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mercurial-chuckles · 20 days ago

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🤭🤭🤭🤭 Hope he holds you safe in his arms. ❤️✨️😘

Yield to me

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader (ft. adventurous Alpine) WC: ~950 ish Warnings: Fluff | Reader rescues a kitten | Whipped Bucky | Roommates-to-lovers trope | Mutual pining | Yet-to-be-named kitten (Alpine) being adventurous | Reader being reckless | Metal-armed supersoldier to the rescue | Concerned Bucky | Angry Bucky | Unbeta'd | Lemme know if I missed anything! A/N: This is my submission for Hot Bucky Summer 2025 | Week 01 Prompt: Mind your own damn business" | @buckybarnesevents Thank you for hosting. 😊✨🥹💞 Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! I do not consent to AI scraping my work. Banner & Divider made by me. Picture credits to Pinterest. Check out my other works: Masterlist

Indulge Away!

You got this.

Taking a deep breath and mustering some courage, you took another careful step. The ledge creaked, making you wobble.

Fuck. Fuck.

Maybe not.

In theory, it had looked so fucking doable from your bedroom window, but in reality, it was a monumentally bad idea.

Shit. What now?

Meow.

"Hold on, baby," You muttered, clinging to the window frame because it was the only thing stopping you from plummeting five floors down. The kitten let out another meow as it clung to the edge, two tiny paws already slipping from the sill.

"THE FUCK DO YA THINK YOU'RE DOIN?"

You nearly slipped from the shock of Mrs. Batton's screeching up at you from the fourth floor. She was out of her window, puffing on a cigarette.

"Nothing," you called back with a wince, trying to calm yourself while adjusting your grip on the narrow ledge.

Adrenaline surged as you took another shaky step, inching closer to the terrified furball. Your neighbors were out of town. Otherwise, you could have saved her from the inside of their apartment. But that wasn't an option. It'd also be too late to call 911. And your supersoldier roommates weren't home. So your only shot had been sliding over the tiny ledge from your apartment, and now here you were.

"How in the world did you get there?" You wondered out loud, looking at the kitten.

You'd seen her once in the lobby earlier this week on your way to the mailroom. She'd come right up to you, and you'd cuddled with her for a moment until a couple of people walked in. Then she jumped out of your arms and ran off. You tried to follow her but eventually lost sight of her. You'd assumed she belonged to someone in the building. However, with the strict no-pets policy, you'd wondered who was sneaking one in.

The kitten scrambled, mewling helplessly. You lunged, snatching her into your arms just as her back paws lost hold. She yowled and clung to your shirt with tiny, sharp claws, burrowing into your neck.

"It's okay, sweet girl. You're safe," you whispered, heart pounding otherwise, still clinging to the frame with one arm as you assessed your next move.

Shit. You did not think this through.

That's when Mrs. Batton shouted again, "ARE YOU GONNA JUMP?! SHOULD I CALL 911?"

Meow.

"Gosh! Mind your own damn business!" you snapped, a little harsh, maybe. You'd apologize later with some cookies. If you lived.

You glanced at the fire escape just a few feet away. Four steps. Four steps, and you could land safely on the platform, slide back into your room, and question your and the little kitten's insane life choices.

Bravely, you took one more step. Nope, you couldn't make it. Maybe you should ask Mrs. Batton to call the cops.

"Have you lost your goddamn mind?"

Oh no.

You whipped your head around, nearly losing your balance in the process.

"Bucky?"

He stood there, phone to his ear, half out of your window, tactical suit still on, staring at you horrified.

"What the hell are you doing?" he hissed, pocketing his mobile and climbing onto the fire escape. You, meanwhile, were clinging to the frame with a sweaty hand. Bucky rarely spoke to you in that tone. You'd seen him use that tone on Steve on various occasions, a privilege of sharing a flat with two super soldiers.

"I…"

Meow.

Your arms tightened around her.

"She was about to fall, Bucky," you shouted unnecessarily. With enhanced senses, he could hear just fine, but your ears were ringing loudly, scared out of your wits.

Bucky looked livid. It made your stomach drop to the ground, promising to take you along.

"Hold on tight," he ordered. Your pulse tripped unhealthily.

He jumped onto the tiny sill and held out his metal hand. You nodded at him and then tried to hand the kitten to Bucky, but she clung to you, claws ripping into the fabric of your shirt and skin tightly.

"Don't worry, baby. He's got you. You're safe," You cooed.

He gently took the kitten from your arms. The little thing curled against his metal arm, and he brought her to his chest instantly.

You both exhaled in relief. One crisis managed.

You shifted your footing, trying to prepare for your own escape, but Bucky's sharp voice stopped you cold.

"Don't fucking move."

Your breath caught, and your heart galloped.

You didn't dare argue. Not like you were in a great state to do so anyway.

He secured the kitten inside your room, sliding the window mostly shut so she wouldn't wander out again. And now he was headed back for you.

"Take my hand," he said urgently, stretching out his gloved palm, his eyes locked on yours. You hesitated.

"I'll never let you fall," he added softly, and somehow your stomach did a cocktail of dance forms.

"Do you trust me, doll?"

"I do, Bucky. It's just my hands are clammy, and that section is a little wonky…"

He glanced at the spot you indicated and back at you. The twitch in his jaw was clear from where you were standing.

Bucky groaned, evaluating the situation. Then, he placed his feet back on the fire escape railing, turned around gracefully, and leaped onto the ledge beside you.

Were you not hanging on the edge, you'd be swooning at that seductive move right there. But mooning over your crush could prove fucking lethal right now.

Bracing himself with his right hand on the fixture of your window, Bucky stretched out his metal arm again. Sweet baby Jesus! He was tall, alright.

"Gimme your hand," he said, voice strained.

You whimpered shakily and reached out, terrified that your sweat-slicked fingers might doom you both.

Bucky didn't reach for your palm but took your elbow and pulled you close, and you were airborne for a few seconds before being pressed against him. His metal arm wound around you tightly, and you could feel his muscles rippling as he straightened out.

"Fuck!" He muttered, sighing into the crook of your neck. "I've got you. Close your eyes for me, okay?" he said.

"Wrap your legs around me," he ordered, and you did. You buried your face into his chest. God! He was strong and smelled so damn fine. You were giddy that you felt so fucking safe in his arms.

Bucky swung you both to safety on the fire escape landing.

"Holy shit." You let out a breathless, nervous laugh.

But before you could wiggle out of his arms, Bucky held you, guiding you toward your window. He sat you down on the sill, his palm flexed roughly on your thigh, keeping your legs wrapped around his waist. Then, he hugged you.

You felt his whole body shaking, breath coming out ragged, his sharp nose tickling the expanse of your shoulder and neck, making your heart plummet.

You tried to say something, but honestly, you were breathless. All you could do was wrap your hands around him, hoping to calm him. This was the first time you had this much body contact with Bucky. It had always been a small touch of fingers when passing a glass or a plate. You'd always been mindful to respect his personal space.

