♡ part i of the RENDEZVOUS series // read on ao3 here
♡ bucky barnes x reader (no y/n)
♡ rating: explicit / mdni / 18+ !
♡ tags: f!reader, piercer!bucky, piercings, speedrun enemies to lovers, grumpy bucky, bisexual bucky, vague and unspecified age gap, some body insecurity about breast size and shape, mentions of a shitty ex, pet names (doll, babydoll, princess, baby), lifting/manhandling, semi-public sex, autofellatio/self nipple sucking, bucky has a frenum piercing (a bar that goes through the underside of his dick under the head), oral sex (f! and m!receiving), face fucking, vaginal sex, getting together
♡ word count: 12k
♡ synopsis:
You're determined to get your nipples pierced, even if the highest rated piercer in your area is...less than pleasant to interact with.
It ends up being far more worth it than you thought it would.
♡ notes/warnings: though not very detailed, there is (obviously) mention of piercings and the piercing process. I've tried to keep the needle-talk to a minimum, but be aware that it's there if you're squeamish! there's also some body insecurity in this one. reader is mentioned to have DD cup breasts, and hair that bucky can hold in his fist !!
not proof read. there are also pictures included of the piercings mentioned at the very bottom! (except for bucky's, because i'm not trying to get flagged sdjhskjfg)
NOTE ABOUT TAGS!: i typically do not do a tag list for my posts. moving forward, please subscribe to my ao3 if you'd like email notifications whenever i post! x
“You’re Bucky’s two o’clock?”
The guy working the front desk at RENDEZVOUS—Steve, according to the all-caps scrawl of his safety-pinned name tag—stares at you slack mouthed over the counter, silver stud piercing twitching with the confused dip of his brow. An elaborate inking of a woman’s gaze is peeking out from the hem of his tank top, and it feels like she’s judging you too.
“Yes. Can I check in?”
“You can, um—” Steve blinks himself out of it, glancing between you and the doorway of hanging black beads to your left. “Why don’t you just go on back.”
You thank him and turn toward it, but Bucky, apparently, comes shouldering through before you can, a hulking mass of black ink, silver metal, and leather. He stops when he sees you, turning to offload a large box behind the front desk, wipes a hand over the hair he’s pulled back into a low bun, then sets it on his hip. A pink tongue fidgets with the piercing on his lip.
“You’re my two p.m.?”
Equal parts exasperated and mortified, you square your shoulders and nod.
The guy takes one look at you, your face and then your chest that he’s supposed to be piercing, neatly concealed beneath your cardigan, and shakes his head.
“No.”
You gawk at Bucky and then swing your head toward Steve with a cocked brow, but he only raises his hands as if to say I can’t control him.
Bucky turns back and disappears through the beads again, and this time, you follow him without asking for permission.
“Excuse me?” you call after him. “I made an appointment. You can’t just turn me away.”
As he passes through another door in the painted black hallway, he reaches up to tap the plaque installed crookedly above the frame, fraying at the edges like this isn’t the first time he’s had to draw attention to it. “Read the sign.”
We reserve the right to deny service to any customer at any time.
With a huff as you glance over the list of people they refuse to serve, of which you pointedly don’t fall into any of those categories, you barge past the threshold into what appears to be his office. There’s a client chair fixed in the center, shelves running the perimeter of the ceiling with all sorts of art and piercing paraphernalia, a big storage unit with organized supplies and a desk shoved into the back corner.
Nearly everything in here, including the jacket draped over the back of his chair and his clothes, is black. Your colorful jeans and cardigan stick out like a sore thumb, but you don’t let it stop you from pressing on.
“I’m a paying customer,” you tell him. “I made a deposit.”
Bucky sits and starts flipping through papers on his desk, not even looking at you when he speaks. “Steve’ll get you a refund.”
“Can you at least tell me why I’m being refused service?” you grit.
“Because I’ve had too many pretty things like you come in here on a dare or some shit, only to turn around and leave me a bad fuckin’ review after you break up with your boyfriend or whoever it is you’re tryin’ to prove a point to. M’not doin’ it again. Brings my ratings down.”
“Okay, well, first of all,” you step around the chair and cross your arms, “if you’d bothered to actually have a conversation with me before outright refusing to take me on as a client, you’d know this was my decision. Not a dare, I wasn’t peer pressured into anything, and I most definitely wouldn’t alter my body just because my boyfriend thinks it’d be hot.”
His gaze flits back to you again, a brow raised. “You got one, then?”
You deflate. “Well, I—no. I’m single, but—that’s not the point.”
“So why do you want it?”
“I don’t have to tell you that,” you argue.
Bucky shrugs, turns back to his papers. “Suit yourself. You can find someone else to do it.”
“Okay, fine, just—” you blow out a breath, shifting on your feet. “Maybe it’s a little bit because I want to prove to myself that I’m not…boring. But this is for me.”
“Mhm,” Bucky hums, “and what happens when you regret it in six months?”
“I won’t regret it. And if I do, I can just take the piercings out.”
His eyes narrow. “No bad reviews?”
“Your shop has a four-point-eight rating,” you say with an exasperated breath.
Bucky grumbles under his breath. “Should be five.”
You roll your eyes. “Look, I’ll give you a good rating before I even leave the store if you want. But honestly, right now, I’m not feeling very generous.”
Leaning back in his chair, Bucky twists it to face you directly, and you try not to fidget under the scrutiny of his gaze as it drags over just about every inch of you. When he gets back up to your face it’s burning hot, and you raise a brow.
“You finished?”
Without a word, he stands and for a second you’re afraid he’s about to physically remove you from the premises. But he moves around you, his shoulder bumping yours, to shut the door to his office with a click.
“Take off your shirt.”
You spin to face him, blanching. “What?”
“Take it off,” he repeats, just as clinical and bored as he had before. “You scheduled for a consultation. I gotta see if they’ll sit right.”
“Sit right?”
“Some people look good with ‘em, some won’t. And I can’t exactly get a good look through your Sunday best.” Bucky pinches the shoulder of your cardigan as he passes back to his desk, and you twist yourself away from him as he goes, stalling.
“And you’ll know from just—looking?”
“Yeah, doll,” he drones. “I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve had a driver’s license.”
You give him a flat look. “Has anyone ever told you you should work on your bedside manner?”
“Can’t say I’ve ever had any bed related complaints, no,” he smirks. “Clock’s ticking.”
Grinding your molars together, you plant your feet and drop your bag into the client chair while he sits down again. You’d figured undressing would be a part of this, sure. But his attitude isn’t exactly comforting.
You would never dare tell him that the final, deciding factor you’d chosen to book with him over the rival piercing shop on the other side of town was the picture next to Bucky’s profile. An effortless smolder and the silver glint of a lip ring that you couldn’t help imagining the feel of against your skin, a leather jacket snug over his broad shoulders, the photo drenched in a moody, aesthetic monochrome. So far from your regular type that it made heat stir in your belly.
But now you’re getting half naked in front of him, and he looks like he couldn’t care less. So.
You undo the buttons of your cardigan under his watchful eye, moving down the line one by one. When both sides hang open you peel it off of one arm and then the other, making sure the sleeves aren’t pulled inside out so that you can slip it back on quickly and easily if needed. Bucky looks like he’s fighting a laugh as you drape it neatly over the back of the chair and move on to your shirt.
It’s only a tank top, white and plain with subtle lace trimming around the arms, the cardigan most of the outfit anyway. He only needs to see your chest, so you slip one strap off your arm and then the other, leaving your stomach and hips covered but baring your bra to the cool air of his office. Your skin, thinner and more sensitive around your chest, begins to prickle with goosebumps.
You like this bra; it’s difficult to find a good balance of support and style for your size, and this one manages to mold the shape of your teardrop breasts up and together quite nicely.
“Cute,” Bucky says, smirking at the little bow nestled in between the two cups.
You squeeze your eyes shut, then force them back open in a glare.
“Just—will it work?”
He blinks. “You think I got eyes that can see through layers of padding?”
In hindsight, you should probably have expected as much. But being here in person is much different than how this went in your head, and it’s not like Bucky’s a doctor or someone who is legally obligated not to judge your body no matter what it looks like.
Point is—you know all the right ways to make your breasts look good in lingerie or a bra or even a particularly tight shirt.
But without the added support, you’re not so confident.
With clammy palms, you focus your gaze on the floor, a centerpoint between Bucky’s face and your own chest so you don’t have to look at either one, and reach back to unhook the bra.
The cups fall forward and open, your breasts pooling out uncontained. The sultry curve of the shapewear gives way to the mounds of skin underneath, the weight of them concentrated at the bottom and sitting lower than you’d really prefer for them to.
In a last second twitch of self consciousness, you cup the undersides of them and hold them up, so your nipples are facing more toward Bucky than they are the ground.
When you finally gather the courage to look up at him again, his gaze is planted firmly on the view. He eyes your chest openly and concentratedly, his lips pursed and brows furrowed as he gets a good look.
The fact that he’s not looking at the hesitation in your face makes you feel a little braver. “Are you actually coming up with an answer or is this just your way of getting a free show,” you deadpan.
“Funny,” he returns in the same tone. He turns to pull out a notepad from his desk drawer, uncapping a sharpie with his teeth. “You’re a double D cup?”
“How did you—?”
He rips off the note and taps a finger against it on his thigh. “They’re a little bigger than I’d usually agree to, but I think they’ll look nice, ‘specially with some of the newer ones we’ve got. They sensitive?”
You glance down at your breasts and back to his face.
“My, uh—?”
“Your nipples, doll,” he implores. He points the end of the sharpie at you and gestures between them. “They usually perk up like that?”
You pause for a second, not entirely sure that he isn’t making fun of you. Your breasts have been called a lot of things before, but perky has never been one of them.
Regardless, Bucky isn’t laughing.
“Oh. Um. No, not really,” you tell him belatedly.
He mutters something else about piercing types and jewelry design, scribbling away on the paper in his lap.
“Can I put my bra back on now?”
He grunts an affirmative, still writing, and you’re grateful for the privacy as you turn your back to him to get yourself situated back into the bra. You buckle it in front and then shift it around as opposed to stepping into it the way you do when you get ready at home, slip the straps back up your arms, then reach into the padding with your hands to adjust the weight of the way they sit in cups.
The tank top comes back up next, then the cardigan, and you do up the buttons halfway at record speed, more than enough skin shown for the day.
When you spin back around Bucky’s looking at your face this time, with all the curious intention he had before at your chest. It makes you pause, feeling suddenly transparent, and you busy yourself with your bag while you wait for him to fill the silence.
You tense automatically when you hear him stand, his boots thudding over to you. The small yellow note has been shoved into his front pocket, but he offers you what looks to be a preparation manual for pre-piercing care. He tugs it back slightly when you go to grab it from him, close enough to you that he can look down and see right into your tank top, the line of your cleavage a little visible with the top buttons of cardigan undone.
“I meant it,” he taps the edge of the paper against your chest, right where the bow on your bra sits. “S’cute.”
“Thanks,” you tell him, quieter than you mean to. You square your shoulders, nab the small booklet from his hand before he can tease you again and slip it into your bag. “So. You’ll do it?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a condition, though.”
You frown. “What is it.”
“You let me pick the barbell.”
“I’ll be stuck with it ‘til it heals, won’t I?” you ask reluctantly.
His mouth threatens a smile. “You will, yeah. But I’ll pick a cute one. Cross my heart.”
“Fine,” you relent, shoving a hand between the two of you to get some space. “Pleasure doing business with you. You’ll get your five stars after I see what you picked for the barbell.”
He laughs then, half at your offer for a handshake and half at your bargain, and you think the twitch in his brow is something like impressed. He slips a palm into yours and shakes.
“Sure, doll. Whatever you want.”
You walk out of his office, say your goodbyes to Steve, and absolutely do not let yourself imagine Barnes saying those words to you in any sort of other, unprofessional capacity.
(And if you do later that night anyway, he certainly doesn’t have to know.)
The second time you’re bare chested in front of Bucky is just as daunting as the first. More so, actually, because now there’s needles involved.
Not just needles, of course; from your reclined seat in the chair, you have a perfect view of the tray Bucky’s arranging beside you, full of sterilization tools, body safe pens, the actual hollow needle that he’ll pierce you with, and the barbell he’d picked out hiding mysteriously out of view so it’ll remain a surprise.
Bucky’s got gloves on, every tool sealed in a package he opens in front of you to ensure sterilization. The way he moves is a little mesmerizing, the quiet confidence you assume can only come from, as he’d said before, years of practice of doing it. He’s an expert by now, and that, if nothing else, soothes a little of your nerves.
“So tense, doll,” Bucky smirks up at you as he wipes you down with a surgical scrub, sterilizing the skin. It’s cold, especially against the AC in the room, and it makes your nipples even harder under the attention. “Don’t go around showin’ these off all that often?”
“Not like this,” you mutter, eyeing where your bra is resting atop your folded shirt and jacket.
You’re legitimately not sure if your top half has ever been so entirely bare in front of someone like this. You’ve been far more insecure about less. It’s one time you’re actually grateful for Bucky’s blasé attitude about your nudity; if he’d seemed like he was interested at any point, you’re sure you’d be even more nervous.
“Probably have a better time here than half the guys you could take home these days,” Bucky muses sourly, tossing the sterile wipe into the trash can beside his desk from his stool. “Half of ‘em don’t know their way around their own equipment. Much less anyone else’s.”
You exhale a laugh. “You make a habit of knowing what guys are like in bed?”
Bucky’s grin spreads into something downright filthy, pausing where he’s uncapping the pen to look up at you. “Yeah, doll. I do.”
You flush hot at the implication as it falls over you, Bucky’s amusement clear. You try desperately not to picture what that would look like, fail epically, and decide you should probably avoid Bucky’s eye for the next few minutes out of respect. He returns to the pen when you clear your throat, his mouth still tugged up at the corner.
The skin-safe marker is a little rough against the sides of your nipples, but Bucky’s quick about it. The furrowed concentration returns to his brow as he leans in over your chest to mark the points where the piercing will sit on either side, and he makes you look at them in a handheld mirror from several different angles before you confirm it and move on.
“You gonna get jumpy on me and make me use the clamp, or are you gonna sit nice and still so I don’t have to go dig it out of the drawers?”
“I’ll be still,” you tell him.
“Good girl,” he rasps.
You freeze for a second, a little offended and a lot something else that you don’t want to examine right now, words caught in a tangle in your throat as your face flushes with heat.
Bucky relents eventually, shaking his head.
“I had to test you a little first. If you’d hit me, I’d have gone to get the clamps.”
You scoff at him, wishing you weren’t grinning, and pointedly keep your hands still by your sides. “Dick.”
“I’m not the one who liked it, doll,” he teases. “Got the proof right in front of my face.”
He gently flicks one of your nipples with his gloved fingers, and you laugh and flick his forehead in retaliation since you don’t have to move your body to do it.
“Hey. Watch it. I’ll rate you three stars, Barnes.”
“You want my kids sleepin’ on the street?”
You freeze again, eyeing him with wide eyes. “You have kids?”
“Well,” he says slowly. “Steve acts like he’s one, sometimes. S’close enough. Oi! What’d I just say about punching, huh? Y’want the clamp?”
You grumble, settling back into the table and trying not to rub at your knuckles where they’d connected with his arm. “No.”
He stands, leaning over you as he reaches up to adjust the ring light. “Then be good for me, sweetheart.”
The confusing mix of teasing and reluctantly turned on had made you forget to be scared for a minute, but when he sits again, wheeled in close as he rips open the sanitary package with the piercing needle in it, you move your eyes up to the ceiling.
“I’m startin’ on the first one. Don’t look,” he murmurs.
You frown. You hadn’t been going to anyway, but— “What? Why not?”
“‘Cause it’s a surprise, first off. But you also seem like you’re the squirmy type when it comes to pain,” he says.
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Alright. Feel free to watch me poke a sharp, sterilized needle through one of the most sensitive, nerve-dense parts of your body—”
“Okay. Point taken,” you huff, eyes fixed even more firmly on the ceiling tiles now. “I won’t look.”
There’s another rip and the clang of clinical metals, and then a warm, gloved hand on your right breast. Bucky holds the skin in his palm, squeezing lightly until it’s just like he needs it, and you hold back a shiver at the subtlety of his breath against you when he leans in. Just barely, there’s a cold little poke at the side of your nipple. Just enough to let you know it’s there.
“Deep breath,” Bucky murmurs, and the pressure increases. “Goin’ in now.”
You squeeze the side of the leather chair with the fingers of your opposite hand as you feel it truly pierce you, your eyes closed and breaths achingly even as you try not to heave in and throw him off. There’s a pinch that brings tears to your eyes, and then another quick slide out as some of the pressure releases.
“Good. Breathe, nice and easy. Needle’s out.”
The barbell comes next, you know. Your nipple throbs as you take a full, deep inhale, and you fight the urge to look down and make sure he didn’t just whack the whole thing clean off. You take your lip between your teeth, chewing at it to distract yourself from the pain.
“Why’d you think you were boring,” he asks, another package ripping.
You blink your squeezed shut eyes back open, looking hard at Bucky’s concentrated face so you don’t have to look down at what he’s doing.
“What?”
“Before,” he clarifies, “you said you were doin’ all this to prove you weren’t boring.”
“Oh.” You lick over your lips, wincing at the slight taste of blood. Maybe talking is better. “I, um. There was this guy…”
“So this is about a boyfriend,” Bucky accuses.
“An ex-boyfriend,” you amend firmly, sighing. “That’s over. Very over.”
The pressure returns, but it’s not so bad this time. You can feel a steady, solid point, cool against your hot nerve endings, and it moves slightly when Bucky gently twists the other ball at the end of the barbell he’d picked onto the outside.
“Good riddance,” he says.
You raise a brow. “You don’t even know the story.”
“I know there’s a reason you don’t like having ‘em out without a bra on,” Bucky answers definitively. “Doesn’t take much to put two and two together, doll. Unless I’m wrong?”
Had you really been that obvious?
“No. It’s…” you clear your throat, shifting a little on the table when he lets go of you. “You’re right.”
You keep your chin tipped back as he hums and continues rifling through the materials on the table, the noises all more familiar this time as the stinging in your nipple eases to a dull throb that mimics your pulse.
“Done with that one. Gonna do the other one now,” he tells you, glancing up at your face. “You doin’ okay?”
You try to gauge any sort of reaction to the way they might look, but Bucky’s expression gives nothing away other than focused expertise and a little bit of empathetic concern.
“Yeah. I’m good.” You nod, giving him a small smile. “Thanks, Bucky.”
You don’t mean just for the piercing or for checking in, and you think, you hope, he understands that too.
There’s a brief pause as he shifts around to your other side, and the process starts over again. It’s easier this time when you know what to expect, when to prepare for pain and when you can relax.
When both sides are throbbing but otherwise finished, barbell inserted and balls screwed on like bookends by Bucky’s gentle, rough fingertips, he gives you a minute to get used to the feel of them before he helps you sit up and has you walk over to the hanging mirror that faces the chair.
You keep your eyes lifted accordingly until he has you right in front of it, and he stands behind you to your left when he finally tells you you can look.
You do so, eagerly and quickly, your gaze falling immediately to the bare shape of your breasts in the reflection. They’re still your breasts, still flatter at the top and heavier at the bottom, still resting over the top of your ribcage without anything to pull them up. But standing straight with your shoulders back, you can see the glint of jewelry adorning your nipples now, and your gaze lingers there much more than it does on any of your insecurities.
“Are those…?” you ask, stepping forward to get a better look at them.
The silver barbells are small enough to fit your nipples without overwhelming them or being too heavy, but thick enough to support the little bit of weight in the studs at either end. You turn your body in the mirror, admiring, and gasp when you realize they’re not just the plain silver balls you’d seen on the racks out front. These ones are little hearts, studded all over with tiny, glinting faux diamonds that catch and sparkle even in the low light of his office.
You hardly realize you’re grinning until Bucky’s face pops up in the reflection over your shoulder, arms crossed over his chest, looking tentative but hopeful.
“Like ‘em?”
“Yeah,” you laugh, turning to face him, your bare chest still in between both of you. “Bucky, they’re—I love them. I would hug you, you know, if—”
He chuckles, gesturing at the piercings. “Understandable.”
Something in you warms again at his expression, and the thought of him going through all the options and picking out jewelry just for you makes you feel more important than your ex ever did.
“Thank you,” you tell him again, softer and more emphatic, and his steely disposition, for once, gentles a little in response as he nods.
You think he understands this time.
Six months out from your appointment finds you still single, more confident than you’ve been in years, and right on time for your follow up to check the healing progress.
It’s not like you’re crediting a couple of barbells for a massive perspective shift, but they were a start. The very beginning of a new chapter, one where you tried new things and advocated for yourself and stepped outside of your comfort zone in ways that you wanted, not anyone else. Once the ball was rolling it didn’t stop, and it hasn’t even now, months later.
Suffice to say, you’d given Bucky his well earned five stars.
“Hi, Steve,” you wave as you pass by the front desk.
“Hey,” he grins, glancing up from his art book to nod at you. “Bucky’s in his office. You can head back.”
Nothing’s really changed since you were last here, all the same art on the walls, the same music coming from the floor speakers, the same rustle of beads as you step into the back hallway toward Bucky’s office. His door’s open when you get to it and you ease in a breath, taking a moment to appreciate the broadness of his back as he stands over something at his desk for a moment before you lean against the doorframe and knock quietly.
He turns, and the pinched furrow of his brow evaporates into a crooked smile when he sees you. He sets his papers down and rounds the chair, coming to stand in front of you in the doorway. If he notices the way your breathing hitches, he doesn’t mention it.
He runs his eyes over your face, shoulders falling with a sigh.
“Missed you,” he says.
You falter again, heart thumping in your chest. “Bucky…”
“Shh,” he says, gaze pointedly dropping to your breasts. “I’m talkin’ to them.”
With a laugh, you roll your eyes. “Asshole.”
His crinkle when his smile widens, and he nods for you to come in while he reaches for the handle of the door. “C’mon. Lemme see my handiwork.”
You step inside and set your bag down on the side table, your fingers reaching up to unzip your jacket. The noise is loud over the soft echo of music back here, and the fabric slips off your shoulders easily. You drape it over your bag and turn back to him, taking a seat on the chair.
Bucky’s brows climb his forehead when he catches sight of the barbells through your shirt. “No bra?”
You shrug, coy. “Somebody reminded me that it was stupid to let other people dictate how I dress.”
“Now that sounds like a deeply intelligent individual,” Bucky reasons, washing his hands at the sink in the corner.
“You’re right. Steve’s awesome.”
