Hello, my lovelies! Welcome to my masterlist! I’m so happy to have you here. I hope you enjoy your time and I encourage any questions or requests. Happy reading 📚 Love, Mollie 🤍
Fic Key:
☁️ fluff, 🔥 smut, ❤️🩹 angst, 🖤 dark
Please take care to read all warnings on my fics — they have been labelled for a reason. I am not responsible for your media consumption.
Bucky Barnes
Oneshots:
Deserving ❤️🩹
Bucky has internal scars too deeply imbedded that cause him to hide away from the world on the bad days. But he always knows, no matter how long he takes, you’ll forever be waiting for him on the other side — the light to bring him home. (3.2k)
Dancing With The Devil | Part Two 🔥
You were always a sensible girl — an angel some would say. But how quickly are you willing to shred your wings when the devil himself is so damn tempting? (5.2k)
Loverboy ☁️
Bucky, a lovesick, pining super soldier, vows to keep his feelings for you a secret — no matter how obvious his crush may seem. Those plans are ruined between a meddling Sam, an embarrassing fall, and a visit to the medbay with you. (4.3k)
Revenge Sweeter Than Honey 🔥
When Bucky’s professor unfairly grades his college assignment, ruining his perfect GPA, he finds a way to get revenge — And doesn’t his sweet little wife look delicious? (9.2k)
A Forbidden Invitation 🔥
You think a one night stand from the summer, the best fuck of your life, is a done deal — a single, heated encounter that now lives vividly in your memories. But you learn that your actions have consequences when you befriend a new student, starting in the new term, and she invites you over to meet her Dad. (11.5k)
You Look Good On Camera, Baby 🔥
Bucky’s not letting you leave the photobooth, not until he’s had his way with you. (2.8k)
The Ties That Bind Us 🔥
Even though Bucky is your ex-husband, you still have to see him often because of your shared son. But the heated tension, the spark that is still very much alive after your divorce, finally reaches its peak when you come home from your date. (5.7k words)
Read Between The Lines ☁️
There shouldn’t have been anything unusual about your routine visit to the local bookstore. Your life was simple and mundane, even if you were a daydreamer at heart. But you were pleasantly surprised when this time you met a handsome stranger between the shelves. (6.6k words)
Spoiled And Stuffed 🔥
Bucky surprises you with a gift on your birthday. (2.6k words)
Tension 🔥
You’re devastated when your usual massage therapist becomes unavailable at the last minute, but an unexpected trainee is more than happy to handle you. (4.2k words)
Perverse Desires 🔥
Assigned an undercover mission, you’re partnered up with the bane of your existence, Bucky, to pay a visit to a sex club. What could go wrong? (4k words)
Anywhere Away With You ☁️🔥❤️🩹
Old ghosts from your past threaten to disturb the peace you’ve made with your new life. Will temptation steer you away? (11k words)
Series:
The Love In The Woods Collection ☁️🔥
After years apart, Bucky, a small town lumberjack, and Dolly, his best girl, find their way back to each other as adults.
A series of oneshots, drabbles and snippets following the course of two old school friends and their blossoming relationship.
The New Tricks Collection ☁️🔥
An alternate universe starring two college students; Bucky, the star football player and Buttercup, his best friend’s little sister. Follow their main journey together as they learn their mutual pining isn’t one sided after all through an array of firsts. (30k)
Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds
Pretty In Lace ☁️🔥
When Bob arrives home after his first successful mission, he stumbles upon a surprise waiting for him on his bed. (2.7k)
Benjamin Poindexter
Only A Touch From You Will Do ☁️
Dex always counts down the minutes until he’s home again. Until he can breathe again. Until he’s back in your arms again. (1.4k)
Familiar Ghosts 🖤🔥
How you thought you could end your relationship with Dex was a mystery to him. Didn’t you know he would always come back for you? Didn’t you know you know that you belonged to him? (2.2k)
summary: how you take care of your daddy when he has a bad day.
word count: 935
warnings: fluff, hurt/comfort, mentions of nightmares (bucky), that's it I think, just a whoooole lot of softness, modern au
a/n: I meant to get this out yesterday but I accidentally took a four hour nap😭
series masterlist | main masterlist | tip jar | ao3
soft!dom!bucky who gets pretty bad nightmares. it doesn't happen too often anymore, but they're devastating, and in the beginning of your relationship, bucky tried to hide it from you. it wasn't that he didn't trust you, and he knew you'd understand, he just didn't want you to have to worry about him. it was his job to worry about you. it wasn't until one night when you were sleeping at his place that he had a particularly harrowing nightmare, screaming himself awake. you'd jolted up, eyes wide in surprise and heart rate increasing, figuring something was wrong. once you realized there was no immediate danger, you'd turned to bucky, only to find him rushing out of bed and into the bathroom. it had taken some time standing on the other side of the door, using a gentle voice while you asked him what was wrong and assured him that you're okay, I promise. just tell me what's going on and we'll figure it out together.