You let out a gasp, your face heating up when he squeezed your sides.

His rough, fingerless-gloved fingers tilted your chin up, daring you to meet his gaze, and you did, reluctantly. His blue eyes were so intense, they made you shudder.

"You're okay," he whispered, brushing his knuckles along your cheek. Then, he pressed a kiss to your forehead gently, making you freefall into the perfection that was Bucky.

You blinked up at him, utterly and irrevocably taken aback. Because Bucky minded his business, mostly, while you'd been rotting in your one-sided affections for him. This display of his worry left you gaping.

And right then, he grumbled softly, "God! You're a worse punk than Steve." A nervous, surprised chuckle escaped you without your volition.

"I'm gonna seal that damn window shut. Never do that to me again. You understand?" he growled against your lips, his nose grazing yours.

With all that intense, barely restrained anger absolutely entrancing you, you nodded dumbly.

Well?

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mercurial-chuckles · 20 days ago

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What's a Little Sex Pollen Between Neighbors?

Characters/Pairings: soft dark Bucky Barnes x curvy Millennial female!Reader Word Count: 7.8k Summary: Your super soldier next door neighbor puts some of his old skills to good use. (Unspecified post-Endgame Bucky)

Content/Warnings: SEX POLLEN-DRIVEN DUBIOUS CONSENT; explicit smut: oral (female receiving), unprotected vaginal intercourse, insemination; alternating POV sections

Notes: This is my week WEEK SIX submission for @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer - "please, I need help" and sex pollen.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

As the Winter Soldier, they made him master many skills, including branches of chemistry specifically so he could create compounds necessary and advantageous to fulfilling and expediting his missions. He was so good he even helped develop some of the compounds used by Hydra and in The Red Room.

It had been years since he’d applied the long dormant skill.

But it had also been a year since you moved in next door, and he was tired of waiting.

You were so sweet, so good, and he would treat you so well if you were his.

And you were so deserving.

You ought to have someone dote on you, take care of you. You were fiercely independent, fully capable, but you shouldn’t need to be.

He was more than willing to take care of you. He always insisted it was no trouble to hold a door open for you, to help carry your groceries, to pick up your mail when you were out of town, to help you put together the table you ordered online when it was delivered. Not only was it no trouble, he liked doing those things for you.

He wanted to do more.

He heard you late at night with your vibrator.

He could give you so much better.

How many times had the super’s wife said to him what a sweet couple the two of you would make?

What was the harm with hurrying you along into something he was so sure you wanted with a little sex pollen?

Before he’d been The Winter Soldier, the efficient and essentially untraceable assassin for decades, he’d been a damn good soldier as Bucky Barnes. He was still an asset now whether he was consulting or going into the field. Constantly valued for his keen mind.

Why shouldn’t he use his expertise and strategy now?

It was just traces at first. You hardly noticed.

There’d be the odd moment when you hesitated in a sentence, blinking, eyes glossy as you lost your train of thought. That little fluster was delicious, but not enough. He watched you closely, reading the microexpressions that drifted across your features: confusion, a tiny flicker of heat, embarrassment you squashed down. You’d shake your head briskly, recenter yourself, and apologize with a laugh he could tell was forced.

And he always smiled warmly at you, but inside, it was with the energy of a satisfied smirk.

It was working.

He made minute adjustments. Ratcheted the levels up and down, spiked your mail with just enough to make you breathe deeper when you opened it. He traded in your regular coffee beans for a new bag from the “cool indie shop on the corner,” slipped the powder into the grounds. It was a delicate balance: he never wanted you to feel sick, just hungry. Desirous. Needy.

Once, he heard you through the wall, weeping with frustration. He’d never heard that in your voice before, and it made him burn with satisfaction and anticipation.

But he was always successful in his missions because of his expertise, his ability to gage proper timing.

He struck early, before the city could shake off its Saturday morning haze. Heat already radiated from the bricks, the kind of July swelter that made people yearn for lemonade and picnics and pools. He moved in darkness as much out of habit as necessity, crossing the handful of feet between your fire escape and his with the ease of a man who’d spent too many years navigating roofs and ledges and the soft places between shadows.

The mixture was clear, almost invisible, but he applied it in a glistening line along the edges of your window frames, working methodically. His hands did not shake.

He returned to his own apartment and pulled up the port he’d developed to control your HVAC system, and shut it down just before he knew you were typically up and stirring around on a Saturday morning.

And then he waited.

By 8:37 a.m. your apartment was growing warmer than usual, and you woke with a slick hairline, a sheen of sweat over your skin. He watched you from the camera he installed as you slipped out of bed and down the hall. You pawed at the digital thermostat first, muttering under your breath, but only the error message blinked back at you: HVAC ERROR. CALL MAINTENANCE. You let out a laugh, brittle and bitter, and trudged to the windows, pushing up the panes to at least get the fresh air. You left every window open, desperate for a through breeze.

You braced your palms against the sill and he could see the relief already blooming in your posture as the pane slid open. The breeze was gentle but constant, carrying with it the faintest hint of the compound’s sharp, metallic sweetness. It was immediate, the way it worked instantaneously: you inhaled, unaware, then blinked rapidly. Your jaw slackened for a fraction of a second, mouth parted in an unintentional invitation. Your hands lingered on the window frame, before you pulled them back and wiped one over your brow, while the other went to your chest, and no wonder since he assumed that you’d be feeling an uptick in your heart rate.

And now, he would wait.

He watched you pad into your little kitchen, tugging at the hem of your sleep shirt. You filled the kettle, set it on, and stood at the counter, hands fluttering as if you’d forgotten what to do with them. You took a breath—he could see the shudder of your shoulders—then craned your neck, face tilted to the open window, and inhaled again, a long, greedy drag.

Inside a minute, you began to fidget. Your thighs pressed together, then parted, then pressed again, the rhythm building. Your head tipped forward, eyes closing as you gripped the countertop, knuckles going white. A slick little shiver wound through you. The kettle whistled, shrill and out of place, and you startled so hard the mug tumbled from your hands, landing on the floor with a muted thunk.

Bucky chuckled.

This was going to be fun.

You were not, generally, this unbalanced. You could ride out a wave of sexual frustration for weeks, even months, and never let it show in your polite smile or the hand you’d lend to old Mrs. Lopez on 5B with her packages. You had learned to live with your little obsession with your neighbor Bucky Barnes in the same way you’d learned to ignore the drip in your bathroom sink: a low-level, constant irritant, a fixture of your life that you could, with sufficient self-control, simply tune out.

It was only a quarter past nine in the morning and you were already panting like you’d just climbed six flights in July, not merely rolled out of bed. Something was wrong with your body. Not sick—more like your skin had outgrown you overnight, every inch of you thrumming with an ache that had nothing to do with exercise and everything to do with need.

Because as bad as the heat was, you’d woken up at 3:21am, rolled onto your stomach and pressed your thighs together and rocked your hips, humping your mattress to no avail. It was as unfulfilling as the dream you’d woken up from, a dream featuring your neighbor Bucky Barnes pinning you in place, fucking you so well, so close you could taste the climax, only to have jolted awake, desperate and empty.

