Dex was unfamiliar with the concept of physical touch and romance until he begins dating a seamstress that has rendered him desperately hungry for more, and he begins to understand why most people found dating enjoyable.
CW: SMUT, Fluff, implied that he's older, readers features are never stated, no use of Y/N, inexperienced Dex but it's not stated, he's a freak. HE'S FILTHYYYY!!!!
Word Count: 7k
AN: I don't have a dad so that probably explains why I like Dex so much... Dex having no play is cannon here.
To Dex, the physical topography of another human being had always been a calculus of vulnerability. His mind was a machine, capable of mapping the dimensions of an enclosed space within milliseconds and identifying the precise trajectory required to sever an artery. He understood the mechanics of the anatomy; he knew exactly how much pressure it took to snap a collarbone or drop a grown man to his knees. But touch and affection? Affection was a foreign, deeply distressing dialect. It was a sensory input that rendered his internal programming entirely mute. He knew every ligament in the body, where to assault to cause torment but God forbid he uses his hands for softness.
There was a profound, quiet irony in a man of his age and lethal competence being so utterly paralyzed by the simple proximity of soft skin. Hell, he almost pitied himself for it. For decades, the concept of a romantic relationship hadn’t been relegated in his mind. It had been buried beneath layers of institutional survival, psychological trauma, and the crushing weight of an existence spent entirely on the defensive. Dex was not a lover and he had never been, affection and care was unnatural to him.
He could still recall the sharp, sterile scent of the office belonging to his first therapist, the singular human anchor he had at the fragile age of sixteen. He had cared for her, though his developing mind lacked the emotional framework to define what care actually meant. To Dex, care was synonymous with structure. It was the methodical way she re-aligned his straying thoughts, the unnatural patience she extended far beyond the boundaries of her hourly compensation. That was the closest Dex ever got to care. And when death claimed her, his internal architecture had shattered into something feral and defensive. Standing beside her hospital bed, looking down at her failing form, he had chosen to weaponize his grief, hissing that he hated her. He didn’t hate her for who she was, but for the betrayal of leaving him entirely alone in a world without parameters. After that care became just another word without meaning to him.
Then came Julie.
Julie had been an exercise in aesthetic symmetry. She was safe, correct, and perfectly aligned with the script he desperately tried to perform. Dex had cared for her in the same detached, appreciative manner you might have for a beautiful painting in a museum. Admired from a calculated, safe distance, entirely devoid of genuine visceral heat or want. He never wanted Julie, despite how it might have looked, Dex wanted to be her. How easily life came to her was just so fascinating to a man like him. He remembered the exact moment she had offered him a farewell hug at the Suicide Hotline Center, just before he transitioned into the stark world of the Bureau.
The physical contact had been an absolute shock to his nervous system. And he remembers it even now years later. First came the ice, a sudden, freezing sensation that trickled down his spine the precise millisecond her palms pressed against his biceps, his body mistaking the gesture for an ambush. His muscles had coiled instantly like overwound springs, his vertebrae stiffening in a violent protest against the proximity. But then, right before he could pull away, the ice had thawed into an invasive, confusing warmth. Before his mind could categorize or fixate on the sensation, she had already retreated, leaving him standing in the corridor, thoroughly deregulated by a three-second interaction.
That brief, fleeting embrace had been the absolute zenith of his experience with physical intimacy. Dex didn't do hugs, or anything else for that matter… His subsequent, half-hearted attempts at dating in his early twenties had been a disastrous blur, locked away like radioactive material in the darker corridors of his subconscious. The entire experience had felt extremely uncomfortable, unfulfilling, and complicated in ways that insulted his intelligence.
The sheer volume of unwritten variables was maddening. He had to speak enough to demonstrate engagement, but not so much to appear self-absorbed. Connection required vulnerability, but a fraction too much was classified as forward or desperate. He couldn't request another date too quickly or too frequently without crossing into the territory of predatory. Touch was a minefield; it was deemed acceptable only if initiated by the woman, yet society dictated that a man should assert dominance and assume leadership. Hold her hand, the script said, but don't apply too much pressure to suggest control. Open the door for her, but don't infantilize her or imply incompetence.
By his third official date, Dex had quietly withdrawn from the field entirely. The sheer unpredictability of the social ritual was entirely too volatile for his psychology to parse. He vividly recalled sitting across a woman in a dimly lit restaurant, completely incapable of processing a single syllable falling from her lips because his entire focus had been hijacked by a fork. Her elbow had accidentally nudged the cutlery, leaving it misaligned by less than half an inch from the knife. The asymmetry had screamed in his mind like a siren, drowning out her voice, preventing him from formulating the carefully curated, charming responses necessary to foster romantic banter. He had stared at the silver, suffocated by the lack of order, and realized he was entirely unfit for the performance.
So, he surrendered the idea. He locked his focus onto the FBI, dedicating his life to a rigid, bureaucratic institution that allowed him to believe he was doing good for society while keeping his demons safely behind bars. Years had dissolved into the background of that singular pursuit, and the concept of dating became an obsolete idea of a past life.
Even more now that his world had been violently upended; he had broken out of the prisons meant to contain him, shed the skin of a government puppet, and stripped away the illusions of the system. He was older now, his features hardened by violence, but he was entirely free from the invisible snares that had once dictated his value. Standing in his late thirties, Dex felt a strange sense of selfhood that had completely eluded him in his twenties.
His daily routine remained his mandatory sanctuary, waking up exactly the same hour, executing a flawless military tuck on his bedsheets, consuming a balanced breakfast before physical regimen, and then work. But the internal shift was tectonic. He no longer walked through the streets of New York like a fraudulent actor trying to mimic human behavior and integrate himself into civilization. He knew the truth now: there was no grand order to life. There was only the winding, bloody path he had been carved out to walk. He no longer craved the external validation of a badge or a supervisor’s praise to consider himself a whole entity. He was fucking Bullseye.
And the concept of a "North Star", the desperate need for a perfect, external moral anchor to keep him sane, had been forcibly buried deep within a vault next to his most violent, unpacked trauma. Though sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, a phantom tension would ripple through his chest, an instinctual tug toward the comfort of connection, but he would quickly dismiss it as mere human biology. He didn't need a North Star. His life was already perfectly illuminated by his own design. Or so he continuously told himself.
Until he walked into your boutique.
The shop was situated a short distance down the asphalt stretch of Hell’s Kitchen, a stark, hyper-feminine building in an otherwise gritty neighborhood. The interior was an absolute assault of pastel pinks, a visual sensory overload that normally would have triggered his defense mechanisms, but the hand-painted sign outside promised custom tailoring services. And Dex needed his belongings fixed the moment he noticed imperfections.
He carried two specific items across the threshold that afternoon. His utilitarian jacket that had suffered a tear against a rusty fire escape during the previous night's "hero work," and a pair of heavy tactical gloves that needed the seams to be adjusted for a better grip.
You'd been seated behind the polished wooden counter, a needle held between your hand, your hair slightly disheveled as you worked. When you looked up and saw the tall, broad-shouldered man standing in your doorway, your face had broken into a smile so massive, so genuinely warm, that Dex had felt an involuntary, almost evolutionary impulse to mimic the expression. He stood perfectly rigid as your small, incredibly nimble hands took the damaged fabric from his grip, your fingers tracing the torn nylon of the jacket with a professional, practiced ease.
When you looked up and informed him that the repairs would only take sixty minutes, his sharp brows had risen in mild intrigue at your efficiency.
"I work fast," you had offered, your voice bright and entirely unbothered by his silent, imposing intensity.
Dex returned to the shop precisely the sixty-minute mark, not a second early, not a second late. You were already waiting for him at the counter, the jacket neatly pressed and the jagged tear now entirely imperceptible, executed with a level of craftsmanship that deeply satisfied his need for perfection. Then he slid his large hands into the resized tactical gloves, flexing his fingers to test the tension of the thread.
Whether you had recognized the subtle Bullseye emblem stamped into the leather, you made no verbal indication. Instead, you merely bit your lower lip, your gaze tracking the movement of his hands before you boldly, without an ounce of hesitation, reached out and gripped his gloved hand. Your fingers guide his, pointing down to the specific cross-stitch where you had loosened the seams to accommodate his knuckles.
The ice returned instantly. It danced down the length of his spine, a freezing jolt that made his chest tighten. But as your warm skin remained pressed against the heavy material of his glove, the sensation mutated into something remarkably pleasant. Dex let out an involuntary exhale from your touch as your index finger trailed a slow, deliberate line down the length of his hand. Was this flirting? No, this was her job….
"If you need it bigger I can make that possible," you offered softly, your eyes lifting to lock onto his with a quiet, grounded confidence. And Dex paused, taking in the intimacy of your closeness. Okay…. Yeah, this was flirting. He deduced at its baseline before he found himself engaging.
Dex couldn't understand the sequence of events that followed, birthed from that moment alone. His memory, usually so linear and mathematical, became a blur of transitions. And normally the haze would eat away at him till he lost his mind, if it weren't for the fact that the stages that followed were extremely enjoyable. All he knew was that the rigid wall of his isolation had suddenly breached, and he was taking you on a first date. Then a second. A third. A fourth. The unwritten variables that had paralyzed him in his youth seemed to dissolve in your presence; you didn't demand a script, and your effortless need to keep talking filled the awkward silences he usually created. Dex was thankful for it. He was thankful for all of you.
By the time the fifth date happened, you were both standing inside the threshold of your private home. And Dex was fucking ecstatic. The realizations hit him in waves during his nightly routines: life was simply greater, sharper, and infinitely better with your existence woven into it. Within the calculated grid of his mind, he had rapidly come to view you as an essential, non-negotiable component of his daily structure. A connection he needed desperately to maintain that he was fully prepared to execute any measure necessary to ensure you stayed. You were kind, sweet, and giving in a way that defied his understanding of human nature. How were you so willing to offer the world everything you had without demanding anything in return?
Because he couldn't comprehend it, he studied you. He watched you with a hyper-attentive, microscopic focus that would have terrified a normal civilian, tracking the micro-expressions of your face, the cadence of your breaths, and the specific pitch of your laughter. And you let him. To you, that intense, unblinking gaze didn't feel like surveillance; it made you feel entirely seen and warm.
Dex had learned you. He played every single card in his hand with absolute precision to ensure he kept your favor, but you made the act remarkably easy. He found himself wanting to give the world to you, a new directive that lingered constantly. While on missions, he's doing this to make the city better for you. He had to come home safe because you'd be so devastated if anything happened to him. You needed him in your life so he had to make sure no wounds took over his body. These thoughts progressed over time, though they were already brewing the minute he stepped out of your boutique. Dex brought you a perfectly curated bouquet of flowers on your very first date, quickly logging the fact that you flourished when things were done for you. From that moment on, his chivalry became non-negotiable. He opened doors before your hand could even approach the handle; he pulled out chairs to the exact angle required for your comfort; he even leaned across the console of his vehicle to buckle your seatbelt for you, his large frame momentarily shielding you from the world. A thought that appears constantly in his mind at night.
And now, those correctly executed actions had granted him entry into your sanctuary.
Walking through the door of your brownstone, his analytical eyes immediately deduced that you and your work were a singular entity. The space was less a traditional home and more an active studio. A heavy, vintage treadle sewing machine sat prominently in the center of the room, positioned directly in front of the television, while two antique, velvet-upholstered couches framed it on either side. Dex made a silent, permanent mental note of that specific layout: the tool of your labor received absolute priority over comfort.
As he looked around Dex noticed your affinity for older things immediately, your eyes lingering on aged, well-maintained pieces of history. A part of him wondered if that was why you liked him so much and despite himself, the thought amused him. His gaze drifted to the expansive dining room, noting how every single high-backed chair had been pushed flush against the perimeter of the walls, completely away from the central table to maximize workspace. A deep, quiet part of his psychology deeply admired the dedication. He understood the obsession with craft, the way you spoke about fabrics and patterns with radiant love. He was identical to you in that regard, though he remained hyper-vigilant about never revealing the bloodier details of his own craft to you.
Dex paced silently behind you, his broad shoulders squared as his eyes continuously darted around the rooms, absorbing the atmosphere of your home while you led him toward the kitchen by the hand. His frame was tense, his muscles vibrating with a low-grade current of electricity. He still wasn't accustomed to the physical touching. He liked it, he liked it with a terrifying intensity that scared him, but his brain lacked the programming required to properly receive it.
And bless your heart, you were so unbelievably touchy.
You were a creature of constant physical contact. There was always a soft arm looping around his rigid bicep, a gentle palm resting against his. A constant, natural inclination to latch onto his massive frame and cling to him as if he were the only solid object in a moving world. He reciprocated in the only ways he knew how, squeezing your hand back with a carefully measured amount of pressure, standing perfectly still to accept your weight. But Dex still hadn't learned how to articulate or manifest his own physical desires. He didn't know how to be the one to close the distance. He didn't know how to reach out his large, scarred hands, wrap them around your waist, and pull you against his chest without an explicit invitation. The script hadn't given him those lines yet.
So instead, he simply allowed himself to be a passive monument of muscle and bone, letting you pull him toward the kitchen island for wine and cheese after your date. The night got more enjoyable, but then again, every moment was enjoyable with you. But this is even more so. You trusted him enough to let him into your space, liked him so much that you paid attention whenever his glass was empty.
"I have a secret," you admitted suddenly, your face flushing a deep, radiant pink after you drained the remainder of your second glass.
Dex raised a single, sharp brow, holding his own glass perfectly steady as he waited for the disclosure. He ignored the sudden, rhythmic thumping of his own blood pumping violently in his ears. He couldn't quite determine if the sudden spike in his heart rate was the result of the alcohol or a sudden surge of anxiety. Given his high tolerance, it was likely the latter.
"I hate wine," you hiccuped, a small, breathless sound. You didn't feel that inebriated but Dex had a skill for making you feel drunk.
Dex’s cold blue eyes widened slightly in genuine surprise. Without a word, his large hand reached out and gently but firmly took the crystal glass directly from your fingers, a low, rumbling chuckle vibrating in his chest as the absurdity of the situation caused a bright laugh to break from your lips.
"Why didn't you say anything," he asked, his gravelly voice dropping an octave as he placed the glass down on the exact center of a stone coaster.
"Because it was a nice gift and also because I wanted to be with you longer," you reasoned smoothly.
You stepped away from the counter, your short frame moving into his immediate personal space. Slipping effortlessly between his extended legs as he sat perched on the high barstool, your body completely filling the void between his knees. Before he could process the proximity, your arms looped entirely around his broad shoulders, your hands resting against the nape of his neck.
Dex sat up just a fraction straighter, his entire spine locking into a protective line. A hesitant, unpracticed hand rose from his side, his large palm resting against the fabric of your dress to support your lower back, his fingers trembling slightly against your skin.
"I like having you around..." you admitted softly, your voice heavily laced with an intoxicated, sleepy haze as you looked up at him.
"I like being around," Dex nodded, his gaze boring into yours with an unblinking, absolute intensity.
It was the most fundamental truth his mouth had ever uttered. He liked being around you so much that the mere concept of physical separation had become an agonizing friction in his daily life. There were moments during his long, solitary hours on a rooftop or following a lethal assignment where the craving to see you grew so violent, so overwhelming, that he had seriously contemplated abandoning his operation just to stand outside your window. But the rational, highly defensive side of his mind, the piece of him that vividly remembered the trembling panic in Julie's face, always managed to reassert control. He wouldn't risk breaking what you two had.
"Will you be around forever?" you asked, your voice dropping into a soft, vulnerable register that sounded almost like a plea.
Dex felt a sudden, blinding flash behind his eyes, a sensation so sharp and radiant it felt as though stars had detonated within his skull. A terrifying wave of duty and existential purpose crashed through his mind, rewriting his internal directives in an instant. This was his calling. This was his permanent assignment.
"I'll be here forever," he nodded, his voice carrying the heavy, unyielding finality of a death warrant.
He barely had a single microsecond to process the violent rush of devotion flooding his veins before you leaned in, and your soft lips met his.
Dex froze.
He froze in a way he had never experienced in the heat of lethal gunfire. He hesitated with a sudden, paralyzing vulnerability that his mind was completely unequipped to handle. Bullseye did not hesitate; Bullseye was a creature of pure, instantaneous reaction. But Dex, Dex was entirely lost here in the quiet of your kitchen, his lips pressed flat against yours, his breath catching in the back of his throat as the delicate warmth of your mouth completely shattered his being.
His mind scrambled for data, for a past memory or a set of instructions to tell him what to do with his hands, how to move with you, how to breathe. The sheer sensation of your mouth against his was too vast, too unaligned with any grid he had ever mapped. He wanted to deepen the pressure, wanted to sink his fingers into your hips and drag you so close that the space between you ceased to exist, but the terrifying lack of instructions kept his body entirely locked in stone. He was a starving man paralyzed by the sudden appearance of a feast, terrified that a single incorrect movement would cause the illusion to vanish.
It was only a brief, agonizing second of contact. It was over far too quickly for his liking before you were gently pulling back, your eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks.
"You never got much love huh?" you hummed out, your voice dipping into a sad, incredibly tender melody.
Your small hands didn't retreat; instead, they began to preen over his tense shoulders, your fingers sliding upward until your nails began to slowly, methodically comb through the short hairs at the base of his scalp.
An involuntary, deeply guttural groan tore itself from the very bottom of Dex’s throat, the sound surprising even himself. His eyes rolled back, his lids fluttering shut as a wave of intense pleasure rippled through his nervous system. He liked that. He liked that with a feral, addictive desperation. Whatever you were doing with your hands, it was dismantling the static in his brain.
"No," he admitted, his voice a broken, raspy whisper in the quiet room, his head naturally sinking into the guiding pressure of your palms as you continued to adore him.
Your lips moved forward again, finding the hard, unyielding line of his cheekbone. You pressed a soft, lingering kiss directly over the jagged scar near his cheek, the exact spot you always claimed when you were saying goodbye, and Dex felt his entire body shudder under the impact. Then, your kisses migrated downward, tracing the sharp angle of his jaw before your mouth found the sensitive, hot skin of his neck.
Dex’s hands lost their hesitation, his fingers curling tightly into the fabric of your dress as he decided, with absolute certainty, that he liked this even more.
"Don't worry. I'll fix it," you murmured against his skin, your breath hot and reassuring even in your heavily tipsy state.
“Pretty girl like you gonna fix a man like me,” Dex mused out, exhaling in amusement as he welcomed your kisses by granting you more of his neck. You hummed in delight and he noted that was the correct response.
“I'd do everything for you, Dex,” you admitted into his neck and that seemed to do it. Every rigid order he told himself to act like a gentleman broke as he pulled you into his chest, turning his face as if begging for you to grant him another kiss.
And you do.
This time he reciprocated the contact eagerly, fuck it, thoughts can be damned, Dex let his body lead now. His kisses were harsh and demanding, desperate in its undercurrent but you enjoyed it. You tasted faintly like wine and something minty and he finds himself deepening the kiss. His large calloused hand found the thin straps of your bias-cut dress, hastily pushing it down the slope of your shoulder before he froze. He was being too forward, too much, too–
Before he could spiral, you whined into his mouth at the lack of movement. A harmonious plea that he's never had the privilege of hearing before. And Dex's eyes fluttered, that sound went straight to his straining cock evoking a groan against your skin. Emboldened hands pushing the dress down only to pull back momentarily, breaking the kiss despite not wanting to. He'd rather shoot himself than stop kissing you, but he needed to know that what he was doing was okay. And by the blissful state of your eyes, you were more than okay with this, with him. And so he allowed his gaze to wander, darting down to the exposed skin of your soft breast.
His gaze locked onto your hardened nipple before his hand slowly moved, not giving himself time to overthink. His thumb grazed the sensitive peak in experimentation, irises watching as your chest stuttered, his gaze darting up to meet yours in calculation on how to proceed. You were waiting for him, letting him take the lead and explore, and God did he want to map out every shape of you. He wanted to know what made you arch and squirm, what made you sing his name in praise. But Dex was a man rendered stupid in the unfamiliar vastness of your body, so hands stayed motionless as they had done nothing but take and punish all his life. He'd do it slow, he decided, after all, his hands were not meant for this. For worship and caress.
But his mouth would be.
Not breaking eye contact with you, his lips found home on your skin, latching onto your nipple. Humming as you arched your back, your pliant body gravitating into him. You liked that, he learned, so he did it harder. Teeth grazing the sensitive peak before sucking it into his mouth hard.
His free hand wanders to your other breast, thumb circling the clothed nipple there while he devotes himself to the first with his tongue. It’s messy, uncoordinated, Dex isn’t a gentle lover, he learned as the need progresses. His brave hand slips under your dress, pushing fabric up further to expose more of your body as his kisses migrated down your sternum.
“D-Dex.”
The breathy sound made him freeze and he recoiled immediately as if burned. He waits for the storm only for you to eagerly pat him on his shoulder, signaling you wanted him up.
“Room, please…. I-i don't want it here…” you say almost shy and he obeys immediately, standing up and holding you dear.
“Yeah? Sweet girl,” the term endearment escaping his lips catches him by surprise just as much as him kissing your forehead does. But he doesn't dwell on it long as he grabs hold of your hand and leads you upstairs where he already knows where your room is.
The silence of the space was only intensified once you both entered your bedroom. Dex pauses, taking a moment to appreciate the image of you standing there, waiting with earnest eyes and swollen lips. You looked so vulnerable, your dress wrinkled and breathing heavy as you let him assess. He welcomes your softness and realizes that he owes it to you to be vulnerable as well.
With a firm, certain, grip, he turns your body around, your stomach flutters in expectation as lust filled eyes land on the made bed. Only the inevitable force never came, you weren't shoved face down into the mattress in pure heat, instead Dex is moving your hair aside to fall on one shoulder. And that impacted your core more than any barge ever could. So you remained standing there, ignoring the heat in your stomach as the brooding man you'd come to know gently unzipped the back of your dress. Pushing the fabric down your hips, a hum escapes the claimant as he turns you back around with even kinder hands and you melted.
Sure in your intentions, you begin to unbutton his shirt and he watches you in the moment. Sometimes you often wonder what goes on in Dex's mind, but here you're certain that whatever thoughts that hammered in his head were anything but pure. When the fabric of his shirt meets your dress on the floor, a barely suppressed smile threatens to take over your face and his features silently requested for context, amused in your glow.
“You're so big,” appreciation dripped from your words, reinforced by your hands steady on his chest. Pride and something smug consumes Dex’s internal framework as he reaches for your bare waist, pulling you into him. Fuck. He liked how that felt, loved the feeling of you two skin to skin.
“That why you're always so touchy,” he huffed. It was a poor attempt to regulate himself from these overwhelming emotions. Still riding the dopamine high from your appraisal.
“Yes,” you nodded shamelessly.
At that a raw exhale breaks free from his mouth, falling in ardor before he's guiding you down to the bed. Dex’s gaze is locked on yours, at your body barely covered in cotton underwear as he prowls towards you on the duvet. Your presence was the single grounding planet in the uncharted stars of his nebula, an innate need to keep his focus on you and solely you to avoid getting lost in the orbit of his thoughts. Waiting patiently as exploratory hands trailed over your body, thumbs brushed over your nipples just once, before migrating down to your torso, eventually finding home on your hips.
Lips parted but nothing fell from them as words failed him. Instead his gaze darted up to meet yours as his fingers deliberately tugged your underwear, not fully, not even an inch down, just enough to get your attention and silently ask for permission.
Your body moved on its own, hastily squirming under his broad stature and pushing the thin fabric down your legs. The man over you had been the only thing plaguing the recesses of your brain for the past few weeks, consuming you with such unbidden thoughts. Anything would be done for him at this point. You barely got to kick the drenched cotton off before Dex's palm landed flat on one thigh, pushing it down hard against the bed and spreading you open for him. With a fluttering stomach so intense, your body fell back as you took in his state. Half dressed and tightly coiled, muscles pulling in restrain as he remained pinning your thigh down. His attention was locked onto you, or more so, your dripping cunt and an involuntary need to shut your legs was met with even more resistance from him.
He didn't appreciate you trying to hide from him, evident in his warning gaze. Without a word, his palm trailed up, the desire and craving to touch you won out in him. And suddenly hands that had only known violence was caressing you so softly and attentively, figuring out the definition of what it meant to be a lover.
