warnings: explicit sexual content 18+, oral, praise kink, sir kink, dirty talk, light dom/sub, uniform kink, mutual obsession, neighbors may hear things, thirsty calendar discovery scene
summary: you’ve been setting off your smoke alarm on purpose just to get sergeant barnes at your door — broad shoulders, wet gear, and all. but tonight, the game catches up to you.
authors note: happy 2,000 followers to me! this fic is near and dear to my heart as its loosly based off of one of the VERY FIRST concepts i wrote for bucky barnes. theres just something about a man in uniform.... 🚒🔥
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It starts with rain.
The kind that doesn’t fall so much as hammers, drumming on the roof of your building like knuckles on a locked door. You can hear it in your kitchen, the steady, heavy rhythm, the hiss of streetwater kicked up by passing cars like waves. The city’s been soaked all day, and now the evening air sits thick and tense, humid the way it gets right before a summer storm breaks into something mean.
It would’ve been a perfect night to behave.
To pretend you’re normal. To heat up soup. To watch something brainless. To go to bed early and not think about him.
You last about twelve minutes.
Then you’re standing in the kitchen barefoot and guilty, biting your lip and staring up at the little black, circular plastic eye in the corner near the ceiling.
The smoke detector.
Your smoke detector.
Your stupid little red button that brings you James Buchanan Barnes.
You tell yourself you’re not going to. You tell yourself, no, you absolutely cannot, because last time Sam Wilson (loud, funny, deeply nosy) had narrowed his eyes in the hallway and gone, “Huh, princess, this is what, the third ‘emergency call’ this month? You runnin’ a grill in your living room or something?”
And Bucky had cut him a look, one brow ticking, and said, “Wilson,” in that low warning way.
Wilson had smirked at you. “Mmmhmm. Just makin’ conversation.”
You’d laughed it off. You’d said something about cheap wiring in old buildings. You’d shrugged and hugged yourself in your doorway and tried very, very hard not to look at Bucky’s soaked turnout jacket clinging to his shoulders, or the way he stripped his gloves off with his teeth.
But you’d seen it. You’re pretty sure he’d seen you seeing it. And you’re not dumb.
You know you’re playing with matches.
You also know you want to get burned.
You close your eyes, breathe in, breathe out, and whisper to your empty apartment, “Okay. Okay. Last time. Last time and then I’ll stop.”
You’re a liar.
You drag the chair from the table over to the stove. The chair legs squeal against linoleum, too loud in the quiet kitchen. Your heartbeat hitches. You climb up, stretching on your toes, and reach for the battery housing inside the little circular alarm.
But you don’t take the battery out.
You nudge the test toggle just wrong. Just enough to loosen the casing.
You know exactly how to make it scream now. Practice makes perfect.
Then you step off the chair, pad back to the stove, and turn the front-left burner on high.
There’s a pan on it. Dry.
You leave it there.
You don’t even put oil this time—that had been messy, last time; you’d had to open both windows and wave a dish towel around like you were landing a plane.
Instead you just leave metal on heat, let it sit, let it cook and cook and cook until the scent starts to change. It goes from clean to warm to oh, that’s probably not good in less than a minute. By two and a half minutes, you see the first thin ripples rise from the pan like heat mirage. Little curls of smoke.
You swallow.
Your heart is already beating stupid fast, and they’re not even here yet.
“God, you’re pathetic,” you mutter to yourself, pacing in a small nervous circle. “You’re actually deranged. You’re out of control. You are—”
The alarm goes off.
It doesn’t chirp; it screams.
That high, piercing, shattering shriek fills your apartment in a single breath. You jump and wince, lunging for the front door because you’ve done this before and you know what’s coming next. Your building’s alarm system is tied into the local station for “fast response to potential structure fires,” which is good for the neighborhood and terrible for your self-control.
You swing the deadbolt back and leave the door unlocked.
Your hands are shaking.
Oh my god. Oh my god he’s going to—
The hall alarm starts up a second later. Someone from down the hall yells “What the fuck!” over the wail of it. You flinch and duck back into your kitchen, twist the stove off, yank the pan onto a cold burner.
Okay. Okay, okay.
Breathless, you grab the nearest dish towel and start waving beneath the alarm to “try to clear the smoke.” You know it won’t silence it—only maintenance has the code for that. You’re not even really doing anything useful.
You’re just trying to look innocent.
Heavy boots on stairs.
You hear them even over the alarm. The stomp, stomp, stomp of trained hurry. The low voices. The clipped “Watch your corners, it’s this floor,” you’ve grown embarrassingly familiar with.
Then:
A knock, hard and authoritative.
“Fire department!”
You can feel the grind of that voice in your spine.
You toss the towel, spin around, and try to pull your sleep shirt down a little lower on your thighs before you open the door.
And there he is.
Jesus Christ.
Even if you hadn’t seen him before, even if you hadn’t engineered this, you would know him on sight. He’s not the tallest on his crew, but he looks like the center of gravity. He’s built wide—shoulders that block half the hallway, thick arms roped with muscle, turnout coat open at the collar and hanging heavy off his frame, still damp from either the rain or whatever call they were on before you. Maybe both. His dark hair is pushed back, a little mussed, rain-wet at the edges. His jaw is set. His mouth is a hard line. There’s a streak of black on his cheekbone where soot had mixed with sweat. His eyes, glacial blue, cut straight to you, then sweep past you into your apartment in one practiced scan.
You meet his eyes on instinct.
Something tightens, electric.
“Hi,” you say, too fast, too breathy.
One of his crew, the same loud one from last time, leans around him to peer in. “Ma’am, you got an active—...” Sam stops. Looks at the cold pan on the stove. Looks at the faint haze in the air. Looks back to you, then to Bucky. His mouth curls. “Oh, come on. Again?”
You suck in a breath, trying to look offended, or at least confused. “The stove just— I was making— it started smoking and the alarm just—”
“Uh-huh,” Sam says, unimpressed. He’s grinning, though. “Barnes, you wanna walk her through Fire Safety 101 again, or should I? I got charts in the truck.”
“Wilson,” Bucky says without even looking back.
Just his voice can make “Wilson” sound like shut up.
Sam’s grin widens. “Copy that, Sarge.”
Bucky steps forward. Automatically, you step back. He fills your doorway on instinct, one gloved hand braced high against the jamb as he leans in.
He smells like rain and smoke and clean laundry. You could drown in it.
“You okay?” he asks you, quiet, like there’s nothing else in the hallway. His tone shifts when he looks at you, always. You’ve noticed that. With Sam and the others he’s all clipped command; with you he’s lower, softer, threaded with warmth he pretends he doesn’t have.
Your stomach flips.
“Yes,” you manage. “I’m— I’m fine. I’m sorry.”
He nods once, eyes flicking over you, and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of what you’re wearing: an oversized sleep shirt with your college logo and absolutely nothing else. No bra. No shorts. Nothing covering the way the fabric skims down over your hips and barely catches the lowest curve of your ass.
A flush crawls up your chest.
You cross your arms over your chest in what you hope is a casual move, but his eyes catch it. They flick down, then up again. His jaw tightens the smallest bit.
Oh.
Oh.
Your pulse stutters.
Bucky glances over his shoulder. “Wilson, clear the hall, tell ‘em they’re good. I’ll reset her unit.”
“Yes, sir,” Sam says cheerfully, and then he’s clapping another firefighter on the shoulder and disappearing down the hall, calling, “False alarm, folks, everybody relax, nobody’s burning alive—yet.”
The alarm keeps screaming, echoing against the narrow walls. Your neighbors are muttering. Doors crack open, then shut again.
And then it’s just you and Bucky in your doorway in the pounding, relentless sound.
“Back up for me, sweetheart,” he says.
Sweetheart.
You feel it like a hand at the back of your neck.
You back up.
He steps inside with you, shuts the door with his boot, and just like that, you and Bucky Barnes are alone in your apartment for the first time.
The second the door shuts, the noise dulls—less piercing, more like being underwater. You can still hear the alarm from the hall, but in here it’s only your unit wailing.
Bucky peels off one glove with his teeth, then the other with his bare hand. You watch that hand. He’s got big hands. Veins, calluses, blunt square fingers. His left hand, the one with the dark leather glove, comes off slower—it’s a metal prosthetic, gleaming dull matte under the fluorescents. You’ve seen that, too. You’ve thought about it too many times. You’ve thought about what that would feel like between your—
“Show me,” he says.
You blink up at him. “Show you…?”
“The stove,” he prompts patiently. His jaw is tight. “The fire hazard. Doll.”
Heat pools low in you at that last word. Doll.
You swallow and turn, padding quickly to the kitchen, acutely aware of him following, of the soft jingle of gear at his belt, the weight of his presence at your back like heat off a furnace.
“It’s off now,” you babble, nerves spilling out of you in words. “I just—I honestly don’t know what happened, I just turned around and it started smoking and then the whole thing went off and—”
“Mmhmm,” he says, which does not sound like he believes you. “Step back.”
You step aside.
He leans over your stove, inspecting. Rainwater drips from the hem of his coat onto your floor. His shirt under the open jacket, dark navy department issue, stretches obscenely over his back and shoulders when he bends forward.
You bite your lip.
He reaches out, puts two fingers to the still-warm pan, then tuts under his breath.
You freeze.
You know what that sound is. You’ve heard it twice now. That’s not oh god this is dangerous. That’s that little disappointed noise he makes right before he lectures you.
Your stomach swoops. You love that noise.
He straightens slowly. Turns to you. Crosses his arms over his chest.
“D’you think I’m stupid?” he asks mildly.
Your mouth opens. “I—”
“You think I can’t tell the difference between a kitchen fire and you cooking fuckin’ nothing in a dry pan until it smokes?”
Your face goes nuclear.
Your lips move silently for a second. “I— I wasn’t— I didn’t—”
His brow lifts, and it’s obscene, the way just that can make your knees want to wobble. “You wanna try that again with an answer that isn’t a lie, menace?”
Menace.
Your breath catches.
You should feel embarrassed. You should feel caught. You should feel anything except the hot, dragging ache low in your belly, the one that pulses every time he uses that tone on you.
You whisper, “I like when you come.”
Silence.
The alarm is still shrieking overhead. Rain still hammers the windows. Your heart is in your throat.
Bucky just looks at you.
For one long, dizzying second, his face doesn’t change. Then, slowly, his mouth curves.
Not a smile.
Something darker.
Something that sees you.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I figured that out.”
Your lungs forget how to work.
He takes a step toward you.
You don’t move.
“You know what happens,” he murmurs, voice dropping, “out there, when we get a call like this?”
You swallow. Your throat is dry. “You… show up?”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “We gear up,” he says, like he’s telling you a story. “We roll out emergency. Lights. Siren. My guys put on forty pounds of equipment in under sixty seconds, sweetheart. We run. In the rain, in the dark, in traffic. Because that alarm says somebody might be burning alive.”
Your stomach twists. Guilt flares for a split second, sharp and bright.
Then he’s close enough that you can feel the heat of him on your bare thighs and you lose the ability to think.
“And then,” he continues, eyes on yours, voice low and unhurried even while your alarm screams, “we get here and it’s you again, wearing nothin’ but a fuckin’ t-shirt and big eyes, and you tell me—” he tilts his head— “oh no, Sergeant Barnes, I have no idea what happened, I’m just so scared.”
Your face is so hot you’re surprised you’re not setting off sparks.
“I— I never said ‘Sergeant,’” you whisper, too honest.
He laughs. Low. That same not-smile pulls at his mouth again. “No,” he says. “You never did. You just looked at me like you wanted to climb me like a ladder and said ‘thank you for coming, sir.’”
Your knees almost go out.
You remember that night. You remember saying it. You remember how his jaw had clenched when you did.
“You know we could fine you?” he asks conversationally, like he’s talking about the weather and not about your impending moral collapse. “False call like this? You can get cited.”
“I know,” you whisper.
“You know what a citation looks like?”
You shake your head.
He leans in.
“It looks like me,” he murmurs, “in your apartment at nine p.m. explaining fire code to you line by line. Real slow.”
Your breath catches on a quiet, involuntary sound.
His eyes spark.
“Yeah,” he says, voice roughening. “That’s what I thought.”
Your thighs press together. You can’t help it.
Bucky’s gaze flicks down. Follows the movement. Stays there. When he looks back up, something in his face is different. Less restraint. More hunger.
The alarm screams and screams.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he says quietly. “I’m gonna reset your alarm. I’m gonna radio dispatch and tell ‘em false alarm, no emergency, situation contained. And then,” he continues, so soft you almost miss it under the noise, “you’re gonna tell me the truth.”
Your mouth is dry. “The truth?”
“That you did this on purpose.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “That you wanted me here.”
Like he doesn’t already know.
You nod.
“And,” he adds, voice dropping into something that makes your stomach flip, “you’re gonna tell me what you want now that you’ve got me.”
You cannot breathe.
A tremor runs through you from scalp to toes. “Bucky—”
“Mm.” He tuts again, but his eyes are heat. “That’s not how you’ve been talkin’ to me, is it?”
You feel it all the way down. “Sergeant,” you whisper, breathless.
God, the way his pupils blow at that.
“Good girl,” he says, like praise, like reward.
You almost come on the spot.
He steps away from you before your legs give out and moves with efficient calm you can’t begin to fake. He reaches up, twists something in the housing of your alarm with one sure hand, and the wail cuts off mid-scream.
The sudden quiet rings.
Your ears buzz in the absence. You sag against the counter and try to get your lungs back.
He unclips the radio mic at his shoulder, presses the button, and speaks in that calm, professional tone that makes you weak. “Dispatch, this is Engine 41, Barnes. False alarm, Unit 3B. No visible fire, no active smoke. Resident attempted to cook, pan overheated, alarm tripped. We’ve reset the unit. You can clear us.”
There’s static, then a crackle of confirmation. You barely hear it. You’re watching his throat as he talks. The way his Adam’s apple moves. The faint stubble along his jaw. The way his mouth shapes “Barnes.”
He re-clips his mic. Looks back at you.
You’re still braced against your counter, thighs pressed together, heart going way too fast.
He takes his time peeling his turnout coat off. He doesn’t break eye contact. The heavy, reflective-striped jacket slides off his broad shoulders slow and deliberate, revealing all of him in that dark navy tee. It’s soaked at the collar, rain-dark over his chest and sleeves, clinging to muscle. His biceps flex with the movement. A heavy black strap crosses his chest, part of his harness. His utility belt sits low on his hips.
He hangs the coat over the back of one of your kitchen chairs with military neatness.
Then he steps back into your space.
“Now,” he says softly. “Truth.”
Your mouth opens. Closes. Your heartbeat is hammering so hard you feel a little lightheaded.
“I—” you start.
His brows twitch. “Not a great start, menace,” he murmurs.
You exhale in a little rush. “I wanted you.”
He hums. “Yeah?”
“I wanted you to come,” you say, cheeks blazing but there’s no way out now, “and I wanted you to yell at me and I wanted you to— I just— I wanted you.”
His eyes go dark, hungry.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
His right hand—big, warm, human—comes up, cups your jaw. Not hard. Just holding. His thumb drags slow along your lower lip, presses there until your mouth parts.
“There’s somethin’ else,” he says quietly. “Somethin’ else you’re not sayin’ yet.”
You shiver. “Bucky—”
“Sergeant.”
“Sergeant,” you whisper, dizzy. “Please.”
His jaw flexes.
“Please what?” he asks, his voice so soft it almost hurts.
“Please touch me,” you whisper.
Something breaks in his eyes.
And then he’s kissing you.
It’s not gentle.
His mouth hits yours like he’s been holding back for weeks and lost the leash in one second. His grip on your jaw tightens, angling you up, and his other hand slides to your hip, dragging you in against him with zero hesitation.
You gasp into his mouth. He swallows it.
He tastes like clean mint and rain and smoke.
You whimper and grab at his shirt, fisting the soaked fabric at his chest, clinging. He’s solid like a wall. Heat pours off him. He groans, low in his throat, when you open for him, and then his tongue is in your mouth, slow and sure and claiming.
You’ve kissed men before. You’ve never been kissed like this.
This feels like being cornered in the best possible way. Like being owned.
You moan.
He growls.
“Oh,” Sam says brightly from your doorway, “oh, wow, okay, so this is what we’re doing, cool cool cool, love that for you two, I’m gonna go tell dispatch we’re doing an extended safety inspection, carry on—”
The door slams.
You jerk back, mortified, breathless. “Oh my god—”
Bucky doesn’t even look away from you. His thumb strokes under your chin, coaxing you to look at him, dragging you back in. His pupils are blown so wide they almost eat the blue.
“Eyes on me,” he says quietly. “Not on Wilson.”
Your head snaps back like he’s got a grip on your hair.
“Yes, sir,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.
A muscle in his jaw jumps. You feel his hand on your hip tighten, fingers digging into bare skin through your shirt.
“Fuck,” he mutters again, almost like it hurts. “Okay. Okay, sweetheart. You wanna play games with firemen? You get the fireman.”
You make a needy noise that doesn’t sound like you. “Please—”
“Shh.” He leans down, kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then just under your ear. His breath is hot on your neck. “We’re gonna do this right.”
You’re shaking.
“I need two things from you,” he murmurs against your throat, kissing his way down, slow, deliberate. “You’re gonna give ‘em to me and then I’ll give you whatever you want. Sound fair?”
You nod frantically.
“Words, menace,” he chides softly.
“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, Sergeant.”
He hums, pleased. You feel the sound against your skin. “Good girl.”
You squeeze your thighs together helplessly.
“First,” he says, voice low, “you’re gonna tell me if you want me to stop. Any time. ‘Stop’ means stop. You say it, I step back. We clear?”
“Yes,” you breathe, chest heaving. “Clear.”
He presses a kiss to your throat, soft, like reward. “Second,” he murmurs, mouth moving against the frantic flutter of your pulse, “you’re gonna be honest when I ask you questions. You lie to me again? I’ll put my coat back on and I’ll walk right out that door.”
Panic shoots through you so fast you gasp.
“I won’t lie,” you blurt, desperate. “I won’t, I swear, I won’t, just— don’t leave.”
He exhales a quiet curse that’s basically a groan. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters against your skin. “You’re gonna kill me.”
Then his hands are on you.
Both of them.
And you learn, very fast, what it feels like to be handled by James Buchanan Barnes.
His right hand, warm and rough, fists in the hem of your shirt and drags it up in one smooth motion. His left—metal, cool and impossibly steady—slides down over your hip and under the edge, palming your bare ass like he’s been waiting to.
You squeak.
He grins against your throat. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “That what you wanted, doll? You wanted the big, scary firefighter to put his hands on you?”
You’re not sure if you whimper or nod. Probably both.
He pulls your shirt up, up, over your ribs, over your head. You raise your arms without thinking, dizzy and pliant. He tangles you for one clumsy second, laughing softly under his breath when the shirt catches on your elbow, then tosses it somewhere behind you with zero concern.
You’re naked in your own kitchen in front of him. Bare and shaking and wet between your thighs already.
His breath leaves him in a harsh exhale.
“Fuck me,” he says quietly, reverent and filthy at once.
You flush from scalp to sternum.
His gaze drags down slowly, like a hand. Your throat. Your collarbone. Your breasts—he groans, actual, honest groan, when he sees you, like you’re some kind of miracle. His tongue flicks over his lower lip. His jaw flexes. He drags his stare down your belly, to the soft curve there, the dip of your waist, the way your thighs press together, already damp at the seam.
You squirm, suddenly shy under the scrutiny.
His eyes snap back up to yours instantly.
“Don’t,” he says softly. There’s heat in it. Warning. “Don’t you hide from me now. You hear me?”
You nod, dizzy.
“Words,” he says gently, patient even through the hunger in his eyes.
“I hear you,” you whisper.
His mouth twitches. “Good girl.”
You feel that praise like it’s physical.
He leans in and kisses you again, slower now. Deep and claiming, yes, but he slows the roll of his tongue, learning your mouth, mapping it. His hands bracket your hips—one warm, one cool—holding you steady as he licks into you until you’re making those soft, helpless noises again.
When he pulls back, you chase him without thinking.
He smiles. “Needy,” he murmurs, and it sounds like approval.
Your face burns. “You said honesty.”
“I did,” he agrees. “So you’re gonna be real honest with me right now, okay?”
You nod, breathless. “Okay.”
“Have you touched yourself thinkin’ about me?”
You let out a tiny, strangled sound.
His brows lift. “That a yes?”
You squeeze your eyes shut. “Yes,” you whisper.
“How many times?”
Your brain goes white.
“I— I don’t—” You swallow. “A lot.”
He hums, pleased. “Yeah? You get yourself nice and wet thinkin’ about me showin’ up in my gear?”
You whimper. You can’t help it. “Yes.”
“Thinkin’ about me bendin’ you over that counter and teachin’ you a lesson?”
“Oh my god,” you croak.
He laughs under his breath, low and delighted. “Yeah,” he says softly. “That’s what I thought.”
His right hand, warm and rough, skims up your side. Over your ribs, over the curve of your breast. He palms you there, big hand covering you almost entirely. His thumb drags over your nipple, slow, teasing.
You gasp, arching into him.
His eyes flick up to your face, watching you.
“That feel good?” he asks quietly.
“Yes,” you whisper, breathless.
“Yeah?” His thumb circles, firmer now, and your knees actually wobble. “You like my hands on you, doll?”
“God, yes.”
“Good,” he murmurs, and leans in to put his mouth on your throat again.
He kisses down. Slow, unhurried, like he’s got you for hours. The rain’s still pounding outside; the world could be ending and he would still be right here, licking lazy heat along your pulse while his hand kneads your breast.
When he drags his teeth, just a little, along the curve where neck meets shoulder, you gasp and clutch at his shoulders.
He groans. “Fuck, yeah, grab me,” he mutters against your skin. “Hold on to me.”
You don’t know if you’re standing or floating.
His mouth moves lower. Over your collarbone. Down. He pauses over your breast, glances up at you once, giving you a breath of space to say no.
You nod so fast you’re surprised you don’t get whiplash. “Please,” you gasp.
He smiles against your skin.
Then he sucks your nipple into his mouth.
Your head drops back with a gasp so sharp it’s almost a sob. “Oh—”
He groans, low and filthy, like you taste good. His tongue flicks over you, slow and teasing, then harder, then he closes his teeth just barely, a whisper of pressure, and your stomach drops straight through the floor.
“Sergeant,” you whine, high and desperate.
His groan rumbles against your breast. His metal hand tightens on your hip, cool and unyielding, keeping you right where he wants you when you try to squirm.
“That’s it,” he mutters around you. “Say it again.”
“Sergeant,” you gasp, clinging to his shoulders, nails digging into the soaked navy cotton. “Oh my god—”
He switches to the other breast, giving it the same slow worship until you’re trembling and making noises you’ve never heard from yourself. His mouth is hot, his stubble scraping just enough to make you feel raw in the best way.
By the time he drags himself away from your chest, you’re panting.
He looks up at you, lips slick, eyes dark. He looks wrecked. Hungry.
“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he says rough and honest. “You understand me?”
You let out an embarrassing noise. “You’re just— you’re just saying that—”
His expression sharpens, instantly. “No,” he says, voice low and firm. “No, ma’am. I’m not.”
You blink.
“You’re perfect,” he repeats, softer but no less serious. “You’re fuckin’ gorgeous. I’ve been losin’ sleep over you for three goddamn weeks. Don’t you ever tell me I’m ‘just sayin’ that’ again. You got me?”
Your throat closes.
You nod, a little watery. “Y—yes.”
He leans up and kisses you, soft and sweet, like sealing it. Your chest aches.
“Good girl,” he whispers against your mouth.
You whine.
He feels it instantly, stills, and his voice drops to a quiet rumble.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You good?”
You nod fast, dizzy. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m good. I promise.”
Something in his eyes softens — a flicker of pride, or maybe relief.
“Good girl,” he says again, like a reward. And then his fingers slip between your thighs.
You choke on a gasp.
You’re so wet you’re embarrassed. Slick and aching and hot. His fingertips drag through you and come away shining, and he hisses through his teeth when he sees.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, like it’s a prayer. “Look at you. You been walkin’ around like this waitin’ for me to come put you out?”
“Oh my god,” you groan, face on fire. “Please don’t say it like that—”
He grins, wicked. “What, you don’t like bein’ my little fire hazard?”
You let out a strangled sound that might be a laugh, might be a moan.
He drags two fingers—thick, callused—up through your slick and circles your clit, gentle, lazy, barely-there pressure that still lights you up like a match.
Your knees go.
He catches you easily, metal hand tightening, hauling you in against his chest like you weigh nothing. “Uh-uh,” he murmurs. “Stay with me. I got you.”
“Please,” you gasp, clutching at his shoulders. “Please, I need—”
“I know what you need,” he soothes. “I know, sweetheart, I got you. Gonna take care of you now, okay? Finally gonna give you what you’ve been beggin’ for in that pretty little head.”
You whine, wordless.
“Spread for me,” he murmurs.
You do. You spread your thighs as far as you can with him still crowding you against the counter, shameless now, desperate.
“Good girl,” he breathes, genuinely pleased, and slides his fingers down, down, until he’s pressing one thick finger into you.
You gasp so loud you’re sure someone in the hall heard.
“Yeah?” he mutters through gritted teeth, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second like the feel of you almost knocks him over. “Fuck, you’re tight.”
“Bucky—” you choke, then catch yourself so fast you get dizzy. “Sergeant, please—”
His groan might actually hurt him. “Say my fuckin’ name like that again,” he mutters against your skin, “and I’m gonna lose every bit of self-control I got left, you understand me?”
You nod frantically, clinging to him like you’ll float away, because that sounds incredible. “Yes— ah— yes, sir—”
He swears, low and filthy.
Then he starts moving his hand.
It’s over for you.
He fucks you on his fingers slow and deep, not rushing, not pounding, just pressing in and curling, pressing and curling, finding that spot like he’s been here before. Like he was built to fit inside you and wring you out.
You make a noise that doesn’t sound human.
“That it, sweetheart?” he pants, eyes on your face even as his jaw clenches. “That where you wanted me?”
“Yes,” you sob. “Yes, please, please—”
“Yeah,” he grits out. “Been drivin’ me crazy, thinkin’ about this. You know that? Tryin’ to do my fuckin’ job—” curl, press, curl “—and all I can think about is how you’d feel milkin’ my fingers like this—”
You wail.
He laughs, breathless and so fond you could cry. “There she is,” he mutters. “There’s my little menace. That’s my girl.”
Your orgasm hits like a slammed door.
It takes you in one brutal rush, cresting and snapping all at once. You arch, cry out, clamp down around his fingers so hard you’re shocked he doesn’t hiss, and everything goes hot-white and shaking. You vaguely register the way he holds you through it—arm like a band of steel around your waist, mouth at your ear telling you, “That’s it, that’s it, let go for me, good girl, I got you, I got you”—and then you’re sagging against him, boneless and wrecked.
You’re still panting when you feel him ease his fingers out, slow, gentle.
You whimper at the loss.
He groans, quiet and filthy, watching his own fingers. They’re slick with you. He stares like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his life.
Then, eyes on yours, never breaking contact, he lifts those fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.
Your jaw actually drops.
“Jesus,” you whisper, stunned.
He hums around his own fingers, eyes rolling back for one split second like he’s fucking tasting heaven. When he pulls them free with a soft, obscene pop, his voice is wrecked. “You taste like trouble,” he murmurs, grinning slow and dark. “Figures.”
You’re shaking. “I can’t believe you just—”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says softly, almost sweet, “I’m just gettin’ started.”
Your legs almost give again.
He laughs quietly and steadies you. “Think you can walk?”
You blink. “Where are we going?”
His grin goes wicked. “Bedroom,” he says. “Unless you want your neighbors to hear you choke on my cock in the kitchen.”
You make a tiny, strangled sound that does nothing to hide how your thighs press together at the image.
His eyes flare. “Bedroom it is.”
He doesn’t exactly ask permission to move you. He just puts his hands on you—one at your hip, the other low on your back—and steers you down the hallway like you’re his to move. You stumble a little, still boneless from the orgasm, and he huffs a quiet laugh, murmuring, “Easy,” like you’re not both about to do something that’ll haunt your dreams forever.
Your bedroom is a tiny, soft chaos of blankets and laundry and warm lamplight. You’re suddenly, violently aware that you did not plan for tonight to go this far—you didn’t tidy, you didn’t stage, you didn’t—
Oh, god.
The calendar.
You forgot about the calendar.
Bucky stops dead in the doorway.
For a split second you’re confused, then you follow his line of sight and want to actually dissolve.
It’s hanging on the inside of your closet door, right where you’d left it after laughing about it with your friend over wine. The fire station fundraiser calendar. The local “Heroes of Engine 41” charity thing they’d sold at the farmer’s market.
It’s currently flipped to this month.
This month is Bucky.
And not “Bucky in full gear, anonymous hero” Bucky. No. This is “Bucky with his turnout pants low on his hips and suspenders tugged off his shoulders, shirtless, drenched, helmet in one hand, looking over his shoulder like you just called his name.” It’s borderline obscene. Whoever took that photo knew exactly what they were doing. His abs look like they’re carved. His dog tags are dripping water down his chest. His mouth is a soft, dangerous curve.
It’s also signed.
To: Trouble. Try not to burn the place down without me. –Sgt. Barnes
You actually whimper.
Bucky is absolutely silent.
You cannot tell if he’s mad, turned on, amused, or about to arrest you.
Your face is on fire. “That’s not— I mean, that’s not what it looks like—”
His head turns, slow, and when his eyes land on you again they’re molten.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he rumbles, voice dropping so low it’s basically a purr. “It’s exactly what it looks like.”
You cover your face with both hands. “I didn’t— Sam made me— he said if I didn’t buy one he’d tell you I didn’t support local heroes and I panicked—”
Bucky snorts.
You peek through your fingers.
He is staring at the calendar like he wants to physically climb through the paper and fight himself. His jaw is tight. His pupils are huge.
“You been jerkin’ off to my fundraiser photo, menace?” he asks conversationally, like he’s asking if you’ve had dinner. “That why you needed so many ‘emergency visits’?”
You let out a mortified squeak. “I— I have not—”
“Honesty,” he reminds you softly.
Oh god.
Your voice comes out in a whisper. “Yes.”
His eyes close for one glorious second like he’s in pain.
When he opens them again, he looks… different. Rougher. Hotter. Hungrier.
Dangerous.
“Get on the bed,” he says.
You go.
It’s not graceful. You sort of scramble backwards onto your sheets, breathless and wrecked, heart pounding wild. You sit with your back against the pillows, knees bent, thighs parted because you can’t pretend you’re shy anymore. Your pulse roars in your ears.
Bucky steps into your room like he owns it.
Like he owns you.
“Lay back,” he murmurs. “Head on the pillows. I wanna see all of you.”
You melt back, dizzy, spreading out for him without thinking. Your legs fall open in invitation.
He sucks in a breath through his teeth.
“That’s my girl,” he says, voice rough.
You groan.
Then, slowly, never looking away from you, he reaches for his belt.
You almost combust.
He unclips the heavy utility belt, sets it carefully on your floor. The harness strap comes off next. Then his shirt.
Holy god.
You’d known he was big. You’d seen the fundraiser photo. It did not prepare you for the reality of James Buchanan Barnes shirtless in your bedroom.
He’s all broad chest and thick arms, heavy muscle that looks earned, not sculpted, like he didn’t get it at a gym, he got it carrying people out of burning buildings. Scars cross his torso, pale lines and healed nicks, each one a story you suddenly, desperately want to hear. His dog tags hang against his sternum, just like in the calendar, only now they’re real and right there and you could touch them if you reach.
You whimper.
His mouth quirks. “Like what you see?”
“Are you kidding,” you whisper hoarsely.
He laughs softly.
Then he reaches for the button on his cargo pants.
Your breath stops.
He’s not shy about it. He doesn’t tease. He just undoes the button, drags the zipper down, and shoves the pants low enough to free himself.
You actually gasp.
He’s… yeah. Big. Thick. Flushed. Sitting heavy against his lower abdomen. Your mouth goes dry.
Bucky chuckles, low and smug, at the way your eyes go wide. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice gone honey-dark. “Nervous?”
You swallow. “No.”
“Honesty,” he reminds you, amused.
You flush. “A little,” you whisper. “You’re— um.”
“Yeah,” he says with a little huff of a laugh. “That’s what I figured.”
Then he’s at the edge of the bed, kneeling between your open thighs. He braces one hand on the mattress right by your hip. The bed dips with his weight. You feel caged. You love it.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he murmurs, voice soft, almost soothing. “You’re gonna make me feel good with that pretty mouth, and then I’m gonna fuck you nice and slow, just like you’ve been beggin’ for in that little head of yours. Sound good?”
Your stomach drops straight through the floor.
You nod frantically. “Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, sir.”
His groan is borderline pornographic. “Oh, fuck, you’re tryin’ to kill me.”
He shifts up the bed, knees bracketing your ribs. He doesn’t sit on your chest. He’s careful about his weight, about his balance, like he’s done this and knows how not to hurt you. His hand—his warm hand—comes up and cups your jaw again, thumb stroking your cheek.
“You tap me, I move,” he murmurs, voice low. “You gag, you pull off. I don’t force. You hear me?”
You nod. “Yes, Sergeant.”
His eyes flash.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “Open.”
You open your mouth.
He groans.
Guiding himself with one hand, he drags the blunt, flushed head of his cock over your lower lip. Slow. Teasing. Slicking you with pre-come. You whine at the taste. He hisses.
“That’s it,” he mutters. “Pretty fuckin’ mouth. Jesus.”
Then he slides in.
You moan.
He doesn’t choke you. He doesn’t slam. He feeds himself into your mouth slow, just the head, then a little more, then a little more, until your lips are stretched around him and your tongue is pressed under the weight of him and your eyes are watering.
You whimper.
His head drops back on a low, broken groan. “Oh my god.”
You rest your hands on his thighs—thick, hard muscle under heavy fabric—and hollow your cheeks, sucking.
He swears softly. “Yeah,” he gasps. “Yeah, that’s— fuck, that’s perfect, baby, just like that. Look at you. Jesus, look at you takin’ me like a fuckin’ angel.”
Heat floods you at the praise.
You hum around him, wanting more.
His breath hitches. “Oh fuck— careful, doll, you do that and this is gonna be over real fast.”
You look up at him through your lashes, and the sound he makes at that—half groan, half laugh—goes straight between your legs.
“Menace,” he growls, fond and desperate. “Such a fuckin’ menace.”
You preen.
You keep working him, finding a rhythm. He lets you set the pace, lets you get comfortable. You drag your tongue along the underside of him, swirl the head, suck him back in. His thighs flex under your hands. His breathing gets rougher. His hand tightens on your jaw, not forcing, just anchoring.
“Such a good girl,” he pants, voice gone ragged. “God, you’re such a good fuckin’ girl for me, takin’ me so sweet—”
You whine, needy, and he chokes on a groan.
“Okay,” he mutters, voice breaking, “okay, baby, I gotta— if I don’t stop now I’m gonna— fuck—”
He pulls back gently, letting you breathe.
You gasp, blinking up at him, spit on your lips, eyes glassy.
He looks wrecked.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, running a shaky hand over his face. “You’re gonna put me in an early grave.”
You smile, dazed and smug.
He laughs, breathless and incredulous and so fond you swear your chest hurts. “C’mere,” he murmurs.
Then he’s shifting, moving you like you weigh nothing. He slides down your body, kissing as he goes—your mouth, your throat, the swell of your breasts, the soft of your stomach. You squirm, breath hitching.
When he settles between your thighs and drags them over his shoulders, you gasp.
“Bucky—” you choke, then whimper, “Sergeant, please—”
He glances up at you from between your legs with a grin that could start wars. “Good girl,” he murmurs, and then he’s licking into you like he’s starving.
You scream.
There’s no other word for it. You slap a hand over your own mouth on instinct, wide-eyed and shaking, because you live in an apartment building and you are about to make enemies.
Bucky growls against you and drags your hand away, pinning your wrist to the mattress with his cool metal hand. “Uh-uh,” he mutters against your soaked pussy. “Let ‘em hear.”
You moan something that isn’t words.
He eats you like a man dying of thirst. Messy, greedy, thorough. He groans like you’re his favorite meal, like you’re his first meal. His tongue drags up and down, slow and heavy. He sucks your clit into his mouth and your vision whites out. He slides two thick fingers back into you, easy this time, slick with you and his spit, curling just right, just right, just—
You come so hard you almost black out.
It hits even faster than the first one. Your whole body bows tight, your breath catches in your throat, you sob his title on a broken moan—“Sergeant, please, oh my god, oh my god”—and he groans like you just blessed him.
“That’s it,” he growls into you. “Fuck, that’s it, give it to me, doll, lemme taste it, that’s my girl—”
You’re shaking when he finally eases up, kissing you through the aftershocks, licking you slow until you’re twitching and too sensitive.
He presses one last kiss to your inner thigh like benediction.
Then he’s crawling up your body again, bracing over you, eyes blown and wild, mouth slick with you.
You’re boneless. Floating. Wrecked.
He groans like you just punched him. “Christ you’re a vision.”
Then he’s lining himself up, the head of his cock slick with your wetness, and pressing in.
You both moan.
He goes slow.
Thank god he goes slow.
You can feel him stretch you, inch by thick, perfect inch, and it’s almost too much—your mouth falls open on a silent gasp, eyes rolling back, hands flying up to clutch at his shoulders. He’s huge. He’s so big you feel split, stuffed, filled to aching.
“That’s it,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, breath harsh. “Shh, I got you. You’re okay. You’re so fuckin’ good for me, sweetheart, takin’ me so sweet. You’re okay.”
You whine, high and helpless. “Ohmygod—”
“I know,” he groans. “I know, baby, I know. You’re doin’ so good. Look at you. Jesus fuck, look at you.”
When he’s finally, finally all the way in, seated deep, you feel full in a way that borders on spiritual.
You’re both shaking.
“Holy fuck,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “You feel— I can’t— I can’t even—”
You let out a breathless laugh that edges on a sob. “Move,” you beg. “Please, Sergeant, please—”
He swears, low and reverent. “You keep sayin’ that,” he mutters, “and I’m gonna propose to you, you understand me?”
You make a half-sob, half-giggle noise.
He laughs, breathless, and then he starts to move.
It’s obscene.
He fucks you slow like he promised, long, deep strokes that drag against every tender, sensitive place inside you, hitting perfect every single time like he mapped you with his fingers first. His hips roll, controlled and heavy. The muscles in his arms flex over you, caging you in. His dog tags swing and tap against your sternum with every thrust.
You’re gone.
You cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, head tipped back, mouth open on high, broken noises you couldn’t hold back if you tried.
“That’s it,” he groans, eyes glued to your face. “That’s it, sweetheart, take it, take it, fuck, you’re perfect, you’re my perfect fuckin’ girl, shit—”
You’re babbling. You don’t even know what you’re saying. Please and yes and Sergeant and don’t stop and oh my god over and over like a prayer.
He’s shaking, jaw clenched, sweat beading at his temple, holding himself back with visible effort.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he pants, desperate. “Tell me.”
You don’t even hesitate. “I’m yours,” you gasp, raw and honest. “I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours, please—”
He growls, low and feral. “That’s right,” he snarls, thrusts stuttering. “That’s right, that’s my fuckin’ menace, my little fire hazard, mine.”
You tumble over the edge like he flipped a switch.
Your orgasm crashes through you so hard you sob. Your whole body locks tight around him, clenching, milking him, and you cry out his title on a wrecked, pleading wail.
“Sergeant—!”
He breaks with you.
He chokes on a groan that sounds like it’s being ripped out of him, buries his face in your neck, and thrusts once, twice, deep and hard, before he’s spilling into you with a shudder that borders on violent.
For a second, everything is just heat and heartbeat and rain.
You’re both shaking. You can feel his pulse pounding against your throat. His breath is hot and ragged where his mouth is pressed to your skin. You’re full, stuffed, stretched, perfect.
You’re also absolutely ruined.
He stays there for a long moment, holding himself up so he doesn’t crush you even though you’re pretty sure you’d like him to. His metal hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking slow and soothing along your cheekbone. His human hand fists in your sheets like he needs the anchor.
When he finally lifts his head, his eyes look soft. Gentle, in a way he hasn’t let himself be yet.
“You okay?” he murmurs, voice rough.
You nod, smiling, dazed and wrecked and so full of him you feel drunk. “Better than okay,” you whisper. “Holy shit.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, relief flickering across his face like sunrise. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say honestly. “You?”
He looks at you like you’re the fire and he’d gladly walk in.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, sweetheart. I’m good.”
You grin, sleepy and smug. “So,” you murmur, “you gonna write me up for that citation?”
He groans and drops his face back into your neck. “Menace,” he mutters, words muffled against your skin. “You’re an actual menace.”
You giggle, boneless and warm, and wrap your arms around him, holding him there.
Outside, rain hammers your windows, steady and relentless.
Inside, you’re finally, blissfully, warm.
----
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warnings ; german joke, german language, slight dubcon, hair pulling, 18+, smut, slight breeding kink, hyperspermia
it had started with a stupid comment about his nationality. you both were arguing about american foods, about how könig thought this place had no culture of its own, and much— much more. he thought it was funny, but even though you had your own problems with your country, it didn’t mean you liked lies and propaganda to be spread. ESPECIALLY about the culture.
“yeah? well you’re fucking german!”
you didn’t even register what you said, just said the first thing on your tongue. könig made it a point the moment you two started dating that he was austrian. not german.
two separate things. and he genuinely takes offense to it, even if the language is the same. he turned to you, stone wall of a body moving in one quick step, neck tilted like he didn’t quite hear you right, “say that again?”
he made you pay for your insolence, grabbing you by the hair— balling it up in his fist to drag you over to the kitchen table. not enough to cause extreme pain, but enough to tug at your roots, urging your feet to follow.
“wieder?” könig had you bent over the table, elbow digging into the middle of your back as he kept that same grip on your hair. his voice was steady, low and vibrating in your ears.
“didn’t mean it like that…” you tried to whimper out, legs kicking the table, wanting to get out from under him— but the wetness gathering in your panties said otherwise. it was like he could smell it leaking out of you, groping at your puffy pussy with a rough hand, giving it a good squeeze before gathering his fist in the hem of your pants. he pulled them down in one quick pull, letting the tight material bunch up at your thighs— keeping them together.
könig pulled the thin fabric of your panties down, putting your pussy and ass on full display.
“sollte dich immer so haben” he spoke through gritted teeth and jutted his elbow into your spine, a warning, a command not to move from this position. in the dead silence of your shared house, you could hear the metal clicking of könig’s belt, shivers running through your body when you heard the sound of it being whipped out of his belt loops. “Du lernst es einfach nie, oder?”
“Ihnen beibringen, woher Ihre Kinder kommen werden” the tip of his cock forced itself past your tight folds, struggling to fit into the awkward position— wishing to just spread your legs. “Vielleicht hörst du dann zu.”
“I don’t even know what you’re saying!” you cried out in genuine confusion, choking up as könig reached your cervix, threatening to go further if given the room.
“mein armes Mädchen” he was breathless as he bottomed out, thickly calloused hands coming to rest on your hips— using them as an anchor. “Du wirst nicht mehr so viel weinen, wenn ich fertig bin.”
he dragged his cock back, making you feel every curve and vein against your slick walls, hissing when your warmth refused to let him move. “Scheiße, Mädchen” your pussy looked absolutely divine from the back, clinging to him, both holes fluttering from the intrusion.
there was no sympathy for your poor pussy. he immediately started drilling into you, rocking your body against the table, making the legs squeak on the floor. all you could do was press your lips together and take deep breaths, suppressing your moans. könig always hurt a bit when he got carried away. he didn’t even care when he pulled your first orgasm, simply fucking around your pitiful liquid— nothing compared to his thick cum.
he spread his legs wider, pulling you back to meet him halfway, finally giving up with the position— you were too fucking short for it. könig wrapped one thick forearm around your abdomen, lifting you up higher onto the table, keeping your ass up and face smooshed to the wood. “com’on baby, talk to me”
“c-can’t take it anymor-” a harsh slap to your ass made you cry out instead of finishing your sentence, feeling his hand immediately grab at the flesh, pulling your cheeks apart, thumbing dangerously close to your other hole. “in deutsch, stupid girl”
“ja, herr” you mumbled out, speaking in the only german words you could remember. eyes starting to close as könig continued his assault on your pussy, making it and the back of your thighs turn all red. when he did finally cum, you could feel it fill your womb, oozing around his cock and dribbling down your pussy— no doubt already taking. sure to be round with his kids soon. his austrian kids.
just a little funny smutty blurb thing idk :b came to me while i was at the ethel cain concert !! actual convo i had w my german friend once just not the uh pure smut
nsfw. 40s könig. come eating. pussy slapping. voyeurism. manhandling. degradation. squirting. sex work.
you never planned on doing porn.
you don't think anyone does, really. you had a whole different life mapped out— degree, stable job, retirement.
but college was bleeding you dry. bills stacked faster than you could pay them, textbooks cost more than your monthly groceries, and your financial aid office had the efficiency of a broken vending machine. part-time jobs barely kept the lights on. dinner was whatever was cheap and lasted the longest.
you worked, studied, scraped by, but it felt more like drowning in slow motion.
camming started as an experiment. a shot in the dark born from desperation.
you bought a cheap ring light from amazon, found a secondhand webcam on facebook marketplace, and set up your little filming space in the corner of your apartment. it was nothing fancy. the lighting was bad, the camera wasn’t great, and instead of a tripod you had a stack of books.
but it worked.
you slipped into the only matching lingerie set you owned— soft pink lace, delicate ribbons, tiny bows stitched in all the right places. sheer enough to tease, but still leaving just enough to the imagination. the bra straps slipped down your shoulders as you posed in front of the mirror, lips parted, fingers playing with the waistband of your panties.
picking the best ones, you captioned them with something playful then posted them to onlyfans, shut your laptop, and forgot about it. you weren’t expecting much. maybe a few subscribers, a little extra cash, nothing major.
then, your account blew up.
someone with a bit of reach had apparently found your photos and posted them to a a ddlg subreddit, and suddenly you were everywhere.
at first, you didn’t notice. but when you woke up to hundreds of new notifications, dms, and tips flooding in overnight, you started digging.
that’s when you saw it. a post on reddit. thousands of upvotes. hundreds of comments dissecting your photos in excruciating detail.
[r/ddlg] found this new onlyfans girl and i'm losing my mind. she’s so soft. look at her. look at her.
🔺14.3k upvotes 💬 793 comment
u/daddysfavorite456: this is the most perfect little babygirl i’ve ever seen wtf
🔺6.2k
u/sirspanksalot: the way she’s tugging her panties down just a little… i need a moment
🔺4.9k
u/subsugarplum: her little pout in the third pic is actually ruining my life
🔺3.3k
u/softdom_daddy: how do we make sure she never pays for anything again in her life?
🔺7.1k
your breath caught in your throat as you scrolled. every detail of your photos was being analyzed. obsessed over.
the way you tilted your head just slightly, eyes wide and doe-like. the way your fingers curled in the hem of your panties, like you were hesitating. like you needed permission. the little pout in the last photo, lower lip caught between your teeth, the faintest furrow in your brows.
suddenly, your subscriber count was doubling by the hour.
new subscribers flooded in overnight. your follower count jumped by thousands. dms piled up, requests, tips, compliments, outright begging.
"you're perfect. please let me take care of you." ($20 tip)
"you’re the softest little thing i’ve ever seen." ($50 tip)
"tell me you do custom videos. i’ll pay whatever." ($100 tip)
the sudden influx of attention was overwhelming. you barely had time to process it before people were demanding more.
demand skyrocketed. they were practically clawing at your metaphorical door, begging for more content, more variety— more, more, more.
for now, solo work was fine. it was safe. comfortable. easy to control. but you knew it wouldn’t be enough forever. you saw it in the comments, in the messages, in the ever-growing list of requests. they wanted more than just you and a camera. they wanted another presence. another body in the frame.
you debated your options. a studio would be the safest bet. you had the budget now— painstakingly built, every small tip, every renewal adding up until you finally had enough that you didn't need to comprise comfort.
but finding the right studio was another thing entirely.
you didn’t want the overproduced, garish lights and cheap theatrics of mainstream porn. you wanted subtlety. intimacy. something with taste. good lighting, soft edits, angles that captured the feeling rather than just the act.
something that matched the persona you had so carefully built.
you thought about it for weeks before finally bringing it up to valeria, a girl you often had collabs with.
she tilted her head when you mentioned it. "professional production..? you know there are a lot of seedy guys out there."
you nodded, worrying your lip between your teeth. you’d done enough research to know that most so-called "professional" setups were just glorified scams, with sleazy directors who treated performers like props.
valeria watched you for a second, then clicked her tongue. "but, if you ever actually follow through, i know a guy. a lot of the girls have worked with him before. big name in the business. respects his actors. good guy." she pulled out her phone. "i’ll send you his portfolio. put in a good word."
you meet könig a few weeks later, after countless back-and-forth emails, late-night calls hammering out details, discussions about setups, plot points, pricing. every conversation had been strictly professional so far and you appreciated the distinct lack of attempts to try and get in your pants.
you don’t expect to spot him the moment you step into the airbnb you rented for the shoot, but there he is, standing head and shoulders above the rest of the crew. and the first thing that strikes you isn’t his height (though jesus, he’s massive). it’s how out of place he looks.
he doesn’t carry himself like someone in the industry. doesn’t exude that easy sleaze, that over-familiar smirk you’ve come to expect from men in this business. no tight black tee straining over biceps, no carefully curated air of supremacy with just a hint of nicotine.
instead, he looks like someone’s dad who got lost on his way to a hardware store and somehow ended up in the adult industry instead.
his glasses are perched high on the bridge of his nose, pushed up with the absentminded shove of a knuckle. his sweater— soft, thick, comfortable— hangs loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up to reveal thick forearms dusted with silver hair. he’s dressed like he should be standing at a backyard grill, not directing an erotic film.
he’s older than you expected. forty, according to his portfolio, and he wears it well. silver threading through black, crow’s feet at the corners of sharp, washed-out blue eyes. his nose is crooked— like it had been broken once and never quite set right— makes his face look lived-in, a little rough around the edges. his stubble is light, a soft dusting of salt and pepper.
he looks warm.
he’s talking to someone. one of the crew, maybe, head dipped slightly, listening intently. but even hunched, even relaxed, his sheer size makes him loom.
and then the door clicks shut behind you, and he hears it. könig's head lifts, pale blue eyes settling on you in an instant.
he excuses himself with a quiet murmur. hands tucked into the front pocket of his pants, broad shoulders rolling slightly like he’s trying to make himself smaller, less imposing.
it doesn’t work.
“good to finally meet you,” he says, accent curling soft in his words.
oh, you think. you hadn’t expected that, either.
his voice is deep, just shy of being harsh. it's a far cry from the sharp tone you’d imagined after hearing him speak over the phone. there’s something smoother about it in person, a warmth undercutting the rough edges.
you shift the tray of coffee in your hands, balancing it carefully before setting it down on the small folding table near the entrance.
“brought coffee for everyone,” you say, wringing your hands because you refuse to brush them off on your dress.
he glances down at the cups, and for a second you think you see something soften in his expression.
“thoughtful,” he murmurs, and though his face remains unreadable, you can hear the approval in his voice.
you exhale, trying to shake off the nervous energy thrumming in your chest, and clear your throat. “figured caffeine would help. don’t wanna be the reason your crew collapses mid-shoot.”
könig huffs something close to a chuckle, tipping his head toward the set-up behind him. “they’ve worked under worse conditions.”
you’re not sure what that means, but before you can ask, he gestures for you to follow him further into the space.
the next few minutes are easy. professional. you go over the shot list, the angles he’s planning, how he likes to work— efficient and minimal retakes unless absolutely necessary. he asks about your preferences, what you don’t want, what you do.
it’s…comfortable. smoother than you expected. he’s patient, but direct. no wasted words, no unnecessary small talk, just the work. you like that.
and then your phone rings.
you pull it from your pocket without thinking, glancing at the name on the screen. simon riley. your co-star. you press accept, bringing the phone to your ear.
“hey, you on your way?” you ask, already stepping away from könig, mind half on the conversation you’d just been having.
but simon doesn’t answer right away. there’s a beat of silence. “can’t make it.”
your stomach drops. you stop short, pulse spiking. “what?”
“somethin’ came up. won’t be able to get there.”
you glance at könig, breath stalling in your throat. this cannot be happening.