soft!dom!bucky who eventually did open the door, his eyes red and puffy from crying and his chest still heaving as he stutters through breathing. you'd reached for him before pulling back, hesitantly asking him if you could touch him, to which he nearly collapsed into your arms. you guided both of you back to the bed, laying down with bucky on top of you. you didn't care that his body weight was heavy enough to make breathing slightly harder, you only care about placing his head on your chest, making sure his ear was right over where your heart is, and playing with his hair to get him to calm down. he eventually did calm down enough to admit to his nightmare, and nearly started sobbing when he explained it was about you - about losing you, and having to live the rest of his life with you as a mere memory.
soft!dom!bucky who nearly broke down when the first thing you said was I know brains can conjure up unwanted thoughts, but you won't have to worry about losing me any time soon. I'm here with you. always. you listed off things you loved about him, moments you cherish, plans for your future. it was then he realized that you weren't judging him, and you weren't pitying him, you were simply counteracting his intrusive thoughts with facts that proved otherwise. truthfully, he thinks that's the moment he truly fell in love with you.
soft!dom!bucky who won't admit it to anyone but himself, but a majority of his worries revolve around you. have you eaten enough today? have you consumed enough water? are you happy? are you still happy with him? do you really want him to take care of you? sometimes his thoughts can spiral, and he hates his brain for it. he hates that he second-guesses himself at times because how can he provide for and protect you if he can't trust his instincts?
soft!dom!bucky who didn't realize you could see right through him. as much as he knows you like the back of his hand, you know him just the same, and you're able to pick up on his minute mood shifts pretty much as soon as they happen. you see him for who he really is, and you're able to lift him up without even thinking about it. it wasn't until he came home from work one day to find you had prepared a little candle-lit picnic dinner in your living room because you picked up on his sour mood when you called him earlier that he realized you love taking care of him just as much as he loves taking care of you.
soft!dom!bucky who absolutely loves that you have a little routine in place whenever he has a bad day. he doesn't have them often, and he's usually able to get himself out of his funk by himself, but there are rare times where he just can't muster up the energy. it's those days that you cook one of his favorite meals from childhood, having been gifted one of his mom's recipes the first time you met her because she insisted that you were family already - after all, she just knew you were it for bucky. you have him sit on a stool at the kitchen island so you can talk to him while you cook. you'll wear the floral apron bucky got you and ramble about your day if he was away at work that day, just to get his mind off of whatever is bringing him down. you'll bathe with him after dinner, sitting upright against the tub with his back against your chest so you can hold him while you - very carefully - wash his hair. you'll coo in his ear all the things you love about him, how you notice all the little things he does for you and how much you appreciate them, and pepper kisses all along his shoulders and neck until he's laughing softly at the tickling sensation.
soft!dom!bucky who can never be sad for too long when he has his princess doting over him. you flit around the house in the prettiest dress, handing him water and a blanket you threw in the dryer, then plopping down next to him on the couch so you can cuddle up together while watching his favorite movies. no matter what had brought him down that day, he's able to easily let go of it by the end of the night. after all, his sadness could never compete with your pretty smile and soft voice whispering your adoration.
This was adorable. How tender to get to see princess take care of Bucky this time. I have admittedly been wondering how the dynamic changes between them when Bucky isn’t feeling his best and you delivered in the most wonderful way. I love that we got to see some vulnerability from him and it was lovely to witness how easily princess can step into that caregiver role when her man isn’t 100%. The bath scene was my favourite. I love it when intimacy doesn’t necessarily have to be sexual — just the warmth of connecting skin to skin with each other in the bathtub and getting to comb her fingers through his hair while she kisses his water-slicked skin. Ugh, I’ve gone all jelly!! 🙈 So soft, these babies are my ride or dies. I truly adore them with my whole soul 😭🥹
don’t you hate when real life keeps interrupting your extremely serious commitments like your wip, your fanfics, and the emotional support music group you’ve been hyperfixating on for the past three months.
summary: You wake up one night to a familiar knocking on your window.
word count: 4.4k+
pairing: dex poindexter x fem!reader
notes: everyone say "thank you karen page" for giving us this absolute treasure of a scene, because damn i think about it every. single. day. i even thought about it during my biology midterm... and when i'm driving... and when i go to sleep at night... is it too much to ask for dex to look at me like this??? i need this absolute bottom of a man
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, gun (is that a sufficient warning?), implied that you and dex used to date, dex is an absolute simp, this man gets on his knees for you yes yes yes, kissing, pet name (use of baby), implied that this takes place after dex gets out of prison
The first sound is so small you almost convince yourself it’s part of a dream, something your brain made up to justify the way you’ve been sleeping with one ear open. You don’t get the luxury of pretending for long, because it comes again—soft, deliberate, and it’s definitely not a branch scraping glass or a neighbor’s door slamming downstairs. It’s a tap that knows exactly where your window is, exactly how much pressure to use, and exactly how to wake you without waking the whole building.
