Ā . ąØą§ Ż ź° Ā ššš šššššš šš šššš šššš Ā ā¹ . bucky x fem!reader. minors are prohibited from interacting.
šarnings 18+ : condom removal (mid-sex), rough sex, overstimulation, no use of y/n, multiple orgasms, possessive dirty talk, light choking, creampie, breeding kink vibes (implied raw filling)
šŖuthorās š·ote : I just canāt help but imagine bucky going absolutly feral when he feels you bare for the first time šµāš«šµāš«šµāš«
The room was humid with heat and sweat, the mattress creaking under your knees as Bucky pounded into you from behind. His vibranium arm pressed into the bed beside your head, his flesh hand locked on your hip, holding you steady while his cock drove in and out with steady, brutal rhythm.
You were dripping, clenching, moaning into the pillow, but it wasnāt enough.
The condom dulled him, dulled you. You wanted the heat of him, the stretch of him raw, every inch of him without the barrier.
āFuck, baby,ā Bucky groaned, leaning down to growl in your ear, āyouāre squeezing me so goddamn tight.ā His chest stuck to your back, breath ragged, hips smacking loud and wet against you. āYou feel so good like thisā¦ā
But you needed more.
With shaky fingers, you reached back, brushing his cock where he split you open. He didnāt notice, too lost in his rhythm, his grunts filling the room. You tugged the base, rolled the condom down, and peeled it off in one messy pull.
The difference was instant.
Bucky froze mid-thrust, his cock twitching inside you. He groaned, a sound deep, broken, almost pained. āDollā¦ what the fuckā¦ā
Then he shoved back into you, raw.
āOh, Jesus Christ,ā he gasped, forehead hitting your shoulder, āoh fuck- oh fuck...ā He bottomed out, bare, hot, thick. His whole body shuddered. āYou took it off?ā
You moaned, arching back into him, walls fluttering around his cock. āI wanted you. All of you. Just you.ā
That snapped him.
He dragged you upright, your back slamming against his chest, one hand in your hair, the other clamped around your throat as he started thrusting again, messy, wet, obscene. The sound of it was different now, slick, raw, filthy.
āFuck me,ā he snarled into your ear, rutting into you hard enough to rattle the headboard. āYou feel.. fuck, you feel so different. Hot. Wet. Bare.ā He groaned, hips stuttering, his teeth grazing your shoulder. āYouāre mine, doll. You hear me? Mine.ā
You could barely form words, choking on moans as he held you wide open, fucking you deeper than before. Every thrust had your body jolting, your thighs shaking.
He lost control completely, dragging you down onto the mattress again, hand pressing into the small of your back, pinning you flat while he fucked into you like a man possessed.
āFeel that?ā he grunted, pounding you open. āThatās me...no rubber, no nothing, just my cock filling you raw. Goddamn it, youāre gonna make me lose my fuckinā mind.ā
You whimpered, nails clawing at the sheets. āYours! Yours, Bucky- fuck!ā
He growled, hips snapping harder, faster, the bedframe slamming against the wall. āSay it again.ā
āYours!ā you whimpered, tears blurring your vision, body clenching down on him. āIām yours!ā
The orgasm tore through you violently, your whole body shaking as you sobbed into the sheets. But Bucky didnāt slow.
āFuck, youāre squeezing me bare,ā he groaned, his thrusts sloppy now, desperate, unrelenting. āYou feel too good...fuck! I canāt stop-ā
You cried out as he overstimulated you, your body already wrecked, legs trembling uncontrollably. āBucky...too much-ā
āUh-uh,ā he growled, pressing your face into the mattress, fucking into you harder, raw and relentless. āYou did this. You took it off. You wanted me like this, now you take it.ā
You moaned again, another orgasm ripping through you, your vision sparking white. He groaned loud, ragged, and with a brutal slam of his hips, he spilled inside you, hot and thick, grinding it deeper with each desperate thrust.
He collapsed over you, sweaty, panting, his cock still twitching inside your raw, messy heat. For long moments, he just stayed there, holding you down, his weight crushing you into the mattress.
Finally, he rolled you onto your side, still buried in you, dragging you against his chest. His lips brushed your temple, his voice hoarse. āYou drive me insane,ā he whispered, pressing messy kisses along your cheek. āTaking it off like thatā¦ youāre gonna fucking kill me, doll.ā
You smirked weakly, still trembling, body wrecked. āWorth it.ā
He groaned, hugging you tighter, his cock still hard inside you, already twitching for more. āYeah,ā he admitted, voice wrecked, āworth it. But youāre not sleeping yet.ā
pairing: stepbro!bucky x f!reader
summary: bucky let you sleep in his bed after a nightmare. As childish as you think you are, apologising profusely, buckyās sure he doesnāt mind, even while his mind runs rampant and his body reacts thoughtlessly.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, stepcest, dddne, non/dubcon, smut, somnophilia, porn no plot, grinding/dry humping, m!masturbation, mention of oral (f!rec), side fuck, cuddle fucking, loser!bucky, sub-ish!bucky, multiple orgasms (m!rec), fucking it back in, creampie(s), clit stim, overstimulation, the l-word, make-outs, mentions of Nat, Steve, Sam, Clint, Tony and Pepper, mentions of drinking/getting drunk, mention of parents (your dad, his mom), college/classes mentioned . . .
word count: 5.5k
a/n: im kinda giggling bc the title sounds like some Ozian word lmfao.. im sorry this took so long to write, but geez it was kinda fun !! i wasnt too sure where to take it but i hope it's fine <3
thank you to the person who made this request !!!! <3 <3
and uhm happy seb day lmfao
bucky m.list || masterlist || navigation
Sleep never came easy for Bucky.
Ever.
Most nights he laid with his head on the pillow, hair messed from tossing and turning, keeping his eyes shut until the morning light reflected orange over the lids.
Tonight was more or less the same. Weeks of classes and study sessions with Steve and Sam in the back corner of the library, results unknown, grades totalled up in red marker, sitting on the desk of his professor's desk ā all of it accumulates in his head. Even while he's tucked in comfortably, duvet pulled over his shoulders, his face pressed into his pillow and his eyes stayed closed, counting up and up until numbers repeated and jumbled into thoughts of college and classes, and you.
A break was supposed to be nice, just a couple of weeks to let yourself rest ā to see family and lie in for a few more hours than usual. Instead, Bucky's brain has been rewired with your presence.
Just a few years after your parents married, his mom had moved both you and your father into his house. Bucky's studies had been too important to let go, meaning the wedding went on without his attendance ā he barely even looked at the pictures before he was back home. A home that no longer felt the same.
It felt as though every object had shifted one inch to the left. Bucky went on through the hallways with a furrowed brow, shoes toed off at the door, kicking his bedroom door shut and sliding his duffel bag off his shoulder.
That was the last time Bucky properly got some sleep.
After he had woken up, his mother greeted him with a knock on his door and open arms, making him follow her to the kitchen where she was cooking dinner. He tagged along, sleep still stirring through his movements and words as he recalled the last semester, but once his mother hopped into action beside you, chopping vegetables at the countertop, he paused.
You both looked at each other for a split moment too long before your step-mom held your shoulders and introduced you both, urging you forward to shake his hand. A tight and shy smile on your face, you mumbled a quiet 'hi'. He repeats the greeting, holding out his hand and shaking yours. Bucky knew he was well and truly fucked.
He still is. A few years into his studies, he'd learn about your own course and studies at college, your favourite songs and movies, what shirt you wear more often than others. You both created a bond, something close to friends, only there was an added wall of propriety. Some nights were still spent at the kitchen table, or your bedroom floor, talking about absolutely nothing or listening to you rant about your group project ā only they'd linger on into silence, looks that last too long, or just soft musings that get either one of you bashfully shoving the others knee.
During these nights, Bucky would sigh and turn over, and repeat the same routine, so on and so forth. Until his eyes ached with the will of keeping them shut and his ceiling took on a more interesting role. But no, his pillow suffices, as with the speckled blackness behind his eyelids and the soft, warm embrace of his pillow and sheets.
It isn't until a rattled creak of the old floorboards, Bucky realises that the universe had granted him permission to rest, only for it to have been snatched from his hands. He sighed, tired, exhausted, and pressed deeper into the pillow, stretching out his legs and praying that sleep could come before the sun rises and the rest of the world wakes up.
But the sounds press again, footsteps, slow and steady, trying not to press on the faulty wooden boards and wake someone up. They get louder with each pass, and soon Bucky's head connects. It's you, with how close the steps were, how they don't sound like they want to take up space, methodically tiptoeing down the hallway, and closer to his door.
He counts the steps, body locking up and refusing to react when his door quietly creaks open. And he doesn't move at first when your voice sounded.
āBucky..?ā His eyelids twitched, humming under his breath. You itch closer to his mattress, voice mumbling a little louder, āBuck? Are you awake?ā
With a groan, he stretches, eyes half closed, cheek pressed against his pillow as he looked up at you. Even blanketed in dusk, he can make out your sweater, worn and stretched over the neck from use and the fabric frays at the wrists where you fiddle. Your legs bare, covered by tartan sleep shorts that dust over your mid-thigh ā boxers to be exact, something your ex left behind ages ago, and the more Bucky thinks about that possibility, the more he struggles to stop his eyes from rolling.
āI am now,ā he mutters, smiling a little dumbly, involuntary as he stares at your face. āWhaās the matter?ā
āI had a nightmare,ā you gulp, stepping back, āitās stupid, I should go backāā
Shuffling around, he moved to the other side of his bed, holding himself up with an elbow, the other flipping the blanket up for you. āSānot stupid. Cāmere.ā
Floorboards creek and the mattress dips with your weight, knee first before sliding down and underneath the covers. As Bucky folds the duvet over you, his arm grazes your shoulder before moving back, pressing both hands into the line where his thighs meet.
He watches the silhouette of you getting comfortable. Shuffling, sliding your hand under the pillow, scooting backwards until suddenly it all stops. Midnight never felt more quiet. Fuller in a way. Warmer with bodies in one bed, its nothing like Bucky had known before.
Sleep almost evades him, eyes slitting down, brain dozing off, but your quiet voice catches his chest.
"Buck?" you start, mumbling into your pillow.
"Hmā¦ Wha's up?"
Sighing sleepily, you ask. "Can youā¦ Can you hold me?"
Pausing for a moment, the quietness swells and the only thing he can hear is the trees swaying with the wind, mixed with blood rushing through his body.
"Mmhā¦ What?"
"Doesn't matter."
He follows your orders from before. Protective arm slung around your middle, pulling you into his front and keeping you there. Firm and tight, and so completely warm. Nosing into your hair, he murmurs again, drowsy in newfound tiredness only your comfort can bring.
"Jus' go t'sleep, s'okay, I got you."
Even in rest, your stomach twists at his soft slurs. Jumbled murmurs, something only sleep can make up, his lips pressed too close to the pillow. But his warm breath teeters so close to your ear, and his arm flexes autonomously around your stomach, tighter.
It's warm. It's safe. All the tension from the dream earlier on eases from your shoulders and all that's running through your brain is the tight hold he has around you, body and mind. You seem to drift off like that. Guarded by the safe hands of Bucky and his easing breaths behind you.
Only a few dreamless hours later, the room still silent and dark with midnight, does Bucky's mind wake him up.
Torrid, almost, and warm. A soft body against his that he does not recognise and his subconscious self seems to have awoken him as a result, alarmed at the new sight and feeling of your presence.
His hand now rested on the side of your waist where your sweater had ridden up, and the skin on skin contact got his heart racing in a millisecond. He dared to move even a twitch, forcing his lungs to ease back into a rhythm even as his pulse beat like a drum against your back.
So soft and plush. Your skin soaked in heat and silk so perfect he felt as if he were still hooked beneath his sleepy eyes, stuck in a deep sleep.
It's until you shuffle back into his hot chest with a sound. Light and airy, a soft kind of noise that just pulls out of your throat, unable to hold it back as sleep evades, but Bucky's mind holds it and he feels like a deer who's just heard a twig snap.
Your spine fits perfectly against his front, cradled into him like a puzzle piece, your ass nuzzles into his crotch.
It's not intentional, he has to remind himself, body stiff, mind blank and dumb at the first place of your warm back. You're asleep, leaning into him for safety, a subconscious movement of security Bucky mentally rebukes himself for the initial shock. How his breath stuttered, lungs trembling to a stop. You were so close, so soft and even though the room was dark with hues of black and blue, he thought you were beautiful.
Thoughts after 10 P.M. cannot be trusted. He remembers his friend Nat told him that once while at a group hangout ā Steve and Sam laughing with their legs stretched out, Tony whispering something into Pepper's ear, arm on her shoulders, Nat sandwiched between both Bucky and Clint. Empty beer bottles tipped over, dribbling into the already sticky second-hand carpets, truth or dare slowly turning into a group discussion, and Steve gets a little too giggly and mouthy after a couple drinks.
Sobriety has never felt so awful before. Bucky's hand instinctively pulls, tightening over the torrid skin of your side and he regrets it instantly. How plush you are, how soft your skin feels, how you move back into him again and this time theres no hiding the evident twitch in his pants.
"Shit." He hides behind a sharp exhale of breath, a little lunge of noise from sleep. But his hips already begin to move. Shakily, unceremoniously. His movements are uneven, softly unsure and slow, just enough to let his cock swell and perk with interest. Half hard, thickening beneath his sweatpants. Clothes rustle. Your shorts to his pants, making the hem glide down with each uneven drag his cock pulls on the swell of your ass.
"Jesusā¦ fuck." He whimpers as his weeping tip gets caught between your legs. Dragging his chub up from the heat staining between your legs, and through the valley of your cheeks, his cock slaps against his abdomen as he lets go.
The force of the drag has his tip on display, precum catching the damp air from beneath the coverings and he curses himself for wearing sweatpants without underwear that night. The ache that courses through his hips moves him like a marionette.
He keeps moving like that for a couple minutes more ā hand firm to yours hip, and his cock dragging across your ass and the hem of his sweatpants, caressing the underside of his head with each hump. His jaw hangs open, only to shut on particular thrusts, hissing through his teeth as the need for more drenches his mind and body.
It isn't long until his pants are hastily pulled off, thighs shaking, body and hands trembling with excitement, need and desire, and immorality.
You asked for safety and he brings youā¦ this?
"I'm sorry." Bucky whispers breathlessly into his bedroom, directed to you, and your content, sleeping self, but the words lose meaning once his dick drags hot and bare across your ass.
A moan cracks through his throat which he quickly catches with a quick snap of his jaw. Heaving breaths and hums caught inside, between his teeth and under his tongue.
Becoming desperate now, his hands slide from your hip and over your middle, holding you tight into his hold, praying the metal wont disturb you from your sleep, and you don't stir fully. Your body grants him a sound, something tiny and almost lost within the deep breaths he expels from his nose, and you shuffle back into him
It hurts. Everything. But all the conscious thoughts about depravity and carnality are quickly drowned out by the newfound rustle of your shorts being pulled down by his thumbs.
Warm, new skin to explore. His hips move away to let the rippled hem slide from the swell of your ass, down to your thighs. He almost keeps it as such, but he's already here.
They pool at your feet, and before he can lean down to shuck them off, your leg moves. Pulling one up to an angle, laying on your front, your foot slides from the leg of the shorts easily for him, only to have your cunt on display.
Bucky's stops breathing. He's close, too close, to your pretty pussy, and he doesn't want to wake you with a sudden air sticking to you.
But you're wet, glistening with the soft light that peeks from outside. He licks his lips involuntarily, and he can almost taste you. He cant, not now, that's too much, you cant wake up with his face buried between your thighs, what if you make too much noiseā¦
His cock twitches against his thigh as if to remind him of where he is, a pulse that stickies his tip, a bead of precum pearling over him. He grips the base of his erection, tightening his fist around his shaft, cutting off an orgasm already, he sits with the scene you present him with.
His free hand gently rubs the globe of your ass, awaiting some kind of response, a push back into his palm, a sound, but nothing rumbles past your lips, so he keeps going. Fisting his cock, squeezing at the tip and dragging down, spreading his arousal across his shaft, he spreads your cheeks. A firm grip tightens over his base again, mouth wide open, and the hand that occupied your ass slaps over his mouth while he forces himself back.
Head back on the pillows, blankets over the both of you as if you both were just merely sleeping, he snakes his arms back around your torso again, hips dragging across your ass with shaky exhales, and his cock finally traps between your thighs. A pause lingers while he lets himself feel, dragging his dick in and out, coating himself with your arousal.
"Please, please, please ā holy shit." He whispers and whines against your shoulder. His movements sharpen a touch, forcing your ass to jiggle as his hips slap against it.
A hand snakes between you both, and he can't take it much longer. Both middle fingers find the soft underside of his head as he ruts, softer than before, and pushes in. It takes a few moments. Dragging his cock down, pushing in, only for it to catch at the last second and swipe up to your clit.
His tip juts in, enveloped by your tight, sopping hole. Pausing his movements and easing his breathing, he sighs sighs; pulling out and pushing himself back in, easing his size inside of you in slow, thick, increments.
Bucky holds you through the ordeal. Willing his body not to get ahead of itself and ram his cock inside, to bury himself balls deep and rut inside of you without repercussions. His hips twitch with the need, stretching out without a thought.
The need worsens when you begin to understand.
Around his arms, Bucky feels your ribs stutter and pause, only to breathe out tightly. Your cunt pulses too. Your walls begin to mould around his shaft, now squeezing with the intrusion as if trying to figure out what's going on. Slacking and tightening around him, letting his dick fuck slowly inside of you before finally his balls press to your ass. He lets go of a deep breath, forehead to your shoulder, holding your hips to his, hugging you tight into his back, to keep himself from falling off the edge of relief.
And your noises. Bucky presses his lips to your skin, brows taut, distressed. He had whipped his forehead from your shoulder when his ears perked up with the sound. The gentlest of breaths sharpening against your pillow as pleasure gets the best of you.
"Stop, stop, stop," He mouths his pleas to your shoulder blade, voice lost as he stays inside of your tight heat.
"Can I fuck you?" He hates himself for asking ā shaft soaked with your arousal, balls pressing tight against your cunt ā but he cant stop himself.
The smallest of humps, a reflex of muscle, a jerk of his hips rips a growl from his throat. The ruts keeps coming, humping his size inside of you, pulling out not even an inch, to keep you stuffed full over and over again. But he keeps asking.
"Pleaseā¦ Please, can I?" His mouth clicks with spit, whispering and dragging his cock through your walls.
Your body moves for you. A wracking heartbeat that Bucky can feel as his lips press on your back, rustling ribs and trembling thighs.
As your unconscious body comprehends, Bucky starts to gain confidence. Moving his cock out and pressing it back in, easing half of himself out just to ram his tip up to your cervix. He begins thrusting his length out, keeping his tip snug and warm inside of you and thrusting back in.
You begin to hum. Melodic and shaky, uneven sounds that shudder out of you with each clap his balls make to the backs of your thighs. Then your arms move. Tight holds to his hands around your stomach, following up to his bicep and shoulder.
"Bucky..?" You whisper, eyes still closed, but your brows pull with question. Your mouth slacks with breaths, and he eases his face closer until you're breathing him in.
"I'm sorry. I'm right here."
It's then your eyes open. Slacked from the sleep he pulled you from, adjusting, blinking in the scenery. You hum again, and gasp as his cock drags over your spot.
"Is it there? Was that it?" He asks, like an excited dog. He pants on your shoulder, grinding himself against you.
It's too much. One minute you're asleep in Bucky's arms, his bed, and the next he's learning how your body reacts from the inside out.
Before you could counteract, trying to move yourself forward, try and gain semblance, his hand pulls you back. Trapping your body with an arm to your chest now. You don't speak, too full from emotions, from his cock. The sensations he's giving you, from his breath that seeps through the fabric of your shirt, and how the hand that palms your breast.
"What're you doingā¦" Its rhetorical, he knows this, but the night makes him dumb. Or maybe that's just your tight pussy.
"Wanted to make you feel good," he says softly. "You fit so nice on me, backed into meā¦ m'sorry, I couldn't help it."
As his voice dissolved from whispers to moaned mumbles, your back begins to slack. The sudden pressure of his hand to your tit sends shivers down your spine, hardening your nipples. They drag sensitively against your shirt, and your breath gets deeper.
Bucky keeps fucking into you, rocking his pelvis up, only now theres an added pleasure as he tweaks your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, trapping it under your shirt.
You moan, gulping around it, trying to suppress it. It feels so good, you pulse around him.
"Fuck, don't do that," his hips begin to stutter, and dick twitches inside of you. "Gonna cum if you keep doing that, pleaseā"
You do it again. Out of resistance, a weird kick of superiority ā you clamp your pussy around his weeping cock and he growls between his teeth. Hands tightening over your middle, fingers trapping your nipple, you convulse around him again with the shock.
Both of your sighs fall into shudders as his hips stutter. What already soaked the inside of your thighs with sticky arousal and humid sweat, now accumulated together with an additional heaviness.
His hands tightened their grip on your waist, humming behind a locked jaw and shut eyes as he came inside of you. Hips pumping up with each spurt, dragging inside of your wet heat desperately thrusting to get every last drop of him inside.
Only when the pleasure subsided ā the haze of his orgasm waning and your momentary shock of how full he pumped you, how desperately he held you, and had you ā you realised now the heaviness wasn't just his tacky cum coating your walls, dripping from between you both.
He was still hard. Achingly so.
When Bucky's head fell from the clouds of pleasure and ecstasy, he let out the smallest whine of realisation, maybe even embarrassment or fear, of releasing inside of his poor stepsister unprotected. But his hands moved before you could ask.
"You didn't cumā¦" He whispered against the cool shell of your ear. His soft lips and rough stubble, already growing after a day, had you clenching around his thick cock, pulsing out around his shaft, releasing his stickiness to sit and slide down his balls.
"Iā¦" You swallow around the words, trying to find a fixture to settle, to open yourself from this daze and clean yourself up quick before your dad and his mom wake up. But Bucky still lingered in a foggy shock. Almost as if he knew the damage was done, his dick was still hard and drooling, nestled inside of you like it was made to be there.
Before you could actually speak, one hand moved to the inside of your thigh, opening it up and holding it around his hip to spread you open. While the other moves down and locked to your stomach. Holding you close to his front, he uses his elbow to keep your leg from falling shut.
āWantā¦ Want you to cum.ā He mumbles, stroking his fingers down to where you meet to feel how stretched out he has you. To fumble at the slightest touch of his cum drowning your pussy, gliding the release up to circle your clit.
āBuckyāā
āFuck, please,ā his breath skims hot against your neck, nudging his head against your hair. āGod, please I need you to cum.ā
He kept moving. Even after coming, hard for that matter, his hips kept driving into you and his fingers played deftly. Staying in deep, humping himself against your ass like a dog.
You couldnāt protest, not when his own spend drips out between you, when his cock fills you so fucking good, arms wrapped around your middle to keep you close, fingers tight on your clit, breathing small and quick on your skin ā he sounds so good, feels so good, its all too good to let go.
āBuckā¦ What if someone hears?ā
He wheezes, āWeāWe gotta be quietā¦ huh?"
A sharp thrust hits you closer than expected, making your throat contort in a whine and clench around him involuntarily.
"Geez, wha'did I just say?" He whispers sharply. The hand that splayed protectively against your stomach itched upwards, skimming up your navel, to the edge of your ribs, the plush of your tits, until he clasps around your mouth. Four fingers to one cheek while his thumb strokes the other. Its a contrast with how much force he puts into pushing his palm onto your lips, forcing your head back into the pillows, onto his shoulder, and his hips never let up their grinding, even as the rhythmic squeak of the bed frame begins to flow.
You whine a little more openly now, eyes lazily rolling shut, hoping the covering of his hand blankets the sounds that would have poured loud through the four walls and down the hallways. How much worse the wet sounds of your joint pleasure sounds dull through the duvet, how you clench tighter around him, heartbeat stuttering in your lungs and cunt alike as he draws teasing lines and circles around your slick, puffy clit.
Bucky smiles into your shoulder, enamoured completely with how precious and pliant he has you. He could cum again, he wants to so fucking bad with how soft your walls pulse around him, but he can feel your nub twitch and harden beneath his wet fingers, the pulsing easing faster as you mumble garbled nonsense through the cracks of his fingers.
"You like being shut upā¦ you like this, don't you?"
As a confirmation, added to the validation of a nod, you hand comes up to grab a hold of his hip behind you, fisting at his side, nails digging crescents. Its snakes lower to hold his ass in your hand, a bruising sensation that only has him rutting in deeper, hiding his own noises into the damp skin of your neck. Leaning into your space, wiping his hot breath down your throat, lips dragging up and down, teeth nipping.
"Are you close? You're so fucking tight, I can feel your heart beatingā¦ so fast. Did I do that?" He whispers, balmy on your jaw and cheek.
"Can I cum inside you again? I'm sorry, m'sorry I didn't ask before, it was an accident. I didn't mean to cum inside you, didn't mean to fuck youā¦" Bucky can't stop mumbling. With the tight grip your pussy holds him in, wet and hot, his balls sticky, plapping against your ass, drawing up in pulses similar to your own. It's the only way he can strive off his second orgasm.
It's lucky for you, the sensation of his cock humping inside of you, his fingers stroking your clit and his hot breaths and whiny words have you so, so fucking close.
"Buckyā" you whisper behind his palm. Eyelids drooping, fist still curled into his glute like a vice.
"M'so bad, so, so bad. You jus' felt so good, looked so fucking pretty, I'm so sorry, I love you, I really do an' I'm sorry for that, butā¦ fu-huck, I already did it once."
Your free hand whips up and curls around his wrist as you begin to cum. Hips moving back into his own on their own accord, twitching and shaking as your pussy contorts, choking his cock. You hum shakily into his palm, holding it to your mouth, even though his own hands begin to tighten, teeth sinking into the meat of your shoulder as he chases your orgasm with his own.
It's disgustingly wet. Two creampies, sticky and white, coating your thighs, his own too. A ring of arousal at the base of his cock, laying like honey, dripping down his balls.
He keeps fucking you like that. Already finished, dragging out the last of your orgasms even as you lay there, bare, trembling with aftershocks. Overstimulated bucks of your hips as he keeps dragging his fingertips over your abused nub, the fist that occupied his ass now quickly held onto his wrist, prying it off with a sigh of relief, shutting your legs from around his thigh.
"M'sorry, m'so, so sorry."
Both his hands move to keep you close, wrapped around your middle like a teddy bear. His dick stayed trapped inside of you. Softening, lightly twitching still, and his hips, they keep softly rolling with the smallest of movements. You believe he has no clue he's doing it.
Minutes drag by like that. Breathing evening out, his hips pumping minutely against the soft swell of your ass, easing to a final stop, slipping out with a small, tired sigh. It sounds sad. You can almost see the dip between his brows as he keeps his arms tight on your middle. His cock rests soaked between you both, stuck to the mattress, warm and slick to your ass cheek.
You keep staring into the void of his bedroom. His curtains closed, apart from the tiny slither of outside where trees danced with the wind and stars twinkled. A world moving onward.
"You love me?"
Bucky moves up then, the warmth of his front half lost as his head cocks to, and his hands leave your stomach to instead pull himself up. "What?"
"You," you begin, still not moving from your place, but your voice never wavered from a whispered hiss. "Said you loved me."
He huffs deeply. It swirls against your ear, and lays cold and delicate against the spit slicked area he licked clean on your jaw and neck.
"I'm sorryā"
"You keep saying that like you mean it," your voice hardens slightly. "But I don't think you are."
"Christ, can you at least look at me?" He whispers, a hand falls to your bicep, he squeezes but almost immediately, he tears it away.
"I can't. Your cum will spill everywhere." It comes jokingly, light, a hint of a toothy smile on your face as you say it.
It aggravates Bucky. It makes him groan, palms, still smelling of you, wiping and digging into his eyes before he could find any semblance of himself. But he turns you over anyway. Your hole makes a sound that makes you retreat, shutting your legs and eyes tightly, lips pulled into a line, cringing, but Bucky doesn't register.
He kisses you. Its a soft question at first, his lips touching over yours mid retract. Thinking it's a block, your body unwilling under the weight of sex and sleep, he pulls himself off from you.
Your eyes meet for one second. Pupils wide. His cock swung bare between his legs, against your thigh. One second of your mind telling you to keep joking and irritating him, poking at wounds. But his hairs messy, all rugged from the pillow, and your hand runs over it, straightening it out, only for you find yourself tugging him into your open mouth. Spit slicked and uneven.
His lips are so unfairly soft as they move over yours, his tongue gliding over to taste and explore. Trapping your top lip between his, slowing down to savour the warmth and your soft gasps fanning over his chin.
"If you have a nightmare again, you can always come to me." He mumbles against your lips, kissing and sucking through the words. His hands hold the sides of your face, guiding you through the movements and its intoxicating.
"Okay."
Your own whispers get lost down his throat and into the spit slicked sounds. Bucky's lost in it, mumbling through each press of his wet lips across your skin as if this is the last moment he'd get. Dragging kisses from your mouth to the corners where your lips meet, to your cheeks and nose, your temple where his nose drags across your hairline, the scent of your shampoo and sweat accumulating and messing with his senses.
"AnāAnd if you can't sleep, you can always come to me," he presses the words to your forehead, reverberating across your hairline. "Is that okay?"
There's nothing else for you to do but nod. You can't do anything but nod. Your body still teeters between the now and thirty minutes ago ā both of you still bare from the waist down, tingling with sex like supernovas beneath your skin, and you're still wet and sweaty, soaked with fluids now drenching the bed sheets.
But everything's lost under his cherry red, kiss bitten lips, his soft asks and hands, so gentle over your cheeks. Bucky pulls away, enough for the tip of his nose to touch yours and his forehead to brush your own. He makes a sound, strained almost, a sigh.
"It doesn't have to be," he whispers and it glues to your lips. "Okay, that is."
"It isn't," you begin. Feeling Bucky's muscles tighten, and sharp inhale, your hands reach for his face, copying the same movements as him, stroking across your cheeks with the smallest touch of your thumbs. "It's a weird situation. Maybe we can work something out."
"Work something out." He repeats, and you nod.
"When we go back to college, maybe," you whisper, dragging a hand over his hair, stroking it back. "The logistics areā¦"
"Weird."
"Very," With eyes locked to his, you keep playing with the strands of hair between your fingers, and his own hand follows to yours, stroking a warm palm across your hairline. "We should probably get cleaned up."
"Probably." He repeats.
You lick your lips, nodding. "And put our pants back on."
He nods with you, as if the notion would will you both from the weird sanctuary you created for the night. Savouring the hot feeling of your skin touching one another, his thigh pressed to yours, how natural everything felt, how none of you were shy about the nakedness of your legs and eyes.
"Are you gonna regret it?"
It mulls over your head, sitting on it. It has Bucky's heart beating faster in his chest, tweaking with pangs as the seconds pass by before you answer.
"I don't know, Buck." Its truthful, and Bucky doesn't mind how it calms him down. It's warm here, so stay in the present.
He doesnt have to speak, neither do you. The silence says everything. As does the soft rustle of the trees and the crickets, the creak of the bed when one of you moves that you both don't ask about. His head hits the pillow, and this time you sink into a dreamless sleep with legs tangled and a new excitement for classes to start.
Summary:
Steve really should have made sure Bucky locked the briefing room door.
Authorās Note:
written for @i-gotta-go-so-much-biggerās request for my 1k celebration! hope you like it š«¶š¼
You glanced between the two men sitting on either side of you. āYou two are terrible at subtlety.ā
Steveās hand stopped halfway through its slow path up your thigh. On your other side, Bucky lifted his beer to his mouth with such practiced innocence that you nearly laughed. Heād been watching Steveās hand for the last ten minutes, so the act wasnāt particularly convincing, especially when the corner of his mouth twitched as Steve reluctantly moved his palm back toward your knee.
āI donāt know what youāre talking about,ā Bucky said.
You looked around the common room before answering. Sam had taken over the opposite couch, one ankle propped across his knee while he argued with Natasha about something on the TV. Clint was stretched across an armchair with his phone held above his face, and Bruce had disappeared toward the kitchen a few minutes ago. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to the three of you tucked along the end of the sectional.
That didnāt mean nobody had noticed.
āYouāve been staring at Steveās hand for the last ten minutes.ā
Bucky tipped his bottle toward Steve. āWas staring at him.ā
You turned to Steve, eyebrows raised. āReally?ā
Steve sighed. āDonāt drag me into this.ā
Buckyās grin widened, and Steve slowly turned his head toward him. āBuck.ā
There was enough warning packed into his name that Bucky finally abandoned the innocent expression. His grin flashed instead, bright and shameless, while Steve sighed through his nose as if he hadnāt willingly spent most of the evening sitting close enough that your legs remained pressed together.
You rested your head against Steveās shoulder. āYouāre both impossible.ā
His hand returned to your thigh almost immediately, and of course Bucky noticed. His gaze dropped to where Steveās palm rested before lifting to yours.
āWe could always go somewhere else.ā
Steve didnāt even look at him. āDonāt.ā
āYou donāt know what I was gonna say.ā
āI know exactly what you were going to say.ā
āThen I donāt gotta say it.ā
āGreat.ā
Bucky leaned forward, forearms braced against his knees. āSo weāre going?ā
Steveās fingers tightened against your leg, and you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.
His head turned toward you. āDonāt encourage him.ā
āI havenāt said anything.ā
āYouāre thinking very loudly.ā
āThat sounds like a you problem, Captain.ā
Something changed in Steveās expression, subtle enough that nobody across the room would have noticed but obvious to you. His eyes narrowed slightly as his thumb dragged once over the fabric covering your thigh, earning a quiet hum from Bucky.
Steve glanced past you at him. āYouāre not helping.ā
āWasnāt trying to.ā
That probably should have been the end of it, but ten minutes later you were following Bucky down the hallway while Steve walked behind you, muttering about both of you having absolutely no sense of self-preservation.
āYouāre still coming,ā you pointed out.
āThatās because I know what happens when I leave you two unsupervised.ā
Bucky glanced over his shoulder. āUsually something fun.ā
āUsually something expensive.ā
āThe kitchen table was already loose.ā
āIt was six months old.ā
āCheap construction.ā
Steve stared at the back of Buckyās head. āTony had it custom made.ā
āThat was his first mistake.ā
You covered your mouth, but your laugh escaped anyway. Steve caught your wrist and pulled your hand down, the sternness he was attempting lasting only until you smiled at him.
āThere,ā Bucky said. āKnew you werenāt actually mad.ā
āI can change that.ā
āYouāve been threatening me with that since 1938.ā
āAnd one day youāre gonna learn.ā
āHasnāt happened yet.ā
Bucky stopped outside one of the smaller briefing rooms on the training level and opened the door.
You peered inside. āHere?ā
āItās empty.ā
āSo is our bedroom.ā
āOur bedroomās three floors away.ā
Steve folded his arms. āThat is not a compelling argument.ā
Bucky stepped through the doorway. āThen go upstairs.ā
Steve remained in the hall while you backed into the room, his gaze following you the entire way. Bucky lingered beside the open door with an increasingly knowing smile as you held out your hand.
Steve stared at it for approximately two seconds before giving in and crossing the threshold.
āThatās what I thought.ā
āDonāt start.ā
Bucky shut the door behind him.
Steve immediately looked over. āDid you lock it?ā
Bucky paused. āā¦Probably.ā
āJames.ā
āWhat?ā
āLock the door.ā
āItās fine, Stevie.ā
āThat isnāt what I asked.ā
Steve looked unconvinced, but youād already caught the front of his shirt and pulled him toward you.
āItās fine.ā
āIt is absolutely notāā
You kissed him, and whatever Steve had intended to say disappeared against your mouth.
His hands found your waist with an ease born from familiarity, one settling at the small of your back while the other slid along your side. He kissed you carefully at first, as though he still intended to prove he possessed some measure of restraint despite following both of you into an empty briefing room in the middle of the night.
Bucky came up behind you, his mouth brushing beneath your ear, and whatever restraint Steve had been clinging to lasted another few seconds. His grip tightened around your waist, making you smile into the kiss.
Bucky caught the reaction and gave a quiet, satisfied laugh. āKnew thatād get to you.ā
Steve broke away just far enough to glare past you. āYou gonna keep talking?ā
āAlways.ā
Buckyās hand settled against your hip, overlapping Steveās for a moment before continuing lower. The warmth of him pressed along your back while Steve stood in front of you, and being caught between them sent a rush of anticipation through you that neither man missed.
Steveās gaze dropped to your mouth. āYouāre enjoying this.ā
āMaybe.ā
Bucky kissed the side of your neck. āShe definitely is.ā
Steve glanced at him. āYouāre both enjoying this.ā
āNever said I wasnāt.ā
Steve shook his head, though the faint flush climbing his throat contradicted every bit of disapproval in his expression.
You hooked your fingers into his belt loops and drew him closer. āCaptain America making out in a briefing room while half the teamās still downstairs.ā
His eyes lifted to yours.
Bucky made a quiet sound behind you that was suspiciously close to laughter.
You smiled. āWhat would people say?ā
Steveās hand slid to the back of your neck. āKeep talking.ā
The low warning in his voice sent heat curling through you.
Bucky laughed outright. āJesus, Stevie.ā
āYou wanted me to loosen up.ā
āDidnāt say I was complaining.ā
Steve kissed you again before Bucky could add anything else, and the teasing quickly stopped feeling quite so funny.
The edge of the conference table bumped the backs of your thighs. Steve followed when you leaned against it, his body fitting between your knees as Bucky stayed beside you, one hand moving slowly along your waist.
āYou know,ā Bucky said, āthis is usually where they talk about mission parameters.ā
Steve kissed along your jaw. āIgnore him.ā
āOperational objectives.ā
āBuck.ā
āThreat assessment.ā
You laughed, and Steve caught your chin between his fingers. āYouāre encouraging him again.ā
āI canāt help that heās funny.ā
āHeās not.ā
Bucky looked offended. āThatās hurtful.ā
Steveās thumb brushed across your lower lip. āYou wanna keep laughing?ā
The question changed your breathing enough that his expression sharpened immediately.
Bucky saw it too. āThink she wants you to do something about it.ā
Steve turned his head. āYou have a lot to say for somebody standing over there.ā
Buckyās eyebrows lifted, and you immediately understood Steveās mistake. āThen invite me over.ā
Steve looked back at you and found you fighting a smile. āI hate both of you.ā
āLiar.ā
Bucky stepped closer.
His mouth found your neck again while Steve kissed you, the two of them crowding you against the conference table until there was nowhere to move that didnāt bring you into contact with one of them. Buckyās touch wandered with considerably less restraint than Steveās, and every small reaction it drew from you seemed to encourage him.
Steve finally broke the kiss when your breathing became uneven. āBuck.ā
āWhat?ā
āYouāre doing that on purpose.ā
āDoing what?ā
Steve gave him a look.
Bucky smiled against your neck. āShe hasnāt complained.ā
āIām right here,ā you reminded them.
āThatās the problem,ā Steve muttered.
You laughed, and Bucky covered your mouth with his hand before the sound could carry beyond the room.
Steve stared at him. āReally?ā
āShe was getting loud.ā
āYouāre the one making her loud.ā
Buckyās mouth twitched. āWasnāt just laughing.ā
Your eyes widened while Steve gave him another look, and you retaliated by biting lightly at the heel of Buckyās hand. He pulled it away. āHey.ā
āThatās what you get.ā
āFor trying to save us?ā
āFrom a problem you created?ā
Steve laughed against your shoulder, and Bucky immediately pointed at him. āYouāre involved too.ā
āIām aware.ā
āYouāre more involved than I am right now.ā
Steve lifted his head, and the look he gave Bucky sent another rush of anticipation through you.
Bucky saw it too. āGo ahead, punk.ā
Steveās jaw tightened as you ran your hands over his shoulders. āHeās baiting you.ā
āI know.ā
āYou still look like youāre considering it.ā
āI am.ā
Bucky leaned a hip against the table beside you. āKnew he was smart.ā
Whatever happened to Steveās patience after that was entirely Buckyās fault.
At least, that was what Steve would insist later.
Buckyās shirt ended up on the floor first. Your impatient fingers worked several of Steveās buttons free, leaving his shirt hanging open as the three of you shifted around the conference table with increasingly little concern for the purpose it had actually been designed to serve.
Bucky got you to himself first.
Steve remained close enough that you could reach him, one hand resting at the back of your neck while Bucky pressed against you from behind. His mouth returned to the spot beneath your ear heād been tormenting since you entered the room, but this time his hand didnāt stop at your waist. He slipped beneath the waistband of your pants, fingers dragging slowly through the wetness already gathered between your thighs.
Your breath caught.
Bucky smiled against your neck. āThought so.ā
āDonāt start,ā Steve warned.
āI didnāt say anything.ā
āYou were about to.ā
Bucky ignored him and slid two fingers through you again, deliberately avoiding your clit until you shifted impatiently against his hand. He laughed softly when you tried to guide him where you wanted him.
āYouāve been teasing us all night, sweetheart. You can wait a second.ā
You turned your head enough to glare at him. āYouāre the one who suggested leaving.ā
āYeah, and look how well that worked out for me.ā
His fingers finally circled your clit, and whatever comeback youād been preparing disappeared beneath the sudden rush of pleasure. Your head tipped back against his shoulder while Steve watched the change in your face, his thumb moving slowly along the side of your neck.
His fingers slid lower before pressing inside you, and your hand tightened around Steveās open shirt. Bucky worked them deeper with patient strokes, curling them until your hips shifted back against him without conscious thought.
āThere,ā Bucky murmured. āThatās what you wanted.ā
Steveās gaze darkened. āBuck.ā
āWhat?ā
āYouāre doing that on purpose.ā
āObviously.ā
You laughed breathlessly and reached behind you, finding the hard length of Buckyās cock through his pants. Whatever smart remark Bucky had been about to make died when your fingers closed around him.
The corner of Steveās mouth lifted at Buckyās reaction. āStill wanna talk?ā
āFuck you,ā Bucky muttered.
You squeezed him again.
Steveās smile widened. āThatās what I thought.ā
Bucky retaliated by pulling his fingers from you and catching your hips. He drew you back from Steve just long enough to turn you toward the conference table, then followed as you braced your hands against the polished surface. Bucky stepped in behind you again, pushing your pants and underwear farther down your thighs.
The cool table beneath your palms was a sharp contrast to the heat of Bucky behind you.
Steve moved around to your front. You looked up at him as Bucky freed himself behind you, and Steveās hand settled beneath your jaw. āYou good?ā
āYeah.ā
Bucky dragged the head of his cock through your wetness once, twice, deliberately taking his time.
You pushed back against him.
He caught your hip. āImpatient.ā
āYou made me wait.ā
āThat was about thirty seconds.ā
āFelt longer.ā
Steveās mouth twitched. āSheās got a point.ā
āThought you were on my side.ā
āIām on hers.ā
āTraitor.ā
Bucky lined himself up and pushed slowly into you.
The stretch stole the next breath from your lungs. Your fingers tightened against the edge of the table while he worked himself deeper, stopping only when your body tensed around him.
Steve brushed his thumb along your jaw. āEasy.ā
Bucky went still behind you. You took another breath and relaxed around him before pushing your hips back enough to take the rest.
A groan broke from Bucky. āJesus.ā
Steveās gaze flicked over you toward him. āYou alright back there?ā
āShut up.ā
āYou were talking plenty a minute ago.ā
Bucky tightened his grip around your hips and pulled almost all the way out before thrusting back into you.
The sound you made cut Steveās teasing short. His eyes returned to yours.
Bucky did it again, slower this time, letting you feel every inch before his hips met yours.
āFuck,ā you breathed.
āYeah?ā Buckyās voice had already roughened. āThat better?ā
You pushed back against him.
He groaned.
Steve slid one hand into your hair, not pulling, only gathering enough of it away from your face that he could see you properly. āAnswer him.ā
āYeah.ā
Bucky laughed once, breathlessly. āKnew it.ā
Then he started fucking you in earnest. His first few thrusts stayed measured, giving you time to adjust before his rhythm gradually quickened. Each one pushed you forward against the table until Steve braced a hand against your shoulder, keeping you from sliding farther across the polished surface.
Buckyās fingers dug into your hips. āYou feel fucking incredible.ā
Steveās eyebrows rose.
Bucky caught it. āWhat?ā
āNothing.ā
āSay it.ā
Steve looked at you instead. āHe gets chatty when heās enjoying himself.ā
Buckyās next thrust drove deeper, and your mouth fell open on a moan.
Steve immediately leaned down and kissed you. You clutched at the front of his shirt while Bucky kept moving behind you, Steve swallowing each increasingly helpless sound as Buckyās pace picked up. The table shifted faintly beneath the force of his thrusts.
Buckyās hand slipped around your hip and between your thighs.
You broke away from Steveās mouth with a gasp when his fingers found your clit. āBuckāā
āGot you.ā
His fingers moved in tight circles while he fucked you, the double stimulation sending pleasure building rapidly through your stomach. Your legs started to tremble.
Steve felt it where his hand rested against you. āClose?ā
You nodded.
Bucky made a satisfied sound behind you. āCan feel it.ā
Buckyās thrusts grew harder, his fingers maintaining the same steady pressure even as the movement of his hips grew increasingly uneven. You buried your face against Steveās shoulder to muffle yourself, biting lightly through the fabric of his shirt when Bucky hit the angle that made your whole body tighten.
āRight there,ā you gasped.
Bucky didnāt need the instruction twice. He kept the same angle, fucking you through the tension gathering low in your stomach until your thighs started shaking harder.
Steveās hand moved along your back. āCome on.ā
The quiet command pushed you over. Your orgasm broke through you in a sudden rush, your body clenching around Bucky as a broken moan disappeared against Steveās shoulder.
Bucky swore, his rhythm faltering immediately. āFuck, sweetheart.ā
He kept moving through the contractions, thrusts turning rougher and less controlled while his grip tightened around your hip. Your oversensitive body twitched beneath his fingers until he finally pulled his hand away from your clit.
Bucky lasted only a few more thrusts. He buried himself deep with a low groan and came inside you, his chest pressing over your back as his hips gave a final uneven jerk.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Buckyās breathing was hot against your shoulder.
Steve ran one hand slowly along your back. āYou alive?ā
Bucky lifted his head just enough to glare at him. āAsk me again in a minute.ā
You laughed weakly.
Bucky kissed your shoulder before gradually straightening. When he finally pulled out, the movement drew a soft sound from you, his come already beginning to slip between your thighs.
Steveās gaze dropped to the mess slipping between your thighs before lifting slowly to Bucky. āDone?ā
Bucky tucked himself back into his pants, still breathing harder than usual. āYour turn, punk.ā
Steveās attention returned to you as Bucky stepped away.
You pushed yourself upright from the table while Steve came around to your side. He caught your hips once he reached you, helping you turn before lifting you onto the edge of the conference table. Your pants and underwear were still bunched around your thighs, and you shoved them down far enough to slip one leg free before parting your thighs for him.
Steve stepped between them. You barely had time to smile before he leaned in and kissed you.
Bucky leaned against the table beside you, shirtless and wearing the smug expression of a man who had absolutely no intention of becoming less annoying now that heād gotten what he wanted.
Steve kissed you while his hands traveled slowly down your sides. His touch was different from Buckyās, less hurried even with the impatience you could feel beneath it. He let one hand slide between your thighs, and his mouth stilled against yours when his fingers encountered the mess Bucky had left behind.
His eyes opened.
Bucky grinned. āProblem?ā
Steve looked at him. āDonāt.ā
āI didnāt say anything.ā
āYou were about to.ā
Bucky lifted both hands, but the grin remained.
Steve turned back to you. His fingers dragged through Buckyās come before sliding upward to your clit, and your thighs twitched around his hips. āYou okay?ā
āMore than okay.ā
āYou sensitive?ā
āA little.ā
His thumb moved carefully over your clit.
You sucked in a breath.
Steve watched your face. āToo much?ā
āNo.ā
Bucky leaned closer. āSheād tell you if it was.ā
Steve gave him a sidelong look. āI know.ā
āJust helping.ā
āYouāve done enough helping.ā
āDisagree.ā
Steve ignored him and pushed two fingers inside you, curling them against the sensitive spot that made your head tip back and your legs tighten around him. His thumb settled over your clit as he worked you through the slick mess Bucky had left behind.
āSteve.ā
āI know.ā
He kissed you again, fingers continuing their slow rhythm until your hips started rocking against his hand.
Bucky watched from beside you. āYou know she was doing that with me too.ā
Steveās mouth left yours. āYou trying to start something?ā
āMaybe.ā
āYou already got your turn.ā
Buckyās grin widened. āDoesnāt mean I canāt appreciate yours.ā
Steve pulled his fingers from you.
Buckyās eyes dropped. āJesus.ā
Steve looked down too, something darker settling into his expression at the sight of his fingers slick with both your arousal and what Bucky had left inside you.
Both men went still as you caught Steveās wrist before he could move away and brought his fingers to your mouth, sucking them clean.
āFuck,ā Bucky said quietly.
Steveās gaze stayed locked on your mouth until you released him.
Then he caught your jaw and kissed you hard. You reached between you, working open his pants while he crowded closer. Steve helped just enough to free himself before his hand returned to your waist.