Now with no AC, it just figures that the universe would align for the worst day of your sexual frustration to peak when your AC went out.

You had lived through enough New York City summers to know the heat would try to kill you, but you’d never expected it to go for the slow, erotic smother instead.

Great. Now your brain was writing romance copy.

You took a cold shower, or as cold as the pipes allowed, and stepped out feeling more feverish and frustrated than ever. After that you stood in front of the open fridge for several minutes, eating string cheese in small, desperate bites, willing the chill to transfer from your tongue to your bloodstream. It didn't work. Cold air kissed your shins momentarily, but it was already evaporating.

Your phone, sticky with sweat, offered no solutions. The building super had already responded to oyour texts, but with the city-wide sweltering temperatures, he said it was going to be difficult to get someone to come look before Monday. You scrolled through social media, found only posts about the heat, people frying eggs on their windowsills, and, for some reason, an uptick in thirst traps. You slammed it facedown on the kitchen table, stood there, and considered your options.

Maybe you would have to resort to leaning on your own personal thirst trap and endure the torture.

Look but not touch.

As always.

You jogged your memory for Bucky’s likely status. His AC always worked, a source of neighborly gloating he pretended to feel sorry about. You’d seen him on the fire escape last night, watering an improbable pot of basil, so he hadn’t left for one of his mysterious, week-long trips.

You counted on him to be up, and you counted on him to be kind and neighborly. How many times had he said to let him know if you needed anything?

You slipped your feet into flip-flops and padded across the hall, the chill of the corridor almost pornographically relieving. Ignoring the urge to just lie down in the communal patch of coolness, you knocked. Not politely, but as un-desperately as you could manage.

His door opened before the second knock. He wore an old t-shirt and gym shorts in the way of a man who didn’t expect guests but was always ready for them. He grinned, broad and easy, and you wanted to slap it off his face or maybe—maybe—sink your teeth into the soft underside of his jaw, alternate violence and adoration. If it weren’t for the white socks on his feet, he would have been wholly unapproachable. He blinked at you, a little surprised, before his expression softened in recognition.

His blue eyes slid from your face down the length of you—bare-legged, sweat-sheened, half-dressed. If he noticed how untethered you looked, he didn’t say a word.

He just leaned against the doorframe, forearm braced above his head, a little smirk twitching at the edge of his mouth. “Hey, neighbor,” he said, voice just hoarse enough to sound like he, too, had just woken up. “You okay?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. No, you were not okay. “Yeah, no, my AC’s dead. Reuben says maybe Monday.”

“Damn. That’s rough.” He stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come on in, you can cool off in here. It’s like an igloo compared to the hallway.”

You tried to say “thanks” but it came out thin and breathy. You hesitated in the threshold, pulse hammering in your ears, palms sticky. You were acutely aware of every inch of your skin and the patches where your tank top clung and stuck to your warm skin. You kept your arms tight at your sides and followed him in, trying not to look too hard at the wide set of his shoulders and the deliciously lived-in swoop of his hair.

His apartment was frigid. A gasp left you, startled, as the coolness curled around your ankles and up your shins, relief so sharp it tasted almost like salt. You braced a hand on the wall, felt your knees threatening to buckle for a whole, embarrassing second.

Bucky closed the door behind you and put a hand in his pocket, rocking his weight once up and back on the balls of his feet. As you adjusted to the temperature, your brain came back online, time stretching out but your thoughts not clearing so much as multiplying, all scrambling around the same basic theme: need.

Every little physical sensation felt magnified and weirdly erotic—Bucky’s clean-laundry scent, the chill bristling your nipples, your own rapid breathing, every sound echoing in his silent apartment.

Bucky peered at you with gentle concern, vaguely amused, like he could hold both those things in his expression at once. “You want some coffee?” he offered, casual, normal.

“Only if it’s iced,” you answered, following him into the kitchen.

You perched at his breakfast bar, gripping the edge, trying to appear unbothered. Up close, the scent of his skin and aftershave filled the air, a dizzying magnetism that was entirely unfair. You shifted, restless, gnawing the inside of your cheek.

Bucky moved with measured, assured movements behind the counter, opening a cupboard for glasses, filling them from a pitcher of cold brew. You couldn’t help but follow the flex of his forearm, the way his veins pressed up beneath the thin skin, the way his hands dwarfed the glass when he reached to set it in front of you.

His close proximity, the press of cold air from the vent above, the frisson of want that kept pooling in your belly and lower—god, was there anything left of you but need, at this point? It was getting hard to think, and you had to grip the glass hard to keep your hand from trembling. The iced coffee gave you the jitters. Or maybe it was just him, and the way he looked at you—just for a second, a slip out from behind his affable neighbor mask. It made your skin flare with fresh heat, the want sharper now for the momentary suggestion that maybe he knew exactly how ruined you felt by him.

He didn’t sit, just stood at the other counter a few feet away, tilting back his own glass.

He watched you over the rim, unhurried, eyes steady and watchful, and you thought, briefly, incoherently, that if you didn’t put something else in your mouth besides ice, you were going to say something reckless and humiliating. The coffee wasn’t helping at all. The caffeine sharpened your need, made it into a nervous, electrified ache, made you more aware of the incessant want.

“How’s your week going?” he asked, mild as ever. His voice was a low vibration, something pleasant you wanted to crawl inside.

You tried to recall anything that had happened since Monday, but it all seemed distant, unrelated to the desperate present. “Um. Work’s a lot,” you said, then, quickly, “How about you?”

He waited a beat, as if debating whether to give the default “fine” or to try for something more interesting. “You know. The usual. Little consulting, some paperwork, surveillance for an old friend. Watered the plants.”

There was a small silence. When you spoke, your voice was tight. “Your place is always freezing.”

He shrugged, a smile tugging the edge of his mouth. “Just lucky for once, I guess.” He was looking at you—really looking, with that steady, disarming focus of his, like he was cataloguing everything from the way you shivered to the fact that you couldn’t seem to unclench your legs. “You can hang out as long as you want. I’ve got snacks, TV, whatever you need.”

You needed something, and it was not TV.

But you had worked so hard to manage this—all your strange, out-of-joint attraction to Bucky, your embarrassing daydreams about what it would be like, the impossible softness that sometimes came over his face when he listened to you talk. You knew it was only the pheromones, the chemical trick of proximity that had you feeling so desperately out of control.

God.

He was just being the nice neighbor and friend he always was, and here you were actively fighting some itchyearndesperateneed to fuck him.

Maybe it wasn’t the heat or the coffee. Maybe it was just you, and the unsolvable, hungry problem of wanting him.

You finished your glass with a gulp that left your throat sore. The chill bloomed through your veins, hitting the heat in your core and swirling the want into a sharper, thinner line that tethered you, drove you. You wiped condensation from your lip and found Bucky staring at your mouth. You caught him, or he let himself get caught, because he didn’t look away—he watched, and then, slow and unapologetic, he smiled.

