Writer's Block
Bucky x Journalist!Reader
Summary: After watching you nearly burn yourself out on an article that you just can’t seem to nail down, Bucky takes matters into his own hands to make sure you rest.
Warnings: SMUT (18+ MDNI) (oral-f receiving, fingering, unprotected p in v, multiple orgasms, overstim, softdom Bucky, porn with the mere concept of a plot)
A/N: Ahem. Um. Yeah, so I’ve been struggling with a bit of a block the last few days, and so then I imagined this. I have no explanation and no excuse. Please don’t look at me. Barely proofread, I just had to uh… bang this out lol
The screen of your laptop had burned glowing rectangles in your eyelids hours ago. Your hands hesitate on the keyboard, typing and backspacing on a loop until the words start to blur together. You run your hands through your hair and let out a long, frustrated groan.
Within moments, Bucky is leaning in the doorway of your home office, summoned by the sound of your misery.
You don’t even lift your head to look at him at first, too consumed with the static filling your brain.
“You haven’t moved from that spot since this morning,” he says gently.
He checks his watch. “It’s almost eleven. PM.”
You drop your head onto your arms in defeat. “I’m stuck,” you lament.
Warm hands run soothingly over your shoulders, thumbs pressing in slow circles on either side of your spine. “Tell me.”
You pick up your head miserably. “I can’t make this article work. I've written and rewritten and I can't figure it out. It's either too stilted or too purple or too…” You struggle to find the right word for a moment, but even that becomes impossible, and you make a frustrated little noise as you pinch the bridge of your nose.
Bucky leans against the edge of your desk to face you, concern and affection written all over his face. “I think it might be time to put Microsoft Word away,” he suggests.
“I need to submit this end of day tomorrow, and I have nothing,” you protest. “I can’t -”
“You can,” he replies firmly. “You’ve run your brain into overdrive, doll. No wonder you’re stuck. It's time to take a rest.”
“I just told you I can't.”
“You know when your computer overheats and you have to shut it down for a few hours so it can run right again?” Bucky places a hand on the laptop and shuts it. “You’re the computer.”
“Even if I stop working on it, I'm just gonna be thinking and worrying and spiraling about it until I open it again in the morning,” you ramble, rubbing your temples.
Bucky pushes himself up off the desk and rotates your office chair so you are facing him instead of the desk. “Then we’re gonna get you to stop thinking.”
The command isn’t threatening, but soft, full of intention. What makes you obey is the look in his eyes - devoted and a little dangerous, darkened with want. You close your mouth and look up at him expectantly.
Bucky slides a gentle, calloused hand along your jaw to the back of your neck. He gathers a fistful of your hair, tugging lightly until you’re sitting up, chin tilted up towards him. The action alone, and what it promises, sends a surge of heat between your legs before he even kisses you.
Then he leans down and claims your mouth with his own.
Every pass of his mouth over yours is slow, sure, maddeningly patient. The scent of him fills your senses - cedar and pine and musk and Bucky. His tongue runs along the seam of your lips, and you open for him without ceremony, letting out a soft whimper as he licks into your mouth with single-minded purpose.
On a normal day, it would be easy to give yourself over to him completely, to think of nothing but his hands on your skin and his mouth on yours. But your anxious, work-addled brain is persistent tonight, and your muscles tense slightly as deadlines and the lede that refused to flow when you put it to paper flash through your mind.
The hand in your hair tightens slightly. “I can hear you thinking,” Bucky murmurs against your lips. He drops to his knees in front of you, parting your legs with a wicked look. “Let’s fix that.”
Your eyes widen at the sight. “Bucky, I-”
A well-placed kiss to your inner thigh silences you immediately. He pushes up the hem of your oversized t-shirt and his fingers ghost along the waistband of your shorts. “Don't I always know what you need? Don't I always take care of you?”
You swallow with difficulty. “Yes, but -“
“Then sit back and give it all to me, baby.” He bites gently at the skin of your thigh, then kisses it better. You gasp softly, and as if he hears the surrender in it, he curls his fingers into the waistband. “Lift.”
Already trembling a little, you lift your hips slightly and he tugs down your shorts and underwear. The leather against your bare ass sends a shiver through you, but it’s nothing compared to the shiver that comes when he tugs your hips to the edge of the seat.
His breath ghosts across your folds. “So wet already,” he says with a smirk. “Told you I know what you need.”
Before you can think of a snarky comeback, he runs the flat of his tongue slowly up the length of your sex. Your head drops back against the chair immediately, your hips tilting up for him on instinct. He hums, pleased, and makes another pass.