God you were so wet and warm and soft and all the good things in the world…
Dex noticed your breathing growing more labored beneath him and instinctively he leaned back to watch you more, away from the disadvantage of being tucked into your neck. Your pupils were blown out, starry eyed as your brows creased and a pout settled on your lips. His fingers moved on their own as he watched, a new desire to pull more of those darling expressions from you forming. And as he sunk two cruel digits into your slopping wet heat, satisfaction invaded his senses as he took in your reaction. Your mouth parts in ecstasy, a sound Dex immediately knew he loved fell from your lips as your body arched up into him. And then that begging pout graced your features again, looking down at where his fingers fucked you.
So perhaps intimacy was everything people made it out to be, and so much more when it's with you. Dex was beginning to understand it now, the insatiable need to constantly be touching your person. Fuck, he doesn’t think he could ever go back to the way he was before. So fucking hesitant, unsure with anxiety that dibilitated him. He refused to be so rigid again, not when the sounds of your desire and need were music to his ears. He loved this, loved it in a way that was beginning to align with his new idea of normal. He could get used to this, to touching you, to fucking you.
Whining in protest as his fingers pulled away, your hands gripped at his chest in agony. Complains at the tip of your tongue before halting completely as you hear him begin to take his jeans off. Humming in delight as he strips. And fucking hell…. You were well aware of Dex’s large frame, it was one of the first things you noticed about him, second to the attractive scar on his cheek. But seeing him like this was something different entirely and you couldn't help yourself as you preened over his naked form again. Palms gliding the expansive plains of his back, brushing down his abs and strong chest as you sucked on his neck. Though judging by the expression on Dex's face, he didn't mind you playing. He let you have your fun until eventually pulling your lips off of him with a gentle hand at the back of your neck. A protest happened beneath him as you tried to chase after his body before stopping, noticing his hand on his member. And that shut you up real good.
Dex gently guides his hardened cock onto your dripping core. Rubbing his swollen head up and down your drenched skin before slowly sinking into you. A gasp falls from your lips followed by a desperate cry of want. His breath comes in rough bursts through his nose, focused entirely on you beneath him. How you take it, how you sound, how tight you feel with every drag out and push back in. The plains of his anatomy strained with tension as he exhaled in contentment. Dex thought he had come to know comfort, in the way you'd lean onto him during walks, how you raked your nails through his hair earlier. But this exceeded that in every capacity, comfort was a juvenile word to express how this felt like home. He's barely halfway through and already has to stop and compose himself. He let out a hiss, halting all movements as you clenched around him.
The sudden, full stretch makes you mewl out a sharp, startled sound And Dex freezes instantly, his entire body locking up. Has he hurt you? Was something wrong? He’s buried to the hilt now. It’s a lot. Too much all at once. A wave of something almost like guilt hits him, he hadn’t meant to scare you, but the sensation is… God.
"Shhh," he soothes automatically, instinctively brushing your cheek with his thumb despite how wrecked he feels right now.
You leaned into his touch, seeking for more and he's relieved. Needy palms finding a place on his biceps as you squirmed, looking down at where you both meet. Dex follows your gaze, watching his hardened cock buried deep in you. Yeah… that’s a lot.
"Tell me what you need," he murmurs, thumb brushing away another stray tear. "We can stop. Or go stupid slow.”
You let out a laugh that bled dangerously too close to a moan and Dex makes the decision of the latter for you. The first thrust is deliberate, deep and controlled, testing your reaction. The second follows, then a third, each one creating a filthy rhythm that fills the quiet room. He slowly fucks into you in a sedate, gentle manner. But gentleness is short-lived. His movements quickly grow faster till he was fucking you in a steady eager pace. Skin slaps against skin, joining the song of moans that you sing. The bed creaks under the weight, every movement is amplified in the hushed space. Rapture floods through you as any other thoughts that weren't Dex quickly subsides, giving way for your focal. Everything felt right in the world as he molded your body to his.
It was almost too much, his body caging yours in as his hips moved relentlessly. You knew you wouldn't last much longer if he kept going like this. But Dex was a man of intention, he took you like it was the only thing worth doing in his life.
The press of your hand against his pelvis, pushing, cunt trying to get him closer yet you were pulling away at the same time, sends conflicting signals straight to his dick. Your thighs around him squirmed, a telltale sign you're overwhelmed. Dex groans but doesn’t let up; if anything, he presses down harder on you with his hips, pinning yours in place.
"Take it," he rasps no room for argument. His skilled thumb lands on your clit, relentless despite the overstimulation threatening both of your bodies. The sound that left you was obscene and filthy as your head lulls back and Dex is quick to grab hold of your thigh and pull you closer towards him.
The new angle hits perfectly, your entire body jerks, a broken moan escaping as you tense around Dex’s hips. He learned you almost immediately from the very first second his fingers were inside you, he found where to target instantly. And now he abused that information.
He feels it, the way you clenched around him, and his own control wavers. But he holds on, focused solely on your pleasure, chasing every twitch and whimper with relentless precision. His lips find yours again in a messy, open-mouthed kiss as he pounded into you with controlled hits. A sound so similar to bullets in the air echoed at the impact, the wet sound, obscene, unfiltered, hitting him like a lightning bolt. Every thrust is accompanied by that slick, squelching noise: your arousal mixing with his movements. Dex learns that he loved that sound, it satisfied a part of his brain in a notion he couldn't understand but he knew that it fueled him even more. Dex's hips stutter for half a second at the realization of just how drenched you are for him.
A groan rumbles from his chest as he picks up speed, fucking you till you saw stars. A melody of moans and gasps filled the room with a symphony of skin heard with it. The walls welcome the sound with open arms as the atmosphere feels too hot and too heavy. You try to grab at the bed sheets despite Dex's tight grip on one of your wrists, you need something to ground you as you neared. Too much. It was all too much. Seamlessly, he laced his fingers with yours, still holding you down onto the bed but his grip softened.
You reciprocate the touch, tightly squeezing his hand as you feel the pressure capsize and your thighs shake in hot waves. You cry his name out, your back arching off the bed from the pleasure. His cock still sliding in and out of your dripping cunt, desperate to join you in your release, ignoring the coil of his muscles. He loves the way you say his name, so breathy and blinded by ecstasy. Dex breathes into your neck, the sensations becoming too much before a loud groan breaks his focus and he spills ropes of his cum into you. Immediately you primp under him, satiated and spoiled but your accord for touch remains ever present as you gently brush your nails up and down his back. And that sends him collapsing down onto you. Not that you seemed to mind as he heard a loud gleeful laugh beneath his large frame.
Dex exhales, long and slow, moving to stare at you. He’s not used to aftercare. Not with anyone. But here he is gently moving off you and tucking a throw blanket around your shoulders like you're something fragile. A calloused finger brushes a stray hair from your forehead, an absurdly tender gesture for someone who just fucked you into oblivion but you welcomed it.
He learned an entirely new vocabulary that night, and the education continued to expand exponentially in the weeks that followed.
He discovered, through application and obsessive cataloging, that he liked touch. He liked it an immeasurable, terrifying amount. He grew to absolutely love the specific jolt that occurred when you wake him up in the morning by lazily raking your nails across the broad, scarred expanse of his bare back. He loved the domestic weight of you playing with his hair while he sat on the living room floor, or the frantic, heavy way you would cling onto him when the city noise rattled the brownstone windows.
Methodically, his analytical mind began to solve the puzzle of how to return the same favor. He'd mapped your body with the same precision he applied to his targets, but with an entirely different objective.
He learned how to execute a kiss without needing an explicit verbal invitation, his large hands learning the exact amount of pressure required to tilt your chin upward to meet his mouth. He figured out how to use the immense, terrifying strength in his palms to gently massage the deep knots out of your shoulders after you spent a twelve-hour day hunched over the antique sewing machine. He studied the micro-movements of your muscles, tracking the specific shivers that rippled through your frame when his thumbs traced your collarbones, logging every sigh and hitch in your breath as data.
He figured out, with a profound, quiet sense of internal victory, that you loved every single form of physical touch imaginable, so long as it came entirely from him.
And he decided then, he loved intimacy.
AN: He's so fucking hot like i just can't!!! ! I haven't written smut in like 3 years so I didn't know what I was doing lol. Let me know what you guys think! Also you being a seamstress was entirely self indulgence because I go to fashion school lol.
So this is absolutely stunning. Genuinely the most descriptive, in character fic I’ve read in a WHILE but especially for Dex. This is literally top tier and I could read 5000 more of these. WOWWWWWWW
pairing: fem!bucky barnes x female reader
summary: bucky sees someone that makes her want to not be an aloof, painfully single masc with a staring problem, and they’re all the better and worse for it
warnings and contents: 18+ ONLY, rough sex, vaginal sex, oral sex, vaginal fingering, strap-on sex, double penetration, scissoring, butt plug, face-sitting, thigh riding, making out, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, squirting, dirty talk, praise kink, pet names (sweetheart, princess, baby), angst, fluff, cisfem!bucky, lesbian!bucky, bisexual!reader, bucky uses she/they pronouns and some masculine terminology, reader’s a sapphic virgin god bless her, pleasure dom!bucky, sub!reader, veryyyyy subtle piss kink if you squint
word count: ~13,500
author’s note: (said with one hour left) happy pride, y’all!!!!!!!!!!!!! i love all you little rainbow babies that may find this and take the time to read it and the ones that don’t do either of those things, too!!!! i’m so, so happy to share this beautiful ugly scary playground of a world with you♡♡♡ also i haven’t edited this yet and stayed up all night finishing it so just... go slowly...and if you see mistakes rn...no u don’t...
! PLEASE READ AND HEED THE WARNINGS !
18+ only - do not repost - minors and ai dni - thank u
Sunday
She swapped her purse over to her other shoulder after securing her wallet back inside it, eyes flittering around the crowd for where to go next. A bead of sweat ran down the back of her neck, sun overhead and body heat of those around her causing her to reach for her water more than she was expecting to. She was trying to be smart, though, the fear of not being able to find a bathroom easily at the back of her mind. Someone bumped into her on her right, turning to her with wide eyes.
“I’m so sorry!” he gasped, placing a hand on the shoulder he’d collided with.
“No, no, it’s okay!”
His eyes ran over her, causing her to grow self-conscious before he spoke again.
“You look so cute,” he beamed, “You should go get some paint done! They’re doing some right over there.”
She followed his finger where it was pointing at a small folding table, a crowd of people surrounding it. “Do I just walk up?”
He nodded with a small laugh. “Yes, girl, they’ll take care of you.”
“Okay, thank you!”
“Of course,” he drawled, starting to step back over toward the group he was with. “Have fun today!”
“You, too!”
She was gripping her purse strap, grinning so hard her cheeks hurt when she walked up to the table. There was a bit of a line, everyone in it chatting with someone else as she stepped into it. She let her eyes search over the people in front of her, admiring the thought put into some of their outfits, the little pins and patches adorning vests and shorts. Her eyes fell back down to her own clothing, realization suddenly hitting her that maybe that’s why the guy had looked her over and sent her to get painted. Her toes curled inside her shoes.
Another body knocking into hers caused her to look back up quickly.
“Sorry.”
The apology was short and mumbled, person not even looking over as they continued through the crowd to the table.
“You’re fucking late, Barnes! I’m dying here!”
“Yeah, yeah...”
She couldn’t help but stare, maybe a little more than she should have, watching as this Barnes person reached up to pull the backwards cap from their head and run their fingers through their hair. The action made their cropped denim shirt lift further, drawing her gaze to where their tank top sat just above their hips. It exposed a dark trail of hair and leather straps peeking over the waistband of their jeans. The heat under her skin suddenly pooled out hotter across her face, rushing even behind her eyes when she looked up to find the other’s already on her. They stared at one another for a moment, Barnes giving her a slow once over.
“You waiting?” they called.
She nodded.
They waved a hand vaguely. “I can do you.”
Fist still tight around her purse, she swallowed the lump in her throat and walked over.
“What do you want?” they asked, sliding over a book with pictures of different designs.
“Um...” She could feel another bead of sweat rushing down her neck, pretending to adjust her purse to try and wipe it away discreetly. Her teeth had begun to chew at the inside of her cheek unconsciously as she looked over the pages in front of her, worrying she was taking too long. “The flowers are cute.”
“What flag?”
She still didn’t look up yet, pointing a finger to the one she wanted. “Bi flag. Please.”
“You got Buck out here painting? Oh, you’re desperate!”
At the commotion, she looked up to see a man slapping his hands to Buck’s shoulders, earning a roll of eyes before he carried on. She looked at them with a little hesitation.
“I can do it,” Buck snorted, “Sam’s just an asshole.”
“Oh.”
“Where do you want it?”
She felt the urge to swallow again, trying not to make it too obvious. “W-what are my options?”
Buck scratched at their cheek, the quickest and faintest grin flashing on their lips. “People mainly do face. I’ve done arms or hands... A couple chests.”
A knuckle poked out to graze at her exposed skin just above her top, shiver passing through her despite the suffocating heat. “Face. Let’s do face. Please.”
“Alright.”
Buck stepped over to snatch the colors they needed from the pile in the center of the table, pointing to a chair around their side of it that she shuffled over to sit on. They reached for her chin with their silver arm, metal catching the sun at just the right angle to make her squint for a second.
“Right here?” they asked, running their flesh thumb over the apple of her cheek.
“M-maybe like... here.” Her own finger felt softer by comparison when she brushed it higher up, closer to the outer edge of her eye.
“How big you want it?”
God, this was a humiliation ritual.
“Doesn’t have to be too big. Just... Just so you can fe- see it.”
“Okay.”
If she didn’t know better, she’d swear she heard a slight chuckle in their response.
She sat as still as she could, unsure where to focus her eyes as the thin paintbrush slid over her skin. Buck drew in closer a few times, their silver hand going under her jaw, fingers against her neck and thumb just below her chin, to tilt her head slightly.
“Don’t wanna mess up your makeup,” they stated, quietly so only she could hear.
Her instinct was to nod, firm hold on her making it impossible. So she attempted to hum an acknowledgement, mortified when it came out as a weak squeal. Her eyes shut tightly.
After a few more moments, Buck sat back from her, grabbing a hand mirror off the table and holding it up for her. “Good?”
The little flower was cute, blossoming pink, purple, and blue atop her cheek. “Yes,” she beamed, “thank you.”
“Tweaked the colors a little bit so they’d stand out more against your skin.”
And they did, more vibrant than she was expecting. “It looks perfect. Thank you.” Buck just shrugged. “Um, how much?”
“Huh?” When she pulled her wallet from her purse, Buck shook their head. “No, it’s free, sweetheart. We just do it for fun.”
“Oh.” She tried to fight the shiver from how the endearment had sounded rolling off their tongue. “Thank you.”
They laughed softly. “You’re welcome.”
She was stuck for a moment, staring up at the other from where she was still seated, too focused on trying not to look at their hips that were right at her eyeline. It wasn’t until their eyes shifted over to the line of people and back to her that she caught herself. “Sorry! I’ll- Thanks!”
Just about to merge back into the crowd, she jumped a little when a hand wrapped around her elbow gently.
“You here by yourself?”
Her eyebrows twitched up sheepishly. “Is it that obvious?”
Buck smiled at her in an equally shy manner. “I was gonna ask if you wanna help out.” They motioned to the table. “We could use it.”
Trying not to give away how much the hand still wrapped around her elbow was making her want to tremble like an eleven-year-old chihuahua, she forced a normal smile. “Sure!”
She got set up right beside Buck, slowly coming out of her shell more and more with each person she spoke with. Everyone was so kind, complimenting her shirt or her makeup or the keychains on her purse. Some kids came through, wanting a simple rainbow on their cheeks or the backs of their hands. Her own cheeks were aching, her own hands having stopped shaking somewhere along the way.
“The flower is so cute!”
The voice came from just beside her as she took a break to sip at her water, one of the other people from the group of friends running the table. She smiled as she said, “Thank you! Buck did it.”
“Bucky.”
Her eyes went to them. “What?”
“It’s Bucky, not Buck.”
“Oh... I’m sorry, I heard your friend say it earlier and thought- Sorry.”
Bucky shook their head. “No, it’s fine. I just prefer Bucky.” They smirked a little. “Like I said, Sam’s an asshole.”
She giggled behind her water bottle, fingertips tracing along the edge of one of the stickers on it. Bucky looked at her with an expectant quirk in their brow. So she offered her own name, taking another huge sip of her water immediately after.
Checking her phone, she saw it had been almost an hour since she first walked over. Another group had came up to the table, everyone she’d come to know greeting them and starting to pack up the few things they brought with them.
“You’re leaving?” she asked, watching with a knot in her stomach as Bucky stood up and stretched their arms over their head.
“Yeah, we’re gonna walk for a bit. You should come.”
“Okay.”
As soon as she stood, she regretted how much time she’d spent sipping at her water. It was a relief when Bucky spoke up again.
“I’m gonna pee before we go.”
The small group nodded as they continued to talk amongst each other.
“Can I come?” she asked, getting a raised eyebrow in response. “I-I mean so I can go, too. I drank, like, almost all of my water.”
Bucky laughed. “Yeah, c’mon.”
They guided her down a block to a Chinese restaurant, stepping forward to open the door for her. She thanked them as she stepped through. Bucky nodded to the guy behind the counter, pointing toward the back and getting a wave of his hand.
“It’s in the back,” they pointed, ghosting their knuckles at her back to guide her into the cluttered office space. “Go ahead.”
Again, they opened the door for her, allowing her to use the single restroom first. She took care of her business, staring at herself in the cloudy mirror as she washed her hands. The heat hadn’t done as much of a number on her as she thought, little flower on her cheek also holding up nicely. Her mind began to race a little as she turned to inspect her backside. Part of her was expecting to emerge from the bathroom and find that Bucky was nowhere to be found, the pitstop nothing more than an excuse to ditch her and get back to their friends. So when she let out a heavy breath and opened the door to find them leaning on the opposite wall, scrolling aimlessly on their phone, she couldn’t fight her grin.
“All yours,” she chirped, swapping places with Bucky as they slipped into the bathroom.
There were texts from her friend waiting for her, asking how everything was going. Ones from her mother asking the same, each referring to different things. Her friend knew exactly where she was. Her mother thought she was merely visiting her friend. It took a second to respond to the latter, her response to the former still unfinished when Bucky stepped out of the bathroom.
“You said you’re out of water?” they asked, still adjusting the straps around their hips.
She looked back to her phone quickly as she nodded.
“Here...”
Knuckles finding her back again, she typed as fast as she could, angling the phone awkwardly to keep her texts private while Bucky lead her over to the side of the counter.
“Gimme your bottle,” they said, holding out their hand for her to slip the pink-coated steel into so they could twist the cap off. They turned to the guy behind the counter then, him already looking at the pair. “Top her off.”
The guy chuckled, taking the bottle and looking over his shoulder at her. “Water?”
“Yes, please,” she nodded, watching him grab a pitcher and use it to fill her bottle.
He was smirking when he stepped back over to the two of them. “Been a while since you brought a date in, Barnes.”
They didn’t say anything, instead raising their middle finger and taking the bottle back to hand to her with its cap. The guy cackled loudly before going back to the customers waiting in line.
“Sorry,” Bucky mumbled.
She shook her head as she twisted the cap back on, eagerly taking a sip once it was on.
The noises of the street exploded once they stepped outside again, rush of heat hitting her in sync with it. Bucky’s friends had been waiting, all of them moving together and continuing their conversations as they walked down the sprawl of vendors. She stayed off to the side, quietly listening in and laughing when someone told a joke. Bucky stayed at her side, even when she stopped to look at the different booths here and there. She was calculated about the things she decided to buy, knowing a discreet sticker would stand out less than a full-sized flag.
“Where are you from?” Bucky asked when the two of them were slowly catching back up to the group. When she answered, they laughed softly. “Never heard of it.”
“Yeah, it’s... small.”
Bucky nodded, waiting a beat before offering, “I get it. I grew up in this tiny little town outside Indianapolis. Shelbyville.”
“Never heard of it.”
They laughed again. “Yeah, it’s small.”
Her teeth sank into the inside of her cheek again, smile scrunched to one side. She’d shuffled her purse from side to side a few times, trying to disperse the weight of it evenly enough that she wouldn’t be whining over it later. Bucky must have noticed at some point, waiting until she moved it to her left side again to speak.
“Y’want me to carry that for you?”
She looked at them, squinting slightly as she teased, “You’re not going to run off with it, are you?”
“Depends. There something worth taking in it?”
Crossing her arms, she pretended to think. “Mm... A couple maxi pads, water bottle, maybe some old receipts, a debit card that you’d be embarrassed to bring to an ATM.”
Bucky sucked at their teeth. “Tempting, but... too hot out for me to wanna get in a foot chase.”
Giggling, she took her purse strap in her hold, sliding it down to offer it out to Bucky. “Thank you.”
They dropped it onto their left shoulder, placing their hand on hers to squeeze at the muscle. “Better?”
Her gaze fell away quickly as she hoped Bucky couldn’t feel the shiver that shook through her. “Yeah,” she breathed, feeling goosebumps finally break out across her skin when the hand on her shoulder slid down her arm before falling away. “Can I actually grab my water real quick? Sorry.”
Bucky simply handed her the water bottle, watching her as she sucked down more than a few sips.
Someone from the group, Sam, walked back toward them, grinning as he asked, “We doing the parade or going straight back to Nat’s?”
Bucky looked at her, waiting for her to decide for them. “I’d like to see the parade,” she smiled.
Sam pumped his fist before jogging back over to give the rest of the group the news.
“Who’s Nat?” she asked once they were alone again.
Bucky pointed ahead, “Redhead. She’s got a little cafe not far from here, and we usually head over there after everything wraps up.”
“Sounds fun,” she tried, following everyone’s lead and splitting off from the main stretch of vendors and toward the parade a few blocks over.
Bucky caught her attempt, grinning as they cooed, “You’re invited.”
She didn’t bother trying to fight her smile.
It was only a few moments before everyone was merging into the crowd gathered on the sidewalks for the main parade, Bucky helping her nudge their way through as many people as they could. She hung close to them, hoping she wasn’t overstepping. It was just overwhelming at first, loud music and cheers, bodies moving in all directions.
“Here,” Bucky pointed, guiding her to a crosswalk signal. “Can see better if you hop up.”
She let them help her up onto the narrow base, hands finding her waist to keep her steady as she gripped the pole and looked out to the parade. She expected to grow even more nervous, what with the uneven metal beneath her feet and the unfamiliar hold around her waist. But something happened as she watched the crowd of people make their way through the street. The electricity from bright smiles and vibrant colors shot through her, hypnotizing her as she felt something sting at her eyes. Someone beside her followed her lead and stepped up on the other side of the pole, their hands bumping as the other woman found purchase. They shared a smile and a quick giggle, eyes drifting back to the parade as they continued to beam. The sting at her eyes grew into a warmth, rushing down over her cheek when she blinked.
Her throat was tight when she stepped back to climb her way down, Bucky helping her once again.
“Y’okay?” they asked, looking over her shimmering eyes.
“Yeah,” she breathed, unsteady and followed by an awkward laugh. “I don’t know what happened.”
Bucky stared at her, watching as she tried to dab at her face without disturbing her makeup. “Here,” they offered, fisting the hem of their tank to pull it up and dry under her eyes carefully.
“Thank you,” she sighed, noticing the spot of mascara that now stained the tank when Bucky let it snap back to their stomach.
“It’s a lot your first time,” they said quietly, “Not like back home.”
She snorted a laugh. “No. Not like back home at all.” When she looked up to find soft eyes staring back at her, she managed a small smile. “How’s my little flower holding up?”
“Good,” Bucky nodded.
By the time the group began moving to the cafe, they’d all picked up little flags somewhere along the way. She kept her pink, purple, and blue one in her hold the entire way, watching as Bucky tucked their one of shades of pink and orange into the strap sitting snuggly on their right hip.
The cafe was cute, lots of plants and local art hung up on the walls. She told Nat as much, making the redhead beam with pride. Bucky set her purse down gently on a short booth against the wall before sitting in the seat directly next to it. Everyone congregated around them, eventually snacking on the pastries and sandwiches that Nat had brought out to them. It was nice to see how close they all were with one another, speaking freely about their lives because everyone else already knew. But there was a loneliness that lingered in her chest at the display, too.