The head of his cock dragged through the wetness between your thighs. Steve looked at you. āReady?ā
āYeah.ā
He pushed inside. You were already stretched and slick from Bucky, but Steve still took his time, working himself deeper inch by inch while his forehead rested against yours. Your legs tightened around his hips as he filled you, the lingering sensitivity from your first orgasm making every inch feel more intense.
Steve stopped when he was fully inside. āYou good?ā
You nodded. āMove.ā
Bucky laughed softly beside you. āThink that means sheās good.ā
Steve didnāt look away from you. āNobody asked you.ā
His first thrust was slow, but the second went deeper, making you wrap your legs more securely around his waist and pulling him closer.
Steve exhaled sharply against your mouth. āThis what you wanted?ā
āYes.ā
His hand tightened around your hip.
āThen hold on.ā
Steve kept that measured rhythm longer than Bucky had, dragging his cock almost all the way out before filling you again. Each thrust dragged through the slick mess Bucky had left between your thighs before pushing it back inside you.
Buckyās gaze dropped. āFuck, Stevie.ā
Steveās jaw tightened. āWhat?ā
āNothing.ā
āYouāve never said ānothingā like that in your life.ā
Bucky laughed.
Steve thrust harder. The sudden force drove a moan from you and made the table shift beneath your weight.
Buckyās eyebrows rose. āThere you go.ā
āStop encouraging him,ā you breathed.
Bucky looked delighted. āThought that was your job.ā
Steve answered with another harder thrust. Your fingers tightened around his shoulders.
His expression changed when he felt you clench. āYou like that?ā
You nodded.
āUse your words.ā
āYes.ā
Bucky made an approving sound.
Steve glanced at him. āI swearāā
You pulled Steve back toward you before he could finish the threat. āPay attention.ā
His eyes returned to yours. āBossy.ā
āYou like it.ā
Steveās mouth curved. āMaybe.ā
He kissed you and picked up his pace.
This time he stopped holding back. His hips drove into you with enough force that you had to brace one hand behind yourself against the table while the other stayed wrapped around his shoulder. Steve caught your thigh and lifted it higher against his side, changing the angle until his next thrust hit deep enough to tear a gasp from you.
He felt the reaction immediately. āThere?ā
You swallowed. āAgain.ā
Steve obliged; the next thrust struck the same spot.
Your head tipped back. āFuck.ā
Bucky shifted closer.
Steve noticed his hand moving toward you. āThought you were done.ā
āI am.ā
āThen why are you touching her?ā
Bucky slid his palm along the inside of your thigh. āFinishing doesnāt mean Iām done with her.ā
His fingers reached your clit, making your breath break.
Steveās hips stuttered for a fraction of a second.
Bucky smiled. āProblem?ā
āYouāre enjoying this way too much.ā
āYeah.ā
Steve drove into you again while Bucky circled your clit, and the combined sensation made your legs tighten around him.
Bucky watched your face. āSheās still sensitive.ā
Steveās breathing had grown rougher. āI noticed.ā
āThen fuck her like it.ā
Steve looked at him. Bucky grinned.
You barely had time to inhale before Steve drove into you harder, then did it again.
Your grip tightened around his shoulders while Bucky kept his fingers moving between your bodies, Steveās rhythm steadily losing the last of its caution.
The conference table shifted beneath you again. āSteve.ā
His mouth brushed your jaw. āIāve got you.ā
Footsteps sounded in the corridor.
Steve stopped so suddenly that your breath caught for an entirely different reason.
Bucky pulled his hand away immediately.
āSomeoneās coming,ā Steve whispered.
The three of you went silent.
Steve remained buried fully inside you, one hand gripping your waist and the other braced against the conference table. You could feel every small twitch of Steveās body as the footsteps drew closer. Whoever was outside paused near the briefing room for one agonizing moment and continued down the hall.
Nobody moved until the sound faded down the hallway. Bucky dropped his forehead against your shoulder and started laughing.
Steve stared at him. āThis isnāt funny.ā
āYou shouldāve seen your face.ā
āMy face?ā
āBoth your faces.ā
Steve looked at you, apparently expecting support. You pressed your lips together.
His eyes narrowed. āDonāt.ā
āYouāre still inside me.ā
Bucky made a strangled sound and folded farther over your shoulder, laughing hard enough that you could feel it.
Steve closed his eyes. āChrist.ā
āYou said it wasnāt funny.ā
āIt isnāt.ā
Bucky managed to straighten. āSure about that, Stevie?ā
Steve looked toward the door.
For a moment, you genuinely thought he might finally pull out and insist on going upstairs.
Instead, his hand tightened around your hip.
āSo weāre not stopping,ā Bucky said.
Steve glared at him. āYouāve talked enough.ā
āThatās a no, then.ā
Steve kissed you before either of you could say anything else.
His first thrust after the interruption was harder than anything heād given you before it.
You gasped against his mouth.
The second drove you backward against the table.
Buckyās laughter abruptly stopped. āFuck.ā
Steve ignored him. Whatever the near miss had done to Steve, embarrassment clearly wasnāt the only result. His careful rhythm was gone, replaced by hard, deliberate thrusts that made the table shake beneath you.
Your fingers dug into his shoulders. āSteve.ā
āStill good?ā
āYeah.ā
His hand slid beneath your thigh and lifted it higher. āThen take it.ā
The words sent heat rushing through you.
Bucky swore softly beside you. Steve heard him. A faint, almost smug curve touched his mouth.
Bucky stared. āOh, now youāre showing off.ā
Steve shot him a look. āYou wanted me to loosen up.ā
Buckyās grin widened. āDidnāt think youād take it this far.ā
Steve answered by thrusting harder. You moaned.
Bucky immediately reached between you again. His fingers found your clit, and your whole body jolted.
Steve looked down. āReally?ā
āShe liked it before.ā
āSheās already having trouble staying quiet.ā
āSounds like motivation.ā
Bucky circled your clit again, making your head fall back.
Steve caught your jaw and brought your attention back to him. āLook at me.ā
You did.
āThatās it.ā His voice had gone low and rough, every remaining trace of embarrassment replaced with something far more possessive.
āCareful, Stevie. You sound like youāre enjoying this.ā
Steve drove into you hard enough to steal your breath.
Bucky smiled. āGuess so.ā
āYou want me to shut you up myself?ā
āWhile youāre busy?ā
You laughed breathlessly. āHe has a point.ā
Steve looked at you. āYouāre supposed to be on my side.ā
āIām between both of you. I donāt have a side.ā
Buckyās fingers pressed more firmly against your clit. āThatās my girl.ā
Steveās hand tightened around your jaw. āHis girl?ā
Bucky laughed. āOh, now you care?ā
Something changed in Steveās expression. His pace picked up.
The amusement disappeared from your face almost immediately as pleasure began building again, sharper this time because your body had never fully come down from Bucky.
āSteve.ā
āI know.ā
His hand left your jaw and wrapped around your waist, holding you securely at the edge of the table while he fucked you harder. Bucky kept his fingers moving against your clit, matching Steveās rhythm until you could feel another orgasm gathering rapidly.
Then the access panel beside the door chirped.
Everything stopped.
Steveās eyes snapped toward the sound.
Bucky jerked his hand away. āShit.ā
The mechanism clicked.
Steve barely had time to stop moving before the door opened.
Natasha Romanoff stepped inside.
Nobody spoke.
Her gaze landed on Bucky first. His shirt was the only piece of clothing any of you had actually removed, and his pants were fastened again after his earlier turn. Then she looked at you, still wearing everything youād entered the room in, though your pants and underwear were pushed down with one leg slipped free to give Steve access, your legs wrapped around his hips where he stood between them.
Finally, she looked at Steve. His shirt hung open where youād undone several buttons, and his pants had only been opened and pushed down far enough for him to fuck you.
He was still inside you.
Steve seemed to realize at approximately the same moment Natasha did that there was no disguising exactly what sheād walked in on. Steve immediately shifted closer, using his body to shield the exposed space between your thighs from view. Bucky, apparently incapable of experiencing shame in any useful quantity, leaned one hip against the table.
āHey, Nat.ā
She looked at him. āBarnes.ā
Steve closed his eyes briefly.
āThe door locks from the inside,ā Natasha said.
Bucky slowly looked toward the door before turning back to Steve. āKnew I forgot something.ā
Steve dropped his forehead against yours. You covered your face with both hands.
Natasha continued into the room.
Steve looked up in horror. āWhat are you doing?ā
āGetting my tablet.ā
Her tablet sat at the opposite end of the conference table. Natasha walked toward it with the composure of someone entering an entirely ordinary briefing room instead of one containing three teammates very obviously interrupted in the middle of sex.
Steve still hadnāt pulled out. At that point, doing so probably would have exposed even more of you to Natasha.
Bucky seemed to arrive at the same conclusion, because his mouth twitched.
Steve caught it. Do not, he mouthed.
I didnāt say anything, Bucky mouthed back.
Natasha picked up the tablet and tucked it beneath her arm. Her gaze moved from Steve to Bucky and finally to you. āSam owes me twenty dollars.ā
Your hands dropped from your face. āWhat?ā
Steve looked genuinely alarmed. āWhy?ā
āYou donāt want to know.ā
āNat.ā
She turned toward the door.
āNatasha.ā
āGoodnight, Steve.ā
āNatasha.ā
The door closed behind her. Bucky crossed the room and turned the lock before anyone said a word.
Steve stared at him.
āWhat?ā Bucky said. āBetter late than never.ā
You laughed.
Steve looked at you in disbelief, which only made it harder to stop laughing. Bucky leaned back against the locked door, shoulders shaking.
āDonāt,ā Steve warned.
āIām sorry.ā
āYouāre not.ā
āNo,ā Bucky admitted. āIām really not.ā
Steve looked down between your bodies before closing his eyes.
āYouāre still inside me,ā you reminded him.
Bucky laughed harder.
Steve pointed toward him without turning around. āOne more sound.ā
Bucky pressed his lips together. The silence lasted perhaps two seconds. āSam owes her twenty dollars.ā
Steveās head snapped toward him. āBuck.ā
āWhat do you think the bet was?ā
āI donāt want to know.ā
āThey already had money on this.ā
āI heard her.ā
āWhich meansāā
āJames.ā
Bucky finally raised both hands.
Steve turned back to you. The embarrassment was still written clearly across his face, but Natashaās interruption hadnāt changed the fact that he was still hard inside you.
You shifted your hips experimentally.
Steve inhaled sharply as his eyes narrowed. āDonāt.ā
āDonāt what?ā
āYou know exactly what youāre doing.ā
Bucky made a thoughtful sound from beside the door.
Steve didnāt even look at him. āNot a word.ā
Bucky mimed zipping his mouth.
You bit back a smile.
Steve glanced toward the locked door and then back at you. āYou still want to keep going?ā
āYeah.ā
His shoulders relaxed. āOkay.ā
You caught his open shirt and pulled him down into a kiss.
Steve started moving again slowly, both of you acutely aware of the absurdity of resuming exactly where Natasha had interrupted you. His first thrust was almost cautious. The second wasnāt. By the third, whatever embarrassment had survived her departure was rapidly turning into something else.
You tightened your legs around him. Steve groaned against your mouth.
Bucky came back to your side and reached between your thighs again, earning a warning look from Steve.
Bucky shrugged. āDoorās locked.ā
Steve stared at him, but then his expression changed. āFine.ā
Buckyās eyebrows rose. āFine?ā
āYou wanted to help.ā Steve drove into you again. āHelp.ā
The satisfaction on Buckyās face should have been irritating, but then his fingers found your clit as Steve fucked you harder.
Your breath caught immediately.
āThere you go,ā Steve murmured.
His voice had lost every trace of the mortification Natasha had left behind.
Bucky matched the movement of his fingers to Steveās thrusts, and the pressure building low in your stomach sharpened so quickly that your hand flew to Steveās shoulder.
āSteve.ā
āIāve got you.ā
Bucky leaned close to your ear. āYou were close before she walked in.ā
You whimpered, and Steveās grip tightened around you as Bucky smiled against your temple. āKnew it.ā
āBuck.ā
āWhat? Iām helping.ā
His fingers moved faster as Steve drove into you again, the combination making your whole body tighten.
āThatās it,ā Steve murmured. āCome on.ā
The orgasm broke through you hard enough that your legs locked around his hips. You buried your face against Steveās shoulder, muffling your cry against his skin while Bucky kept rubbing your clit through every wave.
Steveās rhythm faltered as you clenched around him. āFuck.ā
He held you securely against him, fucking you through the aftershocks until your hand dropped to catch Buckyās wrist. āEnough.ā
Bucky stopped immediately and kissed your temple, but Steve was already too close to stop. His forehead pressed against yours as his thrusts shortened and steadily lost their rhythm. āStill okay?ā
āYeah.ā
His eyes closed.
You tightened your legs around him. āCome inside me.ā
Bucky went very quiet beside you.
Steve made a broken sound and buried himself as deeply as he could. His grip tightened around your waist when he came, filling you while his forehead dropped to your shoulder. You held him there as the last tension gradually left his body.
For several seconds, the room was finally quiet.
Then Bucky looked down between your bodies.
Steve saw him. āDonāt.ā
Bucky lifted his eyes. āDidnāt say anything.ā
āYou were going to.ā
āI was gonna say the doorās definitely locked.ā
Steve finally eased out of you as you laughed against his shoulder, keeping one hand at your waist as Bucky grinned and bent to retrieve his shirt from the floor.
āSee? Helpful.ā
Steve reached past your hip, grabbed the nearest pen from the conference table, and threw it at him.
Bucky straightened with his shirt in one hand just in time to catch the pen against his chest.
āViolence,ā he said solemnly. āAfter everything weāve been through.ā
āYou forgot to lock the door.ā
āOne mistake.ā
āNatasha walked in while I was fucking her.ā
Bucky considered that. āOkay. Pretty big mistake.ā
You laughed harder, and Steve finally gave up trying to look annoyed. His forehead settled against your shoulder while Bucky pulled his shirt back on.
For once, Bucky managed nearly ten seconds without saying anything.
Then he glanced toward the locked door. āSo, important question.ā
Steve groaned. āWhat?ā
āThink Samās gonna ask her for proof?ā
Steve found another pen before Bucky finished laughing and threw it, catching him squarely in the forehead.
word count: 3.2k
based on this ask
disclaimer: rough sex. fully consensual by all parties.
a/n: ngl I like this oneš„ŗš„ŗ hope you do too.
~~~
the second you ended up in Bucky Barnes' bed, he was completely taken aback.
he had been so used to your soft, quiet demeanor...
~~~
you were one of the administrative people that worked on the first floor of the building.
the first time he saw you, he had been on his way out of the building one day while you had been making photocopies. you had to be new, he determined; there was no way he wouldn't have noticed you before.
the more he paid attention to you from afar, the more he became aware of the way your coworkers always seemed to be socializing, but you were happy to put your earbuds in and keep working through your lunch hour.
thus, Bucky learned fairly early on that you were the kind of person that was quiet, kept to themself.
that was kind of ironic given the fact you worked in a building that screamed extravagance, that practically begged for the attention of not only everyone in New York, but everyone in the world.
the irony intrigued him.
he felt drawn to you, given that he was also the quiet, peer-in-from-the-outside type. but he didn't want to keep to himself when it came to you; he wanted to walk up to you, speak to you, and see if you would be willing to come out of your shell for him, too.
even though he hadn't gone out of his way to speak to a woman since... nearly a century ago, he couldnāt deny his attraction to you. even though you seemed shy, you still managed seem so carefree and unbothered. you were who you were, and that was that.
he admired that about you.
he eventually gathered the courage to come talk to you one morning. with a peace offering of coffee, of course.
as he walked into the building, he wondered, what the fuck do I say? why didn't I think this through before?
he ignored the way all your coworkers stared as he walked past their desks and right up to yours.
"hi," he said. "you probably already know who I am, but-"
"Bucky Barnes," you said softly. "of course I know you."
you proceeded to introduce yourself to him before quietly asking, "what brings you to my desk this morning?"
"it'd be wrong of me not to bring the pretty girl a coffee, don't you think?" it was cheesy and he knew it, but the way you smiled made him relax a bit.
and god, that smile of yours was sweet enough to melt his soul.
he asked you about your work, and you admitted you were shocked he might actually be interested in the kind of boring work you do.
"I'm not a hero like you, or anything," you told him with a self-deprecating laugh.
"oh, come on. your job is more important than anything we do," he told you with a genuine smile.
your flustered reaction made his heart warm. it was the same whenever he gave small compliments like that: you'd just smile, unsure of what to say, and look down as you redirected the conversation, smile still intact.
after a few weeks of watching you get flustered whenever he would compliment your intelligence, your smile, or anything really, he finally asked if you'd join him for dinner.
~~~
the fact that Bucky fucking Barnes of all people was asking you out threw you for a loop.
any time he came up to your desk to visit you, it immediately became the highlight of your day. it drew attention from your coworkers that you didn't necessarily want, constantly asking about him and what it was he wanted from you. dealing with them felt worth it, though, because you were the one on the receiving end of his attention.
you honestly had no clue what you were supposed to say to someone as charming and as handsome as him.
you knew what your mind was thinking whenever you saw him. but those nasty thoughts weren't exactly polite, casual conversation topics, now were they?
somehow, you managed to find the right words, and now you were going to have dinner with him.
you didn't know if you'd ever felt this excited or this nervous in your life.
~~~
you should've known he would be the most chivalrous man on the planet, given the time period he'd grown up in.
picking you up, opening the door for you, pulling out your chair for you...
he noticed how it only made you more flustered.
he paid the bill, obviously, and you knew the second he asked you if you wanted to come to his place, you would say yes.
~~~
the best way he could describe what he felt for you was pure adoration. you were so shocked by his polite gestures, it was truly adorable.
even better, you were so easily impressed. he could say anything about his job, and you would swoon, acting as though he'd just told you he'd solved all the world's problems.
he might have bragged a little too much about himself just to see that flustered reaction of yours, but that was neither here nor there.
every smile on your face, every soft laugh, every little stutter of yours made his heart jump in his chest.
he almost felt like he was imposing when he asked if you wanted to come back to his apartment. he didn't want to push you too far, didn't want to make you think that he expected anything from you. he would be totally fine if you just came over for a drink and a chat before he drove you home.
but the second the front door was shut behind you, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him against you, leaning back against the door.
the sudden confidence took him by surprise.
"you wanna?" you whispered, looking down at his lips as you said it.
his mouth went dry as all his blood rushed south.
"yeah, doll. if you wanna," he whispered back.
he was ready to kiss you gentle and slow, take you back to his bed and make soft, sweet love to you that matched your soft, sweet personality.
your fingers found his hair, your grip tight, and you crashed his lips to yours. he about choked at the sudden motion, but no way was he complaining.
he quickly matched your fervor, kissing you back like his life depended on it. his thoughts went out the window as he focused all his desire into the kiss.
you kept pulling him closer, tugging on his hair hard enough to make him wince.
"shit, too much?" you ask, quickly backing off. you'd gotten ahead of yourself, and you were ready to start apologizing like there was no tomorrow.
"fuck, no, not too much. do that again," he orders, melding his mouth with yours once more, pressing his hips against yours more firmly as he pinned you against the door.
he held you there, keeping you in place and relishing in the delicious feeling of you yanking at his hair and digging your nails into the back of his neck. after a few minutes, though, he began to come back to himself.
"come on, you deserve better than a rough fuck up against the door," he tells you, completely out of breath. he's about to speak again when you interrupt him,
"what if I don't want better?" you utter. his eyes dart up to meet your gaze, and he sees the glassy look in your eyes, looking at him like he's a piece of meat. "what if I want you to take me up against the door, give it to me however you want it, sir?"
if his cock wasn't already hard, it was now.
"shit, you're something else, you know that?" he laughs to himself, considering the weight of your words. he should be a better man, should take you to his bed and hold you close while he takes his time with you.
"is that really what you want?" he questions. everything you're saying sounds like an absolutely devilish wet dream, but that's all he can think about: it sounds like a dream.
he can't fathom the idea of taking you like this just because it's what you think he wants.
"we can go slow. you don't have to-"
he can't even finish his sentence before you're interrupting him again.
"do you really want it slow? 'cause with the way your cock jumped when I called you 'sir,' I'm getting the impression you might want to have your way with me right here, right now," you tell him, your gaze roaming over his face from his mouth to his eyes, still kneading his hair as you say it.
he's rendered speechless.
"you want me to beg for it? get on my knees and convince you?" you mutter to him when he doesn't respond. "pretty please, Bucky?"
your words are about to send him into a spiral. he's about ready to grab you, hold you down while he does exactly what you asked him to and just use you for as long as he wants.
"you really want it that way, huh?" he smirks.
"unless that's not what you want," you backtrack, trying to give him an out.
no way in hell is he going to take it.
suddenly, his hands on your hips grip you so much tighter that you gasp at the pinch on your skin. his whole body is against yours, and you can tell he's not holding back anymore, his innate strength pushing you against the door. you couldn't move if you wanted to.
"you say 'stop' at any point, and I will, got it?" he whispers, his nose brushing against yours, feeling his breath on your upper lip as he speaks. you give an eager nod, and a smirk plasters itself on his face.
he looks you up and down, the necklace dangling on your chest, how pretty you look in your sundress, the sandals strapped to your feet.
"I want it off," he hisses, reaching for the fabric at your waist. "strip. now."
you kick off your sandals and he gives you enough room to yank the dress over your head, revealing the lacy set you're wearing underneath. in navy blue. his color adorning your skin only makes him feel that much more possessive, that much more appreciative.
"you wear this for me, baby?" he asks as he runs a flesh finger over the lace of your panties, slipping under the band and pulling before letting it snap back against your skin. it doesn't hurt, but you're so on edge right now that the motion makes you flinch. "answer me."
your hands have found their way to his shoulders, clinging to him like your lifeline. "yes, sir," you whisper to him, resting your head back against the door.
"good answer," he smirks once more, before continuing, "take off my belt. hand it to me."
your hands are shaky, but you're nothing short of ecstatic to do whatever he says. you look up to his eyes to find him staring back at you, as though trying to read your thoughts. your thighs clench as you maintain eye contact, pulling at the belt buckle and yanking the leather from its place around his hips.
he notices the way your thighs press together as you push the belt into his hands. he brings his hand up and into your line of vision, twirling his finger in the air to direct you to turn around.
"hands behind your back," he tells you once you're facing the door, pressing your cheek up against it. he doesn't give you a single second to follow through on the order before he's grabbing your wrists and yanking your hands behind your back, proceeding to bind them together tightly with the belt.
"next time you don't listen to me, this goes around your neck, got it?" he asks with a rough yank of the leather on your skin.
you barely contain the whine that falls from your mouth before responding, "yes, sir."
he pauses for a moment, assessing the way he has you pressed up against the door, admiring his handiwork where heās tied your wrists.
"all good?" he asks you.
"Iām good," you affirm.
next thing you know, he's pulling you away from the door and stepping you back until you feel a soft rug under your feet.
"get on your knees."
you don't hesitate, not failing to recognize the plush of the rug under your knees. you silently thank him for it.
and then he appears in front of you, in all his beautiful glory. from the moment you met him, you imagined this, wondering what it would be like to fall to his feet, to be on your knees for him.
"you follow orders well, babygirl," he taunts, hands running through your hair and gently holding your scalp. he pushes your face up against the rough denim over his bulge.
you might come on the spot.
"never would've known you were such a little slut, you know that?" he says, continuing to hold your face against his clothed dick. "I quite like this side of you."
you finally let out a moan against him, your eyes shutting as you let him handle you.
he yanks on your hair suddenly, tilting your head back up to look at him. he seems to be inspecting you, taking in the sight of you on the floor in front of him. he releases one hand from your hair, moving it to press two vibranium fingers against your mouth. you don't hesitate, quickly parting your lips to let him push them inside.
"thought about putting that pretty little mouth on my cock, but I think you like this better, don't you? letting me fuck your face with my fingers probably makes you even more humiliated, even more wet for me, doesn't it?"
your eyes fall shut once more, nodding and moaning shamelessly around his fingers. your hands struggle against the binds behind your back, and the feeling of arousal pulses through you even harder at the reminder that you're truly at his mercy.
he watches you for a few minutes, thrusting his fingers in and out of your mouth as you begin to drool all over yourself, losing yourself more and more with every one of his movements.
"think I'll be nice to you tonight. think I'll fuck you through the bed instead of on the cold, hard floor," he tells you, pulling his fingers from your mouth and taking hold of your chin with his hand coated in your saliva. "what do you say?"
"thank you, sir," you moan out.
"good girl," he tells you, bringing his hands to your arms and helping you to your feet. his hands then dig into the skin at your waist, and you yelp as he tosses you over his shoulder, placing a slap on your ass as he does.
"don't worry, I'm not gonna drop you, pretty girl," he says as he walks, and you think he had to have been reading your mind.
the second you're splayed out on his bed, he's parting your thighs and pulling down the lace of your panties, then pushing a pillow under your hips to put you on perfect display for him.
"look so good for me like this, doll," he groans and begins to shed his own clothes. you watch with glazed eyes as he reveals his beautiful tanned skin, and then-
you're embarrassed by the moan you let out when you see his massive dick.
"don't worry, baby, I'll go slow," he whispers as he leans into your ear, kissing over your neck.
"but you don't know how good it hurts," you say, looking into his eyes. "please, please, I'll tell you if I can't take it. but god, I need it, Bucky. please, sir," you whine out, every last shred of your dignity gone, deliberately laying your soul bare for him.
fuck. he's fucked.
"goddamnit, doll," he tells you as he pushes your legs even further apart, bringing his hips in line with yours. "you really want it? then beg me for it again, or I won't fuck you at all."
you might sob when you hear that. "please, Bucky... wanted this for so long. want you to take what you want from me, please..."
you hear yourself continue a quiet litany of "please" over and over again.
"shit, need a condom," he says, as though he's just thought of it.
"I'm safe," you beg of him, "I need to feel you, Bucky, please..."
and by all means, he can't resist you.
you hear him practically growl, and then he finally presses in.
your noises are animalistic, completely raw and unfiltered at this point. nothing compares to that stretch, you want to tell him, nothing is better than the sting.
he does go slow, still worried about actually hurting you, taking care to watch your face the whole time. you're fucking gorgeous like this, hands bound, sweat dripping down your forehead, begging him to split you open.
"I'm not gonna last, fuck," he breathes into the skin of your neck, barely able to contain himself.
you take a few deep breaths and force the words from your throat, "me neither, it's okay..." the words come out so quiet as you focus on the feeling of him.
he pulls back and forces himself back into you, so fucking tight around him. at this point he's joined in on your cacophony of unabashed moans.
his hands hold your hips in place, letting loose as he fucks you into abandon.
this is exactly what you wanted, you think, as you feel him bury himself in your guts over and over again.
"Bucky, Bucky, I need-"
you don't have to finish your sentence before he's sucking his thumb into his mouth before pressing it to your clit.
"want you to come on my cock, like this, baby. can you do that for me?" he says, his own voice shaky as he loses his own composure.
"yes, sir," you whisper, and then you're bucking your hips up as much as possible to meet his.
you cry out as you come, your whole body having been waiting for this moment, to finally let go at the will of Bucky Barnes.
the view of watching you come for him is more than he can handle, and he's not far behind.
"w-where?" he grits out.
"told you. I'm safe," you whisper to him.
he should be smarter. he should pull out.
he doesn't.
he's letting go only seconds later, the warm feeling filling your stomach as he releases, buried to the hilt inside you.
he barely moves off of you before collapsing into the bed, completely worn.
you both take a minute, catching your breath, before you pipe up.
"my hands, Bucky," you begin, and he quickly sits up to undo the belt bound around your wrists.
you both lay back, and he pulls you in tightly against him, kissing over your forehead.
"I did not see you being the type to like it rough," he admits to you, tracing his fingers over the planes of your face.
you smile a little. "is it even fun if it's not rough?" you tease back.
"don't say that, I might take it as a challenge," he smirks.
"you can prove me wrong in the morning," you offer.
"yeah. in the morning," he confirms, and presses his lips to yours.
you both think the same thing to yourself: it's always the quiet ones.
~~~
ā¦ masterlist ~ join a tag list ā¦
bucky tag list part 1: (send an ask or dm to be removed)
Could you please write something where Bucky completely loses his shit when you stop him and take the condom off mid-sex?
Bare Instincts
Word Count: 2,956
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, smut, unprotected sex (wrap it up in real life, folks), creampie, breeding kink, dirty talk, possessive behavior, light choking (consensual and gentle), rough sex, multiple orgasms/rounds, praise kink, Bucky Barnes x Reader, super-soldier stamina, aftercare mentions. All consensual.
A/N: making this a twofer, answering the ask and taking part in @mercurial-chuckles Vivifying Valentine's Atelier
It had been a long night for Bucky. He hadn't known at the time if it had been intentional. But the way he had stumbled back into the apartment after the godforsaken Valentine's gala, he couldn't care less.
For you, it had been deliberate. The moment he stepped into your apartment, your decision had been made. He looked like sin in his black tailored suit. The way it hugged his broad shoulders and tapered down at his waist had been a test of your control.
āTease me and see where thatāll get you,ā you murmured in his ear with your hand high up on his thigh.
The growl that rumbled low in his throat at your whispered promises told you that you'd have him eating from the palm of your hand. The possessive pressure of his metal digits on your thigh told you everything you needed to know. And by the time you had him pushed up against your front door, he was rock hard, his normally serene blue eyes were dark and stormy with desire.
āYouāre killinā me here, darlināā he groaned, his thick Brooklyn accent more prominent in his aroused state.
You smirked, slipping your keys into the front door and releasing the catch. He whisked you inside without a wordā so fast that you werenāt sure your feet had touched the ground. Even in his haste, he made sure the front door was secure before you reached the bedroomā nothing was more important to him than your safety.
In the bedroom, you found yourself shoving him onto the bed, climbing on top and straddling his hips. His hands acted instinctively, both flesh and vibranium roamed your body as you stripped him down. His jacket came first, followed by his shirt, leaving skin on display. His muscles flexed, rippling under your light caresses, his scars telling the stories of battles won and lost. His pants took a little longer, a struggle between co-ordination and need.
Pants gone. All that was left are his boxers, the thick outline of his cock straining dangerous against the thin fabric. You could see him practically twitching, making your mouth water. Instead you ground against him, relishing the friction on your pussy as be bucked into you with a soft curse on his lips.
āFuck, darlin', please,ā he whined, tugging on your arms until your mouth met his. āNeed you,ā he muttered against your lips before he pressed his to them in an almost bruising kiss.
The second your mouth parted in a gasp wasā to himā merely an opportunity for his tongue to invade your mouth. Hot and demanding. Hungry and wanting. You let yourself get lost in the embrace of your lips as his fingers worked off your dress. It wasnāt long before he was pulling your dress over your head with practiced ease. The heat coming off his super-soldier body was making you ache. Your pussy throbbed with anticipation of him. Waiting eagerly to be filled.
You were both naked in seconds, skin on skin as you sat on his hard length, coating him in your slick. You reached over to the nightstand, grabbing a condom because, well, old habits die hard. Bucky watched with hooded eyes as you shuffled down enough to roll it over him, his cock jumping in your hands. You bit your lip with concentration, taking your time to appreciate the long, thick, veined length. He was huge and it made your cunt clench needily.
It was like he could sense your urgency, because he had you flipped on your back and was settled between your thighs with a low growl. āGonna feel so good inside you!ā
There wasnāt an ounce of hesitation as he pushed into you. Slow at firstā he wasnāt a monster, he was James Bucky Barnes after all. Inch by inch, he stretched you with deliberate and delicious precision. A shuddering moan left your lips as your fingertips dug into his forearms.
āBucky... oh Gods, yes!ā
Finally he bottomed out with a groan, stilling for a moment with his forehead pressed lightly on yours.
āSo tight, sweetheart. Feel so fuckinā perfect.ā
With that, he started moving inside you. Deep thrusts that had your back arching off the bed. Mind-blowing, despite the condom dulling some of the sensations. He knew how to make you moan, with his steady rhythm, each powerful stroke hit that perfect spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
āYes, baby, just like that.ā
Your legs snaked around his waist so you could meet his thrust and the room was filled with the wet sounds of skin slapping skin, your moans and his soft grunts. Sweat slowly slicked your bodies, and he buried his face in your neck, sucking dark marks onto your skin.
āMine,ā he whispered harshly, one hand steadying his weight over you, the other at the base of his cock. āAll fuckin' mine.ā
His words stirred something inside you. You were his, and he yours. The two of you had been together for almost six months, an exclusive relationship and it was now that it struck you that the thought of feeling him bare was exhilarating. The idea of nothing between you ignited a fire in your core that burned hotter than anything youād felt that evening.Ā
Bucky had just pulled back and was about to thrust his cock back into you when you put a hand on his chest to stop him.
āBabyā¦ stop.ā
He froze instantly. A flash of concern crossed his face despite the haze of lust he had just been lost in. Super-soldier or not, he was always acutely attuned to you and your needs.
āYou okay? Did I hurt you?ā
You shook your head immediately followed by a whispered āno baby.ā You propped yourself up on your elbows while his cock was still half-buried inside you. You could feel him throbbing needily.
āI just... I want to feel you. All of you.ā Your hand floated up to his elbow, before trailing softly along his skin down to where you were joined, fingers brushing the base of his sheathed length.
His eyes widened, pupils dilating as his brain registered the meaning of your words. āYou mean... b-bare?ā
You nodded, biting your lip. Bucky looked like his brain had short-circuited. But you weren't reckless.
āBefore we do, I need to know... are you clean? Like, STDs and stuff? I trust you, butā¦ I have to ask.ā
The look of raw hunger softened slightly with a look of patience and a hint of adoration. He brought his palm up to cup your face with a gentleness befitting a summer breeze. He stroked your cheek with his thumb.Ā
āYeah, sweetheart. I'm clean. Serum takes care of a lotā quick healing, immunity. But Sam told me to get tested anywayā¦ last month. Negative on all ācounts. You?ā
āSame here,ā you whispered, a wave of relief and excitement washed over you. āLast check was clear. And I'm on the pill.ā
He let out a shuddering exhale which sounded like a laugh at the end. Meanwhile his cock twitched with far more anticipation than his face betrayed. āFuck, darlin'. You sure? Once we do thisā¦ā
āI'm sure,ā you said quietly, eyes filled with earnestness.
He pulled out of you and you reached down, gripping the condom at the base and with an element of reverence you slid the latex off his glistening length already slick from his arousal. Bucky hissed at the sensation, hips jerking involuntarily at your touch and the cool air hitting his bare skin.
āShit,ā he groaned, looking down to where your hand was now wrapped around his cock, pumping onceā¦ twice. His heat swelled in your grasp, veins pulsing in your fingertips. āSweets, that's... fuc-.ā
You maneuvered your hips over his until his cockhead was lined up to your entrance. Teasingly, you brushed the tip through your folds, coating him with your essence.
āPlease,ā he begged, voice utterly wrecked. His lips trembled, breath hot against your ear. āNeed to be inside you raw.ā
You sank down on him in one smooth motion, taking him right up to the hilt, no barriers. The difference was electrifying. It was immediate. It was ecstasy. Hot. Skin on skin. You could feel him. Every ridge. Every vein. They dragged against your soaked walls.
Both of you cried out in pleasure. Your head fell back with a moan.
āFuuuuck,ā Bucky roared, hands clamping on your hips so hard you knew youād bruise. āSo wet, so tightā Jesus Christ sweetheart, I can feel everything. Your pussy's grippin' me like a vice.ā
This was what having an epiphany would have felt like. The proverbial lightbulb moment. Except it was the feeling of Buckyās massive dick buried deep inside your pussy. You started riding him. Slow at first. Savoring the intensity. No rubber muting the sensation. You didnāt know. How could you know? Pure. Electric. Intoxication.Ā
āBucky... oh my God, you feel so good. So big without it.ā
He thrust right up to meet you. Picking up the pace. There was something wild in his eyes that you had never seen before. And it was all for you. āYeah? You like that, huh, sweetheart? Feelin' my bare cock stretchin' you out? Gonna fill you up, mark you inside.ā
Filthy words fueled by fire spilled from his lips and you bounced harderā breasts jiggling with every buck of his hips, his gaze fixed firmly on you. Then he said something that surprised you. It wasnāt the words exactly, it was more the tone. Deep. Commanding.
āTouch yourself, baby. Wanna see you finish on my dick.ā
Your fingers slipped under the hood easily. No additional prompting needed. You circled the swollen nub as he pounded into you. Over and over as the room filled with the scent of sex. A sweet mixture of sweat and arousal and the faint metallic tag of his arm.
āWouldnāt dream of it, sweets. But I think I can make it better,ā he smirked under you.
You stopped bouncing, paused chasing your climax so you could hear him out, fingers never once leaving your clit. He lifted your leg and helped you turn around, his cock not leaving its rightful place in your needy pussy. He sat up until you were on all fours and he slammed into you from behind. Much deeper now. Making you whine when his cock hit your cervix.
āTake it, baby. Take every inch. This perfect pussy's mine. Gonna breed it, flood you with my cum.ā
You whimpered, pushing back against him. āYes, baby, yes... want your cum. Fill me up.ā
His metal hand wrapped around your throat gently. As much as you told him you could take it, he would never get rougher with you than letting his lips bruise your skin. He pulled you up against his chest with the vibranium while his flesh digits snaked between your legs, replacing your fingers on your clit and rubbing until you clenched harder around him.
āOhhh, that's it, darlin'. Squeeze me. Milk my cock dry.ā
Your vision went white. A blinding flash as pleasure enveloped you. And your eyes rolled back as his words sent you over the edge, your orgasm crashed through you, walls fluttering around him bare, pulling him deeper.
āBucky! Fuck, yes!ā
He lost it as you groaned, your pussy clamping down on him, making him truly lose his mind. His thrusts turned erratic, animalistic, grunts turning to moans.
āOh God, feel that? Your cunt's suckin' me inā bare, raw, fuck! Gonna come... gonna come inside you.ā
Your arms shook with the effort of holding you up as you rode the aftershocks. āDo it, you gasped. āCome for me, Buck.ā
With a guttural groan, he pushed in one last time, buried deep inside you, cock pulsing as he spilled his super-soldier seed inside you. Nothing could have prepared you for this. The sensation was new and overwhelming. Hot ropes of cum painted your walls. He kept thrusting through it. Drawing out every drop. Until finally he collapsed against you, panting.
But Bucky wasnāt done. Far from it. He pulled out slowly, watching his cum leak from you. A filthy smile curled on his lip. āLook at that. Always imagined this but actually seeing my cum drippinā out of your pretty pussyā¦ wellā¦ didnāt know it would do this to me.ā
You looked down, surprised to see that his cock wasnāt quite as soft as you expected. He turned you onto your back, keeping your legs apart, scooping some of the cum with his fingers and pushing it back into you.
āGotta keep it all inside, sweet princess,ā he whispered in a conspiratorial tone, a rare sparkle of mischief in his eyes.
You moaned, sensitive but immediately aroused again. āBuckyā¦ā
āNot done, sweetheart,ā he whined, letting his cock slide through your folds, already slick with your combined fluids. āNeed more. Need to feel you bare again.ā His cock, still hardā thank you, serumā was already nudging insistently at your entrance.
"Wai-wai-wait," you laughed breathlessly, but he was insatiable now, eyes glazed with lust.
āCan't wait, sweet princess. The way you feel without that rubber... 's addictinā.ā He slid through your folds again. āPlease?ā he asked with a pout.
You laughed again, unable to resist his adorable face and smoldering eyes. Bucky had an unreasonable talent at looking gorgeous and sweet at the same time and you couldnāt resist the power of his pleading gaze. So you spread your legs in answer.
He slid in again without hesitation, easier this time, your pussy welcoming him with a wet squelch. āHear that, sweets? So fuckinā messy. All because of me.āĀ
He grinned proudly, even as he set a brutal pace, hips snapping, balls slapping your ass. Dirty talk poured from his mouth like a broken faucet. āGonna ruin you for anyone else. No one gets this but meā *thrust* bare, *thrust* deep, *thrust* breedin' you like you deserve.ā
āHarder, Buck.ā You clawed at his back, lost in the sensations of your fucked out haze. āFuck me like you own me.ā
āI do,ā he growled, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head with just his metal hand. āYouāre mine. Pussy's mine. Gonna pump you full. Again *thrust* and again *thrust*.ā
āSo deep... can feel you everywhere.ā You grinded against him, hips circling just to feel him throb inside you.
āThatās it, darlinā. Show me how much you love feelinā me raw.ā He smirked, thrusting up sharply. āGonna make you drip for days.ā
The bed made its protests known, creaking under the force of his hips. But your bodies were wrapped together in a world outside the mundane. Lost in a cloud of carnality. He leaned down, capturing one nipple between his lips, while his free thumb swept over your clit.
āBucky!ā you screamed, your back arching off the mattress.
He picked up speed, angling to hit your g-spot. āGonna make you squirt on my cock. Bet you can, all messy and bare.ā
āI- Bucky- I-ā
āCome again, sweetheart. Wanna feel you clench around my bare cock.ā
It didn't take long for the coil in your belly to reach its limit. Pressure built steadily. Intense. Untilā¦ it snapped much faster than you expected. You shattered. Gushing. A wanton moan leaving your lips. He followed very soon after, another load flooding you, mixing with the first, spreading out over your thighs.
He collapsed on top of you. Both your bodies sticky with sweat and cum. Sheets ruined. Bucky pulled you into his arms, kissing your forehead with surprising tenderness. āThat was... insane.ā
You hummed contentedly against his chest, still catching your breath.
āYeah,ā you murmured, lips brushing over one of the older scars near his collarbone. āSo fucking worth it.ā
Bucky let out a low, rumbling chuckleā the kind that vibrated through you where your bodies were still pressed together. His metal hand stroked slow, lazy lines up and down your spine while the right one settled protectively over your hip, thumb tracing contented circles on your skin.
For a long minute neither of you spoke. Just breathing. Just existing in the sticky, warm wreckage youād made of each other.
Then he shifted slightly, just enough to press his lips to your temple.
āGonna be honest with you, sweets,ā he said quietly, voice rough and wrecked in the best possible way. āDonāt think Iām ever gonna be okay with puttinā anything between us again.ā
You laughed softly, the sound muffled against his skin.
āGood. Cause I donāt want you to.ā
He exhaled softly through his nose, almost like relief, and tightened his arms around you.
āStay right here,ā he whispered. āDonāt even think about movinā yet. I like feelinā you like thisā¦ full of me. Messy ācause of me.ā
You clenched around him on purposeā just a littleā feeling his cock give a tired, but still interested twitch inside you even though youād both just come apart. He groaned low in his throat.
āEvil,ā he muttered, but there was a smile in it.
You tilted your head back so you could meet his eyes. They were softer now. Storm faded. Just deep blue and stupidly fond.
āLove you,ā you said simply.
Buckyās expression flickeredā like the words still caught him off guard sometimes, even six months in. Then his mouth curved, slow and real.
āLove you too, sweetheart.ā He kissed you gently this time. Barely a brush. āMore than you know.ā
He didnāt pull out for a long while. Holding you close. Letting the quiet settle. Letting the evidence of what youād just done dry on your thighs and his sheets while he murmured sweet, filthy little promises against your hair about tomorrow morning. And the day after that. And every time after.
A/N: I had a dream Sebastian was hitting it from the back and only got hornier as I woke up. I think I'm ovulating. PERPETUALLY.
Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader
Word count: 11.4k
Warnings: established relationship, SMUT!!!! p in v, oral (m&f), fingering, breeding kink, cumplay?, secret relationship, semi-public sex (fingering in a restaurant), overstim mention, free use mention, somnophilia, size kink, drinking mention, mentions of face fucking?, finger sucking, spit kink, so much smut. like... so much. I'm so, so horny.
Summary: Bucky and you have been sneaking around in secret for a while. Not for any particular reason aside from not wanting all of the questions from the team. But now, your schedules haven't been lining up.
After getting drafted, spending 90 years going from fight after fight, and going to therapy, one could say James Barnes was a little uptight. He liked his routine. Some semblance of normalcy in the midst of the whole brainwashed super soldier arc life put on him.
So of course he'd be drawn to you.
Your chaotic personality and dry humor pulled him in like the ocean tide would pull a boat. Almost imperceptible, until you found yourself stranded in the middle of the ocean having sun poisoning-induced hallucinations.
It took him exactly 68 days of maladaptive daydreaming about ruining you in every humanly possible way, and some inhumanly ones, for his restrain to snap like a twig under the sheer strength of your gaze.
That night at the safe house after a particularly gnarly getaway, where you committed 3 traffic felonies and broke a few other trespassing laws, playing some stupid pop song on the radio like you were going to get your ears pierced at Claire's, not evading an actual gang.
When you closed the door behind you at the safe house, you were buzzing. Your pupils were dilated, you were shaking, and you bounced on your feet like Duracell contracted you to be their newest bunny.
"Did you see that, Buck?!" The faint light gleamed off of your eyes, smile so bright it made his chest hurt. "Oh my God, I feel high right now." The little giddiness in your voice made his cock join his heart in its aching for you. "They couldn't evenā"
He didn't let you finish.
Well, he did. But not that sentence.
He grabbed your face and kissed you so hard you thought he'd leave fingertip shaped bruises on your cheeks. His tongue exploring the inside of your mouth and hands roaming over you, undressing in hurry and want, relishing in the taste of your moans spilling into his mouth like he'd never have the chance to again.
But he did. About 3 times that night.
You didn't mean for it to stay a secret. It started out that way because neither of you knew exactly what was gonna come out of it, at first it was all sneaking into each other's rooms late at night and leaving in the morning, teasing the hell out of him over the phone when he was away and paying for it when he got back, and defiling every surface of every safe house you stepped foot in.
But a few weeks into it, his heart ached to leave you every morning, and your chest felt hollowed out every time he was away on a mission without you.
āI know we said no labels or whatever, butā¦ I like this.ā He gestures between you, the table, this world you only step into once a week. āI likeā¦ beinā here. With you. Not just the hotel. Not justāyāknow.ā
You know. Oh, you very much know.
āAnd I hate that I have to wait all goddamn week just toāā He stops, shakes his head. Starts again more carefully. āā¦Just to sit across from you and watch you steal my fries.ā
Your lips part. You didnāt mean for it to hit this deep. You didnāt mean for your chest to ache with it.
āā¦Buck,ā you say quietly.
His eyes flick up to yours, open, vulnerable, still a little scared.
āI just wanted you to know,ā he finishes, voice low. āāCause I thinkā¦ Thursdayās startinā to feel like the only time I can breathe.ā
Then it stayed a secret because you didn't want prying eyes or nosy questions, you just wanted the weight of his body on top of yours to lull you to sleep every night.
Every Thursday when possible, though, you'd find yourselves in the same sort of situation: a reservation under an alias in an obscure little restaurant that didn't allow pictures, followed by a king-sized bedroom reserved at the nearest fancy hotel.
Your weekly getaway from the madness you liked to call the Avengers compound.
You slid into your usual booth at the backāa deep burgundy semicircle that practically swallows you both into privacy. Candlelight flickered faintly between you, reflecting in Buckyās eyes as he leaned back, one arm stretched across the back of the booth, watching you like heās checking in on his favorite sight.
You pretended you didnāt notice how his gaze softened the moment he saw you in something that wasnāt tactical gear. Deep, plunging neckline of your top is accompanied by no sleeves under your coat, a delicate leather belt with gold hardware holding the black miniskirt in place.
āYou clean up nice, Sarge.ā you murmured, unfolding your napkin over your lap.
He smirked slowly, eyes lingering over you just a second too long. āYou say that every Thursday.ā
āYeah, well. I'm pleasantly surprised by the increasing levels of hot every week.ā
His lips twitchedāand for a moment itās easy. Familiar. Thursday. It's like you don't have a super security compound to call home, or like aliens weren't the assignment four days ago.
The waiter comes and goes. You order something light. He orders steak, medium rare, because even off-duty he eats like a soldier who might deploy at any moment.
But there was something different that night. Because between bites, he keeps doing it.
Looking at you.
Not in the usual āIām gonna wreck you the second we leaveā way.
In a āIām thinking about something dangerousā way. Dangerous could mean a lot of things, specially for superheroes. But the softness in his eyes told you that it was dangerous because it was fragile, precious, and way too normal.
You swore the restaurantās lighting was designed specifically for himāwarm and golden, catching on the scruff along his jaw and the silver of his dog tags tucked under an open henley collar. He didnāt even bother with a jacket tonight. Cocky bastard. He knows what he does to you.
Your knee bumped his under the table. Not an accident. Not even close.
The waiter appears just long enough for you to order another whiskey and a glass of red wine, then disappears into the shadows again.
Bucky settled back, one arm along the back of the booth, āNew rule,ā he said casually.
āOh? We have rules now?ā
āJust one. No teasing me when Iām away on missions unless youāre ready to deal with the consequences when I get back.ā
You widen your eyes innocently. āConsequences? Sergeant Barnes, I haveĀ no ideaĀ what youāre talking about.ā You shifted and only slightly sat on your side facing him, one bare leg sliding over the other and crossing, your foot sliding the YSL hardware of your heels up and down his calf.
"I was merely being supportive and making sure a very highly estimated Avenger made it home safely."
