How Do You Draw Wally’s Little Muppet Body-

Dead end street

Keegan x female!reader (call sign ‘Turk’ used)

Warnings - smut, 18+ only, fingering, dirty talk, p in v sex, outdoor fucking

Word count - 4k

Tag list - @mykneeshurt @luminousbeings-crudematter

It’s cold out. Frigid and sharp as it nips at you, like cruel gnashing teeth as it stings the ends of your fingers and the tips of your ears. Your neck gaiter saves your face from the burn of the chilly breeze, even through the fabric, your breath plumes and carries before your eyes like a storm cloud.

Night watch was yours tonight, how lucky, barely a few hours in and you already ache, the below freezing temperature screaming at you to take shelter inside, to curl into your sleeping bag and savour what warmth your body can muster.

That’s what the enemy is counting on, you reminded yourself.

The rooftop provides a good visual. Wide expanse of the concrete streets below naked to your eye, every entry point within reach of your rifle, cocked - poised and ready.

Your team sleeps inside. Only a storey below. Slumbering under the guise of an old sugar beet factory, reality warped with the true military intentions, here in the belly of Russia - with an authority to execute given the opportunity.

You lean back, cracking your neck, the brittle cold settling into your bones. You’re kneeling down, knee pads slipping on the ice that lays in a paper-thin sheet across the concrete, frost catching in the material of your trousers as it scrapes up against them.

From your vantage point, you can see clearly, it’s dead as a doornail, the only sound is the whispering of the breeze as it catches in your jacket.

‘She jumps in headfirst, only thinks after the fact, sarg. Somethin’ only a Turk would do’.

You inhale sharply, ice cold air filling your lungs as you hold it in, letting it go in a fog of vapour that crests over your face. It wasn’t the cold or the solitude that you hated most about taking the nightshift, it was the silence that allowed your mind to run free. When you’re dodging stray bullets out in the field or jumping headfirst and blind out of a plane; there’s little room for thought, a lack of space to consider anything beyond instinct, that was what you thrived upon. You hated the lull in between, the pulling drag of silence that stifled the hours, letting your head dictate the fixation of doubt and second guessing.

For the first time in hours; you creak to a stand, knees locking and popping as you do. The stretch of your muscles twinge, bunched up and taught from the position you’d remained in for hours on end. You keep your eyes trained forward, irises darting through the narrow streets as you step back a few paces, rolling out the tension from your shoulders.

It’s when the sound registers in your ears that you realise it’s already too late, crunching ice, fractured under boots that aren’t your own. You’re quick, but not quick enough, body only able to swivel an inch before heat is at your back, pressing into you. It’s not hot- it’s burning, searing you like coals as your mouth is smothered by a gloved palm, another firm arm bracketed over the entirety of your torso as it keeps your biceps pressed tight against your body.

‘Spitfire that one, mate, more disciplinary actions on her file than I’ve had hot dinners’.

All you can do is thrash and jerk, make it awkward for them to keep a firm hold; your hands snatch for the wrist of their hand that covers your mouth, clawing at it. You had every incentive to sink your teeth into their digits, bite their fingers clean off if needed; but it isn’t, because the low resounding laugh that drifts into your ears is one you know well. Too well.

It makes you still, his hold on you slackening to the point you’re able to lodge the point of your elbow into his stomach, he catches the movement half way, softening the blow as he snatches your arm and tugs you roughly toward him. “Careful kid, shit like that’ll come back to bite you in the ass” he’s endearing, even behind the mask, his smirk is palpable - you can nearly taste it.

Your feigned grimace is hidden behind your gaiter, the knit in your brow is enough to convey your annoyance to him, “counting on it, Russ” you spit, tugging your arm from his grip.

You create some space, stepping away to hook a finger into your gaiter and pull it to your chin so you can breathe, chest coiling with something you know is never good, and it only comes knocking when Keegan Russ is within arms reach.

He laughs again, it whistles through his nose, muffled by the balaclava. His boots hit the concrete in languid steps, slow and methodical as he closes the space again. It’s as if the cold around you dissipated, now you’re burning up, skin searing as the hair prickles at the base of your neck.

A warning.

‘You’re a sergeant, Russ’ your tone is flat, his head tilts against the pillow, ‘your point, Turk?’ He presses his lips against the shell of your ear, wisps of your hair fanning from his breath, it stirs something in your gut.