She noticed how Bucky was quiet even amongst their friends. She also came to learn that Nat was their ex through the few comments people had made.
It was after someone had made a joke, swearing to give Bucky head if they fixed a leaky faucet, that the redhead stepped up behind them and swung her arms around Bucky’s neck comfortably. “No,” she drawled, “Bucky doesn’t like getting head.”
Metal fingers pried the wrists from their neck gently. “Not the way you give it.”
Nat scoffed at that, moving to sit between Sam and a blond, Steve. “I give it just fine, baby, you just never wanted to bottom for me. And now look at you. Spending all day cooped up at home reading yuri.”
Everyone busted out laughing as Bucky simply shrugged and made an unbothered sort of expression, one eyebrow ticking up briefly. “A price I’m willing to pay.”
The woman beside them looked at Bucky shyly, a smile breaking from where her teeth had pinned her lips.
It settled after a few moments, Bucky slumping back against the booth and discreetly snaking an arm along the top of it behind her. She kept her composure, sipping at the iced tea that was given to her. She then made the mistake of making eye contact with Sam, a mirthful look on his face before she could look away.
The attention was on her after that, questions about where she was from, what she did for work, if she needed help getting away from the broody butch at her side. She shook her head at the last one, nudging Bucky’s knee with her own under the table.
“How long are you here for?”
She looked up to Steve, catching him looking away from Bucky at the end of his question. “Just two more days. I fly home Wednesday morning.”
Which earned her a cooed, “Aw.” from everyone.
“I know,” she laughed, “I’m just as heartbroken.”
“Move here!” Nat gushed, also briefly glancing at Bucky. “My sister’s roommate is moving when their lease is up in a few months, she’d take you in.”
Bucky set their phone down at that, ceasing their scrolling. “She’s not living with Yelena,” they said sternly, “She spends half her time boxing in the living room and the other half burning down the kitchen.”
Nat scoffed. “Don’t listen to Bucky, she’s dramatic. That was one time because she fell asleep with pasta on the stove, and everyone was fine.”
The woman beside Bucky laughed. “It’s okay,” she smiled, “I’ve gotta get my ducks in a row back home anyway.”
“Offer’s there is all I’m saying.”
She nodded, taking another sip of her tea.
It was hours that they all sat there, her muscles melting a little so she was finally pressed against the back of the booth, Bucky’s arm grazing across her shoulders and their fingers playing idly with the knotted straps of her top. She didn’t stop them. And only when they made a move to leave did she finally think about it herself.
“I gotta get home and feed Alpine before she rips another cabinet off the walls.”
“That’s your own damn fault for not just tightening the hinges,” Sam rolled his eyes.
“No,” Bucky huffed, “my daughter is just that fuckin’ strong, Wilson.”
“Whatever you gotta tell yourself to sleep at night.”
She laughed as she stood up, sliding her purse up onto her shoulder.
“And where will you be heading off to?”
Eyes were on her when she looked up, Nat smirking at her from the head of the table. “Oh, um... My friend and I are probably gonna grab dinner. I didn’t realize how late it had gotten.”
“I see...”
She looked at the redhead in confusion before everyone said their goodbyes.
Her and Bucky stepped out onto the sidewalk together, Bucky holding the door again. “Where are you staying?” they asked, safely out of earshot of their friends.
“With my friend. She has a place right in Tudor City.”
“Wow,” Bucky laughed, “fancy.”
She laughed, shuffling her feet. “Yeah, must be nice.”
“Very.” A moment passed. “You taking the train back up or...?”
“Bus.”
“I’ll wait with you.”
So the two of them made their way over a few blocks, back toward where they started the day, to stand at the bus stop together. She was nervously picking at the threading along her purse strap while they waited, watching as Bucky reached into the breast pocket of their denim shirt and pulled out a cigarette and a lighter. They offered her one, placing it between their lips when she declined it. She watched as it sparked to life, smoke puffing from Bucky’s nose. They looked her over as they pocketed the lighter again, blowing smoke from the corner of their mouth.
“Two more days, huh?” they asked.
She nodded weakly, toes curling in her shoes. “Two more days.”
Nodding back, Bucky took another drag. “Any plans?”
“My friend works from home tomorrow, so we’ll probably just hang out and watch Love Island or something. Tuesday she’s in-person, so I’m kinda on my own for the day.”
Bucky nodded again, looking down to their boots as another cloud of smoke left them.
She was expecting them to ask to see her again, completely deflating when they didn’t. And then the bus was pulling up against the sidewalk, engine roaring and brakes squealing. Her fist tightened around her purse strap. “Thanks for today.” She wanted to say more, to explain what it had meant to be included amongst such a close group of friends when she felt so isolated at the start of the day. But she stayed silent, lingering a moment to give Bucky time to say something in response.
They didn’t.
She turned to the bus doors, stepping through them and getting all the way to the top of the few steps before a hand found her elbow.
“Wait,” Bucky pleaded.
She turned back.
“There’s a library by Prospect Park, the north side. Is ten too early?”
Helpless but to let the smile wanting to beam across her face do just that, she shook her head. “No, no, that’s perfect.”
Bucky nodded, small smile of their own tugging at their lips as they slid their hand down her arm and stepped back from the bus.
She was frozen a moment, staring at the other as they sucked at their cigarette. The driver behind her cleared his throat, snapping her out of the haze she had fallen into. “Sorry,” she breathed, quickly tapping her phone and making to find a spot. Bucky was still standing there when she took a seat by a window near the back, waving back at her when she raised a hand shyly.
Tuesday
It was even hotter than Sunday as she sat on the steps to the library, hand shielding her phone screen to check the time. Again. Only a minute had passed, still ten minutes before they planned to meet. But maybe she’d misheard, and she was at the wrong library. Or maybe she was supposed to be at another side of the library. Or maybe Bucky had been making the plans for Monday. Or maybe-
“Hey.”
Her heart stopped when she looked up, a shadow falling over her. “Hi!” she chirped as she stood up quickly.
Bucky smiled back at her, pulling a hand from their pocket as they motioned over her. “You look nice.”
She looked down to her outfit, taking the hem of her blouse in between her fingers to rub it gently. “Thank you.” Eyes slowly working their way up Bucky’s form, she swallowed at the fitted tee that showed off their biceps, flesh one equally as impressive as its metallic counterpart. “You do, too.” They were smirking when she looked up.
“Thanks.” A moment passed between the two of them before Bucky spoke up again. “I, uh... I got us tickets for the zoo, in case you wanted to go. We don’t have to, I just thought maybe... Yeah.”
Her chest suddenly felt tight. “The zoo would be fun.”
“Okay, good.”
The timing was perfect, walk over just long enough for them to arrive right on time for opening and their tickets. She went straight for the sea lions, stepping right up to watch them zip around underwater and poke their heads out to stare back at the building crowd. A couple of them came up to the edge of the pool, slapping their flippers onto it to prop themselves up.
“Have you seen those videos of the ones that, like, stick their tongues out and make all kinds of stupid faces and everything?” she laughed, looking to Bucky.
They laughed back at her. “I have, yeah. They come up on all my feeds, I can’t escape them.”
“Mine, too!” she giggled, turning back to the sea lions. “But I also like every video I see of them, so... My own fault.”
Bucky laughed again, pressing closer to her as the crowd grew.
She could smell the cologne they wore, leaning in on instinct to savor it.
The pair made their way through all the small zoo had to offer, her taking pictures of the different animals she found cute and shying away as a goat ate greedily from her hand in the petting area. They made small talk, biting into grins that grew too wide every time their eyes caught. She had felt knuckles play against her at some point, testing to see if it was safe for a palm to press into her through her blouse. She didn’t stop it, having to duck her head to hide her breathy laugh when it finally spread out across her lower back.
At the end of their visit, no more animals left to see, they wandered through the small gift shop. She was turning over a little sea lion plushie in her hands, smoothing out its synthetic down. Bucky laughed at the sight.
“I’ll get it for you if you want it,” they offered.
She shook her head. “No, you got the tickets and everything.”
They fixed her with a playfully stern look. “Do you want it or not?” When she simply scrunched her smile to one side, coyly looking away, they took it from her hands. “C’mon.”
She let them pay, refusing a bag so she could carry the stuffed toy tucked in her arm.
There was a worry at the back of her neck. That once they left, the day would wrap up and she would be left to think of it for the rest of her life. Maybe she was dramatic. Maybe Bucky had the same worry, she thought, watching their throat bob around a harsh swallow as they reached for their lighter in their pocket.
She waited until the cigarette was lit before she spoke. “I don’t wanna go back to my friend’s place yet.”
Bucky blew out heavily, making sure the wind was blowing away from her. “I’m not far from here.”
Staring at the cigarette where it sat between their lips, she nodded. “Okay.”
She followed Bucky through the streets, mind running a mile a minute thinking about what could be coming her way. Whatever it was, she wanted it. If they just sat on a couch and watched YouTube videos for six hours, she’d be happy. Over the moon, in fact. But the thought of maybe something more happening, of getting to see the rest of the leather straps that had sat around their hips two days prior... That had a heat curling in her stomach. One that was hardly tamed by the ice cream they grabbed from a truck on the way. It only grew, sparking like the cheap pink lighter that Bucky carried as she watched them fight against the summer temperatures to keep their chocolate with chocolate sprinkles from melting down their arm. Her own vanilla with rainbow sprinkles had bested her in her distracted state, a silver hand full of napkins wiping from her elbow up to her wrist to try and help.
Bucky’s apartment was cozy, full of warm colors and cat toys littered across the floor. They had homemade shelving up in the living room, made of stained wood and cinderblocks, that housed various little trinkets and books. Notebooks, a lot of notebooks. And a small collection of Badtz-Maru plushies. It made her hold in a giggle, the resemblance almost uncanny. The kitchen had dishes strewn across the counters. Or at least it did until they frantically started piling them in the sink.
“Wasn’t thinking I’d get this far.”
She laughed at that, continuing to look around the tight space. Candy was in no short supply, packages of cookies sitting out for easy access and individually wrapped chocolate bars stacked on top of the fridge. Some little caramel things she didn’t recognize.
Bucky had stepped closer, watching her take in their space. “I like sweet things,” they said lowly, smirking when she looked at them.
She laughed but only to cover the flutter that sank down from her stomach and in between her thighs, the two of them drifting closer and closer until she felt a hand brushing up her arm.
“We don’t have to do anything,” Bucky whispered, stepping closer when she only melted under their touch. “But I really fucking want to.”
Maybe it was the power of being in a city other than her own, an unfamiliar apartment instead of the home she grew up in... But she was suddenly bold enough to push forward and capture the lips she’d spent an indecent amount of time staring at. Bucky hummed when she did, hand no longer lingering at the edges of her arm and instead moving to slide onto her waist. They both tasted like a mix between sour and sweet from their ice cream, her toes curling within her boots at the rush of want that flooded her.
Bucky caused her to whine when they pulled back, cheeks already flushed as they panted, “Have you ever...?” She shook her head timidly. Bucky’s eyes fluttered shut. “Fuck...”
“I’m sorry, it’s just... hard where I am.”
“No,” they cooed, taking her waist with their left hand so the right could cup her cheek. “No, sweetheart, I get it, I just... I’m realizing we’re gonna have to figure out what you like when I wanna just take you apart.”
She buckled at that, rasping, “Th-that sounds like something I’d like.”
Bucky grinned, stroking her cheek. “We’ll see.” They knew better than to push too hard too soon, taking a step back to slide her purse from her shoulder and set it on their counter along with the little plush sea lion. “How long do I have you?”
“As long as you want, I guess,” she swallowed, still partially lightheaded. “My friend gets off at five, but I don’t necessarily have to be back by then.”
“Five whole hours?” Bucky beamed, “Or more?”
“If you’re lucky,” she laughed.
“Fuck, I should have asked Sam my horoscope this morning.”
She laughed again, tilting her chin down coyly.
Bucky fought a groan at the display, pushing their hair back from their face. “Wanna sit down?” When she nodded, they took up her hand, guiding her into the living room toward the couch. She stopped just before sitting down.
“Oh! Your kitty!”
Looking to where she was staring at the ball of white basking in a bed under the bit of sunlight allowed in under the curtains, Bucky nodded. “Yeah. Alpine.”
“I think Sam was wrong, she definitely looks stacked.”
“Thank you!” Bucky beamed, “She’s a killer, Sam is just jealous.”
“Totally.”
When they finally sat, Bucky watched her go to curl her legs up, stopping as she looked down to her boots. She tugged at the laces and slid them off carefully before getting comfortable, eyes watching where Bucky’s thighs spread out in a similar display of comfort.
“You want some music or anything?” they asked.
She shook her head, confessing, “No, it’s... I kinda think it’s cringe.”
“Thank god, so do I.”
So they filled the silence with more small talk, speaking low to each other at first, but slowly getting more into what they discussed. She got on the topic of animes she liked, naturally transitioning to mangas and then manhwas, her eyes lighting up as she remembered the comment Nat had made about Bucky reading yuri. She started talking about a comic that just came out from an artist she really liked. Which led into Bucky asking her to show them. Which led to her nervously tapping through her phone and timidly leaning in to show them.
“Oh, I see,” Bucky purred, tilting the phone to get a better look at the explicit drawings of girls engaging in what history would call ‘gals being pals.’
“Whatever!” she whined, prying her phone back. “You’re no better from what I heard.”
“I’m not,” Bucky chuckled, “That’s why I said I see.”
“Well, anyway. The comic is really good, and that artist has some other good ones, too.”
“Can you send them to me?” A not-so-subtle attempt to get her number.
“Yeah, here.”
Her phone found its way back into Bucky’s palm, new message screen open with the link already pasted into the text bar. They typed in their number, hitting send and feeling their phone vibrate against their thigh.
They talked some more, closer than they were previously since she didn’t pull back. Something over Bucky’s shoulder caught her attention, a curious look coming across her face.
“Knight’s armor?” she asked, causing the other to whip their head around to the helmet and chest piece beside their bedroom door.
“Yeah,” they chuckled, “We go to a lot of ren faires, and that’s the easiest way for me to not have to talk as much.”
“I kind of need to see pictures of this. Just for proof, y’know?”
Bucky snorted, lifting their hips to dig out their phone anyway. It didn’t take long to find, most of their camera roll full of a certain white cat or selfies that Sam snuck when they weren’t looking. “Here,” they said, handing their phone over.
She took it and stared at the picture. Bucky. In tights and out-of-place combat boots. Chest plate and one sleeve of matching armor, other exposed to display their silver arm. A long sword hanging off their hip and chestnut tresses peeking out from beneath their helmet.
“And here’s without the helmet,” Bucky said, grinning at how focused she was on the pictures.
“Right, right...” Her fingers moved on their own to zoom in, forgetting the object of her desires was right beside her, watching the whole thing. When she pinched back out, she scrolled over with her thumb, mouth falling open at what popped up.
“Whoa!” Bucky shrieked, snatching their phone away. “Why are you scrolling through like a fuckin’ boomer?!”
“S-sorry,” she stuttered, image of the clear thirst trap of Bucky in their armor still burned across her vision.
Bucky just laughed, trying to wipe away the heat behind their face. “You’re a little pervert,” they teased, watching her simply shrug her shoulder innocently. They let their gaze fall all across her face, not missing the way she took in a sharp breath at the attention. They licked their lips, beckoning her closer with a curl of their fingers.
She moved instantly, rising to her knees to throw one over Bucky’s hips. They caught her around the waist, hands greedily digging into the loose cotton of her blouse in search of supple flesh. Their lips came together softly, moving as gently as her hands did to curl around Bucky’s shoulders. Her fingers played at the neckline of their shirt, tracing along the skin just beneath it and creeping up into their hair.
“I like how you touch me,” they breathed, sliding a hand around to her back. “So gentle...” It made them almost dizzy, a deeper desire than lust pooling warmly throughout their body. She was just so... sweet. Nervous in all the best ways and playful in all the others. A moan came out breathy and satisfied from the back of Bucky’s throat.
Her thighs shook, victim to the static collecting under her skin with each pass of Bucky’s hands over it. She wanted to sit herself down and test the push of her hips into theirs, see if the bunching of their jeans felt as good against her center as she imagined it would. Bucky must have sensed her mounting want as they drew their lips away to suction them to her jaw.
“Mm... what d’you want, sweetheart?” they purred, moving down to nip at her neck.
Her stomach was so tight with arousal, she feared she might be sick for a moment, gripping onto Bucky hard enough to make her knuckles ache. Her mind was failing her, too many inputs feeding into it at once.
“Tell me what you like,” they tried, pecking at the soft skin of her throat. “We can kiss...” To prove their point, they brought their lips back to hers, prying them open gently so their breaths could mix. Nice and slow, just enough to have the girl in their hold shivering before they pulled back again. “I can touch you... here.” A palm slid around from her back, finding her breast through her blouse as Bucky grinned at the sigh she let out. “Or here...” Their knuckles dragged down her front, tapping at her mound over the matching bloomers to her blouse once they reached it. “Hm? Here?” Palm flattening again, they pushed it between her thighs to cup her heat, sliding back and rubbing gently at her to earn a whine of approval. Then they pushed back further, a smirk curling at their lips as they dug their fingers between her cheeks. “Or even here.”
She moaned, bowing forward under the touch.
“You like that one, huh?” Bucky chuckled, watching her face pinch around a desperate sort of sound just before it pushed in to kiss them more. They took the lead, guiding her lips through languid drags and teasing swipes of tongue. Their hand was still between her legs, feeling when her thighs attempted to squeeze around their wrist. “Whatever you want,” they panted, “Whatever you want, I’ll give you.”
“Everything,” she gasped, “I-I want everything.”
“Everything?” Bucky echoed, grinning against her lips. “Everything in five hours... That would be quite a feat.”
“Please,” she tried weakly.
Bucky just cooed gently at her, silver palm keeping her steady as flesh rubbed at her again. “I wanna take my time with you, though. Why don’t we start simple?”
“Simple?”
“Yeah, let’s just have you ride my thigh a little first.”
Feeling denim push at the inside of her legs, she took the hint and moved to straddle just one of Bucky’s. They guided her down onto it, removing their hand from between hers. She didn’t wait, hips beginning to rock as soon as they felt something firm beneath them. Bucky didn’t seem to mind, pulling back to stare at her face as she started a rhythm.
“There... good girl.”
A ragged moan.
“Mm, yeah, good girl,” they rasped, planting their right palm on her hip, down to the juncture of her thigh. “Feels good, huh?”
“Yes,” she sighed, vision already beginning to grow clouded. She was damp, had been damp for hours, slick soaking into the fabric of her panties and providing a delicious friction with each pass of her hips.
“You wanna cum like this?” Bucky asked, “Wanna make a mess on my thigh?”
She just nodded, all she could muster as she grew eager, using her hold on Bucky’s shoulders as leverage to rock down with more force.
“I can feel you, princess, so warm against me. Are you wet for me, too? Hm?” Another nod, her lips parted around a choked moan. “I can’t wait to see. Can’t wait to lay you out on my bed and watch you cry ’cause it feels so good.”
“Fu- fuck...”
She shook, bearing down around nothing as she came with enough force to make her eyes squeeze shut. It was embarrassing, took quick, so needy. She didn’t care.
“Good girl,” Bucky cooed, rubbing at her hip. “That’s it, breathe for me.”
She did so, forcing out a deep breath and taking another in as her hips finally came to a stop. “Bucky,” she whimpered.
“I’m here, sweet girl.” To show her, they pushed her into them, pressing their lips together softly.
There was still a slight tremble to hers as they began to move slowly. The kisses were as good as the orgasm, something about the way Bucky took their time with her and teased her with grazes of their tongue instead of shoving it straight into her mouth. She was already close to starting her hips up again after only a few moments.
“Y-you said-” She paused to swallow. “You said you didn’t like the way Nat...”
“Yeah?” Bucky rasped.
“Show me how you like it, then. I-I wanna try.”
“Fuck...” There was hesitance in their gaze as it drank her in. Not for lack of desire, no. But because they knew they couldn’t throw her into it as quickly as maybe both of them wished. “Why don’t you just... start simple. See how you like it first.”
“Okay,” she nodded shakily.
“Okay,” Bucky echoed. “Catch your breath first, sweetheart, you’re still buzzing.”
“Sorry.”
“No, that’s a good thing,” they beamed, “I like that you’re so sensitive, it’s hot.”
She ducked her head, pushing forward so Bucky could wrap their arms around her and hold her in a gentle hug as she calmed. She could almost fall asleep on the muscular shoulder, contented sigh leaving her when hands began soothing at her back. Fighting it, she turned her head to kiss at sharp jaw and heated cheek, both of them humming when their lips found each other again.
Without a word, she dropped to Bucky’s chin, then to their neck, knees sliding back on the couch to the very edge of the cushion.
“Yeah?” Bucky asked, staring at her with a hand on her cheek.
“Yeah.”
“Here.”
A sturdy metal arm wrapped around her waist, other plucking a throw pillow from beside them to set it on the floor between Bucky’s feet. She took in a breath when they settled back and looked at her heatedly. Keeping her eyes on them, she slid further until there was nothing left and then sank onto her knees on the pillow. Her instincts were to reach for Bucky’s belt on her own, an undeniable heat curling inside her when she watched them take the leather and buckle in their hold and unlatch it slowly.
It fell to either side, thick fingers working at the button and zipper of their jeans next. And then all that was left was fabric. Denim that she pulled down easily to the tops of boots and boxer briefs that she did the same with. Wispy hairs tickled under her palms as she sat staring at the patch of much thicker, denser strands. She could feel Bucky’s eyes on her, trying to assess the thoughts behind her own. The truth was that there were none. Nothing but salacious images and screams to move echoed around her skull.
So she leaned in, Bucky’s hips canting closer to the edge for better access. The wiry hairs tickled at her lips at first, smoothing out the more she pushed into them. A deep scent rushed over her, natural and musky, faintly artificial like a soap or lotion. She breathed out heavily, eyes finally falling completely shut as she parted her lips and used her tongue to part the ones in front of her.
Bucky did the same, sighing out at the sight before them. She was doing so well so far, exactly how they liked. No fingers, no theatrics, just pure desire to submit and make her partner feel good.
“Fuck, that’s it, baby...”
She’d moved slowly, giving herself enough time to adjust to the new sensations, nothing but instinct guiding her to the stiff bud her tongue poked at. It drifted down curiously, picking up a tang that was new on her tastebuds but familiar, too, from nights alone in her room. She moaned, couldn’t hold it in, prying her lips between Bucky’s to find more of that taste before circling it around their clit.
“Right there, princess. Stay right there.”
So she did, fingers dropping from thighs to grip at the bunch of clothing caught around Bucky’s ankles. Her lips latched around the bud, tongue tapping at it while she gave a cautious suck.
Bucky placed a hand to her neck, sliding it around back so they could guide her gently. She was already doing so well, just needed that little lit of encouragement.
The palm at her nape gave a little push, her mind taking it as a command to go harder. Her next suck was just that, another moan leaving her. She loved it, she was completely delirious with it, she didn’t want to stop.
Bucky’s metal hand was gripping into the couch, fabric straining under the sheer strength of it. They were trying to keep their composure and not get lost in the heady pleasure of not just her lips but the sight of her on her knees, lashes fanning out across her cheeks and brows furrowed in concentration and her own pleasure.
“Good fucking girl,” they gritted, fingertips digging into her neck and thumb soothing at her throat. Their head fell back with a thud, eyes still trained on her to watch her work them over. Her eyes fluttered open to check if she was still doing good, even after receiving praise barely a moment before. “Keep going, baby, you’re doing so well.”
She all but purred under it, eyes wanting to roll back from the words alone. They only exemplified her desire to work harder, to try and give Bucky what they had given to her.
Bucky got lost in it, in the heat that seeped out from their center and the gentle suckling that came from it. Those soft, devoted eyes gazing up at them... They almost missed the jolt of pleasure that would surely lead into another. Almost succumbed to it when the second felt even better. “Fuck! That’s good, sweetheart, that’s good. Come here.”
