Secret account so I can read smut without judgment lmao 29/F 18+ ONLY mostly Criminal Minds, CoD, MCU (Bucky if we're being honest), and Stranger Things Recently started JJK..
people who only use conventional social media are so funny bc they’ll casually be like “can I see your tumblr??” are you Insane. this is no instagram or twitter. this is my vault of secrets
“O fairest of all creation, last and best
Of all God's works, creature in whom excelled
Whatever can to sight or thought be formed,
Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet!"
One thing about Frankenstein I don't see people talking about is how the Creature doesn't ask for a wife from Victor, he wants a companion. Victor takes it as him wanting a wife but the Creature never said that. He just wanted a friend.
I was just about ready to explode from the motifs shown with Elizabeth as well and needed to talk about it, because literally one of the first things I noticed in the film is that she all also wanted was a friend.
But Victor spoiled it with his confession, because he's literally incapable of seeing a woman as anything other than a procreation machine and you see her heart break in real time at the realization. Victor of course takes this personally and doesn't see how he's hurt her.
SHE JUST WANTED A FRIEND. SOMEONE TO UNDERSTAND HER.
And she found it. A friend. A soulmate. With the Creature.
AND HE IN HER.
She felt just as trapped and caged and misunderstood as the Creature and that is why she understands him and wants to care and nurture him. It's a bond forged not through sex, but through compassion and yearning to be with someone who will accept you as you are.
This movie was just as much about women and our relationship to motherhood as society dictates for us and our desire for companionship in another without assumption, as it was about fathers, nature vs nurture, and the cycle of abuse...
a/n: my absolute pookie @superbassbuck gave me the wonderful idea of... sex pollen!reader! and today we got snowed in while I worked a 12h shift so... enjoy! not proofread bc I'm feral <3
Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Sex pollen!Avenger!Reader
Word count: 5.1k
Warnings: DUBCON (sex pollen), established feelings, p in v, cream pie, f masturbation (mention), fingering, dry humping, oral (f receiving), mating press, pussy pronouns (my favorite), overstimulation, SMUT!!!! 18+ MDNI!!!!
Summary: You and Bucky get stuck in a snowstorm at an old safe house after you get hit with sex pollen while doing recon in an old HYDRA base in Siberia.
You didn’t notice the gas until it was already too late.
The canister shattered against the floor of the ruined lab—dusty, rust-colored, cracked open like an old bone. You heard the hiss, felt the whisper of air shift, but chalked it up to a broken vent. The air smelled faintly sweet, but not enough to alarm you. The mission was already long, your body already tired. You barely blinked as you and Bucky moved on, clearing the perimeter and gathering what intel you could salvage from the abandoned HYDRA site.
But twenty minutes later, you were hot.
In any other circumstance, that would be normal. The suit was thick, you were moving around, except this time you were in the middle of Siberia and the vents in the base hadn't worked for a long time, so it was pretty much freezing as much inside as it was out, save for the wind.
It started almost imperceptible, like a predator ambushing a prey. You walked behind Bucky like you couldn't feel the sweat under the layers of kevlar you had on, like the scent of his detergent and just his skin weren't enough to make the space between your thighs slick.
You took your gloves off while Buck's eyes stayed facing ahead, making sure neither of you would get caus by surprise by anything else. Wiping your hands down on your thigh you could feel how hot and sweaty they were, you felt like your clothes were suffocating you from the inside out, like your skin didn't fit quite right.
The thing is—you didn’t feel sick. Not dizzy. Not nauseous. Your vision was mostly clear, your steps steady. But your heartbeat felt louder than usual. Like your pulse was pressed to the inside of your lips, your fingers, between your legs. You shifted again, trying to ignore it.
Bucky glanced over as he secured the last of the drive cores. “You okay?”
You nodded too fast. “Fine. Just... warm.”
He tilted his head slightly, squinting at you. His eyes did that thing they always did—soft and curious, like he was seeing something you didn’t want him to. “You sure?”