Bucky has had his month on you dozens of times before, probably more. Sometimes hungry and desperate, sometimes slow and sweet, sometimes possessive and demanding. But this is something entirely different. Every sweep of his tongue, every press of his lips, every brush of his nose against your clit is calculated, intentional, carefully timed. He watches you with a soldier’s focus, like he’s peering down the barrel of a rifle and waiting for the perfect shot. It's practiced and brutally efficient, the way he breaks down your defenses and pulls you apart, the way he brings you closer to the edge and draws you back until you’re pulling his hair and arching up off the chair.
“Buck, please,” you beg when he circles the outside of your clit with his tongue, so close to giving you what you crave, what your body is begging for.
In answer to your plea, his left hand moves from where it had been keeping you pinned and open for him. Two cool, metal fingers stroke through your folds to gather your arousal, and you barely have time to gasp at the feeling of it before he pushes them inside you.
You arch again, helpless, whimpering at the feeling of fullness, the way he curls his fingers just right to stroke the spot that unravels you every single time.
“Let go for me, sweetheart,” Bucky mumbles against you, before latching onto your clit, sucking and lathing the bundle of nerves with urgency.
It doesn’t take long from there. Your trembling thighs clench around his head, your hips try to rock up against his face in spite of his right hand keeping you just where he wants you. The pressure builds and suddenly snaps. Bucky's name falls from your lips over and over as you soak his face, your pussy clenching around his fingers in starts and stops as he works you through your climax. Eventually, your body melts back against the seat, and your thighs release their vise grip on his head. You make a pathetic sound as he withdraws his fingers from you and continues to lap at you.
“You ruined my office chair,” you pant, reaching out to stroke his cheek when he finally comes up for air. He looks so perfect like this, between your knees, scruff glistening with traces of you, his lips slick and pink and swollen from his hard work.
“I’ll buy you a new one,” he promises. In one swift movement he pulls you to him, lifts you into his arms and carries you out of the office, across the apartment, to bed.
Settling over you, he kisses you once on the mouth, long and deep and laced with the taste of you, before dragging his lips along your jaw.
“Not done with you yet,” he murmurs between kisses. “If you can still string a sentence together, I haven't done my job right.” His right hand sneaks beneath your shirt until it finds its prize, palming your breast and squeezing before grazing his thumb across your nipple.
You let out a shudder, little sparks of pleasure already coursing through you again. “You're gonna kill me.”
“No,” he counters. “Just gonna wear you out until you can’t move, let alone think about work.” After pressing another kiss to the hollow of your throat, he peels the shirt off you, leaving you bare before him.
“There’s my gorgeous girl,” he breathes, stripping himself of his own shirt and dipping his head down to your chest.
He lavishes his attention there, all teeth and tongue and endless patience, while his left hand wanders between your legs again. Your body yields to him, as always, powerless in the face of sensation and overwhelming need.
“Think I'll make you come on my hand one more time,” he whispers, his fingers gently parting your folds and just barely grazing your entrance. “And then at least two more on my cock. What do you think?”
His fingers push inside again, and you can’t reply. You can only whine at the sudden pleasure and grind your hips down against his hand.
You feel his smile against your skin before you see it. “That's right, sweetheart. You don’t think right now. You just take.”
And take you do. You take everything he has to give you, every stroke of his fingers, every swirl of his tongue, every filthy word murmured like a promise into your ear. He winds you tight as a bowstring, clutching at his shoulders like you’ll fall away from him if you don’t.
“Come on, baby,” he encourages you, his thumb finding your clit with ease. “I can feel how close you are. You wanna come?”
“I - yes, Buck-" your voice pitches up pathetically, cut off by a moan as he finds that spot again and stays there, stroking, coaxing you right to the edge.
You do, with your face contorted in pleasure and incoherent sounds erupting from your chest. Bucky gives you no time for recovery - as soon as your orgasm crests and begins to retreat, he’s shoving down his sweatpants to free himself, coating himself with the arousal you just soaked his hand again with.
Within moments, you feel the hard length of him sliding against the warmth and wetness of you. “Gonna take real good care of you,” he mutters as his hands hook behind your knees, pushing up, up until your legs are hooked over his shoulders.
When he first breaches you, you throw your head back on the pillow, the stretch overwhelming, too much and not enough and absolutely everything.
“That’s it,” he grunts from above you, kissing and nipping at your calf by his head. “Let me in, baby.”
The press of him on top of you leaves you nowhere to go, only enough room to breathe and gasp and clutch at the sheets. He's everywhere, stuffing you so full you can practically feel him in your throat.
Finally, he’s fully buried in the tight heat of your cunt, and the breath that leaves him is a little unsteady.