He leans in, voice a sinful whisper, āYou know whatās not supportive?ā
āMhm?ā You bite your lower lip, gaze never straying away from his face.
āWhen you tell me on comms that youāre wearing those lace panties I like.ā
āThat was once.ā
āTwice.ā
āTomato, tomahto.ā You waved a hand in dismissal and grabbed your glass, sipping the wine.
He reaches for his whiskey, takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving you. āLet me guess. Youāre wearinā them now?ā
You refuse to respond in words. Only humming in denial behind your glass before clicking your tongue behind your teeth. "None, actually."
He stills and the glass pauses halfway to the table. His gaze droppedājust for a split secondāto where your legs met, even though your skirt left barely anything to imagination.
He swallows, thumb tapping once against the glass like heās recalibrating. āLemme get this straight,ā he says slowly, quietly, eyes darkening, āyouāve been sittinā across from me forāā he checks his watch, āātwenty-three minutesā¦ withĀ nothingĀ on under that skirt?ā
You take another sip, crossing your legs againāslowly, letting your knee brush deliberately higher up his thigh. āTechnically itās been longer. I didnāt wear any in the car either.ā
āJesusĀ Christā¦ā He was leaning forward now, forearm braced on the table, staring at you like youāre the mission and heās seconds from breaching.
His metal arm stays stretched along the booth behind you like it has been all nightācasual, protectiveābut now his flesh hand slides under the tablecloth, rests on your knee.
āThought youād maintain professionalism, Sergeant,ā you teased softly, eyes fluttering when his hand squeezes just slightly.
āHoney, I left professionalism back at the compound the second I smelled your perfume tonight.ā His fingers drift higher. Inch by slow, agonizing inch.
You try to take another sip of wine, but your hand trembles just slightly. You hoped he wouldnāt notice.
But it's Bucky, he absolutely notices and hums to himself while you bite your lip with that horny look in your eyes that make your eyelids sit heavy like you could eat him alive. And he'd let you.
You feel his smirk against your ear before you hear it in his voice. āNervous?ā
āHardly.ā But it comes out breathier than intended.
He continues upward. Your pulse spikes. His fingertips stop just under the hem of your skirt, brushing the sensitive inside of your thigh. You grip the edge of the table with your free hand.
āYouāre trembling,ā he whispers, amused.
āThereās an air vent,ā you lie. His fingers slip further beneath the hem, in the direction of where you wanted him the most.
āOh yeah?ā he hums. āThink this vent reaches between your thighs too?ā
You nearly choke when his fingertips brush the bare, hot skin there. His breath hitches quietlyābarely audible. If you didnāt know every sound he made, you mightāve missed it.
āYouāre already so warm,ā he notes, turning his head slightly so his lips ghost your cheek without touching. His fingers finally slide up and press gentlyāright there.
Your breath stops.
He smiles against your skin. āThere she is.ā Your nails dig into the table. āThink I can make you come before the waiter brings dessert?ā he whispers silkily. You smile tightly at him through clenched teeth.
āI think you should try.ā
He chuckled, low and almost mean, and pushed two fingers inside the wet slick he had been salivating after every time you were apart. James Buchanan Barnes is a loverboy at his core, and a menace who enjoys the process.
It's not like you could get caught and be arrested for public indecency at any second.
His fingers keep tracing delicate, lazy shapes just inside, making sure to keep his palm or any source of friction away from where you need him most until youāre squirming almost imperceptibly.
āSettle,ā he murmurs in your ear, a quiet, firm command.
You freeze, thighs trembling slightly as you force yourself still. He rewards you with one slow, deliberate circle of his thumb right over your clit.
Your breath hitched audibly and he smirked. āGood girl.ā
You tried not to whine. If you did, you know heād make it worse. Heād stop. Or go even slower. You donāt know which was worse and youāre not sure which one you wanted more.
Minutes pass. AgonizingĀ minutes.
Each pass of his fingers is maddeningly controlledānever too fast, never too direct. Each stroke tells you he knows your body better than anyone alive. He avoids giving you the rhythm you want, changing speed just before you can catch it.
Youāre flushed now, half from the wine and mostly from him. Your thighs are tense, fighting the urge to grind subtly against his hand.
āRelax,ā he murmurs, and his vibranium arm shifts behind your shoulders, holding you back into him protectively as if youāre not on the verge of shaking apart.
The waiter appears to bring your entrees and you hold back a whine when Bucky pulls his hand away from the heat between your legs.
You answer his polite āHow are the first couple of bites?ā with a steady, āPerfect, thank you.ā and he walks away to attend to other tables.
Bucky, however, lets his fork rest steady on his plate, and barely lets you recover from the slick mess you're making on the back of your skirt before his fingers find you again. He chuckles into your hair, voice like hot honey. āYouāre fuckinā incredible.ā
āYouāre fucking evil,ā you breathe, barely moving your lips.
āMaybe.ā His pace increasesānot by much, but enough that the twisting heat in your belly starts coiling faster.
āBuckāā you whisper, desperate.
āI know, baby.ā He murmurs soothingly. āAlmost there.ā
But when your thighs start to tighten in anticipationāheĀ stops. Completely. Your head snaps toward him in disbelief.
He leans in, lips brushing your ear. āKeep your legs open.ā
You do, because if you donāt, heāll make you.
He clicks his tongue once in mock disappointment. āOh, sweetheart,ā he hums, withdrawing his hand completely and casually lifting it to his mouth. He sucks one glistening finger clean, eyes locked onto yours with sinful delight. āThis is gonna be aĀ longĀ dinner for you.ā
Your pulse pounds in your ears. Your body aches, throbbing with every second he refuses to touch you again.
āYouāre shaking,ā he says under his breath, amused.
āI hate you.ā
āNo, you donāt.ā
To say you didn't give a fuck about the chocolate lava cake was an understatement. You donāt remember how your back hit the hotel room doorāonly that Bucky barely got it shut before he had you pinned against it, one hand cupping your jaw and the other sliding under your skirt, shoving it up past your hips like he had something to prove to both of you.
But somewhere between your desperate gasps and his low moans, something shifts.
It happens quietly.
Accidentally.
You moved on top of him, breathless and messy, nails dragging down his chest. The rhythm was hot, franticābut when he caught your hips and slowed you down, forcing you to roll instead of bounce, the tone shifted.
āYeah,ā he groans, guiding your hips, āride me nice and slowālike weāve got nowhere to be tomorrow.ā
You blinkābecause thatās not how this usually goes.
He keeps going.
āLike weāre not being sent on calls at 3 a.m. to save the world,ā he breathes, watching your face. āLike itās a Saturday. Like we sleep in.ā
You swallow hard. The thrusts get deeper. Less rushed. Moreā¦ emotional.
āMaybe we donāt even live in New York,ā you whisper, falling into it before you can stop yourself.
His grip tightens.
āYeah?ā he murmurs, voice softer, needier. āWhere we livinā, baby?ā
āSome small apartment in Chicago,ā you gasp, leaning forward so your foreheads touch. āOr maybe a townhouse in Portland.ā
He nodded slowly, grinding up into you. āYeah. I like that. We donāt save the world. I work construction or some shit. Come home covered in sawdust.ā
His hands on your hips tighten just a bit more tenderly, like heās anchoring himself. Your fingers brush his chest and linger too long.
And then in the middle of your hips slapping down against his, his head falls back and he breathes, brokenly, āFuckāIād come home to you like this every night if I could.ā
So you lean down, lips brushing his for a second before you bit his chin and let it go with a graze of your teeth, breath shaky. āYeah? Youād come home dirty and throw me on the bed like this?ā
He groanedādeep, guttural, hands squeezing your waist as you kept moving, feeling him get even harder inside of you if that was even possible.
His voice gets rougher. āWouldnāt even make it to the bed. Iād fuck you on the kitchen counter while dinner burns on the stove.ā
He thrusts up suddenly, hard. āFuckāBucky!ā
He grips your jaw and makes you look at him. āYouād leave me little notes on the fridge before you go on early runs. Tellinā me to eat breakfast. Like a fuckinā wife.ā
Your breath stutters, something sharp and warm in your chest. You whimper, hips stuttering for a second at the idea of wearing a ring that signifiesĀ hisĀ last name.
He doesnāt miss it.
āOh, you like that?ā he whispers darkly, sitting up so your chests press together, still inside you. āYou wanna wear my ring, honey? Want the whole damn world to know youāre mine?ā
You shudder, nails clawing his back. āYesā¦ā
He thrusts up hard. āSay it clearer.ā
āI want it,ā you breathe, trembling. āWant your ring.ā
He kisses you like it hurts. Like heās drowning and you're the only breath of oxygen his lungs would ever recognize while fully submerged.
Maybe thatās why he suddenly grips your waist and flips you onto your back with a rough, almost desperate exhaleālike he needs to bury himself deeper in this illusion before it slips away.
He settles between your legs, pushing back in with a guttural groan, forehead pressed to yours.
āAnd maybeā¦ā his voice drops further, wrecked and reverent, āā¦maybe one night I wouldnāt pull out.ā
Your breath stuttersāeyes fluttering open to meet his. The air crackles. He watches your reaction like a predator watching prey tremble.
āMaybe Iād just stay inside you,ā he murmurs against your lips, thrusts deep enough to make the headboard creak softly. āFill you upā¦ right there in our shitty little apartment.ā
A weak sound escapes you.
āYouād yell at me in the morning,ā he murmurs, kissing you slow and deep, āsay we werenāt trying. That we werenāt ready. But Iād look at you in one of my old shirts, barefoot in the kitchen makinā pancakesā¦ and Iād want it all over again.ā
Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him down as you arch into him.
He groans into your neck. āWouldnāt let you outta bed that weekend. Iād keep fuckinā you full of meā¦ hopinā itād take. Hopinā I get to walk by you in the mirror and see your belly round with my kid.ā
You gasp his name like wishing on a star.
He thrusts deeperāslowerālike heās savoring the image burned into his mind.
āImagine it,ā he whispers, voice shaking with how bad he wants itāeven if he pretends itās still just talk. āYou, pregnant with my baby. Nothinā else in the world but us. No Hydra. No missions. Justā¦ you carryinā something I gave you. Somethinā ours.ā
You nearly sob at how intensely it hits you.
His forehead presses to yours as his voice falls to a wrecked whisper. āTell me youād want it.ā
āIād want it,ā you breathe, almost crying. āBucky, I want it so bad.ā
He groansāfilthy, tortured, adoringāas he thrusts harder now, chasing something that feels far bigger than pleasure. And thatās how you fall apart beneath himāhis whispered fantasies of a quiet life, a warm bed, and a round belly turning into the dirtiest, most intimate thing anyone has ever given you.
Life, however, doesnāt care about what happened in that hotel bed.
It throws missions at both of you like grenades.
First, he gets deployed with Sam to Europe for weeks, chasing arms dealers who wonāt stay in one place. You get stuck in Southeast Asia with Nat and Wanda for a hostage op that turns into a two-week storm of adrenaline and zero sleep.
Time differences ruined your ability to talk. Sometimes you'd send a three-word text. Sometimes he likes it six hours later. Sometimes he sends a picture of a shitty cup of coffee with a single:Ā miss yours.
Back on base, you miss him in hallways by hours. He leaves briefing rooms five minutes before you enter them. If you're off, he's not, and vice versa.
A racy picture here, a breathless phone call there, and neither of you being left alone for the same 10 minutes to do anything about it.
Until it marks almost two months since the night at the hotel.
Your body was sore, all you wanted was to wash your hair, get a face mark on, and sleep in your fuzzy robe until about 11pm when he'd sneak into your room. But as you walked through the compound, your phone pinged.
From: Buck
šĀ 43.7126Ā° N, 110.6751Ā° W
Your stomach lurched in your tummy, and you felt a surge of warmth spread over you as you bit your lip, grinning at the screen. Your footsteps got quicker on the way to your room, an everything shower and barely any packing in your mind.
Seconds later, your phone buzzes again.
From: Buck
I need you.
On the other side of the compound, Bucky tightens the straps on his duffel slung across his back. There is not a sleeping bag, tent, hiking boot, or single piece of wilderness survival gear in sight. He was wearing jeans and a henley he fucks inānot fishes in.
āWhere you off to, Tin Man?ā He didn't have to turn around to know it was Sam, accompanied by Steve, approaching his bike.
āCamping. Out of state. Off-grid a couple days.ā
Sam raises an eyebrow. āSince when do you camp?ā
Bucky smirks. āSince now.ā
Steve blinked slowly, knowing thereās more to this but being too emotionally mature or exhausted to pry. āYou got gear?ā
Bucky slides on his helmet like the question doesnāt exist. āIāve survived worse without a tent.ā
He revs the engine and leaves before anyone can point out that two shirts and a half-empty Dopp kit donāt equal ācamping.ā
Your hair is styled. Youāre moisturizing. Your bag is small enough to pass as a purse. Inside? A toothbrush, skincare, three pairs of lingerie, and zero hoodies, shirt, thermal leggings, hiking socks, or flannel.
You were walking down the hall to the elevator, an SUV with seat warmers waiting for you in the garage when you heard Nat's voice from behind you. "I'd ask you what's all that but its... not much."
"Heading out for the weekend.ā
āWhere?ā
You keep your tone fluffy. āCamping. In Wyoming. Withā¦ college friends.ā
Nat blinks. Once. Twice.
Her gaze slides from your perfectly blow-dried hairā¦ to your freshly glossed lipsā¦ to the very much not outdoorsy clothes youāre wearing and the perfume that would definitely attract bears.
"Camping?"
āYeah. Gonnaā¦ sit by a lake. Look at trees. Bond with nature. Be one with dirt.ā
Sheās silent for a full ten seconds. Thenā¦ she smiles. She lets you go with no fuss, immediately marching towards the kitchen like she's mid op.
āTheyāre going camping.ā
Sam looks up. āWho is?ā Nat folds her hands on the table. Smiles like the cat that ate the canary.
āYour favorite brooding senior citizen and our little chaos gremlin.ā
āBarnes does not strike me as a sāmores guy unless sāmores is a sex position.ā Joaquin piped up from a mouthful of Nerd Clusters.
Steve exhales. āThey have beenā¦ weird lately.ā
Sam leans back, dramatic gasp loading. āTheyāre sneakinā off to a love shack.ā
āIn the woods. They will return pregnant or emotionally damaged.ā Yelena seems more excited about the first one.
Joaquin chuckled. āOr both.ā
Snow crunched under your tires as you pulled onto the secluded dirt road. Pines rise on either side like silent sentries. The sun is dipping low, staining the Wyoming sky a molten gold that glows against the frost. Your stomach tightens as the cabin comes into viewāsecluded, quiet, the lake beyond it frozen still as glass.
And then thereās him.
Bucky Barnes stands outside like heās been waiting foreverāleaning casually against his bike parked near the porch, breath fogging the air in slow, steady clouds. His henley stretches obscenely over his chest and arms, leather jacket hanging open like heās daring the cold to challenge him. His jeans hug his thighs in a way that should be illegal.
He looks like 225 pounds of pure, coiled heat.
You step out of the car, shoes meeting the crunchy top layer of snow. The cold air bites your cheeks, makes your breath visible. He straightens from the bike, eyes fixed on youācalm, certain, but dark with something thatās been starving for weeks.
Every step toward one another is soaked in tension. You meet about halfway.
You drop your bag dramatically at his feet. Itās small. Embarrassingly small. More purse than luggage, really.
His gaze flicks to it, then to youābrow arching, equal parts question and disbelief. āThatās it?ā he asks quietly, voice deep and scratchy with restrained amusement.
You meet his eyes head-on and smirk. āThatās all I packed.ā
A slow grin curves along his mouth. He nods onceālike heās both amused and dangerously pleased.
Then, before you can blink, he grabs the bag with one hand and hooks the other behind your knees, hauling you clean over his shoulder in one effortless motion.
You squeal his name, half laughing, half breathless.
Your view was upside-down: him holding your bag in his metal hand, your ass supported easily by his other arm, boots swinging as he walks toward the cabin door with confidence that says he already knows exactly whatās about to happen once youāre inside.
The cold air bites at your thighs through the hem of your dress, but his grip is hot enough to make up for it.
Bucky walks into the cabin and your lungs fill with the scent of wood burning, wine, and that amber resin that only comes from blankets that have been stored for a while.
He sets you down with the utmost care in the world, and you take in the effort he put into this weekend already. The fireplace was lit, throw blankets on the fur rug like a love-nest, and next to it, a wooden coffee table with two wine glasses already resting on it.
You raise a brow slowly, smirking. āWow. This some kind of plan, Bucky? Get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?ā
Bucky just snorts, stepping forward with that lazy swagger that says heās already got you right where he wants you.
āTake advantage of you?ā he echoes, amused. āSweetheart, you climb me like a tree when youāre sober. When youāre drunk, youāre like a damn jaguar in heat.ā
You gape, offended and amused at the same time.Ā
He nods once, dead serious. āA horny jaguar that thinks humping me is a personality trait.ā
āExcuse me?ā you sputter, crossing your arms even as heat crawls up your neck.
His lips twitch. āYou know how many times Iāve woken up on a mission night to you half-asleep grinding on my thigh like you were tryinā to assert dominance?ā
You refuse to confirm or deny, rolling your eyes as you mutter, āMaybe you shouldnāt sleep so close.ā
He tilted his head in that same infuriating way whenever he was right. āMaybe you shouldnāt sleep so needy.ā
āMaybe you shouldāā
You donāt finish the sentence, because heās already ducking his head to pepper slow, teasing kisses along the side of your neck. He lingers at that spot just under your ear, humming with satisfaction when your breath hitches.
āCāmere,ā he says, voice dropping an octave as he steps backward toward the rug by the fire and lowers himself down, back pressed against the couch. He tugs you gently forward until youāre standing between his legs.
He guides you onto his lap effortlessly, hands sliding to your hips as you straddle him, your knees sinking into the thick fur while your body settles against his chest like it remembers the place.
Bucky pushed a strand of hair behind your ear and held your face in both hands, looking into your eyes like he was deciphering the hieroglyphs needed to read your soul.
Like he hadn't unraveled every secret you had and kept them in a drawer in his room, tucked with changes of underwear and a pair of soft shorts, along with a shirt you definitely stole from him.
He kisses you like youāre a memory heās been clinging to for eight goddamn weeksāurgent, deep, almost grateful. His hands grip your thighs, anchoring you, as your fingers tangle in his hair and tug.
You press into him instinctively, your hips rolling once out of sheer muscle memory.
He groans into your mouth. āThere she is,ā he mutters, breath rough, lips brushing yours. āMy little jaguar.ā
You gasp a breathless laugh, "Shut up." That turns into a quiet moan into his mouth as his hands press your hips forward again, encouraging the friction you didnāt even realize you were fully chasing until now.
The friction starts slow, guided by his grip and your desperation. Youāre both still half-dressed, clothes scraping together, breaths getting messier as the pressure builds and the world narrows to heat, motion, and the soft crackle of the fire.
Your hands move slowly to the hem of his shirt, fingers tracing his skin firstāsoftlyābefore pushing it up. His hands leave your body just long enough to let you pull the fabric over his head, exposing his torso. Warm and taut, all muscle and some scarring, the hair on his chest tickling under your fingertips.
When he pulls your sweater and dress over your head in one motion, he does it carefullyā like heās unwrapping something he missed holding.
You watch him watching you, that intensity making your stomach twist in ways entirely unrelated to the heat between your thighs. You donāt feel bared ā you feelĀ seen.
His eyes linger over your white lace lingerie ā one of the three you packed just for him. āā¦You wore this for me?ā
You smirk, though your hum comes out softer than planned. Nodding and biting your lip, already leaning in for another kiss. When his hands grip your ass, yours fumble with the button and zipper of his jeans, pushing your hand past the hem of his underwear and stroking his cock inside of his jeans.
āSee?ā he rasps, voice cracked with need. āDidnāt even take a full minute before you went straight for it.ā
You grind down against him deliberately. āYou complaining?ā
You stroke him again, slow, teasing, just to hear that sound again. His eyes flutter half-lidded as he exhales like heās been waiting two months just to feel your hand on him again.
āFuck,ā he mutters, jaw tight. āYou have any idea how bad Iāve needed this?ā
Your pulse kicks at that. āOh yeah?ā
He nods slowly, gaze fixed on your lips. āBeen thinkinā about you touchinā me like this every damn night. Hands under my clothes, whisperinā in my ear while you use me how you want.ā
You swallow, heat flaring hot in your chest.
Youāre stroking him just enough to make himĀ needĀ more, watching his jaw clench like heās trying not to lose it too fast. His grip on your hips turns almost bruising.
āFuckāā he mutters, eyes squeezing shut for one second as your thumb drags along his waistband, tempting. āYou really think Iām just gonna let you sit here and torture me?ā
You raise an eyebrow. āSounds like youāre handling it just fine.ā
His eyes snap openādark, glassy, amused.
āSweetheart,ā he says, voice low and ruined, āIāve beenĀ handling itĀ for eight goddamn weeks.ā
And before you can get another word out, he moves.
His hands lock under your thighs, and in one fast, fluid motion, he shifts up onto his knees and throws you back onto the thick fur rug beneath you with a softĀ thudĀ and a breathless squeal from your lips.
You blink up at him, caught between laughing and panting.
He hovers over you now, hair falling slightly into his face, breathing heavy, jeans still half open, your dress gone, lace soft against the rug.
His metal hand braced beside your head. His flesh one sliding slowly up your bare thigh, deliberate. Heās looking at you like something heās been hunting and cherishing in equal measure.
His lips ghost your jaw.
āI pictured your face,ā he goes on, slow, steady, voice a hot whisper. āRight when youāre about to get loud. When youāre trying so hard to hold it in for me but you justā¦ canāt.ā
You clutch at his henley, pulling him closer.
āYou think I didnāt go crazy picturing this lace?ā he teases hungrily, gaze dropping to what youāre wearing. āKnew itād look good stretched over you while you beg me to touch you.ā
Your back arches involuntarily.
āI missed you talking like this,ā you whisper quicklyātoo honest, too needy.
He grins against your skin, breathing hard now. You whimper quietly as his fingers trace closerāwaiting, teasing.
āAnd I missed watching you fall apart,ā he breathes. āI missed making your eyes roll back. I missed you digginā your nails into my shoulders. I missed fuckinā you so good you forget your own name until all you remember is mine.ā
His mouth drags heat along your collarbone, your chest, lower still, as his hands coax your thighs further apart with gentle but unyielding pressure.
He looks up once, taking in your face right before he drives you up the wall, and then he lowers himself fully between your thighs, settling there like he plans to stay until he pulls every remembered sound from your throatāslow, steady, incredibly focused. Lace long forgotten in a pile of clothing that wouldnāt touch your body for 48 hours at least.
Your back arches at the first real contact, breath hitching as your grip in his hair tightens when he licks a strip up your slit and circles your clit with his tongue.
"F-fuck, baby..."
He hummed in quiet satisfaction against you, like he was tasting something heād been dying without, and nuzzled his face further into you, lapping your juices up and down while his nose bumped your clit.
He breathes out a quiet, low laugh ā pleased, intimate. āThere we go. Look at youā¦ canāt stay still, can you?ā His voice is low, not mocking āĀ proud.
āBuckyāā your voice catches when his tongue finds rhythm again, slow and focused.
āSay my name again,ā he murmurs, eyes darting up to catch your expression. His voice is steady, coaxing. āCāmon, doll. Let me hear how bad you missed me.ā
And you do. Because there's no nosy super spies listening in the vents, and no training sessions, briefings, or meetings to pull this thirsty man away from the oasis between your legs.
āThere you goā¦ā he whispers, closing his eyes for a second like he feels it as deeply as you do. āGod, I missed how pretty you sound.ā
āPlease donāt stop,ā you gasp, chest rising and falling faster.Ā āDonāt stopāIāve needed you so bad.ā
His tongue roughens against you, responding to your voice as much as your body.
āYou always know exactly how toāā Your breath breaks on a wavering sound when he thrusts his tongue in. āGod, Buckyā¦ youāre the only one who knows how to make it feel like this.ā
His tongue works faster and his lips wrap around your clit, sucking the nerves and sending you into orbit. Your hips raised off the rug while your legs clamped around his head, big hands holding you down through your orgasm, working you through it.
Youāre still shaking slightly, body flushed and oversensitized, yet aching in a new, overwhelming way that has nothing to do with just physical need.
So you reach for him.
You cup his face with both hands and pull him down into a kiss thatās not frantic ā but full. Deep. His hand finds your hip, thumb stroking gently as if grounding himself in the reality of you.
When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his, breathing unevenly. āBuckyā¦ā you whisper, voice soft but trembling with urgency.
He hums in response, thumb sweeping slowly along your cheekbone, waiting for whatever you need to say next.
āI need you,ā you breathe ā and the tone in your voice leaves nothing to interpretation. It comes out broken and wanting. āI need you inside me. Right now.ā
Your hand gripped the length of him and lined him up with your pussy, neither of you breaking eye contact as he pushed the thick head in, not rushing but not giving you time to adjust either.
āHolyĀ shitā¦ā he mutters, eyes screwed shut for one second as he breathes through it.Ā āI swearā¦ you get tighter every time Iām away.ā
Your lips part on a broken sound, heat flooding your chest. You roll your hips impatiently, needing more. āBuckyāā
āYou feel that?ā he murmurs against your cheek, voice thick and filthy. āThatās how tight you're choking me right now and Iām not even all the way in. You gonna let me all the way, baby? Gonna take all of me?ā
āY-yes,ā you whisper, breath shaking. āPlease.ā
He laughs low ā smug and a little breathless. āBegging already? Didnāt even give you the good part yet.ā
āYouāre such an assāā
āYeah, but you still want it,ā he interrupts, kissing you hard ā messy, teeth and tongue and desperation ā before pulling back just enough to watch your face as he sinks in deeper, slow and deliberate. You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.
He groans loud, head tipping back as he mutters, āFuck. Thatās it. Take meā¦ just like that. Wanted this so bad it hurt.ā
Your fingers scramble at his back, trying to hold onto something solid as your rhythm falls apart under him. āHarder,ā you whisper ā it sounds more like a plea than a demand.
He exhales sharply through his nose, satisfied. āFuck, I love when you beg.ā
āIām notāā you try, but the protest cuts off when he does exactly what you asked. Your head tilts back, lips parted as an uncontrolled sound tears free.
āMhm,ā he hums, smug. āYeah, you are.ā He leans in close again, breath hot against your jaw. āLook at me,ā he murmurs, voice wrecked.
You force your eyes open ā and the second your glazed eyes lock with his, something shifts. You see how undone he is too ā chest heaving, jaw slack, pupils blown wide with hunger and love tangled up together.
You feel a tremor ripple through you, and he sees it instantly. āThere it is,ā he rasps, grin gone now, replaced by raw intensity. āFeel it hittinā you? Feel how good Iām making you feel?ā
You nod, whimpering, fingers clawing at his shoulders.
āThatās right,ā he whispers, voice gravel. āOnly me. Nobody else gets to pull those sounds out of you.ā
āBuckyāā his name leaves you like a prayer and a warning and something close to worship.
He kissed you hard, swallowing your breath. āI got you. Let go.ā
His hand finds yours, fingers interlacing against the rug as you move together, breathless, desperate, claimed.
He finds a rhythm that's nothing like beforeāharder, faster, wreckedāand suddenly youāre not thinking in words or even sounds, justĀ reactions.
āFuckāā
āYeah?ā he pants, voice nearly a growl now, hips moving rougher, chasing something even he canāt hide from anymore. āSay my nameāsay itāā
āBuckyāoh Godāā
āLouder,ā he breathes, losing all rhythm for a second as you clench around him. āLet me fucking hear youāā
āI canātāIāIāā
āYes, you can,ā he insists, voice wrecked, raw. His hand slides to your jaw, holding your face toward him. His eyes are wild now.Ā
You meet his gazeāand the look on his face destroys you. His jaw is clenched, sweat dampening his temple, lips parted as he gives in to instinct. He looks desperate. Gone. Like if you asked him to die for you right now, heād say yes.
āIām close,ā you admit in a broken whisper. āDonāt stopādonāt fucking stopāā You choke on a sobbing moan. āHarderāpleaseāā
That word unravels him.
āFuckāoh myĀ Godāyouāre killing me,ā he curses, slamming his forehead against yours, movements turning almost frantic, chasing the edge with you. āCome on, babyāgive it to meāgive itācome with meāā
"Buckyā oh God, please, please, please cum in me."
He cums firstājust a moment, a hitched breath, a curse hissed against your neck that sounds like your name torn in halfāand the heat of him spilling inside of you is all it takes for your world to snap, heat flooding through you like freefall.
He stays inside you. He doesnāt move away. He just breathes there, face buried in your neck as you both try to remember how lungs are supposed to work.
You made it to bed after a couple glasses of wine, a grilled cheese, and teasing him some more, falling asleep on your stomach with him draped over you like the worlds warmest ā and oldest ā weighted blanket.
Whatever dream you were having, Bucky woke up to your ass rubbing against him like you were short on rent. He was still a little sensitive from the road you just had right before bed, and the clock on the nightstand on your side showed something along the lines of 2:43am.
He felt himself get hard and your body rubbed harder against him if that was even possible. He groaned quietly, and his hand went under the covers to find your bare pussy drooling, absolutely crying for him.
"Bucky..." The little breathless whimper you let out told him you were crying for him too.
He bit his lip and didn't have much ceremony. You were so wet anyway he'd probably slide right in. He pushed his boxers down, and up sprang his leaking cock.
He turned on his side, almost draped all the way over you, aligned himself, and pushed in.
The first thing you become aware of is the weight.
Heavy, solid, familiar ā draped over your back like he promised he always would be. Bucky sleeps like a furnace, arm slung around your waist, leg hooked lazily over yours like heās making sure you canāt vanish in the night.
You were dreaming something warmā¦ fuzzyā¦ something with his voice in your ear.
You breathed his name again, groggy and fluttering, barely louder than when you were fully asleep. āBuckyā¦?ā
His breath catches like a snapped wire, hips momentarily freezing against you. For a second you think heās going to stop. Then his forehead presses into your shoulder and he lets out a groan that sounds like a confession.
āFuckāsorryāām tryingātrying to be good,ā he mutters, voice thick, wrecked from sleep and need. āWoke up with you grinding against meācouldnāt stop thinking aboutā¦ā His breath stutters as his hips twitch again helplessly. ā...about how wet you get when I wake you like this.ā
A memory echoes in your mindāyour voice from weeks ago, breathless, whispering in the dark with saliva and cum dripping down your chin after he thoroughly bruised the back of your throat.
If you ever wake up like that againā¦ you donāt have to wait for me to wake up.
āBucky,ā you murmur, fully awake now, voice softer but lower. You shift back into him, deliberately this time. āYouāre not doing anything wrong.ā
There's a soft schlick schlick schlick of his body driving itself into you that drives you crazy. It's muffled by the comforter like its dirty, naughty, something you shouldn't be doing.
Something hushed and feral and needy that is required to happen, otherwise you feel like you're gonna explode.
āDonāt hold back,ā you whisper, voice trembling with something hungry. āPlease.ā
A low sound escapes him ā half relief, half feral praise. āYeah?ā he breathes, moving again, more certain now. āYou want it this bad, huh? Needed me even in your sleep?ā
You bite back a soft whimper as your body reacts, your thighs pressing together instinctively even though his hand is between them. Every roll of his hips sends heat curling up your spine.
He hears the broken sound you make when you try to steady your breathing.
And thatās it. His restraint snaps.
His mouth crashes against your shoulder, open, desperate, needy, teeth scraping lightly as he moans into your skin.
āThatās itā¦ fuck, thatās it. Push back on me, cāmon,ā he urges, tone filthy, forehead pressing to your neck as his rhythm builds. āGrind on me, baby, just like you were when you were out.ā
You follow instinct, rocking your hips back into him, dizzy with how much you suddenlyĀ needĀ this, need him. The friction is rough and perfect and not nearly enough ā but his voice makes it feel like everything.
āThatās my girl,ā he growls. āRubbinā that perfect little ass on me like youāre starving for it. You tryinā to make me lose my mind first thing in the morning?ā
You gasp into the pillow, fingers gripping the sheet. āIāGodāI missed you,ā you breathe, shaky. āMissed how you make me feelāneeded thisāā
āThatās right,ā he whispers, voice thick, rhythm steady and possessive, every grind punctuated by a breathy curse.
Youāre nearly sobbing now, hips moving helplessly in sync with his. āBuckyā¦ Iām gonnaāā
āDo it,ā he pants. āDo it for meācome on, pretty girl, let me feel it.ā
You break.
The pleasure comes in waves that steal your breath, your sound, everything but his name. Youāre trembling, clutching the sheets like theyāre the only thing anchoring you. His arm wraps around you, holding you firmly against him as you shake, riding it out. He breathes through a deep groan into your shoulder, almost like your release drags him to the edge too, but he doesnāt let goāhe just clings harder.
āWell damn,ā he whispers after a few long, quiet seconds, still pressed tight against you. You're pliant and hazy, boneless against him. āThatās my good girl.ā
Your breath is still uneven, but your eyes are heavy again. He kisses a slow, almost apologetic line along your shoulder blade.
āYou okay?ā he asks softly. You hum something that sounds like yes, still catching your breath.
He shifts just enough to pull the blanket up over both of you, but not an inch further. His hold doesnāt loosen, his arm tightens around your waist, like heās anchoring himself there.
āGonna stay here,ā he mutters into your hair, voice thick and low. āDonāt want to leave you. Not even to move.ā
Youāre too tired to fully answer, but you thread your fingers through his where his hand rests on your stomach, lacing them together. He lets out a shaky, content exhale.
One last soft kiss to the back of your shoulder.
āGo back to sleep, baby. Iāll be right here.ā
And he was.
Pressed close, breathing warm and steady against your neck, wrapped around you like a shield. You fell asleep again with a weak smile and his weight still holding you down in the safest way youāve ever known.
A few hours later, you woke up sore. The sky was still a deep indigo outside, the sort of dark that doesn't feel terrifying, just comforting. Like the world was standing still just for a few moments, just for you.
You turned, whining at the loss of him, just to be met with the most beautiful sleeping face you've ever seen.
He always sleeps deeper after heās completely spent. You know that. You also know he fades into that soft, vulnerable state only you get to seeājaw unclenched, lips parted, lashes dark against his cheeks, chest rising steady and warm under your ear.
And you love him so much in this quiet, unguarded momentā¦ you almost want to cry.
Bucky's breaths came out in soft puffs out of his mouth, his conscience somewhere in a dream land far away. Your gaze dropped to his neck, a couple marks on there left by your teeth, but they'd fade before any questioning eyes back at the compound could ask any questions.
His chest was uncovered by the thick blanket, the quilt only covering up to his waist, and the unmistakable tent under it grabbing your attention immediately.
It would be so mean of you to not give him a hand... or a mouth.
Your fingers slide slowly down his stomach, barely brushing along defined muscle. He shifts slightly in his sleep, a soft breath escaping him. The kind that sounds like the beginning of a moan. So you slip under the blankets. Settle between his thighs. And lower your mouth to him.
He stiffens almost immediately, hips twitching subconsciously, a groan rumbling low in his chest as his hand spasms against the sheet. You keep going, slow and controlled, every motion soaked in a mix of reverence and filth.
āJesusā¦ā His voice is sleep-rough when it finally breaks out of him. His hips jerk once, a shocked gasp leaving him as his hand drops into your hair on instinct. āOh myābabyāfuck, are youāā
You hummed around him in response, not stopping.
āHolyāshitāā His head falls back on the pillow, voice cracking, breath stuttering as consciousness snaps fully into place. āYouāyou waking me up like this?ā
You squeeze his thigh gently in affirmation.
He lets out a helpless, needy groan, chest heaving as he pushes up on his elbows to watch you under the blanket.
āLook at you,ā he pants, voice completely wrecked already. āSo hungry you couldnāt even wait for me to wake up properly.ā
You donāt stop. YouĀ canātĀ stop. The sounds heās making are addictingāsharp intakes of air, shaky groans, words turning to curses. He drops one hand over his face like he canāt take it, then moves it to your hair again, fingers curling as his breathing gets frantic.
āShitāslow down or IāmāIām not gonna last,ā he warns, but his hips are already moving, rolling unconsciously into your rhythm.
You grip his hip to steady himānot to stop him.
He gets the message. āFuck,ā he whispers, voice dropping dangerously low. āYou wanna make me lose it in your mouth, huh?ā
You hum again, hot and breathy.
He laughs once, broken and disbelieving. āGod, Iām so fucked for you.ā
His breathing turns ragged. His grip in your hair tightens. His voice goes soft and frantic. āDonāt stopādonāt stopāplease, donāt stopāā
You donāt.
He swears louder, hips snapping once as he loses the battle for control entirely. āThatās itāoh God, babyāfuckāā
And then he comes apart with a groan so raw it shoots straight through you, his head tossing back, chest arching, thighs trembling as he curses your name like it breaks him.
You stay with him through it, easing him down gently with soft breath and steady hands until he collapses back onto the mattress, breathing like he ran miles.
āHolyĀ shit,ā he exhales shakily, dragging a hand over his face. He sounds totally, helplesslyĀ gone.
You crawl up his body, settling on laying completely on top of him with your hands under your chin and on his chest, still warm with aftershocks. He wraps his arms around you immediately, dragging you in and holding you there like you belong pressed against his heart.
When he catches your mouth in a kiss, he groans softly into it.
When you pull away, both of you were smiling like this was it. Like being tangled in a blanket in the middle of nowhere was what you were put on this earth to do.
You got up to make breakfast, or whatever you could call waffles and fruit and a snack here and there. And when Bucky found himself leaning on the doorway, looking at you humming the same tune from that first night he wondered if this was always where he was supposed to be.
If he was meant to fall from that train to do more than assassinations and intel, if he was meant to do more than keep Steve alive long enough to save the world a couple of times.
If he was meant to be tortured and picked apart for 70 years just to find himself wrapped in a sheet watching you steal chocolate chips from the brownie recipe you were making, moving around the kitchen enough that he saw when you winced the slightest bit when you leaned down.
He could accept that, if it meant he could have you.
āOkay, they look like bad cubism work, but i tried to make smiley faces with the chocolate chips and i think it couldāve been way worse.ā Yeah, he was never letting you go.
The rest of the day unfolds like time has been loosened around the edges.
It starts with what was supposed to be breakfast dishes. Youāre laughing while rinsing out a bowl when Bucky crowds you against the counter, kisses turning needy fast. One moment youāre teasing him for burning waffles, the next youāre bent over the counter with his breath hot against your ear and his hands firm around your hips, both of you too lost in each other to care about anything else.
A couple of hours later, you both manage to put on clothes long enough to walk into the nearby woods. The air is crisp, pine-scented, grounding. Your fingers stay laced with his the entire time. He doesnāt talk much ā just keeps looking at you like the sunlight was invented specifically to bounce off your smile.
The shower afterward is meant to be recovery. It isnāt. He pins you lightly against the tiles, kissing the water from your lips and laughing when you nearly melt into the stream just from his hands on your waist.
After dinner, a very nice marry-me chicken recipe Bucky had to watch multiple TikToks of to master, you found yourself in the bedroom, with tear stained cheeks, sticky, marked thighs hanging spread off the bed, with a super soldier standing naked in between them.
The lights were all off aside from the gleaming firelight coming from the living room, barely making through the ajar door, moonlight catching on the wet tears on your cheek and the spit gleaming on your lips from having him in your mouth not too long ago.
Not many people would call Bucky a sap, but if they knew how his heart cracked open every time you looked at him like this, they might.
His hand came to cradle your face, and you nuzzled into it, looking at him with such sheer and unadulterated adoration in your eyes, it felt like you wanted him to pull you apart thread by thread just so he could be the one to stitch you back together.
A thumb traced the wetness on your lips and you engulfed it in between the plush flesh, earning a groan from deep inside of his chest. When you hummed around his digit, the vibration went straight to his cock, twitching in muscle memory.
āMāgirl looks like she was made to be fucked open for me.ā He moved his hand and grabbed your jaw, still sticky with saliva, a silent demand for you to open your mouth, which you gladly complied, sticking out your tongue.
The hot, wet feeling of his spit landing on your tastebuds came not long after, and you swallowed with a smirk.
Bucky pushed you down the bed with his body, tongue demanding against yours, while his hands gripped your thighs to scoot you up. He ground his hips against yours, coating him in more of your slick, before pushing in.
You gasped against his mouth, and he leaned down just slightly to get his arms under your legs and throw it over his shoulders, leaning in to press your knees out and as close to your chest as physically possible.
"Oh, God, Bucky..." Your eyes rolled back. "Fuck. Youāreā¦ youāre so big,ā you breathe, voice shaky as your thighs tense reflexively, body already bracing around him even before anything more happens. āAlways feelsā¦ like too much.ā
He gives a quiet, devastatingly confident hum, like your overwhelmed confession is the sweetest thing heās ever heard.
āYeah?ā His voice is low, warm, full of pride. āThat right, baby?ā His thumb strokes the inside of your leg in a slow, grounding sweep. āThought you liked me being too much.ā
Your breath catches when he presses his weight down just enough to make you feel it everywhere, the pressure firm and consuming. You whimper and nod, head tipping back against the pillow as your fingers curl around his arm.
āI do,ā you whisper, nearly gasping, your voice cracking under the strain of howĀ fullĀ his presence makes you feel. āFeels like youāreāstretching me outā¦ every time.ā
Your legs tremble in his grasp, but he holds them steady, firm but careful, folding you deeper into the bed, a breathy cry slips out when the pressure increases, not painfulājustĀ intense. Deep. Inescapable.
āBuckyāā it spills out in a shaken whisper, your chest rising in quick, unsteady pulls of air. āFeels like youāreā¦ everywhere. I canātāI canāt breathe when youāre this deep.ā
His head dips, eyes locked on yours as his breathing grows heavier. āYes, you can.ā he says gently, firmly, "You love feeling this full. Admit it.ā
Youāre stuttering, already arching into him even as overwhelmed tears prick at your eyes. āI do,ā you gasp. āGod, I doāitās so muchāā
And he makes it be even more with a thumb on your clit as he drives into you like he wants the only thing inside of your veins to be him. He feels you clench so tight around him you swear your insides are embossed with the veins of his cock.
You come gasping his name with your bottom lip between his teeth, his cum leaking out of your thoroughly spent cunt.
"Mmm, I love you." It's said in a haze, with the room spinning around your lightheadedness, but he knows it doesn't make it any less true.
You woke up with his arm is still wrapped around your waist, hand spread low over your stomach like a claim he made in his sleep. His chest was pressed against your back, slow breaths brushing the nape of your neck. He didnāt move far ā if he moved at all. Itās like even in dreams, he held on.
You shifted slightly and realized your body was sore in a way that felt like remembering. He was already hard against you, silent and steady, like his body woke up wanting before his mind did.
He made a quiet sound in his sleep when you curled back into him instinctively. When you rolled your hips just a little ā not even on purpose ā his breath stuttered.
āDonāt start somethinā y'canāt finish,ā he murmured, voice deep, rough with sleep.
āIām not starting anything,ā you whispered, but your voice gives you away.
His hand tightened on your waist. āUh-huh.ā Silence stretches ā soft, warm, waiting.
āI don't wanna leave today,ā you said eventually, voice quiet.
He exhaled slowly into your shoulder, like the thought physically ached. āI know. Let's not move. Not yet.ā
He shifted behind you, pressing in closer, and you felt it ā the way he wanted you, slow and unhurried, like he had all morning to remind you your body is his favorite place to be in.
When he moved inside of you, it was gentle at first ā lazy, testing, his lips brushing your shoulder. You breathed out shakily, already melting, already arching back into him.
āStill sore?ā he asked quietly against your skin, smug in a way that only an utterly in love James Barnes could be.
āYeah,ā you breathed. āStill want you.ā
He groaned low, like that undoes something in him. He kept you on your side, drawn tight against his chest, his hand guiding your thigh to hook over his. The movement was slow, intimate ā more about closeness than urgency. His breathing deepened behind you; you could feel each exhale between your shoulder and your neck.
There wasn't rush, no frantic pace this time. Just heavy warmth, quiet praise, his lips brushing your ear while your fingers clutch at his forearm and soft sounds slip from your throat.
Itās a claiming that feels less like breaking and more like sealing something in place. By the time you both went still again, breath uneven, bodies pressed close under the covers, neither of you spoke. Not right away.
He stays inside the circle of your body like he belongs there ā not rushing to pull away, not shifting to leave. Like maybe, just maybe, if he doesnāt move, morning wonāt happen.
Eventually, in a low voice that sounded almost reluctant, he murmured, āWe should start getting ready in a few.ā
You hummed, not agreeing. He pressed one last kiss to your shoulder, lingering there before adding, āFive more minutes.ā
You donāt tell him youāre giving him ten.
You donāt make it very far once youāre out of the bedroom.
He had you on the couch next ā laughter dissolving into breathy moans as he pulls you onto all fours and sinks into a rhythm that leaves you pressed against worn cushions, his voice low and praising in your ear as the old cabin furniture creaks beneath you, feeling him etch his name in every corner of your soul so good that you had to bite down on the couch cushions to not be too loud, a feat you were much too accustomed to in the confined of both of your rooms.
The drive back was colder than the drive to. Maybe because the heat of anticipation wasn't there anymore, and you were getting back to sneaking around and your sacred Thursdays.
You took a longer route, to pretend you had to wait at the airport. By the time you reached the garage, you saw his bike parked right next to your spot.
The common room was occupied by Nat, Steve, Yelena, and the redhead's eyes traced an invisible string between you and Bucky.
"So.. How was camping?"
"Good." Neither of you meant to respond at the same time.
"Too cold?"
"Warm in the morning, cold at ni-" You glared at him like he was solely to blame for you two absolutely getting caught red handed and sore right then and there.
Natasha smirked. "Welcome back, not-so-stelthy super spies."
At first, no oneĀ wantsĀ to assume anything when the noise starts. Itās 3:24 A.M. Maybe someoneās just doing an aggressive nighttime workout. Pushing a dresser around. Wrestling a demon. Practicing taekwondo on the wall.
But then the bedframe starts slamming rhythmically against the wall like itās trying to communicate in Morse code.
And someone gasps way too high-pitched and breathless for this to be cardio-related.
Sam wakes up and pads down to the kitchen to find that he's been the last one to be pulled from his REM sleep by a horny centenarian and his insatiable, inappropriately young girlfriend.
Steve has his head in his hands like he's trying to muffle his ears, forehead resting on the cool table.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
They could hear Bucky's low "Sweetheart, fuckā keepā" followed by a grunt. And what sounded like some hard object dropping to the floor.
Yelena looked at the ceiling in horror when they heard your muffled whines, "Buckyāoh God!" pleading him not to stop.
Sam climbed on a countertop and got his mouth close to the vents. āWE KNOW ITāS BUCKY, WE KNOW, PLEASE.ā
And in the symphony of your moans and his grunts, Natasha just piped up from behind her coffee mug. "Does anyone miss when they were sneaking around?"
Every single person in that room raised their hands.
a/n: this was fun to write, can you tell I went home last night and cracked my husband like a woman possessed?
āøāø SUMMARY ā ā as an outlaw, steve rogers has two rules: keep moving, and don't go back. but for you he's broken the second one more times than he can count. he comes when he can, leaves before dawn, and you don't ask what he gets up to in between. until one night it's not just steve at your door, but his partner, bucky barnes, with your outlaw bleeding through his shirt and bounty hunters four days behind them. ā ā§½ 23k
ļ¼SMUT, like seriously there is so much smut in this (3 separate scenes lol), dry humping, cock grinding, p in v, fingering, handjob, voyeurism/exhibitionism, masturbation (m), slight pervy!bucky?, oral (m & f receiving), threesome (reader goes to paris!), m/m content, praise kink, hair pulling, soft doms!stucky but lowkey switch!steve!, heavy yearning, three idiots in love, kinda one bed trope?, slow burn, shameless flirt bucky, bisexual awakening!stucky, angst, probably very medically inaccurate wound treatment, probably also historical inaccuracies, frontier/wild west AU, 18+ MDNI
ā¤· from mads: this is my contribution to the Captain Americana film festival collab for steve's birthday (happy belated birthday stevie!!). i decided to base my fic off the film "butch cassidy and the sundance kid", because the first time i watched this i was just like... oh this is my stucky cowboy AU fr. plus, i thought steve deserved both you and bucky as his birthday present. half of this was written sleep deprived so sorry for any errors Ā» cowboy edits of steve and bucky made by me with canva, pinterest and a dream please be kind and don't look too closely xx Ā» MASTERLIST
Frontier towns always think they can tell a good man from a bad one.
A good man does honest work with honest hands. A good man comes to church on Sundays. Most importantly, a good man is known - by his name, his family, and his business. In a town like this, familiarity passes easily for virtue. A bad man, then, is the one nobody can place. And the town, never fond of a question, fills it with the worst thing it can imagine.
The law has a simpler system still.Ā
One that decrees who is a man and who is aĀ wanted man.Ā It prints the latter on paper and nails it somewhere decent folk can see.Ā Ink drawings of men with shadowed eyes and a jaw made harsher by the hand that drew it. Beneath that is the list of wrongs they have done, and a number in dollars that someoneĀ is willing to pay to see him answer for them.