You forced a smile, shoulders tightening. “Let’s get out of here before the storm, please.”
As if God and everything holy decided to mock you, you did not make it before the storm. So both of you were forced to hike up to an old safehouse form his cold war days. The trek was brutal, snow high on your legs, but the cold felt good agasint your skin, relieving it even if it was barely there.
You unzipped your suit halfway. Then halfway again. Bucky’s eyes flicked toward you for a split second, then away.
You thought maybe it was just adrenaline. Mission high. You told yourself it was nothing.
But your skin was too sensitive. Your breath wouldn’t stay even. You were aching, and not the kind that came from bruises or sore muscles. This ache was low. Hungry. Electric. And no matter how you shifted or clenched your fists or dug your fingernails into your palms, it wouldn’t go away.
When you arrived he went straight to starting the generator, snow still in his hair. You didn’t say anything when he offered you a protein bar. You just shook your head and stared out the window, trying not to cry from how badly you needed to be touched.
You didn’t tell him that your underwear was already damp. That your thighs were starting to tremble. That your body was responding to something it didn’t understand, something it didn’t choose. That you were scared.
He shifted in place in front of you. “Y/N,” he said softly. “Talk to me.”
Your eyes stayed on the floor. “I think something’s wrong.”
There was a pause. “Physically?” You nodded, throat bobbing when you gulped.
Bucky didn’t speak again. You could feel him watching you, waiting. That unbearable patience of his. That calm. That strength. You wanted to claw it off him and beg him to fix it.
The sweat hadn't stopped. The ache was worse now. Your body felt like it was vibrating from something deeper. Something blooming. Something curling beneath your skin and between your legs, turning your nerves into live wires and everything else into water that would amplify your charge.
You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. If you opened your mouth, you might’ve begged him to carry you. Might’ve begged him to touch you.
You moved to sit on the edge of the couch, hands clenched between your knees. You could feel him watching you. Again.
“Still warm?” he asked gently. You nodded, he stood in front of you, hand on your forehead to feel for the temperature, not knowing that looking up at him like that was feeding all sorts of obscenities that HR would not like you to indulge in. “You’re burning up.”
“I’m just tired.”
“No, you’re not.” You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Bucky knelt in front of you, voice quiet. “What’s going on, Y/N?”
Your vision blurred slightly. “I think it’s getting worse.” You turned your face away. “It’s like… I can’t think straight. I can’t cool off. And everything feels like—like too much. My skin, my heartbeat. You.”
The last word escaped before you could catch it.
Both of you froze for a moment, and in the spirit of not making it harder — for either of you in every sense of the word — he pretended he didn't hear it. “You should sleep,” he murmured. “If you can.”
The storm hit harder after nightfall. Wind howled against the cabin, rattling the old windows in their frames. Snow piled up fast outside, burying any chance of leaving until sunrise.
Bucky made sure the fire was steady, the doors locked, everything secured. You hovered near the bedroom doorway, clutching the blanket he’d tossed you without meeting his eyes.
He was able to count every ridge on the wood ceiling twice, he thinks. He's been staring at it like it would grant his wish of going deaf right at this moment, or an asteroid landing on top of the cabin, anything, really, so he wouldn't be able to hear you crying in the small bedroom behind walls that were much too shitty to hold back any sound.
He watched you earlier form his place on the couch, going back and forth between the bedroom and the small bathroom, frustrated huffs coming out of your mouth each time.
An hour later, he felt the breeze of what he could assume was the window you opened to get some relief from the burning feeling of your blood boiling in your veins.
Now he was being forced to listen to you try to touch yourself into a cure that wasn't coming, and neither were you. At first, it was just shifting. Sheets rustling. The kind of restlessness that could be chalked up to discomfort or cold.
A soft exhale, almost like you were trying to choke down a whine while holding your breath too long. He heard you let out a frustrated and more breathless huff, like you tried even harder and couldn't.