You sit up without thinking and the sheet slides off your shoulder. The room is dark enough that you can’t make out much beyond the vague shape of your dresser and the line of the curtain, but you don’t need a clear view to find what your hand is looking for. Your fingers go into the bedside table drawer, curl around the grip, and pull the gun free with the quiet familiarity of practice. You stand, bare feet on cold floorboards, and the chill climbs up your legs like the apartment is trying to warn you.
The hallway is narrow and familiar, and you’ve walked it a thousand times, but tonight it feels like a corridor in someone else’s life. You keep the gun up, not waving it around, not shaking, just steady, and you listen with everything you’ve got. There’s no heavy breathing, no footsteps scuffing. That’s what makes your stomach tighten, because a drunk would stumble, a thief would rush, and a normal person would knock at your door.
The living room opens up around you, a patchwork of darker shadows where your furniture sits. The window by the fire escape is cracked open by a few inches, the curtain pushed aside like a hand slid it back and held it there. The air coming in is colder than the air in your apartment, and it carries the faint scent of city grime and rain. You take one more step in, muzzle tracking toward the window, and then you see him in the corner where the light from the street doesn’t quite reach.
He’s standing with his back close to the wall, like he chose a spot that gives him the whole room and keeps him out of the line of sight from anyone walking past outside. He’s dressed dark, of course, and he’s not moving like he’s trying to spook you. He’s still in that unsettling way that makes it feel like the apartment belongs to him now, like he’s been there longer than you have and he’s just waiting for you to catch up.
“Step into the light,” you say, and your voice comes out flat, the way it does when you’re forcing yourself not to feel something first.
He exhales, slow, and the sound is quiet but familiar enough to pull at something inside your chest. Then he shifts, and you get a glimpse of his face as he moves just enough that the streetlight catches the curve of his cheek and the pale line of his mouth. The light shows the tension in his jaw before it fades again as he settles back into shadow.
A pause, and then a voice from the darkest part of your living room, low and steady like he’s been standing there listening to you breathe. “You still sleep with it that close.”
Your grip tightens before you can help it. Your aim doesn’t wobble, but everything in you goes hot and cold at the same time, because you know that voice, you know the cadence, you know the way he makes the simplest sentence sound like he’s filing it into place. You take another step forward without meaning to, then stop yourself before you get too close. “What are you doing in my apartment, Dex?”
He says your name, and he says it like he’s allowed to, like he hasn’t earned the right to have it in his mouth. It hits you anyway, because your body is stupid and memory is worse, and there’s something about hearing him say it that makes your grip tighten on the gun until your knuckles ache. “I needed to see you,” he says.
“That’s not an answer.”
His shoulders lift a fraction, not quite a shrug. “It’s the only one I have.”
You keep the muzzle steady, aimed center mass, the way you were taught, the way you taught yourself when no one else was around to correct your stance. “How did you get in?”
He glances at the window. “You already know.”
“I want to hear you say it,” you tell him.
He shifts again, and this time he steps out far enough that you can actually see him. The light catches more of him now: the shape of his shoulders under the jacket, the tired set to his eyes, the faint shadow of bruising that’s either healing or never fully fades when a body’s been through too much. He looks leaner than you remember, like prison carved away whatever softness he had left, and he looks too controlled for someone who just climbed up to your window in the middle of the night.
“I came up the fire escape,” he says, and then his eyes flick down for a second, to the gun, and back to your face. “You didn’t change the latch.”
Your pulse jumps, not because he’s wrong, but because you hate that he knows. You hate that he’s cataloging details like he’s always done, like he can’t help it, like your life is a pattern and he’s already traced the lines. “You could’ve knocked,” you say.
He gives you a look that’s almost dry, almost amused, and it doesn’t belong on his face after everything. “Would you have opened the door?”
You don’t answer that, because the truth is complicated and ugly and it doesn’t deserve to be spoken out loud with a gun between you. “What happened?” you ask instead, because something had to have pushed him here. “Did someone follow you? Is this some kind of—” You cut yourself off before you say trap, because saying it gives it more shape than you want to hold in your head.
He shakes his head. “No one followed me.”
“Then why are you here?” you repeat, and you keep your voice sharp enough to cut. “Why now?”
His mouth opens like he’s going to say something, then closes again. For a second he looks almost… careful, like he’s choosing words in the same way someone chooses where to step on thin ice.
“I got out,” he says finally, and his voice stays quiet, but there’s a roughness under it that wasn’t there before. “And the first night I was out, I didn’t come here. I didn’t come anywhere near you. I went somewhere else and I sat there until morning, because I told myself if I made it through one night, I could make it through the next.”
You don’t let yourself soften at the sound of him trying. You keep the gun up, because you remember the things he’s done and you remember how quickly trying can turn into something else when it’s Dex Poindexter doing it.
“How many nights did you make it through?” you ask.
His gaze holds yours, steady as the muzzle pointed at him. “Not enough.”