He pinches you with his clean hands, and you yelp as you reach down to peel your shirt up and off.
There’s a noticeable difference in the way you’d been last time versus now, and you can tell from the way Bucky watches with curious fascination that he notices it too.
The leather is cool against your bare back when you recline against it after he peels off your shirt, and you shiver, nipples perking to attention as Bucky takes a seat on the stool at your side.
The healing check is brief and mostly checklist, and you answer Bucky’s routine questions about them while he prods gently around the insertion points and checks for any pain. He thumbs over the very tip of your nipple when he asks if you’ve experienced any numbness or lack of sensation, and you try to keep your voice even when you tell him that, if anything, it’s been the opposite.
Even once his questions have stopped, his touches linger, and you’re just as eager for them to keep going as it seems like he is. You’re free to watch his face this time too instead of staring at the ceiling, to memorize the way his pupils dilate and his mouth parts around a measured exhale.
“All healed up, huh,” he rasps.
“Seems like it,” you agree.
He nods, pursing his lips at them. “You did a good job takin’ care of ‘em.”
“I had a pretty good piercer,” you tease. His eyes flick up to yours with a mischievous grin.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. I rated him five stars.”
“He saw,” Bucky says softly, finally pulling his hand away. “Thanks, doll.”
He stands from the stool and turns to his desk, and before you can come up with something else to prolong your time together, he returns with a small white gift bag, something not from here at the store.
“Got you something,” he says gruffly, avoiding your eye as he shoves it in your direction.
Your mouth spreads into a slow smile. “Yeah?”
He grunts his affirmative. “Here.”
There’s no brand name plastered all over the bag, so you know it must be on the more expensive side. Your mind buzzes with what it could possibly be—you’re allowed to change the piercing out after today’s appointment; maybe it’s a new one? Something else he’d seen and thought of you?
The same way you’d been thinking about him since you left?
Your suspicions are proved correct when you reach past the gift paper and pull out a small flat box with a see-through covering, two brand new barbells nestled into the divots in the display. These ones still have a base of regular silver, but they’re balls instead of hearts on either side, and there’s a tiny chain attached on the inside of each one, connecting to a small pink bow that dangles in the center.
It’s almost exactly like the one that’d been on your bra the day you came in for the consultation.
“You remembered,” you grin, swiping a thumb over the front of the box. Bucky still looks sheepish, but he straightens up when you hold it out and ask him, “Help me put them on?”
He takes the bag and the box from you easily, and you lay back for him again as he leans in to carefully start loosening the current barbell. He puts the studded hearts back in the bag so you’ll have them to keep if you want to switch back at some point.
The slightest difference in weight catches your attention, the balls a little heavier than the hearts had been. It makes the piercings feel obvious in the way they had those first few weeks all over again, and you already know they’re going to feel hyper sensitive and heavy against the material of your thin t-shirt. It’s your favorite one to wear around the house now, to stop in the mirrors and admire the way they poke through and hint at what’s underneath.
And these are different anyway because of the dangling pieces, the little bows that hang down underneath. You wonder how the sensations will change, if the chain will make them even more tender.
“All done,” Bucky says, voice gone low and rough.
You glance down at your chest, cupping your breasts and lifting them a little so you can get a better view without a mirror. They’re cute just like he said, even upside down from this angle, and Bucky shifts on his stool when you run a fingertip over them, your nipple and the jewelry all at once.
“You found anybody to appreciate ‘em yet?” he asks.
“No,” you admit. “I’ve been waiting on them to heal.”
Bucky’s shoulders rise and fall with a full, slow breath, and he nods stiffly, dragging his eyes off of them to offer you a tight smile.
“Seems like you’re a free woman then now.”
He starts to roll the stool away, and you reach a hand out, catching him on the arm. “Bucky.”
He swallows, but doesn’t look up. “Yeah?”
“I haven’t, with anyone—since before I was last here,” you tell him quietly. “For the healing, yeah, but also ‘cause—”
Bucky lifts his head then, and your words dry up at the intensity of his gaze. You’re transparently aware now of your position, your half-naked body laid out on the chair, his head level with your bare breasts.
“‘Cause why,” Bucky presses, his head tilting. “You savin’ ‘em for me?”
He rolls the stool back where it was, right at the edge of the chair, until his nose is inches from the steep valley between your breasts. One of the chains swings gently with the shift in the air, threatening to brush his cheek if it went any further.
When his mouth parts, all you can think about it getting it on you.
“Asked you a question, doll. S’that it?”
“Yeah,” you confess, quiet as a whisper. “Wanted you to see them first.”
Bucky’s eyes flutter shut as if in reaction to your words, and he inhales deeply, no doubt picking up your scent of body wash, lotion, and a little sweat from being out this afternoon. You take in a shaky breath of your own, the first lick of hesitation slipping in like an old wound.
“Unless, I mean—I know it’s been six months. So if you’ve found somebody else, then—”
“I haven’t,” Bucky says, his eyes snapping open.
“Okay,” you exhale, trying to keep your voice even. “Then I’m—I’m all yours. If you want me.”
It’s not quite the plan. You were supposed to play the confident vixen you’d practiced in the mirror at home, somebody as unshakeable and blasé as Bucky is so he’d believe you could handle him. But this is better, you think—because this was the whole point.
From now on, no changing yourself for anyone else. If they want you, it’ll be because it’s you, not some veneer you slip on to please them.
Bucky seems to want you like that.
“No fuckin’ clue what you do to me,” he shakes his head, pushing up from the stool so that he’s standing over you now, your face in his hands. “C’mere.”
He pulls you forward against him into a kiss, and you moan when you feel the cold press of his lip ring between your mouths. It’s distracting, enough that Bucky has to pull back a few seconds later to check on you.
“Sorry,” you tell him, sheepish. You thumb over the little black hoop. “I’ve never kissed someone with one of these before.”
It stretches with his mouth when he smiles. “You can tug on it, princess. Ain’t gonna come loose.”
“Doesn’t it hurt?” you ask, tugging it gently with your finger. Your eyes flick up to his when he doesn’t answer, and your body heats at his dark look that says yes - that’s the whole point. “Oh.”
“You’ll learn to like the way these feel too,” Bucky rasps, flicking one end of the barbell on your nipple, and you jerk against him, a whimper caught between your teeth.
Desperate to make him feel the exhilarating rush of pleasure-pain he’d just elicited in you, you grab his face and lean up, closing your mouth over his lower lip and taking the piercing between your teeth. You tug, only lightly for now, and suck on it with your tongue.
“Yeah, s’it. Suck on it, baby. get it nice n’wet,” he murmurs as well as he can against you, a hand settling loosely around the back of your neck as his tongue flicks out against yours. “Gonna need it to be when I push it up against that sweet little clit, huh?”
You moan again and he kisses you proper, a messy smear of your mouths that’s slow and rough and fast and sweet all at once.
This—this is what you’d wanted coming here today, taking the last appointment on his schedule. You’d intended to invite Bucky out for drinks, and then maybe back to your place if things went well. But you’re not opposed to skipping straight to the good parts. It’s been six long months of nothing but you, your hand, your vibrator, and thoughts of him—it’s not desperation, it’s a need.
“Bucky,” you break apart from his mouth to gasp, “please.”
It takes little maneuvering to shift your legs on the chair to hang over the side instead of reclining, Bucky’s thick body spreading them out wide when he steps between them. He slips his hands underneath your thighs and lifts, and you make a startled noise, clinging to him as he moves you from the chair over to his desk.
Even when he sets you down your breasts are pressed up against him through his black t-shirt, the twin piercings hard between soft flesh. He buries a noise against your mouth when he feels them, leaning into you until your shoulders are pressed to the wall behind his desk, your hips pulled forward into his strong hands.
His kisses slant sideways over your jaw and down your neck, grazing your pulse with his teeth before he makes his way down to your collarbone. He pulls back then, gazing down at you with open hunger as he cups your heavy breasts in both of his palms.
“Got the best pair of tits I’ve ever seen, I swear,” he marvels, thumbing over your sensitive nipples.
You arch up into him, chasing the feeling. “Really?”
He cocks a brow. “I not make it obvious enough?”
“Well, no,” you admit. “The first time I showed them to you, you just looked…bored.”
“Bored,” Bucky scoffs, hands moving down to squeeze both sides of your waist. “Babydoll. You ever seen the look on a man’s face when he’s seconds away from throwin’ you on the table and devouring you and tryin’ desperately to be professional about it?” he asks rhetorically. “That was it.”
“I’m already naked, you know,” you tease, shifting. “You don’t need to flatter me, Bucky.”
“Still don’t believe me,” he sighs, his head dipping toward your chest. “Guess I’ll just have to show you then.”
When his hot mouth closes over one of your nipples, you only narrowly manage to stuff your own knuckles in your mouth before you make a noise that most definitely would have been heard in the lobby. Bucky breathes a chuckle against you and then doubles his efforts, sucking on the skin to make it all sensitive, clinking his teeth teasingly against the metal, flicking his tongue against the hardened peak of your nipple while you slip a hand into his hair to hold him there.
The other gets his fingers, deft and calloused, expertly rolling and massaging it between his grip. He pinches a little, rubs out the sting, starts all over until you can’t decide which sensation you like the most, only that you need him to keep touching you.
He lifts off of your breast with a wet pop to give the same attention to the other, switching sides with his tongue and fingers, eyes flicking up to you when his hand finds your wandering digits already there, pressing right where his mouth had been moments before. He guides your fingers on it the way he would do it, pinching and tugging, rougher than you’ve dared yet so far but exactly what you’ve been craving.
His mouth moves up and over then, centering itself between your breasts. He kisses down the valley of them, sucking marks into your skin as he goes, his lip ring dragging up the rear and leaving a subtle, stinging line behind that blends easily with the rough drag of his stubble against your sensitive skin.
When he drifts lower, chin pushing at the band of your high waisted pants, he glances up at you, and you nod.
He leans up and over you again to meet your mouth as his hands drop to your hips, slipping toward the inside to get to the center. He pops the button and drags the zipper down, then hooks his fingers into the sides to start working the denim over your hips and down your thighs.
They fall off your ankles once Bucky gets them there, discarded in the vague direction of your other clothes while he kisses you. You feel his palms on your thighs next, sliding up the outside and appreciating the smoothness you’d gone to great lengths for this morning, then turning his wrist a little to slip it right up against your underwear, feeling out the seam of you with two of his fingers.
He groans against your mouth when he feels how wet you are, and you take his lip ring between your teeth in retaliation, eager to show off how quick you can learn.
“Can’t believe you thought I didn’t want this,” Bucky says.
He pulls away to yank the stool over between your legs, sits down on it, wraps his biceps around your thighs and pulls you right up to his mouth. His lips press to your inner thighs first, that lip ring still somehow cool against your hot skin and his hotter tongue, until he makes his way toward your cunt.
You lean back on his desk on your palms, glancing down your body toward where it meets his. It’s not a position you’d ordinarily be a fan of; you’re bent over enough that your breasts are well and truly covering your ribs now, and the soft, fleshy skin of your stomach that your high waisted jeans had been smoothing out can’t do you any favors now. Even your thighs, littered with translucent stretch marks on the inside, are right there on his shoulders. On your back or from behind is one thing, but if Bucky looks up at you now, he’ll have a direct view of just about every one of your insecurities.
His tongue yanks your attention back to the present, the pointed tip of it tracing up the seam where your thigh meets your vulva. His thumb teases at the edge of your underwear, tugging it over slightly, his nose nudging through the small gap until the slick, wandering appendage finally dips over into the well of wetness that’s been building since you first got ready for him this morning.
“Fuck,” Bucky exhales heavily, dragging the word out low and long against you. He noses in a little harder, shoving your panties further out of the way, and inhales. “Fuck, princess.”
You whimper at the barrage of sensation—the slick softness of his tongue and your tense muscles, the wet give of your cunt and the sharp lines of his nose, his jaw, the jut of the lip ring pressing in.
The noise catches his attention, and you tense further when he looks up at you. You’d been trying to keep quiet because you’re in public, technically, sure. But also because if Bucky could just focus between your legs and nowhere else, maybe he’d move on before his gaze could roam too far.
He stares openly at your face anyway though as his thumb peels back the fabric even further, letting him settle his mouth fully over the seam of your cunt that parts easily under his touch. He groans, eyes fluttering closed before he forces them open again, jaw working gently against you at first, then harder as he licks into you in broad, bottom-to-top strokes of his tongue.
Your mouth falls open, one hand slipping to hold your thigh back and the other dropping to rest in his hair as you find yourself torn between worrying about how you look and feeling the full weight of what Bucky’s giving you.
He’s making it a little difficult to focus.
Your head thunks back against the wall when he finally settles on your clit as promised, the blunt edge of the lip ring rolling against it in pulsing waves with his tongue. He presses it into you, suctions around it, pulls back enough to lap at you again like he’s thirsty for it.
“Awfully quiet up there,” he says, voice muffled against your cunt. You shiver at the feeling of him talking, the vibration. “Gotta let me know you’re feelin’ good, baby.”
“Don’t stop,” you choke out in a whisper, not trusting yourself to be any louder. “Please, Bucky, don’t—”
Your toes curl over his shoulder when he pushes his entire face against you, underwear yanked out of the way to make room. His stubble is sure to leave a burn afterward and you can’t wait for it, his hair soft between your fingers and his hand big and hot where it’s gripping your thigh.
The other sneaks around over your stomach and you stop breathing for a moment as it rests there, harmless and unaware of the implications. Bucky’s not even doing anything with it, just holding you steady, keeping your squirming hips still for his mouth. His gaze is unflinching and open on yours, not dropping to the place where his fingertips make dents in the skin, not once flickering with anything that might suggest he’s changed his mind.
Slowly, tentatively, you let yourself relax into it. The more you do, the more he does, eyes going half-lidded, head tilting as he licks into you deeper, rubs his nose against your clit, fingers twitching as if he wants you even closer.
Just as your own eyes threaten to shut with pleasure, Bucky’s hands move again. They reach up to gather your breasts in his palms again, squeezing them appreciatively before he pushes them up.
And up, and up—until your pierced nipples hover inches from your own mouth.
You glance down at him over them, wide eyed, and he thumbs over your nipples as he lifts his mouth off your cunt for a moment.
“Taste, doll,” he says, throat raw and jaw glistening with you. “I can’t have my mouth two places at once. You gotta help me out.”
With an audible swallow, you lower your gaze right under your chin, where your breasts have been pushed up to meet the downward tilt of your chin toward your chest. You probably couldn’t naturally get your mouth on them but in this position you definitely could, and—
And you’re a little curious.
Under Bucky’s encouraging attention, you let your mouth part enough to tease your tongue against your lower lip, leaning forward just enough to graze it against your own nipple.
Bucky curses up against your cunt, spreading his mouth wide and flicking his tongue against your clit in short, sharp passes. It takes you a moment to realize that he’s showing you what to do, and arousal coils tight in your gut as you let your mouth drop open further and follow instruction.
It definitely doesn’t feel as exciting as when it’s Bucky’s mouth, but you have to admit that the warm pressure against a sensitive part of your body feels nice. You drag the flat of your tongue along your breast in the same pattern Bucky’s using on your cunt, the rigidness of your nipple and the metallic tang of the piercings lingering behind. When you’re feeling a little bolder you hollow your cheeks and test out the feeling of taking our own nipple between your teeth, moaning a little at the jolt of pain that mixes with the pleasure.
Bucky makes a depraved noise and rips himself away from your cunt with a growl, slipping back up your body to join you. You hold one of your breasts to your mouth while Bucky devours the other, spreading your fragrant wetness all over your chest with his eagerness. He sucks another mark into the top curve of your breast and then reaches for your face, sliding your mouths together in a slick tangle of spit, teeth, and your own wetness.
“You’re somethin’ else. You know that?” he mutters into your mouth, kissing you hard once more before he wraps your legs around his waist and carries you back over to the chair.
He sits you on the end of it and steps between your legs again, his hand lowering to the button on his own pants. He pauses, tilting your head up toward him.
“This okay?”
“Definitely okay,” you nod. You’d be more than happy to have some of the metaphorical spotlight off of you at the moment.
Your hands drop to his to help him and he chuckles, obligingly moving his out of the way so you can unzip them and push them down his hips. His black boxers don’t give much away visually but when you curve your hand and press a palm against him, you can feel how hot he is, how big he is in your hand.
He hisses through his teeth, hips giving a little buck against you before he reigns himself in. You glance up at his face as you move your fingers along his generous length experimentally, tracing one of the more prominent veins you can feel from the thick base all the way up to the slightly damp tip.
Your pause abruptly when your knuckles drag over something hard, recognizing it as the same feeling as the barbells in your nipples. You look down at it, up at his face, then down again, and Bucky laughs as he places a hand over yours, helping you move the fabric out of the way to answer your question.
He steps out of his boxers and jeans and returns to you, his cock standing proudly between his legs. The dense hair at the base of it is well kept and almost as dark as the t-shirt he’s still wearing, but all of that’s background noise to the glint of silver that catches your eye when Bucky grips himself, stroking idly.
There’s a piercing here too, another sideways barbell, thicker than yours but similar in shape, nestled just underneath the head of his cock on the bottom. It looks like it probably hurt like hell going in, but all you can think about is how good it’d probably feel in your cunt, in your mouth—hell, anywhere Bucky wanted to put it.
“Think I should get a little bow to match yours?” he asks, a crooked smirk stretching his mouth as he strokes himself.
“Can I—?” you gesture, far past humor at this point.
Bucky lifts a shoulder. “Whatever you want, doll.”
Clearly he’d been expecting something else though, because his eyes widen comically when you shove him back and drop to your knees in front of him.
You’re undeterred. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen a cock this big in real life, let alone one that’s pierced. Bucky’s dick sways toward your face when he lets it go but he takes your wrist in his hand before you can pick up the slack, lifting it high as he bends to meet it. He keeps his eyes on yours as he spits carefully into your palm, gentle and undeniably filthy, and you squeeze your thighs together as you lower it again to wrap around him.
He’s hot and soft as velvet in your palm, achingly hard and curving up toward your mouth. There’s a smear of ivory excitement at his tip and you figure that’s as good a place to start as any, eagerly leaning forward to taste him for the first time.
Your moan is easily dwarfed by his much louder one, the soft pressure of your mouth opening for the thick head as it slips onto your tongue. You keep anticipating Bucky to be like the others, to grab your head and shove himself down your throat, but it never comes. He lets you set your own pace even when it’s obvious he’s straining to hold himself back, his thighs tense under your palm as you take more and more of him into your mouth.
The piercing clinks against your bottom teeth when you sink down, but doesn’t catch. It settles unfamiliar but comfortable against the back of your tongue when his tip is poking against your throat, and his hips give an aborted thrust forward before he catches himself and strokes a hand over your head, whispering strained apologies.
You pull off of him slowly, letting your tongue flick against the piercing as you do and reveling in the way he shudders.
“You can, if you want,” you tell him, pleased with how your voice is already a little rougher. “I’ll stop you if I need to.”
Bucky looks down at you open mouthed and wild eyed for a moment, before he eventually seems to shake himself out of it. He grabs your hand and brings it up a little higher on his thigh, splaying out your fingers and pressing.
“Y’want me to stop, you hit me right here. Okay? I’ll pull out.”
You nod and give him a small slap there when he makes you test it first, then settle in and open your mouth for him when he’s satisfied. He moans under his breath, low and long, and traces the wet stretch of your lower lip with his thumb before he feeds his cock back into the slick heat of your mouth.
You focus mostly on keeping your teeth covered as he gives a first few tentative thrusts, working himself just slightly deeper each time. He curses each time the piercing catches somewhere or when your tongue presses up against it, and you’d smile at making him lose control if your mouth weren’t full.
As his pace begins to pick up, he tilts your chin back and looks down at you, using his hands to gather your hair out of the way and hold it loosely behind your head. You can feel his nails scratching against your scalp, that secret sensitive spot behind your ear, and you make an appreciative sound as you nuzzle further onto his dick in approval.
When he gently hits the back of your throat again, your eyes stinging and not far from gagging, he tightens his grip in your hair, steels his jaw, and starts fucking your mouth for real.
You keep your hand on his thigh but you don’t feel any need to use it, the thrill of him using your mouth to make himself feel good too heady of a thought to dare put a stop to. You like watching the pinch of his eyes when his mouth falls open, the filthy things he keeps muttering, the obscene lines of his throat when his head tips back, fighting a groan.
When he’s established a steady rhythm, you decide to push him a little further. You can’t move your head but you can move your mouth—can tighten the suction of your lips, hollow your cheeks, curl your tongue right up against where the piercing makes him the most sensitive. You moan around him when another taste of salty excitement hits your taste buds, and Bucky pulls you off of him with a shaky curse, hand shaking a little in your hair.
“No more,” he shakes his head, reaching down to hook his hands underneath your arms. “Not finishin’ in your mouth. Not today.”
Your body flushes hot at the implications of his words, and you cling to him, your legs unsteady, as he tosses his jacket haphazardly over the top of the client chair and lifts you onto it.
You’re kneeling on it with your knees while he stands at the side, your face in his hands and his mouth on yours. Your hands span his shoulders, his arms, slipping down to tug at the hem of his shirt so he’ll take it off. When your underwear finally joins the pile of discarded clothing and leaves you bare, he grabs your jaw with his hand and catches your eye.
“C’n I fuck you, princess?” he asks. “Prove that it’s all I’ve been thinking about for six months?”
You’re nodding so fast you go dizzy. “Please. Bucky.”
He leaves you on the chair while he rifles through his discarded jeans for his wallet, pulling out a condom and then tossing the leather back carelessly to the ground. He holds the square between his teeth as he swings a leg up onto the fully reclined chair behind you and then the other, until he’s kneeling and pulling you flush against his chest in between his thick, folded thighs.
Curving his bicep around your throat from your left, Bucky reaches around to where his mouth is hovering above your shoulder at your right, using his fingers to rip the condom open that’s between his teeth. You lean your head back against his shoulder as he lowers his hand briefly in between his front and your back, rolling the latex onto his pierced length with a subtle, slick pop.
His arm returns to your front afterward, both hands grasping your hips. He urges you up just a little until you’ve hovering, then mouths a kiss against your shoulder.
“Help me out, doll.”
Reaching down between your own folded thighs, you wrap your fingers around his cock and bring it forward underneath you, rubbing the tip of it and the studded dent of the piercing over your cunt indulgently. When Bucky’s teeth are digging into your shoulder and his grip has gone white-knuckled on your waist, you tilt him up the slightest bit and sit back, and he slips inside of you with an overdue, familiar ease.
“Fuck, Bucky,” you breathe, trying to remember to keep quiet as he stretches you open. It really has been a while, and Bucky’s thick.