He pictured you on the bed—hips grinding down into your own hand, trying not to cry out from the tension curled inside of you. Sweat-dampened sheets, flushed cheeks, maybe even a pillow clenched between your teeth.
And then he heard his name.
And his entire body perked up like a dog hearing T-R-E-A-T. In no time he was by the door, knocking softly, "You okay?"
"It's getting worse." He didn’t ask what it was. He knew. He always knew, didn’t he? Those compounds were never designed to be kind. They were engineered to torment. To make relief impossible without another person. Without skin-on-skin. Without someone who could anchor you back into your body.
"Bucky, please." Your voice was muffled by the door but it didn't make it any harder for his cock to start to stand attention to you, like you were a siren he was being lured towards. "It hurts so bad."
His hands hesitated on the doorknob, like he didn't trust himself to see you and not give into it, even though he forced himself to believe this was all the compound talking.
He should walk away, should go outside, bury himself in snow and hope the cold froze whatever heat was crawling into his spine. But instead, he exhaled shakily and turned the knob. The door creaked open just an inch. Not enough to enter—just enough to look.
And fuck.
You were curled up on the bed, facing the wall, your body shaking in tiny, involuntary tremors. The blanket was tangled around your waist, shirt hitched just slightly, one hand pressed between your thighs, the other clenched tightly in the sheets. You were flushed—too flushed—and your eyes, when you turned to look at him, were glassy with unshed tears and sheer need.
“I know,” he said, barely more than a breath. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “I heard you.” You looked away, shame painting your face in shades of crimson like a bruise. But he didn’t let you turn far.
“Hey,” he said, softly, coming closer. “Don’t hide. Not from me.”
Your lip trembled. “I can’t make it stop. I can’t even—” You let out a bitter, embarrassed laugh that broke off into something like a sob. “It won’t let me. My body—”
“—wants what it was drugged to want,” he finished quietly. "C'mere, lets try a cold bath, okay?"
That got the faintest smile out of you. But it didn’t last. Your hand twitched where it rested on your stomach, and he could see the way your thighs rubbed together instinctively, trying to create friction. Still trying to fix it on your own.
You couldn't look at him. Not when every cell in your body was screaming touch me. Not when the scent of him—clean and masculine and maddening—was clinging to your senses worse than the compound itself.
You nod, unable to speak. Anything is better than this.
You barely remember getting to the tub. You remember the way your skin prickled as he poured in bucket after bucket of snow melt, watching it fog in the cold air before settling into a frost-laced pool. You remember the way your hands shook as you stripped down before he could avoid looking, too weak to feel shame.
You eased yourself in slowly. The cold bites at first, like a thousand pins in your legs, up your spine. Your breath catches on a gasp as the chill wraps around your thighs, your hips, your chest.
Then, you felt relief. A long sigh left your lips as you settled down in it, knees tucked close to your chest and your cheek resting on one knee, while you faced Bucky, who was sitting outside of the tub on the bath mat, across from you.
The burn under your skin dulls. Not gone, but numbed. Your lungs expand fully for the first time in hours.
“Holy shit,” you whisper, tilting your head back. “It’s working.”
“You scared me,” he says softly.
Your eyes open. “Yeah?”
“Don’t like feeling helpless.” He swallows. “Especially not when it’s you.”
“I’m okay right now,” you whisper. “I swear.” His head finally turns. His eyes land on your face—not your body, not the waterline, just your face—and there’s a warmth there that makes your heart hurt.
“I know,” he murmurs. “Just don’t want to leave you alone.”
You smile faintly. “You never have to.”
You stood like that until most of the snow melted around you, and little by little, you felt the heat come back with a vengeance, making you lightheaded. It bloomed slow, syrupy, underneath your skin, spreading out from your core and licking up your ribs like fire under ice. You sucked in a breath and blinked, thinking maybe you imagined it.
Your fingertips tingled. Your thighs pressed together out of instinct. The cold was no longer a balm. It was a barrier, one your body was suddenly desperate to break.