“simon, i can’t reschedule,” you hiss, stepping further away, out of earshot. “i already paid for the location, the crew’s already here-”
“nothin’ i can do, sweetheart,” he interrupts, not unkind. “’m sorry.”
but sorry doesn’t fix this. sorry doesn’t change the fact that if you don’t shoot today, you’re out thousands. your grip tightens around your phone. “simon, please-”
the line clicks.
he’s gone.
panic creeps up your spine, cold sweat starting to form on your palms. you can’t not shoot today. you can’t afford it. the budget’s already stretched thin, and a reschedule isn’t just inconvenient— it’s impossible.
you drag a hand to wipe the sweat on your forehead.
könig’s eyes are on you and you can feel the heat of his gaze. when you turn, he asks, “problem?”
you open your mouth, hesitate. because what the fuck are you supposed to say? every option you can think of results in you losing a few hundred dollars at the minimum.
you figure the truth is the best option you've got. “simon's out.”
könig watches as your fingers tighten around your phone, knuckles turning white. you press your lips together, trembling just slightly before biting down.
he tilts his head, slow. "know anyone that can sub in?"
you shake your head immediately, too fast, too frantic. a sharp inhale makes your shoulders rise, lashes fluttering against the unshed tears that suddenly gloss your eyes.
fuck.
you’re going to cry.
könig shouldn’t be looking this closely.
shouldn’t be cataloging every shift of your body. shouldn’t be tracking how your throat works as you swallow, how the delicate line of your jaw tenses under pressure.
it’s detail that shouldn’t register. detail that has no purpose. no place. no right to send his thoughts careening somewhere they have no business going.
but there they go anyway.
because he's been watching you.
not in a way that's creepy— könig tells himself that, over and over. he was just a professional doing his research, getting a feel for his clients. it’s good business practice, staying informed, making sure he knows who he’s working with, what they bring to the table.
and if that research led him to your socials, to hours of footage in soft, honeyed lighting, to endless clips of you sprawled out on pristine white sheets as you mewled into the camera— well. that was just part of the job, wasn’t it?
but the truth, the thing he never says out loud, not even to himself is that he’s spent far too many nights with his phone in one hand and his cock in the other, watching you through the screen.
watching you in those tiny lingerie sets. pink and white lace, frilly little bows, the kind of girlish softness that makes his teeth ache.
könig's watched every fucking video. every stream. every post. hours spent with his laptop open, pants shoved down around his hips, hand working his cock as you bat your lashes and moan so sweetly it makes his head spin.
‘am i a good girl?’ you breathe into the mic, like you’re talking right to him. like you know.
and god, does he know you.
he’s studied you. learned you. mapped out every twitch, every tell, every fleeting flicker of pleasure that crosses your pretty face. the way your brows pinch together when you’re getting desperate. the way your lips part right before you come, glossy and swollen, tongue darting out to wet them like you want something in your mouth, like you’re inviting someone to grab you by the jaw and fuck your throat until you can’t think.
he’s seen how your thighs start to tremble when you edge yourself too long. how your back arches off the sheets when you finally let go, hips rolling into your own hand, breath catching in your throat as you fall apart in a mess of shuddery gasps.
könig has jerked off to all of it.
not just once. not just twice.
so many times he’s lost count.
sometimes slow, drawing it out to hear that little whimper you make at the end— the one that sounds like you’ve been fucked dumb.
sometimes rough. desperate. chasing his own release with one hand fisted in the sheets and the other pumping his cock.
it drives him fucking crazy.
it’s worse up close. worse when you shift on your feet, looking up at him from beneath your lashes, trying to hold yourself together.
stop.
he clenches his fists. drags in a breath through his nose. he is not some fucking rookie. not some kid who can’t keep his head straight.
but then you make a sound that crawls under his skin and sinks deep. and suddenly his thoughts are careening somewhere they shouldn’t go—
places where that breathy little sound is choked out against his palm. where those fingers twisting at your sleeves are scrabbling at his belt instead, pulling, fumbling, desperate.
his cock twitches.
jesus christ.
it’s perverse. it’s wrong. twenty years between you. he shouldn't even be thinking about you like this. but then he thinks about how small your hands would look trying to wrap around his cock. how easily he could press you up against the nearest wall, let you feel how bad he wants you, let you know exactly what you do to him—
and yeah.
he’s fucked.
his grip tightens on the coffee cup, knuckles white, cardboard crumpling in his palm.
"we can reschedule." it’s the logical thing to say. the right thing.
but you stiffen immediately, shaking your head almost violently, like the mere suggestion hurts.
"i can’t." your voice wobbles. "i don’t have the budget for it. the airbnb, the crew- if we don’t shoot today, it’s done. i lose it."
he can hear the distraught in your voice, the panic creeping in, rising in your throat. and könig— könig has never been good at ignoring that kind of thing.
his jaw tightens. his fingers flex. his pulse pounds in his ears. and before he can think better of it—
"i can do it."
your head jerks up, eyes locking onto his. wide. startled.
"what?"
könig lifts a broad shoulder, deceptively casual, ignoring how his pulse is hammering in his throat. acting as if he didn’t just offer himself up like it was nothing.
"i can do it," he repeats. "you need a scene partner."
he pauses, just long enough to make sure you’re really listening before he adds, pointed: "i’ve done worse for less."
it’s true too. könig had started shooting for money, not for passion, not for art. there were years where he took any job that paid, no matter how grimy, no matter how degrading. no dignity in it, no careful framing, no thoughtful direction. just harsh lighting, rough hands, the sound of too many bodies shifting in too little space.
it’s not like that anymore.
now, he works for himself. he makes art, in his own way. he only takes projects that meet his standards, only shoots what he knows will look good.
könig lets out a short, amused breath, tilting his head. "wouldn’t offer if i wasn’t."
your gaze flickers down to his mouth, just for a second, before snapping back up.
he notices. of course he fucking notices.
you hesitate, worrying your lip between your teeth, and he wants— god, he wants.
he lifts his coffee, takes a slow sip. watches you.
"think it through," he says, letting the accent curl around the words. "do you trust me?"
you stare at him, breath coming in short, uneven pulls. your fingers tighten around your phone.
and then, even though you probably shouldn't, you nod.
this is insane, is all you can think as your hands smooth down the dress, fingertips catching on the fabric’s delicate weave. it sways when you move, hem teasing the tops of your thighs.
the crew picked it because it feels normal, something someone’s wife might wear on a lazy sunday, waiting for her husband to walk through the door. not lingerie, not tight or short or scandalous. innocent.
somehow, that makes it worse.
the set sprawls before you, carefully crafted to mimic home. the couch sits comfortably worn— or at least looks like it, upholstery creased just enough to suggest years of use. a blanket lies draped over the back, fringes brushed out to seem effortless.
the coffee table holds small artifacts of a life: a half-empty mug with a faint lipstick stain, a book splayed open, pages curled, a pair of keys glinting under the warm overhead glow. off to the side, a framed photo perches, two strangers caught in mid-laugh, frozen happiness you’re supposed to claim as yours.
the lighting bathes it all in amber. soft, forgiving. like sunset spilling through a window that doesn’t exist. everything is designed to feel. to pull the viewer into a scene that isn’t real but wants to be. warmth. comfort. longing.
your pulse trips. nerves coil tight under your. stepping out, you inhale–
and there he is.
könig stands beside the couch, posture loose, almost as if he’s holding himself back from something. the uniform strains against him, fabric pulled taut across broad shoulders and the solid line of his chest. it’s glaringly obvious that it wasn’t tailored for a man like him— you doubt anything ever is— but he wears it like it belongs to him anyway. the belt grips a tapered waist, dog tags resting cold against his sternum. they glint when he shifts, catching the warmth of the lights.
he’s big. that part you knew. everyone knows. but there’s something about seeing him like this, the bulk of him filling the space, boots planted, arms crossed, sleeves clinging to thick forearms, that makes your breath catch in your throat.
he looks like he could hold the world in his hands. break it if he wanted.
then he lifts his head. and his gaze finds you.
it hits like a physical weight, gravity pulling you closer.
his eyes track the line of your body. starting from your face, drifting down, and back up again. for a moment you assume he’s taking inventory, cataloguing details you didn’t know you were offering.
your skin prickles under the attention. heat pooling low, spreading outwards.
könig’s jaw shifts. a muscle ticks. his fingers flex where they rest against his bicep, knuckles pale for half a second before he eases them loose.
you swallow. "do i look okay?"
silence stretches. then: "you look perfect."
his voice sounds like it's been scraped raw from something you can’t name. and you know you shouldn’t take his words to heart. shouldn’t make something out of nothing. he was just being polite—
but god, he doesn’t stop looking.
you breathe out. "are we ready?"
that seems to snap him out. könig exhales, nostrils flaring. “yeah," he says, looking away.. "we’re ready."
you nod and he turns, clapping his hands together.
"quiet on set!" his voice cuts through the chatter. "lights- ready? camera?"
a muffled ‘rolling!’ comes from behind the equipment.
he glances back, stepping into place. "sound?"
"speed!"
he nods, shoulders shifting under the snug uniform. "all right. action on me. three... two..."
his gaze flickers forward, locks onto you. his hand lifts, a silent ‘ready?’
you nod.
"action!"
the front door creaks open.
you see him first— broad shoulders filling the doorway, boots heavy against the worn rug you picked out last fall. his bag drops with a dull thump, keys jangling, and for a beat, you just stand there, watching.
it doesn't feel real. something out of a dream. your husband looks older somehow. tired. lines carved a little deeper around his eyes, hair at his temples brushed with more gray than before.
it's longer now too, the ends curling where sweat and travel have left it mussed.
then his gaze lifts, blue catching yours. and that’s all it takes.
you move.
your feet carry you faster than you realize, dress fluttering against your legs as you throw yourself into him.
könig catches you with a small grunt, part effort, part relief, hardly moving from his spot. strong arms close around you as he lifts you off the floor with an ease that's almost unfair.
his hand finds the back of your thigh, fingers splayed wide. "easy, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice rough from disuse, deepened by exhaustion and age. there’s an edge to it, earned from years of barking orders and nicotine abuse. "still getting old, you know."
you huff a breath that’s almost a laugh. "you’re not that old."
"hm." könig presses his face into your hair. "tell that to my back."
your chest tightens. god, you missed him. missed the way he smells— soap, leather, that faint trace of cologne you’d tucked into his bag months ago, almost worn off, but still miraculously there. you press your nose to his neck, breathing him in, and whisper, "missed you."
"missed you more." when he pulls back, his gaze traces every line of your face, eyes crinkling at the corners. "lemme take a good look at you, baby."
heat blooms in your cheeks, but you let him. there’s something reverent about his gaze when you meet his eyes.
then, he kisses you.
and fuck.
it’s messy. warm. his mouth is rough against yours, stubble scraping your skin, tasting like coffee burned down to the dregs.
"god," you breathe, voice catching on a gasp. "i love you."
könig chuckles, pressing his forehead to yours. "love you too," he murmurs, using that voice he saves for early mornings when you’re tucked against him, trading lazy kisses and whispered secrets.
his hands slide down to your hips, pulling you close. the world tilts, narrows, until there’s nothing but him. his body, his breath, the scratch of his stubble when he tilts his head, brushing his nose against yours.
then his fingers slip under your dress. his breath hitches the moment he finds you bare, his touch grazing soft folds, sticky and warm with slick.
"no panties?" his voice dips somewhere between a laugh and a growl.
heat blooms in your stomach. you bite your lip, shrugging. "figured you'd appreciate it."
his gaze darkens, blue eclipsed by black. "oh, do i."
könig’s fingers slide between your folds, dragging through the slick mess you’ve already made. you flinch at the contact, hips twitching toward him before you can catch yourself.
he pushes it in, slow. the stretch punches a gasp out of you, walls fluttering around the intrusion. he pauses, ignores your whine, brows drawing together, finger knuckle-deep. "did you get tighter?"
his voice is soft, almost like he’s talking more to himself than you, words slipping out under his breath.
his finger curls, pressing snug against your walls, testing just how much resistance it meets.
you whimper, thighs twitching, nails digging into the fabric of his jacket. "m-maybe if you fucked me more, i wouldn’t be."
the words tumble out before you can think to stop them. your pulse skips as you process what you just said. heat floods your face.
könig’s head tilts. his eyes flick up, narrowing, — not angry, not exactly— but his stare steals the breath from your lungs all the same. your lips part, trying to fumble out an apology stuck at the back of your throat when—
slap.
he pulls his finger free and smacks your pussy.
you squeak, body jerking as the sting blooms quick and hot between your legs, warmth spreading through your skin, rushing up your spine. you’re caught between shock and the low, simmering heat that pools in your belly.
"careful," könig warns although his tone is deceptively light. his fingers tap against your clit in soft, featherlight pulses of teasing pressure that makes your thighs jump. "keep that attitude and i’ll slap this pretty little thing five times. make you count every single one. s’that what you want?"
your cunt clenches, slick dribbling down to coat his knuckles. he feels it, of course he does. feels how your body betrays you, responding before your mind can catch up.
chest heaving, you shake your head, breath shivering out of you. "no-"
"no?" he echoes a soft mockery, fingers dragging through the mess between your thighs, spreading it just to hear the wet sound it makes echo in the space between you. "then behave, sweetheart. don’t make me teach you."
your heart pounds, breath coming in little gasps as you offer him a jerky nod. könig only watches with lazy half-lidded eyes.
"now," he murmurs, finger filling you again. "gonna ask one more time. have you gotten tighter..." his thumb brushes your clit, just enough to make you twitch, "...or have i just left you empty for too long?"
heat surges through you. your hands clutch at his jacket, grounding yourself in the weight of him. your face burns.
"you were gone for so long," you whisper, voice small, shame curling in your stomach.
he sighs. something in his gaze softens, guilt threading through his voice. "i know, baby." his forehead presses against yours. “missed you too."
you sniffle, nuzzling into his shoulder. "y-you can’t go away that long again..." the words tremble, cracking at the edges.
he kisses your temple, breath warm against your skin. "i won’t," he lies, gentle. "let me stretch you out, yeah?"
könig guides you further into your home, coaxing you down on the couch. könig kneels between your legs, broad hands spreading you open and drinking in the sight of you laid out before him.
"look at you," he murmurs, thumb dragging through your folds, gathering your slick up to rub slow circles against your clit. "so wet for me already. miss having me inside, huh?"
your fingers clutch at the cushions as he begins to fill you, head tipping back. "yes-"
"you gotta watch, pretty," könig interrupts, fingers tilting your chin back down.
your gaze drops, breath catching when you see it— his thick fingers buried deep inside you, slick dribbling down his knuckles. the gold band around his finger shines beneath the mess you’ve made, drenched, the sight obscene and somehow more intimate than you’re prepared for. your walls flutter around him, clenching down like your body’s desperate to keep him there.
"look at that.” he grind. "look at your cute little cunny... makin’ a mess all over me."
your cheeks burn. you squirm, trying to close your thighs, but his other hand tightens on your hip, keeping you spread. "no hiding," he says. "told you to watch."
so you do.
you watch the slow drag of his fingers pulling out, coated in slick that strings between you. your cunt clenches around nothing, throbbing, and you let out a soft, desperate whimper. könig hums, pleased, pressing back in. "look how well you take me," he says, dragging against that spot inside that makes your vision blur.
you whimper, head spinning, hips grinding down onto his hand. "feels so good-"
"yeah?" he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. "gonna let me in now, sweetheart? let me fill you up nice and slow?"
you nod, frantic, words lost to the heat coiling low in your stomach. könig smiles, pulling his fingers free. you whine at the loss.
"shh," he soothes, wiping his slick-covered fingers against the head of his cock, spreading you over himself. "gonna take care of you. just lay back and be good for me, yeah?"
his hands grip your thighs, pressing them up toward your chest, folding you beneath him. your skin burns under the pressure, nerves sparking with every shift of his weight. the blunt head of his cock nudges against your entrance. he’s patient, achingly so— dragging it along your folds, gathering your slick, smearing it along his length until you’re soaked enough that he doesn’t have to rip you open.
könig’s gaze drops to where you’re spread open for him. "ready?"
you nod, breath catching in your throat, but it’s barely a sound, barely a thought when he starts to press in. he breaches you, the thick crown of his cock pushing past your entrance. your cunt clenches on instinct, trying to force him out, but könig presses on.
every inch feels like fire licking up your spine, burning through every nerve until you’re nothing but sensation.
"gonna fill you up, sweetheart.” his voice is a low rumble that vibrates through your bones. "stretch you out every day i’m home-" he drives forward another inch, making your back arch, "-’til this pretty cunt just opens up for me."
you can’t speak. can’t think. everything narrows down to the drag of him inside you, veins and ridges catching on the soft walls of your cunt. your mind spins, vision blurring as your hips jerk, instinctively trying to escape the overwhelming fullness. his fingers bite into your thighs, holding you in place.
"uh-uh," he murmurs, dark amusement curling at the edges of his words. "don’t run, baby. you wanted this."
he braces himself, broad shoulders tense above you as he tries to sink deeper. but even with how wet you are, how pliant you’ve gone beneath him, your body refuses to give. his hips stutter, pushing, pushing— yet still, there’s that impossible last inches he can’t force past.
“p-please- need it, need you-” the words spill out as he pauses, pulling back an inch.
"i know, baby, i know," he pants, forehead pressing to yours, sweat slick between you, before rolling his hips back in, trying his damn best to bottom out, but your cunt clenches stubbornly. frustration twists across his face, the sight of you writhing beneath him, cunt stretched wide and still too tight to take him fully— it drives him insane.
"gonna have to fix that," he murmurs, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.
you nod, dazed, tears slipping down your temples as you sob out a choked, "yes- yes, please-"
"shh," könig soothes, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth. "you’re doin’ so good, baby. takin’ me so well. just need to open you up a little more, yeah?"
könig adjusts his grip, hands sliding beneath your knees, lifting you with ease. before you can even register the shift, he’s pulling you up against his chest, arms hooking beneath your legs, locking you back in a full nelson.
your breath stutters, eyes going wide as your body is left entirely at his mercy, weightless in his grip, spread open around him.
könig’s lips graze your ear. "gonna let gravity help us, yeah? lil bit of science. let’s see if this pretty little cunt can take all of me now."
your toes curl, breath hitching as he angles his hips, smearing your slick between you.
then he lets gravity do most of the work.
your breath leaves you in a shattered moan as your body sinks down, forced open as he drops you down on his cock. your walls flutter, clenching around him, stretched impossibly wide, struggling to take him, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let you squirm away.
"that’s it," könig groans, arms flexing as he holds you still, keeps you spread. "so fuckin’ good for me, baby. lettin’ me stretch you open- gonna make you take it all."
you whimper, drool slipping from the corner of your lips, eyes rolling back as the last stubborn inch finally, finally sinks in, his cock seated fully inside you for the first time.
"fuck," könig grits out. "that’s my girl. knew you could take it, baby. knew you just needed a little help."
könig doesn’t give you much of a chance to adjust. the moment he thinks you're ready, his arms tighten, muscles flexing as he hauls you up before slamming you back down.
you jolt, cunt forced to stretch and squeeze around him with every thrust. his strength controls everything— the pace, the depth, the way you bounce like a ragdoll, helpless to slow him down. he’s slamming himself inside, spearing you open over and over, forcing you to stretch wider than you ever have.
you can’t keep up. your limbs go slack, muscles useless, brain short-circuiting. your vision blurs, eyes rolling back, drool slipping from the corner of your lips as your mouth falls open in a silent scream.
könig chuckles, pleased, watching the way you’ve gone completely limp in his arms. "gonna stretch you out like this every single day. keep you full, fuck you dumb, make sure this little cunt remembers who it belongs to."
your body convulses, wracked with sensation too intense to hold in. könig keeps moving, fucking you onto his cock like he’s trying to break you in, to shape your cunt to his cock.
"n-no-" your voice barely comes out. a sob caught in your throat as your fingers claw weakly at his forearms. your legs shake, eyes welling up, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. "g-gonna pee," you whimper, body locking up.
"no, baby." he drags you down harder, grinding the thick head of his cock against that perfect spot inside you. "you’re gonna cum. gonna make a mess all over me, aren't you?"
your sob turns into a choked wail as you gush, squirting hard, the release almost violent, soaking könig's thighs, dripping down to form a puddle on the floor beneath you.
könig watches you fall apart with hooded eyes, holding you up as your body jerks and trembles in his arms. "good girl," he praises, sounding utterly enthralled by the mess you’ve made. "fuckin’ knew you’d soak me- knew you were just a little messy thing."
you slump against him, muscles useless. the aftershocks have you so dazed that you barely register the shift before you’re being turned, pressed down against the floor, cheek squished against the slick puddle you just made.
"könig-" you whimper, trying to lift yourself, but his broad hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you down, keeping you open.
he ignores you, fingers digging into your hips, adjusting your position, spreading you wider. he lines himself up and pushes in, stuffing you to the brim in one deep thrust. your fingers claw at the wet floor beneath you, the slick sound of him sinking into you obscene in the quiet.
"good fuckin’ girl," he drags his cock out before slamming back in, his thighs slapping against your ass. "just let me use you, yeah? just take it like my perfect little cumdump."
you sob into the mess beneath you. könig presses your face harder against it, his broad palm splayed between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned.
"lick it up," he orders, tone smooth, assured, the kind of voice that expects obedience.
your whole body burns, but the heat between your legs is hotter. könig feels the way you clench around him at the command, the way your body betrays you before your lips can even form a protest.
"kö-”
“don’t make me say it twice, sweetheart," he warns, hips pulling back, dragging his cock out until only the tip stretches you open.
"what’s the matter?" he mocks. "you were so eager to make this mess- now you’re going shy?"
your breath shudders out in a small whimper before you obey, lowering your head, tongue flicking out, just barely grazing the puddle beneath you.
könig clicks his tongue. "that’s not licking, that’s teasing."
his hips snap forward, knocking you further into the mess, forcing your mouth against it. your lips part with a gasp, and könig watches, eyes dark and hungry, as you taste yourself properly for the first time.
"there we go," he hums, smug satisfaction. "now clean up every drop."
your cheeks burn as you press your tongue flat to the floor, licking a slow, tentative stripe through the mess. the taste floods your mouth and your stomach twists— but the weight of könig’s cock inside you, the way he keeps you full and stretched and pinned beneath him, sends another rush of slick dripping down your thighs.
he notices. of course he notices.
"oh, sweetheart," he breathes. "you like this, don’t you?"
your body betrays you again, a little shiver running down your spine, your cunt fluttering around him.
"mm, you do." he chuckles, dragging his fingers through your hair, tightening his grip. "filthy little thing. you’re gettin’ off on this."
you squeeze your eyes shut, shame crawling up your throat.
"könig-"
"uh-uh," he interrupts, grip tightening, making you whimper. "keep licking, schatz. don’t stop ‘til it’s gone."
your tongue flicks out again, lapping up another mouthful, swallowing it down even as heat prickles behind your eyes.
könig groans at the sight, his free hand stroking down your spine, over the curve of your ass. "that’s it, baby," he breathes. "such a good little slut for me."
you whimper, thighs squeezing together, hips rocking subtly against him, desperate for friction, for anything.
he notices that, too. "oh, you poor thing," he coos, all false sympathy, fingers stroking your cheek where it’s damp with tears. "s’this gettin’ you all worked up?"
könig pulls back just a little, dragging his length through your overstretched walls. "you gonna come just from this?" he asks, rolling his hips. your body tenses, toes curling. "from licking your mess off the floor like a good little bitch?"
your face burns, whole body trembling. too full, too overwhelmed, too much— and yet, you nod, a choked little sob escaping your lips.
his pace stutters, burying himself to the hilt with a ragged groan, holding you still as he spills inside, his cock twitching, pumping thick ropes of cum into your swollen cunt. "fuck," he pants, chest heaving, his weight bearing down on you. "so good, baby. took me so fuckin’ well."
his cum is hot inside you, sticky, leaking, seeping out around his cock as he slowly pulls back, watching his spend start to slip from your overstretched hole. könig hums, almost thoughtful. he presses a broad palm against your pussy, scooping it up, pushing it back in with two thick fingers, shoving his spend as deep as it’ll go. "keep it in,” he says almost absentmindedly. he lifts his hand after a moment, tilting his head as he examines the way it drips from his fingers.
his free hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up. your lips part before he even has to tell you. "clean it up," he slides his ring finger past your lips.
your lashes flutter, heat prickling up your spine as you close your lips around him, sucking gently, swirling your tongue over the ridges of his finger, tasting yourself, tasting him.
könig groans, thumb stroking over your cheek, watching your lips stretch around the digit, tongue flicking against the band wrapped around his finger.
"good girl," he breathes, eyes hooded, cock twitching against your slick folds, already stirring again, already wanting more.
he presses his finger deeper, until it nudges against the back of your throat, until your breath stutters and your eyes go hazy, wet.
"so pretty like this.” his other hand slips between your legs again, rubbing slow circles over your swollen clit. "gonna keep you like this forever, wife. nice and full."
he pulls his finger from your mouth with a soft pop, watching the way your tongue flicks out after it, lips wet, eyes dazed. "gonna make you a mommy.” he grins. “fill you up every night until it takes.”
Pairing: DARK!Bucky x Shield!Reader
Word count: 5.3k
Warnings: NONCON/DUBCON turned stockholm syndrome of sorts, bad depiction of PTSD, suicidal ideation at the end (but in my head reader is being dramatic in a Taylor Swift kinda way), mentions of violence, Soldat gets soft?, smut, p in v, oral (m receiving, mentions of f receiving), fingers in mouth, cowgirl, mating press, mention of masturbation (f receiving), mention of Steve x reader, Soldat being jealous, me thinking I'm funny, melancholy, dacryphilia, nicknames (pretty girl, asset)
Summary: You were never the same after the first night the Soldat visited you.
+fran: there's way too many references to science, ttpd, and the wuthering heights soundtrack. recommended listen: down bad by taylor swift. dt: @iamthatonefangirl for being soldat’s biggest fan.
read part 1 here and part 3
Morning light painted your ceiling gold; the air was warm, the city outside hummed with its usual indifference. It was normal. Almost too normal.
Nothing was out of place, except a smudge of grey on your white duvet from his boots, an ache between your thighs, and cum stains on your sheets.
Even your tear stained cheeks were wiped with a warm cloth before he snuck out like he was nothing but a shadow in the back of your mind.
Your lashes were sticky from sleeping with watery eyes and your head felt heavy like it did when you overdid the wine.
You knew it wasn't the wine though.
It was him.
It was the lack of oxygen and the burdensome shame the sheer memory of his lips on your body and the weight of his cock in you brought. Each step out of bed and into the bathroom hurt, and you almost didn't recognize the person staring back at you in the mirror.
The bags under your eyes proved sleep wasn't restful, the rat's nest on your head made you remember how his fingers wove right through it while he tugged your head back to find more space to mark your neck.
Speaking of which, the shades of red and purple scattered across your neck and chest, all the way down your hipbones and inner thighs, would've made whoever works at Pantone jealous.
You traced each mark slowly, memories of their genesis flooding your brain. Each time he kissed, sucked, and bit on the skin of your body as if that would be the only proof of his existence.
The shower temperature was borderline concerning. As if you could boil and scrub the scent of kevlar and cum away if you tried hard enough. You washed your hair, the scent of bergamot and sandalwood of your shampoo calmed your nerves a little.
You stood under the water until it turned cold.
Padding to your closet after drying out, you picked a pair of black leggings, black sports bra, a matching athletic jacket to go over and while socks.
The loud noise of the blowdrier wasn't enough to drown out his voice that was still echoing in your head.
You remember how you fought — and you remember the exact moment your body stopped resisting. The exact moment you begged. The exact moment you said please like it was the only word you knew.
You shouldn’t have liked it.
You know that.
But your hips had lifted into his hands, desperate. Your mouth had opened for his tongue without thinking. Your thighs had locked around him like you never wanted him to leave.
And worst of all — the part that made your eyes sting with confused tears — is that even now, remembering all of it…
Your body reacted all over again.
A slow warmth spreads through your stomach, your breath growing shallow, your nipples tighten against the fabric of your sports bra, and it takes every bit of energy you have to finish drying your hair.
The distraction starts small. Easy to hide, at first.
You show up late to breakfast and blame it on oversleeping, even though you were up before most people, sitting on the edge of your bed with the sheets still crumpled beneath you, trying to convince yourself it didn’t happen the way it did.
Your coffee goes cold in your hand. Sam cracks a joke that everyone laughs at — except you. You force a smile when he nudges your shoulder and ask him to repeat it. You’re sure it’s the third time you’ve done that this morning.
By 10 a.m., Nat starts noticing.
She leaned against the gym doorframe while you tried and failed to focus on the punching bag in front of you. You’ve hit it five times in ten minutes. You're sweating for no reason. Your gloves hanging loose around your wrists.
“Okay,” she drawls, arms crossed, “who crawled into your head and forgot to leave?”
You glance at her. Shrug. “What do you mean?”
Nat tilts her head and gives you the most unimpressed look a human face is capable of. “You’ve spaced out in every room you’ve been in today."
You blink at her. Swallow. “Weird dream.”
She perks up immediately. “Oh? That kind of weird?”
You fumble with your gloves. “No—well. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.”
Nat grins like a shark. “You’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
“Oh, you definitely are.” She leans in, voice dropping, teasing. “Was he hot?"
Conversation flows and as she walks away, calling over her shoulder that maybe you should get laid for real, just to even out your energy, you stare down at your bruised knuckles and think about how easy it is to lie when the truth sounds insane.
He was back on the rooftop.
Same place. Same time.
But this time, you weren’t the same.
You moved differently now, softer, slower. Like your body didn’t quite trust itself. Like the air in your apartment had grown heavier, thicker — saturated with something you couldn’t name but could feel. And he could feel it too. All the way across the street, down the barrel of a scope he no longer needed.
You weren’t wearing much — you never did after a shower. Just a thin shirt and sleep shorts. Legs bare. But you weren’t humming tonight. Weren’t swaying around your room the way you used to. The lightness in your step was gone.
When you finally stepped out onto the balcony, it made something in his chest hitch. Like seeing a bird that used to sing now just perch in silence.
You leaned against the railing with your wine in one hand, your free arm crossing over your stomach like you needed to hold yourself together. And for a moment — just a moment — you looked out over the skyline and…
You looked up.
Right where he was. Across the way. High up and still in the shadows. Motionless. Mute.
Your eyes scanned the rooftops. You didn’t squint. Didn’t linger.
But you were looking. Not aimlessly, either.
You were looking for him.
And it sent a wave of something cold and electric through his body, like the aftershock of a touch that lingered too long.
He just watched the girl on the balcony wrapped in candlelight and confusion, wearing bruises on her soul and pretending not to miss the man who gave them to her.
Obsession was inefficient. Deviation was dangerous.
The Soldat watched you for three days before the hairs on the back of your neck stood up at his presence again.
He came in as he did last time, through the balcony, quiet footsteps not matching his sheer stature. You were watching TV in the living room this time.
Well, the television was on and you were staring at it. The movie was supposed to be interesting, some thriller Nat wouldn't shut up about.
All you could think of it was that the main character was way too naive for her own good, almost wanting to be prey to a charming monster who couldn't wait to get his fangs into her and shred her to pieces.
The bottle of wine sat open on your coffee table since that night, almost mocking you. As if you stared at it long enough, whatever happened would cease to have existed.
You felt like you were floating in your own life, unaware of the figure lurking in the shadows of your apartment, approaching the couch carefully, like he was getting ready to ambush you.
And he was.
A hand wrapped in front of your mouth and an arm around your waist, and as if flailing around would do anything, you tried to fight. Again.
Failing.
Again.
After he had you in his grip, he wasn't so quiet with his footsteps, walking back and dragging you to your room. You caught a glimpse of his reflection and for some traitorous reason, your tummy flipped. In a not bad way.
"Missed you, sweet girl." Damn the timbre of his voice. Damn the way his chest vibrated through the kevlar. Damn the path said vibrations were taking from your back to your core, igniting heat at their destination.
It became almost routine.
The way he'd grab at you and leave handprints all over your body, to a degree you hated yourself for liking, for indulging in, for craving.
Hated that you felt heat lick behind your ribs when you felt you weren't alone at night, how your thighs clenched together when the heat of his body was on your back, and how you felt any and all resolve melting away the second his hands were on you.
No one connected the dots on the Soldat becoming more irritable on the occasion you were away on a mission with Steve when he went inside your apartment.
It wasn't common knowledge that even if you were out, he'd come in and take in every little detail of your home that made it yours.
He'd nuzzle his face into the cashmere scarf hanging in your closet, sniffed your perfume, laid his tired body on your bed and remembered every filthy word he wrung from you on those very sheets.
Thirty five days of this back and forth was when he first saw a new side of you. Thirty five days being all it took for you to stop fighting against the dark parts of yourself that craved whatever he was willing to give.
He spent four days away from you, unable to see you, cleaning up some HYDRA mess that shouldn't have been made anyway.
You felt hunger. Settling low in your stomach, heavy, dangerous, and alive. Alive like you hadn't felt in a long time. Alive like how he made you feel in that first night and every single night since.
Your limbs feel like they’ve been unstitched and put back together wrong.
He came back after some douchebag tried to flirt with you in line to get a coffee. That man was missing now. Unrelated. Probably.
When he tried the handle, though, the balcony door was locked again, and he chuckled to himself, wondering why on earth you had started doing that again.
It was the same story this time, you were distracted putting lotion on your legs, naked, this time it smelled like peonies and something soft, like clean laundry and bath bubbles. He was quiet, approaching you from behind until you decided to go off script.
"Where were you?"
Oh? You mean… you missed him?
"You didn't show up for days."
You did. You missed him.
Your voice was small but firm, like you were verbally pouting, and that made something vaguely resembling a smile bloom on his lips.
You still refused to run and look at him, acting like the Soldat showing up to your apartment was another mundane thing, another routine, a chore to be checked off your list and that lit the fire of challenge inside of him.
You moved the leg that was propped on the bed back to the floor to walk into your bathroom, but he caught your wrist and turned you around, grabbing your face in one hand and forcing you to look at him.
You tried to look annoyed, roll your eyes and huff like he was a pesky little fly, like you were a petulant brat.
Silence hung heavy between you two, thick, loaded, much like everything else about him. Your skin gleamed softly as the bathroom and your bedside lamp lights bounced off of the freshly moisturized patch all over you.
Weeks ago, you'd be clawing at his face for him to get away.
Tonight, being in a thong in front of his very kevlar clad self made your body itch to be touched.
“You thought I wouldn’t come back?” he asked, tilting his head as if he already knew the answer.
You huffed again, shifting on your feet. "You didn't come." Your eyes shifted down like the admittion immediately shamed you, and he tugged you lightly to make you look at him again.
"You waited for me?" It was almost like he didn't believe anyone would, like he didn't force himself into your life and called it good when whatever twisted part of your brain played along with it.
"You’re predictable.”
That earned you a real reaction — not anger, not dominance — just a subtle narrowing of his eyes, like you’d poked something interesting.
“Predictable?” he echoed.
“You disappear,” you said, ticking it off on your fingers. “You come back. You act like nothing happened. Rinse. Repeat.”
Taunting a super soldier who was a foot taller and about 50% heavier than you was a bold move, he thought. Almost like you were doing reverse psychology on a mentally unstable weapon to get it to give you what you wanted.
And if it wasn't for the way your nipples hardened, and the smell of your slick he could sense, he might've fallen for the whole stern act.
He took an extra second to look at you, and pulled your face towards him, making your stand on your tip toes as he leaned down to kiss you. Too softly for him at first, almost like he missed you too.
The Winter Soldier had no such terms for his feelings, though.
There’s a moment where your brain tries to split itself in two.
Heat licks up your spine before you can stop it, shame and want tangled so tightly you can’t pry them apart. You squeeze your thighs together instinctively, and the ache that follows makes a soft, broken sound escape your throat.
Your hands grabbed at his arms to stabilize yourself, as his tongue pushed inside your mouth like it was marking his territory, again.
He had no ceremony, really. No… decorum.
His free hand went to the back of your neck, keeping you in place and forcing you to be impossibly close. His other hand mapped you, like the very first night.
Cold metal fingers dragged from your jaw to your neck, your breast, flicking a nipple between his fingers and making you moan into his mouth. Next, it travelled lower onto your stomach, making goosebumps appear at the change in temperature.
And last, it found its way into your panties, playing with the hot slick mess drooling out of your cunt. You gasped into his mouth when the cold metal brushed your clit, and he took a couple steps, turning you so he faced your bed and you had your back to it.
He smirked against your mouth when he felt you pull him slightly, pulling away from his lips and sitting yourself on the bed, hands moving to his belt.
As you fumbled with the metal and fabric, your eyes never left his. A mixture of lust and despair overflowing from your gaze as his metal hand cradled your face, thumb tracing your lip.
As he tugged it down ever so slightly, you opened your mouth, another silent admission of just how metaphorically on your knees you were. As you felt the weight of his thumb on your tongue, your ears perked up at the sound of a metal buckle being undone.
You sucked the digit into your mouth, metallic tang on your tastebuds, as you tugged fabric down just enough so his cock would spring free. Thick, hard, mouth-wateringly big.
"Missed my cock that much, mmm, pretty girl?" Fuck him and his smugness.
You ignored him, just turned your face away to get his thumb out of your mouth and leaned in, pooling the saliva on your tongue and licking him from base to tip, closing your lips around the head.
He groaned from deep in his chest at the velvety feel of you once again, like it pained him just as much to note have come sooner.
His hand found itself tangled in your hair, keeping an iron grip on it while he let you find you rhythm, bobbing your head up and down his length using your hand to stroke what you couldn't fit.
You took him deeper each time, wet noises from your mouth louder until you gagged around the base of him, only to do it again. Your nails dug into his thighs, pulling him in deeper, and he reveled in the fact that he didn't have to force you into anything anymore.
Though it was fun while it lasted.
He pulled you off of him with a pop, nudging himself forward on your bed on his knees while you backed yourself up until you were laid down completely.
His lips were on your neck, then your jaw, as his hand pulled your panties down a bit and went back to its rightful place between your legs, playing with your folds like he liked seeing you suffer, just a little bit.
You whined at him, bucking your hips forward in an effort to get more, and he bit your jaw lightly in response. He took his hand away, and pulled your panties completely off, flinging them to some corner of the room you didn't care for at the moment.
He slotted himself between your open thighs and rubbed his length up and down the wetness dripping from you, making you moan at the feeling, "Please…"
It was breathy and faint, as you tried weakly to push him off.
You had a look in your face that screamed desperation, a dark, humiliating longing that won’t die no matter how hard you try to smother it. "Can't stop, angel. You know that." As he notched the tip of him in your entrance, you shook your head.
"Let me be on top… please…"
The Soldat was… surprised, to say the least.
He didn't know if that's something he'd enjoy, to be perfectly honest. Every single other time he'd been with you was about him being in control, and you being at his mercy, so when confusion flashed across his face, you spoke up again.
"Wanna make you feel good." Oh, the sweet nectar of your voice did him in then, slowly laying himself back into your pillows while he pulled you on top of him.
The image was almost… funny.
This big scary super spy assassin, dressed in all black and kevlar with smudged camouflage paint around his eyes, contrasting with the soft comforter of your bed, a pastel color some would say is off white and some would call it a very soft pink, with his massive cock out, leaking and wet, just allowing you to please him.
It was the first time he'd heard you let out something that sounded like a soft giggle mixed with a moan, as you settled open on top of him, grinding your pussy onto the length of him.
As your body searched for purchase still on this realm, you realized you were fucking tired of touching kevlar, every single time.
Your hands reached for the leather straps on the top of his suit, and his grabbed your wrists at a speed that made you think you did something really wrong.
Your hips stilled and a beat of silence followed, just heavy breathing to be heard. As his eyes stared at you, nonverbally scolding, you spoke again.
"Please?" When he hesitated, you continued. "Let your pretty girl see you…"
Another beat of hesitation, and then he slowly released your wrists, letting his hands fall to his sides, while you worked at the buckles and straps slowly.
You helped him shrug it off once it was undone, and your heart twisted at the same time your pussy did.
Lines of carved muscle all through his torso, perfectly sculped by years of torture and hard work, a physique that would make Michelangelo proud, thinking David came to life.
Your eyes fell upon the scars on his shoulder, where metal and skin meshed. It looked like he clawed at it, trying to get it off multiple times, only for it to not work or for the arm to be put back in place.
Before you could question anything, though, his hands were on your body again, dragging you from the trance back to present time where you were on top of him.
"Posmotri na menya." Look at me.
And you did. And for the first time since this whole thing started, the look in his eyes felt almost human. Vulnerable.
Your hands cradled his face, and you kissed him, your hips resuming their movements, dragging yourself back and forth over his length, getting him wet in your arousal.
His hands rested on your hips until one of them urged you up slightly, so the other could notch the tip of his length at your entrance, him groaning and you gasping into his mouth as you sank down on him.
The sting of this stretch just never got old, it didn't matter how many times he had you, or in which position (though on all fours it was specially breathtaking), it always felt like you were unbearably full of him, surrounded by him, overwhelmed with the sheer space he took in your life in just this.
As he bottomed out, his flesh hand rested on your face, thumb tracing the apple of your cheek. It was almost… tender.
You opened you eyes to see him staring right into yours, gaze hazy with lust, and you began to move on top of him.
You turned your face to nuzzle into his palm, closing your eyes and inhaling the faint scent of gunpowder and CLP that no amount of soap would get rid of.
You lifted you hips and sank back down slowly, little gasps and moans you tried not to let out, coming out anyway.
“I don’t like it when you’re gone.” The words came out muffled against his hand, his thumb tracing your lip again.
"Mne ne khochetsya tebya pokidat'." I don't like leaving you.
It was almost not there, the wet sounds from where your bodies joined were louder than his words, but you heard it. You understood it.
His hand dropped a little lower, resting around your neck, using his grip to control the pace, slowly bringing you to the edge and keeping you there until you felt like it had been hours, not letting you go over it just yet.
"Ya ne khochu, chtoby ty ischezla." I don't want you to disappear. "Fuck— please, please let me— oh!"
It was overwhelming. He was overwhelming. His other hand kneaded your breast, tweaking the nipple, then going lower and gripping your waist like you'd run away from him.
He leaned forward, tilting your face up so he'd have space to kiss, and nip at your exposed neck.
The new angle let you rub your clit against his pubic bone and the patch of coarse hair there, sending electric shocks through your spine as he sucked and kissed the side of your neck, your chest, and your jaw.
"You feel so good you make me forget everything else." You rutted harder against him, whining for more.
More of him. More of this.
As you clenched around him once again, he groaned into you, the vibration bouncing off of your skin, and his arm wrapped around you, hand gripping you waist and flipping you over to where you laid on your soft bed now, and he was the one rutting into you.
His left hand held your wrists above your head, pressing them hard into the mattress as he used the same arm to hold himself up by the elbow, driving in and out of you with such force you actually got scooted up the bed a couple of inches.
His right hand reached down and hooked your leg onto his elbow, coming back up again to rest against your pulse point.
"G'nna cum— fuck, inside—" His words were clipped, strained.
You nodded as best as you could, floating in a sea of pleasure as the knot in your stomach grew tighter and tighter. "Please, yes, yes, ye— oh God!" the grind of his hips against your clit when he was pushing in and out of you, combined with the feel of being restrained under him and his mouth all over you was enough to have you contracting around him as your orgasm washed over you.
Wave after wave of pleasure hit you over and over again as he thrusted faster, harder, trying to reach his own pleasure, groaning into your neck as he bit a nice mark on there when he spilled into you.
He thrusted a few more times to ride it out, the obscene squelch of his cock pushing cum inside of you making your pussy pulse around him, wanting to go again.
As his thrusts slowed slowed, the only thing that could be heard in your room was your breathing. You looked up at the ceiling trying to find words in your poorly oxygenated brain, a knock on the front door burst your imaginary bubble.
"You okay in there?" Fucking Steve and being a good friend.
Every muscle in his body goes still, predator-instinct snapping into place.
You scramble off the bed, grabbing the first hoodie you can find and yanking it over your head. It swallows you whole, fabric brushing over fresh marks you haven’t even looked at yet. Sleep shorts follow, barely tugged into place as you run a hand through your hair in a useless attempt to look normal.
You yank the door open just a crack at first.
Steve stands there in sweatpants and a grey t-shirt, hair slightly mussed, eyes scanning your face immediately like he’s assessing damage.
You lean casually against the doorframe, forcing your pulse to slow. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t buy it. “You sure? I heard something.”
You shrug. “Dropped something.”
His eyes flick past you, instinctively checking the apartment. You subtly shift to block his view further. “You look flushed,” he says carefully. "And sweaty."
You blink at him. “Steve.”
He tilts his head. “What?”
You sigh dramatically, rubbing your temple like he’s inconvenienced you instead of potentially saving your life.
“I was in the middle of getting myself off.” The silence that follows was louder than any screams the soldat might've tried to muffle at first. “Like. Fully committed. Lights low. Door locked. Very enthusiastic.”
His ears go red first. Then his neck. Then his entire face. “Oh.”
You fold your arms. “Yeah. Oh.”
“I didn’t— I mean— I was just—” He gestures vaguely at you, at the hallway, at existence. “Checking in.”
“Well,” you deadpan, “mission accomplished.”
He coughs, looking anywhere but at you now. The ceiling suddenly becomes fascinating. The floor tile. A microscopic crack in the wall. He nods too many times.
“I can— you can get back to— that.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t want to supervise?” You open the door slightly more knowing THE Captain America would never.
The Soldat, however, heard that on his way out of your window, and made a mental note to make it painful if he ever had the mission to take out Rogers.
His head snaps down so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t get whiplash. “Nope. Absolutely not.”
There’s a beat and you almost think it's funny when he misses running into the door frame by half an inch trying to speed walk away from your apartment door.
Once you locked the door again, you realized he'd left, and it all felt cold again.
The air feels wrong before he even touches the balcony.
He lands in silence, boots barely whispering against the concrete, body low out of instinct. The rhythm is off. The hum beneath the quiet isn’t yours.
Your curtains are drawn tighter than usual, but the light is still on. He can see the faint shift of your shadow moving inside. You’re home. Alone.
There’s a frequency he doesn’t recognize — thin, high, artificial. Not your television. Not your laptop. Something else.
Bugged.
He doesn’t test the lock. Doesn’t try to disarm anything. He steps back instead, scanning the exterior wall with his eyes alone.
Sloppy placement.
He steps backward into shadow, withdrawing from the door entirely. Inside, he hears your footsteps cross the living room. Soft. Unhurried. A faint hum of a tune you had stuck in your head. The sound hits him in the chest in a way he refuses to examine.
If this were a trap, this would be how it looked. Routine. Familiar. Lure him in.
So he retreats, and in the next few days he observes you from a distance. Always there like a shadow you can feel but never see, never be sure if he's actually there or if he's a figment of your imagination.
He watches you move through the apartment. You check your phone. Toss it aside. Pace once. Twice. Then sit on the edge of your bed and stare at nothing.
Watches you pathetically try to get yourself off like before, except this time it doesn't work, since he's Pavlov-ed your twisted little mind into needing him for it.
There’s a sharpness to your movements at first — determination. Stubborn pride. Like you're trying to prove something to yourself. Then there's defeat, and frustrated tears he wishes he could lick.
He even caught you being more and more reckless in missions, having to step in and save you, but leaving before anyone, inclusing you, realizes its not your luck, its him.
He tells himself this is tactical, asset preservation. Containment.
If someone else planted those bugs, then you are a vulnerability, and vulnerabilities must be controlled.
The apartment feels larger without him.
Too clean.
Too quiet.
The balcony door stays locked now, not because you’re afraid of him coming in — but because you’re afraid he won’t.
You catch yourself listening for the soft shift of weight on the railing. For the almost-imperceptible click of the door handle. For that drop in air pressure that always came a second before his hands did.
It never happens.
Sleep turns shallow and mean. You wake up reaching for a warmth that isn’t there. You stand in the kitchen too long staring at nothing. You snap at Sam over nothing. You glare at Steve when he asks if you’re okay.
You’re irritable in the way a wound gets irritated — raw, exposed, angry at being touched.
Nat doesn’t say anything at first, just watches the way you push harder in training. The way you don’t pull your punches anymore. The way you volunteer for front positions on missions that used to make you strategic.
You stop waiting for backup.
You clear rooms first.
You draw fire on purpose.
Deep in a little twisted part of your brain, there's hope, stupidity, or… love? Screaming at you "If I’m in danger, he’ll come." It's not a conscious or rational thought, but rational left you months ago.
Every time you take a hit that should’ve been fatal — every time you walk away from something you shouldn’t have — his jaw tightens a fraction more.
It lasts about three weeks, and then someone notices you have a very diligent guardian angel. And suddendly, he's in the wiping chair again.
By the time you reach the causeway, you’re running on fumes and denial.
The wind is sharp, cutting across open asphalt and abandoned cars like knives. Steve is ahead of you. Nat and Sam are flanking. And when you catch ocean blue eyes staring at you from behind a muzzle much too familiar, they're empty.
It's not familiar to him. You're a stranger. A mission. An obstacle he needs to neutralize.
a/n: READ THE WARNINGS! I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR MEDIA CONSUMPTION. This has not been proofread, I feel like I just got out of a gangbang.
Pairing: Soldat!Bucky x SHIELD!Reader (takes place a little before CATWS)
Warnings: SMUT! 18+ MINORS DNI!!! DARK!Bucky, NONCON/DUBCON, masturbation (f&m), somnophilia, p in v, creampie (?), fingering, oral (f receiving), drug/roofie usage, dumbification if you squint, dacryphilia, nicknames. The Asset is an unreliable narrator <3
Word count: 6.4k
Summary: The Soldat had been observing you for weeks. One day, looking at you from the rooftop one building over isn't enough anymore.
part 2 here
It had been 245 days since the Asset was assigned to do surveillance on HYDRA's most sensitive operation to date. Project Insight was going to launch soon enough, and for that Nick Fury had to be gone.
Efficient. Precise. Mechanical.
Surveillance. Intelligence. Elimination.
Like blinking. Like breathing.
He sat on a rooftop across the street from Steve's apartment, using the scope of his rifle to see more clearly across the way. Empty, as it always was at 8:03pm on Thursdays. Steve wouldn't be home for another 28 minutes.
The Asset didn't feel much. Didn't feel anything, really. Nothing but the uncomfortable grip of the muzzle around his face, and the stiff leather and kevlar around his body.
And he didn't say a single thing about it. Because the Winter Soldier never complains, only complies.
But one day, he felt really, really bored. And his scope wandered to your apartment balcony windows, right to the left of Steve's.
He took in the little string lights you had put on the railing, twinkling like stars against the warm summer weather, and the little outdoor mat you put out along with a comfy outdoor chair for when the weather was nice enough for a cup of tea looking down to the city lights.
He adjusted the scope. Slowly.
Curtains not quite closed.
There. You.
Back turned to the glass, you moved across your living room barefoot, your arms lifted above your head as you tied your hair. Loose shirt. Soft shorts. Skin.
Soft, supple skin his eyes took in as he moved his gaze from your ankles, to your calves, and up your leg, until he reached the smallest hint of ass cheek that was peeking out from under your shorts.
Soft, supple skin he wanted to bite. And suck. And spank if you gave him a reason.
But in his mind, he wouldn't need to. Cause you'd be so good for him, wouldn't you?
That was 94 days ago.
And in 93 nights, he watched you. Sure, yeah, he had to watch Steve, make sure intel was up to date, but Steve got home a little later than you, and went to bed a little earlier.
Which allowed him exactly 186 minutes of just observing you. He allowed himself the small treat of letting his eyes follow your every move for about three hours a night.
He knew your routine. He knew you liked takeout from the little Japanese place three blocks down, the knew chamomile and lavender tea was your go to when you couldn’t sleep, and he knew you fell asleep with a spoon in your mouth from late-night ice cream more than once.
That was easy. He got that intel about 9 days in. And then something else started brewing.
Not duty, not rage. Something so much worse in the eyes of HYDRA. Curiosity.
Hunger for something he thought was lost about 62 years prior after many times in the wiping chair. Hunger in the shape of heat pooling low in his stomach, hunger in the shape of you spilling something on your shirt and taking it off to reveal nothing underneath before tossing it in the hamper and pulling another one on.
68 days ago, he lingered too long.
He saw you turn off the lights and light a candle in your room, placing it in the dresser by the door, across your bed. He watched you put on little white earbuds, get comfy in bed while downing your second glass of red wine, and figured you were gonna listen to rain sounds like you did a couple other times.