You could feel the edges of yourself getting fuzzy, your boundaries dissolving in the cold and the ache. His name was a bell in your head, a reflex: Bucky Bucky Bucky. You wondered what it’d be like to say it while he was inside you. Or after. Or never.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, but he came closer, leaned over the counter, invading your space as if he knew you weren’t, as if he needed to be sure.

Instead you cleared your throat. “Yeah. Sorry. I think I’m just a little, uh, loopy from the heat.”

His gaze flicked purposefully down your throat, over the pulse jumping there, then back up to your face. “Don’t apologize,” he said, softer than before, which made it worse. “It’s not your fault. Heat’s a killer.”

You tried to laugh it off, but the sound that came out was so thin it hurt. “Is it weird if I jus sit here for a little?”

“You sure you’re okay? No fever?” he asked, his eyes on the exposed column of your throat as you swallowed.

You shook your head and then realized that wasn’t entirely true. “I don’t know. Kind of feels like it.”

“Want me to check?” His question was so innocent you almost missed the note beneath it, the glimmer of amusement in his gaze. “Had to pick up some medical skills in the field. Got really good at feeling foreheads.”

Some combination of mortification and anticipation made you pulse all over. But you wanted the excuse—needed the contact.

“Sure,” you managed, low and hoarse as you scooted your stool a few inches closer to the counter.

He reached across the bar, his cool metal fingers a sharp relief, thumb feathering just under your jaw, palm broad and hot against your cheek. You wanted to press into it like a cat, you wanted to be ruined by it.

He drew in a breath, slow, deliberate, as if he were inhaling more than just your scent. His thumb brushed the hair back from your forehead, and his skin was so much colder than yours—you tingled where he touched you, the contrast as intoxicating as his closeness. “You’re burning up,” he said, with a gravity that made it sound like it was your fault and also exactly what he wanted.

You must have made some noise, some keening thing, because he chuckled, low in his chest. “You okay?” he said again, but this time, not moving back, not letting go.

It wasn’t the move of a guy checking for fever in a platonic way, not really—the way he cradled your chin, thumb brushing over your face, was too familiar, too practiced. His callouses rasped against your skin, a roughness you liked maybe too much.

He started to draw his hand back, and your own moved lightning fast to catch his wrist and bring his touch back to your face. “I…”

“Yes?” he asked, infuriatingly patient.

“Please, I need help,” you whimpered.

The words hung between you, unbearable. He held there, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You stayed, rooted, nails warm on the metal of his wrist, breath short and staccato.

He ducked his head just a fraction, eyes still on you, as if waiting for more. “What kind of help?” he asked.

You couldn’t say it. Not outright. Your grip on him was enough, maybe. You hoped. You hoped not. It trembled out of you: “I don’t know. I just—” You let go, finally, as if releasing his wrist would break the spell. Instead the ache in your palms was replaced instantly by the ache everywhere else.

“You can ask me anything,” he said, as if the answer was simple. You felt the tenderness in the way his hand returned to cup your cheek with unexpected gentleness, thumb stroking along the apple of your cheek, cooling it, coaxing you to keep going.

You shuddered, half in mortification and half in surrender. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you managed, voice high and thin. “It’s not just the heat, I swear, I just—” You pressed your thighs together, pulse jackhammering. “I can’t even think.”

His smile softened, the smugness replaced by something darker, intent. “Hey,” he said, voice lower now, “it’s okay. You trust me, right?”

You nodded, feeling the flush climb to your ears. “Of course I do.” Because you did, more than you’d ever admit. If you didn’t, you’d never be here, letting him touch you, letting your body confess the truth your voice couldn’t find.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, so steady, so direct it made you dizzy.

You tried to answer, but it caught in your throat, a wordless plea. Maybe the problem wasn’t just the heat. Maybe the problem was that your body had been braced for so long against this tidal pull; now it was finally time to give in.

You pressed your thighs together, yet again, and his eyes dropped to the movement immediately.

Then he leaned in, crowding your space, his presence as immediate as the frozen air and the thump of blood behind your ribs. You held your breath, and when he spoke, the words ghosted over your cheek.

“Let me help,” he said. It wasn’t a request.

You nodded, and it was like the cord inside you snapped. He moved so fast, so fluid, that you barely registered being turned—his hands a gentle but unbreakable grip as he rotated you on the barstool, so your knees faced him directly. His palms, one human and one metal, slid up your thighs, thumbs stroking the inside seam, and he sunk to his knees in front of you, the nearness of his face a gravitational force.

The world funneled down to the place where his hands pressed, and you realized he was holding you apart. Not obscenely, not yet, but enough that you were completely open to him, the thin cotton of your shorts doing nothing to hide the flush, the damp.

You made a soft, startled sound—the kind of sound that would have mortified you any other day, but now just seemed like a necessary release valve. The edge of the counter pressed into your back, bracing you, and there was nowhere to look but at him.

He glanced up at you, eyelashes impossibly dark, the blue of his eyes cool and unhurried as the rest of him. “Is this what you need?” he asked softly, one thumb circling closer, not quite touching you where he must have known you needed it most.

“I—” You gripped the counter as your own breath left you high and bright. “Yeah,” you whispered, then stronger. “Yeah. Please.”

Something old and hungry flickered in his eyes; for a second, it was like witnessing a mask falling away, exposing the pure, adoring greed underneath. He nodded, almost formal, and then both his hands bracketed your hips, holding you steady on the stool.

He started at your knee, a glancing scrape of blunt nails and calloused knuckles that sent shivers up your thigh. He traced the seam of your shorts slowly, as if there was all the time in the world, as if he wasn’t about to devour you.

His eyes didn’t leave yours, even as his mouth hovered over the thin cotton barrier. He ghosted a breath across the damp spot he found, and you lost all chance of composure. There was no longer any you, only some open, yearning thing perched on a stool, barely holding itself together. He thumbed the edge of your shorts aside just enough to press against you directly, the heat of his mouth and the shock of his cool fingers alternating in a way that broke your sanity into a thousand flickering, animal senses.

You grabbed at his hair without even meaning to, the urge so primitive it felt like a survival reflex. He hummed appreciatively at the contact, as if you’d pleased him, as if you were doing him a favor by yanking his mouth closer to your cunt. The sound vibrated through you, under your skin, rattling your bones. You tipped your hips, your nerves on fire, and his tongue licked a slow, deep stripe from your inner thigh up, not touching your clit, not yet, just lavishing the tender skin in a way that felt almost teasingly reverent.

You made a strangled noise, one part protest and one part plea, and Bucky’s hands tightened ever so slightly, anchoring you. He mouthed softly at you through the cotton, kissing and tasting like he had planned this moment, fantasized about it, orchestrated it down to seconds.

“God, Bucky, please—” you heard yourself say, shame gone, language stripped down to pure imperative.

