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poge-life · 4 days ago

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bound to burn

bucky barnes 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – nsfw (18+), MDNI, explicit smut like….. the whole time, Voyeurism (for the mission), Panty Thief Bucky, Oral Sex (Female Receiving), Begging, Unprotected Sex, Breathless Moans and Filthy Praise, Reader Comes First (Always), edging, sex club

Summary: You’ve never kissed Bucky Barnes—never even touched. Now you’re in his lap at a club in Romania, panties pushed to the side, grinding on his thigh while a voyeuristic arms dealer watches from the shadows. The mission said do whatever it takes—so you do. You moan for him. You beg for him. You come on his fingers in a mirrored room with someone else on the other side of the glass. And the worst part?

None of it feels fake.

Not his voice in your ear. Not his mouth between your legs. Not the way he says, “Eyes on me, doll.”

And when it’s all over? You still ache for him.

And he’s still carrying your panties in his pocket.

word count: 11k

notes – not proofread. HORNY!!! This whole thing was inspired by that clip of Sebastian Stan saying he’d have sex every hour if he could in Romanian lmao I’m dead ass

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated.

Rain lashed against the windows of the safehouse briefing room, streaking down in jagged lines like claw marks against the concrete sky. The air inside was tight with tension, everyone still soaked from the field extraction, voices quiet and clipped. The lights overhead flickered as if they, too, could feel the mood coiling inside the room—sharp, brittle, ready to snap.

You sat at the long steel table, fingers clenched into your thighs beneath it, biting back the ache that had formed in your jaw from hours of grinding your teeth. Across from you, Bucky leaned forward, forearms braced against the surface, the veins in his hand bulging from the tension. His stare was locked on the briefing screen, unmoving. Silent.

Director De Fontaine’s voice cut through the room like a blade.

“This one’s different,” she said, flipping to the next screen. “This one’s personal.”

The image that filled the screen made your stomach roll. You didn’t need to look twice to know who it was.

Cristian Dragomir.

Arms dealer. Human trafficker. Collector of women, weapons, and secrets. He wore suits like armor and surrounded himself with luxury that reeked of rot. On paper, he was a legitimate investor with deep ties to several Eastern European shipping companies. Off the record? He was a man who could broker the sale of a child or a warhead in the same breath.

And now, after weeks of sniffing along dead ends, you had him.

“Dragomir is hosting a private gathering at Club Vânătorii this weekend,” Val continued, crossing her arms as she paced in front of the screen. “Invitation only. No weapons allowed, no comms once inside. His security team is one of the most paranoid in the business. The only way in is to make yourself look too tempting to resist. And the only thing he cares about more than power—”

“—is watching people fuck,” Yelena muttered from the corner, slouched in her chair with a half-wrapped bandage around her ribs. The bruising along her collarbone was deep and purple, a halo of violence left behind from the ambush earlier that day. “Preferably when they think no one’s watching.”

You didn’t look at her injuries. Couldn’t. The sight of her blood staining her tactical gear had been enough to send something sharp and molten screaming through your chest. Ava had taken the worst of it—currently unconscious in the medbay, her vitals steady but shallow. Bob had a shattered femur. And the rest of the team? Shaken, silent. Gutted.

Val nodded grimly. “He has a thing for intimacy. Obsession. Pleasure dynamics. We’ve confirmed multiple reports of hidden surveillance systems in his personal properties—bedroom cameras, two-way mirrors, sound feeds. He gets off on devotion. Believability. If he doesn’t think a couple is real, he loses interest.”

She clicked again.

The screen split into four windows—each showing images of previous “guests” Dragomir had hosted. Couples entwined on silk sheets, touching and moaning while he watched. Some of them clearly unaware. Others? Not so much.

You felt your stomach turn.

“You want us to put on a fucking show?” Bucky said, his voice low and ragged. His knuckles had gone white against the table. “You want us to—what? Be bait?”

Val looked at him, her expression unreadable. “I want you to seduce him. You and her—” she nodded toward you, “—are the only ones who haven’t been made. You’re both unknown to him. He doesn’t know your faces, your aliases, your scent. We can plant the intel we need to get you in as high-end mercenary clients who are… deeply in love.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose.

“Dragomir will only engage with couples who seem hopelessly devoted to each other. Who act like they can’t go five minutes without touching. He likes to observe. Likes to believe that he’s discovering something private. The second he thinks it’s fake, he pulls away. And once he walks, he disappears. We don’t get another chance.”

The air in the room went thinner.

“Let me be clear,” Val said, stopping directly in front of the screen. “We’re not authorizing an assassination. This man is too valuable. He’s the only one who knows where several trafficking channels intersect. Names, drop sites, payment routes—some of them tied to Hydra remnants. We need him alive. We need his files. We need his silence afterward.”

She turned back toward the screen and pointed to the shimmering, golden glow of Club Vânătorii—Dragomir’s favorite hunting ground.

“He’ll be there. He’ll be watching. And he’ll only bite if you convince him that you two can’t keep your hands—or mouths—off each other.”

You sat back slowly, your pulse thudding in your throat.

Across from you, Bucky’s gaze finally met yours.

There was no joke in it. No smirk. Just that fierce, flickering heat you knew lived under the surface. The soldier and the man, warring beneath his skin. A question lingering in the air between you like smoke:

Can we do this?

Val’s voice broke the silence. “You’ll have one night. A single window to get close enough to draw him into a private room. Once he invites you in, we can activate the signal and move to extraction. But he has to invite you. And he won’t if he’s not convinced. You need to act like you’d die for each other. Like no one else exists when you’re in the same room.”

“We get it, Val. Touching. Hands all over each other.” You snap, jaw clenched. The room had narrowed to you and Bucky and the impossible tension already crackling beneath your skin.

He looked like he wanted to say something. But didn’t. Not yet.

“Are there any questions?” Val asked.

Yelena raised her hand, weakly. “Yeah. Who’s going to clean up the puddle when she makes him moan for the first time?”

There was a short, startled bark of laughter from Bob, even through the pain. You shook your head, a flicker of a smirk crossing your lips.

But Bucky? Bucky’s jaw twitched. His tongue swiped across his bottom lip like he was already imagining it.

Your smirk vanished, throat going dry.

“We leave in 48 hours,” Val said, nodding to the tech team. “Get fitted, get your backstories straight, and get ready to cross some boundaries. This mission won’t be comfortable. It won’t be clean. But it will be worth it if we bring that son of a bitch down.”

She paused at the door.

“And remember… whatever you have to do to get him alone?” Her voice dropped. “Do it.”

Then she was gone.

And you were left staring at Bucky across the table—both of you burning with unspoken words, with heat, with the knowledge that everything was about to change.

Forever.

The safehouse bedroom was dimly lit, bathed in the amber glow of a single bedside lamp. The kind of low light that made things feel softer than they were. Or maybe it was just that everything had been so sharp lately—every word, every touch, every stare—that now, in the stillness, the quiet felt unnatural. Unsettling.

You sat on the edge of the bed, your legs crossed at the ankle, your fingers twisting nervously in your lap. Bucky stood near the door, arms crossed, the strain in his shoulders visible even through his black t-shirt. His jaw had been clenched for ten minutes now. You weren’t sure he’d unclenched it since the briefing.

Neither of you had spoken yet. Not really.

He finally broke the silence. “We need to talk.”

You nodded once, glancing up. “Yeah. We do.”

He pushed off the wall, stepping closer, but not all the way. Not yet. “This mission’s not like anything we’ve done before. It’s not just physical—it’s… performative. Emotional. We’re not just gonna be touching. We’re gonna be selling something that people only believe when they feel it.”

You swallowed hard. “We’ll have to convince them we’re obsessed with each other.”

His eyes met yours then, dark and searching. “We’ll have to touch like we mean it. Look at each other like we’d fuck right there on the floor if no one stopped us.”

The breath caught in your throat. You looked away, heart fluttering.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “That came out—”

“No,” you cut in. “You’re right. We have to talk about it honestly. What we’re willing to do. What’s too far.”

Bucky stepped closer now, kneeling in front of you, so close that your knees were almost brushing. He rested his forearms on his thighs, hands loosely clasped. “So let’s lay it out. Boundaries. What are yours?”

You hesitated, then shook your head slowly. “I don’t know if I can afford to have them on this one.”

His brows drew together. “Don’t say that.”

“No, I mean it. We both know what kind of man Dragomir is. If we hold back even a little, he’ll see it. He’ll know. We don’t get to flinch. And I’m not letting what happened to Yelena happen to anyone else. Not again.”

The silence between you buzzed. His fingers tightened slightly where they rested, and then his voice dropped low.

“So… kissing?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

“Touching?”

“Yes.”

“Hands, mouths, grinding…?”