He lets you go as slow as you need to, which is probably why, you realize, he wanted you to be on top.
“Easy,” he exhales against your shoulder, one hand braced on your hip, the other splayed across your lower stomach. He huffs a small, strained laugh. “Really has been a while, huh? Christ, baby. Tight as a vice.”
You press back against him further, your mouth frozen open on a gasp and eyes threatening to close. Every inch feels monumental, that little rigid piercing rubbing up against spots inside of you that haven’t been touched in ages. It’s almost a shock when you finally run out of leeway, your ass completely seated on his lap, his cock heavy and full and inescapable in between your legs.
Your breath leaves you in one go, all the tension you’d been holding evaporating once you can lean back against him again. He’s bigger than you, his chin hooked easily over your shoulder and thick arm draped around your waist. You hadn’t thought you’d much enjoy being on top, but Bucky still manages to make you feel held, safe. Brave.
“Y’okay?” he asks, hot against your ear.
You nod. “Yeah. M’good. Feels good.”
“I’m glad, doll.” He grabs one of your wrists, pressing his mouth to the inner part of it before guiding it onto the back of his neck behind you. “Hang onto me, yeah?”
You grab on and then scramble for his forearm with your other hand when he leans back on one arm and takes you with him, grinding up into you and lifting your knees a couple of inches off the chair. You gasp at the feeling of his cock shoving even deeper, and a moan punches out of your chest when he nudges your spot.
Bucky laughs quietly as he reaches up to slip a hand over your mouth. “Gotta be quiet, princess.”
You’re trying, honestly, but every angle with Bucky is so intense, his hands and his dick and his mouth, and you’re caught suspended between them all, helpless as he bends back until you’re nearly laying down with your back against his chest.
And then he fucks you.
The shiver you’d had when he first settled inside you breaks into a full tremble as he plants his knees and ruts up into you in a filthy grind. He doesn’t even need to pull out fully to make it thorough, each stroke deep and deliberate.
His hand falls from your mouth to your breast again, cupping the bottom of it and feeling the weight in his palm. It tightens his grip on you, lets his pace pick up a bit more. Once the last of your whimpers have turned into poorly repressed moans, he bucks up into you steady and quick, bouncing you a little on his lap.
Even with you quiet, the noise of his cock is obscene with how wet you are. It echoes around the room, louder the faster he moves, obvious even with the low hum of music coming from the lobby speakers. But when you give an experimental swivel of your hips jut as he grinds up into you, you can’t help the breathless grin on your face when he groans.
He lowers you back just enough that your knees hit his jacket again, his braced behind you. His hand slips up between your breasts to your throat, grabbing your chin and tilting it down.
“Look,” he says.
You let his fingers guide your face toward the hanging mirror directly on the wall in front of you, and your eyes widen when you catch sight of the two of you in the reflection.
You have a full, unrestricted view of yourself more than anything; bent thighs and angled hips, your torso stretched and arched parallel with your spine so that you can keep one hand hooked behind Bucky’s head. The stretched arm elongates you further, raising your breasts in a tantalizing lift that sways with each thrust of Bucky’s cock into your body. Your face is transparently open, pleasure woven into the furrow of your brow and the reds and pinks of your swollen mouth.
The contrast of Bucky up against you is stark and satisfying. His piercing gaze over your shoulder, the tan, taut skin of his arm keeping you strapped to his front. He keeps his eyes on yours as his fingers trail down from your throat, over your breasts, down your stomach and in between your legs.
He tips you forward a little just as his rough fingers descend on your clit, and you sob once, overwhelmed, as his cock settles right up against your spot.
“Shh, shh, baby. Don’t want Stevie thinkin’ I’m in here makin’ you cry,” he croons, dipping his fingers down to get them more wet and then sliding them back up to rub you again in tight circles.
You work up to a rhythm between his cock and his fingers, your hips grinding back against one and forward into the other. It only heightens the sensation of him inside of you, both of you moving as one now instead of just him fucking you.
It’s hard to look at anything other than your reflection, especially when Bucky’s other hand starts roaming again. Over your waist, squeezing your thigh appreciatively, dragging across your ribs and back up to your studded breasts.
“You were such a good girl when I gave you these,” Bucky laments, giving a hard flick against one of your piercings that makes you shudder. “Sat so still. Did just what I asked. But you get my cock in you and suddenly y’can’t keep from fallin’ apart.”
As much as you’d like to keep up the repertoire of flirtatious teasing, you don’t dare open your mouth more than it takes to breathe. You don’t even care if it gives him the upper hand; in fact, you sort of like it.
His fingers dance over your nipple again, tweaking the tip, tugging at the barbell just enough to earn him a noise from you, and you just barely catch his crooked grin in the mirror before he buries it against the side of your neck.
“Yeah? That feel good?” he asks, pumping his hips up into you in deep, punctuated strokes. His hand drops to your stomach again, pressing down. “Feels even better when I’m fuckin’ you bare, sweetheart. That little piercing pushing right up against your sweet spot. Right where you need it, huh?”
“Bucky,” you whine, lowering a hand to press over his at the thought of it. The latex dulls it just a little now, but you can readily picture how it might feel if it weren’t in between you.
You can picture doing this with Bucky again. And again and again and…
“Yeah. Hang on, doll,” he murmurs against your shoulder, slowing down. “Gonna get you more comfortable. Then I’m gonna fuck you nice n’hard ‘til you come for me. Sound good?”
He grabs your hips and lifts you enough to slip out once you nod, and you take one last long glance at yourself in the mirror before he’s helping you unfold your legs, rubbing at the tensed muscles and turning you around.
He readjusts his jacket across the bulk of the chair that’s reclined back as far as it’ll go, and sits you up on it so you can lay back. The leather is warm under you and smells like Bucky, and you like it so much that the dig of the zipper against your side is practically nonexistent. Especially once he climbs on top of you and you’re finally face to face, his thighs spreading yours apart and your legs hitched up on his hips.
Bending down to close the distance, Bucky kisses you again as he nudges his still-covered dick against your clit. He swallows the moans right from your mouth as he rubs against it, dipping to tease the head into your cunt before he does it all over again.
You sigh in relief when he finally slips back inside of you, and Bucky’s head drops to your collarbone with a low noise of his own. For a long moment you just lie there, your arms bracketing his shoulders and him mouthing lazily at the curve of your breast, enjoying the closeness.
But soon enough the need for release finds both of you, and without being sure which one of you made the first move, he’s jackrabbiting his hips into you and you’re clinging to his biceps and pushing up to meet him, both of you frantic and close.
The chair is fixed to the ground so there’s no risk of it collapsing under your combined weight, but it’s still old. The mechanism that controls the recline creaks with each thrust of Bucky’s hips, his hands gripping the sides of the leather hard enough that the sweat on his palm makes a squeaking noise each time they readjust.
His black hair hangs around his face in a curtain as he looks down at you with the same pointed concentration he’d had when he did your piercings, only this time with blown open, unabashed want. You can taste it in his teeth, on his tongue when he leans down to press it to yours, in the sounds that get stuck in his throat.
“Bucky, I’m—” you tell him, the heat coiling tighter in your gut.
There’s a rustle of beads out on the other side of Bucky’s office door, and both of you freeze. Your wide eyes find Bucky’s, and he looks so simultaneously protective and dangerously mischievous that it takes your breath away. He grinds forward pointedly, right up to the hilt, and stills.
“Buck?” Steve’s voice echoes from the hallway outside.
Easing in a breath, Bucky holds your eye as he leans up, propping a hand on the top of the chair above your head and clearing his throat.
“Yeah?” he calls.
“I’m heading out, man. You good to lock up?”
Bucky smirks down at you squirming on his cock, spits on his fingers and lowers them to rub your clit until you’re clutching around him and trying desperately not to make any noise.
“We’ll be just fine,” he tells Steve.
There’s a snort from the hallway, and a convivial rap of knuckles on the wall as Steve walks away. “Uh-huh. Have a good night, you two!”
Cocking a brow at you, Bucky flashes his teeth and slips a hand under your back to tilt your hips, and then he makes good on his promise to fuck you hard until you come.
You’re crying out Bucky’s name before you’re even totally certain that Steve’s gone, one hand clutching the seat above you for leverage as your hips jump up to chase the pressure of his fingers and ride his cock. Bucky’s dark head is a blur as it dips to take a nipple into the unforgiving hold of his teeth, and the pinch of pain against sweet, inescapable pleasure tips you over the edge.
“Fuck yeah,” Bucky grits, rubbing you harder as you start to shake around him. “That’s it, baby. That’s it. Give it to me, c’mon.”
His mouth crashes against yours through the last of it, and you can feel it when his pace falters and he shoves in deep, spilling into the condom and making the feeling of him between your legs even hotter, even heavier.
You reach up and move some of his hair behind his ear as he groans against you, whispering your name into your cheek, your temple, your jaw.
You’re spent in the aftermath, your body exhausted from an exercise you haven’t done in months. Pushing your face up for Bucky’s kisses and rubbing against each other through the last of the aftershocks is about all you can manage, but luckily Bucky seems to be on the same page.
He’s nice about it when he pulls out, warning you first and going slow. The condom gets tied and tossed into the bin to be taken out when you get up. For now, Bucky slumps over beside you, and you have to roll into him with your leg and an arm slung over his chest and thigh so you both can fit on the chair.
“Bucky,” you whine as your wits begin to return, hiding your face in his shoulder. “Steve’s gonna know.”
He gives a tired snort. “Steve doesn’t give a shit about who you choose to sleep with, sweetheart. Promise.”
“But he’s gonna know that we—” you rephrase, gesturing between you.
His face tilts down toward yours on his chest, his teasing smile fading into something smaller. His fingers press into your hip.
“S’that such a bad thing?”
You swallow, pleased at the fact that the naked want hasn’t disappeared from his expression even once the sex is finished. You’re not used to that.
But you have a feeling Bucky’s different from a lot of what you’re used to.
“No,” you admit, loudly quiet in the room now that there’s no noise left to drown it out. “It’s not.”
You leave the shop that night wearing Bucky’s shirt and sporting a limp you didn’t have going in, with a grin that won’t leave and plans to see each other again next week.
“That was some five star treatment,” you tell him in the dark parking lot at your car. “Might have to leave another review.”
“You do that,” Bucky smirks, pulling his phone from his pocket and unlocking it. “In fact, I’ve got the page pulled up right here. You can leave as many pictures of the piercings as you want.”
You take the phone from him with a furrowed brow, but it breaks into a grin when you see the screen. You shove it back at his chest.
“This is your camera roll, asshole.”
“Is it?” he snickers. “Huh.”
You look up at him under the flickering glow of the streetlight, soft at the edges and so far from your first impression of him that it’s laughable, and think, strikingly calmly, oh no.
You think you’ll wait for the third date before you start cracking jokes about him piercing your heart. There’s gotta be a little mystery left.
Bars aren’t really your scene anymore, but you have to admit that the corner booth at the place down from the shop is nice.
The music’s not blaring and there’s a game no one’s really paying attention to on the screens behind the bar, the beer you’re sharing with Bucky isn’t too strong and the company is nice. You get to be a part of the Friday night ritual now apparently, which is really just Bucky, Steve, and their friend and other piercer Natasha ordering every appetizer on the menu and dishing about the week before.
It’s just you and Steve in the booth now when Bucky and Nat go for refills, and you’re endlessly grateful that he hasn’t ever brought up what he must’ve heard that night in the shop between you and Bucky. You’re both adults and you don’t owe him an explanation, but it is their place of business, and it’s been nagging at you for a few weeks now.
While it’s still only the two of you, you tug Bucky’s leather jacket tighter on your shoulders and lean forward. “I’ve been meaning to apologize for the other night, Steve. It’s not—none of that was planned. Not—not for the office specifically, anyway.”
Steve smiles, dragging his eyes up from where he’s been sketching a woman’s face on the bar napkin with a pen, his eyes kind. “Don’t sweat it. Bucky’s office is his business,” he says with a fond sigh. “He disinfected afterward, which is all I can really ask of him at this point.”
Your stomach drops a little as Steve returns to his sketching, wondering just how often it happens. You glance over at Bucky by the bar, who’s already staring when you turn. He gives you a sheepish smile, then swats at Nat’s hand when she goes to pinch his flushing cheek.
“Yeah,” you say belatedly. “I guess it’s—routine, at this point.”
“The disinfecting, yeah, ‘cause he’s a germaphobe who gets pissy about anybody’s mess that isn’t his own. But not you,” Steve clarifies firmly. “Bucky’s got a no clients rule. Started it when we first bought the business. He hasn’t broken it until—well, until you.”
Oh. Well. That’s nicer to hear than you were expecting.
“Scoot,” Natasha says to Steve, slipping into his side of the booth while Bucky reclaims his seat on yours. You glance up at him wordlessly for a second until his head tilts in concern, but you only smile and shake your head.
The refills are set on the table in front of you, but neither you or Bucky reach for one. He tugs you back against him and narrows his eyes suspiciously at the grin you suddenly can’t keep down.
“We don’t have to stay all night, y’know,” he says, soft enough for only you to hear over the noise of the bar.
“Maybe we can head out after this round?” you suggest.
He pulls your hand up to his mouth, drags his lips against the inside of your wrist. “Sure, doll. Whatever you want.”
(And if you only make it to the bathroom instead, it’s nobody’s business but yours and Bucky’s.)
(...And maybe Steve’s a little, again, by accident. You’re going to have to send him an apology fruit basket or something.)
♡ tags/warnings: f!reader, college/university au, established relationship stucky, allusions to violence on college campuses, drinking (unrelated to the sex), hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, threesome, oral sex (f!receiving), fingering, p in v sex, multiple orgasms, spit/spit kink, dom bucky if you squint, pet names (sweetheart, honey, baby, sweet girl, etc.), dirty talk (use of ‘cunt’ and ‘pussy’), sex toys (vibrator), crying during sex (the good kind), aftercare, eventual poly relationship, happy ending, getting together
♡ word count: 16k
♡ synopsis:
Steve and Bucky have a reputation around campus. You've heard the whispers in the back of lecture halls about the way they are with girls and you make a point to generally avoid them if possible, even if only because you're worried you might willingly turn into another notch on their well-used bedpost.
When your own reputation gets dragged through the mud, you begin to understand them a little better—and maybe let yourself admit that you didn't really have the full picture the way you thought you did. But you do now, and it only makes you want them more.
Luckily, they want you too.
♡ please note! i am new to this format and am primarily used to posting on ao3, so if you see anything I forgot to mention and should include here, please ~kindly~ let me know for next time. thank you! x
*reader is mentioned to have hair that can be 'let down' and tucked behind ear in one (1) instance during the smut*
[ also, this has not been checked yet for mistakes. ]
It’s taken you three years to break your ‘no-dating-during-undergrad’ rule, and you’re already regretting it.
It was a well thought out rule. The gap year you’d taken before college was stock full of poor decisions you probably wouldn’t make again, and while you don’t necessarily have regrets, you definitely came out of it with some things you didn’t want to experience again.
The dating pool is, quite frankly, shit. Everyone wants to build-a-partner on swiping apps or have a mediocre one night stand and then sneak out before the sheets have gone cold. You’ve yet to encounter a man your age that hasn’t been horribly immature or blatantly antagonistic, and the older men you very briefly considered dating treated you like you were the one lacking maturity.
That year had taught you a lot about wanting. But wanting fades, and you’d decided, moving forward, that casual flings weren’t really for you.
Brendan seemed to understand all of that at first. A little too well, maybe.
You thought that meant something, until you’d found out that the months you’d spent casually getting to know one another and building a connection was actually just the result of a bet to see how long it’d take you to put out. It feels like you’re in fucking high school all over again.
You’re more mad about the fact that you couldn’t see it for yourself. Hurt, even—if you can let yourself admit to it.
But now Brendan’s staring at you open-mouthed from his spot on the shitty sofa in his shittier frat house, surrounded by his friends and everyone else who knew and didn’t tell you before, and the drink you’d poured over his head is soaking into the material like watercolors. His face is ashen with disbelief, mouth wrenched open as he spits out liquid onto himself, fists clenched in festering anger. He looks like a child, which is fitting, really, for the way he acts.
You’ve kept your head down for three years. You don’t like making scenes, but this helped a little.
You storm out of the frat with your chin held high, distantly aware of the people recording on their phones. You hope it gets circulated online—Brendan deserves to be miserable and lonely until graduation, if not after that too.
You just sort of wish you didn’t feel the same.
“That was fucking awesome. God. I’ve never seen his face do that before. I’m saving this video. Can you set a video as a lockscreen?”
You stifle a laugh into your textbook, lifting your neck up for the first time in an hour or so. Your eyes hurt from reading and typing on your computer screen beside you, and when you look up, most of the library occupants that’d been here when you first sat down have left.
Except for Steve and Bucky, who’ve just arrived, seemingly, only to talk to you.
You raise a brow at Bucky as he slumps into the seat across from you. “You really want Brendan’s face to be what you see every time you pick up your phone?”
He grins. “If it’s you throwing a drink in it, hell yeah. S’good shit.”
“He’s got a point,” Steve adds, leaning against your table with his arms crossed over his university sweatshirt. “I think there’s about half the campus that’s been dreaming about doing what you did to him. Worse, probably. It’s a collective catharsis.”
“Look who’s taking an advanced English course,” Bucky reaches over to pinch him in the hip. Steve Steve swats him away, and Bucky looks back at you. “No, but. Seriously. People are being very supportive in the comments.”
“Comments?” you groan, closing your textbook.
“It is the twenty-first century,” Bucky reminds you.
You chew at your lip, trying not to picture the worst. “Are there any bad ones?”
Steve snorts as he helps you slide your laptop into your bag and then hefts it and your textbooks onto his shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Buck’s been on comment duty since it first went up, reporting anyone who’s being an ass.”
“I am now responsible for several suspensions,” Bucky says proudly, standing from the table with a mock bow.
“Thanks for defending my honor.” You pat his head a little condescendingly, but his smile is blinding enough to throw you off when he stands again and winks.
“Anytime, sweetheart.”
It’s dark outside the library when the three of you make it out to the courtyard, and you’re suddenly grateful they’d decided to show up. You hadn’t meant to stay so long, and while your campus isn’t necessarily scary, you don’t exactly relish walking alone at night.
You fall into step between them on the sidewalk, Steve’s sweatshirt and Bucky’s dark tee grazing either of your arms. A few other lingering students glance your way from across the quad, and you straighten up, putting some distance in between the three of you.
Steve and Bucky have a…reputation. And while you don’t care what they get up to in their personal time, you’d like to hold onto some semblance of your own reputation after all of this.
But they were also the only ones here who were honest with you, so you can’t be too picky. You clear your throat, unsure if you’ve said it before now.
“Hey, um. Thanks, again. For telling me about the bet in the first place.”
“You don’t need to thank us for being halfway decent human beings,” Steve says.
“Well. I wouldn’t go that far,” you tease, smiling.
“You’re welcome, is what he meant to say,” Bucky rolls his eyes, nudging his shoulder with yours. “We’ve got your back.”
“If I ever hear anyone in the girl’s bathroom making wagers about you guys, I’ll be sure to return the favor.”
Steve looks adorably concerned. “Do they do that?”
“Personally, I’d be happy to lend a hand to anyone looking to win a few bucks,” Bucky interjects.
You raise a brow as you pass underneath a streetlight. “At the expense of your dignity?”
“Not much there to begin with,” Steve mutters. Bucky reaches over you to shove him.
“Punk.” He smiles at Steve fondly for a beat too long, then looks back to you. “So. What’s the plan now that dickwad is out of the picture?”
“The plan?” you echo, shrugging. “Focus on school. Graduate. Get a job. Same as it was before him.”
“That’s great, sweetheart. But I meant less academically and professionally and more… you know, romantically and such.”
“I’m not sure that really fits into it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it just doesn’t,” you tell him, slightly harsher than you mean to. Both of them back off a little as you turn toward your small apartment building, and you sigh, feeling guilty for taking it out on them when they’re trying to cheer you up. “Look. I tried it, okay? I tried back home, I tried here, I tried again, just now, even though I probably shouldn’t have. I just think I need to get my feet under me first before I try anything like that again.”
“Because guys who are a few years older and have a job can’t also be assholes,” Bucky mutters.
“Buck,” Steve admonishes.
“I’m just saying—assholes are assholes. They can be any age, any place, any time. But that shouldn’t stop you from putting yourself out there because, against all odds, there are some of us who are, like. Halfway decent. And stuff.”
You huff a laugh. “Strong argument.”
“You know what I mean,” Bucky insists, uncharacteristically serious for a moment. “You deserve to be treated right, is all. And if you withdraw completely, you cut yourself off from the good stuff, too.”
You glance at his expression, waiting for the crack, the joke, but it never comes.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Bucky,” you agree gently.
You pause at the door to your building, scanning yourself in and standing in the open space to keep it from closing on you. You take your bag back from Steve and hold your textbooks, and Bucky leans back against the railing on the steps, crossing his ankles.
“Well. I’d say it definitely worked out for us, Stevie. We’re now friends with the coolest girl on campus.”
You look at him. “Friends?”
“She doesn’t have to be friends with us, Buck.”
“No, but she should be. We come with perks.”
You freeze for a second, suddenly worried that their kindness has all been culminating into them hitting on you. But you relax slightly as he continues, counting on his fingers.
“We’ll walk you home whenever you want. We always have snacks. And, uh. Steve will let you copy his work if you don’t feel like doing an assignment, probably.” He pauses, thinking hard, then breaking out into a cheesy smirk. “Also, free eye candy whenever you want it.”
Steve sighs, heavily. “That’s a dollar in the jar.”
“The jar,” you implore.
“The Douchebag Jar,” Bucky clarifies. “Which I am so not contributing to for that, by the way.”
“Oh, this is great,” you decide, ignoring him to turn to Steve. “Am I allowed to make him add to it, too?”
Bucky scoffs. “Hey!”
Steve shrugs. “Be my guest.”
“Well I guess that’s a reason to keep you guys around,” you tease. “This’ll be fun.”
Steve laughs, and Bucky sticks out an exaggerated lower lip, glaring at both of you. “This is so unfair. After everything I did for you in that comment section—”
“Alright,” Steve huffs, reaching over to yank his sleeve, pushing him down the steps. He glances back at you. “We’ll let you get inside. And, seriously, we’re glad everything went okay with the Brendan situation.”
“I mean it—lockscreen material!” Bucky says from the sidewalk.
“Thanks,” you tell them earnestly. You offer a smile as Steve joins him and the begin to head back toward the dorms, watching them walk so close together that they nearly blend into one shadow. At the corner Bucky tosses up a wave, and then they’re gone.
