tteotlma

[tteotlma]

Beneath the Table

-- You thought you were in control when you handed him the remote. But Joel’s patience is thin—and watching you fall apart slowly might be the only thing keeping him from ruining you in public.

Joel Miller x Reader 14K WORDS... do i know a number less than 5k?

anon req:

Listen…I saw something the other day while shopping. Came across…a remote control vibrator. With a car key looking remote…(Bellesa boutique something or other is the brand.) Might I bring to your attention; Joel. Miller. Game Joel specifically. And his beautiful wonderful little gf using a remote control vibrator while out on a fancy date and then doing it in his truck… He has the remote obviously…maybe he’s in a grumpier mood than usual, so he sets it on high, then slow…then high while the waiter talks to reader. Oh, Reader gave the waiter a little smile? Joel’s a little jealous at that. Sets that bad boy on high as punishment. Gawduhhhhhh I need it. Just me or…do we ALL need it? 🤷‍♀️

tw: 18+ MDNI; minimal use of y/n, minimal reader description; fem reader, explicit sexual content; PWP (porn without plot); public teasing; remote-control vibrator use; overstimulation; vaginal fingering; oral sex (f. receiving); semi-public setting (restaurant); car sex; cockwarming; squirting; light dominance; dirty talk; teasing/power dynamics; light choking/neck holding; possessive behavior; light embarrassment; mutual consent; emotional aftercare; tension-heavy buildup; mention of alcohol. if ur not a fan of slowwwwww then idt this is for u... "growling" is used quite a bit bc i dont know what other words exist a/n: yeah i can't believe this is 14k words... im so sorry... but nott really bc i needed all the words for this. NOT ENTIRELY PROOF READ

--

“The hell is this?” The gruff man sitting on the edge of the bed in front of you raised his eyebrows incredulously high, staring up at you through his lashes. 

“Um, well…” Fiddling with your hands behind your back, you found yourself twisting from side to side under the scrutiny of his stare, heat rushing up your neck. “I-it’s a party favor,” you mumbled slightly. 

Joel stared at the pink box. Then at you.

"Party favor?" Joel barked. "The hell kinda parties you goin' to?”

“Bachelorette party?” You were starting to feel dumber by the second. You knew it was a bad idea to bring it up to your old man, too set in his ways to try anything out of the ordinary. The small of your back was getting uncomfortably hot. 

“Forget it—" You lunged for the box, but Joel leaned back, smirking, just out of reach. 

He swung an arm around you, pulling you into his chest. The force causing a small “oomph” to leave your lips as he held you in place against him. 

“Hold on a second,” he huffed, holding the labeled side of the box up to his face, still out of reach from you. “You ain’t even said anythin’ about anythin’ so before you get all huffy tell me what’s goin’ on in that head of yours.” 

Now it’s your turn to stare at him. 

“Come on, princess.” He smirked, sitting up and taking you with him, so now you’re sitting on his lap. The heat of his denim-clad thigh prickles your skin. “Don’t be gettin’ shy on me now.” He teased, a strong hand on the small of your back. 

“W-well,” you put your hands on his shoulders to try and find some grounding. “The other day… at T-tommy’s…” your fingers come to play with the distressed collar of his t-shirt, lightly toying with the hairs peeking through the cotton neckline. 

“Tommy’s place?"

“A friend of Maria’s… was havin’ a party. Celebratin’ her marriage by using their house as the party venue… and well, when the night was over she and her friends were handin’ these out.. so I figured why not.” You shrugged shyly, eyes never leaving your fingers on his shirt, too embarrassed to look up. 

“You know what it is?” He asks, and you hit him lightly in the chest. 

“Duh,” you scoffed, followed by silence, making you look up. Joel was looking down at you with a smug expression on his face.

“So you took one…” 

You huffed in irritation, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“Miller, of course I did. Those things are expensive.”

“And you know this because…?” That stupid smirk was back on his face. 

“Because I looked it up after I grabbed it! Ugh, just give it back—“ You tried reaching for the box again, only to have him pull back again. 

“No, ‘m sorry, sweetheart,” Joel pulls you closer, “Y’know I just like teasin’ you.” He confessed softly, you looked at him with mild annoyance, debating if you should pinch his cheek or tug on his facial hair. 

“Anyways,” Joel starts again before you can officially decide. “So you grabbed the favor, and now y’wanna use it.” 

You didn’t say anything, couldn’t. The sheer idea of voicing your wants… desires out loud felt like jumping off a ledge straight into plunging cold water… so you just nod instead, cheeks burning. 

“I-I,” you pause, looking at him, and he’s watching you expectantly, eyebrows raised as if to encourage you to speak. “I thought we could use it tonight… for our date.” 

“Hmm…” is the only sound that leaves Joel’s mouth, and it’s silent. You close your eyes, and still your body… shame slowly creeping up your chest. 

“You’re gonna have to tell me what it is, sweetheart,” Joel says, rotating the box in one hand, staring up at you. 

“Sorry?” 

“You wanna use this, but to be honest, sweetheart, I have no clue what this is.” He’s joking. He has to be. There’s no way his old Yeller-esque eyes couldn’t read the giant label printed on the side. He was just messing with you, toying with you, teasing. You breathed out a small chuckle in disbelief. 

“It’s a vibrator, Miller, and I want you to use it on me.” Joel looks past the pink box, and locks eyes with you, a mischievous glint in his eyes and a shift in his posture gives way that he hears you loud and clear. 

He clears his throat and stands, bringing you up with him. 

“Where d’you wanna go?” He asks, voice breathless. Smirking, you grab the box from his hand, tossing it onto the bed. You find his now-empty hand, leading him to the shared closet. 

“Why don’t we dress first?” Turning to face him, you run your hands down his chest and toy with the hemline of his shirt. Fingers grazing the warm skin beneath the fabric. Joel smiles and hooks his fingers beneath his shirt to pull it over his head. 

—

For all the lingering touches and unspoken tension, you both managed to dress the part—elegant enough for the evening, though there was nothing refined about the thoughts you shared. 

You stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down the ruched silk that sat low across your stomach. The deep crimson fabric clung to you like a second skin, catching the low light in soft, lazy glints. The dress hugged your waist where the hidden corset pulled you in, hips and curves shaped just enough to make you look like a sin waiting to happen.

Thin straps slid off your shoulders, baring the warm line of your neck and collarbones, the slit up your leg promising more with every step. You reached up, centering the pendant of your necklace against the bare plane of your chest, the silver chain cold where it kissed your skin — a sharp contrast to the heat building under your dress already.

You caught the first glimpse of him in the mirror — a dark, solid figure leaning in the doorway, watching.

Joel hadn’t said a word yet. He just stood there, taking you in with a look that made the air feel thick, heavy.

The sleeves of his dark shirt were pushed up to his elbows, the fabric stretched across the broad line of his chest. His belt was half-buckled, like he’d been getting dressed but forgot how halfway through. A slow drag of his hand over his jaw, his beard rough and neatly trimmed, the silver in it catching the light —

His eyes locked on yours in the mirror.

Heavy. Unmoving.

"You ready, darlin'?" he asked, voice low and scratchy with restraint.

You swallowed, fingers twitching at the chain around your neck. “Not yet,” you murmured, clearing your throat. Then you moved to the bed, letting the dress shift around your thighs as you sat. You leaned back on your hands, one leg hiking up just enough to tease. A small show, just for him.

“Would you mind grabbing my shoes?” you asked sweetly, tilting your head to look at him through your lashes. “They’re the black ones with the strap.” Joel didn’t move, just adjusted his sleeve with a slow roll of his wrist, jaw ticking, gaze still glued to you.

You smiled coyly. “Please?”

Without a word, he finally turned toward the closet. Heavy steps. Steady hands. Reaching into the dark.

Joel set the shoes down gently beside you, the leather quiet against the bedspread. He didn’t speak — just reached for your foot, large hand curling around your ankle like it belonged there.

You watched as he slipped the first shoe on with careful precision, fastening the tiny buckle without looking up. His fingers brushed over your skin, feather-light, sending a tickling shiver straight through your leg. A squeeze to your ankle, then he moved to the second.

This time, it was the leg with the slit.

He eased your foot into the shoe, fingers trailing up your calf with just enough pressure to make you exhale. Then, without a word, he guided your leg up, settling it slowly on his shoulder, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The silk of your dress shifted with the motion, exposing your thigh, then higher.

Joel didn’t look up right away. He kept his head low, eyes on your leg as he pressed a warm kiss just above your knee. Then another, further up. His hands were steady on your hips now, thumbs hooked near the edge of your dress as he mouthed at the soft skin of your thigh �� slow, open-mouthed kisses that made your stomach flip.

When he finally looked at you, his voice was low. Measured.

“Keep sittin’ real pretty like that, sweetheart.”

One hand slid into his back pocket. You saw it — the curve of the toy peeking between his fingers.

He smirked as your breath hitched.

“I ain’t gonna make you beg for it,” he said, voice dark with promise. “But I wanna hear you ask.”

Your breath stuttered when his thumb dragged along the underside of your thigh, rough skin catching on silk-smooth flesh as he coaxed the hem of your dress higher. The fabric bunched easily around your hips, a flash of cool air ghosting over the heat between your legs, your core already pulsing with anticipation. You could feel the weight of his stare, even when his eyes were down — the way his mouth lingered against your skin wasn’t just teasing, it was possessive, like he was memorizing every inch he touched with lips and breath and heat.

His nose skimmed along the inside of your thigh, nuzzling against the sensitive dip where leg met pelvis, not quite touching you, never quite enough. You gasped softly — not because he was rushing, but because he wasn’t. The restraint was maddening. Delicious.

Joel’s voice, when it came, rumbled against your skin. “Still sittin’ real pretty, huh?”

Your fingers curled into the bedspread, trying to keep still, to stay composed, but the throb between your legs was already too much, a need blooming in your belly so slow and deep it made your toes twitch inside the heels he’d just buckled for you. He shifted, a hand bracing the curve of your hip while the other finally slid under your dress and pressed at the thin fabric of your panties.

“Already warm, baby,” he muttered, voice thick now, a low marvel against the inside of your thigh. “And I haven’t even touched you yet.”

And then, with a deliberate slowness that made your whole body go tight with anticipation, he reached down again and retrieved the toy — small and unassuming, cradled in the palm of his broad hand like a secret. He glanced up at you, a flicker of something darker, like a hunger, heat, or ownership, flashing behind his eyes.

“You want it?” he asked, and it wasn’t teasing now. It was quiet. Intimate. Serious. Like he needed to hear it from you before losing his last bit of restraint.

“Yes,” you breathed, barely a whisper. “I want it.”

Joel’s lips curved, barely.

“Good girl.”

But instead of moving right away, he let the silence stretch, lingering in it, watching the way your chest rose and fell in shallow waves, how your lashes fluttered with the weight of his praise. 

The toy stayed in his hand, warm now from the heat of his palm, but unmoving. He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t rush. He just watched, the barest curve to his mouth, like he was savoring the sight of you perched there on the bed, all dressed up in that deep red silk, your thighs parted, one heel still resting against the breadth of his shoulder. 

He could feel the way you trembled in his arms—not from fear, not from cold, but from want… from need, thick and pulsing and just beneath your skin, and still, he held back, letting you feel every second of it. Letting you come undone on your own.

Then his voice came low, smooth, just this side of mock-innocent.

“You’re gonna have to show me where it goes, darlin’.”

The words sank into your skin like warm oil, your brows knitting as your breath caught in your throat, not because you didn’t understand but because you did. 

Because Joel Miller was not a man who needed help. Not with those hands of his, not when it came to your body, and certainly not with this. And still, he tilted his head, looking up at you through those heavy lashes, playing dumb with a softness that made your heart trip. 

“Ain’t ever used one of these before,” he said, like it wasn’t obvious that the way he cradled the toy already had your thighs twitching. “'Less you want me fumblin’ around down here…” A smirk pulled at the edge of his mouth, sharp and wicked, but his voice stayed gentle. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”

You hesitantly nodded, your hand reaching out slowly, fingers tentatively brushing against his as you guided him down—the way he followed your touch was reverent, like every little movement came with weight, like he was studying the map of your body all over again with every subtle shift of your hips, the way your breath stuttered when the soft silicone grazed your skin. You moved his hand with trembling patience, placing the toy right over your slit, and he stilled as you let go, his eyes locked on your face. You could feel the heat from his palm even after he withdrew, your panties tugged delicately aside, the throb between your legs a steady ache now, fueled more by how careful he was than how fast he moved.

“Right here?” he asked, not because he didn’t know, but because he wanted to hear it.

“Right there,” you whispered, and Joel’s breath left him in a low hum, like he’d been holding it just for this.

The magnet clicked beneath you with a quiet snap as he fastened the toy into place, and the moment it settled, he pressed—just slightly—just enough to make you gasp, your hips stuttered off the mattress, back curving in a soft arch as your breath tore free of your throat grasping at the fabric on his shoulder. 

Joel followed the movement like a tide, rising to meet you, one hand still nestled between your thighs, the other sliding around your waist, anchoring you to him. His body was warm, solid, the heat of him overwhelming as he leaned in, his chest against yours, your breath mingling in the small space between you. 

“Fuck,” you whimpered, your voice barely sound, and Joel exhaled a soft chuckle, low and satisfied. Fingers caressing the nape of his neck, you look at him, brows furrowed, eyes quietly pleading, the pulse between your thighs louder than the one in your chest. 

“Watch that mouth of yours, sweetheart.” 

Joel takes the hand from between your thighs and slides it up the plane of your body, stopping when he’s got the side of your neck resting in his palm. Calloused fingers dance over the heat of your skin, his thumb caressing along the hinge of your jaw before stopping at your chin, while his fingers curl gently behind your ear, grounding you there. His palm pressed firmly to the side of your neck, cradling that fragile stretch of throat, the thrum of your veins pulsing beneath the heat of his skin. 

You watch his eyes intently before he looks away,  gaze dropping to your trembling body pressed against his,  then settling on your lips. His thumb toys with your glossed bottom lip, slowly pushing and pulling the soft skin, like putty in his hands. 

He lets out a deep hum of approval, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as he feels the sticky sheen smeared across the pad of his thumb. Then he leans in, breathing warm against your cheek as his tongue darts out between his teeth to lick the digit slowly, almost savoring it, just barely grazing your lip in the process. 

“Cherry,” he murmurs, his voice low and amused. “That for me, baby?” 

A small breath slips from your lip, one you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding, as you stare up at the man above you, his hand still firm on your neck, holding you there, grounding you in place. You nod quickly, the motion small and desperate, your free hand rising to wrap around his wrist, fingers curling tight like you need the weight of him to stay steady.

Joel’s eyes stay on you, never leaving, heavy-lidded and dark, dragging slowly from your lips to your eye, taking in everything you’re giving him, every quiet plea written across your face. His thumb grazes the edge of your jaw, just once, then rests there like he’s holding a secret.

“You don’t even know what you’re askin’ for,” he says quietly, like it’s just between the two of you and always will be. “But I’ll give it to you anyway.”

And then he leans in, not rushing, not forcing, just guiding your mouth to his, brushing his lips over yours in a kiss that’s warm, deep, and slow. The kind that tastes like a promise of more to come. A soft press of lips, nothing more, just enough to taste the gloss still clinging to your lips. He starts to pull back, like that’s all he meant to take, his hand tightens just slightly at your neck, and he’s leaning back in.

His tongue flicks against your bottom lip, catching any trace of gloss, and he hums lowly like it’s better than dessert.

The second kiss is different. Sloppier. Needier. His tongue pushes past your lips, dragging deep and wet into your mouth like he’s starving for it, like he needs to savor the heat of you just once before he lets you leave the house. He licks into you slowly, unhurried, groaning softly as he swallows your breath like it’s something sweet on his tongue.

When he finally pulls away, you’re breathless, lips wet and tingling, your whole body strung tight like you’d just been undone and put back together.

“Now be good at dinner, baby,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

You remember him pulling you to your feet, his hand low on your waist, steady, grounding. But everything after that? The walk to the truck, the ride to the restaurant — it’s a blur. A haze of heavy hands on your legs, rough fingers tangled with yours, the occasional lazy stroke along your side that made your breath hitch.

What you do remember is the twitch, always involuntary and always constant, that came every time his skin brushed yours. The way the heat of his gaze burned into you every red light, or any other chance he could look at you without getting into an accident. The quiet, maddening presence of warm silicone nestled between your thighs, pressed tight and waiting. You squirmed the entire ride, high alert blooming beneath your skin, every nerve lit like a live wire just from the memory of his touch. 

Joel finally, after what seemed like hours, pulled into the last available parking spot in the lot. Of course, it was in the back, away from the restaurant windows, and the stray streetlamp barely casting a shadow in the truck. 

Joel turned off the ignition and turned to look at you. Not a passing glance like the ones he would sneak while driving. No, he took his time staring at you, the way your cheeks were slowly becoming flushed, lips parted, chest panting. Your eyebrows were slightly furrowed, in both frustration and—what looked like to him—slight worry. He quickly reaches out his hand, finger hooking beneath your chin, tilting your face towards his as he leans over the center console. 

“Baby…” he drawled, thumb brushing your jaw. “I’ve hardly touched you — ‘n look at you.”

His eyes dragged over your face, then dropped to your chest, watching it rise and fall like you’d just run a mile. His voice dipped lower, almost thoughtful, like he was trying to figure something out.

“You scared?”

The question hit softly, but the weight behind it made your stomach flip.

You shook your head quickly, lips parting. “No.”

“No?” he echoes, like he wants to hear it again, like he needs to be sure—not just for your sake, but for his. He tips his head slightly, leans in a little closer, the leather of the seat groaning beneath his weight as he shifts. His voice drops lower, just above a murmur now. “You sure you don’t wanna try it first? Just for a second. So it don’t catch you off guard in there.”

You start to shake your head, lips parted in some vague protest, but you hesitate, and that pause is all he needs. Your eyes flick away for a second, like maybe you’re bracing for something, like your body’s already starting to curl in on itself from the weight of what’s coming, even if it’s what you asked for. And Joel catches it, the shift in your breath, the softness in your brow, the way your thighs press just a little tighter together.

His lips twitch, not quite a smirk, just something close to understanding. “Just the lowest setting,” he says, voice low and coaxing, like he’s offering you something kind. “Real gentle. So you know what to expect. So you ain’t startled when I turn it on in the middle of your drink order.” And it sounds like a joke—mostly—but there’s a promise buried in it too, and it makes your mouth go dry.

You nod, slowly this time, and that’s all it takes. Joel reaches into his jacket, fingers brushing past his wallet, keys, and the other everyday things he carries — and when he pulls his hand out again, it’s with something that looks so deceptively ordinary it nearly makes you laugh. Small, sleek, black — a car remote. Or at least, it would be, if it weren’t for the way his thumb lingers just above one of the silver buttons, his eyes never leaving your face.

He holds it up between you, like he’s showing you a secret. “Looks harmless, don’t it?” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s amused at just how civilized sin can look these days.“Could sit it right on the table, and no one’d know it’s got you drippin’ under that dress.”

Your breath hitches, your thighs pressing just slightly together in anticipation as Joel finally turns his attention to the remote, thumb brushing over one of the silver buttons like he’s starting the engine to something he already knows how to drive. A soft click follows, then silence — at least in the cab of the truck. But your body reacts instantly.

The toy hums to life with a low, steady vibration, not sharp, not loud, but insistent, and it feels like the sound of it lives inside your skin. You gasp, softly, a tight little sound that barely makes it past your lips, but Joel hears it anyway. His eyes are still on your face, like he’s studying every flicker of response — the way your lips part around a shallow breath, the faint quiver in your thigh, the way your gaze falters for a moment under the weight of sensation.

“Itchy?” he asks quietly, and you nod, not because it’s uncomfortable, but because the low buzz is just there, maddening and constant, pressing against your slit like a secret you’re not allowed to touch. Not overwhelming, not even close, but enough to make you aware of every breath you take, every inch of space between your body and his.

Joel shifts in his seat, one arm draping over the back of yours, the other still holding the remote loosely in his hand. His voice stays low, steady. “Good girl,” he murmurs, nodding like he’s proud of you for handling it. “Now just sit with it a second. Let it settle.”

You try. You do. But the hum is sneaky, seeping into you slowly, like heat in a too-warm bath, and your body twitches again, thighs trying to resist the instinct to roll your hips toward it. Joel watches that too, eyes dipping down to your lap, then back to your face with something warmer than amusement — a quiet sort of awe that’s still somehow all possession.

“Can I see?”

The question breaks through your haze, soft but heavy, spoken like a request, but layered with something deeper—something that tells you he already knows you’re going to say yes. That he’s just giving you the dignity of saying it out loud.

You nod again, slower this time. “Okay,” you whisper, and that’s all it takes, already moving for him before the thought even finishes forming in your head, your thighs parting just enough beneath the hem of your dress to let him in. Joel shifts with you, his hand sliding slowly up your inner thigh. His palm is warm, fingers splayed wide, claiming space until they reach the edge of your dress. The hem of your dress rides higher, the air cools against your skin, the closer he gets. 

His hand coasted higher, slow and deliberate, fingertips grazing the tender skin of your thigh like he’s dragging heat along your nerves. You can feel the weight of his touch even in the places he hasn’t reached yet—the way your skin prickles in anticipation, how your breath shudders in your chest as the hem of your dress creeps higher with every inch he claims. His palm cups the curve of your thigh fully now, fingers spreading wider as he slides up, the warmth of his skin blooming against yours, anchoring you there like gravity.

And then he finds it.

The smooth press of the magnet under your panties — the place where the toy sits snug against your slit — still humming low and steady. He lets his fingers linger, exploring the shape of it through the fabric, slow circles with his thumb that send a tremble down your spine. You inhale sharply, head tipping back against the seat, not because he’s moving fast but because he isn’t. Because he’s being so careful. Like unwrapping something breakable. Something his.

“Right there, huh,” he murmurs, mostly to himself, the pad of his finger dragging lightly over the top edge of the vibrator, feeling the buzz through the lace. “Already warm.”

Then he presses. Not hard but just enough to nudge it lower, slipping it through the soft, slick folds of your pussy until the curve of it slots between your lips, snug and perfect, the hum catching just barely on your clit.

Your whole body twitches. It’s not a reaction you can hide—your hips jump subtly in the seat, your thighs tighten around his wrist, and a quiet gasp pushes out of your mouth like it was waiting behind your teeth.

Joel groans low and quietly, but it still reverberates in his chest like he felt it too.

“There you go,” he says, thumb still rubbing gentle circles against your thigh while his other hand holds the remote like a second pulse. “That’s it, sweetheart. Right there where it belongs.”

The toy stays in place with the vibration now sharper, more direct, no longer a whisper under your panties but a presence. A pressure. Something alive.

You’re panting before you realize it, lips parted, eyes slightly hazed, every breath dragging heat deeper into your lungs. And he’s still just sitting there beside you, calm and steady like he isn’t the reason your thighs are trembling and your body’s already trying to rock down onto something that isn’t even moving faster than a heartbeat.

His hand lingers just a second longer than necessary, fingers flexing gently against the inside of your thigh like he’s trying to commit the current heat of your body to memory. Then, with the kind of tenderness that makes your heart seize up, Joel retracts his hand, adjusts the hem of your dress just enough to cover you again, and clicks the remote once. The hum dies in an instant, and the quiet that follows is somehow louder than the vibration itself.

You suck in a breath thorugh your nose like surfacing from underwater, your body still buzzing like the toy never stopped. The silence leaves behind an ache — a phantom pressure between your thighs that keeps pulsing, even without the stimulation. Joel places the remote on the console like he didn’t just nearly pull you apart with it, and before you can process what’s happening, he’s leaning in.

His hand finds your jaw again, and he kisses you—not with hunger, not like the kiss earlier that nearly stole your soul, but with something quieter, something that says I know exactly what I’m doing to you. His lips drag softly over yours, once, twice, his thumb caressing the hinge of your jaw. A hum slips from him low and restrained, like he’s holding himself together through sheer will alone, and then his hand drops back to your thigh, fingers squeezing once, possessive and full of tension.

“Still with me?” he mutters, nose brushing yours.

You nod, not trusting your voice, and he chuckles like he’s tasted every inch of your want and is content to let it simmer a little longer. Then he pulls away, adjusts the collar of your dress with a little tug, and opens the truck door with a nonchalance that feels almost cruel after what he’s just done.

You hear the solid thump of his boots hitting the pavement, the soft jingle of his keys as he rounds the front. Then the passenger door opens, and there he is, hand outstretched, waiting. You take it without thinking, your fingers slotting into his, and he helps you down from the truck like it’s nothing. But the steadiness of his grip, the way his other hand comes to your waist when your legs wobble slightly upon landing, had you besotted. You were grateful for his touch, even if it burned.

You settle beside him on unsteady legs, and Joel’s hand finds the small of your back without hesitation, tethering you to him. The night air nips at the heat on your skin, sharp against the sweat forming behind your knees and at the nape of your neck. You smooth your dress as you walk, though no amount of fabric adjustment can make you feel composed. Joel keeps close, his hand drifting slightly lower as he walks beside you, the heat of his palm through the fabric of your dress reminding you that he’s there, that every step you take is still under his hand.

The proximity is too much and not enough. His body a wall beside yours, his fingers curling just slightly into your waist with every few steps. The memory of his fingers between your legs still stamped into your skin like a secret no amount of cool air can erase.

Your pulse is still racing when you reach the sidewalk, and then, just as your heel clicks against the curb, the vibration returns.

It’s soft, but sharper now—more direct. It hits with zero warning, and your knees buckle beneath you before you can catch yourself. A strangled whine escapes your lips as your body jolts, and you would’ve stumbled if Joel weren’t already there, solid and steady, hand tightening at your waist to hold you upright.

You latch onto his forearm like it’s the only thing securing you to Earth.

“Oops,” Joel mutters, voice smooth and maddeningly casual. “Thought I was lockin’ the car.”

You know he’s lying. The remote is still in his hand, tucked at his side, thumb pressing down with deliberate ease. You open your mouth to protest, but your words catch in your throat when the pressure eases and the setting lowers to a subtle thrum again, soft enough not to trip you, strong enough to keep you aching.

He turns to glance at you, not a smirk on his face, but something smug curled at the corners of his mouth. His eyes flick briefly to the restaurant doors ahead.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he says, voice low enough only you can hear. “We’ve got a reservation to keep.”

You take a breath to collect yourself, but it does nothing. You’re still trembling faintly, still warm between your legs, still swallowing the phantom echo of vibration even as Joel quietly clicks the remote again, killing the buzz entirely. And yet, your body doesn’t get the memo, every nerve ending taut with the memory of what he gave and took away just as quickly.

He opens the door to the restaurant for you again like a gentleman, one hand guiding the small of your back as he leads you in with his heavy, quiet pressure never once lifting until you're inside. The restaurant is dim, the kind of warm, low light that seems to stretch shadows long and slow across every table. Candlelight flickers on wine glasses. The air smells like butter and oak-aged something, the low murmur of conversation a soft backdrop as you step inside. Low music floats somewhere near the bar, but all you can hear is your pulse, thick and slow in your ears.

Joel speaks low to the hostess—name, time, two for dinner—while you try to remember how to breathe. He doesn’t look at her, not once. Just keeps his hand where it’s always been steady, warm, proprietary just above the curve of your ass.

You can’t bring yourself to look up at him until she’s leading you to the table. He walks beside you, just a little behind, letting his palm slide lower with each step, letting his thumb press along the crease where your waist dips into your hip. 

When you reach the table, he pulls your chair out for you like the proper gentleman he is, but just before you sit, his hand coasts down to your ass and gives it a soft, grounding squeeze. You let out the smallest sound, and you’re sure he hears it.

He takes his seat across from you, settling in slowly, like he’s got all night. Like he’s already had dessert and is now just watching to see what you’ll do next. You try to focus. On the flickering candlelight, on the menu in front of you. Suddenly, you see it, tucked casually beside his empty wine glass, fingers curled around it like it’s nothing more than a car key, was the remote. Small and inconspicuous. But you knew better. Your breath hitched in your throat as you dragged your gaze away from it.

“They’ve got filet tonight,” you murmur, tracing the words with your eyes even though they refuse to focus. “That’s what you like, right?”

Joel doesn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed fixed on you even as he lifted his glass and took a slow sip of water, the movement unhurried, deliberate, like he’s giving you time to squirm. “Mmm,” he hums, voice low and smooth. “I like a lotta things, sweetheart.”

You flush, instinctively looking back down at your menu, pretending to study the sides like your skin isn’t already tingling with heat. You try to read, instead you find your eyes darting around the page, willing yourself to calm down… focus on your breathing, on the flickering candlelight — but then you hear the softest click and feel it.

A low hum. Subtle. Barely there.

Except it is there, pressing soft and steady into your slit like a whispered secret, right where Joel slid it into place back in the truck. Your thighs twitch as your back straightens, and your breath catches. You glance up at him, wide-eyed, lips parting. Joel’s face is serene, unreadable—but the glint in his eye tells you he knows exactly what he’s done.

“Everything alright, baby?” he murmurs, dragging a fingertip along the side of his glass. “You look a little flushed.”

You blink, swallow hard, then force a smile like it’s not killing you. “Just warm,” you reply, your voice tight. “Candle’s hot.”

Joel chuckles, and you feel it like a hand wrapped around your ribcage. He says nothing more—just lets the silence stretch while the vibrator keeps humming softly and steadily against you. So you make a decision, slow and measured, born out of the same wicked impulse that made you take the favor in the first place. If he’s going to play, you’ll play too.

You slide your foot forward, slow and deliberate, the arch of your heel dragging along the floor until your toes bump gently against the cuff of his pants. Joel glances at you, his eyes darkening just slightly, but he doesn’t move. So you continue, inching up his shin, the toe of your shoe tracing along the inside of his leg —higher, higher— and you can feel him shift slightly in his seat.