The Asset was packing up his rifle, and then he saw movement. Followed by the shadow of your oversized shirt being thrown carelessly onto the armchair by the bathroom door.
He tilted his head, crouching down again with the scope, eyes narrowing at you until he processed the image before him.
The sweet, sweet image that was definitely not for his eyes. No, his eyes have seen the insides of dead bodies who only met their end because of him. His eyes have seen torture, murder, arson, and every other bad thing you could think of.
Surely, the same eyes could not be graced with seeing you bite your plush lips as one of your hands rolled a nipple between your index and middle finger, and the other tickled its way down your stomach until in found the heat between your thighs.
He shifted uncomfortably on the rooftop across the way. Heat blooming up his chest and down his crotch, making his neck chafe and his pants feel impossibly tight.
He groaned deep when he saw you curve your back forward and plunge two fingers inside of yourself. Fingers he knew were much thinner and shorter than his, and not even comparable to the dimensions of what’s resting heavy between his legs.
It was cute, really.
The way your brows furrowed and your hand pumped your digits in and out like that was going to satisfy you. No… you needed about two inches of width and nine of length.
Which Bucky would gladly give to you.
He watched you chase a high, a whimper escaping through your curtains and into his serum enhanced eardrum, making it vibrate like the air above hot asphalt: soft, barely there.
Somehow, his tactical pants got tighter.
He watched your body contort, watched you turn on your stomach, making the sheet fall from your body. His eyes grazed the curve of your tricep, evident in the candle light as you worked your fingers in and out, slapping your clit with the heel of your hand.
He didn’t miss the expression on your face when your hips moved faster, chasing friction until a relieved look took over your face and you buried your face in your pillow to catch a breath.
That same night, his boots made the first contact with the soft fabric of the rug in your room.
He waited until you were asleep, all cleaned up, having discarded the panties you had on before into the hamper. He was silent, stealthy, deadly.
The thud of each step was soft, muted. He kept an eye on your sleeping frame, and told himself he was gathering more intel. He removed his glove off of his flesh hand, letting himself revel in the fabrics hung in your closet and tucked away in your dresser.
As if HYDRA would care that your perfume smelled like orris and vanilla, or that your lipgloss had tiny little specks of golden glitter in a sea of pink, or that you color coded the softest sweatshirts in your closet.
They would, however, care that he went through your hamper and took a pair of lacy, powder blue panties and put them in his back pocket. The Soldat had no wants of his own, and they certainly did not order him to do that.
That was the night he crossed a line.
He stood by your hamper with every intention to leave, he couldn’t be gone much longer or they’d wonder where he was and send his handler.
But then you moved.
Mindless, conscience far away in some dreamland brought to you by the sweet smelling wine leftover in your glass.
You turned to face him, eyes still closed, cheeks still flushed, body still entirely too naked. Your leg swung up to rest flexed, making you cuddle your pillow in a mountain-climber position, giving the hungry beast inside of him a view of the perfect feast: the needy, wet lips of your pussy.
He really, really should’ve left. But the hardness of his cock and the heaviness in his balls told him differently. Told him to make a choice for himself for the first time in God knows how long.
And he chose to take a deep breath inside of your safe haven of a bedroom, inhale a scent that was sweetness, soapy from your bath bombs, and just you, and pull his pants open with the most agonizing pace ever known to man, to make the least amount of sound possible.
The second his hand wrapped around his cock, he bit back a hiss. The discarded blue lace still tangled in his fingers, rubbing the skin, making the leaking tip even more needy.
His breathing got heavy behind the muzzle. His eyes couldn’t decide where to stay planted on: your cheeks, one squished into the pillow; your lips, letting out soft little puffs of breath in response to whatever dream you we're having; the slope of your waist, the curve of your ass, or the barely spent folds of your pussy.
God, he’d make good use of you. Rut into and rub you until you were puffy and sore and slick, and then do it some more just for good measure.
You tossed in your sleep again, laying on your back with your right leg tilted outwards and he just about lost it. One day he’d paint you with his release, leave you sticky with his cum until the morning, after hours of making you cry and sob on his cock driving in and out of you.
For tonight, he’d settle for cumming in your panties just picturing you beneath him, willing and wanting, while his hand jerked him faster.
He spilled over his own hand and the blue lace, the discreet little pink bow on the front of it now soaked, covered in cum. Like you would be, soon enough.
He placed bugs in your apartment that night.
One behind a painting of a cheetah you had hanging on your wall in the living room, one behind the bookcase by the TV, closer to the door, and two in your bedroom. One in the light fixture and one hidden on the underside if your bed frame.
It took you three days after that to notice something was... different.
It was laundry day, and no matter how many promises you made to patron saints that didn't exist, you just couldn't find your favorite pair of panties.
"You probably just forgot it in the dryer and now it's in some random hamper in the building causing relationship problems to an unsuspecting couple." Nat joked when you told her about it.
You just chuckled and agreed. Had to be, right? Wouldn’t be the first time something travelled to the wrong hamper. Hell, you got one of Sharon’s scrub tops in your laundry the other day.
It had been a particularly taxing day on the sparring mat, Steve probably made you sweat about six pounds off, and there was a bruise blooming somewhere from a hit you were too fatigued to dodge.
So, a little glass of wine and your favorite audio would surely solve the problem. Loosen all the tight muscles in your body and help lull you into a restful seven hours of sleep.
Your AirPods were dead, so on speaker it was. The link was much too easy to find. A solid performance you often came back to.
The Soldat saw both Steve's and your lights flick off at the same time, and his scope focused in on the open window that brought the warm summer breeze into your room.
Static crackled low in his ear as he turned on the device, and shortly after he heard your dreamy little sigh as he saw you set the phone on your nightstand and get comfortable in your bed.
The voice coming through the speakers was low, manly, rough. Commanding. He thought you were on the phone with somebody, and the thought of you touching yourself to please someone other than him made jealousy bloom in his chest, bitter little monster it was.
It didn't take him more than a couple of lines to realize it was a recorded audio, relief washing through his chest for a split second before it tightened again, with desire this time.
Hearing you follow the instructions the faceless voice gave you, it wasn't soft or slow. It was deliberate. Commanding. Every word an order disguised as pleasure.
"Hold still… I didn’t say you could move."
"You can take it. Just like that."
He could hear how wet you were through the audio, the slick sound of your wetness mingling with the whimpers you let out when the voice told you to "Hold it... You haven't earned it yet."
"Say you're mine."
"I'm yours, please..." Oh the sweetness in your voice, pleading so pretty. Wouldn't be enough for him, though. He watched you make yourself cum way too fast, not even keeping pace with the recording this time, and thought about all the ways he could punish you for disobeying.
Would he edge you for hours? Maybe every night for a week? Or since you wanted to cum so bad you disregarded his orders, you should. He'd make you cum over and over again until your eyes crossed and your brain gave out.
The night when he snuck in, he added another line to his newly acquired collection. He touched you.
Passed out and deep in your subconscious, you didn't even flinch. You nuzzled into him, actually. The cool metal of his hand coming to graze your cheek bringing relief from the hot humid air.
You had your leg flexed again, and he just had to feel your skin against his. He told himself he'd go after that.
And his hand grazed lower, warmer, until it reached the curve of your hip, and the flesh of your ass cheek.
He squeezed, making you sigh into the pillow, not even budging, just one little grip and he'd go. He swore it.
And then another.
And then his hand travelled lower, until it found the warm slick of your pussy. The smallest whimper left your lips, almost imperceptible, at the feel of his index and middle finger parting your folds, once, then twice, then collecting the wetness that started to tease out of you.
Responsive little thing, weren’t you?
You stirred, brows furrowing when he rubbed lower at the bundle of nerves that hardened beneath his fingertips, and the crease between your brows deepened when he stuck two fingers inside of you.
Just a feel.
One feel of your velvety walls tight around his fingers, fluttering around him when he curled them to rub against the sweet little spot inside of you.
Then he’d go.
He had to.
You had come plenty that night, he didn’t have to make you do it again. In fact, he shouldn’t, you came too fast. Didn’t listen to directions.
He made the mistake of pulling his fingers out of you, and your hips instinctively chased after the friction.
He should go.
His lips wrapped around his fingers, licking the sweet juices off of them and reveling in the taste like someone would a sweet, juicy peach.
He groaned low in his chest, and the line got pushed just a little further. He knelt by the bed and spread your cheeks, movement that had your pussy clenching around nothing, attracting him like moth to a flame.
His mouth watered. Actual drool pooling between his teeth and onto his tongue, begging to make you slick all over. Ordering him to taste your sweet nectar and suck you dry.
The Soldat never complained, only complied.
Before he could think about how terribly bad of a decision that was, he leaned forward, tongue darting out of his mouth and onto your glistening folds, eliciting something between a whine and a gasp from you.
If there was any kind of super soldier MDMA, he was sure he found it then.
Both of his hands cupped your ass now, grabbing firmly enough to dig into the skin, pulling you closer to his face as he nuzzled further, flattening then curling his tongue up and down your slit before it plunged in and he sealed his lips around you.
Your whines got a little louder, still very obviously asleep, and he rutted his hips against the bed.
When he flicked your clit and gazed it with his teeth, you yelped, and he was sure he was thoroughly fucked. But you didn't move further, didn't get up and scream and try to grab for the gun he knew was under your pillow, you just kept pliant, unconscious, and delicious under his control until he decided you'd been good enough to cum.
You'd let him in, been a good little toy for him to play with, put on a show, and let him taste you. He could let you cum.
He felt your walls tighten around his tongue while his thumb rubbed your clit, and took that as a sign to see just how tight you could get. Deft fingers pumped in and out of you again while he sucked your clit until you came with a breathy whine, and barely a shuffle of your body chasing friction.
Needy little thing.
“Okay,” Natasha said as she breezed in, flipping through a classified file like it was a fashion magazine. “What’s with you?”
You blinked. “What?”
“You’ve looked like you’ve seen a ghost all morning.”
You hesitated. "I just… had this weird dream last night.”
Nat’s brows arched immediately. “Weird how?” You sipped your coffee instead of answering. Her eyes narrowed. “You’re flushed.”
You rolled your eyes. “Jesus, Nat—”
“Oh my god.” She dropped the file and grinned like a shark. “Was it dirty?”
You stared at her for a second too long. “No way,” she gasped. “You did have a dirty dream.”
“It wasn’t like that—” you started, but your voice caught. Because it was. You'd had your share of dreams like that, but none like that. None that you could still feel the next day.
Nat leaned back in her chair, folding her arms with a smug look. “Let me guess: tall, mysterious, dangerous eyes, probably some masked psycho from one of the horror movies you insist on watching before bed you’ve convinced yourself you could ‘fix’ with your mouth—”
“Nat—”
“Was it Steve?” she teased, waggling her brows. “Tell me it was Steve.”
“No,” you said too quickly. And maybe too defensively.
She tilted her head. “So… who, then?”
You stared at your coffee. “I don’t know. Didn't see his face.”
"Oh, so it was from the back, huh?"
"Natasha!"
The candlelight flickers the same way it always does. Your sheets are clean. Your hair’s damp from a shower. The same wine bottle from the night before sits untouched on your nightstand.
Everything should feel normal.
Your phone is already queued up with the usual — the audio you’ve played dozens of times when you need to forget the world, to relax, to release. You slip your earbuds in, press play, and sink back against the pillows.
The voice starts — low, commanding, steady.
"Don’t move. Hands where I left them."
You shift slightly, waiting for that familiar ache to start in your stomach, for your body to respond on autopilot. But nothing stirs.
You blink at the ceiling, adjusting your position. Maybe you’re just tense. The audio keeps going.
"You’re mine. Say it."
You close your eyes, but it doesn’t hit the same. You press your thighs together to no avail, feeling only static. You huff, and you puff, and you look for other audios. A couple peak your interest, you try them, and the same thing happens.
Then you stumble so far back into the username's plethora of posts that you ended up right back onto last year's Kintober, and an uncommon title catches your eye.
You get comfortable and press play.
It's rougher. There's special effects. The clicking of a lock, the rustle of fabric, a muffled scream against hands too rough to touch, and the soothing but rough voice just shushing the listener.
"Wouldn't want to be bad now, would you?"
For some dark and twisted reason, that's the audio that makes you gasp into the pillow on your stomach, knees propping your hips up while your shoulders stay down, touching yourself in the privacy of your own home, alone.
Well, with Bucky.
He heard you.
He heard you beg, and plead, and all of your "no, please!", "please stop!" with barely any conviction at all turn into "please let me cum" and "I'll be so good." like you weren't in complete control. Like you weren't pretending he was doing all of that to you.
But you didn't wanna be, did you? You wanted someone — him — to take control of you, of your body, so you could be a brainless little thing for him to use. So he could fuck you until you couldn't think of anything else but how full you felt with every ridge of his cock dragging in and out of you.
So he snuck in, beelined to your fridge, and dosed the bottle of wine you had in there.
Not too much, just enough to keep you pliant, loose, willing to understand that he was doing that for your own good — and his.
The cork gives that soft little pop and you pour the wine onto the glass, fresh sheets on the bed and the smell of violet, star anise, and vanilla from your bath bomb was clinging to your skin.
By the third sip, you’re back on the couch. Your limbs feel fine. A little loose, maybe. Relaxed. That’s what the wine’s supposed to do, isn’t it?
But your fingers feel slower on your phone screen. Like there’s static between thought and action. You thought about watching a TV show or a movie, but nothing seemed interesting enough.
You made your way to your room, and the room spun for a second when you got up at first. "No more port wine on an empty stomach, got it." You chuckled.
Ditching the robe in your bathroom, you grabbed the lotion and a pair of underwear from the dresser in your closet, light dusty pink this time.
How nice of you to make your skin even softer for him, dressing it in the prettiest lace you could find. He decided to observe from closer tonight, sitting right outside your balcony window.
You didn’t even register the lights outside were off.
The swoosh of the sliding door opening was muted by you humming something under your breath, spreading the lotion up and down your legs as it absorbed.
He was quiet like a cat coming in, sneaky beast ready to ambush you. God, you were so pretty. Like an innocent little doe not even knowing what was about to hit you.
When you registered the weight of a broad chest pressed to your back, leather digging into your skin, his hand was already over your mouth, muffling your screams.
You kicked your legs around trying to escape, but it didn’t even phase him.
Did that make him chuckle?
He tried to shush you, in between the ghost of a “let me go!” and a sob, the plopped you down on the bed, straddling your hips with his hand still over your mouth, the other one holding your wrists above your head.
Icy blue eyes stared at your tear rimmed ones. “If I take my hand away are you gonna be good?” Your squished cheeks nodded under his grip, harsh breath coming out of your nose, his brows perked up slightly and he slowly took his hand away from your mouth.
“HELP! PLE-“ He groaned in disapproval and his hand went right back to where it was before.
Clicking his tongue, he spoke again. “That was a bad, idea, baby.” A sob ripped through you and you squeezed your eyes shut. This had to be a nightmare, that was the only conceivable explanation. “No, no, don’t close your pretty eyes.”
His voice was low with desire, but soft and adoring like he was giving you what you always wanted. You could feel his breath over your face when he talked, the heavy weight of him covered in kevlar, dirty boots digging into your crisp white comforter tainting the fabric like how he was about to taint you.
"I heard all that begging, sweetheart." Wet lips kissed your jaw, and it made your skin crawl with the same strength it send jolts down your body. "You wanted me to take control, right? Wanted me to do whatever I wanted to ya."
Your eyes widened and you shook your head, another sob ripping through you, words muffled behind his palm. "Gonna give you another chance to tell me what you want, okay? Don't make me punish you."
You nodded, a little more dizzy than a couple of minutes before.
A beat of reluctant silence after he removed his hand let your hiccup be heard loud and clear in the room. "Please, just go." Your lips trembled around the words, like you didn't fully mean them. "I'll stop looking into-"
"Oh, honey.. This has nothing to do with that." His hands released your wrists and held your face in between both palms. "Though they're not gonna be happy about it either, I'll tell you that much."
Confusion flashed before your face, and that damn furrow between your brows and the pout on your lips as the gears turned in your head made him want to rip you apart just so he could be the one to put you back together.
"No, you... This... This is all mine." His hands roamed lower, thumb grazing the curve of your breast by your ribs.
"You don't have to do this-" He grabbed your face in his hand and got impossibly close to you.
His tongue came out to collect the salt of your tears pooling by your temple. "I do." He took a moment to savor the taste. "I really do." He caught your arm as it was aimlessly exploring under your pillow. "I took care of that too."
And you looked at him in horror. "You didn't think you were alone all this time, did you?" And as if looking for a weapon he had already discarded took the bit of grace he was about to give you away, he grabbed both of your wrists in one of his hands again, tying them to the headboard with something from one of the many pockets in his suit.
“Please, don’t do this, please…”
He just smiled at you. Wolfish and knowing. “But you’re enjoying it, baby.” He kissed down your neck and bit your collarbone, making you wince. “See?” Rolling the stiff peak of your nipple between his fingers.
You shook your head again. “No, I don’t, please—“
“No?” His face tilted, as if the question wasn’t rhetorical. “What’s this? Mmm?” His hand went to the front of your panties, rubbing slowly, making the fabric dance on top of your skin with the barrier of slick that had pooled there. “So wet, sweet thing… just like the other night.”
He saw a flash of recognition on your face, and you don’t know why your tummy flipped instead of bile rising in your throat. “You thought it was a dream, didn’t you?”
His fingers pressed harder, and you got dizzier. “No dream could make you cum like that, baby… I didn’t mean to… was greedy…” he kissed down your body, lips brushing against you with every word.
He nuzzled against the fabric of your panties. The lace felt softer against his face than it did against his cock all those nights ago.
“Y’can’t blame me, though… smelled so good, I had to get a taste.” He bit your lip through the lace and you hissed.
Bucky pulled it all the way down your legs, thick string of arousal connecting your pussy to the fabric until he pulled it far enough from you.
Stray tears kept coming here and there, and you kept squirming, flexing one leg quickly to try to kick him away, but he was too fast.
Holding your left thigh with his right hand and the other ankle with his left, he clicked his tongue again. “Now, angel, what did I tell you about being good? Mm?” He kissed over the bone of your ankle and bit down on it, not hard enough to leave a mark but hard enough to sting.
His lips soon found the crease of your thigh where it met your hips. “Please, stop…” He didn’t respond to that. Well… not verbally, at least. Your eyes squeezed shut at the eerily familiar feel of his lips on you, kissing you open as he held your thighs apart. “Oh, God—“
He licked, and sucked, and bit like the solace for his miserable existence could only be found in the oasis between your legs. Squelching was loud in the room already and it only got worse when he put two fingers inside of you.
"S'tight, baby." He looked up at you for a second before his gaze dropped down to where he was drinking you from, chin shiny with your wetness. "Don't want me to stop, d'you?"
You nodded your head and he shook his. How long was it gonna take for you to realize the only answers he'll take are the ones he wants? "'Fraid I can't."
When he curled his fingers inside of you, you felt like you were underwater. Your chest felt too tight and the coil in your stomach kept getting smaller and smaller, thighs clamping around his head like you wanted to keep him safe from the Siberian cold he would inevitably return to.
You tried squirming away from him at the same time your feet pressed hard onto his back to prevent him from leaving. As if he'd go anywhere.
You came on his face with a mewl and against your conscious will, which was wearing thin by the second. All of your limbs felt heavier, looser, you blinked slowly, only for your eyes to get back their focus on the fly on his pants, getting undone by flesh and metal.
"See how good it is when you behave?"
Tears welled your eyes again when you realized what he was doing, hovering over you pushing his bottoms down just enough to free, quite literally, the biggest cock you've ever come in contact with.
It hung heavy and thick from his waist, red with want as he kissed under your ear. "S'gonna feel so good, sweetheart. You'll see." He reached down and grabbed the base of his dick, rubbing the head up and down your puffy slit.
He kissed you, all tongue and teeth and you've never been disgusted to taste yourself before, but the fact that the wetness was proof of your own betrayal made it bitter.
"Please, you don't have to do this, please, don't!— ah!" Begging so sweet just wasn't enough, cause he knew your body was begging sweeter. He pushed in, blunt head of his cock breaching you open.
"Fuck! No, no, no, please!"
"More?" He pushed in another inch. "Well, sure, angel, anything for my eager little slut."
"No! Stop! I- mmmnnghhh!" He pushed all the way in until he felt your folds on his pubic bone. You eyes closed in pain and he grabbed your face to make you sit still.
"No hidin' from me, darling. C'mon. Look at me." Your brows were scrunched up in discomfort, disgust, glossed over lips shining up at him. Teary eyes spilling. "Crying so pretty f'me."
He pulled out, then pushed back in, whimper coming out of you along with the feeling of the sting from his thickness. "Yeah? Jus'like that."
"Please, just—" Your words came out muffled by his hand squeezing your cheeks together.
He chuckled, as if that wasn't the worst thing that ever happened to you. "Please, what? Fuck this pussy harder? Being too soft, too caring, too good to you?"
You had no answer. "If you keep being good maybe I'll give you my cum. Mm? You'd like that wouldn't you?"
"No, I'm not on— please—"His fingers stopped bruising your thigh and started rubbing your clit, and he felt you clench around him. "Oh, she would."
Schlick. Schlick. Schlick.
"S'okay, pretty thing. Y'can feel good, nothing wrong with that." Except there was everything wrong with that. The more you pleaded the less the words felt like actual words to be said, and not just what you were supposed to say. "Feels so good having you wrapped around my cock."
You bit your lip to stop a moan from coming out and let out a whimper instead. "You can tell me, it'll be our little secret." Another punctuated thrust. "Feels good, doesn't it?"
You'd blame it on the wine if anyone asked. You'd blame it on your want and will to live. No one besides you and him would ever know you nodded when he asked you that, even less that you meant it. "Atta girl."
His other hand came to pull your bottom lip from between your teeth, way too gentle for what was actually going on. "Let me hear you, baby... Need it."
You released the flesh from its prison, and something between a moan and a yelp made its way out of your throat, scratching and burning in its wake. "Feels... so- oh! Good! Good.. So full."
He smirked against your breast, taking a nipple into his mouth. "Mmmhmm, and you don't want me to stop, d'you?"
You shook your head fast. "Please..."
"Please, what?"
A beat of silence.
And then surrender. "Please, don't stop." If your voice was any quieter, it would be silent.
Whatever demon possessed Bucky in that second, it had teeth so pretty you just wanted him to sink them into your skin and eat you whole.
He kissed you more forcefully, and this time you kissed him back, arms straining against the restraint, legs tightening around his waist, moaning into his mouth when he spoke to you. "There she is. Was that so hard, sweetheart?"
Your eyes rolled back when he put your legs over his shoulder, kissing the inside of your knee before leaning over you and pressing his chest against yours. "Pussy so good, gonna make me cream all over it."
Another clench, and the chuckle vibrated deep in his chest, making your nipples harden more in the process. "What was all that "no" nonsense, hmm?"
"I don't...?" Your head was spinning. Swimming in a sea of oxytocin and whatever roofie he definitely put in your wine.
"S'okay, you don't have to do anything but what I say." His thrusts got erratic, faltering, almost as if he was holding himself back from falling from a precipice he wanted to jump off of with you in his arms. "Can feel y'choking me."
"So— fuck, I'm so close, please."
"Gotta ask nice, baby. You've been trouble tonight." If he was any deeper inside of you he would literally split you in half. You were sure you'd be sore for at least a fucking week.
"Please let me cum on your cock, please." Your tears tasted different now, like he finally tainted something good, spilled red wine on white silk. "I'll be good, I promise! Ah!" A specially harsh thrust made you hesitate.
"Don't know if you deserve it, angel..."
"Please!" You were sobbing now, raw burn of his fingers against your clit driving you mad, you were so close you could taste it. "I'll be good! I'll comply!"
That snapped something inside of him. Whether it was familiarity, rage, or whatever other blindly carnal feeling it was, it made Bucky see red, bloodthirsty to wring every single drop of free will from you.
"Y'promise?" You nodded. Please, please, please. "Slova, kukla." Words, doll.
"Da." Yes. You bit your lip again, straining your neck to look up at him so closely your lips brushed when you talked.
"Gotovyy?" Ready?
"Ya gotova otvechat'" Ready to comply.
His fingers rubbed harder, both deeper and faster circles, and his hips did not cease their movements driving his cock in and out of you. Every drag of his leaking head inside of you felt like fireworks exploding inside of your veins.
He bit your lip so hard when you came around him that it bled, and his tongue soothed the skin.
He fucked you through your orgasm, and pulled out much too soon for your liking, leaving you empty with a whine from you and a dissatisfied groan from him. "Don't think you deserve my cum t'day, angel." What the actual fuck was wrong with you? "Next time, yeah?"
Next time?
Why did your pussy throb at that?
His flesh hand came to jerk himself off on top of you while the metal one kept your thighs spread for him, it took barely any time for him to spill thick ropes across your lower stomach and pussy with a groan of your name and sweat glistening on his forehead.
"Y'look good all painted with my cum."
You didn't realize your eyes were closed until you forced them open in response to his fingers tickling your stomach, playing with his cum, dragging the thick fluid further down and smearing it over your spent folds.
She's not even as spent as he could make her.
You moaned in response, and your gaze caught his. Without looking away he repeated the motion, except he pushed it further down, stuffing his cum inside of you, contradicting himself.
"That's it, sweet thing... Just take it." You really couldn't do much of anything else. If the roofie didn't turn your brain to mush, the two orgasms and the 19% wine would've done the trick just fine.
His voice seemed so far away, but so close. Like a siren calling out your name ready to drown you in damnation. "Fuck, look so good all used up."
You felt the coil in your belly tighten again, not even you with the hottest of audios had gotten yourself over the edge and back at it again so fast. "Too much." You tried to squirm away, but his grip was too strong.
"Never too much, baby." He put a third finger in and rubbed the heel of his hand against your clit every time his palm slapped down as he went all the way in. "Just right."
You might've been the first human being ever to see your own frontal lobe live. Or at least that's what you through when your eyes rolled back again and you became a babbling mess under him, soaking his fingers and the sheets beneath you.
The next day, he was gone just as swiftly as he had come in. Nothing was out of place, everything was perfectly normal save for the throbbing ache between your legs and the cum stain in your sheets.
Like it hadn't been the best thing that's ever happened to you.
Months later, when he was chasing Steve down the causeway in Washington, he didn't even remember you. His hand wrapped around your throat and threw you onto a parked car's windshield like he hadn't made you face the deepest, darkest parts of yourself.
A/N: ANYWAYYYYYYY thanks to the BWA for freaking out with me over this. Hopefully we all got wet together <3 I have too much free time and a mind much too dark. thanks @heldbybarnes for telling me to write this <3 I literally gave myself a 4k word cap and this monstrosity came to life. I make plan, @houseofhyde laughs in my face:
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Word count: 8.5k
Warnings: dub-ish con (sex pollen)?, SMUT!! (p in v, face fucking, mating press, oral (m receiving), overstimulation (m&f), tears of overstimulation, begging?, beefy bucky looking that feral is its own warning, BCB (big cock bucky), size kink?
Summary: How many times has Steve told you not to touch weird shit in old labs?
Easy mission. In and out. Get intel, meet at the extraction point, get in the Quinjet and make it back to the compound in time to get pizza delivered from Donatello's, watch trashy TV while Sam talking shit about said trashy TV, and pass out on the couch.
At least, it would've been, until Joaquin decided to touch whatever definitely not innocuous shit he found in one of the labs and, in an attempt to get Bucky's old HYDRA expertise, made the small vial explode into a puff of pink smoke right in front of his face.
You were sweeping the lower lab levels when the comms crackled.“Oh wow, this stuff is so old.”
You groaned. “That sounded like the voice of a man about to do something stupid. Joaquin, do not—” And then you heard Bucky choke, cough, and groan like he was about to twist Joaquin's neck like an old farmer would do to a chicken before dinner.
You jogged around the corner, footsteps echoing in the old no-so-sterile halls, and met up with both of them bumping straight into Bucky's chest in the process, making him grunt at the impact.
"Oh, hi." You smiled at him like you always did: sweetly, kindly, like you weren't trying to hide the fact that you'd rearrange the tiles on every subway station in New York if he asked you to. "You guys okay?"
Joaquin shrugged and nodded, "Just got some old school glitter all over grandpa."
Bucky gave you a breathy "yeah, all good." before all of you nodded your heads in agreement and moved along.
You got to another wing of the old base, and the three of you got stopped by a heavy reinforced door preventing you from moving further into the hallway. “You gotta be kidding me,” Joaquin sighed, smacking the reader with the heel of his palm.
You leaned in to inspect it, raising a brow. “Looks like the power line’s fried in this section. We’ll have to backtrack through—” You didn’t finish, because Bucky swayed out of the corner of your eye.
Not dramatically, not theatrically, just enough that your hand shot out, instinctively catching his elbow. “Woah, hey,” you blinked up at him. “You good?” He didn’t answer.
His jaw flexed, teeth grinding. His breath came sharp, deeper, as if the air had suddenly gotten heavier around him. His pupils were… wide. Obscenely, almost. Swallowing the blue.
Joaquin noticed too. “…Uh. Sarge?”
Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. Once. Twice. Like he was trying to blink something back into order.
“I said I’m fine,” he rasped, voice low and not fine at all. But his shoulders trembled, he felt the fabric of his shirt start to cling to him like he’d just stepped out of a sauna, the collar of the tac vest becoming chafy and uncomfortable.
You felt heat radiating off him—like his skin was cooking under the surface. Bucky inhaled sharply, not a normal breath, a slow, wrecking, deep inhale, eyes closing as he tumbled back, bracing himself on the wall.
“…Buck?” Your voice came out softer this time. You could see the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and the way his eyes were having a hard time focusing. His head lolled from side to side against the cold steel wall until you steadied his face to look at you. "Hey, talk to me."
"I feel—" He couldn't get words to come out, the throughts were there but his tongue felt heavy, like it wanted to give away secrets his brain hadn't allowed it to."I think I'm sick." And God, the way that you took a glove off and put the back of your hand to his forehead just barely helped relieve the heat his body was producing.
Heat that went up a degree or two when you touched your cheek to his forehead, and he inhaled the sweet scent of your skin. Nothing perfume-like, or lotion, just… you, right at the space where your neck met your shoulder, like the smell of you had hooked him by the throat and reeled him in.
"You're burning up." He felt a whine bubble in his throat when you pulled away to talk to Joaquin. "What exactly was in that lab?"
“…Okay. So remember that old glitter? Could’ve been, uh—bio-aerosol? Or something from that weird Cold War pheromone vault section?” It was almost cartoonish the way Joaquin's face formed into a wince. A very "we're so fucked and he's gonna kill me" wince.
You stared. “You mean sex pollen.”
“…I did not want to be the guy to say that out loud.” Both of you turned your heads to the sound behind you, not quite a growl, or a moan, but something animal and hurt.
"Okay, how long do we have?" Your mind was going a mile a minute. "Is he gonna die before we get back?" You walked back to crouch in front of Bucky, looking for his eyes with yours. “Hey,” you murmured, guiding his gaze back to you, “look at me.”
His breathing stuttered. “You shouldn’t—” he croaked, voice shredded raw. “I don’t—this isn’t—”
“I know,” you whispered. "Can you hang on until we get to the jet? Bruce and Tony must have something that can help." All you got back was a nod.
After talking the long way out, you managed to get back to the team, Steve's face like a worried mother hen when he saw the three of you, Bucky insisting on walking on his own, telling Joaquin to stand between the two of you.
Steve jogged down immediately. “What the hell happened?”
Bucky jerked back like Steve reaching for him was a knife being drawn. “Don’t,” he bit out—voice shredded, almost unrecognizable.
“Why do you look like you’re about to pounce on something?”
Steve pulled his hand back, palms up, tone softening instantly. “Okay. Okay. Not touching you. Just talk to me.” Joaquin stepped forward like he was testifying in court.
“So—fun story—turns out Cold War Russia kept, um… let’s call it biologically weaponized pheromone particulate in some of the older R&D labs and—”
Sam blinked, looked directly at Bucky, then you, then right back to Joaquin when he almost couldn't contain his laughter. “So he just inhaled airborne horny juice.”
Steve’s face did every emotion at once. Concern. Fear. Confusion. A level of Catholic repression so strong it could’ve powered a city. While Sam just exhaled through his nose like someone who was seconds away from clocking out of reality.
Your body went still.
"I just— I need to lie down, and—" You reached out to help him onto the jet, but his hand shot our making you jump back. "Don't—" He sighed, trying to level his voice. "Just stay away from me."
You'd be lying if you said that didn't hurt a little. Like having the guy you've been pining over for the past two years tell you to buzz off didn't sting like lemon and rock salt on an open wound.
Okay, it hurt a lot.
It was visible the way that you retreated back into yourself, like it would protect you somehow. "Copy that."
Steve’s jaw ticked, Sam looked down like he suddenly found the floor very, very interesting, Joaquin winced like he’d just watched someone get smacked with a folding chair.
“Wait—” His voice cracked, caught in his throat. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” you said quickly. Too quickly. The verbal equivalent of throwing a sheet over a shattered glass and calling it clean. “We need to get you stabilized. That’s all that matters.”
“No. Don’t—don’t do that.”
You swallowed. “Do what?”
“That.” His eyes held yours, unsteady, and almost pleading. “That look. Like I pushed you into traffic.”
Steve took one step forward, voice gentle. “Buck, she’s just giving you space—”
“I don’t want space,” Bucky snapped. "I want—" Another wave of whatever the compound was hit him, and he doubled over in pain. Steve helped brace him and held a hand out to stop you when you instinctively stepped forward to help.
“Let’s get him on the cot,” Steve murmured to Sam and Joaquin, gentle, smooth, easing into triage leadership.
Sam mumbled to Steve on the way there. “We gotta get him to the medbay before his bloodstream goes full Discovery Channel.”
The flight home was torture in slow motion.
Bucky sat hunched forward on the med-cot, elbows braced against his knees, hands fisting and unfisting like he was holding on to the last thread of himself. Every breath shook. Every exhale came rough, uneven, punched through clenched teeth. The fever didn’t just burn—it crawled. Beneath his skin, along his spine, curling up behind his ribs like it was trying to get out. And every time the jet hit the slightest patch of turbulence, every sway of the cabin, every shift in yourbreathing—he reacted. His head would lift like he was tracking you by sound alone, pupils blown wide, like you were the only oxygen in the room.
And you—God—you sat across the jet from him, arms wrapped around yourself like that could hold you steady, eyes tracing the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but him. Because looking at him meant seeing the raw need he was fighting to keep contained. It meant seeing him hurt.
After briefing Tony and Bruce, and getting a “That man inhaled weaponized lust dust?” said over a pair of glasses and raised brows, Tony locked Bucky in a super soldier-proof room with bulletproof glass windows and an amazing vitals monitoring system. But if you asked for Bucky's opinion, the quarantine quarters were sterile in an unsettling way.
The lights were too bright, the sheets were chafy and uncomfortable against his skin, and everything was too white and clean. He managed to sweat through a shirt already, pacing around like a cautionary tale, and was on his way to doing so a second time. Not even the AC was able to help cool him off.
His eyes kept flicking—to the glass. To you, every few seconds, like his body knew exactly where you were even when he forced himself to look away.
Bruce was scrolling through old SHIELD and Hydra files on a tablet, voice low, clinical, steady.
“The compound works by hijacking limbic and hypothalamic pathways,” he murmured. “Drives instinctual bonding and reproductive compulsion. Increases cortisol and dopamine at unsafe levels. If we don’t neutralize it, he could go into cardiac stress within the next 12 to 24 hours.”
Your stomach dropped.
Tony glanced over. “But hey, great news. He won’t die from horny. Probably. Unless he, you know—” he mimed an explosion near his chest. “Pops like an over-microwaved hot dog.”
Steve glared. “Tony.”
“What? Humor is how I cope with things trying to kill us. Or in this case, trying to rail someone into a medically concerning state.”
“He’s getting worse,” you whispered. “His breathing’s all over the place. The pacing isn’t helping anymore. We can’t just let him ride this out.”
Steve scrubbed a hand down his face. “Bruce is working as fast as he can—”
“Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” Bucky's voice snapped through the intercom, ragged and pained, and incredibly frustrated.
The room froze for a second. Steve flinched just slightly—guilt flashing across his face, Bruce and Tony looked up, and Sam turned around from where he was, back facing the windows Bucky was now bracing his hand on.
And Bucky—
Bucky had turned around, from his pacing back and forth, and settled in front of the glass walls. His chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths. His jaw was set, eyes blown wide and dark, and sweat made his shirt cling to him like a second skin.
What stopped you dead in your tracks wasn't that, though. It wasn't his shirt starting to get soaked through, it wasn't his forehead shiny with sweat, it was the fact that the sweats he changed into did absolutely nothing to hide the state he was in.
You hadn't meant to look, but like the moon pulls the tide, your gaze found the almost offensive tent he was pitching in his pants. Long, heavy, solid, straining against fabric that was doing absolutely zero work as a barrier—just pressed up the left side, the outline unmistakable.
Your pulse thundered behind your ribs like your heart wanted to sprint out of your chest and run to him. Steve—poor, earnest, helpful Steve—instantly jerked his head away like he’d just accidentally opened a stranger’s bathroom door.
“Oh my God,” Steve muttered, eyes locked firmly on the ceiling tiles. “Yep. Okay. Yep. We’ve reached that stage. Great.”
Sam spoke, turning back around, voice flat and so exhausted it could have been legally declared a sigh. “Yeah, I’m not making eye contact with any of that. I’m barely managing my own dignity today.”
Tony lifted his coffee mug like a toast to misery. “We’re all fighting for our lives right now, Wilson.”
Joaquin muttered something that sounded like holy mother of thirst traps, and immediately shut his mouth when Sam elbowed him.
He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated and burning and so far past okay he had lapped the field. “This is ridiculous,” he snapped, voice hoarse. “There’s no reason for me to be locked up like some—some feral animal. I said I’m fine.”
“Bucky,” you murmured, tone unimpressed. “Your heart rate is at one-seventy and you are five minutes away from humping the corner of the room.”
“I’m fine.” He snarled the word like it personally insulted him.
He turned again—another pacing lap, another moving target distracting you from the actual problem. Or making you focus on it, depends who you ask.
Swing.
Swing.
Your eyes followed it like it had its own orbit. With every step he took, his breathing got worse, and his cock bobbed and swung with the movement. Did they even bother to get him a pair of boxers? For god's sake.
You tried to look away and failed. Spectacularly.
Bucky stopped mid-step when he noticed. Tilted his head once he followed your gaze, and then slowly focused his back on you, like he was studying you. The same way a jaguar tilts its head before crushing a prey's skull between its teeth. So slow, you felt it in your knees.
He wiped his face with the hem of his shirt—lifting it—exposing the deep, carved lines of muscle, the stretch of his abdomen, the line of hair disappearing down—
You nearly whimpered.
“Yeah,” he rasped, voice shredded, “now imagine what it feels like." Oh, you did. "Inside my skin. Constant. Pressure. Heat. And I can’t fucking touch anything because the second I do—” The thing is, Bucky didn't know every word out of his mouth at any given moment would, in fact, find its way to burrow under your skin.
Each word from his mouth meant another step towards the glass that was separating you both.
And against your better judgement, you had imagined it. You've imagined your hands wrapped around it, you've imagined the weight of it on your tongue, you've imagined it so far in the back of your throat that—
"Stop breathing like that—I can hear it.”
Your breath caught, like a well trained animal obeying its master. "I'm not breathing in any different way."
"I can smell you too." And that made your brain short circuit. "It's sweet, and—" He groaned, letting his head fall forward. "Fuck, you smell—" Not even Stevie Wonder could've missed the drool that was pooling on his bottom lip and falling onto the floor.
“Wanna taste it. Lick you open right here on the floor. Tongue-fuck your pussy until you can’t remember your own name.”
When he lifted his head again, it felt like the entire world narrowed to just you two. With thick super soldier proof glass in between.
His breath fogged the glass at the same time his eyes narrowed at yours, looking for a sign that he was affecting you as much as you were affecting him. “You’ve thought about it.” Damn him, James Barnes and his ability to read you like a book written in a language only he could speak. “Oh, sweetheart.”
It's almost like he could hear your thighs clenching together. “You smell like you’re already wet—fuck.” Definitely not what you wanted him to announce over intercom to the entire team, but the blush creeping up your neck really didn't allow you to focus on anything other than the image in front of you.
Bucky Barnes, in a heathered grey shirt that he was sweating through, with a sinfully thin pair of sweatpants that could be an HR violation if anyone didn't know the contect of why anyone in the room with eyes could tell that was a perfect outline of his hard cock swinging around like it owned the place.
With previous icy blue eyes that were now blown black with lust, looking at you like you were the next meal of a very starving beast. A beast that was frothing at the mouth at the though of the taste of you.
“You smell warm,” he murmured. “Like your skin would taste soft.” He continued, like taunting you was making anything better and not just riling both of you even more. “And you’re trying so fucking hard not to move,” he said, voice breaking into a whisper. “Not to come closer.”
"You're not exactly making it easy."
Another wave hit him and he winced. "I can't think with you here." He swallowed hard. "All I see when you're near is just your back hitting plaster and your legs around my hips.”
His breathing fractured—like something inside him had finally tipped past reason into pure, raw instinct. “I wish this glass wasn’t here,” he said, teeth gritted like the words hurt. “I’d have you on your knees already… drooling around my cock.”
The air left your lungs. The more he talked the more it felt like one of those moments in the late summer into fall, where the pool is too cold and you jump in anyway. The moment where your lungs feel too small and the atmosphere feels too much and all you can really do is hyperventilate and try to breathe the shock away.
“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he said, like he was discovering something and confirming it all in the same breath. His tongue dragged over his bottom lip without him thinking—messy, desperate. “You’d open your pretty mouth and take me all the way down just to make me stop begging.”
“You’d look up at me while you did it,” he murmured, fever-slow, obscene in how sure he was. “Eyes wide, tears in the corners, letting me fuck your throat until you couldn’t speak.”
“Stop making me picture it.” It was barely above a whisper, really. You're not sure anyone heard it over the sound of both of you breathing as hard as you were.
The drool slid from his lip again—slow, heavy—hanging for a moment before it fell to the floor. He didn’t notice, he couldn’t. His hips shifted—just a slight forward roll—and you bit your lower lip so hard you nearly bruised it.
Bucky's voice cracked down the middle. “Fuck—please—” His metal hand scraped against the glass, fingers curling. “I need— I need to— I need you—” He swallowed, jaw trembling, breath stuttering like holding himself together physically hurt. “Just let me wreck you,” he whispered.
He asked like your answer would ever be no. Like being that close to him without having him inside of you didn't physically hurt sometimes. Like you didn't have vivid dreams of his teeth on the bare skin of your ass and his hand wrapped around your neck like jewelry that belonged in the Louvre.
Steve stepped in between you two, ushering you away from Bucky. "That's enough."
Bucky’s head snapped toward him, eyes blown wide and dark like storm clouds about to break “No,” he snarled, voice rough with panic instead of anger. “No—don’t—”
Bruce came forward, gentle hands on your shoulders. A doctor moving someone out of a blast radius. “Come on,” he murmured, soft. “Give him a second. His vitals are spiking—he needs distance to stabilize.”
“He doesn’t need distance,” Bucky barked, hands slamming against the glass—palms flat—every tendon in his arms standing out in painful, shaking relief.
“He needs her.”
“Buck. You need to stop.” Steve kept his voice low, even. “Listen to yourself.”
Bucky’s chest was heaving—breaths quick and hot and uneven. "I'm sorry, fuck— I—" He didn’t look at Steve, didn’t look at Bruce. He didn’t look at anything except you as Bruce’s hand eased you back.
“Don’t take her away. Please. Please—” Bruce kept moving you carefully, slowly—gentle pressure between your shoulders.
You tried to go about your night.
You really did.
You showered. You changed. You sat on the edge of your bed with your hair still damp, staring at the wall like it might offer you a door out of your own head. But every time you closed your eyes, you saw him—forehead pressed to the glass, voice cracking when he said please, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re falling and they already know the ground is going to hurt.
You lay back, staring blankly at the ceiling. You tried to count your breaths—steady, even, controlled. But your breathing only reminded you of his. That ragged, uneven, burning inhale that came when he was trying to keep himself from breaking.
You turned onto your side. Then your back again. Pulled the blanket up. Pushed it off. You tried to be rational. To be logical. To be the good, responsible, emotionally stable adult in this situation.
But there was something tugging at you, something far deeper and quieter than lust. Something warm and sore and impossible to ignore.
So you did what any sane (not) person would do, and snuck away from your quarters, through the corridors, and into the med bay to be alone and unsupervised with a super soldier under the influence of super soldier viagra mixed with preworkout to say the very least.
The med bay was washed in low overnight lighting, the kind meant to soothe but doing absolutely nothing to calm the electricity tangled in the air. Bucky had been pacing for long enough that it was surprising the floor hadn't given in to the shape of his path.
His hair clung to his temples, damp and curling where it stuck. His breath came in harsh, uneven bursts, chest rising too fast, like his lungs couldn’t catch air fast enough to match the fire under his skin.
Every few steps his metal hand flexed involuntarily, fingers clenching like he needed something—someone—to hold on to.
He didn’t see you.
He was somewhere inside the fever.
“Fuck—” he grit out, stopping long enough to brace both hands against the wall, muscles in his back rippling as he bowed his head, throat exposed to the floor like he was trying to bleed the heat out of himself.
He took another step—stumbled—caught himself on the exam table— and then something in him just broke. He dragged his hand up his chest like he was trying to tear the heat out of himself, jaw clenched so hard a vein pulsed at his temple.
Your voice came out softer. “Buck.” He froze completely. He had hallucinations of your voice earlier that day, sweet little mewls you'd let out if you were there with him to siphon them out of you, while he tried to take care of the issue on his own.
Slowly, he turned his head toward the sound, and his eyes found you. And something in his entire body gave out. His breathing stuttered—hard—like his ribs were suddenly too tight to contain the relief.
He took a full, instinctive step toward you—body moving before thought—and then something in him seized. The sensible part of his brain stopped him from getting closer to the glass.
"Get out of here."
Your brows furrowed in confusion. "Bucky, I—"
"Get the fuck out of here." He doubled over in pain again. "It hurts worse when you're so close and I can't—"
Your voice came out thin—fragile—almost unrecognizable to your own ears. “Bucky… I’m begging you. I can’t just stand out here and watch you suffer.”
"It wouldn't— I could—" If his brain started leaking out of his ears, you wouldn't be exactly surprised. "It's not safe for you." He flinched like the words actively hit him.
"You'd never hurt me."
"You could beg me to stop and I wouldn't be able to."
He was still bent over, hand braced on the wall, every muscle in his back trembling from restraint. His breath dragged ragged through his chest, sweat rolling down his sternum in a slow line that made your own pulse stumble.
“I’m begging you,” you whispered. “Let me help.”
He shook his head once—sharp—like the motion hurt. “Don’t sound like that—”
“Like what?”
“Like you want me.” The words tore out raw, like he’d ripped them straight from the center of him.
The room went quiet for a moment, and you had yet another brilliant idea that wouldn't get you in trouble bigger than you could handle at all. Your feet moved you to stand by the control panel, and his head snapped up—eyes blown wide, panic flaring under the fever.
“Don’t do that. Don’t come in here. I’m telling you—I can’t—” You typed in your override code with steady hands, changed a single setting in the lock, and despite Bucky's protests, the door hissed open, and you bolted into the room before it latched closed again.
“I’m not leaving you alone in here.” Bucky grabbed you by the arm and attempted to open the door, not knowing you locked it from the outside.
"Are you insane?!" He didn't sound angry, he sounded terrified. Terrified of not being able to hold back from everything he wanted to do to you.
You moved toward him—not with impulse, but with a quiet, controlled resolve that came from somewhere deep in your chest. Bucky didn’t step back this time. He just watched you, breathing unevenly, shoulders tense like every muscle in his body was wound tight enough to snap.
You lifted your hand slowly, giving him time to stop you if he needed to. He didn’t. So you let your palm settle against his bare chest, right over his heartbeat. His skin was hot—fever-hot—but under your hand the fire shifted, softened, just enough to change from a burn to an ache. The air left him in a long, shaking exhale, like your touch let him breathe for the first time in hours.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder, not in collapse, but in relief. A small shudder went through him, his ribs expanding against your hand as he tried to steady himself. You could feel his pulse hammering, fast and uneven.
“It’s a little better,” he murmured, voice rough against your collarbone.
“Not enough,” you said quietly.
He shook his head, and you felt the motion against your skin. “No. Not nearly enough.”
Your thumb traced a slow, grounding arc just beneath his sternum, the simplest touch offered as reassurance. His metal hand hovered near your hip, not touching you, shaking with restraint. Every part of him was working to not grab, not pull, not give in to instinct.
“Bucky,” you murmured. Your hand slid up, fingers brushing the line of his collarbone before you cupped the side of his jaw. His skin was hot beneath your touch, flushed. “Let me help.”
His eyes squeezed shut, his brow furrowing like the words physically hurt.
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Yes, I do.” Your voice stayed soft, steady. “I know you. I know you would never hurt me. And I’m standing right here choosing you.”
His breath caught, a shaking inhale that didn’t quite make it all the way in. You leaned in slowly, giving him time to stop you—even now—and pressed your lips to the sharp angle of his jaw.
He made a sound—low, involuntary—something between a groan and a gasp, his grip tightening on your hip without meaning to. The heat of him was overwhelming now that you were fully inside his space, and when you shifted closer, your thigh brushed the unmistakable, urgent press of him against the front of his sweats.
He jolted—like the contact shocked him—but he didn’t step back.
You whispered against his jaw, your lips barely moving. “Let me help, Buck.”
His breath stuttered, chest rising too fast against yours.
“Please,” you whispered, the word soft and warm and devastating. “Let me take care of you.”
His resolve buckled—not shattered, not broken—but gave.
You slid your hand down, slow and deliberate, until your palm hovered at the waistband of his sweats. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t speak. His eyes locked on yours—wide, dark, waiting.
So you touched him.
Your palm cupped him through the fabric, the heat and weight of him filling your hand instantly. He let out a sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest—raw, ragged, helpless. His forehead fell forward until it nearly touched yours, his breath shaking against your cheek.
You kept your touch slow. Gentle. Controlled. No teasing, no sudden movements—just steady pressure, your hand molded to him through the soft cotton, up and down in a rhythm meant to soothe the fever thrumming under his skin.
His fingers dug into your hip—not hard, just anchoring.
“Sweetheart—” His voice was barely a voice, just breath and need. “If you—if you keep doing that—I’m not gonna—”
You kissed his jaw again, slower this time.
“That’s the point,” you whispered. His breath collapsed against your neck and you stroked him again—firmer this time.
The roughness in his breathing started to shift, not easing but changing, gathering into something more focused, less chaotic. But the fever was still burning too hot, crawling under his skin like an electric current with nowhere to go.
So you sank to your knees.
The floor was cold beneath you, a stark contrast to the heat bleeding off of him. Your fingers found the waistband of his sweats and tugged. He didn’t stop you. Couldn’t. His head hit the wall behind him with a dull thud, chest heaving as he tried—failed—not to look down at you.
You freed him from the confines of the fabric, and he sprang forward—thick, flushed, already leaking, and twitching with need. Your breath caught as you wrapped your hand around him properly for the first time.
He let out a strangled groan so loud it echoed off the sterile walls. One hand reached down blindly, threading through your hair like it was the only lifeline he had left. He whispered your name like a curse, like a prayer, like salvation.
Your tongue flattened against the underside of him first, tracing the thick, pulsing vein that ran along the length of his cock. You felt him twitch in your hand, heard the harsh stutter of his breath above you as his grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting. When your lips wrapped around the flushed, leaking tip, Bucky actually whimpered.
“Fuck—” he choked, hips jerking despite himself. “Jesus, baby, that mouth—”
You hollowed your cheeks and took more of him, inch by inch, until your lips kissed the base and your throat fluttered around him. The way he gasped—it was like he’d been drowning and finally broke the surface.
“God, you’re—fuck, I knew it, I knew you’d take me like this,” he hissed. “So good. So fucking good. Like you were meant for me.”
His knees almost buckled.
The sweat rolling down his chest gathered at the sharp lines of his abdomen, and he looked down, glassy-eyed and wrecked, watching his cock disappear past your lips over and over. You stroked what you couldn’t fit, twisting your wrist, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth to join the obscene, wet sounds echoing off the walls.