He obliged, finally, dragging the fabric aside with both thumbs and kissing you directly, a cool blast of breath ghosting over your slick heat before his tongue pressed flat and broad against your clit. The relief was so acute you almost sobbed, hands convulsing where they tangled in his hair. You heard the low, satisfied growl in his throat as he set in, slow at first, until your hips bucking.

He didn’t tease, not in the sense of withholding; he controlled the pace only so you wouldn’t go off too soon, so you wouldn’t lose yourself before he had you in exactly the state he wanted. He gripped your thighs, thumbs stroking up and down, pinning you gently but completely, and sucked softly at your clit, laved it, flicked it until you heard yourself choking on a sob. Your hands curled into his hair, desperate for more, for anything, and he let you grind against his mouth, so attentive that he’d match every desperate movement with the exact pressure you needed.

It was embarrassing how quickly you came, shameful and glorious at once. You still had enough self-awareness to gasp his name in something like apology. “Bucky, Bucky, ah—fuck, so close.”

He growled, mouth pressed to you, and angled his tongue just-so, and the orgasm hit with staggering force, a white-out that blitzed your vision and stole any words from you. He didn’t stop. He held you through it and past it, swallowing down the shudders and the desperate sounds you made, like he’d known exactly how this would unfold. When you came down it was only because he let you, retreating from your cunt with a last, obscene kiss to your inner thigh.

He stayed on his knees as you caught your breath, looking up at you through the mess of his hair with a carefulness that could almost have passed for concern, were it not for the dark, starved edge to his gaze.

“It’s not enough, is it?” he asked, voice warm and hoarse, a dangerous temptation.

You shook your head before you realized what you were doing. The need was still there, louder if anything, a metabolic demand your body had never known before. The aftershocks of your orgasm didn’t blunt it; they just made you more sensitive, skin electric, greedy for any touch. The taste of his name was still burning on your tongue.

“I don’t—” You tried to get your breath, but every inhale was a plea, an invitation. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.” It sounded like a lie as soon as you said it. You did know, and so did he; the only thing you didn’t know was how far either of you would let it go.

Bucky’s hands slid up your thighs, palms broad and possessive suddenly, not the gentle friend but a man answering a hunger of his own.

He rose in a single uncoiling, smooth and predatory, and you found yourself wanting to press back, to get some space, but you didn’t want space—what you wanted was to be pressed under him, to feel the full weight of him locking you down, holding you together.

He didn’t say another word, just bent and swept you up. His hands were careful, but the grip was decisive, one arm braced under your ass, the other curling around your upper back so your body instinctively folded against his chest. You clung to his shoulders, dizzy from the abrupt motion, but he was already hauling you past his kitchen, navigating the hall with a single-minded purpose. In the living room he set you on your feet behind the couch, spun you so you faced the window, city sun slicing in through the blinds and painting stripes over the room.

He nudged you forward until your hips bumped the cushion, then planted his hands on your waist, pressing you down in a gentle but unmistakable command. You braced your palms on the back of the couch, arms locking to hold yourself upright, the cool leather shivery against your bare thighs. His breath ghosted over your shoulder as he leaned in, mouth at your ear.

“You’re desperate for me to ruin you, aren’t you, pretty girl?”

His tone was so wicked, so knowing, that you felt your knees threaten to buckle. Before you could respond, Bucky’s hands slid down, splayed wide over your hips, and then he used a foot to nudge your legs apart.

The movement was so natural, so certain, that you obeyed without thinking, planting your feet wider, arms braced. Your shorts were still tangled around one thigh and even that didn’t matter, there was nothing in the world but the way his hand slid between your legs and the sound you made when he did. He pressed the heel of his palm right to your cunt, pushing up against the fabric, feeling exactly how soaking, how frantic, you were for him.

Bucky made a low, appreciative noise, and you could feel the shape of his cock, hard and urgent, as he moved in closer behind you. He raked his thumb up your spine and you arched for him, made yourself an offering.

There was a trembling pause as his hands found the elastic, hooked under it, peeled the shorts and your underwear down in a single, devastating motion. He left them tangled around your knees, a shackle you could feel, and then he was there—close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the shape of him, hard and insistent, through his gym shorts.

You heard the rustle of his clothes behind you, the elastic snap of his waistband, the uneven jolt of his breath. You tried not to turn back, to break the spell, but his hand fisted gently in your hair, holding you forward, not cruelly but as if he worried you might float away from him. You felt the graze of his knuckles against the small of your back and then the soft, heavy head of his cock against your inner thigh, thick and achingly hot. You made another helpless sound, impossible to disguise as anything but want.

You half heard him whisper, “Good fucking girl,” and it was more grounding than anything—the way he said it, not for praise but as a pure statement of fact, as if you’d always belonged to this moment.

A heartbeat later you felt him line up, one broad hand bracing your hip, the other guiding himself between your legs. He slid in slow, first just crowning the tip, then a steady, unhurried advance until you pulsed around him, all the breath knocked out of you. He was big, God, he was fucking huge, and you felt every inch of him, slow and relentless, until your body gave up its resistance and let him in all the way.

You choked on a sob and he stilled, letting you adjust, the metal of his hand biting into your hip in an anchoring grip that kept you from collapsing. He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, feather-light, before rolling his hips forward, testing. The drag was so exquisite, so sharp, that your eyes filled up and spilled over before you understood you were crying. It didn’t feel sad or even humiliating; it felt like relief, like every nerve in your body finally tuned to the right frequency.

“There you go,” Bucky murmured, and the silk in his voice slid down your spine. “Let me take care of you.”

You arched back into him, jaw gone slack, and he took the cue, holding onto your hip with steel precision as he drew out, then thrust in to the hilt. The both of you made sounds then—animal, necessary, a tangled braid of shameless arousal. You were seared open, body and brain in ruins for him, and Bucky’s every move felt designed to keep you right at the rawest possible edge without letting you tumble off. With each slow, grinding thrust, he’d flex his fingers into your skin, and you were glad for the force. Otherwise, you might have rocketed apart.

He fucked you like he had nowhere else to be for the rest of his life. Each pass in and out was deep, so deep you saw stars, and he bit down on every gasp and whimper you made like treasure, hoarding them, making sure there was nothing you could give that he wouldn’t take. When you shuddered, he braced you. When you tried to hide your face in your arms, he made you look out the window.

“Imagine how wrecked you look if someone could see you like this, how good you are, how pliant, how utterly fucked out and feral for me.”

You could only groan beneath him.

But that wasn’t good enough.

“Because you are, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you managed to gasp.

“Fuck yeah, you are. Should film you next time so you can see.”

And that promised sentiment or threat or blessed assurance of a next time only barely registered in your head.

You felt the shape and girth of him everywhere, not just inside you but in your fingertips and jaw and even your toes, curled white-knuckled against the plush carpet. It felt like a breaking-open, a shudder that rattled the cage of rib and skull and emptied you in the best way. After the first spasm hit, it didn’t really stop; it just crested and broke, and then again, and again, as he drove you relentlessly through every aftershock.