Bucky noticed right away. “Hey,” he said gently, leaning in. “Talk to me.”
You shook your head, eyes closing, a soft whimper escaping before you could swallow it down. “It’s—it’s coming back.”
“Don’t move,” he said, already reaching for the metal bucket, already halfway across the room to scoop more snow from the container near the door. “We’ll cool it down again—just stay in the bath—”
“Bucky…” Your voice broke. “It’s not the cold. It’s me. I can’t fight it anymore.” You were curled tighter now, shivering not from the temperature but from how hard your muscles were straining to stay still. Your lips were parted. Your eyes glassy.
And he’d never seen anything so painful. Or beautiful.
You let your forehead rest against your knee, panting softly. “It’s like my skin hurts. Like it knows what it wants and it’s just—punishing me for not having it.”
He was a blur of movement and then he was kneeling bside the tub, hand cupping your face and seeing that, indeed, your temperature rose again. He looked at your face for other signs of distress, trying not to get distracted by the dazed look on your face that he would only liken to cockdrunk, which you weren't, hence the fever.
You studied his face, the furrow between his brows, sheer proof that he was worried about you, the concerned look in his eyes, his pink lips. You had been fighting your feelings for him for so long, and the compound tired you out enough that you didn't want to do it anymore.
You leaned forward fast, water splashing around as you sat up on your knees to kiss him, sighing into his mouth as you felt every nerve ending in your body weeping with joy, and other parts of you weeping for other reasons.
“I need you,” you gasp between kisses, “please, Bucky—need you so bad—”
He broke the kiss but didn't pull away, your lips finding his jaw and nipping at the skin there. "This isn't you." He groaned out.
"Yes, it is." You were gasping now, your body having a taste of what it needed. "I wanted you for so long, Buck, it's not— it's not whatever this is." He tried to have restraint, he really fucking did.
But you pulled away enough to look at him with pleading teary eyes and said “I need you to fuck me,” and whine tore from your throat. “Please.”
He growls—actually growls—and the sound rips out of his throat like something primal, before his hand grabs your jaw and he finally kisses you.
It’s not gentle. It’s not soft.
It’s all teeth and breath and soaked fabric, and your mouth parts for him instantly, greedy and aching. His tongue swirls inside your mouth and his hands find your waist at the same time yours found his shoulder, looking for stability as you scrambled out of the tub and onto his lap on the tile floor against the wall.
Rough warm hands roam all over your skin, stopping at the supple skin of your ass to knead it, his lips moving against yours like he’s been dying for the taste while you rocked back and forth on top of him, making a wet spot in the front of his pants.
"Bucky, please…"
“I know,” he grits out, forehead pressed against yours. His breath is hot and ragged against your lips. “Fuck, I know, baby. I can feel it on you—smell it on your skin—I’ve been going crazy—”
You grabbed his right wrist and shifted his hand from your ass cheek to between your legs, gasping into his mouth when his index and middle finger started to spread your lips and toy with your wetness.
"She's already so puffy f'me, angel— fuck— haven't even used her yet." Your hips jerked forward helplessly, grinding down on his hand like your body didn’t even want to wait for him to move. He swallowed hard, eyes locked on your face as you shuddered against him.
“I tried,” you whisper, voice wrecked, shaky. “That’s why. I’m— She’s all—puffy—because I tried so hard to come on my own.”
Then he laughs—low and dangerous, the kind of sound that sends a fresh flood of heat right to your core. His hand slips between your legs, fingers gliding through your slick, gathering it like proof.
“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your clit just light enough to make you whimper.
“You poor thing,” he coos, mock-pitying, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw. “Tried and tried and couldn’t get off with those little fingers, huh?”
“Yeah,” he says, a smug edge curling into his voice. “I can feel it. She’s been working overtime trying to get there.”
You sob against his neck. “I needed you—”
“I know you did,” he whispers, kissing your temple now, impossibly tender even as his fingers keep moving. “You lay in bed all hot and sweaty, thinking of me? Playing with my pussy like it’s yours?”