He didn’t last long.
He couldn’t—hadn’t been touched in hours, hadn’t let himself feel anything in months, maybe years, and now here you were, mouth full of him, eyes blown wide with submission and need, and he could feel the fever receding under your touch, like you were the cure he didn’t deserve.
His head slammed back against the wall again, both hands in your hair now as he held you there, not forcing—just anchoring—just begging. “Just a little more, baby. Just—fuck, I’m so close, please—”
“It’s still bad, isn’t it?” He didn’t answer. “You don’t have to hold back with me.” You rose up just enough to press your mouth to the inside of his thigh—soft, slow, intentional—then looked up again, voice thready but determined. “Take what you need from me, Bucky.”
You take him into your mouth again—no hesitation this time, no slow pacing. You hum around him; you don’t even realize you do it. His whole body jerks—hips twitching forward, instinct overriding restraint for a split second.
His hips roll forward—slow at first, testing, like he’s afraid of how much he needs this. But when your hands grip his thighs and you pull him closer, the last of his restraint just… slips.
“Sweetheart—” His voice drops, a gravel-soft moan. “Okay. Okay, I—shit—”
His rhythm finds you, and it pushes his cock inside of your mouth over and over again, bruising the back of your throat, making your eyes water.
Bucky, on the other hand, was losing his mind. He feels like this could only really be a fever dream. The vision before him being one that he only saw seconds before waking up in a sticky mess of his own cum in his room some nights.
“You have no idea—” A thrust, shallow but desperate. “I’ve wanted—” Another, deeper now, hips stuttering. “God—this—this—” He chokes on your name.
Your moan around him sent him right to the edge.
He came hard, with a broken cry that echoed with pain and relief and something that sounded suspiciously like your name. Hot, thick ropes spilled onto your tongue, down your throat, and you took every drop, swallowing around him while his body trembled, legs unsteady, heart thundering behind his ribs.
He looked down at you afterward, wrecked beyond recognition, jaw slack and pink lips parted like he couldn’t believe you were real.
“…holy fuck,” he rasped.
You didn’t even need to say anything—your eyes said it all. Your fingers curled tighter around the base of him, guiding him back to your lips, already red and slick with spit and the remnants of his release. You pressed a slow kiss to the tip, and Bucky swore under his breath, hips twitching.
“You’re still hard,” you murmured, voice low, almost disbelieving. “You need more.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you—head cocked, eyes wild and glassy, like he was still fighting himself even while his cock throbbed in your grip, fully hard again. His breath hitched when you opened your mouth, letting your tongue flatten against the underside of him again, licking him like you missed it.
That was all it took.
A rough groan tore from his chest as his hips surged forward, pushing himself back into your mouth. You moaned around him, taking him deeper, your throat already used to the stretch. His grip tightened in your hair, holding you steady this time—not pushing, not yet, just anchoring as he began to roll his hips, slow at first, dragging himself against your tongue.
But he couldn't hold back. Not when you looked like that. Not when you made those sounds.
“Open wider,” he grit out, voice almost guttural. “Let me—fuck, let me use your mouth.”
You did. You relaxed your throat, looked up at him through heavy lashes, and let him have it.
He began to thrust—deep, slow at first, but building with every breath. Each time he bottomed out, your throat flexed, gagging just a little, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. And he loved it. Ate it up like a man starved.
“Shit—shit, baby,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “Look at you—taking it so fucking well, like it’s what your mouth was made for.”
He was leaking again, throbbing inside you, grunting with every pass of his cock down your throat. You could feel him fighting the edge again already—his whole body shaking, hair falling into his eyes, thighs tense beneath your hands.
He came again. Harder this time. The first shot hit the back of your throat as he choked out your name like it was the only word he knew. His hips didn’t stop moving. Even as he emptied himself into your mouth, he was still hard, still needing.
When he finally stilled, breathing like he’d just run ten miles, he looked down at you—ruined, wrecked, flushed—and exhaled your name like a plea.
“I still need more.”
Your lips were swollen, spit-slick, eyes glossy and dazed as you slowly released him from your mouth with a wet pop. Bucky was panting above you, flushed all the way down his chest, body still trembling from his second orgasm—and still hard. Angry and flushed and leaking again, like his body didn’t understand that two should’ve been enough.
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, but your gaze never left him. Not for a second. And he looked down at you like he was about to fall to his knees. Or break through the floor. Or both.
Then you stood.
Without a word, you reached for his wrist and guided him—slowly, steadily—toward the exam table. The padded med bed sat cold and untouched, the thin clinical comforter shuffled under your grip as you leaned against it and looked over your shoulder at him.
His hands were on your hips before you even breathed, gripping you like you were the only tether he had to this fucking world. He yanked your sleep shorts and underwear down in one swift, rough motion, groaning when he saw how wet you were—slick, glistening, thighs trembling.
“All this for me?” he muttered, almost in disbelief, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds. You gasped—more from the weight of it than the tease.
“I’ve been yours,” you panted, looking back at him over your shoulder. “You just haven’t fucked me like it.”
That did it.
He lined up and shoved in with one brutal, gorgeous thrust—splitting you open on his cock so deep you almost screamed. Your hands scrambled for purchase on the med bed, fingers clawing at the sheets as your body struggled to accommodate him. He was thick, long, heavy—and unrelenting. No time to adjust. No warning. Just full.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed, bottoming out inside you. “You feel like heaven. Hot, tight—fuck, I can feel your pussy fluttering already—”
You were already trembling under him, already dripping down your thighs. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and tugged your head back gently, just enough to murmur in your ear as he rocked into you.
“You wanted this,” he growled. “Wanted to help? Mmm? Did you? Or did you just want an excuse to have my cock inside of you?”
You whimpered, unable to speak—your brain blank, body overstimulated, mouth falling open.
“Say it,” he snarled, thrusting harder. “Tell me you begged for this cock.”
“I—I begged for it,” you gasped. “Bucky—oh my God—you’re so—fuck—you’re so deep, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he said, and then he was railing into you—brutal and beautiful and ruthless—his cock driving into you so hard your toes curled and your walls clamped down around him. Your stomach was pressed to the cold med bed now, knees buckling as he fucked you through it, chest bouncing with every thrust.
“Please,” you sobbed. “Please don’t stop—”
“Never,” he growled. “I’m not stopping until you’re filled up and leaking for me. Until you can’t walk straight. Until they smell me on you.”
His rhythm faltered.
You could feel it—how his thrusts turned erratic, his breath shortened into harsh, broken gasps against your skin, every nerve in his body set to burn. He was so deep inside you, so swollen and throbbing, and even though he’d already come twice, he was barely holding on now, just riding the edge with ragged desperation.
“Too—fuck—can’t—” he growled, hips snapping hard and fast as his chest collapsed against your back. “You’re gonna—ahhh—milk me dry, baby.”
You barely got a gasp out before he slammed into you one last time and bit down on the curve of your shoulder—hard.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t controlled. It was animal.
Teeth sinking into skin just below your neck, like claiming you was the only thing keeping him alive. The sting of it only made your orgasm crash harder, clenched around him like a vice just as he spilled inside you—thick and hot, cock pulsing violently through the aftershocks, moaning into your skin like it broke him.
But Bucky didn’t pull out.
Didn’t move away like someone who just had his third orgasm in less than an hour. No—he collapsed over your back for a moment, panting, shaking, and then lifted his head, wrapped his arms around your waist, and lifted.
You gasped as your spine straightened, as he manhandled you into the center of the bed with strength that made your head spin.
“I need to see your face,” he muttered, voice wrecked and low. “Need to watch you come around me this time.”
He flipped you over, sweat-slick hands gripping the undersides of your thighs and pushing them up, folding you into a tight mating press before you could even think. Your knees were practically pinned to your chest, legs spread wide, cunt exposed—wet and puffy and already leaking with him.
Bucky looked down at you like a starving man finally given permission to devour. And even though his cock was still twitching from the last orgasm—sensitive, too sensitive—he lined himself back up, and pushed inside again with a groan that bordered on agony.
“Fuck, fuck—hurts so good,” he panted, hips rolling slow this time, deep. “Too much. Too fucking much, but I can’t stop.”
You moaned, head thrown back, fingernails digging into his arms.
“Look at me,” he growled. “Want you looking at me when I fuck you full again. Want you remembering who did this to you. Who made you this wet. This messy.”
His hands pressed your thighs deeper, nearly folding you in half, angle so intense you could feel him in your stomach.
“Feel that?” he whispered, voice rough and wrecked. “That’s me. Right fucking there.”
Your fingers reached for him, tangling in his sweat-damp hair, needing him closer. He dropped his forehead to yours, breath mingling, mouths nearly brushing as his cock dragged slow and deep inside you—wet and squelching from how much he’d already spilled.
“Tell me you want it,” he panted. “Tell me you want more.”
“I want it,” you breathed. “Want everything.”
His cock twitched at the sight. At the mess he’d already made of you.
But it still wasn’t enough.
“Fuck, look at this pussy,” he groaned, lining up again. “Stuffed and still begging for more. You’re leaking down the backs of your thighs and I haven’t even gotten serious yet.”
Then he slammed back into you.
You whined, mouth falling open, hands scrabbling at his arms, nails dragging down his sweat-slicked biceps. The sound of his cock driving into you, the wet slap of skin against skin, was obscene—echoing off the cold med bay walls. Each thrust was brutal, hungry, unrelenting.
“Yes,” you gasped, back arching, eyes wide and wild. “Fucking ruin me, Bucky.”
He snarled like you’d just handed him a license to break you.
“Gonna stretch this pussy until I mold you to the shape of my cock,” he growled, sweat dripping from his temples as he drove deeper, harder, each thrust punching a breath out of your lungs. “You were made for this. For me. Just like this.”
Your thighs trembled where he held them pinned. Your cunt clamped down on him like your body didn’t want to let go, and it made him growl—low, animal, primal.
“I can feel you squeezing me—fuck—milking my cock.”
“Because you’re fucking perfect inside me,” you moaned, wrecked. “So fucking deep, Bucky—I feel you in my throat.”
He didn’t let up. He wanted you boneless. Brainless. Gone. He needed you raw and crying and fucked full. His balls slapped against your ass, cock driving into the tight, wet clutch of you over and over, chasing the next high like a man possessed.
“Gonna breed you, baby,” he whispered in a wrecked, breathless voice. “Wanna fuck it in so deep you’ll be dripping with me for days. Wanna see your belly swollen from how much I put in you.”
You cried out—clenching around him like your body wanted that, like it needed it.
His thrusts turned downright feral, pounding into you so hard the med bed squealed beneath your bodies. You held onto him like you’d fly off the earth otherwise, like he was the only real thing in the universe.
“You’re mine,” he snarled into your ear. “This pussy? Mine. This fucking body? Mine.”
“All yours,” you sobbed, overwhelmed and blissed-out. “Please, Bucky—don’t stop.”
“I won’t.” He pressed your legs even tighter to your chest, bent down until his chest was against yours, and fucked you into the bed like the world was ending.
You didn’t know how long it had been.
How many times he’d come. How many times you had. You were shaking, soaked, stretched so wide around him that it felt like you were being fucked into another dimension. Your thighs burned from being pinned open in the tightest press imaginable, your body locked beneath his. Sweat pooled between your bodies, his skin slick and hot, his muscles trembling with effort.
You sobbed when he thrust again—slow, deep, dragging the head of his cock along every oversensitive inch of your cunt.
“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice broken. “I can’t—I can’t—”
“You can,” he groaned, still moving inside you. “You are.”
Your tears were hot as they spilled down your cheeks. Not from pain. Not from fear. From bliss. Pure, ruined, brain-melting pleasure that had nowhere else to go but out through your eyes.
And still—he didn’t stop.
He couldn’t stop. Not when your walls were fluttering around him again, your cunt choking his cock like your body was begging for one more release.
“Baby,” he rasped, voice wrecked beyond repair, “I can’t—fuck—I’m so close—again—”
You were babbling now, hands clawing at his back, words slurred through cries. “Please, please, come again—fill me up, Bucky, don’t stop, don’t stop—”
That shattered him.
His hand found your jaw, gripping it firm but careful, tilting your face to the side, tears still streaking your flushed cheeks. His mouth dropped to your jawline, teeth grazing your skin before he bit down—just enough to make you cry out. To mark you. To claim.
His lips dragged against your wet cheek, breath hot and ragged as he whispered filth directly into your skin.
“You’re gonna be ruined for anyone else,” he growled. “No one else’ll ever fuck you this deep. No one else’ll fill you like I do. You’ll think about this—every time you sit down and feel me leaking out of you.”
You gasped, your pussy clenching tight again, and that made him snarl.
“Oh, you like that,” he panted against your cheek. “You like knowing I’ve come in you three times and I’m still fucking going—filling you to the brim like this pussy belongs to me.”
“It does,” you sobbed. “It’s yours—it’s only yours.”
He bit down again—right beneath your cheekbone—and his hips bucked hard, cock twitching, and then he spilled inside you again.
Hot, thick, endless—your body taking it all, your womb aching with how much he was pumping into you, filling you again and again like some primal need had taken hold and wouldn’t let go.
You clung to him, nails dragging down his sweat-slick back, body convulsing with overstimulation, your own orgasm cresting again, tears slipping freely down your cheeks, wet between your legs and everywhere else.
And through it all—his voice stayed right in your ear.
Sunlight filtered through the high, frosted windows—gold and soft, painting long lines across the floor and sterile white counters. Machines hummed faintly. The scent of antiseptic still clung faintly to the air, but it was dulled now, overpowered by the unmistakable smells of sweat, sex, and fabric softener.
Tony pinched the bridge of his nose before they even turned the corner.
“I’m just saying,” he muttered, tablet in hand, “if he exploded in the middle of the night, it’s your fault, Rogers. You’re the one who insisted on the glass enclosure.”
“He didn’t explode,” Steve replied, voice calm but tight. “But we need to check his vitals. And see if the fever’s gone for good.”
“And you don’t think maybe knocking first would be—”
The door hissed open.
Tony stepped in first, looking up from his tablet. Steve followed—and froze halfway through the threshold.
There, on the exam bed, tangled in sheets and wrapped around each other like two vines too stubborn to separate, were you and Bucky.
Naked.
Dead asleep.
His arm was slung over your waist, metal hand curled possessively around your hip. Your leg was draped over his. His nose was buried in your neck. One of your hands was splayed on his chest, and both of your mouths were parted in very unflattering, very loud, synchronized snoring.
And the sheets?
The sheets were barely covering anything.
“Oh Jesus,” Steve hissed, immediately turning around so fast his shoulder knocked into a tray of sterile wipes. “Nope. No. That’s—nope.”
Tony took one look, blinked, and quietly said, “So the mating press was successful.”
Steve groaned. “Tony.”
“What?! They’re alive. They’re breathing. No heart attack. Just a—y’know—thorough night of… clinical bonding.”
“Stop talking.”
Tony didn’t stop talking. He just raised the tablet and started typing. “Gotta say, though, Barnes is kind of a legend.”
Steve made a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a choked-off scream. “I am not listening to this.”
“You know,” Tony continued, ignoring him completely, “most guys tap out after two. Maybe three if they’ve got performance enhancers. But your boy over there looks like he went five, maybe six rounds. Give the man a medal.”
Steve was red in the face now. “Tony.”
And on the bed, completely oblivious, Bucky grumbled something about peaches and tight little throats in his sleep, nuzzled deeper into you, and pulled you even closer.
Tony paused.
“…okay, maybe a warning label instead of a medal.”
a/n: as always, if this is buns don’t perceive me!!!!
a/n: my absolute pookie @superbassbuck gave me the wonderful idea of... sex pollen!reader! 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!!!!!!
A/N: I had a dream Sebastian was hitting it from the back and only got hornier as I woke up. I think I'm ovulating. PERPETUALLY.
Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader
Word count: 11.4k
Warnings: established relationship, SMUT!!!! p in v, oral (m&f), fingering, breeding kink, cumplay?, secret relationship, semi-public sex (fingering in a restaurant), overstim mention, free use mention, somnophilia, size kink, drinking mention, mentions of face fucking?, finger sucking, spit kink, so much smut. like... so much. I'm so, so horny.
Summary: Bucky and you have been sneaking around in secret for a while. Not for any particular reason aside from not wanting all of the questions from the team. But now, your schedules haven't been lining up.
After getting drafted, spending 90 years going from fight after fight, and going to therapy, one could say James Barnes was a little uptight. He liked his routine. Some semblance of normalcy in the midst of the whole brainwashed super soldier arc life put on him.
So of course he'd be drawn to you.
Your chaotic personality and dry humor pulled him in like the ocean tide would pull a boat. Almost imperceptible, until you found yourself stranded in the middle of the ocean having sun poisoning-induced hallucinations.
It took him exactly 68 days of maladaptive daydreaming about ruining you in every humanly possible way, and some inhumanly ones, for his restrain to snap like a twig under the sheer strength of your gaze.
That night at the safe house after a particularly gnarly getaway, where you committed 3 traffic felonies and broke a few other trespassing laws, playing some stupid pop song on the radio like you were going to get your ears pierced at Claire's, not evading an actual gang.
When you closed the door behind you at the safe house, you were buzzing. Your pupils were dilated, you were shaking, and you bounced on your feet like Duracell contracted you to be their newest bunny.
"Did you see that, Buck?!" The faint light gleamed off of your eyes, smile so bright it made his chest hurt. "Oh my God, I feel high right now." The little giddiness in your voice made his cock join his heart in its aching for you. "They couldn't even—"
He didn't let you finish.
Well, he did. But not that sentence.
He grabbed your face and kissed you so hard you thought he'd leave fingertip shaped bruises on your cheeks. His tongue exploring the inside of your mouth and hands roaming over you, undressing in hurry and want, relishing in the taste of your moans spilling into his mouth like he'd never have the chance to again.
But he did. About 3 times that night.
You didn't mean for it to stay a secret. It started out that way because neither of you knew exactly what was gonna come out of it, at first it was all sneaking into each other's rooms late at night and leaving in the morning, teasing the hell out of him over the phone when he was away and paying for it when he got back, and defiling every surface of every safe house you stepped foot in.
But a few weeks into it, his heart ached to leave you every morning, and your chest felt hollowed out every time he was away on a mission without you.
“I know we said no labels or whatever, but… I like this.” He gestures between you, the table, this world you only step into once a week. “I like… bein’ here. With you. Not just the hotel. Not just—y’know.”
You know. Oh, you very much know.
“And I hate that I have to wait all goddamn week just to—” He stops, shakes his head. Starts again more carefully. “…Just to sit across from you and watch you steal my fries.”
Your lips part. You didn’t mean for it to hit this deep. You didn’t mean for your chest to ache with it.
“…Buck,” you say quietly.
His eyes flick up to yours, open, vulnerable, still a little scared.
“I just wanted you to know,” he finishes, voice low. “’Cause I think… Thursday’s startin’ to feel like the only time I can breathe.”
Then it stayed a secret because you didn't want prying eyes or nosy questions, you just wanted the weight of his body on top of yours to lull you to sleep every night.
Every Thursday when possible, though, you'd find yourselves in the same sort of situation: a reservation under an alias in an obscure little restaurant that didn't allow pictures, followed by a king-sized bedroom reserved at the nearest fancy hotel.
Your weekly getaway from the madness you liked to call the Avengers compound.
You slid into your usual booth at the back—a deep burgundy semicircle that practically swallows you both into privacy. Candlelight flickered faintly between you, reflecting in Bucky’s eyes as he leaned back, one arm stretched across the back of the booth, watching you like he’s checking in on his favorite sight.
You pretended you didn’t notice how his gaze softened the moment he saw you in something that wasn’t tactical gear. Deep, plunging neckline of your top is accompanied by no sleeves under your coat, a delicate leather belt with gold hardware holding the black miniskirt in place.
“You clean up nice, Sarge.” you murmured, unfolding your napkin over your lap.
He smirked slowly, eyes lingering over you just a second too long. “You say that every Thursday.”
“Yeah, well. I'm pleasantly surprised by the increasing levels of hot every week.”
His lips twitched—and for a moment it’s easy. Familiar. Thursday. It's like you don't have a super security compound to call home, or like aliens weren't the assignment four days ago.
The waiter comes and goes. You order something light. He orders steak, medium rare, because even off-duty he eats like a soldier who might deploy at any moment.
But there was something different that night. Because between bites, he keeps doing it.
Looking at you.
Not in the usual “I’m gonna wreck you the second we leave” way.
In a “I’m thinking about something dangerous” way. Dangerous could mean a lot of things, specially for superheroes. But the softness in his eyes told you that it was dangerous because it was fragile, precious, and way too normal.
You swore the restaurant’s lighting was designed specifically for him—warm and golden, catching on the scruff along his jaw and the silver of his dog tags tucked under an open henley collar. He didn’t even bother with a jacket tonight. Cocky bastard. He knows what he does to you.
Your knee bumped his under the table. Not an accident. Not even close.
The waiter appears just long enough for you to order another whiskey and a glass of red wine, then disappears into the shadows again.
Bucky settled back, one arm along the back of the booth, “New rule,” he said casually.
“Oh? We have rules now?”
“Just one. No teasing me when I’m away on missions unless you’re ready to deal with the consequences when I get back.”
You widen your eyes innocently. “Consequences? Sergeant Barnes, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You shifted and only slightly sat on your side facing him, one bare leg sliding over the other and crossing, your foot sliding the YSL hardware of your heels up and down his calf.
"I was merely being supportive and making sure a very highly estimated Avenger made it home safely."
He leans in, voice a sinful whisper, “You know what’s not supportive?”
“Mhm?” You bite your lower lip, gaze never straying away from his face.
“When you tell me on comms that you’re wearing those lace panties I like.”
“That was once.”
“Twice.”
“Tomato, tomahto.” You waved a hand in dismissal and grabbed your glass, sipping the wine.
He reaches for his whiskey, takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving you. “Let me guess. You’re wearin’ them now?”
You refuse to respond in words. Only humming in denial behind your glass before clicking your tongue behind your teeth. "None, actually."
He stills and the glass pauses halfway to the table. His gaze dropped—just for a split second—to where your legs met, even though your skirt left barely anything to imagination.
He swallows, thumb tapping once against the glass like he’s recalibrating. “Lemme get this straight,” he says slowly, quietly, eyes darkening, “you’ve been sittin’ across from me for—” he checks his watch, “—twenty-three minutes… with nothing on under that skirt?”
You take another sip, crossing your legs again—slowly, letting your knee brush deliberately higher up his thigh. “Technically it’s been longer. I didn’t wear any in the car either.”
“Jesus Christ…” He was leaning forward now, forearm braced on the table, staring at you like you’re the mission and he’s seconds from breaching.
His metal arm stays stretched along the booth behind you like it has been all night—casual, protective—but now his flesh hand slides under the tablecloth, rests on your knee.
“Thought you’d maintain professionalism, Sergeant,” you teased softly, eyes fluttering when his hand squeezes just slightly.
“Honey, I left professionalism back at the compound the second I smelled your perfume tonight.” His fingers drift higher. Inch by slow, agonizing inch.
You try to take another sip of wine, but your hand trembles just slightly. You hoped he wouldn’t notice.
But it's Bucky, he absolutely notices and hums to himself while you bite your lip with that horny look in your eyes that make your eyelids sit heavy like you could eat him alive. And he'd let you.
You feel his smirk against your ear before you hear it in his voice. “Nervous?”
“Hardly.” But it comes out breathier than intended.
He continues upward. Your pulse spikes. His fingertips stop just under the hem of your skirt, brushing the sensitive inside of your thigh. You grip the edge of the table with your free hand.
“You’re trembling,” he whispers, amused.
“There’s an air vent,” you lie. His fingers slip further beneath the hem, in the direction of where you wanted him the most.
“Oh yeah?” he hums. “Think this vent reaches between your thighs too?”
You nearly choke when his fingertips brush the bare, hot skin there. His breath hitches quietly—barely audible. If you didn’t know every sound he made, you might’ve missed it.
“You’re already so warm,” he notes, turning his head slightly so his lips ghost your cheek without touching. His fingers finally slide up and press gently—right there.
Your breath stops.
He smiles against your skin. “There she is.” Your nails dig into the table. “Think I can make you come before the waiter brings dessert?” he whispers silkily. You smile tightly at him through clenched teeth.
“I think you should try.”
He chuckled, low and almost mean, and pushed two fingers inside the wet slick he had been salivating after every time you were apart. James Buchanan Barnes is a loverboy at his core, and a menace who enjoys the process.
It's not like you could get caught and be arrested for public indecency at any second.
His fingers keep tracing delicate, lazy shapes just inside, making sure to keep his palm or any source of friction away from where you need him most until you’re squirming almost imperceptibly.
“Settle,” he murmurs in your ear, a quiet, firm command.
You freeze, thighs trembling slightly as you force yourself still. He rewards you with one slow, deliberate circle of his thumb right over your clit.
Your breath hitched audibly and he smirked. “Good girl.”
You tried not to whine. If you did, you know he’d make it worse. He’d stop. Or go even slower. You don’t know which was worse and you’re not sure which one you wanted more.
Minutes pass. Agonizing minutes.
Each pass of his fingers is maddeningly controlled—never too fast, never too direct. Each stroke tells you he knows your body better than anyone alive. He avoids giving you the rhythm you want, changing speed just before you can catch it.
You’re flushed now, half from the wine and mostly from him. Your thighs are tense, fighting the urge to grind subtly against his hand.
“Relax,” he murmurs, and his vibranium arm shifts behind your shoulders, holding you back into him protectively as if you’re not on the verge of shaking apart.
The waiter appears to bring your entrees and you hold back a whine when Bucky pulls his hand away from the heat between your legs.
You answer his polite “How are the first couple of bites?” with a steady, “Perfect, thank you.” and he walks away to attend to other tables.
Bucky, however, lets his fork rest steady on his plate, and barely lets you recover from the slick mess you're making on the back of your skirt before his fingers find you again. He chuckles into your hair, voice like hot honey. “You’re fuckin’ incredible.”
“You’re fucking evil,” you breathe, barely moving your lips.
“Maybe.” His pace increases—not by much, but enough that the twisting heat in your belly starts coiling faster.
“Buck—” you whisper, desperate.
“I know, baby.” He murmurs soothingly. “Almost there.”
But when your thighs start to tighten in anticipation—he stops. Completely. Your head snaps toward him in disbelief.
He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Keep your legs open.”
You do, because if you don’t, he’ll make you.
He clicks his tongue once in mock disappointment. “Oh, sweetheart,” he hums, withdrawing his hand completely and casually lifting it to his mouth. He sucks one glistening finger clean, eyes locked onto yours with sinful delight. “This is gonna be a long dinner for you.”
Your pulse pounds in your ears. Your body aches, throbbing with every second he refuses to touch you again.
“You’re shaking,” he says under his breath, amused.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
To say you didn't give a fuck about the chocolate lava cake was an understatement. You don’t remember how your back hit the hotel room door—only that Bucky barely got it shut before he had you pinned against it, one hand cupping your jaw and the other sliding under your skirt, shoving it up past your hips like he had something to prove to both of you.
But somewhere between your desperate gasps and his low moans, something shifts.
It happens quietly.
Accidentally.
You moved on top of him, breathless and messy, nails dragging down his chest. The rhythm was hot, frantic—but when he caught your hips and slowed you down, forcing you to roll instead of bounce, the tone shifted.
“Yeah,” he groans, guiding your hips, “ride me nice and slow—like we’ve got nowhere to be tomorrow.”
You blink—because that’s not how this usually goes.
He keeps going.
“Like we’re not being sent on calls at 3 a.m. to save the world,” he breathes, watching your face. “Like it’s a Saturday. Like we sleep in.”
You swallow hard. The thrusts get deeper. Less rushed. More… emotional.
“Maybe we don’t even live in New York,” you whisper, falling into it before you can stop yourself.
His grip tightens.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice softer, needier. “Where we livin’, baby?”
“Some small apartment in Chicago,” you gasp, leaning forward so your foreheads touch. “Or maybe a townhouse in Portland.”
He nodded slowly, grinding up into you. “Yeah. I like that. We don’t save the world. I work construction or some shit. Come home covered in sawdust.”
His hands on your hips tighten just a bit more tenderly, like he’s anchoring himself. Your fingers brush his chest and linger too long.
And then in the middle of your hips slapping down against his, his head falls back and he breathes, brokenly, “Fuck—I’d come home to you like this every night if I could.”
So you lean down, lips brushing his for a second before you bit his chin and let it go with a graze of your teeth, breath shaky. “Yeah? You’d come home dirty and throw me on the bed like this?”
He groaned—deep, guttural, hands squeezing your waist as you kept moving, feeling him get even harder inside of you if that was even possible.
His voice gets rougher. “Wouldn’t even make it to the bed. I’d fuck you on the kitchen counter while dinner burns on the stove.”
He thrusts up suddenly, hard. “Fuck—Bucky!”
He grips your jaw and makes you look at him. “You’d leave me little notes on the fridge before you go on early runs. Tellin’ me to eat breakfast. Like a fuckin’ wife.”
Your breath stutters, something sharp and warm in your chest. You whimper, hips stuttering for a second at the idea of wearing a ring that signifies his last name.
He doesn’t miss it.
“Oh, you like that?” he whispers darkly, sitting up so your chests press together, still inside you. “You wanna wear my ring, honey? Want the whole damn world to know you’re mine?”
You shudder, nails clawing his back. “Yes…”
He thrusts up hard. “Say it clearer.”
“I want it,” you breathe, trembling. “Want your ring.”
He kisses you like it hurts. Like he’s drowning and you're the only breath of oxygen his lungs would ever recognize while fully submerged.
Maybe that’s why he suddenly grips your waist and flips you onto your back with a rough, almost desperate exhale—like he needs to bury himself deeper in this illusion before it slips away.
He settles between your legs, pushing back in with a guttural groan, forehead pressed to yours.
“And maybe…” his voice drops further, wrecked and reverent, “…maybe one night I wouldn’t pull out.”
Your breath stutters—eyes fluttering open to meet his. The air crackles. He watches your reaction like a predator watching prey tremble.
“Maybe I’d just stay inside you,” he murmurs against your lips, thrusts deep enough to make the headboard creak softly. “Fill you up… right there in our shitty little apartment.”
A weak sound escapes you.
“You’d yell at me in the morning,” he murmurs, kissing you slow and deep, “say we weren’t trying. That we weren’t ready. But I’d look at you in one of my old shirts, barefoot in the kitchen makin’ pancakes… and I’d want it all over again.”
Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him down as you arch into him.
He groans into your neck. “Wouldn’t let you outta bed that weekend. I’d keep fuckin’ you full of me… hopin’ it’d take. Hopin’ I get to walk by you in the mirror and see your belly round with my kid.”
You gasp his name like wishing on a star.
He thrusts deeper—slower—like he’s savoring the image burned into his mind.
“Imagine it,” he whispers, voice shaking with how bad he wants it—even if he pretends it’s still just talk. “You, pregnant with my baby. Nothin’ else in the world but us. No Hydra. No missions. Just… you carryin’ something I gave you. Somethin’ ours.”
You nearly sob at how intensely it hits you.
His forehead presses to yours as his voice falls to a wrecked whisper. “Tell me you’d want it.”
“I’d want it,” you breathe, almost crying. “Bucky, I want it so bad.”
He groans—filthy, tortured, adoring—as he thrusts harder now, chasing something that feels far bigger than pleasure. And that’s how you fall apart beneath him—his whispered fantasies of a quiet life, a warm bed, and a round belly turning into the dirtiest, most intimate thing anyone has ever given you.
Life, however, doesn’t care about what happened in that hotel bed.
It throws missions at both of you like grenades.
First, he gets deployed with Sam to Europe for weeks, chasing arms dealers who won’t stay in one place. You get stuck in Southeast Asia with Nat and Wanda for a hostage op that turns into a two-week storm of adrenaline and zero sleep.
Time differences ruined your ability to talk. Sometimes you'd send a three-word text. Sometimes he likes it six hours later. Sometimes he sends a picture of a shitty cup of coffee with a single: miss yours.
Back on base, you miss him in hallways by hours. He leaves briefing rooms five minutes before you enter them. If you're off, he's not, and vice versa.
A racy picture here, a breathless phone call there, and neither of you being left alone for the same 10 minutes to do anything about it.
Until it marks almost two months since the night at the hotel.
Your body was sore, all you wanted was to wash your hair, get a face mark on, and sleep in your fuzzy robe until about 11pm when he'd sneak into your room. But as you walked through the compound, your phone pinged.
From: Buck
📍 43.7126° N, 110.6751° W
Your stomach lurched in your tummy, and you felt a surge of warmth spread over you as you bit your lip, grinning at the screen. Your footsteps got quicker on the way to your room, an everything shower and barely any packing in your mind.
Seconds later, your phone buzzes again.
From: Buck
I need you.
On the other side of the compound, Bucky tightens the straps on his duffel slung across his back. There is not a sleeping bag, tent, hiking boot, or single piece of wilderness survival gear in sight. He was wearing jeans and a henley he fucks in—not fishes in.
“Where you off to, Tin Man?” He didn't have to turn around to know it was Sam, accompanied by Steve, approaching his bike.
“Camping. Out of state. Off-grid a couple days.”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you camp?”
Bucky smirks. “Since now.”
Steve blinked slowly, knowing there’s more to this but being too emotionally mature or exhausted to pry. “You got gear?”
Bucky slides on his helmet like the question doesn’t exist. “I’ve survived worse without a tent.”
He revs the engine and leaves before anyone can point out that two shirts and a half-empty Dopp kit don’t equal “camping.”
Your hair is styled. You’re moisturizing. Your bag is small enough to pass as a purse. Inside? A toothbrush, skincare, three pairs of lingerie, and zero hoodies, shirt, thermal leggings, hiking socks, or flannel.
You were walking down the hall to the elevator, an SUV with seat warmers waiting for you in the garage when you heard Nat's voice from behind you. "I'd ask you what's all that but its... not much."
"Heading out for the weekend.”
“Where?”
You keep your tone fluffy. “Camping. In Wyoming. With… college friends.”
Nat blinks. Once. Twice.
Her gaze slides from your perfectly blow-dried hair… to your freshly glossed lips… to the very much not outdoorsy clothes you’re wearing and the perfume that would definitely attract bears.
"Camping?"
“Yeah. Gonna… sit by a lake. Look at trees. Bond with nature. Be one with dirt.”
She’s silent for a full ten seconds. Then… she smiles. She lets you go with no fuss, immediately marching towards the kitchen like she's mid op.
“They’re going camping.”
Sam looks up. “Who is?” Nat folds her hands on the table. Smiles like the cat that ate the canary.
“Your favorite brooding senior citizen and our little chaos gremlin.”
“Barnes does not strike me as a s’mores guy unless s’mores is a sex position.” Joaquin piped up from a mouthful of Nerd Clusters.
Steve exhales. “They have been… weird lately.”
Sam leans back, dramatic gasp loading. “They’re sneakin’ off to a love shack.”
“In the woods. They will return pregnant or emotionally damaged.” Yelena seems more excited about the first one.
Joaquin chuckled. “Or both.”
Snow crunched under your tires as you pulled onto the secluded dirt road. Pines rise on either side like silent sentries. The sun is dipping low, staining the Wyoming sky a molten gold that glows against the frost. Your stomach tightens as the cabin comes into view—secluded, quiet, the lake beyond it frozen still as glass.
And then there’s him.
Bucky Barnes stands outside like he’s been waiting forever—leaning casually against his bike parked near the porch, breath fogging the air in slow, steady clouds. His henley stretches obscenely over his chest and arms, leather jacket hanging open like he’s daring the cold to challenge him. His jeans hug his thighs in a way that should be illegal.
He looks like 225 pounds of pure, coiled heat.
You step out of the car, shoes meeting the crunchy top layer of snow. The cold air bites your cheeks, makes your breath visible. He straightens from the bike, eyes fixed on you—calm, certain, but dark with something that’s been starving for weeks.
Every step toward one another is soaked in tension. You meet about halfway.
You drop your bag dramatically at his feet. It’s small. Embarrassingly small. More purse than luggage, really.
His gaze flicks to it, then to you—brow arching, equal parts question and disbelief. “That’s it?” he asks quietly, voice deep and scratchy with restrained amusement.
You meet his eyes head-on and smirk. “That’s all I packed.”
A slow grin curves along his mouth. He nods once—like he’s both amused and dangerously pleased.
Then, before you can blink, he grabs the bag with one hand and hooks the other behind your knees, hauling you clean over his shoulder in one effortless motion.
You squeal his name, half laughing, half breathless.
Your view was upside-down: him holding your bag in his metal hand, your ass supported easily by his other arm, boots swinging as he walks toward the cabin door with confidence that says he already knows exactly what’s about to happen once you’re inside.
The cold air bites at your thighs through the hem of your dress, but his grip is hot enough to make up for it.
Bucky walks into the cabin and your lungs fill with the scent of wood burning, wine, and that amber resin that only comes from blankets that have been stored for a while.
He sets you down with the utmost care in the world, and you take in the effort he put into this weekend already. The fireplace was lit, throw blankets on the fur rug like a love-nest, and next to it, a wooden coffee table with two wine glasses already resting on it.
You raise a brow slowly, smirking. “Wow. This some kind of plan, Bucky? Get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?”
Bucky just snorts, stepping forward with that lazy swagger that says he’s already got you right where he wants you.
“Take advantage of you?” he echoes, amused. “Sweetheart, you climb me like a tree when you’re sober. When you’re drunk, you’re like a damn jaguar in heat.”
You gape, offended and amused at the same time.
He nods once, dead serious. “A horny jaguar that thinks humping me is a personality trait.”
“Excuse me?” you sputter, crossing your arms even as heat crawls up your neck.
His lips twitch. “You know how many times I’ve woken up on a mission night to you half-asleep grinding on my thigh like you were tryin’ to assert dominance?”
You refuse to confirm or deny, rolling your eyes as you mutter, “Maybe you shouldn’t sleep so close.”
He tilted his head in that same infuriating way whenever he was right. “Maybe you shouldn’t sleep so needy.”
“Maybe you should—”
You don’t finish the sentence, because he’s already ducking his head to pepper slow, teasing kisses along the side of your neck. He lingers at that spot just under your ear, humming with satisfaction when your breath hitches.
“C’mere,” he says, voice dropping an octave as he steps backward toward the rug by the fire and lowers himself down, back pressed against the couch. He tugs you gently forward until you’re standing between his legs.
He guides you onto his lap effortlessly, hands sliding to your hips as you straddle him, your knees sinking into the thick fur while your body settles against his chest like it remembers the place.
Bucky pushed a strand of hair behind your ear and held your face in both hands, looking into your eyes like he was deciphering the hieroglyphs needed to read your soul.
Like he hadn't unraveled every secret you had and kept them in a drawer in his room, tucked with changes of underwear and a pair of soft shorts, along with a shirt you definitely stole from him.
He kisses you like you’re a memory he’s been clinging to for eight goddamn weeks—urgent, deep, almost grateful. His hands grip your thighs, anchoring you, as your fingers tangle in his hair and tug.
You press into him instinctively, your hips rolling once out of sheer muscle memory.
He groans into your mouth. “There she is,” he mutters, breath rough, lips brushing yours. “My little jaguar.”
You gasp a breathless laugh, "Shut up." That turns into a quiet moan into his mouth as his hands press your hips forward again, encouraging the friction you didn’t even realize you were fully chasing until now.
The friction starts slow, guided by his grip and your desperation. You’re both still half-dressed, clothes scraping together, breaths getting messier as the pressure builds and the world narrows to heat, motion, and the soft crackle of the fire.
Your hands move slowly to the hem of his shirt, fingers tracing his skin first—softly—before pushing it up. His hands leave your body just long enough to let you pull the fabric over his head, exposing his torso. Warm and taut, all muscle and some scarring, the hair on his chest tickling under your fingertips.
When he pulls your sweater and dress over your head in one motion, he does it carefully— like he’s unwrapping something he missed holding.
You watch him watching you, that intensity making your stomach twist in ways entirely unrelated to the heat between your thighs. You don’t feel bared — you feel seen.
His eyes linger over your white lace lingerie — one of the three you packed just for him. “…You wore this for me?”
You smirk, though your hum comes out softer than planned. Nodding and biting your lip, already leaning in for another kiss. When his hands grip your ass, yours fumble with the button and zipper of his jeans, pushing your hand past the hem of his underwear and stroking his cock inside of his jeans.
“See?” he rasps, voice cracked with need. “Didn’t even take a full minute before you went straight for it.”
You grind down against him deliberately. “You complaining?”
You stroke him again, slow, teasing, just to hear that sound again. His eyes flutter half-lidded as he exhales like he’s been waiting two months just to feel your hand on him again.
“Fuck,” he mutters, jaw tight. “You have any idea how bad I’ve needed this?”
Your pulse kicks at that. “Oh yeah?”
He nods slowly, gaze fixed on your lips. “Been thinkin’ about you touchin’ me like this every damn night. Hands under my clothes, whisperin’ in my ear while you use me how you want.”
You swallow, heat flaring hot in your chest.
You’re stroking him just enough to make him need more, watching his jaw clench like he’s trying not to lose it too fast. His grip on your hips turns almost bruising.
“Fuck—” he mutters, eyes squeezing shut for one second as your thumb drags along his waistband, tempting. “You really think I’m just gonna let you sit here and torture me?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re handling it just fine.”
His eyes snap open—dark, glassy, amused.
“Sweetheart,” he says, voice low and ruined, “I’ve been handling it for eight goddamn weeks.”
And before you can get another word out, he moves.
His hands lock under your thighs, and in one fast, fluid motion, he shifts up onto his knees and throws you back onto the thick fur rug beneath you with a soft thud and a breathless squeal from your lips.
You blink up at him, caught between laughing and panting.
He hovers over you now, hair falling slightly into his face, breathing heavy, jeans still half open, your dress gone, lace soft against the rug.
His metal hand braced beside your head. His flesh one sliding slowly up your bare thigh, deliberate. He’s looking at you like something he’s been hunting and cherishing in equal measure.
His lips ghost your jaw.
“I pictured your face,” he goes on, slow, steady, voice a hot whisper. “Right when you’re about to get loud. When you’re trying so hard to hold it in for me but you just… can’t.”
You clutch at his henley, pulling him closer.
“You think I didn’t go crazy picturing this lace?” he teases hungrily, gaze dropping to what you’re wearing. “Knew it’d look good stretched over you while you beg me to touch you.”
Your back arches involuntarily.
“I missed you talking like this,” you whisper quickly—too honest, too needy.
He grins against your skin, breathing hard now. You whimper quietly as his fingers trace closer—waiting, teasing.
“And I missed watching you fall apart,” he breathes. “I missed making your eyes roll back. I missed you diggin’ your nails into my shoulders. I missed fuckin’ you so good you forget your own name until all you remember is mine.”
His mouth drags heat along your collarbone, your chest, lower still, as his hands coax your thighs further apart with gentle but unyielding pressure.
He looks up once, taking in your face right before he drives you up the wall, and then he lowers himself fully between your thighs, settling there like he plans to stay until he pulls every remembered sound from your throat—slow, steady, incredibly focused. Lace long forgotten in a pile of clothing that wouldn’t touch your body for 48 hours at least.
Your back arches at the first real contact, breath hitching as your grip in his hair tightens when he licks a strip up your slit and circles your clit with his tongue.
"F-fuck, baby..."
He hummed in quiet satisfaction against you, like he was tasting something he’d been dying without, and nuzzled his face further into you, lapping your juices up and down while his nose bumped your clit.
He breathes out a quiet, low laugh — pleased, intimate. “There we go. Look at you… can’t stay still, can you?” His voice is low, not mocking — proud.
“Bucky—” your voice catches when his tongue finds rhythm again, slow and focused.
“Say my name again,” he murmurs, eyes darting up to catch your expression. His voice is steady, coaxing. “C’mon, doll. Let me hear how bad you missed me.”
And you do. Because there's no nosy super spies listening in the vents, and no training sessions, briefings, or meetings to pull this thirsty man away from the oasis between your legs.
“There you go…” he whispers, closing his eyes for a second like he feels it as deeply as you do. “God, I missed how pretty you sound.”
“Please don’t stop,” you gasp, chest rising and falling faster. “Don’t stop—I’ve needed you so bad.”
His tongue roughens against you, responding to your voice as much as your body.
“You always know exactly how to—” Your breath breaks on a wavering sound when he thrusts his tongue in. “God, Bucky… you’re the only one who knows how to make it feel like this.”
His tongue works faster and his lips wrap around your clit, sucking the nerves and sending you into orbit. Your hips raised off the rug while your legs clamped around his head, big hands holding you down through your orgasm, working you through it.
You’re still shaking slightly, body flushed and oversensitized, yet aching in a new, overwhelming way that has nothing to do with just physical need.
So you reach for him.
You cup his face with both hands and pull him down into a kiss that’s not frantic — but full. Deep. His hand finds your hip, thumb stroking gently as if grounding himself in the reality of you.
When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his, breathing unevenly. “Bucky…” you whisper, voice soft but trembling with urgency.
He hums in response, thumb sweeping slowly along your cheekbone, waiting for whatever you need to say next.
“I need you,” you breathe — and the tone in your voice leaves nothing to interpretation. It comes out broken and wanting. “I need you inside me. Right now.”
Your hand gripped the length of him and lined him up with your pussy, neither of you breaking eye contact as he pushed the thick head in, not rushing but not giving you time to adjust either.
“Holy shit…” he mutters, eyes screwed shut for one second as he breathes through it. “I swear… you get tighter every time I’m away.”
Your lips part on a broken sound, heat flooding your chest. You roll your hips impatiently, needing more. “Bucky—”
“You feel that?” he murmurs against your cheek, voice thick and filthy. “That’s how tight you're choking me right now and I’m not even all the way in. You gonna let me all the way, baby? Gonna take all of me?”
“Y-yes,” you whisper, breath shaking. “Please.”
He laughs low — smug and a little breathless. “Begging already? Didn’t even give you the good part yet.”
“You’re such an ass—”
“Yeah, but you still want it,” he interrupts, kissing you hard — messy, teeth and tongue and desperation — before pulling back just enough to watch your face as he sinks in deeper, slow and deliberate. You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.
He groans loud, head tipping back as he mutters, “Fuck. That’s it. Take me… just like that. Wanted this so bad it hurt.”
Your fingers scramble at his back, trying to hold onto something solid as your rhythm falls apart under him. “Harder,” you whisper — it sounds more like a plea than a demand.
He exhales sharply through his nose, satisfied. “Fuck, I love when you beg.”
“I’m not—” you try, but the protest cuts off when he does exactly what you asked. Your head tilts back, lips parted as an uncontrolled sound tears free.
“Mhm,” he hums, smug. “Yeah, you are.” He leans in close again, breath hot against your jaw. “Look at me,” he murmurs, voice wrecked.
You force your eyes open — and the second your glazed eyes lock with his, something shifts. You see how undone he is too — chest heaving, jaw slack, pupils blown wide with hunger and love tangled up together.
You feel a tremor ripple through you, and he sees it instantly. “There it is,” he rasps, grin gone now, replaced by raw intensity. “Feel it hittin’ you? Feel how good I’m making you feel?”
You nod, whimpering, fingers clawing at his shoulders.
“That’s right,” he whispers, voice gravel. “Only me. Nobody else gets to pull those sounds out of you.”
“Bucky—” his name leaves you like a prayer and a warning and something close to worship.
He kissed you hard, swallowing your breath. “I got you. Let go.”
His hand finds yours, fingers interlacing against the rug as you move together, breathless, desperate, claimed.
He finds a rhythm that's nothing like before—harder, faster, wrecked—and suddenly you’re not thinking in words or even sounds, just reactions.
“Fuck—”
“Yeah?” he pants, voice nearly a growl now, hips moving rougher, chasing something even he can’t hide from anymore. “Say my name—say it—”
“Bucky—oh God—”
“Louder,” he breathes, losing all rhythm for a second as you clench around him. “Let me fucking hear you—”
“I can’t—I—I—”
“Yes, you can,” he insists, voice wrecked, raw. His hand slides to your jaw, holding your face toward him. His eyes are wild now.
You meet his gaze—and the look on his face destroys you. His jaw is clenched, sweat dampening his temple, lips parted as he gives in to instinct. He looks desperate. Gone. Like if you asked him to die for you right now, he’d say yes.
“I’m close,” you admit in a broken whisper. “Don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—” You choke on a sobbing moan. “Harder—please—”
That word unravels him.
“Fuck—oh my God—you’re killing me,” he curses, slamming his forehead against yours, movements turning almost frantic, chasing the edge with you. “Come on, baby—give it to me—give it—come with me—”
"Bucky— oh God, please, please, please cum in me."
He cums first—just a moment, a hitched breath, a curse hissed against your neck that sounds like your name torn in half—and the heat of him spilling inside of you is all it takes for your world to snap, heat flooding through you like freefall.
He stays inside you. He doesn’t move away. He just breathes there, face buried in your neck as you both try to remember how lungs are supposed to work.
You made it to bed after a couple glasses of wine, a grilled cheese, and teasing him some more, falling asleep on your stomach with him draped over you like the worlds warmest — and oldest — weighted blanket.
Whatever dream you were having, Bucky woke up to your ass rubbing against him like you were short on rent. He was still a little sensitive from the road you just had right before bed, and the clock on the nightstand on your side showed something along the lines of 2:43am.
He felt himself get hard and your body rubbed harder against him if that was even possible. He groaned quietly, and his hand went under the covers to find your bare pussy drooling, absolutely crying for him.
"Bucky..." The little breathless whimper you let out told him you were crying for him too.
He bit his lip and didn't have much ceremony. You were so wet anyway he'd probably slide right in. He pushed his boxers down, and up sprang his leaking cock.
He turned on his side, almost draped all the way over you, aligned himself, and pushed in.
The first thing you become aware of is the weight.
Heavy, solid, familiar — draped over your back like he promised he always would be. Bucky sleeps like a furnace, arm slung around your waist, leg hooked lazily over yours like he’s making sure you can’t vanish in the night.
You were dreaming something warm… fuzzy… something with his voice in your ear.
You breathed his name again, groggy and fluttering, barely louder than when you were fully asleep. “Bucky…?”
His breath catches like a snapped wire, hips momentarily freezing against you. For a second you think he’s going to stop. Then his forehead presses into your shoulder and he lets out a groan that sounds like a confession.
“Fuck—sorry—’m trying—trying to be good,” he mutters, voice thick, wrecked from sleep and need. “Woke up with you grinding against me—couldn’t stop thinking about…” His breath stutters as his hips twitch again helplessly. “...about how wet you get when I wake you like this.”
A memory echoes in your mind—your voice from weeks ago, breathless, whispering in the dark with saliva and cum dripping down your chin after he thoroughly bruised the back of your throat.
If you ever wake up like that again… you don’t have to wait for me to wake up.
“Bucky,” you murmur, fully awake now, voice softer but lower. You shift back into him, deliberately this time. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”
There's a soft schlick schlick schlick of his body driving itself into you that drives you crazy. It's muffled by the comforter like its dirty, naughty, something you shouldn't be doing.
Something hushed and feral and needy that is required to happen, otherwise you feel like you're gonna explode.
“Don’t hold back,” you whisper, voice trembling with something hungry. “Please.”
A low sound escapes him — half relief, half feral praise. “Yeah?” he breathes, moving again, more certain now. “You want it this bad, huh? Needed me even in your sleep?”
You bite back a soft whimper as your body reacts, your thighs pressing together instinctively even though his hand is between them. Every roll of his hips sends heat curling up your spine.
He hears the broken sound you make when you try to steady your breathing.
And that’s it. His restraint snaps.
His mouth crashes against your shoulder, open, desperate, needy, teeth scraping lightly as he moans into your skin.
“That’s it… fuck, that’s it. Push back on me, c’mon,” he urges, tone filthy, forehead pressing to your neck as his rhythm builds. “Grind on me, baby, just like you were when you were out.”
You follow instinct, rocking your hips back into him, dizzy with how much you suddenly need this, need him. The friction is rough and perfect and not nearly enough — but his voice makes it feel like everything.
“That’s my girl,” he growls. “Rubbin’ that perfect little ass on me like you’re starving for it. You tryin’ to make me lose my mind first thing in the morning?”
You gasp into the pillow, fingers gripping the sheet. “I—God—I missed you,” you breathe, shaky. “Missed how you make me feel—needed this—”
“That’s right,” he whispers, voice thick, rhythm steady and possessive, every grind punctuated by a breathy curse.
