Your Hands Have Made Some Good Mistakes

Spiraling

Bucky felt like jelly when he stepped off the elevator, all wiggly and shaky and soft. Treadmill workouts and blowjobs both had that effect on him, so it only stood to reason that he would feel extra floppy on days he had both.

You were serious about wanting to make him feel good all the time— and you were delivering in spades.

The other night he jolted awake when a surge of hormones rushed through his body, making his breath hitch as he lay stock-still to stave off his simmering orgasm. He couldn't fucking believe it. This never used to happen to him. He was a hundred goddamn years old, not eighteen, for Christ's sake— he was not going to come in his pants untouched while he was lying in bed next to you. He refused. You would hear him, shit, you would feel him, feel his hot cum wet-patching against the thin fabric of your panties—

Bucky couldn't remember what he had been dreaming about, or if he had even been dreaming at all, but he had your sleeping body pulled back against his chest and his right hand up the front of your shirt. He didn't dare move as he tried to calm himself, but his cock throbbing threateningly against your ass must've woken you up— or maybe it was his husky, quick breaths against your ear. He expected you to scoot away in disgust but you didn't look back at him, didn't even say anything as you pulled down your panties and reached back to tug him out of his shorts. You guided his cock between your upper thighs, and for a moment he thought you were going to slide him inside of you— this wasn't how he wanted it to happen, but at this point he was too far gone to resist— but you only squeezed your thighs around his length, coating him in your arousal— because oh, fuck, you were so wet— you must've felt him, must've heard him and you liked it—

He throbbed again at that but remained frozen, uncertain of what he was supposed to do— but when you pushed your hips back against him and he felt that intoxicating glide against your sweet skin, he figured it out real fucking quick. He gripped your hip to keep your steady as he thrusted, picking up pace and he knew it wouldn't last long, not with how close he was to coming before you even touched him— the tip of his cock peeked out from between your legs with each thrust and oh, fuck, you were circling your fingers around your clit and you were shaking, your thighs clenching tighter around him until you— you were—

Bucky came with a muffled shout, releasing thick ropes of cum against your skin and onto the sheets in front of you. It took him a few minutes to catch his breath, return his heart rate to normal, and you didn't move when he eventually pulled his softened cock away from you. You had already fallen back asleep, not even bothering to clean up or put your panties back on.

And today, just this morning you had intercepted him on his way to the shower with an arm around his waist, pulling him close to speak into his ear. "Hey, Sarge," you said, your voice unexpectedly sultry considering you had just spent an hour singing along to terrible pop music while you burnt his breakfast. "You gonna get off while you're in there?"

Bucky's face flushed— he didn't think he'd ever get over that, talking about it so brazenly— but he nodded. That fucking purple conditioner was still in the shower, and he couldn't resist the smell. It would be all he needed to push him over the edge after he spent his whole meal watching your tiny shorts ride up your thighs while you danced. But before he finished nodding your lips were against his, open mouthed and determined. You pressed him back against the wall before dropping to your knees.