Sagging with the heaviness of your bag and books, you make sure the door’s security system activates and then drag yourself down the hall to the stairs. You pass a girl living on the floor above you on her way down. You used to make small talk with her in the hallways, but since the video, the conversation has significantly lessened, like she’s secretly afraid you’re going to toss a drink on her too.
With a measured inhale and exhale, you make it to your apartment and let yourself inside, slumping your things to the small table in the foyer to deal with after you’ve gotten some sleep. You’ve been here for three years and not really made many friends, but this is by far the most alone you’ve felt since you got here.
You’ve got Steve and Bucky, though, apparently. You don’t quite know how to feel about that accidental friendship yet, but it’s something.
Right now, you’ll take it.
You go home for spring break, avoiding all the festivities going on around campus. Brendan’s sure to be at all of them, and you’d like to save yourself the tension.
You figure that by the time you get back to campus, Bucky and Steve will have mostly forgotten about you. They’d done you a favor, and you hadn’t offered to sleep with them for it. You’re not sure what else they could want from you. Especially not after a week full of opportunities for parties and booze and ill-advised sexual encounters.
But your return only picks up right where you left off. The two of them begin showing up around you like stray dogs looking for a home, in the library, outside the lecture hall, the diner just off campus when you’re picking up food to-go. You want to be annoyed, and you’re still a little confused, but over time it gets easier just to accept the fact that you’ve befriended them. You might as well, you figure, since apparently this last year before graduation you’re doing all sorts of things that are outside of your comfort zone.
Privately, you wait for the other shoe to drop. You know that their reputation isn’t unwarranted; you’ve been classmates with girls who’ve had no issue regaling in fine detail their nights of passion between both of them. None of the stories have ever been bad, certainly not like some other guys around campus, but those other ones have made you leery of men in general. Especially lately, it’s difficult to let down your guard.
It doesn’t matter though, because they’re persistent. Steve is always quick to remind you that you don’t owe them anything, but you have genuinely come to enjoy the company sometimes. You’re so used to the sound of your own thoughts or your headphones that it was jarring, at first, having two people around you so often; Steve’s solid presence and Bucky’s perpetually running mouth.
It’s been nice, is all. Not being alone.
Even if you’re trying not to let yourself get used to it.
The first time you realize you might’ve been wrong about them is when you’re hanging out at their dorm, take out boxes scattered around you on the floor and a shitty movie playing on Steve’s computer.
You’ve all had a few drinks that Bucky bought from the gas station on the corner, and you picked up your favorite Chinese so that you could watch Steve’s cheeks go bright red with the seasonings. You’re already a little buzzed by the time you realize you’ve never seen Steve and Bucky drunk before, never overlapped at parties or events.
They aren’t drunk but they’re headed that way, Bucky all giggles and Steve more loose lipped than you’ve ever seen him before. You’re pleased to find out that they aren’t aggressive or rude, still nice to you even with their inhibitions lowered.
Lowered so much, in fact, that you’ve never seen them so touchy before. Not with you, but with each other.
All three of you have been talking over the movie, sharing food cartons and passing beers back and forth, but any hopes you had on refocusing for the end of it are gone when you can’t stop watching them instead.
Every few minutes Steve will lean over and say something in Bucky’s ear that makes him grin, crooked and private. You try to make yourself look away, back to your food or the movie, but they’re a little distracting.
At some point, their hands meet in the middle where their thighs are pressed together, leaning back against Steve’s sofa. You watch Bucky’s pinky wrap around Steve’s and then retreat, teasing, before Steve does it back. A minute later, Steve feeds Bucky a bite of chicken using his own chopsticks. When sauce smears at the corner of his mouth, Steve licks his thumb and presses it to the spot, lingering there for a few seconds longer.
Then, just as you’re about to look away, Bucky leans in to close the extra few inches and kisses him.
It’s quick, sweet, and obviously not really meant for your viewing. You yank your eyes away from them, heart beating rapidly in your chest, and blink at your rice as you readjust your perception of them inside your head.
You finish the last of the movie in silence, and by the time you’ve gathered enough courage to look back at them, everything looks relatively back to normal.
Which you’re now realizing is something very different than what you thought.
“So you two are…” you gesture between them, buzzed enough to bring it up but not enough to be eloquent about it, “...together.”
A few feet away from you, Steve looks sheepish, and Bucky looks resigned. Something has hardened in his expression that you aren’t used to, defensive, almost, as he purses his lips and avoids your eye.
“Yeah.”
“Oh,” you say distantly. “I thought it was just, like—a thing you did to…”
“To get girls into bed with us?” Bucky asks wryly, stabbing at his food. “Yeah. Most people think so.”
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed,” you tell them gently, guilt killing the rest of your pleasant haze from the alcohol.
“It’s not like we’re super public about it or anything,” Steve says, but even his smile is strained. “Don’t sweat it.”
“Is the not-public on purpose, or…?”
Bucky tosses up a shoulder. “Not really. People assume things. There’s a lot of people that wanna get in between us for a night or two. We just don’t really have that many friends. You know?”
Yeah, you think. “I know what you mean.”
Steve’s smile turns a little more genuine, and Bucky runs his eyes over your face for a minute, assessing. Eventually he relaxes, and you feel restless with the need to prove that you can be trusted with this.
“You got any other movies saved?”
Bucky announces that he’s choosing next, and you scoot a little closer to Steve on the rug, sharing fortune cookies between you.
Your eyes stray to the infamous Douchebag Jar on the dresser, wishing you had a dollar to put in it yourself.
Somehow, you get roped into attending another party—something else you’d sworn off for the rest of the semester.
And it’s not even for any fun reason. You have a group assignment ready to submit that makes up nearly half your grade in this course, and one person hasn’t logged in to sign off, which is the final barrier to submission.
You decide to cash in on your friendship perks that Bucky promised you before, enlisting him and Steve to accompany you to the party you know your groupmate will be at. The untouchable confidence you felt when you dumped your drink on him has dwindled into something sour now. Brendan might be an asshole, but he’s a frat asshole, and that means he’s got connections all over the place that you probably don’t know about. You’d pissed him off, and you don’t want him to retaliate somehow when you’re not expecting it.
Things are fine for the first bit of the night. You show up with Bucky and Steve in tow and find yourself a relatively quiet corner, talking with Bucky while Steve goes to the kitchen to find drinks that haven’t been spiked or taste revolting.
Eyes were on you the minute you stepped in, but upon closer inspection, you think maybe they’re just looking at Bucky. From this angle you both have a view of Steve over by the island, watching as a girl approaches him, lip caught between her teeth, a hand on the outside of his arm. You can’t even blame her. Steve looks as handsome as he ever does, like he was ripped straight from a vintage GAP men’s ad to be hung up on bedroom walls, and she’s really pretty.
You wonder if she’s their type. Briefly you consider asking Bucky, but you think that might be rude.
“Does that ever get old?” you ask him instead, nodding toward Steve.
Bucky stares for a minute, watching Steve politely duck out from under the girl’s attention. “Yes and no. Always nice to be wanted, I guess.”
He stops himself, and you tilt your head. “But…?”
“But sometimes, y’know.” He sighs. “It’s hard not to wonder if it would even matter if I was there too or not.”
You frown. “How so?”
“‘Cause—well, you know what people say about us. Steve’s the relationship guy. The guy you date, ‘cause he brings flowers and he pulls out the chairs and he’s charming without even trying to be. Sometimes more so when he’s not trying to be.” Bucky glances down. “And I’m—I’m the reason we have the reputation we do.”
“Bucky, that’s not true,” you tell him.
“It is. I’m the one that likes the more social shit. Getting to know people. And, yeah, sometimes that means going home with ‘em if everybody’s feeling it.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I just—it was something we did a few times, the first couple years. And then, suddenly, it was just like we were only known for that. Which sucks, because Steve’s really fuckin’ smart, and he’s a great artist, and I think he’d get a lot more accolades if my name wasn’t always attached to him.”
You study Bucky’s side profile, the curve of his shoulders and his hands stuffed into his pockets. It’s so easy to think of Bucky as confident with the way he presents himself, but you’re realizing now that he has a lot of the same insecurities that you do in relationships. It’s another thing that makes him feel more accessible to you, lowered from the isolated pedestal you’d put them both on before.
“I can’t say I know what that feels like, because I don’t,” you tell him, your elbows touching. “But I have had the displeasure of suddenly being known for only one thing this year. And it does suck. And I don’t know about everybody else, but I’m really glad that you guys thought I was worth sticking around for long enough that I could get the chance to be proved wrong, too.” You nudge him purposefully. “You guys are great, Bucky. Not just Steve. You balance each other, you know? And I’m—I’m just really glad I get to know you.”
Feeling oddly vulnerable after your impromptu speech, you clear your throat, hoping that the flush on your cheeks isn’t terribly vulnerable—even though Bucky’s private smile tells you that it probably is.
“We’re really glad to know you too, sweetheart,” he says.
The two of you have drifted closer throughout your conversation as the party got louder, your sides fully pressed together and Bucky’s face inches from yours. You feel yourself heat further once you realize your proximity, and you immediately shove down the memories of thoughts you might’ve had about them once or twice before you became friends.
Steve returns, saving you from breaking the tension yourself as he holds out a cup to you and Bucky with a smile.
“Okay, I hope you like plain coke because it’s about the only thing here that I could guarantee was safe to drink. Unless you want questionably dated orange juice.”
“I’ll take the coke,” you laugh.
“Definitely same,” Bucky agrees.
You cheers your plastic cups together and take a drink, scanning the small crowd in the house for your classmate and coming up unsuccessful.
The house buzzes as even more people find their way in, your corner feeling a little crowded as others begin coming up every few minutes, saying hello to Steve and Bucky and catching up. Apparently they haven't been going to many parties lately, either.
All of your earlier texts to your classmate have been left unread, but you check immediately when your phone finally buzzes with a response. You pull it out of your pocket while Steve chats with someone they know beside you, and Bucky peers over your shoulder.
“That him?”
“Yeah. He says he’s outside. I’ll meet him out there, make sure he signs, then we can go.”
“I’ll go with you,” Bucky offers, pushing off the wall.
“You go with Steve,” you insist, handing him your empty cup. “I’ll be fine. Seriously. Finish your conversation and then meet me out front.”
He glances between you and Steve with a frown. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Though he doesn’t seem pleased about it, you appreciate that Bucky lets you go without an argument. He slips into place at Steve’s side as you vacate the spot, and you head back toward the front lawn to get your digital signature.
It’s humid out front, and you squint at the setting sun as you descend the front steps and move off to the side to wait. There’s groups of other students hanging around on the porch and the sidewalk, each of them glancing at you periodically. You cross your arms over your chest, forcing yourself to stand your ground despite the unwelcome attention.
A minute turns into two, then five, and you find yourself wishing you had asked Bucky to come with you. You get out your phone again to text your classmate a series of question marks, and you get two words in response.
Look up.
You have about a split second to realize what’s happening before you look over your shoulder to find a group of Brendan’s friends huddled together on the third story balcony, a large bucket balanced on the railing.
They shout something at you and then tilt the thing over, and suddenly you’re standing in the middle of the yard, drenched head to toe in something sticky and ice cold, frozen.
You barely register voices coming out of the house, footsteps headed toward you. You cling to Steve as he strips off his jacket to cover you with, and when you peek out from under it, you see Bucky on the other end of the sidewalk gearing up to throw a punch at a guy who won’t delete the video. If you weren’t still partially in shock, it’d make you smile.
He joins you soon enough, once Steve has quickly walked you to the other side of the fence and far away from the house and anyone who might still have a camera.
“Hey. Let’s get out of here, huh?” Bucky asks, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and attempting to rub warmth back into your arm. Your teeth are chattering.
“I—I didn’t get the signature—”
“Don’t worry about that,” Steve says. “I was the TA in that course last semester and I still talk to the professor. I’ll speak to him and explain. It’ll be fine.”
Soaking wet and feeling horribly lost, you walk the same path to your apartment that you’ve taken with them countless times before. It’s not the first time you’ve felt grateful for them, but it is the first time you don’t really know what you would’ve done without them.
So much for trying not to get attached.
You let them spend the night.
They find something to eat while you’re in the shower, and by the time you come out of your bathroom with wet hair and a fresh set of pajamas on, the food’s ready, there’s a sitcom playing on the television, and the way Bucky rushes to put his phone away tells you he’s been on very dutiful damage control again.
You’re upset about what happened, but mostly tired at the moment, still too numb yet to cry or get angry. Steve tells you he’s emailed the professor as one episode rolls into another, the three of you sharing space on your small couch.
The comfort is much needed. They don’t make you talk about it but they remind you they’re there in other ways; Steve’s arm along the back of the couch for you to lean against while he rubs your shoulder, Bucky’s fingers hooking onto yours on the cushion between both of your legs the same way he’d done with Steve on the floor of their dorm room weeks ago. Their quiet conversation amongst each other anchors you enough that you can’t get lost in a rabbit hole of bad thoughts, but they also don’t expect you to jump in and try to be happy at the moment. You aren’t sure you could anyway.
It’s not a particularly high bar, but it does prove something important: Steve and Bucky have walked you home, seen you half drunk, been alone with you in their dorm and in your apartment, and now also when you’re emotionally vulnerable and looking for support.
And not once have they acted like any of your exes. They haven’t used any of it against you or to manipulate you into something.
“Will you stay?” you ask them between one episode and the next, the first words you’ve spoken since you got back.
Even then, they say yes without strings. Steve takes your couch and Bucky curls up in the armchair by the window, both in relatively close distance to your bed that you probably could have all fit on, if you’d tried.
You lay awake for long time that night, even when you can hear Steve snoring from the sofa and Bucky’s conked out against the side of the chair, cheek smushed against his arm.
You’re not just attached, you realize quietly. You’re something a whole lot more than that.
As graduation continues to get closer, so do the three of you. Maybe a little closer than you intended.
Steve left some of his books at your place the night before and you told him you’d drop them by before your classes. So, for the record, you had warned him.
Which is why you’re slightly surprised that it’s Bucky who swings open the dorm room door to greet you, his body blocking the view into the room.
His body, which is lacking a shirt and very nearly lacking pants too, strapped low across his hips. He’s breathing heavily, face flushed, pupils dilated and fixed on you with a focus that’s so intense you have to keep yourself rooted to your spot.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he grins. “Those for Steve?”
“Um. Yeah,” you say. “Is he—uh, here?”
Bucky chuckles. “Oh, he’s here. He’s just…occupied. At the moment.”
Your stomach drops in a split second, your confused smile going with it. You do take a step back then, holding out Steve’s things as a barrier between the two of you.
“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realize you guys had someone over.”
“What?” Bucky drops the smirk, stepping fully into the hallway with you. “There’s nobody else in there. Thought we covered that.”
Now confused and embarrassed, you feel your face heat. “I—we did. I just figured, since you answered the door, and you said he was still—sorry,” you rush out. “I misunderstood.”
Bucky stares at you for a second, and you desperately hope that you haven’t accidentally offended him again. Your reaction was more so rooted in your own feelings for them than anything about them, but you can’t exactly come out and say that right now.
Without looking away from you, Bucky twists the doorknob behind him and leans back enough to call through the gap.
“Stevie,” he says. “Make yourself decent.”
There’s a muffled answer on the other side and then some shuffling, and after a tense minute between you and Bucky in the hall, Steve stumbles to the door just as half-dressed and obviously mid-coital as Bucky had been. With glassy eyes and hair sticking up randomly, he knuckles at his eye.
“My stuff,” Steve says in belated acknowledgement when he sees you, offering you a small, breathless smile. “Thanks for bringing it by. I really appreciate it.”
“Move over,” Bucky grunts.
Him and Steve step back into the room, and Bucky holds the door open wide, waving you in. You hesitate for a second in the hallway before tentatively stepping forward, and he shuts it again behind you. He’s letting you see for yourself, you realize.
And, sure enough, the room is empty except for them. The sheets on the bed in the corner are all rucked up and half coming off the side, morning light spilling onto it from the window above the headboard. Steve’s desk, doubling as a nightstand, has a bottle of lube balanced on the edge of it, still open.
You turn slowly so you’re looking at them again, trying to come up with a way to apologize without giving yourself away. Bucky beats you to the punch.
“We haven’t brought anyone else here this semester,” he says deliberately, holding your eye. “You understand?”
So, before they told you about Brendan. Before you in general. The heat on your face feels like it spreads throughout your body, and you nod.
“Good,” Bucky says. “And just for the record, you’re welcome here anytime, no matter what we’re doing. You’re not interrupting anything we wouldn’t be okay with you interrupting.”
You glance at Steve for his reaction, but he seems to be in agreement. He steps up beside Bucky, bending to lean a dimpled cheek against Bucky’s shoulder atop his crossed arms, and smiles at you.
“Think you’re gonna be late, honey,” he says.
“Oh, shit,” you curse. “Yeah. I am, probably. Here,” you hand him his things clumsily, stepping forward into their space to trade it off.
You plan to take a quick step back but Bucky catches your arm before you can. Steve drops the books on the sofa and turns back to you too, and you’re promptly pulled into a three way hug, your face against their bare chests.
They’ve been more physical with you since staying over at your apartment, less hesitant to put a hand on your back or grab your hand or pull you into hugs like this one.
Usually they’re wearing clothes, though.
“Sorry,” you mumble, hugging them back. You feel Steve’s mouth against the top of your head.
“Don’t be. We’ll see you after class, huh?”
You nod, and Steve returns to the bed as Bucky walks you back into the hallway. His words from before still ring in your head about people’s assumptions, and even though Steve was alright with it, you feel like you owe Bucky another apology.
“I really am sorry, Bucky. I honestly didn’t mean it the way that it came out.”
“I know what you meant,” Bucky says, stepping closer, “because I would’ve done the same thing if Steve and I came over and I thought you had someone else inside.”
You swallow. “I haven’t—with anyone else, either.”
Bucky didn’t ask, and you aren’t really sure why you offered. It feels like you’re talking about the same things but you can’t be sure, and that’s scary enough to hesitate.
But Bucky gives you another long look, his head tilted as he drinks you in, and then he nods as if pleased by your answer. Stepping away from you feels like a loss, your limbs thrumming with how close you’d been.
“Good.” He smiles, then, and nods toward the exit. “Get to class. We’ll see you for lunch, okay?”
Still reeling, you follow his direction, nearly jogging as you try to make it to your morning lecture.
You get there, barely, but it’s no real use anyway.
All you can think about is what Steve and Bucky had been up to before you got there and—hopefully, maybe—what they’d finished after you left.
After that, it’s difficult to ignore the mounting tension between you. And with the dwindling time left before you leave campus, you’re antsy.
You’ve come to appreciate Steve and Bucky as genuine friends. What if you try to make it more than it is and you don’t click the same way in that setting, and then things are weird between you until graduation? What if you’d somehow misunderstood their intentions and they actually don’t want you like that anyway?
You’re pretty sure that last one isn’t the case. But you don’t really want to lose the one friendship you might manage to take out of college because of your libido.
It’s hard not to want more though when they give you just about everything you wanted and never got in your past relationships. You meet Bucky’s sister too when she visits for Steve’s birthday in July, and the three of you stumble your way through a very awkward explanation when you try to convince her that you aren’t, in fact, a part of their relationship and none of you have any real evidence against it.
Except for the sex. You are very much aware of the sex that is not being had in this situation.
Ultimately, it doesn’t take much to shift things into place.
You had dinner with them at a bar off campus, something a little nicer than the ones here, and none of you had been ready to part ways when you got back. Back at your place you change into something comfier while Bucky kicks off his boots and Steve sheds his jacket, the three of you spreading out in your space like you’ve been doing it forever.
Steve sits at your dining table, bent over a sketchbook he’d pulled from his bag. Bucky is fiddling with the bluetooth speaker that you broke last year and haven’t been able to fix, his tongue stuck between his lips as he pokes and prods, and you’re on the couch, scrolling through your playlists in hopes that he can get it up and running. There’s a lingering energy in all of you tonight that your typical movie marathon doesn’t seem like it would satiate.
The top you’d worn to the bar is a button down, soft enough that you’d left it on when you got home even though you changed your pants. You have to roll up the sleeves as you watch Bucky work, hotter outside and a different heat here in your apartment, your body keenly aware of where Steve and Bucky are inside of it.
The apartment. Not you, unfortunately.
With your hair let down and the makeup you’d put on this morning mostly smudged off now from laughing at dinner, you’re an odd mix between pleasantly relaxed and impatient for more.
“Aha,” Bucky cheers, pressing a button on the speaker. The traitorous thing that hadn’t worked when you did that gives a happy beep at Bucky’s touch, the lights on the front blinking to show that it’s ready to pair. He grins at you, lethal with his dark brown hair and the deep green of his sweatshirt, and holds out a hand for your phone. “You picked a song yet?”
You give it over, shuffling one of your most recent playlists when you couldn’t decide on anything else, and Bucky pairs it with the bluetooth. Soon enough there’s quiet music playing throughout your living room, and you realize how much you’ve missed having it to fill the silence.
Finished with the speaker, Bucky leaves it on the windowsill and crosses over to you, shoving the coffee table out of the way as he goes. He extends a palm. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
He drags you up from the sofa and to the center of the room, now an empty space, hands on either side of your waist.
“We’re going right here,” he says. “There was nowhere to dance in the bar.”
“I think there was, actually,” you point out.
Bucky gives you a flat look. “If I just wanted to grab onto your hips and hump you from behind for a few minutes, I’d prefer it not be in public, sweetheart.”
You stutter a laugh, allowing him to pull you close. One of his hands on the center of your back, the other holding yours against his chest underneath his collarbone. It puts his nose at your hair and yours near his neck, close enough to smell the cologne he’d put on this morning as he sways the two of you back and forth.
“I should probably tell you that I’m not very good at dancing,” you admit.
“Seems like you’re doin’ just fine to me,” he says. “Stevie? Thoughts?”
Steve grunts from the dining table. “Busy. Keep dancing”
The two of you turn in a slow circle, and when you begin to face him, you realize that Steve is drawing you and Bucky. You’re pretty sure he’d been working on something else before, but now his eyes keep flicking up to you every few seconds, tracing curves and hard edges, the line where you and Bucky meet in the middle and your shuffling feet as you try to stay off Bucky’s toes.
One song bleeds into another on the speaker, and you tilt your head enough to rest it opposite your hand on Bucky’s chest. You feel his sigh as much as you hear it, his pulse steady under your cheek.
“Been a long time since I’ve gotten to do this,” he tells you.
“It’s nice,” you agree. “I don’t think I’ve actually ever danced with anyone before this.”