You’re standing at the edge of the rooftop, lipped edge of concrete that stands at your hip keeping you from the street below, partially hidden in the pitch-black midnight. Your arms are limp at your sides, fists balled as your mind thrums into overdrive, more rambling thoughts skipping through like a playback. There isn’t enough time until he’s there again, standing to your immediate right, barely a hairsbreadth away, eyes following your gaze as you stare at nothing below.

He’s something different. Keegan doesn’t regard you in the same way the rest of them do, doesn’t frown down at the history in your files or listen to the whispers thrown around about you from table to table in the base canteen. Frankly, he doesn’t give a shit, unless you’re jeopardising his mission or his team, it doesn’t matter. He sees you as the soldier; the sniper with a critical aim and master precision, the one who passed her probation period with flying colours and a handful of new records to boot. He didn’t acknowledge the red ink that stained your paperwork, the warnings, the past haunting you like a phantom as it loomed. Russ saw you for what you were, an asset, a valued soldier that did more good than harm.

You don’t flinch when his fingers trace the back of your neck, index finger looping into the chain of your tag as he twines and untwines it around his digit, a little ritual of sorts for him. “I can hear you thinking” the softness of his voice cracks the peaceful silence, his breath fanning across the air in front of your eyes, drifting on the breeze. You half dare to wonder if that softness is reserved only for you.

He continues to fiddle with the chain around your neck as you move to lean forward, palms flattening against the wet stone as you bow your head between your arms, a choked groan striking from your chest.

“I hate taking watch” you admit, swerving the topic that was really sitting on your tongue, he hums in acknowledgment.

“I know, that’s why I make you do it” his tone doesn’t shift, almost a seriousness to it as it draws a faint laugh from your chest. You shake your head, “you’re a bastard” he can’t see it, but you’re smiling to yourself, albeit faintly. That makes him huff something that holds semblance to a laugh, “I know, Turk”.

‘What the fuck does it even mean anyway?’ You gag after you knock back your drink, salt from the glass rim of your tequila shot crusted on the top of your lip, Russ is sat beside you and he’s quick to run his thumb over the salt before he sucks his thumb into his mouth, it makes you gape at him. ‘What does what mean?’ He’s humouring you, as sober as he was when he walked in, he’s driving the truck back to base after the team has had their fill of a few rounds of pool, stale peanuts and pissy beer. You’re frowning as you twirl the glass between your fingers, ‘the nickname’ your expression looks sour, he likes to think it’s from the tequila, ‘you don’t like it?’ He asks, genuine, it makes you side eye him. ‘I might like it if I know what it means’ you bite at him and it makes him smile, because that’s exactly what it means. He mulls over the words, thinking of how best to word it for you, ‘a Turk is someone who is stubborn, someone who’s hard to deal with’ Russ is regarding you fully now, eyes searching your expression as the understanding slots into place. He’s not sure what he sees, he can’t tell if you’re relieved or hurt, he’ll be sure to avoid telling you what you could have been stuck with if not for your Captain’s interference. Your lip juts and you continue to fiddle with the glass in your palm, he nudges you with his elbow, ‘it’s what they call their prize fighters in Ireland’ that alone catches your attention, you can hear it now, the drawl of your old Captain’s Donegal accent wrapping around the name. It puts your mind at ease.

You lift your chin from where it’s lowered between your arms, daring to let your eyes cross over to his, that striking shade of cerulean blue taking root deep down in the marrow of your bones as you lock gazes. Neither of you look away. “Why aren’t you asleep?” You ask, a thought rearing in your head that skates along the line of wondering why he wouldn’t take watch if he was going to stay awake anyway. Russ cocks his head, “couldn’t” the word is clipped, “too much on my mind” his gaze flits down your body, raking down and back up, you nod your head.

Then, the cold is long gone, replaced with the warmth of Keegan’s breath as it fogs over your neck, teeth worrying a bruise into your throat as his palms clamp over the tops of your thighs. Holding you impossibly close.

He’s perched you on the ledge and he’s snug between your knees, mask pulled up over his nose to press into your skin as he grinds his hips into the juncture of your thighs where he knows the sweetest part of you is, perhaps the only sweet part of you.

You’ve pushed your fingers up past the hem at the back of his mask, nails raking through his undercut there, knowing it makes him shiver. It earns you a harsh welt that’s sucked into your neck, soft-sore skin soothed by his tongue as he admires his work. You tug the back of his mask so he’s forced to meet your eye, his lips are parted, ragged breaths pluming in the air as they mix with your own, clouds of ecstasy.

“I hope you’re keeping your eye on the street” it’s all molasses on your tongue, thick and rich as you drip it onto his tongue, curling your own against his teeth till he’s choking back a moan in his chest. “It’s not my watch” it’s practically a growl that brims from his throat, catching in yours as he draws your bottom lip between his teeth.