Your head drops back as your hips grind harder into his hand. “She is yours—Bucky—she needs you—”
“Damn right she does,” he growls.
“Buck—” Your voice broke, and your nails dug into his shoulder, “don’t stop—please don’t stop—”
“I’m not,” he breathed, and he wasn’t sure if it was a promise or a surrender. Maybe both. “I’m right here. I’m not fucking going anywhere.”
“I can’t slow down, it hurts—I hurt—please—Bucky, please, I need more, I need—” You cut yourself off with a moan when he plunged both of his fingers inside of you, flicking his wrist in time with your hips so you were effectively riding his hand now.
“You’re not ready,” he growled, though his own voice was frayed, trembling. “You’re so fucking tight, baby, I can feel it—if I put anything more than a couple fingers in you right now, you’ll break.”
“I don’t care,” you begged, rocking helplessly against him. “I want you to break me.” You whined again, riding his hand harder and his palm came to cup you, grinding the rough surface againts your clit.
"Then let her cum for me once, hmmm?" His lips suckled on the skin of your tits, "Make a mess on my hands, y'can do it." He bit onto your neck and curled his fingers in a "come here" motion, scratching the itch deep inside you gummy walls, making your vision go blurry and your body clamp around his fingers.
“…there you go,” he whispers, trying to catch his breath. “Just like that. That’s it, sweetheart.”
You melt into him, boneless, weight slumping against his chest. His hands stroke your back, your hips, your sides — grounding you in tiny, careful touches like he’s afraid to break you.
It was enough relief for maybe a minute, and when you cuold both feel the heat creeping up your muscles again, slow at first, sliding up your thighs like a tide returning to shore.
The second your body tenses in his lap he adjusts his grip. One arm slides under your thighs, the other around your back. He rises in one smooth motion, holding you like you’re something precious and breakable, even though you’re melting against him like wax.
The cabin creaks with wind as he walks, your skin still damp and glistening, his shirt clinging to your body where it touches. Every step makes you whimper softly. He lets you bounce down on the bed softly. Your legs fall open slightly with the shift in position, and his breath stutters.
You paw at his torso to take his shirt off, and he does that for you. All warm skin, carved muscle and taut want to finish burning you up.
He crawls over you until he's at eye level, looking at the moonlight coming through the curtains and reflecting off of your eyes like that was all it was ever made to do. He kissed, nibbled, bit, and sucked his way down you neck, your clavicle, the valley of your breasts and each stiff peak of your nipples.
He licked a hot strip down your stomach and tugged at the skin where your thigh met your torso with his teeth. “I’ve wanted you for so long,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “But not like this. Not when you’re hurting.”
“I’m not,” you say softly. “Not when you’re touching me.”
He breathes in slow against your skin like he’s trying to calm himself—like the scent of you is both a balm and a threat. Your thighs twitch around him when his stubble grazes too close to where you’re aching, and your fingers tighten in the quilt beneath you.
“I can feel it in you,” he whispers, voice rasping low as his fingers brush gently over your hip. “You’re holding so much back.”
“I can’t anymore,” you say, breath shuddering. “Please don’t make me.”
He looks up at you—face flushed, lips parted, chest heaving—and something breaks. Whatever part of him was still trying to ration this, to survive it without taking too much—gone.
His next words don't come out verbally, instead he spells every letter agasint your needy cunt with his tongue, circling your clit and sucking it in his mouth, then thrusting his tongue in again, enough to make the knot inside of your stomach tighter and tighter each time.
He groans low into you—like he’s tasting sin and salvation in the same breath. His hands grip your thighs tighter, holding you open for him as he licks deeper, slow and devastating. You cry out, fingers diving into his hair, hips already lifting off the bed, needing more.
“Easy,” he rasps against your skin, voice trembling with the kind of restraint that’s killing him. “I’m not going anywhere.”