You’re nearly sobbing now, hips moving helplessly in sync with his. “Bucky… I’m gonna—”
“Do it,” he pants. “Do it for me—come on, pretty girl, let me feel it.”
You break.
The pleasure comes in waves that steal your breath, your sound, everything but his name. You’re trembling, clutching the sheets like they’re the only thing anchoring you. His arm wraps around you, holding you firmly against him as you shake, riding it out. He breathes through a deep groan into your shoulder, almost like your release drags him to the edge too, but he doesn’t let go—he just clings harder.
“Well damn,” he whispers after a few long, quiet seconds, still pressed tight against you. You're pliant and hazy, boneless against him. “That’s my good girl.”
Your breath is still uneven, but your eyes are heavy again. He kisses a slow, almost apologetic line along your shoulder blade.
“You okay?” he asks softly. You hum something that sounds like yes, still catching your breath.
He shifts just enough to pull the blanket up over both of you, but not an inch further. His hold doesn’t loosen, his arm tightens around your waist, like he’s anchoring himself there.
“Gonna stay here,” he mutters into your hair, voice thick and low. “Don’t want to leave you. Not even to move.”
You’re too tired to fully answer, but you thread your fingers through his where his hand rests on your stomach, lacing them together. He lets out a shaky, content exhale.
One last soft kiss to the back of your shoulder.
“Go back to sleep, baby. I’ll be right here.”
And he was.
Pressed close, breathing warm and steady against your neck, wrapped around you like a shield. You fell asleep again with a weak smile and his weight still holding you down in the safest way you’ve ever known.
A few hours later, you woke up sore. The sky was still a deep indigo outside, the sort of dark that doesn't feel terrifying, just comforting. Like the world was standing still just for a few moments, just for you.
You turned, whining at the loss of him, just to be met with the most beautiful sleeping face you've ever seen.
He always sleeps deeper after he’s completely spent. You know that. You also know he fades into that soft, vulnerable state only you get to see—jaw unclenched, lips parted, lashes dark against his cheeks, chest rising steady and warm under your ear.
And you love him so much in this quiet, unguarded moment… you almost want to cry.
Bucky's breaths came out in soft puffs out of his mouth, his conscience somewhere in a dream land far away. Your gaze dropped to his neck, a couple marks on there left by your teeth, but they'd fade before any questioning eyes back at the compound could ask any questions.
His chest was uncovered by the thick blanket, the quilt only covering up to his waist, and the unmistakable tent under it grabbing your attention immediately.
It would be so mean of you to not give him a hand... or a mouth.
Your fingers slide slowly down his stomach, barely brushing along defined muscle. He shifts slightly in his sleep, a soft breath escaping him. The kind that sounds like the beginning of a moan. So you slip under the blankets. Settle between his thighs. And lower your mouth to him.
He stiffens almost immediately, hips twitching subconsciously, a groan rumbling low in his chest as his hand spasms against the sheet. You keep going, slow and controlled, every motion soaked in a mix of reverence and filth.
“Jesus…” His voice is sleep-rough when it finally breaks out of him. His hips jerk once, a shocked gasp leaving him as his hand drops into your hair on instinct. “Oh my—baby—fuck, are you—”
You hummed around him in response, not stopping.
“Holy—shit—” His head falls back on the pillow, voice cracking, breath stuttering as consciousness snaps fully into place. “You—you waking me up like this?”
You squeeze his thigh gently in affirmation.
He lets out a helpless, needy groan, chest heaving as he pushes up on his elbows to watch you under the blanket.
“Look at you,” he pants, voice completely wrecked already. “So hungry you couldn’t even wait for me to wake up properly.”
You don’t stop. You can’t stop. The sounds he’s making are addicting—sharp intakes of air, shaky groans, words turning to curses. He drops one hand over his face like he can’t take it, then moves it to your hair again, fingers curling as his breathing gets frantic.
“Shit—slow down or I’m—I’m not gonna last,” he warns, but his hips are already moving, rolling unconsciously into your rhythm.
You grip his hip to steady him—not to stop him.
He gets the message. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice dropping dangerously low. “You wanna make me lose it in your mouth, huh?”
You hum again, hot and breathy.
He laughs once, broken and disbelieving. “God, I’m so fucked for you.”
His breathing turns ragged. His grip in your hair tightens. His voice goes soft and frantic. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—please, don’t stop—”
You don’t.
He swears louder, hips snapping once as he loses the battle for control entirely. “That’s it—oh God, baby—fuck—“
And then he comes apart with a groan so raw it shoots straight through you, his head tossing back, chest arching, thighs trembling as he curses your name like it breaks him.
You stay with him through it, easing him down gently with soft breath and steady hands until he collapses back onto the mattress, breathing like he ran miles.
“Holy shit,” he exhales shakily, dragging a hand over his face. He sounds totally, helplessly gone.
You crawl up his body, settling on laying completely on top of him with your hands under your chin and on his chest, still warm with aftershocks. He wraps his arms around you immediately, dragging you in and holding you there like you belong pressed against his heart.
When he catches your mouth in a kiss, he groans softly into it.
When you pull away, both of you were smiling like this was it. Like being tangled in a blanket in the middle of nowhere was what you were put on this earth to do.
You got up to make breakfast, or whatever you could call waffles and fruit and a snack here and there. And when Bucky found himself leaning on the doorway, looking at you humming the same tune from that first night he wondered if this was always where he was supposed to be.
If he was meant to fall from that train to do more than assassinations and intel, if he was meant to do more than keep Steve alive long enough to save the world a couple of times.
If he was meant to be tortured and picked apart for 70 years just to find himself wrapped in a sheet watching you steal chocolate chips from the brownie recipe you were making, moving around the kitchen enough that he saw when you winced the slightest bit when you leaned down.
He could accept that, if it meant he could have you.
“Okay, they look like bad cubism work, but i tried to make smiley faces with the chocolate chips and i think it could’ve been way worse.” Yeah, he was never letting you go.
The rest of the day unfolds like time has been loosened around the edges.
It starts with what was supposed to be breakfast dishes. You’re laughing while rinsing out a bowl when Bucky crowds you against the counter, kisses turning needy fast. One moment you’re teasing him for burning waffles, the next you’re bent over the counter with his breath hot against your ear and his hands firm around your hips, both of you too lost in each other to care about anything else.
A couple of hours later, you both manage to put on clothes long enough to walk into the nearby woods. The air is crisp, pine-scented, grounding. Your fingers stay laced with his the entire time. He doesn’t talk much — just keeps looking at you like the sunlight was invented specifically to bounce off your smile.
The shower afterward is meant to be recovery. It isn’t. He pins you lightly against the tiles, kissing the water from your lips and laughing when you nearly melt into the stream just from his hands on your waist.
After dinner, a very nice marry-me chicken recipe Bucky had to watch multiple TikToks of to master, you found yourself in the bedroom, with tear stained cheeks, sticky, marked thighs hanging spread off the bed, with a super soldier standing naked in between them.
The lights were all off aside from the gleaming firelight coming from the living room, barely making through the ajar door, moonlight catching on the wet tears on your cheek and the spit gleaming on your lips from having him in your mouth not too long ago.
Not many people would call Bucky a sap, but if they knew how his heart cracked open every time you looked at him like this, they might.
His hand came to cradle your face, and you nuzzled into it, looking at him with such sheer and unadulterated adoration in your eyes, it felt like you wanted him to pull you apart thread by thread just so he could be the one to stitch you back together.
A thumb traced the wetness on your lips and you engulfed it in between the plush flesh, earning a groan from deep inside of his chest. When you hummed around his digit, the vibration went straight to his cock, twitching in muscle memory.
“M’girl looks like she was made to be fucked open for me.” He moved his hand and grabbed your jaw, still sticky with saliva, a silent demand for you to open your mouth, which you gladly complied, sticking out your tongue.
The hot, wet feeling of his spit landing on your tastebuds came not long after, and you swallowed with a smirk.
Bucky pushed you down the bed with his body, tongue demanding against yours, while his hands gripped your thighs to scoot you up. He ground his hips against yours, coating him in more of your slick, before pushing in.
You gasped against his mouth, and he leaned down just slightly to get his arms under your legs and throw it over his shoulders, leaning in to press your knees out and as close to your chest as physically possible.
"Oh, God, Bucky..." Your eyes rolled back. "Fuck. You’re… you’re so big,” you breathe, voice shaky as your thighs tense reflexively, body already bracing around him even before anything more happens. “Always feels… like too much.”
He gives a quiet, devastatingly confident hum, like your overwhelmed confession is the sweetest thing he’s ever heard.
“Yeah?” His voice is low, warm, full of pride. “That right, baby?” His thumb strokes the inside of your leg in a slow, grounding sweep. “Thought you liked me being too much.”
Your breath catches when he presses his weight down just enough to make you feel it everywhere, the pressure firm and consuming. You whimper and nod, head tipping back against the pillow as your fingers curl around his arm.
“I do,” you whisper, nearly gasping, your voice cracking under the strain of how full his presence makes you feel. “Feels like you’re—stretching me out… every time.”
Your legs tremble in his grasp, but he holds them steady, firm but careful, folding you deeper into the bed, a breathy cry slips out when the pressure increases, not painful—just intense. Deep. Inescapable.
“Bucky—” it spills out in a shaken whisper, your chest rising in quick, unsteady pulls of air. “Feels like you’re… everywhere. I can’t—I can’t breathe when you’re this deep.”
His head dips, eyes locked on yours as his breathing grows heavier. “Yes, you can.” he says gently, firmly, "You love feeling this full. Admit it.”
You’re stuttering, already arching into him even as overwhelmed tears prick at your eyes. “I do,” you gasp. “God, I do—it’s so much—”
And he makes it be even more with a thumb on your clit as he drives into you like he wants the only thing inside of your veins to be him. He feels you clench so tight around him you swear your insides are embossed with the veins of his cock.
You come gasping his name with your bottom lip between his teeth, his cum leaking out of your thoroughly spent cunt.
"Mmm, I love you." It's said in a haze, with the room spinning around your lightheadedness, but he knows it doesn't make it any less true.
You woke up with his arm is still wrapped around your waist, hand spread low over your stomach like a claim he made in his sleep. His chest was pressed against your back, slow breaths brushing the nape of your neck. He didn’t move far — if he moved at all. It’s like even in dreams, he held on.
You shifted slightly and realized your body was sore in a way that felt like remembering. He was already hard against you, silent and steady, like his body woke up wanting before his mind did.
He made a quiet sound in his sleep when you curled back into him instinctively. When you rolled your hips just a little — not even on purpose — his breath stuttered.
“Don’t start somethin’ y'can’t finish,” he murmured, voice deep, rough with sleep.
“I’m not starting anything,” you whispered, but your voice gives you away.
His hand tightened on your waist. “Uh-huh.” Silence stretches — soft, warm, waiting.
“I don't wanna leave today,” you said eventually, voice quiet.
He exhaled slowly into your shoulder, like the thought physically ached. “I know. Let's not move. Not yet.”
He shifted behind you, pressing in closer, and you felt it — the way he wanted you, slow and unhurried, like he had all morning to remind you your body is his favorite place to be in.
When he moved inside of you, it was gentle at first — lazy, testing, his lips brushing your shoulder. You breathed out shakily, already melting, already arching back into him.
“Still sore?” he asked quietly against your skin, smug in a way that only an utterly in love James Barnes could be.
“Yeah,” you breathed. “Still want you.”
He groaned low, like that undoes something in him. He kept you on your side, drawn tight against his chest, his hand guiding your thigh to hook over his. The movement was slow, intimate — more about closeness than urgency. His breathing deepened behind you; you could feel each exhale between your shoulder and your neck.
There wasn't rush, no frantic pace this time. Just heavy warmth, quiet praise, his lips brushing your ear while your fingers clutch at his forearm and soft sounds slip from your throat.
It’s a claiming that feels less like breaking and more like sealing something in place. By the time you both went still again, breath uneven, bodies pressed close under the covers, neither of you spoke. Not right away.
He stays inside the circle of your body like he belongs there — not rushing to pull away, not shifting to leave. Like maybe, just maybe, if he doesn’t move, morning won’t happen.
Eventually, in a low voice that sounded almost reluctant, he murmured, “We should start getting ready in a few.”
You hummed, not agreeing. He pressed one last kiss to your shoulder, lingering there before adding, “Five more minutes.”
You don’t tell him you’re giving him ten.
You don’t make it very far once you’re out of the bedroom.
He had you on the couch next — laughter dissolving into breathy moans as he pulls you onto all fours and sinks into a rhythm that leaves you pressed against worn cushions, his voice low and praising in your ear as the old cabin furniture creaks beneath you, feeling him etch his name in every corner of your soul so good that you had to bite down on the couch cushions to not be too loud, a feat you were much too accustomed to in the confined of both of your rooms.
The drive back was colder than the drive to. Maybe because the heat of anticipation wasn't there anymore, and you were getting back to sneaking around and your sacred Thursdays.
You took a longer route, to pretend you had to wait at the airport. By the time you reached the garage, you saw his bike parked right next to your spot.
The common room was occupied by Nat, Steve, Yelena, and the redhead's eyes traced an invisible string between you and Bucky.
"So.. How was camping?"
"Good." Neither of you meant to respond at the same time.
"Too cold?"
"Warm in the morning, cold at ni-" You glared at him like he was solely to blame for you two absolutely getting caught red handed and sore right then and there.
Natasha smirked. "Welcome back, not-so-stelthy super spies."
At first, no one wants to assume anything when the noise starts. It’s 3:24 A.M. Maybe someone’s just doing an aggressive nighttime workout. Pushing a dresser around. Wrestling a demon. Practicing taekwondo on the wall.
But then the bedframe starts slamming rhythmically against the wall like it’s trying to communicate in Morse code.
And someone gasps way too high-pitched and breathless for this to be cardio-related.
Sam wakes up and pads down to the kitchen to find that he's been the last one to be pulled from his REM sleep by a horny centenarian and his insatiable, inappropriately young girlfriend.
Steve has his head in his hands like he's trying to muffle his ears, forehead resting on the cool table.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
They could hear Bucky's low "Sweetheart, fuck— keep—" followed by a grunt. And what sounded like some hard object dropping to the floor.
Yelena looked at the ceiling in horror when they heard your muffled whines, "Bucky—oh God!" pleading him not to stop.
Sam climbed on a countertop and got his mouth close to the vents. “WE KNOW IT’S BUCKY, WE KNOW, PLEASE.”
And in the symphony of your moans and his grunts, Natasha just piped up from behind her coffee mug. "Does anyone miss when they were sneaking around?"
Every single person in that room raised their hands.
a/n: this was fun to write, can you tell I went home last night and cracked my husband like a woman possessed?
Summary - You and Steve can't stop arguing, until Steve finds a way to shut you up.
Warnings - Angst, smut, no happy ending. Enemies to lovers vibes, p in v, mating press. 18+ Only! My warnings are not extensive so enter at your own risk!
Word Count - >3k
"You're full of shit Rogers!" You screamed across the meeting room table, shoving your seat back so you could attempt to get eye level with the man standing at the head, arms folded across his chest as he delivered the debrief for the mission you'd got home from just hours before.
"Language." Steve scolded with a tense jaw.
"Oh fuck you Mr righteous!" You yelled, pointing your finger at him aggressively, while the rest of the team recoiled in their chairs, none of them wanting to get involved in whatever the hell this was.
"You broke protocol." Steve snapped back, "You went against my orders."
"No I didn't!" You argued, hands flying into the air dramatically while you made your point, "I followed your shitty little plan, even though I knew it could be better, so the fact this mission failed is on you not me!"
"The plan was foolproof, the plan was sound." He scolded, shifting on his feet and placing his hands on his hips, trying as always to appear the ever calm in control captain of the team, "But once again you thought you could do better, you deviated!"
You looked at him through narrowed eyes, slamming your fists down on the table as you got progressively more and more riled up, "I only deviated when I had no other choice!"
Across the room, Peter shuffled uncomfortably in his seat as he watched you and Steve screaming at eachother. It had been his first mission with the team and he wasn't sure what to expect at his first debrief, but it definitely wasn't this.
"Erm..are they always like this?" Peter asked quietly, leaning over towards Sam and Bucky to make sure you didn't hear, not wanting you to turn your anger on him.
"Yup." Bucky scoffed, arms folded across his chest.
"Ever since the break up." Sam mumbled, watching the two of you with a raised brow.
"They were together!" Peter gasped in shock, eyes flicking between the two of you, noticing the tense postures, the wrinkled noses and snarls passing between you.
"Yup." Bucky grunted, lips curling up in amusement at your continued spat.
"Hard to imagine right?" Sam replied turning to Peter with a smirk, while the younger man looked completely stunned.
"Fuck this!" You yelled, pulling all the gazes in the room back to you, "I'm not gonna listen to the shit coming out of your mouth anymore!"
You turned on your heel, storming over to the glass doors of the room.
"This conversation isn't over!" Steve yelled after you.
You didn't care, sticking your middle finger up over your shoulder as you yanked the door open, slamming it closed behind you and storming off into the compound.
It was hard to imagine there was a time when you could only smile in his presence, only look at the stoic man and see nothing but pure adoration and love. Nowadays all you felt was anger and hatred, betrayal. You were still hurt, still carrying the pain that came with not being his, of not being enough, but you'd never let him see that, he didn't deserve your tears.
A short while later, you were sat on the edge of your bed, elbows digging into your knees and your face in your palms while you tried to calm down from your fight with Steve, failing miserably.
A knock on the door had you groaning loudly into your hands, not ready to face anyone.
"Go away Sam." You muffled loudly into your skin, "I'm not in the mood."
"It's Steve." Came a stern shout from behind the wood separating you.
"Oh well in that case.." You yelled, pulling your face out of your palms to glare at the back of the door, "FUCK OFF!"
"Open the god damn door!" Steve yelled, attempting to accentuate his order by hitting the door loudly once.
"No." You shouted back.
"You're being a child." He scolded, causing you to roll your eyes so hard you almost saw your brain.
He yelled your name again and you rose to your feet, stomping over to the door to give him a piece of your mind.
You threw the door open, not even blinking when it slammed against the nearby wall.
"What?!" You practically screamed, eyes narrowed and heart hammering as you glared up at him.
His expression matched yours, laced with anger, exasperation and exhaustion from the constant fighting.
"You can't just walk out of a debrief like that." He said sternly, pressing his palm to the door frame above your head, wood creaking under his weight.
"I can and I did." You scoffed, folding your arms across your chest.
"You're being unreasonable." He spat.
"You just pinned an entire missions failure on me but I'm being unreasonable?" You squeaked in annoyance, "Let me guess. You go around saying our relationship ended cause of me too huh?"
A flash of confusion and pain crossed his face, finally cracking through the stern facade he'd brought to your door.
"What?" He hissed, shaking his head, "That's not...No, never!"
"Sure." You scoffed, looking down at your toes as you kicked the carpet, debating kicking him straight in the shin.
"I don't." He said sternly, "You know I wouldn't do that."
"I don't know anything about you anymore Rogers." You snapped back, looking back up at him through your eyelashes as your brows furrowed.
"Stop calling me that." He ordered, jaw ticking furiously.
"Why? It's your name?" You scoffed sarcastically.
"Not to you." He said through gritted teeth.
"Oh, would you prefer captain now?" You clapped back, raising your brow when you saw his throat bob harshly and his cheeks tint pink.
"Stop." He grunted.
"Oh yeah, you would wouldn't you?" You sneered with a smirk, "You used to love that one when you fuc...."
"I said stop!" Steve yelled, hand coming up to wrap around your throat as you stumbled onto your toes and your breath caught in your throat.
"Make me." You hissed.
His lips were on yours before you could blink, free hand grabbing your hip and guiding you backwards into the room. Steve kicked the door closed with a slam before turning you back and pushing you against it.
You grunted into his mouth when his body pushed to yours, feeling his cock already rock hard and pushing against your abdomen.
You hated him, hated that he could still make you feel this way, hated that you didn't want to say no despite your body screaming that you should. It had been so long since you'd felt this way, with his lips melded to yours, fitting together like two pieces of a puzzle.
Steve groaned when your tongue slipped into his mouth and your hands reached up to desperately clutch at his neck and hair.
It was messy and rushed, Steve's hand moving from your throat to grab and grope at every inch of your skin he could reach.
Your pussy pulsed, slick dampening your underwear as he humped his cock against you, grinding his hips desperately against your body.
You pulled at the bottom of his shirt, yanking it up and Steve quickly took the hint, separating from your mouth so you could reveal his chiselled torso. The shirt was tossed to the floor as Steve's lips connected to your neck, sucking and kissing at your soft skin while his hands grabbed your hips, shoving your bodies together and igniting the fire in your core.
"Finally, you've shut your mouth." He grunted against your skin.
"Oh fuck you." You breathed shakily, unable to find the bite in your voice that you had just minutes before.
"I'm going to sweetheart." He mumbled, nipping at your neck, "Don't worry about that."
"I hate you." You whimpered, slamming your head back against the door.
"I know." He sighed as he pulled away, "I don't care."
He gripped the bottom of your shirt, pulling it over your head before you had time to protest and quickly snapped the band of your bra, ripping the fabric from your body that was keeping you from him.
His lips met your shoulder, palms massaging the flesh of your waist as your nipples skimmed his chest, stiffening from the contact, while your hands ran over Steve's corded muscles, reveling in the feeling of his warm skin.
"Fuck I needed this." He groaned.
"Language." You breathed with a smirk.
He growled against your neck, pulling back to look at you with a raised brow.
"Don't be a brat." He scolded, eyes dark and cock harder than ever before.
"Or what?" You teased.
"Or I'll fuck your ass dry." He replied and your pussy pulsed at his tone, "And we both know you can't take it there unless it's nice and wet."
You gulped harshly, blinking up at him but staying silent, obedient.
"That's what I thought." He scoffed, pressing his lips against your cheek, then your jaw before he dipped his head down and took a nipple in his mouth, making you gasp. Your hands found their way into his hair, gripping him with your eyes clenched shut while he nibbled your peaks and lavished your flesh.
"Missed these tits." Hr grumbled against you, "Missed this cunt. Missed you."
Your breath hitched, heart skipping a beat but your head knew better than to believe his words, so you did what you needed to, summoning back the sharp tongue that you always used in his presence lately.
"Shut up and fuck me already." You ordered, though it came out in a rasp.
"Remember who you're talking to sweetheart." Steve smirked back at you, standing back to his full height, "Be polite."
"Fuck me please," You said sarcastically, "Please captain."
He rolled his eyes before sliding his palms under your ass.
"Better I guess." He teased before pulling you up off of the floor.
Steve took the few steps towards your bed before tossing you down onto the mattress. He was quick to pull off your remaining clothes before shoving his jeans and underwear down and off of his feet.
"Get those fucking legs up." He ordered while he took his cock in hand, giving it a few strokes while he raked his gaze over your body, tongue darting out to lick at his bottom lip.
You did as you were told, lifting your legs into the air so your ass and cunt were exposed to him, taking the backs of your thighs in your hands to help keep them there.
"Good girl." He growled watching as your pussy clenched from the praised.
He bridged the gap, taking your knees in his palms and stroking your calves gently as he settled your ankles over his shoulders. Your arms dropped to your sides, fisting the bedding in anticipation as you watched his huge cock bob between your legs.
Steve let your legs rest on his body and steadied one hand on your thigh, while his other took his cock his his fist, rubbing the tip against your wet folds.
You groaned in pleasure, biting down on your lip.
"There we go." Steve groaned as he pushed the tip into you, "Fuck."
The stretch was more than you remembered, every inch of your body igniting in heat just from the small amount he had given you.
"Oh...." You mewled, back arching from the bed.
"Shhhh I know baby I know." Steve groaned softly as he slowly worked more of his cock into you, "Been a while, but I know you can take it."
You only moaned in response, clenching your eyes tight as he thrust his length into you at a torturous pace, until he finally bottomed out, stilling at the hilt and gripping onto both your hips while he took a deep shuddered breath.
Your eyes opened, locking on his as you both panted quietly, staring at each other with want and need.
Steve pulled back suddenly, before slamming back into you, making you cry out in pleasure as he smacked your cervix.
His eyes stayed locked on yours while he started a rapid assault on your cunt, dragging his cock along your spongy walls and hitting against your cervix in the way he knew would have you screaming for him.
"Shit you feel so good." Steve groaned, "Not gonna last long."
"Mghhh." You tried to respond, tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth as your stomach tightened and you felt yourself getting closer to the edge.
"You either huh baby?" He grunted with a smirk, "Feels good doesn't it, bein' a good girl, taking orders from your captain?"
"Please Stevie." You gasped and his cock twitched inside of you, heart hammering against his rib cage while he watched you coming undone beneath him, just like you always used too.
"There she is." He moaned, "Fuck baby."
He pushed his body over yours, pressing your legs tight between your own bodies so he could press his lips to yours.
The angle pushed his cock deeper than before and you let out a strangled groan into his mouth.
"No one compares to you baby, no one." He groaned, pressing his palms down on your thighs while he fucked you with no remorse, kissing every inch of you he could reach. "You're all I want. Fuck. All I...need."
Despite the pain in your heart, the fire spread further through your body, ears burning hot and eyes rolling back.
"You gonna come?" Steve grunted against your cheek.
You could only nod in response, slipping your hands off of the mattress where you had desperately clawed at the bedding and placing them around his back, holding him as tightly as possible.
"What do you say?" He breathed and all fight in you to yell or tell him to fuck off had gone, there was only the need to come racing through you.
"Please captain, please can I cum?" You whimpered.
"Go ahead baby." Steve groaned, "Show me what I do to you."
All at once your body flooded with warmth and tingles, cunt clamping down on Steve's cock while your eyesight fuzzed and you cried out his name.
"Oh shit." He whined, hips faltering, "Fuck. So fucking tight."
He began slamming into you at speed, chasing his high while yours was strung out, body shaky and writhing in pleasure.
"Oh fuck I'm gonna come." He rasped, "Not pulling out, never pulling out, gotta fill my baby up, make sure you know you're mine."
He groaned as he pushed his cock to the hilt, stilling and pressing his lips to yours as his warm cum flooded into you.
You kissed lazily as you both came down from your high, until Steve rolled off of you, lying next to you on the bed with his legs dangling off the edge and his forearm over his head.
With the orgasm filtering out, your mind began to clear and tears began pooling in your eyes.
You stood up and quickly worked your clothes back over your body, ignoring the cum soaking into your trousers.
Steve still lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling with a smile and a dreamy expression, like a blissed out man, a man who'd just won the lottery.
You grabbed his clothes from where they were scattered on the floor and shoved them onto his stomach, hearing him let out a little "oomph" at the impact. His hand came down instinctively to cradle the clothing and his head tipped up to look at you in confusion.
"What?" He asked with a hurt look in his eye, "You're making me leave?"
"Yup." You sniffed, wiping your face with your sleeve as a few stray tears slipped down your cheeks.
"Baby." He rasped, quickly jumping to his feet and extending his arm towards you.
"No don't baby me." You scoffed through the tears, folding your arms across your chest.
"I thought this would...that we..." He stuttered trying to find the words, while you cried before him.
"That we what Steve?" You cried, unable to hold it back, "That sex would make me forget you kissed Sharon fucking Carter right in front of me? That i'd forget how badly you tore my heart open."
"Baby... please...I.." He begged, placing his hands on your arms with tears filling his own eyes, but you shook him off.
"Save it and get out." You spat breathily, stepping away from him and staring at the floor, unable to look at his face any longer.
He hesitated, watching your shoulders shake as you cried, wanting to reach out and comfort you but knowing that's not what you wanted right now, you needed time, you needed space.
"Okay I'll go." He sighed, quickly pulling on his clothes. He stepped up to the door, hand braced on the handle and shook his head.
"But just so you know." He said softly, "I'm not gonna stop trying until you're mine again. Sharon...was a moment of weakness, a mistake. It's always been you. I love you. I never stopped."
The door clicked and your body dropped to the floor, palms rubbing at your weeping eyes as you tried to process what he'd just said, knowing that despite the pain he'd caused you, if Steve Rogers said he was going to do something, he would follow through.
NOTES: based on this ask, I took some creative liberties with the background plot but I think you'll love it
TW: smut, reader is a virgin, definitely manipulative ben but it's in a very delicious way, younger!actress!reader (they're costars), oral + fingering (f receiving), spitting in mouth, fingers in mouth, unprotected sex, coming inside, ben being yucky but also dreamy and perfect
Masterlist
It starts as a studio thing.
A clean, patriotic, Vought film—hero meets heart, Soldier Boy resurrected alongside a fresh-faced darling half his age. The press eats it up. You’re the ingénue; he’s the legend. Every photo op is gold. He keeps his hand at your back, not your waist. He pulls out your chair. He gives the quotes they want.
“She’s a real class act,” he says with a warm smile. “Don’t see much of that anymore.”
He calls you “sweetheart” in interviews, like it’s endearing. Like he’s harmless.
Off-camera, somehow, he’s even better.
Ben doesn’t crudely flirt. He escorts. He walks on the street side of the sidewalk. Orders your dinner before you get the nerve to pick something yourself—but somehow, it’s always what you like. He keeps you close without ever crossing a line. No rumors. No tension. Just steady, quiet confidence that settles somewhere in your chest and stays there.
Sure, he can be a little rough around the edges, but he’s lived through so much—wars, real ones—and there’s something about that kind of survival that earns a little grit.
He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t push. Not once.
And you? You trust him completely and he’s never, not once, given you a reason to question that trust.
So when he invites you over after a late press run—low voice, light touch, “just dinner, sweetheart. just the two of us.”—you don’t hesitate.
Because it’s Ben. Because he’s been perfect. Because he’s made you feel safe in ways you didn’t know you needed.
And that’s exactly how he planned it.
When he opens the door, you smile—because of course you do.
He’s in a button down, sleeves rolled and collar loose, looking relaxed but sharp. Like someone who always knows where he’s going to end up by the end of the night. His hair’s neat. His smile’s warm. Everything about him says steady.
He greets you like it’s the most normal thing in the world. A hand at the small of your back. A kiss to your temple. The scent of something expensive still clinging to his skin.
Inside, the lights are low. Soft. The place smells like cologne and something expensive. There’s music—crackly, old-fashioned, just loud enough to feel intentional. There’s wine breathing on the counter. Plates already set out on the table. You’re so consumed by taking in the apartment that you hardly even notice that there’s not even food.
Ben doesn’t ask if you’re hungry. Doesn’t ask anything, really.
He just turns toward the hallway, slow and sure, and glances back at you with that same unshakable calm.
“Bedroom’s through here, sweetheart.”
Not a question. Not a command. Just something said with the kind of confidence that’s impossible to challenge.
And you follow—of course you do. He’s probably just giving me a tour, you reason, he wants me to know his space.
Because he’s been nothing but perfect. Because he’s never once made you feel unsafe. Because that voice of his could talk you into anything.
You don’t even realize until later that he never looked to see if you were behind him.
He already knew you would be.
The bedroom’s warm—dimly lit, quiet. Nothing about it feels overt or pornographic. Not yet. Just soft shadows, crisp sheets, and him standing by the bed like this is simply the next part of the evening.
He turns, slow and loose, and crooks two fingers at you with that same easy calm that’s lulled you from the start. “C’mere.”
You smile before you even move. A little laugh slips out of you—nervous, pleased—and you step closer.
He brushes your hair off your shoulder, trails the backs of his fingers down your arm like he’s smoothing out static.
“Y’know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “I’ve really been enjoying all this time we’ve been spendin’ together.”
You duck your head, grinning. “Yeah?” you say, light and breathy. “Me too. It’s been… really nice.”
His mouth twitches like he knew you’d say that.
“You’re just—” he chuckles softly, shaking his head like he can’t quite believe his luck. “You’re a real rare thing. Classy. Sweet. Soft.”
You laugh again, quieter this time. “You make me sound like a collectible.”
He hums, amused, thumb rubbing slow circles over your knuckles. “Hell, baby,” he says, “I don’t think I’ve met a girl like you in decades.”
Your chest warms at that. You preen without even meaning to, shoulders relaxing as you look up at him through your lashes.
“Well… I don’t know about that,” you say, smiling. “I’m not that special.”
His gaze sharpens—fond, intent.
“Yeah,” he says gently. “You are.”
He steps closer, crowding your space just enough to make your breath hitch. Taller. Broader. Older. But still careful, still gentle in that way that makes you feel precious instead of cornered.
“And when you told me you’d never been with anyone…” His mouth brushes your temple. “Well. That just about drove me insane.”
You laugh, flustered, cheeks heating. “Ben—” you start, embarrassed. “It’s not like it’s a big deal.”
You feel him smile against your skin.
“It is to me,” he says quietly.
You still just a little, heart fluttering, and he feels it immediately.
“Hey,” he murmurs, soothing. “Relax. I’m not gonna hurt you, sweetheart.”
His fingers skim the hem of your blouse, slow enough that it almost tickles. You suck in a breath, half‑laughing again.
“You’re making it sound so serious,” you say softly.
“It is,” he replies, just as soft. “Doesn’t mean it has to be scary.”
He kisses just below your ear, lingering.
“But if you’re gonna give it up to someone,” he adds, voice dropping, “oughta be someone who knows what the fuck he’s doin’, don’t you think?”
Your laugh comes out smaller this time. You nod without quite realizing you are. “I guess,” you murmur, shy but smiling. “You do seem… very confident.”
That does it. He smiles—slow, satisfied.
“That’s my girl.”
Then his fingers are unbuttoning your top, methodical and practiced, brushing every inch of skin he reveals with open reverence. You let him, body buzzing, head light, enjoying the attention too much to question it.
“Don’t worry,” he murmurs again, mouth warm against your collarbone. “I’ll be real good to you.”
And somehow, that makes everything feel inevitable.
It’s not until he has you stripped naked on your hands and knees on the mattress—his own knee nudging your legs apart, his hands gripping your hips like a man who’s waited for this—that something shifts.
His mouth is on you before you can even process it—hot, messy, filthy—and you cry out, twisting in the sheets, your face already flushed and slick with sweat. He groans into you like he’s starved for it.
“Goddamn,” he mutters, “look at this sweet little pussy.”
You whimper. You’ve never heard him talk like that about you before. Not even close.
“So fucking wet for me,” he says, thumb spreading you open while he presses his mouth right back to you, licking deep like it’s his.
You try to speak—maybe a gasp of his name, maybe something uncertain—but the only thing that comes out is a moan, helpless and broken.
He hums against you, pleased. “Told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”
Then his fingers slide into your mouth—two of them, sudden and deep, pressing down on your tongue until you start to gag around them.
“Deep breaths, sweetheart,” he drawls, the thumb of his same hand stroking the skin of your jaw.
He doesn’t rush it. Just holds you there, feeling you accommodate him, until your breathing shakily around his fingers, eyes watering, and your lips tentatively begin to close around them
“There you go,” he murmurs, pleased. “Knew you’d figure it out.”
You make a small, helpless sound around his fingers and he laughs quietly, fond.
“Easy,” he coos. “You’re doin’ just fine.”
He pulls his fingers out slowly, slick with your saliva, and before you can even process the loss, his hand slides around your front to rest in between your breasts. He presses you up, his chest to your spine, mouth close to your ear.
His other hand comes around to your jaw, thumb settling at the hinge, tilting your face just enough.
“Open,” he says softly. Not a command—an expectation.
You do.
He spits into your mouth—unhurried, deliberate—watching it land like he’s savoring the moment. His thumb strokes your cheek, grounding, approving.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. “That’s it.”
You gasp, overwhelmed, and he keeps his hand there, steady, making sure you don’t pull away.
“Swallow,” he adds gently. “C’mon now, be good, sweetheart.”
You do, because of course you do.
He smiles against your ear, satisfied.
“See?” he says quietly, guiding you back down to rest your weight on your palms. “Nothin’ to it. You just needed someone to show you.”
You don’t know why your thighs are shaking so hard. You don’t know when he started spanking you, either—sharp, rhythmic cracks to the side of your ass between long, indulgent licks of your pussy—but it’s blurring, all of it. His mouth, his fingers, his voice.
“Why…?” You ask breathlessly, your voice is soft and high pitched and whiny. You’re not even sure what you’re asking about at this point, everything that’s happened since your clothes came off has felt odd and overwhelming and other worldly in the weirdest, best way.
“Because this,” he says between licks, “is what people do when they love each other so very much.”
Another slap. You jolt, whine, clench around nothing.
“And you do love me, don’t cha? I’m so good to you, sweetheart.”
You’re nodding, babbling, your voice wrecked.
“Yes—yes, I love you—”
You don’t even know if you mean it. You think you do, you’ve thought about it an awful thought recently. Ben was like your dream guy–well, you thought he was. You’d even imagined this moment, but you don’t think your imagination ever could have come up with something so… dirty like this is. You thought your first time would be sweet and soft, maybe that it’d even hurt a little bit. There’s nothing sweet or soft about what’s happening right now.
His hand slides up your back, palm splayed between your shoulders, pinning you down.
“Yeah, you do,” he murmurs. “That’s why you’re lettin’ me do all this nasty shit to you.”
You should be humiliated. Heck, you should be alarmed—but you’re not.
Because this is still Ben.
Because his voice is still calm. His hands are still sure. And somewhere in the blur of praise and filth, you believe him.
“That’s my perfect girl,” he says, mouthing over the back of your neck like he’s claiming you. “Honestly, I didn’t think you had it in you. But fuck if you’re not made for this.”
You whine, gasping into the sheets.
“No wonder you never let anyone else get a taste,” he growls, lining himself up behind you now. “You’ve been waiting for me, huh? You knew I’d take such good care of you, no other limp dicked haircut could come close.”
And by the time he’s fucking into you—deep, rough, like he owns every inch of you—you’re so far gone you’d believe anything he tells you.
Even when he says:
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong about this, baby,” he murmurs, breathing heavy at your ear as he drives into you again, rougher now that he’s close. You can almost here the smirk in his voice when he speaks, “this is what true love looks like, afterall.”
Your whole body’s shaking, every nerve lit up and pulled tight. You’re gasping his name, fingers clawing at the sheets as the pressure coils and snaps all at once. It hits you hard—too much, too fast—and you cry out, hips jerking back against him as you come undone around his cock.
“That’s it, baby” he groans, feeling you clamp down, losing whatever control he had left. “Fuck—just like that.”
He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t slow down. Just fucks you through it, chasing his own end with short, brutal thrusts until his breath stutters and breaks.
“Fuckin’ christ—” he growls, voice wrecked as he spills inside you, pressing deep and staying there, holding you open while it hits him in waves.
For a second, neither of you moves. Just heat and weight and the sound of both of you trying to breathe.
Eventually, he pulls out slow, deliberately, and groans like he’s never felt anything better.
You’re practically limp beneath him, face-down and trembling, your thighs still twitching, breath all hiccupy and uneven. There’s slick everywhere—your inner thighs, the sheets, his lower stomach and dick and thighs—and he just watches his cum drip out of you like it’s the best part of his night.
“Fuckin’ look at that,” he murmurs, dragging two fingers through the mess, rubbing it in with a low whistle. “You made such a pretty mess for me, sweetheart.”
You whimper into the comforter.
Ben laughs—soft, pleased, wrecked in the best way—and slaps your ass once, light, just to feel the bounce.
“Goddamn,” he mutters again, sitting back on his heels. “Didn’t think you’d let me take it that far, to be honest.”
You shift onto your side, stunned, your cheek hot against the cool comforter. “What the hell just happened…?” you breath softly, but your voice is raspy and cracks at the end.
“Hey,” he says, suddenly closer. His palm lands warm against your face, thumb at your jaw, turning your head so he can see you fully. “You alright?”
You blink up at him, wide-eyed, a little slack-jawed. You nod, but it’s faint—a dazed little gesture that barely gets halfway.
Ben coos. Actually coos.
“Aw, there she is. Still in there.”
His thumb strokes over your cheek, his hand big and solid under your chin, holding your face like it’s something delicate.
“You did so good, baby” he says, voice dropping low. “Y’ didn’t cry. Didn’t have to ask me to stop. Just laid there like a good girl and let me take care of you.”
He leans down and kisses your forehead—slow and heavy, like he means it—before flopping back on the bed beside you with a satisfied groan. His cigarettes are already waiting on the nightstand. He lights it in one motion, takes a drag, and exhales toward the ceiling, totally at ease.
“You want one?” he asks, holding it out to you.
You blink again. “I… I don’t smoke.”
“You didn’t fuck either, ‘til tonight,” he says easily, sliding the cigarette back between his lips. “You’re on a roll, why stop now?”
You’re quiet for a while until something crosses your mind and you can’t help but ask, “… is it always like that? Like, for everyone?” You muse absentmindedly, your eyes soft and unfocused
“Yeah, if you’re lucky and find someone who knows shit about sex.” He shrugs, giving your cheek a playful tap. “And you, sweetheart, are the luckiest girl in the fucking world for finding me. You should start buying lotto tickets.”
You laugh—sort of—but it’s more breath than sound. Your whole body still feels like it’s floating. Heavy and light at the same time. He watches you like he knows exactly what you’re feeling.
Then he reaches for the drawer in the nightstand and grabs a small orange pill bottle, rattling it with one hand.
“You need something to help take the edge off?”
Your head lifts, barely. “Something to take the edge off what?” You narrow your eyes at him in confusion.
“Klonopin,” he says slow, clearly amused. “Takes the edge off the comedown. Smoothes it all out, makes everything feel like glitter.”
You blink at him, still trying to catch up. “I don’t do drugs.”
“I know you don’t, sweetheart, but that’s what everyone says at first,” he says, all grin and no shame. “Doesn’t mean you won’t.”
He tosses the bottle back onto the nightstand and picks up a glass of whiskey you hadn’t even noticed was there before—not that you’d exactly had a lot of time to take in his end table decor.
“Last offer,” he winked, “you want a drink?”
You sigh—this you could do—and reach for it, but your hand’s wobbly, so he guides it to your lips and watches while you take two slow sips. Then he pulls it away and downs the rest himself, smirking as he wipes his mouth.
“Atta girl, baby”
He leans back, one arm behind his head, the other reaching out to tug you into his chest like it’s automatic. You go without resistance. You’re too loose and warm and entirely out of your depth.
“You know,” he drawls, bringing his cigarette back to his lips, “I’ve been on my best fuckin’ behavior for you,” he says, smoke curling from his mouth as he speaks. “Since day one.”
You hum, dizzy and relaxed, letting your fingers trace lightly along the edge of his ribs.
“Didn’t lay a hand on you,” he continues. “Barely even let myself flirt. Made myself real fuckin’ tolerable.”
He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then another to your neck.
“You think that was easy for me?”
You don’t answer, and you don’t need to. You’re curled into him, pliant and trusting, and he knows he’s got you.
“Worth it, though,” he mutters against your skin. “You’re so much better than I thought you’d be.”
“Thanks? I think?” You say confused, even more so when he just laughs.
His hand slides down to your hip, not to start anything—just to touch. To feel the body he just wrecked.
He’s still stroking your hip when he shifts, rolls you closer like he’s just getting comfortable. His voice, when he speaks, is soft again—warm and low and perfect, like all that filth never happened.
“Y’know,” he murmurs, kissing your temple, “we look fuckin’ great together.”
You blink up at him, dazed, lips parted like you’re still trying to remember how to breathe.
“Can’t wait to show you off,” he adds, smiling like he means it. “Red carpets. Cameras. America’s fuckin’ sweetheart and her soldier.”
Your cheeks heat, even now. You laugh, breathless and a little shy. “You’re ridiculous.”
He grins. “Maybe. But I’m not wrong.”
There’s a pause. His thumb brushes the swell of your cheekbone.
“So what do you say, sweetheart?” His voice is warm again—sweet, almost bashful, like he didn’t just fuck you into the mattress. “You wanna be my girl? Officially?”
Your lashes flutter. It sounds so simple when he says it. So earnest.
Like you didn’t give him everything already.
You nod slowly, lips parted on a dazed little smile. “Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay.”
Ben grins—beams, really—like he just won the goddamn lottery. His hand squeezes your hip, thumb brushing the dip of your waist like he’s grounding himself in the moment.
“That's perfect, baby,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “Knew you would.”
He lets the silence stretch a beat, just long enough for your pulse to settle, your breath to come back, for the ache in your thighs to really bloom.
Then, all easy charm and casual affection, he cuddles you even closer and asks—
“You still hungry?”
You blink, slowly. He’s already reaching for another cigarette from the nightstand like this is totally normal. Like this is just a regular Tuesday.
“Figured we could go out instead, maybe get some steaks,” he says, like it’s nothing. “There’s this little place up the block—old-school joint, real butter-heavy, they know me. You’ll love it.”
You can’t even process it. You’re still leaking him onto his sheets, still raw and sticky and half-drunk on the sound of his voice.
But his tone is light.
"After all, I did ask my girl over for dinner," he winks, "can't let you starve. 'Specially not after how brave you were for me tonight, sweetheart."
His smile is easy. And the way he’s looking at you—like you’re already his everything, like this is routine—makes your stomach flip in that dangerous, fluttery way.
NOTES: I really have nothing to say for myself. Based on this ask <3 as always, keep on sending in those requests!
TW: smut, dirty talk (like. a lot), younger!reader (20s in my brain but I don’t think I mention an age), fingering (f receiving), unprotected sex (p in v), brief oral near the end, lots of kissing, lots of profanity, very Ben, intense sex, and so very much dirty talk, this is filthy I’m so sorry, Ben’s done with old ladies!!!
Masterlist
You hadn’t meant to go home with him.
It was supposed to just be a drink. One drink. Maybe two. You’d gone out with a few friends who’d already bailed by the time you spotted him across the bar—broad shoulders, smug smirk, leaning back like he owned the fuckin’ place. You’d recognized him instantly, of course.
Everyone did.
“And here I was thinking I was done with the young ones,” he muttered when he slid onto the stool beside you, voice like smoke and gravel, loud enough for you to hear over the music. “Then you had to walk in lookin’ like that.”
You didn’t flirt, not right away. You just laughed, tucked your hair behind your ear, and let him look. And he did—openly, shamelessly. Like he wasn’t in any rush.
And God, you let him.
You liked the way he spoke—cocky, unfiltered, every word dipped in that scratchy drawl. You liked the way he spread his legs when he talked to you, the way his hand brushed your knee once, twice, before settling there like it belonged.
By the third drink, your chair was so close that your thigh was pressed against his. By the fourth, he was talking into your ear, his expression growing more self satisfied with every giggle he pulled from you.
“You’re trouble, aren’t you?” he asked, clearly not expecting an answer. “All sweet voice and big eyes, sittin’ there so fuckin’ pretty, and so fuckin’ young—I’m almost worried for you with all the dirty shit I wanna do to you.”
You smiled at him then, slow and soft, and said, “I’m not the one you need to worry about.”
That’s when he stood up, tossed a few bills on the bar, and reached for your hand.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he said, smirking. “Let’s go find out.”
If only you’d known then.
“Holy fuckin’ hell.”
Now, Ben’s voice is shot—ragged and stunned, like he just stepped into a wet dream he didn’t think was real. He’s on his knees between your thighs, hair a mess, jeans shoved down just enough to free his cock as he spreads you open on the bed like he’s about to devour you.
“Look at this fuckin’ mess,” he groans, dragging two fingers through your soaked folds, then holding them up, dripping, gleaming in the low light. “This is from me? Just talkin’ to you?”
“Yes…?” Your voice ticks up at the end, clearly confused. He almost sounds shocked.
He looks at you then—really looks. You’re all blown pupils and parted lips, because you want him.
“Fuck,” he mutters again. “I forgot this is what young pussy does.”
You whimper, but you still don’t close your legs. In fact, you tilt your hips a little higher, thighs trembling, one hand sneaking down to run your fingers over yourself.
And Ben nearly stops breathing.
“Ohh, fuck yes,” he growls, grabbing your wrist and holding it there like he wants to frame the image in his memory. “Hold it open for me, baby—just like that. Let me see that sweet little pussy drippin’ for me.”
You shudder as he leans in, nose brushing your inner thigh, breath hot and wrecked.
He lets out a breath, thumbing lazily across your clit just to watch you jolt, and the slick sound it makes punches a groan out of him.
“Fuck, hear that?” he says, stunned. “That’s all you, baby. Music to my fucking ears.”
You gasp, clutching his arm as he moves, rocking up to meet him without being told, chasing the pressure like it’s instinct.
“I love when you touch me,” you say, breathless. “Feels really good.”
“Yeah,” he huffs, clearly amused, rubbing over your clit so slowly it shouldn’t even feel good but god does it ever. “I can fuckin’ tell. You’re a damn natural, sweetheart.”
“You have any idea how many chicks I’ve fucked?” he mutters, almost annoyed, like it’s your fault he’s so floored. “Decades of fucking. Hundreds of women. Thousands. Models, porn stars, you name it. The women my age, they needed convincing. Time. Half of ‘em wouldn’t even get this wet with help.” His fingers press just right and you cry out. “Had t’fuckin’ spit on my hand just to fake what you’re doin’ all by yourself.
He looks up at you, dark eyes wild, voice low and reverent.
“And here you are, soakin’ through the fuckin’ sheets before I’ve even fucked you proper. How the hell’s that fair?”
Your eyes flutter, lips parting, a high whine slipping free as your hips buck up toward him.
“Then fuck me,” you breathe. “Please, Ben—just… I need it. Need you.”
That breaks him.
He doesn’t answer—just grabs your thighs, yanks you closer, and really get to work, his fingers plunging in as deep as they can go with a wet squelch that makes you both moan.
“Goddamn, baby, listen to that,” he grits out. “So fuckin’ wet. So tight. You’re suckin’ me in like you don’t ever wanna let go.”
You whine, rocking against his hand now, chasing every curl of his fingers like you’re desperate for more. “Faster,” you beg. “Please, Ben, faster.”
“Greedy little thing,” he grunts, but he does it—fucks you with his fingers until your slick is dripping down his wrist, obscene and sloppy. “I bet you’d let me bend you over right now and fuck you stupid with half the block watchin’, wouldn’t you?”
You moan, nodding, mindless, grinding down into his hand.
“Yeah,” he breathes, twisting his fingers just right, thumbing your clit until you squeal. “That’s what I thought. You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”
You’re trembling, your whole body pulsing around his fingers, and when he pulls out, you whine at the loss—until you see what he’s doing.
“Look at this,” he groans, dragging his soaked hand across your stomach. “This cunt’s been waitin’ for me since the day you were born.”
“Ben, please,” you sob, desperate.
He grabs himself, thick and hard and already leaking, and presses the head of his cock against your entrance. His eyes stay locked on yours, hungry and unhinged.
He growls—actually growls—and not a second later, he’s pressing in, slow and deep, hips flexing, his jaw clenched tight as your heat swallows him whole.
“Christ on the cross, sweetheart,” he snarls. “You’re better than I ever could’ve fuckin’ imagined. Tightest, wettest little thing I’ve ever been inside.”
You both groan when he bottoms out, and then he’s moving—hard and deep, the wet slap of skin and the obscene squelch of your slick echoing like music in the room.
“M’fuckin’ spoiled now,” he pants, eyes locked on the way your tits bounce with every thrust, hands gripping your thighs like he’s holding on for dear life. “I’m not pullin’ out. Not ever. You hear me, sweetheart? I’m stayin’ in this pussy ‘til I die. It’s mine.”
You nod, breathless, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him even deeper. “Yours,” you gasp. “All yours.”
And Ben just grins, cocky and ruined all at once.
“Damn right it is.”
He’s fucking you hard now—deep and relentless, hips slapping against yours in messy, soaked rhythm. The room smells like sweat and sex and heat, the bedframe groaning with every brutal thrust, and you can’t even form words anymore. Just whimpers. Gasps. Breathless, broken sounds as you cling to his back, your nails biting into his skin like you’re afraid you’ll slip under.
“Shit, baby,” he pants, jaw tight, voice wrecked. “You feel that? How you’re milkin’ my cock?”
You nod—barely. You don’t even know if you’re saying yes or just trying to stay conscious at this point.
His hand slips between your bodies, thumb finding your clit like it’s second nature, and the moment he presses down, you’re gone.
You come with a strangled moan, your whole body seizing beneath him. Back arching. Vision white-hot. It hits you like a punch—shaking, pulsing, wet and overwhelming—and Ben feels it.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he snarls. “Keep squeezin’ me, sweetheart. Just like that—fuck, I’m—”
He drives in one last time, deep and brutal, and grinds his hips down into you as he comes. He curses—loud, raw, guttural—as he spills inside you, hands gripping you firmly, every muscle in his body pulled tight as he rides it out.