Your breath comes out harsh. “So you decided to break into my apartment.”
He doesn’t flinch. “I decided to see you.”
“You don’t get to decide things for me anymore.”
His expression shifts at that, something tightening behind his eyes like he’s swallowing down a reaction. “I’m not asking for permission,” he says, and then he adds, almost softer, “I’m here. That’s all.”
“That’s not all,” you snap, and the gun wavers a fraction before you force it steady again. “You don’t show up like this and pretend it’s nothing. You don’t get to stand in my living room like you didn’t—”
The words knot in your throat and refuse to come out, and Dex watches you with that awful focus that makes you feel seen in a way you never asked for.
He takes one step closer.
“Stop,” you say immediately.
He stops, but the fact that he moved at all sends heat crawling under your skin. He’s closer now, close enough that you can see the faint scar on his cheek you don’t remember from before, close enough that you can see how his pupils look too wide in the low light. His hands hang at his sides, relaxed but not casual, and he keeps them visible like he knows you’ll put a bullet in him if you have to.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“I’m not,” you lie, and it’s stupid because he’s right. The tremor is small, but it’s there.
His mouth twitches. “You used to shake when you were angry.”
“Don’t,” you warn him.
He doesn’t stop, because Dex has never been good at stopping once he’s latched onto a thread. “And you used to hate it when I noticed,” he continues, and his voice is almost gentle now, like he’s trying to smooth something over with tone alone. “But you always let me.”
“I don’t let you do anything,” you say, and you lift the gun a fraction higher, aiming for his head this time because you want him to understand you mean it. “Take one more step and I’ll put you down.”
He looks at the gun, then back at you, and then he does the most infuriating thing he could do: he steps forward anyway, slow and deliberate, like he’s approaching an altar instead of a weapon. You don’t move, because you refuse to give ground in your own home, and the next second the barrel meets his forehead with a soft, undeniable bump.
He doesn’t jerk away, he doesn’t blink fast, he just leans in until the pressure is firm, and you feel it through the gun, through your arm,, straight into your chest. “There,” he says, voice low. “That’s better.”
Your stomach flips, half disgust and half something you don’t want to name. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
He breathes out through his nose, and you can feel it in the space between you. “A lot.”
“Back up,” you order, but he doesn’t move an inch. Your grip tightens again. “Dex.”
His eyes stay on yours, and there’s something in them that’s so naked it makes your throat go tight. It’s not a plea, not exactly, and it’s not a threat. It’s need in its purest form, stripped of all the lies he usually wraps around it.
You hold the gun steady even though your arm is starting to ache, and you hate that he can stand there with the barrel pressed into his skin like it’s a point of contact instead of a warning. He stays close enough that you can see the faint sheen of sweat at his hairline, close enough that you can feel his breath when he exhales, and he doesn’t do the decent thing and back away.
“On your knees,” you say, and you make your voice mean it.
For a beat he doesn’t move, not because he’s refusing, but because he’s watching you like he’s memorizing the exact set of your mouth, the angle of your wrist, the way you’re not stepping back. Then he nods once, slow, and he lowers himself like he’s trying not to startle a wild animal. His knees touch the floor with a quiet sound that makes your stomach twist, because the sight of him down there is wrong in a way that feels too right, and his hands lift up beside his head with his palms open.
“Like this?” he asks, and the question comes out calm, almost polite.
“Don’t talk to me like you’re doing me a favor,” you say, and you keep the muzzle angled down at him, not because you’re easing up, but because the geometry changes when he kneels. “You don’t get to play nice now.”
His eyes flicker, and something tight pulls at the corner of his mouth like he wants to smile and doesn’t trust himself to. “I’m not playing,” he says. “I’m doing what you said.”
“Good,” you tell him, because you need something solid to hang onto. “Stay there.”
He stays there, hands still up, shoulders squared even on his knees like posture is another kind of armor. The streetlight catches his face better now, carving shadows under his cheekbones and making his eyes look even darker, and you hate how familiar he still is. He looks at the gun, then at you, and he doesn’t look away from either like he’s proving he can take it.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you say. “You shouldn’t even know where I live anymore.”
“I didn’t forget,” he answers, and he says it like it’s a simple fact instead of a confession. “I missed you.”
You swallow and your throat aches, because you can hear the old softness threaded through the words and you don’t want it. You don’t want the version of him that sounded like that when he was in your bed, when he’d tuck himself behind you and pretend the world couldn’t touch him if he had you in his arms.
“Don’t,” you say again, and this time it comes out quieter than you meant it to.
His gaze lifts to your face and he holds it like he’s holding onto a ledge. “I missed you, baby,” he repeats, and he doesn’t push the nickname like a knife. He says it the way he used to say it when you’d fall asleep mid-sentence, the way he’d say it when he was trying to be gentle.
Your breathing shifts, shallow for a second before you force it back into something steadier, and the gun stays in your hand even though your fingers tighten around it like you’re afraid it will disappear if you loosen your grip. “You don’t get to just show up,” you tell him. “Not after everything.”
