#and this person opened 8 fucking bars of Dove soap
Note
sub bucky on a leash?? ugh torturing him w a vibrator as he calls you ma'am and begs you to let him come, using the leash to pull him forward so you can slap him and coo at your little puppy 🥺
I can’t get this fucking thought out of my head, why is this so hot?
Like subby Bucky who just wants to be totally dommed with a pretty pink collar around his neck that's attached to a matching pink leash. Maybe little dog tags that tinkle when he moves. Maybe they have your name engraved on them too, just so he remembers he's fucking owned.
And the way he'd whimper when you tug on the leash and press his face against your pussy. He'd lick you like he's starving, moaning with every sharp tug on his hair and thriving off the way you taunt him. "Stupid little puppy, aren't you? You just want to lick until you've had enough." You try to keep your composure as you're teasing him but God, it's too good. He's frantic, almost overwhelmed and he looks so beautiful like this.
"Yes ma'am." He pants breathlessly, looking up at you with tousled hair and blown out pupils. You know he's achingly hard. You don't even need to see him to know his cock is heavy and twitching between his thighs, begging to be touched but all his attention is still on you.
"You're fucking pathetic." You hiss, tugging his hair back so damn hard, making him look up at you before your free hand strikes his cheek. You don't hit him hard, just enough to sting pleasantly but it's enough to make him moan like a slut.
"Please. Fucking. Touch me." His voice is soft, barely louder than a breath because all that composure he usually has is gone. He's not far off begging but it's so much more fun when you get him all the way.
"Why would I touch you? You're my slutty little puppy, aren't you? You're just here to please me." The gentle reminder makes his eyes roll back in his head and he's humming nice and low because his resolve is slipping. "You forget that this collar means you're mine? Even with the pretty tags? Fuck, you go stupid when you're horny like this."
You're not far wrong and he knows it because he feels stupid. The only thoughts in his head are of getting you off and getting himself off and he knows that exact order will be the most rewarding.
"P-please let me cum." He sounds so broken, looking up at you with the gentlest eyes and oh, that's him begging.
You can't help but smirk at him, watching how he trails kisses up the insides of your thighs like that will change your mind in the slightest.
"No, baby. I want to cum first and I want to cum so fucking hard you make me see stars." You smirk, tugging his head back where you want it and while it's not exactly what he begged for, it's the next best thing.
#asks answered <3#anon#becca writes spice#sub!bucky#I'm getting my hair done on Wednesday#so fucking ready for it#getting some nice fun colours#calling it breakup hair?#I know I'll be sick of it in like... Two months#and I'll dye it back#but for now I just need a fuck tonne cut off the length#and I want fun pinks and purples and blues#just something to make me feel pretty and fun again?#I keep talking myself out of it#but I've decided I'm going for it#I've also just watched a tiktok I can't get out of my head#it was one of those bathroom restock ones#and they were putting everything in those pretty little glass containers#and this person opened 8 fucking bars of Dove soap#and put them in a glass jar#like??? that's absolutely not the best way to store bars of soap#fucking 8 of them#how does that even make sense
216 notes
·
View notes
Text
Black lace and property damage
Summary: With your messy work hours, Bucky’s consistently inconsistent mission schedule, and those basic life tasks you’re both ignoring (when was the last time he actually bought a new toothbrush?), the simple act of just being together has been shunted to the side. Bucky’s officially starting to panic.
Characters: Bucky x Reader
Warnings: SMUT, 18+. Sweet sex, awkward sex, some dirty sex, some sex on a car. Basically sex. Swearing. Bucky wearing a white t-shirt and dog tags. My sketchy automotive knowledge.
A/N: This story is sort of an ode to anyone struggling to make time for your person. Life gets busy, so don’t be afraid to get creative. Also sometimes sex goes smooth and perfect, but often it comes with mishaps and giggles. Both ways are great, Bucky says just roll with it!
Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!
*****
The porch light above the front door is out.
Was he supposed to change that before he left?
--
“I’m not touching it Bucky, there are spiders up there. Big ones. The kind that give you rabies.”