Bucky pulls away from you only enough to guide you into a small spin, then tugs you right back with a wink. “You’re a natural.”
You’d enjoyed the momentary distraction of learning something new, but by the time the third song comes to a close, all you can think about is how close the two of you are.
You keep picturing the way he’d looked in the hallway in the dorms that day, flushed and sweaty and yet still in control. Letting you into their space, proving to you that there was no one else. You’d been embarrassed in the moment, but every time you’ve thought of it afterward you get distracted wondering what might’ve happened if you hadn’t had class, if you’d stayed, if you’d joined them in bed and finished what they’d started with each other before you got there. You wonder now if Bucky can feel your pulse picking up underneath his hands.
The sun is setting outside the windows and you can feel it through the cracked blinds, humid and inescapable. When you tilt your head up, you’re close enough to Bucky’s face to see the beginnings of sweat on his temples.
“S’warm,” you murmur, worried he might let go of you if you’re too loud. His mouth curves up at the corner, making a show of feeling your forehead before moving down to your cheek.
“You are, yeah,” he confirms, swiping a thumb over the collar of your shirt. “Maybe we should lose a few layers.”
You swallow. “I’m, um. I’m not wearing anything underneath.”
It’s meant to be more of a reason you can’t take it off than an attempt at flirting, but Bucky is visibly affected, inhaling sharply through his nose as his eyes run over your face. The hand on your lower back spreads out and tugs, pressing you tight against his chest.
It makes you stumble, catching yourself with a grip on his arm and a surprised noise. The shirt isn’t particularly thick, and neither is the lace bra you’re wearing underneath it. It doesn’t have any padding in it so every bit of your breasts go firmly against the heat of Bucky’s chest, with nowhere to hide and no place to conceal the hardened points of your nipples through the lace.
With an extremely measured exhale, the hand Bucky has on your cheek spares a thumb to trace over the outline of your lips. When you don’t pull away, Bucky leans in.
“You been wantin’ this as much as we have?”
You nod, breathless. Relieved. “Longer, probably.”
“Wanna bet?” Bucky cocks a brow, then winces. “Ah, fuck. Sorry. Bad choice of words.”
Your laugh is quiet, but it makes Bucky smile. Your fingers spread out on his chest, smoothing over his shoulder and up to his neck, grazing his hair that’s close to touching his shoulders now.
“And if I was feeling lucky?”
“I would say,” Bucky proposes faux thoughtfully, slipping both arms around your waist and lowering his voice to a whisper, “that there’s a damn near guarantee we could make Steve awful jealous right now.”
You fight a smile. “I think I like those odds.”
Bucky leans in closer, until the ends of your noses are touching. Everything about him is warm, his scent familiar and inviting, his arms easy to lean into. His eyes flick down to your mouth and back up again, and you tilt your chin for him without having to ask.
Bucky could probably tease you all night long, but if he wants you, he’s going to have to be the one to make the first move.
He doesn’t leave you waiting for long. His own face turns, just enough to catch your lips with his. A brief graze at first, and then more firmly. It’s been months now since you’ve kissed somebody, and you always forget how much you enjoy it. And the fact that it’s Bucky is just a really, really nice plus.
You lean into his weight as you abandon any former semblance of dancing altogether, standing still and sliding your hand fully up into his hair. He hardly parts from you enough to breath but neither of you seem to care, and for a few seconds, everything else falls away.
Everything except for Steve, that is; you can hear the soft scratch of his pencil stop as it hits the sketchbook and rolls off somewhere on the table, the thump of his feet on your floor, the added body heat at your back when he steps into your space.
It’s the only thing that makes you pull away from Bucky, twisting so you can make sure that, despite all the signals, he’s still alright with this happening.
He assuages your worries nearly immediately, turning you in Bucky’s arms so that he can take your face in his hands and taste you for himself. It’s surreal, having this in real life and not only in your head, and you cling to the front of Steve’s shirt like you had Bucky’s, caught between them both.
“What do you want?” Steve asks you, dropping his hands to hold yours, rubbing circles into your wrists in between your bodies.
“Anything you want,” Bucky agrees, pressing against your back.
You glance over toward your bed and ask them, for a second time, “Stay?”
Steve grins and you feel Bucky’s relieved exhale as his chest caves behind you. He bends to kiss your shoulder, and Steve slips his fingers through yours.
“Lead the way, sweetheart.”
It’s not as weird having Bucky and Steve in your bed as you thought it might be.
They’ve already been everywhere else in your apartment anyway, and it’s almost weirder that they haven’t been in it yet in some capacity or another. You’re glad to be rectifying that now.
You go down easily when Bucky lays you back on the end of the mattress, reluctant to part from your mouth. He does eventually though, if only to peel off his sweatshirt and leave him in a thin t-shirt, and Steve steps up in his absence to kiss you some more.
“How many times have you touched yourself, right here, thinking about us?” Bucky asks, grinning above you.
“Dollar in the jar,” you tell him.
He doesn’t even try to make a joke. “Dead serious, sweetheart.”
You look to Steve for support, but he only chews at his lip, sheepish. “I’m kind of curious too.”
Rolling your eyes, you kick Bucky in the hip with your leg. “Surprised your egos fit through the doorway.”
He catches your calf in his hand before you can draw it back to the bed and you watch, propped up on your elbows, as he rubs the skin there up and up and up. He kneels on the mattress beside you, fingers grazing your shin, the sensitive inside of your knee.
“You tellin’ me we’re wrong?” he asks. “That you’ve never once thought about us when you were in here, came home after seein’ us and needed some relief? Never slipped your fingers between these thighs and wished it was ours instead?”
He bends to attach his mouth to the side of your neck, and your head rolls to the side to allow him access even as you keep stubbornly quiet.
“Never imagined what it’d be like if we were there with you, huh? One on either side, keepin’ you warm. Makin’ you squirm.” His fingers trail up higher, just barely grazing the line of your shorts before pulling away. “Makin’ you beg.”
“Bucky,” you gasp.
He smiles like you’ve just proved his point, but schools it quickly to sit back on his knees with a shrug as Steve takes a seat by your ankles.
“‘Cause if you had pictured us, I was gonna offer to make your dreams come true. But I can’t really do that if you didn’t have ‘em in the first place, so—”
“I did,” you relent, too keyed up to deny it. “I—I thought about you. Both of you.”
Steve’s eyes light up at your admission, his own touch slipping around your ankle, rubbing. “Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Tell us about it?” Bucky prompts. “We’ll do whatever you want.”
You’re not sure you have a place to start. You’ve pictured this happening in a variety of different ways, none of them given to you quite so easily, and the unexpected power placed into your hands is something you aren’t sure you know how to hold just yet.
Steve ducks down to press his lips against your knee, then moves to pull his own shirt over his head. Bucky, seemingly sensing your dilemma, moves to sit behind you. He leans back against the headboard, slipping his hands underneath your arms to drag you back against his chest to watch Steve.
“How ‘bout we start with just one, hm? That make it easier?” He rubs your arms. “Why don’t you tell Stevie what you like about him?”
The man himself is shuffling at the end of your bed, his chest bare but his hands twitching like he still wants to shove them into the pockets of his jeans. You reach a hand out, and he comes closer, kneeling on the end of the mattress.
“Your hands,” you say first.
“They’re nice, aren’t they?” Bucky agrees. Your answer earns you Bucky’s hands slipping over your shoulders and down to the buttons of your shirt, flicking open one and then two. “Could probably hold these real good, one in either hand.”
He grips both of your breasts in his palms in display, and you bite back a gasp as you push up against him.
But just as easy as he’d moved toward them, he moves away. Casually, he runs a finger over the next button.
“What else?”
“You’re nice to me,” you tell Steve, whose smile softens a little at your words.
Bucky eases another button from its pocket. “That turns you on, sweetheart? His manners?”
“You care,” you rephrase, staring at Steve until he meets your eye despite the spreading flush on his cheeks. “You ask how my day was and actually care about the answer. Offer to help me carry things when I overcommit on accident. You check in on me if you know I’m having a hard time, and you always make sure I’m comfortable and feel safe.”
“Anyone would have done those things,” Steve argues.
“No,” you insist, “they wouldn’t. They haven’t.”
Unable to fight you on that, Steve can only look at you, surprised and quiet.
“Also, you have nice shoulders.”
That earns you a laugh, Steve’s aforementioned shoulders shaking with it as he sits fully on his bent legs on your bed. “Thanks, honey.”
Sitting up, you part from the warmth of Bucky’s chest behind you so that you can turn around and face him. He doesn’t stop you as you settle on his lap, just settles one hand on your hip and the other on one of your thighs as you get comfortable. He’s gone quiet, and you don’t like it.
“And you…” you trail off, using your hand to make him look at you.
“Not quite as polite as Stevie is,” he says with a subdued smile.
“Maybe, but that’s not what I like about you anyway,” you tell him easily. “If you were polite, you wouldn’t have monitored the comments on that video. Or punched someone in the face to defend my honor. Or marched up to me in the library all those months ago to let me know that my boyfriend was betting on my virtue, despite the fact that we were practically strangers before that.” You raise your brows when he opens his mouth. “And don’t tell me anyone would have done that, because almost everybody knew, and they didn’t say a word.”
He rolls his eyes, but you can tell that at least some part of what you said has settled him a little. “Yeah, alright.”
“You’re honest. That means a lot to somebody who’s been lied to before.”
“Well, shit,” he murmurs softly, looking at you. “Here I was thinking it was my rugged handsomeness that hooked you in, but—”
You lean forward and kiss him again, and he abandons his train of thought to kiss you back. You can’t resist grinning when you pull back, thumbing at the dimple in his chin.
“You are pretty handsome.”
The room goes quiet, all three of you smiling to yourselves. Even when you look to the side, Steve’s just watching the two of you, a fond expression on his face.
“I went off topic. Sorry,” you apologize. “Did I ruin the mood?”
“You’re half naked in Bucky’s lap,” Steve says pragmatically. “I’m not sure anything could ruin the mood for me right now.”
As if being reminded of the fact himself, Bucky’s eyes take a detour from yours, trailing down the front of your open shirt and lace bra and back up again as he draws in a slow breath. His fingers twitch on either side of your hips.
“Steve,” Bucky says, still looking at you. “Gimme your hands.”
Without question, Steve’s hands—the ones you said you’d liked so much just a few minutes ago—appear, one on either side of you at Bucky’s disposal, palm up. You watch as Bucky’s own hands curl around his wrists and tug, making Steve kneel behind you, his warmth obvious even through the thin layers.
Bucky presses Steve’s palms flat against your ribs, letting you feel the weight and shape. He moves them slowly up, still watching your face, until Steve’s cupping the underside of your breasts. Both of them can feel the hitch in your breathing, but you can’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed.
From the look on his face, Bucky knows exactly what he’s doing to you.
Finally, just when you’re about to pester him about it, Bucky slides Steve’s palms up the last couple of inches to mold over the shape of your breasts fully. The three of you exhale a variety of different noises—you, a gasp, Steve’s stuttered moan, Bucky groaning low in his throat, eyes half-lidded as he watches Steve learn your shape.
You sway a little, off balance, but Steve’s right there behind you to rest against. Leaning back into him pushes your chest up and forward, further into his eager hands, and he squeezes briefly, enough to pull a surprised noise from you again.
“So soft,” Steve murmurs, dipping forward to nose at the side of your neck. His thumbs sweep over the line dividing flesh from lace underneath your shirt, slow and steady until he can find the hard peak of your nipple under the material. You whimper, your hips restless against Bucky’s underneath you.
“Look at that,” Bucky says, tucking your hair behind your ear. “See what happens when you tell us what you want?”
His hands slip down to grip your waist more firmly, hauling you up against him closer until the bulge of his hardening cock sits snug in the split of your legs. You’re separated by his jeans and your underwear, but the heat, the shape, the feeling—it’s already so good.
“We thought about you too,” Steve admits, breathing harder against your neck as he slips two fingers beneath the fabric of your bra to press against your nipples with nothing in between.
It takes a moment for the words to catch up with you. You lift your head from his shoulder. “Really?”
“Fuck. Yeah.”
“Steve,” Bucky warns. His cheeks are the slightest bit more flushed, and you wonder, briefly, what could have been so depraved that even Bucky would be blushing.
You desperately want to know.
“You’re so—we didn’t think you’d ever want this. But we’d talk about it. Sometimes.”
“‘Sometimes’ as in over brunch,” you question breathlessly, slipping a hand back to slide it into Steve’s hair, “or sometimes like that day at your—?”
“Both,” Steve moans when you pull. “Definitely both.”
You turn your chin enough that Steve can kiss you over your shoulder, his other hand yanking Bucky forward against your chest. One of Steve’s hands leaves you as his tongue teases the corner of your mouth, and you hum into his mouth when Bucky’s teeth graze the spot Steve’s wandering fingers just vacated.
Kissing Steve is warm and intense, slicker than you thought it’d be. Something about Steve made you think his kisses might be chaste and just as polite as the rest of him, but he holds the back of your neck and gets as close to you as possible, sharing air and cradling your lower lip with his own with a focus so heavy it makes you a little dizzy.
Which isn’t to say that Bucky isn’t doing his best to distract you anyway; his arms have wrapped fully around your waist now to hold you against his chest, his mouth mapping out the path of skin between your breasts with aching intent. Every few seconds you feel his teeth, nipping and teasing, but it’s hardly enough. You put a hand to the back of his neck and press until he commits, mouthing at you in wet trails and sinking his teeth and tongue into your skin enough that it’ll leave a mark or two behind.
It’s more sensitive the closer he gets to your nipples, the skin thinner and easier to bruise. But he hears your muffled noises against Steve’s mouth for what they are, easing up on you as he takes one in his mouth before swiping a tender thumb over the blooming marks to solidify them.
“Can I taste you?” Steve pants against your lips, pulling back. “Please. Been thinkin’ about it, what you taste like—”
“He’s real good with his tongue, sweetheart,” Bucky rasps in addition, as if you need any more convincing.
No sooner have you nodded do you find yourself plucked off of Bucky’s lap and laid on your back on the mattress, and the loss of solid heat between your legs feels like an ache. You reach for Bucky, kissing him messily as he flicks open the last of the buttons on your shirt and Steve eases your underwear down and off your legs. It feels jarring, a little, until Bucky leans up to strip his own shirt off, and you see Steve losing his pants in the corner of your hazy vision as Bucky leans in to kiss you again.
He does it differently than Steve does, rougher, less composed. The same flash of teeth you’d felt against your breasts is the one you feel now against your lips, and he likes kissing you nice and long and deep and then pulling back, watching you chase him for more. You’ll make some sort of joke about that cocky grin, some time when you aren’t otherwise occupied.
Steve’s hands slide up the outside of your legs, over the tops of your thighs, running up and down to the inside of your knees and back up again. You’re ticklish there, and you shiver when his mouth follows closely behind, the bed creaking as he settles in the space you’ve made for him between.
“So fuckin’ wet,” Steve marvels distantly, and the thickness of his voice draws you back into the moment. You break from Bucky’s mouth with a gasp and a string of spit still connecting you, and Bucky thumbs it away as you glance down between your legs at where Steve is openly staring at you. His eyes flick up to your face for a second, a spark of something mischievous in his gaze. “Bet you’re soft here too.”
Without further ado he lowers his mouth to your cunt, and you groan, dropping your head backward into the quick reflex of Bucky’s hand that cradles it.
“Don’t be afraid to tell him what you like,” Bucky murmurs against your jaw. “He takes orders like a champ.”
You file that away to be explored later. The affect it has on you is obvious—to Steve, at least—who moans against you when your cunt bears down around the wet heat of his tongue. You slide a hand down to slip it into Steve’s hair and against his scalp, but don’t direct him otherwise.
“Don’t know what feels good. Haven’t done this part much.”
At your admission, Steve slips his arms underneath your thighs, pulls your legs over his shoulders, makes a noise that you can feel. He laps at you without shame, but you can feel that focus in every movement; the angle of his sharp jaw, the suction in his cheeks, each measured exhale that makes you shiver before he settles his mouth over the bump of your clit and sucks, then goes back to flicking his tongue.
It’s true, nonetheless—none of your previous partners have bothered much with eating you out, and if they had, it was always a couple minute precursor to penetrative sex and nothing more. And that was usually just to get you wet enough, which…is not looking like it’s going to be much of an issue here.
Steve’s eyes flick up to you again, finding yours atop the rolling wave of your stomach as you try and fail not to grind your hips up against his mouth. He holds your gaze as he rubs one warm fingertip through your excitement and then hovers it above your entrance, thoroughly prepared by his tongue, and you nod.
His tongue makes wide, firm circles against your clit as the digit sinks into you. Not quick, not rough, slow enough that you feel every aching inch of it until there isn’t anymore to go. You whimper, pushing against him for more, but it’s Bucky that answers.
His hand wraps loosely around your throat to get your attention, fingers on your neck and thumb pressed to your chin to tilt it back. He’s been watching you while Steve takes you apart, quieter than you typically know him to be, but the heaviness in his eyes tells you it’s arousal and not anything bad that’s got his tongue tied.
The thumb on your chin raises by an inch, pressing down on the thickest part of your lower lip. You open for him, eager for whatever you’ll be given, but he doesn’t kiss you.
Instead, as Steve eases a second finger in underneath the relentless roll of his tongue, Bucky hovers above you, purses his lips, and spits, slow, into your open mouth.
You shudder, clenching down hard against Steve’s fingers as you’re pushed even closer to your first orgasm of the night. Bucky sees it all—watches your eyes roll backward before the flutter closed, lets you squeeze the outside of his wrist against your throat, doesn’t look away for a moment as you close your mouth to swallow what he gave you and then open again so he can check.
“Fuck,” he curses, drawing the word out long and pressing it into your tongue as he drops down to kiss you. It’s overwhelming, the thrust of Bucky’s tongue similar to the motion of Steve’s fingers inside you; it’s so deliciously close to what you’d pictured all the times you’d thought about this alone in bed.
Just that the real thing is better.
Your hand finds the side of Bucky’s face as you kiss, and you find your nails dragging across the roughness of his facial hair. It’s somewhere between stubble and a beard and you like the in between, can’t help thinking about the marks it’d make if he took Steve’s place between your legs right now.
“I like this,” you tell him, rubbing your hand over it. “Liked it both ways, but it looks good grown out.”
“Both ways?” Bucky lifts a brow. “You knew about us before this year?”
Steve tilts his hand, curves his two fingers up into you to find your spot, shoves his tongue in the space left over. You shiver, your brain-to-mouth filter momentarily offline.
“In the stands. Football game. Freshman year. You always had crowds around you.”
“No shit,” Bucky breathes, chuckling as he smears a kiss against your cheek. “Can’t believe we wasted so much fuckin’ time.”
You pull his mouth back to yours, one hand in his hair and the other digging your nails into Steve’s arm that’s been spread over your stomach to keep you from bucking away from him too far. His jaw must be aching by now, you think; your other partners certainly would have complained by now that you hadn’t come yet.
Before you can start feeling guilty and trying to make yourself, Bucky pulls you back with a hand on your face. “Hey. You wanna come like this?”
Your lower lip disappears behind your front teeth, still tasting of Bucky. If you say yes, there’s a chance it’s a means to an end—you get off, then they get off, and then it’s over. You want this to last as long as possible.
“I don’t know.”
“Let me rephrase, then,” Bucky says, catching the lobe of your ear between his teeth. “If Steve makes you come now with his mouth, can you do it again for me afterward?”
“Yes,” you nod frantically. “Yes. Please.”
Bucky grins. “Atta girl.”
With a clear goal in mind, Bucky slips rough fingertips down the front of your body, between the valley of your breasts and down your quivering abdomen, past your hips until he reaches where Steve’s head is settled in between your shaking thighs. He goes even further then, using two digits to spread you apart nice and wide, the way Steve can’t while he’s holding your waist and fucking you on his fingers.
The position means that there’s nowhere left to hide now, no reprieve from the sensation of Steve’s tongue. It’s warm and wet and unyielding, sucking and flicking and drawing your clit to full attention for him. With toys or fingers it might be too much sensation to really feel good, but the pressure of his mouth is just right.
You cling onto Bucky’s arm and Steve’s hand as you begin to tense up, the coil in your stomach tightening. You like this part, this little plateau before the plunge, and it’s been so long—if ever—since you’ve actually gotten to experience it at the hands of someone else and not just your own.
If you could talk, you’d say right there or don’t stop or I’m close, but your breath is getting stuck in pants and hiccups, your hips twitching, out of your control. You feel molten underneath both of their gazes, anticipating your release but not rushing you toward it.
You let your eyes close, welcome the sudden press of Bucky’s fingers against your mouth and Steve’s hand to keep you grounded, and let everything else fall away for a minute.
The orgasm doesn’t take you by surprise. It builds, slowly and then in quicker increments, until it takes you over. Your mouth wrenches open noiselessly, eyes wet with overwhelmed tears, and all of you tenses tight before rapidly unraveling between the fixed points that Steve and Bucky make around you.
It keeps going, Steve’s mouth and fingers insistent as he works you through it. Noise fades back in as the ringing in your ears adjusts, Steve’s moans as you get him wet with your release, Bucky’s rough, raspy whispers of praise against your hair, your own shameless whines and squeaks as you ride it out completely.
Eventually, when you’re spent, you collapse back against the pillow Bucky put under your head and blink idly at the ceiling. You feel cold between your legs when Steve pulls away, your cunt pulsing, displeased at the sudden emptiness.
It’s worth it—if only because you get to lie back and catch your breath while Bucky drags Steve in by the neck and ravages his mouth with his tongue, tasting him. Tasting you.
Their hands are all over each other in a way that betrays the fact that they’ve been in a much longer relationship, aware of each other’s limits and weak spots. Steve groans when Bucky yanks his head backward and sinks his teeth against his neck, smearing you even further across Steve’s skin, leaving visible wetness behind. You watch, half surprised and still valiantly turned on, when his palm smacks the side of Steve’s ass and squeezes before he pulls away.
Both of them are hard, Bucky’s bulge significant underneath his boxers and Steve’s briefs rucked dangerously low against his hips, enough to see the hair around the base of his cock. He must’ve been grinding against the bed. You push your thighs together again with a whimper at the thought.
The noise draws Steve’s attention, and he crawls back on top of you, turning your bent legs to the side but keeping your back against the sheets as he kisses you. Soft, slow, more like what you thought he’d be like in the first place.
“Was that good?” Steve asks you.
“So good,” you agree with a smile, pushing a hand through his hair. “Thank you.”
“Both of you are too polite,” Bucky sighs. “What am I gonna do with you two?”