You try to hide the smirk threatening to pull at your mouth, ducking slightly behind your menu as if it offers any kind of protection, but then you hear it. The subtle shift of leather under his weight, the low scrape of his forearm moving across the table, and then his voice—calm, quiet, but with a warning buried so deep it settles right beneath your skin.

“Careful, pretty girl, you don’t stop while you’re ahead…” Joel murmurs, eyes still skimming the page in front of him like he isn’t feeling every inch of what you’re doing beneath the table, thumb idly tracing the edge of the remote resting beside his water glass, “and I’ll turn this thing up ‘til you’re leakin’ all over that pretty little seat before they even bring the bread.”

Your mouth parts, but you play through it, pressing your lips together like you're thinking hard about the menu, like the heat blooming across your chest is from the candlelight and not the pressure building low and deep.

You glance at him over the top of your menu, soft and slow, lashes fluttering just enough to feign innocence. “Hm?” you murmur, tilting your head slightly like you didn’t hear him — or like you did, and want him to say it again. 

Joel doesn’t look up right away. Just turns the page of his menu with the same deliberate care he’s used for everything tonight, like he’s not simmering just beneath the surface, like your foot pressing slow and steady against the inside of his thigh isn’t making him hard under the table, like the sound of your breath catching doesn’t curl around his spine like a fuse waiting for his thumb. And then, without lifting his eyes and twitching his expression, he presses the remote.

A soft click. A subtle shift. But the change is immediate.

The vibration sharpens.

You feel it immediately — not just against your clit, but in your spine, in your throat, in the way your breath catches hard and fast behind your ribs. It’s deeper now, more deliberate. Not a whisper, not teasing, but a steady pulse that digs in and stays there. Your thighs clench instinctively, but it only makes it worse — the toy presses harder, and you twitch in your seat, hips shifting with a jolt that’s completely out of your control.

A small sound slips out of you — high, breathy, barely a whimper — but enough. Enough for Joel to hear it. Enough for him to know he’s got you right where he wants you.

And in that same second — in that involuntary twitch — your heel slides higher, grazing the inside of his thigh, then up, up, until you feel it: the hard press of his cock beneath his slacks, hot and thick against the curve of your ankle. You freeze for a second, breath stuttering, pulse thudding in your ears. You hadn’t meant to find it—not yet-but now that you have, you don’t move.

Joel’s page-turning stops, and the air shifts.

His eyes lift, slow and sharp, cutting through the low candlelight like they’re the only thing anchoring you to this moment.

And then — as if on cue — the waiter steps up to the table, all cheerful professionalism and wide smiles, completely unaware that you’re one wrong breath away from falling apart.

You don’t move your foot. Not even when the waiter clears his throat gently and steps beside the table with a practiced smile, menus tucked beneath one arm. You do your best to meet his gaze, force a polite expression, but your lips are parted and your breath is uneven, your thighs locked in place as the vibrator pulses again, cruel and slow against your slick, swollen clit.

“Hi there,” the waiter says, tone chipper. “Welcome in, I’m Evan, I’ll be taking care of you two tonight. Can I start you off with anything to drink?”

Joel doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shift. Doesn’t give you away. He leans back slightly in his chair, slow and easy, like he’s completely untouched by what’s happening under the table — like your ankle isn’t still pressed against the thick heat in his pants, like you’re not one more pulse away from choking on your heartbeat.

He folds the menu closed with a lazy flick of his wrist and rests his forearm across the table, fingers casually brushing the edge of the remote like he might pick it up again any second.

“Red,” Joel says, voice smooth as honey and just as thick. “Somethin’ dry. We’ll share a bottle.”

The waiter nods, scribbling. “You got it.”

And that’s when you decide to push it — because the game is already on, and you’re tired of pretending you’re not drowning in it. So you press a little harder with your heel, not much, just enough to feel the way his cock twitches beneath the fabric, and Joel stills. Just for a second. His hand flexes once on the table, jaw working like he’s chewing back whatever sound nearly slipped free.

Then, under the table, slow, deliberate, he moves.

You feel the brush of his hand against your ankle, fingers wrapping around it with a grip that’s firm but not rough, his palm warm where it cups your skin. His thumb presses gently into the delicate skin just above the strap of your heel, right over the vein on the inside of your ankle, and stays there, grounding you. Possessive. Not pushing you away, not pulling you closer. Just a quiet, devastating warning that vibrates through you harder than the toy ever could.

He keeps his thumb there — steady, unmoving — like he can feel your pulse jumping beneath it. Like he’s counting the beats of your restraint thinning. And he still doesn’t look at you. He just holds you like that, calmly, while his other hand slides the remote slightly out of view, resting beside the napkin on the table like it’s nothing.

The waiter’s still talking, still smiling, still existing somehow in the periphery of this fever dream — but you’re not listening. You can’t. Not with Joel’s hand wrapped around your ankle like a leash. Not with the vibrator humming between your legs and your panties already damp enough to stick. Not with your heart pounding against the inside of your ribs like it’s trying to get to him first.

The waiter’s gaze lands on you, still all brightness and ease, completely unaware of the current running under the table. “And for you?” he asks, pen poised over his notepad, tone casual like this is any other dinner.

You blink once, lips parting, and try to remember what words are. But Joel hasn’t let go of your ankle. His thumb is still stroking slowly against your pulse, and the vibrator is still humming low and mean where it’s tucked between your folds, and your brain is nothing but static and heat. You clear your throat, force your hands to smooth the napkin across your lap, trying to keep them from shaking.

“I’ll, uh… I think the chicken. Roasted,” you say, voice a little higher than you intend, breathier. “That’s fine.”

“Good choice,” the waiter replies, smiling again. “It’s got this honey glaze—real messy but worth it. I always tell people it’s the kind of dish you should only eat with someone who already likes you.”

You laugh — too quickly, too bright — and it’s not that it’s that funny. It’s that you’re already vibrating in your seat, and any release, even a breath that doesn’t crack, feels like victory. You murmur something back, something like “Then I’m covered,” with a sly smile that doesn’t quite land steady, and the waiter chuckles, taps his pen to his notepad, and says, “You two seem like fun.”

You don’t even realize what you’re doing until you glance at Joel, and it hits you — the look in his eyes. Not annoyed. Not angry. Just watching. Sharp. Calm. Like he’s reading everything under your breath, beneath your laughter, through the curve of your smile — and knows it’s not for the waiter at all. It’s for him. All of it.

And he doesn’t let it slide.

The second the waiter turns to walk away, Joel’s thumb presses the button.

The setting kicks up a notch — not a jolt, not cruel, but enough to make your back arch subtly and your eyes snap wide as the vibrator roars to life with a more focused, hungrier pulse. Your thighs clamp together, body jerking just enough that your knee brushes the underside of the table, and you suck in a sharp, audible breath that sounds like surprise but tastes like surrender.

The waiter pauses mid-step, glancing back, concern creasing gently at his brow. “Everything okay?”

Joel doesn’t even blink.

His hand is still under the table, fingers still wrapped around your ankle like a tether, like a leash, and his voice is calm as ever, smooth and low as he glances sideways at you with that same unreadable patience. “Well, sweetheart?” he drawls, the words barely a murmur but aimed like a bullet. “You good?”

You feel it in your gut — the weight of his tone, the pressure between your legs, the heat crawling up your chest like wildfire — and you know this is him giving you the chance to say it out loud. To admit, with the waiter standing there, still waiting for your response, that Joel’s got you so wound up you can barely breathe.

The hum presses deeper. A pulse directly on your clit. His thumb strokes over your ankle like punctuation.

And now it’s your turn to speak.

You open your mouth to answer, to say yes, to pretend you’re fine — but the word won’t come. It lingers on your tongue, sticky and fragile, like it knows it doesn’t belong. The vibrator is still thrumming between your thighs, pulsing slow and deliberate against your clit like it’s synced to the rhythm of your heartbeat, and Joel hasn’t eased off — not even slightly. His hand is still curled around your ankle beneath the table, thumb circling your pulse like it’s a countdown.

“I’m—” you start, breath catching, and Joel’s eyes lift just enough to meet yours over the rim of his water glass.

There’s nothing rushed in his expression. No outward smugness. Just watching. Calculated. Patient. Like he wants to see what kind of lie you’ll tell, and how you’ll manage to say it with your legs trembling and your panties soaked straight through.

You force a smile — too wide, too quick — and swallow back the moan clawing at the back of your throat. “M’sorry,” you say, voice tight. “Just… caught my heel on the leg of the table. All good.”

The waiter’s concern fades instantly, replaced by polite relief. “No worries at all. I’ll be right back with that wine.”

He turns, walks off — and you let out a slow breath through your nose, trying to cool the flush crawling up your neck.

But Joel doesn’t let go.

He keeps his hand right where it is, thumb still brushing your ankle, and when he speaks again, it’s low enough that no one else in the room could hear him — just you, just this table, just the edge of something sharper curling beneath his voice.

“Thought we agreed you’d be good tonight,” he murmurs, not a question, not even disappointment — just a quiet reminder of what you promised and how far you’re slipping from it. “You gonna lie to him and me now?”

The toy pulses again — harder. Your body jerks.

“Joel—” you whisper, but it’s not a protest. It’s need. Raw and flickering.

He leans in, not enough to close the space, but enough to make your breath stutter again. His hand slides just slightly higher on your ankle, fingers pressing in slow, deliberate — and his voice is silk dragged over grit when he says, “You’re soaked, pretty girl. Think I don’t know when you’re about to come just from my voice alone?”

The wine arrives like a cruel joke — deep red and glinting in the low candlelight, too rich, too full-bodied for the kind of breathless tension that’s sunk its teeth into you. The waiter sets it down with a flourish, offers some soft remark about the vineyard, about spice and body and fruit, but you don’t hear any of it. Not when Joel takes the bottle and pours, slow and deliberate, the glug of liquid into the glass nearly as loud as your heartbeat. He fills yours first. Then his. But doesn’t take a sip. Just wraps his hand around the stem, fingers tapping slowly against the base, like he's counting down something only he can hear.

You raise your glass with trembling fingers, just to have something to hold. The wine hits your lips cool and dry, but it’s the heat in your cheeks that flushes deeper, the buzz in your belly turning thick with alcohol and ache. You take one sip, then another. Maybe more than you should — but you need the weight of it, the excuse to swallow back the whimper lodged somewhere in your chest.

Joel watches. Not overtly. Just with those heavy-lidded eyes, that jaw ticking now and again, the hand under the table still cupped lazily around your ankle. He hasn’t moved it once. Just strokes the inside with his thumb in slow, idle circles — grounding you, claiming you, like he knows exactly how close you are to folding under the pressure.

“You’re real quiet all of a sudden,” he says after a while, low and amused, swirling the wine in his glass but not drinking. “Feelin’ alright, pretty girl?”

You glance at him, lips parted, throat too dry to speak even with the wine. You nod. You lie. You smile like you’re fine. But your body’s betraying you — the way your thighs are clenched, the way you shift in your seat again and again just to ease the throb between your legs, the way the stem of your glass is slick in your hand because your palms can’t stop sweating.

You set the glass down, but your hand stays there, gripping the stem like it might anchor you to the table, to the last shred of composure you’re clinging to. The wine barely settles in your belly before the heat between your legs threatens to rise and consume it whole. The vibrator is still on the same setting — not high, not cruel — but it doesn’t need to be. Not anymore. Not with how sensitive you’ve become, how wound-tight you are. Every pulse of it feels sharper now, like it’s echoing inside you, reverberating off the slick heat that’s been building there since the moment he first put it in place.

You shift again, hoping to ease the pressure, but the motion just slides the toy against your clit in a new, unbearable way — the kind of friction that makes your throat close up and your eyes sting with the need to react. You press your thighs together as discreetly as you can, but it’s no use. You can feel the wetness—thick and hot and shamefully constant—clinging to your folds, soaking through the lace that’s been useless for the last half hour. It’s a good thing your dress is dark, because you know, know, if you stood up right now, there’d be a slick, shiny patch where you’ve been leaking all night. You don’t even need to check — you can feel it. The way your folds stick when you twitch, the sticky drag of fabric every time you squirm.

And it’s not just wetness anymore. It’s slippery. It’s the kind of soaked that makes your breath come in shallow pants and your chest feel tight. You can hear it, almost, not in sound but in sensation — the faintest slosh when your hips move just enough, like your cunt is so wet it’s trying to cry for him. Your muscles keep clenching down around nothing, spasming as if to drag something in that isn’t there, like your body thinks if it contracts hard enough, it’ll summon his fingers or his cock out of sheer will. Every throb is worse than the last, and all the wine’s done is loosen the tight coil of control you’d been gripping onto for dear life.

Joel’s still watching you — calm, collected, like he’s enjoying some quiet little show he paid for in advance. He’s barely touched his glass. His hand is still on your ankle, thumb still stroking slow circles like he’s keeping tempo with your arousal. His sleeves are pushed up to his forearms, exposing those thick, strong wrists, the muscle and dark hair dusting down toward the veins in his hands — and fuck, it’s unfair. It’s criminal. He’s sitting across from you like every version of yes you’ve ever wanted: broad and bearded and composed, wearing your torment like a gift he hasn’t even unwrapped yet. And his eyes—his eyes—are glued to you like he’s a kid watching Bluey, fully enraptured, quiet and reverent and soaking up every twitch of your thighs like it’s gospel.

And you? You can’t even sit still.

Because there’s no air left in your lungs. Because the base of your spine is molten and your pussy is aching, wet and clenching and swollen around a toy that’s barely moving, and yet you feel like you’re going to shatter. The worst part is you want to. Want to give in, to cry out, to spread your legs and let him take it all — here, now, against this table, under this dim golden light with your wine half-drunk and your dress sticking to your thighs from how ruined you already are.

And he knows it.

He always does.

“You’re real quiet all of a sudden,” Joel murmurs again, voice silked with gravel. “Feelin’ alright, pretty girl?”

You shift in your seat, a subtle rock of your hips that sends the vibrator sliding just a little higher, grazing the swollen bundle of nerves between your legs with a pressure that makes your entire body clench. You try not to react. Try not to moan or gasp or reach for him across the table. But the motion presses your tits together beneath the tight bodice of your dress, the neckline dipping low enough that you know he sees it — the soft swell of them now beading with sweat, catching faintly in the candlelight like dewdrops on bare skin.

You lift your wine glass again, mostly to mask the twitch of your fingers, the way your other hand is practically shaking in your lap. Your lips wrap around the rim, your eyes fixed on him over the top. You drink — too much, too fast — and set the glass down with a breathless exhale that barely counts as composure.

“Yeah,” you say finally, voice soft and wrecked, the kind of tone that could mean fine or fuck me now. “Just… hungry.”

Joel’s eyebrow twitches like he hears what you meant, not what you said. And then, as calm as anything, as if you’re not soaked through your panties with wine-slick lips and trembling thighs, he reaches for the bread basket.

He tears off a piece of the bread, slow and unbothered, then reaches for the butter, spreading a thick layer across the torn edge with the side of his knife. He doesn’t look at you while he does it. Just works the butter in slow strokes, deliberate and unhurried, like he’s spreading it over your skin instead of bread.

Then he sets the knife down, turns toward you, and holds the bite just a few inches off the table, fingers poised delicately around the buttered edge.

Your hand lifts without thinking, reaching for it, for the one tiny semblance of comfort you’ve been offered all night. But Joel stops you cold.

His voice is soft, low enough that no one else hears it, but it crashes over you like a command: “Nuh-uh.”

You freeze.

“Lemme take care of you,” he murmurs, eyes sliding back to yours, all slow heat and knowing stillness. “Open.”

Your breath stutters in your throat. You hesitate — not because you don’t want to, but because you do. Because the way he’s looking at you makes your nipples tighten and your pussy throb, and it feels obscene, the idea of letting him feed you like this in public. Like being fed is just a softer form of being fucked.

Still, you part your lips. Let your mouth open for him, slow and pliant, eyes fluttering half-lidded under his gaze.

He slides the bite in, presses the pad of his thumb against your lower lip as you take it, and you swear your whole body jolts. The butter coats your tongue, rich and warm and a little too much, but it’s not the bread that makes your breath stutter — it’s him. The feel of his thumb, the press of his skin against your mouth. He was just guiding the bite, just steadying it — but he stayed there. Just a moment too long.

And you take it.

Your lips close over him, soft and slow, and instead of pulling back, you draw him in. Deeper. Let your tongue flick against the salty slick of butter, the heat of his skin, and then you suck. Not hard, not obvious — but enough. Enough to make a sound. Enough to make his thumb drag heavy over your tongue like you’re tasting more than dinner. Like you’re offering him something sweeter if he’ll just let you.

He stills. His breath pauses. And your lashes lift just enough to catch the way his jaw clenches, the faint twitch of his fingers on the table like they want to curl into fists.

You pull back only when you’re ready, lips slipping free with a soft, wet pop, and sit back like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just wrap your mouth around him to make him think about your throat for the rest of the night.

You reach for your wine, take another sip to chase it, and this time when you set the glass down, there’s a flush crawling up Joel’s neck that he doesn’t bother to hide.

You lick your lips slowly, catching the last of the butter.

“Good bread,” you murmur, and smile like you didn’t just blow his goddamn mind with your mouth.

Joel’s still for a beat too long.

Then his hand drops slowly from the table, his eyes fixed on your lips like they’ve just confessed something filthy — and they have. Not with words. With tongue. With teeth. With the way you licked him like you’d do anything to have him in your mouth instead. You can see it in the way his chest rises once, deep and deliberate, like he’s trying to swallow down the groan he nearly let slip. The muscle in his jaw ticks hard.

His voice, when it comes, is lower than it’s been all night — rough, warm, and soaked in need.

“Keep lookin’ at me like that,” he mutters, gaze flicking down to your lips, “and I’m gonna pull this tablecloth over your lap, slide under, and show you what else that mouth can do.”

Your breath catches — audibly. Your legs twitch beneath the table. And Joel doesn’t even blink.

“Bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he adds, quieter now, so soft it feels like he’s whispering it against your skin. “My tongue in your cunt while you sip wine and try not to moan in front of a fuckin’ waiter.”

He leans in a little more, slow, patient—like he’s not even angry, just done holding back. His hand curls lightly around the stem of his glass again, but he doesn’t lift it. Just watches you like you’re the only thing in the room worth tasting.

“I can smell you, baby,” he murmurs, almost amused now. “You’re fuckin’ soaked.”

The silence after that isn’t awkward. It’s devastating. You don’t know whether to clench harder or crawl into his lap.

“Be a good girl,” he murmurs, voice slow and sanded down to nothing, “and just hang on a little longer, alright?”

You nod — shaky, desperate — your fingers flexing around the wine glass like it might hold you together. You try. You try. Try to sit still, try not to rock against the seat even though the pulse between your legs is demanding friction, some kind of pressure, anything to ease the ache that’s made a home in your cunt. The toy is still humming low and slow, but your body’s been clenching around nothing for so long you feel hollow, raw, and full and empty all at once. The heat under your dress is unbearable, soaked into the fabric, sticking to your skin. Every inch of you is flushed and restless. You shift again and your heel drags across the inside of his thigh, bumping his cock with the kind of soft pressure that feels like please.

Joel exhales through his nose, sharp and thin.

He’s trying — trying — to keep it together. To give you this last bit of structure, the illusion that you’re going to make it through a single civilized meal. But then he looks at you again, really looks — the way your head tips slightly, hair sticking to your cheek in damp curls, the pulse fluttering at your throat, the sweat beading along your collarbone and catching in the hollow between your tits — and it hits him: you’re not just needy.

You’re ruined.

And he did this. He did this with his mouth, his voice, his goddamn thumb. He made you squirm in a booth, made you wet through your panties without ever touching your pussy. You’ve been clenching and leaking for him since the truck, and he’s just sitting here with his dick throbbing in his jeans like he’s immune to it. Like he hasn’t been fantasizing about sliding that toy out of you and licking the mess off it before pressing his cock into the wreck he’s made.

No. He’s done. It’s over.

The waiter reappears, smiling, breezy, holding nothing but pleasantries and a little notepad.

“Everything still okay? Food’s coming right out.”

Joel doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away from you. His hand slides from the table and curls under your thigh like he’s just steadying you, but his fingers squeeze hard enough to make you twitch.

“Actually,” he says, voice low and casual, like this has nothing to do with what’s soaking your seat, “we’ll take it to go.”

The waiter blinks. “Of course. Everything alright?”

Joel gives him a tight smile, thumb still dragging small, grounding circles into your inner thigh.

“She’s not feelin’ so hot,” he says, calm and warm — but you hear the edge beneath it. The heat in it. The promise. “Think we’ll eat in.”

Your breath hitches. You don’t speak. You can’t.

The waiter nods, polite and unaware, already pivoting to handle the takeout process, but Joel’s hand is already sliding from your leg to your waist, guiding you gently, reverently, out of the booth. The second you stand, your knees wobble, nearly give, your thighs trembling beneath the weight of what you’ve been holding in. You stumble forward just enough to make him reach for you — broad, calloused palm steady against the small of your back — and you could swear he lets his fingers graze just below the dip of your dress, just where your skin’s gone damp with sweat and heat and want.

He doesn’t say anything as he leads you out, just keeps you tucked close to his side, fingers curling tighter against your waist every time your body sways, every time your heels click unevenly on the tile floor. The hostess calls after you with a chipper Have a good night and Joel lifts two fingers in acknowledgment, doesn’t break stride, doesn’t even glance back.

You’re dizzy by the time the door swings open, the night air slapping hot against your cheeks and neck, cool compared to the molten sheen clinging to your skin. Your heart is thundering. Your thighs are still pressed together, trying and failing to contain the slick between your legs. It’s no use. You’re soaked. You know it. The lace of your panties has been clinging to your folds for the better part of an hour, and with every step, you swear you can feel it sliding, dragging, smearing down the inside of your thighs like you’ve been freshly fucked — and that’s before he even touches you again.

You moan, loud and helpless, and your hands scramble to grip something — his shirt, his neck, his jaw — you don't care, as long as it’s him. You pull him closer, fingers sinking into his hair as he nips at your earlobe, and you whimper, breathless, tilting your head back against him.

Joel moves fast after that. Like he’s lost whatever shred of patience he had left back at the table. His hands tighten at your waist, and he spins you, pressing your back hard into the cool metal of the truck. The contrast makes you shiver, the heat of your body pressed flat to the frame, chest rising in stuttering gasps. You barely get a breath before his mouth crashes down on yours, desperate and rough and messy — not a kiss so much as a claim, teeth scraping, tongue pressing in like he needs to feel the whine sitting at the back of your throat.

His thigh wedges between your legs before you even realize he’s done it, thick and solid and still denim-clad, and then—oh God. The vibrator, still tucked snug against your clit, grinds down hard between you, pressed cruelly between his jeans and the soaked silk of your panties. You wail into his mouth, the cry muffled and broken, your body jerking hard as the contact sends sparks through every nerve ending like a live wire snapping in your spine.

He groans into the kiss, hand sliding behind your neck to keep your mouth on his as he grinds you down. His thigh moves in slow, punishing circles beneath you, rolling up and against that perfect spot, dragging the pressure of the toy directly into your clit, and you swear you feel the vibration in your teeth. The friction is sharp and textured, the denim rough enough to scrape lightly over your tender skin through the lace, and it shouldn’t feel good, but it does. It does, and your legs are trembling from it, your knees beginning to buckle as you cling to his shoulders like he’s the only thing tethering you to earth.

“Feel that?” he pants into your mouth between kisses, lips slick with yours, the words hot and wet against your cheek. “That’s what you’ve been drippin’ for all goddamn night.”

You nod, frantic, tears prickling at your lashes from how badly you need it, need him, need him inside you before you come just from — from his thigh, from his mouth, from the weight of his voice dragging you under.

He nips at your lower lip, sucks it into his mouth, and bites down hard enough to sting, and the whimper that breaks out of you is raw, wrecked, needy. You grind once more against the thick muscle of his thigh, feel the toy slip, buzz harder, and your hips jerk uncontrollably, the slick of your arousal now smeared so thoroughly across the inside seam of his jeans you’re half-mad with the embarrassment, half-mad with the want.

Joel pulls back just long enough to look down, just to see the way you’re riding his thigh like it’s the only thing keeping you alive. His voice is low, nearly a growl, when he mutters, “You’re gonna fuckin’ come like this if I let you.”

“Joel,” you plead, voice thin and ruined, “please—”

He growls. Not just a sound — a threat. A warning. A promise. One hand shoves the takeout bag onto the passenger seat with a thump, the other curls around your wrist and drags you toward the back door. You stumble, dress hiking higher with each rushed step, heels clicking unevenly across the pavement.

When he yanks the door open, you lurch forward and he catches you, presses you against the frame of the truck, and kisses you. Filthy. Deep. His tongue pushes into your mouth before you can breathe, and you melt into it, whining into the hot slide of it as his hands roam low, gripping your ass through the clingy fabric like he’s already imagining how it’ll feel when he’s slamming into you from beneath.

“Coulda fucked you on the hood,” he mutters against your lips, voice frayed with lust. “Right here under this streetlight, with that ruined little dress ridin’ up over your ass. You woulda let me, huh?”

You nod, frantic, clawing at the hem of his shirt now. “I would. I would. I want—fuck, I need—”

He shuts you up with another kiss. This one is slower, heavier. Like he’s savoring your desperation. Like he’s trying to memorize how your lips feel slick and parted, already moaning into his mouth before he’s even gotten you in the truck. His hands slide down to the backs of your thighs, gripping tight, fingers digging into your skin like he’s making sure you don’t float away. You barely register the shift until your feet are off the ground, your dress riding high as he lifts you with a grunt and shoves you into the back seat — not careless, but certain, like he’s done it before in a dream and now it’s real and he’s not wasting a fucking second more.

Your ass hits the worn leather and your knees scramble to find footing, legs spreading automatically to make room for him as he climbs in after you, the cab filling instantly with the heat of his body, the scent of wine and sweat and want. 

The door slams shut behind him, not loud but final, the sound echoing in your chest like the end of something. Or maybe the beginning. The air inside the truck is thick, heady with sweat and perfume and slick, the ghost of candle smoke still clinging to your skin like sin, like it followed you from the table where you tried to pretend you could behave. But there’s no pretending anymore. Joel’s presence overwhelms the cab instantly — broad and grounded, chest rising in deep, hungry heaves, belt unfastened and jeans riding low on his hips, the silver glint of the buckle catching a flash of streetlamp just before his hands find you again, not with softness or ceremony but with need, as though just touching you might anchor him back into his body.

You barely gasp before he’s there, dropping to his knees between your thighs, shoving the hem of your dress up with both hands, bunching the fabric into his fists like it’s offended him just by existing, like it’s dared to hide what belongs to him. The vibrator shifts with the movement, still buzzing where he tucked it against your clit, and the moment your legs fall open, he sees everything. His eyes drag to the soaked silk of your panties, nearly translucent now from how thoroughly you’ve ruined them — every ridge of your folds visible, every twitch of your core making the lace flutter against your skin. You’re glistening, shimmering under the truck’s dim light, leaking warmth and want like a prayer meant only for him.

His growl rumbles up from deep in his chest, a sound that vibrates through the seat beneath you and takes root in your spine. There’s nothing gentle in the way he moves. He presses the flat of his palm over the toy, dragging it slow and hard over your clit, grinding the buzzing silicone into you until your thighs tremble around his shoulders and a choked, broken moan punches free of your lungs before you even realize it’s coming. Your hand flies to your mouth instinctively, fingers splayed across your lips like you can hold in what he’s just torn out of you.

But Joel doesn’t stop.

“Let me hear it,” he rasps, eyes locked between your legs like they’re tracking the center of the universe. “You think I dragged you outta that restaurant just to watch you squirm? No, baby. I want the fuckin’ symphony.”

And then he’s on you.

He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t tease.

He ducks his head and devours, his tongue dragging in one long, filthy stroke up your inner thigh before his teeth catch on the thin edge of your panties and pull. The vibrator slips to the side with a slick, obscene noise as he mouths over it, then tosses it somewhere in the dark, like it’s taken too long to get to what he really wants. And then he’s there — mouth sealing around your clit with a hot, devastating pull that sends your hips snapping up and your voice cracking open like glass beneath him. His tongue laves against you, thick and unrelenting, slow strokes alternating with sharp flicks that make your back bow against the seat, your hands flying to his hair to keep him there, to beg him without words to never stop.

He groans against you, deep and wrecked, and the vibrations pulse through your cunt like an aftershock. He licks you like he missed you. Like he dreamed about this exact moment. Like, he could live here. And just when your walls start fluttering with the edges of something too sharp, too bright, too much, he pulls back — lips shiny with your slick, the shine of your mess smeared across his chin.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks at you like you’re God.

“Gonna ride me,” he pants, dragging the words out low and rough as he fumbles his belt loose, pushing his jeans and boxers just low enough to free himself, cock flushed and heavy and twitching where it rests against his stomach. “Right here. Right now. You’ve been beggin’ all fuckin’ night, baby. Time to earn it.”

You can’t speak. You’re already crawling into his lap, breath hitching as your thighs spread over his, the air between your bodies sharp and electric. Your cunt drags over his shaft — slick and hot — and the sound that leaves his throat is pure hunger. He grabs himself in one hand, smearing your arousal down his length, dragging the head through your folds with purpose, watching your face twist with need. His other hand grips your hip, guiding you closer, lining you up.

“Don’t run,” he breathes, his voice barely more than a growl, forehead pressed to yours. “Take it. Take all of it, baby. Be a good girl.”

And you do.

You lower yourself inch by devastating inch, the stretch slow and punishing, your body fighting to take him as your nails dig into his shoulders, your breath coming out in little gasps that sound more like worship. You feel your walls part around him, feel every ridge, every vein, every delicious ache as you sink down and finally, finally bottom out.

He holds you there. Doesn’t let you move. Not yet.