You flushed, but you didn’t look away. “Yes.”

His throat bobbed. “Clothes on or off?”

“If he asks, or if it gets us closer to the goal… yes.”

His eyes searched yours, and for a moment he didn’t breathe. You didn’t either.

“And after?” he asked quietly. “When the mission’s over?”

You didn’t have an answer to that. Not one you could say out loud.

“I trust you,” you said instead. “To know the difference between the mission and something else. I trust you not to hurt me.”

Something flickered across his face then. His jaw relaxed just a little. His eyes softened, but didn’t lose their intensity.

“I trust you too,” he said. “Which is why I wanted to ask…” He trailed off.

“What?” you asked, voice barely a whisper.

“That first kiss.” His gaze dropped to your mouth. Lingered. “We’re gonna have to do it in front of him. In front of a whole damn room. But maybe it’d be better… if it wasn’t the first time.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

“I’m not saying we—” He scratched at the back of his neck, looking up through thick lashes. “Not for fun. Just so we’re not surprised by it. So it doesn’t feel… wrong. So we don’t flinch.”

But that wasn’t the whole truth. You both knew it. Because part of you—maybe a selfish part—wanted that first kiss to be yours.

Not the mission’s. Not Dragomir’s. Yours.

You nodded slowly. “Okay. Let’s get it out of the way.”

Neither of you moved at first. Then Bucky rose from the floor, the air shifting with him. He sat beside you on the bed, closer than he had to be, knees brushing yours, one hand bracing against the mattress behind you. The other hovered—hesitant—by your jaw.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

You nodded once.

His hand cupped your cheek, warm and calloused. You leaned into the touch without thinking.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he murmured.

“I will,” you breathed.

He moved in slowly, like the moment might shatter if he rushed it. His nose brushed yours. His thumb stroked along your jaw.

Then—finally—his mouth found yours.

It was gentle at first. Searching. Not a performance. Not a test. Just Bucky, kissing you like he needed to know what you tasted like. Like maybe he’d thought about this before, late at night, when you were both supposed to be sleeping. The kiss deepened slowly, his lips sliding over yours with more confidence, more heat, as you melted into him.

You brought your hand up, fingers curling into the front of his shirt. He groaned softly into your mouth.

God. He was warm. Steady. Big. You could feel every inch of him where your bodies brushed, and yet he wasn’t rushing it. Wasn’t pressing. Just holding you, kissing you, his thumb still stroking your cheek like he was grounding himself.

When you finally broke apart, your chest rose and fell like you’d been holding your breath for hours. You opened your eyes.

So did he.

No one spoke for a long beat. Then Bucky gave a quiet laugh, voice rough. “That didn’t feel like practice.”

Your lips curved, slow and cautious. “No. It didn’t.”

He reached out, tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I just—” You looked at him fully. “I wanted that one to be real.”

A pause. “It was.”

Another pause. You both stood slowly, feet unsure beneath you.

“Let’s get some rest,” Bucky said, voice low.

You followed him to the door. But before he opened it, his hand found yours and squeezed once.

Not for the mission.

Just for you.

The car door shut behind you with a heavy thump, Bucky’s hand on the small of your back guiding you toward the entrance of Club Vânătorii. It rose like a mirage out of the cobblestone back alleys of Bucharest, nestled behind wrought-iron gates and draped in decadence. A converted hunting lodge, if the rumors were true—though now the only thing being hunted here were thrills.

The air outside smelled like midnight. Warm, pulsing with electricity and expensive perfume. You could already hear the bass thrumming through the walls, deep and slow, like a heartbeat echoing in the dark.

You adjusted the hem of your dress—though really, there wasn’t much hem to adjust. The silk barely passed your upper thighs, a shade of champagne that shimmered like skin under the lights. It clung to your body like it had been poured on, every curve and hollow wrapped in temptation. Thin straps kissed your shoulders. The open back left you exposed down to the waist. One shift of movement, and the side slit promised glimpses of your upper thigh. Everything was intentional. The mission required it.

Still, when Bucky’s eyes dropped to take you in fully for the first time, you had to clench your fists to hide the way your fingers trembled.

He didn’t say anything—not at first. Just stared. Slow. Hungry. Then his tongue swept across his bottom lip, and he muttered under his breath, “Jesus.”

Your pulse fluttered. “You good?” you asked, voice light, teasing.

He met your eyes, that look in them dark and wicked and so very male. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled sweetly. “Try not to die until the mission’s over, Sergeant.”

He wore black tonight. No tie. Just a deep charcoal silk shirt unbuttoned low enough to reveal the edge of a thick chain at his collarbone, the faint dusting of chest hair peeking through. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing the shimmer of his metal arm and the flex of thick forearms that made every woman—and more than a few men—watching your approach twist in place to get a better look. His slacks were cut to frame his thighs and hips perfectly, and when he moved, he did it with the loose, lazy power of someone who knew exactly how he looked in every shadow.

You weren’t walking into a club. You were walking into a performance. Two lovers so obsessed with one another they could barely make it through the front doors without tearing at each other’s clothes.

The bouncer greeted you with a nod and a knowing smirk. Bucky slid a black card across the scanner without breaking eye contact with you. It beeped green. The doors parted.

And you stepped into the lion’s den.

The heat of the club hit you immediately—lavender and champagne curling through the air, light pulsing low and golden from crystal chandeliers overhead. The music wasn’t pounding the way most clubs did. It was slower. Darker. Built to match the rhythm of something else entirely.

Bodies moved across the floor like smoke—touching, grinding, kissing in dark corners, mouths open and greedy. There were no rules here. No shame. Just couples and triads and shadows of lust cast long beneath velvet light.

Eyes tracked you from the moment you entered. You felt it like static on your skin. Curious, covetous. Assessing. Everyone in this room was playing a game, and you were the newest piece on the board.

Bucky’s hand stayed firm on your lower back, his thumb brushing bare skin, grounding you. You leaned into him with an easy smile, tipping your face up so your lips almost brushed his jaw.

“See anyone looking at us?” you murmured.

He nodded, pretending to scan the room. “Everyone.”

“But not him,” you said.

“Not yet.”

You both knew why. Dragomir didn’t rush. He liked the chase. The anticipation. He waited until a couple looked ripe with lust—until they were fraying at the edges and nearly undone—before he made his move. It turned his stomach to see falsehood. He wanted desperation. Craving. He wanted to believe he was interrupting something sacred.

You exhaled slowly and let your body lean more into Bucky’s, hips brushing his. He turned his head slightly, letting his nose skim the shell of your ear.

“You’re doing good, doll,” he murmured, voice rough silk. “Real good.”

Your stomach twisted, heat blooming low.

Couples swayed around you. Some danced. Some didn’t bother. A woman near the edge of the bar moaned openly into her partner’s mouth as his hand disappeared under her dress. Another pair lounged on a couch, the woman’s thighs spread around her girlfriend’s knee as she rocked lazily, glassy-eyed.

You weren’t sure if it was an act anymore. You weren’t sure if any of this had ever been an act.

“Let’s give him something to look at,” you whispered. Bucky’s eyes gleamed.

You turned in toward him, draping an arm over his shoulder and letting your fingers toy with the chain at his chest. His hand slid to your waist, then lower, gripping the soft curve of your hip. You pressed your body to his—slow, syrupy—your mouths close, lips brushing as if you couldn’t bear to be apart for another second.

He kissed your jaw.

You tilted your head back, giving him your throat. It wasn’t a kiss meant to be soft or sweet. It was indulgent. Lavish. The kind of kiss meant to be watched.

When he pulled back, his eyes were darker. A flicker of something feral beneath the polished control. You brushed your fingers against the edge of his waistband, voice sultry. “Think anyone bought it?”

His smile was slow, dangerous. “Does it matter?”

You paused, heart thudding. “No,” you said finally. “It doesn’t.”

He leaned in again, lips barely grazing yours. “Then let’s make it count.”

And behind you—unseen but definitely there—a new pair of eyes began to watch.

The lounge wasn’t part of the main club floor. It was darker, quieter, drenched in gold light and voyeurism. Plush velvet seating curved around the room like a theater. There was no stage, but everyone here knew the truth: you were the show.

This was where Dragomir’s guests lingered once they’d passed his first test. The ones he liked to watch but hadn’t quite settled on yet. Some were couples; others, strangers caught in the heat of the night. You could feel the atmosphere sink under your skin as you stepped through the archway, like walking into warm water. The music here pulsed softer, deeper. You could hear whispers, moans, the slick slide of skin on skin if you listened hard enough.

The couch Bucky chose was low and wide, its cushions soft like sin. He sat first, legs spread with casual dominance, one arm stretched across the backrest. You followed his silent cue and climbed onto his lap like you belonged there. Like this was your place. You weren’t even pretending.