Fifty dollars for a fool. Five hundred for a danger. Five thousand for a dead man walking.
Women, of course, have their own sorting. Just like bad men, women have a value.Ā Only women are rarely granted the dignity of being weighed by their ownĀ choices. Instead, they too are valued by a bad manās wrongdoings.Ā
What he has done to her. Or what he is rumoured to have done with her. Or what he wanted badly enough to lie about. That is how a town makes its ladies. That is how it makes its whores, too.
There are no other kinds of women.Ā Not in this town, or anywhere else for that matter. A third kind would require people to admit women have lives beyond the reach of menās hands, and no one is in any hurry to go inviting that sort of trouble.
By all accounts, the town had decided kindly on you.Ā A credit to the schoolhouse and a blessing to the children you teach. They would say that you are a fine young lady, and that any good man would be lucky to have you.
No good man, so far, has come and asked. Perhaps that should worry you more than it did. After all, a woman could only remain a fine young lady for so long before the title began to sour on her. A woman in your position was expected to want a steady hand, a clean name,and a ring bought with honest wages. A good man, by the townās binary judgement.
Your heart, unfortunately, had never shown much interest in good men.
So thatās why tonight, like every other night, your walk home is made alone. Save for the company of crickets keeping up their endless racket, and the watchful hum of a town that likes to sleep with one eye open.
Your skirts hush against the dry grass as you walk further beyond the last few houses, where the town thins to prairie. There waits your little house at the edge of it all, porch sunk crooked in the middle and windows dark as shut eyes. Except the window over the washstand thatās still open; it never sits quite right in its frame. It swells in the summer heat, shrinks in the winter cold, and no matter the season, refuses to latch unless you lean your weight against it.Ā
Youāve been putting off fixing it for months. A respectable man might have fixed it for you by now, had one ever made himself useful.
By the time you step through your front door, the night hasĀ drawn close around the house.Ā Moonlight slips through the narrow gap in the curtains, laying a soft glow across the floorboards. Enough to not bother with a lamp.
The schoolbooks go on the table. You set your hat beside them. Your boots are worked off by the bed, left where they fall. Then your fingers find the buttons of your dress.
The first slips free at your throat, then the second follows. The dress loosens by degrees, surrendering the shape of the schoolteacher the town knows so well, until all that remains is the woman beneath it. You drag in a deeper breath, eyes falling shut for a moment as the pressure eases. There is no sweeter mercy than taking off the day. No greater pleasure than unlacing yourself from what the world expected you to be.
With one hand still at your bodice, you turn towards the washstand.Ā
Your eyes catch on a shadow in the chair by your bed. A shocked gasp leaves your lips before you can stop it, sharp and uselessly small in the dark of your room.Ā
At first, he is only a shape amongst shapes.Ā
But the shadow is too still for a drunk, too quiet for a fool, and too comfortable for any man with honest business in a womanās bedroom after dark. The chair complains beneath the size of him. One boot is planted flat against the floorboards, the other stretches lazily before him. A hand rests on his thigh, and somethingĀ metallic in it glints in the moonlight.
It points straight at you.
Your breath stalls somewhere high in your chest, trapped behind the open buttons at your throat as your vision adjusts slowly to the dim light. His coat hangs open over a shirt that used to be white, now marked with trail dust and the stain of something you hope is mud.
The gunman tilts his head, and only then does the dark give up the glinting blue of his eyes - fixed on you with the possessive satisfaction of a man finding what he came for. They drop slowlyĀ to where your dress has come loose at your throat,Ā exposing the delicate slope beneath your collarbone, and the first soft swell of your chest. Enough skin to make a decent man look away and a worse one very glad he didnāt.
An appreciative rumble hums low from his lips, before his thumb draws back the hammer of his gun with a pointedĀ click.
āDonāt stop on my account, sweetheart.ā
For a moment, youāre frozen. Just standing there with your fingers still curled in the loosened front of your dress, breath held tight beneath your ribs. The room narrows to the man in your chair and the gun pointed steady in his hand. He watches you without speaking, patient as a hunter, until he gives an expectant nod of the head.
Slowly, your fingers move again, buttons slipping free beneath your touch. His eyes fixate on the reveal, tongue dipping out the wet his bottom lip in anticipation.
By any measure the town would use, he is a bad man. By the sheriffās ledger, or by the schoolmasterās careful catechism about the sorts of men a young lady ought to avoid, the man in your chair is exactly the kind of ruin women are warned against.
You have never much cared for the schoolmasterās catechism.
Instead your gaze drags over him in return, less innocent than the gasp you might have given. Over the breadth of his shoulders where his shirt pulls tight beneath his open coat. Over the narrowness of his waist and the careless sprawl of his body in your chair, as though he belongs there. Over theĀ powerful thighs spread wide as he sat, revealing theĀ hard, unmistakable bulge pressing against the front of his trousers. Indecent in its honesty and all the more shameless for the way he makes no attempt to hide it.
He watches you notice it, too. Watches your eyes catch and linger, watches your throat work around the breath you have not quite managed to take.
The last button slips free.
Your dress gives way, sliding from your shoulders and falling in a soft heap around your feet. It leaves you in your chemise,Ā though the thin cotton does such a poor job of covering you that the word feels generous. Moonlight passes through it almost cleanly, turning the fabric pale and sheer over the shape of your body: the curve of your waist, the shadow between your thighs, the soft weight of your breasts barely hidden beneath it.Ā
Your nipples tighten into hard little points against the cloth, visible enough that you know he must see them. The knowledge makes your skin burn hotter than any shame ought to allow.
A deep, pleased groan escapes his chest.
The gun stays steady in his hand, but the other shifts against his thigh, fingers flexing into the worn fabric before his palm slides higher. He presses over himself through his trousers, just enough to ease some of the ache there. Just enough to make no secret of what the sight of you has done to him.
āGood girl,ā he drawls, āprettiest damn thing Iāve seen in weeks.ā
Your stomach pulls tight at the praise, and your thighs press together beneath the thin fall of your chemise before you can think better of giving him any satisfaction.
But the satisfaction arrives in the slight curve of his mouth before he rises from the chair.Ā God, heās tall, taller than he looks sitting down. And broader too.
If the dark had made a threat of him, the moonlight makes something worse. It loves him. Thereās no other word for the way it lingers on him as he steps closer.Ā
It slips first over the dirty blond hair that has fallen loose beneath the brim of his hat.Ā Then it catches on his face, and thereās no mercy for you in how gently it treats him. Long lashes cast low shadows under his eyes, and whatever blue hasnāt been swallowed by desire or the dark gleams too bright. His mouth is plusher than it ought to be on a man with a gun in his hand. Soft in a way the beard canāt rough out, though it tries.
It decorates his jaw, dragging a little danger back over a face that might have been too pretty without it.
The kind of face you know.
Itās nailed up outside the mercantile for decent folk to study and condemn. Some sheriffās artist had done his best to make a villain of him in ink, darkening the eyes, sharpening the jaw, flattening the mouth into something easier to fear. Anything, perhaps, to keep a lady from looking too long and noticing what the moonlight gives away in your bedroom.Ā
Better, then, to look beneath his name at the hefty four figure sum printed there. And remember what kind of man earns a price like that.
A careful one, you would think.
A man worth that much should know better than to stand so close. And he should definitely know better than to let his defences drop. Most of all, he should know better than to let desire soften the hand with the gun in it.Ā
You move quickly. A sharp twist, a shift of your weight, and the revolver is in your hand instead of his. Then your palm hits the centre of his chest and you shoveĀ your weight against his chest.
He falls a little too easily back onto the bed with a rough laugh, his hat knocked loose and tumbling somewhere behind him.Ā You follow before he can sit up, climbing over him with one knee pressed into the mattress on either side of his hips. The chemise rides high on your thighs as you settle your weight over him, and his hands instantly find a home there.Ā
You theĀ pressĀ barrel up under his jaw with enough pressure to make him tilt his head back against the quilt,Ā exposing the long line of his throat. All that arrogant ease goes still beneath you. Then his Adam's apple bobs beneath the rough gold of his beard, and the ridiculous blue of his eyes go wide.
He looks stunned. Worse, even,Ā he looks delighted, as though some wicked part of him had been hoping all along that you would do exactly this.
You lean down until only inches remain between you,Ā close enough to see the way his pupils dilate further, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.
āYouāre late, Rogers.ā
He doesnāt reply straightaway. Instead, hisĀ eyes move over your face as though the rest of the room has fallen away, as though the weeks and the miles have all narrowed done to this -Ā to you. Sat above him in the moonlight, furious and half-naked and close enough to touch. Thereās something in his expression far too soft for the size of him, too tender for the outlaw laid out beneath you with a revolver pressed to his throat.
Something that looks almost like disbelief, as if he had spent the whole ride dreaming of you and even still, you looked sweeter than his dreams. Like he canāt quite believe the world has been kind enough to put you in front of him again, and now that heās here, he means to drink down every inch of you before it can change its mind.
Then the tension eases out of him all at once.
His body goes loose beneath yours, the last of the game slipping from his shoulders as his hands slide higher up your thighs. They wrap around your ass, warm and possessive.Ā The corner of his mouth curves, slow and devastatingly boyish beneath the ruggedness of his beard. Entirely too pleased for a man currently pinned beneath his own gun.
āMissed me?ā he drawls, already sure of the answer
You press the gun harder into the soft skin beneath his jaw in answer. His fingers tighten on your thighs,Ā as his hips shift beneath yours. Itās only a small, helpless grind, but itās enough for you to feel the hard line of his cock twitch against the heat between your legs. The satisfaction of feeling his need for you is almost enough to make you forget youāre angry.Ā
Almost.
āYou were supposed to be here three days ago,āĀ you remind him, intending to be stern, but not convinced you achieved it.
āTrain was delayed,ā Steve replies,Ā his blue eyes bright with the kind of trouble men get hanged for.
Your eyes narrow. He has the decency to look a little sheepish.
āFine,ā he concedes. āTrain was delayed ācause I robbed it.ā
His thumbs trace slow circles over your hipbones, familiar and possessive, like he has any right to soothe you after being the source of your concern. āYou worried about me, sweetheart?ā
You scoff, āI was debating whether, if the bounty hunters didnāt put a bullet in you, I ought to do it myself.ā
It wouldāve sounded better if your voice hadnāt come out breathier than you intended. If his body were not so solid and warm beneath you, his thighs hard muscle under your spread legs, his hands moving against your skin as though he had been starving for the feel of it.
āGunās not loaded,ā His voice goes quieter there, the teasing easing at the edges. āNever is. You think Iād point a loaded gun at you?ā
You hate him a little for that. For the empty gun. For the fact that some stubborn, tender part of him had crossed God knows how many miles with a bounty on his head and still remembered to make his filthy little performance safe.Ā
You hate him more for making you care enough to count the days. For making the nights stretch mean when he doesnāt come when heās meant to. For making you understand, with an anger that burns too hot to be good, what sort of woman waits on a bad man.
āDonāt mean Iām not angry with you,ā you whisper, though thereās no bite in your voice.
His gaze drops to your mouth.
āYeah?ā His hands slide back along your thighs, slow enough to make your stomach tighten, high enough to make the thin cotton of your chemise feel like no barrier at all. āWant to show me how angry?ā
Your throat tightens.Ā The revolver drops from your hand onto the quilt beside his head.Ā Steveās eyes lift to yours, and there he is beneath the outlaw. Tired, alive, and yours for the few hours he has no right to give you.
You kiss him hard, pouring all that fear and anger and need into his mouth.
Steve takes it with a groan, his head dropping back against the quilt again. One hand leaves your thigh to catch the back of your neck and drag you closer. This isn't a careful reunion. He bites your lip and the sound you make against his mouth ruins whatever patience he had left.
His tongue pushes possessively into your mouth, licking into you until your fingers twist in the front of his shirt just to have something to hold. When you rock down against him, grinding the damp heat of your pussy over the hard line of his cock through too much fabric, his answering sound catches high and helpless in his throat.
āI ought to punish you for makinā me wait,ā you breathe against his mouth, though the threat loses some of its dignity when your hips roll down again and your own breath breaks at the friction.
Steveās hand tightens on your neck, keeping you close enough that his lips brush yours when he answers. āYou ought to.ā
Your hands shove at his coat, dragging it off his shoulders with more force than grace. SteveĀ only helps enough to get free, tooĀ busy chasing your mouth again, greedy and open, his tongue sweeping against yours like heās trying to taste every desperate sound heās pulled from you. You tug at the buttons of his shirt next,Ā fingers clumsy on the open collar before patience fails you entirely and you pull hard enough to strain the buttons.
You need skin. Need the warmth of him under your palms and the pulse of him beneath your mouth.
āI ought to send you back out the window you came in.ā
His grin returns at that, mischief bright in his eyes despite the way his cock twitches under you. āYouĀ ought to get that fixed,ā he rumbles, one hand sliding possessive over your waist. āWho knows what kind of bad men could get in?ā
You punish him for the clever little comment with another roll of your hips.Ā Steveās fingers clamp around your waist and the sound he makes is almost a whine, mouth falling open against yours.
His chest rises hard beneath your hands, broad and golden in the moonlight, warm muscle shifting under your palms with every rough breath he takes. Scars litter his skin - some you know the stories of and some he has never given you. You touch them anyway, touch him anyway, needing the proof of him beneath your palms. Then your hips grind down again, and his stomach flexes, abs pulling tight as he lets out a rough groan.
āI ought to make you beg,ā you whisper, mouth dragging down over his jaw, his beard rough against your lipsĀ as you kiss the place where his heartbeat pounds beneath his skin.
āYes, maāam,ā Steve breathes, hands holdingĀ you tight over the thick, straining shape of him. āYou ought to.ā
Your chemise has ridden high over your thighs, and every drag of your body over his makes the ache in you sharper.
āStart with sorry,ā you instruct.
Steveās breath catches when you slow the roll of your hips, turning the grind into something almost cruel. His hands flex at your waist, big enough to move you if he wanted, strong enough that he could flip you easily. But instead he lies there beneath you, shirt open and cock hard under your weight, letting you make him wait. Letting you have this dizzying power over him and looking up at you like he would let you ruin him if you asked sweetly enough.
His throat works beneath your mouth.
āIām sorry Iām late,ā he murmurs.
You lift your head just enough to look at him, raising an expectant brow. His thumbs stroke once over your hips, softernow.
Steveās eyes flick over your face, softening at whatever he finds there. āIām sorry I worried you.ā
Satisfied with his obedience, you lean down to kiss him again in reward. But Steve catches the breath between your mouths, his lips brushing yours when he adds, quieter,Ā āIām sorry I have to leave again at dawn.ā
You still completely. Steveās eyes find yours beneath his mussed hair, and there is and ache thereĀ so open it makes your chest hurt. Too honest for a man whoās worth more dead than most men will ever be alive. You canāt bare it for long.Ā Your mouth finds his again, harder this time, before the feeling can name itself. That foolish hope of keeping a man who only ever comes to you with one foot already out the door.
āThen donāt waste my night, cowboy,ā you breathe against his lips, rolling your hips down until his cock jerks beneath you. āYouāve got a lot to make up for.ā
Steve answers with his hands. A sudden greed of them at your waist, then sliding further up beneath your chemise. His thumbs brushĀ the underside of your breasts with just enough pressure to make you gasp into his mouth. Then heās tugging the fabric higher, impatient now, and you lift your arms before he has to ask.Ā
He drags the cotton over your head, tossing it aside with the rest of your clothes until the night air has you bare above him.
His gaze rakes over you with such naked want that your stomach clenches. OverĀ the tight peaks of your nipples, and lower still till to where you are spread over him in nothing but your drawers and stockings, already damp enough that the fabric clings between your thighs.
Steveās hands tighten at your hips, his thumbs dragging once over the bare skin above your drawers.Ā
āYou missed me somethinā awful, didnāt you?ā he teases, the corner of his mouth twitching, though his voice comes out rougher than the smile deserves.
You should scold him for that. You mean to, truly. But then his mouth closes over your breast, and the words break apart in your throat.
His beard scrapes over your skin as he sucks your nipple between his lips, tongue dragging over the tight peak before his teeth catch, sharp enough to make you dry out. Your hands fly to his hair, and you tug - meaner than you intend - but Steve groans against your tit, delighted.
āLove it when youāre mean,ā he pants against your skin, mouth moving to the other breast, leaving the first wet with his spit in the moonlight.
His head tips beneath your grip, golden hair sliding through your fingers. He lets you guide him, all that size and strength beautiful under your hands. Because for all his sins, Steve is clever enough to know thereās power in obedience when it comes to the right woman.
His hands shove your drawers down over your hips, hurried and clumsy for the first time all night. They catch at your knees before you kick them away, leaving you naked above him, trembling with the kind of want no decent woman was ever supposed to admit by name.
Your fingers go to his trousers, but the buttons take too long. You curse them for it, and Steve gives a breathless little laugh that dies the second your hand slips inside and wraps around him. His cock springs free, slapping heavy against your thigh, already leaking at the tip.Ā Precum smears against your skin as he twitches there, hard enough to make your mouth go dry.
Itās like you forget just how big he is until heās in your hand again, fat and veined and heavy enough to make you wonder if heāll still fit. But your cunt clenches desperately around nothing like it already knows the answer.
You sink your teeth into your lower lip and drag yourself over him, sliding the wet heat of your pussy along the length of his cock.Ā He groans at the first slick pass, at the way your folds part around him, coating him in creamy white wetness until every rock of your hips makes an obscene, sticky sound between you.
The fat head catches against your clit with each pass, enough to make your hips stutter and your head tip back with a needy little whine. But Steveās arms clamp over your hips, muscles flexing as he keeps you humping his cock. His precum mixes with the mess dripping from your needy hole, smearing over his shaft and down onto the golden muscle of his stomach under you.
āFuck, āatta girl,ā he rasps, head falling back against the quilt. āGet my cock nice and wet. Make yourself feel good, use me.ā
So you grind down harder, slicking his cock with the mess heās made of you, feeling his abs flex beneath your hands every time his tip nudges your tight entrance.
āSteve,ā you whine, nails digging into this skin hard enough to leave marks. āI want it. I want your cock in me.ā
āYeah?ā he breathes, and the little edge of a grin he tries for doesnāt last. Not when you reach between you, wrap your hand around the thick, wet length of him. āThen take it, maāam. Itās yours.ā
You push up on your knees, thighs trembling on either side of him, the thick muscle of Steveās biceps bunching as he holds you steady.Ā His cock pulses with anticipation in your grip, veins standing out beneath your palm as you line him up with your entrance.Ā
Youāre both wet enough that it should be easy, your cream smeared down his shaft, his precum sticky on your fingers. But the first push of the mushroom tip stretchesĀ you open with a burn so sweet and full it feels like being split in half. Your mouth falls open the same moment his does, both of you moaning at the sensation after weeks without each other.Ā
Your pussy flutters around him, tight and greedy, sucking him in with little needy clenches that make his hands dig harder into your hips.Ā
āMissed this,ā he groans, every muscle in him straining with the effort not to thrust up and take more than you give. āMissed your tight cunt so bad I damn near wore out my own fist thinkinā about it.ā
The filthy praise goes straight to your cunt, sending a fresh wave of arousal dripping around him as you sink lower.Ā Your head tips back, his name spilling from your lips in broken little sounds as you take him inch by inch.
Steveās eyes fix on where youāre joined, watching the slow, wet slide of himself disappearing inside you. His jaw clenches beneath his beard, every muscle in him pulled taut like the sight of your tight pussy struggling around him might make him spill inside you before youāve even taken all of him.Ā
When your hips finally meet his, the fat tip of his cock kisses your cervix and it empties your head clean of any coherent though. You feel him twitch inside you as your walls give a wet squeeze around him, your cunt clinging tight like it needs a second to believe itās taken all of him.Ā
āFuck, Steve,ā you whine, nails dragging over his chest. āYouāre so big.ā
You slowly try and find a rhythm, rolling your hips down until the tip of his cock hits deep enough to make your whole body jolt.Ā The first few strokes are messy, your thighs trembling as you lift and sink. But Steveās palms stay firm at your hips, helping you find the rhythm, holding you steady while you fuck yourself down onto him.
āBut youāre takinā it, sweet girl,ā he groans, helping you down harder,Ā pulling you into each stroke until your tits bounce and the room fills with the slick slap of your body meeting his.Ā āTakinā my cock so pretty. Always do.ā
The bed complains beneath you, wood knocking softly against the wall, but itās nothing compared to the wet, shameless sound of your pussy taking him over and over.Ā
āSteveāāĀ Your voice breaks into a cry when he hits that deep spot again, āNeedāfuckāā
Your pace turns desperate, hips rolling and lifting, chasing the thick slide of him inside you. Every time you sink down, your cunt grips him tighter, cream slicking the base of his cock in a white ring that smears against his skin and drips lower, making a filthy mess of his heavy balls.
Steveās eyeās darken at the sight. āPretty cuntās makinā such a mess on my cock, can feel her squeezinā me. Feel you gettinā close.ā
You nod, pathetic and needy. āI need you,ā you gasp, āSteve,Ā please, Iāmāā
His hand leaves your hip and slips between you, thumb finding your swollen clit. Your rhythm breaks, hips jerking as a needy moan catches in your throat. You try to keep riding him, but it turns sloppy fast, more grinding than bouncing now, your body chasing his hand while his cock stays buried deep inside you.
āThatās what you needed, sweetheart?ā Steve rasps, watching you fall apart above him. āThen let me feel that tight pussy come on my cock.ā
The pressure snaps tight in your belly, sharp enough to steal the air from you. One more stroke of his thumb, one more dirty grind down on his cock, and your orgasm crashes through you.
Your cunt strangles his cock, pulsing around him in tight, wet flutters. āFuck,ā he grunts out, hands grabbing for hips as his restraint finally snaps. āFuck, maāam,Ā canātāā
One second youāre on top of him, shaking through it, and the next his strength is under you and around you, flipping you onto your back like you weigh nothing at all. Steve settles between your thighs with a groan as he drives back into your soaked cunt in one deep thrust that punches the breath from your lungs.
āSteve!āĀ You sob his name, oversensitive and helpless under him, but your legs hook around his waist anyway. Steve fucks into you harder, deeper, mouth catching yours in a messy kiss.
āThere you go,ā he grits out, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh high against his hip. āāAtta girl. Fuck, you feel too good, this cuntās tryinā to keep me.ā
You canāt answer, not properly. Not with him pounding into you like this, all that leashed strength finally let loose, his cock dragging over your oversensitive walls while your legs shake around him. All you can do is cling to him and babble his name, too ruined to do anything but take it.
His thrusts turn rougher as his cock throbs inside you. At the last second, Steve pulls out with a broken groan, his hand wrapping around his slick cock as he spills hot over your stomach. Hot white ropes spill across your skin while his hips jerk into his fist, eyes fixed on the mess heās making of you like itās the prettiest thing heās seen in weeks.
Steveās strokes slow, his fist still wrapped around himself as the last of his release spills over your belly. His eyes drag from the mess on your skin to your face, and his expression softens instantly.Ā
āGood girl,ā he rumbles,Ā thumb smearing through the mess heās made before he seems to remember himself. His mouth finds yoursĀ once, beards scratching softly over your skin as you make a tired little sound against his mouth. āTook me so good, sweets. So fuckinā good for me.ā
His lips move over your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth,Ā murmuring praise between each kiss, until the words sink under your skin. Then he forces himself away with a rough breath, tugging his shirt the rest of the way off before shoving his trousers down his hips. His boots hit the floor with a dull thud, followed by the rest of his clothes.
Naked, he crosses to the washstand with all that golden muscle and road-worn swagger, shoulders broad in the moonlight, hair mussed from your hands. He comes back with a damp cloth and cleans you himself.Ā
One big hand rests tenderly at your hip while the other wipes his come from your stomach. His gaze flicks up to yours once when you shiver, mouth curving beneath his beard, but he doesnāt tease. He only drags the cloth lower, gentle between your thighs, cleaning the sticky mess from your skin.
āSo perfect,ā he whispers, pressing a kiss just beneath your ribs when heās done. āMy best girl.ā
Tossing the cloth aside, he climbs into bed beside you, greedy for your warmth. His arm hooks around you waist instantly,Ā dragging you back against him like even the few inches between your bodies are more than he can spare. His chest presses warm against your back, his thigh slides between yours, and his mouth finds your shoulder before youāve even settled.
For a while, neither of you says anything.
Steve keeps kissing you anyway, and his hand rests heavy over your stomach, fingers spread wide like he means to keep you against him forever. But his thumb moves gently. Back and forth. Back and forth. A quiet apology against your skin. Youāre half asleep by the time your voice finds him again.
āMissed you Stevie,ā you mumble, so low he might have missed it if he hadnāt been listening for every breath. āWas worried.ā
Steve goes still behind you for a moment, then his thumb starts moving again, slow over the bare skin of your stomach like he can soothe the ache he put there. āI know,ā he murmurs into your hair. āIām sorry, sweetheart.Ā Didnāt mean to leave you countinā days.ā
āWhat really happened?ā
Steve exhales slowly behind you,Ā mouth pressing to your shoulder before he answers, like he can feel the tightness gathering there already. āTrain job got messy. Payroll car was heavier than we heard, and the guard had more friends than sense. Had to ride south after, lose a posse near the creekbed.ā His hand tightens when your brow pinches in worry, though your eyes stay closed. āNo, honey. Not like that. They got a shot off, but it only grazed me.ā
Your eyes crack open. āOnly?ā
āIām here, aināt I?ā he breathes, trying for that crooked little arrogance and not quite managing it. āTakes more than that to put me down.ā
You make a sleepy, displeased sound and press back harder into him, grumbling something unkind into the pillow
Steve huffs a quiet laugh and presses his smile to your shoulder. āMean little thing,ā he whispers, but his arm tightens around you, and his lips linger. āIām alright. Truly. Just took longer than I wanted.ā
After that, the room settles around you. His hand stays where it is, warm and broad over your middle, and his breathing slows behind you.Youāre almost asleep when the thought slips out of you, small and wounded.
āDonāt wake me when you leave.ā
His chest stops moving against your back.
āI mean it,ā you add,Ā fingers finding his where they rest over your stomach. āI canāt watch you choose the door.ā
That one hurts him. You feel his arm curl tighter around your waist like some selfish part of him wants to promise he wonāt go at all. For a second, you think he might argue. But Steve Rogers has never been cruel enough to promise something so foolish.
āAlright,ā he whispers, voice rough. āIāll leave quiet.ā
You nod once, already drifting, but your fingers tighten around his. Steve turns his hand beneath yours and holds on. āBut Iām here now,ā he murmurs, mouth brushing your skin. āSleep, honey. Iāve got you.ā
Morning doesnāt wake you kindly.
One moment youāre warm enough to feel the man behind you, and the next your hand is sliding across the mattress, reaching for a body that is no longer there. Still, you lie with your hand pressed to the place where Steve had been, as if there might still be enough of him left in the sheets to count for something.
The scrape of his beard still burns faintly along your shoulder. Your thighs ache when you shift. Proof everywhere, and still no man beside you.
The day doesnāt care.Ā It waits for no woman, least of all one foolish enough to miss a man with four figures under his name. So you get up.There is no use in grieving a man who is not dead, and no sense in missing a man who warned you he would go.
You go about your morning routine and pull on your dress, fastening every button back into place until the schoolteacher returns piece by piece. Nothing to suggest what an outlaw had done to her in the dark. By the time your books are gathered, your hands have almost stopped shaking.
You check the stove before you leave. The door latch. The chair by the bed, sitting innocent in the morning light, as if it hadnāt held an outlaw the night before. Last, out of habit more than thought, you cross to the window over the washstand.
Your hand is already braced to force it closed when you freeze.Ā The window is shut.
Not forced down, not wedged in crooked, not sitting stubborn in its swollen frame. Shut.Ā Properly shut.Ā The latch sits clean in its catch,Ā holding firm beneath the careful press of your fingers.
Itās silly, really, to stand there with your throat gone tight over a fixed window. But itās what almost does you in. Your bad man, making sure no worse men can get in.
Weeks pass with no word from your outlaw.
You tell yourself thatās likely for the best.Ā Good news rarely travels fast where men like Steve Rogers are concerned; bad news, however, travels like wildfire.Ā Still, each morning you find yourself scanning the newspaper columns with a sour twist in your stomach, looking for his name with morbid compulsion and praying not to find it.Ā Itās the same grim, self-torturous routine every day, waiting for the one where some column out west reports Steve Rogers and the Winter Kid dead, captured, or hanged.
By night, the worry is worse. It follows you into bed and slips into your dreams, filling up the space Steve left empty. You sleep poorly when sleep comes at all, one ear tuned toward the road like a fool, listening for hoofbeats youāve no good reason to expect, yet hope for all the same.
But it isnāt hoofbeats that pull you from slumber tonight.
Itās the violentĀ thudĀ of a fist hammering on your front door, hard enough to shake the frame and send you bolting upright with your heat already halfway up your throat.
āHello?!āĀ a man shouts through the door, breathless and frantic.Ā āMiss! For Godās sake, tell me youāre in there!ā
He swears under his breath, his voice comes again, but lower this time. āGoddammit, Rogers, if you gave me the wrong damn houseāā
His fist hits the door again, harder now, rattling the latch in its frame.
āOpen up!Ā Please, open the door!ā he yells. āNameās BarnesāBucky BarnesāIāve got Rogers with me, and heās shot real bad!ā
Steve.Ā Shot badly.
The words make your blood run cold, but fear is not enough to make you foolish. Graveyards are full of women who opened up because they believed bad men with good stories.
āMiss!ā Barnes shouts, followed by a strained grunt and the scrape of boots dragging over your porch boards. āPlease! I aināt got time to stand here proper, heās slippinā!ā
SteveĀ hadĀ spoken of a Bucky Barnes before, of course he had - Buck, usually, said with the kind of rough fondness he tried to hide and never quite managed - but knowing a name isnāt the same as knowing a voice through the door in the middle of the night.
You move for the shotgun. A lady might have felt shame keeping such a thing so close to her bed. A woman who lives alone knows better.
You cock it loud enough for the sound to carry through the door.
The knocking stops.Ā When you speak, your voice is steadier than the rest of you feels. āIf youāre lyinā, Mr. Barnes, you ought to know Iāve got a shotgun pointed at this door.ā
āLady, you can shoot me after if youāre still of a mind to,ā he shouts back. āRight now I need you to open the damn door before Rogers bleeds out on your porch!ā
Before you can answer, a low groan drags from the other side of the door, followed by Bucky swearing under his breath. Then you recognise Steveās voice, frailer than youāve ever heard it,Ā trying to make your name out of what little strength he has left.Ā It makes the shotgun feel useless in your hands.
You flip the latch up before you can think better of it, though you keep one hand on the shotgun as you pull the door open - barrel tipped down but ready.Ā
Bucky Barnes is braced on your porch, with Steve Rogers sagging against him.
His jaw is clenched from the strain of the weight, one shoulder shoved beneath Steveās arm, with his own locked tight around Steveās waist. Steveās boots scrape uselessly over the boards when Bucky shifts him higher. It is clear,Ā terribly clear, that Steve is only standing because Bucky has decided he will.
Heās bent nearly double, folded into the wound, hanging off Bucky with no strength of his own. His head dips heavy towards his chest, and he might almost look drunk if his skin were not so pale beneath the dirt, or if every breath didnāt seem to pull through him with effort.Ā
One hand rests low on his abdomen, fingers spread over a blooming red patch that has soaked through his shirt and keeps smearing beneath his palm. But the hand is slack. His arm trembles with the effort of keeping it over the wound, slipping through the blood rather than stopping it. Every breath drags through him shallow and uneven as though his body has begun bargaining over what it can afford.
āSteve!ā
The shotgun clatters to the floor in an instant, forgotten in your panic. You reach for him instantly, palms cupping his face because you need to see his eyes. Need some proof behind the boneless sag of him.Ā His skin is damp beneath your hands and itās too cold for a man sweating so badly. When you lift his head, it comes slowly, with too much weight in it, his neck offering almost no help at all.
He looks worse than any newspaper ever managed to make him.
His mouth hangs open around each thin pull of breath, lips dry and parted beneath the rough gold of his beard. Dirt clings to the sweat along his hairline. There is a smear of blood near his lip, and his jaw has gone loose under your hands, all that stubborn Rogers grit worn down to something frighteningly human.
His eyes slide over you without settling, and that scares you more than the blood.
āSteve,ā you repeat, thumb brushing his cheek. āLook at me.Ā Please, look at me.ā
Recognition gathers slowly, blue eyes dragging themselves back from somewhere far away. Then the worry comes with it, because even like this, Steve Rogers is sorry. His brows draw together as if he has been carrying one thought all the way to your porch and means to set it down before his body gives out beneath him.
āTold Buck not to wake you,ā he slurs, stopping after it to drag in another shallow breath. āTold him you needed sleep.ā
Bucky grunts a disbelieving laugh next to you.Ā
āAlright, Romeo, thatās real touching,ā he snaps, shifting Steveās weight higher with a grunt, ābut youāre bleeding on the ladyās porch. Miss, I need him flat, I need light, and I need clean cloths.Ā Now.ā
The kitchen table is where Bucky wants him. Thereās no time to argue about the indecency of it, or the blood, or how Buckyās supposed to get him up there without injuring Steve further.Ā
Bucky pulls Steve through the door with one brutal shift of his weight, dragging him over the threshold whilst Steveās boots scrape and stumble over your floor. The wound pulls with the movement, wrenching a raw, bitten-off sound deep from his chest.
āClear it,ā Bucky orders, jerking his chin toward the oak table.Ā
And you move only because your body takes over. A book hits the floor. Then the bowl you left out after supper, shattering somewhere near your feet. You donāt hear it over the rush of blood in your ears.
Bucky gets one hand under Steveās arm and the other braced hard at his back. āAlright, Stevie,ā he mutters, more to himself than to Steve. āUp we go.ā
The lift tears a brutal cry out of Steve.
Youāve never heard that sound from him before. Pain has pulled groans from him, curses too, all stubbornly swallowed before anyone could make much of them. But Steveās too far gone to care about that now.
āI know,ā Bucky says at once, voice gone tight as he arranges Steve onto the table. āI know,Ā I know. Māsorry, Stevie. Iām sorry.ā
Steve is too far under to hear him properly. His head rolls against the wood, lashes fluttering, mouth open around another broken sound when Bucky drags his legs up after him. The table creaks beneath his weight. Blood smears across the pale grain in a dark, ugly sweep. Then Bucky plants one hand low on Steveās abdomen and presses down hard.
Steveās whole body jerks.
āShit,ā Bucky grunts out, leaning his weight into it when Steve tries to curl away from the pressure. āI know, pal. Aināt got a choice.ā
You just stand there, frozen.
Thatās the shame in it.Ā You stand there with your hands curled uselessly at your sides and your bare feet near broken crockery, staring at your outlaw bleeding out across your kitchen table. There is some part of you, in the back of your head, that understands the urgency of the scene, begging you to move. ButĀ the rest of you is somewhere else entirely, watching from a distance as the biggest, most capable man you have ever known lies pale as linen and fights for the next breath.
āLady,ā Bucky snaps. āI need you with me.ā
But you donāt answer, eyes fixed on the slow rile and fall of Steveās chest. The terrible wait between each shallow pull of air and the next. The horrible stillness after every breath, when your heart seems to stop with his and only starts again when his chest moves.
Buckyās bloody hand slams against the table. āMiss!ā
Your eyes jerk to him, though the rest of you stays frozen in place. He looks furious - terrified too, but masked beneath the practical need to keep moving.Ā His jaw is set, his breathing hard, one hand still pressed down over Steveās wound while the other points at you like he can drag sense back into you by force.
āYou can stare at him dead or you can help me keep him livinā,ā he says. āPick quick.ā
The words snap you back to reality. Your throat tightens, and you take a steadying breath, āWhat do you need?ā
You scramble through your own house, trying to remember everything Bucky lists as fast as he names it.Ā
Lamps first, hands shaking hard enough that the chimney glass knocks against the metal. Then cloths from the press. The clean sheet from your bed, yanked free with one sharp pull and bundled under your arm. Thread from the sewing box. Needle. Whiskey from the cupboard that you only keep in for Steve. You put water on the stove and nearly drop the pot before you get it settled.
Behind you, Bucky cuts Steveās shirt open. The sound of Steve groaning under the movement turns your stomach, but Bucky only mutters a low apology and keeps working, dragging ruined cloth away from ruined skin before reaching for the whiskey and one of the clean rags you brought him. He wipes around the wound with brisk, careful pressure, until the blood smears thinner and the shape of the damage begins to show.
You wish at once that he hadnāt.Ā
It looks smaller than it should for all the red it has made, one ugly hole low on Steveās abdomen, close to his hip, and swollen angry at the edges. Blood keeps welling steadily no matter how quickly Bucky clears it. Steveās stomach jumps beneath every touch, muscle pulling tight before giving out again.
āBulletās still in,ā Bucky confirms, mouth grim. āAināt deep. Thatās the good news. Bad news is youāre takinā it out and sewinā him up.ā
āNo!ā Youāre shaking your head before the word has even finished leaving your mouth. āYou crazy, mister? I canāt do that!ā
Steve makes a rough sound, half breath, half pain, and Bucky glances down long enough for something scared to flash over his face.
āWell, little lady, unless you reckon you can hold down two hundred pounds of half-delirious cowboy when he starts thrashinā while I go fishinā through his guts, then yes,Ā you can.ā Buckyās hand clamps harder over Steveās middle when Steve shifts with a broken sound, his shoulders lifting from the table before the strength goes out of him again. āBecause if he comes off this table, heāll tear himself up worse than he already is, and I canāt hold him and dig the bullet out at the same time.ā
Your mouth opens, but nothing follows.
The lamp catches the sweat on Steveās throat and the red glistening on Buckyās hands. Too much of it. Too much on the table, too much soaked into Steveās shirt, too much slipping between Buckyās fingers no matter how hard he presses.
You nod once, firm, forcing the fear down into something more useful. Some of the harshness leaves Buckyās face, not enough to soften him completely, but enough for you to see the man Steve must have trusted with all the worst parts of himself.Ā
āGood girl, Iāll talk you through it,ā Bucky says, already reaching for the whiskey. āSteady hands is all I need from youā
So you give him steady hands.Ā Or try to.
You wash them until the water in the basin clouds pink from blood. Bucky talks all the while, voice firm enough to keep you moving from one instruction to the next. He pours a splash of whiskey over the wound and Steve flinches from the table with a staggered cry, only for Bucky to catch him hard across the chest and shove him back down.
āI know, Iām sorry, pal,ā Bucky murmurs, hands firm at Steveās shoulders. āBut you gotta try and stay still Stevie, please.ā
The softness in his voice does nothing to gentle his grip.Ā If anything, thatās what makes it worse: the way he bends close to Steveās ear and coaxes him like a wounded horse whilst holding him down with enough strength to bruise. He gets the belt from his own waist and folds the leather between Steveās teeth, fingers careful at his jaw.
āBite down,ā he instructs. āBefore you break your damn teeth trying not to make noise.ā
Steveās lashes flutter, eyes too glassy to find either of you properly, but his teeth close around the leather. Buckyās hand lingers one second at the side of Steveās face before he reaches into his coat and pulls out a small roll of oilcloth, the kind of thing only carried by men on the wrong side of the law with no doctor waiting.
Inside is a short knife, and a pair of narrow steel forceps. He snatches those up first and presses them into your palm.
You take a steadying breath. It doesnāt help much
The first touch of metal to torn flesh makes Steve cry out around the belt, the sound muffled and awful. His hand slams against the table hard enough to rattle the bowl, but Bucky catches his wrist and pins it down without looking away from the wound. He murmurs something too low for you to catch.
Apology, prayer, curse; with men like them, there may not be much difference.
Under Buckyās instruction, you search for the bullet,Ā stopping every time Steveās body bucks beneath Buckyās hold. It feels endless, a handful of seconds stretched cruel by the sound of Steveās breathing and the red shining over your fingers. Then the forceps catch on something hard, something that does not belong inside a man, and Buckyās voice cuts through the room at once.
āThatās it. Easy now. Pull straight.ā
The bullet comes free slick with blood and drops into the bowl with a dull little clink. For all the damage it has done, it looks far too small.
Bucky lets out a breath, but he doesnāt let go of Steve. āGood,ā he praises, rough. āThatās real good, darlinā. Now stitch him.ā
Threading the needle takes three tries and a muttered curse before the thread finally slips through. Cloth never prepared you for this - it stays put under your hands. Flesh has a give to it that turns your stomach, but you swallow it down and focus on the path of the needle, in one side and out the other, the thread slowly drawing the wound closed.
Bucky watches the first one go through, then the second, and whatever he sees must satisfy him enough to turn more of his attention back to Steve.
āDoinā good, Stevie,ā he murmurs. āStay with me. There you go. Tough bastard like you donāt get to die in a schoolteacherās kitchen.ā
Steve makes a sound around the belt, weak now, worn down by pain and blood loss until even agony seems to cost too much effort. Then the needle catches wrong, just enough to make his body twitch beneath Buckyās grip.
āFuckāIām sorry Steve,ā you whisper before you can stop yourself,Ā pulling the stitch through with a shaking hand. āIām nearly done, promise.ā
Bucky glances at you, then back down at him. āHear that, Rogers? Ladyās apologisinā to you while saving your sorry hide. You better live long enough to thank her proper.ā
By the time you tie off the final stitch, your back aches, your hands are cramped, and your nightdress is ruined past saving. Bucky binds the wound tight with strips torn from your clean sheet, wrapping them firm while you hold Steveās hand and try not to notice how loosely his fingers curl around yours now.
When Bucky finally steps away, the room seems to take its first full breath since two outlaws crashed into your evening. He wipes his hands on the edge of the sheet, eyes tracking over Steve, watching for any fresh red spilling through the bandage. He nods once to himself when none does.
āAlright,ā Bucky says at last. āNow we keep him warm, and thank God heās a stubborn son of a bitch.ā
With the worst of the work done, the night settles into a long, sleepless vigil.
Steve is covered with every blanket you own, and neither of you can tear your eyes away from him long enough to do much beyond tend to him.Ā His body has finally given itself over the exhaustion, sleeping so deeply you watch for his breaths to make sure heās still alive. You clean what you can from him with a wet cloth - the dirt on his cheek, the sweat from his brow, the blood on his hands.
Bucky stays in the chair by Steveās head.
He looks half-dead himself, shoulders bowed beneath exhaustion, eyes shadowed, jaw slackening each time sleep nearly takes him before he drags himself back from it. Every time Steveās breathing changes, Buckyās head lifts. Every time Steve shifts, Buckyās hand is already there, soothing him back to stillness. Small, tender brushes of his hand through damp blond strands. He does it without thinking, with the ease of habit, and you get the feeling youāre seeing something usually kept from view.
Itās a strange thing to witness from a man with his name on a wanted poster. Itās a strange thing to witness from a man at all, really.
āThe Winter KidāĀ the papers call him - always printed near Steveās name like one shadow following another. Heās younger than the posters make him look, or maybe just more human. Handsome too, though that thought feels poorly timed and unwelcome. But true all the same.
Maybe he can feel you looking, because his eyes lift to yours a moment later. Theyāre unfairly blue against the tan of his skin and the dark fall of his hair,and for one strange second you feel caught in them the way you do in Steveās.
āWhat?ā he asks, tilting his head.
You shrug, a little embarrassed, but you hold his gaze. āYou donāt look much like your picture.ā
āYeah, well.ā The corner of his mouth twitches, and for the first time you feel that charm Steve warned you about, battered but not dead. āThey charge extra for likeness.ā
A small laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. Bucky hears it, and the corner of his mouth seems to twitch a fraction further up, pleased with himself. The air between you seems a little lighter after that, still ruled by Steveās breathing, but less like two strangers keeping watch over a dying man and more like two people bound, against all better judgement, to the same stubborn fool.
āI expected you shorter,ā you admit, causing Bucky to raise a brow. āYou know, from the name.ā
Bucky groans like this is a wound all its own, head tipping back against the chair for half a second. āChrist. Not you too.ā
āWell, it does give a certain impression,ā you add, just to goad.
āIt gives me a headache is what it gives me.ā He drags a tired hand down his face, though the shape of a smile keeps threatening at his mouth. āYou know how hard it is to be taken serious by women when half of āem start grinninā soon as they hear Kid?ā
āFrom what Steve tells me,ā you say, glancing down at the man asleep between you, āyou seem to manage just fine.ā
His expression shifts slightly at that. Surprise first, then something warmer he tries to hide by leaning back in his chair and letting the charm crawl into the corner of his mouth. Worse now you know to look for it.
āOh yeah?ā he drawls, voice smoother than it should be after all his shouting. āAnd what exactlyĀ hasĀ Rogers told you about how I treat a lady, darlinā?ā
You reach for the damp cloth beside you and wring it out over the basin, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking flustered. āCareful, Mr. Barnes. Iāve still a mind to pick my shotgun back up.ā
Bucky seems more pleased by your threat than scared, but lifts his hands in surrender all the same, āOf course, Miss. Iāll behave.ā
After that, the conversation drifts into exchanging stories about Steve.Ā It feels odd to speak of him like this whilst he lies pale beneath your blankets, yet necessary too, as if each foolish little detail sets another small weight on the side of the scale that says living.
Eventually, though, you canāt avoid the question anymore.
āWhat happened?ā
Buckyās smile disappears instantly, replaced by a grimace. āRumlow.āĀ
Just the name is enough to fill the room with dread.
Brock Rumlow has a reputation that travels ahead of him. Bounty hunter, most folk call him. Brutal killer, if folk were feeling honest. But a good man by the townās measure because he kills with the sheriffās blessing.Ā
āHe caught our trail two days west,ā he explains. āWe thought weād shaken him after the river crossinā. But Steve said the tracks were too clean, and of course he just had to be right.ā
His mouth twists, though thereās no humour in it now.
āRumlow had men waitinā by the ridge. More than we counted on. First shot took my horse out from under me, and Steve came back for me like the damned fool he is.ā Buckyās hand goes to Steveās hair again before he seems to notice it, fingers combing once through the damp strands before he pulls away. āI told him to ride. He didnāt.ā
Of course he didnāt.
That is what hurts most, perhaps. Not the recklessness - you made your peace with that,Ā or tried to. No, itās the unfortunate fact that no part of you can imagine him doing anything else because you know by now that Steve has never had much sense when someone he cares for is in danger.
āHe drew their fire long enough for me to get my rifle,ā Bucky continues. āI managed to drop one man, maybe two. Then Rumlow put a bullet in him from the rocks. Steve stayed in the saddle after, somehow. Long enough to swear at me for fussinā.ā
āThat sounds like him,ā you say quietly,Ā reaching for Steveās hand beneath the blankets. His fingers are cool when you fold them into yours and loose in a way that makes your throat tighten.
āYeah.ā Bucky huffs through his nose. āStubborn bastard made it near six miles telling me it was only a graze. Then he went white as flour and damn near pitched off the horse.ā
Your hand tightens around Steveās before you can stop it. Buckyās eyes catch it - for all his exhaustion, there is very little the man seems to miss.
āKept off the road after that, muddied the trial in the creek too.ā Bucky says. āLost āem for tonight, I reckon.ā
āFor tonight?ā
His eyes lift to yours, and they give you the answer before his mouth does. āRumlowās still breathinā, aināt he?ā
That answers enough.
Bucky leansĀ forward and peels the edge of the blanket back just far enough to check the bandage. With gentle fingers, he presses near your stitches, watching for fresh blood, and you find yourself holding your breath until he lets the blanket fall back into place.
āStitches are holding,ā he confirms. āYou did good, darlinā, real good.ā
Then his gaze drops to Steve, hand resting on his shoulder.
āCourse,ā he adds, murmuring almost to himself. āRogers always did know how to pick good people.ā
That makes you look back up at him, at the two of them together. And for a second you see it all playing out: Steve riding back into gunfire, Bucky dragging him through the dark, the two of them printed side by side on every wanted paper like the world has always known they come together.
āYeah,ā you reply softly, holding his gaze. āHe does.ā
The corner of Buckyās mouth lifts without any of the charm from before. This smile is smaller, more honest. Grateful in a way neither of you can bear to acknowledge.Ā
The next couple of days pass in pieces for Steve.
Pain consumes most of it, sharp enough to drag him sleep sometimes. But he always wakes to company and theĀ cool drag of a cloth over his face when fever leaves him damp and restless. Sometimes the hand at his brow is yours. Sometimes itās Buckyās calloused palms, not a soft but no less careful for it.
When he shifts too quickly, one of you is always there to press him back down. Your voice comes sweet near his ear, telling him to to rest and stop being difficult. Bucky has less patience about it, muttering,Ā āQuit beinā a jackass, Rogers,ābut the softness in his voice gives him away.
By the second day, he starts catching more of the world around him. Mostly, he catches the two of you speaking over him like heās some troublesome piece of work you have mutually agreed to keep alive. He hears you show Bucky how to change the sheets without jostling him, and Bucky grumbling that youāre a bossy little thing. Your quiet snicker follows, easy enough by then to tell Steve youāve already learnt not to be scared of Buckyās bark. And it settles him enough to fall back into another slumber.