Your throat was raw from the sounds you made, but you didn't care. Let the whole damn building know, let the heatwave carry it down to the street—anyone who heard would only know what you’d always suspected: that you were made, and remade, by the hands and cock of James Bucky Barnes.

He came with a groan that sounded like it had been torn up from the pit of him. You felt it, impossibly deep, an anchoring warmth at your core. He didn’t pull out right away, just pressed you down and into the couch, his breath ragged against your shoulder, sweat mixing with your own. The sun striped you both, pale and blurred, in the window’s glare. He cupped your waist, held you like he was scared you might disappear. The sound of your pulse was everywhere, in your mouth, your cunt, the tips of your fingers.

Eventually he eased out, then tossed you gently over the back of the couch and onto its cushions, hoisting himself immediatle after you, and settling between your thighs.

You wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, he cupped your jaw in both his hands, and you met halfway in a kiss. Slow, charting, but eager to map, to pour into each other.

You should be spent, you knew that, and yet there was still a flickering need for even more, and ultimately you couldn’t keep from squirming your hips up beneath him like a bitch in heat.

Bucky growled but grinned against the crook of your neck. "Already? Thought I wore you out." He was half-teasing, half hopeful, and all of it made you ache more.

You panted, little strains of whimper leaking out as you shifted beneath his weight. "It's not—" You couldn't catch your breath. "It's not gone."

He drew back enough to see your face, the marvel and hunger written in every line of him. He was giddy on it now, drunk on you, the endlessness of your need. His thumb traced a path under your eye, along your jaw, a tenderness just as striking as the force when he'd bent you over the couch.

His hand was already sliding down, finding the tremor in your thigh where you'd hooked your heel into the small of his back. “C’mon, pretty girl, take what we know you need.”

He was still hard, not as superhumanly so as thirty seconds ago, but the evidence of his stamina pressed hot and thick against your thigh. The animal edge to his smile dared you to test him. So you did.

Your hand slid down between the bodies, still trembling, and guided his cock back home. Then you canted your head up, eyes wide, mouth open to him even before he took it. The kiss was deep and viscous as he slid his thick length back into you.

“You gonna let me fill up this tight cunt all day?”

Your head fell back, the surrender automatic. “Yes,” you managed, “please, Bucky—just—”

He didn’t give you time to finish the thought before he buried himself again, the shock of it so perfect you clenched hard around him, a plea and a welcome and a thank you all at once. You couldn’t believe there was anything left in you to give, but every stroke proved you wrong, dragged up a new, desperate need that was only satisfied by the relentless rhythm of his cock and his hands and the way his mouth fixed on you, starved.

He took you harder this time, body layered over yours on the couch, arms caging you in, fists in the cushions, the infected animal in your belly delighted to be conquered. The slap and drag, the obscene wet noise of your bodies meeting, should have been mortifying, but you couldn’t care less. All you could think about was the way he felt inside you, the fullness.

You fucked up into him like it could ever be enough, like you could reach the end of it, but all it did was ratchet higher the more you got. Illogical. Perverse. You wanted it so bad you felt like you might splinter from it.

He kept his eyes open, watching your every twitch and lost syllable, and when he spoke, it was a benediction and a dare all at once. “That’s it,” he cooed, “—take it, sweetheart, take every fucking drop.”

This man who you’d pegged as your polite, kind, helpful, funny neighbor, a gentle giant, a friend but not possibly interested in anything more… how could you have been any more wrong about him? It seemed his need was as insatiable as yours, as rough as yours.

He braced a hand on your ass and fucked into you so deep your vision actually blurred, and you had a moment of floating, refracted through heat and sensation, no thought in your head but the total occupation of Bucky’s cock and Bucky’s hands and Bucky’s words, which were now a white-noise loop of fuck, that’s so good and look at you and you greedy little thing.

You lost count of how many times you came, whether it was three or four or one long endless melt that crested and crashed and kept cresting again. Each time you clenched harder, he grunted, all approval and gratitude, like you were thriving on the mutual destruction. The only thing that finally stopped him was the way your body seized under him, shaking with exertion, whole frame slick with sweat and blown wide open—and even then, he only slowed to kiss the tears off your cheek before pumping in shallow, locking thrusts, filling you a second time.

He rolled and shifted so he was below and you were arranged on top of him, cock still inside you, and petted your head and back, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

But somehow your body still wasn’t done. The pitch of wasn’t as feverish, but you still ached for more, and you shifted, pressing your hands firmly onto his chest and pushing your hips back.

He growled and grinned up at you in approval, letting you take the pace, lazy hip rolls and shallow thrusts, like he was content to be used if only you’d keep him inside your cunt.

"That’s it, baby," Bucky murmured, hands cupping your hips in living brackets of steel and warmth, "workin’ it all out of your system, huh?" He let you ride him at your pace, let you grind and flex and arch your spine in a slow, deliberate torture, as if the last hour hadn’t emptied you. He watched the place where you were joined with worshipful fixation. Sometimes his hands drifted up your plump sides, moving over the sweat slicking over your ribs, sometimes they hovered beside your tits, thumbs circling the soft underside without quite squeezing. He wanted you to take, to use.

It was so much. The room, the man, the way your senses flattened and then sharpened around only the pressure and friction, the molten bracket of his thighs under yours. You could feel the outline and density of him in your gut, could feel the part of him inside you as an ache in your own bones.

Your hair stuck to your face, skin flushed and slick. You looked down at him, saw the blue of his eyes gone wild with something that wasn’t just lust but an infatuation so raw it jolted you harder than any thrust. You felt gorgeous and filthy and alive.

You braced your palms on his chest, the sweat-slick warmth of him grounding you to the world, to the precise coordinates of this couch, this apartment, these four walls where everything inside you had been rewritten. You rolled your hips, slow at first, test-driving this new sense you’d grown this morning. Each drag, each grind made the both of you moan, made his jaw go slack with admiration and something wild behind it.

“You look so good like this,” he whispered, almost reverent. His hands continued to wander, kneading your waist, your ass, committing every detail like a man who’d been in a famine so long he didn’t trust that the feast would last.

You uncurled from his chest and sat up, knees braced against the outside of his thighs. The angle changed everything—it let you drop down with gravity on your side, and the sudden invasion made you gasp, then laugh a little at the reckless power of it.

“Didn’t know you had this in you, pretty girl,” he said, eyes bright with admiration and a little awe, as your bodies met again and again. You shuddered, every nerve ending tuned to the raggedly sweet friction. You braced one hand on the couch back for support, the other pressing his chest flat to the cushions so he couldn’t move, so you could wring every last drop out of him.

He let you, his hands only guiding, though you could feel they itched for more, alternately cupping your ass and tracing the slick line along your spine. He never looked away, and you couldn’t either, not really. Part of you was afraid if you stopped, you’d never start again, that all of being alive was compressed into this blinding, needy cycle, the slow slide up, the brief gasp at the crest, the smashed-together bodies and the static-burst of coming apart.