He doesn’t argue, and the lack of fight is almost worse than if he’d tried. His shoulders rise and fall with one slow breath, and his hands stay up where you can see them. “I know.”
“You don’t get to stand in my living room and look at me like that,” you add, because anger is easier than the other thing pressing up behind your ribs. “You don’t get to say you missed me like it means something.”
His throat works like he’s swallowing down something sharp. “It means something to me,” he says, and he says it like he hates himself for it. “I’m not asking you to forgive me.”
“You should be,” you say. “If you had any sense left, you’d be begging.”
His mouth opens, then closes, and for a second he looks almost like he wants to laugh and can’t find the sound. “Do you want me to beg?” he asks, and his voice stays even, but there’s a tremor under it that makes your teeth clench. “If you tell me to beg, I will.”
Your hand trembles just enough that you feel it in your wrist, and you hate that he notices because he always notices. His eyes flick to your hand, then back to your face, and the intensity in his stare doesn’t change, but his posture does. It’s small, careful, and it makes your skin prickle, because his hands lower a little from beside his head to hover closer to his shoulders like he’s testing whether you’ll stop him.
“Hands up,” you order immediately.
He freezes with his hands halfway down, and he lifts them again without complaint. “Okay,” he says, soft.
You take a breath that scrapes, and you try to keep your voice sharp enough to protect you. “You think you can come back and act like this,” you say. “You think you can walk right into my life and—what? Remind me of how it felt? That’s your plan?”
“I don’t have a plan,” he says, and his eyes flicker with something that looks like frustration, not at you, but at himself. “If I had a plan, I wouldn’t be here.”
“That’s the first smart thing you’ve said all night,” you mutter.
He shifts his weight slightly on his knees, the motion controlled, and the gun tracks him on instinct. He notices that too, of course, and his gaze drops to the muzzle for half a second like he’s checking where it is, like he’s measuring distance in his head the way he measures everything. When his eyes lift again, they’re too steady, too direct. “You’re still holding it like you mean it,” he says.
“I do mean it.”
“I know,” he replies, and he sounds almost relieved by that. “That’s why I came.”
Your jaw tightens. “What do you mean?”
He doesn’t move his hands, but his fingers flex once like he’s fighting the urge to reach. “You don’t lie to yourself,” he says. “You never did.”
“That’s not a compliment,” you tell him.
“I wasn’t trying to compliment you,” he says, and then he adds, quieter, like it costs him to say it out loud, “I needed something real.”
You stare at him, and the room feels too small for the two of you, because he’s taking up all the air with that gaze and you’re letting him. The gun is still there between you, still a line you can draw any time you want, but your arm is tired and your hand is shaking just a little, and you’re furious that he can make you feel anything other than disgust.
“Get up,” you say, and your voice is steady again because you force it to be. “Slow.”
He watches your face like he’s waiting for you to change your mind, and then he rises in the same careful way he knelt, one measured movement at a time. His hands stay up for a moment even when he’s standing, palms open beside his head, and the sight is almost absurdly intimate, like you’re the one holding him in place with nothing but a word.
When he’s upright, you lower the gun just enough that it’s not pressed against him anymore, but you don’t put it down. It stays in your hand, pointed between you, not quite aimed at his heart now but still close enough that he understands what it means. He steps closer anyway, not quickly, not like he’s trying to take it from you, but like he’s following a gravity he can’t resist.
“Stop right there,” you say, even though you don’t move back.
He stops, so close that your breath hits him you exhale. His hands are still raised, and you notice the tension in his forearms, the way he’s holding himself back on purpose. His eyes flick to your mouth and back up, and the movement is so fast you almost miss it, but you don’t. You never used to miss it.
“This doesn’t fix anything,” you say, and it comes out harsh, like you can say it hard enough to make it true.
“I know,” he answers immediately, and the speed of it makes your throat tighten because he isn’t pretending. “I’m not here because I think it fixes it.”
“Then why are you here,” you demand, “if you’re not here to fix it?”
His voice drops, and it’s barely above a breath. “Because I couldn’t stand not knowing if you’d look at me.”
Your fingers curl tighter around the grip. “You’re looking at me right now.”
He shakes his head once, tiny. “You’re looking back,” he says.
You hate the way your body reacts to that, the way heat crawls under your skin like an old reflex waking up. You hate that you want to slap him and kiss him in the same breath, and you hate most of all that he’s watching you like he can see every ugly thought as it passes through you.
“Don’t,” you whisper, and you don’t even know what you mean by it, because it’s too late for a dozen different kinds of don’t.
He holds still like you’ve pinned him there with your voice, and then he leans forward just enough that his forehead almost brushes the gun again. He doesn’t touch it this time, like he’s learned the boundary you’re actually holding, and he stays in the thin space you allow. “Tell me no,” he says, and his voice is steady even when his eyes aren’t. “Tell me no and I’ll go.”