Steve slants his eyes from you over to Bucky, sly. “Something with your dick, preferably.”
You choke at his forwardness; you’ve never known Steve to be that bold. Bucky laughs at your expression, and Steve seems unabashed.
“You ain’t heard nothin’ yet, sweetheart,” Bucky tells you. “Just wait ‘til I’m fuckin’ him through the mattress. He gets real filthy, then.”
“Fuck,” you exhale. Your filter’s still not totally back.
Biting down on a smile, Bucky leans in to look up at Steve with you, appraising. “He does make quite the picture like that. But maybe…” he turns, talking right into your ear. “Maybe you take him first, huh? Been so patient, both of you—you want that?”
You nod. “Yes. Yeah.”
“Then, after he’s finished, when you’re all shaky and sensitive—it’ll be my turn. Roll you over. Slip into you, nice and easy. Fuck you deep enough that you can feel me right here,” Bucky continues, reaching down between you and Steve to press a palm against the cradle of skin between your hips.
“Bucky,” you moan. “Yes. Please. All of it.”
Lazily, Bucky rolls his head to look up at Steve. “Stevie?”
“You gotta fuckin’ ask?” he mutters to a laughing Bucky. You raise a brow, and he shifts his gaze to you, smiling crookedly. “When I said we’d talked about this, I meant in detail.”
You laugh with them, which is something else that hasn’t happened during sex with anyone else. It feels good. You feel good. Your body is loose from your first orgasm and you’re comfortable enough with Steve and Bucky that you don’t feel like you have to put on a show or hold a certain position. Which is good, because they seem to be developing a habit of arranging you however they like.
Like you’re a delicate addition to the well oiled machine of their relationship, Steve wraps his arms around your thighs again and pulls you down to the center of the mattress, and Bucky locates one of their wallets from the floor to grab a condom. The thoughtfulness makes you momentarily emotional, one less thing you have to think or worry about.
The condoms in their wallets that, you’re realizing right now, are probably more so for them to have sex with each other than they are to hook up with girls like you initially thought. You’re glad to understand better, now.
While Bucky’s up he grabs a water from your fridge and pops the cap, drains a good third and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before tossing it to Steve. He does the same, then leans down to hold it against your lips while Bucky fixes the pillows behind you. It’s oddly intimate, given everything you’ve already done, and you flush with heat at the unexpected gesture.
The boxers come off, Steve’s and then Bucky’s. You drink them in with a stare that’s only partially intentional, your mouth dry despite the water, suddenly glad that Steve had opened you up on his fingers in addition to his mouth. It’s been a while, and they’re both fairly well endowed.
It’d be the perfect place to make a crude joke at your expression, but it never comes. Steve leans in, fingers brushing your cheek. “You okay? We can do something else, if you want.”
“Or stop, if you’re tired,” Bucky adds.
True to your word, care and honesty really do seem to be what gets you going these days.
You shake your head, pulling your legs apart and Steve in between them as you lay back with Bucky’s thigh as a pillow. The condom sits idly on the bedspread to the side, and you pick it up and hand it to him in invitation.
With a smile and a final press of his lips to your forehead, Steve kneels up between your legs and rips it open, rolling it onto himself. He takes a few measured breaths as he looks at you, working his fist over the length of his cock in three slow pumps before he relents and braces on his knees.
Steve’s broad all over, and he spreads you wide without even meaning to. The span of his thighs and hips pushes your legs open enough that when he leans forward on top of you his dick is already straining where it wants to go, and you hiss when it bumps against your still-sensitive clit, shivering.
He grips it and swipes it through your wetness, letting it rest against you so you can feel the weight and shape of it before anything else happens. He’s warm, velvet hot against you, and you’re so wet that you can feel it on the sheets underneath you. Open from the orgasm and Steve’s fingers too, you think he should be able to slide in fairly easily.
You hook a leg over Steve’s hip as he leans forward further, the head of his cock pushing barely inside of you. Both of you moan, and Bucky lets you squeeze his hand as hard as you want in open anticipation.
Holding himself there, Steve gives a few slow thrusts against you. Shallow and brief, working himself in just slightly more each time. His thoughtfulness is a tease without meaning to be, making you clench down around nothing each time he withdraws.
Then, on a particular forward thrust, his cock sinks in a little deeper. He holds himself still, then repeats it all again. By the time he’s halfway inside of you you’re both holding your breath, sweat beading on Steve’s hairline, his grip tight enough to leave marks on your hip.
“Shit. Bucky. I’m—” Steve curses, squeezing his eyes shut as he pauses, shivering.
“Get it together, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs, pushing some of his hair back from his face. “Promised her a good time, did we not? You gonna deliver?”
Steve nods quickly, but the muscles in his neck and shoulders are pulled taut as he swallows audibly. “She’s—tight, Bucky. Fuck.”
“You would know, since you just had your fingers inside her, big guy.” Bucky flashes you a grin. “Sorry. Steve gets a little stupid about good pussy.”
“Liar,” Steve manages, breathless. “Never had one like this before.”
Being with them is apparently unlocking various new kinks for you. You feel suspended, weightless, anchored only by the thick pressure of Steve’s cock stretching you open, the biggest you’ve ever taken. You couldn’t form words if you tried.
“Your—” Steve chokes, trailing off. He grits his teeth, forces his eyes open and looks straight into yours as he slides the rest of the way inside of you. “Fuck. Your cunt. This tight little fuckin’ cunt.”
You cry out, arms shooting up and sideways to grip onto whatever you can to steady yourself. It doesn’t hurt, though you’re sure to be sore later. But you’ve never taken anyone this big before and it’s different in a way you hadn’t thought to expect.
You can feel him, hot inside of your body. Every inch of you is aware of it too, making room, adjusting, overwhelmed. You struggle to get air in for a moment but keep a shaky hand pressed to Steve’s side so he doesn’t pull out, trying to catch your breath.
Steve noses at your cheek. “That okay? S’it—?”
“Yeah,” you manage, blinking rapidly to clear your vision. “Deep. It’s—so full.”
Tender as anything, Bucky wipes at your cheeks to catch the tears you hadn’t managed to hide and strokes over your flushed skin with his thumb. “He’s big, isn’t he? Knows how to use it, too.”
He turns his attention to Steve, sinking fingers into your hair and settling up against your scalp, holding you steady. Sparks dance along your nerve endings at the promise of it, and you can’t help bearing down, drawing Steve further into you in anticipation.
“Show her, Steve.”
Steve shifts, bracing his palms on the bed in preparation obediently, but he pauses to kiss you again first, each one sweeter than the last.
“Tell me if it’s too much, ‘kay?”
With your approval, he widens his stance by your shoulders, bends his knees to push yours apart a little further, and braces himself to draw backward.
It’s slow—achingly so, at first, but necessary to get you used to him. He pulls back only halfway before pushing back in, working out of you the same way he’d worked himself in. Your wetness makes it all perfectly audible, the obscene slick noises echoing in all three of your ears each time he shifts.
You wrap a hand around his bicep, feeling the movement of the muscles underneath, and squeeze to let him know you can take a little more. His thrusts deepen, pulling nearly all the way back out of you before returning this time. It exaggerates the length of his cock, makes every drag of it feel even deeper, every brief moment of emptiness like a loss.
The three of you are quiet as he works up to a rhythm, entranced by the sight and sound and feeling of him taking you for the first time. You’re struck by a moment of disbelief at how unlikely this had seemed to you before; a fantasy you’d never actually get to have.
But you do, and it’s better than you imagined, and you’re not planning to waste it thinking of past hypotheticals.
You clench around Steve again, wiggling your hips, and he seems to get the message. With a quick readjustment of his grip on your hips, he kneels up and drags you with him, laying your ass against the slope of his thick, tensed thighs. It rushes blood to your head that’s still on flatter ground against Bucky’s leg and you gasp, feeling exposed and split open as your legs fall further apart to accommodate him.
Steve fucks you deep and the right amount of rough, a divot between his eyebrows that tells you it must be feeling good for him too. He’s glistening with sweat now, bare chest and muscles on display, and it’s hard not to feel self conscious around the two of them. But he’s making you feel good enough that it’s easier to let go, and if that didn’t do the trick, Bucky bending over you to kiss you again surely does.
Watching the two of you kiss makes Steve quicken his pace again. He grunts with each thrust of his hips, your wetness spreading all over his lap and the inside of your thighs and making a mess. When he thumbs over your clit you cry out into Bucky’s mouth, your body suddenly beginning to strive for release again.
“Fuck,” Steve pants, the circles of his thumb rough with the pace of his thrusts. “Baby. Want—I want you to come with me. Can you?”
“Nightstand,” you gasp to Bucky on autopilot. “Top drawer.”
He goes without question, stretching himself out so that he doesn’t have to move you to get to the nightstand. The drawer opens and things rattle to your left as Steve lowers your body back flat to the sheets and begins fucking you in sharp thrusts aimed right at your spot. It’s so good but you need just a little bit more, just—
“Fuckin’ hell,” you hear Bucky groan as he finds your vibrator and frees it from its not-so-secret hiding spot. You’ve resorted to it more often than not lately, the idea of a quick and efficient release more enticing than a slow workup if you’re tired or stressed. “How many times’ this thing heard our names, huh?”
You don’t give him the answer to that, because it’s mortifying. Instead, you say, “Second button. Hold it down, then press it twice.”
Seconds later, you hear it buzz to life. Even the sound of it seems to push you closer, the sensation so closely linked to release in your mind that you’re aching for it. Steve’s thumbs are digging into your hips, Bucky’s skin hot beneath your cheek, your body rising to meet each one of Steve’s movements. You’re so overwhelmed you feel like you might cry again—the really good kind of tears.
And then Bucky presses the vibrator against your clit.
You do cry, then, and yell something you’ll probably find embarrassing later on. But Bucky knows what you need, doesn’t let you wiggle away from it. There’s nowhere for you to go, even, not when Steve’s cock is buried so deeply inside of you.
And it is deep; he’s not pulling out as much anymore, holding you still, fucking into in long, punctuated thrusts, never once leaving you empty. He grinds into you in a concentrated effort now that the vibrator’s on you, careful not to knock it off.
“You gonna come for me?” he grunts to you, disheveled in a way so unlike Steve that it threatens to unravel you. His perfectly styled hair is in ruins lying across his forehead from you and Bucky’s fingers, scratch marks across his chest, a red flush working its way down from there with his restraint. His want.
You nod, trying and failing to form the words. Bucky, as if reading your mind, kicks the vibrator up just one more notch and presses.
“Oh, fuck,” Steve shudders, fucking you harder. “M’not—not gonna last. God, you—you’re squeezing me so fuckin’ tight, baby.”
“Yeah? Is he right, sweetheart? You feelin’ real good? I got this in the right place?” Bucky asks above you.
You nod, blurry with tears and pleasure. “Don’t—don’t stop.”
“Nobody’s stoppin’, honey. Promise. Not ‘til you come for us again.”
You don’t wait for a command or a cue, can’t even wait to make sure that Steve’s there with you before you go tumbling over the edge again. The orgasms with the vibrator are sharper and more sudden, rolling over you in waves. You say their names this time, repeating them as you whimper and squirm between the onslaught of Steve’s cock and the toy, caught in an endless loop of pleasure.
This one doesn’t last as long, but you’re slower to come back from it. Once your body stops rolling with the last dredges of your orgasm, you feel little things—Steve’s tight grip around your waist, his teeth in your shoulder, the added weight and wetness between your legs as he fucks himself through his own orgasm into the condom. Bucky’s hands still in your hair, his voice praising both of you, the fixed points at the edges of his smile.
You stay like that for seconds, minutes, you aren’t sure, basking in the aftermath of it. It’d been unexpectedly intense, and you’re once again glad that this is them and not anybody else, content to let yourself float in it for a minute before you have to be coherent again.
Steve eases off of you slowly, carefully, mindful of your sensitive and spent body as he pulls up and out of you. The emptiness this time around feels more severe, and you’re embarrassed at the noise you make and the fact that Steve has to reach down and curl three fingers back into you until it feels like less of a loss.
You aren’t certain how long it’s like that—Bucky stroking over your arms, your legs, your thighs, Steve’s fingers gently fucking into you without purpose until your body is more okay with letting him go. Even then there’s a smoothness to it all, a system with you in the center.
Steve gets up to toss the condom and grab another water while Bucky pushes the last of the other one to your lips and helps you finish it. Awareness begins to trickle in again, your muscles a little sore and the wet spot on the bed less than ideal underneath you, but Bucky remains a solid, sturdy weight at your side.
Bucky, who’s still achingly hard against his own hip and hasn’t made a single move to do anything about it. He could’ve fucked your mouth while Steve was fucking you, could have gotten himself off with his own hand and come on your chest. It’s not like you would have said no.
But he hadn’t done any of that, because you had a plan, and because he’s more polite than any of you give him credit for apparently.
Roll you over. Slip into you, nice and easy. Fuck you deep enough that you can feel me right here.
Lazily, you roll off of Bucky’s thigh and into a dry spot on the sheets, laying your cheek against the pillow to look up at him. He really is handsome, his hair and his face and his body and his heart, and you want him just as badly as you wanted Steve. You still do, if he’ll have you.
You reach blindly across the bed to grab his hand and tug. He leans on an elbow beside you obligingly, running a hand up your spine. When you make another noise, he finally undoes the clasp that’d been barely holding your bra still on you all night, and the straps fall open, baring your back to him fully.
“You wanna sleep, sweetheart?”
You shake your head, fumbling for his wallet on the corner of the nightstand. You’re still shaking a little but you manage it, flipping one side open and pulling another condom out with two of your fingers to hand back to him.
With the audacity to look surprised, Bucky glances at you, wide eyed. He leans closer, stroking a hand down the back of your head. “Still want me?”
You nod against the pillow, slipping one of your arms beneath your head. “Just—slow.”
“‘Course,” Bucky agrees.
He arranges you so you don’t have to move anymore, letting your head stay comfortable while he nudges your hips up onto a pillow and into place for him. You’re already wet and open and ready for him and you hope the thought is as exciting to him as it is to you, that he’s been waiting for this as much as you have.
Distantly, you register movement. The condom being ripped open, footsteps returning, soft voices, the bed creaking under new weight. With anyone else, you would’ve had to be on high alert. Wouldn’t have trusted them to be so vulnerable with. You’re not scared with Steve and Bucky.
As if proving the point, your body opens for him easily when he presses inside. You’d liked seeing Steve face to face but this way everything is so much tighter, warmer, softer around the edges, every inch of Bucky’s body pressed against yours keeping you anchored to the bed. He’s not as long as Steve but he makes up for it in thickness, the weight of him filling you like pressing on a lovebite you don’t want to fade.
He pauses for a minute when he’s settled to the hilt, just holding you. Your breathing syncs, heart rates much calmer now, and you welcome him in so much that you think you could nearly fall asleep if he held still long enough.
And then he moves.
An arm tucked underneath your shoulders and another keeping a forearm pressed into the pillow beside your head for leverage, Bucky doesn’t bother with the rough fucking Steve had given you. He hardly pulls out much at all. Instead, he grinds into you in steep, slow circles, making sure that neither of you miss any fleeting detail. It’s the most quiet you think he’s ever been around you before, both of you listening, moving, communicating with each other in a way you haven’t before.
The angle is so different than being on your back. The times you’ve been on your front before were all hands and knees, nothing like this; not the intimate press of a warm chest to your bare shoulder blades, not an open palm against the thud of your heartbeat, not with anyone close enough to feel the reactions of what they were doing to your body.
It builds quickly this time, and without any conscious effort. You lean gratefully into Steve’s fingers when they move your hair from your face, but otherwise, you’re overwhelmed by nothing but Bucky. He’s thorough and attentive, seemingly conscious of the same approaching crescendo as you are. You can believe it, after making him wait all night.
Bucky moves your hair from your shoulders too, kisses the curve of your neck, your shoulder, the first notches of your spine. The hand on your chest rises briefly to hold your throat again, keeping you steady as he rocks into you over and over again.
There’s a subtle tremble in the strength he uses to hold himself above you, a few last strings that need cutting. He’s still taking care of you.
The pillow propping your hips up gives enough room to reach underneath and touch yourself, but it’s not your hand that you want there.
Lifting your tired limbs, you shift your arm until you can wrap your fingers around Bucky’s wrist that’s around your chest. You drag it down between your hips and push it where you need it, Bucky’s rough fingers finding your throbbing clit with ease.
Relief rolls over you at the intensity of it. You don’t have much energy except to tilt your hips back and try to move them back and forth between Bucky’s cock and his fingers, but it’s enough.
The angle’s better and Bucky slides into you even deeper, his helpless groans matching pitch with your frantic whimpers. It’s not going to take much this time, not with so much build up, and when you feel Bucky’s thighs begin to shake around yours where he’d shoved one up at to the side, you tighten around him, the contractions of your muscles drawing your own orgasm to the surface.
Bucky takes your jaw in his hand as you come one last time, his fingers spreading out over your face to hold you while he fucks you through his simultaneous release. It’s the least intense one of the night but your tired body feels every ebb and flow of it, clutching onto every part of Bucky you can with how much it rocks you, makes you feel vulnerable.
He keeps you steady through it, boxed in in his arms just like when you were dancing earlier. Even when you’re both finally through the aftershocks he stays there inside of you, lips pressed against your shoulder, hand tucked underneath your cheek.
He leans up just enough to press a kiss there too when he eventually lifts himself off of you, and you can feel Steve at the ready with a cool rag to wipe you down. It’s not as good as a shower would be but there’s no way you have the energy for that right now. You appreciate the change in temperature and the gentle treatment as your body winds down from the rush of endorphins you’d flooded it with, and when you’re mostly clean, Steve helps you sit up and slip on Bucky’s shirt while Bucky strips the sheets and tosses a clean blanket over the mattress.
You settle in between both of them, already nearly asleep when you curl against Bucky’s front and feel Steve slip an arm around you from behind. Bucky’s the last one to talk, thick with sleep and something else you can’t name just yet.
“Thank you, sweet girl.”
You press an open mouthed kiss against his chest in response. You’d missed his voice.
Brendan (and the rest of the campus, for that matter), are all shocked to find out that the school’s biggest brat and its equally notorious playboys are all in a relationship. Even more so when it lasts through another semester and after graduation, too.
You’re not, though. They’d been wrong about all three of you, so it makes sense they’d be wrong about this too. You’ve stopped caring so much about proving people wrong, especially when you have so many other things to put your focus toward.
Nudging open the door of your apartment with your shoe, you let yourself inside and set the last moving box down by the dining room table. You smile at the sketchbook that’s been left out, a rough drawing of Bucky on one side, you on the other.
“Okay, I think that’s everything,” Bucky announces, falling back onto your couch.
“Until we have to move everything up another floor next week,” Steve reminds him, gulping down water from your sink. Bucky groans.
“Don’t fuckin’ remind me.” He tosses an arm over his eyes dramatically. “You sure we can’t just live here, sweetheart?”
“Yes,” you answer immediately. “The size of your unit is practically double mine. If anything, I would be moving in with you.”
Peeling his arm away, Bucky gives you a mischievous grin. “Now there’s an idea.”
You laugh, walking over to him. “Easy, tiger. One thing at a time.”
“Oh? S’that the plan now?”
You settle on his lap, both of you sweaty from moving their boxes to your place temporarily. The window Steve cracked isn’t doing much in the way of cooling you down, but you sort of like the way Bucky’s hands feel like brands on your hips.
“No plans. We’re going with the flow, remember?”
“Ah, that’s right.” He nods, thumbing at your lip. “Does the flow entail us takin’ a break so I can get this mouth on me again?”
“Horny jar,” you say at the same time as Steve, both of you grinning at Bucky’s groan.
“I’m not using that damn jar anytime I want my girl,” Bucky complains. “I’d be broke.”
“Yeah, but we’d have rent covered for the first, like, three months at least,” Steve reasons.
Tossing an arm over the back of the couch to flip him the middle finger, Bucky uses his other hand to curve around your neck and pull you down to his mouth. He kisses you deep, slow, as lazy as the heat in the apartment, and your sore muscles go slack against him.
“Maybe we can take a little break before trying to organize everything,” you tell him.
With a cheer, Bucky lifts you clean off the couch and sets you on the ground, spinning you in his arms. “Fuck yeah. You have the best ideas. I love you.”
He kisses you again, but both of you pause when you realize what he just said. You glance from Bucky to Steve, who’s already looking over at you from the kitchen, equally frozen.
“Uh,” Bucky says. “Hey, so. I love you?”
Your mouth splits into a slow grin when he doesn’t retract it but tells you again, and you laugh as you lean up to kiss him again.
“I love you too.”
His arms slip around your waist, keeping your mouths together as he walks you back toward your bed. You can hear Steve clearing your pathway, then finally feel him against you once you hit the mattress.
“I guess Buck beat me to it,” he smiles, “but I love you, too.”
“Well, I love you…three?” you ask, giddy as you pull him down against you.
“So much love,” Steve murmurs against your mouth. “Does this mean we have to start a love jar now?”
“Nah,” Bucky insists, stripping out of his shirt. “We’d lose count.”
The three of you collapse into a pile in the center of your mattress in a happy heap, all smiles and wandering hands, and you think, as Steve peels his borrowed boxers down your legs with your shorts, that this is the best you’ve ever felt in a relationship in your life.
When you feel safe enough, you’ve discovered, you kind of like not having a plan.
They settle in around you easily, slotting into place, and stay.
݈݇— pairings: Ex-BF!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader
݈݇— themes: Porn with plot and feelings, Exes-to-Lovers, mild angst with happy ending. no use of y/n. soft!dom, pet names: baby, dirty girl. couch sex, make-up sex, emotional sex, gentle to rough, foreplay, dry humping, nipple play, oral (m receiving), ball play, swallowing, bodyworship, dick slaps, multiple orgasms, breeding talks, unprotected p i v, mating press, creampie, dirty talk, size difference, aftercare, accidental exhibitionsism.
݈݇— summary: Bucky texted you and he needs you to come pick up your clothes from his house. You haven't seen or talked to him in a month, so why are you nervous?
A/N: Based on the song, Folded By Kehlani. Listen to it on repeat while reading, up to you. BUT GOD I AM OBSESSED WITH THIS SONG. DO NOT READ IF YOU"RE UNDER 18.
Your knock sounded sharp, insistent, echoing in the quiet Brooklyn brownstone on this frigid New Year’s morning. Exactly one month since you walked out of this very door, telling yourself it was for good.
There’s a pause. Footsteps. The soft thud of movement inside. And then—his voice, muffled through the door.
“Yeah—hang on.”
Your stomach flips. Stupid. It’s been a month. You should be over this.