“Spiders don’t have rabies.”
“No one’s ever proven that.”
--
Dammit. Yeah, he was.
Picturing you stumbling up the porch, using the pathetic flashlight on your phone to light the way, Bucky feels like a world class, Grade A jackass. He needs to make it up to you.
Good thing he has plenty of ideas for that.
“Please be home,” he mutters, “please be home, please dear god be fucking home.”
Fingers crossed, he kicks the door open and calls out a hopeful hello.
An empty echo returns.
Bucky blows out a frustrated breath.
Figures.
Slogging down the dark hallway, he slings his bag on the kitchen table with a thud. Grenade pins, bullet casings, fun size candy bar wrappers, and handfuls of beer bottle caps rattle loose in the army green canvas and he grimaces.
One of these days, maybe, just fucking maybe, he’ll convince Natasha to stop using his bags as her garbage bin.
Ignoring that disaster zone (a problem for future Bucky), he wanders over to the sink, where he spies a small tableau on the counter. Propped up beside his favorite coffee mug, the one with sparkly pink letters proclaiming “Bitch, I’m Fabulous”, is a folded piece of paper, his name scrawled across the front.
He flips it open.
“Hey Bucky Bear. Don’t let your sexy ass fall asleep before I get home, I have a surprise!”
Drawn under your bubbly letters, he finds two stick figures entangled in an outrageously lewd sex act. Tracing tender fingers over the very obviously male stick figure (you never were very subtle), he grins so hard his cheeks ache. Leaning on the counter, he sniffs the letter because he’s a sentimental sap and it smells like your Cherry-Almond lotion, and drops his head in his arms.
“So tired,” he whines softly, voice muffled against sleek granite.
Three weeks. That was the last mission. Three weeks, even though Steve guaranteed Bucky three days max. Of course, two days into the mission Bucky remembered that Steve Rogers is an accomplished liar, so instead he spent three exhausting weeks dodging bullets, rewashing all his underwear, and hysterically rationing his bag of fun size candy bars.
Finally home, he wants to forget everything and sink into the post-mission domesticity he dreams about when he’s stuck in some dank motel on the corner of Fuck This and No One Cares. The routine is simple. A scalding hot shower, burrito wrapping himself in the feather duvet, making out with you for a few hours, taking a break to eat some pizza, and then fucking you so hard he breaks the brand new headboard he made for you last month (actually the third headboard he’s made...a fact he smugly reports to anyone and everyone).
And after all that fun, he wants to sleep. Maybe two full days. Or five. Tops.
Is that asking too much?
“No,” he sighs out loud. “It’s not.”
Carefully folding the cartoon and your sweet message, he kisses the paper and tucks it in his back pocket.
No way he’s falling asleep before he sees you. Nope. Nada. Negative. Totally not happening.
Pepping himself up, he goes to work, whizzing through his homecoming task list.
Blood-stained tac clothes go in the washer with three cups of bleach. Guns and knives are wiped down and polished. The contents of the dirty green canvas bag are unceremoniously trashed. The spider infested porch light is changed (with only three furry sightings). The shower is set to a blistering temp and he hangs out in there for an hour, soaping his hair into a foamy mohawk, belting out a few showtunes with his shampoo bottle microphone.
Scrubbed fresh and clean, he flops on the bed with his Starkpad and opens up Netflix, searching for something to keep him awake. Several scrolls later, he finds Brooklyn 99 and settles in for a laugh.
Confident in his ability to resist the appealing pull of sleep scratching at his brain, he takes a slurp of the Super Double Big Gulp sized coffee on his nightstand and stretches his eyes wide open.
Staying awake. Piece of cake.
Ten minutes later, Bucky’s fast asleep.
*****
When his eyes pop open, the room is dark. He feels tipsy, sleep drunk on his first uninterrupted hours of rest in weeks.
Beside him, he feels the cozy pressure of another body. Glancing down, he finds you curled under the sheets at his side, your face smushed against his arm, steady breaths fogging the gleaming metal.