His hand slipped around your waist as you adjusted yourself over his thighs, dress riding high, heat blooming beneath it. He didn’t speak at first. He just let you settle.

And then—his metal hand moved.

It brushed along your side, cold against your skin where the dress dipped dangerously low. You sucked in a breath at the shock of it, goosebumps prickling down your body. The chill of vibranium snuck beneath the silk, dragging slowly along your ribs with smooth, calculated pressure.

You didn’t flinch outwardly—but you knew he felt it.

Because a heartbeat later, his flesh hand came to rest on the inside of your bare thigh. He didn’t squeeze. He didn’t grope. He just… held. His thumb brushed up, soft and apologetic, like a silent I know. He drew a line over your skin that burned hotter than the cold had.

And then his mouth was at your ear. “Don’t let them get to you,” he whispered. His breath tickled your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “Eyes on me, okay, doll?”

You didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. You let your lips part in a quiet, knowing smile as your eyes fluttered shut for one long moment, and when you opened them again—you played the part.

You leaned into his body, your back arching subtly, breasts brushing his chest. You let your hand drift up his chest, fingers toying lazily with the buttons of his silk shirt, undoing one. Then another. Just enough to expose the firm plane of his chest, the dip of muscle, the necklace glinting beneath.

Someone across the room was watching. Maybe multiple someones. It didn’t matter.

Your smirk was slow. Teasing. A picture of indulgence.

The game had begun.

Bucky’s grip on your thigh tightened slightly, his thumb still stroking as his metal hand swept broader circles along your side, palm flexing against your ribcage. The contrast of sensation—cold steel and warm callused skin—was dizzying. You shifted subtly in his lap, one of your hands rising to ghost along the side of his neck before sliding back into his hair. Short now. Still thick. Still something you’d been aching to touch since the moment he cut it.

You dragged your nails lightly over his scalp. He made a sound—low in his throat, nearly inaudible—but you felt it, the way it vibrated under your hands. His mouth returned to your skin, lips brushing your jaw before drifting lower, teeth grazing your earlobe with a sharp nip.

You gasped—real, involuntary—as his metal thumb slid higher along your ribs at the same time. The long sweep of it just barely catching the underside of your breast before retreating.

Your thighs clenched around him. He noticed.

His hand stilled on your thigh, fingers splaying, possessive. His metal hand returned to its slow, lazy exploration. He wasn’t being bold—not yet. But he didn’t need to be. Not when every graze of skin, every press of his mouth, was enough to send your thoughts scattering like glass.

You tilted your head, letting it fall back against his shoulder as his mouth found the curve of your neck. He didn’t kiss. He hovered. Teased. Let his breath wash over sensitive skin until your nipples tightened, your chest feeling heavy and achy beneath the silk.

You arched into him just a little more. Not because the room demanded it. But because you did. You needed to feel more of him.

A server passed nearby, placing two glasses of champagne on the table in front of you without a word. You barely noticed.

What you did notice was the moment a third person approached. A man in a rich burgundy suit, dark hair, darker eyes. He stopped in front of your couch, gaze raking over you with open interest.

Swinger. Not the target. But interested.

“I don’t suppose there’s room for one more?” he asked, his voice slick.

Bucky didn’t so much as twitch. His mouth was still on your neck, metal hand still painting circles on your side.

Then—very deliberately—he let his flesh hand slide an inch higher between your thighs. You inhaled sharply. That was not just for show.

The man raised his eyebrows in amusement.

You shifted in Bucky’s lap, throwing your arm around his neck as you turned your head, brushing your lips against his jaw.

“Why’d you stop, Ștefan?” you purred, using the code name Val had given him for the op. Your voice dripped with seduction. You spread your legs just slightly wider in his lap. For him. “Don’t be rude to our audience.”

That did it.

Bucky’s mouth crashed into yours—not soft, not hesitant. Hungry. Hot.

His hand moved between your legs fully now, not breaking rhythm, thumb pressing teasing circles high along the inside of your thigh but stopping just shy of slipping under the hem of your underwear. His metal hand curled around your side, rising to cup the underside of your breast, thumb brushing the soft swell of it through the silk.

You moaned into the kiss. Your hands were in his hair, tangling as you rolled your hips subtly against him, feeling the shift in his body as he hardened beneath you.

The man in the burgundy suit chuckled and walked away. He wasn’t your concern.

But Bucky was.

You pulled back from the kiss just enough to murmur his name—your real voice, your real self, slipping out like a prayer. “Bucky…”

His head dropped to your neck, breath shaky, lips brushing your skin.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“So are you.” Then your lips found his ear, and you said it—soft, broken, real. “Bucky. Please.”

It left your lips like a secret, a breathless confession shaped by the ache building low in your belly and the press of his body under yours. You hadn’t meant to say it—hadn’t planned it—but the words slipped out before you could call them back.

And the second they did, everything changed.

His breath hitched. You felt it against your throat, warm and uneven. His grip on your thigh faltered for a split second—just long enough to reveal that he’d heard it. That he’d felt it.

That it had shattered whatever wall he’d still been clinging to.

His mouth was still on your neck, parted just enough for you to feel the edge of his teeth when he exhaled. Then, slowly, deliberately, his flesh hand moved.

Down. Between your legs. Past the hem of your dress.

And under.

Your breath stopped entirely as he pushed your underwear to the side, fingers dragging through the slick heat that had been building for far too long. You choked on a sound and caught his bottom lip between your teeth, biting just hard enough to stop yourself from crying out.

He groaned—loudly—his body jerking beneath you, hips shifting up into the cradle of your thighs like he couldn’t help it.

“Fuck, doll,” he whispered, the words ragged against your skin. “You’re soaked.”

Your entire body flushed.

It wasn’t the mission anymore.

It wasn’t the game.

It was him.

You.

And this unbearable gravity that had been pulling you closer and closer for weeks, months—maybe longer than either of you could admit.

Bucky’s fingers slid along your seam, teasing but not entering, stroking you in maddening, gliding sweeps. His thumb circled your clit—slow, careful—like he was memorizing the way your hips twitched against his hand. You dug your nails into his shoulders, thighs tensing around his lap, your head falling back.

He watched every second of it.

His metal hand, still cradling your ribs, slid higher, cupping your breast through the thin silk and dragging his thumb lazily over your peaked nipple. It was too much. Too good. Your hips rolled without your permission, grinding against his hand in desperate little jerks.

His voice dropped, gravel thick and filthy-sweet.

“Look at you,” he murmured, nipping your jaw. “Shaking like this.”

“Because of you,” you gasped, the words catching as he flicked his thumb against you just right.

“Yeah?” His lips were at your ear again. “You gonna come like this, pretty girl? Just from my fingers?”

Your answer was a strangled whimper.

And then he slid two fingers inside you.

You saw stars.

Your back arched instantly, your hands flying to his shoulders for balance as your body clamped around him. He filled you perfectly. Not deep, not hard—yet—but slow, deliberate thrusts that had your thighs trembling and your core tightening, fluttering. He curled his fingers with each stroke, grazing that spot inside you that made your eyes roll back.

Your mouth found his again, desperate and open. He caught you easily, kissing you through it, swallowing your sounds and giving you his own.

His tongue licked into you, hot and wet, as his fingers worked you faster. You rocked against him, grinding down onto his lap with reckless need. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. All you knew was the rising, sweeping pressure winding tighter and tighter in your core, your body climbing toward a peak you couldn’t stop if you tried.

And he knew.

“Come for me,” he whispered into your mouth. “C’mon, baby. Show them who you belong to.”

You broke apart.

The orgasm hit hard—fast and molten—your body jerking in his lap as wave after wave rolled through you. You buried your face in his neck, biting down into his skin to keep the scream inside. Your thighs clamped around his, your whole body shaking.

You heard the groan he let out when he felt it—felt you clench around him, soaking his hand, your slick dripping down his fingers. He was panting now, his hips twitching beneath you, his cock straining against his pants and pressing against your soaked core through the fabric.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, sounding half-wrecked himself. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You couldn’t answer. Not yet.

You were still coming down, chest heaving, hands clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing tethering you to gravity.

You’d forgotten the room. Forgotten the watchers. Forgotten the mission.

You remembered only him.

The heat of his breath. The strength of his body. The filthy, possessive way he held you through it all.

The way you never wanted to leave his lap.

Time passed in uneven heartbeats.

You lifted your head slowly, blinking, trying to gather your voice.

“Wait—” But before you could finish, a shadow approached. And everything snapped back into focus.

Dragomir.

He stood across from your couch, dressed in dove-grey, the fabric of his suit sharp enough to slice. His hair was slicked back, dark eyes gleaming beneath the chandelier light. He held a crystal glass in one hand, the other tucked into his pocket like this was just another casual evening.