She let the hand around her neck guide her back, tongue swiping over her lips greedily just before Bucky’s found them. It was theirs that trembled then, a shaky breath hitting across her cheeks from their nose.
“You make me fucking crazy,” they panted, finally letting their tongues meet in more than just a coy brush. She tasted like them, reached up to wrap her arms around their shoulders and allow herself to be pulled back up onto the couch.
“Was I good?”
“You were perfect,” Bucky chuckled, nipping at her lip. “I like to get a bit rougher, but that was un-fucking-real as is.”
She preened under the praise, grinning through kisses.
“I need a smoke already,” Bucky laughed, getting her to do the same. “Would that be alright? If we take a quick break?”
A whine was about to come out of her throat before her stomach rumbled and cut it off.
Bucky laughed again, rubbing at her back. “Grab a snack, sweetheart. You’re gonna need it.”
She searched through their cabinets and fridge as they snuck out onto the fire escape to smoke. Usually she’d be thinking about what she ate, how it would taste on her tongue afterwards or if just the sight of it on her plate would turn someone else off. But she was comfortable moving through Bucky’s apartment, nibbling on her assortment of chips and Babybel cheeses and a peanut butter sandwich. Oh, and half a pickle.
“Girl dinner?” Bucky asked, smirking at her when they climbed back into the living room.
She nodded, covering her mouth as she mumbled, “I made you some, too.”
There was another plate of similar composition on Bucky’s coffee table, a genuine smile pulling across their face as they took it up. “Looks delicious,” they hummed, bending down to kiss her before falling back on the couch.
They ate together in relative silence, gulping down the tea she poured for them like they’d just finished a marathon. Bucky took their dishes to the sink and went about trying to clear some of the others out and into the dishwasher while they were there. Arms snaking around their waist had a smirk tugging at their lips.
“Bedroom?” they asked, “Or are you sick of me?”
“I said everything, didn’t I?”
Bucky cocked their head. “Getting mouthy, huh?”
She shrugged.
Bucky snorted a laugh. “Need the bathroom first?”
She seemed to think it over for a moment, shaking her head eventually.
“Mind if I do?” Another shake of her head. And then she was following after Bucky all the way up to the bathroom door. “What’s the matter, princess, you wanna watch? Didn’t think you’d be into that.”
“Can’t a girl just get a little clingy?” she pouted, quickly turning into a grin when Bucky cupped her face to kiss her.
“Of course she can.”
They let her hover as they went, winking in her direction just to watch her hide her face and shy away. Cutting the faucet off, they reached for their mouthwash and tossed back a mouthful to swish.
“Oh,” she whispered, “should I...?”
Bucky hummed in question, tossing her head back to gargle before spitting. “What?”
“Well, since we ate... Should I also...?”
Shaking their head, Bucky wiped at their mouth. “No, I don’t care about that, I’m just gonna...” They looked down, motioning to her hips. “If you want, I mean.”
Without a word, she reached for the mouthwash, taking some for herself. She didn’t even pat her mouth dry before bringing their lips together, Bucky cupping her neck when she did. “I’m not waiting until after to kiss you again.”
Grinning, Bucky hummed, “That’s smart. Good strategy. ’Cause I plan on being down there a while.”
And they were not lying, not even exaggerating. They kept her locked in the throes of ecstasy for what felt like hours, very well could have been with the blackout curtains in their bedroom keeping her oblivious to time. On her back, on her stomach, face pressed into the sheets and hips lifted into the air so Bucky could lap at her greedily. They pumped their fingers into her at that angle, making her shake and scream into the sheets, the decision not to relieve herself biting her in the ass at that moment. But, fuck, it felt so good. Having Bucky’s hands grip at her possessively, mouth pulling orgasms from her like it was second nature.
“I messed up your makeup, pretty girl,” they teased after pulling her head up to kiss her breathless after they’d already ripped all the air from her lungs a second before. “One more.”
God, she didn’t know if she could. Allowed herself to be set over Bucky’s face anyway, their sharp crystalline eyes staring up at her. She had to grip the headboard to keep from collapsing, muscles tensed like she was in permanent orgasm as their skilled tongue lapped through her slit just to make more of a mess of her. It wasn’t until her next one actually hit that she realized just what the woman under her had done to her nerves.
“Fuck!” she cried, unable to control herself any longer and feeling a hot burst of liquid erupt from her.
Bucky’s hands gripped her ass tighter, pulling her closer as they hummed against her. “Mm, that’s it, that’s my good fucking girl.”
Her thighs were shaking so hard she was sure it was only Bucky keeping her upright, knew it was Bucky flipping her onto her back in the blink of an eye. They stayed eye level with her pussy, staring in awe at the thick stream that was oozing from her entrance.
“You’re so fucking wet, oh, my god.” They couldn’t help themselves, leaning in for another taste even as she clamped her thighs. “Okay,” they panted, “Okay, okay, okay.”
Crawling up her body, they left slick kisses in a trail straight to her mouth, humming in response to her moan when she tasted herself soaked into Bucky’s skin. They dropped onto their side, pulling her with them to hold onto her as she tried through choked swallows to catch her breath. She could barely kiss back, just pecking at first until her soul started creeping back into her body and she was able to cling onto Bucky and slot her lips into theirs. Slow again, after the world had spun so fast she thought she’d fly off of it.
“Can I ask you something?”
She nodded dazedly.
“Can I put a plug in your ass?” At her groan, Bucky tried, “You seemed into it on the couch, I just thought I’d ask.”
“Yes,” she strained, “Yes, you can- Yes, just yes.”
Sliding back from her carefully, Bucky stepped to the dresser at the end of their bed, digging through the bottom drawer for just what they needed. “Just a little one, okay?”
Nodding, she looked down to watch the woman approaching her again, bottle of lube and bright yellow plug in hand.
“Can you get back on your knees for me, sweetheart?”
She wasn’t sure at first, took her time rising back up. But she was half slumped onto the mattress anyway, face in Bucky’s pillow and knees knocked together to shield her aching core.
“Good girl,” Bucky cooed, lining the pointed tip up at her tight entrance after getting it soaked in lube. She clenched under the touch, hips pushing back on their own. “That’s it, nice and slow...” They draped over her back as they pushed in slowly, cooing into her ear as she took it. Their hips nudged against their hand, thrusting the plug in and out shallowly a few times before really pushing forward. She nearly sobbed under them. “Yeah, suck it in... There you go, baby.”
Her hands were fisted in the sheets, thighs once again squeezing together as tight as they could under the constant pressure inside her. Bucky shushed her gently as they rolled her onto her side again, wiping their hands off with a wet wipe before joining her. She burrowed into their arms, wrapping her own around their shoulders.
“Feel good?”
“Mhm,” she nodded, returning their kisses.
Hands grabbed at her back, at every inch of skin they could reach, falling to her ass to force her against the thigh that had slipped between hers. Bucky watched as she let her head fall back, lips parted in a constant stream of moans and pants, eyes nearly unfocused, and brows no longer even knitted after so much pleasure had strung them together they snapped.
“You’re so beautiful,” Bucky breathed, feeling her smear across their thigh without layers of fabric between them.
“B-Bucky, please...”
It made them push her onto her back again, legs forcing hers into the positions they needed to be in so Bucky could mount her and grind them together where they needed it most.
“God, yes!”
Bare, silken flesh slid against a downy of deep brown, Bucky lifting her leg up and onto their shoulder with a lingering kiss to her calf. They thrusted down into her, watching as she gripped at the sheets to no relief, hands growing frantic for something to cling to. They found her own breasts, squeezing at them and massaging the aching peaks atop them. Bucky was in awe, mouth parted and little breathy grunts leaving it.
Until they couldn’t take it anymore. If they weren’t inside her within the minute, something inside them was going to break.
She squinted through bleary eyes when the friction was gone from her, core clenching around nothing but causing the plug to push deeper and make her whimper. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears as she watched Bucky get their strap secured around their thighs and hips, cock already secured to it.
“Good?” they asked, giving it a stroke with their metal fist. She nodded dumbly, stuck just staring. “Just enough that you can feel it, right, sweetheart?”
Her cheeks were ablaze, knowing they caught her slip-up before painting her face, knowing they were holding onto it for this exact moment. Knowing she had said it didn’t have to be too big, when the cock staring at her didn’t fit that bill at all.
“I’ve got smaller ones, if you want,” they offered softly, coming to stroke at her cheek.
“No,” she shook her head, still staring. “I want it.”
“Yeah?” Bucky crawled onto the bed when she nodded, pushing her legs up as they went until they were bent beautifully and her toes were curling in anticipation. They dropped down then, hovering a breath away to stare into her eyes up close. “You want my cock, sweetheart?”
“Yes, please. Want it so bad, Bucky.”
“I know you do,” they cooed, dropping to kiss at her cheek. “You wanted it the second you saw me in line, huh?”
Fuck, she was so caught. In every way possible, Bucky had caught her.
“You looked so cute standing there all quiet and shy.” A kiss to her other cheek. “So polite. Saying please over and over, thanking me for every little thing. Such good manners, such a good little girl for me.”
“Y-yes, Bucky,” she whined, feeling the plug move back and forth with each clench of her muscles. They went taut when something began poking at her slit.
“Get me all wet for you, baby,” Bucky purred, staring down at how she made the head of their cock glisten with a simple pass through her. “That’s it...”
The head slipped in, making her eyes roll back before it was pulled away again. “Please, please, I need it so, so bad.”
“I know you do.” Again it went in. And out. “You’re gonna tell me if it’s too much, right? If the plug gets uncomfortable or you’re too full, right?”
“Yes, yes, I-I’ll tell you.”
“Promise?” Bucky drawled.
“Yes, I promise!”
“Good girl.”
Then it went in again. It kept going in. Until she thought there was no more left, and then it went some more.
“Oh, my god,” she gasped, wheezed, forced out through a slack jaw.
Bucky stared down at her, biting their lip at the sight of her coming undone beneath them. The best feeling in the world, made even better by the fact that it was her. Her, who Bucky had only known for a matter of collective hours. Fuck, they were done for.
It started slow, deep, focused thrusts to ease her open and get the toy drenched in her. A curling long lingering in her stomach started to twist again, hands finding the backs of her thighs as Bucky watched her open up for them. Their eyes quickly went to hers when they started a pace. Experimental at first, testing each push in to see how it made her face twitch. When she sucked in a breath, they knew they had her.
Fists planted on either side of her waist, a rhythmic, quiet clapping beginning to sound between them. Her hands once again tried to find something to cling to, coming upon firm muscle and solid metal that she tugged on until Bucky gave in and dropped even closer to her. Once their lips touched, that was it. Quiet clapping turned to thunderous slaps, the tape still plastered to Bucky’s chest brushing against her stiff nipples, making her arch up into the friction. Fingers found their way to her mouth, pushing in easily through her endless moans. She sucked them on instinct, still continuing to moan around them as Bucky stared down at her.
“Like being stuffed in every hole, princess? Hm? Like showing me what a good girl you are?”
She nodded, unable to voice her confirmation. Bucky’s fingers played around her tongue, cock stroking at her sweet spot just right to have her gasping around the digits.
It gave Bucky a mark to hit every time, arms winding around their neck to claw at their back and tug at their hair. They pulled from her mouth to hear her beg mindlessly. And so a fist could run down to press into her lower stomach.
“That’s it, baby, cum. Cum on my cock like a good little girl.” She moaned from the very bottom of her chest, body trying to curl and protect itself from the force of what was coming. “Come on, baby, come on. Gimme what I want, soak my fuckin’ cock.”
Fireworks burst across her eyelids, ears ringing for a split second before a rush came over them. She was so full, so unbelievable full, babbling incoherently to be even fuller.
“Please, Bucky, please, please, please. Oh, my g- oh, my god, please! Fuck, please!”
“Give it to me,” they sneered, fucking into her deep enough to knock the wind from her each time.
“Fu- ah- fuck,” she sobbed, feeling everything in her snap and burst into a million different sparks that lit fires all across her. First in her core, rushing immediately into her stomach and thighs until it had traveled all over and she was squeezing her thighs hopelessly around the wall of muscle between them.
“Oh, yeah,” Bucky goaded, “Soak my bed, baby, that’s it.”
Fuck, she was. The hot rush of it pooling over her ass and splash of it against Bucky’s relentless hips bouncing onto her stomach.
“Oh, my god!”
Bucky was determined. To kill her or give her pleasure like she’d never known, she wasn’t sure there was any difference at that point. Not when strong hands were suddenly grabbing for her and shoving her onto her knees, holding her up when she began to fall. Their cock sank back into her, solid chest over her soaked back as they forced a hand between her cinched thighs.
“Please, Bucky, I- fuck! I can’t, I can’t, I can’t-”
“Mm, I think you can, princess.”
Their hips hit against the base of the plug with each thrust, effectively fucking her in both holes and causing her to scream into the dimly lit bedroom. Christ, their neighbors, their fucking neighbors...
“Let them hear,” Bucky panted, “Let them hear how good I fuck you.”
Had she said it out loud? Whatever, it didn’t matter. Bucky had either heard her or read her mind, and she didn’t know which one was more humiliating. Which one made her walls flutter more.
The hand between her thighs was stiff, fighting against every ounce of strength she had in her legs to keep it out. It still managed to get to her clit, circling the raw nerves until she felt hot tears spilling over her cheeks.
“Fucking... please!” she gritted, teeth grinding to an almost painful degree.
“Please what?”
She didn’t even know, gave up trying to figure out. Every pound of the hips behind hers set off sparks in her that she couldn’t discern were pain or pleasure. It was this raw kind of feeling... Overstimulation, maybe. Metal fingertips tweaking at her nipple making her tug at the sheets so hard the fitted one snapped free.
Another empty plea was about to rip its way out of her throat when suddenly something white was right in her face, blue eyes staring at her as a meow broke through the cacophony of debauchery.
“Shit!” Bucky hissed, stilling their hips and prying off of her back. Still buried to the hilt. “Fuck, what time is it?”
She was useless, gasping into the sheets she was finally able to collapse into.
“I’m so sorry, are you alright?”
She barely managed to swallow, voice taking a few tries before she squeaked out, “Yeah.”
“Are you sure?” Lips landed between her shoulder blades, hands soothing over her hips. She only nodded, nothing left in her to do much else. “Let me just feed her real quick, I didn’t realize how late it was.”
“How...” Oh, it was pointless.
Bucky chuckled, “It’s almost seven already.”
Seven fucking hours. Literally.
“I’ll be right back, sweetheart. Hold still...”
She did, no choice but to do exactly that, as Bucky slowly pulled out of her and placed another kiss at the base of her spine. Then the bed shook a few times, footsteps sounding alongside eager paws.
“Why would you do that?” She heard Bucky ask playfully. “Why would you interrupt your daddy like that, huh? Were you starving? C’mon, Pinocchio, let’s eat.”
It was a miracle she could wheeze out a laugh, the sound of water running and excited meows coming from the kitchen making her smile weakly. Her hips had collapsed without Bucky’s support, a shaky hand reaching back to try and grip onto the base of the plug. There wasn’t even enough strength in her fingers to grab onto it. So she just laid there, heart hammering and breath ever so slowly leveling to something akin to normal. Her eyes shut on their own, body melting further and further into the mattress until she heard a door close.
“Here, baby,” Bucky offered, sitting on the bed beside her limp form to pull her onto her side and up enough to take the water in their other hand. “There you go, easy.”
She gulped at it, more desperate for it than she realized, nearly taking the entire glass down before the sight in front of her made her snort into it and choke as a result.
“What?” Bucky fretted, patting her back as she coughed between laughs.
“S-sorry,” she sputtered, “Just... You wearing that while feeding your cat is fucking crazy.”
Following her gaze, Bucky looked down to the strap still around their hips and the toy still connected to it, glistening with a layer of clear arousal and streaks of milky white. They busted out laughing, too.
“I was in fight or flight, fucking cat scared the shit out of me.”
“I wouldn’t even recognize being scared in that moment if I had been.”
“Yeah?” Bucky smirked, setting the empty glass on their nightstand when she finished off its contents, droplet of water rolling down her chin. “Why, something happen then, or...?”
She snorted, flopping back down onto the bed. Her face turned into the pillow. “How have we been fucking for seven hours?”
“It was more like five or so,” Bucky countered, unashamed as they reached out to squeeze at her thigh and ass.
“Take that out, please,” she breathed.
“Uncomfortable?”
“No, just...” Her thought died, metal fingers slipping between her cheeks to push at the plug.
“Then why take it out? You’re not tapping out, are you?”
One eye emerged from the pillow, locking onto Bucky with a warning that quickly became a plea as the plug prodded deeper with each push.
“One more,” Bucky bargained, “One more before you go.”
Her teeth sank into her bottom lip, eyes going hooded under the dull tease of pressure from through her inner wall. “Yes, please.”
Bucky let her stay just as she was, hips flat to the mattress and torso angled slightly back at them. They sank back in easily, both of them moaning airily. A hand pressed into hers, fingers slotting together as metal snaked under her to hold her close. It was too much. The overstimulation back, the heat of Bucky’s chest blanketing her, the way they began to pepper kisses across her shoulder and cheek as they murmured to her about how beautiful she was.
The first tear was falling before she could even feel it form, a stunted sob following it.
“Sh,” Bucky cooed, biting back their own surge of emotion. “Sh, baby, just feel me. Be here with me.”
She nodded, breaking her hand from their grasp to twist her wrist so they were palm to palm. Another kiss fell on her cheek, lips dragging down to the corner of her mouth. Hips bounced off of her ass, once again targeting the spot inside her that had her seeing stars. She moaned, no longer trying to fight the spell Bucky had over her body.
Bucky panted through the thin space between their lips and her skin, staring down at the way tears dripped off her lashes and onto their pillow. The base of their cock was nudging at their clit with each thrust, pulling quiet moans from them just as they did her.
“Please...” That time she knew what she was asking for, squeezing her eyes in hopes it would be true when she opened them.
“I know, baby,” Bucky sighed, “I know.”
Faster, the creak of the bed finally audible without her screams. Her lips fell open, moan catching on the emotion that had welled in the back of her throat. Just as messy and desperate as their joining. Bucky’s hand squeezing hers prompted her to do the same, other burning across sheets to find the silver fingers under her.
“Cum for me, baby. Please.”
She clenched her stomach, chasing the feeling of rough knuckles digging into her. It worked, or maybe the memory worked, ripping a moan from her as she began to spasm helplessly.
Bucky held onto her, eyes trained on her as a rupture started in their own core. It drove them to pound down into her harder, prolonging both of their releases until neither one of them could make any sound more than a weak groan. And Bucky kept going even then, savoring the way she seized up under them and tugged at their hands.
“Fuck, Bucky, fuck...” It was so good, so painfully good, had her feeling more wet heat pool beneath her hips and sated enough not to care.
“That’s my girl... That’s my girl.”
Not a good girl, not a sweet girl or a pretty girl. Simply theirs.
“Yours,” she whined, still feeling the aftershocks shooting throughout her as hips finally stilled against her own.
“You’re so perfect,” Bucky hummed, capturing her lips through unsteady breaths.
She tried to twist into them more, stopped by the ache in her limbs and the hold on her body. Bucky listened to her squeak of frustration and sought to fix it, pulling their hips back to slip from her and fall down gently in front of her. They both just laid there, holding one another and catching their breath, her fingers dancing over Bucky’s cheeks and nose, down to the little dimple in their chin. Bucky did the same with their eyes, fingers too preoccupied writing out words on her back that they hoped she couldn’t decipher.
When they saw tears starting to reform in her eyes, they smiled sadly. “I know,” they whispered, “It’s okay. It’s a lot your first time.”
“Fuck you,” she snorted between sniffles.
Bucky gave her a squeeze.
She shook her head, not believing that it was over, pushing forward to capture the lips she was sure she’d crave the rest of her life. Maybe she got a little dramatic after... um... five... No, six! Six? Whatever number of orgasm. Bucky had just wrecked her nervous system in the best possible way, that was all.
They held each other another hour until Bucky crawled out of the bed to bring her more water and at least two damp cloths. She didn’t count, taking slow, even sips from her glass as Bucky finally pulled the plug from her and cleaned her up. Surely, she still looked a mess, nothing but maybe a bottle of micellar water able to possibly rid her of the evidence of what she’d gotten up to before stepping back into her friend’s apartment. Maybe a gallon.
Bucky dressed first, wetting their fingers and running them through their hair before they went to help her back into her clothes. They eased her panties up slowly, placing them over her gently. And the same with her bloomers. Her blouse, her socks, her boots that Bucky laced up and tied off with secure double knots. She felt like a princess, eyes fluttering when lips pressed to her forehead.
“Ready?”
“Yeah,” she lied, clutching the sea lion to her chest.
Bucky took the train with her, making sure she got where she was going. They were just outside her friend’s building, staring at one another, neither of them wanting to say it.
“Text me when you leave tomorrow,” they ordered, “And when the plane lands and everything.”
“Okay.”
More staring. Finally Bucky sighed and grabbed her face. Her own hand went to their waist, trying to memorize the feel of firm yet soft flesh under it. Bucky’s dropped to her hips, squeezing them in a claim and a promise. She brought her arms up to link around Bucky’s neck, squishing the sea lion in the process. Her fingers went up into their hair, twirling the soft strands and tracing down to their nape where they let out a happy hum.
“I like that,” they murmured.
“I know.”
So she did it again, teasing her tongue over Bucky’s lips like they’d done so much to her.
Just stay. She could just stay.
She couldn’t.
“Hope this place has an elevator.”
She snorted at the comment, accepting that it was happening. “I’d be sleeping in the lobby if it didn’t. No way I’d make it up stairs, I barely got up and down the subway with you basically carrying me.”
“You’ll sleep like a rock,” Bucky grinned, tracing her cheek with their thumb then their knuckles.
“I’ll come back,” she whispered, trying to convince herself maybe more than Bucky.
“I’ll be here.”
One more kiss. One more. One more.
She waved shyly from the door to the building and again at the one inside it. Once more just before she disappeared around a corner.
And Bucky went home, walked home, going through the rest of their smokes and into a bodega to get more. They stood in their doorway a moment after walking in, slumped down on their couch where a throw pillow was still on the floor and her scent was lingering in the cushions. Their phone buzzed against their thigh.
It was a link to a reel, dumbass sea lion popping up on their screen when they clicked it. They chuckled at it, smile lingering but eventually falling.
Two Months Later
Her mother had grown curious about her sudden demeanor, the way she laughed at her phone more often and hid away in her room more than usual. She managed to play it off like she’d found some new game to keep her occupied, but more than a few times she caught the skeptical look on her mother’s face. But then she could curl under the covers and talk about the new manhwa that’d just come out, or zoom in on the reflection in a little white cat’s eyes to catch its owner faintly within them. And everything just seemed so simple.
Six Months Later
She didn’t blame either of them. It was just distance and maybe some kind of resentment that left their text thread dry. She was too much of a coward for phone calls, petrified that somehow just the sound of Bucky’s voice would give them away. And there were only so many things to talk about in a day. But it stung as she scrolled through the little bubbles, all the way up until the link to a comic was the only thing left.
Humiliation kept her from sending anything more. She didn’t think about what had stopped Bucky.
Eleven Months Later
That ache was killing her, ripping her apart from the inside out. She turned to apps and bars a town over, chasing after this feeling that never came. Not with a date, not with a kiss, not with wandering hands in the backseats of old Subarus. She was just crushed under the weight of loss and dread that somehow, someway, someone was going to find out about where she’d been going in pursuit of the fleeting happiness she felt for only a few hours.
One Year Later
Cheeks stained with tears and a looming awkwardness in her house, she looked through classified listings, searching for one that she knew wasn’t buried in the sea of ads.
Two Years Later
It wasn’t quite suffocating, but just shy of it. The sway of the train spiking her nerves further as she texted with her friend. She’d gotten on the wrong one, not used to the system yet even after being there well over a month. What was supposed to take her over to Grand Central, and right by her friend, had instead taken her down into Williamsburg. A bead of sweat ran down her neck from nothing more than anxiety alone.
She swayed as the train came to a stop, still staring down at her phone as her friend tried to guide her through getting on the right one through spotty service and frantic texts. She wasn’t looking, yelped when she crashed into a solid build trying to step out onto the platform. Her phone was knocked out of her hands, falling at the pair of combat boots in front of her own Mary Janes.