Asleep.
Bucky grits his teeth. Squeezes his eyes shut. One thing. You asked him to do one thing.
God. Dammit.
Furious with his lame old man ass, he almost wakes you up. Almost. But then he swallows that desire and thinks.
Before he got married, Bucky read every relationship advice book under the sun. He gets the importance of keeping the romance alive. He knows you need to cherish your person, make them a priority, shower them with love. He knows. He gets it. He watches Oprah, for fuck’s sake. Relationships take work.
But lately? This is life.
With your messy work hours, Bucky’s consistently inconsistent mission schedule, and those basic life tasks you’re both ignoring (when was the last time he actually bought a new toothbrush?), the simple act of just being together has been shunted to the side.
Bucky’s officially starting to panic.
Although, he muses, eyes lingering on the innocent curve of your mouth, the chaos has forced both of you to get more…creative.
He grins.
It was you who instigated it the first time. He was lying in a dingy motel bed when you nervously offered.
--
“Hey, um…do think maybe you’d…like…would you…uh…”
“Spit it out babe.”
“Doyouwannatryphonesex?”
--
An anxious slur so fast, he nearly misses the question. He remembers that beat of hesitation, before you dove in headfirst, telling him in obscenely explicit detail exactly what you wanted to do to him. He was so shocked he dropped the phone and had to naked crawl under the grimy mattress to fish it out.
He must’ve jerked off five times that night. Replaying your filthy words. Remembering the quiet whimpers as you came on your fingers, gasping out his name. What a treat.
Sexting soon followed, accompanied by a plethora of nudes. None from you of course, because as you always remind him, you’re a lady, but Bucky? He gets irrational joy from sending them. They come in a variety of close-ups and poses, several which Sam accidentally discovered when he walked in on Bucky prancing around naked, searching for his best angle.
Sam always knocks now.
But sometimes words and pictures aren’t enough. Sometimes you need the soothing weight of someone in your arms. The scent of sweaty skin beneath your nose. Hot breaths of pleasure in your ear and the touch of a cool tongue licking across a heated body.
Sometimes he just needs you.
Could he wake you up? Sure. He knows you wouldn’t mind, you’ve told him a thousand times. But he also knows how tired you’ve been, and he can’t bring himself to shake you awake, selfishly stealing those bits of recovery you need.
So instead, he searches for something to keep him occupied.
He tries reading Game of Thrones again and gets nowhere. Thinks yet again someone needs to get George R.R. Martin an editor.
He flicks on his phone and covertly watches PornHub on mute. Seriously debates whether he can get away with jerking off while you’re sleeping because hey, Bucky Barnes is nothing if not stealthy.
He stares up at the ceiling and tries to see how long he can hold his breath. He gets 2 minutes and 8 seconds (a new record) before giving up.
In the end, he rolls onto his side stares intently at you. Wills you to wake up on your own. Come on baby, please.
But nothing works, and when sleep still doesn’t come, he decides to be productive. Crawling carefully from the bed, he smothers a laugh when you curl instantly into the warm mattress dip of his body, burrowing further under the blankets and unconsciously stealing his pillow. Most mornings Bucky wakes up hanging off the bed, no blankets or pillows to his name, while you’re swathed in comfort, cold toes shoved beneath his belly.
Maybe he should be annoyed. Except every time he looks at you, he forgets how to scowl.
Love is weird.
Rummaging silently through the closet, he unearths a threadbare pair of jeans and an oil stained t-shirt, slips into his worn leather boots. He drops a light kiss on your forehead, brushing a finger down the curve of your neck. Smiles to himself when you snuffle a quiet snore.
And he heads out the backdoor, down the weatherworn brick to the garage out back.
It was an added bonus when he bought the house. An unanticipated domestic perk. Hell, he never thought he’d find someone would actually date him, let alone someone who wanted to marry him and buy a house with him and accept his penchant for hoarding things in a rickety old garage (come on, I grew up in the Depression and I need this, he whines every time you take him to Target).