“Fuck,” he hisses, biting at your throat, his hands clenching around your waist like he’s anchoring himself in place. “Look at you. Fuckin’ perfect.”

You moan into his mouth when he kisses you again, sloppier now, wetter — more tongue than lips. And then you move — slowly at first, rolling your hips, building the rhythm that will destroy you. Every bounce draws a new groan from his throat, every grind makes your clit drag against the coarse hair at the base of his cock, sending jolts of pleasure through your spine. Your thighs burn, chafing deliciously against his jeans, the sting only heightening the dizzying high you’re chasing.

The truck rocks with the momentum, each thrust pushing the air from your lungs, each slap of skin against skin driving you closer to the edge. His hands find your ass, pulling you down harder, making you take him, and when you whimper, he chuckles dark and low against your throat.

“Yeah, baby. That’s it. You hear that?” he grunts, pressing his palm to your lower belly, feeling the bulge where he’s buried so deep inside. “That’s me in your fuckin’ guts.”

You whimper, high and aching, body pulsing around him as your thighs tremble from the stretch, the slick of your cunt dripping down where his jeans are still clinging to his thighs, the thick, musky sound of your bodies slapping together filling every inch of the cab like heat pressed into fogged glass. You’re still riding him — still grinding down with slow, relentless rolls of your hips that make your clit catch at just the right spot — but now you’re holding on. Arms wrapped tight around his neck, your face buried against his temple, your fingers tangled in his hair like you’re trying to fuse your body to his. You can feel him panting against your collarbone, open-mouthed and desperate, like he’s biting back something loud, something animal, something barely tamed.

“Christ,” Joel breathes against your skin, the sound more of a broken moan than a word, his voice wet and trembling. His teeth find your neck again, grazing the sensitive curve where shoulder meets throat, biting down just enough to make your pussy clench around him in response, and he feels it. Groans against you, lips dragging along the line of your jaw as he grinds you down harder, deeper, every upward thrust punching the air from your lungs as the belt buckle at his hip digs into the soft skin of your thigh.

You’re soaked... not just your panties anymore, but everything. Your dress is sticking to your back, your sweat mixing with his where your bodies meet, the scent of wine and sex clinging to your skin like perfume. The rough denim of his jeans chafes along the inside of your thighs with every bounce, friction catching against your sensitive flesh and only adding to the burn, the sting, the wild, unbearable pleasure. You don’t even want to pull away — you want more of it. Want the pain. Want the bruises. Want him everywhere.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” Your body is starting to tremble harder now, thighs quaking as your pace falters, the overwhelming press of sensation knocking the breath from your lungs — and Joel knows. Of course, he knows. He tightens his grip on your hips, anchoring you in place with thick, bruising fingers as he drives up into you, over and over, filthy sounds echoing in the small space between the two of you. His groans are getting louder, raspier, his thrusts erratic and wild, teeth still grazing your throat as he pants, 

“That’s it, ride it out, baby—fuck, you sound so fuckin’ pretty when you cry like that, you hear me? That’s all for me. All of it.”

You’re babbling now, nothing coherent, not even words, just gasps and little broken sobs of pleasure, your hips moving on instinct, chasing something bright and unbearable as his cock grinds right into that perfect, dizzying spot inside you. The belt buckle digs into your thigh again, a sharp kiss of metal that only makes your body clench harder, your legs locking tighter around his waist, and then—

The pressure mounts, unbearable.

His hand disappears between your bodies, fumbling behind your thigh before pressing something firm and familiar back against your clit. The vibrator. You hadn’t even realized he grabbed it. But now it’s back, and it’s vibrating, and you swear your vision blacks out for a second as he presses it directly against the swollen little bundle of nerves, the toy slick with your wetness and buzzing mercilessly in his calloused hand as he growls, “Come on, pretty girl. Give it to me. Come on Daddy’s cock — I know you’re close.”

You can’t even fight it anymore. Can’t hold back. The pleasure barrels through you like a lightning strike — brutal and hot and fast, your body seizing up around him, your head thrown back as you scream, high and wrecked and shaking, your thighs locking around him as your cunt spasms violently, clenching down on his cock like it’s trying to keep him.

And then — wetness. Heat. Everywhere.

It’s not just an orgasm. It’s something more. Something primal. You squirt around him, the gush soaking his jeans, your thighs, the leather seat beneath you, the sound obscene as your slick pours out uncontrollably, drenching his lap as you collapse against him with a sob.

Joel growls, so loud and feral it rips through the cab like thunder, and he slams into you one final time, cock pulsing deep inside your fluttering heat as he comes, thick and hot and endless, groaning your name into your shoulder as his body trembles beneath you. He doesn't pull out. Doesn’t even try. Just stays buried to the hilt, still holding the toy against your clit like he doesn’t want the high to end, like he wants to keep you twitching, leaking, falling apart on top of him until you forget what it feels like to breathe without his cock inside you.

Eventually, your hips go still. Your head drops onto his shoulder. His arms curl around your waist like armor, one hand stroking slowly up your spine, the other resting flat against your thigh, his thumb brushing the marks the belt buckle left behind. Your walls are still fluttering, milking him gently, your cunt wet and stretched and full, and neither of you move — not yet.

You cockwarm like that. Breathing in sync. Skin sticking. Heartbeats loud in the quiet.

Joel presses a kiss to your temple. Another to your shoulder. One more just beneath your jaw, slower this time, reverent.

He murmurs something into your skin. Something low. Something that sounds like your name and mine in the same breath.

And when he finally pulls out—slow, thick, sloppy—you whine from the loss, hips instinctively rolling forward like you’re trying to pull him back in.

“Shhh,” he murmurs, voice rough but gentle now, as he reaches for the glovebox, pulling out a crumpled napkin and whispering apologies as he wipes between your thighs, cleaning you up as best he can. His touch is soft. Almost tender. Like he just fucked you like a goddamn animal but is still the only man alive who knows how to hold you after.

He kisses the inside of your knee.

Helps you tuck yourself back into your dress, even though your panties are useless now, nothing but soaked lace barely clinging to your hips. His hands linger,  smoothing down your skirt, tucking damp hair behind your ear, and when he finally slides out of the backseat and into the front, when the truck rumbles to life beneath you, your legs still feel like jelly.

He reaches for your hand over the center console.

Doesn’t say a word.

Just laces his fingers with yours — warm, steady, calloused — and drives you home. Still wearing your slick on his skin. Still thinking about what you tasted like. Still planning the next time you’ll let him ruin you just as beautifully.

--

a/n: TA DAAAA -- can u tell im touch starved?

PLS REBLOG TO SUPPORT

[tteotlma]

lunch break

a quickie???? w/ congressman barnes???? 

Congressman!Bucky x Reader 3.4k w/c

TW: 18+ MDNI; nsfw established relationship. Unprotected sex. Size kink, praise kink, dirty talk, filthy language, overstimulation, cockwarming adjacent. desperation-fueled sex, grinding, rough thrusting, handjob through clothing, dry humping, minimal undressing (partially clothed sex). manhandling. breeding kink language, mild body insecurity (Bucky's softened body), affirming partner praise. slight dubcon. Slight dom!Bucky energy, clingy/submissive reader energy.

a/n PLS reblog to support

Okay, but imagine… It's like 3 a.m. in the morning. Your dream has been interrupted by this incessant buzzing beside you. Blindly reaching for your phone and finding it underneath your body (bad habit), you peeled your eyes open enough to answer the call, putting the phone to your ear. 

“Doll—“ 

“Do you know what time it is, Congressman Barnes?” you immediately interrupted him. 

“I know, gorgeous, but—“ 

“This better be an emergency,” you feign annoyance. You had no issue with him calling you anytime; you just liked teasing him about it. 

“I wouldn’t call unless it were dire,” he murmurs, voice low and warm with sleep. “I just… I’ll finally be back home in D.C. tomorrow.”

You hum sleepily, not quite hiding your smile.

“And that couldn’t wait ‘til morning?”

“Not when I’ve only got an hour free.” There’s a pause, then he adds, quieter, “Figured I’d see if you wanted to spend it with me.”

Another beat.

“Lunch. Or…” His voice trails off, thick with suggestion, “We could just... spend it.”

“Fine, but until then, you need to rethink what you consider an 'emergency.’ " You flopped onto your side, getting comfortable under the blanket. The sound of his voice accidentally lulling you back to sleep. You yawned. 

“Making sure my girl gets put into my schedule is an emergency.” He caught you mid-yawn, mouth left open. Trying to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks, you scoffed, rolling your eyes, but you were ultimately speechless. 

“Sing a song to me, Barnes.” You whisper, your eyes are no longer able to remain open. There’s a pause. 

“Are you serious?” A soft laugh leaves your lips. 

“No, I'm just messing with you,” you said, fixing your head on the pillow, wondering if he could hear the smirk in your voice. Never in all your relationship had you ever asked him to do that, but you wanted to get him back for calling at such an ungodly hour. 

“Funny. Go back to bed, Doll.” He says softly into the phone. 

“See you soon, Congressman.” You replied before hanging up.

—-

You didn’t think he’d make it.

You’d half convinced yourself it would be another postponed lunch, another promise made with good intentions and a guilty follow-up text. Politics kept him tethered to everyone but you lately, and while you understood, it didn’t mean you liked it.

So when the front door clicked open just before noon, you froze, your hand hovering over the stove, and your whisk still dripping pancake batter.

“Bucky?” you called over your shoulder.

Footsteps. A pause. And then—

“Told you I’d find time for you.”

His voice was low, almost sheepish, but it hit you like a warm rush. You turned just in time to see him set down his coat and keys, still in his work clothes, eyes locked on you like he hadn’t eaten in days.

“You’re early.”

“I didn’t want to waste any free time.” He says, stalking towards you. He removes the spatula from your hand, placing it on the stove, wrapping his other hand around your waist, and pulling you close. 

You don’t even get the chance to respond. 

His mouth is on yours, gentle at first—just the brush of lips and breath—but it doesn’t stay that way. It deepens fast, like he’s making up for every second he’s been away. You can taste how much he missed you in the way his hands press into your waist, thumbs dragging slowly over your lower back like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you all over again.

“Hi,” He says softly as he pulls away, pressing his forehead to yours. You wrap your arms around his neck and give him a quick peck on the lips. 

“Hi.” 

He smiles softly, and you kiss him again, slower this time, like you don’t have to rush now that he’s finally here. His hands drift under the hem of your shirt, fingertips tracing the warm skin just above the waistband of your pajama shorts. You sigh into his mouth, tilting your head to deepen the kiss as your fingers slide into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan.

His hands grip your waist, thumbs stroking over the dip of your hips. “Missed you,” he mumbles, his voice thick, his lips brushing yours between words.

You smile into the kiss, one leg curling around his calf, pulling him closer.

 “You hungry? I was about to make pancakes.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, eyes half-lidded as his hands roam your waist.

 “Starving.”

But he doesn't move toward the stove. He kisses you again—hungrier now, messier—his mouth opening over yours like he can’t help it, like he’s been thinking about this too long to take it slow. His hands roam lower, gripping, pulling, like he needs to feel all of you at once.

You laugh softly against his mouth. “Not what I meant, Barnes.”

“It’s what I meant.”

His hands drop to your thighs, lifting you with ease. A surprised gasp leaves your lips as he sets you down on the kitchen island, the cool granite making you shiver—but he’s already moving in, settling between your legs like he belongs there because he does.

Your knees part for him instinctively, his hands spreading over the backs of your thighs as he leans in again, kissing you deeper this time. His tongue brushes yours, slow and lazy, like he has all the time in the world—even if you both know he doesn’t. 

He pulls away, both of you breathless. Your hands are still splayed in his hair, your thumbs caressing his ears. He kisses your lips again, adding a few more to the sides of your face, overwhelmed with enamour. You let a soft breath leave your lips in place of a laugh, as Bucky places a final peck on the side of your neck. 

His gaze flicks down to your shirt, the way it hangs off your shoulder, no bra in sight. Then lower to how your pajama shorts have ridden up from how you’re sitting. One of his hands drifts, fingers brushing against the soft skin of your thigh, just below the hem, where your cheeks start to curve and spill against the counter’s edge.

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes dark. “You’re not real.”

You huff a quiet laugh, hand slipping between you to tug at his loosened tie. “You gonna keep looking at me like that or do something about it?”

He doesn’t answer. He just kisses you again—somehow even hungrier this time—while your hands start working open the buttons of his shirt, fingers fumbling as heat begins to radiate through the fabric of his clothes.

You stripped him down to his undershirt, hands roaming his body, loving his newly softened physique. Politics wasn’t as physically demanding as crime fighting or space wars, so ever since he took office, he’s managed to gain a few pounds. To Bucky, it was a nuisance, but to you, it was mouth-watering. 

Of course, you had no issues with hard-toned abs either, but seeing him with more love to handle somehow made Bucky more domesticated, almost like he was keeping true to his word that he was trying to live a softer life with you. Your hands circled his waist, gripping his hips, dragging him in closer, and he tensed, almost pulling away. 

“Why?” You whined between kisses, pinching and tugging the fabric of his shirt to keep him from moving further. 

“Just not used to being this soft,” He said, against your lips. 

You pull back to look him in the eyes. They are hooded, and his pupils are blown wide. A soft whine left your lips. 

“Mmm, but Baby, I love it.” You slowly drag your finger down the plane of his chest peaking above his undershirt. 

“You do?” He asks, his curiosity temporarily breaking his sex motivated trance. You flatten your palms against his pecs and nod, biting your lower lip. 

“Mmhmm,” You hum, fighting not to squeeze his body. He places his hands above yours, and he smirks slightly. 

“Yeah?” he smirks, hands settling on your hips, his pinkies slipping just beneath the hem of your shorts, what little fabric is left now that they’ve ridden up, exposing the soft curve of your cheeks. His fingers graze the plush skin there, slow and deliberate.

“Yeah, it makes me so hot,” you breathe, the words slipping out as your back arches, hips instinctively rolling forward to meet his, your thighs bracketing his waist against the cool granite beneath you.

His breath hitches, but he doesn’t move. Just watches you with dark, unreadable eyes, fingers flexing at your hips.

“How?” he asks, voice low and rough. “Tell me, baby… What about it gets you like this?”

You smile softly, eyes flicking down to his lips as your hips roll again, slow, unhurried, just enough to make him feel it.

“The weight of you,” you whisper, leaning forward, brushing your mouth against his. “When we’re asleep…” You kiss the side of his jaw, trailing slowly to his ear. “when we’re fucking... feeling you on top of me.” You give a teasing nip to his ear, squeezing his hips with your thighs, “between me.”

A quiet groan rumbles in his throat as your words sink in, his grip on your hips tightening. You drag your hand down his stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of his pants, but stopping just above the fabric of his boxers.

Your palm presses gently over him, fingers curling slightly, slow, deliberate, like you’re feeling him for the first time all over again.

He jerks beneath your touch, hips rolling up just a little, like his body’s acting before he can think.

“Shit,” he mutters, eyes fluttering closed. “You’re not playing fair.”

“Wasn’t aware there were rules,” you murmur, lips brushing his jaw as your fingers squeeze around him through the fabric. Your thumb strokes over the thick line of him, lazy and mean.

He groans again, lower this time, rougher, his hand sliding from your waist to your thigh, gripping tight like he’s trying to ground himself.

You keep working your palm over him, slow circles, soft pressure, then firmer when he starts to push into it, rutting against your hand like he can’t help it.

“God, look at you,” you whisper, dragging your teeth along the shell of his ear. “Grinding like you need it.”

“I do need it,” he huffs, forehead falling to your shoulder for a second, breath hot against your skin. “You’ve been in my head for two weeks. Couldn’t even jerk off without thinking about this mouth.” He grabs your jaw in his hand. 

You smile, biting your lip as your hand slips lower, fingers teasing along the seam of his boxers now, pressing just enough to make him twitch. He bucks into your touch again, harder this time, and your breath catches.

He kisses you again, rough and messy, hand sliding up under your shirt, groping at your chest with none of his usual patience. Palm full, thumb brushing over your nipple until you're arching into him, gasping into his mouth.

You shift your hips forward, dragging yourself against the hard line of him, both of you partially dressed, barely thinking.

He groans when you grind down forward—slow, steady, filthy—and this time he moves with you, fucking into the friction, hands everywhere, mouth dragging from your lips to your neck.

“You keep doing that,” he mutters, breathless, “and I’m gonna come in my pants like a fucking teenager.”

“So? Better make it count.” You smirk, rolling your hips again, slower this time—just to tease. Just to hear him groan again.

And he does. Louder. 

“Sorry, doll. On a tight schedule.” His voice is ragged, almost hoarse. He grabs your wrist and pulls your hand from the front of his pants, but not before pressing a messy kiss to your palm—like he’s thanking you and telling you to behave all in one.

Then he tosses your arm over his shoulder and locks his gaze on you, dark and intent, his hand already working at his belt. The metal clinks, loud in the space between your bodies, and he doesn’t break eye contact even as he unzips his trousers with one hand, the other braced on the counter beside your thigh.

You feel the weight of him against your inner thigh the second his pants drop—thick and hot even through his boxers—and your breath catches.

He doesn't waste time. Just hooks two fingers into the waistband of your shorts and drags them to the side, yanking them taut against your hip, not even bothering to take them off.

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters, dragging the head of his cock through your folds once, twice, groaning when he finds you soaked and ready. “Always so wet for me. You don’t even make me work for it.”

“You’re the one on the clock,” you bite back, voice trembling.

That earns a smirk. “Right. Better not waste it, then.”

He thrusts in with one sharp push, splitting you open on a thick stretch that makes your whole body jolt. You gasp—loud, desperate, fingers scrambling for the edge of the counter behind you as the breath punches from your lungs.

“Shit— Bucky—” But he doesn’t stop. Just grips your hips hard enough to bruise and fucks into you deep, each stroke rough and deliberate, the kind of rhythm that says he’s missed this, missed you, and he's trying to make it count.

The sound of skin slapping, your wetness, both of you panting—it fills the kitchen like a secret neither of you are trying to hide.

“You feel that?” he growls against your mouth, hips snapping forward again. “Tight little pussy takin’ all of me—fuck—always so fuckin’ good.”

Your head tips back, thighs shaking around his waist as you cling to his shoulders.

“God—your cock, it’s—fuck, it’s thick—” You can barely get the words out, the pressure building fast, your nails digging into his back as he pounds into you, grinding just right at the end of every thrust like he knows exactly what you need.

“Yeah? You love this fat fuckin’ cock stretchin’ you open in the kitchen, huh?” His voice is all gravel and heat now, hand gripping your jaw, holding you there, watching every reaction.

“Love it,” you gasp, already spiraling. “Fuck, Bucky, don’t stop—”

He pulls out just enough to make your walls clench down in protest, makes you whimper as the tip of his cock catches at your entrance again, already slick, already fucking soaked with how ready you are for him—and then he grips you hard, arms flexing as he lifts you right off the counter like it’s nothing, like you weigh less than the need clawing at both of you.

Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, but he’s already shifting your weight, already bending your knees over his forearms, locking your thighs wide open as he stands. You’re suspended there, back arched, tits bouncing with every ragged breath you take beneath your shirt, your shorts still tugged to the side and his cock already driving back into you so fucking deep your vision goes spotty.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groans, his jaw pressed to your neck, biting down over your pulse while his hips slam up into you, hard, fast, no buildup now—just pure drive, frantic and raw, fucking you like he’s been aching for it, like he hasn’t felt anything this good in weeks and he’s making up for every second.

You’re just gasping now, hands gripping the back of his undershirt, fingers twisting in the fabric like you need something to anchor you, but it’s no use—your body’s jolting with every brutal thrust, your feet kicking helplessly in the air, your voice catching on every breathless moan he punches out of you.

“Jesus—fuck—Bucky—” your head drops back for a second, unable to hold yourself up, but one particularly deep, hard thrust makes your whole body jerk, your spine snapping upright as a sharp cry tears out of your throat.

Your arms fly up, locking around his neck, your cheek pressing to his temple, smothering him in your chest as you cling to him, holding on like your orgasm depends on it—and it fucking does.

He groans loud at the pressure, at the feel of your tits pressed against his face, at your thighs squeezing around his arms and the way your cunt clamps down on him like it never wants to let go.

“That’s it,” he pants, lips dragging across your collarbone, sucking and biting and making his way back up to your jaw, “fuck—knew you missed it—missed me—pussy’s chokin’ me, baby, fuck, you feel that? You feel how deep I am?”

You nod, crying out, hips rocking helplessly against his rhythm now, barely able to meet his thrusts with how completely he’s taken over, how perfectly he fills you.

“God, yes—yes, I feel you, you’re so—fuck—you’re so fucking deep, Bucky, you’re gonna make me come—” your voice cracks, body tensing, thighs trembling as the pressure hits white-hot.

He kisses you then, teeth dragging your bottom lip into his mouth as he starts to lose rhythm, his hips stuttering, his thrusts turning desperate—short, hard, rapidfire—machine-gun pace pounding up into you until you're wailing his name into his neck, until your pussy spasms around his cock and he grunts something broken and filthy as he spills inside you.

“Fuck—fuck, baby, I’m coming—shit, look at me—look at me—”

You do, barely, eyes fluttering open just enough to catch the way his brows knit, the way his mouth parts around a gasp, the way he buries himself as deep as he can go and stays there, thick cock twitching, pulsing inside you while you clench around him, greedy for every last drop.

His breath stutters out in a choked groan, arms shaking slightly as he holds you up, your thighs still hooked over his forearms, your cunt fluttering around his cock as your orgasm pulses through you in waves.

And then he kisses you.

Sloppy, wet, open-mouthed—like he needs it, like it’s the only way to keep from unraveling completely. His tongue is in your mouth before you can catch your breath, tasting you, groaning into you, teeth scraping soft and messy against your lip like he’s too far gone to care what it looks like.

You moan into it, arms tightening around his shoulders, clutching fistfuls of his undershirt like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered. You can still feel the slow pulse of his cock inside you, the fullness, the stretch—your pussy sensitive and twitching with every little shift of his hips.

He pulls back just enough to mutter against your lips, breath hot and uneven.

“Missed you so fuckin’ bad,” he pants, kissing the corner of your mouth, down your jaw, the shell of your ear. “Thought about this every fucking night—jerking off to the memory of your pussy dripping down my cock, fuck—nothing like it.”

You're still gasping, your voice high and broken when you whimper, “I can feel you leaking out of me already—”

That makes him groan again, low and wrecked, his hips rolling just once more like he’s trying to push it back in, like he doesn’t want to waste a drop.

“Shit,” he mutters, glancing toward the stove clock behind you. You’re too far gone to look.

“...how long’s it been?” you whisper, half-dazed, your head dropping to his shoulder.

He shifts, still inside you, pants tangled around his ankles, your legs hanging limp off his arms.

“Fifteen minutes.”

You blink.

“That’s it?”

He laughs—deep and satisfied—pressing a wet kiss to your throat, then your collarbone, biting just enough to make you squirm.

“You think I rushed home for one fuck?” Another kiss, filthier this time, his tongue dragging lazy over the skin just above your shirt collar. “We’ve got time, baby. Round two’s already fucking loading.”

“Round one, baby.” He presses a kiss to your throat. “You think I came home just for that?”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, lips grazing his ear as your fingers tug lightly at the collar of his wife beater, still clinging to him, full of him.

“Mm.” You smile, voice low and teasing. “Wonder if your constituents know how their Congressman spends his lunch breaks.”You press a lazy kiss to the corner of his mouth, still catching your breath. “Hope they’re getting their money’s worth.”

—

a/n: PLS REBLOG TO SUPPORT — when you reblog it shares my post meaning many more can see and then it won’t flop like my past writings

[tteotlma]

lunch break

a quickie???? w/ congressman barnes???? 

Congressman!Bucky x Reader 3.4k w/c

TW: 18+ MDNI; nsfw established relationship. Unprotected sex. Size kink, praise kink, dirty talk, filthy language, overstimulation, cockwarming adjacent. desperation-fueled sex, grinding, rough thrusting, handjob through clothing, dry humping, minimal undressing (partially clothed sex). manhandling. breeding kink language, mild body insecurity (Bucky's softened body), affirming partner praise. slight dubcon. Slight dom!Bucky energy, clingy/submissive reader energy.

a/n PLS reblog to support

Okay, but imagine… It's like 3 a.m. in the morning. Your dream has been interrupted by this incessant buzzing beside you. Blindly reaching for your phone and finding it underneath your body (bad habit), you peeled your eyes open enough to answer the call, putting the phone to your ear. 

“Doll—“ 

“Do you know what time it is, Congressman Barnes?” you immediately interrupted him. 

“I know, gorgeous, but—“ 

“This better be an emergency,” you feign annoyance. You had no issue with him calling you anytime; you just liked teasing him about it. 

“I wouldn’t call unless it were dire,” he murmurs, voice low and warm with sleep. “I just… I’ll finally be back home in D.C. tomorrow.”

You hum sleepily, not quite hiding your smile.

“And that couldn’t wait ‘til morning?”

“Not when I’ve only got an hour free.” There’s a pause, then he adds, quieter, “Figured I’d see if you wanted to spend it with me.”

Another beat.

“Lunch. Or…” His voice trails off, thick with suggestion, “We could just... spend it.”

“Fine, but until then, you need to rethink what you consider an 'emergency.’ " You flopped onto your side, getting comfortable under the blanket. The sound of his voice accidentally lulling you back to sleep. You yawned. 

“Making sure my girl gets put into my schedule is an emergency.” He caught you mid-yawn, mouth left open. Trying to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks, you scoffed, rolling your eyes, but you were ultimately speechless. 

“Sing a song to me, Barnes.” You whisper, your eyes are no longer able to remain open. There’s a pause. 

“Are you serious?” A soft laugh leaves your lips. 

“No, I'm just messing with you,” you said, fixing your head on the pillow, wondering if he could hear the smirk in your voice. Never in all your relationship had you ever asked him to do that, but you wanted to get him back for calling at such an ungodly hour. 

“Funny. Go back to bed, Doll.” He says softly into the phone. 

“See you soon, Congressman.” You replied before hanging up.

—-

You didn’t think he’d make it.

You’d half convinced yourself it would be another postponed lunch, another promise made with good intentions and a guilty follow-up text. Politics kept him tethered to everyone but you lately, and while you understood, it didn’t mean you liked it.

So when the front door clicked open just before noon, you froze, your hand hovering over the stove, and your whisk still dripping pancake batter.

“Bucky?” you called over your shoulder.

Footsteps. A pause. And then—

“Told you I’d find time for you.”

His voice was low, almost sheepish, but it hit you like a warm rush. You turned just in time to see him set down his coat and keys, still in his work clothes, eyes locked on you like he hadn’t eaten in days.

“You’re early.”

“I didn’t want to waste any free time.” He says, stalking towards you. He removes the spatula from your hand, placing it on the stove, wrapping his other hand around your waist, and pulling you close. 

You don’t even get the chance to respond. 

His mouth is on yours, gentle at first—just the brush of lips and breath—but it doesn’t stay that way. It deepens fast, like he’s making up for every second he’s been away. You can taste how much he missed you in the way his hands press into your waist, thumbs dragging slowly over your lower back like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you all over again.

“Hi,” He says softly as he pulls away, pressing his forehead to yours. You wrap your arms around his neck and give him a quick peck on the lips. 

“Hi.” 

He smiles softly, and you kiss him again, slower this time, like you don’t have to rush now that he’s finally here. His hands drift under the hem of your shirt, fingertips tracing the warm skin just above the waistband of your pajama shorts. You sigh into his mouth, tilting your head to deepen the kiss as your fingers slide into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan.

His hands grip your waist, thumbs stroking over the dip of your hips. “Missed you,” he mumbles, his voice thick, his lips brushing yours between words.

You smile into the kiss, one leg curling around his calf, pulling him closer.

 “You hungry? I was about to make pancakes.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, eyes half-lidded as his hands roam your waist.

 “Starving.”

But he doesn't move toward the stove. He kisses you again—hungrier now, messier—his mouth opening over yours like he can’t help it, like he’s been thinking about this too long to take it slow. His hands roam lower, gripping, pulling, like he needs to feel all of you at once.

You laugh softly against his mouth. “Not what I meant, Barnes.”

“It’s what I meant.”

His hands drop to your thighs, lifting you with ease. A surprised gasp leaves your lips as he sets you down on the kitchen island, the cool granite making you shiver—but he’s already moving in, settling between your legs like he belongs there because he does.

Your knees part for him instinctively, his hands spreading over the backs of your thighs as he leans in again, kissing you deeper this time. His tongue brushes yours, slow and lazy, like he has all the time in the world—even if you both know he doesn’t. 

He pulls away, both of you breathless. Your hands are still splayed in his hair, your thumbs caressing his ears. He kisses your lips again, adding a few more to the sides of your face, overwhelmed with enamour. You let a soft breath leave your lips in place of a laugh, as Bucky places a final peck on the side of your neck. 

His gaze flicks down to your shirt, the way it hangs off your shoulder, no bra in sight. Then lower to how your pajama shorts have ridden up from how you’re sitting. One of his hands drifts, fingers brushing against the soft skin of your thigh, just below the hem, where your cheeks start to curve and spill against the counter’s edge.

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes dark. “You’re not real.”

You huff a quiet laugh, hand slipping between you to tug at his loosened tie. “You gonna keep looking at me like that or do something about it?”

He doesn’t answer. He just kisses you again—somehow even hungrier this time—while your hands start working open the buttons of his shirt, fingers fumbling as heat begins to radiate through the fabric of his clothes.

You stripped him down to his undershirt, hands roaming his body, loving his newly softened physique. Politics wasn’t as physically demanding as crime fighting or space wars, so ever since he took office, he’s managed to gain a few pounds. To Bucky, it was a nuisance, but to you, it was mouth-watering. 

Of course, you had no issues with hard-toned abs either, but seeing him with more love to handle somehow made Bucky more domesticated, almost like he was keeping true to his word that he was trying to live a softer life with you. Your hands circled his waist, gripping his hips, dragging him in closer, and he tensed, almost pulling away. 