But he was watching you like prey.

He said something in Romanian. “Ștefan, preferi sexul dimineața sau seara?” Ștefan, do you prefer sex in the morning or the evening?

You only caught Bucky’s alias—Ștefan—and the word sex. The blood rushing in your ears as you recovered from your earth shattering orgasm not doing you any favors.

Bucky didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. He stayed exactly as he was—one hand still between your thighs, your body still curled in his lap, lips brushing your jaw.

Then he dragged his hand out from between your legs—slowly—making sure Dragomir could see every second of it. Your breath caught as the cold air hit your soaked core, your body still sensitive and twitching.

Bucky lifted his hand to his mouth.

And licked his fingers clean.

Your entire body shuddered.

He smiled, the curve of it sharp and lazy.

Then answered in flawless Romanian, voice thick with desire: “Cu ea? În fiecare oră, dacă se poate.” With her? Every hour, if that’s possible.

You nearly came again just from hearing it.

Dragomir’s gaze turned molten. He smiled like a man who had just found his next meal. “Very good,” he purred. “I shall be back. Do not disappoint me.”

And then he walked away.

Bucky exhaled, finally turning his attention back to you. You were still trembling. He brushed his lips against your temple and whispered, “You okay?”

You nodded. Just barely. “I have to keep going,” you breathed, heart still pounding. “We almost have him.”

His voice cracked on the next words. “Are you sure?”

You moved on instinct, shifting in his lap—and felt him. Impossibly hard. Thighs trembling beneath you from how tightly he was holding back. The raw want in his eyes made your breath catch all over again.

You kissed him—slow this time—pressing your mouth to his with aching intent.

Bucky understood without another word. Maybe he always had. He slid his hand between your thighs again, knuckles brushing your inner leg as you rocked forward in his lap, opening yourself to him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And it was.

Because this wasn’t for the mission anymore. Not really. You could tell by the way his breath hitched when your slick heat met his fingers again, the way his mouth dragged along your collarbone like he was starved.

His lips ghosted against your throat. “You’re still trembling,” he murmured.

“For you,” you whispered against his lips. “That’s for you.” He groaned, forehead falling to yours.

His fingers were slick with you. Heat pulsed between your thighs, a steady, aching throb that hadn’t dulled even after the first orgasm wracked your body. If anything, the edge had sharpened—your nerve endings now hypersensitive, every brush of his skin against yours sending sparks through your veins.

His fingers circled your clit again, not gently this time—but with purpose. You clung to his shoulders, one hand in his short hair, the other gripping the fabric over his chest to anchor yourself as your hips chased the motion, grinding down against his hand like you needed him to ruin you.

Your thighs were shaking. Your dress had hiked up so high it was barely covering anything anymore, the silk bunched around your waist. Anyone watching could see what was happening—but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The entire room could’ve gone up in flames, and you would’ve stayed right there, moving against him, breath stuttering, pleasure curling tight and fast in your belly.

You pressed your forehead to his.

“Bucky,” you breathed, barely able to say his name, mouth quiet. “Don’t—don’t stop—”

He didn’t. His fingers worked faster, his other arm tight around your waist to hold you steady, to keep you close. His voice was ragged and low, each word kissed along your jaw between strokes.

“Come on, sweetheart. Come for me. You can do it again. Let go for me—just like before.”

Your breath broke on a sob.

And then you did. It ripped through you like a storm, your body tensing, muscles clenching as you came around his fingers, the pressure snapping all at once in a burst of heat and helpless motion. You buried your face in his neck, gasping into his skin, hips still twitching as aftershocks rolled through you.

He held you through it. Let you ride it out, stroking slow, languid circles against your clit as your body trembled against his.

Your thighs were slick. Your skin was flushed and glowing, pulse hammering so hard you could hear it in your ears. You didn’t even realize you were still clinging to him, fingers curled tight into his shirt, until his hand came up to brush your hair gently back from your face.

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice ruined and warm.

You nodded, dazed.

His eyes darkened. His hand still glistened with your slick, and the hunger in his gaze returned full force as he took your chin gently between two fingers, guiding your mouth back to his.

He kissed you slowly this time. Deep. Possessive. You whimpered into it, letting your body melt into his.

And that’s when the air shifted.

You felt it before you saw him.

Bucky’s hand didn’t stop moving. Didn’t falter. But his eyes flicked up—subtle, practiced—tracking the figure returning to your side of the lounge.

Cristian Dragomir.

The man was smiling now. Not the courteous kind. Not even the smarmy, rich bastard kind. No. This was something darker.

He came to stand just feet from your couch, watching as you barely managed to lift your head from where you’d collapsed against Bucky’s shoulder. Your dress was askew, cheeks flushed, lips red from his mouth.

You weren’t pretending anymore, and he knew it. Dragomir took a slow sip from his drink, eyes gleaming with something that looked far too much like satisfaction.

“You two,” he said, his Romanian accent curling around the words, “are… extraordinary.”

Bucky didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He kept one hand at your waist, the other hidden between your thighs—but still. You let out a shaky breath and met Dragomir’s gaze.

He smiled wider. “You’ve impressed me. Very few ever do.”

You fought the instinct to shrink back. Instead, you shifted slightly in Bucky’s lap, letting your fingers trail idly across his jaw like you were that girl—intoxicated, enthralled, insatiable.

Dragomir watched the gesture with hooded eyes.

“I think,” he said finally, “we should get to know each other better. Somewhere more private.”

He turned on his heel with the smooth confidence of a man used to being obeyed. “Come. My personal rooms are this way.”

And then he walked off—just like that.

Not a request. A command.

You sat frozen for half a second.

Then Bucky leaned into your ear and whispered, “We’ve got him.”

You nodded, nerves returning now that the haze had lifted. Your legs felt like jelly. You didn’t trust yourself to stand.

Bucky kissed your cheek. “Let me help.”

You shifted off his lap, your thighs clenching involuntarily from the sensitivity still echoing through your body. His arm went around your waist like it was second nature, guiding you to your feet. You smoothed your dress down as best you could. Your underwear was still shoved to the side, your skin warm and swollen with afterglow.

He looked at you—really looked—and whispered, “You’re perfect.”

You swallowed thickly. So did he. You were both in way too deep. But there was no time to think about that now.

Because Dragomir had taken the bait.

And the trap was about to be sprung.

The hallway to Dragomir’s private suite stretched long and luxurious, the marble floors glistening beneath warm golden sconces. You walked beside Bucky in silence, your heels echoing against the polished stone, your hand resting lightly in the crook of his elbow. From behind, anyone watching would see the perfect picture of a woman who’d just been thoroughly ruined by the man on her arm. Which, in a way, wasn’t wrong.

You could still feel his fingers between your thighs. Still felt the quiver in your muscles and the ghost of your last climax lingering like perfume on your skin.

At the end of the corridor stood a tall door flanked by two guards, both built like ex-special forces. They said nothing—just opened the door and gestured you in.

The room was quiet. Too quiet.

Not a bedroom. Not a lounge.

A theater.

The suite was elegant and sprawling, the walls paneled in dark wood with sleek leather couches and a wet bar gleaming in the corner. But the focal point was the back wall, made entirely of glass—or so it seemed. The kind of glass that reflected the room back at you… until you looked closer.

And realized it didn’t reflect at all.

Your stomach turned as you stepped inside. That wasn’t a mirror. It was a window.

A one-way one.

Behind that glass, Dragomir was watching.

Somewhere in that darkness, hidden and invisible, he was waiting. Observing. Probably sitting in a plush chair with a drink in hand, waiting to see if you could prove you were worth his time. Worth his secrets. Worth the invitation into the next layer of his empire.

The door shut behind you with a soft click.

Bucky stood beside you, silent. And then his hand found yours, fingers lacing through yours with slow certainty.

It was nothing the mission required. But it made your heart stutter anyway. He guided you toward the large, round bed in the center of the room—more of a platform, really. Draped in deep crimson sheets. Framed perfectly for the man behind the mirror.

You sat first. Bucky stood before you for a long moment, jaw tense, breathing slow.

“Eyes are on us,” he murmured.

“I know.”

You didn’t say it, but you could feel your pulse thrumming in every inch of your body. The last time had been overwhelming, raw. A wave of heat and desperation in the middle of a crowd. But now?

Now there was silence. And space. And with it came awareness. Of what you were doing. Of what it meant. Of how much more this would demand of you.

Bucky’s gaze softened. “You okay?”

You nodded. “You?”

A beat passed.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I will be. Just… follow my lead.”

You whispered, “Always.”

Then he moved. He stepped between your knees, bending slightly to press his mouth to yours—and this time, there was no show.