You stare at him, and the word sits in your mouth like a coin you can’t swallow. You could say it—you should say it, but you don’t.
Dex’s breath stutters once, like he felt your silence land. His hands are still above his head, still open, and for a moment the two of you just stand there with the gun between you and the air too thick to breathe. Then you step in, because you’re tired of being the only one pretending you aren’t about to do something you’ll regret.
You kiss him.
It isn’t gentle, and it isn’t sweet, and it isn’t anything like an apology. It’s hot and angry and familiar in the worst way, like your mouth already knows his and your body already remembers the shape of him. His hands stay up for one strangled second like he doesn’t believe he’s allowed, like he’s waiting for you to shove him away, and that pause makes your pulse kick hard.
“Don’t—” you start, pulling back just enough for the words to hit his mouth, but you can’t finish because he swallows the rest of it when you kiss him again.
“I’m not,” he murmurs against you, and it’s breath and sound, barely a sentence. “I’m not.”
His restraint breaks in slow motion. One hand lowers first, hovering near your waist without touching, and he waits like he’s asking permission without using words. When you don’t flinch, his palm settles against you, warm and firm, and the contact sends a sharp shiver through you that makes you hate yourself.
Your other hand is still holding the gun, angled down now, forgotten and not forgotten at the same time, because you can feel its weight even as you drag your free hand up his chest. Your fingers catch on his jacket, then slide up to his collar, and when you fist the fabric there his breath turns rough.
Dex makes a sound that he tries to swallow, and his other hand comes down to your side, then your back, pressing you closer. He doesn’t force you, he just follows the contact like he’s starving for it, like he’s been holding himself together with rules and silence and the idea of you, and now you’re here and his hands don’t know how to be anything except reverent and desperate at the same time.
You break the kiss long enough to glare at him, your mouth still close to his. “This isn’t—”
“I know,” he says again, and his eyes flick to your lips like he can’t stop himself. “I know.”
“Say it like you mean it,” you challenge, because you need something that hurts more than this does.
He nods once, and his voice comes out rougher. “It doesn’t fix anything,” he repeats, and there’s no argument in him, no illusion. “It just… makes it quiet.”
Your chest tightens at that, and you should step back, you should put the gun away, you should make him leave, you should do a hundred sensible things. Instead you kiss him again, slower this time, and he sinks into it like he’s been waiting for permission to breathe.
His hand slides up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with the kind of careful touch that makes your stomach flip because it’s so gentle it feels wrong coming from him. Your fingers tighten in his collar, and you feel the tremor in him when you do, like he’s trying to hold himself to a line he’s drawn and you’re daring him to cross it.
“Look at me,” you say, because you want to see if he’s still there in his own eyes.
He does, immediately, and he doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what he is. “I’m looking,” he says, and his voice is low, steady, too intimate for the middle of your living room with your gun still in your hand.
You don’t answer with words. You answer by pulling him back into your mouth, and his hand tightens at your waist like he’s anchoring himself, like you’re the only thing keeping him from floating apart.
When the kiss deepens again, it’s messy in the way you remember, not because it’s out of control but because it’s full of everything you haven’t said. His hands roam—your side, your back, up to the base of your neck where his fingers curl like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go—and he keeps checking you with tiny pauses, tiny hesitations, like he’s still waiting for you to push him away and he’s bracing for it even as he kisses you like he can’t live without it.
You don’t push him away; you keep him close, gun still hanging loose in your hand and angled toward the floor, because you haven’t decided what any of this means and you’re not going to lie and pretend you have.
Dex stays pressed to you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks, and when he kisses you again it’s slower, heavier, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. He pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead hovering near yours, and his eyes search your face like he’s bracing for the part where you tell him to leave. “Tell me to go,” he murmurs, voice rough, like it hurts to offer you the out.
You swallow, your grip on his collar tightening, and the words come out low and sharp like you’re daring him to believe you. “Don’t go.”
For a second he looks stunned in a way you almost never see on him, and then something in him gives with a quiet, relieved exhale. His hands tighten at your waist like he’s anchoring himself, and he kisses you again like he’s starving, like he’s been holding back for days and you just cut the last thread.
“Thank you, baby,” he breathes against your mouth, the nickname soft enough to make your chest ache. “I missed you.”
extra notes: one, i'm thinking of making a dex taglist, so if you want to be added, let me know! (here or on my taglist post). secondly, writing that last line made me realize that dex is the kind of guy that would ask to go down on you and say thank you when you let him... yeah
That first god damned “I missed you, baby” ??? HOLY FUCK IM SCREAMING!!! Stepping closer to rest his head against the gun, getting on his knees, saying he needed something real so he came over without knowing whether he was going to be accepted or not 😭😭😭 fuck me this was a holy grail read, fucking god-tier yearning from my man and I love to see it. The best to ever do it, you’ve captured my heart and soul with this one. You can keep them I don’t want them back. Wrapping this up and taking it home with me forever thank you very much.