“Why?” You whined between kisses, pinching and tugging the fabric of his shirt to keep him from moving further. 

“Just not used to being this soft,” He said, against your lips. 

You pull back to look him in the eyes. They are hooded, and his pupils are blown wide. A soft whine left your lips. 

“Mmm, but Baby, I love it.” You slowly drag your finger down the plane of his chest peaking above his undershirt. 

“You do?” He asks, his curiosity temporarily breaking his sex motivated trance. You flatten your palms against his pecs and nod, biting your lower lip. 

“Mmhmm,” You hum, fighting not to squeeze his body. He places his hands above yours, and he smirks slightly. 

“Yeah?” he smirks, hands settling on your hips, his pinkies slipping just beneath the hem of your shorts, what little fabric is left now that they’ve ridden up, exposing the soft curve of your cheeks. His fingers graze the plush skin there, slow and deliberate.

“Yeah, it makes me so hot,” you breathe, the words slipping out as your back arches, hips instinctively rolling forward to meet his, your thighs bracketing his waist against the cool granite beneath you.

His breath hitches, but he doesn’t move. Just watches you with dark, unreadable eyes, fingers flexing at your hips.

“How?” he asks, voice low and rough. “Tell me, baby… What about it gets you like this?”

You smile softly, eyes flicking down to his lips as your hips roll again, slow, unhurried, just enough to make him feel it.

“The weight of you,” you whisper, leaning forward, brushing your mouth against his. “When we’re asleep…” You kiss the side of his jaw, trailing slowly to his ear. “when we’re fucking... feeling you on top of me.” You give a teasing nip to his ear, squeezing his hips with your thighs, “between me.”

A quiet groan rumbles in his throat as your words sink in, his grip on your hips tightening. You drag your hand down his stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of his pants, but stopping just above the fabric of his boxers.

Your palm presses gently over him, fingers curling slightly, slow, deliberate, like you’re feeling him for the first time all over again.

He jerks beneath your touch, hips rolling up just a little, like his body’s acting before he can think.

“Shit,” he mutters, eyes fluttering closed. “You’re not playing fair.”

“Wasn’t aware there were rules,” you murmur, lips brushing his jaw as your fingers squeeze around him through the fabric. Your thumb strokes over the thick line of him, lazy and mean.

He groans again, lower this time, rougher, his hand sliding from your waist to your thigh, gripping tight like he’s trying to ground himself.

You keep working your palm over him, slow circles, soft pressure, then firmer when he starts to push into it, rutting against your hand like he can’t help it.

“God, look at you,” you whisper, dragging your teeth along the shell of his ear. “Grinding like you need it.”

“I do need it,” he huffs, forehead falling to your shoulder for a second, breath hot against your skin. “You’ve been in my head for two weeks. Couldn’t even jerk off without thinking about this mouth.” He grabs your jaw in his hand. 

You smile, biting your lip as your hand slips lower, fingers teasing along the seam of his boxers now, pressing just enough to make him twitch. He bucks into your touch again, harder this time, and your breath catches.

He kisses you again, rough and messy, hand sliding up under your shirt, groping at your chest with none of his usual patience. Palm full, thumb brushing over your nipple until you're arching into him, gasping into his mouth.

You shift your hips forward, dragging yourself against the hard line of him, both of you partially dressed, barely thinking.

He groans when you grind down forward—slow, steady, filthy—and this time he moves with you, fucking into the friction, hands everywhere, mouth dragging from your lips to your neck.

“You keep doing that,” he mutters, breathless, “and I’m gonna come in my pants like a fucking teenager.”

“So? Better make it count.” You smirk, rolling your hips again, slower this time—just to tease. Just to hear him groan again.

And he does. Louder. 

“Sorry, doll. On a tight schedule.” His voice is ragged, almost hoarse. He grabs your wrist and pulls your hand from the front of his pants, but not before pressing a messy kiss to your palm—like he’s thanking you and telling you to behave all in one.

Then he tosses your arm over his shoulder and locks his gaze on you, dark and intent, his hand already working at his belt. The metal clinks, loud in the space between your bodies, and he doesn’t break eye contact even as he unzips his trousers with one hand, the other braced on the counter beside your thigh.

You feel the weight of him against your inner thigh the second his pants drop—thick and hot even through his boxers—and your breath catches.

He doesn't waste time. Just hooks two fingers into the waistband of your shorts and drags them to the side, yanking them taut against your hip, not even bothering to take them off.

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters, dragging the head of his cock through your folds once, twice, groaning when he finds you soaked and ready. “Always so wet for me. You don’t even make me work for it.”

“You’re the one on the clock,” you bite back, voice trembling.

That earns a smirk. “Right. Better not waste it, then.”

He thrusts in with one sharp push, splitting you open on a thick stretch that makes your whole body jolt. You gasp—loud, desperate, fingers scrambling for the edge of the counter behind you as the breath punches from your lungs.

“Shit— Bucky—” But he doesn’t stop. Just grips your hips hard enough to bruise and fucks into you deep, each stroke rough and deliberate, the kind of rhythm that says he’s missed this, missed you, and he's trying to make it count.

The sound of skin slapping, your wetness, both of you panting—it fills the kitchen like a secret neither of you are trying to hide.

“You feel that?” he growls against your mouth, hips snapping forward again. “Tight little pussy takin’ all of me—fuck—always so fuckin’ good.”

Your head tips back, thighs shaking around his waist as you cling to his shoulders.

“God—your cock, it’s—fuck, it’s thick—” You can barely get the words out, the pressure building fast, your nails digging into his back as he pounds into you, grinding just right at the end of every thrust like he knows exactly what you need.

“Yeah? You love this fat fuckin’ cock stretchin’ you open in the kitchen, huh?” His voice is all gravel and heat now, hand gripping your jaw, holding you there, watching every reaction.

“Love it,” you gasp, already spiraling. “Fuck, Bucky, don’t stop—”

He pulls out just enough to make your walls clench down in protest, makes you whimper as the tip of his cock catches at your entrance again, already slick, already fucking soaked with how ready you are for him—and then he grips you hard, arms flexing as he lifts you right off the counter like it’s nothing, like you weigh less than the need clawing at both of you.

Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, but he’s already shifting your weight, already bending your knees over his forearms, locking your thighs wide open as he stands. You’re suspended there, back arched, tits bouncing with every ragged breath you take beneath your shirt, your shorts still tugged to the side and his cock already driving back into you so fucking deep your vision goes spotty.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groans, his jaw pressed to your neck, biting down over your pulse while his hips slam up into you, hard, fast, no buildup now—just pure drive, frantic and raw, fucking you like he’s been aching for it, like he hasn’t felt anything this good in weeks and he’s making up for every second.

You’re just gasping now, hands gripping the back of his undershirt, fingers twisting in the fabric like you need something to anchor you, but it’s no use—your body’s jolting with every brutal thrust, your feet kicking helplessly in the air, your voice catching on every breathless moan he punches out of you.

“Jesus—fuck—Bucky—” your head drops back for a second, unable to hold yourself up, but one particularly deep, hard thrust makes your whole body jerk, your spine snapping upright as a sharp cry tears out of your throat.

Your arms fly up, locking around his neck, your cheek pressing to his temple, smothering him in your chest as you cling to him, holding on like your orgasm depends on it—and it fucking does.

He groans loud at the pressure, at the feel of your tits pressed against his face, at your thighs squeezing around his arms and the way your cunt clamps down on him like it never wants to let go.

“That’s it,” he pants, lips dragging across your collarbone, sucking and biting and making his way back up to your jaw, “fuck—knew you missed it—missed me—pussy’s chokin’ me, baby, fuck, you feel that? You feel how deep I am?”

You nod, crying out, hips rocking helplessly against his rhythm now, barely able to meet his thrusts with how completely he’s taken over, how perfectly he fills you.

“God, yes—yes, I feel you, you’re so—fuck—you’re so fucking deep, Bucky, you’re gonna make me come—” your voice cracks, body tensing, thighs trembling as the pressure hits white-hot.

He kisses you then, teeth dragging your bottom lip into his mouth as he starts to lose rhythm, his hips stuttering, his thrusts turning desperate—short, hard, rapidfire—machine-gun pace pounding up into you until you're wailing his name into his neck, until your pussy spasms around his cock and he grunts something broken and filthy as he spills inside you.

“Fuck—fuck, baby, I’m coming—shit, look at me—look at me—”

You do, barely, eyes fluttering open just enough to catch the way his brows knit, the way his mouth parts around a gasp, the way he buries himself as deep as he can go and stays there, thick cock twitching, pulsing inside you while you clench around him, greedy for every last drop.

His breath stutters out in a choked groan, arms shaking slightly as he holds you up, your thighs still hooked over his forearms, your cunt fluttering around his cock as your orgasm pulses through you in waves.

And then he kisses you.

Sloppy, wet, open-mouthed—like he needs it, like it’s the only way to keep from unraveling completely. His tongue is in your mouth before you can catch your breath, tasting you, groaning into you, teeth scraping soft and messy against your lip like he’s too far gone to care what it looks like.

You moan into it, arms tightening around his shoulders, clutching fistfuls of his undershirt like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered. You can still feel the slow pulse of his cock inside you, the fullness, the stretch—your pussy sensitive and twitching with every little shift of his hips.

He pulls back just enough to mutter against your lips, breath hot and uneven.

“Missed you so fuckin’ bad,” he pants, kissing the corner of your mouth, down your jaw, the shell of your ear. “Thought about this every fucking night—jerking off to the memory of your pussy dripping down my cock, fuck—nothing like it.”

You're still gasping, your voice high and broken when you whimper, “I can feel you leaking out of me already—”

That makes him groan again, low and wrecked, his hips rolling just once more like he’s trying to push it back in, like he doesn’t want to waste a drop.

“Shit,” he mutters, glancing toward the stove clock behind you. You’re too far gone to look.

“...how long’s it been?” you whisper, half-dazed, your head dropping to his shoulder.

He shifts, still inside you, pants tangled around his ankles, your legs hanging limp off his arms.

“Fifteen minutes.”

You blink.

“That’s it?”

He laughs—deep and satisfied—pressing a wet kiss to your throat, then your collarbone, biting just enough to make you squirm.

“You think I rushed home for one fuck?” Another kiss, filthier this time, his tongue dragging lazy over the skin just above your shirt collar.

“Round one, baby.” He presses a kiss to your throat. “You think I came home just for that? Round two’s already fucking loading”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, lips grazing his ear as your fingers tug lightly at the collar of his wife beater, still clinging to him, full of him.

“Mm.” You smile, voice low and teasing. “Wonder if your constituents know how their Congressman spends his lunch breaks.”You press a lazy kiss to the corner of his mouth, still catching your breath. “Hope they’re getting their money’s worth.”

—

a/n: PLS REBLOG TO SUPPORT — when you reblog it shares my post meaning many more can see and then it won’t flop like my past writings

[tteotlma]

i think when i reach the next big followers milestone ill finally do a pt. 2 for craving ctrl :p

[tteotlma]

sit pretty, ride hard

-- the only thing that can fix a rough day is a pretty boy to come home to.

Bucky Barnes x Fem! Reader 3.2kwc

tw: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, dom!reader x sub!Bucky Barnes, power exchange, praise kink, leash/belt kink, overstimulation, crying during sex, use of “puppy” and “good boy,” begging, cock worship, possessive behavior, degradation (light), soft aftercare, mild manipulation/teasing, creampie, dirty talk, mildly obsessive undertones, language, semi-public implications (thin walls/neighbors) a/n: just heard someone say i was in the room doing hw… JOKES ON THEM I ALREADY DID HW___I WAS WRITING THIS HEHEHE

DEAD, OK IMAGINE THIS… It’s been a particularly rough day, you know the kind where you couldn’t find your left shoe this morning, or you couldn’t remember where you threw your keys last night, or the fact that this week in general was a kick in the ass, what with the end of the second quarter coming around—We can only go up from here! —replayed in your head as you recounted your boss’s efforts during the biweekly quarter meeting and every pass in the hallway since a month ago. And to make matters somehow worse, a flash flood blew in out of nowhere, and now your white blouse is practically soaked. 

All you want is to be inside your home, in your pajamas, in bed, and maybe your gorgeous beau to make it all feel better. 

You give the door to your house a hard shove, rushing in, throwing your stuff on the floor, and toeing off your flats. 

“Hi, baby, rough day?” You look up to see your handsome lover standing at the entryway, leaning against the wall. Your shoulders subconsciously droop in relief as he comes into view. 

“You have no idea,” you sigh, immediately walking towards him, arms outstretched, which he meets halfway. His arms find your body while your fingers find the hairs at the nape of his neck. He gives you a quick peck on the lips, and when he pulls away, you find yourself quietly wishing for more. 

“You wanna talk about it?” He asks, and you shake your head, taking a deep breath. 

He smelled like laundry detergent and pine soap. Must’ve showered recently– you thought as your hands came to rest on the swell of his chest. 

“No, I don’t think so,” you say softly, as you tiptoe to try and get a kiss, which he happily accepts. His lips are soft against yours and —God, you didn’t realize how much calm he brought you… It was kinda nauseatingly sweet. You feel him pull away and find yourself again wishing he hadn’t. 

“Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?” He says, into your hair before he pulls back, and takes you in. You watch his eyes dip to your blouse, the soaked fabric clung to your chest, turning translucent, and Bucky’s breath hitched slightly as the outline of soft lace, barely-there blush in color, ghosted through. Not obvious. Not intentional. But enough to make his fingers twitch at your sides. He quickly shifts his gaze back to your face. 

“Well…” You suddenly turn coy, knowing just the right buttons to push after all these years. “I can think of something.” You say softly, a hand comes to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear before slowly ghosting your finger from the hollow of your throat down toward where your wet blouse clings to the top of your chest, fabric sticking to skin in a way that makes Bucky’s eyes drop instantly. 

You stop where your cleavage disappears into lace, dragging your finger over the seam where damp cotton ends and soft, barely-there blush starts, and God, the way his throat works when he swallows almost makes you laugh. Wide-eyed, jaw slack, Bucky’s mouth opens like he wants to speak, like maybe go towel off, change into warm, dry clothes, or get cozy under a blanket on the sofa – like he’s trying to take care of you like he always does, in that warm, soft, respectable way he does. And frankly, you’re way too wound up for soft tonight. 

“W-What are you thinking?” He clears his throat in an act of fake nonchalance, but the way his hands tighten against your hips proves you and he are riding the same brain wave. 

“Hmmm…” You look down like you need a minute to think, “you wanna fuck me harder than my day did?” you asked like it was any normal question out there and Bucky froze. 

He stares at you, eyes darkening, breath caught somewhere in his throat. “You—what?”

You step closer, your wet blouse still clinging to your skin, the faint outline of your bra now an afterthought to how much heat instantly crackles between you. “You heard me, baby,” you purr, fingers climbing up his chest until they hook into the collar of his shirt. “Or do I have to repeat myself for your pretty little brain?”

Bucky stared at you like you’d just slapped him, his mouth opening then closing again, lost somewhere between short-circuiting and combusting.

You tilted your head, feigning sweetness. “Well?” you pouted, hands slowly reaching for the buckle that sat against your stomach. “You gonna let today win, or you gonna remind me who I belong to?”

He made a wounded little sound, like the words physically hit him, and you swore you saw his knees wobble.

“I—shit, doll,” he breathed, blinking rapidly. “Do n’t—don’t say things like that unless you mean it.”

“For you, baby,” You stepped in closer, chest brushing his as your hand unbuckled the leather belt looped around your waist. “I always mean it,” you whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You gonna be good and make me feel better, lover? Or do I need to make you?”

That belt came off with one smooth tug.

Bucky’s breath hitched as he audibly swallowed, and you swore it went straight to your spine. His eyes stayed locked on yours as you held the belt up, looped it gently around his neck, tugging just enough to pull him down to you. 

You press your fists into his chest and lean up, brushing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth—just a little taste, a whisper of what’s waiting for him if he gives in. His breath stutters, lashes fluttering, but he doesn’t move. Not yet. So you do it again, this time slower, lips brushing his skin like a promise, a coaxing little nudge that has him swaying toward you. When he hesitates, you pull back just enough to tilt your head again, brows lifting like you’re daring him not to.

And that’s when he moves.

He leans in, just barely, like his body chooses before his mind, chasing your mouth like instinct. And the second his lips part, you meet him with a kiss that’s pure filth—wet, messy, tongue sweeping into his mouth, teeth dragging against his bottom lip until he moans and stumbles forward. You kiss him like you want to eat him alive, like you know precisely how to unmake him, and he melts into it with this quiet, desperate little sound that makes your toes curl.

“Mmm, there’s my good boy,” you hum against his lips, tugging lightly on the belt still looped around his neck. “That’s it. Come on, baby.”

And like the perfect little puppy he is, he follows. You lead him backward with the belt like a leash, step by step through the house toward the bedroom, and he never once breaks eye contact. His eyes are heavy, lidded with want, chest rising and falling like he’s barely holding it together. When you reach the edge of the bed, you give the belt a tug and push—just enough to guide him onto the mattress, where he sits back on his elbows, pupils blown wide as you crawl into his lap. 

He watches you from where you sit in his lap, belt still dangling from his neck like a collar, and it’s almost too much. His chest rises in these shaky, uneven waves like he’s struggling to keep his composure, and you adore it all— the tension, the restraint, the way he’s trying so hard to be good, to sit still and wait for your touch, for your approval, when everything in his body is screaming to move. You grind forward just slightly, the seam of your soaked slacks dragging across the hard outline of his cock, and he lets out this strangled sound, one that’s not quite a moan, not quite a gasp, something helpless and sweet and so fucking pretty that it makes your cunt pulse with want.

You do it again, slower this time, grinding your hips in a slow circle over the thick bulge in his pants, and his head drops back with a thud, Adam’s apple bobbing as he lets out the softest, most pitiful little whimper you’ve ever heard.

“Aww, look at you,” you croon, one hand dragging up his chest, the other cupping his jaw and guiding his flushed face back toward yours. “Already shaking, baby? I haven’t even taken your cock out yet.”

“Please,” he breathes, lips parted, eyes glassy. “Fuck—please, I need—just need to feel you.”

“I know, I know,” you coo, fingers ghosting down his torso until you’re palming him through the fabric of his pants, watching his thighs twitch as you rub over the thick head. “My poor baby. All pent up. You’ve been so good for me, haven’t you? My sweet little puppy. Just sitting here, letting me play with you.”

His hips buck again, instinctive and frantic, and you pull your hand away with a pout.

“Ah ah,” you tsk. “That’s not how good boys behave.”

“I’ll be good,” he swears, voice cracking. “I am good—please, please, just—hngh, fuck—”

You lean forward, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, breath warm and thick with praise. “You are,” you whisper. “You’re so good for me. So perfect. So obedient. So fucking pretty when you beg.”

You reach down again, finally undoing the button of his jeans and dragging the zipper down with agonizing slowness. His cock strains against the fabric of his boxers, pulsing, the wet patch of precum already staining through. You pull him out carefully, deliberately, and the moment your hand wraps around the base of him, he moans full-bodied and broken, like he’s been waiting hours for this. He’s thick, flushed, gorgeous, and you stroke him once, then again, watching the muscles in his stomach twitch with every little flick of your wrist.

And still, you don’t climb him. Not yet.

Instead, you push yourself up, undo your slacks with one hand while keeping your gaze locked on his, letting him watch every movement, every inch of skin you reveal. When you slide the fabric down your legs, revealing the scandalously thin pair of underwear that’s long since soaked through, you hear his breath stutter. He’s looking at you like he’s in a trance, like you’re not real, like he’s watching a dream he’s terrified to wake from.

You stand there for a moment, thighs glistening, hips cocked to the side, and tilt your head with a smile.

“Actually,” you say slowly, dragging one finger along the hem of your panties, “maybe I don’t need a good fuck tonight. Maybe I just need some air. A little walk. Something to clear my head.”

His whole body jerks.

“No—no, please,” he chokes, voice thick with panic, eyes going wide. “Don’t—don’t leave, please, fuck—I’ll be so good, I’ll fuck you so good, baby, you won’t even remember what stress is, please, I need—need to be inside you, please—”

“Mmm,” you hum, stepping forward and climbing back into his lap, rubbing the dripping heat of your pussy along the thick length of his cock without taking him in. “I don’t know, lover. You talk a big game.”

He groans deep and guttural and bucks his hips, trying to catch your entrance, but you lift just enough to keep him from sliding in. You grip his jaw, guiding his eyes to meet yours.

“You want it that bad, puppy?” 

“Yes,” he whispers, trembling. “Yes, I—I’ll do anything.”

Your smirk softens, darkens, turns into something almost loving as you lean in, eyes locked on his, the heat between you ready to snap. And then you kiss him — filthy and messy and all tongue and teeth, lips crashing into his like you’re trying to climb inside his mouth. You swallow his broken little moan as your tongue presses deep, licking into him while your hips roll and your cunt smears slick all along the length of his cock, not giving him anything he needs and everything he wants. His hands twitch like he’s going to reach for you again, but he doesn't — he knows better. So he just grips the sheets, groaning into your mouth, letting you take and take and take.

You pull back only when you’re breathless, your lips wet, your mouth still hovering so close that your exhales blend into his. “Good boy,” you whisper, dragging your nails down his chest. “Now hold still.”

You press your pussy down on him again, slower this time, letting your soaked folds glide along the underside of his cock, catching on the head, teasing the tip, and he whimpers, hips twitching so hard beneath you it makes the bed creak.

“Oh baby,” you sigh, voice going soft and filthy, your nails dragging through his hair, tugging his head back. “You’ve already made me feel so good. You’re doing so well. I’m already forgetting how fucking awful today was, just from this fat cock rubbing against me.”

“Please,” he gasps, one tear sliding down his flushed cheek, breath catching as you finally — finally — line yourself up and sink down onto him, inch by aching inch, until you’re seated fully in his lap and he’s buried so deep it feels like he’s splitting you in two.

Both of you moan, raw and sharp and needy, like it’s been days instead of minutes. His head drops forward, pressing to your chest as you clench around him, and he just breathes, shaking with how hard he’s trying to hold it together while you ride him slow, cruel, and perfect.

“Oh, fuck,” you groan, head tipping back, your hands coming up to squeeze your breasts through your bra as you bottom out on him. ���Oh my fucking God, that’s it, that’s what I needed. You feel so good, baby. So deep, so fucking thick, stretching me just right.”

He cries out beneath you, loud and ragged, like the sound's been ripped straight from his lungs. You swear it punches straight through you. his hands still pinned to the mattress, his hips rocking up in tiny, stuttered movements like he’s trying to be good, trying to hold back the way you told him to, but his body’s betraying him with every flex of his thighs, every desperate twitch of his cock buried thick and throbbing inside you. You start slow — like you always do — hips rolling in deep, grinding circles, letting him feel every fucking inch of how tight you are, how wet you are, how perfectly his cock fills you. His abs tense, stuttering with every pass of your cunt over the swollen head, his throat bobbing hard as his mouth falls open, head tilting back, and the whine that escapes him is so pretty it almost makes your vision blur.

“My pretty boy,” you murmur, voice wrecked but full of pride, leaning in to kiss the tear sliding hot down his cheek. “My perfect little puppy. You take such good care of me, don’t you? Look at you. Letting me use this cock like it’s mine. Giving me everything I need.”

“Please,” he sobs, the word trembling on his lips. “Please, touch me, please, I need—I need—”

You hum like it’s nothing, like you hadn’t been waiting for that moment, and finally you grab his wrists and drag his hands up to your chest. He moans when his palms land there, when you arch into his touch, and he grabs you like he might die if he doesn’t, fingers squeezing your tits, mouth open gasping, holding on like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the bed. And still, you ride him—faster now, rougher, bouncing in hard, slick snaps of your hips that make the mattress creak beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall, the wet smack of skin on skin echoing around the room like it’s trying to tell the neighbors you’re being fucking ruined in here.

Bucky’s whining now, full-on, high-pitched and desperate, beautiful… every thrust drawing out a broken little cry from his throat as you fuck yourself on him like you’ve been waiting all day for this, like the only way to exorcise your frustration is to wring every drop of pleasure from his cock.

 And God, his cock. It’s so thick, so deep, dragging against your walls in a way that makes your back arch, your toes curl, your mind go fucking blank. You can feel him twitching inside you with every bounce, the veins pulsing against your walls, the ridge catching on every spot that makes you clench and moan and shudder with how close you already are.

And Bucky? He’s gone. Babbling beneath you, trying to form words between the choked gasps and sobs, his abs quivering under your palms, his eyes glassy and wild like he’s never been fucked like this in his life.

“Say it,” you growl, grinding down so deep it punches a grunt out of him. “Say what you are.”

“I’m yours,” he gasps, the words falling out in one breath. “I’m your puppy—I’m your good boy, please, please, don’t stop, fuck—please—”

And that raw, wrecked, please breaks something in you. You lean in close, your lips brushing his ear, and whisper it softly, filthily, and finally.

“That’s my good puppy. You make me feel so good.” 

And he shatters.

He bottoms out inside you with a cry that cracks in his throat, hips jerking uncontrollably as he spills into you, hard, one pulse after another of hot, desperate cum flooding your cunt as he grabs at you like he needs to hold you down, keep you there, make sure you don’t leave, like he needs you to take it all. You gasp, head falling back, and it hits you just as hard — your orgasm tearing through you like lightning, making your whole body seize around him, your thighs shaking, your cunt milking him as you ride every wave of it out on his cock, moaning his name over and over like it’s the only word that still makes sense.

And still he holds you. Still he grinds up into you, chasing every last bit of your orgasm even as he sobs into your skin, even as he cries from how fucking much it is. You press your hands to his chest, panting, slick dripping between your thighs, your body twitching from aftershocks, as you let him squeeze your tits again, let him grab you, hold you, pull you down tight to him as his cock softens inside your fluttering cunt.

You stay like that for a long moment, a mess of slick and sweat and sobbing breath, skin stuck together, limbs tangled, your forehead resting against his as you both try to come down. His eyes are still wet, his lips kiss-bitten and red, and you kiss him again, soft this time, slow, just the press of lips and breath.

And you smile.

Because he earned it. Every last fucking drop.

--

a/n: hope u enjoyed PLS REBLOG TO SUPPORT <3

asks are open :)

[tteotlma]

breathe you in

Dead,, needing to SMELL your lover to be okay????– GETTOUTTA HEREEEE

joel miller x reader imagine 2kwc

TW: 18+ MDNI; nsfw, post-panic attack intimacy, intense emotional vulnerability, scent as grounding, emotionally driven sex, power dynamics (consensual), begging, praise kink, desperate and talkative!Joel, soft domination, slow grinding, unprotected sex, deep emotional dependency, cockwarming adjacent energy, physical clinging, overstimulation potential

a/n: Also i’m def trying to bring back the casuality of what used to be posting on here…. There are many layers to this, which i could talk abt all day, but for now  Bc i still love Joel, so very much 

Imagine it’s late at night, you and Joel have gone to bed. You’re wrapped in the heat of your shared duvet, blanket tucked under your chin just how you like it. Joel had fallen asleep with his arm wrapped tightly around you, but that was hours ago, and… a man’s gotta spread. He’s sprawled out on the bed beside you, both fast asleep. 

Suddenly, the bed creaks with an aggressive shake, and loud mumbling turned panic fills the room. You’re ripped from your sleep when the sounds of his gasps break through your dream barrier, and you realize Joel must’ve had another nightmare. 

Throwing the blanket off your body, you sit up and reach over to touch his face, soft shushes leaving your lips. 

“Hey, hey,” you cooed, “Joel, Baby—” You tried to pacify his cries, warming your hand against the curve of his jaw as you leaned into his side of the bed. He was frantic as he looked around the room, trying to reorient himself. 

“Sweetheart,” getting on your knees, you move to straddle one of his legs, trying not to become frantic. “It was just a nightmare, look at me.” This had come out more stern than previous, and it seemed to break through whatever trance Joel seemed to find himself in. 

His sounds softened as you continued to coax his attention towards you. Soon, the only sound that left his lips turned into heavy breathing as his hand shakily grasped your wrist against his skin. His eyes widen as he finally turns to look at you. 

Cupping his face in both hands, you lean in, “Just Breathe—” his eyebrows curled, a hand on his ches,t “In and out,” your chest mimics your words. 

“I—I—I—” He tries to talk, but you gently hush him.

“It’s okay; you don’t have to talk; just…” The hand on the center of his chest pressed deeper against the warmth of his shirt, silently reminding him where to focus. His hand came to rest atop yours, and he nodded. You locked eyes, and you noticed his pupils were blown wide. 

You stay like that, still and close, for what feels like hours, though only minutes pass—as he slowly pulls himself from the fog of his nightmare.  Then, without a word, his eyes drop to his lap. One hand drifts to your hip, the other settling at the bend of your arm, his chest still rising and falling in uneven waves.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers, voice rough and low. 

You hook a finger beneath his chin, gently guiding his face to yours. “For you,” you whisper, tucking a stray salt-and-pepper curl behind his ear, “anything.”

Your thumb grazes his cheek, tender and steady as you hold his face in your hands. You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

The hand on your hip slides to your lower back, his palm warm and deliberate as he draws you into his chest. You go easily, folding into the hug, your cheek resting against the curve of his neck. He holds you there, solid, quiet—like the act of touching you is the only thing keeping him grounded. 

His face finds the crook of your neck while your chin rests on his shoulder. You feel him breathe you in. At first, it’s subtle and slow, his nose brushing your skin, chest rising against yours as he inhales deeply. He sighs.

Then he does it again. Slower. Longer. His nose drags across the slope of your neck, and his breath leaves him shakier this time.

You feel the edge of his teeth when he speaks, his voice low against your skin, the rough scrape of his stubble trailing higher as he nuzzles along your jaw. You tilt instinctively, baring more of your neck. His hand slides up your spine, fingers splayed, holding you firmly against him.