He didn’t kiss you like a man performing for a crowd. He kissed you like someone who’d been dying to do it for a long, long time. His lips slotted over yours with heat and purpose, coaxing rather than demanding. You kissed him back, hands rising to frame his face, thumbs brushing over the stubble on his cheeks as his tongue slid against yours in slow, deliberate strokes.

When he pulled back, just a breath apart, his hand came up to cradle the side of your neck. “Lie back,” he whispered, voice low and steady.

You obeyed, reclining onto the bed, the cool satin of the sheets a jarring contrast to your heated skin. Your dress had already ridden up—one of the straps slipping off your shoulder—and Bucky caught it between his fingers, dragging it down slowly, reverently.

He bared you inch by inch.

And behind the glass, Dragomir watched. Leaned forward, even. But Bucky didn’t spare the mirror even a glance.

His eyes were on you. He shifted down the bed, pushing the skirt of your dress higher until it bunched at your waist, leaving your thighs bare to the air. He paused at your knees, trailing his hands upward, caressing your skin like it was a holy ritual. His mouth followed—planting kisses on the inside of your knee, then higher, then higher still.

Your breath hitched as he pressed his cheek to your thigh.

And then—he looked up.

Not at the mirror.

At you.

There was something in his eyes then. A silent apology. And maybe more than that. Maybe a promise.

Then he dipped his head. His breath fanned over your core, still tender and slick with arousal, still aching for more.

You gasped, fingers clenching the sheets. But he didn’t touch—not really. His lips ghosted along the crease of your thigh, featherlight, and when you arched instinctively toward him, he held you gently in place with one strong hand spread over your belly.

“Easy, baby,” he murmured. “Not yet.”

His nose skimmed against you. His mouth hovered, lips parted. The faintest brush—like the first exhale of a prayer. Enough to make your hips jerk. Still, he didn’t move closer. Didn’t give you what you were begging for without words.

He just watched your reactions. Fascinated. Wrecked.

Like he was coming undone from seeing you this way—laid out, trembling, open for him and only him. You whimpered, toes curling. His breath stuttered against you.

Your hand found his hair, carding through it slowly as your thighs fell farther apart in silent invitation. But he still didn’t touch.

He kissed the inside of your thigh again, then the other.

His mouth traveled over skin with reverence, with restraint, his hands steady on your hips like he was trying to anchor himself in the moment, trying not to cross the final line—not here. Not in front of him.

But you knew. You knew he wanted to. That he was holding back only by the barest thread. And maybe that’s what made it worse.

Or better.

Because you were holding on by a thread too. Your breath came in shallow gasps now, body twitching with every not-quite kiss, every near-touch. He murmured things into your skin—not for the mirror. For you. Little nothings in Romanian and English, reverent and dirty all at once. Like you were the offering. You were the altar.

You felt like one.

Your body was alive, sparking under every word, every pass of his breath, every scrape of his stubble. You ached for him. Craved him. And the longer he held back, the closer you came to the edge all over again—just from feeling him near you. Just from knowing he could. That he wanted to.

Then his voice reached you again, hoarse and trembling.

“I’ve never wanted anything this bad in my life.”

You believed him.

Because neither had you.

Time had lost all meaning.

You didn’t know how long Bucky had been teasing you—his breath ghosting over your core, his mouth tracing reverent lines along your thighs, marks littering across your skin, his words spoken so low and hungry they felt like sin itself. You’d long since stopped pretending it was just for the mission. His hands on your skin, the gentle rock of your hips against the bed, the tremble in your limbs… it was all him. All real.

And still, he hadn’t truly touched you again. He was holding the line. Barely.

But something had shifted in him. Maybe it was how you were writhing beneath him. Maybe it was because there was no hiding how badly you wanted him. You saw it in the way his mouth followed the curve of your hip like he was worshiping it. In the way he whispered your name—not the code name, not an act. Yours. Spoken like a confession. So quiet that only you could hear it.

Then you felt his hands slide up your sides again, under your dress, slow and steady. He lifted you slightly, shifting your body effortlessly, and you let him—already boneless, dazed. It wasn’t until he pushed you gently down onto your stomach that you registered what was happening.

You gasped softly as the cool silk of the bed kissed your cheek, your chest flush against the sheets. One of Bucky’s arms curled around your hips, lifting them with ease. You followed, rising on your knees as he settled you in place—face down, ass up, utterly exposed.

Your panties were already shoved to the side, soaked and ruined. Now, he tugged them the rest of the way down and slipped them off.

You heard him sigh quietly through his nose, as if the sight of you this way was almost too much. Then the faint rustle of fabric as he pocketed them. No question. No comment. Just a silent claiming.

Your heart thundered.

Then—

His hard cock slid against your bare cunt, rutting just slightly. You cried out against him, rocking your hips back to meet his. His mouth found your lower back.

The softest press of lips. Then another. Slower. Lower.

He kissed down the curve of your spine like he was tracing a roadmap he’d studied in dreams, all while rocking his hips against yours. Each press of his lips made your thighs twitch, your breath catch. You bit the sheets as you felt his tongue sweep along the curve above your ass, and a sound escaped you—a desperate, needy whimper you couldn’t choke down.

Bucky groaned behind you, metal hand gripping your hip a little tighter. You were seconds from begging him to stop playing and just take you when the door behind you clicked.

A soft sound.

But deafening in the silence of the moment.

You froze. So did Bucky. You felt him still behind you, his hand still firm on your hip. He was the only thing anchoring you as the spell shattered and reality rushed back in like a storm.

A new presence stepped into the room.

“I must confess,” Dragomir said, his voice lazy and indulgent, “I was enjoying the view from behind the glass… but I find myself curious for something closer.”

Your stomach dropped.

You stayed frozen, heart pounding against the mattress, not daring to move. Bucky’s body shifted behind you, rising slowly—calculated. Smooth. A shadow cut between you and the mirror now.

You couldn’t see his face. But you felt the change in the air.

The heat gone cold. The hunter returned.

Bucky’s voice, when it came, was low and calm. Measured like a blade being drawn.

“I think you’ve seen enough.”

Dragomir chuckled. “You think so? I could watch her for hours. Your little songbird… the way she opens for you…”

“I said,” Bucky repeated, voice darker now, “you’ve seen enough.”

You chanced a glance over your shoulder—and caught just a flash.

His face. Calm. Deadly. The glint of something hidden in his hand. Just below the waistline of his pants, he drew it in one fluid motion—silent, precise.

The tranq gun.

He didn’t wait.

The second Dragomir stepped close enough to breathe your air, Bucky raised the weapon and fired.

The dart hit center mass. Dragomir’s smirk faltered. Then he stumbled backward, hands grasping at his chest. Bucky stepped forward, shielding your body from view as the arms dealer crumpled to the floor without a word.

Just like that—you were done.

The room was still for a moment. Then Bucky turned, tucking the gun away in the hidden strap at his ankle before helping you up from the bed, one hand steady on your bare back.

“You okay?” he asked, voice quiet, real.

You nodded, tugging your dress down with shaky hands.

He reached out and framed your face gently between both palms—flesh and metal, warm and cold. His forehead pressed to yours.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Let’s get out of here.”

The rest moved fast.

Bucky carried Dragomir’s unconscious body over one shoulder while guiding you down a back corridor that the surveillance team had mapped earlier. Your comms buzzed back to life as you neared the extraction point, a coded pulse signaling successful acquisition.

You barely registered it.

Your mind was still on the bedroom. On his mouth. On the way his body had moved against yours like he needed you.

You weren’t sure if you were walking or floating.

Bucky didn’t let go of your hand the entire time.

Even when he had to maneuver Dragomir into the waiting car, he kept his fingers curled around yours like a lifeline, like he couldn’t bear to break contact. When the doors closed behind you both, and the car peeled off into the Romanian night, he finally looked at you again.

You stared at each other in silence.

There was no mask now. No act. Just the aftershock of what you’d done—and what it meant.

Your dress was wrinkled. His shirt was open. You were covered in his marks and your panties were still in his pocket.

But the mission was done.

And nothing would ever be the same.

The silence was louder than any explosion you’d ever heard.

It followed you both as you left the mission behind—the body delivered, the asset secured, the team informed. It followed you through the late-night drive across the countryside, headlights streaking through endless dark. It followed you into the safe house tucked deep in the Carpathians, past stone walls and creaking floors, a fire already smoldering in the hearth.

It followed you down the hall when you didn’t speak. When Bucky didn’t reach for you. And it wrapped around you like fog when you shut the bathroom door behind you and turned the water on hot enough to scald.

You stood under the spray far too long, hands braced against the cool tile, water pounding your back like it could scrub off the feel of his fingers, his mouth, his voice. But it couldn’t. You still felt him. Not just on your skin.