You both dissolved into it, rode out the rhythm together, a storm system of skin and sweat and salt air. You wanted to memorize every flicker in his face, the way his jaw tensed when you clenched around him, the soft snarl of delight when you scraped your nails up his stomach, the groan from somewhere ancient when you rocked down, hard, and took him to the hilt. Like this, you were animal and angel at once, an ache shaped just for him, every ounce of pain and pleasure remade as a message to Bucky that he could have you, all of you, if only he asked.

This time when you came, it was a slower surrender, a low-voltage tremble that climbed your spine and made you shake all over. You fell forward onto him, collapse and comfort in the same gesture, and Bucky wrapped his arms around you, rocked you gently even as you whimpered from the aftershocks. He kissed the top of your head, and it was tender but also bespoke a possessiveness that you felt curl happily inside you.

“That’s it,” he crooned, lips against your hairline, “breathe. You did so fuckin’ good.” His hands swept over your back, grounding you, stoking the heat that was already beginning to spark again in the depths of your belly. You wanted to fight it, or at least express some normal human embarrassment at the way you’d let yourself melt into a horny puddle in your neighbor’s arms, but the pleasure sparked with every breath and touch, making defiance impossible.

It was fortunate that this man was a super soldier and could give you what you needed.

You wondered how many times you would come before you burnt out completely, or if you’d just fuse into something new, a singularity of slick and want and Bucky’s name.

Bucky knew he could see you through all of it.

He looked forward to being the conduit you found your relief in since he was the architect of this sweet, filthy, exquisite destruction.

And he couldn’t imagine that this brain-altering type of experience wouldn’t yield him exactly what he’d been waiting so long for: you, surrendering to him completely, admitting there was more than neighborly friendship between you, content and eager to finally be his.

The chemicals would burn out of your system in a few more hours, and then he’d take such good care of you in your recovery. He’d keep the AC off in your apartment so he could coax you to accept his invitation to stay all weekend.

He was sure two days was all he needed to secure you forever.

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mercurial-chuckles · 21 days ago

Text

Stuffed and Strapped

Title: Stuffed and Strapped

Pairing: Dom!Steve Rogers x Female Reader

Summary: You were just teasing, saluting him during drills, calling him “sir” with that smirk he usually loves. But when you push it too far in front of the new recruits, the Captain doesn’t blush or joke.

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI, SMUT, Unprotected sex, Uniform Kink, Restraint (Tactical Strap), Orgasm Denial, Rough Sex, brat taming Use of 'Captain' as a title kink, Overstimulation, establish relationship. Dom Steve...

A/N: Cos Captain America fucks - again this all @buckybarnesisdaddy and @crazyunsexycool comments… this is what happens with the group chat puts ideas in your head. Pair to this one shot Buried in the Steam

It started with a game.

You’d been flirty all day, toeing the line for fun. But you clearly crossed it during training. You were helping Steve run drills with the new recruits, and at first it was harmless. A wink here. A cheeky tone there. But you started getting bolder, throwing him playful salutes in front of the others, calling him ‘Sir’ with that purr in your voice that he knew was meant for behind closed doors.

You knew what you were doing.

You just didn’t think he’d call you on it.

You thought it was a tease. Just enough to get a reaction. Maybe a twitch of his jaw. Maybe he’d pull you aside after class and whisper something filthy in your ear, let his fingers trail down your spine while no one was looking.

You expected a smirk. A blush. Maybe an innocent comment tossed back your way.

Instead, you got silence. He didn’t even look at you as he dismissed the class. Just a tight nod and a clipped, “Good work. That’s all for today.”

You were drying off in the locker room, still smiling to yourself, when you heard his voice, low, cold, unmistakable- right behind you:

"Upstairs. Now."

The tone made your stomach flip.

You turned, still holding the towel to your chest. His expression was unreadable, but his stance said everything. Rigid. Controlled. Lethal.

Your heart fluttered with excitement. You thought you’d pushed him just right.

You hadn’t.

You’d provoked the wrong part of him.

You barely had time to register the shift before you heard the steady thud of his boots following you up the stairs through the Compound back to his room. You entered the bedroom, your mouth dry with anticipation, but nothing prepared you for the way he filled the doorway.

Shield propped against the wall. His gloves tossed aside without care. He was already peeling the top half of the suit down, exposing the firm lines of his chest, still silent, still simmering. His gaze never left you as he stepped forward.

He didn’t raise his voice.

"Get on the bed."

You blinked, heart now racing. “What did I- ”

“You want to act like a brat,” he said calmly, “I’ll fuck the attitude out of you.”

He crossed the room in three slow, deliberate steps. You moved on instinct, backing onto the mattress, breath caught in your throat. His hands were on you immediately, efficient, practiced. He grabbed one of his tactical straps from the gear bag at the foot of the bed, and before you could process what was happening, your wrists were bound and tugged tight above your head against the headboard.

“You don’t get to talk now,” he said, voice low as he adjusted the strap. “You had your fun.”

Your pants were yanked down roughly, tossed to the floor. Your shirt was shoved up- just high enough to bare your chest, the fabric bunched under your arms, pinned by the tension in your stretched arms.

He stepped back long enough to undo the front of his pants, the belt scraping open with a metallic hiss that sent a thrill down your spine. His cock was already hard, thick, flushed with the kind of fury he didn’t need to voice.

He stroked himself once, slow, deliberate, his eyes fixed on where you lay helpless and exposed. Then he leaned in just enough for you to hear his voice, rough and low near your ear.

"You know I can smell you, right?" he said, tone smug and quiet. "You’ve been soaking through those damn pants since the first 'yes, sir.' You wanted this."

Before you could answer, not that he gave you a chance. He pressed in. No teasing, no warning. Just a firm, unrelenting push, his cock stretching you open until you cried out from the overwhelming pressure.

He sat back on his knees, hands locking onto your hips as he drove in deeper, using your bound, trembling body like a limp toy. The force of each thrust made your wrists tug at the strap, your back arching helplessly beneath him.

He didn't need to say a word.

He was in control. Completely.

Your back arched off the mattress, wrists straining against the strap above your head, every inch of you stretched and trembling. Your skin burned from the friction of the sheets beneath you, your muscles aching from the sheer force of his movements. Captain America- the Captain America- was using your body like it was his to command, and god, it was.

This wasn’t Steve. This wasn’t the man who left notes on the fridge or kissed your temple after a mission. This was the soldier. The shield. The force of will that held a crumbling world together and right now, he was pounding into you like breaking you apart would somehow keep the whole damn universe intact.

The stretch of him was obscene. Your cunt clenched around him with every snap of his hips, your slick coating his cock, seeping into the coarse hair at his base. Every thrust left his pubic bone soaked, the wet slap of skin on skin growing louder, filthier, messier with every punishing grind. Your body squelched beneath the pressure, clinging to him greedily, and you swore you could feel him in your throat.

You couldn't breathe without whimpering.