His lips hover near your skin—not quite kissing, but close enough to make you shiver. The coarse drag of his stubble follows the curve of your jaw as his nose nudges higher. You tilt again, offering more without thinking.

That’s all it takes.

His mouth finds your pulse. One soft kiss. Then another. Then one just beneath your ear that lingers a little too long.

When you turn your face toward his, his eyes drop to your mouth.

And then he kisses you.

It starts slow, careful, almost hesitant. His lips part against yours, and one hand moves higher on your back, holding you steady. The tension breaks when you sigh into him and your fingers tighten in the back of his shirt.

The kiss deepens. His mouth moves over yours like he’s hungry for it, like this is the only way he knows how to speak. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw. His tongue brushes yours, coaxing, tasting. You whimper softly, and he groans into your mouth like the sound unravels him.

Like, he’s not just kissing you.

Like he’s trying to hold on to the only thing that, to him, feels real. 

“Every time I breathe you in, I want more.” He pulls back, eyes hooded as he stares at your now swollen lips.

“Please, baby… let me have more.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, slow and warm, watching the way your chest heaves beneath him. He sees it—the way your breath catches, the flicker of doubt in your eyes—and he doesn’t wait.

“Only if you want it,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “I’ll take my time. I’ll be gentle. Just… I need to be close. Closer than this.”

Another kiss, softer this time, pressed just below your ear.

“I don’t want to fuck. I want to feel. Want to be in your skin and know what it’s like to come home and mean it.”

He rests his forehead against yours, breathing you in again like it’s the only thing that calms the storm in his chest.

Your hands come up to cradle his face, thumbs sweeping across the stubble at his cheeks. You nod slowly, silently, teeth caught between your lips—and that’s all it takes.

Joel exhales like he’s been underwater, like he’s just come up for air. He shifts his weight and turns you both over in one smooth motion, laying you gently beneath him. His hands don’t leave your body, not once, as your thighs part instinctively to cradle his hips. He settles there, warm and solid, his full weight pressing you into the mattress. His chest hovers just above yours, his forearms braced on either side of your head, eyes locked on yours like he’s still asking for permission, even without the words.

He leans in, kisses you again—slower this time. His lips are warm and sure, his breath steadying against your cheek. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear the second he looks away. His hips roll forward, a slow drag of pressure right against the heat between your legs, and your back arches to meet him.

Even through the layers, you can feel the thick weight of him, already hardening as he grinds against you. The pressure is deliberate, controlled, but needy. Like he’s not chasing pleasure, but grounding himself in it.

"That’s it," he murmurs into your mouth, voice thick. "Just wanna feel you, baby. That’s all I need."

He shifts again, just enough to work one hand down between your bodies, tugging at the waistband of his sweats. You feel the soft brush of his knuckles against your stomach as he pushes them low, and then you reach for him too, helping him slide them off. The soft sound of fabric rustling fills the space between your breaths. When his cock presses against your bare thigh—hot and heavy—you both shudder.

“Take these off for me, sweetheart,” he breathes, thumb hooking into the waistband of your shorts.

You lift your hips, and he pulls them down slowly, carefully, like you’re something breakable. His hands linger on your thighs when he tosses them aside, calloused palms dragging back up the insides until you’re spread open for him again.

He settles between your legs and lines himself up, the thick head of his cock dragging through your folds, already wet and aching. One hand rests at your waist, the other steadying himself against the mattress.

"Tell me if it’s too much," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "I’ll stop. I swear. I’ll stop if you need me to."

You shake your head immediately, breathing hard.

"Don’t stop, Joel. I need you."

He presses forward slowly, easing into you inch by inch. The stretch steals the breath from your lungs, your fingers curling into the muscles at his back as he sinks deeper. His body shudders above you when he bottoms out, buried completely.

“Fuck—Jesus Christ,” he groans, the words broken against your neck. “You feel like heaven. So warm… fuck, you’re takin’ me so good.”

He stays there for a moment, unmoving. His body presses flush to yours, his hand slides under your back, palm flat between your shoulder blades like he’s holding you there, grounding both of you. When he starts to move, it’s slow, deep, grinding strokes that have you gasping softly beneath him.

Each roll of his hips pulls a quiet sound from your throat. Your body clenches around him, clinging, wet, and pulsing as you fall into his rhythm.

“Needed this,” he whispers. His voice is hoarse, raw. “Felt like I was gonna fuckin’ lose it tonight.”

His forehead presses to yours as he keeps moving inside you, languid, like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality.

“You’re the only thing that feels real right now.”

He holds you so close. One hand cupping the back of your head, the other gripping your thigh, spreading you wider, deeper. His mouth grazes your temple, your jaw, and your lips between every breath.

“Only time I can breathe is when I’m buried in you.”

Your legs tighten around his waist, your heel digging into the curve of his ass as you pull him in harder. He groans, thrusts faltering for half a beat before he finds his rhythm again, slightly rougher now, more desperate.

His mouth drops to your shoulder, breath shaking against your skin.

“Let me cum inside you,” he pants. “Wanna feel you wrapped around me when I cum.”

Your answer is a whimper, your nails dragging down his back. He kisses you again—messy and open-mouthed, tongue sweeping against yours like he needs to taste every part of you.

“Let me give it to you, baby—let me fuckin’ give it to you.” He thrusts hard with each syllable. 

You nod, eyes fluttering closed, thighs shaking. His thrusts grow more frantic, deeper, like he’s chasing the edge with every desperate breath.

"That’s it," he groans. "That’s it, darlin’. You take me so fuckin’ well—always do. My good girl."

He spills inside you with a broken, guttural moan, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his whole body trembles above you. You feel every twitch, every pulse of release, warm and deep and grounding.

"Thank you," he whispers into your skin, over and over, voice crumbling. "Thank you. Thank you. Didn’t know how much I needed this until you. Until you."

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move except to press soft kisses to your neck, your jaw, your cheek.

“Gonna hold you now, alright?” he murmurs. “Just wanna hold you for a while. That okay, baby?”

You nod, barely able to breathe.

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest like he’s afraid to let you go. And for a long time, neither of you says anything at all.

--

a/n: pls don't let another one flop -- REBLOG TO SUPPORT <3

[tteotlma]

tbh i still can’t believe i wrote this

full of you

 Mueheueheuheheuehe

werewolf! joel x reader 2.4k/w

TW: 18+ MDNI; nsfw, werewolf knotting, full moon sex, supernatural elements, rough sex, size kink, overstimulation, deep penetration, cock-drunkenness, fluid play (drool/slick/cum), consensual power dynamics, light choking, intense scent marking, possessive behavior, knotting/breeding kink, primal desperation, marking with teeth (non-breaking skin), manhandling, muscle worship, emotionally charged dominance, begging, praise kink, brief emotional vulnerability, post-orgasmic clinging, knot-induced lock-in, mild somnophilic undertones (reader too fucked out to respond), feral!Joel, soft aftercare in context of overstimulation

a/n: everybody say thank u shmeed!

Okay, imagine, but imagine werewolf Joel with a fat knot… It’s a full moon, so he’s a little—okay, a lot—worked up. You guys have been in bed for the better half of an hour at this point. The room reeked of sex, joel’s promise of opening the windows long gone, beads of sweat trailed down the side of his face while sweat pooled in the crevice of your collarbones. 

“Fuck, that’s it baby.” Joel grunted. His hands were practically bruising your hips, his fingernails leaving crescent moon indents onto your plush skin. He had you on top of him (one of his many fave positions) legs spread on both sides of him. He’d currently been spending the last then minutes trying to get you to take his full cock but he’s only been able to get his tip past your tight hole despite the amount of precum that was leaking from the tip. 

You couldn’t help it. It was just too good. 

Once you’d feel the ridge of his penis slip through your folds the stretch would overwhelm you and you’d clench up causing Joel to hiss. 

“Ah,” He jolted beneath you, as you rested your palms on his softened stomach. “You gotta relax, baby.” He would say through gritted teeth. You’d hum in response, your eyes clenched shut as his nails left light scrapes against your skin, your flesh molding beneath his command. 

“I-I’m trying,” you’d hiccup, moan caught in your throat. Small whimpers left your lips as the burn of your thighs from holding yourself up above him was getting to you. The sting and stretch of it all wash pushing you to the edge. “But I can’t, I…” You clenched your thighs around your wrist, almost willing to crush his chest with your knees. You were close, your hands subconsciously tightened around the course curls beneath his belly button. 

“Sorry, sweetheart, but that ain’t gonna happen,” he said, voice gruff. He quickly sat up, throwing you off balance while he placed a hand behind your head, and wrapped the other around your throat, “If you’re gonna come,” he pulls you close, breath on your lips. “You’re gonna come cause I stuffed you full of my cock.” Despite the desperation of it all, he lays you gently on your back before mounting you—not once letting his dick slip from your cunt. All you could do was mewl beneath the weight of his body. Tears filled your eyes. 

“I tried,” you whined softly, “I really did.” You sniffed. You didn’t know why you were getting emotional, but it was probably out of frustration. Joel quickly moved his hand from your throat and brushed the hair out of your face. He shushed you, placing a small kiss on the corner of your lip. 

“I know you did, baby,” he whispers, his thighs warm against the back of your legs. But I can’t have you do all the work, can I?” You shake your head softly, and he smiles, his teeth peeking through his lips. 

He leans down to kiss you, as you throw your arms around him. His lips are soft and warm as they move against yours. His hands roam around your body, grabbing at your curves, and he squeezes particularly hard at the flesh of your thigh, causing you to whine into his mouth. He takes that opportunity to explore your mouth. 

When his tongue enters your mouth, your breath hitches. One of the many indicators that Joel was teetering between the edge of lycanthropy and sentience was how his mouth flooded with saliva, and his teeth began to sharpen, aching like something beastly was trying to break through. You guys would never fight for dominance; instead, Joel would always deepen the kiss by putting a hand at the nape of your neck and pulling you close like he was minutes away from devouring you. 

You never voiced this, but somehow, he found out that you liked the feel of tracing his sharpened canines against your tongue. At the same time, your hands would pull at the hair at the base of his neck, loving the way he grew rougher, heavier, more beast than man with every second. Animalistic. 

“Plus,” he murmurs, pulling back, leaving a string of saliva between your lips, “we both know I like you better this way.” He slides out, dragging a moan from your throat, then flips you onto your stomach with ease. Suddenly, you're facing the end of the bed, heart racing. 

Before you can even respond, he’s already lining the tip back up to your hole—then he pauses. Doesn’t move. You push up onto your elbows, glancing back at him, only to find his eyes fixed between your legs. He lowers himself, slowly, deliberately his large hands coming to spread your cheeks before he gently opens his mouth. 

The tip of his tongue slips out, and a warm trail of saliva drips from it—falling onto your quaking cunt, sticky and slow, like he wants you to feel every drop. You let out a soft mewl, and he watches your pussy clench as his drool drips between your folds. A dark chuckle leaves his lips and he grabs at the base of his dick, sliding it between your newly soaked heat. A low grunt escaping his chest as his other hand grabs at your curves. 

You subconsciously pull forward, away from him and he pulls you back slapping his cock against your cunt. Your body jolting with pleasure, each soft drag of his sac against your clit. 

F-fuck, Joel,” you whimper, and he leans forward, pressing his hairy chest against your back, the heat of him anchoring you in place. 

“Nuh-uh, baby,” he’d murmur, a smirk in his voice. His hand on the curve of your back slides up to your neck, guiding you down into the mattress as he presses a soft kiss to your bare shoulder. Once you were face down in the mattress, your voice muffled against the sheets, he wasted no time lining himself back up to your heat. His cock ached—so hard and swollen he barely had to touch your cunt to feel the pulse of need between you. 

“Now, sit nice and pretty for me,” he growls, voice low and rough with restraint. He waits for your nod—barely—before landing a sharp smack to your ass, the sound echoing in the heat-thick air. His hand lingers, squeezing a fistful of flesh, watching it jiggle under his touch like he owns it. Then he drags the swollen head of his cock along your clit, slow and deliberate, and the sound you both make is animal—raw, guttural, hungry. 

“Fuck, wolfie—” you whisper, breath hitching as he lines the tip up with your entrance. He slides in easily at first, until he reaches the thick ridge of his head, where your body resists with a trembling squeeze. 

“Come on, pretty girl,” he groans, leaning into you, his chest pressed flush to your back. His voice is low in your ear. “I know you can take me.” One hand moves to sweep your hair away from your face, while the other wraps around you, fingers sliding down to find your heat, slow and certain. His middle finger hooks beneath your clit and you cry out, and he’s able to inch further. 

“That’s it, good girl,” he murmurs in your ear, the scrape of his stubble grounding you. His fingers keep working you open, slow circles around your clit before pressing right onto it—pulling waves of pleasure from deep in your belly. It’s that flutter, that perfect tension, that lets him sink in deeper. With a grunt from him and a cry from you, the thick ridge of his cock finally slips past as your hand reachs out and clecnehs around the blanket beneath you. 

“Fuck, yes,” he groans, throwing his head back, mouth slack. “Good puppy.” 

“S’big,” you drawl, breath hitching, your hands scrambling to grasp anything that might anchor you—anything to hold onto as sanity slips through your fingers. 

Joel chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest, pressed firm against your back. His lips brush your ear as he murmurs,

“I know, baby. It’s too much, ain’t it? But you’re takin’ it so fuckin’ well,” Joel grits out, voice thick and breathless, his chest smothering your back as his fingers keep working your clit—slow, tight circles that make your cunt flutter around him, sucking him in deeper with every pass.

His thrusts are still shallow, still trying to be careful, but he’s struggling. You can feel it in the way his hips twitch, the way his cock throbs inside you like it’s begging to be buried to the hilt. And he doesn’t stop touching you, rubbing and teasing every slick, swollen part of you because he knows the more he makes you feel good, the more your body gives. The more you open up for him.

You’re losing it. Hands scrambling at the sheets, at the loose clothes, at your chest, absolutely anything to anchor you as the pleasure crests and crashes through you again and again. You’re gasping into the mattress when you glance up and see it—the moonlight spilling through the window, painting you both in silver-blue, catching the sweat and the way your bodies shine.

And Joel’s panting above you, gritting his teeth, chest heaving against your spine. He’s barely holding it together. You can feel it.

Your hand reaches back blindly, dragging along the hard line of his stomach, down to where his pelvis meets your ass—and then your fingers brush something hot, swollen, throbbing.

His knot.

He hisses, loud and sharp. “Baby—baby, don’t,” he groans, voice damn near cracking. You can feel him trembling, feel how bad he wants it—how close he is to losing the last thread of control.

And suddenly, it hits you: he’s been struggling just as much as you have. Maybe more.

You glance back, lips parted, breath ragged.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, voice shaky with want. “You can move. I can take it, Wolfie.”

That name alone almost makes him come.

You shift your hips, adjusting to take him deeper, your body sore and aching and drenched, but desperate for more. He growls low in his throat, hands grabbing your hips, tight enough to bruise.

“You sure?”

“Yes. Fuck—yes.”

He doesn’t wait. His lips fall to your back, kissing, biting, panting into your skin. Then he starts moving. Not gentle. Not restrained. Just raw, deep, hungry.

“God, yes—unh—so good,” he groans, fucking you harder now, his hips slapping against your ass, cock stretching you wide, the thick swell of his knot grinding harder with every thrust.

“Goddamn, this pussy—fuckin’ delicious, baby girl—fuck.”

His fingers are still playing with your clit, now rougher, sloppier, dragging the slick that’s escaped your hole around and teasing every tender spot like he’s trying to make you fall apart on purpose.

You’re a mess beneath him. “Fuck—fuck—yes, Joel—oh my god—so fuckin’ big—are you gonna come in me?” Your voice is wrecked, your legs shaking, drool on your lips, and tears in your eyes. 

“Yes, baby—fuck yes—I’m gonna come,” he growls, rutting into you like he’s lost his mind.

 “This pussy’s so goddamn perfect—I can feel you every fuckin’ time I thrust—tight little thing, takin’ it all.”

“Yes—yes alpha’s in my guts—fuck—so deep—”

“Yeah, baby—puppy’s gonna make me come—fuck—”

“Come in me, Joel, please—I can take it—I can whatever you give me, Wolfie!”

“Yeah, you can, baby.”

He grabs your hips hard, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s afraid you’ll slip away, and yanks you back into him with a brutal, unforgiving snap. The momentum lifts your knees partway off the bed, toes barely grazing the sheets as he slams forward, rutting deep with a single, savage thrust.

That’s when you feel His knot—fat, swollen, pulsing— forces its way in with a filthy, wet squelch, your cunt stretching wide around the thick mass of him. It burns and splits, a slick, obscene pressure that makes your back arch and your jaw drop, but your body takes it. Fucks itself open around it. Locks him in.

Your scream catches on the edge of your breath, stuck somewhere between a sob and a moan as your entire body seizes. Your pussy clenches down in frantic, desperate spasms, locking around him like it’s never going to let him go milking, twitching, sucking at him so tight it’s like your body is begging to be filled again and again.

You're trembling, gushing, mouth falling open with a silent cry as pleasure rips through you like lightning, all heat and sharp-edged need.  

“I’m coming—I’m coming—fuck—I’m coming—Joel!”

And that’s all it takes.

Joel snarls, hips jerking as he buries himself fully, knot swollen tight and locked, his cock twitching deep inside as he comes hard, endless, hot. You feel it flood you, feel it leak out around where he’s stretched you to the limit, feel it pulse through every nerve ending like a live wire. And then his teeth sink into your shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to claim, to mark. He groans against your skin, still grinding slowly, stuck deep inside you as your bodies pulse together, knotted and messy and trembling in the moonlight.

You’re both panting—ragged, uneven. The only sound in the room is the slick, obscene squelch of his cock grinding in slow, shallow rolls and the wet drip of his cum leaking out around the knot that still stretches you wide, still keeps you full.

“Fuck…” Joel breathes against your skin, voice hoarse and heavy with everything he just gave you. “You did so fuckin’ good for me, baby.”

You can’t even speak. Your cheek is pressed into the sheets, eyes half-lidded, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth, completely wrecked. Your thighs twitch every time he moves, a shiver running down your spine when he licks the bite on your shoulder slowly and reverently.

His knot is still locked tight inside you, keeping your hips pressed together, his cock still twitching, pulsing deep in your overstimulated cunt. Every little movement sends a fresh wave of slick dripping down your thighs.

His arms wrap around your waist, holding you there, still, like he’s afraid that if he lets go, he might unravel.

“Just stay like this,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. “Let me keep you full a little longer.”

And you do because you don’t want to move, either. Not when you’re this warm, ruined, and full of him. The moonlight glows soft and cold against your skin, but between your bodies, everything’s heat.

-----

PLS REBLOG TO SUPPORT <3

a/n: asks are open; also do u guys notice reoccurring themes lol oops

kitty go meow?

[tteotlma]

full of you

 Mueheueheuheheuehe

werewolf! joel x reader 2.4k/w

TW: 18+ MDNI; nsfw, werewolf knotting, full moon sex, supernatural elements, rough sex, size kink, overstimulation, deep penetration, cock-drunkenness, fluid play (drool/slick/cum), consensual power dynamics, light choking, intense scent marking, possessive behavior, knotting/breeding kink, primal desperation, marking with teeth (non-breaking skin), manhandling, muscle worship, emotionally charged dominance, begging, praise kink, brief emotional vulnerability, post-orgasmic clinging, knot-induced lock-in, mild somnophilic undertones (reader too fucked out to respond), feral!Joel, soft aftercare in context of overstimulation

a/n: everybody say thank u shmeed!

Okay, imagine, but imagine werewolf Joel with a fat knot… It’s a full moon, so he’s a little—okay, a lot—worked up. You guys have been in bed for the better half of an hour at this point. The room reeked of sex, joel’s promise of opening the windows long gone, beads of sweat trailed down the side of his face while sweat pooled in the crevice of your collarbones. 

“Fuck, that’s it baby.” Joel grunted. His hands were practically bruising your hips, his fingernails leaving crescent moon indents onto your plush skin. He had you on top of him (one of his many fave positions) legs spread on both sides of him. He’d currently been spending the last then minutes trying to get you to take his full cock but he’s only been able to get his tip past your tight hole despite the amount of precum that was leaking from the tip. 

You couldn’t help it. It was just too good. 

Once you’d feel the ridge of his penis slip through your folds the stretch would overwhelm you and you’d clench up causing Joel to hiss. 

“Ah,” He jolted beneath you, as you rested your palms on his softened stomach. “You gotta relax, baby.” He would say through gritted teeth. You’d hum in response, your eyes clenched shut as his nails left light scrapes against your skin, your flesh molding beneath his command. 

“I-I’m trying,” you’d hiccup, moan caught in your throat. Small whimpers left your lips as the burn of your thighs from holding yourself up above him was getting to you. The sting and stretch of it all wash pushing you to the edge. “But I can’t, I…” You clenched your thighs around your wrist, almost willing to crush his chest with your knees. You were close, your hands subconsciously tightened around the course curls beneath his belly button. 

“Sorry, sweetheart, but that ain’t gonna happen,” he said, voice gruff. He quickly sat up, throwing you off balance while he placed a hand behind your head, and wrapped the other around your throat, “If you’re gonna come,” he pulls you close, breath on your lips. “You’re gonna come cause I stuffed you full of my cock.” Despite the desperation of it all, he lays you gently on your back before mounting you—not once letting his dick slip from your cunt. All you could do was mewl beneath the weight of his body. Tears filled your eyes. 

“I tried,” you whined softly, “I really did.” You sniffed. You didn’t know why you were getting emotional, but it was probably out of frustration. Joel quickly moved his hand from your throat and brushed the hair out of your face. He shushed you, placing a small kiss on the corner of your lip. 

“I know you did, baby,” he whispers, his thighs warm against the back of your legs. But I can’t have you do all the work, can I?” You shake your head softly, and he smiles, his teeth peeking through his lips. 

He leans down to kiss you, as you throw your arms around him. His lips are soft and warm as they move against yours. His hands roam around your body, grabbing at your curves, and he squeezes particularly hard at the flesh of your thigh, causing you to whine into his mouth. He takes that opportunity to explore your mouth. 

When his tongue enters your mouth, your breath hitches. One of the many indicators that Joel was teetering between the edge of lycanthropy and sentience was how his mouth flooded with saliva, and his teeth began to sharpen, aching like something beastly was trying to break through. You guys would never fight for dominance; instead, Joel would always deepen the kiss by putting a hand at the nape of your neck and pulling you close like he was minutes away from devouring you. 

You never voiced this, but somehow, he found out that you liked the feel of tracing his sharpened canines against your tongue. At the same time, your hands would pull at the hair at the base of his neck, loving the way he grew rougher, heavier, more beast than man with every second. Animalistic. 

“Plus,” he murmurs, pulling back, leaving a string of saliva between your lips, “we both know I like you better this way.” He slides out, dragging a moan from your throat, then flips you onto your stomach with ease. Suddenly, you're facing the end of the bed, heart racing. 

Before you can even respond, he’s already lining the tip back up to your hole—then he pauses. Doesn’t move. You push up onto your elbows, glancing back at him, only to find his eyes fixed between your legs. He lowers himself, slowly, deliberately his large hands coming to spread your cheeks before he gently opens his mouth. 

The tip of his tongue slips out, and a warm trail of saliva drips from it—falling onto your quaking cunt, sticky and slow, like he wants you to feel every drop. You let out a soft mewl, and he watches your pussy clench as his drool drips between your folds. A dark chuckle leaves his lips and he grabs at the base of his dick, sliding it between your newly soaked heat. A low grunt escaping his chest as his other hand grabs at your curves. 

You subconsciously pull forward, away from him and he pulls you back slapping his cock against your cunt. Your body jolting with pleasure, each soft drag of his sac against your clit. 

F-fuck, Joel,” you whimper, and he leans forward, pressing his hairy chest against your back, the heat of him anchoring you in place. 

“Nuh-uh, baby,” he’d murmur, a smirk in his voice. His hand on the curve of your back slides up to your neck, guiding you down into the mattress as he presses a soft kiss to your bare shoulder. Once you were face down in the mattress, your voice muffled against the sheets, he wasted no time lining himself back up to your heat. His cock ached—so hard and swollen he barely had to touch your cunt to feel the pulse of need between you. 

“Now, sit nice and pretty for me,” he growls, voice low and rough with restraint. He waits for your nod—barely—before landing a sharp smack to your ass, the sound echoing in the heat-thick air. His hand lingers, squeezing a fistful of flesh, watching it jiggle under his touch like he owns it. Then he drags the swollen head of his cock along your clit, slow and deliberate, and the sound you both make is animal—raw, guttural, hungry. 

“Fuck, wolfie—” you whisper, breath hitching as he lines the tip up with your entrance. He slides in easily at first, until he reaches the thick ridge of his head, where your body resists with a trembling squeeze. 

“Come on, pretty girl,” he groans, leaning into you, his chest pressed flush to your back. His voice is low in your ear. “I know you can take me.” One hand moves to sweep your hair away from your face, while the other wraps around you, fingers sliding down to find your heat, slow and certain. His middle finger hooks beneath your clit and you cry out, and he’s able to inch further. 

“That’s it, good girl,” he murmurs in your ear, the scrape of his stubble grounding you. His fingers keep working you open, slow circles around your clit before pressing right onto it—pulling waves of pleasure from deep in your belly. It’s that flutter, that perfect tension, that lets him sink in deeper. With a grunt from him and a cry from you, the thick ridge of his cock finally slips past as your hand reachs out and clecnehs around the blanket beneath you. 

“Fuck, yes,” he groans, throwing his head back, mouth slack. “Good puppy.” 

“S’big,” you drawl, breath hitching, your hands scrambling to grasp anything that might anchor you—anything to hold onto as sanity slips through your fingers. 

Joel chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest, pressed firm against your back. His lips brush your ear as he murmurs,

“I know, baby. It’s too much, ain’t it? But you’re takin’ it so fuckin’ well,” Joel grits out, voice thick and breathless, his chest smothering your back as his fingers keep working your clit—slow, tight circles that make your cunt flutter around him, sucking him in deeper with every pass.

His thrusts are still shallow, still trying to be careful, but he’s struggling. You can feel it in the way his hips twitch, the way his cock throbs inside you like it’s begging to be buried to the hilt. And he doesn’t stop touching you, rubbing and teasing every slick, swollen part of you because he knows the more he makes you feel good, the more your body gives. The more you open up for him.

You’re losing it. Hands scrambling at the sheets, at the loose clothes, at your chest, absolutely anything to anchor you as the pleasure crests and crashes through you again and again. You’re gasping into the mattress when you glance up and see it—the moonlight spilling through the window, painting you both in silver-blue, catching the sweat and the way your bodies shine.

And Joel’s panting above you, gritting his teeth, chest heaving against your spine. He’s barely holding it together. You can feel it.

Your hand reaches back blindly, dragging along the hard line of his stomach, down to where his pelvis meets your ass—and then your fingers brush something hot, swollen, throbbing.

His knot.

He hisses, loud and sharp. “Baby—baby, don’t,” he groans, voice damn near cracking. You can feel him trembling, feel how bad he wants it—how close he is to losing the last thread of control.

And suddenly, it hits you: he’s been struggling just as much as you have. Maybe more.

You glance back, lips parted, breath ragged.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, voice shaky with want. “You can move. I can take it, Wolfie.”

That name alone almost makes him come.

You shift your hips, adjusting to take him deeper, your body sore and aching and drenched, but desperate for more. He growls low in his throat, hands grabbing your hips, tight enough to bruise.

“You sure?”

“Yes. Fuck—yes.”

He doesn’t wait. His lips fall to your back, kissing, biting, panting into your skin. Then he starts moving. Not gentle. Not restrained. Just raw, deep, hungry.

“God, yes—unh—so good,” he groans, fucking you harder now, his hips slapping against your ass, cock stretching you wide, the thick swell of his knot grinding harder with every thrust.

“Goddamn, this pussy—fuckin’ delicious, baby girl—fuck.”

His fingers are still playing with your clit, now rougher, sloppier, dragging the slick that’s escaped your hole around and teasing every tender spot like he’s trying to make you fall apart on purpose.

You’re a mess beneath him. “Fuck—fuck—yes, Joel—oh my god—so fuckin’ big—are you gonna come in me?” Your voice is wrecked, your legs shaking, drool on your lips, and tears in your eyes. 

“Yes, baby—fuck yes—I’m gonna come,” he growls, rutting into you like he’s lost his mind.

 “This pussy’s so goddamn perfect—I can feel you every fuckin’ time I thrust—tight little thing, takin’ it all.”

“Yes—yes alpha’s in my guts—fuck—so deep—”

“Yeah, baby—puppy’s gonna make me come—fuck—”

“Come in me, Joel, please—I can take it—I can whatever you give me, Wolfie!”

“Yeah, you can, baby.”

He grabs your hips hard, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s afraid you’ll slip away, and yanks you back into him with a brutal, unforgiving snap. The momentum lifts your knees partway off the bed, toes barely grazing the sheets as he slams forward, rutting deep with a single, savage thrust.

That’s when you feel His knot—fat, swollen, pulsing— forces its way in with a filthy, wet squelch, your cunt stretching wide around the thick mass of him. It burns and splits, a slick, obscene pressure that makes your back arch and your jaw drop, but your body takes it. Fucks itself open around it. Locks him in.

Your scream catches on the edge of your breath, stuck somewhere between a sob and a moan as your entire body seizes. Your pussy clenches down in frantic, desperate spasms, locking around him like it’s never going to let him go milking, twitching, sucking at him so tight it’s like your body is begging to be filled again and again.

You're trembling, gushing, mouth falling open with a silent cry as pleasure rips through you like lightning, all heat and sharp-edged need.  

“I’m coming—I’m coming—fuck—I’m coming—Joel!”

And that’s all it takes.