Inside.

You hadn’t meant to lose yourself in it. But somewhere between the second kiss and the second orgasm, between the filthy Romanian murmurs and the aching way he’d kissed your shoulder, something had changed.

It had been a mission.

And then it hadn’t.

You wrapped yourself in a towel, still wet, and stared at your reflection. Your skin was flushed, your lips pink and full. Your thighs were sore and covered in his marks. Your chest still rose and fell like you hadn’t caught your breath since that room.

And you were trembling.

But not from fear. Not even from adrenaline. You were trembling because you still wanted him.

And the worst part? You weren’t sure if that made you brave—or weak.

The kitchen smelled like garlic and rosemary when you padded in barefoot, hair damp, body wrapped in an oversized sweatshirt you found folded at the edge of the bed. You hadn’t looked in the mirror again. You didn’t need to.

Bucky stood at the stove, sleeves pushed up, collar undone, the scarred edge of his vibranium arm catching the firelight. He stirred something in a pan—simple, warm. Comfort food. A quiet offering.

Neither of you said anything when he plated it. Pasta, toasted bread, bits of roasted chicken. He poured water into a glass and set it beside your fork. You sat across from him at the small wooden table. The only sound was the clink of silverware and the crackle of the fire.

You tried to eat. But your throat was too tight.

Bucky barely touched his food.

Eventually, he set his fork down and leaned back in his chair, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped like he didn’t trust himself to let go. You didn’t look up until he spoke.

“I shouldn’t have touched you like that.”

Your head lifted slowly.

He wasn’t looking at you. He was staring at the floor, jaw tight, voice hoarse. “I let the mission get to me. Let you get to me. I was supposed to keep you safe. Not make it worse.”

Your fingers tightened around your fork. “You didn’t—”

“I did,” he cut in. “I crossed a line. You asked me to take it further, and I wanted to. Wanted to go harder. That’s the part that fucks with me. I didn’t just go along with it—I wanted to be the one who made you come like that. I wanted to make you shake.” His voice cracked at the end. Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs. He still wouldn’t look at you.

You set your fork down and swallowed the lump in your throat. Your voice was soft. Real.

“I’m still shaking.” His eyes flicked up to meet yours as you exhaled slowly, “Not because of shame. Or because of what you did. But because of what it felt like.”

He stared at you like you’d just confessed something sacred. “I’m not scared of you, Bucky.”

His jaw clenched. You stood up slowly, walking around the table until you were standing in front of him. His eyes tracked every step, but he didn’t move. Didn’t reach for you.

You dropped to your knees between his, resting your hands on his thighs.

“You didn’t make it worse,” you whispered. “You made it harder to pretend it wasn’t real. That’s all.”

He exhaled sharply, knuckles whitening where his fists were clenched. You leaned in, resting your cheek against his knee. “I’m still aching,” you admitted, voice barely audible. “Not because you hurt me. But because you stopped.”

He let out a broken sound—somewhere between a curse and a prayer. You looked up. His hands reached for you slowly, hesitantly—one flesh, one metal. They hovered beside your face, trembling.

“I didn’t want your first time with me to be that,” he said, voice rough. “A job. A fucking performance. That wasn’t fair to you.”

You pressed into his palms. “It didn’t feel like a job.”

His eyes flicked between yours, searching, desperate. “Then what did it feel like?” he whispered.

You answered without fear. “Like you meant every touch.”

He swallowed hard. “I did.”

“And I wanted every one of them.” He groaned softly, resting his forehead against yours, like your words had cracked something open. Then you whispered the truth you’d been holding back since the moment you left that mirrored room.

“Bucky… I didn’t get to finish that last time.”

He froze.

“I came before. Twice. But when you kissed down my spine…” You swallowed. “When you said you wanted me more than anything—you didn’t even touch me and I almost—”

His breath hitched.

“And then he walked in, and I had to pretend it didn’t matter,” you whispered. “But it did.”

He sat back slightly, his voice shaking.

“You’re still hurting because of me.”

You shook your head. “I’m hurting because I wanted more of you.”

His pupils dilated. And then he stood—fast and fluid—and pulled you up into his arms like he couldn’t bear another second without you.

Bucky didn’t kiss you right away.

He just held you. Arms tight around your waist, face buried against your neck like he was trying to make sure you were real. His breath came hot and uneven, chest heaving like he’d run a mile. Like he was drowning and you were the first breath he’d taken in years.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. And when he finally pulled back enough to look at you, your breath caught.

He looked wrecked. His pupils were blown wide, lips parted, jaw tight with restraint. Like he was on the verge of breaking—and afraid you’d vanish if he did.

“You sure?” he whispered. “Because if we do this… I won’t be able to stop. Not halfway. Not after everything I felt with you in that room.”

You lifted your chin, no hesitation in your voice. “Then don’t stop.”

And that was all it took.

He surged forward, kissing you like he’d been dying for it—like the hours of teasing and pretending and aching had finally pushed him too far. His hands were everywhere. On your waist, in your hair, sliding beneath the oversized sweatshirt you wore like it offended him. He pulled it up and off, flinging it across the room without ever breaking the kiss.

You were bare underneath. No bra. Just you—flushed and warm and already breathless. His breath stuttered as he looked at you.

“Jesus,” he muttered, cupping your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You pressed your palms to his chest, fingers tracing the lines of muscle, the old scars, the new ones. You leaned in and kissed the center of his sternum, just once, before whispering, “Touch me like it’s real now.”

Bucky groaned, low and deep in his chest. Then he lifted you.

You let out a small gasp as your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, your hands in his hair, lips back on his mouth. He carried you down the hall with ease, each step fast and precise, like he couldn’t wait one more second. When he reached the bedroom, he kicked the door shut with his foot and laid you down on the bed like you were something fragile he finally got to hold without gloves.

He hovered over you, pressing kisses to your mouth, your throat, the hollow of your collarbone. His metal hand smoothed up your thigh, cool and steady, grounding you. The contrast of temperature made you shiver.

“I thought about this,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “Every night since Berlin. Every time you leaned on me after a mission. Every time you smiled like you didn’t know what you were doing to me.”

You reached down, palming the front of his pants—already hard, straining beneath the fabric. “I knew.”

He hissed through his teeth, hips jerking. “You little brat,” he muttered, nose brushing yours. “You knew and you still let me suffer.”

You smirked. “You liked suffering for it.”

His hand slid between your thighs. “You’re damn right I did.” Then he was kissing you again, and this time it was slower. Deeper. Not hungry. Worshipful. He slid down your body, kissing over your belly, your hips. When he pressed your thighs apart and settled between them, his eyes locked on yours like he was asking one last time—

And you whispered, “Please.”

That was it.

His mouth found you, tongue licking a firm stripe up your center that made your back arch off the mattress. Your hands flew into his hair, thighs tightening around his head as he moaned against you. He devoured you—slow, methodical, then filthy and raw. Switching from broad strokes to soft flicks, curling his tongue just right until you were crying out, incoherent.

You came on his mouth, sobbing his name, clenching around nothing—and when he pulled away, lips wet, expression dazed, he kissed the inside of your thigh and whispered, “That’s one.”

You were still shaking when he kissed back up your body, trailing his hand between your breasts, teasing a nipple with his thumb as he rolled his hips down against yours.

You felt him. Thick. Heavy. Hard.

Your breath hitched.

“Condom?” he rasped, already breathless.

You shook your head. “I want to feel all of you. Just you.”

His eyes nearly closed, like the weight of that hit too deep. “You’re sure?” he asked.

You curled your hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down until your lips barely touched. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Then you reached between your bodies and slid his pants down, freeing him from the last barrier.

He groaned into your mouth as you wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly—learning the weight of him, the thickness, the way his hips bucked under your touch.

“Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me,” he gasped, teeth gritted.

“Good,” you whispered. “I want to.”

He lined himself up, head pressed against your entrance. His gaze locked on yours, expression tender and wild all at once. Then—slowly—he pushed in.

You both gasped at the same time. He was big. Stretching you inch by inch. Filling you in a way that made your toes curl and your mouth fall open as your eyes fluttered shut.

“No,” he whispered, brushing his nose against yours. “Eyes on me.”

You opened them. You watched him sink into you, watched his lips part and his brows furrow as he seated himself fully, hips flush against yours.

“Fuck,” he choked. “You feel like—like you were made for me.”

You cupped his face with both hands, eyes stinging. Then you rocked your hips once. He whimpered. Actually whimpered as his composure shattered.

“Fuck, baby, please,” he begged, voice cracked. “I need you. I need you so bad—please let me move—please, I’ll be so good—I’ll make it so good for you—”

You held him tighter. “Then do it,” you whispered. “Make it good. Make it better.”