Thank god you said yes. He’s the luckiest jerk in the world.
Flicking on the garage light, Bucky still gets a little thrill. The entire place is an homage to eclectic, random artifacts, from the box of ugly 1970s vases he found at a flea market, to the fishing equipment he insisted on buying and has yet to use, to the sack of broken seashells you drunkenly collected on your honeymoon in Costa Rica.
In the midst of the swirl sits his pride and joy. Cherry red paint, black leather seats, a tad dusty, full of potential.
The 1969 Camaro looks like a teenage wet dream.
He remembers the day he brought it home, that surge of macho pride when your eyes lit up. After you slapped his ass and told him how sexy the car was, he reveled in your admiration for maybe 10 seconds, before hauling you back to the house and under the sheets. Took several hours before you both came up for air.
That was a good time, he thinks dreamily.
The car attracted his friends as well. Sam and Steve brought over a celebratory case of beer and stood by while Bucky explained the changes he had planned. Steve gave a few sage nods, while Sam helpfully threw out words like fuel injector now and then. Neither had a fucking clue what was happening, but Bucky graciously let them fake it.
Tony also saw the car once. Got a fervent gleam in his eye and started to say the phrase jet fuel, before Bucky ushered him out the door. Tony doesn’t get to see the car anymore.
There are still plenty of fixes to make, but for tonight he takes it easy. Flips on the ancient radio perched above the workbench and flops down on a rolling seat, sliding under the Camaro to tinker around. He goes to work, lets the crackle of the radio and the mechanical puzzle lull him into focus mode.
So intent on the task at hand, he barely hears the garage door opening.
The click of a shoe alerts him too late and he freezes, gripping his wrench tight. Muscles tense, garage floor plans and fight scenarios flooding his brain.
“Bucky? Do you have a sec?”
His breath whooshes in relief at your voice. A silly grin bubbles up because you’re finally awake, until he tilts his head sideways, peering out from under the car to see your feet.
Black high heels.
Stomach sinking, Bucky closes his eyes. Back to work then. Motherfucker. He missed his chance again.
Swallowing down the bitter disappointment, he croaks out a plea.
“Hey babe, do you gotta go back to the office so soon? Can you just - “
Click click and you step between his legs. Firm hands clutch the oil stained fabric at his knees and you pull. The seat rolls easily and he slides free, squinting up at you in the dim light.
The words die on his lips.
Black high heels, yes.
And.
Lacy black underwear, the sides held together with thick satin ribbons. A lacy black bra, your breasts threatening to spill out.
Gorgeous, devilish smile.
Fingering the wide satin bow between your breasts, you tease a light tug and Bucky starts sweating like a virgin on prom night. His wrench slips from numb fingers, thunking him in the nuts and clattering away.
“Shit,” he grunts. There’s a moment of confusion on whether the fresh ache in his balls is from the punch of the wrench, or tantalizing swathes of skin before him, but then you say his name and he figures it out pretty fucking fast.
“Hey Bucky Bear,” you purr, in that raspy voice he loves. “Still want that surprise I promised?”
Palming himself roughly, Bucky adjusts the suddenly tight front of his jeans, eyeing you with a lusty smile. Fuck yes, he wants his surprise. He wants everything about you.
“You bet your sweet ass I do. What’d you have in mind?”
“I have some ideas,” you say playfully. Stepping closer, slipping your fingers into his silky hair, he leans into the touch. “And I promise we’ll get to them. But first, how about you stay down there and maybe show me how much you missed me?”
Torn, Bucky looks down at his oil stained fingers. They spasm, clutching the edge of the seat so tight the metal bends. His voice drops several octaves.
“Babe, I - shit, I’m gonna kill the mood here, but my hands are all dirty, I should wash ‘em first,” he apologizes. Rolling your eyes, you shift closer until the edge of his nose is a mere inch from the delicate lace panties.
“I’m not asking for your hands, soldier. You have a mouth. Get creative.”
Bucky’s jaw drops. Sassy and domineering? And nearly naked?
Hell yes, his dick shouts. Here we fucking go.