Joel snarls, hips jerking as he buries himself fully, knot swollen tight and locked, his cock twitching deep inside as he comes hard, endless, hot. You feel it flood you, feel it leak out around where he’s stretched you to the limit, feel it pulse through every nerve ending like a live wire. And then his teeth sink into your shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to claim, to mark. He groans against your skin, still grinding slowly, stuck deep inside you as your bodies pulse together, knotted and messy and trembling in the moonlight.

You’re both panting—ragged, uneven. The only sound in the room is the slick, obscene squelch of his cock grinding in slow, shallow rolls and the wet drip of his cum leaking out around the knot that still stretches you wide, still keeps you full.

“Fuck…” Joel breathes against your skin, voice hoarse and heavy with everything he just gave you. “You did so fuckin’ good for me, baby.”

You can’t even speak. Your cheek is pressed into the sheets, eyes half-lidded, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth, completely wrecked. Your thighs twitch every time he moves, a shiver running down your spine when he licks the bite on your shoulder slowly and reverently.

His knot is still locked tight inside you, keeping your hips pressed together, his cock still twitching, pulsing deep in your overstimulated cunt. Every little movement sends a fresh wave of slick dripping down your thighs.

His arms wrap around your waist, holding you there, still, like he’s afraid that if he lets go, he might unravel.

“Just stay like this,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. “Let me keep you full a little longer.”

And you do because you don’t want to move, either. Not when you’re this warm, ruined, and full of him. The moonlight glows soft and cold against your skin, but between your bodies, everything’s heat.

-----

PLS REBLOG TO SUPPORT <3

a/n: asks are open; also do u guys notice reoccurring themes lol oops

kitty go meow?

[tteotlma]

full of you

 Mueheueheuheheuehe

werewolf! joel x reader 2.4k/w

TW: 18+ MDNI; nsfw, werewolf knotting, full moon sex, supernatural elements, rough sex, size kink, overstimulation, deep penetration, cock-drunkenness, fluid play (drool/slick/cum), consensual power dynamics, light choking, intense scent marking, possessive behavior, knotting/breeding kink, primal desperation, marking with teeth (non-breaking skin), manhandling, muscle worship, emotionally charged dominance, begging, praise kink, brief emotional vulnerability, post-orgasmic clinging, knot-induced lock-in, mild somnophilic undertones (reader too fucked out to respond), feral!Joel, soft aftercare in context of overstimulation

a/n: everybody say thank u shmeed!

Okay, imagine, but imagine werewolf Joel with a fat knot… It’s a full moon, so he’s a little—okay, a lot—worked up. You guys have been in bed for the better half of an hour at this point. The room reeked of sex, joel’s promise of opening the windows long gone, beads of sweat trailed down the side of his face while sweat pooled in the crevice of your collarbones. 

“Fuck, that’s it baby.” Joel grunted. His hands were practically bruising your hips, his fingernails leaving crescent moon indents onto your plush skin. He had you on top of him (one of his many fave positions) legs spread on both sides of him. He’d currently been spending the last then minutes trying to get you to take his full cock but he’s only been able to get his tip past your tight hole despite the amount of precum that was leaking from the tip. 

You couldn’t help it. It was just too good. 

Once you’d feel the ridge of his penis slip through your folds the stretch would overwhelm you and you’d clench up causing Joel to hiss. 

“Ah,” He jolted beneath you, as you rested your palms on his softened stomach. “You gotta relax, baby.” He would say through gritted teeth. You’d hum in response, your eyes clenched shut as his nails left light scrapes against your skin, your flesh molding beneath his command. 

“I-I’m trying,” you’d hiccup, moan caught in your throat. Small whimpers left your lips as the burn of your thighs from holding yourself up above him was getting to you. The sting and stretch of it all wash pushing you to the edge. “But I can’t, I…” You clenched your thighs around your wrist, almost willing to crush his chest with your knees. You were close, your hands subconsciously tightened around the course curls beneath his belly button. 

“Sorry, sweetheart, but that ain’t gonna happen,” he said, voice gruff. He quickly sat up, throwing you off balance while he placed a hand behind your head, and wrapped the other around your throat, “If you’re gonna come,” he pulls you close, breath on your lips. “You’re gonna come cause I stuffed you full of my cock.” Despite the desperation of it all, he lays you gently on your back before mounting you—not once letting his dick slip from your cunt. All you could do was mewl beneath the weight of his body. Tears filled your eyes. 

“I tried,” you whined softly, “I really did.” You sniffed. You didn’t know why you were getting emotional, but it was probably out of frustration. Joel quickly moved his hand from your throat and brushed the hair out of your face. He shushed you, placing a small kiss on the corner of your lip. 

“I know you did, baby,” he whispers, his thighs warm against the back of your legs. But I can’t have you do all the work, can I?” You shake your head softly, and he smiles, his teeth peeking through his lips. 

He leans down to kiss you, as you throw your arms around him. His lips are soft and warm as they move against yours. His hands roam around your body, grabbing at your curves, and he squeezes particularly hard at the flesh of your thigh, causing you to whine into his mouth. He takes that opportunity to explore your mouth. 

When his tongue enters your mouth, your breath hitches. One of the many indicators that Joel was teetering between the edge of lycanthropy and sentience was how his mouth flooded with saliva, and his teeth began to sharpen, aching like something beastly was trying to break through. You guys would never fight for dominance; instead, Joel would always deepen the kiss by putting a hand at the nape of your neck and pulling you close like he was minutes away from devouring you. 

You never voiced this, but somehow, he found out that you liked the feel of tracing his sharpened canines against your tongue. At the same time, your hands would pull at the hair at the base of his neck, loving the way he grew rougher, heavier, more beast than man with every second. Animalistic. 

“Plus,” he murmurs, pulling back, leaving a string of saliva between your lips, “we both know I like you better this way.” He slides out, dragging a moan from your throat, then flips you onto your stomach with ease. Suddenly, you're facing the end of the bed, heart racing. 

Before you can even respond, he’s already lining the tip back up to your hole—then he pauses. Doesn’t move. You push up onto your elbows, glancing back at him, only to find his eyes fixed between your legs. He lowers himself, slowly, deliberately his large hands coming to spread your cheeks before he gently opens his mouth. 

The tip of his tongue slips out, and a warm trail of saliva drips from it—falling onto your quaking cunt, sticky and slow, like he wants you to feel every drop. You let out a soft mewl, and he watches your pussy clench as his drool drips between your folds. A dark chuckle leaves his lips and he grabs at the base of his dick, sliding it between your newly soaked heat. A low grunt escaping his chest as his other hand grabs at your curves. 

You subconsciously pull forward, away from him and he pulls you back slapping his cock against your cunt. Your body jolting with pleasure, each soft drag of his sac against your clit. 

F-fuck, Joel,” you whimper, and he leans forward, pressing his hairy chest against your back, the heat of him anchoring you in place. 

“Nuh-uh, baby,” he’d murmur, a smirk in his voice. His hand on the curve of your back slides up to your neck, guiding you down into the mattress as he presses a soft kiss to your bare shoulder. Once you were face down in the mattress, your voice muffled against the sheets, he wasted no time lining himself back up to your heat. His cock ached—so hard and swollen he barely had to touch your cunt to feel the pulse of need between you. 

“Now, sit nice and pretty for me,” he growls, voice low and rough with restraint. He waits for your nod—barely—before landing a sharp smack to your ass, the sound echoing in the heat-thick air. His hand lingers, squeezing a fistful of flesh, watching it jiggle under his touch like he owns it. Then he drags the swollen head of his cock along your clit, slow and deliberate, and the sound you both make is animal—raw, guttural, hungry. 

“Fuck, wolfie—” you whisper, breath hitching as he lines the tip up with your entrance. He slides in easily at first, until he reaches the thick ridge of his head, where your body resists with a trembling squeeze. 

“Come on, pretty girl,” he groans, leaning into you, his chest pressed flush to your back. His voice is low in your ear. “I know you can take me.” One hand moves to sweep your hair away from your face, while the other wraps around you, fingers sliding down to find your heat, slow and certain. His middle finger hooks beneath your clit and you cry out, and he’s able to inch further. 

“That’s it, good girl,” he murmurs in your ear, the scrape of his stubble grounding you. His fingers keep working you open, slow circles around your clit before pressing right onto it—pulling waves of pleasure from deep in your belly. It’s that flutter, that perfect tension, that lets him sink in deeper. With a grunt from him and a cry from you, the thick ridge of his cock finally slips past as your hand reachs out and clecnehs around the blanket beneath you. 

“Fuck, yes,” he groans, throwing his head back, mouth slack. “Good puppy.” 

“S’big,” you drawl, breath hitching, your hands scrambling to grasp anything that might anchor you—anything to hold onto as sanity slips through your fingers. 

Joel chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest, pressed firm against your back. His lips brush your ear as he murmurs,

“I know, baby. It’s too much, ain’t it? But you’re takin’ it so fuckin’ well,” Joel grits out, voice thick and breathless, his chest smothering your back as his fingers keep working your clit—slow, tight circles that make your cunt flutter around him, sucking him in deeper with every pass.

His thrusts are still shallow, still trying to be careful, but he’s struggling. You can feel it in the way his hips twitch, the way his cock throbs inside you like it’s begging to be buried to the hilt. And he doesn’t stop touching you, rubbing and teasing every slick, swollen part of you because he knows the more he makes you feel good, the more your body gives. The more you open up for him.

You’re losing it. Hands scrambling at the sheets, at the loose clothes, at your chest, absolutely anything to anchor you as the pleasure crests and crashes through you again and again. You’re gasping into the mattress when you glance up and see it—the moonlight spilling through the window, painting you both in silver-blue, catching the sweat and the way your bodies shine.

And Joel’s panting above you, gritting his teeth, chest heaving against your spine. He’s barely holding it together. You can feel it.

Your hand reaches back blindly, dragging along the hard line of his stomach, down to where his pelvis meets your ass—and then your fingers brush something hot, swollen, throbbing.

His knot.

He hisses, loud and sharp. “Baby—baby, don’t,” he groans, voice damn near cracking. You can feel him trembling, feel how bad he wants it—how close he is to losing the last thread of control.

And suddenly, it hits you: he’s been struggling just as much as you have. Maybe more.

You glance back, lips parted, breath ragged.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, voice shaky with want. “You can move. I can take it, Wolfie.”

That name alone almost makes him come.

You shift your hips, adjusting to take him deeper, your body sore and aching and drenched, but desperate for more. He growls low in his throat, hands grabbing your hips, tight enough to bruise.

“You sure?”

“Yes. Fuck—yes.”

He doesn’t wait. His lips fall to your back, kissing, biting, panting into your skin. Then he starts moving. Not gentle. Not restrained. Just raw, deep, hungry.

“God, yes—unh—so good,” he groans, fucking you harder now, his hips slapping against your ass, cock stretching you wide, the thick swell of his knot grinding harder with every thrust.

“Goddamn, this pussy—fuckin’ delicious, baby girl—fuck.”

His fingers are still playing with your clit, now rougher, sloppier, dragging the slick that’s escaped your hole around and teasing every tender spot like he’s trying to make you fall apart on purpose.

You’re a mess beneath him. “Fuck—fuck—yes, Joel—oh my god—so fuckin’ big—are you gonna come in me?” Your voice is wrecked, your legs shaking, drool on your lips, and tears in your eyes. 

“Yes, baby—fuck yes—I’m gonna come,” he growls, rutting into you like he’s lost his mind.

 “This pussy’s so goddamn perfect—I can feel you every fuckin’ time I thrust—tight little thing, takin’ it all.”

“Yes—yes alpha’s in my guts—fuck—so deep—”

“Yeah, baby—puppy’s gonna make me come—fuck—”

“Come in me, Joel, please—I can take it—I can whatever you give me, Wolfie!”

“Yeah, you can, baby.”

He grabs your hips hard, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s afraid you’ll slip away, and yanks you back into him with a brutal, unforgiving snap. The momentum lifts your knees partway off the bed, toes barely grazing the sheets as he slams forward, rutting deep with a single, savage thrust.

That’s when you feel His knot—fat, swollen, pulsing— forces its way in with a filthy, wet squelch, your cunt stretching wide around the thick mass of him. It burns and splits, a slick, obscene pressure that makes your back arch and your jaw drop, but your body takes it. Fucks itself open around it. Locks him in.

Your scream catches on the edge of your breath, stuck somewhere between a sob and a moan as your entire body seizes. Your pussy clenches down in frantic, desperate spasms, locking around him like it’s never going to let him go milking, twitching, sucking at him so tight it’s like your body is begging to be filled again and again.

You're trembling, gushing, mouth falling open with a silent cry as pleasure rips through you like lightning, all heat and sharp-edged need.  

“I’m coming—I’m coming—fuck—I’m coming—Joel!”

And that’s all it takes.

Joel snarls, hips jerking as he buries himself fully, knot swollen tight and locked, his cock twitching deep inside as he comes hard, endless, hot. You feel it flood you, feel it leak out around where he’s stretched you to the limit, feel it pulse through every nerve ending like a live wire. And then his teeth sink into your shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to claim, to mark. He groans against your skin, still grinding slowly, stuck deep inside you as your bodies pulse together, knotted and messy and trembling in the moonlight.

You’re both panting—ragged, uneven. The only sound in the room is the slick, obscene squelch of his cock grinding in slow, shallow rolls and the wet drip of his cum leaking out around the knot that still stretches you wide, still keeps you full.

“Fuck…” Joel breathes against your skin, voice hoarse and heavy with everything he just gave you. “You did so fuckin’ good for me, baby.”

You can’t even speak. Your cheek is pressed into the sheets, eyes half-lidded, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth, completely wrecked. Your thighs twitch every time he moves, a shiver running down your spine when he licks the bite on your shoulder slowly and reverently.

His knot is still locked tight inside you, keeping your hips pressed together, his cock still twitching, pulsing deep in your overstimulated cunt. Every little movement sends a fresh wave of slick dripping down your thighs.

His arms wrap around your waist, holding you there, still, like he’s afraid that if he lets go, he might unravel.

“Just stay like this,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. “Let me keep you full a little longer.”

And you do because you don’t want to move, either. Not when you’re this warm, ruined, and full of him. The moonlight glows soft and cold against your skin, but between your bodies, everything’s heat.

-----

PLS REBLOG TO SUPPORT <3

a/n: asks are open; also do u guys notice reoccurring themes lol oops

kitty go meow?

[tteotlma]

breathe you in

Dead,, needing to SMELL your lover to be okay????– GETTOUTTA HEREEEE

joel miller x reader imagine 2kwc

TW: 18+ MDNI; nsfw, post-panic attack intimacy, intense emotional vulnerability, scent as grounding, emotionally driven sex, power dynamics (consensual), begging, praise kink, desperate and talkative!Joel, soft domination, slow grinding, unprotected sex, deep emotional dependency, cockwarming adjacent energy, physical clinging, overstimulation potential

a/n: Also i’m def trying to bring back the casuality of what used to be posting on here…. There are many layers to this, which i could talk abt all day, but for now  Bc i still love Joel, so very much 

Imagine it’s late at night, you and Joel have gone to bed. You’re wrapped in the heat of your shared duvet, blanket tucked under your chin just how you like it. Joel had fallen asleep with his arm wrapped tightly around you, but that was hours ago, and… a man’s gotta spread. He’s sprawled out on the bed beside you, both fast asleep. 

Suddenly, the bed creaks with an aggressive shake, and loud mumbling turned panic fills the room. You’re ripped from your sleep when the sounds of his gasps break through your dream barrier, and you realize Joel must’ve had another nightmare. 

Throwing the blanket off your body, you sit up and reach over to touch his face, soft shushes leaving your lips. 

“Hey, hey,” you cooed, “Joel, Baby—” You tried to pacify his cries, warming your hand against the curve of his jaw as you leaned into his side of the bed. He was frantic as he looked around the room, trying to reorient himself. 

“Sweetheart,” getting on your knees, you move to straddle one of his legs, trying not to become frantic. “It was just a nightmare, look at me.” This had come out more stern than previous, and it seemed to break through whatever trance Joel seemed to find himself in. 

His sounds softened as you continued to coax his attention towards you. Soon, the only sound that left his lips turned into heavy breathing as his hand shakily grasped your wrist against his skin. His eyes widen as he finally turns to look at you. 

Cupping his face in both hands, you lean in, “Just Breathe—” his eyebrows curled, a hand on his ches,t “In and out,” your chest mimics your words. 

“I—I—I—” He tries to talk, but you gently hush him.

“It’s okay; you don’t have to talk; just…” The hand on the center of his chest pressed deeper against the warmth of his shirt, silently reminding him where to focus. His hand came to rest atop yours, and he nodded. You locked eyes, and you noticed his pupils were blown wide. 

You stay like that, still and close, for what feels like hours, though only minutes pass—as he slowly pulls himself from the fog of his nightmare.  Then, without a word, his eyes drop to his lap. One hand drifts to your hip, the other settling at the bend of your arm, his chest still rising and falling in uneven waves.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers, voice rough and low. 

You hook a finger beneath his chin, gently guiding his face to yours. “For you,” you whisper, tucking a stray salt-and-pepper curl behind his ear, “anything.”

Your thumb grazes his cheek, tender and steady as you hold his face in your hands. You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

The hand on your hip slides to your lower back, his palm warm and deliberate as he draws you into his chest. You go easily, folding into the hug, your cheek resting against the curve of his neck. He holds you there, solid, quiet—like the act of touching you is the only thing keeping him grounded. 

His face finds the crook of your neck while your chin rests on his shoulder. You feel him breathe you in. At first, it’s subtle and slow, his nose brushing your skin, chest rising against yours as he inhales deeply. He sighs.

Then he does it again. Slower. Longer. His nose drags across the slope of your neck, and his breath leaves him shakier this time.

You feel the edge of his teeth when he speaks, his voice low against your skin, the rough scrape of his stubble trailing higher as he nuzzles along your jaw. You tilt instinctively, baring more of your neck. His hand slides up your spine, fingers splayed, holding you firmly against him.

His lips hover near your skin—not quite kissing, but close enough to make you shiver. The coarse drag of his stubble follows the curve of your jaw as his nose nudges higher. You tilt again, offering more without thinking.

That’s all it takes.

His mouth finds your pulse. One soft kiss. Then another. Then one just beneath your ear that lingers a little too long.

When you turn your face toward his, his eyes drop to your mouth.

And then he kisses you.

It starts slow, careful, almost hesitant. His lips part against yours, and one hand moves higher on your back, holding you steady. The tension breaks when you sigh into him and your fingers tighten in the back of his shirt.

The kiss deepens. His mouth moves over yours like he’s hungry for it, like this is the only way he knows how to speak. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw. His tongue brushes yours, coaxing, tasting. You whimper softly, and he groans into your mouth like the sound unravels him.

Like, he’s not just kissing you.

Like he’s trying to hold on to the only thing that, to him, feels real. 

“Every time I breathe you in, I want more.” He pulls back, eyes hooded as he stares at your now swollen lips.

“Please, baby… let me have more.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, slow and warm, watching the way your chest heaves beneath him. He sees it—the way your breath catches, the flicker of doubt in your eyes—and he doesn’t wait.

“Only if you want it,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “I’ll take my time. I’ll be gentle. Just… I need to be close. Closer than this.”

Another kiss, softer this time, pressed just below your ear.

“I don’t want to fuck. I want to feel. Want to be in your skin and know what it’s like to come home and mean it.”

He rests his forehead against yours, breathing you in again like it’s the only thing that calms the storm in his chest.

Your hands come up to cradle his face, thumbs sweeping across the stubble at his cheeks. You nod slowly, silently, teeth caught between your lips—and that’s all it takes.

Joel exhales like he’s been underwater, like he’s just come up for air. He shifts his weight and turns you both over in one smooth motion, laying you gently beneath him. His hands don’t leave your body, not once, as your thighs part instinctively to cradle his hips. He settles there, warm and solid, his full weight pressing you into the mattress. His chest hovers just above yours, his forearms braced on either side of your head, eyes locked on yours like he’s still asking for permission, even without the words.

He leans in, kisses you again—slower this time. His lips are warm and sure, his breath steadying against your cheek. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear the second he looks away. His hips roll forward, a slow drag of pressure right against the heat between your legs, and your back arches to meet him.

Even through the layers, you can feel the thick weight of him, already hardening as he grinds against you. The pressure is deliberate, controlled, but needy. Like he’s not chasing pleasure, but grounding himself in it.

"That’s it," he murmurs into your mouth, voice thick. "Just wanna feel you, baby. That’s all I need."

He shifts again, just enough to work one hand down between your bodies, tugging at the waistband of his sweats. You feel the soft brush of his knuckles against your stomach as he pushes them low, and then you reach for him too, helping him slide them off. The soft sound of fabric rustling fills the space between your breaths. When his cock presses against your bare thigh—hot and heavy—you both shudder.

“Take these off for me, sweetheart,” he breathes, thumb hooking into the waistband of your shorts.

You lift your hips, and he pulls them down slowly, carefully, like you’re something breakable. His hands linger on your thighs when he tosses them aside, calloused palms dragging back up the insides until you’re spread open for him again.

He settles between your legs and lines himself up, the thick head of his cock dragging through your folds, already wet and aching. One hand rests at your waist, the other steadying himself against the mattress.

"Tell me if it’s too much," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "I’ll stop. I swear. I’ll stop if you need me to."

You shake your head immediately, breathing hard.

"Don’t stop, Joel. I need you."

He presses forward slowly, easing into you inch by inch. The stretch steals the breath from your lungs, your fingers curling into the muscles at his back as he sinks deeper. His body shudders above you when he bottoms out, buried completely.

“Fuck—Jesus Christ,” he groans, the words broken against your neck. “You feel like heaven. So warm… fuck, you’re takin’ me so good.”

He stays there for a moment, unmoving. His body presses flush to yours, his hand slides under your back, palm flat between your shoulder blades like he’s holding you there, grounding both of you. When he starts to move, it’s slow, deep, grinding strokes that have you gasping softly beneath him.

Each roll of his hips pulls a quiet sound from your throat. Your body clenches around him, clinging, wet, and pulsing as you fall into his rhythm.

“Needed this,” he whispers. His voice is hoarse, raw. “Felt like I was gonna fuckin’ lose it tonight.”

His forehead presses to yours as he keeps moving inside you, languid, like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality.

“You’re the only thing that feels real right now.”

He holds you so close. One hand cupping the back of your head, the other gripping your thigh, spreading you wider, deeper. His mouth grazes your temple, your jaw, and your lips between every breath.

“Only time I can breathe is when I’m buried in you.”

Your legs tighten around his waist, your heel digging into the curve of his ass as you pull him in harder. He groans, thrusts faltering for half a beat before he finds his rhythm again, slightly rougher now, more desperate.

His mouth drops to your shoulder, breath shaking against your skin.

“Let me cum inside you,” he pants. “Wanna feel you wrapped around me when I cum.”

Your answer is a whimper, your nails dragging down his back. He kisses you again—messy and open-mouthed, tongue sweeping against yours like he needs to taste every part of you.

“Let me give it to you, baby—let me fuckin’ give it to you.” He thrusts hard with each syllable. 

You nod, eyes fluttering closed, thighs shaking. His thrusts grow more frantic, deeper, like he’s chasing the edge with every desperate breath.

"That’s it," he groans. "That’s it, darlin’. You take me so fuckin’ well—always do. My good girl."

He spills inside you with a broken, guttural moan, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his whole body trembles above you. You feel every twitch, every pulse of release, warm and deep and grounding.

"Thank you," he whispers into your skin, over and over, voice crumbling. "Thank you. Thank you. Didn’t know how much I needed this until you. Until you."

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move except to press soft kisses to your neck, your jaw, your cheek.

“Gonna hold you now, alright?” he murmurs. “Just wanna hold you for a while. That okay, baby?”

You nod, barely able to breathe.

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest like he’s afraid to let you go. And for a long time, neither of you says anything at all.

--

a/n: pls don't let another one flop -- REBLOG TO SUPPORT <3

[tteotlma]

breathe you in

Dead,, needing to SMELL your lover to be okay????– GETTOUTTA HEREEEE

joel miller x reader imagine 2kwc

TW: 18+ MDNI; nsfw, post-panic attack intimacy, intense emotional vulnerability, scent as grounding, emotionally driven sex, power dynamics (consensual), begging, praise kink, desperate and talkative!Joel, soft domination, slow grinding, unprotected sex, deep emotional dependency, cockwarming adjacent energy, physical clinging, overstimulation potential

a/n: Also i’m def trying to bring back the casuality of what used to be posting on here…. There are many layers to this, which i could talk abt all day, but for now  Bc i still love Joel, so very much 

Imagine it’s late at night, you and Joel have gone to bed. You’re wrapped in the heat of your shared duvet, blanket tucked under your chin just how you like it. Joel had fallen asleep with his arm wrapped tightly around you, but that was hours ago, and… a man’s gotta spread. He’s sprawled out on the bed beside you, both fast asleep. 

Suddenly, the bed creaks with an aggressive shake, and loud mumbling turned panic fills the room. You’re ripped from your sleep when the sounds of his gasps break through your dream barrier, and you realize Joel must’ve had another nightmare. 

Throwing the blanket off your body, you sit up and reach over to touch his face, soft shushes leaving your lips. 

“Hey, hey,” you cooed, “Joel, Baby—” You tried to pacify his cries, warming your hand against the curve of his jaw as you leaned into his side of the bed. He was frantic as he looked around the room, trying to reorient himself. 

“Sweetheart,” getting on your knees, you move to straddle one of his legs, trying not to become frantic. “It was just a nightmare, look at me.” This had come out more stern than previous, and it seemed to break through whatever trance Joel seemed to find himself in. 

His sounds softened as you continued to coax his attention towards you. Soon, the only sound that left his lips turned into heavy breathing as his hand shakily grasped your wrist against his skin. His eyes widen as he finally turns to look at you. 

Cupping his face in both hands, you lean in, “Just Breathe—” his eyebrows curled, a hand on his ches,t “In and out,” your chest mimics your words. 

“I—I—I—” He tries to talk, but you gently hush him.

“It’s okay; you don’t have to talk; just…” The hand on the center of his chest pressed deeper against the warmth of his shirt, silently reminding him where to focus. His hand came to rest atop yours, and he nodded. You locked eyes, and you noticed his pupils were blown wide. 

You stay like that, still and close, for what feels like hours, though only minutes pass—as he slowly pulls himself from the fog of his nightmare.  Then, without a word, his eyes drop to his lap. One hand drifts to your hip, the other settling at the bend of your arm, his chest still rising and falling in uneven waves.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers, voice rough and low. 

You hook a finger beneath his chin, gently guiding his face to yours. “For you,” you whisper, tucking a stray salt-and-pepper curl behind his ear, “anything.”

Your thumb grazes his cheek, tender and steady as you hold his face in your hands. You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

The hand on your hip slides to your lower back, his palm warm and deliberate as he draws you into his chest. You go easily, folding into the hug, your cheek resting against the curve of his neck. He holds you there, solid, quiet—like the act of touching you is the only thing keeping him grounded. 

His face finds the crook of your neck while your chin rests on his shoulder. You feel him breathe you in. At first, it’s subtle and slow, his nose brushing your skin, chest rising against yours as he inhales deeply. He sighs.

Then he does it again. Slower. Longer. His nose drags across the slope of your neck, and his breath leaves him shakier this time.

You feel the edge of his teeth when he speaks, his voice low against your skin, the rough scrape of his stubble trailing higher as he nuzzles along your jaw. You tilt instinctively, baring more of your neck. His hand slides up your spine, fingers splayed, holding you firmly against him.

His lips hover near your skin—not quite kissing, but close enough to make you shiver. The coarse drag of his stubble follows the curve of your jaw as his nose nudges higher. You tilt again, offering more without thinking.

That’s all it takes.

His mouth finds your pulse. One soft kiss. Then another. Then one just beneath your ear that lingers a little too long.

When you turn your face toward his, his eyes drop to your mouth.

And then he kisses you.

It starts slow, careful, almost hesitant. His lips part against yours, and one hand moves higher on your back, holding you steady. The tension breaks when you sigh into him and your fingers tighten in the back of his shirt.

The kiss deepens. His mouth moves over yours like he’s hungry for it, like this is the only way he knows how to speak. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw. His tongue brushes yours, coaxing, tasting. You whimper softly, and he groans into your mouth like the sound unravels him.

Like, he’s not just kissing you.

Like he’s trying to hold on to the only thing that, to him, feels real. 

“Every time I breathe you in, I want more.” He pulls back, eyes hooded as he stares at your now swollen lips.

“Please, baby… let me have more.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, slow and warm, watching the way your chest heaves beneath him. He sees it—the way your breath catches, the flicker of doubt in your eyes—and he doesn’t wait.

“Only if you want it,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “I’ll take my time. I’ll be gentle. Just… I need to be close. Closer than this.”

Another kiss, softer this time, pressed just below your ear.

“I don’t want to fuck. I want to feel. Want to be in your skin and know what it’s like to come home and mean it.”

He rests his forehead against yours, breathing you in again like it’s the only thing that calms the storm in his chest.

Your hands come up to cradle his face, thumbs sweeping across the stubble at his cheeks. You nod slowly, silently, teeth caught between your lips—and that’s all it takes.

Joel exhales like he’s been underwater, like he’s just come up for air. He shifts his weight and turns you both over in one smooth motion, laying you gently beneath him. His hands don’t leave your body, not once, as your thighs part instinctively to cradle his hips. He settles there, warm and solid, his full weight pressing you into the mattress. His chest hovers just above yours, his forearms braced on either side of your head, eyes locked on yours like he’s still asking for permission, even without the words.

He leans in, kisses you again—slower this time. His lips are warm and sure, his breath steadying against your cheek. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear the second he looks away. His hips roll forward, a slow drag of pressure right against the heat between your legs, and your back arches to meet him.