Legit feel a little crazy after reading this, like literally feel like Ursula and you’re Ariel and I want to hoard you forever and pick your brain just so you can tell me your thoughts and headcannons for Dex. Is that weird?? I’m so sorry your incredible writing has made me unhinged 😅
18+ cunniligus with dex where you can't push him away
fem! reader, mdni. 1.9k words. cw: cunniligus, kinda mean dex, slight overstimulation, general filth
Dex is often comparable to a smitten cat: he hates a closed door. He'll mither and pester and bother, do whatever, except wait patiently on the other side of it. He may act like he's been cruelly depraved of your attention, or shunned by you, but really you've just closed it for a moments privacy.
Sort of like right now. You had not long gotten out the shower, and rather than been seen naked and hunched over drying yourself and applying lotions, you decided to close the door to the bedroom for a quick minute. If you shut it quietly enough, Dex won't notice.
But he does.
That little click of the hinge makes his ears prickle, and in no time at all, you hear feet scuffle on the other side. A small set of knocks follow and then a light cough — like he was clearing his throat.
"I need to get my charger."
You smile to yourself. The act coming from a place of slight amusement. It was like routine with Dex, when you close the door, he'll pretend he needs something from the other side — make up some kind of ruse in order for you to open it.
Making your way to his side of the bed, you look inside his nightstand drawer for the charger that's almost always there, though it isn't. The neatly segregated contents void of the charger he claims he needs to collect. And so you adjust the towel still wrapped around you and sit yourself down at the edge of the bed. You glance to the near empty nightstand and to the door, and it's then you decide to toy with him for a moment.
"I'll pass it to you, one second," you tease. You pretend to search and tap your feet on the floor; remaining in place so as to give the illusion you were actually looking. "It's not in here."
"Well," he sighs, seemingly panicking for an excuse. "It is."
"Where is it?" you question, playfully provoking him. "I'll get it."
"Can I just come in?" he remarks, growing annoyance clear in his tone. "I'll be quick," he adds, voice far softer — like he was prompt to correct himself.
You give him a hum in response, but it doesn't have to be particularly loud for him to hear it. All he needs is the slightest possible confirmation in order to open the door. And like it was an instant invitation, he pushes it open and steps inside.
He lingers in the door frame for a moment, eyes falling from the exposed expanse of your shoulders and down to your bare legs. His gaze reluctantly pulls away for a quick moment and to the kitchen behind him, the hot pans on the stove reminding him of where his prior attention was. Though he's thankful to have been ahead with forethought, and it's when he finally hears the pans reduce to a quiet, inconsistent sizzle, he steps further into the room.
Your eyes meet his, peered up gaze following his stalk like movements as he grows closer and closer. And it's then that he halts, big broad frame pausing in front of you — intense hazel eyes cast down on you below. You were fine playing with him between a closed door, fine to tease when he didn't face you; but to have him directly ahead of you, watchful gaze locked on you, you no longer felt that same sense to toy with him like you did before.
His eyes lower and focus in on your lap for a moment. And it's then his head tilts aside, like you were supposed to know what it means.
Though you do and you give him a small nod. Again, it was all he needed.
He bends at the knee and lowers, movement slow and controlled. He's far closer to the level of your eyes, but still, it feels like he's looking down upon you. Dex places his palms on either of your thighs, hands spread wide as he guides your legs apart — separating you.
The placement of his thumbs lower on either side of your thighs, the pads itching along the inners of each with faint little circles he draws into your skin. He sits further onto the heels of his feet, and it's then he looks up at you, eyes heavy as they study the growing want in your face.
His gaze soon diverts from you, though yours remains on him — watching him intently as he dips between your thighs, face turning aside so he can press his lips to the inners of one. Breath hot as his mouth ghosts your skin. The trail of his lips rises higher and higher and in it's place, a litter of kisses are left behind.
Your head involuntarily falls back, and the rest of you then follows. You adjust and push yourself further up the bed, scooching back so as to kindly make some space for Dex between you. He moves with you, lips remaining in place at the inner of your thigh like his mouth is fused to your skin.
Getting comfortable betwixt your thighs, he rests on his elbows — face subsequently itching in closer to your cunt. He shifts his weight a moment, arms coming up from their placement at the edge of the bed to wrap around you; arms encompassing your lower hips. His fingers paw at the squish of your inner thighs, pads sort of pulsing your skin as he pries your legs further apart.
He's slow and teasing. Like he's making you wait the way you did him a few moments before. But really, he's only taunting himself.
Nuzzling inwards, he presses a kiss to crease of your inner thigh, and then another and another, though the more that follow, the closer they get to your cunt. And by the fourth, maybe fifth kiss he sears into you, his lips reach the ones of your pussy.
Your stomach shudders as a direct response to his touch and it's when you feel your back lift from the sheets, that your hands shoot down and for his hair. Bending your legs, you lift your feet and place them at the edge of the mattress. You hook them, heels digging into that rimmed cuff as an effort to fix yourself more comfortably.