Warm and cool, tentative fingertips press into the smooth skin behind your knees, stroking higher until he’s plucking the satin ribbons and pulling. It feels like Christmas morning when the knot slowly breaks apart, whispers of satin and lace floating to the ground.
Nosing against your core, he inhales, long and deep. A low growl rumbles, rough hands gripping your hips tight and heat explodes across your skin when his tongue presses into your folds, licking over your clit.
“God,” your moan is dark, desperately breathless, “keep - that feels so good, Bucky, keep going, please, been way too long.”
Bucky gives a fervent nod of agreement, strands of his dark hair tickling your thighs. When was the last time he did this? Nah, you know what? If he has to ask, it’s been too long.
From now on, the only correct answer should be every damn day.
He feels you moving his head, guiding him exactly where you need him most, and he hums hungrily. Shoves his tongue deeper. He adores when you take charge, using him, his mouth or his fingers or his dick, to get yourself off. He loves it, dreams about it, wishes you would let him film it just one time (because sometimes missions last three weeks not three days Steve).
But until then, he devotes himself to making it perfect because you deserve perfect.
Fast, firm flicks of the tongue. Long, leisurely strokes, licking you slow and sweet. Rough pressure, his plush pink lips sucking tight around your clit. So good.
Your eyes fall closed as his tongue moves faster, quicker, pushing you closer closer closer -
No, that won’t do. Cold metal lightly pinches your ass, a bid for attention. Chest heaving, you open your eyes.
Bright eyed and eager, Bucky gazes up from between your legs, looking thoroughly debauched. White t-shirt stretched tight across broad shoulders, dark hair mussed in your fingers, an obvious erection straining his jeans.
So close, you’re so close, right on the edge, just another second -
He knows, of course. Could always play you like a fiddle. He cocks a challenging eyebrow, sucks your clit between his teeth -
“Oh god, Bucky, fuck,” you moan. Weak knees buckle and his hands clutch your ass, keeping you upright and open. He never stops licking, swirling that talented tongue to draw out the bursts and shocks of pleasure until you’re gasping. When he’s wrung every drop from you, he kisses the sensitive bud and tips his head back with an arrogant smirk.
Legs like jelly, you promptly collapse into his lap.
The momentum of the fall sends the rolling seat flying. Busy being chivalrous and keeping you from tumbling headfirst onto dirty concrete, Bucky lets the wheels send him whizzing backward. His head smacks the door handle with a sharp thwack.
“Ow,” he grunts.
“Sorry,” you pant. Struggling for breath, wrapped in the haze of post orgasm bliss, you cuddle against him, soaking up his warmth. “Want me to rub it?”
Massaging his head, he wrinkles his nose. “Maybe. Depends on what you’re offering to rub.”
“Dealer’s choice,” you sass, and Bucky barks out a laugh. Wandering hands skim lightly over your shoulders, fingering the straps of the lacy bra, feather light trails along your collarbone, to the satin bow between your breaks. Tugging impatiently, he smiles when it unwinds, your breasts spilling free.
“Well, how about I take my pants off, we get in the backseat of this car, and you rub whatever you find.”
“Intriguing. What happens after I finish rubbing whatever…pokes my fancy?”
Bucky dips his head, takes your nipple between his lips, sucking gently. The feel of his wet mouth has you squirming closer until he pauses to offer an option.
“Maybe we fuck like a couple horny teenagers?”
“You’re killing me with the romance here, Barnes,” you say drily and he chuckles. “But I was maybe thinking something different.”
“Yeah? And what’s that?”
Licking a lazy strip between your breasts, he kisses up, up, up, until his tongue finds the hammering pulse of your heartbeat. Bemused, he hears your voice falter, before bravely offering your idea.
“I was thinking maybe I sit on the hood of your pretty red car, and – and you spread my legs and fuck me so good, I can’t walk for a week.”
Startled, Bucky pulls back. Excitement explodes in his chest.
“You - really? Seriously? That’s what you want?”