The urge to rip into him is there, on the tip of your tongue, begging to chastise him, call him a hypocrite for all of the times he told you how distracting you are. Those hadn’t been while on watch, while lives are on the line, the risk of blowing your cover looming and completely possible. Yet, right now, you can’t bring yourself to break away; can’t think of anything other then him and the way he feels against you. There’s nothing else, nothing more that matters, as selfish as that is - he seemed to feel the same.

Keegan cants his hips into you, his pent up arousal more the evident as his cock bulges beneath the fabric. You’re reeling, losing yourself, one hand fisting the jacket covering his shoulder while the other grips the back of his neck, not allowing him to break his lips from yours. “We’ll have to be quick” he whispers it, ghosting your lips, a secret held between your bodies. You smile slyly against his mouth, “shouldn’t be an issue for you” it’s a quip that earns a rough myriad of teeth marks sunk into your jaw, the gesture makes you tip your head back with a strangled moan. He lets the skin go with a wet pop, “I see why that mouth gets you in so much trouble” his chest is heaving, breathing ragged as he tries to focus his eyes on you, pupils blown wide with lust.

The sergeant is right, you’re not one to bite your tongue, never have been; but he didn’t seem to mind half the time. You sit up straighter, grinding friction against his crotch as you shift - making him hiss through his teeth, you loop both your arms around the back of his neck till your fingers are interlocked. Keeping him as close as is physically possible. “I thought you liked my mouth” your tone is sweet and false, a coy smile slanting your mouth, it makes him cock his head at you with a pointed glare. He huffs again, “I like it when it’s stuffed full of my cock, sweetheart” there’s little to no playfulness in his tone, a serious admittance as he watches the way you screw your eyes shut - a steady roll of arousal seeping through your core. Any patience you held was long gone, thrown away on the cold breeze, no longer able to maintain the teasing. “Fuck me already” you gasp.

It’s as if he takes it as an order, dutiful soldier he is, tugging you from the wall and spinning you till your spine is flush with his chest. Pressing a huge palm between your shoulder blades till you’re forced to bow forwards, elbows braced on the slick concrete ledge in front of you. He chuckles something low in his chest, prideful, “knew there was an obedient streak in you somewhere” Russ is close again, rutting into you smoothly as his fingers curl into the hair at the nape of your neck, sharply pulling till you crane your neck to meet his eye.

He’s dowsed in moonlight, framed by it, the violet-indigo hues of it bleaching his skin, the only light you can catch is the fire behind the silvery-blue of his eyes. Burning.

Something slots out of place in your head, teeth exposed as you smirk, you’re delusional already. “Pot calling the kettle black” it’s husked from your mouth, plucked from your lungs as you struggle to stay rooted in place. His smirk replaces yours as he crowds forward, crushing you against the brick, “be sure to keep it quiet, sweetheart, don’t want you waking the boys up” his hand is looped around your hip as he speaks, tugging harshly at your belt until it falls agape at each side. Your zip is ripped down next, then you feel the sting of the cold as it caresses the newly exposed skin of your ass and thighs, trousers and underwear pulled to your knees as Russ uses one of his boots to kick your feet further apart.

Any smart remarks you were thinking of voicing are gone, dead on the wind, thrown over the ledge you’re so tightly pressed against. You can do little more than bite your tongue, fingernails scraping over wet stone as you feel him shift behind you, the sound of his belt clanking ripping through you like shrapnel. You were shaking. Shivering in anticipation, not from the cold, waiting for him to touch you again.

It’s when he presses two warm-gloveless fingers through your folds that your silence is broken, a strangled whine spilling past your lips, the sound of your arousal slick on his fingers as he curls them into your pussy. “Fuck-“ you’re gasping, pushing your hips back into his hand, wanting him to get on with it, needing him inside of you yesterday.

“So fuckin’ wet for me doll, look at you” his voice is pitched low, tone smouldering you.

You hate what he can draw from you so easily. You’re stone-faced, hard to read and even harder to reach; but Keegan, he has a competent ability to flay you open, split you till there’s nothing more to hide, an open book for him to so easily flip through the pages. He’d evidently ripped a few out, stuffed them in his pocket to study later, that was the only explanation for how well he gaged you and your reactions.

Russ always reads you so well; doesn’t waste time because he knows neither of you have enough of it. You’re limited. He’s still a sergeant, still heading this assignment, he won’t jeopardise it for the sake of getting his cock wet; but he’ll indulge you both for now.