Yet, when Steve wakes properly, the house is quiet. His mind goes straight trouble - you and Bucky hurt, or worse, taken.Then he sees the fresh cloth waiting on the washstand, the cup of water set near the bed, the plate of food left within reach. Someone has even pulled the blanket back from the edge of his bandage so it wonāt catch when he moves.
Still, his gaze flicks back to the empty chair, a little more wounded at being left alone than heād admit.Ā
But then he hears voices drift in from the window. Yours first, bright enough to pull his eyes open properly.Ā Bucky answers beneath it, rougher and far too pleased with himself, and Steve rolls his eyes fondly at the ceiling. He knows Bucky in that mood, and exactly the kind of trouble he thinks heās charming his way out of.
The sound of you both laughing together is too sweet to resist, and it pulls at SteveĀ before he can think better of it. So he presses one hand to his side, grits his teeth and pushes himself upright with a low grunt.Ā
By the time he makes it to the doorway, heās sweating through his shirt, and lightheaded enough that he has to lean against the frame for support. But when his vision focuses on the two of you, the pain pulsing from his side seems to subside.Ā
Buckyās leaning against the fence with his sleeves rolled to his elbows - an unabashed display of his toned forearms if Steveās ever seen one - hat tipped back and a loose board braced beneath his boot. He must have been fixing it before he got distracted. Or before you distracted him. Either way, heās smiling at you like he knowsĀ justĀ how handsome he is, which, Steve thinks fondly,Ā he does.
āYou call that fixed?ā you ask, eyeing the board.
āItās standinā, aināt it?ā
āIt was standinā before.ā
āWell, now itās standinā better.ā
Your mouth opens in disbelief, and Buckyās grin widens like he has been waiting all morning to earn that exact look from you. He shifts the hammer in his hand, letting it hang loose at his side. āYou this particular with all the men who do chores for you?ā
āOnly the ones who do half a job and then stand there lookinā pleased with themselves.ā You jibe, mouth curving before you can help it. āSteve never gives me cause to complain.ā
Bucky presses a hand to his chest, wounded clean through. āDarlinā, I am beginninā to think you donāt appreciate the quality of my help.ā
Steve watches your face as you say it, the way your smile tugs despite your best efforts to keep stern. Youāre standing closer than you need to. Close enough to swat his arm when he mutters something about schoolteachers being as scary as he remembers. Bucky catches your wrist before your hand drops, letting his thumb skim once across the inside of it before he lets it go.
Too friendly, some part of Steve thinks. He should mind that. He knows himself well enough to expect the old ugly twist, the hard little claim in his chest that has no manners and less patience. His girl. His Buck.
āYou remember I have a shotgun, right? Any more excuses from you and Iāll get it back out and see if it motivates you proper,ā you warn, though there is too much warmth in it to do much harm.
Bucky looks far too pleased by that. āHow could I forget?ā He dips his head, absolutely unrepentant. āPretty thing like you pointinā a gun at me aināt a picture a man forgets easy.ā
He really should mind that.Ā
Only the longer he watches, the more it just seemsā¦Ā right. Thatās the simple answer. The more complicated one is that thereās a want in him he hasnāt allowed himself to acknowledge until now.Ā
Then Bucky says something softer, and whatever it is makes your expression change. The teasing slips. You step forward and wrap your arms around him, gentle at first, then tighter when Bucky folds around you in return. His hand spreads over your back, yours presses between his shoulders, and he rests his chin on your head.
Something in Steveās stomach twists hot, and itās not the bullet wound.Ā
Oh.
Well.
That explains a few things.
When you pull back, your fingers drag lightly down Buckyās sleeve before falling away.Ā And then your eyes catch Steve in the doorway.
The smile drops straight off your face.
āSteve!ā you chide. āGood lord, you shouldnāt be standinā up yet!ā
Bucky turns fast, all charm gone in an instant. āYou stupid son of aāā
āWhy arenāt you in bed?ā you demand, already crossing the yard towards him. āYouāre meant to be resting. Youāll tear the stitches, youāllāā
āWhatāre you doinā?ā Steve asks.
His voice is rough from sleep and disuse, but it cuts through your panic all the same. You stop a few feet short of him, caught between scolding him like one of your schoolchildren and reaching for him. Bucky has followed you, but that damn mouth of his curves back into his signature smirk.
āStealinā your woman?ā he replies.
Steve huffs a laugh at that, breath catching a little in his chest from the pull of it. He shakes his head, looking between the two of you with something warm and wry beneath the exhaustion.
āTake her,ā he shrugs,Ā turning back towards the house, pretending with little success that every step doesnāt pull at his side.
You both go quiet behind him. Steve pauses at the doorway just long enough to glance back, tired eyes moving between the two of you.
āWhat?ā he says, mouthĀ twitching as he makes his slow way back to bed. āTake her.ā
Bucky watches him go, grin crooked and eyes a little too soft. āWell, youāre a romantic bastard, Iāll give you that.ā
You climb into bed that night tentatively, careful to keep your distance from Steve so you canāt accidentally hurt him.
He watches you fuss with tired amusement, flat on his back beneath the blankets. Heās been patient all day because heās had no choice in the matter, but now, with you so close, what little patience he has left wears thin.
His arm reaches for you beneath the quilt. āCāmere.ā
āBut you need to be carefulāā
He tugs you closer before you can finish, stubborn as always, and though the movement pulls a faint wince from him, it also draws a low, pleased rumble from his chest when you end up pressed along his side.
āSteve,ā you hiss, braced on one elbow, already trying to take some of your weight off him.Ā āYouāre goingā to hurt yourself.ā
āWorth it,ā he murmurs.
You open your mouth to argue, but his lips find your shoulder first.Ā He kisses over your skin lazily, as if he has all the time in the world and no bounty hunter breathing down the road.Ā ThenĀ moves to side of your throat, where his beard scrapes softly enough to make your breath catch. Any protest thins in your mouth and dies there, useless, and the ease with which you melt for him makes Steve smile against your skin.
āMissed you,ā he hums, pleased with himself.
The words catch somewhere tender, and before you can stop it, the fear youāve been holding back for days slips free. āI thought you were goingā to die.ā
Steveās mouth stills against your skin. For a moment, he says nothing, then his jaw sets with all the stubborn bravado of a man determined to make the thing smaller than it was.Ā āDonāt make a big deal out of it.ā
You stare at him, eyes burning, and Steveās bravado doesnāt survive it. His expression softens before he pulls you closer despite the faint wince it costs him, burying his face against your neck.
āNo,ā he murmurs, voice rough now. āMake a big deal out of it.ā
Your fingers tighten in his shirt. Steve kisses your temple and lets you hold him as hard as you need to, though you can feel the care he takes with every breath.Ā
āYouāre a fool,āĀ you grumble against his chest.
āI know,ā he agrees easily.
āAnd stubborn.ā
āI know that too,āĀ he adds, the hint of a smile returning to his voice.
You lift your head enough to glare at him through the last sting behind your eyes. āDonāt sound so smug.ā
āCanāt help it.ā His hand slides from your waist, broad palm warm through the thin cotton of your nightdress. āYou get awful sweet when you forget to be cross with me, maāam.ā
You should scold him. You mean to. Instead your head tips, giving him more room, and Steveās breath warms where your pulse has already started tripping under his mouth.Ā Then his fingers drift lower, gathering your nightdress up slowly so his hand can hand slip between your thighs, and what comes out of you isnāt an answer at all. Itās too soft, too needy, your hips shifting before your pride can stop them.
Steve only hums, like that tells him everything he needs to know.
āPoor thing,ā he murmurs. āYouāre soaked already.ā
You make a small sound of protest, breath catching asĀ your hips shift against his palm. āYou should be resting.ā
āIĀ amĀ resting,ā he counters. āYouāre the one making all that noise.ā
Heat rushes straight through you. āSteve.ā
He grins, because he knows what that tone means.Ā His fingers drag through your pussy, spreading the slick of you over your skin until you canāt hold back the needy little moan that escapes. āBuck been winding you up all day, huh? Flashing those pretty eyes at you, running that mouth, standing too close every chance he got.ā
You bite your lip hard, but Steve knows your body too well by now. The little tremor that goes through you when he presses two fingers to your entrance, and the way your knees loosen when he rubs his thumb over your clit.
āMm. Saw the way you looked at him.ā His thumb presses a little firmer, drawing another helpless sound from you as his voice drops rougher by your ear. āSaw the way he looked at you too. Like he was wondering how sweet youād sound if somebody got a hand under your skirt.ā
You turn your face into his shoulder, scandalised and burning, but the heat pooling low in you stomach tells a different story. āYou canāt say things like that.ā
āSeems I just did.ā
His fingers push into you then, thick enough to make you clutch at his shirt, his name leaving you in a soft, broken sound. Steve goes still for a breath, jaw tightening as your pussy clenches around him, warm and slick and greedy enough to make him curse the wound in his side for keeping his cock out of you.
āAtta girl,ā he murmurs, voice rough at your ear. āOpen up for me, sweetheart.ā
Your thighs part around his hand, your body taking him with a helpless little roll of your hips. His cock twitches heavy against your leg, and the moan that slips out of you is louder than you mean it to be, needy enough to make heat rush to your face.
āThatās my girl,ā Steve coos. āBeen so good taking care of me, havenāt you? Let me take care of you now.ā
āWaitāfuckāStevie, heāll hear us.ā you protest weakly,Ā eyes flicking toward the door, where Bucky is sleeping on the couch on the other side.
Steveās fingers slow, but they donāt stop. If anything, his touch turns crueller, pumping in and out of your pussy with an unhurried drag as his thumb circles your clit.
āGood,ā he says at last.
Your eyes widen.
Steve curls his fingers inside you, pressing just right, and your whole body jerks against him. āLet him.ā
Your pussy tightens around him before you can pretend to be scandalised. Steve feels it and smiles, filthy and pleased, as another moan slips out of you. You try to swallow it down, but his thumb keeps stroking your clit and his fingers keep fucking you open, slow enough to make every wet sound feel obscene in the quiet room.
āSāokay, honey,ā he encourages, kissing beneath your ear. āI donāt mind. You make those pretty noises for me and let Buck hear what heās missinā out on.ā
āSteve,ā you whimper into his neck, overwhelmed by the heat of it, by the way he says Buckās name with no jealousy at all. Like it turns him on too. Like he knows exactly what he is doing to you.
His mouth brushes your jaw. āPoor bastard probably spent all afternoon thinkinā about what youād sound like if he got his hands on you,ā he rumbles, fingers driving deeper until your breath catches sharp. āNow heās out there listeninā to me do it.ā
Your fingers curl in the front of his shirt, hips moving against his hand now, chasing more. Steve makes a rough sound like the sight of you fucking yourself on his fingers might kill him faster than any bounty hunter ever could.
Then your hand slides lower before you can think better of it, finding the hard line of his cock through his drawers. He curses under his breath, hips twitching once into your palm before pain catches at him and makes his jaw clench.
You pull back instantly. āSteveāā
āDonāt.ā His hand tightens on your thigh, stubborn even now, even with sweat at his temple and breath caught in his chest. āIām fine, pretty girl, promise.Ā Just need your hand on my cock. Need my girl to make it better.ā
Your answering moan is too wanton to stifle, and out on the couch, Bucky hears it.Ā
Heās been awake for a while, one arm thrown over his eyes, every sore port of him arguing with the hard springs beneath the couch cushion. At first, he told himself he was just listening for Steve - thatās reasonable enough. A man has a right to keep an ear out for his best friend when said friend has nearly bled dry on a kitchen table. And if said friend is in bed with his pretty little woman, well, thatās hardly his fault,Ā is it?
He knows should roll over and try to sleep. Or do literally anything other than listen to the needy catch in your breath when Steveās fingers must find something good. Heat pulls through him before he can talk sense into himself. Itās been crawling under his skin all day. And now Steveās voice is torturing him in the dark, coaxing the prettiest noises out of you like he means for Bucky to hear everyone.
His hand slides down over the hard ache in his trousers before he can pretend better of himself. His hips jerk into his palm at the first firm press.Ā
Bucky shuts his eyes as his lips part around a groan of relief.Ā
He should feel worse about it, probably. A gentleman might. Then again, heās never made much of a claim to being one, and thereās nothing gentlemanly about Steve is talking to you through the door. Low and rough, sweet in all the wrong places, telling you how good you are for him whilst you make those soft ruined sounds that go straight to Buckyās cock.
His fingers work the buttons of his trousers open, and heās so wound up that the first touch to his throbbing length makes his hips jerk up.Ā Heās already hard enough to hurt, thick and hot in his grip, precum slicking the head as he strokes once from base to tip. He has to force himself slower so he doesnāt spill too fast, listening to the shift of the bed in the next room and the wet sound of Steveās fingers fucking you.
āDonāt hide from me,ā Steve rumbles, voice carrying just enough. āWant him to hear how pretty you get when you comeā
The needy moan you cry out in response, makes Buckyās hand tighten and his eyes squeeze shut. He can picture it all wall for a man who hasnāt a right to see any of it. Your thighs spread under Steveās hand, nightdress pushed up, tucking your face into Steveās neck as you try and fail to keep quit. Steve, wounded and recovering, still generous enough to make sure Bucky knows what heās missing.Ā
āStevie,ā you gasp, and Buckyās cock jerks in his fist.
He drags his thumb over the swollen head with enough pressure to make his stomach pull tight. The couch springs creak beneath him when his hips jump into his hand, and he freezes momentarily, listening. But neither of you stop. If anything, Steve laughs, low and filthy, like he heard the sound and knows eaxctly what it means.Ā
āThatās it, sweetheart,ā Steve groans. āBet Buckās got his hand around his cock right now, listeninā to you. Bet he canāt help himself.ā
Bucky presses his forearm over his mouth, a helpless grin pulling at him even as pleasure burns through his gut. Bastard. Mean, beautiful bastard. He strokes himself harder, giving up on pacing himself, fist slick and tight around his cock as your moans slip through the thin bedroom door and wrap around every filthy picture Steve puts in his head.
āWish he could see you right now,ā Steve goads, and Bucky nearly spills right there. āSo wet for me. Sweet little pussy takinā my fingers so good. Heād lose his fuckinā mind.ā
His hips buck desperately into his first, breath coming harsh through his nose as Steve keeps talking like he knows every dirty place Buckyās mind has gone and means to walk you through all of them. Your moans pitcher higher, thinner, more desperate.
āPleaseĀ Stevieāso close,ā you whine, and Bucky doesnāt think heās ever heard anything more beautiful.Ā
āIāve got you, sweet girl,ā Steve coos. āCome for me. Let him hear.ā
The sound you make as you fall apart under Steveās hand is obscene. You pleasure spills out into the dark as Steve praises you in that honey-deep registerĀ like heās got his fingers buried in the best thing heās ever touched. Bucky strokes himself harder, cock slick in his fist, teeth digging into his wrist to keep his own noise down.
Then Steve groans low around a curse, andĀ God, Bucky knows that sound.Ā Learnt on cold nights under open sky when bedrolls were laid a polite distance apart and neither of them ever spoke of what they heard in the dark.
But hearing it now, with you, is enoughĀ to finish off what your moans started.
His hand works faster, rougher, chasing it until he spills over his own knuckles. He strokes himself through it, hips jerking up into his fist, hot cum slicking his fingers while the last of Steveās filthy praise drifts through the door.
Head falling back against the couch, he throws his free hand over his eyes again as if that might make a decent man of him after the fact. But the other is still loose around his sensitive, softening cock.Ā From the bedroom, Steve mutters something too low for him too catch, but you laugh in response, breathless.
Bucky smiles up at the ceiling, completely and utterly fucked. Both of you tucked under his skin, deep as a wound and twice as troublesome.Ā
āRomantic bastard,ā he scoffs into the dark.
Ā You wake reaching for Steve, hands sliding over the sheets in search of the warmth thatās usually gone by the time daylight finds you. For one awful, familiar second, your heat braces for emptiness, and then your fingers meet his chest.Ā Still there.
The joy it brings is so small and foolish it almost hurts. Steveās still beside you, warm beneath your palm, alive beneath your hand, his breath moving slow and steady. You donāt mean to smile as hard as you do for something that wonāt last, but you feel it happen anyway.Ā
Steveās eyes crack open, tired blue finding you through the grey morning light. His mouth curves faintly.Ā
āMorninā,ā he rasps.Ā
He lifts a hand with more effort than he lets show and brushes his knuckles along your cheek before drawing you close enough to kiss your forehead. It is gentle. Domestic, almost, in a way that feels absurd given the blood dried somewhere in your kitchen and the wanted posters nailed up in town.
But then Steve starts trying to get up. He looks pale enough that you threaten him twice before he gets both feet on the floor.Ā
āYou are pale enough to haunt this house, Steve Rogers.Ā Sit still.ā
His brows lift, innocent as sin. āJusā thinkinā about breakfast is all, maāam, swear.ā
He takes your continued scolding with a faint curve to his mouth, one hand shielding the wound slightly, as you get up to help him dress. He even lets you fuss over him, and you breathe a sigh of relief when you see no red blooming on his bandages.Ā
By the time you get him into the kitchen, his jaw his set hard enough to make you narrow your eyes. Steve takes your silent warning and lowers himself into the chair before bringing your hand to his mouth and kissing the inside of it. Just a brief, warm brush of his lips, eyes lifting to yours in quiet apology for every minute heās made your heart suffer these last few days.
The door opens before you can say anything soft enough to embarrass you both. Bucky steps inside with a sack under one arm; heās been gone since first light, having ridden into town for coffee, cartridges, and whatever else two outlaws and one increasingly compromised schoolteacher might need. Youāre expecting some crooked remark as he kicks the door shut behind him. Maybe something about Steve looking less like a corpse, or you running the kitchen like a jailhouse.
Instead, his face is grim.
Steve clocks it immediately, and his shoulders straighten. Pain forgotten under the old readiness that lives dormant in him until needed. āWhat?ā
Bucky sets the sack on the table. āYou feel well enough to ride?ā
Steve frowns. āIf I have to.ā
āGood.ā Buckyās eyes flick over you, brows tightening, then back to Steve. āRumlowās in town, asking questions at the mercantile. Offered coin for anyone who knew anythinā about Steve Rogers and The Winter Kid.ā
Steve face flattens, jaw setting into that hardened mask he uses to cover whatever else heās feeling. Nodding once, he pushes up from the chair.
āSteveāā you start at once.
He bends and kisses you before you can finish, once hand gentle at the side of your face. It tastes too close to a goodbye kiss for your heart to bare, and the panic rises in your throat.
āWeāll draw him off, honey,ā he murmurs, clearly misinterpreting your worry. āHe wonāt know you had anything to do with us.ā
Then he turns to Bucky. āGet the horses ready. Weāll cut south - maybe this time we stop talking about Mexico and actually head there.ā
Mexico?
You look from Steve to Bucky, at the silent communication already passing between them, and the speed with which they become men leaving. Men packing their lives into saddlebags. Men deciding what they can carry and what must be left, including, apparently, you.Ā
āTake me with you.ā
Both of them immediately stop.
Steve turns firs,t protest already written across his face. āSweetheart, you canāt seriously āā
Bucky interrupts, sharper. āAbsolutely not.ā
āI wasnāt askinā,ā you counter firmly, mustering upĀ the same voice you use in the schoolhouse when a child thinks they might try their luck.
Steveās brows pull together. āYou donāt know what youāre suggestinā.ā
āI do.ā
āYou donāt.ā Bucky cuts in, which only makes you angrier. āThis life ainātāā
āAināt what?ā you return. āFor aĀ lady?ā
That closes his mouth. For once, Bucky Barnes has no clever answer ready, and Steve looks no better. The two of them stand there, each searching for the combination of words least likely to upset you further and finding none fast enough.
āAfter last night, I think any claim I had to beinā a lady has been thoroughly mishandled.ā
A flush climbs through the rough gold of Steveās beard at once, and he drops his eyes to the table as if the wood grain has become a matter of deep interest. Bucky looks toward the window with equal dignity, which is to say very little, given what he had so clearly heard through your bedroom door.Ā But you feel a little wild with it now. Freed by the strange relief of having already stepped over the edge in your own mind.
āIām a schoolteacher in a town thatās been dyinā for years,ā you continue. āFolk still smile at me like Iām still respectable, but every year I stay unmarried, they look a little closer for the rot. And every night I come back to this house alone, and wait to hear news of Steveās death.ā
Steveās face falls, and he looks at you with such earnest guilt that you have to look away or youāll lose the nerve to finish. Your eyes sting badly enough that you have to blink hard and focus on staring at the floorboards.
āIām no fool,ā you say. āI know what Iām sayinā. Long days. Cold nights. Men with guns behind us. I know it wonāt be some grand adventure out of a penny paper.ā You lift your head again. āBut I want a life I choose. I want more than waitinā in this house for grief to come find me. And I want to be with you.ā
Bucky looks at Steve then, and Steve returns it. They do that thing again where a whole conversation seems to pass without either of them opening their mouth, and you can already tell this is a feature of them that will get on your nerves. Still, you stand there and wait. You can see them weighing the right choice. You can also see, with a painful twist of hope, that neither of them likes the thought of leaving you behind.
Steve exhales through his nose. āYouād have to listen.ā
āTo both of us,ā Bucky adds. āWhen it counts. If Steve says run, you run. If I say stay put, you donāt move a muscle.ā
āYouāll ride until you ache,ā Steve says, eyes searching your face for the first sign of regret. āSleep under open sky. Eat beans out of a tin when thereās nothing else.Ā Go without a proper bed more often than youāll have one.ā
Bucky leans his hip against the table, arms folding, his expression hard despite the tired edge of him. āAnd youāll keep that shotgun close. Learn a pistol too, whether you like it or not. Pretty face wonāt do much good if Rumlow catches up.ā
āIāll do it,ā you agree, looking at Steve first, then Bucky, making yourself hold both their gazes long enough for them to see thereās fear in you, plenty of it. Just none useful enough to change your mind. āIāll do it all, I promise.ā
They seem satisfied enough to move again, almost. Steveās hand twitches toward the supplies, Buckyās eyes flick to the door. But you stop them before the moment can run away from you.
āThe only thing I wonāt do,ā you continue, quieter, āis watch either of you die. Iāll skip that scene, if you donāt mind.ā
Steveās hand closes around yours before you can busy yourself with anything else, or turn away and pretend the words werenāt all too honest.
āOnce we go,ā his eyes hold steady on yours, āwe go.ā
Thereās warning in it, but thereās promise too. You squeeze his hand in confirmation.Ā
āThen letās go.ā
You leave before the town has finished waking, with no grand farewell to your little house. Just five minutes to pack the essentials, and everything else left behind for the town to make stories about two bad men and the lady they corrupted.
For the first couple weeks, you ride with Bucky. At first, Steve enjoys watching the two of you grow closer. But a few days passĀ without your arms around his waist and the man starts acting abandoned. Nothing dramatic, of course. Steve Rogers is far too dignified for that. He only gets quieter, pouts into his coffee, and looks at you from under those ridiculous lashes with his pretty blue eyes, utterly wounded.
But thereās only so much sympathy you can give him when every jolt of his horse leaves his face tight and grey - having you pressed against his side would pull at the wound no matter how carefully you held him, so you sit behind Bucky instead. Your arms wrap around his middle, sometimes resting your cheek between his shoulder blades when the road stretches long.
Heās always warm - despite the nickname - and complains when your cold hands slip under his coat in the mornings, but never makes you move them.
Itās on one such morning that the question slips out before itās even fully formed in your head. Absent in its curiosity.Ā
āBucky?ā
He turns his head back slightly, catching your face in the corner of his eye.Ā āHmm?ā
Your chin is hooked over his shoulder, the brim of his hat shading your eyes from the sun. Steve is riding a bit ahead, far enough to pretend heās not listening and close enough you know he is.
āDo you ever wonder, if Iād met you first, that weād be the ones the get involved?ā
Bucky makes a thoughtful sound, as though this is a matter requiring serious study. āBut we are involved, sugar.ā
You lift your head. āAre we?ā
āYouāre ridinā my horse with me.ā His hand covers yours where it rests against his stomach, thumb brushing once over your knuckles. āIn some countries, thatās the same as being married.ā
Steve glances back over his shoulder. āName one.ā
āPlenty, Stevie,ā Bucky shoots back without missing a beat. āJust ācause you aināt a romantic donāt mean it aināt true.ā
āThat mean you donāt know any?ā
āMeans Iām a man of mystery, Rogers. Let me have that.ā
You laugh into Buckyās shoulder, and Steve turns forward again, shaking his head. Even from behind, you can see the curve at the corner of his mouth.
That becomes one of the biggest pleasures of the road, the two of them bickering like an old married couple with loaded guns and a shared talent for pretending they are the sensible one. Steve corrects Buckyās directions. Bucky mocks Steveās caution. Steve tells him caution is the reason heās still alive, and Bucky retorts, āBarely,ā with a pointed look at the bandage under his shirt.Ā
You learn to sit between it and smile into the back of Buckyās coat, warm with the strange comfort of being folded into something that clearly existed long before you and somehow has made room for you anyway.
The weeks begin to fold into one another after that, measured less by days than by how far Steve can ride before pain makes him stubbornly quiet. He never says when itās too much - of course he doesnāt. But you both learn the signs, so that when that happens, you or Bucky find an excuse to stop. Steve accepts each excuse with the grateful dignity of a man who knows precisely what youāre doing and lacks the strength to protest.
Some nights you find a town small enough to risk, and the three of you take one room under a false name while Steve lies stiff on the bed and Bucky sleeps in the chair with a gun across his lap. Other nights, there is only open country and the fire between you, Buckyās coat under your head, Steveās hand tucked around your waist, pleased now he can finally pull you close.
You learn quickly; you have to.Ā
How to ride until your thighs ache and keep your complaints mostly to yourself. How to drink bad coffee without making a face. How to keep your hair pinned under a hat when passing through towns where a woman travelling with two men draws more attention than a pair of wanted faces.
Bucky teaches you to shoot a pistol at a row of bottles outside an abandoned line shack, and Steve stands behind you, correcting your grip until Bucky accuses him of distracting you.Ā
Rumlow stays behind you like bad weather you canāt outride, always somewhere on the edge of the horizon. Some days thereās no sign of him at all. Other days Bucky comes back from a supply run with his jaw tight, or Steve sees something in the dirt that makes both men go quiet. Neither of them likes fear on your face, so you learn how to hide that, too.
By the time Steveās stitches come out, the three of you have already become a kind of routine.
Steve reads the land ahead. Bucky watches what follows. You keep track of the food, the clean cloth, and all the small human things the two of them would forget in favour of keeping moving. You sleep between them when the nights turn cold, Bucky pressed at your back and Steve careful against your front, one arm laid over your waist like even in sleep he means to keep you safe. Nobody ever says much about it in the morning.
But the trouble with Mexico is that it keeps costing money. By the third month, the coins in Buckyās purse have started to sound lonely, and Steve has taken to rationing his own portions to make sure you have enough. You always protest that he needs it more, but it falls on deaf ears.
āWe need money,ā Bucky says one evening, poking at the fire with a stick.
Steve doesnāt look up from the map. āI know.ā
āWe need quite a bit of money.ā
āI know.ā
You look between them. āWhy do I get the feelinā neither of you is about to suggest honest work?ā
Bucky grins. Steve sighs.
A plan is soon in place, and you quickly realise you arenāt just being given soft work. They arenāt just tucking you safely away and asking you to wait pretty by the horses.Ā No, youāre the distraction. Steve watches your face intently whilst they explain your part,Ā searching for fear, and Bucky watches your hands to see if they shake. They do, a little. You tell him they shake less when people stop staring at them.
āMean little thing when youāre nervous,ā Bucky murmurs.
āYouād know better than to test me, then,ā you snap back, much to his delight.
And thatās how you find yourself in your best dress two mornings later, walking into a town that has never heard your name and smiling sweetly at the bank clerk while Steve and Bucky do what Steve Rogers and The Winter Kid apparently do very well.
Soon, thereās a saddle under your hips, stolen money in Steveās saddle bag and Bucky laughing as the town bell starts clanging behind you. Steve rides quietly beside you, one hand low on his reins, hat pulled low against the flare. He looks more pensive than youād expect for a man who just planned and executed a successful robbery.Ā
āYou know,ā he considers, tilting his head. āWhen I was a kid, I always figured on beinā a hero when I grew up.ā
āToo late now,ā Bucky shoots back instantly.
Steve turns in the saddle, mouth pulled into an exaggerated pout thatĀ almostĀ looks genuinely hurt by the insinuation. āYou didnāt have to say thatāWhatād you have to say that for?ā
āBecause we just robbed a bank and youāre gettinā wistful about virtue. Felt like someone ought to keep you on track.ā
You laugh before you can stop yourself, and Steve looks betrayed for all of half a second before his own mouth gives him away.
āI could still be heroic,ā he argues.
āOf course, Stevie,āĀ you soothe, reaching over to squeeze his arm. āAnd if heroism ever starts includinā bank robbery, youāll be the first man I nominate.ā
Steve shakes his head, but thereās warmth in it. Thereās warmth amongst all three of you now.Ā The money will carry you further south. Rumlow, for the moment, is behind you. And for one bright stretch of road, with the sun high and the horses steady beneath you, the three of you ride easy.
When you reach the next town just before dark, itās mercifully large enough to have a hotel, though only just.Ā The main building fronts the street, while a handful of squat lodging cabins stand behind it beside the stable yard, each containing little more than a bed, a washstand and a door that locks.
Youāve already separated from Bucky two streets over - two men and a woman trying to book one cabin would draw eyes. A man and his wife, tired from the road and keen to be left alone, draw far fewer.
Bucky will return after dark with supplies and come through the open window like any decent outlaw.
By now, the routine is well worn. Steve keeps his hat low and asks for a room for himself and his wife. Your stomach gives a foolish little turn at the word, which is unhelpful given the circumstances, so you tuck yourself closer into his side and play your part.
The clerk turns the ledger around. āName?ā
Steve takes the pen and writes one of the names agreed between the three of you, this time settling on Mr. and Mrs. Drysdale.
The clerks eyes move over Steve as he writes, a little too closely for your liking.Ā Steveās hat shadows most of his face, though there is only so much a brim can do against a jaw like his. Then the clerkās gaze drops to you, lingering on the plain dress, the tired hem, the cheap ring on your finger where your hand rests neatly against Steveās sleeve.
āLong road?ā he asks.
āLong enough,ā you answer before Steve can, sweet and harmless. āMy husbandās been poor company since noon.ā
The clerkās mouth twitches. āThat so?ā
āI get hungry,ā Steve says.
āHe getsĀ sulky,ā you correct.
The clerk looks amused now, his suspicion giving way to the easier pleasure of watching a married couple prod at each other. He reaches for a key from the row behind him.
āCabin four,ā he says. āOut and to the right.ā
Steve takes the key with a polite nod, your hand still tucked around his arm, and the two of you make your way to the cabin to wait for Bucky and whatever trouble he tends to bring back with him.
But exhaustion claims you before said trouble arrives. You barely manage to loosen your dress before crawling beneath the covers, telling Steve you only mean to close your eyes whilst he checks the room. The bed feels strangely wide after so many nights spent wedged between two warm bodies beneath the open sky. Even when there had only been Steve beside you, his arm always fond your waist before sleep did.Ā
Tonight, the empty space at your back bothers you more than it ought to, and you drift off feeling faintly abandoned by both outlaws.Ā
Until finally you stir to the mattress dipping behind you and warmth settling along your back. Itās broad and familiar enough that your half-asleep mind doesnāt ask questions. Instead, you arch back into him, pleased to have your outlaw close, fitting your ass against his hips.Ā
Impatiently, and a little pointedly, you reach back for the arm that has failed to wrap itself around you. You drag it over your waist and hold is hand beneath yours.Ā
āTook you long enough,ā you mumble into the pillow, a little pout tucked into the words. After all those weeks of Steve looking wounded whenever you rode with Bucky, he might at least have the decency to act pleased now that he can pull you close whenever.
His body goes stiff, and you take the teasing for what it is, grinding back again. Slower this time,Ā rolling your ass over the shape beneath his trousers until his cock begins to harden against you. A strained breath warms the back of your neck. Then another, rougher, when you press closer and keep moving, sleepy need gathering fast between your thighs.
Still, his hand remains where you put it.
Your brows pinch. Steve has never needed this much encouragement where you;re concerned. Usually, one soft sound from you is enough to have him pushing up your skirts and getting greedy with whatever he finds beneath them.
āStevie,ā you whine, catching his wrist again. āQuit makinā me ask.ā
You guide his hand down over your stomach and between your thighs, pressing his palm against the heat gathered beneath your drawers. His fingers flex once. The groan that leaves him is low and delicious beside your ear, and you answer it with a needy little roll of your hips, trying to coax his hand into giving you what you want.
āThatās it, honey.ā You hear Steve drawl, but his voice doesnāt come from behind you. āKeep grindinā that pretty ass over Buckās cock, heās been waitinā weeks to feel how sweet you are.ā
Your eyes snap open.Ā
Steve is sat in the chair near the window, one ankle hooked over the other, watching the two of you through the low lamplight. His hat rests on the table beside him, hair pushed back from his face, and the hard shape beneath his trousers leaves little doubt as to how much heās been enjoying the view.
Behind you, Bucky has gone completely still. His hand remains trapped between your thighs where you placed it, fingers flexing once against the damp cloth of your drawers before stopping again.
Steve catches the hesitation on your face.
āEasy, pretty girl,ā he coos, voice dropping softer. āYouāre alright.Ā Aināt nobody cross with you.ā
His gaze stays warm and steady on yours, settling some of the panic before it can take hold. Bucky makes no attempt to claim what you offered him in your sleep, leaving the choice entirely with you now that youāre awake, and the restraint loosens something in your chest.
You sink back against him again, and a quiet, needy āSteveā slips from your mouth.Ā
āWell, quit teasinā him then, sweetheart. You dragged Buckās hand down to that needy pussy yourself.ā His eyes stay on yours, smile turning wicked. āYou want him to touch you, donāt you?ā
You nod, āYes, Stevie,Ā please.ā
Approval rumbles from Steve across the room at the same moment Bucky groans against your shoulder. His hand finally moves, slipping beneath the damp cloth between your thighs and dragging two rough fingers through the slick gathered there.
āChrist,ā Bucky breathes, the word warm against your neck. āYouāre soaked through darlinā.ā
Your hips chase his hand before you can help it, opening wider as his fingers circle your clit.Ā He parts you slowly, gathering the mess of you over his fingertips before circling your clit. And God, does he learn quickly.Ā Taking each broken breath and twitch of your thighs as instruction, until your body is rolling against him with shameless impatience.
āThat feel good?ā he murmurs. āBeen wondering how sweet youād get for me.ā
You whine and press back against him, already impatient, already desperate for more than the teasing drag of his fingers. Bucky laughs softly into your neck, pleased by how quickly you come apart for him.
āYeah, I can feel that.ā One finger presses into your pussy, drawing a thin moan from you as he works it deeper. āTaking me so easy. Such a good girl for us.ā
Bucky pushes a second finger into your pussy, and the stretch of them pulls a broken moan from you. His hand is rougher than Steveās, the calluses catching at tender places as he works you open, but he watches every reaction with the same focused attention he gives everything. One curl of his fingers makes your thighs tremble, and he does it again immediately.
Steve watches from the chair with one hand resting over the hard shape in his trousers, his eyes fixed on the way you grind down over Buckyās knuckles.
āThat it?ā he asks against your skin. āRight there, sugar?ā
āYesāGod, Buckāā
Bucky curses when your walls tighten around him. āSheās so damn sweet, Stevie.ā
Steveās mouth curves.
āIf you think sheās sweet around your fingers,ā he says, voice low enough to make your stomach clench, āwait till you get a taste of her.ā
The thought pulls a desperate sound from you. Bucky answers with a groan of his own, his fingers curling inside you as his gaze drops hungrily between your thighs from over your shoulder. Your hand is already reaching back, fingers tangling in his dark hair as you twist toward him and tug with very little patience left.
Bucky goes willingly, laughing once under his breath as he lets you pull him down the bed, tugging down your drawers as he goes.
āThat eager, darlinā?ā
āYes,ā you gasp, spreading your thighs wider to accommodate those broad shoulders. āPlease.ā
Steve leans back in the chair, hand now palming over his cock as he watches.
āGo on, Buck,ā he drawls. āShow her that mouthās good for something besides beinā a clever jackass.ā
The first slow drag of Buckyās tongueĀ through you tears a cry from your throat. His hands close around your hips at once, holding you open while he tastes you again, deeper this time, mouth working with none of the caution his fingers had shown. He licks through every slick fold, groaning against your pussy.
Then his tongue circles your clit, and your hips jerk sharply into his face.
āThere,ā Steve rumbles, hand pressing harder over his thick length, still trapped beneath too much fabric. āShe likes it right there. Donāt rush her, Buck. Keep your tongue flat and make her grind on it.ā
Bucky follows the instruction immediately. He spreads his mouth over you, tongue broad and slow beneath your clit while his grip shifts lower, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath your thighs to pull you closer. Your back arches, breath breaking into a helpless whine as you begin to move against him, too desperate to stay still and too overwhelmed to find any rhythm beyond chasing whatever his mouth gives you.
āThatās it,ā Bucky praises against you. āGood girl. Use me.ā
His words vibrate through your pussy and leave you clenching around nothing. He feels it, answers with another hungry groan, then slips two fingers back inside you while his mouth returns to your clit.
The room seems to tilt.
āBuckāSteveāGodāā
Their names tangle together as Bucky curls his fingers into the place that makes your thighs shake.Ā Steve keeps talking from across the room, telling Bucky when to press harder, when to keep his mouth where it is, every quiet command proving how well he knows your body and how willingly Bucky is learning it.
Pleasure builds so quicklyĀ that instinct has you trying to squirm away from it. Your hips twist even as they buck toward him, hands scrambling over the sheets while Bucky holds you firmly in place and refuses to let the distance grow.
āEasy, darlinā,ā he soothes, breathless against you. āIāve got you. Let me have it.ā
But you canāt. You need more. Need both of them.
Your hand reaches blindly toward Steve even though heās still too far away, fingers stretching uselessly through the space between you as his name leaves you in a broken plea. āStevie.ā
Heās out of the chair before the word has finished.Ā Steve comes to the bedside and catches your reaching hand, pressing it against his chest as he bends over you.
āIām here, pretty girl,ā he coos. āYou close?ā
You nod frantically, one hand clutching his shirt and dragging him lower because words have abandoned you. Steve lets himself be pulled into the kiss, mouth covering yours just as Buckyās tongue flicks hard over your clit again.
You moan against Steveās lips as his hand slides into Buckyās hair.
āCloser, Buck,ā Steve pants into your mouth, pushing him more firmly between your thighs. āSheās trying to run from it. Donāt let her.ā
Bucky groans and buries his face deeper, lips and tongue turning greedy while Steve kisses you through every broken sound. The hand in Buckyās hair holds him just where you need him, and Steveās other palm cups your jaw, keeping your mouth against his as your body begins to lose all control.
āThatās my best girl,āĀ Steve praises between kisses.Ā āLettinā me share this sweet pussy with Buck. Look how greedy youāve got him.ā
Your fingers knot in Steveās shirt as your hips rise hard against Buckyās face, chasing the relentless pressure of his tongue. Bucky holds you there and eats you through it, groaning when your thighs close around his head and the first desperate pulse of your orgasm rolls over his mouth.
You come with Steveās name breaking against his lips and Buckyās muffled beneath it, your whole body shuddering as slick spills over Buckyās tongue and chin. Steve kisses every cry from you while Bucky greedily laps at everything you give him, refusing to stop until you are trembling and breathless between them.
Only then does Steve ease his hold in Buckyās hair.
Bucky lifts his head slowly, mouth shining and eyes dark with satisfaction, looking every bit as wrecked as you feel. Heās knelt between your thighs, one hand warm against your hip, whilst Steve is still leant over you.Ā It leaves them close enough that Steveās gaze has nowhere else to fall but Buckyās mouth.
āFuck Stevie,ā he breathes,Ā wiping his thumb beneath his lip only to suck the taste from it. āCanāt believe you kept her to yourself for so long. Greedy bastard.ā
But Steveās gaze is too focused on Buckyās swollen lips, glistening with your arousal, for his brain to think of a response. His tongue flicks out absently,Ā sweeping over his lower lip as though he can already taste you there. The hunger in his face is so plain that your hand rises almost instinctively, fingers curling around his jaw and drawing him toward Bucky.
Their mouths meet hard enough to pull a startled sound from Bucky, and for one suspended second neither man moves. Steveās hand stays curled around his jaw. Buckyās fingers bunch in the front of Steveās shirt. The rough scrape of stubble and the unfamiliar shape of another manās mouth seem to catch them both off guard.
But then Bucky pulls him closer.
Steve takes hold of the back of his neck and kisses him properly, tongue pushing into Buckyās mouth with a low groan, greedy for every trace of you left on his tongue.Ā Bucky answers with all the hunger he had just spent between your thighs, opening for him as though this is something they have been circling for years without ever daring to name.
The sight of them together sends fresh heat curling low in your stomach.
Steveās tongue pushes deeper into Buckyās mouth, licking over his lips and teeth as though Bucky has become another place from which Steve can take his fill. Bucky groans,Ā one hand sliding around the back of Steveās neck while the other tightens possessively on your thigh.Ā Every reckless rescue, every night spent back to back beneath the open sky, every time one of them chose the other without hesitation finally makes sense for what it has always been.
Your slick still glistens on Buckyās chin. Steveās mouth smears through it as the kiss deepens, and neither of them seems to care where one taste ends and the other begins. Years of rough affection and stranger devotion turn filthy in front of you, Steve holding Bucky by the jaw while Bucky bites lightly at his lower lip before drawing him back in, as if now they have finally started, neither of them knows how to stop.
Then Buckyās hand drops between them. His palm settles over Steveās straining cock, and Steve groans into the kiss.Ā Bucky rubs him slowly through the fabric, swallowing each low moan Steve gives him while Steve keeps one hand firm at the back of his neck. They look made for this, rough hands and parted mouths, years of devotion finding a new language right in front of you, and the thought leaves you aching all over again.
Your thighs shift restlessly beneath them. One hand slips between your legs, fingers finding your swollen clit while you watch Bucky palm Steveās cock through his trousers. A moan escapes before you can smother it.
Their kiss breaks, both men looking down at you, though their foreheads remain pressed together.Ā Buckyās mouth is red and wet, Steveās no better, and neither of them moves for a moment as they watch your fingers circle desperately between your thighs.
āWell, look at her,ā Bucky murmurs, his hand still cupped around Steve. āGot herself all worked up watching us.ā
You whine softly, pressing harder against your clit.
Steveās eyes darken. āPoor pretty thing.ā
Bucky gives Steveās cock another slow squeeze, making his jaw tighten. āReckon we ought to find that mouth something to do besides whine.ā
He shifts farther onto the bed and settles on his knees near the headboard, giving you room to turn beneath him. You move eagerly onto your hands and knees, facing Steve with Bucky still kneeling behind you, close enough that his thighs frame yours and his chest brushes your back when he leans over.
Bucky reaches around you before you can, fingers working open Steveās trousers slowly at first, then surer when Steve does nothing to stop him.Ā His hand closes around Steveās cock as it spills free, heavy against his palm, the skin flushed deep at the head and drawn tight over the thick ridge beneath it. The vein you know so well runs dark along the underside, disappearing into Buckyās fist when he gives one cautious stroke.
Steveās head tips back on a broken groan.
The sound seems to delight Bucky, eyes dropping to watch his hand move again, slower this time, thumb dragging over the wet slit before sliding back down the length of him. Steveās broad chest rises sharply beneath his shirt, every muscle in his shoulders pulled tight with the effort of holding still while Bucky learns how easily he can make him come apart.
Something needy catches inside you at the sight. Youāve heard that sound beneath your own hands too many times to let Bucky keep it all to himself.
You lean forward and press your lips to the swollen head, kissing it once before your tongue slips out to taste the slick Bucky has spread there. Steveās breath breaks again, rougher now, and you follow the thick vein beneath his cock with a slow drag of your tongue, smiling when his hips twitch toward your mouth.
You kiss the tip again, softer this time, letting your lips linger around the crown.Ā Steveās hand braced against the headboard curls hard enough that the wood gives a quiet complaint beneath his grip.
Behind you, Bucky makes a low sound of disapproval.
āNow that aināt kind,ā he murmurs, gathering your hair away from your face with one hand. āStevieās been real good, lettinā me have my fill of you, and here you are making him suffer for it.ā
Steve tries to laugh, but it comes out rough and unsteady when you trace the underside of his cock with the tip of your tongue, following that thick vein until his hips jerk helplessly toward you again.Ā Buckyās fingers tighten in your hair.
āThink you oughta thank him proper.ā
The push is slow but firm, guiding you down Steveās length before you can tease him again. Your lips stretch around him as inch after inch slides over your tongue, Bucky holding your hair clear while he eases you forward until the swollen tip presses into your throat. You gag softly around him, eyes watering as your hands catch at Steveās thighs, and the sound Steve makes is loud enough to fill the room.
His forehead drops against Buckyās.
āFuck,ā he groans straight into Buckyās mouth, breath breaking between them while your throat works helplessly around his cock. āSweet girl, always so damn good to me.ā
The praise goes straight through you. You moan around him, and Steve curses as the vibration rolls over his cock.
Buckyās grip settles more firmly in your hair, guiding you back until Steveās cock slips from your throat and then forward again in one slow, measured stroke. He controls the pace with an ease that makes your stomach tighten, keeping you steady while your lips drag over every inch of Steve. Each pass pulls another sound from Steve, his restraint coming apart piece by piece as the two of you work together to ruin him.
Bucky watches it happen with open satisfaction. His fingers tighten whenever Steveās hips twitch, holding you in place long enough to make him feel the wet heat of your mouth before easing you back again.Ā When your throat tightens around him and pulls another helpless groan from his chest, Bucky closes the distance and kisses him, swallowing every broken breath you pull from Steve as you bob on his cock.
Ā Then Steve seems to decide heās had enough of Bucky being the only one left with any composure.Ā His hand drops between you, fumbling once at Buckyās trousers before dragging them open. Buckyās breath breaks into the kiss when Steve wraps a fist around his cock, giving him an experimental stroke.
āStevie,ā Bucky groans against his lips.
Steveās mouth curves against his. He pumps him again, firmer this time, and the sound Bucky makes rolls straight through you. It leaves you suddenly, painfully aware of the hard weight of him behind you, of how close his cock is to the slick heat between your thighs while his hand remains tangled in your hair.
Your knees edge farther apart without thought.
The movement opens you beneath him, your hips rocking back in a needy little invitation even as your mouth continues working over Steve. Bucky feels it immediately. His free hand slides down your spine and cups your ass, spreading you wider as his thumb traces through the slick already coating your inner thighs.
āGoddamn,Ā sugar, look at you,ā he breathes , looking down at the wet heat waiting behind you. āSpread wide and drippinā all over yourself for my cock.ā
Steve follows his gaze.
His fist slows around Buckyās cock, drawing the swollen head through the mess between your thighs. You whimper around Steve as Buckyās cock slides over your clit and nudges against your entrance.
Bucky presses forward slowly, teasing you with every inch of his cock.Ā He isnāt as thick as Steve, but he is longer, the stretch different enough to wrench a muffled cry from you around the cock already filling your mouth. Your pussy opens greedily for him, slick walls fluttering as he sinks deeper until the head of him kisses your cervix and leaves you shuddering between them.
āFuck me, Steve,ā Bucky groans, driving in until his hips meet your ass. āYou been fillinā this pussy every chance you get and sheās still tight enough to choke my cock.ā
Steveās cock pulses over your tongue at the words. You barely have enough strength left to hold yourself upright, arms trembling beneath you while Bucky draws back and fills you again, each long stroke knocking the breath from your lungs. Steveās hips begin to move with him, pushing into your mouth as Bucky fucks into your pussy, and soon there is no rhythm left for you to keep, only the one they make between them.
You let them have you.
Steveās hands settle on either side of your face, keeping you steady as his cock slips wetly over your tongue. Saliva gathers at the corners of your mouth and spills down your chin. Every thrust from behind rocks you farther onto Steve, leaving you whining and gagging softly around him while Buckyās cock reaches so deep your legs threaten to give beneath you.
āLook at her, Buck,ā Steve rumbles, watching your lips stretch around him.Ā āCanāt decide which cock she wants more, so sheās takinā both like the greedy little thing she is.ā
Bucky groans and drives in deeper, his hips pressing flush to your ass, causing your mouth to jolt forward around Steve.Ā āShe loves it, Stevie. Can feel her squeezinā me every time you push down her throat.ā
Your walls clench hard around Bucky at the filth in their words, milking his cock as another broken moan vibrates around Steveās.Ā
āThink she likes hearing us talk about her.ā
Steveās gaze drops to you again, dark with affection and something far less gentle.