“Yep,” you confirm, palpable relief at successfully executing the dirty request. “That’s exactly what I want.”
Bucky plants a sloppy kiss on the tip of your nose. Wiggles his eyebrows and winks.
“Well god damn. You got it sweet cheeks.”
Wasting no time, he pushes off the ground and you kick your heels off, wrapping your legs around his waist. He huffs out a blissful moan when you suck a string of hickeys down his neck, grinding against you as he stumbles to the front of the car. Without thinking, he drops you on the shiny red hood and -
“Cold!”
Icy metal meets your bare ass. There’s a panicked scramble back into his arms and he manages to catch you, until your flailing upper cut cracks his jaw. It sends him off balance, tripping forward to smack his kneecaps on the Camaro’s fancy new grill. A grating screech tears the air and the grill rattles to the floor, the metallic clang bouncing off the walls.
Flinching, you peer up at him as it fades away.
Bucky’s nose twitches.
In all his fantasies (and there are many, because you are one sexy piece of ass), this shit never happens. Every sexcapade is effortlessly smooth, sensual and steamy, where you both look great, not a hair out of place, no oil-stained hands or unintended destruction of expensive vintage cars.
In reality, it seems like something always goes sideways. One of his nipples gets gouged by your fingernail or the silk from your negligee gets caught in the plates of his arm, or one of his perfectly aimed thrusts sends you both toppling off the bed. Sometimes he wonders if this is just the two of you? Do other people have perfectly orchestrated sex lives? Is porn not a true mirror of real life?
Is porn a lie?
Maybe he should watch more porn and form a more educated opinion.
For now, he takes in your crestfallen expression, vehemently shaking his head when you try to apologize.
“Buck, I’m sorry, I -“
Holding up a stern hand, he stops you cold. Sets you on your feet, gallantly whipping off his shirt, and spreading it on the shiny red paint. This time when he sets you on the hood, you lay back until the familiar scent of his cologne hugs you close. Bucky lifts your feet, propping each on the hood, spreading your legs open. He leans in close, a pink flush spreading over his chest, crawling up his throat, blue eyes turning dark.
“Listen to me. Don’t ever apologize, okay? You’re worth more than this old junker.” A crooked smile tilts his mouth, his voice as soft as the lips now brushing yours. “You’re priceless. You understand?”
“Okay,” you murmur. Fingers dance lightly up the hard planes of his stomach, wrapping around the chain of his old dog tags. “I understand.”
Bucky nods, watching your eyes drift down, drinking him up. He lives for that look. Sets him on fire, to watch you ogle him. When your eyes skate down his right side, he flexes his forearm a bit, because he knows it turns you on.
A swift tug of the chain and he dips easily, mouth slanting over yours. There’s a faint sound of teeth clacking together, and he stifles a laugh at your excitement. Deep kisses, stoking that simmering fire sitting right below the surface. Your lips part and he slides inside, curling his tongue around yours, pulling away to lick along the corner of your mouth, to suck your bottom lip between his teeth.
The thought appears, same as when he had his mouth between your legs. How long has it been since the two of you just made out like this? Same answer? Too fucking long?
This is definitely happening more often.
He feels your eager fingers reach for the button of his jeans, popping it open, slipping your hand inside. Cool fingers wrap tight around his cock, the other hand wandering down to squeeze a handful of his ass. Bucky hurriedly shimmies his pants to his knees, sets both hands on the car and leans forward, tipping his face down, touching his forehead to yours. Blue eyes flutter closed, breath hitching while he concentrates on the feel of your capable hands, slow strokes along his length, slicker with each tug.
“Fuck, that feels good,” he grits out. “Can you - damn that’s good - can you, there, bit lower -“
Ragged pants melt into a low groan when you slip your hand from the death grip on his ass to cup his balls, rolling them against your palm.
“Like that?”