It’s messy. Loud.
He stays buried inside you, both of you panting against each other’s mouths, too stunned to speak for a long moment. Your legs twitch around his waist, and his body’s still shaking a little above you.
Then, slowly, he lowers himself down until he’s resting fully on top of you, helping move your legs back down onto the bed.
Your fingers find their way into his hair, and he lets you hold him there.
You feel him smile against your neck.
You don’t even realize you’re crying until Ben leans over and presses his mouth to your cheek—rough and warm and still catching his breath—and feels the damp there.
“Aw, fuck,” he all but groans, voice sounding more resigned. “Did I hurt you?”
You shake your head fast, but the tears keep coming. You’re not sobbing, not panicking—just raw. Overwhelmed. Overstimulated. Wrung out in every way a person can be.
“No,” you suck in a deep breath. “No, you didn’t. I’m okay. Just…”
You trail off, and he waits. Doesn’t push. Just keeps breathing against you, thumb rubbing circles over your hip like it’s the only thing he knows to do.
“I feel like I just got hit by a truck,” you laugh a little at the absurdity of the entire night.
He huffs a low laugh in return. “Yeah? You and me both.”
You blink up at him, lips parted, dazed. He’s still inside you—softening, twitching, warm—and you don’t want him to move.
“You sure you’re alright?” he asks, quieter now. Still gruff, still him, but the edges are sanded down.
“Uh-huh,” you nod slowly. “I just can’t feel my legs.”
That gets a real grin out of him, crooked and proud. “Hell yeah,” he mutters. “Still got it.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are flushed, but his eyes are softer than you expect—dark, but not wild anymore.
He leans back down and kisses your neck. Slow. Lingering. Then the curve of your shoulder. Then your chest, right between your breasts. His stubble drags across your skin with every lazy shift of his mouth, warm and heavy.
“I don’t think that performance can be outdone.” he mumbles against your skin. “You have absolutely ruined me for anybody else.”
You hum quietly, eyes heavy and dazed. “Wasn’t trying to.”
“That makes it even worse,” he huffs a laugh, mouth still moving—lower now. Lazier. “You don’t even know what you’ve got goin’ for you. Just layin’ there all sweet and soaked and lookin’ up at me like I hung the fuckin’ moon. It strokes a guy's ego, sweetheart.”
You shiver under him, overstimulated and spent, but there’s a flutter low in your belly.
“Damn near lost it the second I got inside you.” He drags his nose across your collarbone.
You hum quietly, nails scratching gently at his scalp and he moves. “You did good.”
“Fuckin’ right I did.”
His hand slips back between your thighs to feel just how messy you still are. “Yeah,” he mutters, grinning against your skin. “That’s what I thought.”
You twitch when his fingers brush your oversensitive clit, and he pulls back just enough to look down your body at the wet shine still dripping down your thighs, now mixing with his own release spilling out of you.
“You’re still fuckin’ soaked.”
“Ben…”
“Relax,” he drawls, voice going low again, predatory and reverent all at once. “I’m not gonna fuck you again.“
His mouth drags down your stomach, his hands warm on your hips.
“I’m just gonna clean you up a little.”
And when he settles between your thighs again, mouth hot and open, he doesn’t say another word.
✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Soldier Boy Masterlist✦
✦summary: after being woken up, soldier boy found a woman, promised he'd never leave her, then did. two years later, he's back and looking for one thing only. you.✦
✦warnings/tags: Soldier Boy x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (he's a hundred, it's to be expected), angst, softer!ben, canon divergance, pining, some plot to get to the smut (posessiveness, some spanking, dirty talk, teasing, praise and degredation kink, dom!Ben, fingering, begging, manhandling, nipple play, pussy slapping, fingering, oral f!reciving, edging, creampie, big dick ben, overstimulation, body worship, rough sex, just complete debauchery, dumbification, dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11.1k✦
✦author's note: made myself start drooling with this one. enjoy!✦
You had a secret. And you kept it buried in the deepest, most sacred corner of your heart. Not out of shame.
Out of survival.
It’s best to keep your head down, in a world like this one. Supes patrol the streets, and people who are a little too loud and unhappy get sent to their death. Vought says it’s just to be corrected, but you know. Everyone knows.
They’ve just all learned how to whisper about it.
And you’re braver than you wanted to be. You do more than you should be doing, when the most anyone should be worrying about is waking up in their bed the next morning. But there’s the teenage girl who lives down the hall from you, who got loud about hating Homelander in school, and almost got taken because of it. You helped her get out, and lied to the face of the people who showed up to find her.
You lied with a smile, too.
He would’ve found that amusing. He would’ve teased you about acing so cool and collected, right up until you were staring down the barrel of a gun. There hadn’t been a trip of your heartbeat, or stumble in your breath. Lives depended on you being able to do this.
And they depended on you being able to keep your head down.
You’d gotten good at it. Before him, it had been your job to keep calm and collected. Doctors couldn’t be panicking and crying over everything, or nothing would ever get done.
“What about when something’s real fucking gross and sticky?” He used to ask you. “You allowed to cry then?”
You’d smiled at the dishes in your hands. “Would you cry over something gross and sticky?”
“No, because I’m not a-“
“Fucking pussy.”
You’d dropped your voice to mock his, your smile becoming stupid and ditzy as the chair had scraped on the floor behind you. Riling him up was too easy. And if he didn’t want you to keep poking all his old, shiny buttons, he shouldn’t make it so damn fun.
“You got a mouth on you, doll.” Ben had muttered in your ear, arms wrapping around your stomach.
“Hm.” You hadn’t stopped washing the dishes. He’d rip them away from you soon, you might as well focus on what you can.
“Hm? All you got to say is hm?”
“I think you like my mouth.” You’d swayed on your feet, shrugging lazily.
Ben’s arms had tightened around you. “I like somethin’ about your mouth.”
“You like all of it. You like me so much, you chose weed over me, you think I’m better than weed-“
Your dishes had clattered into the sink. Ben spun you around, grabbed your wrists, and pinned them to the counter as he slammed his mouth of yours. You’d made a happy sound, craning your neck to try and chase more, and he’d chuckled. Soft, light kisses had been trailed down your jaw and over your throat, landing on a spot that seemed to be permanently dark since you’d met him.
He’d bitten at the skin, then sucked, letting his tongue flick slightly. Before him, you hadn’t even known you were into that. Now you can’t even graze the spot without your body getting fuzzy and confused. Like it knows he’s supposed to be there.
But he’s not.
“You’re lucky I like you.” Ben had muttered. “And you’re not a genius to figure that out, I think I’ve made it real fucking clear.”
You’d beamed at the air, wrapping an arm around his neck when he released one wrist. His massive hand had grabbed your waist, slipping fingers under the hem of the shirt. You’d shivered, and leaned into his mouth.
He’d been solid. Safe. And you’d been so foolishly sure that he was going to be there forever.
“You have.” You’d breathed.
And you’d really believed it.
But then he’d just… Left.
You’d woken up the next morning, and he’d been off with William Butcher to deal with Homelander. He’d failed, on both the being with William Butcher front and the deal with Homelander front. They’d said he had died. You’d sunken into something like a ghost, wandering through the world without touching anything, passing through days like they were all just a veil to something else.
There were regrets. Not demanding that he stay. Not kicking him out the first time he ended up on your doorstep. Talking to him that first night at the corner store at all, because at least then your heart would’ve still been beating instead of this hollow, gray husk.
But you also wouldn’t have traded him for the world. The time had been fleeting. Only a few splatters of paint on what had previously been a clean, respectable life.
You’d found out you liked being dirty. You liked all the color it came with, and you’d liked how Ben had held your hand through the whole thing. You don’t know why he had. You don’t even know why he’d liked you, why he’d bothered coming back over and over, why he’d decided that you—of all the many, more interesting, more carefree people in the world—were the one he wanted to share himself with.
“You shouldn’t eat those.” You’d told the strange, handsome man at one in the morning.
He’d looked at you like you were crazy. You’d blinked innocently back—a faint bell in your head, ringing that he looked familiar, and you should’ve listened to it—and he’d raised his brows.
“You talking to me?”
“Um,” you’d looked around the aisle. “Yeah? Who else would I be talking to.”
The man had grunted. His eyes hadn’t left yours for a second, and he’d been staring like he was trying to peel you apart. You’d started to feel all dizzy under the attention—he was very pretty, and pretty people shouldn’t stare like that—and shifted on your feet.
“There are studies.” You’d said lamely. “About those drinks. They give you cancer.”
“Cancer?” The man had snorted. “Doll, I’m not worried about fucking cancer-“
“You should be. It’s linked to pancreatic cancer, which is very- Fast spreading.” All your usual, well performed confidence had been wavering. Why had he been staring at you like that. “Because of the pancreases function in, um, your body, it’s basically- It’s fast spreading-“
“You said that already.”
You’d swallowed. His voice was very deep. “Oh.”
His eyes had shined with something that, in the moment, you hadn’t understood.
Now you know it to his form of affection. When he’d look at you and decided that you were real fucking cute, like a twitchy bunny—his words—and wanted to have more.
In the store, you’d hadn’t been sure if he was going to murder you or make an indecent proposal.
He hated that movie. You’d made him watch it, a few weeks later, and he’d been furious she chose the penniless sad sack. You’d told him you’d chose him, if he was the penniless sad sack. He’d grumbled that he hoped you’d have better survival instincts than that, but you’d been able to read him by now. He’d liked that a lot, and you had the hickies after to prove it.
And he’d laughed.
That night, he’d just laughed.
“You some kind of a fucking doctor?”
“Yeah.” You’d said, nervous and small. “I- I am.”
The man had blinked. Looked over you like he was seeing you for the first time, and leaned back as if the sight punched him in the face. You’d still been wearing your scrubs. Later you’d tease him about not paying attention.
He’d say he’d just been that enraptured by your beauty. You’d flush, and tell him he was using that word wrong. He’d say he didn’t fucking care, and kiss you until you were stupid and giggling.
“What’s good?” He’d jerked his head at the drinks, and you pointed to a different can a shelf over.
He’d eyed you suspiciously, but grabbed it and stomped away. You’d thought he’d be gone when you paid for your own food and walked to the parking lot. Instead he’d been waiting at the counter, watching you with that same, wearily curious expression.
“Are you going to stalk me to my car?” You’d asked causally, careful not to look him in the eyes.
He’d grunted. “I’m escorting you. Stalking makes me sound like I’m some fucking creep-“
“You’re a stranger who’s going to follow me to my car. I should be calling 911.”
“911 couldn’t stop me, sweetheart.”
You’d paused, frowning at him. He’d rolled his eyes, looking around the store like he expected a camera crew to pop out and tell him the whole thing was a prank.
“Don’t call 911.” He’d muttered.
“Why shouldn’t I.”
“Cause I’m not going to fucking hurt you, that’s why-“
“And why should I trust that?”
He’d blinked. That thought hadn’t occurred to him at all.
“I swear I won’t.”
“Promises mean nothing.”
“My promises mean something-“
“Not to me, they don’t.”
He’d stared at you. You’d tipped up your chin, and held his gaze. You were not going to be murdered in a parking lot tonight. You’d ordered new pants last night, and you wanted to be alive to see them.
The man had caved before you. He hadn’t been happy about it, but you’d come to learn that he was never openly happy about anything. There was his genuine annoyance, and his fluffy annoyance. Where he didn’t mean a single groan or eye roll or muttered curse.
He saved that second one for you. And he hated that you called it fluffy annoyance, because he wasn’t ‘fucking fluffy’. But you’d tell him that you liked him fluffy, as long as it was just yours. And he’d said he was just yours, and he’d promised, and you’d learned how to believe him.
“My name is Ben.” He’d told you, reaching into his jacket. “And if I try to hurt you, use this.”
And he’d handed you a fucking gun. The poor cashier that had been listening to all of this shrieked and ducked behind the counter. You’d gaped at Ben, then smacked his arm.
“What the fuck-“
“You can’t just pull out a gun, are you crazy!”
“Don’t call me crazy, I’m trying to make you feel- Fucking better or whatever-“
“How is a gun going to make me feel better, I’m a doctor-“
“So you can stitch me up after you shoot me, all the fucking better-“
“I am not going to shoot you-“
“But you could, that’s what the damn gun is for-“
“I don’t want your gun, I just-“ You’d cut yourself, glancing at the shaking cashier. It had just been some high school kid. He didn’t deserve to deal with this.
And even then, some part of you had known. Ben was a lot of things. Most of them weren’t half as pretty as his face.
But he wasn’t a liar. He’d realty thought the gun would make you feel better.
Later, you’d learn that it had really only been meant to make you feel better. Literally. That if he had been intending to hurt you—which he hadn’t, as he reminded you all the time—the gun wouldn’t have done fucking shit to stop that. But he’d thought it would help you be less nervous. And as much as you’d punch his dumb, big chest after he told you, you had to admit that the plan had—in a very roundabout way—worked.
“Come on.” You’d turned on your heels and walked out of the store.
Ben had followed.
And for a strange, priceless month, you’d known that if you looked over your shoulder, he’d be there. It had become a comfort. It had become the best thing in your life.
Then it had been gone.
Ben had left you, and the world had only gotten darker from there.
So you have all these regrets, that you pile on top of your secret. And they tell you to be more careful. You haven’t been on a date since Ben, although you never even technically dated. You’d never even fucked. It had been a lot of kisses and sharing a bed and wandering hands. Ben had asked. He’d asked all the time, and always sighed dramatically when you said after. After he was done with Butcher. After he dealt with Homelander, he could have whatever he wanted from you.
It was already his for the taking, he just needed to reach it.
And now all of you sat on a high, dusted shelf, waiting for hands that would never reach it.
Now, you’re careful.
After that girl down the hall, there had been the couple on the side of the highway. They’d been trying to hide from Black Noir, but one of them had an infected cut and was getting a fever. You’d treated it, then been on your way.
Then there had been the little boy who’s parents had been taken, and the shrapnel in his foot. The older woman who’s son had been shot, and the people who’d been hit in collateral and didn’t have insurance. And you kept helping and helping and helping, but always with your head down. If you were smarter, you wouldn’t help at all. It draws attention. Attention begs for investigation. Investigation undercovers secrets, and Ben had always been very clear.
No one could know who you are. What you were to him.
Why you have that gun in your closet, unloaded and kept clean like an heirloom. It wouldn’t be hard to trace it to Ben. It wouldn’t take a long time—especially for Sage, who you’ve only seen once from afar but sent a chilling fear through your bones all the same—to realize why you had one of Soldier Boy’s guns. To look at cameras and place timelines and know. What you’d meant to him.
Part of you wants her to. Maybe she’d be able to tell you, after.
Because he hadn’t stayed for you. And you hadn’t been foolish enough to ask him to.
But still.
You’d hoped he would.
“We should go somewhere.” He’d muttered one night, lying flat on his back.
And you’d looked at him in the dark, and found him staring back. He’d always been staring back.
“When this is done.” Ben had reached over, grabbing your wrist. He did that when he needed your attention. You don’t think he ever knew that he had all of you, whether he wanted to grab it or not.
“Done?” You’d breathed. Ben had nodded.
“The whole thing. All of it. I’m not going back into acting and shit, everything is bad now anyway-“
“You liked Paddington 2-“
“Shhh.” Ben had covered your mouth, eyes shining. “Can’t fucking prove that, can you, doll.”
You’d shrugged smiling against his hand. Ben had leaned down until your brows were pressed together, and let out a slow, heavy breath.
“We’ll go.” He’d said it like a secret. Like even in the empty room, you were still the only person he wanted anything to do with in the world. “Anywhere in the world that you want. No more of this fucking bullshit. Just you and me.”
And you’d giggled. You’d pulled his hand away with a laugh, and kissed his adorable little frown.
“You like me so much.” You’d whispered.
Ben had only stared. His heavy sigh had fanned over your cheeks, and he’d kissed the space between your eyes.
“You got no idea.”
And you wish you had.
You wish you’d asked him to stay, but you keep that buried with the rest of it. You don’t want to think about how if you had, he might’ve.
If you had, he might still be next to you today.
You broke a cup.
The TV in the breakroom is always on, but you usually just spare it passing glances. Since Homelander’s takeover, it mostly just plays Firecracker’s stupid propaganda show, or reruns of old Vought movies with Starlight’s scenes cut out. It makes for a clonky, confusing storyline. Sometimes you watch it when you’re bored, if only to feel a ghost of a smile.
Other days, they play Ben’s old movies. And you can’t stand to listen to those. Just his voice makes you shiver and look around the room, as if he might materialize and grin at you the same way he always did. Like in his eyes, everything just narrowed down to you. The walls existed to hold you and everything around the room was a noise or blockade that needed to be moved, so he could be at your side.
I’d swim in the ocean for you, doll. He’d told you one. You’d laughed. He’d meant it to be romantic, but he’d just sounded annoyed about it, and it had been so stupidly sweet you’d fallen a little more in love with him. But love with Ben had always come like that. In slow drips that built up and up and up, until there was a bucket to be doused over your head and you had to understand.
That he had been everything.
You’d known too late. The downpour had come with the news of his death, when every light had become too bright, and all the color in the world had been washed out to nothing. You hadn’t been able to tell your co-workers why you’d stumbled and started to whine like a lost dog. Why you’d needed the week off, because your legs had turned to lead and it was too hard to get out of bed.
And you’re not going to be able to explain this, either.
Why you hear his voice, look up at the TV on an instinct you’re never going to be able to squash, and drop your cup.
It shatters all over the floor. The two nurses at the table shoot up to help, one saying something about walking carefully over the broken glass, but you don’t hear it.
There’s only the ringing in your ears, and—rising above it all—Ben’s voice.
This isn’t old footage. You’d know. You’ve watched every video and listened to every archived radio interview, just trying to hold onto what you could.
No.
This is new.
Which means Ben- He’s alive.
He’s on the TV. Standing next to Homelander with a bored, unimpressed expression, hands on his belt, looking the exact same as he day he left you.
He left you.
It wasn’t death that took him. He’s right there, instead of at your side. His gaze is just as intense as before, and he holds himself with the same confident, lazy posture, and his mouth stays in the pretty, downturned line that you always loved grabbing up and pulling into a smile.
He’d grab your wrists, but not move you away. He’d ask what you thought you were doing, but he already knew. You’d beam and kiss his nose. He’d pretend to bite yours, and you’d dissolve into giggles and wrap around him like a koala. He’d tell you he didn’t know what he was going to do with you. You’d call him a liar. Say he knew perfectly well what he wanted to do with you. And he’d grumble, because you teased him so much without ever actually throwing him a bone.
You always reminded him there were plenty of other women out there who would happily want his bone. You’d wink, and he’d give you that adoring, exasperated look.
He’d say he didn’t care about any other bones but yours. You’d say that you were both losing the metaphor.
Ben would say he didn’t fucking care, and flip you under him. You’d lose track of time. Of the movie you were supposed to be watching. Of the world.
And then he left.
Just left.
Wasn’t taken. Ben just… Left. After telling you so many sweet thing, after making so many promises, he just left. And now he’s back.
But not back with you.
Your hand is bleeding. You tried to pick up some of the glass, and it sliced along your palm. You barely even feel it. A part of you was already bleeding all over the floor anyways.
He didn’t come back.
Ben couldn’t fucking find you.
He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t about to go up to any of these weird little pussies and ask them where you were. He didn’t need them to know you existed. No one needed to know you existed but Ben himself.
Before he chased after Butcher, he’d gone to your apartment. And he’d been a fucking idiot with this picture in his head, where he’d knock on the door and you’d been thrilled to see him. He’d sweep you off your feet, and you’d be crying with joy, then he’d fuck you and carry you far, far away from here.
But he’d knocked. And knocked. And shouted your name, but no one had answered the fucking door.
He’d broken in. You’d be mad about that, if you were with him. That was the kind of thing that got him a stern finger and snapped Benjamin like he was a damn dog being scolded for pissing on the couch.
Don’t kill that guy who’s harassing me, Benjamin. Don’t pick up that car in my parking spot and throw it across the street. Don’t punch the dickheaded dumbass who cat called me, it’s fine, it happens all the time.
It was real fucking cute when you got all mouthy and angry with him, as if there was a damn thing you could do about it.
Although he had always listened.
But it was real hard to tell you no. Or upset you. Or do anything that made your voice all thick and eyes all watery and sad. Ben had a lot of fantasies about your wobbling lips and sad little kicked kitten eyes—the ones you gave him when he was gone for longer than he said he’d be, or had very fucking reasonably verbally threated the men who’d been giving you a hard time—but none of them involved you being sad. They were all about how pretty you looked like that, and how nice it would be to see that gorgeous sight without feeling so fucking bad about it.
His heart squeezed uncomfortably, when he made you upset or nervous. It was incredibly fucking annoying. When it had first happened, he’d decided he needed to keep you close. To figure out what the fuck you were—what supe or Russian spy had been sent after him—so he could neutralize you.
Then you’d just been a person. And Ben had to deal with the fact that his dumbass fucking heart just did that for you. It didn’t do that for anyone else, and he’d been alive a damn long time.
He’d been angry about it, for about ten seconds.
And then you’d smiled at him.
He’d decided that as long as you were smiling, there wasn’t much to be angry about in the whole fucking world.
There were things to be angry about now, though.
You weren’t smiling. You weren’t there. Ben had kicked down your apartment door and found it empty. Bare.
Hollow.
Something inside of him had split and become so fucking hollow. He’d ripped up the floorboards and checked in the vents. He’d punched a hole in the wall and roared your name, but you’d been gone.
Someone had to have taken you. You’d always been to smart and kind, you might’ve said something truthful and gotten dragged off to one of Homelander’s stupid camps for it.
If you were dead, Ben was going to break some shit. A lot of shit. Namely, Homelander’s fucking skull between his hands.
And if you were alive, he’d still probably do that anyways. For hiding you and hurting you. He’d just be faster about it. You didn’t need to see that shit, and the moment Ben had you again he wasn’t going to let go for a damn second.
He just had to find you first.
Ben had been good at investigating, in his day. But shit had also been simpler. There hadn’t been Sage hanging over his shoulder and watching him like a very annoying hawk. That Firecracker girl hadn’t been trying to hit on him—a shame, because his dick was sore, but his hands hurt even trying to touch someone else so he shut it down fast—and Homelander hadn’t been whining like a little fucking bitch baby all the damn time.
All these damn computers with their fucking passcodes and weird words didn’t help either. Ben spent an hour trying to break into one, then physically broke it, and all the others in the lab.
The Fish-Fucker walked in on him. Ben narrowed his eyes, and the pussy paled and raised shaking hands.
“Hey, dude, I didn’t see anything-“
“You know how to open a computer?” Ben barked, and Fish-Fucker blinked.
“Uhh… You mean log into one?” Fish-Fucker laughed, high and weak. “Yeah, bro, I know how to log in to a computer, who doesn’t know how to-“
He cut himself off as Ben’s jaw ticked, going even paler. He even looked like a fish.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean- You shouldn’t kill me! I can log in, I can find whatever you want-“
“Shut up.” Ben raised a hand, and the Fish-Fucker fell silent. “You know how to keep your mouth shut?”
“Yes. Yes- Sir-“
“Open it.” Ben pointed at the computer, and Fish Fucker scrambled forward.
He grabbed the back of the pussies neck before he could sit down, dropping his voice to a hiss.
“You tell anyone about this, I stuff you up like a fuck doll and turn you into fucking chow, you got that?”
Fish-Fucker nodded, throat bobbing and body twitching all pathetically. Ben let him go, and stood back up.
“Good. I got a name for you to look up.”
Fish-Fucker laughed nervously, nodding as he hit his fingers all over the keyboard. “More revenge, sir?”
“No.” Ben muttered, clasping his hand in front of him.
Revenge isn’t going to help, Ben. You’d told him that over and over again, but you’d also run your fingers through his hair and told him you wouldn’t stop him. He’d asked you if you’d still be there when he came back with blood on his hands. He’d meant it to be teasing, a thing he used to say to old lovers to test how much they could handle. They’d always giggled and rolled their eyes like they thought it was a damn joke. You’d tipped your head at him, eyes sharp and bright, and sighed.
You’d told him he’d need to take a shower, first.
And Ben had known.
“What is it, then?” Fish-Fucker asked, and Ben didn’t bother to answer.
That wasn’t for anyone to know but him. You weren’t for anyone to know. Not these horrible, weak people who would hurt you and use you against him.
Your face popped up on the screen. The smiling photo that you’d used on social media—you’d taught him what that was, and he didn’t fucking care for it but he sure as hell liked seeing pictures of you—and a link to your profile at that hospital you’d worked at.
You still worked there. You weren’t gone.
Ben’s heart did a little flutter. He ignored it. That kind of gooey shit could be saved for after he found you.
“Who is she?” Fish-Fucker peered at your photo. Ben should pop his eyeballs out of his damn skull. “A Starlighter?”
Ben grunted. “Don’t ask stupid fucking questions.”
Fish-Fucker said something else. Ben didn’t listen to it.
He had to go find you.
You get home, and you feel like nothing.
It’s been two weeks, since you found out Ben was alive. Two long weeks where time dragged you through the mud and you had to learn how to keep your heart beating.
You pulled out the gun every night. You’d never shoot it—you didn’t even have ammunition—but you’d needed to hold it. To cling to proof that it hadn’t all been a dream. He’d been here. He’d given you part of him to keep.
Then he’d decided you weren’t worth the rest.
You’d thought, like a naïve, lovesick school girl, that you were going to be worth the rest.
You kick off your shoes, and go straight for the gun again. You lie on the floor, because it’s cold and that forces you to stay awake. You haven’t been sleeping properly, and when you pass out from exhaustion you don’t wake up well rested. It all hurts. It always hurts, and you don’t think it’s ever going to not hurt again.
You close your eyes, hugging the gun tight to your chest. Tears are burning behind your eyes again. You’d been hoping you’d run out, but you feel the hot shame of one sliding down your cheek. A broken sob rattles through your chest, and you’ve given up on fighting it.
This is just always going to hurt.
“I didn’t give you that so you could shoot yourself, doll.”
You scream. Your hands fly before you can think, scrambling to grab the gun. Some scratch in the back of your head knows that a bad idea, and drum in your chest demands that it’s bad idea, but you’re tired and afraid. You thought you were alone, and you’re not, so you aim the gun straight at the man standing in your door.
Ben grabs it like he’s taking a toy from a toddler. He takes out the empty clip and examines it with a frown, his hair flopping over his face. You’re breathing so shallow you think you might have passed out. You’ve had a lot of dreams about him since he left. You’ve just finally gone off the deep-end, and now they’re hallucinations.
“Hm. Not loaded.” Ben tosses the clip off to the side, shooting you a smirk. “Good girl.”
You don’t know if you scream again, or crawl to him on your knees. He sounds real. He looks real. He’s smiling at you like he never left, like you hadn’t pour every piece of yourself out to make room for the swelling grief of his absence. If you reach out, you think you’d find solid muscle and warmth. A heart that beats under your fingers, in a rhythm you always hear when you close your eyes. Ben would cover your hand with his own, holding onto your wrist the same way he did before. Like he wanted to tie you together. Like he could never bear to let go.
Or you’d just pass right through thin air.
And everything you have left would dissolve with the illusion.
You wrap your arms tight around your stomach, drawing your knees to your chest. You know this is fear. You know Ben thinks fear is weak, but he’s never looked at you and said you were anything but his.
Then he left.
And you’re not anyone’s anymore.
Ben says your name, and you swallow. He sounds so real.
“Ben?” You whisper.
A familiar smile ghosts over his lips. It terrifies you.
“Me.” He murmurs, tossing the gun onto the couch without breaking your gaze. “Hey, doll.”
He takes a step forward.
You push back, pressing yourself into a small ball on the floor.
Ben freezes. His brow furrows, and his lips press in a tight, thin line. He reaches out. And you don’t want to touch him and know he’s not real.
You shrink away.
“How did you get in.” You whisper, fixing your gaze on his knees.
“You didn’t lock the door.” Ben grunts. “Which we gotta talk about later, that’s not fucking safe, but first-“
He says your name, reaching once more, and you squeeze your eyes shut.
Strong, warm fingers grab your chin. You make a tiny noise from the back of your throat, and for a split second, the whole world goes still.
You can feel him. He’s tipping your chin up, handling you like a baby bird even as he angles it how he wants, and you can feel him.
“Look at me.” Ben mutters, and you drag your eyes open.
He’d kneeling in front of you, brow furrowed tight. There’s that look again. The one that makes you naked and exposed, your clothing sticking to your skin and every inch of you seen.
Ben sees you. You can see him.
And either you’d fully lost your mind, or he’s… He’s really…
“You’re here.” You breathe. “You’re real.”
Ben’s eyes snap to yours. His frown deepens.
“’Course I’m real, why the hell wouldn’t I be real.”
“You left.”
And something flashes over his features. It’s furious and loud, but not directed at you. His fingers on your chin don’t even flex.
“I didn’t leave.” He grunts, the words pushed through his teeth. “I told you I’d never fucking leave you.”
Your tongue flicks over your lips. You shake your head.
“I saw you on TV.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, those weird fuckin’ attention sluts love a camera-“
“You were there, Ben.” You cut him off with only a whisper. “Not here. I- I thought you were dead.”
The stupid tears are back. And they always blur the whole world, but Ben remains sharp. Of course he does. Bastard.
“I waited.” Your voice breaks. Ben watches you, his jaw clenched tight. “I thought you were dead and I still waited, and you- You were just on TV-“
“Don’t say it like that, it’s- That’s not what this shit is-“
“You left.”
“No, I didn’t-“
“You left me.” You scream, and Ben blinks.
It’s like every bit of pain, every scrape and open wound you’ve been treating with paper band-aides, Ben’s ripped everything wide open. Your tears are falling freely, your voice high and soft as you struggle to breathe, all the grief and anger at him crashing from your mouth in unforgiving waves.
“You left me, you said you’d come back, you said we’d go anywhere and you’d be here and you- You fucking left me here and I- I-“
Your word crack into a body-shaking sob, and you try to slump away from him. To just sink into the floor where he can’t see your weakness, your crying, every fissure in the mask you’re usually so good at keeping together. You don’t want him to see the rawness underneath. The way that you’ve always been ill-matched, because there’s nothing in Ben that even knows how to break, but you’re like an gastropod. Every bit of armor is borrowed and crafted. Under it, you’re nothing for him.
Weak.
“You left me.” You’re still breathing it out. You can’t stop. “You left.”
Ben sighs. And when he gets up and walks away, you’re going to be okay. You’re going to find a way to be okay, even if that means just having this gaping feeling forever.
But Ben doesn’t leave.
He wraps around you, and you wiggle a little, but he doesn’t let go. He pulls you fully into his lap, and you go limp. Your face presses into his chest, tears flowing freely with every shaking, silent sob. Ben rubs your back, holding you steady. And despite yourself, you hold on. You sink in your nails where you never should’ve let go, and you hold on.
His heartbeat hasn’t changed. And everything in your still recognizes it.
Still calls it yours.
“Didn’t run.” He mutters once your breathing has evened, tangling his fingers in your hair. “Butcher turned on me, helped Homelander and that Maeve bitch knock me off the tower. Got put back under. Homelander woke me up. And the first fucking thing I did was start looking for you, but you weren’t where I left you.”
You swallow. You’d moved because you couldn’t stand that apartment without him. You turned every corner and expected him to be there. It was pure torture.
“But I found you.” Ben continues. “I fucking found you. And I’m not going again, doll. We’re leaving, together, and that’s it.”
Ben tugs on your head, and you let him pull you back. He’s not crying—you’d be shocked if he knew how—but there’s a heavy light in his eyes, like a lamp that’s begging to be bright enough to be seen. You reach up to trace his jaw. His eyes close for a second, and he leans into the touch.
Your throat bobs. Your voice is still small.
“Why should I believe you?”
Ben’s eyes shoot open, glinting and sharp. Not dangerous. Never to you.
Just focused.
“Because I’m telling the fucking truth-“
“Swear it?”
Ben nods, and you tilt your head.
“You swore you’d come back.”
“And I am back.” He grabs your wrist, keeping your hand to his face. “No promises got broken, doll. And I’m not fucking leaving without you.”
You laugh, something in you breaking and fusing together all at once. Like glass, burning before it gets to be something beautiful. Something that can let the light in.
“Don’t say that.” You breathe, holding his gaze. “I’ll believe you.”
Ben’s eyes narrow. He leans over you, that attention as unwavering as always, and suddenly there’s nowhere to hide. Not that you ever could. Not from him.
“You think I’m not serious?” He murmurs, low and dangerous.
You don’t flinch. You never have.
“Prove that you are.”
A deep sound rumbles from Ben’s chest. He lets go of his hand, his own flying up to frame your face. Your breath hitches, right as his lips slam against yours.
You’ve kissed Ben many times. He always does it like it’s going to be the last time he ever touches you. He’s demanding in how much you take, but never how much you give. Your mouth falls open in a moan, and he grunts, hauling you up his chest to deepen the kiss. It’s sloppy and wet, your fingers scrambling against his shirt to keep steady, but he doesn’t falter for a single second.
“Be- Ben-“
He grabs a handful of your ass, squeezing as his teeth drag over your swollen lips.
“Ben-“
“That’s right.” He grunts. “Say my name, I know you didn’t forget who fuckin’ owns you.”
God, you should shove him for that. But he knows what it does to you. He smirks, when your thighs clench and a soft whine escapes your lips.
Ben lands a sharp slap on your ass. It makes you keen, collapsing over his chest. You’re pulling at him, kisses uncoordinated and desperate—how did you ever survive without this, you’re not sure—as you try to further a kiss that’s already fusing you together by the mouth.
He doesn’t even come up for air.
“Oh- Fuck, Ben-“
He speaks against your lips, voice rolling in his chest.
“I know, doll. You believe me now, don’t you.”
“Ye- Yes-“
Another slap. This time he lets his hand drag lower, teasing over the crease between your thighs, then the hem of your shorts. Your hips buck into the featherlight touch. Ben grunts, short and tight.
“Dirty girl.” He mutters, starting to wander his kisses over your cheeks. “Say it louder. You fucking believe me.”
“I- Ooooh-“
You press your face into his neck, biting down a moan. The tips of his fingers are tracing your pussy through your shorts. You sink your nails into his shoulders, your breathing ragged as he starts to trace them back and forth.
“You what?” He teases, nipping at your ear. “Heard you start to say something doll, you already that stupid? I’m barely fucking touching you.”
“You- You’re touching enough.” You breathe out, squeezing your eyes shut. “More- Please-“
“More?” Ben snorts. “You’re always getting me on that fucking feelings shit, you don’t get more until you talk.”
You shake your head. “Ben, I- I can’t-“
“Can’t what? Can’t speak? Can’t say Ben, I believe you. ‘Cause trust me doll, when you do I’m going to touch you for real, and you’ll feel real fucking stupid for how you’re acting right now.”
Ben rips clean through your shorts, and thick, warm fingers start to rub the lips of your pussy. He scissors two fingers, pressing them just upside your core, then dragging back and forth. It’s all pressure and not enough friction. It’s going to drive you out of your mind.
“Come on, baby, where’d all that fucking spunk go-“
“You- Benjamin-“
“Uh oh.” He laughs. “I’m in trouble.”
The tips of his fingers graze your clit. You whine, grinding back into the touch, and Ben grabs your pussy with a single hand. He’s covering it completely, pinning you to his chest, and you moan so loud you think it echoes.
“Think you’re going to forgive me?” He mutters in your ear. “Think I’m not dead fuckin’ serious, when I tell you that I’m back. That I want you, all of you, and I’d kill people to have it.”
“I- I don’t want you to kill anyone.” You breathe, dazed and drunken on him.
Ben chuckles, kissing right under your jaw.
“I know you don’t, pretty girl. And I’ll go on the damn leash if you’re yanking me, but I’m not letting you drop me. We go, we go together, you fucking remember that. We get out. You gonna get out with me?”
“Ben-“
“I’ll take care of you.” He mutters. His hand starts to move again, torturously slow. “I’ll be real fucking good to you, swear it. Swear it on you.”
Two fingers slide over your pussy, spreading your arousal on his fingertips. A slow, breathless sigh of escapes your lips, and Ben lets you have this. He teases those fingers over your cunt a few times, then slowly pushes one of them in. You gasp, wrapping your arms around his neck. Just his finger is the biggest stretch of your life.
“I know.” He kisses under your ear, pressing it further in until he’s at the knuckle. “It’s a lot, isn’t it. But you’re doin’ so fucking well. Sweet fucking pussy, all wet and tight for me.”
“Mmmh.”
“Say it’s for me.” He demands, crooking them so they hit a soft little button you’re never able to find yourself.
“Ben-“
“Say it.”
“S’ for you-“ You take in a sharp breath, when he starts to slowly pump them in and out. “All for you, Ben, I- I’m all-“
Your words break into a moan. He’s pressing back against that same spot, rubbing it until you’re squeezing around him before drawing shallowly out and slamming back in. Obscene sounds fill the room, and you didn’t even know you could get this wet.
It’s a grace. Ben’s finger is massive. You can feel every drag of him inside you, and you’re not sure how you’re managing to take it when you keep squeezing around him.
“How- How big is your dick?”
He barks a laugh, pulling your face back with his hand on the back of your neck. He kisses you slowly, matching the pace of his fingers moving inside you.
“You’ll see, baby.” He says. “Just need to be good.”
You pout slightly. “I am being good.”
Ben’s lips twitch. He kisses your forehead, then suddenly speeds his fingers up. Your back arches, hips grinding as you try to chase the feeling, but he holds you firm.
“Ben-“
“Say it.” He grunts, squeezing the back of your neck. “You wanna be so fucking good, say it-“
“I love you!” Your words come sudden and desperate. “I- I love- I love you, please-“
You almost scream, when his fingers stop moving. You grab his wrist, blinking in hopeless confusion. Ben’s jaw is clenched tight, his eyes wide and nostrils flaring.
Then you realize.
Shit.
“Ben, I- I didn’t-“
“You didn’t mean it?” He grunts, and you shake your head frantically.
“I didn’t mean to- I just- I missed you, and you said- And you were-“ You gesture frantically at his hand. His fingers, still buried deep inside you. “And I- You don’t have to-“
Ben moves, and your words turn into a squeal. You’re airborne, being tossed over his shoulder as he stands.
“Fuck- Benjamin, what are you-“
He slaps your ass, then drags two fingers back through your pussy. You close your eyes, biting your lower lip to stifles the moan at the perfect combo of pleasure and pain.
Ben spanks you again, his voice stern as he moves to his feet.
“Don’t fucking do that quiet shit. Let me hear you.”
His finger pushes back into your cunt, finding that spongey spot in a second. This time you let yourself moan fully, and you’re rewarded with a scraping kiss on your ass.
“There you go, baby. That’s what I want.”
You keen at the praise, and you don’t know why you bothered hiding it from him. Ben feels and see the flutter of your pussy and chuckles. Your knees are dragged together, forcing more pressure, making you tighter around his finger when he shoves it back in.
“Be- Ben-“ Your getting light-headed, from the combination of his touch and being upside down. “What- What’re we doing-“
“You’re telling me where the bedroom is.” He grunts, turning in a circle like a magic sign is going to appear. “Then I’m fucking you ‘till you can’t walk.”
“Oh- Okay.”
You grab a fistful of his shirt as he slaps your ass again, moaning when that fucking finger starts to pump once more. There’s a pressure building in your core, and the way he’s holding you is only making it worse. Like you’re just a toy, but still the most important thing in his life. He keeps kissing your thigh and ass while he fingerfucks you. Your exposed to the cold air, the window is open, but the warmth of his hand and body—the warmth of what he’s doing to you—is almost too much to handle.
“Bed, doll.” His reminder is gruff, but soft.
You nod, your tongue all loose and hopeless. “I- I um- It was- That way-“
You press on his shoulder, steering him towards the door and Ben slaps your pussy.
“Good girl.”
The praise and touch shoot through you like a drug. You think you might be about to cum just like this. Over Ben’s shoulder with barely any friction at all.
He kicks the door open, and marches into your room. You’ve never seen him so focused before. He lays you down on the bed with shocking care, before ripping at your clothing like a child on Christmas.
Ben whistles, when you’re fully exposed to him.
“Look at you, baby, can’t believe I was sleeping next to you for months and you wouldn’t let me touch.”
You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your breasts. “You didn’t earn touching. Only good, domesticated boys get that.”
Ben scowls, pulling off his shirt. “I’m a domesticated fucking man, doll.”
And you giggle. Because he’s so fucking stupid, but he’s here. You’d cry if there wasn’t a helium filled light, blooming through your body.
You still might cry.
Ben’s looking at you like you’ve lost your mind—and like he doesn’t care the slightest, he’s just mostly concerned—and you laugh more because you’re definitely going to cry. You’re going to cry during sex with Soldier Boy, and he’s still going to fuck you anyway.
“You know it’s not nice to start fucking laughing before a man takes his pants off-“
“I love you.”
You say it plainly, because it is. You love Ben. You have for so long, and it had been buried like treasure, but now he’s here. Now it gets to shine, and it’s far too bright to be ignored.
Ben looks shell-shocked. He’s panting like you punched him, but you’re not worried. He’s a big boy. He’ll be okay.
You both will.
“I love you,” you repeat, beaming up at him. “I love you so much, Ben, I-“
You giggle again, as he almost stumbles forward to kiss you. His massive chest envelops you, his kisses pushing you back into the mattress, and you meet him with everything you have.
Ben pulls back. Staring at you the same way he always has.
Like he’s found the last, greatest wonder of the world.
“Say it again.” He mutters.
“I love you.”
You offer it easily. It’s his to have.
And Ben seems to swallow it. His mouth closes, his tongue flicking over his lips, and you know that face.
It means he’s on a fucking mission.
“Here’s how this is going.” He grunts, fixing you with a glare. “You listen. I work. I’m tasting you,” he slaps your pussy again, lips twitching at the full body shutter it gives him. “Then you’re going to cum on my cock until you’re sobbing, and I’m going to keep fucking you until you can’t walk. You got that.”
You swallow and nod. Ben’s eyes narrow.
“You talk to me, sweetheart, I can’t read your fucking mind.”
“Got it.” You breathe, your legs spreading wide.
It’s a shameless offering. Ben slaps your pussy again, and you buck a little of the bed with a whine of delight.
“Hold onto something.” He winks, sliding slowly down your body. “I ain’t going fucking easy.”
You expect no less of him. And you’d be able to make that joke, if he didn’t lick a thick stripe up your pussy and make you shriek.
“Holy fuck-“ Your eyes roll back in your head, your hands clawing at the sheets.
Ben chuckles, the sound vibrating against you, and repeats the motion. Your thighs press together, but he shoves them back open with a single hand, settling fully down.
“No hiding from me.” He mutters, breath warm over your core. “Look at you, doll. Even prettier from down here, didn’t know that was fucking possible.”
You laugh breathlessly. “Kiss ass.”
“Gets me places.” Ben kisses the inside of your thigh, sucking softly.
His beard scrapes and tickles against you, his chin pressing where you need him and his nose bumping your neglected clit.
“Ohhhh.” You close your eyes, slowly running your fingers through his hair. “Oh God, Ben-“
He hums in approval, switching to match the mark on the other side. He’s let go of your thighs to grab everywhere else, rubbing your ass, your hips, your sides. He slides a massive palm over your abdomen, pinning you to be bed. You should know that’s a warning sign, but you’re too lost in the heat of his mouth.
“Ben...” You moan freely, covering his hand with one of yours.
He flips it over, and you thread your fingers together.
Another warning.
“That’s- Fuck-“
He blows on your clit, and shivers run up your spine. You don’t think you can take being teased any longer. Not right now.
“More, Ben, more-“
A dark, promising chuckle rumbles in his chest. You crane your neck to look at him, and realize your mistake too late.
He’d been waiting for you to ask. And now that you have, he’s not holding back.
Ben shoves his face fully between your thighs, lapping and sucking at your clit and soaked pussy like a man starved, and your mouth falls in a long, silent scream.
You’ve been eaten out before, but never like this. Ben’s going at you the same way he kisses you. The same way he does everything. With everything he has, and the mindset that less is a sin. If something is worth doing, he’s not going to slack.
And your pussy is under that full focus. It’s almost too much to handle.
Ben makes out with every sensitive spot, inside and outside. He licks and tongue-fucks, letting you squeeze around him and pushing your ass up to hit a better angle. He noses at your clit while he works on your gaping, leaking hole, then switches.
Soft, slightly chapped lips wrap around your clit, sucking on you with all the power of a fucking sex toy. His tongue flicks back and forth over and over again, building you into a whining, cloudy eyed frenzy. You scratch at his scalp and pull on his hair, but it just makes him moan, and now everything is vibrating.
Everything seems to make him moan. Ben grunt every time you jerk your hips, slamming them back down and squeezing your hand. He moans when you squeeze down on his tongue, when he brings you right up to the edge then stops at the last second, so you slam his shoulders in frustration.
Sometimes he laughs. And that’s even worse. It makes his massive arms—wrapped around your hips—flex, and it goads him into working you impossibly deeper. You turn your face, pressing it into the pillows. Ben squeezes your hand, dragging your clit between his teeth before pulling away for a single second.
“Eyes.” He grunts, and your attention snaps over.
“Be- Ben-“
“Watch me, doll.” He open-mouth kisses you clit, and you whimper. “That’s right, don’t you look away for a fucking second.”
Now that you’re watching, you couldn’t if you tried.
Ben goes back to his self-assigned job, and the sight is more lewd and sinful than any porno in the world. His massive shoulders roll and flex as he moves you how he wants. You can’t see his mouth, but you can see him moving his head with his tongue on your clit. He shakes it, playing the nerve bundle like a bop-it, and you’re right back up the edge again.
And again, Ben stops.
You almost scream, and Ben chuckles. He kisses your poor, throbbing clit all sweet, then goes back to slowly working his tongue against your entrance. You’re wound too tight. You think you might snap from just the wrong breath.
“Be- Ben-“ You pull his hair, trying to get him back up to your clit. “Ben, let me cum- I- I need to cum-“
He just moans again. You’re going to kill him.
“Please, I- I can’t take it-“ You moan, trying to squirm your body further onto his face. “God, Ben, I can’t- I need it so bad, please-“
Sharp, lust-blown eyes snap to yours. You whimper, giving him your best hopeless pout. It’s the one that usually gets him to cave. He laughs and shakes his head and gives you whatever you want, grumbling affectionately about how damn impossible you are.
But this time, he just smirks against your pussy. And you might have him wrapped around your finger, but he’s got you cornered.
Take it. He’d said.
You don’t think you have a choice.
“Look at you,” Ben drawls, kissing your clit. His beard drags. You whimper, eyes locked onto his.
The sounds earns you another kiss, and it makes you squirm. With how his eyes gleam, you’re worried he’ll just keep you like this all night.
“You’re close.” He mocks, rubbing his palm against your pussy. “So close, baby doll. I can fuckin’ see it, you’re about to cry.”
You glare at him, and he just grins.
“You think I’ll give a shit? Think I don’t want to see you break for me?”
He presses his hand down harder. You go to reach for it, but Ben grabs your wrist and pins it firmly next to him on the mattress.
“No touching.” He grunts. “Mine.”
Oh, that makes you clench around nothing. After, you’re going to force him to make dinner and maybe do taxes or drive a car to earn feminism points back, but right now everything is just Ben, lying between your legs, calling you his.
And he’s staring at your pussy, almost transfixed. You moan as his thumb rubs your clit, his hand rising up so he can watch you react. You can feel yourself, gushing and fluttering. Desperate for anything he can give you. You’ll beg more, you’ll take it however he wants, you just need more.
“Christ on a fucking cross.” Ben mutters, pressing his cheek into your thigh. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of pussies, doll.”
You shoot him a look. “Romantic.”
He rolls his eyes, pinching your clit between his fingers.
“Was going to say yours is the best, you fucking brat.”
You smile, cupping his cheek with trembling fingers. You’re seconds from exploding with desire, but you just want to hold him. Feel him, for only a little longer.
Something in Ben’s expression shifts. For the briefest moment, it softens. His shoulders relax, and the slow breath he lets out sounds like a release. He kisses the inside of your palm. His thumb pushing on your clit, dragging it back and forth in a steady, relieving rhythm.
But you’re too sensitive. You’re being worked back up too fast, and tears start to prick.
“Ben.” You breathe, fingers curling against his cheek. “Please.”
He smirks. There’s one last kiss on your clit, then another on your well-bruised thighs. He rises to his knees, slapping your pussy while one hand undoes his belt.
Ben chuckles, at the way you fully tremble from the hit.
“You fucking like that shit, don’t you.”
You shrug, watching his belt slide away. “Maybe.”
“You do. Can see it, you-“ He pushes two fingers back into your cunt, and you moan.
“Ben- Oooooh-“
He tosses aside his belt, spanks your clit, and grins triumphantly.
“Fucking felt that. You started pouring on me like a waterfall, you love it-“
You kick at his thigh, flushing and rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”
“Don’t think I will.” He drawls, going back to his pants. “Think I get to talk as much as I want, baby doll. You’re the one that’s going to be fucked all damn stupid.”
You had a smart, sharp retort.
It dies when Ben pulls down his pants, and you see his cock.
Of course he’s such an arrogant, smug ass. Endowed is too weak a word. He’s blessed. He’s got the most beautiful cock you’ve ever seen—thick and long in all the best ways, like it was handcrafted to give your pussy a heart attack—and with the look on his face, he fucking knows it.
“See something you like,” he grins down at you, stroking himself slowly.
“I… Um…” You lick your lips, crawling slowly up the mattress. “You’re very…”
You trail off again. You’re humping the sheets like an animal, forcing yourself not to just fucking touch yourself, but it’s impossible. He’s too… everything.
Ben laughs, prowling up over you.
“You’re fucking drooling.”
“You’re pretty.”
“I am not fucking pretty.”
“You are.” You roll your eyes, letting Ben drag you onto your back. “You’re so pretty, Ben, it’s bonkers.”
He grunts, settling himself above you. “Pretty is what you call a fucking show pony.”
“You are a show pony.”
That earns you a glower. You beam back in return, giggling at your own jokes.
“When we’re done, you should let me braid your- Oh my God-“
You grab at his shoulder, eyes going wide as Ben slides his cock into you with one, smooth movement. He drives right into your g-spot, dropping his hips so he’s pinning you into it. He grinds down, abs rubbing on your clit, and there it is.
That coil that had been building in you all night. Ben gets inside of you for ten seconds, and you snap.
You writhe and scramble under him, grabbing at his chest and trying to hide from the overwhelming orgasm ripping through your body. Ben grabs your jaw and forces your gaze back to his, still grinding down onto you as it drags on. You whimper, making garbled sounds of his name.
Ben kisses you, as you twitch through the last bits of it. You turn to limp putty, moaning into his mouth and shivering as he settles at being bottomed out.
“That’s what I wanted to see.” He mutters, nipping at your upper lip. “That’s what I fucking dreamed about.”
You whimper, and Ben laughs. He gives you a shallow thrust, and your eyes go wide.
“Don’t think I’m done with you yet, baby.” He teases, ghost his lips over yours. “We got a lot of fucking time to make up for, and you,” he gives another, sharper slam of his hips. “Are too fucking gorgeous to just give one orgasm.”
A strangled sound escapes your lips, and Ben grins.
“I know. But feel that,” he pulls all the way out, then slams back in. “Real good, isn’t it. Fuck, this pussy was made for me. Going to fuck you until my name is written on it, until it can’t even take anyone else.”
His logic is flawed, but you still moan. Hard not to, when you’ve got all the mass and power of him over you, driving in and out of you at a torturously slow pace.
“That’s my girl.” He coos, bumping your nose before going for a hot, sloppy kiss. “That’s a good fuckin’ cock slut for me, aren’t you.”
Your eyes fly open, your pussy clenching down, and Ben laughs. He starts to drill into you, knocking every bit of air from your lungs.
“Yeah, I know how you like it. My dirty baby, get off of me telling you that I own you,” he slams down, and tears burn at your eyes. “That I’m going to fucking wreck you, turn you into my fuck doll, my sweet little fucking whore.”
You moan, the shame only making the heat in your tummy build faster. Ben rises over you, hair pressed to his brow from sweat.
“That’s right. Take it, take this cock and thank me for it.”
He slides his thumb over your lips, pressing down ever so slightly as his cock fucks ruthlessly in and out of your pussy. You mewl, opening your mouth for him to take. Ben laughs, thick and breathless, and pushes his thumb in.