“Christ, still so fuckin’ tight,” he rasps as he grinds into you, trying to feel every inch of your walls surrounding him.
“Please,” you whimper, and he delivers. Buck withdraws and then snaps his hips against yours. The cry that leaves your throat is desperate, needy, sure to earn the two of you a noise complaint.
He fucks you like a man on a mission, because he is - every thrust a tactic, every touch a maneuver designed to bring you to surrender. And it doesn’t happen gently - there will be time for gentle later. He fucks you hard, deep, exactly how he knows you need it.
Your third orgasm builds quickly, without him even needing to touch you, the angle pressing his cockhead into that sensitive, brutalized spot over and over again.
“I - I’m gonna come,” you cry, your hands clenched into fists in the sheets pooled around you.
“Do it,” he growls through gritted teeth, voice tight with restraint even as he snaps his hips again and again with brutal intention.
Tears prick at your eyes, stars burst behind your lids as you come again. You shudder and tense around him and he swears under his breath, his grip on your legs tightening as he fucks you through it.
Once again, Bucky doesn’t give you a moment to catch your breath. He pulls out of you, and you don’t even have time to whimper as the world goes sideways. You're flipped onto your stomach, and he hauls your hips up off the bed, sinking into you again and picking back up his punishing rhythm like he never even stopped.
“Bucky - ah - too much,” you whine, and the pinpricks of moisture at your eyes well up into tears that fall onto the sheets your face is pressed against.
“I know, baby, I know,” he murmurs from behind you, his gentle tone a contradiction to the slam of his hips against yours. “But I promised you one more, and I keep my promises.”
His strong hands keep your hips canted up for him, even as your muscles weaken from fatigue. The new angle makes you feel even more impossibly filled, and his every thrust presses your face into the mattress. It makes you feel used, filthy, hopelessly turned on.
All of your limbs begin to shake from pleasure and overstimulation. “Buck, I - I can't,” you whimper, tears still leaking from your eyes.
“You can.” He lets go of your hip with his right hand and slides it down your stomach, finding your abused clit once again, inciting a full body jolt from you. “You can, and you will.”
The mattress muffles your endless moans and cries. At last, your orgasm burns through you like a wildfire, and as Bucky brings you through it, you feel his thrusts growing messier. You can do nothing but sob as your body pulls him deep, and you’re still coming as he spills into you with a curse that sounds like worship.
Finally, he slows, pulls out of you with a reluctant hiss, and eases your hips back down onto the mattress. Bucky gently turns you, pushing your sweaty hair out of your face.
“Still with me, sweetheart?”
You’re sort of not, but not in a bad way. You feel exhausted and a little floaty, unable to move, thoughts suspended just outside your reach. You have no words to offer him, only a breathy laugh and a crooked, blissed out grin.
He chuckles and kisses your cheek. “That's my girl.”
Bucky slips off to the bathroom, returning with a warm cloth to gently and carefully clean you up. Then he shuts off the lamp, settles in next to you, and pulls you into his chest.
You already know what he’s doing. This is just the final step of his mission, lulling you into rest, but you’re too exhausted and satisfied and in love to care. He strokes your hair, murmurs softly in your ear, traces shapes on your spine that your mind is too far gone to identify. It doesn't take long at all for you to slip into unconsciousness.
You sleep like the dead, not even stirring when Bucky wakes in the night, returning with a glass of water and smiling down fondly at your slack jaw and mussed hair.
When the morning light rouses Bucky hours later, you aren’t laying next to him. He furrows his brow, rubs his eyes and drags himself from bed. Once he leaves the bedroom, he can hear the rapid, telltale clacking of keyboard keys coming from your home office.
He smiles, shakes his head, and starts a pot of coffee.
When it finishes brewing, he fixes you a cup and pushes the door of your office open. You're sitting at the desk, glowing and productive, bed head tamed into a messy bun and fingers flying across the keyboard.
Your eyes lift from the screen and settle on Bucky in the doorway once again. You can’t help but smile as he sets the mug down next to your laptop and kisses your temple.
"How's the article coming along?” he asks, amused.
You reach for your coffee mug and take a sip. “I woke up with an idea, little perspective spin. I think it’s gonna be good.”
Bucky smirks. “Told you so. You just needed a manual shutdown.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” you tease, pulling him down for a slow, sweet kiss.
He hums into it, feeling quite proud of himself, and you, for that matter. “Knew you’d bounce back,” he mumbles against your lips. “My little Energizer bunny.”
You release him, about to turn back to your keyboard. “Well, this Energizer bunny needs breakfast post-haste.”
“Pancakes?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
You beam up at him. “You always know what I need.”