“Yeah, yeah, yes, fuck yes, just like that,” he hisses, thrusting into your hands. “Can you - can you pull just a little-“
He stammers the question, ignoring your amused hum. It was a quirk, one he discovered early in the relationship. It came out of the blue, a bashful request during a romp in the sheets, but for some reason, Bucky has a thing for having his balls tugged. Not hard (which was also discovered after an unconsciously rough yank had him squealing in pain), but more of a soft squeeze, followed by a slow pull.
Like how you squeeze an overripe banana, he had explained later, gingerly massaging his balls. Not so hard it squishes.
Many entertaining attempts later, and he swears you have the move patented. Stroking his dick faster, your thumb presses over his balls, before a careful pull. Tipping his head back, Bucky stares glass eyed at the ceiling, lost in pleasure, pushing himself into your firm grip.
“Feel good?” you murmur.
“Yeah. Yes, so good, so god damn good ,” he chokes out. Faster, harder, faster - and then a strangled gasp and panicked blue eyes catch yours. “Wait, too good, it’s too good! Don’t wanna come yet, hang on! Need to be inside you first.”
He grabs your wrists, the thwarted sting of a denied orgasm obvious in the grind of his teeth. Both of you look down to where your hands are wrapped around him, one still kneading his balls, the other curled around the velvety hot skin of his cock.
“Okay,” you say, looking him up and down. “Fine, but - you’re so sexy, Bucky. And I love your balls.”
Bucky nods furiously, gulping a deep lungful of air. His ass cheeks are twitching.
“I love that you love them, I really do. But babe, I need you to let go of my balls or I’ll come all over your hand,” he rasps, wiggling away. Releasing him, your hands run up his chest, twining around his neck, dragging his sweat damp chest flush against you.
“If I must,” you agree, smiling into his lips. Bucky relaxes into you, the slow melt of tongues follows, the kind where a kiss bounces around, until it finds the perfect rhythm. His hands trace up the line of your arms, unlocking your fingers and pulling them free. Brushing his thumbs over your wrists, he bends close, kisses your knuckles.
And then he folds your arms above your head, pinning them down.
“Keep them there, alright? Don’t move until I say you can.”
“Kinky. Yes sir,” you breathe. He smirks.
“You’d better watch it, you little deviant. I might get used to that.”
“Sorry…sir.”
Pulling you further down the hood, he rubs his cock between your legs, sliding himself between your folds until a slick sheen coats his skin. It startles a grunt from you when he abruptly shoves inside, sinking deep until his hips press flush to yours.
He waits. Has to wait actually, because its been a long damn time and if he’s not careful he’s going to embarrass himself before he even gets started and holy shit, is this even real life? Is he dreaming?
Splayed out on the hood of his car, legs wide open, breasts wet from his tongue, black lace and crumpled satin ribbons. Arms pinned above the luscious skin bared just for him. Bucky stares between your legs, dry mouthed and dizzy.
“Come on, Bucky, please? Fuck me, please fuck me, I missed you so much.”
How could he ever resist this? You naked, writhing against the vivid red of his Camaro, moaning for him to fuck you, with his cock buried in your -
“Aw fucking hell,” he mutters. After so many weeks apart, he knows full well this won’t last long. It’s a damn good thing he has more than a few rounds in him.
Cracking his neck, rolling his shoulders back, he digs thick fingers into your thighs, pulls back nice and slow. He waits. Waits. Waits a bit longer because he likes to be an asshole and hear you beg.
“Bucky, come on -”
And he plunges into you, burying himself in the tight, silky heat of your cunt. Warm up over, no slow start. The pace he sets is rough, so deep he feels the pleasure licking down his spine and into his toes. Over and over, he slams into you until one particularly sharp thrust presses the tip of his cock against that perfect spot inside and you arch up with a broken cry. Hands scrabble above your heard, searching for anything to hold onto, finding something flexible.
With a plastic snap, the windshield wiper blade breaks off in your hand.
Bucky stutters to a halt, blinking sweat from his eyes when he sees the look of horror on your face. The apology is still forming when he snatches the plastic from your fingers, throwing it aside.
“Don’t care,” he grunts. Giving you no time to argue, he wraps his hands behind your knees and raises your hips, fucking into you faster. The filthy echo of sweat slick skin accompanies his breathless order. “Touch yourself. Let me watch.”