“Sorry!” she squeaked, bending down to pick up her cell but stopping when the other person beat her to it.
Following them as they rose back to their full height, she found herself frozen, eyes blown wide as they stared at crystalline ones and chestnut tresses that were the tiniest bit shorter than she remembered. Bucky did the same, looking over her outfit and the hints of pink, purple, and blue that were carefully placed throughout it. They looked back up to her face after a moment, holding out her phone for her to take.
She did so wordlessly, not caring to check for cracks.
A small smile threatened to pull at Bucky’s lips. “Hey,” they croaked.
She didn’t fight hers or the sting that was starting in her eyes. “Hi.”
Summary: Joel's exhausted by the time he makes it to bed. But when a pretty little thing crawls in beside him, he finds the time for you, just like he always does.
Warnings: +18 MDNI, post outbreak, jackson!joel, unspecified age difference, joel pov, porn no plot, dry humping, slow and soft sex, smut with feelings, internalized shame, intimacy, unprotected piv, clit stimulation, kissing
Note: i haven't written for joel in monthsss but i hope you enjoy!!
WC: 2k
[masterlist] [AO3]
Joel’s the kind of exhausted that only comes with age.
Weary bones, heavy limbs, tired eyes.
He’s falling into bed as soon as he gets home, often forfeiting dinner in favor of blissful rest. Sometimes even before the sun’s fully set.
And today is just one of those days. He’d spent the night tossing and turning, trying to massage away a kink in his neck that persisted well into the afternoon. But he hadn’t had time to complain or think too much about how excited he was to crawl back beneath the sheets, because the northernmost barn was falling to pieces.
So, not only was he functioning half empty from the start, but the work today was also strenuous. Sawing raw timber to the perfect length, sanding down the sharp edges, hammering nails into plywood. A full day.
And when Denise had stopped him on his way home, waving him down with a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade in hand, she’d given him that bright, hopeful smile and said, “Little Sammy ran that damn bike into the back door again. Would you mind fixing the hinges?”
His back ached and his knees were creaky, but Joel soon found himself knelt on Denise’s porch, screwdriver and fresh nails in hand.
It didn’t take long, but it did take every last scrap of energy that remained inside of him.
Joel’s house was always quiet. Too big for him, really. Ellie was in the garage already, lights still on, up too late when she had early patrol the following morning. But Joel didn’t have it in him to remind her how important sleep was. Not when he was running on fumes himself.
So he dragged those tired, old bones inside. Kicked off his boots and jeans right at the door of his room, hung his flannel over the back of the chair at his work bench, and let out a long sigh as he climbed beneath icy cotton sheets.
He’s half asleep, eyes closed and muscles sinking into the mattress, when he hears it.
The click of the latch on the unlocked front door. The creak of your careful steps as you climb the stairs.
Joel feels you before he sees you. Too exhausted to pull himself out of blissful almost-sleep. The mattress dips beneath your weight, limbs outstretched, seeking him out of instinct.
This isn’t the first time this has happened. Not the first time you’ve found yourself peering out of your window next door waiting for him to get home. Not the first time you’ve ended up in his bed or in his arms.
And Joel knows he should put a stop to it—you’re too young, too sweet, too…good.
But he’s too worn out to fight his impulses. He’s tried for months to keep his thoughts pure when you cross his mind, but it’s been a losing battle from the start.
Especially when you’re like this. Warm and soft, pressed up against his side, wearing an old t-shirt he’d let you borrow the night before and not much else. A comfort that feels more like home than this house does.
The tips of your fingers tickle his forearm, rousing him just enough that he lifts the heavy limb so you can crawl right into his embrace.
Joel holds you tight. He always does. Biceps big and strong around your shoulders. He holds you like he might lose you tomorrow, because there’s a part of him that fears one day you’ll wake up and see something you don’t like.
He worries you’ll begin to see him for what he is; old, weary, tired. Not even half the man he used to be. Not half the man you deserve.
But for tonight at least, you still wear those rose tinted glasses. Pressing sweet kisses to his face; his nose, his forehead, his cheeks. Nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck, making cute, whiny noises at the back of your throat. Like you’re desperate, unable to get close enough despite every inch being pressed against him, leg hooked over his hips.
You find a comfortable position and still beside him, letting out the same sort of long sigh Joel did just moments ago. But you don’t sleep—your breathing doesn’t even out, your muscles don’t go slack.
Joel knows what you need. Long before your hips tilt, before you press your center against his thigh, before you whisper his name in the dark.
“S’okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice deep and dark and sleepy. “C’mere.”
He reaches over and brackets his arm around your waist to drag you on top of him, your center already warm and wanting.
It’s starting to get out of hand, he knows. Starting to become a routine. But Joel doesn’t have many sweet thing in his life, not anymore, and he finds you near impossible to resist. “I’ve got you,” he says. “Take what ya need.”
You lay against his chest, ear pressed right over his heart. Joel kisses the crown of your head when your hips begin to tilt, rubbing yourself against the steadily growing bulge beneath the thin fabric of his boxers.
Soft, wanton sighs leave you at the sensation, and even with a barrier still between you he can feel your clit pulse against the underside of his cock.
Needy little thing you are. But Joel doesn’t mind—he likes the feeling. Of being needed, wanted. Especially by a girl as sweet as you.
You grind on top of him for a while. Not seeking release, not yet. Just feeling the hard warmth of him beneath you, savoring the weight of his big hands stroking softly up and down the expanse of your back.
He can feel your arousal growing with each pass, wetness slowly seeping through his boxers, slick and sticky. Joel nudges you gently with the tip of his nose, the prickly hairs of his mustache tickling the side of your face. “C’mon, sweet girl. Let’s get this shirt off, hm?”
When you nod, you pull yourself up tiredly. The movement is slow and thick like molasses, so Joel uses the last of his energy to help you.
His hands find the hem of the oversized t-shirt and pull it upwards, over your head to be discarded on the floor beside his bed. It leaves you completely naked, bared for him in more ways than one.
In an instant, you fall back against him, breasts pressed up against his chest. Your skin feels cool against his, smooth and pillowy. “S’warm,” you mutter, rubbing the side of your cheek against the coarse hair that litters his chest, graying in some places.
Joel’s cock throbs beneath you, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. He just lets you settle back down and allows you to rest. His hands wander, though, the way they always do.
Sliding down your back, over the sides of your thighs, thumbs massaging gentle circles. He strokes his fingers gently back up to your shoulders and then brings them down your arms, smiling when he sees goosebumps rise in his wake.
When they settle back at your hips, his touch is a little more eager. Kneading at the softness, inching over the curve of your ass until that’s all his hands are filled with.
Joel loves touching you. Not just suggestively, but intimately. He loves feeling the closeness and the trust you put in him to take care of you, to keep you safe, to make you feel good.
He massages the supple flesh, holding you close, until his need for you begins to grow teeth, gnawing at his psyche.
Joel knows he shouldn’t. He knows that.
But he’s just so tired, and you’re so soft. Gentle and kind. And you make him feel loved—something Joel Miller has not felt for a very, very long time.
He guides you with his hands gripping at your curves, sliding your slick cunt over his aching cock. His breath feels hollow, stuck in his lungs.
When he lifts upward, just a little, enough to provide a little extra pressure, you mewl in response.
Joel is quick to soothe, shushing softly into your ear. “Shh, you’re alright. Hang on, sweet girl. M’right here.”
He knows what you need. It’s become a nightly ritual at this point. You come to him seeking connection, seeking the comfort of an older man. Most nights you just need to be held, to be nurtured, to be loved the way you deserve.
But other nights, Joel knows you need a little more. A connection that runs a little deeper.
He reaches beneath you, hooking his thumbs in the elastic band of his boxers and tugging them down his tired legs. Just enough to free his cock, already hard as stone just from your proximity.
Joel pulls your forward, up his torso, giving himself room to line his length up with your entrance.
He slides in real easy.
You’re already soaked, dripping with arousal. And the moment he’s fully seated inside you, stretching you real wide, filling up your belly, you let out a breathy whine.
It feels right, being here like this with you. It feels like coming home.
Joel moves you slowly, guiding each roll of your hips, slowing you down when you try to pick up the pace.
There’s no rush. Not here, not with him. He’ll get you there. He’ll get you what you need. What’s the sense in hurrying through it?
He wants to savor it. The feel of your sweet, soft pussy, clenching and leaking around his length. The way your stuttering breath tickles his skin. The way your hands grip him harder and harder, holding him impossibly closer.
He wants to savor the way you love him.
“Gimme a kiss, baby,” he whispers in the dark.
You turn your head, just enough so that he can press his lips to yours. In this, too, Joel moves painfully slow.
It’s not a claiming, it’s an exploration. His lips move against yours, memorizing the feel of them, the shape and the taste. He slowly licks into your mouth, tongue gliding against yours, breathing in your exhalation.
The building coil around his spine is anything but slow, however. He loves being here with you maybe a little too much. He loves you a little too much.
Joel thrust upwards, keeping a steady, unforgiving rhythm while he slides his hand between you. His fingers search blindly for your clit and he finds it in seconds, circling those slow, tight circles around the pulsing nerves.
Your sounds grow louder, release building. The sound of your joining echoes in the empty room, slick and wet and feverish.
He knows your close when you start manually breathing—lungs stuttering, chasing the delicious relief that only he can provide.
“You got it,” he encourages. “S’right there, baby. Give it to me.”
Your eyes stay locked to his, lips parting on a jagged moan. You don’t say anything; no warning, no begging. You just feel it, feel him, moving deep inside you, fucking you through it.
“That’s it,” he says, voice all soft and warm the way it only ever is when he speaks to you. “There you go.”
He doesn’t stop until you find the natural rhythm of oxygen again, until the shaking in your thighs relents to an easy tremble.
Joel feels that white-hot coil beginning to spool within himself, and pulls out of you with just enough time to shoot thick ropes of cum over your pubic bone.
He thrusts the underside of his cock through your syrupy folds, a gentle rocking until he’s spent. He somehow finds the energy for a few extra thrusts, smearing his release over your clit.
You don’t move an inch, and Joel doesn’t want you to.
Instead, you just lay there on top of him, sticky mess between you, your head resting delicately on his chest.
When you reach up to card your fingers through his graying hair, Joel feels his muscles go completely slack, tension bleeding from his weary bones.
“M’sorry I woke you up,” you say, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I know you were tired.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Joel says, and he means it. “I’ll always have time for you."
Summary: On the hottest summer day Texas has to offer, the heat brings out the worst in you and Tommy both. But Tommy knows his girl like the back of his hand, and he isn't above tiring that attitude out of you if he has to.
Warnings: +18 MDNI, bratting and brat taming, established relationship, no outbreak au, unspecified age gap, porn with some plot, domesticity, heat induced bickering, reader has hair but no other description, oral sex m!receiving, clit stimulation, unprotected piv, dirty talk, begging, kinda mean!tommy, praise and light degradation, creampie
note: i hear u i see u asking for more tommy miller and i aim to please, so here i am returning to my roots for my tommy girlies (but mostly for @havensucks <3)
wc: 4.6k
[masterlist] [AO3]
It's fucking hot.
Unbearably so.
Hot enough that even the chilly air from the vents of his truck only just barely cool him down. The kind of weather that makes the air look wavy with refraction and has him thinking about moving states for relief because, surely, he can't keep living like this.
Tommy's hair is up, pulled back with an elastic tie, but the curls still feel too thick and heavy. There's beads of sweat trickling down his neck and his belt buckle sticks to the curve of his soft belly.
He knows it's effecting you, too. Can see the way your shoulders deflate while you sit in the passenger seat, the backs of your thighs sticking to the leather beneath you.
The iced coffee he'd got you this morning sweats in the cup holder, ice nearly gone before you're even halfway done drinking it. He'd gotten it for you in hopes of keeping the peace today.
All you had to do was get groceries and do a couple loads of laundry at the laundromat. Errands that Tommy often finds enjoyment out of doing with you most days. A Sunday afternoon ritual he'd come to love.
But when it's hot like this? You're both irritable and quick to anger. All it takes is one thing to go wrong and you're snapping at each other, frustration building with the temperature.
And to no one's surprise, you start bickering first thing.
While you carry the bag of detergent and quarters, Tommy carries the basket of clothes down from you shared apartment. He puts it in the back seat of his truck at a weird angle, and you try to warn him, but your warning only serves to provoke him.
"Has nothing to do with the angle, it's this stupid fucking basket."
You roll your eyes, angrily shoving a pair of jeans back into place. "Sure, yeah. It's definitely the basket that's been the same size and shape for the last two years. Makes sense."
His jaw ticks, and the thought crosses his mind to take you over his knee. His bratty girl and her smart ass mouth.
But he keeps quiet.
You accidentally drop the bag of quarters in the laundromat, and Tommy spends five minutes of his life chasing them around on a floor that probably hasn't been properly mopped in months.
When you see the irritation plain as day on his face you say, "I didn't mean to drop them. Don't get mad."
"I'm not mad," he argues. "Never said I was."
"Yeah, well. You look mad."
"I'm not."
"Then why do you look it?"
"Can we just put the quarters in the fucking machine?"
You scoff. "You curse at me like that again and we're gonna have a fucking problem."
It's so stupid, such a silly argument, that it makes Tommy laugh.
Your brows furrow in disbelief at first but then you laugh, too. And it lightens the mood, if only for a while.
The two of you sit in the air conditioning of the laundromat until your clothes are folded and neatly put back in the basket, no further damage made to the easy energy you've created.
But the moment you're back outside in the grueling heat, the tension returns.
The two of you are discussing what sounds good for dinner this week on the way to the grocery store when he says, "We've gotta pick up cake mix, too. You still gonna make one for Mike's birthday so I can bring it in to him Wednesday?"
"Wednesday?" Your nose scrunches in that cute, frustrated way he loves. "You told me it was Friday. I was going to go to that bakery in San Marcos to get that pistachio frosting he said he likes—"
"Can't you do that tomorrow?"
"No, tomorrow is Sarah's recital."
"Okay, so Tuesday then."
"And get home at nine and be up until midnight making a damn cake?"
Tommy sighs. "So skip the pistachio frosting. What's wrong with vanilla?"
"It's his fiftieth birthday, Tommy. You should've warned me ahead of time—"
"I did. Twice, matter of fact."
"You told me it was on Friday."
"No I didn't. Why would I say that?"
"I don't know, you tell me!"
His jaw feathers as he clenches his teeth. He hates arguing with you at all, and it's even worse when it's arguments like this.
It feels like you're fighting against each other instead of with each other. Like you're on opposing sides and not two people in love working together to solve a problem.
He makes the decision right then and there, stopping in the middle of the road and pulling into a random driveway to turn the truck around.
"What are you doing?"
"Turning around."
"Oh my god," you huff. "No shit. Where are we going? Tommy, we need groceries. We're out of milk and eggs and the cake—!"
"The store's not closin' anytime soon. And I'm not doin' this today. S'too fuckin' hot out. So just sit there and let me drive," he says. And for good measure adds, "Please."
You fold your arms over your chest, bratty little thing that you are.
But it's okay, Tommy doesn't mind. He knows it's not you, it's the heat. It's the sweat on your skin and the humidity that sticks like glue and the uncomfortable weight of it all.
There's a boat launch a short fifteen minute drive away. Joel and Tommy used to rent boats there to go fishing all the time. They hadn't been back in a while, a couple of years at least.
But today's the perfect day.
When he pulls into the dirt lot just outside the small, wood cabin office building, Tommy unbuckles and climbs out of his truck. He levels you with a stare and says, "Don't move."
"Wasn't gonna," you argue. "Just gonna sit here and let you drive, Tommy. Just like you wanted."
"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he hisses, shaking his head.
Inside the cabin is blessedly air conditioned. It's a small, one room building with cluttered paperwork on a desk and a cash register that looks like it's from the eighties. An old woman sits behind it with a pair of floral framed reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose and a book in her hand titled The Dirty Cowboy.
It makes Tommy chuckle softly to himself. Reminds him of all those filthy books you read on your phone before bed. "You guys got any rentals available for today?"
The woman looks up at him over her worn paperback. "Got a pontoon, a center cabin and a bowrider left. An' no extra poles, so I hope you've got your own. What d'ya want?"
"Let's go with the center cabin."
"You got cash?"
"Sure do." Tommy pulls his wallet from his pocket and hands over the cash once she reads off a total. He waits patiently as she prints out a few pages on what he assumes is the slowest printer still in use and sets it in front of him with a fuzzy red pen.
"Gotta sign the waiver and take a life jacket for each passenger," she says. "There's some extras around back."
Tommy does what he needs to. Dates and signs and leaves a copy of his ID. When she hands him the keys, he leaves the cabin with a newfound relief.
He finds you with your feet on the dash and every AC vent in the car turned towards you, scrolling on your phone with a crease between your brows. Tommy pulls the door open and says, "C'mon."
That snarky little tone still resides in your voice when you ask, "What are we doing?"
"Goin' out on the lake," he answers, unbuckling your seatbelt and tugging you out of the truck. He tosses his cellphone onto the floor at your feet. "Let's go."
"Tommy, I don't want—!"
"Baby." He closes his eyes and takes a slow, steadying breath. The heat is already getting to him again, the sun unbearably hot at his back. "I'm gonna need you to just trust me. Leave your phone, ya won't need it."
That scowl still remains, but you no longer argue. You let him take your hand in his and lock the truck behind you.
Tommy leads you around the back of the cabin and plucks two life jackets from the racks before starting down the familiar path to the lake. It's not a long walk, but it feels that way. Sweat trickles down his spine and his breath feels hollow.
He finds the boat tied to the end of one of the docks and doesn't give you time to argue some more before he begins to untie the rope. Tommy tosses the frayed jute cord into the front of the boat, climbs in, and holds out his hand for you to take. "C'mon."
"We have stuff that needs to get done today, Tommy," you tell him, hand on your hip. The sunshine reflects off of your hair and he thinks you look so fucking pretty like that it almost makes the hellish temperature worth it.
"Our errands aren't goin' anywhere."
"We still need to get groceries—"
"The store will be open late."
"—and put away laundry—"
"Baby."
"—and I promised Sarah I'd—"
"Baby, get in the damn boat."
"It's just so hot and I need to—!"
"You think I don't know what you need?"
The question silences you, and your eyes soften just slightly. "That's not what I'm trying to say, I—"
Tommy takes your hands in his, pulling you forward. "C'mon."
You let him pull you begrudgingly onto the deck, mumbling those smart ass remarks under your breath all the while.
Tommy just laughs. Puts the key in the ignition switch and settles into the seat behind the wheel in the cabin. It roars to life, propellers spinning beneath the water. He pats his thigh twice and says, "Get over here, brat."
"I'm not a brat," you argue, coming up to his side and sitting in his lap right where he likes you. Even when you say it, your mouth turns up at the corners.
"Mhm, sure," Tommy teases, voice thick with sarcasm. He squeezes the hand throttle behind the wheel and the boat surges forward through the water.
And the wind—god. It might be the most soothing thing he's ever felt in his entire fucking life. It cools the sweat that sticks to his skin, lifting the collar of his shirt and reaching beneath the fabric.
Tommy sees you visibly relax at the sensation and knows he made the right choice, bringing you here today.
Silence settles between you as he drives further and further away from the dock. The sun still shines painfully bright in the clear blue sky, but with the chill of the water spray it feels far less daunting.
He turns the radio on and the soft, bluesy ballad of a Santana song plays through the open space. The lake is surprisingly empty for a day like today, but Tommy finds himself grateful for it.
He slows the boat to a stop a handful of miles out, until he can no longer see the shore or the docks or any other boats. He stands to his feet, pulling you up with him, and says, "Take off your clothes."
You shake your head, but when you speak there's ease in it for the first time since you'd left the apartment this afternoon. "I don't really want to swim today," you confess.
But Tommy's not having it. He pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it aside, toeing off his boots next. "Wasn't askin', sweetheart."
With a sigh, you say, "I'll admit it, the boat is nice. It's cooler out here and I don't feel like I'm dying in the heat anymore, but I don't want to get in the water. I'll just…I'll watch you. How's that?"
Tommy undoes his belt buckle with a clink and shoves his jeans down his thighs, leaving his boxers. He wears one of those big, toothy grins as he explains, "You can either get undressed or you can get in fully clothed. Your choice."
"I said—!"
He shrugs. "Suit yourself."
And without another word, Tommy squeezes you in an embrace and hauls you overboard with him.
The water is cold. Not just cool, but borderline freezing. It feels so refreshing that he lets out a low groan when he breaches the surface, letting out a breath that's been stuck in his lungs for what feels like hours.
You come up for air half a second after he does, wiping water from your face. Droplets cling to your eyelashes and all Tommy can do is smile wide.
Because he thinks you're the most beautiful woman to ever live, and he will never take for granted that even on the hottest day of the year, you still choose him to do laundry with.
"You're the worst," you say, but there's no salt to your words. There's a smile on your face and laughter on the tip of your tongue instead. The tension that's been building all day dissipates, washed away by the cold water.
Tommy nods and takes your face in his hands. "Mhm," he says. "You're right. I am the worst. Tell me more."
"You get this awful attitude when it gets hot out. You know that?"
It makes him laugh hard enough that his shoulders shake. "We got that in common, sweet girl."
"Nuh-uh. Not me. I'm an angel, actually."
He leans forward, grin still on his wet lips when he presses them to yours. "Yeah you are," he mutters. "My bratty, angel girl." He kisses you again, this time at the corner of your mouth. And then he kisses your cheek, your temple, the tip of your nose, , the tickling hairs of his mustache making you giggle.
"M'sorry I've been mean today," you say with sorrowful eyes.
Tommy wraps his arms around your shoulders and pulls you close, delighting in the way your soft, warm skin glides easily against his underwater. "I'm sorry too, baby. S'alright. Just the heat."
You nod in agreement and reach behind his head to pull the elastic band from his hair. "Yeah, I know," you say. "But I'm still sorry. And I love you."
"Even though I'm the worst?"
With a laugh, you shake your head and pull away from him, swimming towards the back end of the boat.
Tommy watches, floating on his back with his arms outstretched, as you pull yourself up over the hull and onto the deck.
You peel your top off, wring the water out of it, and lay it over the leather seat at the front of the boat. Your jean shorts are next, and then your sandals, leaving you in nothing but your sports bra and a flimsy pair of blue panties.
The fabric clings to your wet skin so closely that Tommy can almost see right through them, to that pretty pussy that lies beneath. It makes him feel hot in an entirely different way.
"Don't stop on my account," he urges, a playful tone in his voice. "If I knew takin' you to the lake would get me a free striptease we would'a been here hours ago."
You scoff and say, "Shut up."
But Tommy sees it; the way your pulse picks up, the way your thighs press together, the way you consider it, just for a fleeting second.
But you leave the last two articles of clothing on before jumping right back into the water.
Tommy's not sure how long you stay out in the lake. You do back flips under the water and splash each other and kiss with slippery mouths.
He takes to doing cannonballs off the side of the boat and your laughter echoes across the water's surface. An Aerosmith song comes on the radio and you both sing along so loudly that he forgets all about the heat and the frustration and your bickering.
By the time you decide you're finished, the muscles in his legs are tired and the tips of his fingers are pruned.
Tommy helps you back into the boat and drops down onto the leather bench near the front of the deck. He spreads his legs wide and drapes his arms over the edge, head tilted back just slightly. Water drips off his skin, sliding down his neck and the broad expanse of his shoulders. "C'mere," he orders.
There's no argument to be had, not this time. You simply walk over to him, leaving little wet footprints in your wake, and stand between his spread knees.
"You feelin' better?"
With a nod, you admit, "Yeah, a little."
"Just a little?" Tommy playfully clicks his tongue. "Now, that just ain't gonna work."
You narrow your pretty eyes at him, a smirk tugging at the corners of your mouth.
"Why don't you g'head an' take off your clothes, baby," he says. And when you begin to protest he adds, "Need to get dry before we head back, don't we?"
You see right through him, shaking your head. But you do as he instructs, struggling for only a second before tugging the wet fabric of your bra up and over your head.