He presses another kiss to you, but this time, slightly higher than the one before. His lips reach your clit and it's there he resumes a small series of faint, and just as lengthy kisses — each one making your thighs beside his head twitch from the gentle care. His tongue extends outwards and he licks a stripe from the middle of your cunt, to where his lips remain just below the mound of your clit.
And he repeats that — doing so over and over and over until all that coats your cunt is a slight sheen of his spit. Before long, those licks turn into suckles; mouth moving deliberately in one spot, focus honed in on where you're most sensitive. Your clit.
With his grip still encompassed over the uppers of your thighs, he adjusts you within his grasp — angling and tilting your hips so as to better nuzzle his face between. You too reposition; altering the placement of your legs so they can trail down the length of his back, the behinds of your thighs pressing into his shoulders, the heels of your feet hooked at his sides.
It's as if you've inadvertently entrapped him, caged him between your thighs. But he's quick to return the gesture — quick to ensure he's just as trapped as you'd involuntarily made him.
Dex's hold withdraws from your thighs and instead roams upwards, hands flat, thumbs leading the way as he runs up the sides of you, movement slow and intentional. He pauses when he reaches your tits, and it's then that he cups them; holding each nice and firm as he uses them as a way to anchor himself to you. To keep you exactly as is.
His tongue curls between your folds, the once flat muscle now pointed and deliberate as he pushes it through your pussy's lips — pressure slight, yet apparent as it divides you. While his touch is light, your body processes it as anything but, and as the tip of his tongue knocks up against your clit, you jerk against him. Hips winding and bucking a couple times against his face like you had no control over it.
Your nails rake across his scalp, fingers pushing through his hair just moments before you grab fistfuls on either side. While it was an effort of control on your side, it only encourages him, it simply eggs him on to have you respond in such a distinct and albeit, forceful way.
But there's only so much direct pleasure you can take, especially when his mouth is so concentrated on your nub of nerves. And when he begins to tweak your nipples between thumb and index, you find yourself eager to scamper from the gratification he brings you.
The height within you hasn't yet been located, but with every lick and suck and kiss he presses into your cunt, you feel yourself aimlessly creeping closer and closer towards it. Though it begins to teeter into too much and your hips shudder against his tongue as a means to escape from the bottomless pit of pleasure.
He doesn't let you far, not when his grip tightens around you.
"No," he murmurs into you, the word muffled yet firm — voice reverberating against your cunt. "Stay."
But as much as you try, you just can't. You react instinctively, body responding through lack of self-control, and it's in the following moment where you feel yourself reach that edge.
You feel it harsh and fast.
Your back curves from the sheets as you cry out, panting out nonsensically as he continues to tongue fuck you through it.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you choke out, voice strained. Desperate.
If you thought it felt too much before, you were surely mistaken; just blatantly erroneous. You make attempts to rid him from you — weakened hands pushing at his head, though it's no use, not when he further secures his grasp around you.
"Keep still."
"Fuck," you whine. It's just shy of a mewl.
But when you really, seriously, genuinely try to flee, he lets up. He releases your shaking shuddering body and slowly stands, emerging from between your thighs.
Dex leans over you, hands either side of you for support as he lowers atop, face itching in for yours.
"Dinner's in fifteen," he hums against your lips, the taste of you on his tongue slight.
Even with his mouth ghosting yours, he neglects to press a kiss. Instead he pushes himself away from your bare body below and stands over you. His eyes trail over you a moment before he covers you with the towel that had fallen open from those ten-some minutes of tongue fucking.
His absence grows larger, and as he heads for the door, he pauses — turning slightly to look back at you. Features stern, sort of like a warning.
He taps at the door, head tilting so as to firm his expression.
"This stays open."
⎯ ☆ ⎯
I had this vision right, and it was POISONING my mind!!!!! so had to get it out
An epiphany suddenly takes root in Bucky’s mind. He enjoys this. The power he holds over you. The trust in which you so easily give in return to him as you do Steve. Bucky’s hands, so invisibly stained with horrors from his past, have become the source of saviour that’s going to bring you an ultimate high.
Thank you so much for this ask, Navy. You, unknowingly, pushed me to go back through some very old WIPs and learn to appreciate my writing a little better and also possibly continue some of my abandoned works. I appreciate you ❤️
here's a flower to show my appreciation to you for being such a wonderful person🌹i hope you're enjoying your day! send this to 10 other bloggers to add some positivity to their inbox 💞
Mel, you are so wonderful 🥹 truly the biggest ray of sunshine on my blog, I’m sending all of that love right back to you 🥰☀️
Here are just a few of some other friends that are just as lovely 💐 @late-to-the-party-81 @whatever-lmaoo @little-miss-dilf-lover @mercurial-chuckles @bucksangel @erina00 @flowersforbucky @mrs-elsie-barnes @sunday-bug @metal-armed-muse ❤️