Even through the layers, you can feel the thick weight of him, already hardening as he grinds against you. The pressure is deliberate, controlled, but needy. Like he’s not chasing pleasure, but grounding himself in it.

"That’s it," he murmurs into your mouth, voice thick. "Just wanna feel you, baby. That’s all I need."

He shifts again, just enough to work one hand down between your bodies, tugging at the waistband of his sweats. You feel the soft brush of his knuckles against your stomach as he pushes them low, and then you reach for him too, helping him slide them off. The soft sound of fabric rustling fills the space between your breaths. When his cock presses against your bare thigh—hot and heavy—you both shudder.

“Take these off for me, sweetheart,” he breathes, thumb hooking into the waistband of your shorts.

You lift your hips, and he pulls them down slowly, carefully, like you’re something breakable. His hands linger on your thighs when he tosses them aside, calloused palms dragging back up the insides until you’re spread open for him again.

He settles between your legs and lines himself up, the thick head of his cock dragging through your folds, already wet and aching. One hand rests at your waist, the other steadying himself against the mattress.

"Tell me if it’s too much," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "I’ll stop. I swear. I’ll stop if you need me to."

You shake your head immediately, breathing hard.

"Don’t stop, Joel. I need you."

He presses forward slowly, easing into you inch by inch. The stretch steals the breath from your lungs, your fingers curling into the muscles at his back as he sinks deeper. His body shudders above you when he bottoms out, buried completely.

“Fuck—Jesus Christ,” he groans, the words broken against your neck. “You feel like heaven. So warm… fuck, you’re takin’ me so good.”

He stays there for a moment, unmoving. His body presses flush to yours, his hand slides under your back, palm flat between your shoulder blades like he’s holding you there, grounding both of you. When he starts to move, it’s slow, deep, grinding strokes that have you gasping softly beneath him.

Each roll of his hips pulls a quiet sound from your throat. Your body clenches around him, clinging, wet, and pulsing as you fall into his rhythm.

“Needed this,” he whispers. His voice is hoarse, raw. “Felt like I was gonna fuckin’ lose it tonight.”

His forehead presses to yours as he keeps moving inside you, languid, like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality.

“You’re the only thing that feels real right now.”

He holds you so close. One hand cupping the back of your head, the other gripping your thigh, spreading you wider, deeper. His mouth grazes your temple, your jaw, and your lips between every breath.

“Only time I can breathe is when I’m buried in you.”

Your legs tighten around his waist, your heel digging into the curve of his ass as you pull him in harder. He groans, thrusts faltering for half a beat before he finds his rhythm again, slightly rougher now, more desperate.

His mouth drops to your shoulder, breath shaking against your skin.

“Let me cum inside you,” he pants. “Wanna feel you wrapped around me when I cum.”

Your answer is a whimper, your nails dragging down his back. He kisses you again—messy and open-mouthed, tongue sweeping against yours like he needs to taste every part of you.

“Let me give it to you, baby—let me fuckin’ give it to you.” He thrusts hard with each syllable. 

You nod, eyes fluttering closed, thighs shaking. His thrusts grow more frantic, deeper, like he’s chasing the edge with every desperate breath.

"That’s it," he groans. "That’s it, darlin’. You take me so fuckin’ well—always do. My good girl."

He spills inside you with a broken, guttural moan, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his whole body trembles above you. You feel every twitch, every pulse of release, warm and deep and grounding.

"Thank you," he whispers into your skin, over and over, voice crumbling. "Thank you. Thank you. Didn’t know how much I needed this until you. Until you."

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move except to press soft kisses to your neck, your jaw, your cheek.

“Gonna hold you now, alright?” he murmurs. “Just wanna hold you for a while. That okay, baby?”

You nod, barely able to breathe.

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest like he’s afraid to let you go. And for a long time, neither of you says anything at all.

--

a/n: pls don't let another one flop -- REBLOG TO SUPPORT <3

[tteotlma]

breathe you in

Dead,, needing to SMELL your lover to be okay????– GETTOUTTA HEREEEE

joel miller x reader imagine 2kwc

TW: 18+ MDNI; nsfw, post-panic attack intimacy, intense emotional vulnerability, scent as grounding, emotionally driven sex, power dynamics (consensual), begging, praise kink, desperate and talkative!Joel, soft domination, slow grinding, unprotected sex, deep emotional dependency, cockwarming adjacent energy, physical clinging, overstimulation potential

a/n: Also i’m def trying to bring back the casuality of what used to be posting on here…. There are many layers to this, which i could talk abt all day, but for now  Bc i still love Joel, so very much 

Imagine it’s late at night, you and Joel have gone to bed. You’re wrapped in the heat of your shared duvet, blanket tucked under your chin just how you like it. Joel had fallen asleep with his arm wrapped tightly around you, but that was hours ago, and… a man’s gotta spread. He’s sprawled out on the bed beside you, both fast asleep. 

Suddenly, the bed creaks with an aggressive shake, and loud mumbling turned panic fills the room. You’re ripped from your sleep when the sounds of his gasps break through your dream barrier, and you realize Joel must’ve had another nightmare. 

Throwing the blanket off your body, you sit up and reach over to touch his face, soft shushes leaving your lips. 

“Hey, hey,” you cooed, “Joel, Baby—” You tried to pacify his cries, warming your hand against the curve of his jaw as you leaned into his side of the bed. He was frantic as he looked around the room, trying to reorient himself. 

“Sweetheart,” getting on your knees, you move to straddle one of his legs, trying not to become frantic. “It was just a nightmare, look at me.” This had come out more stern than previous, and it seemed to break through whatever trance Joel seemed to find himself in. 

His sounds softened as you continued to coax his attention towards you. Soon, the only sound that left his lips turned into heavy breathing as his hand shakily grasped your wrist against his skin. His eyes widen as he finally turns to look at you. 

Cupping his face in both hands, you lean in, “Just Breathe—” his eyebrows curled, a hand on his ches,t “In and out,” your chest mimics your words. 

“I—I—I—” He tries to talk, but you gently hush him.

“It’s okay; you don’t have to talk; just…” The hand on the center of his chest pressed deeper against the warmth of his shirt, silently reminding him where to focus. His hand came to rest atop yours, and he nodded. You locked eyes, and you noticed his pupils were blown wide. 

You stay like that, still and close, for what feels like hours, though only minutes pass—as he slowly pulls himself from the fog of his nightmare.  Then, without a word, his eyes drop to his lap. One hand drifts to your hip, the other settling at the bend of your arm, his chest still rising and falling in uneven waves.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers, voice rough and low. 

You hook a finger beneath his chin, gently guiding his face to yours. “For you,” you whisper, tucking a stray salt-and-pepper curl behind his ear, “anything.”

Your thumb grazes his cheek, tender and steady as you hold his face in your hands. You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

The hand on your hip slides to your lower back, his palm warm and deliberate as he draws you into his chest. You go easily, folding into the hug, your cheek resting against the curve of his neck. He holds you there, solid, quiet—like the act of touching you is the only thing keeping him grounded. 

His face finds the crook of your neck while your chin rests on his shoulder. You feel him breathe you in. At first, it’s subtle and slow, his nose brushing your skin, chest rising against yours as he inhales deeply. He sighs.

Then he does it again. Slower. Longer. His nose drags across the slope of your neck, and his breath leaves him shakier this time.

You feel the edge of his teeth when he speaks, his voice low against your skin, the rough scrape of his stubble trailing higher as he nuzzles along your jaw. You tilt instinctively, baring more of your neck. His hand slides up your spine, fingers splayed, holding you firmly against him.

His lips hover near your skin—not quite kissing, but close enough to make you shiver. The coarse drag of his stubble follows the curve of your jaw as his nose nudges higher. You tilt again, offering more without thinking.

That’s all it takes.

His mouth finds your pulse. One soft kiss. Then another. Then one just beneath your ear that lingers a little too long.

When you turn your face toward his, his eyes drop to your mouth.

And then he kisses you.

It starts slow, careful, almost hesitant. His lips part against yours, and one hand moves higher on your back, holding you steady. The tension breaks when you sigh into him and your fingers tighten in the back of his shirt.

The kiss deepens. His mouth moves over yours like he’s hungry for it, like this is the only way he knows how to speak. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw. His tongue brushes yours, coaxing, tasting. You whimper softly, and he groans into your mouth like the sound unravels him.

Like, he’s not just kissing you.

Like he’s trying to hold on to the only thing that, to him, feels real. 

“Every time I breathe you in, I want more.” He pulls back, eyes hooded as he stares at your now swollen lips.

“Please, baby… let me have more.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, slow and warm, watching the way your chest heaves beneath him. He sees it—the way your breath catches, the flicker of doubt in your eyes—and he doesn’t wait.

“Only if you want it,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “I’ll take my time. I’ll be gentle. Just… I need to be close. Closer than this.”

Another kiss, softer this time, pressed just below your ear.

“I don’t want to fuck. I want to feel. Want to be in your skin and know what it’s like to come home and mean it.”

He rests his forehead against yours, breathing you in again like it’s the only thing that calms the storm in his chest.

Your hands come up to cradle his face, thumbs sweeping across the stubble at his cheeks. You nod slowly, silently, teeth caught between your lips—and that’s all it takes.

Joel exhales like he’s been underwater, like he’s just come up for air. He shifts his weight and turns you both over in one smooth motion, laying you gently beneath him. His hands don’t leave your body, not once, as your thighs part instinctively to cradle his hips. He settles there, warm and solid, his full weight pressing you into the mattress. His chest hovers just above yours, his forearms braced on either side of your head, eyes locked on yours like he’s still asking for permission, even without the words.

He leans in, kisses you again—slower this time. His lips are warm and sure, his breath steadying against your cheek. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear the second he looks away. His hips roll forward, a slow drag of pressure right against the heat between your legs, and your back arches to meet him.

Even through the layers, you can feel the thick weight of him, already hardening as he grinds against you. The pressure is deliberate, controlled, but needy. Like he’s not chasing pleasure, but grounding himself in it.

"That’s it," he murmurs into your mouth, voice thick. "Just wanna feel you, baby. That’s all I need."

He shifts again, just enough to work one hand down between your bodies, tugging at the waistband of his sweats. You feel the soft brush of his knuckles against your stomach as he pushes them low, and then you reach for him too, helping him slide them off. The soft sound of fabric rustling fills the space between your breaths. When his cock presses against your bare thigh—hot and heavy—you both shudder.

“Take these off for me, sweetheart,” he breathes, thumb hooking into the waistband of your shorts.

You lift your hips, and he pulls them down slowly, carefully, like you’re something breakable. His hands linger on your thighs when he tosses them aside, calloused palms dragging back up the insides until you’re spread open for him again.

He settles between your legs and lines himself up, the thick head of his cock dragging through your folds, already wet and aching. One hand rests at your waist, the other steadying himself against the mattress.

"Tell me if it’s too much," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "I’ll stop. I swear. I’ll stop if you need me to."

You shake your head immediately, breathing hard.

"Don’t stop, Joel. I need you."

He presses forward slowly, easing into you inch by inch. The stretch steals the breath from your lungs, your fingers curling into the muscles at his back as he sinks deeper. His body shudders above you when he bottoms out, buried completely.

“Fuck—Jesus Christ,” he groans, the words broken against your neck. “You feel like heaven. So warm… fuck, you’re takin’ me so good.”

He stays there for a moment, unmoving. His body presses flush to yours, his hand slides under your back, palm flat between your shoulder blades like he’s holding you there, grounding both of you. When he starts to move, it’s slow, deep, grinding strokes that have you gasping softly beneath him.

Each roll of his hips pulls a quiet sound from your throat. Your body clenches around him, clinging, wet, and pulsing as you fall into his rhythm.

“Needed this,” he whispers. His voice is hoarse, raw. “Felt like I was gonna fuckin’ lose it tonight.”

His forehead presses to yours as he keeps moving inside you, languid, like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality.

“You’re the only thing that feels real right now.”

He holds you so close. One hand cupping the back of your head, the other gripping your thigh, spreading you wider, deeper. His mouth grazes your temple, your jaw, and your lips between every breath.

“Only time I can breathe is when I’m buried in you.”

Your legs tighten around his waist, your heel digging into the curve of his ass as you pull him in harder. He groans, thrusts faltering for half a beat before he finds his rhythm again, slightly rougher now, more desperate.

His mouth drops to your shoulder, breath shaking against your skin.

“Let me cum inside you,” he pants. “Wanna feel you wrapped around me when I cum.”

Your answer is a whimper, your nails dragging down his back. He kisses you again—messy and open-mouthed, tongue sweeping against yours like he needs to taste every part of you.

“Let me give it to you, baby—let me fuckin’ give it to you.” He thrusts hard with each syllable. 

You nod, eyes fluttering closed, thighs shaking. His thrusts grow more frantic, deeper, like he’s chasing the edge with every desperate breath.

"That’s it," he groans. "That’s it, darlin’. You take me so fuckin’ well—always do. My good girl."

He spills inside you with a broken, guttural moan, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his whole body trembles above you. You feel every twitch, every pulse of release, warm and deep and grounding.

"Thank you," he whispers into your skin, over and over, voice crumbling. "Thank you. Thank you. Didn’t know how much I needed this until you. Until you."

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move except to press soft kisses to your neck, your jaw, your cheek.

“Gonna hold you now, alright?” he murmurs. “Just wanna hold you for a while. That okay, baby?”

You nod, barely able to breathe.

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest like he’s afraid to let you go. And for a long time, neither of you says anything at all.

--

a/n: pls don't let another one flop -- REBLOG TO SUPPORT <3

[tteotlma]

sit pretty, ride hard

-- the only thing that can fix a rough day is a pretty boy to come home to.

Bucky Barnes x Fem! Reader 3.2kwc

tw: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, dom!reader x sub!Bucky Barnes, power exchange, praise kink, leash/belt kink, overstimulation, crying during sex, use of “puppy” and “good boy,” begging, cock worship, possessive behavior, degradation (light), soft aftercare, mild manipulation/teasing, creampie, dirty talk, mildly obsessive undertones, language, semi-public implications (thin walls/neighbors) a/n: just heard someone say i was in the room doing hw… JOKES ON THEM I ALREADY DID HW___I WAS WRITING THIS HEHEHE

DEAD, OK IMAGINE THIS… It’s been a particularly rough day, you know the kind where you couldn’t find your left shoe this morning, or you couldn’t remember where you threw your keys last night, or the fact that this week in general was a kick in the ass, what with the end of the second quarter coming around—We can only go up from here! —replayed in your head as you recounted your boss’s efforts during the biweekly quarter meeting and every pass in the hallway since a month ago. And to make matters somehow worse, a flash flood blew in out of nowhere, and now your white blouse is practically soaked. 

All you want is to be inside your home, in your pajamas, in bed, and maybe your gorgeous beau to make it all feel better. 

You give the door to your house a hard shove, rushing in, throwing your stuff on the floor, and toeing off your flats. 

“Hi, baby, rough day?” You look up to see your handsome lover standing at the entryway, leaning against the wall. Your shoulders subconsciously droop in relief as he comes into view. 

“You have no idea,” you sigh, immediately walking towards him, arms outstretched, which he meets halfway. His arms find your body while your fingers find the hairs at the nape of his neck. He gives you a quick peck on the lips, and when he pulls away, you find yourself quietly wishing for more. 

“You wanna talk about it?” He asks, and you shake your head, taking a deep breath. 

He smelled like laundry detergent and pine soap. Must’ve showered recently– you thought as your hands came to rest on the swell of his chest. 

“No, I don’t think so,” you say softly, as you tiptoe to try and get a kiss, which he happily accepts. His lips are soft against yours and —God, you didn’t realize how much calm he brought you… It was kinda nauseatingly sweet. You feel him pull away and find yourself again wishing he hadn’t. 

“Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?” He says, into your hair before he pulls back, and takes you in. You watch his eyes dip to your blouse, the soaked fabric clung to your chest, turning translucent, and Bucky’s breath hitched slightly as the outline of soft lace, barely-there blush in color, ghosted through. Not obvious. Not intentional. But enough to make his fingers twitch at your sides. He quickly shifts his gaze back to your face. 

“Well…” You suddenly turn coy, knowing just the right buttons to push after all these years. “I can think of something.” You say softly, a hand comes to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear before slowly ghosting your finger from the hollow of your throat down toward where your wet blouse clings to the top of your chest, fabric sticking to skin in a way that makes Bucky’s eyes drop instantly. 

You stop where your cleavage disappears into lace, dragging your finger over the seam where damp cotton ends and soft, barely-there blush starts, and God, the way his throat works when he swallows almost makes you laugh. Wide-eyed, jaw slack, Bucky’s mouth opens like he wants to speak, like maybe go towel off, change into warm, dry clothes, or get cozy under a blanket on the sofa – like he’s trying to take care of you like he always does, in that warm, soft, respectable way he does. And frankly, you’re way too wound up for soft tonight. 

“W-What are you thinking?” He clears his throat in an act of fake nonchalance, but the way his hands tighten against your hips proves you and he are riding the same brain wave. 

“Hmmm…” You look down like you need a minute to think, “you wanna fuck me harder than my day did?” you asked like it was any normal question out there and Bucky froze. 

He stares at you, eyes darkening, breath caught somewhere in his throat. “You—what?”

You step closer, your wet blouse still clinging to your skin, the faint outline of your bra now an afterthought to how much heat instantly crackles between you. “You heard me, baby,” you purr, fingers climbing up his chest until they hook into the collar of his shirt. “Or do I have to repeat myself for your pretty little brain?”

Bucky stared at you like you’d just slapped him, his mouth opening then closing again, lost somewhere between short-circuiting and combusting.

You tilted your head, feigning sweetness. “Well?” you pouted, hands slowly reaching for the buckle that sat against your stomach. “You gonna let today win, or you gonna remind me who I belong to?”

He made a wounded little sound, like the words physically hit him, and you swore you saw his knees wobble.

“I—shit, doll,” he breathed, blinking rapidly. “Do n’t—don’t say things like that unless you mean it.”

“For you, baby,” You stepped in closer, chest brushing his as your hand unbuckled the leather belt looped around your waist. “I always mean it,” you whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You gonna be good and make me feel better, lover? Or do I need to make you?”

That belt came off with one smooth tug.

Bucky’s breath hitched as he audibly swallowed, and you swore it went straight to your spine. His eyes stayed locked on yours as you held the belt up, looped it gently around his neck, tugging just enough to pull him down to you. 

You press your fists into his chest and lean up, brushing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth—just a little taste, a whisper of what’s waiting for him if he gives in. His breath stutters, lashes fluttering, but he doesn’t move. Not yet. So you do it again, this time slower, lips brushing his skin like a promise, a coaxing little nudge that has him swaying toward you. When he hesitates, you pull back just enough to tilt your head again, brows lifting like you’re daring him not to.

And that’s when he moves.

He leans in, just barely, like his body chooses before his mind, chasing your mouth like instinct. And the second his lips part, you meet him with a kiss that’s pure filth—wet, messy, tongue sweeping into his mouth, teeth dragging against his bottom lip until he moans and stumbles forward. You kiss him like you want to eat him alive, like you know precisely how to unmake him, and he melts into it with this quiet, desperate little sound that makes your toes curl.

“Mmm, there’s my good boy,” you hum against his lips, tugging lightly on the belt still looped around his neck. “That’s it. Come on, baby.”

And like the perfect little puppy he is, he follows. You lead him backward with the belt like a leash, step by step through the house toward the bedroom, and he never once breaks eye contact. His eyes are heavy, lidded with want, chest rising and falling like he’s barely holding it together. When you reach the edge of the bed, you give the belt a tug and push—just enough to guide him onto the mattress, where he sits back on his elbows, pupils blown wide as you crawl into his lap. 

He watches you from where you sit in his lap, belt still dangling from his neck like a collar, and it’s almost too much. His chest rises in these shaky, uneven waves like he’s struggling to keep his composure, and you adore it all— the tension, the restraint, the way he’s trying so hard to be good, to sit still and wait for your touch, for your approval, when everything in his body is screaming to move. You grind forward just slightly, the seam of your soaked slacks dragging across the hard outline of his cock, and he lets out this strangled sound, one that’s not quite a moan, not quite a gasp, something helpless and sweet and so fucking pretty that it makes your cunt pulse with want.

You do it again, slower this time, grinding your hips in a slow circle over the thick bulge in his pants, and his head drops back with a thud, Adam’s apple bobbing as he lets out the softest, most pitiful little whimper you’ve ever heard.

“Aww, look at you,” you croon, one hand dragging up his chest, the other cupping his jaw and guiding his flushed face back toward yours. “Already shaking, baby? I haven’t even taken your cock out yet.”

“Please,” he breathes, lips parted, eyes glassy. “Fuck—please, I need—just need to feel you.”

“I know, I know,” you coo, fingers ghosting down his torso until you’re palming him through the fabric of his pants, watching his thighs twitch as you rub over the thick head. “My poor baby. All pent up. You’ve been so good for me, haven’t you? My sweet little puppy. Just sitting here, letting me play with you.”

His hips buck again, instinctive and frantic, and you pull your hand away with a pout.

“Ah ah,” you tsk. “That’s not how good boys behave.”

“I’ll be good,” he swears, voice cracking. “I am good—please, please, just—hngh, fuck—”

You lean forward, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, breath warm and thick with praise. “You are,” you whisper. “You’re so good for me. So perfect. So obedient. So fucking pretty when you beg.”

You reach down again, finally undoing the button of his jeans and dragging the zipper down with agonizing slowness. His cock strains against the fabric of his boxers, pulsing, the wet patch of precum already staining through. You pull him out carefully, deliberately, and the moment your hand wraps around the base of him, he moans full-bodied and broken, like he’s been waiting hours for this. He’s thick, flushed, gorgeous, and you stroke him once, then again, watching the muscles in his stomach twitch with every little flick of your wrist.

And still, you don’t climb him. Not yet.

Instead, you push yourself up, undo your slacks with one hand while keeping your gaze locked on his, letting him watch every movement, every inch of skin you reveal. When you slide the fabric down your legs, revealing the scandalously thin pair of underwear that’s long since soaked through, you hear his breath stutter. He’s looking at you like he’s in a trance, like you’re not real, like he’s watching a dream he’s terrified to wake from.

You stand there for a moment, thighs glistening, hips cocked to the side, and tilt your head with a smile.

“Actually,” you say slowly, dragging one finger along the hem of your panties, “maybe I don’t need a good fuck tonight. Maybe I just need some air. A little walk. Something to clear my head.”

His whole body jerks.

“No—no, please,” he chokes, voice thick with panic, eyes going wide. “Don’t—don’t leave, please, fuck—I’ll be so good, I’ll fuck you so good, baby, you won’t even remember what stress is, please, I need—need to be inside you, please—”

“Mmm,” you hum, stepping forward and climbing back into his lap, rubbing the dripping heat of your pussy along the thick length of his cock without taking him in. “I don’t know, lover. You talk a big game.”

He groans deep and guttural and bucks his hips, trying to catch your entrance, but you lift just enough to keep him from sliding in. You grip his jaw, guiding his eyes to meet yours.

“You want it that bad, puppy?” 

“Yes,” he whispers, trembling. “Yes, I—I’ll do anything.”

Your smirk softens, darkens, turns into something almost loving as you lean in, eyes locked on his, the heat between you ready to snap. And then you kiss him — filthy and messy and all tongue and teeth, lips crashing into his like you’re trying to climb inside his mouth. You swallow his broken little moan as your tongue presses deep, licking into him while your hips roll and your cunt smears slick all along the length of his cock, not giving him anything he needs and everything he wants. His hands twitch like he’s going to reach for you again, but he doesn't — he knows better. So he just grips the sheets, groaning into your mouth, letting you take and take and take.

You pull back only when you’re breathless, your lips wet, your mouth still hovering so close that your exhales blend into his. “Good boy,” you whisper, dragging your nails down his chest. “Now hold still.”

You press your pussy down on him again, slower this time, letting your soaked folds glide along the underside of his cock, catching on the head, teasing the tip, and he whimpers, hips twitching so hard beneath you it makes the bed creak.

“Oh baby,” you sigh, voice going soft and filthy, your nails dragging through his hair, tugging his head back. “You’ve already made me feel so good. You’re doing so well. I’m already forgetting how fucking awful today was, just from this fat cock rubbing against me.”

“Please,” he gasps, one tear sliding down his flushed cheek, breath catching as you finally — finally — line yourself up and sink down onto him, inch by aching inch, until you’re seated fully in his lap and he’s buried so deep it feels like he’s splitting you in two.

Both of you moan, raw and sharp and needy, like it’s been days instead of minutes. His head drops forward, pressing to your chest as you clench around him, and he just breathes, shaking with how hard he’s trying to hold it together while you ride him slow, cruel, and perfect.

“Oh, fuck,” you groan, head tipping back, your hands coming up to squeeze your breasts through your bra as you bottom out on him. “Oh my fucking God, that’s it, that’s what I needed. You feel so good, baby. So deep, so fucking thick, stretching me just right.”

He cries out beneath you, loud and ragged, like the sound's been ripped straight from his lungs. You swear it punches straight through you. his hands still pinned to the mattress, his hips rocking up in tiny, stuttered movements like he’s trying to be good, trying to hold back the way you told him to, but his body’s betraying him with every flex of his thighs, every desperate twitch of his cock buried thick and throbbing inside you. You start slow — like you always do — hips rolling in deep, grinding circles, letting him feel every fucking inch of how tight you are, how wet you are, how perfectly his cock fills you. His abs tense, stuttering with every pass of your cunt over the swollen head, his throat bobbing hard as his mouth falls open, head tilting back, and the whine that escapes him is so pretty it almost makes your vision blur.

“My pretty boy,” you murmur, voice wrecked but full of pride, leaning in to kiss the tear sliding hot down his cheek. “My perfect little puppy. You take such good care of me, don’t you? Look at you. Letting me use this cock like it’s mine. Giving me everything I need.”

“Please,” he sobs, the word trembling on his lips. “Please, touch me, please, I need—I need—”

You hum like it’s nothing, like you hadn’t been waiting for that moment, and finally you grab his wrists and drag his hands up to your chest. He moans when his palms land there, when you arch into his touch, and he grabs you like he might die if he doesn’t, fingers squeezing your tits, mouth open gasping, holding on like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the bed. And still, you ride him—faster now, rougher, bouncing in hard, slick snaps of your hips that make the mattress creak beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall, the wet smack of skin on skin echoing around the room like it’s trying to tell the neighbors you’re being fucking ruined in here.

Bucky’s whining now, full-on, high-pitched and desperate, beautiful… every thrust drawing out a broken little cry from his throat as you fuck yourself on him like you’ve been waiting all day for this, like the only way to exorcise your frustration is to wring every drop of pleasure from his cock.

 And God, his cock. It’s so thick, so deep, dragging against your walls in a way that makes your back arch, your toes curl, your mind go fucking blank. You can feel him twitching inside you with every bounce, the veins pulsing against your walls, the ridge catching on every spot that makes you clench and moan and shudder with how close you already are.

And Bucky? He’s gone. Babbling beneath you, trying to form words between the choked gasps and sobs, his abs quivering under your palms, his eyes glassy and wild like he’s never been fucked like this in his life.

“Say it,” you growl, grinding down so deep it punches a grunt out of him. “Say what you are.”

“I’m yours,” he gasps, the words falling out in one breath. “I’m your puppy—I’m your good boy, please, please, don’t stop, fuck—please—”

And that raw, wrecked, please breaks something in you. You lean in close, your lips brushing his ear, and whisper it softly, filthily, and finally.

“That’s my good puppy. You make me feel so good.” 

And he shatters.

He bottoms out inside you with a cry that cracks in his throat, hips jerking uncontrollably as he spills into you, hard, one pulse after another of hot, desperate cum flooding your cunt as he grabs at you like he needs to hold you down, keep you there, make sure you don’t leave, like he needs you to take it all. You gasp, head falling back, and it hits you just as hard — your orgasm tearing through you like lightning, making your whole body seize around him, your thighs shaking, your cunt milking him as you ride every wave of it out on his cock, moaning his name over and over like it’s the only word that still makes sense.

And still he holds you. Still he grinds up into you, chasing every last bit of your orgasm even as he sobs into your skin, even as he cries from how fucking much it is. You press your hands to his chest, panting, slick dripping between your thighs, your body twitching from aftershocks, as you let him squeeze your tits again, let him grab you, hold you, pull you down tight to him as his cock softens inside your fluttering cunt.

You stay like that for a long moment, a mess of slick and sweat and sobbing breath, skin stuck together, limbs tangled, your forehead resting against his as you both try to come down. His eyes are still wet, his lips kiss-bitten and red, and you kiss him again, soft this time, slow, just the press of lips and breath.

And you smile.

Because he earned it. Every last fucking drop.

--

a/n: hope u enjoyed PLS REBLOG TO SUPPORT <3

asks are open :)

[tteotlma]

sit pretty, ride hard

-- the only thing that can fix a rough day is a pretty boy to come home to.

Bucky Barnes x Fem! Reader 3.2kwc

tw: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, dom!reader x sub!Bucky Barnes, power exchange, praise kink, leash/belt kink, overstimulation, crying during sex, use of “puppy” and “good boy,” begging, cock worship, possessive behavior, degradation (light), soft aftercare, mild manipulation/teasing, creampie, dirty talk, mildly obsessive undertones, language, semi-public implications (thin walls/neighbors) a/n: just heard someone say i was in the room doing hw… JOKES ON THEM I ALREADY DID HW___I WAS WRITING THIS HEHEHE

DEAD, OK IMAGINE THIS… It’s been a particularly rough day, you know the kind where you couldn’t find your left shoe this morning, or you couldn’t remember where you threw your keys last night, or the fact that this week in general was a kick in the ass, what with the end of the second quarter coming around—We can only go up from here! —replayed in your head as you recounted your boss’s efforts during the biweekly quarter meeting and every pass in the hallway since a month ago. And to make matters somehow worse, a flash flood blew in out of nowhere, and now your white blouse is practically soaked. 