āCourse she does,ā he murmurs, thumb brushing through the spit shining on your chin. āOur filthy girl likes knowing sheās got both her outlaws pleased.ā
Buckyās thrusts begin to turn rougher behind you, each one driving you further onto Steveās cock whilst Steve keeps one hand cradled against your jaw, thumb catching the drool that slips from the corner of your mouth.Ā They feel your orgasm building, your pussy gripping Bucky and your moans breaking around Steve, and they chase it without mercy.
āThatās it, sweetheart,ā Steve groans, eyes fixed on yours. āCome for us. Let Buck feel what that greedy pussy does when she gets everything she wants.ā
Buckyās hand tightens in your hair as his hips snap into you again. āGo on, sugar. Come all over my cock while you choke on his. Show us how good we make you feel.ā
Itās the words that push you over. Pleasure tears through you so hard your arms nearly buckle beneath it. You come with both of them filling you, Steve thick over your tongue and Bucky buried deep enough to empty every though from your head. Itās both too much and exactly what you need - the two of them wrapped around you, with the truth of what they are to each other finally laid out between you.
Your walls clamp down around Bucky in frantic, pulsing waves.Ā āThatās it darlinā,ā Bucky growls as your pussy milks him, hips stuttering against your ass. āKeep choking me like that and Iām gonna paint this pretty back with my come.ā
He pulls out just in time. His fist closes around his cock, stroking fast as the first hot spill lands across your lower back, followed by another thick stripe over your ass. Bucky groans your name as he empties himself over you, watching his seed streak your skin while your body still trembles beneath him.
Steve stares at the mess his best friend has made of you, and his cock jerks at the sight of you marked by Buckyās cum. Itās enough to break him, spilling downĀ your throat with a broken groan, hand tightening against your jaw as pulse after pulse fills your mouth. You swallow greedily around him, taking every drop while Buckyās palm smooths over your hip.
āSuch a sweet little thing,ā Bucky murmurs behind you, still breathless. āThink your girl likes being shared, Steve.ā
Steveās thumb strokes tenderly over your cheek as you swallow the last of him, eyes glassy and looking up at him with such devoted affection it pulls his heart.
āOur girl.ā
The next morning, you stir to Steve trying to leave the bed without disturbing you.Ā He almost manages it. But the mattress shifts beneath his weight, and the warmth pressed against your front begins to disappear before you make a soft, petulant sound and reach for him beneath the covers. Steve catches your searching hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before leaning down to brush another against your forehead.
āGo back to sleep, sweetheart.ā
You answer by tightening your fingers around his wrist, unwilling to surrender the place you have spent the night tucked between your two outlaws. Steveās mouth softens, but Bucky solves the problem without properly waking. He makes a rough, sleepy noise behind you and pulls you firmly into his chest, one arm cinching around your waist until your back is fitted to him and there is no room left to complain about being abandoned.
āThere,ā Bucky mumbles into your hair. āQuit fussinā.ā
You melt into him happily enough, eyes drifting shut again while Steve dresses nearby. Buckās body is warm and heavy behind yours, his breath slow against your neck, and for a few precious moments the room feels safe enough to forget where you are.Ā
But then Steveās curse cuts through the quiet.
āBuck.ā
Bucky doesnāt move immediately. āMm?ā
āGet up.ā
The tension in Steveās voice does what the words alone canāt. Buckyās arm disappears from around your waist as he pushes upright, sleep falling away from him in an instant. You sit up with the blanket clutched to your chest and find Steve beside the window, peering through the narrow gap he has made in the curtain. His gun belt is already fastened. One revolver rests in his hand while he checks the chamber of the other.
āWhat is it?ā Bucky asks, reaching for his trousers.
Steve lets the curtain fall back into place. āWeāve got company.ā
Bucky crosses the room barefoot, keeping himself close to the wall as he looks out. His expression hardens. āHow many?ā
āToo many.ā
Your heart begins to pound. You drag the sheet around yourself and slip from the bed, though Steve catches sight of you moving and immediately shakes his head.
āStay back from the window.ā
āWhatās happening?ā
Neither answers quickly enough.
You look from one man to the other, watching the quick efficiency with which they arm themselves. Bucky pulls on his shirt without bothering to button it before buckling his holster. Steve gathers the ammunition from the table and divides it between them, his movements calm in a way that frightens you more than panic would have.
āSteve,ā you push, and when Steve glances back at you, the desperation on your face is enough to make him stop pretending.
āStreetās surrounded,ā he finally admits. āSheriffās got men covering the front, both ends of the alley and the stable yard. More on the roofs across from us.ā
The words make you freeze. āHow did they find us?ā
Steve looks toward the door, jaw working once. āMaybe the clerk didnāt buy our performance after all.ā
Bucky looks through the curtain again, studying the street below. āBack window?ā
āTwo men in the alley, three more watching the yard. Weād need to draw them round the front first.ā
They continue to move through possibilities quickly, cutting each one down almost as soon as itās spoken. There are too many men. Thatās the truth beneath every low exchange, though neither of them says it aloud. Bucky begins loading his rifle. Steve watches him for a moment, then glances toward you. The look passing between them is brief, but you understand it anyway.
āNo.ā
Steveās face closes. āSweetheartāā
āNo.ā
Bucky sets the rifle down. āSugar, listen.ā
āI know that look.ā Your voice shakes despite every effort to steady it. āYouāre working out how to get me clear.ā
Steve crosses to you, hands finding your cheeks and tilting your face to his. āBuck and I will draw them towards the front, and once theyāre focused on us, you slip through the yard and take the first horse you can reach.ā
Your eyes burn as you look between them. āAnd what chance does it give you?ā
Neither man answers.
Months ago, when they let you ride away with them, you told them there was only one part of their life you wouldnāt share. You would endure the cold, the hunger, the long days in the saddle and every bullet sent chasing after them, but you wouldnāt stand by and watch either man die. Now they mean to hold you to it.
Bucky comes to stand beside you, one hand settling at the back of your neck. His thumb moves once over your skin, the touch unbearably gentle from a man preparing to walk into gunfire.
āYou take the horse south,ā he says. āDonāt stop in the next town. Just keep goinā ātill you canāt.ā
You search their faces for another answer and find none. Theyāre terrified - you know them well enough now to see it. But theyāre simply more frightened for you than they are for themselves. So you nod.Ā
Steveās hands linger against your cheeks for another second before he releases you, and Buckyās thumb brushes the back of your neck once more before both men turn away, returning to plan as they let you dress.Ā
Your fingers feel clumsy fastening your stays, though you force them through each familiar movement, pulling on yesterdayās dress and tying your hair back with shaking hands.Ā Bucky crouches beside the bed and spreads their remaining cartridges across the floorboards,Ā counting beneath his breath until a thought makes him pause with one round still caught between his fingers.
āWait a minute - you didnāt see Rumlow out there, did you?ā
Steve glances over from the rifle. āRumlow? No. Why?ā
āThank God for that.ā Bucky exhales and drops the cartridge onto the pile. āFor a minute there, I thought we were in trouble.ā
Steveās expression flattens while a startled laugh escapes you despite everything, and the crooked grin Bucky sends your way suggests that was precisely what heād been aiming for.
Steve returns to checking the rifle with a quiet shake of his head. āIdiot.ā
Buckyās smirk lingers only a moment before the boys begin getting ready in earnest.Ā
Steve fastens the last of the ammunition at his belt and checks both revolvers one final time, while Bucky gathers the remaining cartridges into his pockets and slings the rifle over his shoulder. You stand beside the bed with your coat half-buttoned and look between them, both armed now, both trying to pretend as though this is merely another bad plan they will laugh about by nightfall.
Itās Steve who comes to you first.Ā He cups the back of your neck and kisses you hard, all the tenderness in him sharpened by the knowledge that he cannot afford to linger. You clutch at his shirt anyway, trying to hold him there, but he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
āPromise me youāll run,ā Steve begs against your lips.
Before you can respond, Bucky adds āAnd donāt look back.ā
You turn toward him, already crying despite the effort youāve made not to. Buckyās expression softens. He reaches up and wipes beneath one of your eyes with his thumb before drawing you against him and kissing you with none of his usual teasing left in it.
āYou promise us, sugar,ā he murmurs against your mouth. āYou hear the gunfire, you run.ā
Your bottom lip trembles, tears spilling freely, but you manage to keep you voice steady enough to reply āI promise.ā
They lead you to the back window and ease it open just enough for you to slip through when the time comes, before heading back to the front door.
āSheriffās moved two more men toward the front,ā he observes, peering through the narrow gap in the curtains. āLooks like theyāre expecting us to make a grand entrance.ā
Steve cocks his gun. āWell, Iād hate to disappoint.ā
Bucky turns from the window with a faint smile, and just for a minute, the years between them seem to gather there in the quiet.Ā They stand beside the door with their weapons ready, drawing one steadying breath before looking at each other.
āTill the end of the line,ā Steve says.
Buckyās answer comes without hesitation.Ā āAlways.ā
Then they burst through the front door.
Gunfire erupts immediately, deafening in the close quarters, answered by the heavy crack of Steveās revolver and the sharper report of Buckyās rifle as they force the fight toward the front of the hotel. Every instinct in you screams to turn, to look, to run after them instead of away, but you cling to the promise you made and climb through the rear window once the coast is clear.
Then you run. Across the yard, past the stable wall and toward the first horse you can reach, every step carrying you farther from the two men you love. The law may have their names and faced printed on posters, may call them thieves and bad men, but you know better now.
Wanted men they may be, but theyāre the best men you have ever known.
more mads: sooooo, i am so so sorry for how late i am for posting this. half of this was written in a sleep deprived, frantic haze so apologies if any of it gets confusing at any point, especially the ending. i had a different plan for it at first, but then i want to stay more loyal to the film, and i also needed to just get this fic done considering how late i already was to posting it. so this is what i landed on and i'm worried it hasn't quite worked :/ idk, this could be the sleep deprivation talking but i just started to hate this fic as i got closer to the end. hopefully you guys still enjoyed - if you did, please hit like or, even better, please consider leaving a comment/reblog bc it would genuinely make my whole day. my leo moon means i will literally perish without external validation. iām tinkerbell coded. love u <33
One of my all-time favorite movies with two of my all-time favorite characters doing some of my all-time favorite things š I LOVE THIS SO MUCH.
I've actually genuinely thought these two would be fantastic if they ever decided to do a remake of this movie. I doubt they ever will, but I could 10000% see Evans and Stan absolutely KILLING it... so this made my whole day. ā¤ļø
a/n: if y'all haven't learned yet, you cannot let the bwa gather in covenant. posting it with a diff moodboard to see something.
Pairing: Priest!Bucky x Nun!Reader
Word count: 4.3k
Warnings: age gap (reader is early 20s, bucky is mid 40s), SMUT (duh), masturbation (f &m), p in v, cum eating/play?, sacrilege/blasphemy, yearning, pwp, mention of blood.
Summary: You had transferred from St. Magdalene's to Our Lady of the Holy Grace, and you didn't think your first assignment would make you second guess your vows so quick. In your defense, neither did Father Barnes.
+fran: you cannot leave the bwamily unattended... this was all from me watching the latest knives out movie, btw. THIS is Father Barnes, by the way.
It had been building.Ā
If you ask him, it really had.
James Buchanan Barnes turned to priesthood after losing his way. First, he thought the answer was at the bottom of a bottle, then at the bottom of some pretty girl's throat. He was no stranger to addiction. No stranger to the short lived dopamine hit that getting caught up in worldly pleasures would bring.
But they'd always leave him empty after, in more ways than one.Ā
So, at the ripe age of twenty two, he found God. Now, twenty years and some change later, he led a flock in Brooklyn ā his home, trying to guide all his sheep into salvation.Ā
He had been good. In twenty years, he had been good.Ā
He listened, he gave good advice, he spoke with humility, he did good deeds without expecting anything because that's what it meant to be a man of God, and if he ended up in Heaven after that would just be confetti.Ā
He kept his soul clean. And he led by example.Ā
So when Sister Mabel walked in with a smile on her face, and you following closely behind admiring the inner architecture of the church and the stained glass works, he wondered why he was being divinely punished.Ā
āFather Barnes. Itās a pleasure. Iāve heard so much about you.ā Your smile was warm, and your cheeks had a faint shade of flush, doe eyes that looked up at him as he shook your hand and you gave him your name.
He didnāt mean to hold your hand longer than necessary. But your fingers were warm, ungloved, and he hadnāt been touched like that ināGod, he didnāt even know how long. When you pulled away, the warmth stayed. Crawled into his skin like a sin he knew the name of all too well.
You were not flirtatious in the traditional sense. You giggled softly, just as you smiled. Softly enough that it was barely above a chuckle. You did not bat your lashes. You did notĀ disobey. You were, in all things,Ā devoted.
You moved into the guest quarters of the rectory, just down the hall from his study. You never disturbed him. You kept to your chores, followed the schedule, rose with the bells and walked the halls with a lightness that made the floorboards barely creak. But he always knew when you were nearby.
You liked the garden. He started lingering by the window that overlooked it.
Bucky watched you trim the plants that needed it, water them carefully as if you were actually helping them drink it, and he caught you talking to them once like you'd talk to a puppy. "They actually grow stronger and faster if you do that. I read it in a magazine once."
The more time you spent at the church, the more he got to know you. At first it was that you preferred early morning mass, so he'd light the candles earlier. Then, it was the way you sighed when you told him about butter, of all things, that you had tried years ago from a cafe a few blocks away, and how it was unlike any butter you'd ever tasted.Ā
It was subtle, how you crept into his thoughts.Ā
Blaming proximity at the beginning was easy.Ā You asked intelligent questions during scripture discussion, nodded along when he explained things with warmth instead of fear.
āWhy do you kneel at that part of the liturgy?āĀ
āDo you think itās harder to find faith or to keep it?ā
āDo you think God forgives the things we never say out loud?ā
You were new. You were young. You walked with intention but moved with grace. You were genuinely eager to help, and you asked questions he hadnāt heard in yearsānot out of arrogance, but curiosity.
He thought his body was only responding to muscle memory he thought he had wiped long ago.
It didnāt happen all at once. That would have been easierāone sharp fall, one moment he could point to and sayĀ there. Instead, it crept into him the way damp does in old stone. Quiet. Persistent. Impossible to scrub out once it settled.
The first day you walked into his confessional was a Friday.Ā
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." Your voice came from the other side of the booth unexpectedly, and Bucky's ears perked up when he recognized it was you.Ā
āHow long has it been since your last confession?ā he asked, though he knew already.
āSix weeks.ā He didn't say anything, just let you continue. āIāve beenā¦ thinking,ā you said. āAbout longing. About how it manifests.ā
Bucky sat up straighter in the small wooden chair, and for the first time in a long time, the dark wood that felt like home started to morph into a prison.
āI donāt act on anything. I wouldnāt. But I feelā¦" You shook your head. "I didn't think leaving my old life behind would be easy by any means, but I didn't think temptation would follow so closely."
You gulped, looking up with your hands clasped on your lap. "And it scares me how much I want that. How much I want someone to look at me and see everything, even the parts Iāve worked so hard to bury in prayer.ā
He tried to speak. Failed. Swallowed. Tried again. āYou believe thatās a sin?ā
You exhaled. āI believe it could become one.ā
He spoke about repentance, about endurance, about grace earned through effort and humility. He knew how to meet people where they wereābroken marriages, relapses, grief that lingered longer than it should. He had lived most of it himself to some degree or another. There was no judgment in his voice when he spoke of mercy. Only memory.
But slowly, without realizing it, his words began to change.
He caught himself talking more aboutĀ longing. About how God saw His children fully, without flinching. About how desire itself was not evilāonly what one chose to do with it. He spoke of restraint not as denial, but asĀ sacrifice. Of the ache of wanting something good that was not meant for you.
And while his flock listened to his sermon, there you were.Ā
Sitting in the front row, where he couldn't linger for long, but could linger some, hanging onto every word coming our of his lips as if they were gospel and he was God himself. It wasnāt vanity that made him notice. It was something far more dangerous: recognition.
Because you werenāt listening toĀ GodāsĀ words. You were listening toĀ his. Not to be moved. To understand. ToĀ see. And heāGod help himāspoke like a man who wanted to be seen.
Night was the worst.
The first night he strayed from his vows was a Wednesday night.Ā
The rectory settled into silence the way only old buildings couldāwood creaking softly, pipes ticking, the distant hum of the city muffled by stone and age. Bucky lay awake long after Compline, staring at the ceiling with his hands folded on his chest like a corpse laid out for viewing.
He had prayed.
He had tried not to think.
Nothing had worked.Ā
The moment from earlier in the garden kept replaying in his mind, slipping back in every time he managed to quiet his thoughts. He would catch himself drifting, drag his mind back to prayer, recite scripture until the words lost their meaningāand then it would return again, sharper, more insistent, as though it resented being pushed away.
Heād been helping you with the roses. The late afternoon sun had been warm, forgiving, the air thick with the smell of soil and green life. Heād warned youāgently, as he always didāto be careful. Thorny things, roses. Beautiful, but not kind to careless hands.
And in your innocence you got a prick. He noticed it immediately when you flinched back with a breathy "ah!" settling somewhere beneath the vestment where desire was not supposed to live.
It was a bigger prick than just a tiny poke, drawing some blood from your finger, and he didn't even think of it, just grabbed your soft hand in both of his calloused ones and brought your finger to his lips.
His tongue soothed the sting from the plant, but you couldn't tear your eyes away from it. From him. The way his lashes rested over his cheekbones, the texture and drag of his tongue across your skin, and the vision alone sent tingles down your stomach.Ā
He opened his eyes and held your gaze, and that's when everything would shift into depravity.Ā
He'd imagine simply not stopping there, at the taste of your skin. Instead, he'd kiss you, swipe his tongue across your bottom lip until you let him in. Frantic hands stripping you of all that reminded you of your vows, until you were nothing but a holy vision in his garden.
He wanted to be the snake that corrupted you, as he wanted you to be the one that damned him. Let out hissed improbate words as his tongue traced your body until he found the forbidden fruit between your thighs and bit humanity into damnation.
Do you think obedience can come from desire?
His breath turned shallow. His hand slid down his chest before he could stop himself.Ā
He told himself it was just a physical thing. That the body was weak. That release would quiet the noise. He had learned that lie long ago, back when the bottle and warm mouths had been easier than faith.
And for the first time in twenty years, Father James Barnes tainted his vows.Ā
He wrapped a hand around his length and hissed as quietly as he could, knowing the stone on the walls bounced sound as easy as he wanted to have you do so on him.Ā
One stroke, then another, and he let saliva pool in his mouth. He licked his palm messily and did it again, spreading the wetness with each stroke, closing his eyes, and letting his perverted thoughts run wild.Ā
He imagined warmth. Closeness. The forbidden intimacy of being wanted by someone who believed him to be good.
Then he pictured you on your knees, not for prayer. Between his thighs, kissing up the inner part of them until you wrapped your lips around his cock and let him abuse the back of your throat.Ā
Pictured himself pressing your delicate face onto the stone walls of your room, lifting the camisole he imagined you'd wear, and just driving his cock in and out of you until you cried out to a God that wouldn't listen to you any longer.Ā
His breathing faltered. His thoughts scattered, unmoored now, no longer governed by scripture or discipline. Every sensation felt heightened by the knowledge that this was wrongāthat this was the body he had sworn to deny, responding eagerly the moment he loosened his grip on control.
Bucky came embarrasingly fast, biting his opposite fist to keep quiet, immediately feeling guilty and hollowed out after.Ā
He was, however, not alone in his weakness. Behind a wooden door a few feet down the hall, you had your face buried in your pillow trying to muffle your quiet little pleads, while your fingers rubbed your clit raw trying to get enough friction to come.
Imagining Father Barnes behind you, making you arch your back nice and pretty so he could reach spots inside of you you were sure the Devil created himself.Ā
Morning did not come gently.
It crept in through the chapel windows in thin bands of pale gold, catching on the dust motes in the air and the edges of the pews, illuminating a space that felt suddenly too exposed. James Barnes had been awake long before it arrived, kneeling where he always did, hands clasped, back straight, posture immaculate by force of habit alone.
His body felt wrong.
Heavy. Oversensitized. As though every nerve remembered something his mind was still trying to deny. The collar at his throat felt tighter than usual, the fabric of his cassock unfamiliar against his skin. He pressed his palms together harder, grounding himself in the ache, in the proof that penance could still hurt.
He prayed aloud at first. Then silently. Then not at all.
Please, God, I'm sorry.
Free me from these thoughts, these feelings.Ā
Free me from her.Ā
I'm supposed to lead this flock, not be the wolf that feasts on it.Ā
When the door creaked open behind him, the sound went straight through his spine.
He didnāt turn. Couldnāt. The air shifted in a way he recognized now, the subtle change that accompanied your presence. The faint scent of lavender soap. The soft hush of fabric as you knelt.
You took your usual placeāseveral pews back, respectful, distant. Every inch of you composed. Devout.
And yet something about you was different. Your movements were slower. More deliberate. As though you, too, were carrying something fragile inside your chest and afraid of dropping it.
You said your good mornings, and the silence that followed was unbearable.
He could feel you behind him. Not looking at himāhe knew you wouldnātābut present in a way that made his skin prickle. He wondered if you felt it too. If you were aware of the thin wire stretched between you now, vibrating with everything that had gone unspoken.
The confessional had always been a place of refuge for him. Enclosed. Structured. A space where sin could be named and contained, absolution delivered cleanly, precisely.
That day, it felt like a trap.
He heard you before he saw youāthe faint rustle of fabric, the careful pause before kneeling, the breath you took as if steadying yourself. His fingers curled in his lap without his permission.
āForgive me, Father,ā you said, voice low. āFor I have sinned.ā
He closed his eyes for half a second too long. āHow long since your last confession?ā he asked, clinging to ritual.
āFour days.ā The number struck him with quiet cruelty.
āAnd what would you like to confess?ā
There was a pause. Longer than usual. He could almost hear your thoughts turning over, weighing truth against fear. āI acted on thoughts I shouldnāt have,ā you said finally. āI didnāt plan to. I tried to pray them away. But they stayed.ā
His breath caught, shallow and sharp.
āI feltā¦ lonely,ā you continued, carefully. āAnd wanting. And instead of turning from it, I let myself feel it.ā
His hands trembled.
āDid you think of someone?ā he asked, before he could stop himself.
Another pause. Then softly replied. āYes.ā The word reverberated through him. āI donāt think it came from malice,ā you said, voice thick with sincerity. āIt didnāt feel cruel. It felt like longing.ā
He pressed his thumb into his palm until it hurt.
āI donāt want to feel like this again,ā you whispered. āBut I donāt know how to stop.ā
He wanted to tell you the truth. That neither did he. That he had knelt only hours earlier and begged God to take the same thing from himāand had been met with silence.
Instead, he gave you penance. Gentle. Insufficient.
And when you rose to leave, murmuring a soft āThank you, Father,ā his chest ached with the knowledge that he had absolved you for something he had not forgiven himself for.
When the roses fully bloomed, so did the desire.Ā
It was a quiet Saturday night after mass. The sun was setting in a way that made the stained glass paint a kaleidoscope of stories across the entire interior of the church. Reds bled into blues, gold fractured into violet, the saints and martyrs overhead cast in shifting color that spilled across the pews and the altar alike.Ā
It was beautiful in a way that felt almost excessive. Like a reminder of how much God delighted in excess when He chose to.
You were lighting the candles for prayer.Ā Each flame caught with a soft whisper, your fingers careful, steady. The light reflected in your eyes when you leaned close, warm against your skin.Ā
The last of the parishioners had gone, their murmured goodbyes fading into the stone as the heavy doors closed behind them.
And that's when he saw you. Bucky had lingered at the back of the church, pretending to review notes, to straighten hymnals, to give himself some purpose for staying behind. He told himself it was responsibility. Habit. That it was his duty to make sure everything was in order before night fell.
But the truth settled in his chest the moment his gaze found you and refused to move.
He stepped closer and closer under the guise of chores, like a moth to a flame, flying steadily into his own demise.Ā
He felt the familiar surge of shame rise instinctively, but it was dulled now, blunted by repetition. The desire no longer shocked him. It no longer felt like an intrusion.
You must have sensed him before you turned. Perhaps it was the quiet shift of air, or the way the church itself seemed to lean inward. When you looked over your shoulder and found him standing a few paces away, the candle in your hand flickered.
āFather,ā you said softly. The word settled between you, no longer neutral.
āI thought I might say a prayer before closing,ā he said, voice measured with effort. āIf youād like to join me.ā
You hesitatedājust for a breath. Then you nodded.
You set the candle in its holder and moved toward the altar, your steps echoing lightly against the stone. He followed, acutely aware of the nearness now, of the warmth that seemed to radiate from you as you knelt. He lowered himself beside you, the steps cool beneath his knees, the altar looming aboveāancient, immovable, bearing witness.
Being that close to you, unchaperoned, felt like a transgression.Ā
He bowed his head and began the prayer, words familiar enough to recite without thought. But his mind betrayed him. He was aware of the way your shoulder hovered just inches from his. The quiet rhythm of your breathing. The way your hands folded and unfolded once before settling, as though you were steadying yourself.
Your voice joined his on the final line, barely above a whisper.
Amen.
He should have risen. Should have crossed himself and excused you both. Instead, he turned his head slightlyāand found you already looking at him. The stained glass washed over your face in color.Ā
There was no challenge in your expression. No coyness. Only a quiet understanding that made his chest ache.
The restraint that once was steady as an oak before you, was now frail and diminishing by the second. Without giving it a second thought, he grabbed your face in his hands, breaking the last seal of his salvation, jumping into the abyss, and crashed your lips together.Ā
You were a stark contrast to him.Ā
Where you were soft, searching, as if you were asking permission from something higher, Bucky was demanding, like you were indeed worth throwing away his years of priesthood only to end up right back where he started.
Slave to having a pretty girl under him.Ā
When your lips pressed more firmly against his, the kiss deepened with a quiet urgency that stole the air from his lungs. "This is wrong." Was barely muffled against his lips, stubble ticking your face.Ā
He groaned in response. "I knowā¦" And sighed. "I know."
He kissed you again, slower now, fuller, the world narrowing to the warmth of your mouth and the sound of your shared breath. The altar loomed above you, the candles flickered nearby, and the churchāGodās houseāheld your secret in its ancient walls.
It was you who lost balance firstāyour knee slipping against carpeted wood floors, a soft sound leaving you as you tipped backward. He followed instinctively, one hand coming out to steady you, the other bracing himself as you landed against the altar steps.
The altar steps dug into your back, grounding you in stone and reality, while he pressed closer, heat and weight and want. His hand tightened where it rested, possessive in a way that shocked himāthis, this hunger to hold, to anchor you beneath him, to feel you yield even while fully clothed, fully forbidden.
You broke the kiss to pull the veil and coif away from your face and head, your hair falling like a cascade behind you on the deep red carpet you were on.Ā
He kissed along your jaw, your throat, his breath hot against your skin, and you gasped at the feel of his stubble there. "Father Barā"
"Bucky." He interrupted. "Y'can call me Bucky."
Every movement measured and unmeasured all at once.
āBuckyā¦ā
He was acutely aware of everythingāthe flicker of candles, the hush of the church, the sacred space bearing witness to his collapse. But specially of how your whimpers vibrated against his mouth.Ā
āI should stop,ā he whispered, forehead pressed against yours, voice cracking open at the seams. āI should stop right now.ā
Your breath fanned against his cheek as you nodded without really meaning it, your hands telling a different story now that they worked to rip his the Roman collar off of him, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.Ā
"You should."
His hands, however, found the hem of your habit, and grazed further and further up your leg, leaving room for you to wrap a stocking clad thigh around his waist, as he kneaded and groped the supple skin of your ass.Ā
"I tried, Father, Iā" He bit down your neck. "I tried to pray it away. But my throughts wouldn't stray fromĀ you."
He lifted his head to look into your eyes as his hand found the slick wetness between your legs, under your panties, where he put two fingers inside of you without ceremony, relishing in your bodyās response to him. A breathy "hah!" and a whimper was all you could let out.Ā
It was frantic, really. The way you pawed and tore at each other only to defile the only place that could save your soul. Before you could think of apologizing to God, your habit was nothing but a mess of black fabrics along with his clothes beside you.Ā
You were left in nothing but a pair of stockings and your heels, the cool metal of your crucifix now burning against the skin of your chest as if you were being punished, rightfully so.Ā
Bucky grabbed the base of his length, slicking the head of his sock in your wetness, making you bite your lip and whine. "Pleaseā"
"Twenty fucking years," he did it again. Up, and down. "Twenty years and you stroll in like every prayer I made before vowing myself to never feel like this again."
That made you chuckle just a little. "Sorry I'm late." The humor was short lived, as a moan crawled out of both of your throats as he sank in, inch by inch. The length alone would've brought tears of joy to your eyes, but the thickness was really what was making you hear a chorus of "Hallelujah!"
Bucky buried himself to the hilt andĀ stilled for a fraction of a secondālong enough to feel it, to acknowledge what heād done. His thrusts were deep, like he couldn't bear to not be touching you everywhere all the time.Ā
āFeels so good, Fatherā Bucky..ā you corrected yourself.
He groaned to himself at the realization he had to go faster, someone might come in, after all. And then he'd have to explain why Father Barnes was balls deep in a nun twenty years his junior on the altar where he gave communion.Ā
āYou came here for God,ā he whispers, his voice shaking as he presses himself into you again. āBut I swear to you, He gave you to me."
There was no tenderness left in it, only urgencyālike he was afraid that if he slowed down, if he thought too much, heād lose his nerve and collapse under the weight of what he was doing.
The church loomed around you, vast and silent, every candle a witness, every saint carved into the walls looking away in judgment or mercyāyou couldnāt tell which.
āSomeone could walk in.ā you whispered, breath hitching.
āI know,ā he muttered, voice breaking as he pressed closer, as if daring the world to catch him like this. āGod help me, I know.ā
He picked up speed, the hand that was previously rolling a nipple between his fingers came down to roll your clit on his thumb, making you let your head roll back. "Oh, God!"
He groaned at the feel of you clenching around him, your own vision swimming looking at the giant crucifix that was nailed to the wall above you. "Come for me, pretty girl, c'mon."
You didn't need to be told twice.Ā
You came around him with a symphony of moans, getting higher pitched by the second as he chased his own high. In a moment of clarity, barely pulling away from the trance you were watching him above you trying to cum, you remembered.Ā
"I'm notā fuck, I'm not on anything."
Bucky groaned, he was so close he had to bite his tongue to not paint your insides white and make you sticky with his cum.
He settled for pulling out and jerking his cock onto your stomach instead, coming with a groan of your name and a breathless little āgood God.ā with his head in your shoulder.
As your breaths evened, you made a mental note to remember forever how the stained glass reflected off of the skin on his torso.
One of your fingers reached down to smear his seed that was pooling around your navel, and you brought it baack to your mouth, tasting it on your tongue. Bucky groaned in response, grabbed your face in one hand and kissed you again, tongue licking into your mouth as you smirked.Ā
The altar stood above you, untouched.
And beneath it, pressed into wood and sin and want, Father James Barnes finished destroying himself with a woman who felt less like temptation and more like fate.
a/n: I'm going to hell for this one but hey! call AC/DC!
Brotherās Best Friend!Bucky Barnes x Steveās Sister!Reader
Summary: After being absent from your familyās annual summer cabin retreat for several years, you finally make an appearance after your college graduation. Bucky canāt help but notice how much youāve changed.
Word Count: 8.2k
Content: yearning, age gap (four years), brief drug use (marijuana), alcohol consumption, smut MDNI (mentions of masturbation, oral m receiving, facefucking, swallowing, dry humping, fingering, unprotected p in v (donāt do that))
As soon as Bucky sets his duffle down on the cabin floor, he feels his shoulders loosen. The familiar smell of the wood finish fills his nostrils, and it smells like every single one of his summers since he turned thirteen.
It's good to be back.
This has been Bucky and Steve's stomping grounds for one month a year, ever since Steve picked a fight with the wrong bully in middle school and Bucky had come to the rescue. That moment sparked a lifelong friendship, one that had lasted through high school and college, those first early years of adulthood. A friendship with roots so deep that Steve's family doted on Bucky, considering him as good as blood.
This year, things are a little different. Steve's parents have stayed behind, embarking on a trip of their own to Europe in a week. While the parents are away, the young people will play ā Steve and Bucky invited a handful of friends and cousins, to drink and swim and make the most of the summer sunshine.
And for the first time in years, youāll be back in attendance at the cabin.
Bucky remembers you fondly as Steve's kid sister, a little spitfire who hung fearlessly off the back of his bike growing up, all uncoordinated limbs and wild freckles and toothy smiles. When he and Steve went off to college, you were just starting high school, and the most heās connected with you since has been through Facebook āhappy birthdayā posts and the occasional Instagram comment.Ā
You were serious about your academics, about making something of yourself, which is what kept you away so long. A real smart cookie, heād always called you. You'd graduated college in just three years, thanks to all your hard work. Internships and summer courses and work studies have stolen you away for so long that Bucky has nearly forgotten what your laugh sounds like.Ā
Until he hears it echoing off the trees outside, like a long-forgotten favorite song.
Bucky abandons Steve while he loads up the fridge with groceries (aka beer and liquor), and jogs out onto the front porch.
Coming down the dirt path is a small group of Steve's cousins, laughing boisterously, talking plans for the three weeks ahead at the cabin. A flash of hair catches Bucky's eye. You have an arm slung over your older cousinās shoulders, laughing along with the rest.
Your smile is exactly the same, but it fits your face better now, Bucky notices. You lookā¦ grown up. The untamed spirit of your youth still lives in your eyes, but youāve matured considerably elsewhere.Ā
He canāt help the way his eyes wander to your frayed jean shorts and the way they hug your hips, the expanse of thigh that lays below their ripped hemline. He tries to pulls his gaze away, but it lands on your freckled shoulders, your tank top, the neckline that slopes down to frame breasts that developed quite nicely while youāve been away.
Bucky looks down at his feet, feeling like the worldās biggest creep.
Steve had made him promise years ago to never touch you. It was long enough ago that Bucky had never even thought heād have to worry about keeping it. Bucky wouldnāt have dreamed of it ā you were Steve's kid sister. You were never even on his radar in that way before.
Suffice to say, his radar is definitely picking you up now.
āBucky!ā
He glances up to see you running full tilt towards him, bounding up the steps with your smile overtaking your whole face. You crash into him, your arms looping around his neck in a tight embrace. Bucky stumbles back slightly from the force of it, and his hands find your waist to steady you as he huffs a laugh.
He breathes you in, sunscreen and clean sweat and something fruity that makes his mouth water. You give him a squeeze, holding on for a few beats before releasing him.
Your eyes still have that familiar, impish sparkle. āHi.ā
āLong time, no see,ā he drawls, trying to keep his eyes where they wonāt get him into trouble. It doesn't work.
A large hand claps him on the shoulder, startling Bucky. Steve shoves past him and sweeps you up into a hug, spinning you around in greeting while you squeal and laugh.
It only serves to remind him of his promise. Bucky sighs and rubs the back of his neck. It's gonna be a long couple of weeks.
You have been hopelessly in love with Bucky Barnes since you were nine years old. Since the time your cousin had wrestled you into the dirt and Bucky nearly put his lights out, then cleaned the scrape on your knee with great care.
Heād never noticed you that way, and youād resigned yourself to that a long time ago. Mostly.
You threw yourself into your studies with zeal and occasionally entertained the idea of a boyfriend. They never lasted long ā A, because they were a distraction, and B, because they werenāt Bucky Barnes. Not their fault, but not something you could tolerate, either.
But now, school is behind you. For now, at least. You had been toying with the idea of a masters, but right now the idea of more school makes you want to puke. You have three weeks ahead of you with no books, no plans, no demands or schedule.
Just your family and friends and Bucky.
The moment your eyes meet his on the front porch of the cabin, you can tell something has shifted.
His hands are warm on your waist even though your clothes, and the way he looks at you makes you preen a little with satisfaction. I'm a woman now, Bucky. Surprised?
He, on the other hand, hasnāt changed a bit. He still has that slightly grown in stubble and those infuriating muscles that he started sporting in high school, much to the chagrin of your raging hormones at the time. The only thing that is different about him is the glimmer of interest in his expression, interest that has never once been directed at you before.
Every time his eyes stray towards you that afternoon, it feels like glitter rushing through your veins, shimmering and hot. You feel it everywhere.
Once everyone is sufficiently unpacked, the group loads up a cooler of drinks and grabs their bikes. The plan being to head down to the pier and watch the sunset, as a reward for a long day of driving.
You hang off the back of Bucky's bike like youāve done a thousand times before, your feet on the rear axel pegs, your hands on his shoulders. But this time, his shoulders flex lightly underneath your touch, his jaw ticks when you lean down to speak into his ear, and he keeps his eyes firmly on the road despite your attempts to distract him.
At the pier, the sun turns everything gold and red, slowly descending to kiss its reflection in the water. You glance at Bucky to find him already looking at you, and he quickly turns his head away, caught.
You grin and take a swig of your beer. This is going to be fun.
Bucky is being tested. He's sure of it.
That night, he stares at the ceiling in the top bunk until exhaustion pulls him under. He tries and fails to think of anything other than you. Those eyes. That mouth. Those thighs peeking out from those god-forsaken shorts.Ā
In the morning, he climbs down the ladder, creeps past Steve snoring softly on the bottom bunk, and out to the kitchen to start preparing breakfast for the group. He'd gotten the short straw last night, so no rest for the wicked.
The living room is littered with sleeping bodies. There's only so many beds in the cabin, and they were first come, first serve. Which had resulted in you and two of your female cousins crashing on a large air mattress in a tangle of limbs.
In the adjoining kitchen, Bucky earnestly tries to keep his eyes to himself. But youāre splayed out on the air mattress, in nothing but an oversized t-shirt that has ridden up your stomach and flimsy pajama shorts that leave nothing to the imagination.
When Bucky starts on the bacon and pancakes, the noise stirs you. You stretch, your t-shirt riding up even higher, letting out a soft little groan that doesnāt help his morning wood in the slightest. He fixes his attention on the pan and resolves to keep it there.
It wanders anyway. When it does, he finds you looking right back at him from where you lay on the mattress, watching him with interest and a little amusement. His first instinct is to immediately look away, the way he did yesterday. But he doesnāt want you to know how much youāve rattled him, so he holds your gaze for a beat before returning his focus to flipping pancakes.
He thinks thatāll be the end of it, but of course it isnāt. Before long, you untangle yourself from your cousins, who groan in protest and roll over as you stand. Bucky can hear the sound of your bare feet padding across the wooden floor toward the kitchen.
āMorning,ā you greet him in a slightly gravelly morning voice.
āMorning,ā he replies casually.
āThat smells so good.ā You pluck a grape from the bowl of fruit sitting on the counter and pop it into your mouth. āIām starving.ā
A muscle ticks in Bucky's jaw. He's not sure whatās worse ā if youāre unaware of the effect youāre having on him, or if you are aware, and doing it on purpose.
āItāll be ready in a few,ā he declares, pouring the last of the pancake batter into the pan. āSo, you enjoying your freedom from school?ā
āDefinitely.ā You hoist yourself up to sit on the counter, placing yourself very much in the way, but Bucky doesnāt have the heart to ask you to move. especially when the position grants him another tempting view of your thighs.
āYou miss me?ā you purr, playfully nudging his hip with your foot.
He doesnāt take the bait. Flipping pancakes is simple, so thatās what he does. āOf course I missed you. The place isnāt the same without you.ā
You smile, and Bucky gets stuck on it momentarily. A moment passes, tense and delicious at the same time. You just watch him, content to wait, to sit in the tension winding tighter between you.
Bucky reaches up by your head, opening a cabinet and fetching a plate. His hip brushes the outside of your knee, and he doesnāt move away immediately.
āYou planning on helping, or are you just gonna sit there staring?ā
āIām appreciating the view,ā you counter, your eyes dragging over his frame as you steal another grape from the bowl.
A chuckle slips out of him at your boldness. āYou're trouble, you know that?ā
Your eyebrow ticks, a silent dare.
And then Steve stumbles in, bleary eyed, and the moment shatters.
āPlease tell me thereās coffee,ā Steve mumbles, rubbing his eyes.
As inconspicuously as possible, Bucky shifts a respectable distance away from you to plate the bacon and quietly clears his throat. āBy the microwave,ā he says.
Steve doesnāt appear to have noticed the atmosphere he walked into, but Bucky still scolds himself internally. You make it way too easy for him to forget where he is, forget his promises and responsibilities to his friend. Too easy to forget that he shouldnāt be looking at you like that in the first place.
He shoves all of it down and brings plates of breakfast out to the picnic tables outside, leaving you and your dangling legs and sharp eyes behind.
āHey.ā
Bucky's voice rings out from behind you, into the open air of the night. You turn to see him descending the cabin steps, towards where youāre sitting on top of a picnic table, your feet resting on the bench.Ā
You'd come out here to be alone, just to have a quiet moment, while the muffled sounds of laughter and celebration from the cabin underscore your solitude. But you find that you donāt mind having your solitude disrupted, if Bucky is the one to do it.
āWhat are you doing out here all alone?ā he asks, circling the table to face you.
You glance up at the sky. āToo much light pollution at school to really see the stars. Thought I'd remind myself what they look like.ā
It really is a sight to see. Swirls of stars glittering in the dark expanse, configurations and constellations you never get to see in the city. All around, crickets chirp and cicadas sing, a familiar song floating on the balmy summer air.
Bucky looks up right along with you, just as appreciatively. Even with several feet of space between you, you can feel that tension thatās been winding tighter ever since you arrived yesterday. You wonder why he came out here tonight. If he came to find you.
āI thought all you boys were playing beer pong,ā you say with an arched brow.
Bucky smiles sheepishly, as if heās been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. From within his pockets, he produces a joint and a lighter. āIām being selfish. Don't tell on me.ā
āI can keep a secret,ā you reply conspiratorially as you pat the space beside you on the picnic table. āCāmere.ā
He hesitates, and you wait ever-patiently, watching him carefully as his brain wars with itself until he finally gives in. Keeping a careful distance ā not too far to be cold, but not close enough to touch ā he sits beside you and sparks up.
The cherry of the joint glows in the darkness as he takes a drag, and tendrils of smoke curl out from behind his lips when he exhales. Bucky looks briefly surprised when you reach for the joint, plucking it from his grasp to take a drag of your own.
Smoking isnāt new for you ā youāve indulged a handful of times at the handful of college parties youād attended between school obligations. But seeing you smoke, smoking with you, is very new to Bucky. Hypnotized, he watches your lips as they wrap around the joint, where his mouth had just been. He only manages to break his gaze away when you breathe out and let the current of smoke escape.
He shakes his head in disbelief. āIf Steve knew I was getting his little sister high, heād beat my ass.ā
Your older brother is the last subject you want to discuss right now. You pass the joint back to him, letting your hand linger just a little against his. āWhat Steve doesnāt know wonāt hurt him.ā
Following up on that comment feels a little too dangerous, and so the two of you sit in silence for a moment, passing the joint back and forth underneath the canopy of smoke and stars.
Before long, you start to feel it. That slight, pleasant heaviness in your limbs, that heightening of your senses. That warm, fuzzy feeling settling over your mind. The high is better here, in this place that has known you since you were a child, shared with someone youāre completely at ease with. You shift closer to him, your knee bumping his.
āThis is nice,ā you sigh.
āYeah,ā he agrees, something bittersweet in his tone. āReal nice.āĀ
āJust like old times.ā
āI can think of a few things that are different,ā he chuckles.
āSuch as?ā you ask, deftly snatching the joint back from him.
āYouāve grown up.ā He looks at you pointedly as you take a long drag. āQuite a bit. It's kindaā¦complicating things for me.ā
You hadnāt expected him to own up to it like that, this newfound attraction. You turn to him, passing back the joint, head tilted in curiosity. āComplicating things how?ā
He fidgets with the joint between his fingers, as if heās debating what to say or how to say it. When his eyes meet yours again, theyāre warm and dark and full of want.
āSteve made me promise. That I wouldn't touch you. That I wouldn't even look at you that way.ā
You hadnāt known about this, not really. But it doesnāt surprise you in the slightest. Steve has always been protective of you, even when he didnāt have to be.
āWhat do you call how youāre looking at me now?ā you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
āComplicated.āĀ
His gaze drops to your mouth and stays there. The night seems to fold around the two of you, heavy and hot and close.
You shift closer to him, your thigh now pressing against his.
āIām not a kid anymore, Buck,ā you murmur as you slowly lean into him. āI donāt need a big brother to protect me. I can make my own decisions.ā
For a fleeting moment, youāre close enough to breathe the same air as Bucky, lips nearly brushing his. But then he pulls away, gets to his feet, runs a hand through his hair as he looks firmly at the ground.
āI canāt. I'm sorry.ā
You donāt have the chance to say anything else, because he walks with quick strides up the cabin steps, disappearing through the screen door. The joint lays on the picnic table beside you, half-smoked and smoldering.
You sigh, frustrated, head in your hands.
Bucky should have known that wouldnāt be the end of it. Maybe if he had never said anything at all to you, it would have been easier. But now itās out in the open, and you seem to be intent on torturing him.
Itās already difficult to avoid your presence, with everyone cramped into one cabin. Even still, youāre almost always in his orbit, your laughter in the air around him, your eyes occasionally finding his across bonfires and picnic tables. Then thereās the seemingly endless parade of tiny shorts and barely-there tops and strappy little sundresses. He's sure Steve will catch him staring at some point, because he just canāt seem to keep his gaze from wandering in your direction, snagging on whatever new inch of exposed skin he finds there.
At the end of each day, Bucky forces himself under the cold stream of the shower, shamefully stroking his cock as he tries in vain to think of anything other than your hands on his skin and the way youād looked at him that night.
On the fourth day, the group heads down to the lake for a proper swim. Bucky finds himself woefully unprepared for the toll it takes on his sanity.
The trek down to the lake isnāt long, but with the noonday sun high in the sky, everyone is sweating by the time you arrive down at the dock. Clothes are eagerly shed in favor of sinking into the cool lake water. You waste no time, pulling your tank top overhead and wiggling out of your shorts.
It's not the first time Bucky has seen you in a bathing suit. But that was a different time, a different you. Gone are the sweet little one-piece swimsuits of your youth, replaced by a very enticing little bikini. Every curve of your body that the passage of time has wrought is on full display. Of course, you catch him staring, and you smile coyly before catapulting yourself off the end of the dock and into the water.
You resurface, laughing and gasping, as Bucky sets down the cooler and removes his shirt. He doesnāt have to look to know youāre watching, but he does anyway. He sees you floating on your back, observing him with a sirenās gaze.
Behind him, Steve smacks a mutual friend in the back of the head for staring at you. āThatās my sister, man,ā he warns.
Bucky's chest tightens with lingering guilt, and he hopes against hope that the water will cool the afternoon off, so to speak.
Wishful thinking.
Everyone else whiles away the hours laughing and splashing and relaxing, while Bucky is wound tight as a spring. He watches as Steve hoists you onto his shoulders, watches you squeal in delight as he tosses you into the water, and remembers the times when things could be easy and fun with you, in that way. But he canāt seem to trust himself around you anymore. It makes him feel sick to his stomach, sick of himself.
He sits on the edge of the dock, feet dangling into the water, a beer in his hands that is rapidly turning tepid from the summer heat. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots you hoisting yourself out of the water and onto the dock, lake water sluicing off your body. Bucky peels the label off the bottle and stares at the horizon while you dry yourself off.
A nudge at his shoulder grabs his attention. Youāre standing over him, a bottle of sunscreen in your hand and a smirk on your lips.
āCould you get my back?ā
Swallowing with difficulty, he looks back out towards the water where Steve and three other cabinmates are engaged in a game of chicken. He appears otherwise distracted, and it would be weirder of Bucky to refuse than just help you. It's an innocent enough activity, after all. Or it should be.
Bucky sighs and turns towards you, taking the bottle from your hands as you sit down in front of him.
You pull your damp hair over your shoulder and out of the way, glancing back at him. Bucky squeezes a dollop of sunscreen into his palm and begins to apply it to your shoulders. He works in silence and keeps his touch perfunctory, but he canāt help but note the warmth and softness of your skin.
His hands work lower and lower, until he has to slip his fingers beneath the strap of your swimsuit. He's a gentleman about it and doesnāt linger longer than he needs to, though he can feel a flush creeping into his face.
Itās so quiet for a moment that when you speak, it almost startles him. āAre you planning on ignoring me the whole rest of the trip?ā
āI'm not ignoring you,ā Bucky counters.
āBucky.ā You shoot him a skeptical look over your shoulder. āI've known you for, like, two thirds of my life. I can tell when youāre lying.ā
Bucky sighs again as he finishes working the sunscreen into your lower back and lets his hands fall away. āWhat do you want me to do?ā
You turn towards him. āI think you already know,ā you reply smartly, with an arch of your brow.
āJesus, I meanā¦ā He rubs his temple, looking everywhere but at you. āI already told you why this canāt happen,ā he says quietly.
You huff in annoyance and pick up the bottle of sunscreen off the dock. āWell, I think your little bro code is stupid.ā
Bucky chuckles under his breath in spite of himself at your bluntness.
Placing a hand on his shoulder, you turn him until heās facing away from you and begin to apply sunscreen to his back now, without having been asked. Bucky grows very still underneath your touch, trying desperately not to be affected by it. It's not really working.