He takes himself in his fist, jerking a few times before he’s pressing the swollen-leaking head through the searing heat of your cunt, catching your juices over the length of himself before he’s smearing it around crudely. You jerk, “shit- Russ please” it’s strangled, punched out of your lungs when he gives you no warning, sinking himself all the way into you. Pressing home.

He groans and you whine, practically cry as he starts to fuck into you with abandon, deliberate thrusts crushing your ribs into the sharp edge of the concrete. His cock is too much - too soon, he’s stretching you open, ripping you at the seams. The heavy width of him pressing at your walls, velvet of his skin smooth and hot inside of you.

It’s rough and tender intertwined. While his hips bruise you, his hands hold you still, almost as if you’re something sentimental, crooked in his palm like an inherited keepsake.

The sounds that crest from the depths of his chest only serve to drive you further past the point of return, he’s grunting as his hips piston in and out of you, pussy sucking him like a vice, enveloping his cock so perfectly as if he was moulded to you, cut from the same cloth. He leans close, whispers in your ear, “keep your eyes on the prize, sweetheart. You’ve still got a job to do” his teeth sink into the shell of your ear and you tip your head back as his mouth skates from your ear to your cheek, wet lips kissing your skin. You try your best to meet his thrusts, to press your hips back into him, seeking more of him, never getting enough of the way he drives his cock so deliciously inside of you.

He continues to fuck you good, so good your eyes are rolling like marbles to the back of your skull, you sound so wet and desperate as his skin meets yours, the clap of your flesh meeting his resounding out into the night air around you. Russ is sly when he slips an arm around your waist, fingers skating up your thigh until he presses them between your legs, rubbing friction over your clit till you have to bite your tongue to silence the noises that threaten to break from your chest.

You tighten around him, cunt fluttering as your orgasm begins to loom, spotting your vision at the seams. “F-fuck - fucking hell” you sigh, wanting to press your pelvis forward into the delightful swirl of his talented fingers on your clit but not wanting to let up even an inch of his cock from where he fucks it into you. He preens, moaning into the base of your neck when his teeth worry another bruise there, “you feel so fucking good” he grunts as he knocks a particularly brutal thrust into you, your ass slapping against his pelvis in a way that has him near enough drooling, desperate to sink his teeth into your flesh.

It’s rising, crests and rolls like a tidal wave- no, a fucking tsunami. Knocking you off your feet, washing away anything but him, only Keegan remains rooted and unmoving. Despite the force in which your orgasm hits you, lighting a fire down your spine like a paraffin spill, he keeps fucking you through it. Brutal and painful. It’s overstimulating, sending your limbs heavy like rubber as he frees up a hand to wrap around the base of your throat, forcing it up till the back of your head rests against his shoulder. His breath fans your ear, broken moans drilling into you in the same ferocity his cock does, spilling down your ear canal till they send your brain to mush. “Thaaaat’s it - gorgeous” he shudders, “fuck” his hips never let up, his other hand snatches you back so you’re upright, scooping up both your wrists till he’s got them pinned to the small of your back. With the force he fucks you with, you’re having to raise yourself onto the tips of your toes, it’s too much and still not enough.

Tears slip freely over your cheeks now, your mouth agape with the need for more air, he’s fucking the oxygen right out of you. “Keegan- please” you whine, “fuck-“ it’s a cry that’s hoarse and brittle, broken as it manages to rattle from your throat. Molten heat washes through you, wringing you out, nothing more left to give but the way your cunt flutters and tightens around him still. He slows, thrusts beginning to lose rhythm as his hips stutter, “shit” the curse slips between gritted teeth, hissing out, and then he’s cumming in you. It’s sticky-hot, painting across your insides with a fever that sends your stomach into knots. You shouldn’t admit it, but it’s a feeling you never tire of.

His hold on you doesn’t give, only tightens, hoarse grunts muffled in your hair as your pussy milks him for all he’s worth, for all he can manage. Your chests are heaving in unison, the same unison in which your breaths mingle and carry away before your eyes, fleeting toward the star-hung sky.

You lean back into him, bones turned to jelly under your skin, unable to comprehend moving just yet. He doesn’t move either, doesn’t even pull out of you for fear his cum will slip out too, he’d have to fuck it back into you with his fingers, letting you clean off his digits with your tongue afterwards. If the situation were different he might have done, but for now, he’d enjoy this.