All you want is to be inside your home, in your pajamas, in bed, and maybe your gorgeous beau to make it all feel better. 

You give the door to your house a hard shove, rushing in, throwing your stuff on the floor, and toeing off your flats. 

“Hi, baby, rough day?” You look up to see your handsome lover standing at the entryway, leaning against the wall. Your shoulders subconsciously droop in relief as he comes into view. 

“You have no idea,” you sigh, immediately walking towards him, arms outstretched, which he meets halfway. His arms find your body while your fingers find the hairs at the nape of his neck. He gives you a quick peck on the lips, and when he pulls away, you find yourself quietly wishing for more. 

“You wanna talk about it?” He asks, and you shake your head, taking a deep breath. 

He smelled like laundry detergent and pine soap. Must’ve showered recently– you thought as your hands came to rest on the swell of his chest. 

“No, I don’t think so,” you say softly, as you tiptoe to try and get a kiss, which he happily accepts. His lips are soft against yours and —God, you didn’t realize how much calm he brought you… It was kinda nauseatingly sweet. You feel him pull away and find yourself again wishing he hadn’t. 

“Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?” He says, into your hair before he pulls back, and takes you in. You watch his eyes dip to your blouse, the soaked fabric clung to your chest, turning translucent, and Bucky’s breath hitched slightly as the outline of soft lace, barely-there blush in color, ghosted through. Not obvious. Not intentional. But enough to make his fingers twitch at your sides. He quickly shifts his gaze back to your face. 

“Well…” You suddenly turn coy, knowing just the right buttons to push after all these years. “I can think of something.” You say softly, a hand comes to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear before slowly ghosting your finger from the hollow of your throat down toward where your wet blouse clings to the top of your chest, fabric sticking to skin in a way that makes Bucky’s eyes drop instantly. 

You stop where your cleavage disappears into lace, dragging your finger over the seam where damp cotton ends and soft, barely-there blush starts, and God, the way his throat works when he swallows almost makes you laugh. Wide-eyed, jaw slack, Bucky’s mouth opens like he wants to speak, like maybe go towel off, change into warm, dry clothes, or get cozy under a blanket on the sofa – like he’s trying to take care of you like he always does, in that warm, soft, respectable way he does. And frankly, you’re way too wound up for soft tonight. 

“W-What are you thinking?” He clears his throat in an act of fake nonchalance, but the way his hands tighten against your hips proves you and he are riding the same brain wave. 

“Hmmm…” You look down like you need a minute to think, “you wanna fuck me harder than my day did?” you asked like it was any normal question out there and Bucky froze. 

He stares at you, eyes darkening, breath caught somewhere in his throat. “You—what?”

You step closer, your wet blouse still clinging to your skin, the faint outline of your bra now an afterthought to how much heat instantly crackles between you. “You heard me, baby,” you purr, fingers climbing up his chest until they hook into the collar of his shirt. “Or do I have to repeat myself for your pretty little brain?”

Bucky stared at you like you’d just slapped him, his mouth opening then closing again, lost somewhere between short-circuiting and combusting.

You tilted your head, feigning sweetness. “Well?” you pouted, hands slowly reaching for the buckle that sat against your stomach. “You gonna let today win, or you gonna remind me who I belong to?”

He made a wounded little sound, like the words physically hit him, and you swore you saw his knees wobble.

“I—shit, doll,” he breathed, blinking rapidly. “Do n’t—don’t say things like that unless you mean it.”

“For you, baby,” You stepped in closer, chest brushing his as your hand unbuckled the leather belt looped around your waist. “I always mean it,” you whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You gonna be good and make me feel better, lover? Or do I need to make you?”

That belt came off with one smooth tug.

Bucky’s breath hitched as he audibly swallowed, and you swore it went straight to your spine. His eyes stayed locked on yours as you held the belt up, looped it gently around his neck, tugging just enough to pull him down to you. 

You press your fists into his chest and lean up, brushing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth—just a little taste, a whisper of what’s waiting for him if he gives in. His breath stutters, lashes fluttering, but he doesn’t move. Not yet. So you do it again, this time slower, lips brushing his skin like a promise, a coaxing little nudge that has him swaying toward you. When he hesitates, you pull back just enough to tilt your head again, brows lifting like you’re daring him not to.

And that’s when he moves.

He leans in, just barely, like his body chooses before his mind, chasing your mouth like instinct. And the second his lips part, you meet him with a kiss that’s pure filth—wet, messy, tongue sweeping into his mouth, teeth dragging against his bottom lip until he moans and stumbles forward. You kiss him like you want to eat him alive, like you know precisely how to unmake him, and he melts into it with this quiet, desperate little sound that makes your toes curl.

“Mmm, there’s my good boy,” you hum against his lips, tugging lightly on the belt still looped around his neck. “That’s it. Come on, baby.”

And like the perfect little puppy he is, he follows. You lead him backward with the belt like a leash, step by step through the house toward the bedroom, and he never once breaks eye contact. His eyes are heavy, lidded with want, chest rising and falling like he’s barely holding it together. When you reach the edge of the bed, you give the belt a tug and push—just enough to guide him onto the mattress, where he sits back on his elbows, pupils blown wide as you crawl into his lap. 

He watches you from where you sit in his lap, belt still dangling from his neck like a collar, and it’s almost too much. His chest rises in these shaky, uneven waves like he’s struggling to keep his composure, and you adore it all— the tension, the restraint, the way he’s trying so hard to be good, to sit still and wait for your touch, for your approval, when everything in his body is screaming to move. You grind forward just slightly, the seam of your soaked slacks dragging across the hard outline of his cock, and he lets out this strangled sound, one that’s not quite a moan, not quite a gasp, something helpless and sweet and so fucking pretty that it makes your cunt pulse with want.

You do it again, slower this time, grinding your hips in a slow circle over the thick bulge in his pants, and his head drops back with a thud, Adam’s apple bobbing as he lets out the softest, most pitiful little whimper you’ve ever heard.

“Aww, look at you,” you croon, one hand dragging up his chest, the other cupping his jaw and guiding his flushed face back toward yours. “Already shaking, baby? I haven’t even taken your cock out yet.”

“Please,” he breathes, lips parted, eyes glassy. “Fuck—please, I need—just need to feel you.”

“I know, I know,” you coo, fingers ghosting down his torso until you’re palming him through the fabric of his pants, watching his thighs twitch as you rub over the thick head. “My poor baby. All pent up. You’ve been so good for me, haven’t you? My sweet little puppy. Just sitting here, letting me play with you.”

His hips buck again, instinctive and frantic, and you pull your hand away with a pout.

“Ah ah,” you tsk. “That’s not how good boys behave.”

“I’ll be good,” he swears, voice cracking. “I am good—please, please, just—hngh, fuck—”

You lean forward, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, breath warm and thick with praise. “You are,” you whisper. “You’re so good for me. So perfect. So obedient. So fucking pretty when you beg.”

You reach down again, finally undoing the button of his jeans and dragging the zipper down with agonizing slowness. His cock strains against the fabric of his boxers, pulsing, the wet patch of precum already staining through. You pull him out carefully, deliberately, and the moment your hand wraps around the base of him, he moans full-bodied and broken, like he’s been waiting hours for this. He’s thick, flushed, gorgeous, and you stroke him once, then again, watching the muscles in his stomach twitch with every little flick of your wrist.

And still, you don’t climb him. Not yet.

Instead, you push yourself up, undo your slacks with one hand while keeping your gaze locked on his, letting him watch every movement, every inch of skin you reveal. When you slide the fabric down your legs, revealing the scandalously thin pair of underwear that’s long since soaked through, you hear his breath stutter. He’s looking at you like he’s in a trance, like you’re not real, like he’s watching a dream he’s terrified to wake from.

You stand there for a moment, thighs glistening, hips cocked to the side, and tilt your head with a smile.

“Actually,” you say slowly, dragging one finger along the hem of your panties, “maybe I don’t need a good fuck tonight. Maybe I just need some air. A little walk. Something to clear my head.”

His whole body jerks.

“No—no, please,” he chokes, voice thick with panic, eyes going wide. “Don’t—don’t leave, please, fuck—I’ll be so good, I’ll fuck you so good, baby, you won’t even remember what stress is, please, I need—need to be inside you, please—”

“Mmm,” you hum, stepping forward and climbing back into his lap, rubbing the dripping heat of your pussy along the thick length of his cock without taking him in. “I don’t know, lover. You talk a big game.”

He groans deep and guttural and bucks his hips, trying to catch your entrance, but you lift just enough to keep him from sliding in. You grip his jaw, guiding his eyes to meet yours.

“You want it that bad, puppy?” 

“Yes,” he whispers, trembling. “Yes, I—I’ll do anything.”

Your smirk softens, darkens, turns into something almost loving as you lean in, eyes locked on his, the heat between you ready to snap. And then you kiss him — filthy and messy and all tongue and teeth, lips crashing into his like you’re trying to climb inside his mouth. You swallow his broken little moan as your tongue presses deep, licking into him while your hips roll and your cunt smears slick all along the length of his cock, not giving him anything he needs and everything he wants. His hands twitch like he’s going to reach for you again, but he doesn't — he knows better. So he just grips the sheets, groaning into your mouth, letting you take and take and take.

You pull back only when you’re breathless, your lips wet, your mouth still hovering so close that your exhales blend into his. “Good boy,” you whisper, dragging your nails down his chest. “Now hold still.”

You press your pussy down on him again, slower this time, letting your soaked folds glide along the underside of his cock, catching on the head, teasing the tip, and he whimpers, hips twitching so hard beneath you it makes the bed creak.

“Oh baby,” you sigh, voice going soft and filthy, your nails dragging through his hair, tugging his head back. “You’ve already made me feel so good. You’re doing so well. I’m already forgetting how fucking awful today was, just from this fat cock rubbing against me.”

“Please,” he gasps, one tear sliding down his flushed cheek, breath catching as you finally — finally — line yourself up and sink down onto him, inch by aching inch, until you’re seated fully in his lap and he’s buried so deep it feels like he’s splitting you in two.

Both of you moan, raw and sharp and needy, like it’s been days instead of minutes. His head drops forward, pressing to your chest as you clench around him, and he just breathes, shaking with how hard he’s trying to hold it together while you ride him slow, cruel, and perfect.

“Oh, fuck,” you groan, head tipping back, your hands coming up to squeeze your breasts through your bra as you bottom out on him. “Oh my fucking God, that’s it, that’s what I needed. You feel so good, baby. So deep, so fucking thick, stretching me just right.”

He cries out beneath you, loud and ragged, like the sound's been ripped straight from his lungs. You swear it punches straight through you. his hands still pinned to the mattress, his hips rocking up in tiny, stuttered movements like he’s trying to be good, trying to hold back the way you told him to, but his body’s betraying him with every flex of his thighs, every desperate twitch of his cock buried thick and throbbing inside you. You start slow — like you always do — hips rolling in deep, grinding circles, letting him feel every fucking inch of how tight you are, how wet you are, how perfectly his cock fills you. His abs tense, stuttering with every pass of your cunt over the swollen head, his throat bobbing hard as his mouth falls open, head tilting back, and the whine that escapes him is so pretty it almost makes your vision blur.

“My pretty boy,” you murmur, voice wrecked but full of pride, leaning in to kiss the tear sliding hot down his cheek. “My perfect little puppy. You take such good care of me, don’t you? Look at you. Letting me use this cock like it’s mine. Giving me everything I need.”

“Please,” he sobs, the word trembling on his lips. “Please, touch me, please, I need—I need—”

You hum like it’s nothing, like you hadn’t been waiting for that moment, and finally you grab his wrists and drag his hands up to your chest. He moans when his palms land there, when you arch into his touch, and he grabs you like he might die if he doesn’t, fingers squeezing your tits, mouth open gasping, holding on like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the bed. And still, you ride him—faster now, rougher, bouncing in hard, slick snaps of your hips that make the mattress creak beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall, the wet smack of skin on skin echoing around the room like it’s trying to tell the neighbors you’re being fucking ruined in here.

Bucky’s whining now, full-on, high-pitched and desperate, beautiful… every thrust drawing out a broken little cry from his throat as you fuck yourself on him like you’ve been waiting all day for this, like the only way to exorcise your frustration is to wring every drop of pleasure from his cock.

 And God, his cock. It’s so thick, so deep, dragging against your walls in a way that makes your back arch, your toes curl, your mind go fucking blank. You can feel him twitching inside you with every bounce, the veins pulsing against your walls, the ridge catching on every spot that makes you clench and moan and shudder with how close you already are.

And Bucky? He’s gone. Babbling beneath you, trying to form words between the choked gasps and sobs, his abs quivering under your palms, his eyes glassy and wild like he’s never been fucked like this in his life.

“Say it,” you growl, grinding down so deep it punches a grunt out of him. “Say what you are.”

“I’m yours,” he gasps, the words falling out in one breath. “I’m your puppy—I’m your good boy, please, please, don’t stop, fuck—please—”

And that raw, wrecked, please breaks something in you. You lean in close, your lips brushing his ear, and whisper it softly, filthily, and finally.

“That’s my good puppy. You make me feel so good.” 

And he shatters.

He bottoms out inside you with a cry that cracks in his throat, hips jerking uncontrollably as he spills into you, hard, one pulse after another of hot, desperate cum flooding your cunt as he grabs at you like he needs to hold you down, keep you there, make sure you don’t leave, like he needs you to take it all. You gasp, head falling back, and it hits you just as hard — your orgasm tearing through you like lightning, making your whole body seize around him, your thighs shaking, your cunt milking him as you ride every wave of it out on his cock, moaning his name over and over like it’s the only word that still makes sense.

And still he holds you. Still he grinds up into you, chasing every last bit of your orgasm even as he sobs into your skin, even as he cries from how fucking much it is. You press your hands to his chest, panting, slick dripping between your thighs, your body twitching from aftershocks, as you let him squeeze your tits again, let him grab you, hold you, pull you down tight to him as his cock softens inside your fluttering cunt.

You stay like that for a long moment, a mess of slick and sweat and sobbing breath, skin stuck together, limbs tangled, your forehead resting against his as you both try to come down. His eyes are still wet, his lips kiss-bitten and red, and you kiss him again, soft this time, slow, just the press of lips and breath.

And you smile.

Because he earned it. Every last fucking drop.

--

a/n: hope u enjoyed PLS REBLOG TO SUPPORT <3

asks are open :)

[tteotlma]

sit pretty, ride hard

-- the only thing that can fix a rough day is a pretty boy to come home to.

Bucky Barnes x Fem! Reader 3.2kwc

tw: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, dom!reader x sub!Bucky Barnes, power exchange, praise kink, leash/belt kink, overstimulation, crying during sex, use of “puppy” and “good boy,” begging, cock worship, possessive behavior, degradation (light), soft aftercare, mild manipulation/teasing, creampie, dirty talk, mildly obsessive undertones, language, semi-public implications (thin walls/neighbors) a/n: just heard someone say i was in the room doing hw… JOKES ON THEM I ALREADY DID HW___I WAS WRITING THIS HEHEHE

DEAD, OK IMAGINE THIS… It’s been a particularly rough day, you know the kind where you couldn’t find your left shoe this morning, or you couldn’t remember where you threw your keys last night, or the fact that this week in general was a kick in the ass, what with the end of the second quarter coming around—We can only go up from here! —replayed in your head as you recounted your boss’s efforts during the biweekly quarter meeting and every pass in the hallway since a month ago. And to make matters somehow worse, a flash flood blew in out of nowhere, and now your white blouse is practically soaked. 

All you want is to be inside your home, in your pajamas, in bed, and maybe your gorgeous beau to make it all feel better. 

You give the door to your house a hard shove, rushing in, throwing your stuff on the floor, and toeing off your flats. 

“Hi, baby, rough day?” You look up to see your handsome lover standing at the entryway, leaning against the wall. Your shoulders subconsciously droop in relief as he comes into view. 

“You have no idea,” you sigh, immediately walking towards him, arms outstretched, which he meets halfway. His arms find your body while your fingers find the hairs at the nape of his neck. He gives you a quick peck on the lips, and when he pulls away, you find yourself quietly wishing for more. 

“You wanna talk about it?” He asks, and you shake your head, taking a deep breath. 

He smelled like laundry detergent and pine soap. Must’ve showered recently– you thought as your hands came to rest on the swell of his chest. 

“No, I don’t think so,” you say softly, as you tiptoe to try and get a kiss, which he happily accepts. His lips are soft against yours and —God, you didn’t realize how much calm he brought you… It was kinda nauseatingly sweet. You feel him pull away and find yourself again wishing he hadn’t. 

“Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?” He says, into your hair before he pulls back, and takes you in. You watch his eyes dip to your blouse, the soaked fabric clung to your chest, turning translucent, and Bucky’s breath hitched slightly as the outline of soft lace, barely-there blush in color, ghosted through. Not obvious. Not intentional. But enough to make his fingers twitch at your sides. He quickly shifts his gaze back to your face. 

“Well…” You suddenly turn coy, knowing just the right buttons to push after all these years. “I can think of something.” You say softly, a hand comes to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear before slowly ghosting your finger from the hollow of your throat down toward where your wet blouse clings to the top of your chest, fabric sticking to skin in a way that makes Bucky’s eyes drop instantly. 

You stop where your cleavage disappears into lace, dragging your finger over the seam where damp cotton ends and soft, barely-there blush starts, and God, the way his throat works when he swallows almost makes you laugh. Wide-eyed, jaw slack, Bucky’s mouth opens like he wants to speak, like maybe go towel off, change into warm, dry clothes, or get cozy under a blanket on the sofa – like he’s trying to take care of you like he always does, in that warm, soft, respectable way he does. And frankly, you’re way too wound up for soft tonight. 

“W-What are you thinking?” He clears his throat in an act of fake nonchalance, but the way his hands tighten against your hips proves you and he are riding the same brain wave. 

“Hmmm…” You look down like you need a minute to think, “you wanna fuck me harder than my day did?” you asked like it was any normal question out there and Bucky froze. 

He stares at you, eyes darkening, breath caught somewhere in his throat. “You—what?”

You step closer, your wet blouse still clinging to your skin, the faint outline of your bra now an afterthought to how much heat instantly crackles between you. “You heard me, baby,” you purr, fingers climbing up his chest until they hook into the collar of his shirt. “Or do I have to repeat myself for your pretty little brain?”

Bucky stared at you like you’d just slapped him, his mouth opening then closing again, lost somewhere between short-circuiting and combusting.

You tilted your head, feigning sweetness. “Well?” you pouted, hands slowly reaching for the buckle that sat against your stomach. “You gonna let today win, or you gonna remind me who I belong to?”

He made a wounded little sound, like the words physically hit him, and you swore you saw his knees wobble.

“I—shit, doll,” he breathed, blinking rapidly. “Do n’t—don’t say things like that unless you mean it.”

“For you, baby,” You stepped in closer, chest brushing his as your hand unbuckled the leather belt looped around your waist. “I always mean it,” you whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You gonna be good and make me feel better, lover? Or do I need to make you?”

That belt came off with one smooth tug.

Bucky’s breath hitched as he audibly swallowed, and you swore it went straight to your spine. His eyes stayed locked on yours as you held the belt up, looped it gently around his neck, tugging just enough to pull him down to you. 

You press your fists into his chest and lean up, brushing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth—just a little taste, a whisper of what’s waiting for him if he gives in. His breath stutters, lashes fluttering, but he doesn’t move. Not yet. So you do it again, this time slower, lips brushing his skin like a promise, a coaxing little nudge that has him swaying toward you. When he hesitates, you pull back just enough to tilt your head again, brows lifting like you’re daring him not to.

And that’s when he moves.

He leans in, just barely, like his body chooses before his mind, chasing your mouth like instinct. And the second his lips part, you meet him with a kiss that’s pure filth—wet, messy, tongue sweeping into his mouth, teeth dragging against his bottom lip until he moans and stumbles forward. You kiss him like you want to eat him alive, like you know precisely how to unmake him, and he melts into it with this quiet, desperate little sound that makes your toes curl.

“Mmm, there’s my good boy,” you hum against his lips, tugging lightly on the belt still looped around his neck. “That’s it. Come on, baby.”

And like the perfect little puppy he is, he follows. You lead him backward with the belt like a leash, step by step through the house toward the bedroom, and he never once breaks eye contact. His eyes are heavy, lidded with want, chest rising and falling like he’s barely holding it together. When you reach the edge of the bed, you give the belt a tug and push—just enough to guide him onto the mattress, where he sits back on his elbows, pupils blown wide as you crawl into his lap. 

He watches you from where you sit in his lap, belt still dangling from his neck like a collar, and it’s almost too much. His chest rises in these shaky, uneven waves like he’s struggling to keep his composure, and you adore it all— the tension, the restraint, the way he’s trying so hard to be good, to sit still and wait for your touch, for your approval, when everything in his body is screaming to move. You grind forward just slightly, the seam of your soaked slacks dragging across the hard outline of his cock, and he lets out this strangled sound, one that’s not quite a moan, not quite a gasp, something helpless and sweet and so fucking pretty that it makes your cunt pulse with want.

You do it again, slower this time, grinding your hips in a slow circle over the thick bulge in his pants, and his head drops back with a thud, Adam’s apple bobbing as he lets out the softest, most pitiful little whimper you’ve ever heard.

“Aww, look at you,” you croon, one hand dragging up his chest, the other cupping his jaw and guiding his flushed face back toward yours. “Already shaking, baby? I haven’t even taken your cock out yet.”

“Please,” he breathes, lips parted, eyes glassy. “Fuck—please, I need—just need to feel you.”

“I know, I know,” you coo, fingers ghosting down his torso until you’re palming him through the fabric of his pants, watching his thighs twitch as you rub over the thick head. “My poor baby. All pent up. You’ve been so good for me, haven’t you? My sweet little puppy. Just sitting here, letting me play with you.”

His hips buck again, instinctive and frantic, and you pull your hand away with a pout.

“Ah ah,” you tsk. “That’s not how good boys behave.”

“I’ll be good,” he swears, voice cracking. “I am good—please, please, just—hngh, fuck—”

You lean forward, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, breath warm and thick with praise. “You are,” you whisper. “You’re so good for me. So perfect. So obedient. So fucking pretty when you beg.”

You reach down again, finally undoing the button of his jeans and dragging the zipper down with agonizing slowness. His cock strains against the fabric of his boxers, pulsing, the wet patch of precum already staining through. You pull him out carefully, deliberately, and the moment your hand wraps around the base of him, he moans full-bodied and broken, like he’s been waiting hours for this. He’s thick, flushed, gorgeous, and you stroke him once, then again, watching the muscles in his stomach twitch with every little flick of your wrist.

And still, you don’t climb him. Not yet.

Instead, you push yourself up, undo your slacks with one hand while keeping your gaze locked on his, letting him watch every movement, every inch of skin you reveal. When you slide the fabric down your legs, revealing the scandalously thin pair of underwear that’s long since soaked through, you hear his breath stutter. He’s looking at you like he’s in a trance, like you’re not real, like he’s watching a dream he’s terrified to wake from.

You stand there for a moment, thighs glistening, hips cocked to the side, and tilt your head with a smile.

“Actually,” you say slowly, dragging one finger along the hem of your panties, “maybe I don’t need a good fuck tonight. Maybe I just need some air. A little walk. Something to clear my head.”

His whole body jerks.

“No—no, please,” he chokes, voice thick with panic, eyes going wide. “Don’t—don’t leave, please, fuck—I’ll be so good, I’ll fuck you so good, baby, you won’t even remember what stress is, please, I need—need to be inside you, please—”

“Mmm,” you hum, stepping forward and climbing back into his lap, rubbing the dripping heat of your pussy along the thick length of his cock without taking him in. “I don’t know, lover. You talk a big game.”

He groans deep and guttural and bucks his hips, trying to catch your entrance, but you lift just enough to keep him from sliding in. You grip his jaw, guiding his eyes to meet yours.

“You want it that bad, puppy?” 

“Yes,” he whispers, trembling. “Yes, I—I’ll do anything.”

Your smirk softens, darkens, turns into something almost loving as you lean in, eyes locked on his, the heat between you ready to snap. And then you kiss him — filthy and messy and all tongue and teeth, lips crashing into his like you’re trying to climb inside his mouth. You swallow his broken little moan as your tongue presses deep, licking into him while your hips roll and your cunt smears slick all along the length of his cock, not giving him anything he needs and everything he wants. His hands twitch like he’s going to reach for you again, but he doesn't — he knows better. So he just grips the sheets, groaning into your mouth, letting you take and take and take.

You pull back only when you’re breathless, your lips wet, your mouth still hovering so close that your exhales blend into his. “Good boy,” you whisper, dragging your nails down his chest. “Now hold still.”

You press your pussy down on him again, slower this time, letting your soaked folds glide along the underside of his cock, catching on the head, teasing the tip, and he whimpers, hips twitching so hard beneath you it makes the bed creak.

“Oh baby,” you sigh, voice going soft and filthy, your nails dragging through his hair, tugging his head back. “You’ve already made me feel so good. You’re doing so well. I’m already forgetting how fucking awful today was, just from this fat cock rubbing against me.”

“Please,” he gasps, one tear sliding down his flushed cheek, breath catching as you finally — finally — line yourself up and sink down onto him, inch by aching inch, until you’re seated fully in his lap and he’s buried so deep it feels like he’s splitting you in two.

Both of you moan, raw and sharp and needy, like it’s been days instead of minutes. His head drops forward, pressing to your chest as you clench around him, and he just breathes, shaking with how hard he’s trying to hold it together while you ride him slow, cruel, and perfect.

“Oh, fuck,” you groan, head tipping back, your hands coming up to squeeze your breasts through your bra as you bottom out on him. “Oh my fucking God, that’s it, that’s what I needed. You feel so good, baby. So deep, so fucking thick, stretching me just right.”

He cries out beneath you, loud and ragged, like the sound's been ripped straight from his lungs. You swear it punches straight through you. his hands still pinned to the mattress, his hips rocking up in tiny, stuttered movements like he’s trying to be good, trying to hold back the way you told him to, but his body’s betraying him with every flex of his thighs, every desperate twitch of his cock buried thick and throbbing inside you. You start slow — like you always do — hips rolling in deep, grinding circles, letting him feel every fucking inch of how tight you are, how wet you are, how perfectly his cock fills you. His abs tense, stuttering with every pass of your cunt over the swollen head, his throat bobbing hard as his mouth falls open, head tilting back, and the whine that escapes him is so pretty it almost makes your vision blur.

“My pretty boy,” you murmur, voice wrecked but full of pride, leaning in to kiss the tear sliding hot down his cheek. “My perfect little puppy. You take such good care of me, don’t you? Look at you. Letting me use this cock like it’s mine. Giving me everything I need.”

“Please,” he sobs, the word trembling on his lips. “Please, touch me, please, I need—I need—”

You hum like it’s nothing, like you hadn’t been waiting for that moment, and finally you grab his wrists and drag his hands up to your chest. He moans when his palms land there, when you arch into his touch, and he grabs you like he might die if he doesn’t, fingers squeezing your tits, mouth open gasping, holding on like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the bed. And still, you ride him—faster now, rougher, bouncing in hard, slick snaps of your hips that make the mattress creak beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall, the wet smack of skin on skin echoing around the room like it’s trying to tell the neighbors you’re being fucking ruined in here.

Bucky’s whining now, full-on, high-pitched and desperate, beautiful… every thrust drawing out a broken little cry from his throat as you fuck yourself on him like you’ve been waiting all day for this, like the only way to exorcise your frustration is to wring every drop of pleasure from his cock.

 And God, his cock. It’s so thick, so deep, dragging against your walls in a way that makes your back arch, your toes curl, your mind go fucking blank. You can feel him twitching inside you with every bounce, the veins pulsing against your walls, the ridge catching on every spot that makes you clench and moan and shudder with how close you already are.

And Bucky? He’s gone. Babbling beneath you, trying to form words between the choked gasps and sobs, his abs quivering under your palms, his eyes glassy and wild like he’s never been fucked like this in his life.

“Say it,” you growl, grinding down so deep it punches a grunt out of him. “Say what you are.”

“I’m yours,” he gasps, the words falling out in one breath. “I’m your puppy—I’m your good boy, please, please, don’t stop, fuck—please—”

And that raw, wrecked, please breaks something in you. You lean in close, your lips brushing his ear, and whisper it softly, filthily, and finally.

“That’s my good puppy. You make me feel so good.” 

And he shatters.

He bottoms out inside you with a cry that cracks in his throat, hips jerking uncontrollably as he spills into you, hard, one pulse after another of hot, desperate cum flooding your cunt as he grabs at you like he needs to hold you down, keep you there, make sure you don’t leave, like he needs you to take it all. You gasp, head falling back, and it hits you just as hard — your orgasm tearing through you like lightning, making your whole body seize around him, your thighs shaking, your cunt milking him as you ride every wave of it out on his cock, moaning his name over and over like it’s the only word that still makes sense.

And still he holds you. Still he grinds up into you, chasing every last bit of your orgasm even as he sobs into your skin, even as he cries from how fucking much it is. You press your hands to his chest, panting, slick dripping between your thighs, your body twitching from aftershocks, as you let him squeeze your tits again, let him grab you, hold you, pull you down tight to him as his cock softens inside your fluttering cunt.

You stay like that for a long moment, a mess of slick and sweat and sobbing breath, skin stuck together, limbs tangled, your forehead resting against his as you both try to come down. His eyes are still wet, his lips kiss-bitten and red, and you kiss him again, soft this time, slow, just the press of lips and breath.

And you smile.

Because he earned it. Every last fucking drop.

--

a/n: hope u enjoyed PLS REBLOG TO SUPPORT <3

asks are open :)

[tteotlma]

a little light reading for the plane 🤑

all roads lead to him indeed.

[tteotlma]

sorry yall i forgot how velcro this side of the fam is