The door swings open, and there he is.
He looks… different. The scruff along his jaw is trimmed now, like he finally bothered to care for it. His hair’s a little longer, tucked behind his ears, a few strands escaping around his face.
The black compression shirt he’s wearing stretches tight across his chest and shoulders, the kind of bulk that says he’s spent the last thirty days punishing himself in the gym instead of texting you.
You hate how your brain immediately supplies: He’s been working out to forget me. Or getting ready for someone else. The thought stings more than the January air.
And now you have to force your eyes back to his face while his blue eyes flick over you once, quick, then linger.
“Hey,” he says, voice softer than you remember.
“Hey.” You manage a smile that feels brittle. “Happy New Year.”
“Yeah. You too.” He steps back, holding the door wider. “Come in. It’s freezing out there.”
You stay planted on the threshold.
“It’s fine,” you say with your best casual voice. “I’ll wait here.”
Bucky’s brows pull together for half a second. He wets his lips and tilts his head—and lets out a quiet, almost sheepish breath.
“Oh. Uh…” He glances over his shoulder at the box, then back at you. “I was thinking… maybe you’d wanna come in and look around? Just in case I missed something.”
His tone is careful, like he’s testing thin ice.
“Sure, whatever. I can do that.”
You take off your scarf, and hang it on the coathanger as he closes the door behind you with a quiet click.
He clears his throat, hands shoving into the pockets of his sweatpants. “I, uh… got everything together. Put it in a box. Figured that’d be easier.”
You stand there in the living room, the familiar scent of his cologne in the air. Your fingers linger on the edge of the box as you peer inside—everything folded with that precise, military neatness he always had. Your favorite mug is wrapped carefully in newspaper. Your toothbrush in its little travel case. The books you’d left on the nightstand, spines aligned perfectly.
Behind you, his voice is low, careful. “I put the stuff I bought for you in there too. Intimates, jewelry—all of it. It’s yours. Do whatever you want with it… throw it out, sell it, burn it, your choice.”
The words hit like a slap you didn’t see coming. You swallow hard, throat raw. “I thought you already did.”
A long, heavy silence. Then the scrape of his hand over his face, a sound so tired it makes your chest ache.
“You know I didn’t mean that,” he says, voice cracking on the last word.
You shrug, gripping the box flap until the cardboard bites into your fingers. “Didn’t sound like it at the time.”
Another beat of silence—thick, suffocating.
“You said you were leaving,” he says, quieter now, closer. “You said you were done with me. And then you were gone. I sat in this apartment for weeks staring at your side of the bed like a fucking idiot, waiting for a text that never came. I was angry. I was hurt. So yeah—I said shit to hurt you back. And I’ve hated myself for it every single day since.”
Your eyes burn. You’ve pictured him moving on a thousand times—new girl, new life, your stuff in the trash without a second thought. Hearing he didn’t… hearing he’s been suffering too… it doesn’t fix anything. It just makes the ache sharper.
He keeps going, voice barely above a whisper. “I saw your posts. You looked… happy. Smiling in every photo. And I kept thinking—good. Good, she’s better off. She’s free of me. Because I know what I am. I know I’m difficult. I know I shut down when the work gets bad. I know I’m not easy to love.” A ragged breath. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to walk on eggshells. I’m sorry I ever made you feel small. I just… I miss you so much it’s hard to breathe sometimes. And it doesn’t matter now, does it?”
Your vision blurs. You turn to face him slowly.
He’s standing a few feet away, shoulders curled inward like he’s bracing for a blow, eyes red-rimmed, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping. His hand is still half-raised from scrubbing over his face, like he forgot what to do with it.
The words hang between you, ugly and honest. You want to scream at him. You want to hit him. You want to disappear.
Instead you whisper, “It doesn’t matter now.”
You bend, haul the box up—heavier than your heart—and head for the door.
“Oh come on.” His voice cracks fully this time. Footsteps quick and panicked. “I’m trying here. I’m sorry. I mean it.”
Heavy footsteps follow you to the door.
“I didn’t ask you to come get your clothes today because I wanted you gone,” he says, raw. “I asked because it was an excuse to see you again. One more time. Even if it hurt.”
You’re almost at the entryway when he steps in front of you, blocking the narrow hall.
Gently, firmly, he lifts the box from your arms and sets it down.
His hands settle on your shoulders, trembling.
His eyes are glassy and pleading. “If you’re really done… if you don’t love me anymore… say it. Say it to my face, and I’ll let you walk out that door and I’ll never bother you again. I swear.”
You stare up at him. Those blue eyes—stormy, wrecked, more open than you’ve ever seen them. A month of distance collapses into this single moment, and it hurts so much you can barely breathe.
A broken laugh escapes you. “You’re cruel,” you whisper, voice shaking. “You know I can’t.”
Tears spill hot down your cheeks. You try to turn away, but his hand cups your face, thumb brushing the tears like he’s afraid you’ll shatter.
“Look at me,” he whispers again, closer now, forehead almost touching yours. “Tell me you’re done. Tell me you don’t love me. And I’ll let you go. Even if it fucking kills me.”
You crumble.
“How can I—” The words rip out of you, raw and ragged. “I love you. God, Bucky, I love you, you’re so—”
His lips crash onto yours like he’s been starving for this—for you—in the last thirty days. His tongue sliding against yours, claiming every inch of your mouth like he’s trying to erase the distance, the fight, the silence.
His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing away the tears tracking down your cheeks, but he doesn’t gentle the kiss—if anything, he deepens it, stealing the air from your lungs until your head spins harder and black spots dance at the edges of your vision.
You melt into him, helpless. Your hands fist in the front of his compression shirt, pulling him closer even as your knees threaten to buckle.
A soft, desperate sound escapes your throat and he swallows it, pressing you back until your shoulders meet the nearby wall.
A low sound rumbles in his throat as the contact ignites—chest to chest, hips to hips—and you feel the shudder that rolls through him.
One of his thighs slides between yours, pinning you there, and the solid weight of him is overwhelming—broad chest, corded arms, the new muscle he’s built like armor against the world without you.
His hands leave your face, skating down your neck, over your coat, until he’s gripping your waist and lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrap around his hips on instinct, the box forgotten on the floor.
He murmurs something wordless against your lips before he nips gently at your bottom one, teasing, testing. The bite is soft, then sharper, a sweet sting that he immediately soothes with a slow, languid kiss. Again and again—bite, kiss, savor—until your lips are swollen and tingling and you’re arching into him without meaning to.
You open for him without hesitation, and his tongue slips inside again, tangling with yours in a slow, sensual dance until you’re breathless.
It emboldens him; you feel it in the way his grip tightens.
He tenses, every muscle coiling as he presses forward, the kiss turning firmer, more insistent. His mouth moves over yours—angling, retreating, claiming, wringing pleasure from you in gasps you can’t hold back.
His body hardens against yours, arousal throbbing hot and demanding between your legs. Another low moan escapes him as he rocks subtly into you, the friction sending white-hot sparks racing up your spine.
The need builds too fast, too fierce, until you both rip apart at the same moment—lips parting with a suction that echoes in the charged silence. You're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, eyes locked in a haze of raw want.
"Can we..." you gasp, voice husky, barely recognizable, "do this somewhere more comfortable?"
A rough chuckle rumbles from his chest, vibrating against you. "God, yes."
He doesn't let go. His mouth crashes back to yours in a searing kiss, hungry and laughing all at once, as his hands start working.
Fingers tug at your coat, shoving it off your shoulders; it hits the floor with a soft thud. You stumble backward together, lips barely separating, toward the couch, his hands peeling away layers like he's unwrapping a late christmas present. Your jeans go next—his vibranium fingers cool and precise on the button, flesh hand dragging the denim down your thighs until you kick them free.
By the time you tumble onto the couch, you're straddling him, knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. Your shirt clings to you, the only barrier left, and his sweatpants do nothing to hide the thick, rigid length of him pressing up against your core.
His tongue tangles with yours again, deep and possessive, as the fingers of his right hand trail up the side of your body—mapping every curve. He stops at the swell of your breast, palm cupping it gently, feeling the weight in his hand. A low, guttural groan vibrates against your mouth, and you feel him swell even harder beneath you, his cock straining against the fabric separating you.
“Jesus,” he mutters, voice wrecked, before slipping his hand under your shirt and bra.
Warm flesh meets bare skin as he cups you fully, squeezing with just the right pressure—caressing, kneading—until another groan tears from him, deeper this time, his hips bucking up involuntarily.
His thumb circles your nipple, slow and teasing, and the spark of pleasure shoots straight through you. You gasp into his mouth, arching hard against him, the sudden sting of it making your thighs clench around his.
With a rough tug, he pushes your shirt and bra up, exposing your breast to the cool air—your nipple tight and aching, begging. His eyes darken, devouring the sight.
“Fuck. You are so beautiful—you missed me didn’t you?” he whispers, before lowering his head. His lips brush the sensitive peak in a soft kiss, tongue flicking out to taste you, savoring like you're the sweetest thing he's ever had.
The wet heat of his mouth closes over you fully then—tongue swirling languidly around your nipple, sucking softly, teeth grazing just enough to make you cry out. Pleasure floods you in waves, intense and overwhelming, pooling hot and liquid between your legs.
Every brush of his lips, every pull of his mouth, every gentle scrape of teeth—it's torture, exquisite and unrelenting, building that tight coil inside you until you're trembling, on the edge already from this alone.
His free hand—the vibranium one—slides to your ass, gripping firmly, urging you to move. You grind down on him instinctively, rolling your hips against the hard ridge of his trapped cock. The friction is maddening, and his fingers slip lower behind, stroking you through the thin, soaked fabric of your underwear—teasing your clit in firm circles that match the rhythm of his mouth on your breast.
You moan louder, head falling on the crook of his neck, as he tilts his head to take you deeper—sucking harder, tongue lashing your nipple until it's swollen and throbbing. The dual assault—his mouth devouring your breast, his fingers working you relentlessly while you grind on his thick length—has you shattering toward release, every nerve alight, body slick and desperate for more of him.
Your hips buck harder, desperate and shameless, chasing the pressure of his thigh and of his cock straining against the soft fabric of his sweatpants. Every roll drags the seam over your aching clit, amplified by the circles of his vibranium fingers—cool metal warmed by your heat, slick with how drenched you are.
Bucky pulls off your breast with a wet pop, lips shiny, eyes dark and feral as he watches you unravel. His breath fans hot over the sensitive, swollen peak he just abandoned.
“You gonna come?” he rasps, voice low and wrecked, thumb pressing firmer against your clit in a ruthless rhythm that matches the grind of your hips. “Come on me, baby. Let me feel you soak through everything. I want it fucking dripping down my thigh.”
The words hit like a spark to gasoline. Your body locks up—back arching, nails digging into his shoulders—as the orgasm slams into you, sharp and blinding. A broken cry tears from your throat, hips jerking helplessly against him while you pulse and clench around nothing.
He doesn’t let up, fingers working you through it, drawing it out until you’re trembling, oversensitive, gasping his name.
“Yeah, baby—say my name just like that,” Bucky groans, voice thick and ragged as your cries echo his name again and again through the aftershocks. His vibranium hand slides up your thigh, fingers tracing the slick mess you’ve made. He glances down, eyes darkening at the dark wet patch spreading across his gray sweatpants. “Fuck, look at my pants. Jesus Christ, you soaked right through ‘em.”
He lets out a low, wrecked laugh, forehead pressed to yours for a beat before he pulls back just enough to growl, “Let me just—”
He reaches behind his head and yanks the compression shirt off, tossing it aimlessly. His hair falls messier across his forehead, chest rising and falling hard, every new ridge of muscle on display from the last month of brutal workouts. You’re already helping him, hands greedy at the waistband of his sweatpants, shoving them down caught in the frenzy until they pool at his ankles. He steps out of them, kicking them aside.
You drop lower, mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down his neck, across the broad plane of his chest, tongue flicking over a nipple just to hear him hiss. Then lower, over the cut lines of his abs, tasting salt and warm skin. Your tongue darts out again, tracing the between the V that disappears below, and he drags a hand over his face with a muffled, “God, you’re so fucking sexy doing it like that.”
He looks back down, blue eyes blown wide and hungry.
You chuckle low, the sound vibrating against his skin as your hand slips under the last scrap of fabric—his boxers—palming the heavy length of him. He tenses, abs flexing under your lips, a sharp inhale whistling through his teeth. You tug the waistband down slow enough to tease, and his cock springs free—thick, flushed, curving up toward his stomach with a bead of precum already glistening at the tip.
You lean in, lips parting, and take just the head into your mouth—slow, luxuriant, tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge.
He twitches hard against your tongue, a guttural “Ohh baby—” ripping out of him as his hips jerk forward involuntarily. You feel him swell even fuller in the wet heat of your mouth, hardening impossibly in seconds like his body’s been waiting a month for this exact moment.
You work lower, taking more of his shaft inch by inch until your lips meet your fingers wrapped around the base, then slide back up, hollowing your cheeks, tongue lavishing the head again with greedy circles. You pull off just long enough to look up at him through your lashes, lips shiny and swollen, a wicked little smile curving your mouth.
The look on his face—brows pinched tight, jaw clenched like he’s in pain, eyes dark and desperate—tells you everything. It’s definitely been a while.
Your free hand cups his balls, heavy and drawn up tight, rolling them gently, tugging just enough to make him throw his head back with a broken curse, vibranium fingers tangling in your hair.
“Shit—I’m so sensitive,” he rasps, voice cracking, looking down again with that wild, pleading edge. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”
You pull off him with a lewd, wet pop. His cock—glistening thick and slick from your mouth—bobs heavily in front of your face, flushed dark and veined, a string of saliva still connecting your bottom lip to the swollen tip.
You let out a low, throaty giggle, eyes locked on his as you tilt your head and stick your tongue out flat. Then you guide his length with your hand, slapping the heavy weight of it against your tongue once, twice, three times—hard enough to make wet, filthy smacks, precum and spit smearing across your taste buds and chin in shiny streaks.
Bucky’s breath punches out of him in a shocked laugh as he stares down at the sight, vibranium fingers tightening in your hair.
“Holy shit,” he rasps, voice wrecked and incredulous, a dazed grin pulling at his mouth. “You dirty fucking girl.”
You hum, pleased and wicked, letting the head rest heavy on your outstretched tongue again, giving it a slow, lick from base to tip while you look up at him through wet lashes.
His thighs flex hard, abs clenching, and a low, desperate groan rumbles out of his chest.
“Baby,” he warns, hips shifting forward just an inch—like he’s already fighting not to thrust. “You keep playing like that and I’m not gonna last.”
You pull back just enough, lips brushing the sensitive underside as you murmur, voice husky and teasing, “Good. You can come in my mouth.”
The words hit him like a punch—his eyes flare wide, dark blue gone almost black, a ragged “Fuck—” punching out of him as his cock jerks hard against your lips. You don’t wait for more; you sink down again, taking him deep in one smooth glide until he hits the back of your throat. Your hand works the base in tight, twisting strokes while the other keeps teasing his balls, rolling them gently, feeling how tight and full they are.
He’s unraveling fast—head falling back, throat working on a swallow, a string of broken curses spilling out as his hips start to rock in shallow thrusts he can’t quite control.
“God, your mouth—feels so fucking good,” he pants, looking down again with that pinched, wrecked expression, like pleasure’s bordering on pain. “Not gonna… fuck, baby, I’m close—”
You hear the warning in his voice, feel it in the way his cock throbs heavier against your tongue, but it only spurs you on.
You double down—suction tightening, cheeks hollowing as you bob faster, hand twisting in that perfect corkscrew motion guys swear by, the one that strokes him root to tip in sync with your mouth. Your tongue presses flat against the sensitive frenulum on every upstroke, flicking quick, while your other hand never stops its worship of his balls—rolling them gently, then tugging downward just enough to heighten the pull.
You pull off for a breath, dropping lower to take one ball into your mouth, sucking soft but firm, tongue swirling as your fist pumps his slick shaft in twisting pulls.
His thighs quake harder, a strangled “Fuck—yes—” ripping out as you switch back to his cock, taking him deep again, throat relaxing to swallow around the head while your fingers keep that gentle downward tension on his balls.
His hips stutter, vibranium hand leaving your hair to grip the edge of the couch—his whole body goes rigid, abs clenching visibly as the orgasm barrels through him.
“Shit, I’m gonna come—I’m coming, I’m coming—” he chokes out, and then he’s pulsing hard against your tongue, thick ropes of cum flooding your mouth in hot, heavy spurts. You swallow greedily, milking him with your lips and hand, drawing it out until he’s shuddering violently, a low, broken groan dragging from his chest.
When it finally ebbs, he slumps against the couch, chest heaving, cock slipping from your lips with a wet sound. You sit back on your heels, licking the corner of your mouth, watching him come down with a satisfied little smile.
Bucky drags a shaky hand through his messy hair, letting out a breathless, incredulous laugh—the classic post-nut clarity hitting hard, loose and dazed.
“Where the fuck did you learn that?” he pants, voice hoarse, blue eyes wide and still a little glazed as he stares down at you. Another huff of laughter escapes him, fond and wrecked. “Jesus, baby. You trying to ruin me for good?”
He reaches down, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip, smearing the gloss there like he can’t help himself.
You lick your lips slowly, tasting him still, and meet his glazed eyes with a soft, teasing smile.
“Just my way of saying sorry to you. . .” you murmur, voice husky from everything you just did to him.
Bucky’s breathless laugh turns darker and hungrier. He sinks fully onto the couch now, legs spread, chest still heaving as he reaches for you with both hands, pulling you up from your knees.
“Come here,” he says, low and rough, patting his thigh. “Sit on me. I’m not done with you yet.”
His cock rests heavy against his stomach, semi-soft and glistening from your mouth, twitching faintly like it’s already eager for round two. You don’t hesitate—clothes half-shed, you strip off what’s left.
You know exactly what he loves, what gets him hard again.
Lowering yourself slowly, you drag your bare, soaked pussy along his length—just slick skin on skin. The head of his cock nudges your clit on the first pass, and you both groan at the contact. You rock forward again, grinding slow and languid, coating him in your wetness, feeling him thicken and harden beneath you with every slide.
Bucky’s head falls back against the couch for a second, eyes hooded, before he snaps his gaze down to watch—transfixed by the sight of your folds parting around his shaft, gliding up and down, your arousal making everything shiny and messy.
“Oh my God,” he hisses through clenched teeth, hips lifting just slightly to chase the friction. “That’s it… just like that.”
You guide his hands up to your breasts, pressing them into his palms, and he doesn’t need more invitation. His flesh hand cups one, thumb circling the nipple before pinching while the vibranium one mirrors the motion on the other, cool metal warming fast against your skin. He tugs and rolls your nipples between his fingers, twisting just hard enough to make you gasp and grind down firmer, your clit dragging along his now fully hard length.
Every rock of your hips pulls a low rumble from his chest, his cock throbbing hot and rigid between your folds, precum mixing with your slickness until you’re both dripping.
“God, look at you,” he breathes, voice gravel-rough, eyes dark as he watches himself disappear and reappear between your lips with every roll. “Using that pretty pussy to get me hard again…”
You nod slowly, breath hitching as you grind down one last time, feeling him throb fully hard and ready between your slick folds.
“How do you want me?” you ask, voice soft and needy, eyes locked on his.
Bucky’s lips curve into a wolfish smile.
“How do I want you?” he echoes, voice low and rough, vibranium hand sliding down to grip your hip possessively. “I want you under me, baby. Ankles right beside your ears.” His eyes darken further, thumb stroking your skin. “How do you want to take it? Rough? Slow?”
You lean in, pecking his lips quick and teasing, a breathless laugh escaping you. “That’s up to you.”
His brows lift, surprise flickering before that hungry edge sharpens again. “You really trusting me to leave it up to me?” He swallows hard, throat working, gaze searching yours for a beat—like he’s making sure. Then he exhales, soft and resolute. “Alright. We can take it slow.”
He shifts, strong arms lifting you effortlessly as he moves you both to the chaise end of the sectional, laying you back against the soft leather. The cool surface contrasts with the heat of your skin, and he settles between your thighs, nudging them wider with his knees.
“Get in position for me,” he murmurs, voice deep and commanding, sending a shiver straight through you. “Ankles up by your ears. And spread that pretty pussy—use your fingers on both sides of your lips. Show it to me.”
You obey without hesitation, legs folding back until your ankles frame your face, knees splayed wide. Your hands slide down, fingers parting your slick, swollen folds, baring yourself completely—glistening, aching, dripping for him.
Bucky groans low and guttural, eyes locked on you like he’s starving. “Fuck, look at that… I just wanna eat that pussy, but next time—right now, I need to fuck you.”
He leans over you, one hand bracing beside your head, the other guiding his thick cock. He slaps it against you once, twice—wet, heavy thuds that make you gasp and clench around nothing. Then the broad head teases you—rubbing slow circles over your clit, then dragging down to nudge your entrance.
He presses in just barely, stretching you open an inch before pulling back. Again—deeper, teasing—until he surges forward in one controlled thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
The stretch is overwhelming, his thick length splitting you wide as your walls flutter and grip him. A muffled moan tears from your throat; his rumbles deep in his chest, ragged and desperate.
“Oh fuck—” he murmurs, forehead dropping to yours.
He stills, hips flush, letting you feel every pulsing inch—impossibly deep in this folded position, the head kissing your cervix until your toes curl beside your ears.
Then he pulls back slow, dragging every ridge along your walls, before slamming home again. Each thrust jolts through you, wet slaps echoing, your slick coating him, dripping where you’re joined. His hands grip your thighs, keeping you pinned open, helpless to his rhythm.
“Look at you,” he rasps between thrusts, voice wrecked, eyes flicking from your face to where he disappears into you. “Taking me so deep… feel how full you are, baby?”
His control frays—breaths rougher, hips snapping harder as you gasp, “Fuck me like that.” Sweat beads on his skin, vibranium hand tightening on your thigh.
He locks eyes with you. “Look down,” he orders, gravel-rough. “Watch me fuck this pretty pussy. Watch how you take every inch.”
You obey, gaze dropping to where your folds stretch tight around his glistening shaft, swallowing him whole on every sink.
“That’s it,” he growls, pace turning heavier, more possessive. He slams deep, grinds slow circles against that spot that sparks stars behind your eyes. “You feel me? Feel how deep I am? I’m not letting you go this time—never again.”
He rasps against your ear, thrusting faster—balls-deep slams marking you inside out. “Gonna fuck a hole inside you only I can fill.”
“Oh God—yes,” you choke out, voice breaking on every word as tears prick your eyes from the intensity.