Tommy just watches, leaning back, enjoying the sweetest view of his bratty girl listening so well. He's not shy in his assessment, eyes roaming greedily over the swells of your breasts and the hardened peaks of your nipples.
And when you peel your panties down your legs, Tommy's cock stirs beneath his boxers. You ring the water out of them and lay them out to dry.
"I oughta get dry, too," he says. "Wanna give your old man a hand?"
He watches it happen in real time, that shift in you. Watches what begins as suggestive amusement turn into want. Your pupils flare and your lips part just so.
You drop to your knees slowly, each breath a manual inhale. And then you slide your hands up his calves, still dripping with water. They move over the bend of his knee and through the coarse hair that litters his thighs. And when you finally reach the waistband of his boxers, your fingers curl around the edge to tug them off.
Tommy lifts his hips, and that's the only assistance he allows himself to give. His cock hangs heavy and hard between you, resting against the softness of his belly.
Your eyes flicker up to meet his, and he hears the silent question before you ask it.
"G'head, baby. Give me a little kiss." He thinks that sweet smile you give him in response is real cute. And it's even cuter when you take his cock in your hand and lean forward to lick a long, wet stripe up the underside of him.
The muscles in his thighs flex at the sensation, at the sight of you. Naked and pretty and on your knees for him, with all that worship in your eyes that always makes him feel weak.
Your tongue laves over every hardened inch of him, following the path of each vein, swirling around the tip and coating him in a different sort of wet. Your spit is warm and slippery, providing the perfect amount of ease when you take him into your waiting mouth.
Tommy's head falls back even further as you swallow him down. He groans low, fingers curling tight around the edge of the boat to try and fight off his urge to touch you. To hold your pretty face in his hands and rest his fingers against the side of your throat to feel himself inside it.
But he wants it to be you. All you.
So Tommy just lets you suck his cock, lets you enjoy it the way you want to. Spit pools at the corners of your mouth and you whimper around him, the sound ratcheting his pleasure even higher.
"Yeah," he muses. "That's it. So fuckin' pretty with my cock in your mouth, baby. Look at ya. Fuckin' droolin' on it."
You look up at him through your lashes, and smile around his length. Tommy thinks he could fall off the edge right then and there, just seeing how happy you are to taste him, how pleased you look with him in your mouth.
But he resists, pulling his hips back just slightly to say, "S'enough, now. Get on up here."
You do as he says, wiping the spit from your mouth with the back of your hand. When you climb into his lap, knees on either side of his wide thighs, Tommy stops you just before you're fully seated.
"Hang on now, greedy girl," he says. "Lemme see her."
Carefully, you place your hands on the edge of his knees and arch your spine, giving him the most beautiful view.
Tommy can't resist touching you. Not this time, not when you look like this. He gently squeezes your breasts in his hands, smoothing away the water droplets that still sit on top of your soft skin.
His thumbs ghost across your nipples before he glides his palms down your torso, over the dip of your navel, and then finally—blessedly—between your legs.
"Oh, baby," he sighs. Tommy gathers his saliva at the front of his mouth and brings his hand to his lips. "No wonder why you're only feelin' a little bit better." He spits on his fingers before bringing them to your clit, already pulsing the moment he touches you.
You moan when he begins to stroke gently at your pussy, spreading his spit and your slick. His fingers move slowly, just feeling you without true intent, gliding through your arousal.
When he slides his hand a little lower and begins to circle your entrance with the pad of his middle finger, your hips begin to move. Trying desperately to pull him inside, muscles clenching around nothing.
Tommy just grins. Chuckles low when you start to whine, nails digging into the skin of his thighs. "You want it?"
You nod comes feverish and instantaneous. "Please," you moan. "I need it."
He thinks you sound so pretty, begging like that. He moves his fingers back up to your clit, stroking with just enough pressure that you gasp in relief.
But as soon as he gives, he takes away.
Tommy removes his touch completely, stretching his arms back over the boat's edge, resting casual and cocky the way he always is. "Go 'head, baby. Take what ya need."
You don't waste a second, scooting up his lap. You take his cock in your hand and line it up with your entrance before sinking down on him fully.
The sensation of it nearly knocks him on his ass; the tight, wet grip of your cunt around him. His fingers flex against the leather seat, and you steady yourself with your hands on his shoulders.
It starts easy. A gentle rocking of your hips, his cock pressing in deep, the swollen head flush against the tip of your cervix.
But each movement grows more and more desperate, your sounds echoing across the lake. "Such a cute little thing," he says, eyes dark and lids hooded. "Takin' it so good. You feel me in there, baby? Stretchin' you real wide?"
"Mmhm," is all you can manage right away, breath coming fast, chest heaving with each ragged inhale. "Feels so…god—feels so good, Tommy. So big."
You start getting real whimpery, slick dripping down his cock, wet sounds coming from between your legs.
Right about now is when Tommy will normally take over, thrusting up into you, giving you the roughness you always seek.
But he stays still today. Let's you roll your hips over his, fucking yourself on his thick length until you're begging him. "Please, Tommy—touch me."
He cruelly clicks his tongue. "Had the energy to give me all that attitude this morning, didn't ya? Still got stuff to do today, sweet girl. Gotta tire you out before we head back."
A sweetest sounding groan leaves your mouth. "But—please!"
Tommy's real weak when it comes to you. The temptation to give in is there, building inside his chest, right beside the warmth of impending release. "Nuh-uh," he says. "You wanna cum? You're gonna work for it this time. Not gonna have all that sass by the time you're done. Gotta sweat it out, little girl."
You're still moving, still grinding yourself down on his cock, pace ragged and out of rhythm now. "Tommy please, I can't—!"
"Yeah you can," he encourages, taking one a low, condescending tone. "Got full faith in ya. C'mon baby, you're almost there. She's squeezin' me."
He can feel the tension in your thighs and the way your fingers dig into the hard muscles at his shoulders. "Will you at least—" you stop, a moan tearing its way through your chest. "—kiss me. Please, just a kiss. Need to feel you, to taste you."
The request is so spoken so softly, so sweetly, that it send a shock of delight down his spine. And Tommy—God. He can do nothing to resist it. "'Course I can give you a kiss, sweet girl," he says.
Tommy leans in, and the moment he touches his lips to yours he can feel the velvety walls of your cunt clench around him.
He kisses you deep, tongue slipping into your mouth, licking and sliding against yours. You moan his name and it sounds so fucking pretty that his fingers find your clit on instinct.
He strokes it in small, tight circles. And only a few seconds later, you're falling off the edge. Thighs shaking, whimpering into his mouth, riding him as hard as your strength will allow.
"So fuckin' pretty," he whispers. "Such a good girl for me when you're all full, huh? Oughta make you work for it more often."
"Feels so good—hmm."
"You're my good girl, baby. Ain't that right?"
"Yes, yes. I'm your good girl, I'm—oh, god—"
"Uh-huh. That's right. Mine. My baby."
His.
Tommy follows you off the precipice, his release rushing up to greet him, that tight coil around his spine pulling taught just to snap.
A low groan rumbles through his chest as he fills you with his release, so much of it that it spills out of you and drips onto the thatch of dark hair between his legs.
You roll your hips a few more times, until you're spent and aching, before collapsing on top of him entirely.
Your shoulders drop and your muscles go slack, head falling into the crook of his neck.
Tommy laughs and finally touches you, arms wrapping around your waist to hold you close, fingertips stroking lazily over the relaxed curve of your spine. "You're alright," he says. "I've got ya."
He's not sure how much time passes. Tommy just holds you for as long as you need, cock still twitching inside you, the mixture of your release and his dripping down the inside of his thighs. He lets you catch your breath, and doesn't move until you do.
When you finally ease yourself off of him and stand to your feet, you do so on shaky legs. The heat has dried your shorts and top now, and you pull them back on while Tommy does the same with his jeans.
Once you're dressed he asks, "You ready to head back?"
You nod soundlessly, an ease on your face. Tommy sits behind the wheel of the boat and flips the ignition switch, and this time he doesn't even have to ask for you. You just come to him without a word, sitting in his lap and resting your head on his shoulder.
Tommy kisses your temple with a syrupy smile. "Feelin' better?"
The answer this time is paired with a soft, sleepy sigh. "Much better. Thank you."
His heart swells. And even though the heat persists, warming him back up already, Tommy feels himself relax fully for the first time all day.
"Ain't gotta thank me, baby," he says. "M'always gonna make you feel better."
word count | 13.5k words
summary | you had the house. the husband. the hollow life. but every tuesday and thursday at 10:45 AM, you opened the door to something sweeter—a young mailman with a mouth full of yes ma’am and hands made for sin.
tags | 18+ (MDNI), EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, unprotected sex, suburbia au, pwp, cheating sex, infidelity, age gap, power imbalance (but consensual), marital infidelity, dom/sub dynamics, begging, doggy style, overstimulation, light dirty talk, reader fantasises about bucky during sex with husband, tw: br*ck r*mlow, mention of emotional neglect in marriage, praise kink, creampie, bucky is obsessed, lowkey inexperienced!bucky, subby!bucky, bucky calls you ma’am and then fucks you stupid, he leaves your pussy full of mail, cuckold core, possessive!bucky, pussy drunk!bucky, heavy praise
a/n | tbh this could’ve taken place in the 50s or 2000s, nobody knows. this was inspired by desperate housewives but i made it sluttier (if gabby and bree were one person)
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨
MASTERLIST
divider by @enchanthings
There’s something peculiar about the way a woman can be broken without ever making a sound.
No cracks. No gasps. No shattering porcelain on the floor.
Just a quiet kind of nothing that settles behind her eyes like dust on a windowsill, inevitable and slowly turning everything gray.
You were folding laundry when you found it.
One of Brock’s white shirts. The expensive kind. Egyptian cotton, triple-stitched, with his initials monogrammed just inside the collar—BRR—like a cattle brand stamped into the fabric. You’d pressed it yourself that morning, running the iron over the sleeves in slow, methodical passes, breathing in the steam and starch and the faint ghost of his cologne.
And then you saw it.
Lipstick.
Not yours.
Too red. Too loud. The kind of colour worn by women who laugh too hard at dinner parties and drink too much gin straight from the glass. Women who don’t bother to wipe the smudge off the rim before they hand it back to the waiter.
Right there, faint but certain, a smear near the collarbone. Just a whisper of crimson against the white. Like a signature. Like a taunt.
You didn’t scream or crumble. You just held the shirt between your fingers and stared at that mark like it was a wine stain on the wallpaper. Inconvenient and not even worth fussing about.
Because this is what it meant to be Mrs. Rumlow. And you had no one to blame but yourself.
After all, you weren’t swept off your feet. You were just worn down.
Brock pursued you the way a dog gnaws a bone—persistent and aggressive. He asked you out eight times before you said yes. Called your job every afternoon until the receptionist started putting him through just to shut him up. Sent flowers to your apartment; carnations, always carnations, because he never bothered to learn what you actually liked. Showed up at your mother’s dinner parties with that performative charm, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, grinning like he’d already won.
And everyone else loved him.
Your friends said he was handsome. Your mother said he had prospects. Your father just nodded and shook his hand and called him a good man.
You didn’t feel anything at all really.
But the word “yes” started falling out of your mouth like clockwork. Yes to dinner. Yes to letting him in. Yes to the ring—heavy and perfect and exactly what a girl should want. Yes to the house with the white picket fence and the immaculate lawn. Yes to the title—Mrs. Rumlow.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Until suddenly you were thirty, standing in your laundry room at two in the afternoon, holding a man’s shirt that didn’t even smell like you anymore.
And what now? You could confront him. Cry, maybe. Throw a tantrum. Smash a vase against the wall and watch the pieces scatter across the hardwood.
But for what? To make him feel bad for fifteen minutes before he went right back to doing whatever he pleased? To force an apology you knew wouldn’t mean a thing?
No, thank you.
You hung the shirt neatly over the back of the chair, the way you’d been taught, and went back to folding towels. Matching corners. Smooth stacks. The rhythm of it steadied something in your chest.
That afternoon, you made a lemon cake.
You creamed the butter and sugar until it was pale and fluffy. You zested the lemons until your fingers smelled sharp and bright. You poured the batter into the pan and watched it rise through the oven door, golden and perfect. You whipped the frosting by hand until your arm ached, then spread it in smooth, even layers across the top.
And when you sat down in your immaculate kitchen—surrounded by the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock, with a slice of cake on a china plate in front of you—you took a bite.
The frosting was just a little too sweet.
You felt absolutely nothing at all.
Dinner was silent.
You set the pot roast on the table, the porcelain platter warm against your palms, steam curling upward like cigarette smoke in a half-empty bar. The scent of rosemary and roasted carrots hung in the air, filling the dining room with something that smelled like home… even if it didn’t feel like one.
Brock thanked you without looking up from the newspaper.
The words came out flat, automatic, as if spoken by a machine. He ate quickly, efficiently, like everything in his life. Fork, knife, chew, swallow. A rhythm of consumption without pleasure. He checked his watch between bites, that little gold-faced wristband catching the chandelier light, and you wondered if he ever really tasted anything at all.
You nodded at the right moments. Smiled when he made a dry comment about work… something about a man named Alexander Pierce, a deal gone sour, a shipment delayed. You didn’t really listen. You just let your mouth move in practiced curves while your eyes drifted to the lipstick stain you’d pressed out of that shirt hours ago.
You poured him another drink when he tapped the glass. The two clinks of his wedding band against the crystal, a wordless request you had long since learned to obey without thought.
You didn’t bring up the lipstick.
Why would you? He would deny it. Or worse—he would tell the truth like it was trivial, like it was nothing more than a spilled drink at a work function, a kiss on the cheek from a client’s wife. He would wave his hand and say you know how these things go, sweetheart, and then he’d go back to carving the roast.
So you kept your mouth shut and your hands steady and your face smooth as porcelain.
After dinner, you washed the dishes while he stood behind you. His hands found your hips in that familiar way, yet less like a husband touching his wife and more like a man checking the fence posts on his property. You didn’t flinch or lean back into him. You just let the warm water run over your fingers and watched the soap bubbles pop one by one against the stainless steel.
He guided you upstairs without a word.
In the bedroom, he didn’t turn on the lights. He never did when he was in this mood. It was easier for him to pretend you were anyone he wanted. Easier for you to pretend you didn’t know who he was imagining. Easier for both of you to exist in that shadowed space without having to look each other in the eye.
He unbuttoned your dress halfway, just enough to get what he needed, and pushed inside you with a sigh. The same tired exhale he gave when he loosened his tie after work. A release. Not affection. Not even desire. Just pressure leaving the body, a valve opened after a long day.
He moved like a man finishing a task before bed. His breath warm and stale against your neck, tinged with whiskey and gravy. Your cheek pressed into the pillow, eyes open in the dark, staring at the faint crack in the ceiling where the moonlight bled through the curtains.
You didn’t make a sound. You didn’t tremble or cling or gasp. You just lay there, letting him take what he thought was his, feeling nothing but the soft thud of your heartbeat in your ear and the slight friction of the sheets against your thighs.
When he came, he groaned your name like an afterthought and rolled off you immediately. A completed chore. The mattress shifted as he settled onto his back, and within minutes his breathing evened out into the low, rough snore you’d grown accustomed to.
You pulled the sheets back up to your chin and lay on your back, staring at the ceiling.
The moonlight cut pale lines across the room, sharp and silver, like broken glass scattered on the floor. You traced them with your eyes, following the angles where they crossed the crown molding, the light fixture, the corner where the wallpaper had begun to peel ever so slightly.
They didn’t point anywhere. They didn’t mean anything. They were just lines of light falling across a dark room where a woman lay next to a man who didn’t see her.
The ache between your legs was faint now, fading into something distant and numb. You folded your hands over your stomach, fingers interlaced, like a woman lying in a casket.
The ceiling fan hummed above you, a low mechanical drone that filled the silence with something almost like comfort.
Then you let sleep pull you under, still hollow, still quiet, still waiting for something to crack.
Tuesday
You sat in the kitchen with a cigarette burning between your fingers and your second cup of coffee growing cold on the counter, wearing a satin robe the colour of pale champagne; too soft, too pretty, too delicate for a life this dull. The fabric whispered against your skin with every small movement, a reminder that you still had a body, still had nerve endings, still had wants that went unacknowledged.
The floor was spotless. Linoleum gleaming under the morning light, every crumb swept, every scuff wiped away. The breakfast dishes were stacked neatly in the drying rack, porcelain and ceramic arranged like soldiers at attention. Everything in its place. Everything perfect.
And for a moment, just one dizzy, suffocating moment, you considered what it would be like if you just… walked out.
Not packed. Not explained. Not left a note. Just stood up, pushed back the chair, and let the front door click shut behind you without a backward glance. No destination. No plan. Just the simple, radical act of leaving.
You thought about the other wives on the block. Margaret with her twin boys and her perpetual exhaustion. Doris with her tennis club and her too-bright laugh. Eleanor with her country luncheons and her gossip that cut like a finely sharpened knife. All of them busy, all of them pretending they weren’t slowly going mad in their identical houses with their identical husbands and their identical lives.
You didn’t have a baby. You didn’t have a career. You didn’t even have friends you really liked—just women you drank tea with because it was expected, because the calendar said Monday and Wednesday meant bridge club whether you wanted it or not.
You had a house that stayed clean and a husband that didn’t. And every day felt the same.
Breakfast. Clean. Grocery store. Smile politely. Dinner. Dishes. Sex if he remembered. Sleep. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
You stubbed the cigarette out in the ceramic ashtray, the ember hissing against porcelain, and let out a long, slow breath. Maybe you’d bake something today. A cheesecake, perhaps—the one your mother had taught you, the one that took two hours and left your hands smelling of cream and sugar. Or maybe you’d just sit here, watching the clock tick toward noon, counting the minutes until the day blurred into the next one.
Knock. Knock.
Your head turned, like a reflex you hadn’t trained but couldn’t control.
The clock on the wall said 10:45. Which meant it was Tuesday. Which meant—
You already knew before you opened the door.
The morning light spilled across the porch, catching in his hair, turning it something between caramel and chocolate. He stood there in his postal uniform; navy trousers pressed sharp, shirt buttoned to regulation, the leather strap of his mailbag cutting across his chest.
But beneath the uniform, he wore a white t-shirt, the collar just visible at his throat, and he’d cuffed his sleeves once, twice, to show his forearms. Tan skin dusted with fine golden hair, muscles that moved beneath the surface with a boyish, easy strength.
There was a curl stuck to his forehead, dark and damp from the morning humidity. Your fingers itched to push it back.
He smiled when he saw you, that wide, eager grin that made him look like he’d just found something he’d been searching for. “G’mornin’, Mrs. Rumlow.” His voice had a rumble to it, low and warm. “You’re lookin’ mighty pretty this mornin’.”
The words landed somewhere in your chest, like a stone dropped into still water. You didn’t smile back, not the full thing, anyway. Just a curve at the corner of your mouth, a softening of your eyes. You held the doorframe with two fingers, the satin of your robe draping against the painted wood.
“Thank you, James.” His name felt intentional on your tongue, drawn out just a little longer than necessary. “Right on time, I see.”
Bucky scratched the back of his neck, a gesture so young, so unpolished, it made something tighten in your stomach. “You know me, ma’am. Gotta keep to a schedule.” He laughed once, a short breath of sound. “Wouldn’t wanna disappoint.”
Disappoint. The word hung in the air between you, weighted with something neither of you acknowledged aloud.
He pulled the letters from his bag with careful hands; one bill, one catalog, one cream-coloured envelope with your mother’s looping handwriting on the front. He offered them to you, and you reached out to take them, your fingers brushing his in the exchange.
A whisper of contact. Barely anything at all. But your skin remembered it. Tingled with it. Held onto it like a secret.
You looked down at the envelopes, then back up at him. His cheeks were flushed, that telltale pink climbing up from his collar, and he was looking at you like you were something more than a housewife in a bathrobe holding a stack of bills.
“You have a good day now, ma’am,” he said, quieter this time, as if the words were meant only for the space between you.
The ma’am made something in your chest loosen. It wasn’t condescending, not the way Brock said it when he was irritated, a dismissive verbal pat on the head. This was different. Like being called something sacred.
“Thank you, James.” Your voice came out steadier than you felt. “I’ll see you Thursday.”
His grin widened, a flash of white teeth, and he touched the brim of his cap like a soldier saluting. “Yes, ma’am. Thursday.”
Bucky turned and walked back down the path, his stride easy and confident, the mailbag swinging against his hip. You watched him go, fingers still pressed to the doorframe, the letters clutched against your chest. He glanced back once, just before the hedge swallowed him from view, and caught your eye.
He didn’t wave. Neither did you.
But the look he gave you lingered long after he disappeared.
You closed the door slowly and leaned against it, the wood cool against your back through the thin satin. And suddenly, all you could think about was Thursday.
All you could think about was him.
Thursday
You put on lipstick before breakfast.
Not the usual pale pink you wore to bridge club or church, the kind that barely registered on your lips, a ghost of colour meant to be respectable and forgettable. No. Today, you reached for the tube tucked behind the vanity mirror, the one you’d bought weeks ago on a whim and never worn. A glossier red. Crimson. The kind of shade that demanded attention.
It wasn’t quite as brazen as the stain on Brock’s collar’ that shade had been brighter, cheaper, applied with less care, but it was close. Close enough to feel like a statement. Close enough to feel like your own small rebellion.
You curled your hair, too. The iron hissed against the strands, shaping them into soft curls that brushed your shoulders. You ironed your best blouse, cream silk with mother-of-pearl buttons, and paired it with a navy skirt that cinched at your waist and fell just below your knees. You dabbed perfume behind your ears, at your wrists, between your breasts, letting the scent settle into your skin like a secret.
All for what? A two-minute doorstep exchange.
Maybe.
But it had been a long time since you got ready for someone. A long time since you’d felt the flutter of anticipation in your chest, the nervous checking of your reflection, the quiet thrill of wondering if he would notice.
And Bucky? He always noticed.
The morning moved slowly. You tried to busy yourself—made the bed with hospital corners, scrubbed the kitchen counters until they gleamed, cleaned out the icebox with methodical precision. But your hands went through the motions while your mind wandered elsewhere.
You kept glancing at the clock.
10:32.
10:39.
The coffee grew cold in your cup, untouched.
10:44.
Your pulse quickened, an involuntary flutter against your ribs. You wiped your palms on your skirt, smoothed a hand over your hair, touched your lips to check the lipstick was still perfect.
Then—
Footsteps on gravel.
Your breath caught. You straightened your posture, squared your shoulders, and walked to the front door with a calm you didn’t feel. You opened it before he could knock, the morning light spilling across the porch and catching him mid-step.
“Well, good mornin’, Mrs. Rumlow.”
He stood there with a toothpick tucked in the corner of his mouth, rolling it lazily between his lips. Same cuffed sleeves, same easy stance, same sunshine grin, but something shifted when his eyes landed on you. The grin faltered, just a fraction. His gaze traveled down, then back up, taking his time. Top to bottom. Appreciative. Hungry.
Your skin warmed under the weight of it.
“Why, James,” you said, your voice light and teasing, carrying the faintest lilt of surprise. “You’re lucky I’m dressed. Another ten seconds and you might’ve caught me in a robe.”
He laughed, a low, full sound that rumbled from his chest. “Guess I showed up just in time, then.” He pulled the toothpick from his mouth, tucking it into his shirt pocket, and let his eyes linger on your lips. “You look real nice today, Mrs. Rumlow. That colour suits you.”
You felt the compliment settle low in your belly. You leaned against the doorframe, letting your hip jut out just slightly, letting him see the curve of your waist beneath the silk. “Thursdays feel longer than Tuesdays,” you mused, taking the mail from his outstretched hand. Your fingers brushed his on purpose this time. “I think I like Tuesdays better.”
He cocked his head, watching your fingers trace the edge of the envelope. A slow smile spread across his face, not shy now, not boyish. Something else. “Then I guess I’ll have to make Thursdays worth your while, won’t I?”
There it was. The cocky edge under all that charm. The faintest bite, the shift from sweet to knowing. He wasn’t just flirting anymore, he was answering you.
You felt it in your chest. In your thighs. That quiet, familiar clench that hadn’t visited in years, the one you’d thought had died somewhere between Brock’s indifference and your own resignation.