"I feel—" Another moan ripped right through you as a shock of pleasure sent goosebumps all over your body. "I feel like I can't breathe." You gulped down at the feeling of him pushing his face further into your pussy, but your mouth was still dry, unlike the rest of you.
"Gonna get her all swollen for me, baby." He licked a long strip up your slit and circled your clit again at the same time he pungled two metal fingers in, the coolness of the vibranium helping to push the fever down. "You'll see."
Your thighs shake around him. Your breath stutters. Your fingers go numb from how tightly you’re gripping him. “Bucky—” you choke, voice breaking on his name. "Fuck, I— I—oh, my god!"
He already knew exactly where that spot was inside of you, all he needed to really do was get the cool metal to rub on it for a few seconds and you were soaking the bottom half of his face in slick.
Your body bows like it’s trying to escape him—no, not escape, surrender. You can’t hold still. You’re shaking all over, thighs trembling, chest rising and falling so fast it feels like your lungs forgot how to work.
You don’t even realize you’re crying until your vision blurs. Until you feel his voice vibrate through you again, a low groan of approval, of possession.
He kissed his way up just as he did down, kissing you when he got to your mouth, making you taste yourself on his tongue, your clammy body sticking to his as he settled on top of you between your thighs.
He pulled away to nip at your jaw and neck, "Good girl." and as soon as the damn words came out of your mouth, it all restarted. Your hands grabbed at his pants like the damn thing called your mom names, popping off the button and pulling the zipper down.
He helped you help him shrug the inconvenient piece of clothing down his legs so he could kick them off. Your thighs twitched involuntarily when you saw the length of him spring free. Thick, long, it made your mouth water and your pussy throb "fuck me" in Morse code.
Your skin was beaded with sweat. Your hands trembling where they rested on the sheets, and there was a low, helpless noise building in your throat—half frustration, half plea. You blinked rapidly, trying to clear the haze, but it was already creeping back in.
“I need you inside me.” His breath catches.
You reach for him, one hand on his shoulder and the other on the back of his neck, tugging him closer, your voice breaking with something between tears and lust. “Buck, please, I need you to fuck me.”
Your hips roll beneath him instinctively as he leans over you again, a helpless grind that makes both of you gasp. You’re soaked. Open. Ready. Already pulsing from the inside out. For a second, all you hear is the wind howling against the cabin, the sound of the storm still raging outside.
Then his hand was back between your thighs, gathering slick and a low moan from you to coat his cock with. He stroked himself once, twice, then teased the head up and down your slit.
Just as your mouth opened to complain he was taking too damn long, he pushed in. The whole. Nine. Inches. "God, yes—"
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel so—so good, baby. You don’t even know.”
The way he says it makes your stomach flip. You turn your head just enough to see his face—flushed, eyes wild, mouth parted like he’s struggling to stay human inside this kind of want, and you are too.
His hand slides under your thigh, hitching your leg higher, and the change in angle nearly breaks you. A helpless moan tears from your throat before you can bite it back.
“Yeah?” he rasps, breath hitched. “Right there?”
You nod—frantic, gasping—and your hips move without thinking, chasing that friction, desperate for more, for everything.
His hips roll deeper now, slow but relentless, each thrust hitting that spot inside you that makes your whole body tighten. You’re already too close again—everything too much, too hot, too sharp. You whimper beneath him, legs trembling as you cling to his shoulders like they’re the only thing keeping you grounded.
“Sweetheart,” he groans against your mouth, his forehead pressed to yours. “You feel so good wrapped around me—so fucking tight—"
“You hear that?” he murmurs, voice thick with heat as his hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling where you’re swollen and desperate. “That’s you. That’s how wet you are. Fuckin’ soaked for me.”
You cry out—sharp and broken—hips jerking against his.
“That’s it,” he growls, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “Ride it. C’mon, sweetheart, I can feel you shaking—she’s gettin’ close again, isn’t she?”