His nose nudges your cheek, his head pressed to the side of yours as you look at the sky, drinking in the moon and the stars. This is where the tenderness stemmed, in the afterglow, as the adrenaline and lust dissipates, all that is left is the sergeant and his soldier. His little Turk.

Air heaves through his nose and you try to turn your head, only your eyes are able to flit across his face. “Something funny, sergeant?” Your tone is softer then it had been before, tensions and worries washed away, mind still too hazed to think about much else but the way his cock stirs again inside of your cunt as he presses forward.

“Just thinking of how I’ll enjoy watching you work tomorrow knowing my cum is stained between your thighs”.

miss possessive - congressman bucky barnes

okay not my best work, i swear i have like nine drafts i've come up with in a week, none of them good enough to post.

this is inspired by miss possessive by tate mcrae even though i completely lost sight of the song really quickly

~~~

you really had no right to be so jealous.

you watched him from across the floor, sipping on your flute of champagne. you'd grabbed it off of one of those waiters' trays as they were walking about the room.

it tasted like shit. you didn't like the taste of wine, and it wasn't even enough to get you drunk.

you knew this kind of event was difficult for him to sit through, but hey, he made his choice going into politics.

you watched as he made his rounds, speaking to various donors and attempting to charm them. you watched as all their wives fawned over your-

no.

you watched as all their wives fawned over him, bringing him in for a hug instead of a handshake. of course they were interested; he was the best looking man here. yes, he was the oldest man in the room, but appeared to be the youngest and was, regardless, easily the most attractive. and all the thirty-some wives of the cranky old rich white men wanted him.

it pissed you off. not that you had the right to be pissed, but. oh well. you're just a girl.

after two flutes of champagne, you watch as one of the donors receives a phone call, leaving his wife with Bucky. ever the gentleman, he would never leave a woman all by herself in a room full of sharks who might try to snatch her up. 

Bucky was very much a different man than he was in the forties, of course. doesn't mean he lost the ability to attract every woman in the room.

you can't stand idly by as she puts his hands all over him, and he can't take his eyes off of her. no, of course he would never go for a married woman. what he did know, though, was that if he pissed her off, her husband wouldn't donate to his campaign.

you roll your eyes and decide it's time for some hard liquor.

you hide in the corner of the room, drinking your much stronger beverage as fast as possible. no, getting drunk at a professional event isn't the best idea, but what do you care. you're not the star of the show.

he is.

he's the brilliant ex-POW who's turned his entire life around in a whole new century. he's the gorgeous soldier who not only survived, but is also electing to do something meaningful with his life. 

he's the star tonight.

he's the star of every thought you have of your future, but that can't possibly come to surface now. it's not the time or place. 

watching him entertain this woman truly boils your blood, but at least you have some actual alcohol in your system now. you no longer feel the need to justify why her hands on his pristine suit makes you want to grab her by the diamonds around her neck and yank her off of him. you can justify your desire to grab him by the tie to pull him away from her and yell at him for not focusing on what's important. 

you bite your tongue. you knew it was all a ploy.

doesn't mean you had to like it. 

~~~

while you stand at the bar waiting for your second beverage of the evening, a man comes up next to you, and the bartender takes his drink order. 

you give him a small, awkward smile as you briefly make eye contact. you're kind of shocked: he's definitely the only man in this room who appears to be younger than 60, Bucky excluded.

you almost startle when he speaks up, introducing himself. Michael, he says his name is.

you turn to actually face him this time. roughly 40, plenty taller than you, and brown hair sprinkled with some greys in there. your perfect type. you quietly tell yourself you're done drinking–no way you're gonna fuck this up. if you weren't so mad about Bucky's new admirer, you might be a tad less inclined to speak to him, but… 

you step closer as you give him a real smile and introduce yourself.

"so, correct me if I'm wrong, but something tells me you're here alone tonight," he begins, indicating to your left hand. no ring. 

you laugh a little. 

"you would be correct," you tell him. "I could say the same about you."

he smiles back at you. it's so beautiful you forget all about your boss and the woman he's now got on his arm as he continues to walk around–

well. you almost forget. good enough.

"you would also be correct."

you explain why you're here, you work for one of the candidates. although, you don't tell him who, exactly. he explains why he's here, one of the patrons. you have to pry the information out of him, but you appreciate it: he's trying to talk to you without flashing his money in your face. it's noble, you think.

you eventually learn he's interested in actually getting to know the candidates' campaigns, not just what they think they can offer him in return for his money.