“You always this flattering to the women on your route?” you asked, tilting your head, keeping your tone airy. But your eyes held his, unflinching.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Only the pretty ones.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? So just Mrs. McCall across the street, then?”
He laughed again, and God, that laugh. It was warm and genuine, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. He placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “You wound me, Mrs. Rumlow. You know you’re my favourite.”
The way he said it. That confident little smirk. The way his eyes dropped to your lips again, just for a second, before returning to yours, like he was memorising you.
It shouldn’t have made your thighs press together. But it did.
He made no move to step back. You made no move to end the conversation. The morning stretched around you, the only sounds the distant hum of a lawnmower and the thrumming of your own pulse.
“You got plans this weekend?” he asked suddenly.
The question caught you off guard. You blinked, your composure slipping for just a moment. “No,” you admitted. “Just the usual. Laundry. Groceries. Maybe lunch with some women I don’t particularly like.”
He smiled again, wide and wolfish this time. “I could think of better ways to spend a Sunday.”
Your lips parted. You could feel the weight of his words, the implication wrapped in that easy grin. But you didn’t speak.
He stepped back then, finally, breaking the spell slowly. He tipped two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute, his eyes never leaving yours. “See you Tuesday, Mrs. Rumlow.”
“Tuesday,” you repeated, your voice softer than you intended.
He turned and walked down the path, his stride easy, his shoulders broad beneath the blue uniform. You watched him go, watched the way his hips moved, the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck. And this time, when he glanced back, just before the hedge swallowed him, he didn’t just look.
He winked.
You closed the door slowly, and exhaled through your nose, a long, shaky breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. Your heart rattled against your ribs. Your lips still tingled from the weight of his gaze.
You were old enough to know better. Old enough to recognize the danger in a boy who looked at you like you were the sun. But today? You didn’t feel old. You didn’t feel married. You didn’t feel like a housewife in a quiet suburb with a cheating husband and a hollow life.
You felt looked at. You felt chosen. And maybe Bucky had other girls. Maybe he had dozens, scattered across his route like wildflowers. But when he looked at you like that, like you were the only woman on the planet, you let yourself bask in it.
Saturday Night
Brock wanted sex, again.
You could always tell by the way he stood in the doorway after his shower, towel slung low around his hips, rubbing the bridge of his nose like the very thought of wanting you exhausted him. It never felt like desire. It felt like appetite, hunger without taste, a reflex he performed out of schedule rather than longing. He never looked at you the way Bucky did. He looked through you, like you were a task to check off before sleep.
You were propped against the headboard, a copy of Ladies’ Home Journal open in your lap, your eyes scanning the same paragraph three times without reading a word. The magazine had been a shield. A pretense of being occupied. But when Brock padded over and plucked it from your hands, his fingers brushing yours without lingering, you didn’t protest.
He placed it on the nightstand and you watched his shadow fall across the bed.
“You ready for me?” he asked, already knowing the answer. His voice was flat, perfunctory.
“Mhm,” you murmured, the sound soft, neutral. Invitation enough.
He climbed on top of you, the mattress dipping under his weight. His lips found yours in a single, dry kiss , just a press of mouth against mouth before he pulled back. His lips were damp from the shower. Impatient. He pushed your nightgown up over your hips, the cotton gathering in wrinkled bunches around your ribs. The air hit your thighs, cool and indifferent.
“I missed you,” he whispered, but the words were hollow, a script he recited by rote. He didn’t mean it. He never meant it. But the sound still filled the room, settling between you like dust.
You opened your legs because that was the routine. That was marriage. That was being Mrs. Rumlow, a woman who spread her thighs for a man who forgot she had a name beyond the ring on her finger.
He entered you with a grunt. As you felt the familiar weight of a man claiming what he believed belonged to him. His hips settled against yours, and he began to move, steady, mechanical, like the piston of a machine. In. Out. In. Out. His breath hot against your neck.
It didn’t hurt. It didn’t feel good. It felt like nothing.
You stared over his shoulder at the wall. The pattern in the wallpaper blurred as your focus drifted. The lamp on the nightstand flickered once, a tired bulb. The headboard creaked with each thrust, a rhythmic complaint that had long since become white noise. You counted the creaks. Six. Seven. Eight. You wandered through the numbers like hallways, searching for somewhere else to be.
Your mind wandered. It always did. But tonight it wandered somewhere new.
James Buchanan Barnes.
You pictured him without even meaning to. The curve of his smile, that boyish confidence that didn’t know its own power. His hands, rough and calloused from sorting mail and lifting parcels, curling around envelopes with a casual grace. Forearms tight and sun-browned, taut with youth and strength, so much younger than they should be for how much they made you ache.
You imagined those hands on your waist instead. Sliding over the curve of your hip. Fingers digging in like he was afraid you might slip through them, like he wanted to hold on so tight he’d leave bruises you could press in the morning and remember.
Brock groaned into your shoulder. A sound of effort, not passion. You barely heard it.
Your mind was in your foyer. Sunlight streaming through the side window, catching the gold in James’s hair, turning it to chocolate brown. His eyes dropping to your lips and the quiet hitch of his breath when he realised you were wearing red today. The way his tongue touched his bottom lip before he spoke.
You imagined him standing too close. Close enough that you could smell the soap on his skin, the faint salt of a morning’s work. You imagined him saying your name with that low rasp, Mrs. Rumlow, not as a title, but as a confession. Almost shy. Almost cocky. Almost daring you to stop him.
You imagined him whispering something filthy in your ear. Something a young man should never say to a married woman. Something you would let him say anyway, would crave him to say, would press your thighs together under the kitchen table and pretend not to hear.
“I think about you when I’m alone, Mrs. Rumlow. Late at night. Do you think about me?”
Brock picked up his pace. His breathing turned heavy, tight, a rhythm he knew by heart. His hips slapped against yours, harder now, more insistent. Your body moved out of habit—a practiced arch of your back, a soft sound you’d learned to make at the right intervals. But you weren’t there.
You were in the kitchen with Bucky, morning light streaming through the lace curtains. Your robe hanging open. His mouth hot on your throat, trailing down, down, tasting the perfume you’d dabbed there just for him. His voice unsteady and hungry, cracking with want. His hand sliding up your thigh, like he had been dreaming about the feel of your skin for months.
“Tell me you want this,” he’d whisper. “Tell me you want me.”
You imagined him losing control. The careful restraint crumbling. The boyish charm replaced by something ravenous, something that needed you so badly it frightened him. You imagined him taking you right there against the counter, your back arching, your fingers tangled in his hair, every sound you made pulling him deeper.
Your breath caught. Heat crawled up your spine like fingers tracing vertebrae. Your nails dug into the sheets, white-knuckled, pulling the fabric taut.
Brock didn’t notice.
You came quietly. An involuntary gasp against his shoulder, a tremour that ran through your thighs and settled deep in your belly. You bit down on the sound, swallowed it whole. You didn’t want him to know why. You didn’t want him to know it wasn’t for him.
He finished thirty seconds later with a strained grunt, his body tensing, his release hot and forgettable. He collapsed on top of you, a dead weight, sweating and satisfied, completely ignorant. His breath evened out against your neck, slowing into the rhythm of a man who had taken what he wanted and was already forgetting he’d had it.
“I missed you,” he said again. A kiss pressed to your shoulder, empty of meaning.
You closed your eyes. Your pulse settled slowly, like dust after a storm.
Your husband had made you orgasm for the first time in years. And he would never know that he had nothing to do with it.
You lay there under Brock’s weight, the lamp flickering, the headboard silent now. Your fingers still curled in the sheets. Your skin still tingled where you’d imagined Bucky’s hands.
You thought about Tuesday. You thought about the red lipstick in your vanity drawer. You thought about the way James’s eyes had dropped to your lips this morning, hungry and hopeful, like a boy ready to sin.
And you smiled in the dark.
Tuesday came again.
And so did you.
Not physically. Not yet. But God, did you want to.
You spent the morning choosing your clothes with the kind of care you usually reserved for holidays or funerals. A blush pink blouse with three buttons undone, sleeves rolled just past your elbows. An indecent skirt that hugged your hips when you walked. You applied your lipstick slowly, blotting against tissue paper until the colour was perfect, a deep, shameful red that screamed look at me.
You heard the mail truck before you saw him. The low rumble of the engine, the crunch of gravel, the squeak of brakes. Your pulse quickened. You stepped onto the porch just as he rounded the corner of the driveway, satchel slung over one shoulder, a stack of envelopes in his hand.
He looked up. Saw you. Stopped.
The sun caught the sweat on his brow, glistening on his temple. He was so young. It made your stomach tighten.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Rumlow.” His voice came out a little rough. He cleared his throat. “Got your usual. Couple of bills. A catalog.”
You smiled and stepped forward. Close enough that the breeze carried your perfume straight to him. You saw his nostrils flare, just slightly—, efore he caught himself.
“That’s very kind of you to bring them right to the door,” you said, letting your voice dip low. “Y’know most mailmen would just toss them in the box.”
“I like makin’ sure you get yours proper.” He held out the envelopes. His fingers brushed yours when you took them. Lingered. You didn’t pull away.
You looked up at him through your lashes. “You’re good at your job, James.”
He smiled, crooked and shy. “Only ‘cause the scenery’s nice.”
You laughed softly. “Careful. You’ll spoil me.”
“Well, maybe you deserve to be spoiled.”
The words hung in the air between you, heavy and warm. He didn’t look away. Neither did you.
Thursday came with a different kind of heat.
Thick and humid, the kind that clung to your skin and made everything feel slow. You wore a sundress, thin straps, low neckline, the fabric loose enough to hint at what lay beneath without giving everything away. No stockings. No slip. Just your body and cotton and the knowledge that the afternoon sun would make the dress cling to every curve.
You heard the truck at the usual time. You opened the door before he could knock.
This time you leaned out a little too far as you reached for the envelopes. Let the neckline gape. Let him see the swell of your breasts, the shadow between them, the way your skin glistened from the humidity.
His eyes dropped.
It was only for a second. Less. But you saw it. The way his jaw twitched. The way his hand tightened around the mail he was holding, crinkling the edge of an envelope.
“Thanks, James.” You straightened slowly, letting him see the smile playing on your lips.
“Y-yes ma’am.” He swallowed. “You have a good day now.”
“I plan to.”
You closed the door and leaned against it, heart pounding. That night, you ran a bath so hot the mirror fogged over. You lay in the water with your knees bent, steam curling around your face, and you let your hand drift between your thighs.
You imagined him on his knees in front of the tub. His hands gripping the porcelain. His eyes on you, dark and hungry. The way he’d look up at you before lowering his head.
“Please, Mrs. Rumlow. Let me taste you.”
You pressed your fingers deeper, biting down on your own wrist to muffle the sound. You came with his name on your tongue, barely whispered, lost in the steam.
Tuesday
The heat came early that morning, crawling through the window screens like something alive. Thick and unforgiving. By the time the clock struck ten, the air in the house had gone still and heavy, pressing against your skin like a warm palm.
You didn’t bother dressing.
There was no point. Brock had left before sunrise, a muttered goodbye and the slam of the front door, off to wherever it was he went when he wasn’t here. The house was yours.
You slipped into your favourit pink champagne robe. You tied it just once at the waist, loose enough that the fabric fell open when you moved, baring the slope of your collarbone, the shadow between your breasts, the long line of your thigh as you walked from the bedroom to the kitchen.
No bra. No slip. Just your skin beneath the silk, damp from the humidity.
The clock ticked to 10:45.
Right on schedule.
You’d been standing at the kitchen window, watching the street through the sheer curtain, a glass of ice water sweating in your hand. You saw the mail truck pull up. Saw him step out, satchel slung over his shoulder, wiping the back of his hand across his brow.
He looked up at your house. Paused. Adjusted his collar.
You smiled to yourself, set down the glass, and walked to the door.
Knock, knock.
You waited two beats—long enough to seem unhurried, not long enough to seem reluctant. Then you turned the knob and pulled the door open.
The heat hit you first, a wall of it, thick and wet. It smelled like cut grass and pavement and the faint, clean sweat of a young man who’d been working under the sun.
And there he was.
Bucky Barnes, all six feet of him, backlit by the morning glare. The light caught his cheekbones, the sharp line of his jaw, the brown strands of his hair darkened with sweat and plastered to his forehead. His uniform shirt was unbuttoned halfway, the fabric gaping open to reveal the smooth plane of his chest, the sun-warmed skin, the fine sheen of sweat that made it gleam.
He had a stack of mail in one hand. The other hung loose at his side, fingers twitching like he didn’t know what to do with them.
His eyes met yours.
And then they dropped.
Down your body. Over the open V of your robe. Down to your bare legs, the curve of your calf, the way the silk shifted when you breathed. It wasn’t a glance. It was a slow and helpless look and he didn’t even try to hide it.
You saw the exact moment his brain caught up with his body. His throat moved. His jaw tightened. His gaze snapped back to your face, but it was too late. You’d already seen everything.
“M-Mornin’, Mrs. Rumlow.”
The stutter was tiny. Barely there. But you heard it, felt it like a small victory.
“Good morning, James.”
Your voice came out low, syrupy, the kind of voice you used when you wanted a man to lean in closer. You let your hand drift up to the doorframe, the movement casual, but it pulled the robe just a fraction tighter across your chest.
“Hot one today,” you murmured, tilting your head. “I thought I’d stay in something a little lighter. The heat’s been unbearable.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. His eyes flickered down again, just for a second, just a brief, helpless slip, before he forced them back up.
“Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked on the word. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, it’s—real hot. Humid, too.”
“You must be dying out there in that uniform.”
“It ain’t so bad.” He shifted his weight, licked his lips. “Got a good schedule. Nice houses. Nice people.”
He held out the mail. You took it, slowly letting your fingertips brush against his. His skin was warm. His pulse jumped under your touch.
“Thank you,” you said, soft. “I notice you always bring it to me personally. You don’t do that for anyone else, do you?”
He blinked. “I—no, ma’am. I usually just leave it in the box.”
“So why do you bring mine to the door?”
The question hung in the air between you, sweet as poison. He stared at you, and you watched him search for an answer that wouldn’t give too much away.
He failed.
“Guess I like seein’ your face.” His voice dropped, quieter now, almost rough. “You’re always real nice to me. Not everyone is.”
You stepped closer, just enough to bring you into the wedge of sunlight spilling through the doorway. The robe shifted, gaping open at your thigh. You saw his eyes track the movement.
“You like talking to me, James?”
“Yeah.” The word came out breathless. “I really do.”
You let a small smile play at the corner of your mouth. “I like talking to you too.”
A silence settled between you. The air itself seemed to thicken, you could hear the hum of a lawnmower two streets away, the distant bark of a dog, the ragged rhythm of his breathing.
The sun spilled across his shoulders, catching the sweat on his collarbone. Your robe was loose, barely tied, the silk shifting with every shallow rise and fall of your chest. Just standing there, two feet apart, was a kind of intimacy.
You could have kissed him then. You knew he would have let you. You knew he wanted you to. You could see it in the way his pupils had swallowed the blue of his irises, the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the way his gaze kept dropping to your mouth and then darting away, like he was afraid of what he might do if he looked too long.
Instead, you smiled.
“Would you like some lemonade?”
The question hung in the air like a dare. His eyes snapped to your mouth, then back up, and you watched him process what you’d just offered. The invitation. The implication. The fact that you weren’t asking him to leave.
He nodded. Too quickly. His voice cracked when he spoke.
“Yeah. Sure. I’d—I’d like that.”
Come in.
You didn’t say it. You just stepped back, letting the door swing open wider, and turned without another word. Bare feet on cool tile. The soft whisper of silk against your thighs. You walked ahead of him, letting him follow, letting him watch.
The robe shifted when you moved, slipping off one shoulder, brushing the backs of your knees, the hem fluttering just above the curve of your calf. You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. You could feel his gaze on you like a hand at your waist, trailing down your spine, settling low.
The house was quiet. Too quiet. No radio humming. No laundry churning. Just the low buzz of the ceiling fan from the living room and the soft, steady tick of the wall clock over the sink.
The kitchen blazed with sunlight pouring through the open windows, catching the dust motes drifting in the still air. The counters gleamed. A half-used lemon sat on the cutting board from this morning. The whole room smelled faintly of citrus and sugar and the clean scent of dish soap.
“Sit,” you said gently, motioning toward the stools at the counter. “I’ll get the lemonade.”
He obeyed. Quietly. He set his satchel down on the counter, then pulled out one of the stools, the legs scraping against the tile. He sat, watched you, said nothing. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers flexing.
You moved unhurriedly. Opened the refrigerator door. Let the cold air wash over you. Bent slowly, reaching all the way to the back for the glass pitcher, knowing exactly how the robe tightened across the backs of your thighs, knowing exactly how the hem rose just a little higher when you stretched.
When you straightened and turned, his eyes snapped up too fast. A flush crept up his neck. He’d been staring. Caught.
You didn’t acknowledge it. Just smiled to yourself and poured two tall glasses, condensation already beading on the glass.
You set one in front of him. Then took the stool across the counter, crossing your legs as you settled. The robe fell open at the knee, baring the length of your thigh. You saw him glance down, then force himself to look at the lemonade.
You brought the glass to your lips. Sipped. Let the cold sweetness coat your tongue. When you set it down, you licked a stray drop from your lower lip, slow enough to make him shift in his seat.
“Still hot out,” you said, your voice light, conversational. “Not used to this kind of heat. Makes a woman crave something cold.”
He swallowed. “Yeah. It’s—it’s bad this week.” His voice was rough, like he’d been shouting, though he’d barely spoken a word.
You tilted your head, studying him. “You alright, sweetheart? You look a little flushed.”
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Just warm,” he managed.
“Mmm.” You rested your chin on your palm, elbow on the counter, watching him. “You know, you’re always so nice. I really like that about you.”
He blinked, caught off guard. “Ma’am?”
“A lot of boys your age wouldn’t be so kind to someone like me.”
His brow furrowed. “Someone like you?”
You smiled, bittersweet, letting your gaze drop. “A housewife,” you murmured. “Married. Boring. A little past my prime, I suppose.”
The words hung in the air. You felt the weight of them, the small lie you were telling, the way you were baiting him.
He sat up straighter. His jaw tightened. “You’re not past anything.”
You looked at him, surprised by the sudden heat in his voice.
“You’re—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his damp hair. His ears were red. “You’re beautiful, Mrs. Rumlow.”
The silence stretched between you. The ceiling fan turned overhead, stirring the warm air. Somewhere outside, a bird called. The ice in your glass settled with a soft clink.
You held his gaze a second longer than was appropriate. Then you took another sip of your lemonade, letting the moment breathe.
“That’s very sweet of you to say, James.” Your voice was quieter now. Softer. “Very sweet.”
He swallowed hard. His fingers tightened around his glass, knuckles white, like he was bracing himself against something.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
Just sat in the sun-warmed silence, pretending to be casual while the air thickened between you like honey left too long on the stove. The whole world had narrowed to this kitchen, this counter, this boy with his hands wrapped around a glass like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.
You shifted in your seat, uncrossing your legs and recrossing them the other way. The silk whispered against your skin.
His eyes dropped. You felt them like a touch, the way they traced the line of your thigh where the robe had fallen open, the way they lingered on the curve of your knee, the shadow above it. He watched the slow slide of your fingers over your glass, watched the way you wet your lips without thinking, and you watched him right back, cataloging every small tell.
The way his breath stalled when you moved. The way his knuckles went white. The way he bit his lower lip—just the tiniest flicker of restraint cracking, the pressure of his teeth against the soft flesh making you feel something warm and dangerous coil low in your belly.
You caught him. You didn’t say a word. Just smiled, the kind that said, I saw you. It’s alright. I wanted you to.
He bit his lip harder, then let it go. His mouth stayed parted, pink and slightly swollen.
You leaned forward, elbows on the counter, voice dropping to just above a whisper. “Do you like coming here, James?”
The question was simple. Innocent in its phrasing.
He looked up. Met your eyes. Nodded, like he was admitting something he’d been holding back for weeks.
“Yeah,” he said, like gravel scraped smooth by water. “I really do.”
You let the silence fall again, full and heavy and humming. And then, with the softest, most dangerous smile you owned. “Good,” you whispered. “Me too.”
You stood from your stool, the wood scraping softly against the tile. Took your empty glass to the sink, and rinsed it slowly, letting the water run over your fingers, watching the last traces of lemon and sugar swirl down the drain. The tap hummed. The water was cool against your heated skin.
You lifted your eyes to the window above the sink, watching his distorted reflection in the glass. He was staring at your back. The curve of your spine through the thin silk. The dip of your waist. The way your hips swayed just slightly as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other.
Finally, you turned off the tap. Shook the excess water from your hands. Dried them slowly on a dish towel hanging from the oven handle.
Then you spoke.
“Tell me something, James.”
Your voice was soft. Curious.
“Yes, ma’am?”
You turned around slowly, hips resting against the counter’s edge, the thin silk of your robe parting just a little as it settled around your waist. The morning light caught the curve of your hip, the shadow of your navel, the soft swell of your breasts beneath the fabric.
You watched his eyes follow it.
“Do you flirt with every woman on your route,” you asked gently, tilting your head, “or only me?”
His mouth opened, then closed. He actually blinked, like he needed to reset his brain, like the question had short-circuited something vital. His ears reddened. His hands tightened on the glass again, then relaxed as he set it down carefully, as if afraid he might break it.
“Only you,” he said quietly. The words came out steady, but his voice trembled at the edges. “Only ever you.”
You nodded once. As if that confirmed something you already knew, something you’d suspected since the first time he lingered a little too long at your door, since the first time his fingers brushed yours when he handed you the mail.
Then you walked toward him.
Slow steps. Bare feet on cool tile. The sun fell across your path, warm on your shoulders, and you felt beautiful in a way you hadn’t in years. Not for Brock. Not for anyone else. For yourself. For the way this boy’s eyes followed every inch of you like you were something sacred.
When you reached him, you placed your hand lightly on the counter beside his shoulder. Not touching him. Close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from your skin. You leaned in just slightly, letting him smell your perfume.
His breath hitched so sharply it almost broke your composure. You felt a thrill run through you, sharp and electric.
“Look at me,” you whispered.
He did.
You let your gaze drag over his face, the strong line of his jaw, the delicate curve of his lips. The way his blue eyes had gone dark, pupils blown wide, the colour swallowed by want. The way his throat worked as he swallowed again, the Adam’s apple bobbing.
You let your fingers trail down his forearm. Barely a touch. The lightest brush of your fingertips over the fine hair on his skin, over the warmth of him, over the tremour that ran through his muscles when you made contact.
“You know,” you said softly, your voice a murmur, “you have been very good to me these last few months.”
His chest rose. Fell. His lips parted.
“I like our chats, James.”
Your fingers continued their lazy path, tracing the line of a vein, the curve of his wrist. You felt his pulse jump beneath your touch, rapid and wild.
“And I like how you look at me,” you added. “Even when you try not to.”
He swallowed hard. His jaw worked. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, rough and honest and cracked at the edges.
“I am trying real hard right now.”
You smiled. A slow, sinful curl of your lips. “You don’t have to.”
Then, in the softest voice you had used with him yet, “Stand up for me, James.”
He obeyed before he realized he had moved. The stool scraped back against the tile, and suddenly he was towering over you—tall, flushed to the tips of his ears, trying not to tremble.
You stepped closer. Close enough that the fabric of your robe brushed his barely opened shirt. Close enough that your breath touched his mouth. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the slight shake in his hands as they hung at his sides, not quite daring to reach for you.
“You want me,” you said. Not a question. A truth spoken plainly, laid out on the counter between you like a confession.
He nodded. Hard. His jaw worked, and when he spoke, his voice cracked on the first word.
“I been tryin’ not to,” he whispered. “Swear I been tryin’, ma’am. Every time I see you at that door, I tell myself—” He broke off, swallowing. “I tell myself to just hand you the mail and go. Just walk away.”
“But you don’t.”
“No, ma’am.” His eyes dropped to your lips. “I can’t.”
You touched his jaw. The barest brush of your fingertips against the stubble along his cheekbone. He shivered under your touch.
“I don’t want you to try anymore.”