“Fucking- Christ-“ He groans as you start to suck. “You’re so fucking beautiful, and- Tight-“
He groans, fucking impossibly harder. The bed squeaks and shifts. You moan around his thumb, tears flowing down your cheeks.
“Crying for me, baby doll, so fucking desperate you’re going to cry for it- Shit-“
Your second orgasm hits suddenly. You clench down on Ben, making him groan loudly. His chest is tight with restraint, and you scratch at the muscle, whining around his thumb.
It’s so much. Too much. You’re stuffed so full, and you can barely breathe, and it’s perfect but you don’t know what to do with yourself but sob and moan.
“There you go, so tight and warm.” Ben’s babbling. You think he’s lost himself as much as you have. “Fuck, you’re going to be death of me if you keep lookin’ like that, gotta-“
You squeak as Ben pulls his thumb and cock out with wet sounds. There’s no time to protest the loss, though, before you’re being flipped onto your stomach and fucked within and inch of your life.
Ben drags your ass in the air, barely giving you a second to recover before he’s back to railing you into the mattress. You cum even faster this time, between the filthy words and deeper position.
“Greedy pussy can’t get enough, can she.” Ben grunts in your ear, his chest draped over your back. “You love it, fucking love being marked up and fucked like an animal. You fucking slut, bet that pretty mouth needs something to suck on again. Be you’ll look so pretty choking on my dick, to bad you look even fuckin’ better like this.”
You cum again with Ben’s thumb in your mouth, tears on your cheeks, and his body wrapped around yours. Then a third time, when he rises up and plays with your ass, shoving your head into the mattress to watch you cry and try to wiggle back on his cock.
After a while, you lose track of what position your in. You’re over him, then under, then pressed against the headboard and folded in half. You don’t know how he’s held himself off this long. You’re a boneless, oversensitive puddle made of countless orgasms, by the time Ben starts to rut and groan.
Ben finishes inside you, holding you firmly above him as his hips jerk up. You watch him come apart under dazed, tear-stained lashes. It’s the most beautiful sight in the world. He’s pumping into you, hot and jerking, dripping out of your pussy as just more and more comes. A wet sound fills the air, and you can see his own release stained over his abdomen as he just keeps going.
You think you pass out, after. You must, because when you come too, you’re lying on clean sheets and wearing Ben’s shirt. You stare at the ceiling for a while, still partially lost to the world.
You come back to earth, when Ben says your name. He’s coming out of the shower, bare-chested and glorious.
He gives you that small smile, and you return it without a thought.
“Feeling alright?” He mutters, climbing into bed at your side.
No pants. Unhelpful.
“Um-“ You stare at his cock, swinging between his thighs. Your mouth is watering. “You…”
“Jesus, woman.” He snorts. “I’m not trying to fucking break you, stop slobbering.”
“I am not slobbering-“
“Yeah, you fucking are.”
You stick your tongue out and try to roll away, but Ben’s right. He worked you. One movement comes with a whine, and suddenly you’re being pinned below Ben’s bare body.
“Rest.” He scolds, and you roll your eyes.
“You’re not my boss-“
“Yeah, but I love you, and I’m going to be real damn pissed if you hurt yourself.” He taps your jaw. “Rest.”
You blink at him.
And again, Ben just finds a way to make you feel more full.
“You love me?” You whisper.
He blinks. You don’t think he knows he said it.
“Of course I do-“
“Say it.”
He scowls. “You heard it, means I said it-“
“Say it again.” You give him that look. The pouty one.
This time, it’s going to work.
“Please?” You add.
Ben sighs, shaking his head, and glares at you like you’re the bane of his existence.
You might be. But he likes it, and he’s the one who’s going to be keeping you at the center of his universe.
“I love you.” He grunts.
You beam, and Ben kisses you with a labored sigh. It’s slow. Romantic.
Meant to remind you that you have time.
“Good boy.” You whisper, and he groans.
“You’re real lucky-“
“Yeah.” You cut him off, and he lets you.
He always lets you. Because he loves you.
“I am.”
✦End note: i dont care what he does in the show this is my emotional support old horny man✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
bruce wayne and clark kent at the same time | 18+
tw: cursing, smut, degrading kink, praise kink, nsfw mdni
Bruce's fingers dug into your hips hard enough to leave marks, his thrusts merciless as he pounded into you from behind. Your moans were muffled by Clark's cock as he thrusted into your mouth, not nearly as rough as Bruce's thrusts. "That's it, take our cocks like a fucking slut." Bruce growled, his palm landing a sharp slap to your ass. You yelped, jolting forward, which only made you take Clark's cock deeper down your throat.
Clark's fingers threaded through your hair gently, the feeling drastically different from the way Bruce was gripping your hips. "Fuck, you're doing so well baby. You're so pretty like this." He groaned as he looked down at you. You looked up at him through your lashes, face tearstained and messy with mascara, lip gloss smudged on your cheek, saliva dripping down your lips and chin.
Bruce let out a dark chuckle, his hips snapping forward roughly, causing your cunt to squeeze his length. "Look at her Clark, can't even decide which cock you like more. Fuck, you just love cock so much, don't you, dirty little slut." He growled as he gripped your ass, kneading the flesh in his large hands.
Clark's thumb brushed along your cheekbone, gently wiping away a stray tear. His hand tightened in your hair softly, helping guide you along his length. "You're so perfect," he murmured, voice thick with affection. "Love seeing those pouty lips stretched around my cock, sucking my cock so well." He groaned when your tongue flicked the underside of his shaft. "God, you're fucking mouth is so perfect. So fucking perfect." He whimpered, his pace becoming choppy, signaling that he was close.
Bruce's grip on your hips tightened even more, his rhythm turning erratic as he grunted through clenched teeth. "Gonna fill this greedy cunt up," he snarled, fingers biting into your skin. "Gonna breed this cunt until you're dripping for days. Make sure you remember who owns this perfect fucking pussy." His hips jerked against you a couple more timed before he stilled, his cock twitching deep inside of you, warmth flooding you as he filled you up with his seed. He pulled out, the sound obscenely loud. You whimpered when his fingers threaded through your hair roughly, thrusting you onto Clark's cock. "C'mon, choke on his cock. Make him cream down that pretty throat." He growled.
Tears sprang in your eyes once again as you looked up at Clark. Bruce's grip caused you to take Clark all the way, your nose pressing against his stomach as you gagged. Clark's fingers loosened Bruce's grip in your hair, easing you up just enough so you could breathe comfortably around his cock. "Easy, sweetheart." He murmured, his hips rocking shallowly, the head of his cock dragging against your tongue. "You don't have to take it all, it's okay baby. Just take as much as you can handle, sweet girl."
"You're fucking pathetic. Can't even take him down your throat properly?" Bruce laughed mockingly, his fingers tracing a line down your spine before landing another sharp slap to your ass. The feeling was dizzying, having Bruce degrade and humiliate you while Clark whispered soft praises, his touch gentle compared to Bruce's manhandling.
Clark's breath hitched as you hollowed your cheeks around him, his fingers twitching in your hair. "Christ, you feel amazing." He choked out, his thrusts growing sloppy. "Fuck, I'm gonna cum baby." He groaned, voice wrecked. You moaned around him, urging him on. Clark groaned loudly, thighs tensing as he came down your throat. You continued to suck his cock, helping him through his orgasm.
"Look at her, still trying to suck you dry. Little fucking cockslut, isn't she?" Bruce chuckled darkly.
Clark pulled out of your mouth with a wet pop, his cock glistening with your spit, a string of it connecting your lips to his cock. You gasped when Bruce flipped you around so you were now facing him. He stroked his length a few times, his cock covered in your mixed arousal. "Now you're gonna take my cock down your throat like a good fucking girl while you let Clark fill that greedy little pussy up with more cum. Understood?" He asked as the head of his cock brushed against your lips. You nodded, looking up at him, your eyes watery and your lips puffy, but you still wanted more. Needed more. Bruce smirked. "Good girl, because we're not done with you yet."
❀ end note: i looove soft dom clark and mean dom bruce so much. this dynamic drives me feral. i have more planned for these two so stay tuned! 🤭🙈
❀ if you liked this fic then i would really appreciate it if you liked, or commented, or reblog it! thanks for reading! ❀
A/N: I headcanon that Jacob Black is a SLUT for some good ole fashioned breeding
“Don’t. Please, just.. Just open the door.” He panted, his arm resting against the doorframe. His eyes were drowning in tears and something you couldn’t name.
Uncomfortableness? Distaste? Pain?
“I’m..I’m not even supposed to be here. Billy, he- my dad, he told me–” He licked his red lips. They were puffy, swollen, bloodied. It was like he was chewing on them out of hunger or something. “He said it would be a bad idea. That I should just.. Ride it out.”
The way he stared at you, his eyes devoured yours. It was like if he looked away, you’d disappear.
Sweat dripped down his forehead and his tears dripped down his cheeks and onto the wood flooring on your porch, leaving wet stains at your feet.
His chest rose up and down in shallow breaths, the muscles in his arms flexed as though it was painful. It was now you had realized that he was sweating through his white tank top.
It was completely soaked and stuck to his tan skin, his abs tensed with each inhale, and the more you stared, the more his breathing would stutter. His black sweatpants seemed normal, although you could probably guess that they were damp with sweat too.
“P-please, baby.” He whined and more tears streamed down his face.
Oh. That’s new. This is so different from his usual ignorance.
Usually, he’s attitude filled, arrogant. He ignores whatever advice or opinion you have. Usually, he’s rude.
Now, he’s needy. Begging at your feet to enter your home. Pleading for your mercy and your touch. Jacob Black is filled with–
Hunger. The same thing in his eyes.
“Please. Just, just touch me. Talk-talk to me. Say something, anything. I’ll… I’ll be so good for you.” He sniffled, his fist clenching and his nails digging into his palms like he needs to distract himself from some kind of pain.
“I’ll-I’ll be a good boy. I’ll do anything you tell me, any-anything you want. Please, p-please, please. Just touch me.”
And that is how you got to where you were now.
Pressed against your hallway wall as Jacob tore his shirt off and kissed your jaw feverishly.
His hands clawed at your pajamas, his fingers making their way under your shirt and slowly dragging themselves up your sides, causing goosebumps to raise on your skin.
He mouthed at your neck like he was starving and he breathed in your scent. It was faint, but he could smell your perfume. The sweet smell of roses and the soft smell of coconut milk. It always made him crazy.
The first time his and your parents introduced you both to each other, you were just children.
Freshly starting middle school, barely starting puberty. It was the end of summer and you were helping your parents move into the neighborhood, moving boxes and going up and down stairs. It was hot outside, and you were sweating like crazy.
When he first picked up hints of your scent when his dad made him shake your hand, he knew you were going to be a problem for him.
And then he caught the smell of your perfume on his hand when he went home, and he realized he needed to ask his dad why his stomach felt like it was eating itself.
“Can you, can you take this off? Please, I-I can’t, I don’t-” He was a total mess. You pitied him. His hands climbed out from under your shirt and he tugged on it, barely backing away from you to let you take it off.
When you took it off and your bra, his hands and lips were immediately back on your skin like they belonged there.
“Jacob, honey, slow down.” Your eyes fluttered when his teeth scraped against your sternum. He made sure his lips touched everything they could as his head dipped lower, catching your breast in his mouth.
You gasped and your hand instinctively reached up to grab his hair. He groaned and a spark blew up in his stomach. He sucked harder, lapping at your nipple like if he sucked it enough, it’d produce milk.
His hips rutted up into yours without thinking and his eyes rolled back into his head when you gasped.
He detached from your nipple with a pop, his lips puffy and covered in drool.
Jacob dropped to his knees and kissed his way down your chest and to the waist of your pajama pants, his fingers hooking into the waistband of it and your underwear.
“Please, ma’am? Can I please eat you out?” He kissed just below your belly button and looked up at you, tears brimming his sweet brown eyes once again. “I’ll be so good for you.”
He looked at you like you hung the stars. You honestly didn’t even know if he could see anymore with all of the tears puddling up in his eyes.
It took your breath away, made your heart beat faster. All you could do was nod and let him take the reins.
Your clothes were off before you even realized he moved. You were completely bare to his eyes, and now it was his turn to have no words.
You were beautiful.
His hands rubbed softly up and down your legs while he stared at you, admired you. Could this be love?
He didn’t want to think about it too much when he could just enjoy the moment. And enjoy it he did.
Jacob licked a stripe up your center and groaned– no. He growled. He needed more of you.
His head made its way between your thighs, and you clenched them around his face. You didn’t mean to, but when you tried to spread your legs, his hands grabbed your outer thighs and put them right back where they were.
If he was going to die, he wanted it to be this way.
His head moved up and down your heat, his tongue catching on your clit and sucking on it harshly. It was your turn to cry, and you’d sob any time his lips wrapped around your bud.
Your sounds were like if angels reached inside his head and pulled out the song he loves and made it come from you. You were the best thing he had ever had in his grasp.
But he felt like he wasn’t close enough to you.
You, on the other hand, were quite close. Your chest was heaving up and down, and the coil in your belly was starting to tighten. “Jake, I’m so close. Please, I’m-”
His hands wrapped around your legs and he pulled them onto his shoulders, making you lock your legs behind his head. His hands moved to your ass and lifted you up on his shoulders against the wall while he stood.
That was your breaking point. You screamed while his tongue dipped as far as he could reach it into your hole and the coil snapped. You slouched over his head and panted, fingers tight in his hair while he continued to lick you clean.
Jacob didn’t stop. In fact, he only quickened his pace.
He breathed your scent in like it was air, drank you like you were water, ate you like you were his last meal. No matter how many times you tried to push his head away, he only pushed you against the wall more and lapped at you like you were nectar gifted to him from the gods.
His face was soaked in your slick, eyes still draining with hot tears, and he kept moaning.
If anything, it was like he got more pleasure out of this than you did. Every time he could feel your walls clench against his tongue, his hips bucked into the hair and he whimpered.
He wouldn’t stop and couldn’t stop. He needed you. He needed everything you could give him.
“J-jake, no more.” You almost couldn’t finish your sentence when he whined out a sob and pulled you impossibly closer, burying his tongue as far into your hole as he could.
You were starting to see white again, and you felt like your voice was ripped out of you when you threw your head back and came, grinding against his face and pulling him closer.
Your eyes opened and suddenly you were on your back on your bed in your room and he was ripping off his tank top and rushing his sweatpants off of his body.
His grey boxer briefs were soaked with pre-cum in the front and his bulge looked like it was about to rip open the fabric.
You bit your lip and stared back at his eyes, and he searched through yours. His eyes were filled with a fire that could never be put out.
They drank in every inch of you, your body, and your soul. He could see you.
“Here. Let–let me help you.” He suddenly went to the drawers under your bed and pulled out all of the extra blankets you’d use in the harsh winters. You tilted your head, muttering a soft ‘what?’
He could smell you on them. Your perfume, your shower products. Everything. He could smell you everywhere in your room and it intoxicated him.
Jacob surrounded you in the blankets and your pillows, your clothes from your closet and hampers and his clothes, trapping you in a… a nest of fabrics. Fabrics that were yours and his.
This was where he wanted to be forever. With you, surrounded by you. With you there, too.
He looked at you with his chest puffed, sniffling and breathing hard. Inspecting the sheets and making sure they were where they should be.
It made you laugh, how much time he had just taken into making this pile of sheets. He looked at you in confusion, and tilted his head to match yours.
Jacob Black looked like a sweet puppy who was so very lost.
“Come here.” You called, reaching your arms out. If he had a tail, it would definitely be wagging.
He crawled into the bed, careful not to mess up any of the sheets, climbed on top of you, and kissed you.
He was gentle, his hand rested softly against your throat, and tender. After practically throwing you against the wall, he was so delicate. Jacob pulled away, a worried look on his face.
“Are.. are you sure you want this? I won’t be able to stop.”
“So don’t stop.” You put your hands on his chest and kissed his jaw. “I want everything you’re willing to give me.”
He was out of his boxers soon after.
Jacob rubbed a careful finger against your slit and you hissed. It felt so good, too good. You held him closer to you and rested your head on the side of his neck and mouthed at it.
He sighed and slipped his middle finger inside of you with ease, pushing in and pulling out. He kept it up for a minute before adding another finger, and another. You were whining into his ear now, rocking back and forth against his hand.
“Jacob..” You whispered, and a shiver ran down his spine. He pulled his hand away and you chased it before he moved his fingers to his mouth and sucked, gazing into your eyes while he did.
He licked them clean and interlocked his fingers with yours with his other hand. His lips caught yours again, and he reached down and tapped your thigh.
You spread your legs and wrapped them around his waist, sighing into his mouth. He grabbed his cock, lining it up with your hole. You pulled away from him and rested your head on his shoulder, softly biting it. He waited for the go ahead, and you nodded.
He started with the tip, slowly pushing it in. You moaned and bit harder, which caused a guttural groan to come from his chest.
He rocked his hips back and forth to let you get used to the stretch of his head before he went deeper, slowly pushing it in further, and constantly pulling back to the tip when he’d get further.
You didn’t even notice him bottoming out until he stayed there, softly grinding his hips into yours.
You were drooling all over his shoulder, eyes rolled to the back of your head, tongue lolled out and panting.
He chuckled when he felt you moan something almost incomprehensible against his skin, something along the lines of “deeper.”
Kissing the side of your head, he almost completely slipped out, and you gave him your first whine of the night.
At least, until he shoved himself right back inside, this time, finally thrusting in and out of you.
It completely took your breath away and you couldn’t do anything other than look at his back muscles while he pounded into you like an animal.
He didn’t stop, and only sped up more and more as he growled, groaned, and whimpered. You were almost too fucked out to notice, but you did feel that it was harder for him to bottom out completely when he pounded into you. He got whinier, his voice broke more, and his hips were starting to stutter.
You had moved yourself to look at your stomach and saw the giant bulge from his cock moving in and out. He was so deep it felt like he was rearranging your guts and almost hitting your cervix, just how you wanted him. You had looked further down and finally saw it.
There was a swelling bump at the base of his cock and it was growing. And that definitely made you come to your senses.
“Jacob, baby, slow down.”
He cried out, hips stuttering as he did what you said, although not stopping.
“When you said..you were just gonna ride it out.. Whatever it is. Did you fail to mention that you were in a rut? And that that’s why your father told you not to come here?” You gritted your teeth and pulled his hair to look at you, and he gasped and licked his lips.
“I..I need you so badly. I can’t go another season without your lips on mine. I–I should have told you, a–and I understand if you hate me. But please–” His voice broke and the tears were back, and his hips humped against yours, his bottom lip quivering and his cock twitching inside of you. “Please. Let me breed you.”
You put your hands on his shoulders and flipped him over so that he was under you. Jacob huffed out a sigh of relief when you straddled him and locked your legs around his waist.
You clawed your nails down his chest and his abs until you reached the base of his dick and lifted yourself up to line it back into you. He moaned and gripped his hands onto your hips and sobbed, pathetically trying to put himself back inside of you.
You slowly lowered yourself down onto him, holding back your moans.
He was vocal for you, though. Telling you he was going to be so good and that you wouldn’t regret it. When you reached his knot, you didn’t immediately put it in, and instead slowly bounced up and down while he cried.
You were already almost at another climax, and you rubbed your finger against your clit quickly and clenched against him while you dragged yourself up and down.
“Please, please just put it in.” He pleaded.
“Beg for it.”
“Please, please, please. I’ll be such a good boy. I’ll be so good for you, so good for you, mommy.” Oh.
“Just let me treat you right, please just give me a chance, let me fuck you. Mommy, mommy please I need it so bad– I need you so bad. Only you, only you can make me feel good. Please, mommy.”
He choked when you slammed down from the tip to the knot and came around him, and he hit his own climax.
He was so loud that you had to cover his mouth with your hand while you slapped your other hand around yours and moaned.
Your legs were shaking and eventually gave out, and you fell against his body while he kept going. His load didn’t stop once, and he bred you as he promised.
He filled you up completely, and if it hadn’t been for his knot, he would’ve had it dripping out of you and all over your bed.
You nestled against his chest and he wrapped his arms around you, playing with your hair.
“I can’t wait to shower after this.” You sighed and closed your eyes, your cunt still pulsing against his cock. He let out a laugh that reverberated through his chest and smiled sweetly at you.
“Yeah, you’re not leaving this room until my knot is settled and my rut is done.”
You lifted your head and propped yourself up with your hands on his chest, an eyebrow raised. “When is it done?”
huge size kink with jacob and it shows. bella seeing jake w/ his imprint and his hand cups the back of her head easily
anon baby!!! you read my whole mind !!
──── ꒲ nsfw size kink drabble w jacob . . . ❜ ﹗
his hand’s at the back of your head again, fingers spread wide, cradling you like you’re something breakable—but his hips are anything but gentle.
he’s massive—every part of him. his hand alone spans the whole base of your skull, thumb brushing your jaw, pinky near your spine, like your head fits in his palm by design.
you’re already shaking.
already breathless from how deep he is.
and still, he pushes in slow, like he’s trying to savor the way you stretch around him, split open on something way too big to take all at once—but god, you do.
❝fuck, baby, look at you,❞ he groans, voice thick with awe, palm firm behind your head like a brace. ❝taking all of it. taking me.❞
and it’s true—jacob’s dick is huge, impossibly thick, the kind that makes your breath hitch just from the weight of it, the kind that makes you feel him for days. he fills every inch, presses against every spot like he was built just for you.
you cling to him, thighs trembling, nails biting into his shoulder as his hips grind up again—slow, deep, devastating.
somewhere nearby, someone shifts—a tent flap, maybe, or a twig cracking underfoot—and jacob grins, doesn’t even stop.
just cups your head tighter, shields you with his body, and says loud enough for anyone passing by,
❝she’s mine. this perfect little pussy, these sounds, every inch of her—mine.❞
and when your back arches, when your body clenches down tight around him, he laughs—low, smug, breathless.
❝yeah? that feel good, sweet thing? no one fucks you like I do. no one fills you like this.❞
you can’t even speak. can’t think. all you can do is hold onto him while he fucks you slow and deep, one hand on your hip, the other cradling your head like you’re precious even while he ruins you.
and then, soft—so soft, just for you, lips brushing your temple—
thinking about how you accidentally slapped clark when he was fucking you. f!reader
in the heat of the moment when everything just felt like so much, your palm reached to hold his face— just to see him reach his peak with you because you know how much he loves watching you cum around his cock.
But instead, you land a slap to his cheek. it’s sharp. almost a sting because of how unexpected it was. and for clark? it’s such a thrill. he gasps and stills his hips from emptying his throbbing cock inside of you, looking you dead in the eyes.
you almost think you’ve hurt him and you open your mouth to blabber a string of apologies until he stops you. he interrupts you with a plain, “do that again.”
you’re shocked. confused, even. but he repeats himself, loud and clear.
“baby. please do that again.” he whines, hoisting you to switch your positions, placing you on top of him without a single struggle, still perfectly snug inside your cunt.
you look down at him, hands on his heaving chest— incredibly turned on, by the way. and so is he considering how much more his dick has impossibly stiffened in your warm heat.
“are you sure, clark?”
he huffs - almost impatiently and nods, hands palming on the fat of your thighs, waiting for it.
you take in a breath and raise your palm to his face. half of you feels guilty, and the other half feels like you’ve made a new revelation. you raise your hand, placing a small, careful smack to his pretty face, holding your breath for whatever reason.
he breathes in, eyes closed. then he opens them again and looks at you like you’ve genuinely hurt his feelings. “No. harder. want you to do it harder. baby, you cant hurt me.” he reassures you and you do it again. sometimes you forget he’s the man of steel.
this time, you slap him more harsh, your palm making a loud and sudden impact on his cheek. It stings— like a white-hot heat. and he loves it. he revels in it. his hands grip tight on your thighs as he whines, bucking his hips up and spurting his cum inside you for the first time that night. honestly, its pathetic. and the worst part is, he follows it with a thank you.
so of course— naturally, you continued. with every strike across his face, you found it in yourself to make fun. and clark loved every second of it. every time you pretended like he was filthy for finding pleasure in it, his dick would twitch inside you, coating your walls with his pre while you fuck yourself on his nearly solid cock. “holy shit clark, you like this? you’re insane.” “gonna cum from this, baby? really? Jesus.”
and every time you stole little kisses on the side of his forehead to silently remind him that you love him, he whines like a bitch in heat, tears running down his cheek, all because it feels so good.
when clark really cums, he shuts his eyes so hard, he sees white and blabbers mindless thank you’s and i love you so much’s while he fills your cunt with his cum, causing his whole body to shudder, his cheeks a pretty pinkish-red from your soft palm. and soon you follow. velvet, slick walls gripping him snug as you cum around his cock.
and the next night, clark is asking you to do the same thing to him all over again.
ミi hear you like magic? i've got a wand and a rabbit!
🍓 pairing: simon "ghost" riley x fem reader
🍓 tags: nsfw, size kink, virgin!reader, oral sex, vaginal sex, rough(?) sex, some mild second-hand embarrassment perhaps, sex toys, edging, failed masturbation attempts, ghost takes your virginity and also maybe ruins you for literally anybody else ever again
masterlist
reblogs are always enormously appreciated!
The ceiling over your head is drab grey and water-stained, the old paint peeling away in strips. It’s an ugly sight, but you barely see it; you’re too busy trying to catch your breath.
The sheets beneath you are uncomfortably damp with your sweat, but you don’t have the energy to roll over just yet. You feel hot and itchy with frustration, and you scowl up at the ceiling above you as your fingers curl into fists. But even though you feel like laying in your now grubby-bedding for the rest of the evening, you can’t let yourself wallow. There’s going to be a knock on your door any minute, and this is not a position you want to be found in.
With an irritable groan, you haul yourself off the bed and to your feet. Your muscles ache and you feel too warm, but you reach for your clothes anyway. The worn cotton of your shirt feels scratchy against your skin, but maybe that’s just because you’re still over-sensitive and irritable.
You can never quite bear to look at the aftermath of what you’d been doing, so you avert your eyes as you gather up the bright silicone and plastic devices littering your mattress. It’s embarrassing now that the adrenaline has worn off and disappointment is beginning to set in, so you end up gathering them all up more roughly than necessary.
The term ‘toy’ seems incongruous to you. It sounds too childish, too immature. It makes you sound like a stupid kid, as though you aren’t a young adult past twenty fumbling your way through sexual self-exploration. It’s embarrassing, and much more frustrating than you ever would have predicted – despite all of your clumsy, desperate attempts at pleasuring yourself, you’ve never quite managed to reach that peak of pleasure you’ve heard other people talking about.
You grumble quietly to yourself as you try to wipe away the sticky lube that’s still coating your thighs. Your muscles are a little achy from all the tensing you’d been doing trying to come with that stupid vibrator, not even accompanied by the satisfaction you had been hoping for.
It’s not as though you’ve never gotten the opportunity to experiment with others; you’re not unforgivably ugly, you don’t think you have a bad personality, and for the past few years you’ve been surrounded by military men that certainly aren’t known for being picky. And it certainly isn’t like you haven’t received your fair share of offers.
It just never seemed right. You’re not overly concerned about ‘saving’ your virginity or anything like that; it’s just that putting yourself into such a vulnerable position is scary. You’re aware of the irony, of course, that you’d trust many of these people with saving your ass from catching a bullet in the field, but allowing someone to see you so intimately feels like a step too far.
You’re still sweaty and flustered and naked when a knock sounds from your door, and you freeze. The doorknob turns, but doesn’t open; in that moment, you’re deliriously grateful that you had turned the lock – it’s something that you’ve forgotten to do on far too many occasions.
“Lass, you in there?” Oh god, it’s Soap.
Cursing quietly to yourself, you jolt into action. Your pants are crumpled at the bottom of your bed where you had shed them, and you hurriedly gather them up and struggle your way back into them.
“Gimme a minute!” You yell, praying he doesn’t notice the somewhat frantic edge to your voice.
You stagger slightly as you worm your way into your pants, and then lunge to grab the stupid dildo you’d just been trying to use. You feel your skin prickle with humiliation as you try to force the stupidly large silicone cock into your already full underwear drawer, jamming it shut roughly to hide it from sight. You don’t want to even imagine what Soap might have to say if he were to see what you had been doing; you think you might have to go full deserter mode and abscond into the wilderness.
“Did ye forget about drinks?” Soap’s drawl carries through the thickness of the door. He doesn’t sound even slightly put out – if anything, he sounds a little amused.
You pause, close your eyes, sigh. Fuck. You had not, in fact, forgotten about drinks, you just thought you had more time.
“No, I– just a minute!” You yell back, shoving your shoes on and trying to fix your hair.
You had completely lost track of time, and now you don’t even have time to rinse your sweat-damp skin off – you’re going to have to sit through drinks with the squad all grimy, like a physical reminder of what you had been up to for the last two hours.
When you finally unlock the door and wrench it open, Soap is standing on the other side tapping a staccato rhythm on his thighs with his open palms. He’s dressed casually in just blue jeans and a black muscle shirt, and he gives you a look of semi-disbelief.
“What the hell were you—”
“Gym.” You interrupt, landing on the only explanation you can think of for your sweaty skin and messy hair.
Soap blinks, but apparently decides it’s not worth the effort to continue that line of conversation. He just shrugs, then turns and starts making his way down the hall, slowing his pace for you to catch up.
You exhale; Soap can be like a bloodhound when he suspects there’s gossip to be had, and you’re relieved to have dodged a round of his relentless questioning. You suppose he can be surprisingly tactful sometimes, and he knows you well enough not to press you. Or, perhaps it’s because you come across as such a non-sexual being that it doesn’t even occur to him that there may be another explanation.
There’s an unofficial tradition that when the squad is on base, everyone gathers in the sparsely decorated recreation room for drinks and card games on Thursday evenings. It usually makes for an enjoyable night; Gaz and Soap can always be trusted to supply whatever bottles of alcohol they’ve managed to get their grubby little hands on, and it’s always amusing to watch Captain Price get increasingly more irate as Soap pretends not to understand the rules of whatever card game they’re playing. The whole illicitness of having contraband on base only makes the whole thing more exciting; the CO’s on base often turn a blind eye to the activity, so long as it’s kept under control.
But tonight, you’re distracted.
The others had offered a bit of good-natured ribbing when you and Soap had turned up late, but before long you’re all settled in a loose circle on the poorly-stuffed couches in the corner of the room. Gaz has already unstoppered a bottle of bourbon, and is attempting to convince a visibly unimpressed Price to play a game of Kings with them. You curl up on one of the worn-out couches opposite them, watching with a small if slightly stiff smile.
The atmosphere is relaxed and pleasant, almost enough to make you forget about the irritating buzz of unfulfilled arousal under your skin. You shift, trying to keep your movements small, subtle, to avoid the notice of your team. Your denim jeans are nowhere near as comfortable as usual, and you wonder briefly if you should have simply worn your cargo pants just to avoid the harsh friction of the denim.
You sit there feeling… unmoored. You fidget, drink your smooth bourbon in sips in an attempt to avoid wincing, and try not to look as obviously out of place as you feel. It’s been like this, recently. Joining the task force has been an accomplishment for you, a source of immense pride – you’re the youngest member (just narrowly beating Gaz for the title) and a woman to boot, and though the squad has never treated you any differently it’s hard to kick the belief that you have something to prove.
You engage in conversations the best you can, but you’re distracted and you know it must be obvious. Your preoccupation gets you a couple of furrowed brows and glances, but there seems to be an unspoken agreement to give you some space.
You don’t even realise the extent of your distraction until a big body settles down on the loveseat next to you, and you jolt. True to his name, Ghost had appeared near silently, escaping your notice until he lowers himself down to sit next to you.
And damn, you forget how big he is sometimes. It’s an average sized loveseat, but the lieutenant takes up over half of it. He’s obviously being mindful not to consciously crush you, but he’s not being overly cautious when it comes to avoiding touching you. He’s dressed unusually casually, and his thick, muscled thigh is wrapped in blue denim as it presses carelessly against yours.
“You alright?” He asks, his voice low and smooth as he nudges your knee with one of his big knuckles.
You haven’t been a member of the task force for long, but you would know Simon Riley by his hands alone, by the earthy salt-spice in your nose as he leans a little closer to peer at your face. You tilt your head up, unable to stop the small reflexive smile that breaks over your face at the sight of him.
“Yeah.” You breathe, hurriedly straightening up where you’re sitting. “Yeah, sorry. Just thinking.”
His sudden proximity isn’t doing your current state any favours, and you take a quick sip of your drink in an effort to collect yourself. It’s taking a herculean effort not to stare at the way his biceps are bulging against the straining material of his black cotton t-shirt.
“What’re you thinking about?” Ghost asks as he stretches out his legs with a tired groan. The sound is gruff and gravelly, and you feel blood rush uncomfortably to your cheeks.
“Nothing.” You say quickly.
He doesn’t believe you, that much is obvious, but Ghost never pushes and he rarely speaks more than he has to. He just gives you a glance, brief and knowing and far more penetrating than it should be, before turning his head back so he can watch the boys playing their card game. He’s holding a crystal tumbler filled with dark amber liquid, but he hasn’t yet pulled his mask up to drink from it.
Your eyes drop to the thick, pale scars that mar the backs of his hands. You trace the path of the scar tissue, eyes lingering around the thick knuckles and broad palms, the way that he holds the glass so casually confidently. He’s got nice hands, probably made all the more attractive by the fact that you hardly ever get to see them. Seeing Ghost without his usual long sleeves and gloves makes you feel like a Victorian pervert snatching stolen glances at a passing lady’s ankles.
A quiet snicker causes your eyes to dart back to his face, and you’re mortified to find that he’s caught you staring.
“What’s got you in such a mood?” He asks. Even through the mask you can tell that he’s smirking, though it doesn’t feel as though he’s making fun of you.
“Just one of those days, I guess.” You say without meeting his eyes.
It’s an evasion at best, but Ghost nods ponderously as though he’s giving this great thought. His stare is penetrating, those big brown eyes watching you as though he can see right through you. Maybe he can. You try not to get too caught up staring at his pale eyelashes, darkened by smears of eyeblack.
“Did something happen?” He asks. The question is casual enough, asked as he lazily swirls his whiskey around in his glass, but his gaze is sharp and assessing.
“No.” You sigh, finally looking properly at him.
It’s a little frustrating, but the squad has been like this with you from the start – protective. Your whole military career has consisted of you veritably clawing your way up through the ranks, and you’ve been surrounded by coarse, gruff men that have underestimated you all your life. 141 is different – they don’t baby you, but the way they treat you is unmistakably softer than how they typically treat each other. The concern can be touching, if a little tiring sometimes.
And maybe it’s because he’s your lieutenant, but Ghost’s attention has always been just this side of overwhelming. It feels like you’re pinned beneath his dark eyes, his gaze somehow sharpened as he watches you from beneath his more casual balaclava, the skull pattern printed on his jaw adding another layer of intimidation. But his shoulders are relaxed as he sits next to you on the small couch, settling the weight of his attention over you like a blanket.
You’ve always respected him, admired him. How could you not? He’s practically a living legend, his reputation larger than life, and he’s scary as fuck. But he’s also softer than you had expected, gentle when he needs to be. He still rides you hard in training, pushing you to your limits and taking no quarter, but you can’t begrudge that. Not when you know he’s working to keep you alive. Perhaps that’s how the attraction had first bloomed; once it started, it was hard to stifle.
Ghost hooks one finger into his balaclava and pulls it up just high enough to expose his mouth, and he presses his glass to his lips to take a sip of his drink. You struggle not to stare like a moron, but he makes it so difficult. His lips are full and pink, and there’s a rugged scar bisecting his top lip. His stubble is dark blond and short, and it doesn’t hide the various scars and marks that decorate his strong jawline.
You almost jolt when he pulls the mask back down, hurriedly averting your eyes and forcing yourself to look out across the room. It’s not just the 141 that’s decided to take up in the rec room this evening; there are soldiers from other units littered all around the room, laughing and joking, playing lazy games of pool on the table in the corner and smoking. The smoke alarm has been jimmied off the ceiling and the window is open, and even Price is turning a temporary blind eye to the blatant disregard for regulations in favour of puffing on one of his cigars.
Ghost shifts on the worn-out fabric of the couch, and lays an arm over the back of the headrest behind you. It’s a casual, thoughtless movement, but it ends up pushing his body slightly closer to you in a way that makes you feel as though you’re about to catch fire.
You cross your legs, but the seam of your jeans presses into your pussy in a way that sends a frisson of heat up your spine. You hurriedly uncross your legs, and attempt to school your expression into casual neutrality as you force yourself to tune back into the conversation.
“–ach, c’mon, Captain,” Soap is saying in a wheedling tone that he probably thinks is endearing. “One round of strip poker won’t kill ya–”
“No.” Price says in a voice like thunder, brooking no argument as thick cigar smoke pours from his nose. It gives the impression of an enraged bull.
Soap either is ignorant to the warning, or is choosing to wilfully ignore it. Judging by the sly gleam in his eyes, you can guess which. He turns to you then, and waggles his eyebrows.
“C’mon, lassie, you’ll play, won’t ya?” He asks with a grin that promises trouble. “I guarantee you’ll be a sight better than any o’ these louts.”
“Speak for yourself,” Gaz pipes up, already grinning. “I was looking forward to seeing the Captain in his jocks–”
Price promptly knocks his drink back, before pushing himself up to his feet with a grim groan. “Right. That’s enough of you lot for one night.”
Gaz and Soap break into peals of laughter, settling back into their seats as they watch their captain march away.
“Offer’s still open, love,” Soap says, still snickering when he looks over to you. “Wanna play?”
Ghost shifts, his wide thigh knocking into yours as his arm stretches behind your shoulders. He lets out a short exhale through his nose, but when you glance up at him you find him as stoic and hard to read as always.
You just roll your eyes. It’s not the first time that they’ve tried to rope you into strip poker, and you’re sure it won’t be the last. You can always trust Soap to start stripping his clothes off when he’s three drinks in, whether he’s playing a game or not, so it’s not surprising that he tries to involve other people in his bad decision making.
And it’s not a big deal, really. There’s been countless missions and operations that have ended up with all of you staying in uncomfortably close quarters with each other. You’ve seen them naked countless times, and the same with them for you. It’s never meant anything, and you know that Soap’s teasing is exactly that – you don’t think they’ve ever once looked at you through any sexual lens at all.
But even still, the joke flusters you more than it should.
“Think I’ll be joining Cap in going to bed, actually.” You say, clearing your throat and setting your glass down on the low table in front of the couch.
The playful booing from Soap doesn’t do much to change your mind, and you stick out your tongue at him and Gaz as you push yourself up from the couch. You try to ignore the loss of heat at your side when you move away from Ghost, though you can’t help but glance back at the lieutenant. He’s not looking at you, his gaze directed into his glass. You try not to feel disappointed about that.
You say your goodnights, and retreat from the rec room.
By the time you make it back to your dorm however, you’re already playing the conversation back over in your head and wondering if you had made the wrong decision.
Perhaps you should have just played the damn game. Despite your inexperience with all things sexual, you’re not actually all that shy about your body. On missions, you and the squad are often forced into tight quarters, and they've all seen you in various stages of undress before. It's hard to be self-conscious around a group of people that have seen you at your worst, whether that’s soaked in blood, unshowered, sleep-deprived, or injured.
But you were so keyed up from your earlier failed attempts at masturbation that the thought of being so physically exposed in front of your squad is mortifying. It feels as though your unresolved arousal is still simmering through your veins, turning your thoughts slow and soupy and stupid.
It’s not so surprising. Your preferred method of dealing with stress is coming back to your private bunk and messing around with your vibrator until you’ve forgotten all of your problems. The problem is, you’ve never quite been able to reach that climax you’ve heard so many talk about.
It’s not for lack of trying, and it’s not as though you haven’t come close to that toe-curling finish you crave so much. But it’s like there’s some sort of block, something that always holds you back before you can go plummeting over that edge. Something that makes the buzzing pleasure dissipate before your eyes like smoke, leaving you worked up and so frustrated. It’s probably inevitable that all those ruined finishes have built up like sludge in your veins, leaving you slow and distracted and irritable.
You eye your underwear drawer thoughtfully as you perch on your bed, before reaching inside and drawing out the same dildo you had been using earlier. You wonder if it would be too much to try again tonight – the muscles in your calves still feel a little bit over-worked from training all day, and you have a feeling that straining in an attempt to reach an orgasm you’ll likely never attain will only make it worse.
But the thought of Ghost in that stupid tight cotton shirt stays firmly stuck in your mind, and that really makes the decision for you. Before you can think too much about it, you’re sliding your jeans off and climbing atop your mattress. The sheets are dirty anyway, after all. May as well have some fun before you change them.
You slide your panties off next, then kick them to the side. It’s difficult not to feel a little pathetic, but you push those feelings aside. So what if you have an embarrassing little crush on a superior officer? It’s not like that’s unusual within the military, and you’re quite certain that dealing with all that unresolved attraction like this is the most sensible thing you can do.
You fish out the bottle of lube you had been using earlier, and drizzle it liberally along the dildo’s length before setting it aside on the blanket. While you’ve used your dildo plenty of times, you still struggle to grow accustomed to the stretch of it. It’s a good dildo – a vibrating one in the rabbit style, designed to stimulate your g-spot and clit at the same time. It was damn expensive too, but it’s one luxury you’re willing to indulge in.
You close your eyes, slide it between your legs, and hit the power button. A low bzzz emanates from between your thighs; you jerk at the immediate barrage of pleasure, your abs tightening and your legs twitching apart, creating more room between them.
Your body is quick to react, sweat prickling under your armpits and your heart thudding quickly in your chest. You can feel electric pleasure coursing through you as you press it against your clit, your toes curling into your sheets.
You bring the vibrator lower, your clit throbbing a little at its sudden absence before you press it inside, sighing. It slips inside much too easily – you’re almost embarrassed by the easy slide. You’re so wet, both from your failed attempt at masturbation earlier and from sitting beside Simon fucking Riley all evening. It’s a deeper, subtler pleasure now, and you clench around it with a quiet moan.
You cycle through the vibrator’s different settings, making it buzz at odd intervals or lower intensities in your usual attempt to build up an orgasm. You wish, with sudden and mortifying clarity, that it could be replaced with a person. More specifically, a person with big hands and firm muscles that still have some soft give to them, and a toe-curlingly gravelly voice.
You squirm, shifting your hips to change the angle of the vibrator inside you. Without meaning to, you imagine Ghost. It’s hard not to, considering your close proximity to him all evening. Your cheeks heat as you imagine Ghost actually being here, watching you all still and silent with that penetrating dark-eyed stare of his.
You huff out a breath, arching off your bed. This is always the best part. You have to ensure that you relish the build up, before it all fizzles out from between your fingers. You whimper, soft and quiet, clenching around the stiff silicone as it buzzes away inside of you.
Right as you press the soft little vibrating bunny ears to your clit, there’s a knock on the door. Then, horrifically, like a scene from your fucking nightmares, your door opens.
“Kid, you–”
Ghost is already half-way through the door when he lays eyes on you, and then he goes completely still in your doorway.
“Fuck.” You hiss, scrambling to knock the stupid thing off.
You fumble for it, panicking. The end is slippery and you can barely manage to grip it. When you finally do, it’s difficult to pull out, your body still attempting to hold it inside. It’s another agonising few seconds to turn it off, the vibrator unfortunately featuring one of those awfully thought-out designs that makes you have to cycle through every single one of the settings rather than hit an off-switch.
And then, finally, silence.
Ghost is living up to his name right now; he’s as stock still and silent as a dead man, stiff as a board as he stares unblinkingly at you. You’re not even sure that he’s breathing, but you can see the whites of his eyes as he gapes at you, frozen.
You stare back at him blankly, hoping that your bed comes to life and swallows you whole just to put an end to your mortification.
At last, Ghost blinks, then finishes his sentence. “You left your phone.”
He lifts his arm. In his large, thick fist, is your stupid goddamn phone. You must have left it on the couch when you had gotten up to leave. You might have wondered at the lieutenant voluntarily bringing it to your dorm for you, but you’re hit with a wave of humiliation so strong that it wipes your brain completely blank.
“Ah.” You say, and your voice cracks. “Thanks.”
There’s a moment of mortifying silence, and then Ghost steps into your room. Your heart jolts right up into the base of your throat as he closes your door behind him. The click of the door is as loud as a gunshot in the silence that’s settled over the room.
Ghost still hasn’t blinked. He’s watching you with eyes that look almost black in the dim light of your room, intense as a predator.
“I–” You attempt to speak, and your throat clicks dryly. “I didn’t–”
Far too late, you realise that your legs are still splayed open. You snap them shut, inhaling a choked breath through your nose.
“I thought I locked the door.” You finish lamely.
Ghost apparently decides to simply disregard that, which you’re honestly a little grateful for. Instead he steps towards you – the enormous bulk of him feels as though he’s completely filling every bit of space in the room, sucking out all the damn oxygen.
“...‘S this why you were so distracted this evening, hm?” He says as he approaches the bed. “You were in a mood ‘cause you wanted to get back to playing with yourself?”
It’s not a question, exactly. At least, it’s not phrased like one. Ghost’s tone is knowing, with an undertone of gruff amusement. You’re certain that you’re not imagining the rough, breathless quality to his voice either, though the thought sends nerves fizzing through your bloodstream.
“No.” You deny uselessy; it’s plainly obvious what you were doing, after all. “No, I just–”
He doesn’t wait for you to finish. His eyes are still glued to you, even though your thighs are now pressed together. Before you can stop him, he reaches down and takes a hold of your hot pink vibrator where you had been trying to hide it beneath your thigh.
“Cute little thing.” He comments, tilting his head to look at the dildo hanging between his thick fingers.
Mortification burns through you. A panicked sort of screech escapes you and you yank it back out of Ghost’s stupid big hand, shoving it under the blankets.
Perhaps if it had been anyone else, your humiliation wouldn’t be burning quite so intensely. But this is Ghost – your lieutenant, the gruff man that you’ve looked up to ever since you joined the task force. He’s not a man famed for his patience, nor for his eloquence, which is making this situation all the more unbearable.
“Lt,” You wheeze, scrambling to sit up and cover your pussy with your hands as you squeeze your legs closed. “I swear I didn’t– I’m sorry–”
But Ghost doesn’t seem interested in your apologies. He’s still watching you as though he can see right through the damn blanket, as though he’s measuring you up and trying to come to a decision about something. In that moment, you hate your reaction to him – no matter how humiliating this situation is, you want him to approve of you, even now.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt.” He grunts, and then he sits down on your bed.
You gape at him. It feels as though your brain has stalled; you’re pretty sure you’re not reacting correctly right now. You probably should have screamed when the lieutenant walked right into your room without knocking. That surely would have sent him straight back out again. And even now, you should probably be ordering him out, telling him to leave.
But you don’t.
“I was.. um.. finished anyway.” You manage to croak out. You sound so pathetic that you nearly make yourself cringe.
Ghost doesn’t answer immediately. He just watches you, his eyes as dark as ever beneath the mask. For a moment, you think he’s not going to answer at all.
But then he says, “Didn’t look like you finished to me.”
Blood rushes to your face so quickly that it makes you light-headed as you catch his meaning. Oh, what the fuck. This is just adding salt to the wound now.
“I wasn’t trying to–” You start, then cut yourself off. “That’s not why I was– I was just trying to relax.”
In the ensuing silence, you realise how silly you sound. At the very least, Ghost doesn’t laugh; he just tilts his head to the side, consideringly.
“Let me see.”
You gape at him. “I– sir–”
“Let me see, sergeant.”
It’s not an order. Not quite. Ghost’s voice is effortlessly assertive, but it falls just short of being a command. You have room to refuse. You could tell him to get out of your dorm right now, and he’d do it. Knowing the lieutenant, he’d never bring it up again, either.
You drop your knees apart, spreading your thighs in an unpracticed, self-conscious sort of motion.
Under the lieutenant’s sharp gaze, your skin prickles and your nerves strain. Even sitting down on your bed, he’s a veritable behemoth of broad shoulders and thick corded muscle. His hulking form towers over you even now, and you feel so damn small as you lay there propped up against your pillows in nothing but a t-shirt.
Ghost has seen you naked before, obviously. You can’t afford to be prudish in the military, where you never know when you’ll next have true privacy, and you’ve changed out and showered with the squad countless times. It’s never meant anything, and the men in 141 have never made you feel anything less than comfortable with them.
This, however, is different. This isn’t just a case of catching a quick glimpse of your nude form as you shower in the group shower rooms when you’re out on missions – your whole damn pussy is out on display for him, still glistening wet and sticky from your ministrations and the lube you’d used.
Ghost’s inhale is as loud as a thunderclap. You’ve never felt so exposed, so vulnerable in another person’s presence. You feel a little ridiculous laying like this as he watches you, but another part of you feels so humiliatingly desperate for some kind of approval from your lieutenant.
At first, that approval is nowhere to be found. Ghost is notoriously difficult to read, and you’re beginning to sweat as you lay there waiting for a response – any response.
At last, he makes a noise. It’s part grunt, part hum, and part groan.
“You’re still wet, sergeant.”
Are you imagining it, or is his voice an octave deeper than usual?
Your eyes trace his face, trying to imagine what he looks like beneath the mask. You can see the suggestion of his nose, the square curve of his jaw. His darkened eyes are watching you so carefully that you feel as though you’re physically being pinned in place.
You swallow. “It’s just– I–”
“You didn’t get to finish.” Ghost interrupts, with the air of completing your sentence for you.
You try to speak, but nothing more than a strangled sort of murmur escapes. You swallow hastily, then try again.
“I wasn’t going to. Sir.” You tack on the title at the end as an afterthought, but this whole situation is so far beyond professional that you probably needn’t have bothered. “Finish, I mean. I… I never do.”
You’ve admitted it before you can really think about it, and then you regret it wildly. You can’t help but wonder if you’ve overstepped a boundary, but then again the boundaries are currently so blurred that they’re virtually impossible to discern.
“You never finish.” Ghost repeats it. Slowly, staring right at your face, as though he’s confirming what you’ve just said.
It sounds so much worse in his deep, gravelly voice.
Embarrassment blooms, thick and sickly in your stomach. Your legs start to twitch closed, too embarrassed to be having this conversation with your cunt bared like this, but then Ghost’s big paw of a hand reaches out to settle over your knee, keeping you open and exposed. It’s so rare to see his hands ungloved, and the bare skin of his callous-roughened hand feels almost scorching hot against your inner knee.
“I don’t– I’ve tried,” You say, and you can’t help but feel as though you’re just digging yourself further into a hole, here. “But I don’t– I’m not able to. I mean, I’ve come close, I’m just not able to… you know.”
You trail off lamely, feeling like the biggest fucking loser ever. Why are you telling him this? Why the fuck haven’t you reacted properly, and kicked him the hell out of your room?
Deep down, a shameful little part of you already knows the answer to that. You’re feeling awfully, sickeningly hopeful. Having Lieutenant Riley in your dorm, sitting on your bed and staring so hungrily at the wet, swollen parts between your legs feels like something out of your wildest wet dreams.
His eyes flick towards your pink silicone rabbit dildo, half-hidden under your blanket, and he grunts consideringly before reaching out and taking it into his hands again. It’s standard-size, but it looks small in his big hands.
“You ain’t doin’ it right, then.” He says, so bluntly that you just blink at him. “Show me how you use it.”
For a brief, wild moment, you wonder if you’re experiencing visual and auditory hallucinations right now. Surely you can’t really be experiencing this right now – and yet the lieutenant is still watching you, and you’ve never disobeyed a direct order before.
He hands you the vibrator, then waits expectantly.
And… well. All you ever try to do is impress him.
You shuffle your legs open a little wider, ignoring the flustered heat that scalds your cheeks. You’ve never been all exposed like this in front of another person, and the weight of Ghost’s eyes on you is reminiscent of being under a spotlight.
You swear his eyes darken even further when you press the stiff silicone rabbit dildo to your cunt, if it’s even possible for that gaze to get darker beneath the thick balaclava and eyeblack smeared over the narrow strip of skin that’s visible.
The dildo sinks in so easily that it’s almost embarrassing, and your breath catches both from the stretch and the way Ghost leans in a little closer to see. Far from turning you off, you feel your body throb in response to his proximity, and your cunt flutters pathetically around the plastic toy. You shift, attempting to get a little more comfortable, but you can’t dispel the nerves fizzing in your blood as you attempt to push the dildo a little deeper under Ghost’s sharp gaze.