"you know, I would be happy to learn more about your boss' campaign. from one of the people who probably understands it best," he tells you. you're slightly taken aback for a moment, not aware this was a business interaction. you never even told him who your boss was, so it was confusing, to say the least.

you felt stupid for thinking he was actually interested, for thinking that he was flirting with you.

"oh, of course-" you begin to tell him, but he interjects, "after I take you out, perhaps?"

your smile perks back up subconsciously. so you didn't have it wrong.

"I would love that," you tell him, carefully taking the lapels of his jacket into your hands. you feel his hands come to your waist, and it's like a jolt of energy runs up your spine.

you look closer and almost flip your shit as you see his eyes up close. they're Bucky's eyes. he's not Bucky, sadly, but. 

you're fucked.

"maybe dinner can happen... another time?" you offer, hoping he gets the hint. you realize you probably look like a whore throwing yourself at him like this.

he chuckles. "I've got a room upstairs, if you'd like to come have drinks instead of dinner."

hell yes. you're gonna score tonight, even if it's not with the man you dream about with your hands between your legs every night-

"I would," you say, and bite your tongue. "I just... have to stick around until this thing is over. yeah?"

he nods and steps back. "I suppose I should also do what I came here for," he chuckles. "I'll come find you later?"

you smile and you feel your face go pink. "sounds good."

you can't help the fact that your gaze reverts immediately back to your boss the second the man walks off. Bucky hasn't spared you a single glance all evening, but the second you look back at him this time, you're suddenly staring into his beautiful eyes. 

he holds eye contact with you for what feels like an eternity. his expression is muted, no real emotion showing. maybe... curiosity?

of course he's not going to look mad, or upset, or jealous. you have to stop thinking he'd ever look at you with anything other than pure professionalism.

because he's everything. and you're just a kid, lost in the world, desperately in love with your boss, and everything is fucking falling apart around you.

at least you've got a rich, hot, older man ready to fuck you tonight.

~~~

you kept to your word to yourself and didn't drink for the rest of the night, although you continued hovering at the bar for the semblance of safety it provided.

you continued staring at Bucky for the next two hours. the clingy woman's husband had, in fact, returned and took her away from Bucky. clearly, she was pissed, but tried to hide it. you had to bite back a smirk.

he didn't look back at you once for the rest of the evening.

eventually, the crowd dies down. you realize that now, you have to explain to your boss that you won't be riding back to the office with him, effectively telling him your exact plans for the rest of the night. embarrassing!

you're almost ready to bite the bullet and bid Bucky a good night, scanning the room for him, when you hear a voice from behind you. 

"we still on for drinks?"

you plaster a smile on your face as you turn around to the man standing behind you.

"absolutely," you say, taking his hands. "lead the way."

you begin to follow the man, telling yourself to try and remember to shoot your boss a text to 'not worry about you' before getting your clothes torn off by this man who's currently whisking you away.

you get into the elevator with him, what's his name, you think? oh, Michael, and yank him in hard, crashing your mouths together, putting all of your energy into how badly you need this.

you're startled by the sound of a clanging of metal, ripping your mouth away from the man's and turning to face the noise.

well, apparently, you were too eager and stupid enough to not wait for the elevator doors to entirely shut, because you see now that the noise was a result of Bucky's vibranium arm grabbing the elevator door. he pushes it open and steps inside, eyes piercing daggers through you the whole time.

you stand there, appalled. the man gently pulls away from you, reaching out a hand to attempt to shake Bucky's hand.

"Mr. Barnes, it's a pleasure," he begins. "my apologies for this... less than ideal meeting."

Bucky doesn't even look at the man, eyeing you up and down, taking in your smudged lipstick and the way your dress is slightly out of place.

the man attempts once more to interject. "Mr. Barnes, please, don't worry about her. why don't us men go back downstairs and have a real discussion? I'd love to hear more about your campaign."

wait. why do his words sound like they're throwing you under the bus, almost?

Bucky notices it, too, you realize. he tilts his head in the man's direction before actually averting his gaze to look at him.

"and leave the lady all by herself?" he asks.

"don't worry about that. she's... inconsequential. if you and I can just go back downstairs and–"

"what did you just say?" Bucky asks. you swear he doesn't look like your boss anymore, but someone... else.

the man is taken aback by Bucky's demeanor. his mouth gapes like an idiot.

"you do know this is my assistant, right?" Bucky asks him. the man's face goes pale as the pieces slot together in his head.

"Mr. Barnes, my apologies, truly," he says.

you just stand there feeling more stupid than ever. inconsequential? wow, okay. you almost don't even care that he's dismissing your entire existence, but you can't stand the fact that he's doing it in front of Bucky. you care more about what Bucky thinks of you than literally anyone else, and now? now he's going to see you as a fucking slut who isn't even good enough for a man to commit to for one night.

god, you're pathetic.

"shouldn't you be apologizing to her?" Bucky grits.

the elevator doors open to the man's floor, and he mumbles a sorry under his breath as he runs out.

great. not only do you look pathetic in front of your boss, but you're not getting fucked tonight, either. just great.

the doors shut behind Bucky, who has now returned his gaze to you. you wonder if he's going to press the button to go back to the lobby.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, Mr. Barnes," you say, swallowing your embarrassment as you stand up straight and adjust your dress.

he just stares at you.

"what?" you ask.

"are you okay?" he asks, and he looks genuinely concerned.

you know he cares about you, you're his assistant, after all. but that's it.

"fine," you assure him, and begin to reach behind him to press the button to take you back down to the lobby.

he gently grabs your wrist before you can.

you look at him, confused. you know your face says it all.

"Mr.–" you begin.

"Bucky," he corrects.

"can I press the button, Mr. Barnes?"

he still hasn't let go of your wrist. you feel stupid for enjoying the feel of his metal hand against your skin, for getting to feel a part of him that's real.

"you know, you clearly picked out the worst of the men here tonight," he observes.

you roll your eyes and pull your wrist away from him before you do something stupid.

"are you kidding? this place was riddled with capitalist billionaires and politicians. like you," you say, smirking.

he chuckles a little.

you can't help yourself, though. can't let it go unsaid.

"clearly you had some interested parties of your own tonight."

he rolls his eyes and finally turns away from you, pressing the button for the lobby. you let out a quiet sigh of relief. being in this elevator any longer, with him? that would just about kill you.

"you noticed that, huh?" he asks.

"who didn't?" you mumble. but of course, he's not just a politician, he's an enhanced, so he hears it.

"look, I knew she was married, I was never going to-" he begins to explain, but you cut him off.

"oh, I don't care what she does in her own fucked-up marriage."

oh my god. what did you just say? did you just admit to the fact that the only reason you did care was because she was fawning over Bucky?

fuck.

the elevator doors open, and you rush out.

you can hear the smirk on his face as he trails after you.

"so, you were really going to sleep with that guy, huh?" he teases.

you stop in your tracks. most everyone has left by now, leaving only you and Bucky in the room aside from the clean-up crew. you turn back to face him.

"can we just go?"

he nods and calls for the car to come around.