A frantic agreement and one hand slips between your legs, the other cupping your breast. Frantic circles over the swollen bud, trembling fingers plucking at a pebbled nipple. Bucky watches greedily, eyes flickering back and forth, memorizing those things that bring you pleasure, fantastically dirty memories to replay on a rainy day.
“Bucky,” desperate fingers rub your clit faster. “Keep going, please keep - keep doing that, I’m close, I’m so close, I’m -“
Sharp and sweet and unexpected, the orgasm crashes into you. Arching up, the low moan tears free, and Bucky slows, hypnotized by the sight of you shuddering beneath him.
“There you go, that’s it,” he urges hoarsely, before surging forward and capturing your lips in a wild kiss. Two more pumps of his hips and he stops, grinding against you until he comes with a heavy groan.
Silence fills the room, broken only with the sounds of harsh breaths and the wet rush of his heartbeat thumping in his ears. He rests his forehead between your breasts, listening to the staccato beat of your quick breaths, until you struggle up onto your elbows, pushing his sweaty hair away from his face.
“So I broke your car.”
He says nothing, but a moment later his shoulders begin to shake and suddenly he’s laughing, great rushing wheezes as he struggles for breath. Raising his head, he finds you nervously squinting down at him. He stretches up, presses a kiss to your forehead.
“I got insurance. Just need to check my coverage for mildly destructive ‘I missed you’ sex.”
“You might consider expanding that policy. I’m just saying,” you suggest with a giggle and he snorts.
Quiet contentment blankets the stuffy garage, both of you basking in that tingly afterglow. Folding your hands behind his neck, you draw him close and Bucky nuzzles into the crook of your neck.
“Been tough lately,” he whispers, mouthing gently along your throat. “Trying to find time together.”
Nodding slowly, your smile turns wistful.
“Yeah…guess it makes any time we get even better. Right? It doesn’t matter to me what we do, as long as we’re doing it together.”
Bucky feels a lump in his throat (the kind that could easily dissolve into manly super soldier tears), and he gathers you in his arms, tucking you against his chest. When he answers, his voice cracks just a bit.
“Someone’s a sentimental sap.”
He hears your muffled laugh against his chest, feels you bite at his collarbone and he chuckles.
“I love you Bucky. And I’m really sorry I murdered your car.”
“I love you too, babe. I’m glad you came down here. Especially in that outfit.”
“Yeah? You liked it?”
“Fuck yes I did. What spurred that idea, hmm?”
“I just don’t want to lose our spark,” you admit, snuggling closer. “When things get so busy, it’s easy to let things like this slide, and I don’t want you to - get bored, I guess. With us.”
Bucky thinks about all his relationship advice articles and the fact that he sometimes even prints them out and goes through with a yellow highlighter to capture the key points. Hearing your soft concern makes him fall even more in love with you.
Because this is important. This relationship, this love, this spark he was lucky enough to find with you, it’s the most important thing in his world. You are the most important thing in his world.
Brushing a knuckle down your cheek, he coaxes your chin up.
“I know it’s tough, always being on different schedules, but I want you to know, I’m always gonna love you and I’m always gonna want you. Nothing changes that. And if you ever doubt just how much I genuinely want to bang you all night long, then you say something. Deal?”
He boops your nose and you grin.
“Deal.”
“And honey, not that I’m complaining, trust me, but you don’t need to dress sexy to get me all reved up,” he shrugs. “You do that just by looking at me.”
“You do know how to charm the pants off a lady, Barnes.”
He throws his head back and laughs. Swings you up in his arms and calms your startled yelp with a kiss.
“Damn straight. Now how about we give that backseat a try. I think you mentioned wanting to rub something back there?”
*****
5K notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
genoviahq
G E N O V I A
claudiogrecchibass
Claudio Grecchi Bass
vanxllavixen
Van
time-is-restored
i agree unreservedly
kitten-layouts-blog
LAYOUTS