, the words husky but reverent now. “You were perfect.”
Your eyes flutter closed at the sound, overwhelmed, wrecked in the best way. His flesh hand strokes your cheek, soothing the heat from it, while the metal one trails lazy circles over your spine.
“Did so good for me,” he whispers again, like a secret meant only for your bones.
You don’t trust your voice, so you just nuzzle closer, tucking yourself into his chest.
Fuck, he did ruin you.
⋆⁺₊✧ MASTERLIST
tags: @iamthatonefangirl