~~~

twenty minutes, you remind yourself.

in twenty minutes, you'll have made it back to the office, and you can go get in your own car and take yourself back to your own place and you won't have to be sitting thigh to thigh with your boss in the back of a limo that would totally be hot to fuck in-

he clears his throat, and you turn your head to face him.

"what that guy said..." he begins. you roll your eyes in anger at the reminder. you didn't even care he said it, you just wish he hadn't said it in front of Bucky.

you wave your hand as though waving off the thought, and waving off Bucky's concern. but it doesn't quite work like that.

"you're not inconsequential."

he says it with such a conviction you feel it deep in your bones, in the very core of your being. he sounds so authentic that it almost hurts.

a million thoughts swirl in your head. you could say i know, you could get defensive, you could say thanks, Bucky...

a better one pops in your head.

"how did you know where I was? you didn't see me all evening."

the limo stops moving. the driver rolls down the divider to grumble something about traffic at this hour? before rolling it back up again.

great. now it's going to take even longer to get home to your vibrator.

Bucky sees the interruption as a way to drop the matter. you press it.

"Mr. Barnes?"

"god, would you stop calling me that?"

you see him turn away from you to look out the window, biting his lip and rubbing his forehead. you've now frustrated him, and he's mad at you. this is good. it's easier for you to deal with him being angry at you than him being nice to you.

you know he just wants you to call him Bucky, but you're a smartass.

"yeah, okay, sorry. Sergeant Barnes," you mumble, smirking to yourself.

he about flips his shit. why is he getting so worked up?

"seriously?" he asks, turning back to you. his eyes are blown back, in anger, probably. not lust, like you wish they were. because you're just a stupid kid, and he's just your boss with a lifetime of trauma. you could never understand him the way you wanted to.

"what?" you say, biting your lip as you smile, continuing to tease him.

you swear that for a second, he glances down to your lips.