His eyes darkened. Something shifted behind them, the last thread of restraint snapping. What was left was something hungry. Something young and desperate and finally set free. His breathing turned shallow. His hands curled into fists at his sides, then released.
“M-Mrs. Rumlow,” he breathed, voice shaking, “if I touch you I’m not gonna be able to stop.”
You tilted your chin up, lips inches from his. Close enough to taste the warmth of his breath, to see the fine tremor in his lower lip.
“Good.”
That was it. That was the spark.
He grabbed your waist with both hands, strong fingers digging into silk and skin, pulling you into him with a force that stole your breath. His mouth crashed into yours. Hungry and messy and eager. A young man who had been imagining this for months and finally snapped.
You gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound, took the chance to push his tongue into your mouth. He tasted like lemonade and something masculine. His hands moved without permission, shoving your robe open at your hips, dragging you against his body like he needed to feel every inch of you through the thin silk.
He kissed you like he was starving. Like you were the first taste of anything real in his short, hungry life. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips, and you felt the tremble in his arms, the barely leashed violence of his need.
You let him. You let him take. You let him lose control.
Because you had been waiting for this. For this exact moment.
You pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, “Take me, James.”
The hallway was a blur.
You didn't remember crossing it. You didn't remember the robe slipping from your shoulders and pooling on the floor. You didn't remember the bedroom door swinging open, or the way the afternoon light fell across the bed in golden stripes.
What you remembered was the moment Bucky lost control.
The moment his hands gripped your thighs like he needed to hold you in place or he’d fall apart. The moment he lowered you onto the mattress, his body covering yours, the weight of him pressing you into the sheets.
The moment he said your name.
Not ma’am. Not Mrs. Rumlow. Not anything polite or proper.
But your name, whispered like a sin he was dying to commit, like he’d been saving it for this exact moment, tasting it on his tongue for the first time.
“Please,” he breathed, hot against your neck, lips brushing the thrumming pulse at your throat. “Please let me.”
And then he pushed inside you.
Your gasp broke in half. Your fingers clutched the sheets. Your breasts arched into his chest on instinct, a reflexive surrender.
You cunt was soaked, open and ready, aching for him in a way you hadn’t ached for anything in years. But he still felt too big. Too deep. The stretch of him made your eyes roll back, made your breath catch in your throat.
You hadn’t been touched like this in years. Not with intention. Not with fire. Not with the kind of desperate, worshipful need that made you feel like you were the only woman in the world.
“You feel so good,” he groaned, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder. His voice was muffled against your skin, rough and broken. “God, you feel—fuck—”
Each thrust was harder. Needier and more frantic. The headboard knocked against the wall in a steady rhythm, the sound mixing with the ragged fall of his breathing, the wet, slick sound of him moving inside you.
He fucked you like he was making up for every time he watched you from the sidewalk and imagined what you’d sound like under him. Like he’d been storing up this hunger for weeks, months, and finally had permission to let it out.
You dragged your nails down his back and he trembled, a full-body shudder that made him bury himself deeper.
“Easy,” you whispered, breath hot in his ear. “Slow down, sweetheart.”
He shook his head, fucking into you harder, faster, his rhythm falling apart at the edges.
“I can’t,” he said, voice cracking. “I can’t, I’m sorry, I—been wanting you so long—”
You grabbed his jaw. Forced him to look at you.
His pupils were blown, dark as ink. His cheeks were flushed, his lips red and swollen from kissing you too hard. A strand of hair had fallen across his forehead, and he looked wrecked in the most beautiful way.
“Then take what you want,” you said softly, stroking his cheek with your thumb. “Come on, baby. Don’t hold back.”
He broke.
His mouth crashed onto yours again, sloppy and desperate. His hips snapped forward in a brutal rhythm, the headboard slamming the wall in a steady, percussive beat. Each thrust drove the air from your lungs, your tits bouncing with every impact.
He stared at you like he’d never seen a naked woman in his life, like you were something sacred and filthy all at once. His gaze traced the curve of your breasts, the flush spreading across your chest, the way your body moved beneath him.
“You’re so beautiful,” he gasped, the words tumbling out broken. “Been dreamin’ about you in this bed—fuck—thought about it every damn night. Every time I walked past your door, I’d picture you right here, spread out for me.”
You moaned, loud and shameless, your fingers threading through his damp hair and tugging him down. Your mouth met his in a kiss that bruised, tongues sliding, the taste of salt and lemon mingling between you.
He kissed like he fucked. All tongue and breath and raw, unfettered hunger. He sucked your bottom lip into his mouth and moaned into the kiss, his cock still pounding into you with that relentless, youthful urgency.
“You like this?” he panted, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His were glassy, pupils blown wide. “You like how I fuck you? Tell me. Please—I need to hear it. I need to know I’m doin’ it right.”
Your voice came out broken, barely recognizable. “Yes. God, yes. Harder—don’t stop—”
His grip shifted. One hand stayed firm on your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh. The other slid under your thigh, lifting it higher, angling you deeper, opening you to him in a way that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
“Shit—James—”
“I know, I know—feels good, right?” His voice was ragged, breath sawing in and out of his lungs. “I can feel you—fuck—you’re squeezin’ me, ma’am. Like you don’t wanna let me go.”
He was falling apart. You were too. Your nails dragged down his shoulders, leaving red crescents in their wake. Your breath hitched, stuttered, dissolved into a whimper. Your thighs quivered around his waist, the muscles trembling with the effort of holding on.
“Don’t stop,” you whined, the plea ripping out of your throat. “Don’t you dare stop—”
His voice broke completely, cracking under the weight of his own need. “I’m not. I’m not. I’m gonna stay right here—gonna give you everything, Mrs. Rumlow—everythin’ I got—”
Your orgasm hit you so hard you didn’t even register your own moan. It tore through you like a wave, white-hot and blinding, clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses that stole your breath and turned your limbs to jelly. Your back arched off the bed, your fingers twisting in the sheets, your vision going white at the edges.
Bucky’s breath caught in his throat as he felt you clench around him, a sudden grip that dragged him over the edge with you.
“Oh—oh my God—” he gasped, his rhythm faltering, his hips stuttering. “You’re—fuck—you’re cummin’—”
And then he fell apart inside you.
A guttural, broken groan tore out of his chest as he thrust deep burying himself to the hilt while he spilled into you with an urgency that bordered on desperate. His body shook, every muscle taut, his hands clutching your hips like you were the only solid thing in a world that had just tilted sideways.
His forehead fell to your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against your sweat-slicked skin. He breathed you in; the scent of your perfume, the salt of your skin, the lingering musk of sex, and let out a shuddering exhale.
“Mrs. Rumlow…” he whispered, like a confession. His voice was raw and hoarse. Then, as he slowly pulled out, the loss of him making you feel suddenly empty, he added, “I… I don’t wanna stop.”
You stroked the back of his head gently, your nails grazing the nape of his neck, tracing the fine hairs there. His skin was damp, warm, trembling slightly under your touch.
“You don’t have to, sweetheart,” you murmured, the words low and honeyed.
He lifted his head. His eyes were blown wide, dark and glassy. His hair was a wild mess, plastered to his forehead with sweat. His cheeks were flushed, his lips red and swollen, and under all that, still hard, still pressing against your thigh with stubborn, unapologetic desire.
“I can go again,” he whispered, almost frightened of his own need. “Please let me. I know I just—but I need—please, I ain’t done with you yet.”
Your fingers raked through his damp hair, smoothing it back from his brow. He was so young. So pink. So earnest in his hunger. You’d just let him cum inside you, and he still looked like he wanted to say thank you.
You kissed the corner of his mouth, tasting the salt of his skin.
“Breathe, honey,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his. “You’re not done yet.”
And before he could even answer, you shifted from underneath him, a slow, fluid motion that left him blinking, confused, his body still humming with unspent need. You climbed onto all fours, and looked back over your shoulder at him. The afternoon light caught the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the soft swell of your hips.
You looked over your shoulder at him, a lazy, knowing smile curving your lips.
“Come here, James. Show me what else you’ve been dreaming about.”
His eyes went wide. The pupils had already swallowed most of the blue, leaving just a thin ring of colour around the black. His chest heaved, still slick with sweat, a fine sheen glistening across his collarbones and the hollow of his throat.
You didn’t have to tell him twice.
He was already fully hard again, flushed tip, veins twitching along the shaft, the head glistening with a mixture of your combined slick. When he slid behind you, it wasn’t with the frantic rush you expected. He took his time. Let his hands trace the curve of your ass first, palming the roundness like he couldn’t believe it was real.
“Fuck,” he breathed, voice hushed and awed. “You’re perfect. I swear to god—”
“Show me, then,” you said. “Show me how perfect I am.”
His hands tightened. Fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips, anchoring himself. And then, he pushed in again. Thick and warm, the slick heat of you parting around him like you’d been waiting for this very moment. You moaned like you meant it, your forehead dropping to the sheets as he filled you inch by inch.
“Jesus—still so fuckin’ wet—” he hissed, hips stuttering as he bottomed out, pressing flush against you.
You were. Dripping with the evidence of his first release and still greedy for more. The feeling of him sliding into that already-fucked heat sent a shiver through you, your inner walls clenching instinctively around him.
“Harder,” you rasped, cheek pressed to the mattress, the words muffled but clear. “I can take it. Come on, honey. Fuck me.”
His grip on your hips turned bruising, fingers pressing deep enough to leave marks you’d find tomorrow. His thrusts came harder, deeper, desperate and sloppy with sound. The wet, obscene noise of his cock driving into you filled the room, mingling with his ragged breaths and your broken moans. He was panting behind you, fingers digging in as he drove into you like he wanted to climb inside, to bury himself so deep you’d never forget the shape of him.
You arched your back, pressed into him, gave him more. Your breasts swung beneath you, nipples dragging against the sheets with each impact. The sensation sent sparks through your chest.
“That’s it, baby. That’s it. Use me.”
“You’re gonna ruin me,” he gasped, his voice cracking. “You’re gonna fuckin’ ruin me, ma’am. I’m never gonna be able to look at another woman without thinkin’ of you.”
And you smiled, even as your mouth fell open with another moan as his cock hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur and your toes curl.
The room was hot. The sheets wrinkled and twisted beneath you. Skin stuck together wherever you touched, his thighs against yours, his chest against your back when he leaned forward, his breath hot on your shoulder blade. The scent of sex clung to every inch of air; sharp and sweet, salt and musk, the metallic tang of arousal and the warmth of two bodies pushed past their limits.
Slap—slap—slap of skin meeting skin. The desperate whine building in his throat. The soft chant of your name breaking from his lips like a prayer, ma’am, Mrs. Rumlow, please, please, each syllable punctuated by a thrust.
“You like this?” you managed to gasp, your voice frayed at the edges. “Fucking a married woman? In her bed? Filling her up like a good boy?”
He whimpered. The sound was raw, stripped of all pretense.
“Yes—yes, ma’am—fuck—” His rhythm faltered, his hips stuttering as he fought for control. “Please let me cum again. Please. I’ll do anythin’—I’ll be so good—”
You reached between your legs and rubbed your clit with two fingers, the pressure just enough to send sparks up your spine, to tighten the coil building low in your belly. Your hips pushed back to meet his thrusts, driving him deeper.
“Then do it,” you moaned, the words thick with approaching release. “Cum in me, James. Again. Show me how much you want me.”
He buried himself so deep you swore you could feel it in your throat, a fullness that stole your breath, that made your eyes roll back. And with a strangled grunt, he came again.
Pulsing inside you like he never wanted to leave. You felt each spasm, each flood of warmth, each desperate clench of his hands on your hips as he emptied himself into you.
The sensation pushed you over the edge. You followed hard, clenching around him, crying out into the sheets as your body finally gave out. The tremors ran through you in waves, stealing your strength, turning your limbs to jelly. Your arms collapsed beneath you, and you sank into the mattress, cheek pressed to the damp fabric.
But he stayed inside. Held your hips. Rested his forehead on your back and just breathed, hot, uneven puffs of air against your spine.
You didn’t move at first. Didn’t speak. Didn’t reach for the sheets to cover yourself. Just lay there, chest pressed to the mattress, skin hot and slick with sweat and the evidence of what you’d done, your breath slowing in the heavy stillness of the room.
The clock on the nightstand ticked. Somewhere outside, a bird sang. Life continued in the world beyond these walls, oblivious to the sin unfolding in this bed.
You felt the soft drag of Bucky’s fingers down your spine. Tracing each vertebrae like he was memorising you.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, voice still shaking, still raw. “I can’t believe that just happened.”
You smiled into the pillow, eyes closed, lips curving against the cotton.
“Believe it,” you murmured, voice rasped and ruined. “You earned it.”
He laughed, a breathless sound that didn’t quite mask the wonder in it, and pressed a kiss between your shoulder blades. His lips lingered, warm and soft.
And then another. And another. Trailing up the ridge of your spine to the nape of your neck, where he nuzzled into the fine hairs there and let out a contented sigh.
“I don’t wanna leave,” he mumbled against your skin. “Ever.”
You hummed, a low, pleased sound. Your hand reached back blindly, finding his head, patting it once.
“Then stay a little longer, sweetheart. Clock’s not even at twelve yet.”
He shifted, pulling out slowly, the loss of him making you feel suddenly empty, a faint ache in its wake.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, nosing into your hair, his breath warm against your scalp. The question came out hushed, almost fragile. “Did I—was I too rough?”
You shook your head, eyes half-lidded, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. The pillowcase was cool beneath your cheek, a soft counterpoint to the heat still radiating from your skin.
“No, honey. You were perfect.”
That made him groan, the sound vibrating against your back where his chest pressed flush against you. You could feel his cock twitch, still half-hard against your thigh, a stubborn pulse of warmth that refused to fully subside.
He shifted beside you, curling around your back, fitting himself to the curve of your spine like he’d been made to fill that space. His mouth kept moving, over your shoulder, across the delicate skin where your neck met your collarbone, pressing featherlight kisses that made your breath catch.
“I’ve never…” He paused, his lips still against your skin. “I’ve never felt anything like that.”
His hand slid up your stomach, palm flat, fingers tracing lazy circles into the soft plane of your belly. It came to rest just beneath your breasts, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his palm.
“You’re so fuckin’ soft,” he whispered, wonder threading through the words. “I can’t stop touching you.”
“Then don’t.”
You meant it. Let him have you. Let him touch and kiss and worship every inch of you until your skin felt new again, until the ghost of Brock’s careless hands was erased entirely, replaced by the devotion of this boy who acted like you were something special.
His lips found your jaw. Your cheek. The slope of your neck where your pulse still fluttered. He kissed the hollow of your throat, and you felt the tip of his tongue.
“Can I stay a little longer?” His voice was quieter now. Stripped of the confident swagger he’d worn on your doorstep. This was the boy beneath the uniform, the one who still got nervous around pretty girls and asked permission like he expected to be denied.
You turned your head, looked him in the eye for the first time since you’d let him fuck you senseless. The blue of his irises was hazy, pupils still blown wide, but there was something raw there too. Something that needed to hear the answer.
“You can stay as long as you want, honey.”
His exhale was shaky. His forehead dropped to yours, nose brushing against your cheek, and he let out a sound that was half-sigh of relief.
“Yeah?”
“Yes, James.”
He smiled. A real one, boyish and crooked.
You lay there for a while, tangled together in the wreckage of the sheets, letting your heartbeat settle, letting the room breathe around you. The afternoon light had shifted, softer now, casting long shadows across the floor.
Bucky eventually had to pull away to dress again. He stumbled a little getting off the bed, his legs still unsteady, and you watched him gather his uniform from where it lay scattered across the floor. He flushed every time he caught your eye, a pink bloom creeping up his neck and across his cheeks.
He kept looking back at you. At your thighs still parted, at the imprint of your body on the mattress he’d just ruined.
You watched him pull his uniform pants back up, hands shaking as he fumbled with the zipper. His tucked-in shirt stuck to the sweat drying on his chest, and he smoothed it down like he was trying to make himself look respectable again.
Like he hadn’t just spent the last hour moaning into your pillow.
When he reached the doorway of your bedroom, his steps slowed. His hand came up to grip the doorframe, knuckles whitening. He hesitated. Then lingered.
“Um… I should… I gotta get back,” he muttered, voice small, almost apologetic. “My route. They’ll notice if I’m gone too long.”
You nodded gently, propping yourself up on one elbow.
He looked down at the floor. At the worn wooden boards. Then at you again, as if drawn by some invisible force.
“Was that… was this just…?”
He swallowed, his jaw flexing as if the words hurt to push past his teeth. “Was it just a one-time thing?”
You didn’t move. Not at first. You let him stand there, already addicted, already terrified of losing something he never thought he could have. The silence stretched, just long enough to make him fidget.
“I… I didn’t mean to cross a line,” he said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I know you’re married. I just— I couldn’t help it. Every time I saw you at that door, I couldn’t think straight. And if you don’t want to see me again, I—”
You didn’t let him finish.
You slid out of bed, the sheets pooling at your feet, not bothering to cover yourself. The air hit your skin, but you didn’t shiver. You walked toward him slowly, each step intentional, the floorboards creaking beneath your bare feet.
When you reached him, you put your hands on his face, palms against his stubbled jaw, fingers threading into the hair at his temples. His skin was warm, and he leaned into your touch like a man starved for it.
His breath stopped altogether.
And you kissed him.
A slow, sultry kiss, tongue sliding into his mouth, your body pressed against his until you felt the hard line of him through his uniform pants. He groaned softly against your lips, the sound swallowed by the kiss, his free hand coming up to grip your waist like he might fall without you.
His fingers curled into the doorframe with his other hand, white-knuckled, like he needed the support to stay upright. His chest heaved against yours.
When you finally pulled back, his eyes were dazed. Puppy-soft.
You brushed your thumb over his cheek, feeling the faint stubble, the heat still lingering in his skin.
“Baby,” you whispered, lips grazing his, close enough that you felt his breath ghost across your mouth. “I’ll see you again on Thursday.”
He exhaled like you’d just saved his life. Like you’d reached into his chest and wrapped your hand around his heart and told him it was safe to keep beating.
“Thursday,” he repeated, dazed, the word rolling off his tongue like a prayer. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll… I’ll be here.”
You smiled. Soft and sure. A promise sealed in the space between your bodies.
“I know you will.”
He stared at you one last time, like he didn’t want to look away, like leaving meant losing something he’d only just found. His eyes traced your face, your lips, the line of your throat where his mouth had been. Then he forced himself to turn, to walk out of the bedroom, down the hallway, toward the front door.
You followed at a distance, leaning against the wall just inside the living room, watching through the sheer curtain as he stepped outside. He paused on the porch, shoulders tense, one hand pressed over his mouth like he was still trying to understand what you’d done to him.
He walked down the path, past the rose bushes, past the mailbox, towards his truck, his steps heavy and light all at once. At the gate, he stopped. Turned back. Looked at the house.
At the window where you stood, half-hidden behind the curtain.
He didn’t wave, he just looked. A long, searching look that said everything his stammering words couldn’t.
Then he turned and disappeared down the street, his mailbag slapping against his hip, his life forever changed by the woman in the window.
After that Tuesdays and Thursdays became your favourite days of the week.
The clock became your accomplice. You’d watch the hands crawl toward 10:45, feel the familiar flutter build in your chest, absolute anticipation. That electric hum that made everything sharper, brighter, more alive.
By the time his footsteps sounded on the porch, you were already at the door.
He never had to knock again.
The first Thursday after that Tuesday, you opened it before his knuckles could meet wood, and he stood there, mailbag slung across his body, cap in hand, that boyish grin already spreading across his face. But his eyes were different now. Hungrier. Like he’d spent the the last two days reliving every second.
“Good mornin’,” he said, voice low, glancing down the street before stepping inside.
You didn’t bother with pleasantries. You grabbed his collar, pulled him into the kitchen, and pushed him against the counter.
He laughed against your mouth, surprised and delighted. “Damn, woman—”
You bit his lower lip. “Shut up and kiss me.”
He did.
The kitchen became a playground. Flour dusted the counter where he’d lifted you onto it, your legs wrapped around his waist, his hands gripping your hips as he fucked you slow and deep. The sun streamed through the window, catching the sweat on his chest, and you remembered thinking, this is what mornings should feel like.
“I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you,” he murmured against your throat, thrusting up into you. “All day. Every night.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He buried his face in your neck, breath hot and ragged. “Kept seein’ you in my head. The way you looked at me when I—”
You pulled his head back, made him look at you. “When you what, honey?”
His cheeks flushed. “When I came inside you.”
You smiled, slow and wicked, and clenched around him. He groaned, head falling forward.
“Good,” you whispered. “You keep thinking about it.”
The stairs came next.
It was Tuesday, and you’d been waiting at the top of the staircase when he walked in. You’d worn nothing but his cap, the mailman’s cap you’d stolen from his head the week before, and peered down at him from the landing.
His eyes went wide. His mouth dropped open.
“Mrs. Rumlow…”
“You coming up or not?”
He took the stairs two at a time, but you didn’t let him reach the top. You met him halfway, pushed him onto his knees, and let him bury his face between your thighs right there on the steps. His hands gripped your hips, his mouth worked you until your knees buckled, and you came with your fingers tangled in his hair, your back against the banister, the wood creaking beneath you.
He looked up at you afterward, lips slick, eyes dazed. “I’m gonna get fired if I keep this up.”
You helped him stand, kissed the taste of yourself off his mouth. “Then get fired. I’ll keep you.”
He laughed, breathless, and pulled you into the bedroom.
The dining table became an altar.
It was a Thursday, and you’d set it for two; plates, silverware, a vase of fresh roses, but lunch sat untouched. Instead, he bent you over the mahogany surface, your palms flat against the wood, his body pressed against your back. The china rattled with every thrust. A glass clattered to the floor, shattering.
“Sorry,” he gasped, stilling for a moment.
“Don’t stop.” You pushed back against him. “Don’t you dare stop.”
He didn’t.
Afterward, you lay tangled on the rug, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm. The afternoon light filtered through the lace curtains, casting patterns across the floor.
“I ever tell you what I think about?” he asked quietly.
“What?”
He turned his head, kissed your hair. “When I’m out on my route. Walkin’ up all those driveways. I pretend every door is yours. Every house. Just… imagine your face, waitin’ for me on the other side.”
You lifted your head, looked at him. “That’s sweet, James.”
His ears went red. “Yeah, well. Don’t tell nobody.”
The Cadillac was your pièce de résistance.
Brock had taken it out just once that month, to some dinner with his boss, and he’d left it in the garage, waxed and gleaming, untouched. You knew exactly where he kept the spare key.
You led Bucky out there with your fingers laced through his, past the gardening tools and the oil-stained floor. When he saw the car, he stopped.
“Shit. You’re not serious.”
“Open the door.”
“Mrs. Rumlow, your husband will kill me if he finds out—”
“Bucky.” You turned, pressed yourself against him, looked up through your lashes. “Don’t you want to know what it feels like to fuck another man’s wife in his own car?”
His breath caught. His hands trembled. And then he was fumbling with the door handle, pushing you into the backseat, following you in.
The leather was cool against your skin. The windows fogged up fast. He moved above you, inside you, his mouth against your ear, whispering things that would’ve made a priest blush.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he breathed.
“Then die happy, sweetheart.”
He came with a shudder, his face pressed into your shoulder, his body shaking. You held him through it, ran your fingers through his damp hair, felt the last tremors ripple through him.
He pulled back, looked at you like you’d rewritten the stars.
“I don’t have much,” he said softly. “But everything I got? It’s yours.”
You cupped his face, kissed him slow. “I know, baby.”
And every time, he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
The way he’d trace the lines of your face afterward, like he was memorising you. The way he’d whisper your name. The way he’d hold you after, his arms wrapped around you like he was afraid you’d disappear.
Maybe you weren’t in love. Not the kind you read about in books, anyway. Not the kind that lasted.
But you were wanted.
Every Tuesday. Every Thursday. Every time he stepped through that door, you saw it in his eyes; that hungry, desperate, devoted look that said you were the best part of his week, the secret he’d carry to his grave, the woman who’d ruined him for anyone else.
And for now, that was enough.
a/n | yeah reading back on this, it’s very repetitive in some parts, maybe that’s why i didn’t post it, srry for keeping this fic hostage for eight months chat
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