“Yeah?” His eyes lock on yours, wild and undone, but soft at the edges with everything he hasn’t said in a month. “You want me to give you everything? Want me to knock you up so you never forget who you belong to—who you love?”
You nod frantically, nails raking down his back. “Yes—God, yes—don’t stop—”
“That’s my girl,” he breathes, vibranium hand sliding to your lower belly, pressing just enough for you to feel him moving inside you. “Gonna give you all of me. Gonna love you so fucking deep you’ll feel me for days—every time you move, you’ll know you’re mine.”
His forehead drops to yours, sweat-slick skin sliding, thrusts frantic now—hips snapping, chaise rocking.
“Look at me,” he rasps, cupping your jaw. His blue eyes lock wild and intense. “I love you too—fuck, I love you.”
“I love—”
His mouth crashes onto yours, devouring, tongue thrusting in time with his cock as he ruts like he’s possessed—pouring a month of longing into every slam. His vibranium arm hooks your knee tighter, folding you impossibly deeper.
“Bucky—I’m gonna come—”
He grunts into the kiss, nipping your lip. “Then come. I want that pretty pussy squeezing me first.”
His thumb finds your clit, circling hard in sync with his relentless thrusts—and you shatter.
“Yes—yes—” you cry, walls clenching vise-tight, pulsing around him as pleasure whites out everything. Your nails dig bloody trails down his back; he hisses, thrusts erratic, chasing your climax.
His hips stutter, losing all rhythm as the pressure coils unbearably tight at the base of his spine.
“Fuck—oh fuck—” The words fracture against your neck, muffled and raw. His cock jerks again and again, thick ropes of semen flooding deep in hot, endless surges while he grinds slow circles. Each spasm drags helpless whine from him, hips grinding instinctively, dragging every last shuddering drop as far into you as he can get.
Finally spent, his body sags heavily on top of you—warm, sweat-slick weight pressing you into the chaise cushions, chest heaving with ragged pants against your throat.
You unfold slowly, legs trembling as you lower them, ankles sliding down his sides until your thighs bracket his hips. The shift draws a soft groan from him—cock still buried deep, softening but reluctant to leave, letting gravity ease him out with a warm trickle of your mixed release leaking onto the leather.
Bucky lifts his head just enough to find your mouth, kissing you sweetly—slow, tender presses of his lips, gentle brushes of tongue, no hunger now, only devotion. He trails soft kisses to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the tip of your nose.
He stays close, forehead resting against yours, the faint sheen of sweat cooling between you in the dim glow of the lamps. Those blue eyes, heavy-lidded and unguarded, trace your face like he’s memorizing you all over again.
“I missed you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough with leftover want, thumb stroking slow along your cheekbone. “So fucking much.”
You lean up just enough to brush a soft peck against his lips, lingering there a second before pulling back. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, guilt threading through the words. “I’ll be more mindful when you’re stressed. I didn’t mean to push.”
Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, the sound warm and forgiving as he nuzzles closer, lips grazing yours again. “It’s okay, baby. Honestly? Best kind of stress relief I’ve had in weeks.” The corner of his mouth quirks—that familiar teasing glint flickering back into his eyes. “Might start picking fights on purpose if this is how we make up.”
He steals one more slow, sweet kiss before easing his weight off you. The cool air of the room rushes between your thighs, sticky and sensitive, and he notices the way you shift. “C’mon, let me clean you up.”
Before you can protest, he’s sliding his arms beneath you and lifting you effortlessly against his chest in a bridal carry. You tuck your face into the crook of his neck, legs dangling, still boneless and floating as he pads barefoot across the living room toward the bathroom.
That’s when you glance over his shoulder—and freeze.
The tall brownstone windows are thrown wide open, sheer curtains pushed aside, and directly across the narrow street, in the window of the opposite brownstone, Mrs. Kowalski—the sweet little old lady who always bakes too many cookies and leaves them on Bucky’s stoop—is standing there in her robe, sipping coffee.
She’s holding up both hands, fingers splayed: a perfect 10.
Then she gives an enthusiastic thumbs-up, mouths “Happy New Year!” and adds a cheeky little golf clap.
“Oh my God,” you wheeze, mortified heat flooding your face as you duck your head into Bucky’s neck.
Bucky slows, brow furrowing at the sudden tension in your body. “What?”
“Don’t—don’t turn around,” you hiss, burying your face deeper into his neck. “You’ll flash the entire block.”
Bucky freezes mid-step, confusion flickering before realization hits him like a truck. He’s stark naked, dick out in the breeze, carrying you the same way. His eyes widen, a rare flush creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears—the Winter Soldier actually blushing.
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, shifting his hold on you instinctively to angle his hips away from the window, using your body like a very strategic human shield. He risks one quick, awkward sideways glance—just enough to spot Mrs. K’s scorecard performance—then snaps his gaze forward again, jaw tight and cringing from motification.
Mrs. Kowalski winks, points at you both like a proud matchmaker, and shuffles off—probably to speed dial her bridge club with the gossip of the century.
Bucky exhales a choked laugh, dropping his forehead to your shoulder as his whole body vibrates with it. “Well… at least we got a perfect score?” he manages, voice strained between amusement and genuine mortification. “Fuck, I’m never living this down. She’s gonna tell the whole block I’ve still got it.”
Hey Kinny ! Are you taking requests!? If so would you consider writing a threesome with Nat and Bucky ? In any way you like ! I just think this is soooo fucking hot
mhm.
his girls
18+
bucky's going through a tough divorce. what kind of friends would you and natasha be if you didn't try your best to make him feel better?
content warning: nat x reader x bucky, smut (mff threesome, dom!reader x sub!nat, oral sex, voyeur!bucky, scissoring, fingering, daddy kink, blowjob, penetrative sex, cum eating), fluff.
i think this is the hottest thing i've ever written
"I'm bored," Natasha whispers into your ear while you take a long sip of wine. "Let's go upstairs."
Looking around the room, you smirk at her. "Everyone already thinks we're fucking. You really wanna fuel the rumors by sneaking upstairs during a party?"
She rolls her eyes. "This is not a party; it's just Steve's attempt at showing off his big, new house while everyone rides his dick about how amazing it is. Let's at least put it to use," She suggests, tracing her fingers up your bare arm. "I'm bored."
Glancing up at the bar, you see Bucky and Sam sharing muttered words over beers. You sigh and look back at Natasha. "I'm glad Bucky's here. I was starting to think he'd never leave his house again."
"Well, that's divorce for you. At least he's gotten through the ugliest part," She says with a shrug, before gripping your arm. "Now, come on."
"What exactly do you wanna do upstairs, hmm?" You ask her teasingly.
She smirks, leaning closer and muttering, "Things I'd rather do to you than say to you."
You pout at that. "But you know how much I like dirty talk, baby."
Taking your hand, she places it on her upper thigh, sliding it under the hem of her dress before coyly whispering, "I'll let you choke me."
Within minutes, you're upstairs in one of the spare rooms with Natasha, lying on the bed while she looks around the room.
"You think any of this shit belongs to the previous owners?" She asks as she looks at the trinkets on the book shelf, before shuddering. "They died in this house, you know."
"Cool," You say dryly, sitting up. "Come sit on my face."
Immediately, she lets out a shocked laugh, raising a brow. "Yeah?" Natasha asks, slowly walking over to the bed and kneeling onto it. "Whatever happened to 'friends don't fuck'?"
You shrug, "I've never had a friend that looks like you. You make me wanna break the rules, Tasha."
She crawls up to where you're lying, sitting on her knees beside you. "I don't know," She says lowly. "I don't want you to do something you regret."
Leaning up to her, you lower your voice. "If you don't suffocate me between your thighs right now, I'll die here, just like the previous owners. Is that what you want?"
Natasha bites her lip. "Are you sure about this, honey? What if-"
"Tasha, I need you to cum on my face," You tell her gravely. "Now."
Not one to waste time, or a good opportunity, she rolls up her dress and throws her leg over you. You pull her panties to the side and impatiently latch your mouth onto her clit, sucking and toying with it.
"Oh, my God," She cries, grabbing onto the headboard as she rides your face. "So fuckin' good."
You bring your fingers up to play with her pussy as you pull away to say, "That's it, baby, ride my face like a good little slut."
She shudders above you, rolling her hips while crying out your name. You poke your tongue into her entrance, letting her juices soak your face as you take in her sweet taste.
Bucky can't help but stand at the door and watch.
He didn't come upstairs with the intention of being a pervert, but when he heard the pretty noises Natasha was letting out, he had to see it for himself. And boy, is he glad he came. Knowing it's wrong and that he shouldn't be eavesdropping on his good friends in this way only makes his cock harder, and he has to bite his lip to hold back his own moans.
"Cumming!" Natasha cries as she gushes all over your face, squeezing her thighs together. You can't breathe, but you don't care. Your tongue continues to lap at her cunt as she shakes, letting out weak whimpers.
Giving her another spank, you grab her by the hips before throwing her back down onto the bed. You peel off your dress while she takes off her own, both of you rushing to get naked.
Bucky doesn't remember exactly when it happened, but at some point, his hand wrapped around his throbbing cock. He lets out a heavy breath when he sees you spreading apart Natasha's legs and kneeling between them, his eyes widening. Are you about to-
Oh, God.
Your clit rubs against Natasha's as you grind against her, pulling one of her legs to rest on your shoulder. Slowly, you thrust against her, the both of you letting out harmonious moans while your tits bounce.
This is the single greatest thing Bucky Barnes has ever witnessed.
He's tempted to take out his phone and film you scissoring, but he doesn't want to risk getting caught.
"Just like that," Natasha whimpers, throwing her head back against the mattress. "So good, baby."
"You're so fucking wet for me, Tasha," You groan, pulling her up by her throat. "Your pretty little pussy feels so good on mine."
Sitting up, she latches her mouth onto your hard nipple, sucking it with ardor. You moan loudly at the sensation, bucking your hips faster. By some chance, you glance up at the doorway, your heart skipping a beat when you see Bucky standing there, stroking his cock while he watches you fuck Natasha. He stops his movements, his lips parting in shock.
Oh, shit.
"Hello, there," You greet him with a smirk.
Natasha immediately stops her movements, pulling her head back with wide eyes.
"It's okay, baby," You assure her, stroking her hair. "It's only Bucky."
She lets out a shaky breath at your casual tone, blinking up at you. Nevertheless, she cautiously returns her mouth to your nipple, feeling too good to stop.
You raise a hand up to Bucky before gesturing for him to come closer. "Don't be shy, James," You say reassuringly. "Come in. Join us."
Swallowing thickly, he takes a timid step forward, making you pout.
You roll your hips harder against Nat, moaning at the shooting pleasure. "Come on, Jamie, we know how lonely you've been," You say between gasps. "Let us comfort you, baby."
Turning her head, Natasha stretches her arm out towards him. "Please, daddy?"
This has to be a dream.
Taking another step forward, Bucky closes the door behind him, a bewildered look on his face.
"Take off your clothes," You whisper, continuing to slowly ride Natasha.
He does as you say, unbuttoning his shirt before pulling it off and throwing it on the ground. Next to go are his pants, which he discards in the same way. In nothing but his grey boxers, he kneels onto the bed, staring at the point where your pussy meets Natasha's with astonishment in his eyes.
"C'mere, Bucky baby," You coo, cupping his face in your hand. "Give me a kiss."
Moving closer to you, he complies, kissing you softly. It quickly deepens, and he strokes his tongue with yours before you do the same to him. You take one of his hands and place it on Natasha's breast, making her bite her lip. He expertly begins to play with her nipple while keeping his mouth attached to yours in a sloppy kiss.
You pull away after a few moments, before moving your hips away from Natasha's, making her whine. "Look how wet we are, James," You whisper as his eyes take in the pretty sight. "You wanna feel us?"
Clenching his jaw, he nods.
Natasha and you share a look before sitting back and spreading your legs for him. He lets out a shaky breath, his eyes flickering between your pussies.
Chuckling, you raise a brow. "Spoilt for choice. Where do you wanna go first, Jamie?"
He crawls forward, licking his lips. And then, he strokes his hand up your inner thigh before finding your clit which he begins to rub. You throw your head back in pleasure, delighted to be picked first. Natasha would be jealous if she wasn't so turned on by the sight of Bucky playing with your pussy.
Biting his lip, Bucky glances over at Natasha, needing to feel her, too. In an instant, he takes his hand off of you and starts rubbing her clit, before bringing up his metal fingers to your cunt, instead.
You're incredibly grateful to have his cold, harder fingers on your throbbing clit. You and Natasha sit up as Bucky slowly slides his fingers into you both. A melody of moans escapes your mouths as he starts to finger fuck you, his cock throbbing with the power he feels.
As his fingers curl inside you, you buck your body closer to him, resting your head on his shoulder. Natasha mirrors your movements and the both of you lean on him, moaning and writhing at his hands.
"Just like that, Jamie," You whimper into his ear.
"Yeah?" He mumbles back, fingering you faster. "Making my girls feel good?"
"So good," Natasha purrs, digging her nails into his back. "Being so good to us, daddy."
"Mmm, that's right," He groans, enamored with the feeling of both your cunts tightening around his fingers. "My good little girls."
You shiver as his fingers scissor inside you, spreading you open. Placing your mouth onto his neck, you start to suck on his soft skin, biting and nibbling on it while Natasha does the same. Bucky's eyes roll back as his hips buck forward instinctively, and he speeds up his fingers. When he feels both of your pussies tightening around him, he smirks and throws his head back, ready to feel you cum.
"Let go for me, angels," He growls, kissing your shoulder. "Cum for daddy."
With loud cries, the two of you cum all over his fingers, rolling your hips as the pleasure courses through your veins.
"That's it," He mumbles with a cocky grin. "Good girls."
Feeling weak, you fall back against the mattress, breathing heavily, Natasha remains sitting up, looking up at Bucky with wide eyes as she slowly pulls down his boxers. His thick, hard cock springs out, glistening with pre cum.
"Looks pretty enough to eat," You say coyly, sitting up and taking Natasha's hand in yours. "Good thing we know how to share."
You lead Natasha off the bed, where you both sink to the ground on your knees. Bucky is quick to follow suit, sitting on the edge of the bed after pulling off his boxers. Leaning up, you wrap your hand around the base of his cock, making him shudder.
"Fuck," He whispers as his eyes darken. "In your mouth, baby."
Obediently, you open your mouth wide to take in his dick, wrapping your lips around the tip before allowing the rest to sink into your throat. Bucky lets out a loud groan while Natasha watches you with an awe-struck look in her eyes. You suck him a few times before pulling your mouth off of him and looking at Natasha.
"Go ahead, baby," You invite her slyly. "Daddy tastes so good."
Bucky can't believe how lucky he is while he watches you bring Natasha's pretty mouth to his cock, keeping your hand on her throat as she takes in his length. You both look up at him with wide eyes, and he almost cums right then.
"Oh, shit," He moans as Natasha slowly starts sucking him off, running his hand through her red hair. "Just like that, Nat, fuck."
You lean forward and wrap your mouth around his balls, making his body convulse. While Natasha gags on his cock, you suck on his sack, feeling his hand pull on your hair.
"Fuck, you're both so perfect," He mutters, gently thrusting his hips and fucking Natasha's face. "My perfect little girls."
After a few minutes, you and Natasha switch positions, and you're glad for it because the feeling of Bucky's dick gliding down your throat almost makes you cum again. You look up at him at the same moment during which he glances down at you, and you shoot him a wink. He chuckles deeply, stroking your cheek while watching his cock disappear past your lips.
"So fuckin' gorgeous," Bucky mumbles, stroking Natasha's hair at the same time. "God, I'm gonna cum for you, girls."
You gently pull Natasha's head back and the two of you wait eagerly with your mouths wide open, anticipating his cum. Bucky wraps his fist around his dick and strokes himself, groaning at the sight of you two with your tongues out.
"My greedy little sluts," He growls as his chest heaves. "Fuck. Ready for daddy's cum?"
The two of you make eager noises, practically bouncing on your knees with excitement. With a loud grunt, Bucky shoots his load, doing his best to get an even amount onto each of your tongues. Before Natasha closes her mouth to swallow, you grab her face and give her an open-mouthed kiss, tongues sloshing against each other.
Bucky shudders as he sees his cum mix in your mouths and drip down your chins, your whimpers almost immediately making him hard again. "Oh, you dirty, dirty girls," He groans, stroking your hair. You look up at him with a sly look, still playing with Natasha's tongue. Bucky bites his lip and pats his lap. "Come, give daddy a kiss."
You happily oblige, and the two of you climb onto the bed on either side of him, one of you on each of his thighs. He places a hand on the back of your heads before pulling you closer, staring between your mouths. Slowly, the three of you start to lick and suck on each other's tongues, the remnants of Bucky's cum making it the filthiest three-way kiss any of you have ever participated in.
Bucky's cock stirs beneath you, dancing slightly as it bounces against your thigh. Natasha whimpers into the kiss, while you wrap your hand around Bucky's throat.
Pulling away for breath, Bucky has a look of pure adoration in his eyes for the two of you. "This is the greatest night of my fuckin' life," He breathes out.
You smirk at his words, raising a brow. "And you haven't even fucked us, yet."
Something flickers across his eyes as his lips part. Natasha clambers off him and leans back against the headboard, spreading her legs apart. "Me first, daddy," She says slyly, biting down on her lips.
"Fuck," Bucky utters, still in disbelief that this is actually happening. You move to the side, watching as he slowly crawls over to her, stroking his hardening cock while staring at her pussy. "Want me inside you, Nat?"
"Please," She cries, bucking her hips up desparately. "I need it, daddy."
"Always knew you were a slut," He mutters before grabbing her by the hips and flipping her onto her stomach. "Arch that back for me, Natasha. Be a good girl."
You bite your lip as you sit back and watch him spank her a couple of times before she gets into position. Without warning, he plunges his cock into her, making her cry out. Once he's built up a rhythm, you move closer to him and start kissing down his jaw.
"Fuck her harder, Jamie," You whisper against her loud moans.
He turns to look you in the eyes, utter bliss on his face. "You like watching me fuck her, baby?"
"Just as much as you liked watching me fuck her," You retort teasingly, rubbing your hands over his nipples. When he shivers at your touch, you rub his nipple again, making him grab your wrist harshly.
"Keep doing that and I swear to God, I'll cum before I get the chance to rail you," He warns you, making you laugh softly. Knowing that he's already cum once, you don't want to push your luck and end up horny and frustrated.
"Right there, daddy!" Natasha screams against the pillow, which muffles her voice. "So fucking deep inside me."
"Does it feel good, being fucked this deep?" Bucky asks her with a cocky smirk as he spanks her again. "You love it, don't you, you slut?"
"Yes, daddy," She answers him obediently, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets beneath her.
You move behind Bucky and wrap your arms around his torso, pressing soft kisses to his back as he slams into her. The sound of their sex amplifies as you shut your eyes, as though you're listening to fucking whale music.
"I'm gonna cum!" Natasha announces, which you take as your cue to lay down next to her. On your back, you turn to her and kiss her cheek, before reaching under her to find her pussy.
Bucky watches with delight as you rub Natasha's clit, making her shake beneath him. "That's it, baby," You coo, stroking her throbbing bud faster. "Cum for us. Show daddy what a good girl you can be."
With that, she lets out a scream and buries her head in the pillow, cumming all over Bucky's cock. He continues to fuck her through her high, taking deep breaths while trying to stave off his own orgasm. Not yet, Bucky. You've still got another pussy to satisfy.
"That's it, Tasha, good girl," You praise her, stroking her hair as she comes down. "Did so well for us."
Bucky pulls out of her before looking down at you with a sly smirk on his lips. Moving closer, he forces your legs apart before slotting himself between them and leaning down. "Are you ready for me, baby?" He asks you softly, sucking on your earlobe.
You shiver, wrapping your arms around him. "Always, Jamie," You reply with need.
He reaches down to line himself up with your cunt before slowly sinking into you, growling in your ear. "So fuckin' tight for me," He grunts once he bottoms out, filling you up like no other. "Shit, can barely fuckin' pull out."
Slowly, he drags his length out of your throbbing cunt before plunging it back in again, immediately hitting your g-spot. You let out a loud cry as he begins pumping in and out of you, letting out groans with each thrust.
"Taking me so well," Bucky praises you, linking his fingers with yours and pinning your hands down above your head. "Daddy's got the best little cocksluts in the world."
At his mention of her, Natasha finally finds the energy to get back up, leaning up to kiss him. He releases one of your hands to wrap his around her throat as their tongues poke and glide into each other's mouths.
"Daddy," You whine, throwing your head back. "Faster."
Bucky happily obliges, pulling away from Natasha and thrusting faster into you. "You like that, baby? Gonna cum for me?"
"Yes, Jamie," You cry, gasping as he starts pinching and pulling on your nipple while Natasha sucks on your neck. In retaliation, you lift up your own fingers to rub his nipples, toying with them and making him shudder.
He falls forward, chuckling between groans. "No fair," He whines, his thrusts becoming sloppy. "You better fuckin' cum with me, baby."
"Promise I will," You say, crying out when Natasha lowers her fingers to your clit. It all becomes too much; her rubbing your bud, Bucky fucking you and his fingers playing with your nipples, and soon, you're letting go and cumming all over him.
"Look at you," Natasha coos in your ear. "You're so pretty when you cum."
Meanwhile, Bucky feels your cunt milking his cock as he cums inside you, grunting as he slams into you a few more times, giving you every last drop. With a heavy sigh, he pulls out, groaning at the sight of his cum dripping out of your pussy.
"Oh, fuck," He whispers, before looking over at Natasha. "Clean her up."
Without skipping a beat, Natasha crawls lower down before licking your cunt. Bucky's cum disappears into her mouth as she laps at your folds, making you shudder as her tongue strokes against your sensitive bud. Once she's done, she pulls back and you sigh with content, your eyes fluttering shut.
"Holy shit," Bucky mutters, lying down next to you. He grabs Natasha and pulls her on top of him as the three of you catch your breaths and try to recover from the intensity of what just happened.
"I didn't know your dick was that big," You admit out loud.
You can feel his chuckles vibrate against your neck. Natasha plays with your hair while saying, "I did. I saw it once, when we were on vacation."
"And you never thought to inform me?" You ask her with a scoff.
She smirks, stroking his chest. "I didn't want to objectify him."
"If this is what objectifying me leads to," Bucky begins, rubbing Natasha's back. "Please, objectify me every day. Every day."
"Noted," You mumble, linking your fingers with his. "You might regret saying that, though. Nat and I are insatiable."
"That's what I'm here for," Bucky states arrogantly, holding you both close to him. "Satisfying my girls."
whew.
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