His big, hulking body is so perfectly still as he watches you that it’s making you a little nervous. The only reaction that you get from him is a small, considering hum, but even then you can’t figure out what it means. Your movements are a little clumsy, so hyper-conscious that he’s watching every single thing you do that you end up fumbling a little. He’s looking at you in the same way he assesses threats, his intense dark eyes examining every movement and reaction you make. It makes you feel small and jittery, especially when you realise that he’s judging you by what you’re doing.
“You gonna turn it on?” He asks, and oh god his voice has definitely dropped lower and huskier. You know you’re not imagining it.
You can’t even bring yourself to respond with words. You just make a strangled sort of sound of agreement, then clumsily hit the on button. The toy buzzes to life once more, and your toes curl absent-mindedly into the sheets as the soft silicone bunny ears pulse against your clit.
It feels nice, but you can’t manage to concentrate on the feeling. Hyper-aware of Ghost’s attention, you let out a quiet moan as you shift the vibrator inside you. It’s a little exaggerated, but you can’t help it – you feel like you should be putting on some kind of a show.
You glance back at Ghost’s face, trying to guess what he’s thinking; even through the mask, you can tell that he’s frowning. You feel your stomach clench anxiously. Have you done something wrong?
“This how you usually do it?” He asks.
You swallow thickly, feeling a bit stupid. “Um.. yeah.”
Ghost grunts. He doesn’t sound impressed.
“No wonder you can’t come.” He says wryly.
You go still, eyes widening. In the silence, the bzzzzt! of your stupid vibrator is louder than ever. A sudden wave of shame washes over you, and you start to close your legs again in an effort to block the sight of the toy stuffed into your pussy.
“Oh,” You snap sourly, your embarrassment making you irritable. “So you’re the pussy expert now?”
That startles a loud bark of a laugh out of the lieutenant, a sound so rare that you find yourself desperately trying to commit it to memory.
“Think I might know a bit more than you, sweetheart.” He says. He’s relaxed now, his wide shoulders rolling back. He’s always so effortlessly confident, always so assured in himself and his abilities in a way that makes you feel like a silly little girl.
Judging by the way the corners of his eyes are just slightly wrinkled beneath the mask, Ghost is smirking at you. He finds this funny.
“What about when you’re with other people, hm?” He asks, and his eyes drop back down to try and get a look at you again. When he realises that your legs are clamped tight together, he reaches out to guide your thighs apart again. “No one’s ever impressed you?”
His hands are big and rough and hot, and your willpower crumbles like wet paper as you allow him to open your legs all over again. The vibrator is still buzzing sadly inside you, mostly forgotten about; the stimulation is nice, but it’s never been enough for you.
You huff a weak laugh. You should have known that this would come up, and now you find yourself floundering a little.
“No one’s ever tried.” The confession comes out like a whisper, like a secret.
You can see the moment Ghost understands; realisation settles heavy over him like a physical weight, and the whites of his eyes flash as they widen just slightly. For a moment, he says nothing at all. He doesn’t move – it doesn’t even look like he breathes.
“No?” He says, except it doesn’t really sound like a question. It sounds rough, and you can feel the almost convulsive motion of his fingers tightening around your knee.
You shake your head wordlessly, beyond embarrassed now.
Ghost’s wispy blond eyelashes flutter softly as his eyes dart down to your pussy, still humiliatingly stuffed with your stupid little vibrator. He takes a moment to stare, then looks back up to your face. He’s so frustratingly confident about everything he does, not an ounce of shame in his posture even as you wilt beneath him.
“Never messed around with anybody?”
“No.” You say, and it comes out on a wheeze. He holds your gaze without faltering, and you realise that he’s expecting you to elaborate. “No, I– it just never happened. I was never… um, I was just always too busy, I guess.”
“Too fussy, more like.” He mutters, quiet enough that it seems like it’s a comment meant just for himself. You don’t know how to take that, so you chew your lip and stay quiet.
His eyes drop down to the vibrating dildo again, and you recognise something that looks like a flash of hunger. It feels like there’s pressure building up beneath your skin, tight and hot, and your thighs fall open a little further. You feel raw and so, so exposed, but you don’t even care when Ghost is looking at you like that.
“Let me try.” He says, the words falling out sharp and harsh as though he they’ve burst out of his mouth before he can stop them. It’s not like Ghost to speak without thinking it through, perfectly calculated, and your breath catches a little at the offer.
How could you ever say no to that? You don’t really think that he’s going to succeed in making you come – at this point you’re pretty sure your body is a little bit broken and you’re just not capable of orgasming at all, and that’s whatever – but the chance to get fucked by Ghost? To lose the lingering vestiges of your viriginity to your ridiculously hot, mysterious, massive lieutenant? It’s like something out of a dream.
“Okay.” You choke out, nodding stupidly. “Yeah.”
You want to be touched. You don’t think you’ve ever actually felt the yearning for physical contact this strongly in your life; you’re practically holding your breath as you wait for Ghost to make a move.
Finally, he reaches out. His first move is to pull the stupid little dildo out of you, still vibrating, and you feel yourself clench convulsively around nothing as he leaves you empty and wanting. He spares it a brief, evaluating glance, and you feel yourself burn as you realise he’s examining how you’ve soaked the toy.
He tosses it to the side, barely even taking the time to switch it off first, then turns his attention back to you. He’s got that same kind of laser-focus he usually only gets out on the field, and you take a moment to feel incredibly grateful that you’re never going to be on the receiving end of that terrifying scrutiny on the battlefield.
It feels like your skin is too tight for your body, every nerve and synapse strained and primed as you wait for him to touch you. But he’s slow about it, as though he just wants to torture you a little bit.
When he finally reaches out to lay his hands on you, he doesn’t touch where you want him to.
His callous-roughened hands land on your hips, and pull you down the bed towards him. In the same move, he half-climbs up on the mattress, his huge form practically dwarfing you. Your head and shoulders are still cushioned by your pillows, but your legs are splayed open around Ghost where he kneels on your bed.
You glance down, unable to help yourself, unable to resist trying to catch a look at the outline of his erection pressing against his trousers, and oh. Fuck. He’s big. You knew he’d be big, of course, he’s big all over, but Jesus Christ, maybe you’re a little out of your own depth here–
His thick fingers tangle in the hem of your t-shirt, stretching the fabric out. “Take this off.”
You scramble to do as he says, grabbing at your top and pulling it up clumsily. You realise a moment too late that you’re not wearing a bra, but you suppose at this point it hardly matters. You drop your shirt to the side, and try not to feel too horrifically self-conscious beneath the burning hot gaze of the lieutenant.
Though you can’t see Ghost’s face, you can hear the soft exhale he blows out through his nose, just faintly muffled by the fabric of his mask. His eyes are trained on your chest, darting between each of your tits as though he can’t decide which one to settle on. After a long moment, he reaches forward and cups your left tit with one of his enormous hands, thumbing absently at one of your nipples.
It’s silly; Ghost has touched you before. Lots of times. A nudge of the elbow accompanied by a conspiratorial eye roll, a clap to the shoulder, rough hands pulling you to your feet after training or applying white-hot painful pressure to injuries. But this – you’ve never been touched like this before, not by Ghost, not by anyone.
The shaky breath you let out as his big, rough thumb rolls over your firm nipple comes out as a strangled sort of moan that honestly startles you a little. The noise catches his attention, and he snorts.
“Can’t be that sensitive.” He mutters, but then he reaches to thumb at your other nipple as though trying to be sure.
It’s because you’ve never been touched like this by another person before, you tell yourself. Truthfully, you’ve never even touched yourself like this before. You’ve never bothered to play with your own tits; you’ve always just gone straight to breaking out your vibrators. Now, with every brush of Ghost’s scarred fingers over the tight bud of your nipples, you think you must have been crazy to skip over this part of yourself. But then again, there’s no way that your own hands on yourself would elicit the same sharp jolt that shoots from your breasts down your spine.
“Sir–” You breathe, struggling not to squirm where you’re laying. You wonder, somewhat deliriously, if it might be rude to demand your lieutenant stuff his thick fingers into your pussy. You can already tell that they’re going to feel so much better than your own.
Ghost glances up at you, his eyes unreadable as he watches you bite at your lip. God, his little wispy eyelashes are so blond—
“What?” He says, his voice deep enough that you swear you can feel it rumbling through your bones. “Say it.”
“Want to try your fingers.” You breathe before you can second-guess yourself.
The laugh that rumbles out of Ghost’s chest is low and smoky. It’s probably impossible to miss the way your eyes have been drawn to his hands all evening, so big and corded with veins and muscle and scar tissue. You’ve witnessed those hands crack bones and snap necks and break down doors, and yet you can’t help but wonder desperately what they’re going to feel like when he starts touching you properly.
He adjusts himself on the bed; he’s a big man, hulking and huge as he kneels on your mattress, his weight causing it to dip. His palms wrap around your ankles with ease, and he hauls you into place with a grim efficiency that goes straight to your pussy.
“Big brute.” You say, a little breathlessly.
He ignores you, using his arms to hold your legs open and wide for him. And all you can do is just lie there as he stares, because goddamn it’s like he’s been carved from steel and you can’t break out of his grip. Not that you want to break out of his grip anyway, but you’d really appreciate it if he actually got moving instead of just staring.
“Fuck,” He grunts after a moment, with the air of talking to himself. “Been hiding this all this time, huh?”
“Jesus.” You breathe in response, subconsciously letting your legs drop open even more.
He makes a low noise of appreciation, and finally reaches out to touch you properly. One thick thumb swipes through the seam of your cunt, and you feel the way he’s smearing the clear sticky wetness that’s been leaking steadily out of you. With his now slick thumb, he drags up towards your clit and circles it with agonisingly light pressure.
You let out an embarrassing choked whine, your toes curling at the sensation. Somewhat ironically, Ghost is handling you far more gently than you usually touch yourself, and you find yourself flexing your hips in an attempt to get him to touch you with more pressure. He ignores your attempts, keeping his pace implacably steady and slow.
“D’you always get this wet?”
You can’t even tell if he’s asking you mockingly or if he’s being genuinely curious; it feels like every inch of your focus has narrowed down to the feel of his big thumb rolling those tight little circles around your clit, his touch scorching against you.
It’s not exactly surprising that Ghost is good with his hands. You’ve seen the way he handles weaponry, locking and loading and aiming to fire with the kind of swiftness that comes from muscle memory, working with unwavering speed and precision. He’s the same in hand-to-hand combat, moving with aggressive fluidity that overwhelms his opponents. You’ve caught hits from him before in training, and you know from experience that a punch from those big hands feels like getting hit by a cinder block.
But even knowing how deft and skilled his hands are, it knocks the breath out of you when he slides his middle and ring fingers inside of you, still rubbing steadily at the swollen bump of your clit.
When you exhale, it accidentally comes out as a moan. Your cheeks burn, but there’s really no space in your brain right now for embarrassment to sink in. Two of Ghost’s fingers are the equivalent of at least three and a half of yours, and you feel yourself break out into an overwhelmed sweat when they twist and rub against the sensitive squishy spot in the front wall of your cunt.
You’re so damn worked up, your arousal coiled like a knot in your lower belly from your failed attempts to get yourself off all day. Your back curves, humping yourself near mindlessly back up into his hand as he plays you like a goddamn instrument.
You barely even have time to consider how unfair it is that Ghost is so good at playing with you like this when he doesn’t even have a pussy himself, because then he pulls his fingers out of you.
“Oh, no, don’t stop–” You start to protest breathlessly, your chest still heaving, but the quick glance the lieutenant sends you has you falling silent.
Ghost glances down at his fingers. They’re all glossy from fingering you, and he takes a moment to eye up the way they glisten in the dim light of your bunk. You might have felt self-conscious about it, if you couldn’t see the unmistakable gleam of hungry interest in Ghost’s dark brown eyes.
He wipes his hand on the crease of your hip, but you don’t even get the chance to protest before he reaches up to hook his fingers into his mask. You go still, holding your breath in surprise as he pulls the material up until it bunches up around the bridge of his nose.
And that’s– well. You’ve seen his jaw before, and his mouth (Jesus, you had seen it earlier that evening, when he had been sipping on his smooth whiskey of choice), but the sight of his strong jawline and blond stubble and corded scars on his pale skin always manages to knock the breath out of you. And this time, he’s rolled his mask up even further than before, revealing a nose that’s clearly been broken at least once before.
You probably shouldn’t stare so blatantly, especially knowing that Ghost always takes such pains to keep his face covered. You’re not even sure if the other guys on the team have seen his uncovered face, except for Price, and you know that they’ve developed a habit of averting their eyes when he pulls his mask up for whatever reason. It’s a habit that you never quite managed to develop yourself; you’re never able to stop yourself from gaping at him like a moron, drinking in all of the minutest details. He’s never said a thing about your penchant for staring, so you can only hope that he’s chosen to ignore it.
You’re so busy staring that it takes you by surprise when he grips your jaw with one massive hand and pulls you into a rough kiss.
The sound you make is small and startled, but it’s swallowed by Ghost’s demanding mouth. His lips are dry and a little chapped, but they feel scorching hot against yours. You reach up to grab at his arms – mostly just to ground yourself – but you find yourself almost immediately distracted by the firm bulge of his biceps beneath your hands.
Listen, you’ve kissed people before, plenty times. You’re in your early twenties, and just because you’re inexperienced sexually it doesn’t mean that you’re inexperienced full stop. But this, right now, kissing with Ghost, makes you feel as though you’ve been doing nothing but fumbling your way through all of those encounters, like you’ve been kissing wrong all this time.
It’s slow and deep, at first. All-consuming. It lights a fire in your gut, which expands and spreads throughout your body until you find your fingers grasping desperately at the short cotton sleeves of Ghost’s t-shirt where it’s stretched over his thickly muscled arm.
Ghost doesn’t just kiss with his mouth, either. It’s like a full-body experience with him; he puts his hands, his whole damn body into the kiss. He clutches you to him, holding you close even as the force of his kiss bends you backwards into the pillows beneath you. At the same time, it’s all you can do to concentrate and respond to the kiss itself, your attention stretched and strained by the feeling of Ghost’s hands running over you, stroking you sides and squeezing at your breasts and groping at the soft flesh of your hips and ass.
“Hah,” You gasp out when Ghost’s lips slide sideways to find the corner of your jaw. His mouth is hot against your skin, bruising, and you feel yourself grow embarrassingly wetter, just from a little kissing.
“You good?” Ghost grunts into your throat as he nips at the base of your jaw.
“Uh huh.” You manage to get out, still clutching at his meaty arms like they’re a lifeline. “So good.”
His breath is hot on your throat when he rumbles out a deep chuckle, and then his tongue flicks out against your earlobe. It makes you forget how to breathe for a second, and you’re distracted when Ghost’s hand changes course, easing beneath your legs so he can press his fingers against your clit again.
Then he pauses, and his fingers slide lower, lazily hooking back and inside you. You tremble, horny and humiliated as you realise that your arousal is glistening all over your damn thighs, impossible to miss.
“Fuck,” Ghost mutters. “All this for me, sweetheart?”
“Hnng,” You whimper like an idiot as his fingers return to your clit, now slick and slippery. “I’m just–”
He doesn’t wait for you to explain. Instead, he pulls his fingers out of you again and kisses you hard. The soft breathy noises you make are muffled into his mouth, and you wrap your legs around his waist automatically. He’s built like a damn mountain, your thighs stretched wide to accommodate the bulk of him as he settles against the core of you.
He likes that – he presses in close, and you can feel the hard line of his cock pressing up against you through the roughness of his jeans. You’re so sensitive that the coarseness of the fabric is almost unbearable, but you’re able to ignore it because you’re so distracted by the sensation of his erection because holy fucking shit that can’t really be how big he is.
You gasp, the sound high and breathy, and you try to grind against Ghost, but it’s impossible because he’s so fucking heavy and he’s pinning you down on the mattress beneath him. Instead, all you can do is squeeze your legs and pull Ghost in even tighter, increasing the pressure between the two of you.
“I’m gonna ruin you,” Ghost whispers, and it sounds like a promise. He drags his lips up your throat, then talks against the corner of your mouth. “You won’t be able to touch yourself again without wishing it was me.”
The wave of desire that rocks through you almost pulls you under, and you swear you might have actually gotten so horny that you blacked out for a second, because from one second to the next Ghost has somehow managed to muscle his way back down between your thighs so that he’s eye-level with your cunt.
“What are you–” You start to say, but then he loops his forearms under your knees to tug your legs wider, and you realise just how close his face is to your pussy. You swear you’re actually pulsing with arousal, and you wonder a little wildly if he can see that.
“Oh, fuck, yes — please,” You blurt out, before Ghost has even gotten his mouth on you. He chuckles, low and amused. His grin looks predatory, but in this moment you really don’t mind being the prey — not if it means you’ll be devoured by that mouth.
Then Ghost’s mouth is against you, wet and burning hot. You cry out, barely noticing as Ghost throws one of your legs over his shoulders, spreading you open.
It’s just the right side of overwhelming. Ghost’s mouth feels like it’s going to swallow you whole – his tongue is huge and flat and firm as he licks over your clit, making your thighs quake on either side of his head. It’s entirely unlike any of the fumbling masturbatory attempts you’ve ever made – you always enjoy messing around with your various little sex toys, but you’re swiftly beginning to realise that it could never compare to real human contact. Or at least, contact with Ghost.
His hands move from your waist to your asscheeks, his big palms squeezing the plump flesh there before using his grip to pull your body closer so that he can bury his whole face between your legs. The rougher material of his mask presses harshly into the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, but you hardly even notice it.
Your pussy has never been this wet before; it feels like you’ve sprung a goddamn leak. You might have felt embarrassed about it if it weren’t for the way Ghost groans against you, his wide tongue laving flat and rough against the seam of your cunt as he practically gulps down all the sticky arousal you have to give him.
“Oh god– fuck! Sir…” You sigh, spreading your knees farther apart so that Ghost can wedge his head further between your thighs.
Your ears burn as your room is filled with sounds of him tonguing at your cunt, the lewd wet squish of him working you over until you’re keening, your hips twitching clumsily until his hands tighten where he’s gripping the plump flesh of your ass to keep you still. Then all you can do is twitch as he licks over your clit in repetitive lapping motions, working in circles and then dipping down to shove his searingly hot tongue inside you. You can feel his teeth press against your labia even as he sucks at your clit, and the sensation sends hot bolts of pleasure rocketing down your spine.
Though you don’t mean to, you’re pretty sure that you make his job harder. You can’t stop wriggling, tossing your head back against your pillows and squirming on Ghost’s tongue in a wild overstimulated dance, like a fish caught in a net.
Finally, Ghost seems to have enough of your unco-ordinated flailing attempts to grind against his face. He reaches around your thigh with one arm to reach your clit so he can keep it stimulated as he gulps at the sticky sweetness of your cunt like a man possessed – the action also works to keep your hips pinned down and still. You stop your frantic moving, but your spasms and sounds increase tenfold.
You can hardly believe it, but you feel something coming. A sweet, torturous build up starts in your belly, and you sweat and gasp as he licks and suckles at you relentlessly. You’ve never found yourself in this state so quickly before, with your legs trembling and your breathing heavy and shaky.
“Oh.. oh…” You breathe, beginning to arch your back.
You know this feeling – this is where that sweet climax builds and builds, only to dissipate at the last agonisingly close moment. But this time, with Ghost’s big head between your thighs as his mouth moves against you, sucking, tasting, eating up everything you have to offer, the breath-taking pleasure doesn’t show any sign of slipping out of reach. It feels like for once you might actually reach that peak.
But then, right as you’re certain that you’re about to tip over that long-awaited coveted release, the bastard pulls away.
“No!” You practically shriek, attempting to sit up. “No, I was so close–!”
“Lie back.” Ghost orders, his voice like the crack of a whip.
You drop back obediently before you can even register that you’re moving, so conditioned to react instantly to that tone of voice coming from Ghost’s deep rumbling baritone. Your eyes are wide and betrayed as you stare at him, admittedly a little baleful.
God, but it’s hard to stay annoyed when he’s staring up at you from between your legs like that. His eyes are dark and hungry beneath the mask, and since it’s all pushed up and rumpled around his nose you get a toe-curlingly good look at his lower face. His chin is wet and smeared with your slick, and his lips are plump and pink and swollen from all the kissing and suckling he’s done to you. In a moment of near-delirium, you think that you understand now why he covers his face – his mouth is pretty in a way that shocks you, in a way that needs to be hidden for decency’s sake.
“You’re gettin’ greedy,” He grunts, turning his head and sinking his teeth into the crease of your thigh just to make you yelp. “Wait for it, love. It’ll be worth the wait.”
You don’t think you have much of a choice, so all you can do is lay back and hold on for the ride. He presses his mouth to you again, and you whimper softly as he tongues at your clit.
“No one’s ever eaten you out like this?” He asks, the words muffled into the damp curve of your thigh. It’s stupid, because you know he knows the answer to that is a resounding no, but it seems like he just wants to hear you say it out loud.
“No.” You say, your breaths sawing their way out of your chest.
“Hnn.” He makes some kind of grunting sound against you, his tongue flicking out to taste you again. “That’s why you’ve been so tense, huh? So fuckin’ desperate for someone to touch you?”
“That’s not– ‘m not tense,” You manage to get out, your breasts heaving as your thighs tense up where they’re thrown over his shoulders. “Maybe.. Maybe you’re too relaxed.”
Ghost huffs a hot little laugh at your hip because you both know that couldn’t be further from the truth. You doubt anyone has ever accused Ghost of being too relaxed before, but you don’t have time to feel stupid for it – not when Ghost is devoting the full force of his attention on you, deep breaths huffing against the wet skin of your pussy and making you shudder.
“That’s it,” He croons, his voice uncharacteristically soft and lilting. The rumble of it ripples through your limbs like lapping waves, his battle-roughened palm stroking and smoothing down your ass and thigh as he hauls you closer. “Relax, sweetheart. Fuck, such a pretty pussy. Fuckin’ criminal of you to keep this hidden away all to yourself.” And then, quieter, “Fuckin’ Christ, you’re wet.”
You’re not even sure that he’s talking to you. It seems more as though he’s talking to himself, and it just happens to be you he’s talking about. Your cheeks burn as the feeling of vulnerability sets in, but you keep your legs spread wide as he kisses your clit with his swollen pink lips. You want so badly to be good, for him to be pleased with you, that you push past your embarrassment as best you can.
There’s a budding anxiety in your belly that Ghost is wasting his time here. As much as you crave his touch and the build up, you worry that he’s going to get frustrated with you and your inability to actually orgasm.
But Ghost doesn’t seem to be in a rush. He seems perfectly fucking happy between your legs, and even with his mask all clumsily rucked up around his nose he presses his face into your pussy with his eyes heavy-lidded and hazy. Even when you shift a little in an effort to get him to go a little harder or faster, he just pins you still and continues at his own leisurely pace.
When he reintroduces his fingers, pressing inside and stretching you out with a light sting, you hiss and try to lift your hips again. His rough calloused knuckles brush against the inside of your soft inner thighs, making them quiver as he goes three fingers deep.
“Shhh, atta girl.” He mumbles into you, his words coming out wetly muffled since he doesn’t even both pulling his face back. “Fuckin’– shit, so good.”
The praise shoots liquid and molten through you, and you have to bite back a pathetic keen as you pulse around his fingers. You’re sure he must feel it, because he lets out an answering rumble and laps against your clit, then closes his lips and sucks.
“Oh god–”
“Shhh.” Ghost scoots forward so your knee can hoist over his shoulder. Then he angles his chin to kiss the skin on the inside curve of your knee as he pumps into you with slow, slippery fingers and ungodly squelching noises that only sparks you hotter. You can’t even tell if it’s sweat or tears dotting your face anymore.
Though Ghost’s eyes are heavy-lidded and a little fogged over, he hasn’t looked away from you once. The focused intensity of his gaze spears you through, because you’ve never been looked at like that. No one has ever seen you like this, no one has ever put effort into you like this, no one has ever been so determined to please you before. You don’t know how you’re ever going to recover from this; you have a terrifyingly distinct impression that he’s going to live up to his promise to ruin you for anyone else.
It feels as though your blood is boiling beneath your skin, and you nearly sob when Ghost pulls back. You’ve never been so close, and you want to scream when he takes his gorgeous fucking mouth away from your clit.
“Fuck.” You wet your lips, realising you were panting like a dog and your mouth is bone dry. “Fuck, Ghost, just—”
“Quiet, lovie.” His reply is hoarse and firm, his throat working hard to swallow as he peered down between you, his clever thumb delving slick circles over the taut bump of your clit, his other three fingers fucking with easy rhythm and purpose. It’s maddening, it’s infuriating, it makes you feel as though you’re about to break apart.
His fingers are pulled out, and then you feel firm pressure pressing into you yet again. Your head lolls as you attempt to sit up, your eyelids fluttering as you realise that he’s pressing your stupid dildo into you again.
“Oh, you bastard–” You start to complain, but Ghost doesn’t give you the opportunity to speak properly.
The dildo slides into you so easily, your sticky slick mixing with his spit making the slide almost effortless. You sigh, a build-up of pressure making your whole body feel as though you’ve been stretched out and pulled tight.
Now that you’ve been pushed to the edge, you linger by it. Ghost keeps you on that edge for what feels like hours, until your breaths are burning in your chest and the ligaments in your calves are screaming from all the straining you’ve been doing. Every roll of Ghost’s thumb over your clit sends sparks racing through your nerves, and your breathing is harsh and uneven as Ghost starts fucking you with the stupid vibrating dildo. The rhythm he sets is firm and unrelenting, pushing the silicone toy in and out and visibly relishing the wet squish of your cunt as it takes it deep.
Ghost huffs against the wet skin of your inner thigh, making you shudder. It seems like he’s enjoying this as much as you are, judging by the subtle roll of his hips against your mattress as he absorbs himself in fucking you with the dildo.
He experiments with the angle, adjusting the dildo until you cry out, jerking against the bedding, and whining “There!”. You needn’t bother telling him, though; Ghost has a sharp eye, and he’s so goddamn attentive. He’s already repeating the stroke, pushing the dildo in and bumping it against the same sensitive spot he had hit before.
It feels good, but it’s not enough. Now that you’ve felt the firm hot pressure of his fingers spreading you wide and the wet hunger of his mouth devouring you, you don’t think anything else will do.
He shifts, you catch the rolls of his hips against your mattress again, and you feel as though you’ve caught fire. You think of the glimpse you had caught of his hard cock, pressing against his jeans and making the fabric stretch taut, and you find yourself speaking without thinking.
Ghost pushes the dildo in once more, and you reach down to grab at his wrist as you ask breathlessly, “Can I try yours?”
He pauses; goes so still that it’s honestly uncanny, his eyes practically boring holes into you as he stares at your face. You grow flustered, your own eyes widening in response to your own words. Just because he’s deigning to touch you with his fingers and his mouth, doesn’t mean he’s actually planning to fuck you. Jesus, he’s your fucking superior officer. What were you thinking?
“I’m sorry,” You squeak. “That wasn’t appropriate. Fuck, forget I said that–”
Even beneath the mask, you can see the bob of Ghost’s Adam's apple as he swallows thickly.
“You sure?” He interrupts your rambling before you can get started. “I don’t... ‘m not good with virgins.”
There’s… there’s so much you could say in response to that. Namely, he certainly doesn’t seem like he’s bad with virgins, as evidenced by the throb of arousal still pulsing through your soaked cunt. He’s just had you sobbing at the mercy of his fingers and mouth, and all he has to say when you ask for more is that he’s not good with virgins?
Instead, what you say is a rather lame, “I’m not technically a virgin.”
Which is true. Sort of. Based on a technicality – you had bullied your damn vibrator through your stupid hymen years ago, and you’ve always thought the idea of virginity was a stupid one, anyway.
“Plastic cocks don’t count, darlin’.”
Blood rushes to your face so fast you feel light-headed as humiliation burns through you. Jesus, okay. That’s just mortifying.
“Oh, you think your cock is special, then?” You scoff, attempting nonchalance.
Ghost shifts, letting your legs drop from his shoulders, and kneels up on the mattress so that he’s looming over you. Fuck, every time you get a visceral reminder of how big he is, you feel a little faint. It’s like having a veritable wall of muscle caging you into your bed. Your thighs are spread wide to accommodate the size of him, and you find yourself absolutely captivated by the sight of him with his muscles straining against that stupid tight t-shirt, still panting lightly from his greedy gorging on your cunt.
He reaches out and drags a hand slowly from your cunt up over your belly, between your breasts, up over your sternum, to rest over your collarbones. It’s gentle – he doesn’t put an iota of pressure against your throat – but all you can fucking see is the swell of his bicep and the dark ink of his tattoo and the prominent veins running down the chiselled muscle of his forearm.
Good fucking lord.
“You’ll find out.” He says.
And oh. Okay then. Yeah, you sure fucking will.
He reaches down and unbuttons his jeans, and you can’t help but strain to try and watch. He pushes them down carelessly around his thighs, but doesn’t make any move to strip them off any further. You’re suddenly aware of the fact that you’re laying on the bed completely nude and exposed, while Ghost has only pushed his jeans down far enough to pull his cock out, but you don’t have any time to feel self-conscious about it.
His cock curves up against his belly, red and twitching. He’s fucking rock hard, and bigger than you had been expecting, bigger than any of your stupid little toys. Your mouth goes dry, and your eyes widen comically. Fuck. No wonder he’s confident. He’s not lacking in any way.
“D’you’ve a johnny?” He asks, one big paw of a hand taking his cock and stroking lazily at it until a bead of pearly precum oozes from the angry red head.
You’re distracted for a moment, staring at the way he fists his cock, before you blink back to yourself. “What?”
“A condom.” He enunciates slowly, as though speaking to someone he thinks is a bit thick.
“I know what you meant,” You snap, embarrassed. “But– no. Why would I? I’ve never…”
You can see the way his eyes crease and realise that he’s frowning beneath the mask, and you’re hit with a sudden bolt of panic – is he going to change his mind now? You can see the hesitation in the lines of his shoulders, but you think if he changes his mind about fucking you, you might just die.
“It doesn’t matter,” You blurt, “You don’t need one. I’m on the pill. I’m clean.”
Ghost cocks his head, but remains still. It’s almost unnerving, and you feel your toes curl into the bedsheets as you wait for an answer. He looks fucking predatory, hulking over you like a fucking behemoth as he watches you assessingly. You try your best to look confident, but you have a feeling that you just look desperately hungry.
He reaches up and hooks his fingers into the fabric of his mask and pulls it back down to cover his still slick-shiny mouth and jaw, and you’re gripped with sudden overwhelming panic and dismay that he’s changed his mind, that he’s about to leave you here wet and empty and wanting. In that moment, you throw your dignity into the wind.
“Please,” You beg pathetically, wriggling a little bit against your sweat-damp bedding in an effort to grind yourself against him. “Please, please, it’s fine, I swear, you don’t need one–”
“Fuckin’ hell.” Ghost grinds out, his voice rough and a little hoarse. “How can a virgin be such a fuckin’ slut?”
Some part of you wonders if you should be offended by that, but instead a frisson of heat runs down your spine. You know you’re not a slut – you’ve never searched for any sexual attention, and you’ve never even experienced someone else’s touch – but goddamn you want to be a slut for your lieutenant right now.
Despite his harsh words, when Ghost hooks your legs over his hips and aligns himself with you, he’s gentle. He’s acting like you’re something fragile; he’s so big that your legs are spread wide around his waist, his shoulders so broad that he’s blocking out the dim light from your lamp, and yet his touch is light against you as though he’s afraid to break you.
He’s still gripping his cock hard, and he slides the tip of it against your slick heat. You have a brief moment of alarm; even through the haze of arousal, you can recognise that this is going to be a tight fit. You breathe deeply, then begin to wiggle your hips in an effort to take him inside you.
He hisses, then one of his big hands grabs at your hip. “Fuck, stay still.”
“Put it in.” You beg, your voice coming out thick and stupid-sounding. “Fuck, please, c’mon, c’mon–”
“Kid,” Ghost bites out through clenched teeth, his voice low and gritty. “Need you to shut the fuck up for me.”
You manage to bite down on your lip, but you can’t stop yourself from pouting mopily at him with wide, wet eyes. You don’t understand why he’s making you wait – can’t he see how mean he’s being? You’re so fucking wet, so empty as you clench down on nothing, and your clit is so desperate for any kind of stimulation that it’s throbbing needily. The head of his cock catches at your opening, dipping in for a second before resuming its maddening slide up and down.
Ghost is still watching you closely, his brown eyes flickering from where the head of his cock drags through your sodden folds up to your pleading pouting expression. You can only imagine what kind of a sight you make, because his chest growls with a choked sort of groan.
“I know,” He murmurs, almost mockingly soft with you. “I know, you want it. Gotta give it to you slowly.”
You want to tell him that he doesn’t have to give it to you slowly, that he can go as fast and hard as he wants to, but some sense of self-preservation shuts you up. Instead, you nod clumsily as he rubs his cock over the slick folds of your cunt, lubing himself up with your own arousal. The feeling of his cock dragging over you, iron hard and velvety soft, so close to where you want it, is enough to have your head spinning dizzily.
You want to beg again, but you’re still trying to follow his order to be silent. You shift restlessly, biting back a whimper when he taps his cock thoughtfully against your clit.
Finally, he decides to put you out of your misery.
The thick crown of his cock pushes against the tight ring of muscle at the entrance of your cunt, and the gasp you let out is positively punched out of you. He goes slow, just like he promised, but you can still hardly believe it. He goes in and in and in, and yet he’s somehow not even halfway inside.
“Fuck,” You wheeze, punctuated by a strange little yowl. “Oh god, wait–”
You feel stuffed just from the first few inches, drunk already on the quiet little grunts he’s making. The stretch and the sting and the pressure inside you is glorious, so tight that you can barely even flex around him and you can’t even decide if it’s good or if it’s too much. Your eyes are hot and wet as overwhelmed tears begin to overflow, and you find yourself arching in a weak attempt to flex away from him and the devastating stretch.
God, he’s massive. You knew he would be, of course, but his size seems so much more significant when you’re being impaled on the end of his cock. Fuck, you can feel your vision go blurry as your eyes fill with overwhelmed tears. You’re mortified when a sob is ripped from your chest, harsh and thick.
“Shh, shh.” Ghost coos, his deep voice syrupy thick as he leans over you, the enormous bulk of him caging you into the mattress until your whole world consists only of him. “Just a little bit more.”
“Fuck,” You choke out, trying to arch away again but failing because he’s so big that there’s nowhere to go. “It’s not gonna fit!”
“Shh, lovie,” He rumbles, ducking his face down so that the rough cotton of his mask is pressed against the sweaty skin of your neck. “Relax’n let me in.”
“I– ‘m trying–” You whine, clutching at his biceps. “Jesus–”
You blink your eyes open, vision blurry from the tears clumping your lashes together, only to be met with the sight of Ghost’s deep brown eyes staring at you from beneath the black mask. He’s looming above you, his gaze made all the more intense by the fact that it’s the only part of his face you can really see.
“All that messin’ around with those plastic cocks, but you’re still this tight for me,” He says, his voice so deep that you feel it reverberate into your bones. “Deep breath.”
The breath you inhale at his instruction is rough and ragged, and he snorts a low breathless laugh in response.
When he finally drives his cock all the way in with one smooth stroke, all the breath is driven from your lungs. It feels as though his cock has been pressed all the way up into your chest, and the noise you make when you squirm on it is utterly pathetic.
Ghost’s hands are like steel clamps when they close around the plump flesh of your thighs, holding them up and pressing them back until they’re pressed against your belly. He looms over you, still almost entirely clothed as sweat beads over his thickly muscled neck. It’s like getting pinned down by a mountain, and you whimper as you’re speared open and prone by the weight of Ghost pressing down upon you.
He hasn’t even started to move yet, but you still feel overfull and raw.
“Too big,” You mumble, struggling to catch your breath. You choke on a sob and feel your eyes burn with unshed tears as your back arches. “Ghost–!”
“Shh.” He grunts. “Call me Simon when I fuck you.”
That… that does something to you. Molten heat rockets up your spine and pools in your belly, and you swear your pussy floods. It’s stupid, how being granted permission to call your lieutenant by his first name is somehow so much hotter than anything else he’s done so far.
“Simon,” You try it out. It comes out a little shaky, your voice little more than a weak whisper, but you swear you can see his eyes sharpen.
Apparently having come to the decision that you’ve adjusted enough, Ghost pulls his hips back only to drive back in.
“Oh!” You yelp, hips jumping, but there’s nowhere to go.
All you can do is lie there as he slides out, out, out, slow and careful and long, and then his hips snap forward and he impales you, pressing all the way into him. He does it again, and again, and you try to bite down on your tongue, try to not sound so pathetically wrecked, but you can’t. It’s like Ghost is puncturing your lungs and every time he fucks into you, you let out the most pathetic little mewling ah ah ah sounds.
You’re not quite prepared for how different this feels; it’s nothing like your stupid plastic dildo. Ghost’s cock is bigger, but it’s also hotter and with more give than you expected, and you’ve never been able to fuck yourself like this. Your plastic toys could never compare to the sensation of being pinned by your giant of a lieutenant as he ruts into you.
Ghost reaches up and roughly pushes his mask up so his mouth is exposed again before he leans in deeper, almost folding you cleanly in half, stretching in to claim your mouth in a kiss that’s not quite a kiss, but rather a fierce mash of lips and tongue as his rhythm picks up, riding you down into the mattress until you realised the screaming noise isn’t coming from either one of you, but the cheap standard issue bed frame.
All you can do is gasp with each deep, raw fuck. There are tears tracking lazily down your cheeks, having overflowed from your burning eyes, and you honestly think your lungs might collapse. You’re bent like a fucking pretzel, in a way that’s making the muscles in your thighs scream, as Ghost pounds into you.
He’s fucking relentless, but also shockingly aware of you beneath him. He doesn’t put too much pressure on you when he holds you, he never goes hard enough to hurt, and he knows just the right amount of weight to pin you down without being too much.
Your pussy is sloppy around him, wet squishing noises getting louder and louder as he finds more rhythm against your tight walls. Your whole world of awareness has been narrowed down to Ghost and Ghost only; his fingers digging into your thighs, your name in his mouth, his sweltering body pressing against yours.
He’s holding back, you can tell by the way his voice is caught in his throat. He’s keeping all his dangerous muscles at bay as he pulls out and presses in again. Rough, fast, but not enough to break you, just enough to make you scream until you bury your face to the side and try to cover your mouth with your arm.
“Yeah, you needed this,” Ghost grunts, his uncovered mouth nipping at the hinge of your jaw. “This’s why you were so fuckin’ distracted earlier, hm? You thinkin’ about how much you needed to cream around a real cock?”
“Uh huh, yeah,” You slur out, not even sure what you’re agreeing with. Your tongue feels too big for your mouth, every nerve in your body raw and sparking. You must sound so pathetic, but Ghost seems to like it.
“Ain’t gonna be distracted anymore, are ya?” He rumbles, laving his tongue over your jaw in a way that feels filthy. “Just needed your little pussy filled, that’s all.”
You cry out for him because you can’t help it, delight bubbling in your throat every time he plunges into you. He keeps his pace for a bit, all rushed and blazing, transfixed on watching you suck him in, leaving slick trails along his shaft. But gradually he gets bolder, more desperate, big hands squeezing from your thighs to your hips.
You get lost in the feeling of him in your belly, searing and harsh, fat tip rolling against the spongy spot inside of you until you feel like you might snap. You feel him in your ears, your head pounding with every snap of his hips. You swear you even feel him in your toes, lightning zaps of pleasure down your nerves.
Then he leans back, lifting his weight off of you so you can breathe properly. He leaves his hand on your collarbones like a placeholder, his palm spread over the base of your throat like a reminder, a way to keep your attention on him.
“Fuck,” He grits out, “That’s it, doll.”
You’re vaguely aware of the fact that Ghost’s gaze has shifted, no longer focused on your face but now instead fixed firmly between your legs as he watches the thick shaft of his cock sink into you. He obviously likes how you feel inside; you can hear him cursing and grunting quietly as his free hand grips your hip for leverage.
With his mask rumpled up around his nose, you’re gifted with an incredible view of the way his teeth are sunk into his lower lip. Each time he sinks his cock into you again, he makes a raspy little groan, eyes fluttering briefly shut. It’s so painfully endearing that your heart quivers in your chest.
Your legs burn from being spread around his thick waist — any attempt for you to lock them around his back is useless, your legs slipping everytime his ass flexes with his thrusts. Every hasty drive of his hips has the ridge of his cock sliding against the spongy spread of your walls, making you feel more stuffed every time he ruts into you. With every sudden movement you feel the entirety of his fat cock; the veins are throbbing, skin heated and silken within you. Part of you marvels how you’re even able to fit him inside you.
“Never seen you look like this,” he grunts. “All fucked-out and perfect.”
Ghost leans in again, grips your legs so he can rearrange them over his shoulders, and you think you might die. The angle is different and somehow, impossibly, Ghost is fucking into you even deeper. You think you might actually be crying. There’s no question as to whether you’re drooling.
Your hands move to his arms, nails sinking into the hard muscles of his triceps as you cling on for dear life. He doesn’t even seem to notice the sting of your nails scratching him; or perhaps it only urges him on, because his movements take on an edge of desperation.
“Gorgeous girl,” He grits out, jaw clenched. “Squeezin’ so tight. Fuck. Gonna make you cream.”
You had forgotten about his promise to make you come, too lost in the hazy pleasure of his cock. But now it seems as though he’s been seized by the compulsion to fuck you to the edge; he reaches a hand down so that his thumb can join the fray, and it startles you into moaning breathlessly aloud.
His thumb is merciless against your clit. You’re vulnerable to his touch, clit spread and on display from the stretch of his thick cock inside of you, and he takes full advantage. His fingers are thick and blistering hot as he rubs at you, and you choke as your toes curl.
“Simon–” You manage to eke out before you lose the weak thread of your thoughts, scattering into nothing as he stimulates the stiff bead of your clit.
He grunts to show that he’s heard you, but he doesn’t seem any more capable of words than you are as he rocks into the cradle of your hips. You’re practically blinded by your wet eyes, blinking frantically to try and clear your vision as you reach out clumsily to throw your arms around Ghost’s blisteringly hot neck.
It feels as though your skin is stretched too tight over your body, hot and prickly and too much. You’re trembling, your breaths coming in shaky gasps as agonising pressure builds in your lower belly.
“Fuck, love.” Ghost says, his voice little more than a snarl. “You gonna come?”
No, You think hazily. No, you never come. But even as you think it, part of you recognises that it’s never felt like this before. Your stomach tightens, toes curling, your lungs burning, your eyes rolling. You hardly even know what’s happening.
You recognise that something is building, but it almost seems secondary to the way that Ghost is rutting into you like a man possessed, hitting that spongey spot in the back of your pussy that you’ve never managed to reach yourself and making your legs spasm every time even as his thick thumb rubs frantic circles around the bump of your clit.
“Fuck, fuck–” You wheeze, bucking your hips against him.
It doesn’t grow and dissipate in the way you’re used to. Rather, it creeps up on you almost without you noticing, until you’re whimpering and clinging to Ghost like he’s a lifeline. Your bottom lip trembles as you sob weakly, practically on the brink of diving into an oncoming tidal wave of desire. Then that coil in your stomach snaps like a rubber band, sudden and sharp as a slap to the face.
Your back arches, your vision whites out, and you cum so hard that the world stops, your ears ring, your body goes limp. Your cunts sucks tight around him, pulsing, feeling every inch of him. It feels so sweet, that white-hot buzzing pleasure rushing over you and wiping your brain completely clean.
You’re a little delirious from being stuffed with such a fat cock; every thrust just prolongs your pleasure, like his penetration keeps you from squeezing your very first orgasm out right away. It’s mindless ecstasy, your nails burrowing into the skin of his biceps as you desperately clutch at him for some kind of leverage. Ghost doesn’t falter, his hips continuing to work into you, wringing your orgasm out until you feel as though your brain is melting.
You sob – an actual, genuine, wet-sounding sob as your chest heaves for air and your eyes burn with overwhelmed, rapturous tears. Your head is spinning even as your climax subsides, leaving you limp-limbed and weak as Ghost continues rocking into you.
“Look so lovely when you come, sweetheart,” Ghost grunts into your ear, his bulky chest weighing you down as you clutch feebly at his shoulders. “God, that’s a sight. All for me, yeah?”
His praise only makes it worse, makes your eyes sting until there’s tears down your cheeks and stars behind your eyelids. He sounds so smug, but you can’t deny that he has reason to be. He’s the first man to ever touch you, first man to ever fuck you, the first person to ever tip you over the edge and wring an orgasm out of you. Fuck, you think your brain might have been reduced to mush permanently; you wonder wildly if you’ll ever be the same after this.
Despite the sting of Ghost’s punishing thrusts into your already oversensitive cunt, your body sings for him. The rhythm of his hips is getting gradually sloppier, as though he doesn’t care as much for precision now that he’s succeeded in making you come. Soft, guttural little grunts fall from his mouth, and his arms wrap around your waist to reposition you so that he can fuck quick and shallow. It’s almost tender, as though he’s aware of your growing sensitivity as you mewl under him.
There’s a profound, instinctual pleasure in seeing Ghost lose himself in your embrace. His dark eyes are heavy-lidded and his mask is still all rucked up, revealing the way his mouth is lolled softly open as he pants. You find yourself wishing feverishly that he had taken off his clothes too, because you think you would give anything to watch the roiling muscles of his chest and shoulders as he ruts into you.
Then just when you think you’re beginning to recover from the shattering, mind-numbing oversensitivity, Ghost comes inside of you.
He stops rutting to ride out his orgasm, his cock throbbing, pulsing, spurting inside you until you feel fuller than you’ve ever felt. And he comes a lot.
You’re stuffed so tightly with his cock that his cum has nowhere to go, and ends up leaking thickly from where your cunt grips around him, messy and hot and spilling over your thighs and his. The sound he makes is breathless, all open-mouth and head lolled back as he groans, blissed out as he finds release in your cunt.
The minutes afterwards are a blur.
You close your eyes for what feels like only a second, but the next time you blink your eyes open you find yourself feeling miserably, uncomfortably empty and sticky as all that oozy cum leaks out of you. You somehow missed Ghost pulling out of you, and your thoughts are muzzy and embarrassingly slow.
For a moment, you think you’re alone. You’re becoming more aware of yourself, and you realise that you’re shivering weakly alone in your sweat-damp sheets. Where did Ghost go? Part of you, still a little hazy, wonders if he had left you alone as soon as he had come, and you feel your lower lip tremble at the thought.
God, you feel pathetic. You shift feebly on the sheets, and suck in a sharp breath when you feel the ache inside you, proof that you’re going to feel the shadow of Ghost’s cock for days. You feel drunk off the afterglow, yet you’re swiftly becoming more and more aware of yourself and all the aches and pains that are coming to the fore now.
It feels like you’re too big for your body, and you’re clumsy when you try to sit up. Pushing yourself up makes a whole new set of aches light up, and you let out a quiet keening grumble.
You’re so caught up with trying to ground yourself that you jolt in surprise when big, paw-like hands land on you, pushing you back down onto the bed.
“Shh, hey, lay down.” Ghost says, the rough edges of his accent softened. To your bewilderment, he has a damp cloth in his hand; he went to the bathroom, you realise hazily.
Maybe it’s just because you feel raw after your experience with him, pulsing like an open nerve, but you sniffle and blink and then suddenly there are tears dripping down your face.
“Thought you left.” You mumble, trying not to sound like a needy little idiot.
Ghost glances up at you, unblinkingly. His mask is fixed firmly back in place, and he looks annoyingly put-together; it’s an embarrassingly stark contrast to the way you’re still nude and shivery and teary-eyed.
“No.” He says simply.
The damp cloth is warm when it makes contact with your skin, and you relax as he drags it along your sweaty back and over your legs. He’s a little rough about it, but you don’t think it’s on purpose. Gentleness doesn’t come naturally to Simon Riley, and yet you can feel that he’s trying and that makes a warm glow settle in your stomach, replacing the cold anxiety that had settled in when you thought that he had left you alone.
When the cloth reaches the tender skin of your pussy, you hiss and try to pull away. It all feels too sensitive, and you feel your face crumple up as he wipes away the mess of slick and cum between your thighs. He gentles his touch as much as he can, but you still mewl at the electric zaps of oversensitivity that jolt up your spine.
When Ghost pauses and pulls the cloth away from you, you blink your eyes awake. Your vision is still all wet and blurry from tears, but you can still see the shape of Ghost as he stares down at you. You can imagine you look nothing short of ruined right now, even after having been cleaned up, and Ghost’s stare is burning.
You wonder if he’s about to leave now – you can recognise this whole thing had gotten out of hand, and you just about manage to stifle the panic at the creeping realisation that you’ve just fucked your superior officer. Ghost must have realised at this point that the two of you had just ripped through all those fraternisation rules, though it’s always been difficult to tell what he’s thinking. But you trust him – you have to, in your line of work. You have to trust that he’ll handle things.
Ghost tosses aside the cloth, and his big overbearing body climbs back into bed beside you. It’s a standard-issue bunk, and yet it feels comically tiny when Ghost has been added to the mix. He’s surprisingly agile, even despite his big size, and you barely have time to realise that he’s joining you in bed before he’s wrapped a thick arm around your middle, hauling you closer.
You’d love to act chill and cool about the fact that he’s now essentially cuddling you, but you miss the mark by a long mile. You take a breath, and allow yourself to relax into his big burly chest. He’s still fully clothed, and the rough texture of his jeans against your tender bare skin makes you shiver lightly from oversensitivity.
Your hips are sore from being stretched so wide, your joints weak and watery, and you’re perfectly content to close your eyes and forcibly ignore all your concerns about fraternisation or how you’re going to face Ghost in training. It’s a problem for another time.
“You still alive?” Ghost grunts, and his palm coasts down over your back to settle at your ass, his fingers squeezing absent-mindedly into the soft flesh there.
He sounds amused, which makes you grumble in irritation. He takes up so much space, his big body filling up all the free space on the bed and making you feel so fucking small as he holds you so that your back is pressed against his stomach.
“I dunno,” You mumble, words a little garbled. “Think… think you might have fucked me stupid, Lt.”
Lying like this, with his front pressed against your back, you can feel his laugh rumble into you. He’s touchy too in a way that surprises you; his hands are constantly moving, swiping over your sides and groping at any part of you that’s squishy-soft.
“Think I might have,” He agrees, and you can hear the smirk in his voice even if you can’t see it. “But I think you needed it, sweetheart. You were practically cryin’ out for it all day.”
You feel your face heat at the insinuation that he had noticed the arousal you thought you had hidden so well. But you still feel so fuzzy inside, and you can’t manage to drum up any genuine reaction.
Ghost’s roaming hand slips down between your legs, and you hold your breath as he reaches your swollen, tender pussy. His fingers are so big, but he’s aware of his strength and keeps his touch light, cupping rather than groping, his calloused palm catching on your puffy clit.
“Told you a real cock would be better,” He rumbles, and you feel the soft material of his mask rubbing against the back of your sweaty neck. “You’ve got a fussy little cunt – ‘s only gonna be satisfied by the real thing.”
You’d love to jab back at him, but the feeling of him rough palm against your oversensitive clit has your thoughts fizzing out into nothingness. All you can do is let out a quiet little whimper, and rock your hips into his touch. To your utter bewilderment, you feel your arousal, which you had previously considered entirely sated, pulse back to life.
As if Ghost can feel your cunt throb beneath his hand, he snickers. “Yeah. Fussy and greedy.”
He leans down, and you feel his lips brush against the back of your neck through the cotton of his balaclava. You quiver, and part your legs without conscious thought to give his thick fingers more room to work. Despite your exhaustion, and your soreness, and your sensitivity, you find yourself wanting. You wonder, with an edge of hysteria, if your body has somehow managed to rewire itself to only accept pleasure from your commanding officer’s hand.
“Ghost– Simon–” You breathe, your hips jumping as you grind into his palm.
“Yeah,” He says again, as though he knows exactly what you need and want. “One little orgasm wasn’t enough, was it?”
“No.” You choke out, throwing your head back so that it’s resting against Ghost’s broad chest. “No, ‘t wasn’t.”
You can hardly believe that your body is winding up for more, but Ghost’s touch is searing hot against your tender skin, and you can already taste the pleasure he’s going to bring you. This time, without the edge of urgency, you think you might even enjoy it more.
“Gimme five minutes,” He drawls, his voice low and muffled in your ear. “And I’ll give you your second.”
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