SHIT!

in that embarrassing moment, you realize your lipstick is still smudged across your face from the moment in the elevator. your heart rate shoots up as you bury your head in your chest, bringing your hand to wipe away the mess of your face, before turning to face the opposite way from him.

you are, well and truly, stuck in traffic. some concert, or sports game, or whatever...

which means you're stuck, pressed up against your boss, in the back of this tiny limo right now, for only god knows how much longer.

you're pulling your phone out of your clutch when he says your name.

you want to lean into the feeling, how smooth it is. how crisp his voice is, how pretty it sounds saying your name, as though he's genuinely paying you any attention whatsoever.

"you're not inconsequential."

it flares your anger, all of it coming up from your gut and into your throat, as you respond.

"god, would you forget it already?" you snap.

shit, shit, shit. you fucked up. you just snapped at your boss, of all people. you try to backtrack, throw out a million comments of "sorry," but that's it, you're getting fired.

you finally look back at him, and he's actually looking at you. like, it feels like he's staring into your soul, seeing all the pieces of you that you're trying to keep hidden from him.

the car begins moving again.

~~~

he watches you, trying to figure you out, as always.

he can't think of a better word for it than the fact that you genuinely amuse him.

he sees the look in your eyes, the way you're desperately trying to cover up the shame you feel over what happened in the elevator. he's trying to be gentle about it, trying to assure you that what the man said was utter bullshit, but you keep shutting him down.

god, and you look so...

no. you're, like, 80-plus years younger than him (he rubs his temples every time he remembers his age) and employed by him. any interest on his part would be purely inappropriate, a gross misuse of his position of power.

and god, his fucking age, man. he shouldn't even be around anymore-

anyways.

you look at him with those fucking doe eyes, going back and forth between anger, and shame, and something else he can't quite pinpoint.

this is probably the worst part of what happened. you're always so unapologetically yourself, but he can tell this man has gotten under your skin.

even if it's not his job to comfort you, he doesn't want you to feel like that. because who you are is perfect. 

~~~

one minute, you're staring into his eyes, trying to read the look on his face. 

the next, you're bracing yourself as the car spins out of control, feeling hit after hit of various cars all crashing into you sequentially.

you don't register it until after it's all over. the way he's wrapped himself around you as though to protect you. his flesh arm cradles your head to his chest and his vibranium hand wraps itself around the back of your neck.

you take a few deep breaths and begin to pull away from him, looking up to his face as you do. his eyes widen in shock as he looks at you. what? what is it?

"fuck, we gotta get you to a hospital." 

~~~

part 2 out by friday 3/28/25!

masterlist

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tagged: @clavedelune

HENRY CAVILL as MARSHALL Night Hunter (2018) | dir. David Raymond

In this House we stan Gundam Tanaka

How would freddy react if his partner tried to take control during sex?

You have to be crazy to challenge this man in the question of dominance, my dear.

He’s not having it. Every time you’d try to get on top he’d get more and more frustrated and angry and is only fucking you harder.

If you won’t stop trying to get on top, he will pull out of you and facefuck you to teach you a lesson.

But, afterwards he will be satisfied and you will be able to calm him enough to take at least a bit control.

He will let you ride him and hold him down, but he will constantly call you his “annoying little slut”

Dean and Cas every day not often enough -- 28/?

Supernatural 6x12//Like a Virgin

gif cred belongs to @troyandabedinthemorning​

requested by @love-and-virtues​ “troy (community) and reader in an established relationship and he’s so so sweet and fluffy to her? 🥺”

imagine dating troy barnes

you looked up as troy entered your dorm. you gave him a grin as he plopped onto your couch next to you, resting his head in your lap with a grin.

“how was abed?” you giggled, raking your nails through his hair. his best friend happened to be right down the hall from you, which was very convenient for everyone.

“he’s great,” troy gushed. “how’s y/n?”

“she’s wonderful,” you assured, giving your goofy boyfriend a bright smile. “how’s troy?”

“he’s so in love,” he spoke, shaking his head at you. you laughed, leaning down to give him a quick kiss.

“what has you so sweet today?” you questioned as he sat up, taking the remote to your tv.

troy sighed thoughtfully, his gaze looking past you. “i realized that life is short, and.. im already in college. i gotta live a little more. and im gonna start living by loving as much and as hard as i can.” he leaned over to give you another sweet kiss.

“you and abed almost died doing something?”

still grinning, troy nodded, “i got electrocuted.” you let out a laugh before snuggling into your boyfriend’s chest. college was just as dramatic as high school, but at least you had troy.

Peter Vincent played by David Tennant in Fright Night 2011)

This man is 6’3 of pure (n o n t o x i c) masculinity and I’m all here for it.

#i live there