And he did. He started to move, pulling out slowly before sliding back in, finding a rhythm that made the stars behind your eyes pulse. He rolled his hips just right, grinding deep. His mouth kissed everywhere—your jaw, your ear, the swell of your breasts—like he couldn’t bare to leave any part of you untouched.

You locked your legs around his waist, meeting every thrust, crying out when he hit that spot that made your eyes roll back.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “That’s my girl. Take it—just like that—fuck, I love how you feel—I love—”

He stopped himself. Your breath caught. You stared at him, panting. He didn’t move. His chest heaved against yours.

The words hung in the air. You lifted a hand to his cheek. “Say it.”

His voice cracked. “I love you.” It broke from him like a storm, like a vow. Like it had been sitting in his chest for years and finally clawed its way out.

Your heart split open. “I love you,” he repeated, forehead pressing to yours. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this, but—God, I love you.”

Your hands tangled in his hair. Your lips kissed his mouth. “Then don’t stop loving me.”

His thrusts grew rougher, needier. You clung to him, gasping, crying out, right at the edge. “I’ll make it up to you,” he swore, voice unraveling. “Every day. Every time. I’ll spend my whole life making it up to you—”

Then you came. He followed with a broken cry, spilling into you, arms wrapped so tight around you it felt like he’d never let go.

And you didn’t want him to.

Not ever.

You woke to the smell of coffee and the feel of Bucky’s hand tracing lazy circles over your bare lower back. The sheets were a tangled mess around your hips. The mattress dipped slightly beneath him where he sat against the headboard, one leg stretched out, the other bent so he could cradle the mug in his hand. He looked unfairly good in nothing but a pair of sweats, hair still mussed from your fingers, chest kissed in red streaks from your mouth and nails.

You blinked sleepily, cheek still pressed into his side. “You made coffee?”

“Only if you’re nice to me.”

“I was very nice to you last night,” you muttered into his ribs, voice still husky from sleep—and moaning.

“Mm.” He sipped. “Can’t argue with that.”

You stretched with a groan, feeling sore in every way that made you blush. Between your thighs, along your hips, deep in your abs. You felt… used. Loved. Feral.

Ruined.

It was glorious.

His hand trailed down your spine, fingertips dancing over a spot you remembered all too well—right above your tailbone, where his lips had lingered just before—

“You pocketed my panties yesterday,” you said suddenly, voice flat with faux accusation.

Bucky coughed into his coffee. “I… what?”

You lifted your head slowly, giving him your best death glare. “I heard it. Back at the club. Right after you pulled them off. You tucked them into your pants like a perv.”

He smirked, all teeth and sin. “Perv? That’s rude. I was safeguarding evidence.”

“Oh? Gonna tag and bag it for S.H.I.E.L.D. archives?”

“They’re in my jacket pocket,” he said proudly. “I might frame them.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Didn’t stop you from begging for it, sweetheart.” You launched a pillow at his face, which he caught one-handed like a smug bastard.

“I’m never gonna live this down,” you muttered, hiding under the sheets. “I can see the debrief now. ‘Agent compromised. Pantyless. Moaning.’ Yelena will never let me forget it.”

He reached under the covers, dragging you into his lap with zero effort, your naked body wrapping around him instinctively. He kissed your neck, slow and possessive, the hand on your thigh tracing the same maddening circles it always did when he wanted to make you squirm.

“You were more than compromised,” he murmured, voice dropping. “You were mine.” You flushed deep. But you didn’t deny it.

You arrived back at headquarters forty-eight hours later—rested, cleaned, still slightly raw from the way Bucky had insisted on making you come on his face before the flight. Twice.

The safehouse glow faded as soon as the elevator doors opened onto the briefing floor.

Val was waiting. So was Yelena. And Bob. And Ava. And every other team member who hadn’t been cleared for that op.

They were all staring at you.

And then—

“THERE THEY ARE!” Yelena crowed, practically climbing over the conference table to meet you halfway. “The performance of the century! Did you see the footage?!”

“You saw footage?” you asked, instantly mortified.

Bob waggled a tablet from across the room. “You were out of camera range most of the time. But the audio feed was… let’s say, deeply educational.”

“I had to turn it off,” Ava deadpanned. “You were making my ventilator blush.”

You turned to Bucky. “You told me there was no audio.”

He raised a brow. “I wasn’t wearing a wire.”

You shoved him. He caught you around the waist and pulled you in without hesitation, grinning against your temple.

Val stepped forward then, all business—but with a flicker of something suspiciously close to amusement in her eyes.

“You secured the target. You extracted without civilian casualties. And you somehow managed to break Agent Dragomir’s security web without tripping any alerts.”

She paused, nodding towards Bucky as she added, “he’s been asking for your ‘wife’ every day since.”

You blinked. “Wife?”

“He seemed to think you two were ‘passionately married’.” Val said dryly. “Wanted us to tell you he misses the way you moan.”

Bucky’s jaw cracked.

You coughed. “That’s… fine. He can miss me from prison.”

Val’s gaze lingered. “Mission accomplished. File your final reports by Friday. And maybe next time—” her eyes cut to Bucky, “—don’t steal any ‘evidence’.”

He didn’t even flinch. Just nodded, all calm and smug. “Too late. I’m keeping them.”

You groaned and walked straight out of the room.

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t rushed. After everything that had burned through you during the mission—every whispered plea, every desperate kiss—there was a stillness now.

A tenderness. You weren’t pretending anymore. You didn’t need to chase the heat to justify what you felt. You let the slow burn settle instead.

You stayed over that night. And the night after. He didn’t ask. You didn’t leave.

You cooked dinner together—though he chopped like a soldier, and you snuck vegetables into his pockets when he wasn’t looking just to see if he’d notice. You watched old movies on his couch. He pressed his mouth to your forehead when you fell asleep on his chest.

You had long conversations at 1AM about nothing. About everything. He’d never had this before. The aftermath. The quiet. The softness of love without threat looming around the corner.

Neither had you. He walked you to your quarters every morning, hand in yours, thumb rubbing slow circles over your knuckles. Like he couldn’t stop. Like he wouldn’t.

And every time you parted—even for a moment—you looked back.

And so did he.

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poge-life · 15 days ago

Text

thank you so much 🫶🏻

ᯓ★ clark kent - superman

𝜗𝜚 masterlist • dc • 07/23/25

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs two II one II gif credit - @/newavengers

here are some clark kent stories i’ve read, loved, and reblogged. all the admiration for the writers who share their talent so generously. please be sure to read the warnings on each fic. and if you enjoy them, let the author know by a comment, reblog, or both! ♡

ᝰ.ᐟ key: A- angst I F- fluff I S- smut I C- comfort I HC- hurt/comfort I ~S- implied smut I

ꨄ︎ clark kent hcs I @404superman I F

ꨄ︎ sex pollen I @dearwalker I S

When Clark gets poisoned with sex pollen, he tries everything in his power to stay away from you. Until he ends up crashing into your living room, and you have a god on his knees, with your name in his mouth and your body at his will.

ꨄ︎ don’t want you like a best friend I @se7entyrell I F + S

the one in which jimmy olsen is tired of watching you and clark dance around your feelings, and decides to do something about it, aka the one where clark fucks you at a daily planet gala.

ꨄ︎ honey i love you, that’s all she wrote I @/se7entyrell I F

The one in which Clark Kent has a wife and daughter that give the word home a whole new meaning.

ꨄ︎ blurb pt2 pt3 I @callsign-swan I F

Superman is dating someone pink and Clark Kent totally isn't jealous.

ꨄ︎ blurb I @/callsign-swan I F

Your first time meeting krypto had Clark worried, to say the least.

ꨄ︎ clark kent and the lavender skirt I @luveline I F

You like to rush things. Clark takes things slow until he can’t anymore. (Or, you attempt to seduce your coworker in a series of little skirts, and while Clark falls in love with all of you, the skirts don’t hurt.)

ꨄ︎ time lost in a warm lap I @/luveline I F + ~S

Clark stays the night for the first time.

ꨄ︎ cute panties I @/luveline I F + ~S

ꨄ︎ request I @ddejavvu I ~S

ꨄ︎ request I @/ddejavvu I F

ꨄ︎ gold rush I @goldenlikedayl1ght I A + F

your boyfriend's dog gives you a concussion and it's not even the worst part of your week.

ꨄ︎ business of flirting I @fluentmoviequoter I F

You flirt with Clark Kent every time he comes into your coffee shop. When he finally realizes you do it for more reason than watching him shy away from you, he realizes you're not so different.

ꨄ︎ baby, it’s you! I @bodhiscurls I A + F

clark kent finally works up the courage to ask you to dinner; only to run behind on work with lois and completely stand you up. it's fine, you're three glasses of wine in and ready to rant at your friend lois' door, only to find the cause of tonight's rage sitting there on her sofa. now, clark has to find a way to tell you the truth; that this is all a misunderstanding and it's only ever been you. it will always be you.