“You want to be fucked like a soldier’s reward?” he growled as he bent over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip like he owned it. His breath ghosted over your throat just before the drag of his teeth made your skin prickle. “Then take it.”

His thrusts turned punishing. Each one knocked the breath from your lungs, forced broken, high-pitched moans from your lips. The burn of being filled and stretched eclipsed by the addicting weight of him inside you.

You couldn't think. You could only feel.

His hands gripped your thighs, forcing them open even wider, spreading you around him like a trophy he’d already claimed. The stretch was unbearable and perfect all at once, your cunt swollen, taking everything he gave you. Your skin burned where his fingers dug in, marks already forming, and you could feel every ridge, every vein of his cock as he bottomed out again and again with bruising force.

“Look at you,” he muttered darkly, his voice like gravel dragged over heat, hips never once relenting. His gaze flicked down to where your bodies met, cock glistening with your arousal every time he dragged out just enough to make you feel the emptiness before slamming back in.

“You gonna be good now?” he asked, tone sharp as a knife, eyes burning into you as his cock slammed deep again. The stretch forced another cry from your throat, your walls fluttering around him, too full, too deep, every nerve in your core straining with the pressure.

He angled his hips, just punishing enough to hit those high, aching places that made your eyes roll back and your spine lift clear off the bed. You could feel him everywhere, every thick inch driving up into parts of you that had never felt so raw, so overwhelmed, so thoroughly used. Your walls clamped around him helplessly, spasming from the force of the stretch, straining to accommodate the sheer girth of him. The sensation was unbearable and addictive, that sharp pressure deep in your belly coiling tighter with every thrust.

“Gonna behave for your Captain now?” he rasped, his voice shredded with control, with hunger. His thrusts never slowed, never softened, just drilled deeper as though he could fuck the answer straight out of you.

Your answer was a sob.

A ruined, breathless sound that broke on your lips. Your mouth fell open in a silent cry, your thighs shaking violently as his rhythm drove you further into helplessness. Every thrust knocked your thoughts loose, left you gasping, trembling, unable to do anything but take him. Your body wasn’t just reacting, your core seizing around him, torn between resistance and surrender.

But that wasn’t enough for him.

“Use your words,” he snapped, delivering a sharp slap to your thigh that made your entire body jolt beneath him. The sting was hot and fast, bleeding into the heat already pulsing between your legs. The pain only made you clench tighter around him, a broken whimper escaping your lips. “Or I stop.”

“N-No! Please, yes, I’ll be good- Captain, please- ” The idea of him stopping made you panic.

He hummed low, dark and satisfied, like he’d tamed something wild. His rhythm didn’t slow in fact, it deepened. Harder. Intending to devastate. He wasn’t just fucking you- he was taking you, molding you, bending every inch of you around the relentless shape of his cock.

“That’s better,” he muttered, bending closer again, his breath hot against your cheek, lips ghosting your skin but never kissing. “Who's in charge now, sweetheart?”

The pressure inside you built fast, tight, dangerous. You were right on the edge, your body begging for release but just as your moans pitched into a whine, he pulled back, grinding deep but not enough.

"You." You whimpered, voice broken, breath catching. “Please- Captain, I need- ”

“Oh, you need?” he repeated, one brow arching in mock amusement. He shifted his angle deliberately, dragging his cock in slow, cruel strokes against your most sensitive spot with devastating precision. Your body jolted, legs trembling from the white-hot pleasure sparking deep in your core. “You think you get to just come because you’re asking?”

You nodded desperately, body straining against the restraint, your back arched like a bow. Your slick leaked freely down your thighs, pooling beneath you, and still, he didn’t let up or let you go.

He chuckled darkly, hips grinding just deep enough to make your eyes roll. “No, sweetheart. You come when I say. You want that reward? You earn it.”

He held you there. Set about teaching you a lesson. Kept you trembling on the edge, caught in that unbearable space between ecstasy and ruin. His cock stroked against your sweet spot with relentless control, dragging you right up to the peak again and again, only to deny you the fall. Your thighs quaked. Your voice cracked. You begged through gasped breaths and ragged pleas, nearly sobbing with need. Pulling at the binds on your wrists.

“Look at you,” he said softly, his eyes drinking in your flushed, ruined face. “All wrecked, fucking dripping, desperate for your Captain. You like being ruin like this, don’t you?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Only your head shook in frantic, helpless desperation, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes as your body locked up, seizing under the weight of another almost-climax. You were quivering, your walls pulsing in erratic, desperate waves around him. The need clawing inside you was unbearable, your core pulsing with each denied orgasm, your breath coming in broken gasps.

You felt his body shift again, the weight of him smothering you, pressing you deeper into the mattress. His hips ground slow and deliberate, keeping you hovering on the brink. The scent of him- sweat, leather, the musk of sex- coiled around you like a shroud. His breath was hot and unsteady now, ragged at the edges, as though even he was barely hanging on.

His hand slid up your body, fingers trailing between your breasts, slow and possessive, until his thumb came to rest just below your throat. He didn’t squeeze, he didn’t need to. The placement alone was enough. A silent promise. A reminder.

You couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.

And still, he didn’t let you come.

Then he leaned down, trapping you beneath the hard bulk of his chest and uniform. His lips brushed your ear, and this time his voice was darker- rough silk with a serrated edge.

His hips pulled back “Come.” He thrust back in hard.

Your orgasm shattered through you with violent force, tearing through you from the inside out. Your entire body arched, legs locking around his waist as you cried out- a strangled, sobbing sound that echoed against his neck. Your cunt pulsed and clamped down around him, milking him as your body convulsed. The strap above your wrists dug into your skin as you writhed, helpless to the aftershocks. His hips slamming into you over and over.

You barely registered the broken groan that tore from his throat as he followed, his hips grinding deep and hard as he spilled inside you. The heat of it only pushed you further, your body overstimulated, unravelling with each twitch of his cock inside you.

He didn’t untie your wrists immediately.

He stayed there, buried deep, chest heaving against yours, until your moans dissolved into soft mewls and your muscles sagged in exhaustion. His breath came heavy, sharp, his face pressed to your throat as he caught his bearings.

Only when your body had gone limp and your breathing levelled did he finally reach up and release the strap. Your arms dropped bonelessly to the bed, limp and shaking. He caught you before you could fall too far, pulling you into his lap and settling you gently across his thighs like you were made of glass.

He held you tighter. One hand tangled in your hair while the other traced a slow path up your spine, grounding you, reminding you who you belonged to. His palm pressed gently between your shoulder blades, holding you to him like an anchor. You could hear the steady thump of his heartbeat against your ear, feel the heat of his body finally beginning to cool. He brushed your sweat-damp hair back from your face with a rare tenderness, fingers careful and reverent.

“You did good for me, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice still low, still rough, but edged with something softer now. Something warmer.

He finally kissed you, deep, slow, claiming. Like the battlefield had quieted and he’d finally won. Like you were the prize he’d earned, and he was never giving you back.

#chuckles dog ears #chuckles tbr

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