āYou made your little promise when I wasā¦ what, fourteen?ā you continue. āWe're both adults now.ā
Bucky frowns. āSteve is my friend.ā
āSteve is a big boy. He'll get over it.ā
Bucky feels your hand run along his spine, nails dragging slightly, and he hates the way his cock stirs at the feeling.
āIām not gonna touch you,ā he says firmly. āNot like that.ā
āYou donāt want to?ā Youāre closer now, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your body inches from his back, your breath at his ear.
Bucky takes a deep, steadying breath. āIt's not about what I want.ā
Finally, your hands leave him, and Bucky doesnāt know whether to be thankful or disappointed.
āMaybe it should be,ā you muse softly, before getting to your feet and diving back into the water.
It's nearing the end of the first week. You've been so very, very patient. But youāre done waiting around for Bucky to stop torturing himself over nothing.
After dinner, everyone gathers around the bonfire to make sāmores for dessert. And youāre on a mission.Ā
You take up the seat directly across from him instead of next to him, where you know youāll be right in his eyeline all night. And as soon as the marshmallows come out, you put on a show.
For Steve's sake, as well as your cousins, you keep it on the subtle side. You craft a sāmore in a less-than-neat fashion, so naturally it makes a bit of a mess as you eat. And naturally, it leaves a few stray smears of chocolate and melted marshmallow on your fingers. And thereās no harm in licking away the evidence, not among friends and family. You're very thorough about it, not missing a single sticky morsel.
As you drag the pad of your thumb along the corner of your mouth and close your lips around it, you glance at Bucky across the fire pit.
Admittedly, heās doing an admirable job of keeping it together in front of Steve, but the tell is in his eyes. They're hungry, and they donāt waver when they connect with yours. It almost makes you shiver, despite the balmy temperature, and it makes you press your thighs together on instinct.
Because you know youāve got him ā hook, line, and sinker.
Phase two begins. You announce to your cousin sitting next to you that youāre heading inside to wash your hands. You make meaningful eye contact with Bucky as you stand. You turn to walk up the front steps of the cabin, screen door swinging shut behind you.
And you wait, your heartbeat thrumming in your ears.
Bucky is going to hell. He's sure of it. His fate is sealed as soon as he walks up the front steps.
But he does anyway, two minutes after you left the bonfire. It's a small consolation that no one seems to notice when he slips away.
He closes the screen door quietly, aware that this is probably the point of no return, his last chance to turn around and preserve his friendship with Steve from unnecessary risk.
He doesnāt turn back.
Light glows from the crack underneath the bathroom door down the hall. Swallowing back his nerves, he raps his knuckles softly on the door.
The door swings open, revealing you, excitement and a hint of smugness glittering in your eyes. You reach for his hand and gently pull him through the doorframe, and he shuts it behind him.
His back meets the cool wood seconds after, and his lips meet yours in a tangle of heat and desperation.Ā
You still taste sweet from your little performance with the sāmore, the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your skin. Bucky expects you to at least play at innocence first, but there is nothing innocent about this. Itās immediately filthy, your tongue in his mouth and your hands in his hair and your entire body pressed against his.
His hands find your hips, partly to steady himself and partly to bring you even closer. He tells himself that heās going to stop, that he just needs a taste of you and then he can go back out there like nothing happened. But you moan softly against his mouth, and he can already feel himself getting addicted.
Bucky had already been half-hard at the bonfire, watching you suck your fingers clean right in front of everyone without an ounce of shame. Now, as your lips wander across his jaw and down his neck, as you subtly rock your hips against his thigh, it feels like all the blood is rushing out of his brain and straight to his cock. Heās harder than heās been this entire trip so far, which is saying something, because heās been very hard, very often.
You reach for the button and zipper on his pants, and it snaps Bucky back to reality for a split second. He still has a chance to stop, to be the good guy, to not let this go any further.
āBaby,ā he pants. āI canātāā
āYou're not touching me.ā Holding his gaze, you slip your hand past the waistband of his boxers and wrap your fingers around his cock. āI'm touching you. It's okay.ā
Itās more following the letter than the spirit of the law. but when you stroke him, slow and firm from base to tip and back again, Buckyās head thuds back against the wood of the door. He knows heās not going to stop you. He's already going to hell, so he might as well enjoy the perks.
Once youāve successfully freed him from the confines of his shorts, you sink to your knees in front of him. Bucky's eyes widen as he looks down at you. Fuck, he really is going to hell, because heās about to let you do this. Heās about to let you suck his cock, all while your brother sits right outside the cabin, unaware.
Your hand slowly works him as you experimentally swirl your tongue around the tip, and Bucky lets out a shuddering breath. āJesus, youāreāā
The words die on his lips as you lick a long stripe along the underside of him, stroking a particularly sensitive vein. He lets out a startled moan, his hand finding your hair of its own accord.
āHoly shit,ā he whispers.
You donāt tease him for long. Perhaps you sense that heās too worked up for that, or perhaps you know time is limited before someone comes looking for one of you. Soon enough, you take him fully into your mouth, sinking down slowly.
Bucky watches, hypnotized. āLook at you,ā he murmurs, brushing your hair back from your face so he can watch how his cock sinks into the wet heat of your mouth, how your perfect lips wrap around him like you were made to ruin him. āGorgeous.ā
You moan around him, the vibration traveling down his cock and settling into his bones. His abs twitch and his hand tightens in your hair, and Bucky can tell this is going to be a pathetic showing of his stamina. You've barely started, and already heās starting to lose it.
Your head begins to bob, finding a rhythm as you work to take him further and further down your throat, applying the perfect amount of suction on the uptake. Bucky has to make a considerable effort to keep quiet, lest everyone outside hear exactly what the two of you are doing.Ā
Eventually, you take a long breath to prepare and take him so deep, your nose brushes the hair at the base of his cock. For a brief moment, Bucky wonders where you learned this, who youād practiced on at school, and the thought turns him a little bit feral.
You stay where you are for a moment, your throat tensing and relaxing as you struggle to accommodate him. And all of a sudden, Bucky becomes a man possessed.
His other hand tangles into your hair alongside the first. his hips twitching with the effort of keeping still, and he begs in a wrecked voice, āSweetheart, please, I needā I need toāā
Your hands slip to the backs of his thighs, squeezing lightly as you hum your encouragement.
With your permission granted, Bucky takes control. With his hands fisted in your hair, he fucks your face with with as much control as he can muster. Heās far gone, but not quite far enough where he can bear the idea of really hurting you.
You gaze up at him with hazy, dark eyes as you let him use you, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth as he feeds his cock down your throat.
āThat's it,ā Bucky groans, low and filthy. āYou take it so fuckinā good.ā
He starts to lose the fight for control, his thrusts becoming a little rougher, a little sloppier. Tears collect at the corners of those wide eyes, and he can feel and hear you gag around him.
āI know, honey, Iām sorry, I ā Iām almost done,ā he gasps, teetering on the edge, guilt and shame and arousal swirling in his gut.Ā
You gag again, and even though Bucky is seconds away from finishing, he loosens his grip on your head to give you room to pull away. He warns you in a strangled voice, āIām gonna come, baby, fuckāā
Your grip tightens on the back of his thighs. Stubborn and determined in spite of your need for air, you take him down your throat again, eyes locked on his. Bucky shoves his fist into his mouth to muffle his groan as he comes down your throat, shuddering as he feels you gag and swallow around him. You take every single drop, only pulling off when thereās nothing left to take. You cough and gasp for air and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.
Bucky gazes down at you in disbelief ā you on your knees in front of him, hair wrecked, face flushed, lips swollen. Guilt surging hot through his veins, he gently helps you to your feet.
āHoney, Iām so sorry, Iāā
āDonāt be.ā Those lips curl into a satisfied smirk.
āYou taste even nicer than I thought.ā
Bucky stands there in shock as you stretch up onto your toes to kiss him again, and he moans softly when he tastes himself on you. He responds with just as much enthusiasm, just as much hunger as before, in spite of how thoroughly youāve wrecked him.Ā
You pull away first, and he chases after your lips, still starving for more of you. Gently pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth, you murmur, āPeople are gonna be wondering where we are.ā
His arms tighten around your waist as he protests, āWhat about you?ā
āLater.āĀ
Bucky hisses as you gently tuck him back into his shorts, straightening out his clothes and hair with a smile.
āMeet me at the dock after everyoneās asleep.ā
You turn to the mirror and fix your own face, smoothing out your hair to look slightly less debauched.
āOkay,ā Bucky replies, a little bewildered.
Nudging him out of the way, you pull the door open, looking much more composed than he feels. āWait a couple minutes before you follow me out.ā
You slip out of the bathroom without another word.
When Bucky finally leaves the bathroom, he grabs another six pack of beer and tries not to look too visibly shaken as he heads back out of the cabin. You're already laughing with the group like the past five minutes didnāt even happen. Steve throws an arm around Buckyās shoulders when he sits back down, and it seems that nobody suspects a thing.
When your eyes meet his across the fire pit, they still glimmer with mischief and desire and the promise of more to come. And Bucky can already feel his body stirring in response, his hunger for you only momentarily sated.Ā
It's only the beginning.
The moon is a spotlight on the water as you look out from the dock.
The bonfire smoldered out about two hours ago, and youād snuck out almost an hour ago after your cousins had collapsed onto the air mattress, exhausted. The night air is cooler than it has been, a breeze coaxing goosebumps up the back of your neck.Ā
And you wait. It's made tolerable by the fact that you know you wonāt be waiting much longer.
Underneath the cicadaās song, you hear footsteps coming down the path. Bucky approaches, clad in a hoodie and pajama pants, looking almost shy with his hands in his pockets. A thrill of excitement runs down your spine just at the sight of him.
You lean back on your hands, looking him over openly. āI was starting to think you wouldnāt show.ā
āI'm not that much of an asshole,ā He chuckles sheepishly. Walking about halfway down the dock towards you, he stops for a moment, still hesitating after everything that has passed between you.
It's a little endearing and, at the same time, almost frustrating. Most of all, it makes you hungry.Ā
āYou just gonna stand there, or are you gonna come kiss me?ā you ask, a smile playing at your lips.
Bucky rises to the challenge, closing the distance and sitting next to you on the wooden dock. He reaches out a careful hand, brushing your hair back from your face in a surprisingly tender gesture, considering what transpired in the bathroom earlier. Maybe because of it. Maybe he feels a little guilty about it, though you know he shouldn't. He wouldnāt feel that way if he knew how much it had turned you on.
This time, he kisses you first, slow and sweet and entirely too patient for how long youāve been waiting for this.
Your fingers curl into his hoodie, pulling him closer. You invite him in, opening your mouth for him and letting out a soft whimper when he accepts the invitation, his tongue sliding against yours.Ā
It doesnāt take long for the kiss to turn messy, needy, heated. Youāre not sure whose idea it is for you to climb into his lap, who exactly initiated that particular move. But there you are, your hips flush against him, his cock already rising to the occasion and pressing where youāve been aching for him all night.
āYou got any idea,ā he mumbles against your lips, āhow crazy youāve made me these last few days?ā
You pull back with a smirk.
āConsider it payback.ā
āPayback for what?ā
āAll those years I was following you around like a lovesick puppy,ā you explain as you play with the strings of his hoodie, āand you didnāt even look in my direction.ā
āYeah?ā For the first time since the two of you arrived at the cabin, he breaks out into that boyish grin youāve always adored, the one that made you fall for him in the first place. He leans in and kisses the soft skin just below your jaw. āYou had a crush on me?ā
āDon't pretend you didnāt know, you dick!ā You smack his chest playfully, fighting a sigh as he drags his lips along your neck. You can feel the ghost of that smile against your skin as he laughs softly.
āOkay, okay,ā he concedes. āI might have had an inkling.ā Another kiss, this one pressed to the hollow beneath your ear, earning another quiet whimper from you. āBut I didnāt want to encourage you.ā
You like how playful heās being with you now. It's how things always should have been between you ā easy, familiar, natural, without all that guilt in the way. Without your brotherās masculine pride and overprotective nature looming over your heads.
āThis is pretty encouraging,ā you reply breathlessly, rolling your hips against his. His hard cock grinds into your clit through the layers of clothing between you, and you both gasp nearly in unison.
āJesus.ā Bucky grasps your hips to still you, looking at you seriously for a moment. āIf we do thisā¦ we canāt tell Steve."
āWasnāt planning on it.ā
You wish heād let you move again, but his eyes grow worried. āI don'tā¦ I don't have anything with me. I wasn't exactly expecting...ā
Leaning to press a brief kiss to his lips, you whisper, āI'm clean. And on the pill.ā
His eyes darken with want. āYou really have grown up, sweetheart,ā he remarks, chasing after your lips again.
Bucky loosens his grip on you, and his breath hitches as you slowly grind in his lap again.
āIām clean, too,ā he murmurs, pulling back far enough to get a good look at your face. āBut only if youāre sure.ā
You nod as you reach for the zipper of his hoodie. āIām sure.ā
Youāve never been more sure of anything in your life.
Bucky generously allows you to remove his hoodie and tug off his shirt, even more generously allows you to look your fill. Youāve seen him shirtless probably dozens of times over the years, but it never fails to spark your excitement. You run your hands down his chest, his abs, your nails dragging just slightly. He groans under his breath, the sound an echo of the ones heād made in the bathroom.
Only now, the two of you donāt have to be quiet. You're far enough away from the cabin that your moans are swallowed up by the cicadas in the trees.
Warm, calloused fingers curl beneath the hem of your t-shirt as Bucky's lips brush against your sternum. He peels the garment off of you, his eyes full of wonder and desire as he takes them over your bare chest.Ā
āYouāre so beautiful,ā he mutters, cupping your breasts in each hand.
His mouth descends to one, his hand idly exploring the other, and your gasp pierces the night air. You've waited years, a decade and some change, for him to touch you like this. His tongue carefully strokes your nipple, and it makes you ache and pulse and want him so badly you can barely breathe right.
You want to let him take his time, to stretch this moment as long as it can last. But his ministrations soon have you rocking rhythmically in his lap, seeking relief as the ache between your legs builds.
āBucky,ā you whimper, āplease.āĀ
Bucky reluctantly breaks away from worshipping your chest, and a small crease forms between his eyebrows. For a moment, you worry that the old hesitation is back, that things will stall.
āJustā¦ gimme a second here,ā he mumbles as he reaches for his hoodie.
He shifts you off his lap and spreads the hoodie out on the cool wood of the dock. Then he guides you backwards until youāre laid on top of it. The gesture makes you giggle affectionately.
āSuch a gentleman,ā you tease.
But he doesnāt laugh. He wears a hangdog expression as he leans over you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. āI'm sorry. You deserve nicer than this.ā
You tilt your head. You're exactly where you want to be. What could be nicer than this?
Sensing your confusion, he rubs the back of his neck and addresses the trees. āInside, in a real bed. Not a secret hookup in the middle of the woods.ā
You can see the guilt, the shame resurfacing his eyes, and youāll have none of that. So you reach up and take his face in your hands.
āBucky. Look at me.ā
He does, albeit reluctantly.
āThis is perfect. I'm under the stars, in my favorite place in the world, with someone I trust.ā You weave your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, hoping that honesty will break through the guilt. Softly, you amend your statement. āSomeone I love.ā
It might be too much, but itās true. You've loved him for practically your whole life. As a friend, and as more than a friend. As a fixture in your life as constant as the sun. And it feels right to tell him, even though part of you is worried that it could ruin everything.
Bucky is silent for a moment, realization filling his eyes. There's something else, too ā something like discovery, like finding something.
The silence extends long enough that it starts to make you nervous.
āToo much?ā you ask, so quiet it barely disturbs the night air.
āNo,ā Bucky replies. āNot at all.ā
His mouth dips to meet yours again, and you donāt even mind that he doesnāt say it back. You know that he loves you, even if itās not the exact same way, and you can feel how he wants you. That's more than enough.Ā
Fingers slip past the waistband of your pajama shorts, past the fabric of your underwear, until they drag through the slick mess gathered between your legs. The sound you make in response is equal parts relief and need.
Ever the gentleman, Bucky works you open, not exactly rushing, but not exactly taking his sweet time either. You can feel how bad he wants this as his hard cock nudges at your thigh, that he wants this just as bad as you do.
Then he drags your shorts and underwear down, down, until youāre naked underneath him, under the stars and the moon, in the open night air where anyone could see you if they happened to walk by. You donāt give a damn in the slightest, because Bucky is looking at you like you invented having a body, like he canāt believe youāre real.
At last, Bucky settles between your legs, shoving his pajama pants down just far enough to free himself. A slow drag of his cock against you coats him in your wetness, both of you panting in anticipation.
Ā Carefully as he can manage, he pushes inside, and you gasp at the sudden fullness. It's overwhelming and right and everything you knew it would be.
Bucky's forehead drops to your shoulder, clearly struggling to keep it together, breath ragged. āJesus christ, youāre so fuckinā tight.ā
āYou feel so āā You cut yourself off with a moan when he moves, hips withdrawing and then snapping them into yours, driving himself into you. āāso good, Buck.ā
āBaby,ā he nearly growls, hips snapping perfectly against yours once again, āyou feel like you were made for me.ā
As he moves inside you, everything else disappears ā the trees, the dock underneath you, the stars above you. You could be in a five star hotel, as far as youāre concerned. You're on cloud nine, because after years of dreaming of this moment, itās finally real. Bucky on top of you, inside of you, his moans and encouragement and endless praise on your ear. Every sound, every word, every thrust driving you closer and closer to climax.
His hand slips between your bodies, finding your clit and making your body arch beneath him as he rubs tight little circles into it. Your body clenches around him as you cry out, your pleasure climbing higher and higher. His words turn to stream-of-consciousness, rambles of pleasure and praise.
Somewhere in the middle of it, something slips out that sends you reeling through space.
āSo good,ā he groans softly, his mouth lowering to taste the sweat on your neck. āLove you so much, honey.ā
Youāre not sure if he even meant to say it out loud, but the effect is immediate and all-consuming. You clutch him against you, your heart swelling, your lips crying his name as you come apart around him.Ā
A wrecked moan spills out of him as his rhythm falters, thrusts turning sloppy and rough. āFuck, iām close,ā he pants, his eyes finding yours. āYou want me toāā
āInside,ā you beg, clutching him tighter, aftershocks of pleasure still pulsing through you. āPlease, I want it.ā
With a shudder and a curse, he buries himself inside you, hot pulses of his spend filling you as he thrusts shallowly to push it deeper. You feel claimed, marked, owned. What a glorious thing, to be claimed by him. You think if you could see yourself from the outside, youād be glowing all over like a bonfire.
As the two of you come back to yourselves, Bucky brushes a tender kiss against your jaw and carefully pulls out of you. He rolls off of you, his back meeting the wood of the dock, his chest still heaving as he recovers.
For a few moments, the two of you stare up at the glittering sky, the reality of the situation settling in now that the intensity of sensation wanes.
You turn, curling into his side, and his arm drifts around you on instinct, natural as breathing.
āDid youā¦ did you mean it?ā you ask quietly.
It could have been the heat of the moment, and you wouldnāt blame him if it had been. People say all kinds of things when theyāre about to come, things that look different in the afterglow and in the light of day. You know he cares about you. But you need to know how much truth lived in those words.
āYeah.ā He looks down at you, his eyes so soft and affectionate that it almost makes you want to climb on top of him again. His hand finds yours, fingers weaving together and resting against his chest. āI did.ā
That's when it sinks in. This isnāt a one-time, clandestine rendezvous in the woods that youāll both carry to the grave. Itās not something that will fade in the daylight. It will repeat itself. It will make demands. It will not keep to the shadows. It will not be easy to hide.
You sigh. āWe have to tell Steve, donāt we?ā
Bucky's sigh mirrors yours. āYeah.ā
āHeās gonna kill you.ā
āYeah.āĀ
His lips brush against the crown of your head, his voice already resigned to his fate. āStill worth it.ā
ź° wc ź± 20k words
ź° summaryź± bucky barnes can handle almost anything except the way you make him feel chosen one moment and disposable the next. loving you would be simple, if you werenāt so fucking confusing.
.į contents |
18+ (MDNI), college au, situationship, bucky pov, avoidant!reader, lovesick!bucky, mutual pining, asshole!bucky miscommunication, commitment issues, yearning!bucky, toxic relationship, reader is emotionally avoidant, alcohol and weed use, unprotected piv sex, drunk sex, oral sex (f receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, rough sex, dirty talk, jealousy, bucky goes through ittt,
.į lizzyās note |
it has been such an honour being apart of this collab. i love it so much. thank you so much to @iamthatonefangirl and @barnesonly for hosting this beautiful cutesy collab, and putting all this effort and thought in, love you bwabies. on another note this fic has also been the bane of my existence. literally created this fic for one scene in mind, only to not add it because i didnt have time, im actually devastated.
anyway enjoy my loves <3
BWAT MASTERLIST ā MASTERLIST
divider by my bby @barnesonly
The night was going perfectly until you walked in.
Bucky had a sweating bottle of beer hooked between two fingers, the label curling pink under his damp thumb.
Sam was pressed against his side, yelling something loudly idiotic directly into his ear; something about a bet, or a dare, or a girl whose name Bucky would forget by morning. He caught none of it.
The kitchen was chanting his name. The sound bounced off the sticky counters and the sweat-slick walls, a drunk, gleeful roar for a drinking game he didnāt remember starting, let alone winning.
He bared his teeth in a grin, let the noise wash over him like a wave of approval he was too buzzed to question.
Some girl he couldnāt name had dragged her glitter-dusted fingers across his cheekbone an hour ago, leaving a streak of lime-green that caught the strobe light like a neon sign against his skin.
Steve had been pretending not to laugh about it for the last twenty minutes, mouth tight, eyes bright with amusement every time he caught Bucky working the room with a fresh smear of sparkle on his face.
The whole house smelled like it was sweating out its own wild heart; weed smoke curling thick through the pulsing lights, cheap perfume wrestling with spilled beer and tequila, the sour-sweet musk of bodies pressed too close for too long.
It smelled like a night everyone would be pretending not to regret by the time the sun burned through the blinds.
A girl from Tonyās econ classāEdenā¦ or Edith, he couldnāt rememberāhad her fingers locked around his wrist, tugging him toward the hallway where the bass bled into something slower, heavier.
The lights back there flickered green, pulsing like a heartbeat under the floorboards. She was pulling him toward the dark, and her lips were parted, and she was saying something he didnāt need to hear to understand.
Bucky let himself be pulled.
One step. Part of a grin. His thumb dragging across her knuckles in a promise he had made to a hundred girls before her. He was already opening his mouth, ready to offer something charming and perfectly hollow.
Then the front door opened.
He didnāt hear it. Not over the bass that was rattling the drywall. Not over Samās drunken cackle. Not over the sharp crash of glass shattering somewhere behind him, Thor probably, baptising another piece of the house with whatever expensive bottle heād smuggled in from Norway. The kitchen cheered.
But Buckyās head turned anyway.
Like gravity had taken the decision out of his hands.
You stepped in behind Natasha, Gamora a quiet shadow at your shoulder, and you were already laughing, hand pressed to Natashaās forearm, mouth shaped around a sound the party swallowed whole.
You hadnāt seen him yet.
That, he thought, was always the worst part. Those few seconds where he got to want you without having to hide it. Where he could let the grin slide off his face and justĀ lookĀ at you.
Let himself want, openly, stupidly, while the party roared on around him and his hand was still wrapped around some other girlās wrist.
He must have gone still. Must have stopped grinning, because Sam followed the line of his stare like a bloodhound catching scent.
Sam groaned, and slapped a heavy hand against Buckyās shoulder.
āOh, here we fucking go.ā
He felt like an impatient puppy, and he hated it, hated the way his pulse had picked up, the way his palm had gone clammy around the bottle, the way he couldnāt stop tracking the curve of your ass as you drifted through the crowd.
Eden/Edith was still talking. Her fingers were sliding up his forearm, nails scraping lightly, trying to reclaim the heat sheād had a lock on before the front door opened.
She didnāt know it yet, but she had absolutely no chance.
Bucky let her touch linger for a beat longer than polite, just long enough to make her think she was still in the running, then he let his gaze drift past her face like sheād already become background noise.
She was still talking, something about a quieter room, a better view from the upstairs balcony, but her words were just shapes in the air, meaningless vibrations against the bass.
He waited. Watched you, Natasha and Gamora carve out a corner of the living room, claiming a sagging couch and a half-empty bottle of something pink. You settled into the cushions like you owned them, one leg tucked under you, head tilted toward Gamora as she said something that made you smile.
And then Scott Lang appeared, as if summoned by the scent of a female audience, already gesturing wildly with both hands, launching into a story that was probably 80% fabrication.
The girl from econ was still talking. Bucky shrugged her hand off his arm and walked away mid-sentence.
He crossed the room with the lazy, unhurried confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was going and knew heād be welcome when he got there. Scott was still going, his voice rising in pitch as he reached the climax of whatever tall tale he was spinning now.
āāand I swear to God, Hope looked me dead in the eye and said, āIf you canāt fit it through the door, itās not coming home with us.ā And I said, āWatch me.āā
āThat did not happen, Lang,ā Natasha cut in, shaking her head, but the smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her.
āOn Hopeās life it did,ā Scott insisted, pressing a hand to his chest. āWould I lie to you girls?ā
The three of you exchanged a look. It was skeptical, humoured, a shared hum that was more mocking than affirming. Scott opened his mouth to continue, but Bucky was already moving into the gap.
āLadies,ā he said, drawling the word like it was a gift he was bestowing. He smiled, a little lopsided, the lime-green glitter catching the light as he shouldered his way into the space between you and Gamora on the couch.
āFor fuckās sake, Barnes,ā Gamora muttered, but she shifted, grudgingly making room. Buckyās focus was already locked on you, his body angled toward yours like a compass needle finding north.
He settled in, his thigh pressing against yours, the heat of him bleeding through the thin fabric of your jeans. He slung an arm across the back of the couch, his fingers dangling just behind your shoulder, claiming the space around you like it was his by right.
āParty started at nine,ā he said, his voice already slurred with alcohol and the kind of confidence that came from knowing he was the best thing in the room. He was grinning, his pupils blown wide in the dim light. āItās almost twelve. Whatās your excuse?ā
You laughed, and the sound of it hit him somewhere low in his chest. āYouāve never heard of fashionably late, Buck?ā
He rolled his eyes, the gesture exaggerated and fond. āWhatever, doll.ā
The word hung between you, before your hand moved almost on instinct. Your thumb came up to his cheek, pressing gently against the glitter clinging to his skin. The green flecks caught the dim light, and your touch was featherlight, curious, your brow arching as you rubbed at the shimmer.
āAnd where is this from?ā you asked, your voice carrying that edge of playful interrogation he knew too well.
Buckyās brain short-circuited. The warmth of your palm against his cheek, the way your fingers lingered just a second too long ,it was enough to make him forget his own name, let alone the girl whose hands had been all over him an hour ago. He blinked, swallowed, and the lie came easy.
āBarton.ā He said it flatly, like it was obvious. āGot bored. Started throwing glitter at people. You know how he gets.ā
He held your gaze, hoping the alcohol flush hid the flicker of guilt. He didnāt want to sayĀ some girl blonde chick whose face heād already forgotten. Didnāt want to see that hint of somethingājealousy? disappointment?ācross your features. Even if he wasnāt sure it would.
Before you could press further, his hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist. His fingers were warm, slightly sticky from condensation and beer, and he tugged gently, an insistent pull that was more plea than demand.
āCome with me.ā
You didnāt move. Your grin was still in place, but your body stayed rooted, and you tilted your head, giving him your best scolding look, the one that made his stomach twist because it meant you were about to say no.
āI just got here, Buck. Donāt be rude.ā
He huffed, the sound escaping him like an impatient child denied a treat. His jaw tightened, and he turned his head, addressing the two women lounging beside you with exaggerated politeness that was almost ridiculous given his disheveled state.
āMay I steal your friend for a few moments? Please?ā He even tacked on a smile, though it came out a little strained.
Gamora didnāt bother hiding her irritation. She shot him a look that could curdle milk, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously likeĀ dumbass.
It was Natasha who answered, her eyes flickering between the two of you with an amusement that made Bucky feel like a specimen under a microscope.
āJust bring her back in one piece,ā Natasha said, raising her glass in a lazy toast. āPreferably still clothed.ā
Buckyās mouth opened, but no words came out. He didnāt have time to form a response, because you were already opening your mouth to protest, and he wasnāt about to give you the chance.
He tugged. Harder this time. You stumbled forward, a surprised laugh escaping your lips as he pulled you off the couch and into the crowd. His hand stayed wrapped around your wrist, a warm anchor as he weaved through bodies and noise, dragging you behind him like a prize heād won.
āWhere are you taking me, Bucky?ā you called over the music, your voice half-laughing, half-breathless.
āYouāll see,ā he shouted back, not bothering to turn around. His eyes scanned ahead, spotting the staircase, the path clear for now. He felt your wrist shift against his grip, and without thinking, he slid his hand down, interlacing your fingers with his.
Behind him, across the room, Edith/Eden was still watching. Her glare burned against the back of his neck, but he didnāt feel it. He didnāt feel anything except the warmth of your palm pressed against his, the sound of your laughter cutting through the bass, and the need to get you alone.
By the time the door slammed shut behind them, the bass from downstairs was just a dull throb through the walls, a welcome relief from the chaos of the party.
Buckyās room was a disaster; clothes spilling out of an open drawer, the sour tang of old beer cans mingling with the familiar musk of his cologne, a single lamp casting a weak amber glow over the wreckage.
He didnāt spare it a second glance, making a beeline for his dresser like a man on a mission.
You lingered by the door, arms crossed, taking in the scene with a slow, deliberate sweep of your eyes. āJesus Christ, Bucky,ā you said, your voice flat and deeply amused. āYouāre a pig.ā
Bucky snorted, a low, warm sound that vibrated through his chest. He didnāt bother turning around. His fingers dug through the wreckage of his top drawer, pushing aside a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a stray condom wrapper that had seen better days.
āCrash here tonight,ā he tossed over his shoulder, the words slurring just a little around the edges, āand you can be my maid of honour. Organise my sock drawer. Judge my questionable life choices.ā
His fingers finally closed around the small metal tin hidden at the very back. He pulled it out like a trophy, turning just in time to catch the affronted scoff that escaped your lips.
āYou wish, Barnes.ā
Your voice was sharp, dismissive, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
Bucky held your gaze for a beat too long, something hot and unguarded flickering in his chest. His mouth moved before his brain caught up. āYeah,ā he murmured, turning to his desk to hide the sudden heat creeping up his neck. āSweetheart, I wish every damn night.ā
He busied himself with the familiar ritual of rolling; paper, weed, a careful distribution; refusing to look back, refusing to see if your expression shifted.
A beat of silence. Then your voice came again, softer now, laced with amusement. āYou know, youāre cute when your brain-to-mouth filter is busted.ā
He snorted, ducking his head to hide the grin spreading across his face. āShut up.ā
He was methodical despite the drink swimming in his veins, surprisingly steady. He sprinkled the weed, spread it even, and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger with a practiced ease that came from plenty of late nights just like this one.
His tongue darted out to wet the edge of the paper, sealing it shut with a final, satisfied press.
When he turned around, holding the blunt up between his fingers like a prize, his grin was crooked. āLook what I got.ā
You had perched yourself on the edge of his bed, hands planted behind you, legs crossed. The springs creaked under your weight. That same infuriating, amused smile was painted across your face, like he was a puppet and you were the one pulling the strings.
Like his entire purpose in the universe was to make you laugh, to make you roll your eyes, to make you look at him with that perfect mix of exasperation and warmth.
And God help him, heād take it. Heād take every scrap of attention you threw his way.
āOn a scale of one to āIām about to make a terrible decisionā,ā you asked, tilting your head, āwhere exactly are you right now, Bucky?ā
He crossed the room in a few long strides, closing the distance until he was standing right in front of you. The blunt hung loose between his fingers.
āEnough that I know exactly how bad of an idea this is, sweetheart.ā His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist, fingers warm and calloused. He pulled you to your feet before you could brace yourself.
You stumbled into him, palms flat against his chest, the blunt pressed gently between your bodies for a fleeting second. āAnd Iām doing it anyway.ā
He didnāt let go. Instead, he slid his hand down, threading his fingers through yours, and tugged you toward the window, the one that led to the fire escape.
āCāmon. Letās get high.ā
Fifteen minutes dissolved into a warm, syrupy haze where time stopped mattering and the only gravity left in the universe was the curve of your body against his.
Bucky was laughing; a low, breathless, almost giddy sound; right against your open mouth. The space between you had surrendered completely, chest to chest, your thighs brushing his, the bitter-sweet taste of the blunt lacing every shared exhale.
Heād stopped passing the joint a while ago. Now it was just a prop, a thin ember burning slowly between his fingers while he held it up to your lips like he was feeding you something sacred. You took a drag without him asking, lips parting automatically, eyes never leaving his.
āThat was my last,ā you murmured as you pulled back, the smoke curling from your lips in a lazy ribbon.
You didnāt bother aiming it away from him. He wished youād blow it directly into his mouth so he could taste you.
āNo such thing as ālastā with me, sweetheart.ā His words were slow, syrup-thick, drunk on you more than the alchol in his system. āYou started this. Gotta finish what you started.ā
He brought the blunt back to your lips before you could argue, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. You took another hit, holding his gaze like a challenge.
āYouāre such a bad influence on me, Barnes.ā
Bucky huffed a laugh, shaking his head, the dopey grin on his face mirroring yours. āIām the bad influence?ā
He leaned closer, his nose brushing the shell of your ear, voice dropping to a rough, amused murmur. āBaby, Iām just following your lead. You walked into that party looking like a full-course meal. You climbed out my window. Youāre the one keeping me out here, freezing my ass off, just to watch you smoke my weed and smile at me like Iām your favourite toy.ā
He pulled back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide, lips parted.
āIf anyoneās the devil here, sweetheartā¦ itās definitely you.ā
Your dopey smile stretched wider, pushing up your cheeks, eyes crinkling at the corners. He almost groaned at the sight. The way you looked at him; like he was a puzzle you were enjoying taking apart, piece by piece.
āShut up,ā you said, your voice soft, fond, dismissive.
The words were barely a whisper before his came, immediate and rough.
āMake me.ā
The air between you snapped taut. Your smile faded into something heavier, something that made his pulse skip and slam double-time. He didnāt move. Didnāt breathe. He just stared you down, waiting,Ā daringĀ you, his arm tightening around your waist like he was ready to hold you there forever if thatās what it took.
Your eyes dropped to his lips.
Yes. Yes. Close the distance. Kiss me. Let me feel those lips against mine.
He watched you watch him. Watched the hesitation flicker behind your hooded eyes. Watched the want and the caution war inside you. He wanted to beg. Wanted to grab your jaw and bridge the gap himself.
But he held still, letting you make the call, letting you feel the weight of the choice hanging between you.
Instead, you broke the spell with a grin, that same infuriating, playful grin, and shoved him square in the chest.
āAs fun as this is, watching you turn into a lovesick mess, Natās gonna send a search party if Iām gone much longer.ā
You didnāt wait for an answer. You twisted out of his grip, the hem of your shirt riding up just enough to flash the smooth skin of your lower back as you climbed back through the window.
Bucky bit back a groan so sharp it almost hurt. He dragged a hand down his face, letting out a frustrated breath that fogged in the cool air. His entire body was humming, wired, aching.
He didnāt give himself time to think. He followed you on your heels, dropping through the window and landing in the mess of his room just as your feet hit the floor. His hand shot out, catching your wrist, spinning you gently but firmly back to face him.
āYouāre gonna pay for that, you know.ā
Your eyebrows lifted, amused. āPay for what?ā
āLeaving a man hanging.ā His voice was lower now, rougher, stripped of the playful buzz. āMaking me follow you around like some puppy. Dangling yourself in front of me and then slipping away.ā
You tilted your head, that infuriating smile still playing at your lips. āPoor Bucky. Must be so hard, wanting something you canāt just charm your way into.ā
His jaw tightened. There was no malice in your voice; just teasing, still wrapped in that same playful edge that had been driving him up the wall all night.
But something in him snagged on it anyway.
Maybe it was the weed, loosening the screws in his head. Maybe it was the beer, sticky and warm in his bloodstream.
Maybe it was the simple, agonising fact that you were standing in his room with your mouth still soft and swollen from smiling at him, your wrist warm and alive under his thumb, acting like he was insane for wanting the very thing you kept placing just out of reach.
Buckyās thumb pressed into the delicate skin over your pulse. He felt it skip. Felt the flutter of it beneath his touch, like a bird trapped in a cage of bone and breath.
āMaybe Iām not trying to charm my way into it.ā
Your smile didnāt fall all at once. That wouldāve been merciful.
It faded slowly, like a candle snuffed from across the room, a gradual dimming that left shadows in its wake. Your brows pulled together, the teasing tilt of your head softening into something careful. As if you were reading the fine print of a contract you hadnāt agreed to.
Bucky shouldāve stopped there.
He knew he shouldāve. He could feel the edge of it under his feet, that familiar precipice where the air changed and you started looking for the nearest exit without ever moving toward the door. Your eyes flickered, just once. Toward escape.
But he was drunk. He was high. And he was so goddamn tired of wanting you like a dog waiting under a dinner table for scraps, hungry and patient, and always left with nothing.
So he kept going.
āMaybe Iām just trying to figure out what the hell you want from me.ā
Your eyes searched his face, hunting for the joke, the punchline, the easy way out.
For one second, you looked almost wounded. Like he had reached past the game and touched something raw without asking first. Your lips parted, and something flickered behind your eyes.
Then you blinked, and it was gone. Wiped clean like a slate.
āBucky.ā
He hated the way you said his name then. Soft. Gentle. Like a warning whispered to a child on the verge of a tantrum. Like you were trying to calm something down before it made a mess.
āWhat?ā he asked, though his voice had already lost its bite, gone flat and hollow.
āYouāre drunk.ā
He laughed once, short and humourless, the sound scraping out of his throat. āYeah, you said that already.ā
āAnd high.ā
āAnd still not stupid.ā His voice cracked on the last word, betraying him.
Your lips pressed together into a thin, unreadable line.
There it was. The wall. Not slammed up, not obvious enough for anyone else to notice, but Bucky felt it like a physical shift in the air. Your wrist went still in his hand, no longer warm, no longer responsive. Your shoulders drew back half an inch, a subtle retreat.
Your gaze flicked past him, toward the door, toward the party, toward anything that was not this room and the thing he had just dragged into the light.
His stomach dropped before you even spoke.
āI should go back downstairs.ā
Of course.
Bucky let go of your wrist like it had burned him. His hand fell to his side, fingers curling into a loose fist, the ghost of your pulse still tingling against his palm.
āRight.ā
Your expression shifted. Something tight and wounded flickered across your features before you smoothed it over.
āDonāt do that.ā
āDo what?ā
āThat.ā You gestured vaguely at his face, at the flatness in his eyes, the bitter set of his jaw. āAct like I did something.ā
He stared at you.
You stared back.
Downstairs, someone screamed with laughter, swallowed by the bass that kicked harder for a few seconds, rattling an empty beer can on his desk. The sound skittered across the wood like a nervous heartbeat.
Bucky dragged his tongue across his teeth, tasting smoke and bitterness. He nodded once, like he had just figured something out. Like the pieces had finally clicked into place, and the picture wasnāt pretty.
āYou didnāt,ā he said, and his voice came out rougher than he intended. āThatās kind of the whole point, isnāt it?ā
Something flashed across your face.
Hurt, maybe. Guilt. A flicker of recognition at the truth buried under his words.
Or maybe he was making things up again because he wanted so badly for there to be something underneath all that pretty nothing you kept giving him. Wanted it like a bruise he couldnāt stop pressing.
Your voice was quieter when you said, āI was just joking with you.ā
āYeah,ā he said, forcing a smile that felt wrong on his mouth. āYouāre good at that.ā
The air stalled between you.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. You stood there in the weak amber light of his disaster of a room, the glow spilling from the desk lamp casting long shadows across the cluttered floor.
Close enough that he could still smell smoke on your breath, mixed with something sweet, your lip gloss, maybe, or the conditioner you used. Far enough that he knew if he reached for you again, you would probably let him.
That was the worst part.
You would let him.
You would let him touch your waist, pull you into him by the hand. You would sigh against his mouth like you had been waiting for it. You would make him feel like he had finally cracked through every wall you built.
And then tomorrow, in front of everyone, you would smile at him like none of it had happened. Like he was just another face in the crowd.
Bucky swallowed. His throat clicked dryly.
āGo on, then,ā he said, nodding toward the door. āNatās waiting, right?ā
Your eyes lifted to his.
He could tell you didnāt like that. Could tell by the tiny pinch between your brows, the way your mouth parted around a response you didnāt seem to have ready. He had pushed too hard, and now you were scrambling for solid ground.
But you still went.
You brushed past him, shoulder grazing his chest, and he hated himself for noticing the contact, the warmth of you through the thin fabric of your top. Hated himself more for wanting to turn his head and follow the line of your back as you moved away.
At the door, your hand closed around the knob. The metal turned with a soft click.
Then you paused.
āBuck?ā
He looked at you because he always looked when you said his name like that.
You seemed to regret calling for him the second he did. Your face softened, and for one stupid, awful second, he thought you might come back. He thought you might say sorry. He thought you might say anything real enough for him to hold onto.
Instead, you gave him a small smile.
āDonāt sulk too much.ā
Then you slipped out, leaving the door half-open behind you. The hallway light bled across the floor, carrying muffled voices and the thrum of music.
Bucky stood there for a few seconds, heart punching slow and heavy against his ribs, listening to the party swallow you back whole.
Then he laughed under his breath,low and mean and mostly at himself. The sound scraped out of his chest and died in the empty air.
āYeah,ā he muttered to the cluttered room. āSure.ā
Bucky hated spring festivals.
That was a lie.
Usually, he loved this shit. Loved the noise, the way the quad swarmed with bodies in a heat that felt almost reckless for April, the sun bleaching the grass and pavement into something too bright, too clean.
Loved the cheap beer poured into plastic cups and hidden inside soda cans, the shameless excuse to get drunk in broad daylight and call it school spirit.
Usually, he would have walked in like he owned the whole fucking place.
Today, he trailed Sam and Steve through the crowd with his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets and a mood that sat heavy in his chest; sour, curdled, thick enough to spoil the entire afternoon.
Sam was talking. Steve was answering. The two of them had been at it for at least five minutes about something Bucky couldnāt muster the energy to care about.
Something about whether Clint could legally enter the pie-eating contest twice if he changed his shirt between rounds.
āHe wore a wig, man,ā Sam was saying, his voice threaded with genuine affront. āLike that was supposed to make people forget heās still Clint fucking Barton.ā
Steve exhaled a short, tired laugh. āThe volunteer was a freshman. She panicked.ā
āShe panicked because he called himself Clara Barta.ā
Bucky stared past them at a girl in a neon-green cowboy hat trying to scale someoneās shoulders and nearly eating shit in the grass.
He wasnāt hearing any of it properly.
His eyes kept drifting before he could stop them. Over the food trucks. Across the knot of bodies near the makeshift stage. Past the sorority booth selling overpriced lime slushies.
Toward every flash of gold jewelry, every laugh that pitched too close to yours, every figure moving beside a redhead or a girl with a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
He was not looking for you.
He wasnāt.
He had told himself that before they even left the house. Had stood in front of the bathroom mirror, dragging his toothbrush across his teeth with too much force, and decided it with a mouthful of mint and stubbornness.
He did not care if you were there. He did not care if you saw him.
He cared, specifically and deeply, about not caring if you didnāt.
If you came up to him, he would be normal. Worse than normal. He would be casual. Cold, even. Polite in a way designed to make you feel stupid for once.
He would not give you that pathetic, eager opening you always seemed to find in him, the one you could press your fingers into until he forgot every reason he had to be angry.
No.
This time, if you wanted his attention, you could fucking work for it.
āYou good?ā Steve asked.
Bucky blinked.
The question cut through the static in his head like a blade he hadnāt realised was already buried there. Sam and Steve had both stopped walking.
They were looking at him now. Sam with one brow arched high enough to belong on its own zip code, Steve wearing that careful, irritating brand of concern that made Bucky want to throw something soft and harmless directly at his face.
The sun was hot on the back of his neck. The breeze carried the scent of grilled meat and spilled soda, and somewhere a group of girls screamed with laughter over the loudspeaker.
āWhat?ā
Samās mouth twisted into a grin that was half amusement, half disbelief. āHe lives.ā
āIām good,ā Bucky said, the words flat and dismissive.
āYou sure?ā Steve pressed, his voice quieter now.
āChrist, Rogers, I said Iām good.ā
Sam lifted both hands in surrender, palms out. āNobody said you werenāt. You just looked like you were trying to blow up a lemonade stand with your mind.ā
Bucky looked over.
Sure enough, he had been glaring in the vague direction of a table draped in yellow streamers, a handwritten sign propped crooked against a stack of plastic cups readingĀ FRESH LEMONADE $3.
The freshman behind the table, a blonde in a floral sundress, met his stare for half a second before quickly dropping her gaze to the pitcher, her shoulders hitching like sheād been caught stealing.
Great. Perfect.
Now he was terrorising citrus vendors because some girl with pretty eyes and a talent for emotional warfare had ruined his entire fucking week.
āIām getting a drink,ā he muttered.
āFrom the lemonade stand?ā Sam asked.
āFuck off.ā
Steve sighed, a long, tired exhale that Bucky knew too well, but by then he was already walking.
The festival sprawled across the quad in every direction, bright and loud and obnoxiously alive.
Someone had draped green streamers from the trees, their edges curling in the afternoon breeze. The grass was littered with crushed cups and abandoned flyers and bodies lounging in the sun.
A group of guys from the rowing team were shouting around the dunk tank, already shirtless, already sunburnt to a shade of pink that had to hurt. Music pulsed from the stage where some sophomore with a guitar was butchering a song Bucky vaguely recognised.
Normally, it would have been easy.
Smile. Drink. Flirt. Win something stupid from one of the booths while the crowd cheered like it mattered.
Let a girl press herself against his side, her fingers trailing his arm, while Sam heckled him from the sidelines and Steve pretended he wasnāt entertained by the whole spectacle.
That was what pissed him off most.
Everything used to be soĀ fuckingĀ easy before you.
Bucky grabbed a red plastic cup from one of the coolers near the fraternity table, the ice water sloshing over his fingers, and took a long drink without bothering to ask what was in it.
Too sweet. Sharp underneath, a chemical bite that tried to singe the back of his throat. Probably spiked by Thor, judging by the way it burned all the way down.
Good.
He drank again, letting the cold settle in his chest like armor.
āBucky!ā
He turned, half out of reflex.
A girl from his psych lecture waved at him from beside the ring toss booth, her hair catching the sun, her smile too eager.
She was wearing a tiny green top that probably would have interested him three months ago, or three weeks ago, or any other version of himself that had not become clinically insane over a girl who called himĀ needyĀ like she knew exactly where to press and exactly how much pressure it would take to make him explode.
Her name was Mia.
Maybe. Maya? No.Ā Mia.
Bucky smiled anyway.
There. Easy. He could doĀ easy. Heād been doing easy his whole damn life.
āHey,ā he said, walking over with the lazy confidence that still fit him when he remembered how to wear it, āYou runninā this scam?ā
She laughed immediately, like he had given her something better than the joke deserved. Her eyes roamed his chest, his arms, the casual way he held his cup. āItās not a scam. Youāre just bad at aiming.ā
āThatās hurtful. IāmĀ greatĀ at aiming.ā
āProve it, then.ā
Bucky leaned one hip against the edge of the booth, letting his grin widen. Behind him, he could practically feel Sam and Steve watching from somewhere near the food trucks, probably exchanging some kind of wordless commentary with their eyebrows.
Mia handed him three plastic rings, her fingers brushing his palm. She let them linger a second longer than necessary, her smile softening into something intentional.
Bucky noticed.
He also noticed that he feltĀ nothing.
Not nothing exactly. He felt the dull satisfaction of being wanted. The little ego-stroke of someone looking at him and deciding he was worth the chase.
He felt the shape of his old self settle over him for a second, familiar as a jacket he had left hanging in his closet, still fitting, still comfortable.
But underneath it, his attention kept pulling elsewhere.
He threw the first ring.
The plastic sailed wide, skimming the neck of a glass bottle before spinning uselessly into the trampled grass.
Mia laughed, bright and sharp. āGreat at aiming, huh?ā
āWind interference,ā he said, already reaching for the next one.
āThere is no wind.ā She laughed again, softer this time, her fingers finding the bare skin of his forearm.
āSpiritual wind, then.ā
Bucky made himself look at her.Ā ReallyĀ look. He cataloged the curve of her mouth, the warm spread of her smile, the little glitter sticker pressed beneath one eye.
She was pretty. Genuinely pretty. Warm and open and offering him something he didnāt have to work for.
He should have wanted that.
HeĀ wantedĀ to want that. He wanted to feel the familiar heat of being chosen, the lazy satisfaction of a girl deciding he was worth her time.