ꨄ︎ where do we go now? I @/bodhiscurls I A

you don't know where he disappears to- there's always excuses: he's caught up at work, stuck in traffic, some stupid alien attack cut him up on his commute. but now more than ever when you need him to show up at a family dinner where you planned to introduce him to your parents, he still comes in pieces and enough is enough.

ꨄ︎ you and i- we’re in this for life I @/bodhiscurls I A + F

it's your wedding day, you've dreamed of this for moment for months to finally marry the love of your life so why does it feel like you just can't breathe. it's the shoes, the dress, the people you don't even know waiting for you outside- good thing clark doesn't believe in it being bad luck to see the bride before the wedding- he has the best luck in the world to be marrying you.

ꨄ︎ nonsense I @xxepherr I F

in which clark kent thinks he's the one keeping a superhero secret in your relationship, but really, it's you.

ꨄ︎ fortress I @charmedntruer I F

tasked to take clark to the safest possible place he can recover from the pocket universe, you come to a few new revelations of your own upon seeing where clark was raised in the countryside.

ꨄ︎ starboy I @buckysfaveplum I HC

recovering from kryptonite poisoning back home in Kansas leaves your relationship with Clark a bit confused. you’ve always been his rock- his best friend. but now, back on the farm, maybe there was always something more

ꨄ︎ krypto, take me home I @/buckysfaveplum I C

when Clark can’t make it to the fortress, Krypto brings him to you

ꨄ︎ groupie I @/buckysfaveplum I F

he’s your punkrocker. your star. but sometimes you wonder if you’re just a groupie, if he sees you the same

ꨄ︎ tell-tale heart I @/buckysfaveplum I F

clark can't help but indulge when he hears how fast your heartbeat gets around him

ꨄ︎ drabble I @hearts4hughes I F

trying to give clark a hickey

ꨄ︎ phases to love I @/hearts4hughes I A + F

ꨄ︎ drabble I @rotapathetic I F

no one laughs at clark’s jokes but you

ꨄ︎ stood up I @shadybinature I A + S

Superman has to save the world, so Clark Kent stands you up....again.

ꨄ︎ where the leashes tangle I @writing-for-marvel I F

While walking Krypto, Clark ends up entangled with you and your puppy.

ꨄ︎ blurb I @milkbean69 I S

leaked sextape

ꨄ︎ jealous of jimmy I @plaidcowboy I F

clark becomes upset and a little insecure about the fact that you and jimmy have been so close recently, but thankfully you’re there to reassure him that he still has his chance with you!

ꨄ︎ clingy clark I @/plaidcowboy I C

after insecurely taking advice from jimmy and spending hours online, clark distances himself from you. scared he might’ve overwhelmed you with his clinginess. all for a crying clark to come back home to you.

ꨄ︎ clark kent hcs I @fear-is-truth

ꨄ︎ wayne strategies I @athenalvss I F

In revenge against your brother, you went to work in Metropolis and perhaps your brother's league partner makes you put into action the Wayne strategies to have the person you want.

ꨄ︎ drabble I @cherrysinner I F

having clark be mean to you in front of his parents.

ꨄ︎ anti-bullying assembly I @/cherrysinner I F

when your school's principal catches you on the phone with superman, not realizing it's your husband, you come up with an excuse as to why you were on the phone with him.

ꨄ︎ i saw mom kissing superman I @/cherrysinner I A + F

your daughter accidentally catches you with your lips locked with superman and thinks you're cheating on her father.

ꨄ︎ underneath the covers I @neilsbeloved I F + S

freshman year of college has you going insane. good thing clark has a knack for knowing exactly when to sweep you off your feet, way before any unwanted crashouts happen.

ꨄ︎ on the record I @kingkat12 I F + S

finally, you get that interview with Superman that could make or break your career-- however, it will be done his way, or no way.

ꨄ︎ night’s so blue I @junleb I F

it's rare for two reporters to be assigned to the same movie. how convenient that you already have a good relationship with clark. or, this is too good to be true. it isn't a set-up, right?

ꨄ︎ unfold your love I @/junleb I F

jimmy olsen and the mystery of two idiots who are definitely not in love

ꨄ︎ poisonivy!reader hcs I @poge-life

ꨄ︎ my hero I @jungkooklover777 I F + A

an office romance sounds good in theory but what happens when it goes according to theory?

ꨄ︎ tornado warnings I @thatfoxygrl I F

ꨄ︎ couldn’t make it any harder I @/thatfoxygrl I A + F

when you're known around school for being avoidant, clark wonders if theres any truth to the rumors and challenges himself to break down your walls and get to know the real you

ꨄ︎ journalist!reader I @killishin I F

ꨄ︎ stop avoiding me I @/killishin I F

ꨄ︎ kissing clark kent I @sunsburns I F

ꨄ︎ rivals to lovers pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 pt7 pt8 pt9 I @messylxve I F + HC

ꨄ︎ a lesson in trust falling I @swordgrace I F

you’re not fond of flying — thankfully, your boyfriend is superman.

ꨄ︎ places we were made I @codenamefalcon I F

Smallville will always be Clark’s home. It was where he was raised. It was where his parents were. It was where you were. During one week long visit, he finally decides to brave the leap from friendship to something more with you, but something gets in the way. Fortunately for Clark, he’s dedicated to proving just how much you mean to him, and you’re a sucker for a trip down memory lane.

ꨄ︎ all makes sense I @musingsofheaven I S

The obsession of other interns had with him never made sense. Not until one night… drinks turned into something more. It’s so good that it makes all those promises to never be one of the girls giggling over Clark Kent feel ridiculous. But now it makes sense. God, now it does.

ꨄ︎ the sound of my voice (will haunt you) I @orobaxis I A

ꨄ︎ bring me sunshine I @eupheme I S

ꨄ︎ eyes like pretty lights I @fawnindawn I F

surprising clark with a visit at the daily planet, it sparks memories of the past and how some things never change, especially clark's eyes that still shine like pretty lights only for you. seeing your best friend in metropolis after so long, it might be hard for you to leave him again- especially when he doesn't want you to.

ꨄ︎ till i lose it I @/fawnindawn I A + F

Clark finds himself feeling jealous for the first time when you get assigned on a case with Jimmy Olsen, and start spending more time with the photojournalist instead of him.

ꨄ︎ bad friend I @twiceasbright I A + F

your best friend asks you to set her up with clark kent, who's your work crush. despite your feelings for him, you agree- for the sake of your friend. but things go awry when you panic and end up accidentally asking him out yourself. now you have to find a way to fix it before things go too far.

ꨄ︎ no strings attached… unless? I @kryptoclark I A + F + S

what was supposed to be a simple no-strings hookup between best friends turns complicated when feelings inevitably get involved. huh. who would've thought?

ꨄ︎ who’s calling my phone? I @prettypeeling I F

clark has a crush on the daily planet's receptionist.

ꨄ︎ cemetery girl I @vaamppiraa I A

in which you and clark are married, but after an accident, you lose your memory

ꨄ︎ you deserve it I @blank-potato I S

Clark has a tough day so you decide to make him feel better. You both just hope your neighbours don't kill you with how loud the two of you tend to get.

ꨄ︎ hit me hard and soft I @sceletaflores I S

ꨄ︎ locked out I @thatcorporategirlie I F

You find yourself locked out of your apartment, so your very attractive neighbor Clark offers you to hang out at his and eat some pizza until your friend arrives with your spare key.

ꨄ︎ big blue softy I @starryevermore I C

you have a minor surgery and clark is more than happy to take care of you.

ꨄ︎ meet the kents I @isaadore I F

clark takes you home to meet his parents and spends the entire trip being an embarrassing, love-sick puppy.

ꨄ︎ unmasked I @sunsherbet I A + C

In which you want your boyfriend, not superman, to save you

ꨄ︎ one-shot I @p3terparker I F

you confess your feelings for clark, not knowing he’s listening to everything you’re saying.

ꨄ︎ benny and the jets I @snooperzz I A + C

After the reader/oc tries and fails to get back into the dating scene, Clark Kent swoops in to save the day.

ꨄ︎ technical difficulties I @hauntedhowlett-writes I S

As an IT specialist for The Daily Planet, you’re no stranger to Clark Kent’s struggles with technology. When he calls you on your personal phone with an after hours emergency, of course you’re willing to help him out. He shows his gratitude in an interesting way.

ꨄ︎ you make me wanna make you fall in love I @cerisereids I A + F

You’re the new assistant at the Daily Planet. Your job is to run errands, get coffees, and not fall in love with the handsome man in glasses.

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