Mob Bucky walking into the kitchen and picking you up to carry you out to the bedroom when you spent whole day cooking. You argue that you still need to bake two pies and make a salad, or something, but Bucky doesn't care.
"You spent the past two days on your feet. Now you're gonna spend the next twenty four hours on your back. Maybe on hands and knees, if I feel like it."
Hahahaha! Because we WOULD. But it's our chef heart!
Fandom: MCU
Collection: Devour
Title: CUSTARD
Characters/Pairings: Mob Boss!Bucky x female!Chef!Reader
Word Count: 687
Content Warnings: referenced smut (vaginal penetration/fucking, oral: female receiving), mob boss Bucky
Logistical Notes: Takes place after the series (shh, I know I'm still working on the final chapter). Prompt from the ask in bold italics, and notching a Naughty prompt from @the-slumberparty's Naughty or Nice challenge in plain bold.
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James was calling your name, but you didn’t hear him until he was in the kitchen with you.
“What the hell are you doing?”
You didn’t register the dangerous chill in his tone either, too busy skimming your fingers back over the recipe you were studying, frowning back at the mixture in the metal bowl whipping up in front of you.
“Mmm,” you hummed, completely focused on your work, “will you taste this?” You reached for one of the small spoons in a jar on the counter, dipped it into the bowl, and held it out for your mob boss.
He crossed the kitchen and was at your side in an instant. You only looked his way briefly enough to thrust the spoon into his mouth just as he opened it to speak again. You reached for another spoon to taste the custard’s current status for yourself.
“It definitely needs the nutmeg,” you murmured, wondering why the recipe you were referencing didn’t have any listed.
“You definitely need to be out of this kitchen!” James ordered.
You whipped your head back to glare at him. “I promised I would bring pie to the brunch, James.”
“And you’ve already made one.”
“But I didn’t make that pie for the brunch! It’s the backup pecan pie, and everyone deserves to have pie that was intended for the brunch. Pecan pie is not a proper brunch pie,” you argued. “I really should make a fruit pie to go along with this buttermilk pie, too,” you added for yourself, tone dropping back to your concentrated cooking tone.
“No! I forbid it!”
“You forbid it?”
“Yes, I forbid it! Against my better judgement, I tolerated you cooking the holiday meal with our families, but you spent the past two days on your feet when you’re supposed to be off, chef.”
He pulled the spoon out of your right hand and the spatula out of your left, flung them onto the counter, and flung you over his shoulder.
“James Buchanan Barnes!”
He didn’t speak as he walked you out of the kitchen and down the hallway. You squirmed a bit – knowing with all his strength there was no way he would let you fall, but also wanting to protest over being dragged away from your task.
He tossed you unceremoniously onto the bed and was on you immediately.
His large frame trapped you beneath him, though you tried to squirm away. He took each of your hands and pinned them in one of his above your head, while his other hand grabbed your jaw and angled your face for him to perfectly capture your lips in a kiss. He forced his tongue against yours, and immediately you could taste the sweetness of the custard still lingering in his mouth. He kissed you until you stopped struggling, softening beneath him. He released your hands, and you wound one around his neck and the other through his hair. His free hand didn’t stay free for even a second before it was palming your breast through your shirt, and you moaned.
Finally, he broke of the kiss, but only moving his head back a fraction of an inch.
“Damn you,” you breathed against his lips, but you knew from the look in his eyes that he knew he’d demanded and earned your utter and complete surrender.
“You’re going to spend the next twenty-four hours on your back,” he said. He pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then drew the heat along your jaw and down your neck. The desire in your core was fully ablaze, and you could feel how wet you were already growing between your thighs.
He nipped at your collarbone, and you gasped.
“Maybe on hands and knees if I feel like it,” he added as he ripped the front of your shirt open.
The audacity of this man! you thought while you could still think.
An audacity that you gladly put up with until well after midnight as he had you cumming more than once on his cock, then woke up to first thing with his head between your thighs.
↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
I PROMISE ONE DAY I WILL FINISH THE FINAL CHAPTER, I JUST CAN'T HELP IT THAT PEOPLE KEEP SENDING FANTASTICALLY INSPIRATIONAL ASKS THAT TURN INTO THESE LITTLE ADDITIONAL SCENES FOR THEIR FUTURE!
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Eva! You wicked little thing!
But this just feels like a sweet, stoic, protector bodyguard Steve, doesn't it? You've fallen for him, hard - how could you not? And you've maybe only just within the last few days stopped dancing around each other and pretending you don't have feelings for each other. You've kissed, you've slept together, but there's still just a little bit of that brand-new-ness of the relationship where you're a tiny bit hesitant, and Steve - aside from trying to be professional - has that bit of shyness, but that sexual tension is thick. His driving you is the first time you've been alone in a couple of days for more than a few minutes during the day.
He reaches over to adjust the dial on the radio, and you just can't help yourself.
You nudge your knees up, and he growls your name in warning,
"Steve," your tone is thick with want, a hint of whine on the edge of it.
And when you see his eyes dart down to your bare knees, you tempt him further by rucking up your skirt.
"We shouldn't..." he tries to convince himself.
You part your thighs. "But you said you would always take care of me. I want you to take care of me now, Steve."
And once his fingers are on your smooth, pliant skin, even though part of his brain is trying to be sensible, his body takes over, and those fingers quickly skim down your thighs and eagerly slip right under the gusset of your panties, and he can't help but hum in approval. "So wet for me, sweet thing?"
"Yes, daddy."
He arches a brow. "Daddy?"
It slipped out before you could think.
"I-"
"I like it," he assures you. "Be sure to call me daddy when I have you begging here soon."
You gasp at this new element he's put on the table, but also because he's slipped two fingers deep into your cunt at once.
And he's going to only slowly shift them in and out, and curl them up against that spongy spot that makes you lose your mind, and edge you for the next few miles of the highway.
He really will edge you until you're begging with tears spilling down your cheeks before pulling over and fucking you over the hood of the car down a secluded side road.
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