“Yes—god—yes, don’t stop—”
“I won’t,” he promises, voice dark and hungry. “Gonna make you come again. Gonna have you milking my cock like you need it. You do, don’t you?” He hiked your leg higher and leaned further, putting you in a mating press that would have your hip flexor crying tomorrow.
You nod frantically, tears in your lashes, overwhelmed while his pelvis rubs agasint your clit. “I need it—I need you—I need everything, please—please—”
“You’ve got me,” he breathes, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You’ve got me. Now come for me again, baby. Be good and let go for me.”
His pace doesn’t falter—deep, perfect, almost punishing. His thumb presses tighter, circles faster, and it tips you over the edge with brutal, blinding force.
You sob his name—his real name—as the orgasm crashes through you. Your entire body goes taut, your thighs clamp around his torso, your mouth open on a cry you can’t swallow down.
And he watches you fall apart with awe and wrecked hunger in his eyes. “That’s it, baby,” he groans, hips stuttering against yours now. “That’s it, just like that—so fuckin’ beautiful when you come for me—fuck.”
You could feel he was close. Fuck, your brain was mush at that point, if not for the fever and the compound, the supersoldier that was pistoring his hips into yours like you'd die without it. And to be honest, you probably would, at this point.
“Don’t stop,” you gasp, leaning your head up so you could bite at his chin and the salt and pepper there, every ragged breath of his on your face. “Bucky, please—don’t stop—don’t pull out—please, I want you to come inside.”
His eyes squeeze shut. His entire body jerks like your words hit him harder than anything else. "Need you to fill me up, Buck."
He groans loudly. "Yeah?" And thrusts harder. "This pussy needs me to make her all sticky with my cum? Mmm?"
You nodded franctically, beggin, pleading.
And what kind of man would James Buchanan Barnes be if he didn't just give it to you?
You feel it before you hear it—the way his body seizes, the way his grip on your waist tightens like a vice, the way his mouth drops open on a strangled groan right into your neck as he pumps you so full of cum that it leaks out of you while he's still inside, ring of white at the base of his cock.
He collapses over you slowly, bracing his forearm beside your head, but he doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t even try to.
Your legs are still wrapped around his waist, trembling. Your hands stay tangled in his hair. You’re both breathing hard—gasps, really—and your skin is slick with sweat, your pulse thudding against his where your chests touch.
He nuzzles into your neck, still inside, still throbbing, his voice cracked and low.
“Shit,” he breathes.
Your fingers rake softly through the short hair at the nape of his neck. “It’s okay,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “You didn’t hurt me.”
“That’s not why I’m—” He stops himself. Swallows. His lips graze your skin. “I’ve just never… had someone like that before.”
You smile faintly, even through the haze. “You’ve never had someone beg you to breed them like a feral animal in heat?”
He huffs out a breath that’s half groan, half laugh, but his eyes flicker up to yours.
“You were serious, weren’t you?” he says, quiet now. “About… needing it. Needing me. That way.”
You nodded sheepishly, the primal need in you giving space to clarity. “I wanted you before. I still want you now. And I—I didn’t want it to stop. Even when it hurt.”
He cups your jaw with one hand, thumb stroking your cheek. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“I know.” You sighed, "I'm sorry."
“I’ve never seen you like that. Never seen anyone like that.” His brows furrow, and his voice drops even lower. “I would’ve done anything to take the pain away. I still would.”
“You did,” you whisper. He looks at you like he doesn’t believe it. You tighten your arms around him. “You took it away, Bucky. You made it quiet.” There’s a long silence, full of his breath against your neck, your fingers drawing slow circles on his back.
Then you murmur, “You can move now… if you want.” He shifts his hips just slightly, still buried deep—and both of you moan.
His head drops again. “Fuck no,” he mutters. “You think I’m going anywhere after that?”
a/n: don't ask me what kind of demon possessed me, I was writing the pussyjob scene for clean, got horny, and decided to keep the momentum going, for the love of all that is holy PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK!!!!!!
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