But the wanting felt hollow. A reflex without the fire behind it. His body was here. His mind was already somewhere else, straining toward a frequency he couldnāt stop chasing.
Then, somewhere behind him, a laugh cut through the noise.
Natās laugh, recognisable even in the middle of a crowd.
It wasnāt yours. He knew the difference better than he wanted to. Yours was quieter, wryer, often aimedĀ atĀ him rather thanĀ withĀ him. But Natasha was the anchor of your little constellation, and where she wasā¦
Buckyās whole body went tight.
The casual slouch of his shoulders hardened into something rigid. The easy smile on his mouth faltered at the edges, cracking just barely before he caught it.
He hated himself before he even turned his head. Hated how transparent he was.
Slowly he glanced over his shoulder.
And there you were.
By the slushie booth, standing in the loose triangle you always formed with Natasha and Gamora. Sunlight was threading through your hair, setting the edges of you on fire. A lime-green cup was balanced in your hand, the crushed ice inside melting into a watery gradient against the plastic.
You were listening to something Natasha was saying, your head tilted at that familiar angle, your mouth curved into the shape of a smile that didnāt quite touch your eyes.
You looked beautiful. You looked miles away. You looked exactly the way you always looked when you were present but not entirelyĀ there.
Bucky went still.Ā Like a fucking idiot.
After that, Mia became background noise.
Pretty background noise, sure. The kind that came with a sugar-sweet laugh and a glitter sticker catching the late-afternoon sun beneath one eye. Smiling background noise with soft fingers that kept finding excuses to graze his wrist every time she handed him another plastic ring, letting her touch linger a beat longer than necessary.
But background noise all the same.
Bucky tried. He really fucking tried.
He let his weight shift onto one hip, leaning against the edge of the ring-toss booth with practiced ease. He laughed when she laughed, let his eyes drop to her mouth once because that was the sort of thing he used to do without thinking, a reflex heād honed over years of easy conquests.
He even let her fix the collar of his jacket when she reached for it. Her knuckles grazed the side of his throat, a brief pressure against the warm skin just above his collarbone.
It should have sparked something smug and familiar in him, a pleasant shiver of being wanted.
Nothing.
Worse than nothing.
Because the whole time she was talking all he could think was that her laugh was too bright. Too clean. Too eager to please. It didnāt catch him under the ribs the way yours did, didnāt hook into something raw and leave him breathless.
Her teasing landed too soft. Too safe. Not sharp enough to make him want to chase it, to earn it, to prove himself.
She touched him like she knew he wanted to be touched, generous and open and unquestioning.
And he hated that too, because you never gave him anything that simply.
You made him work for scraps and then looked surprised when he started starving.
Mia said something. He missed it entirely.
āRight,ā Bucky said, because it sounded safe enough.
Her brows lifted, āYou have no idea what I just said.ā
He smiled, charming and empty, a reflex that had never failed him. āI was distracted by your beauty.ā
She laughed, pleased despite herself, and shoved lightly at his arm. Easy. So fucking easy.
His gaze still slid over her shoulder.
You were still by the slushie booth, one elbow propped on the counter, the heel of your palm digging into the wood. Your head was tilted toward Natasha, who was gesturing emphatically about something.
Gamora stood half a step behind you with her arms crossed, like campus security hired by hell itself. You had a lime-green straw between your fingers, the plastic bent near the top from where you kept worrying it with your thumb.
You were not looking at him.
Good. Fine.
Bucky turned back to Mia and threw another ring. It sailed in a shallow arc, bounced uselessly off the neck of a bottle, and dropped onto the trampled grass at the base of the booth.
Mia made a sympathetic noise, her lips pursing. āSpiritual wind again?ā
āViolent spiritual wind.ā He grabbed another ring, testing its weight in his palm.
āYouāre terrible at this.ā Her hand landed on his bicep when she laughed, staying there a little too long.
Bucky let it.
He let it because maybe you would look over and see it. Maybe you would see her hand on his arm, see her leaning into his space, see him not pulling away. Maybe you would realise he had options. Lots of them.
Girls who laughed easily and touched without hesitation and made him feel like he was winning instead of losing.
He did not need you.
He didnāt.
He had never needed any girl to want him. That was the whole point. Girls liked him. Girls came easy. Girls wanted to be chosen by him, and he had always been good at choosing, at taking what was offered, at moving on before anyone could get too attached.
So maybe you should see that.
Maybe you should watch someone else touch him, watch someone else laugh at his jokes, watch someone else look at him like he was something worth having.
Maybe you should feel even half as stupid as he had felt standing in his room after you left, the silence still ringing in his ears.
Your eyes moved.
Just once.
A quick glance over Natashaās shoulder, brief enough that anyone else would have missed it. A flicker of movement, a shift in focus. You looked at him and then away again.
Bucky should have felt triumphant.
He should have felt vindicated. Relieved, maybe. Like he had finally managed to press one finger into the soft place beneath all your careful indifference and prove there was something there.
Instead, his stomach twisted into a knot that sat heavy and cold.
Because you did not look angry.
You looked away too fast for him to understand anything at all.
And that was worse.
Mia was still smiling up at him when he turned back, her head tilted just enough to catch the tail end of the afternoon light across her cheekbone.
Her mouth was parted, ready to laugh at whatever he said next.
āYou want to try again?ā
No.
The word cut through him clean and fast.
He wanted to walk across the quad. He wanted to cross the trampled grass and the careful, deliberate distance you had carved between you like a border he wasnāt allowed to cross.
He wanted to stand in front of you and ask why you had looked at him like thatālikeĀ heĀ was the one doing something wrong just by existing, just by letting someone elseās hand rest on his arm.
He wanted to grab your stupid green cup out of your hand and press his mouth to the plastic rim, taste whatever sugar-sour thing you had been nursing all afternoon, because, for a reason that made him feel deeply, disgustingly pathetic, he wanted his lips to touch where yours had been.
He wanted to ask why the fuckĀ youĀ got to look wounded whenĀ heĀ was the one bleeding out all over the place.
He set the last plastic ring down on the counter.
āYou know what?ā His voice came out easier than he felt, smooth and practiced. āIām gonna quit while I still have some dignity.ā
Mia laughed, āYou had dignity?ā
āOnce. Briefly.ā He dragged a hand through his hair, let his mouth curve into something rueful and self-deprecating. āFreshman year, I think. It was a Tuesday. I peaked early.ā
She shifted closer, the toe of her sneaker brushing against his. Her fingers grazed his wrist again. He could feel the opening there, easy, the way girls always were.
All he had to do was lean into it. Let the conversation carry. Let his hand find her waist. Let himself get lost in something simple for once.
Instead, he stepped back.
āSee you around, Mia.ā
Her face flickered. The smile didnāt drop, but something behind it cooled. A subtle tightening around her eyes, a slight press of her lips.
āMaya,ā she corrected.
Fuck.
Bucky blinked.
He smiled anyway, because what else was he supposed to do?
āRight. Maya.ā He let the apology bleed into his voice. āSorry.ā
Her smile thinned.
Bucky deserved that too.
He turned and walked away before he could make it worse.
For the next two hours, Bucky made a point of being seen and not approaching.
He let Sam drag him toward the food trucks, let himself be pulled through the thick crowd of students and families and drunk upperclassmen.
He let Steve talk him into watching Clint get disqualified from the pie-eating contest. Thor had stood up from the judgesā table, pointed a finger the size of a hot dog, and loudly accused Clint of being āthe same small blond criminal in a wig.ā
The crowd erupted. Clint flipped him off with a mouthful of whipped cream. Steve laughed so hard he had to brace himself on Buckyās shoulder.
Bucky laughed too. He did. It came out at the right time, in the right pitch, convincing enough.
He stood by the dunk tank while Rhodey heckled Tony into climbing onto the seat. Tony was wearing a linen shirt that probably cost more than Buckyās entire closet, and he looked profoundly uncomfortable with the idea of getting wet.
He kept his distance. But never so much distance that he could not see you.
That was the pathetic part.
His body moved on its own, tracking you like a compass needle finding north. He always arranged himself somewhere with a clear line of sight. Near the stage when you drifted toward the booths.
By the food trucks when you wandered toward the grass, your silhouette cutting through the golden haze.
Close to Steve when Steve decided to talk to Natasha, because then Bucky had an excuse to stand twenty feet from you and pretend it wasnāt intentional, pretend he was just hanging with his friend while he watched your every move.
But every time your face turned away, his mood soured. Every time you smiled at someone else, he wondered what they had said, what they had done to earn that warmth that he couldnāt seem to coax from you.
He was exhausting.
But he couldnāt stop.
By late afternoon, the sun had started to dip behind the science building, turning the quad warm and gold at the edges. The light slanted long across the grass, casting everything in a honeyed haze.
The air smelled like fried dough, cut grass, spilled beer, and the sharp chemical sweetness of the slushie machine that had been running too hard all day, its motor grinding low and tired.
Bucky had finally lost sight of you.
At first, he told himself it was a relief.
Good.
Great.
Maybe you had left. Maybe you had gone back to your dorm. Maybe the festival could go back to being a festival instead of a slow, public study in how little self-respect James Buchanan Barnes apparently had left.
He lasted thirty seconds.
Then his eyes were moving again, dragging across the quad like a searchlight. Toward the drink stands. Over the line at the food trucks, scanning faces. Past the stage, where the band was packing up their equipment.
Back toward the slushie booth, where Natasha was now talking to Wanda, their heads bent together in quiet conversation.
You were not beside her.
Gamora was there, though, standing with her arms crossed in that way she had. Her eyes cut toward him like she had known exactly where he would be looking.
Bucky looked away immediately.
His pulse hammered in his throat.
Fuck.
He shoved both hands into his jacket pockets and turned in the opposite direction, jaw tight, pulse irritated beneath his skin. He was not looking for you. He was not going to walk around this whole fucking festival like a lost dog because you had vanished for five minutes.
āHey.ā
Bucky turned too fast.
And there you were.
Standing behind him. Sunlight soft around your shoulders, spilling through the gaps in the trees behind you, catching the faint sheen of condensation on the clear plastic cups in your hands. Two iced coffees.
For one stupid second, he forgot to be angry.
The feeling arrived in his chest before he could stop it. A loosening. A warmth. The same stupid, gravitational pull he had been fighting all day, undoing him with a single glance.
Then you smiled at him.
Not the teasing, knowing curl of your mouth that made him want to grab you by the waist and pull you into somewhere quiet. This one was smaller. Softer. Almost shy. The corners of your lips lifted slowly, like you were testing whether it was safe to show him that part of yourself.
He did not trust himself to name it.
āThey messed up my order,ā you said, lifting one of the cups a little. The ice shifted inside, a soft, crystalline sound against the plastic. āGave me hazelnut instead of caramel.ā
Bucky stared at you. He could smell the coffee now, faintly bitter, cut with something sweet.
You held the cup out toward him.
āI remembered hazelnutās your favourite.ā
That was all.
One sentence.
One stupid fucking coffee.
And Bucky felt every cruel, petty thing he had been rehearsing all day loosen in his hands. They slid through his fingers like water, leaving nothing but the raw, embarrassing truth beneath.
He was supposed to be cold. He had planned it. If you came over he was going to look at you the way you looked at him in dayligh; casual, polite, with nothing owed. He was going to make you work for his attention. Make you feel the distance.
Instead, he took the coffee.
His fingers brushed yours around the damp cup. Your skin was cool and wet from the condensation, and the contact was brief but electric. He felt it in his fingertips, up his wrist, settling somewhere low in his chest.
āThanks,ā he said.
The word came out awful. Pathetic. Barely even mean. It was soft when he had wanted it hard. Grateful when he had wanted indifferent.
Your eyes searched his face, careful and quiet. There was something watchful in the way you looked at him, like you were reading a line of text you had read before but were trying to understand differently this time.
āYou havenāt talked to me all day.ā
Bucky gave a shrug. The motion was stiff, defensive. He brought the straw to his mouth and wrapped his lips around it, buying himself a second.
āBeen busy.ā
āI saw.ā
The straw stopped against his lips.
There it was. Not an accusation exactly. Not jealousy either. Just two words, soft enough to slide under his skin. They found the tender places, the ones he had been trying to protect, and settled there.
He took a sip to give himself something to do.
Hazelnut. Sweet. A little bitter underneath. Warm on his tongue despite the ice.
Of course you remembered.
He lowered the cup. The plastic was slick in his grip.
āDid you?ā
Your mouth tightened slightly. A small, almost imperceptible press of your lips that told him the words had landed where he meant them to.
āBucky.ā
He hated that too. The softness. The warning.
āWhat?ā he asked, and even to his own ears it came out harder than he intended.
āYouāre being weird.ā
He let out a short laugh. It was hollow, barely more than a breath. āIām being weird?ā
Your eyes dropped to the coffee in your hand. The condensation had started to pool between your fingers, and you shifted your grip, watching the water trail down the plastic.
That should have helped him. That should have given him something solid to stay angry with. He wanted you to roll your eyes. He wanted you to smirk, to toss some sharp little joke at his feet and dare him to pick it up. He wanted you to give him a reason.
But you did not.
You just stood there, looking smaller somehow in the middle of all that noise. The festival kept spinning around you and you were still. Quiet. Waiting.
Then you said, āAre you mad at me?ā
He was finished.
He hated that he was finished before he even opened his mouth. Hated that the question undid him so completely, that it found the lock and turned it without effort. Hated that you could stand there with a small, uncertain crack in your voice, and he would fold every single time.
Bucky looked away. He dragged his tongue along the inside of his cheek, tasting coffee and bitterness and something that felt too much like surrender.
He brought the coffee to his lips again. Just to have something to do with his hands. Just to keep from saying something he could not take back.
āWhy would I be mad?ā he asked, because apparently he had decided to be a dick anyway.
You did not answer immediately.
The silence stretched between you like a thread pulled taut, and Bucky watched the shape of your mouth as it hovered around words you werenāt ready to say.
When he looked back at you, your face had gone still in that careful way he was beginning to recognise. The muscles around your eyes had softened, your lips parted just slightly, and there was a patience in your expression that felt heavier than any accusation.
āI donāt know,ā you said, and your voice was thinner now. āI thought maybe the other nightā¦ā
You trailed off.
The sentence hung in the air, unfinished, fragile. The kind of opening that could be filled with anything; with hope, with blame, with the truth neither of you had been brave enough to say aloud.
Buckyās grip tightened around the coffee cup.Ā The other night.Ā So you did remember. You werenāt pretending it hadnāt happened, werenāt going to let it dissolve into the haze of party noise and cheap beer.
āYou thought maybe what?ā
Your lashes lifted. Your eyes met his, and there was no deflection in them now. No clever sidestep.
āI didnāt mean to make you feel stupid.ā
The words went straight through him.
Clean through the ribs, past the armour he had spent the last three days layering over his chest, settling somewhere deep and tender. It was meaner than anything cruel would have been.
Because that was it. That was the thing he had been carrying around and dressing up as anger, because anger looked better on him than humiliation. You had made him feel stupid. Stupid for wanting you.
And now you were standing in front of him with hazelnut coffee and remorse in your eyes, saying the one thing he had not known he needed to hear.
His anger lost its shape.
It did not vanish. He could still feel it, somewhere under his breastbone, hot and sore, a bruise that had not finished healing. But it had nothing to hold onto now.
Bucky swallowed. The motion was dry, his throat tight.
āYou didnāt,ā he lied.
Your brows pinched. The disbelief was immediate, a small furrow forming between your eyes that told him you had seen right through the denial.
He sighed, hating himself, hating you a little, hating the way his body was already angling toward yours like it had forgiven you without consulting him.
āFine,ā he muttered, the word scraping past his teeth. āMaybe a little.ā
Your mouth softened. The corners of your lips turned down in a way that was not quite a frown, more like a quiet admission of guilt.
āIām sorry.ā
There it was again. Another scrap. Barely enough. Two words that should not have been enough to undo the knot in his chest, but somehow they were.
Bucky looked down at the coffee in his hand. The ice had melted more now, the water pooling at the bottom of the clear plastic. Then he looked back at you, and the corner of his mouth lifted despite himself.
āYou always apologise with beverages?ā
āOnly when Iām feeling generous.ā
āDangerous habit.ā He tilted his head, letting the smirk settle into something more real. āIām very bribable.ā
Your smile came back slowly. It started in your eyes first, a flicker of warmth that spread to your lips, and God, there he went. There he fucking went.
All that resolve, all that careful, bitter distance, folding inside him like wet paper because you looked at him with warmth again.
āYouāre cheap,ā you said.
āNot cheap.ā He shook his head, the coffee cup swinging in his grip. āAccessible.ā
āThatās worse.ā
āYou say that like youāre not standing here trying to buy my forgiveness with six dollars of iced coffee.ā
āSeven fifty,ā you corrected, and there was a spark of humour in your voice now. āCampus pricing is criminal.ā
He laughed before he could stop himself. The sound came out rough and surprised. But there it was, and it loosened something between you, closed the last of the distance.
Your smile widened at the sound, and something in his chest went soft and stupid and loyal.
Across the quad, Sam caught his eye from beside the food trucks. He was standing with a paper tray of fries halfway to his mouth, staring at Bucky over the top of them with an expression flat with disbelief.
His eyebrows were raised, his head tilted in a slow, accusatory shake.
Bucky ignored him.
He looked back at you, and the festival noise swelled around you again, but it felt distant now. Muffled. He nodded toward the far end of the festival where the temporary rides had been set up near the parking lot.
A cheap spinning thing with hanging seats was creaking in slow circles, its lights flickering green and white even though the sun had not fully gone down yet.
Nearby, a smaller ferris wheel groaned every time it moved, looking only slightly safer than a lawsuit.
āYou wanna go on a ride?ā
You glanced over, your gaze following his nod. Your brows lifted, a flicker of amusement crossing your face.
āWith you?ā
āDonāt sound so horrified.ā
āIām not horrified.ā You turned back to him, and there was a glint in your eye now. āIām considering the risk.ā
Bucky tilted his head, trying for careless and landing somewhere much softer. The words came out before he could stop them, āCāmon, sweetheart. Let me be a bad influence.ā
You looked at him for a second too long.
Then you stepped closer, just enough that your shoulder brushed his arm as you moved past him.
āFine,ā you said, the word carrying a reluctant smile. āBut if I die, Iām haunting you.ā
Bucky followed immediately, coffee in hand, heart gone embarrassingly light.
āGood,ā he said, āThen at least youād be consistent.ā
For the last three years at NYU, Tony Stark had treated the end of spring semester like a religious holiday.
A very expensive, deeply obnoxious holiday that involved a beach house weekend at his parentsā sprawling Malibu mansion, that forced you to acknowledge how much money some people had just by existing in its shadow.
First-class flights for anyone he deemed entertaining enough to invite, which was a broad and chaotic metric.
Enough alcohol to poison a small country, and a guest list he described as āintimateā in the same way someone might call a riot āspirited,ā given that it usually hovered somewhere around fifty people.
Closest and dearest friends, Tony called it.
Which, for Tony, meant anyone he had laughed with more than twice, anyone who looked good in bikinis, anyone who owed him money, anyone he owed money, and at least three people he claimed were āessential to the ecosystemā despite no one else being entirely sure who they were.
Bucky had always loved it.
How could he not?
It was a weekend designed for him to love. Sun-warm skin and salt-crusted hair, the sharp iodine scent of the Pacific mixing with expensive cologne. Music vibrating through the glass walls deep into the night, until the floors hummed under his feet.
Top-shelf liquor sloshing into cheap red cups because Tony loved the visual dissonance of it, the clash of refinement and raucous excess. People half-dressed and fully drunk before the sun had even properly set.
Bodies, careless and comfortable, everywhere, draped over pool chairs, melting into leather couches, disappearing into guest rooms with sheets that cost more than his tuition.
And this year was supposed to be the best one.
Senior year.
The final spring before reality politely asked everyone to grow up. Before the forced enthusiasm about internships, leases, and entry-level jobs that paid barely enough to justify the commute.
Before the slow, quiet humiliation of being twenty-two and realizing the world had never promised to stay exactly how it was.
The last Malibu trip had a gravity to it, even if no one wanted to say that out loud. Everyone could feel it pressing down on their shoulders.
Steve said it once on the plane, because of course he did.
Mid-flight, with the Pacific stretching blue and endless beneath them, he said something earnest and quietly devastating about how strange it was that they would probably never have this much time together again.
Sam threw a pretzel at his forehead with surgical precision. āStop making the trip sad, Rogers. Youāre gonna manifest a bad vibe.ā
Bucky had laughed along with everyone else.
He was good at that. Keeping things light. Acting like the future was just some vague concept waiting politely far away from him, instead of a door already clicking shut in slow motion while they werenāt looking.
Besides, he had more pressing things to occupy his head.
Like the fact that you were coming.
Not that he was thinking about that. Not obsessively. He hadnāt checked the group chat four times to see if Natasha had confirmed the flight details. He hadnāt hovered near the baggage claim exit a little too long, pretending to stretch his shoulders out, stomach tightening every time the automatic doors slid open.
He hadnāt carefully packed the black shirt, the one you had touched once, months ago, fingers smoothing the collar, your smile going slow and private in a way that he had replayed more times than heād ever admit.
He was just excited for the trip.
That was all.
The house came into view just as the car turned up the long private drive, a ridiculous sprawl of glass and white stone sitting above the water like it had been dropped there by God specifically to make poor people feel unwelcome.
The Pacific flashed blue beyond it, bright enough to hurt, the sun catching the surface in a million tiny explosions of light. Palm trees leaned over the road, their fronds swaying lazily in the salt-warm breeze.
The afternoon sun poured itself across everything, turning the windows gold and the pool a hard, glittering turquoise, the kind of color that looked fake in photographs but was somehow real here.
Tony stood out front in linen trousers and sunglasses, arms spread wide like a cult leader welcoming his congregation home.
āMy children,ā he called as soon as the car doors opened. āYou made it.ā
Sam stepped out first, stretching his arms over his head, his spine cracking in a way that made Steve wince sympathetically. āYou say that like we survived war and not a six-hour flight where you slept through turbulence.ā
āI survived being seated beside Barton,ā Tony said, pulling his sunglasses down his nose just enough to make eye contact. āWhich is worse.ā
Clint, emerging from the next car with his hair flattened on one side. āI heard that, Stark.ā
āYou were meant to.ā
Bucky climbed out after Steve, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, the warm Malibu air hitting him all at once. The air was different here. Thicker. Slower. It made you want to breathe deeper.
Somewhere inside the house, music was already playing, a low, thrumming bassline that vibrated through the glass walls. Someone had arrived before them and started early, because of course they had. Tonyās parties never waited for the host.
Bucky looked toward the road before he could stop himself, his gaze dragging along the curve of the driveway.
No other car yet.
He looked away immediately, his jaw tightening.
Sam, because he was a terrible person and a worse friend, noticed.
āSubtle,ā he said, the word drawn out.
Bucky frowned. āWhat?ā
āNothing.ā Samās grin widened, but he didnāt push further. He knew better than to push Bucky when he was already coiled tight.
Steve had the decency to say nothing, but his mouth did that thing where it pressed flat at the corners, the kind of silent judgment that was almost worse than Samās teasing.
Bucky shoved past both of them, his duffel bag thumping against his hip, and grabbed his bag from the trunk before anyone else could offer to help.
āIām getting a room before all the good ones are gone.ā
Tony scoffed. āPlease. Your rooms are assigned. Iām not running a hostel.ā
Sam paused mid-step, his duffel slung over one shoulder. āYou assigned rooms?ā
āObviously.ā Tony turned on his heel, leading the way inside. āIām not having a repeat of the Cabo incident. Some people donāt know how to handle free choice sleeping arrangements.ā
Clint, trailing behind, muttered, āThat was one time.ā
āIt was twice,ā Tony shot back, not looking back.
The inside of the mansion was already half-chaos. Suitcases abandoned in the entryway, a pair of heels kicked off and left under a marble console table, a half-empty bottle of champagne sweating on the counter of the kitchen island.
A bowl of limes sat on the kitchen island, untouched and decorative for now, though Bucky gave it six hours before Thor tried to bite into one whole.
Bucky followed Tony upstairs with Sam and Steve, his bag slung over one shoulder, his footsteps padding on the wide wooden staircase. He tried very hard not to wonder where you would sleep.
Tried and failed.
Which room would you get? Would you be on the same floor as him? Across the hall? At the other end of the house, where heād have to walk past a dozen doors just to catch a glimpse of you?
Tony stopped at the end of the hall and pointed at a door like a bored hotel concierge, his hand a lazy gesture. āRogers, Wilson, Barnes. Try not to destroy anything structural.ā
Sam pushed open the door and whistled low, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged room. āDamn.ā
Steve stepped into it after him, his gaze sweeping across the king-sized bed, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the balcony that jutted out over the lawn. āThis is excessive.ā
āThatās the family motto,ā Tony said, already turning away, his phone buzzing in his pocket. āThereās food in the kitchen. Drinks on the terrace. Donāt break the bed, Iāll know.ā
Bucky went in last. Ocean-facing, because Tony was an asshole who pretended not to be thoughtful.
The room was huge, the bed draped in white sheets that looked impossibly soft, the glass doors slid open to let the breeze in. The water was visible beyond the slant of the lawn, a deep, endless blue that seemed to go on forever.
He dropped his bag on the floor by the bed and walked to the balcony, his hands gripping the railing.
The warm Malibu air hit him again, thicker now. The sound of the party drifted up to meet him, carried on the breeze; the low thrum of music from inside the house, the clatter of ice in glass.
Down below, the patio had already started filling.
Someone was carrying crates of alcohol toward the outdoor bar, bottles clinking with every step. Rhodey was arguing with Tony about speaker placement, his hands moving in broad, frustrated arcs while Tony gestured at the pool like he was explaining architecture to a child.
A few girls Bucky vaguely recognised from campus were stretched near the pool on lounge chairs, their sunglasses pushed up into their hair, laughing too loudly at something Thor said while he stood at the edge of the water, gesturing broadly.
Still no you.
He let his gaze sweep the patio once, just once, the way you might check a clock you already knew the answer to.
Fine.
He had time.
He could get settled. He could take a shower, let the hot water loosen the knot wedged between his shoulder blades.
Behind him, Sam appeared in the open doorway of the balcony, his silhouette filling the frame.
āDonāt start,ā Bucky said, not turning around.
Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. āI just came to tell you Tonyās making drinks downstairs.ā
āGreat.ā
āAnd to remind you that this is supposed to be a fun weekend.ā Samās voice was light, conversational, but the words had edges.
Bucky turned from the balcony then, the ocean falling away behind him. The breeze caught his hair, pushing it across his forehead. āI know how to have fun, Sam.ā
āHistorically, yes.ā
Before Bucky could respond, Steve appeared behind Sam in the doorway, his shoulder brushing the frame as he stepped up.
He looked between them with that resigned expression, the one that said he had walked into the middle of something and would now be forced to participate, like it or not. āWhat are we talking about?ā
āNothing,ā Bucky said.
āHis disease,ā Sam said at the same time.
Bucky stared at him. āMyĀ what?ā
Sam held up a hand, ticking off fingers. āSymptoms include staring at doors. Emotional constipation. And abandoning perfectly nice girls mid-conversation when a certain someone walks into a room.ā
Steve sighed. āSam.ā
āWhat? He needs medical attention.ā
Bucky grabbed one of the pillows from the bed behind him and threw it at Samās head. Sam caught it easily, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself.
āSee? Irritability. Another symptom.ā
Bucky rolled his eyes, but heat crawled up the back of his neck anyway. āIām not doing this all weekend.ā
āGood.ā Samās voice dropped then, the grin fading around the edges, āDonāt.ā
It was said lightly, but not entirely.
Bucky looked at him. For a second, the room shifted into something less like sparring and more like concern.
Samās shoulders loosened, the humor bleeding out of his face just enough to show the worry underneath, the part of him that had watched Bucky turn himself inside out over you for months and did not find all of it funny anymore.
Steve stepped forward, his voice gentler now. āJust... donāt spend the whole trip waiting for her to decide your mood.ā
Buckyās jaw tightened. The muscle in his temple jumped.
He wanted to tell them they were wrong. He wanted to say you did not decide anything. That he was fine.
But the words sat heavy in his mouth, and he couldnāt force them out.
So he said nothing.
From downstairs, Tonyās voice carried up through the open doors, bouncing off the glass and the stone. āFirst round is ready, you ungrateful peasants!ā
Sam clapped his hands once. āSaved by alcoholism.ā
Steve gave Bucky one last look then turned and disappeared toward the hall.
Bucky followed, because staying behind would look pathetic, and he had already met his quota for the day.
Downstairs, the house had grown louder. More people had arrived while he was up there. Bags piled by the stairs, sandals kicked off near the sliding doors, laughter spilling in from the patio in overlapping waves.
Tony was behind the outdoor bar in sunglasses, pouring something violently green into a row of cups while Pepper stood beside him looking like she had already accepted Godās plan for her evening.
Bucky took a cup the second Tony handed him one.
It tasted like lime, expensive vodka, and exactly what he needed. The alcohol burned a clean path down his throat and settled warm in his chest.
Perfect.
He tipped his head back and drank half of it.
By eleven, Bucky was absolutely, spectacularly shitfaced.
The whole mansion seemed to tilt and breathe around him, swaying on its foundations in slow waves of green pool light, salt-scrubbed air, and the sweet, cloying scent of expensive liquor bleeding from every glass.
Someone had thrown all the glass doors to the patio wide open, letting the party spill out of the house and down toward the pool, toward the dark strip of beach below, toward the ocean rolling black and endless under a crescent moon.
Bucky was having the time of his fucking life.
He had spent the last hour ricocheting between Samās shoulder and Steveās long-suffering presence, laughing so hard his ribs ached and his vision blurred.
Tony had climbed onto the kitchen island at some point to deliver a toast no one had asked for, sloshing amber liquid onto the pristine marble. Bruce had lost a sandal. Rhodey had found it in the freezer, holding it up like a trophy.
Thor had challenged half the house to a drinking competition and laid them out, one by one, a trail of empty glasses and ruined egos stretching behind him like a battlefield.
Bucky, because he was an idiot and because the liquor had convinced him he was invincible, had tried to take him on.
Thor drank like he had been weaned on kerosene and raised by wolves. Bucky had made it three rounds before Sam materialised at his elbow and physically removed the cup from his hand.
āToo pretty to die on Tony Starkās imported marble,ā Sam had said.
Bucky had laughed in his face.
Then his heel caught on nothing and he nearly pitched headfirst into a decorative fern the size of a small car, catching himself on the wall at the last second.
And you had seen it.
You had seen him almost eat shit beside a fern, and instead of looking unimpressed, instead of giving him that careful, distant smile he had grown to hate, you had laughed.
Your head tipped back, the long column of your throat exposed, one hand pressed to your mouth as your shoulders shook. Natasha leaned in to whisper something in your ear, and you laughed harder, nodding.
It was the best sound he had heard all night. The best thing he had seen all month.
You werenāt ignoring him tonight. Not even a little. He had been braced for it, waiting for the familiar wall to go up, but it never came. Since the moment you arrived, you had been sweet. Warm. Present in a way that made his chest feel too tight and his hands itch to reach for you.
Honey, he kept thinking, the word a stupid, syrupy refrain in the back of his mind.
You were warm like honey tonight, golden and thick and spilling over everything. He was a fly caught in it, too far gone to care.
And fuck, you looked good.
That was the other problem, the one pressing insistently against the front of his jeans with every glance you threw his way.
You were trying to kill him. There was no other explanation for the top you had chosen. Thin and tight, clinging to the curve of your torso like it had been made specifically to undo him.
The fabric shifted with every breath, catching the light, and the neckline dipped just low enough to make his mouth go dry. Every time you lifted your arms, your boobs shifted and threatened to spill out entirely.
A possessive, animal part of him wanted to cup them in his palms, slide his thumbs over the soft swell, tuck them back in himself and never let them go.
Your shorts were no better. Sitting high on your thighs, hugging the flare of your hips, leaving acres of bare skin on display. He kept wondering how you had managed to squeeze into them and whether he was going to survive watching you walk away in them one more time.
He was not proud of himself. He wanted to pounce on you right there, in front of everyone, sink his teeth into the curve of your shoulder, taste the salt and sugar on your skin.
He wanted to haul you against him and find out if you felt as soft as you looked.
You wandered back to him sometime after Tonyās third terrible toast, barefoot now, your sandals abandoned somewhere by the pool. In your hands, you held two little glass shot glasses, the liquid inside them a violent, fluorescent pink that glowed under the patio lights like a dare.
Bucky looked at the shots, then at you.
āNo.ā
You blinked at him, a pout already forming on your lips. āNo?ā
āI challenged Thor,ā he said, as if that explained everything. āIām cut off. Sam declared a moratorium on my alcohol intake for the sake of my liver and the integrity of the marble flooring.ā
āThat was stupid,ā you said, but your eyes were warm, amused.
āThank you, sweetheart. Iām acutely aware.ā
Your smile widened. God, there it was. That specific, dangerous curve of your mouth that made the bottom drop out of his stomach every single time.
You stepped closer, close enough that the cold plastic rim of one shot glass pressed lightly against his chest, just over his heart. āCome on, Buck,ā you said, your voice soft and honeyed beneath the thrum of the bass. āOne more. Just for me.ā
He should have said no. He had every intention of saying no.
Then your fingers curled into the front of his shirt. Just the tips of them, hooking into the fabric, not enough to pull him toward you, just enough to hold him there.
āFine,ā he heard himself say, the word a complete and total surrender. He was weak and you were evil and he wouldnāt have it any other way.
The two of you clinked the plastic cups together and threw them back.
The liquid hit his tongue. Sugar first, cloying and thick. Then vodka, sharp and medicinal. And something aggressively sour that made his jaw clench and his eyes water.
You made a face immediately, your nose scrunching up, your eyes squeezed shut, a soft sound of disgust escaping your throat.
Bucky laughed so hard he had to brace one hand against the edge of the counter behind him. āAwful, right?ā
āAwful,ā you croaked, coughing once into your fist.
āYou brought it to me,ā he pointed out, still grinning.
āI wanted you to suffer with me,ā you murmured, your voice hoarse from the liquor.
āRomantic. You really know how to make a guy feel special.ā
āDonāt get excited.ā
āToo late.ā The words came out rougher than he meant them.
He was already excited. Had been excited since you walked through the door in that top, looking like everything he had ever wanted and had no right to touch.
You leaned your shoulder into his side, just for a second. Maybe for balance. Maybe because you wanted to. The weight of you pressing into him, fitting too perfectly into the curve of his body.
Bucky looked down at you. Your mouth was wet from the shot, shining under the dim glow of the patio lights. Your eyes were heavy-lidded, warm, fixed on his mouth.
He didnāt think about it. His hand found your waist, fingers spreading over the bare skin exposed by the crop of your top. You were soft and warm and solid under his palm, and the contact sent a shiver of heat up his arm.
āYouāre drunk,ā you murmured, your breath brushing his collarbone.
āSo are you,ā he countered, his thumb tracing a slow, idle circle on the dip of your hip.
āMm. Maybe.ā You didnāt pull away.
āDefinitely.ā
āYou always this handsy when youāre drunk, Barnes?ā The question was velvet over steel, a challenge wrapped in silk. But you leaned into him instead.
Buckyās thumb shifted against your waist, sliding higher, tracing the edge of your ribcage through the thin fabric of your top.
He felt the soft intake of your breath, the way your stomach tightened under his touch. āNo,ā he said, the word dropping an octave, sliding under the bass of the music, rougher than before. āJust when youāre dressed like that.ā
You sighed against him, warm and tipsy, your cheek brushing his shoulder as if you had every right to be there.
āI think I need to call it a night.ā
Buckyās head snapped down so fast the room tilted with him.
āNo.ā The word came out instantly, offended and pathetic. Then again, worse. āNo, no, no.ā
You laughed, and he felt it more than heard it, the soft shake of your body against his side. He had one arm locked around your waist, fingers splayed over the exposed strip of skin where your tank had ridden up.
āItās only eleven,ā he protested, tightening his grip like you might dissolve into the party if he let you breathe too freely. āPartyās gonna go on for another couple of hours.ā
āThat sounds like a threat.ā
āDonāt leave me alone.ā
Your smile curved against his neck. āThereās like forty other people here, Buck. Iām sure you wonāt be that lonely.ā
He made a wounded noise into the crown of your head. āNone of them are you.ā
The words came out before he could dress them up as a joke, before he could hide them behind a grin or a roll of his eyes.
You went quiet for half a second.
Then you tilted your face up to him, eyes glassy-bright from alcohol and the green spill of party lights. āI wanna explore Malibu tomorrow. Iām not wasting the whole day hungover because you need attention.ā
āYouāre so boring,ā he groaned, dropping his forehead briefly to your temple.
āAnd yet.ā
āAnd yet,ā he repeated, the words heavy, loaded, full of everything he couldnāt say.
āIāll let you take me to my room, then.ā
Bucky pretended to consider it. Really sold it too, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed like this was a difficult sacrifice and not the only thing he wanted in the world. āIf thatās the only way to keep you with me.ā
āIt is.ā
āWell.ā He pulled you closer, his hand sliding more securely around your waist, his fingers pressing into the warm skin of your hip. āWho am I to deny a lady?ā
āOh God.ā
You laughed again, the sound soft and breathless, and Bucky started walking before you could change your mind.
Or tried to.
The first few steps were a test of faith. The floor seemed to tilt and roll beneath him like the deck of a ship, and the hallway stretched and contracted in confusing rhythms.
You pressed tighter against his side, your arm sliding around his waist to steady both of you, and every time your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, Bucky had to remind himself that he was escorting you to bed, not dragging you into his mouth.
The mansion blurred around him. He passed a painting of a sailboat. Then another painting of a sailboat. He definitely took a wrong turn past a large, ugly vase.
Behind him, Sam called out something that got swallowed by the bass. Someone else whistled, low and knowing.
Bucky ignored all of it.
All he cared about was the feel of you tucked under his arm, the soft drag of your breath on his neck, the way your hip bumped against his thigh with every stumbling step. The air through the open windows smelled like jasmine and salt and the faint, clean scent of your perfume mixing with the liquor in his veins.
āIs this even the right way?ā you asked as he led you past a framed painting of something expensive and ugly.
āYes.ā
āYouāre lost.ā
āIām exploring Malibu.ā
āThat is not what that means.ā
He shushed you, then immediately turned down the wrong hallway.
By the time he found the staircase, both of you were laughing too hard to move quietly. You clung to his shirt as he guided you up the stairs, your body shaking against his, and every time your fingers curled against his chest, Buckyās pulse kicked harder.
He opened the door with the confidence of a man who had absolutely no idea what he was doing.
The room was dark except for the moonlight spilling through the balcony doors, silver and heavy, painting everything in soft shadows.
The bed was massive, white sheets tangled from where he had thrown his duffel earlier. His shirt hung off the back of a chair. His shoes kicked carelessly near the dresser. The balcony doors were open a crack, letting in the sound of the waves and the cool night air.
You stepped in beside him, looked around for one long second, then burst into laughter.
āThis is not my room, Buck.ā
Bucky blinked.
Looked at the bed. Looked at his duffel on the floor. Looked at you.
āOh.ā
He turned back to you, trying very hard to arrange his face into something less guilty.
āOops.ā
You laughed harder, your head tipping back, your hand pressing to your stomach like this was the funniest thing that had happened all night. And maybe it was. The sound was bright and unguarded, and Bucky wanted to bottle it.
āI cannot believe you,ā you said.
āHonest mistake. Tragic, really. Very confusing architecture in this house.ā
āSure.ā
You should have turned around.
You should have made him find the right room. Should have rolled your eyes and dragged him back into the hallway before he could get any more ideas, before Bucky remembered exactly how little space there was between want and stupidity.
Instead, you walked farther in.
Then you collapsed backward onto his bed.
You fell into the mattress with a soft, breathless sound, the white sheets whispering beneath you. Your hair spilled loose across his pillow. The tank top had ridden up from the fall, baring the soft curve of your belly, the delicate jut of your hipbone just above the line of your shorts.
The moonlight sliced silver across your thighs, caught the damp shine of your lips, traced the lines of your body and turned your skin to shadow and glow.
You looked obscene.
You looked perfect.
Like you had been poured into his bed by some cruel, generous god.
Bucky stayed frozen at the foot of the bed. His hand was still on the doorknob, a solid point in his grip, the only thing keeping him upright. His blood was too loud in his ears. He was wrecked.
Thrown off.
Completely, catastrophically fucked.
āYouāre in my bed,ā he said, the words scraping out of him rough and disbelieving, a rasp that barely carried over the sound of his own pounding heart.
You stretched one arm over your head, a slow motion that arched your spine against the sheets and made the fabric of your top strain across your chest. Your ribs lifted. Your shorts shifted. You looked soft, drunk, a problem he wanted to have forever.
āSo I am.ā
Bucky swallowed, his throat clicking audibly in the quiet hush of the room.
The alcohol was a warm, syrupy fog settled deep in his skull, blurring his edges and dulling his sense, but some sliver of awareness remained, sharp enough to recognise the disaster unfolding in front of him.
He tried to keep the mood light, to sound like the version of himself that could laugh this off and walk away.
He let out a breathy, unconvincing laugh.
āCāmon, get up. Let me take you to your room.ā
āMhm-mhm,ā you hummed, a sound so lazy and content it made his stomach clench.
You closed your eyes and arched your neck, baring the long vulnerable line of your throat to the mercury glow of the moon. Your pulse beat visibly just beneath your skin, a delicate, rhythmic flutter that made his mouth water.Ā
Fuck, he wanted to sink his teeth into that skin. To taste your heartbeat on his tongue. To mark you. āBut Iām so comfortable here, Buck.ā
His mouth was sandpaper. He tried to swallow again and failed, the motion scraping against his dry throat.
āYou gonna get me in trouble, honey.ā The words came out rough, a warning wrapped in something that sounded almost like a plea.Ā Please donāt make me do this. Please donāt let me do this.
You lifted your head from the pillow, your hair spilling across his sheets and gave him a slow smile. It was the smile of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.
āYeah?ā you murmured, your voice turning syrupy. āHow?ā
You werenāt just looking at him. You wereĀ fuckingĀ him with your eyes, taking him apart piece by piece without lifting a finger.
āFor fuckās sake,ā he heard himself mutter.
He felt the last thread of his self-control snap. The sensible part of his brain went entirely offline, leaving nothing behind but pure, aching, consumingĀ want.
He pounced on you, covering your body with his, the mattress groaning under his sudden weight. You met him halfway, surging up to meet him, your hands fisting in the front of his shirt and yanking him down into your mouth.
The first taste of you was sweet, fuckingĀ relief.
Expensive vodka, the lingering sugar of your lip gloss, the faint salt of your skin, and something purelyĀ you. It flooded every empty space inside him, drowning out every doubt, every hesitation.
He groaned loudly into your mouth, a raw, animal sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours.
He couldnāt get enough. He forced your mouth open wider with his tongue, sliding inside, tasting.Ā Shit, he couldnāt stop. He didnāt want to stop.
Every rational thought dissolved into static, overwhelmed by the wet heat of your mouth, the soft give of your body beneath him, the way you kissed him back like you wanted to devour him too.
He wrenched his mouth away, just far enough to pant against your lips, his forehead pressing to yours. His breath came in ragged, desperate heaves.
āWeāre drunk,ā he breathed, the words scraping out of him like a confession he didnāt want to make. āWe... we shouldnāt do this.ā
And then he felt it.
One of your legs slid up, the smooth, warm skin of your thigh brushing his hip before your calf hooked around his waist, locking him firmly against you. There was no escape now. You had him trapped.
Your hand came up, your palm cupping his jaw, your fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck. You pulled his mouth back to yours, your lips brushing his as you spoke.
āBut I want to,ā you murmured against his lips. āDonāt you?ā
Bucky never claimed to have any strength. He had never pretended to have a strong will. Not when it came to you.
He dove back into your mouth like a man starving, like a man drowning who had finally found oxygen. His hands were everywhere now, making up for every moment he had held back.
They roamed down your sides, feeling the heat and softness of your body beneath. Down to your waist, gripping the bare skin where the fabric had ridden up. Lower still, over the flare of your hip, the silky expanse of your thighs.
And then your ass.Ā Fuck. Perfect and full, fitting into his palms like it was made for them. He grabbed handfuls of it, squeezing, kneading, pulling you harder against him as he ground his hips into yours.
The moan you let out was muffled against his mouth, a broken, breathy sound that vibrated through his entire body and went straight to his cock.
His hips rolled forward in a rough, involuntary thrust, grinding his aching hardness against the heat of your cunt, the friction electric even through the thin layers of fabric separating you.
A guttural groan tore from deep in his chest, swallowed by your mouth as he kept moving against you.
Your moans were muffled against his mouth, your fingers twisted in his hair, holding him to you like you were afraid heād disappear. The world had narrowed to the slide of his tongue against yours, the damp heat of your breath mingling with his.
But he couldnāt get enough. Every taste made him hungrier. Every sound you made drove him further past the edge of reason.
He broke the kiss with a ragged gasp, pushing himself upright, his chest heaving. Your hands followed him immediately, desperate fingers catching at his shirt, trying to pull him back down, trying to keep his mouth on yours.
āSit tight, honey,ā he breathed.
His hands were already moving, clumsy and urgent, fumbling at the button of your denim shorts. The thin metal slipped through his fingers once, twice, before he got it free.
His eyes met yours, dark and serious despite the haze of alcohol.
āTell me to stop, baby.ā The words came out low, a last gasp of something that might have been conscience. āTell me to fucking stop.ā
You shook your head hard, the motion fierce and immediate. Your hips lifted off the mattress as you shoved at the waistband of your shorts, helping him drag them down your legs along with your panties.
āPlease donāt stop, Bucky.ā Your voice cracked, āPlease. Iāll die.ā
The raw desperation in your voice hit him like a punch to the sternum. His cock throbbed painfully in his jeans, and he had to bite back a groan, had to clench his jaw to keep from spilling right there like a fucking teenager.Ā Christ.
But first, he needed to see you.
He settled back on his heels, his hands braced on your thighs, and let his gaze travel down the length of your body. His eyes traced the curve of your hips, the soft swell of your belly, and finally, finally, to the place he had been dreaming about for months.
He stared.
It felt like the air left the room. His mouth went dry, then flooded with saliva.
She was beautiful. Perfect. Pretty and glistening, the soft folds glistening with your arousal, the little hooded pearl peeking out like she was waiting for him. He felt like he was going to drool.
A sharp shove hit his shoulder, rocking him back.
āBucky.ā Your voice was a whine, āStop staring. Youāre making me shy.ā
He let out a laugh, shaking his head slowly.Ā Shy.Ā After everything, you wereĀ shy.
He lowered himself, pressing his mouth to the inside of your thigh. Then higher. Another kiss, closer. His lips dragged along your skin, following the sensitive line of your inner thigh.
āMāsorry, sweetheart.ā His voice was a murmur against your flesh, āSheās just so pretty. Been dreaming about her.ā
You sighed above him, the sound dreamy and soft. āReally?ā
He didnāt answer with words. He pressed his mouth to your clit, a single, gentle kiss. You gasped, your hips twitching.
Then he went for the kill.
He dragged his tongue up in a long, slow stripe, from your entrance to your clit, savouring the taste of you; salty and sweet andĀ everything. And then he closed his lips around that little pearl andĀ sucked. Hard.
Your moan was loud, broken, spilling out of you like you couldnāt hold it back. It hit him straight in the gut, a jolt of electricity that traveled down to his cock, making him grind helplessly against the mattress, seeking any friction he could find.
He didnāt stop. He couldnāt. He buried his face in your cunt like a man starved, his tongue sliding through your folds, dipping inside you, then back up to circle your clit. He ate you out with messy, desperate strokes, his moans vibrating against your sensitive flesh.
He fucked you with his tongue, pushing inside you, tasting your heat, your want, your need.
Your hands fisted in his hair, pulling him harder against you, and he went willingly, eagerly, lost completely in the taste and the sound and the feel of you falling apart under his mouth.
You moaned at the intrusion, a broken, breathless sound that vibrated around his knuckles as he sank his middle finger deep into your slick heat.
You didnāt need the encouragement, your hips were already rolling, riding his hand with a desperate, frantic rhythm that made the mattress creak beneath you.
He could feel it building in the way your walls fluttered and clamped around him, chasing that peak with a single-minded hunger that made his mouth water.
āWant another one, sweetheart?ā His voice was honey and gravel, the pad of his thumb dragging a lazy, torturous circle over your clit.
You glared down at him from above, your frown sharp and impatient. āStop fucking with me, Bucky.ā
He grinned, and pushed a second finger into you without breaking eye contact. The stretch pulled a sharp gasp from your parted lips, and he started thrusting harder, deeper, the wet, obscene sound of it filling the quiet room. āDonāt wanna fuck with you, baby. I wannaĀ fuckĀ you.ā
He felt you clench around his fingers immediately, a violent, fluttering grip that sent a tremor up his arm. A loud, broken moan tore out of you as you came, your body shuddering against his hand, your slick coating his palm and dripping down his wrist.Ā
Fuck.Ā He stared down at the way you pulsed around him, and his brain short-circuited. If this was how you came on his fingers, his cock was going to be absolutely fucking suffocated inside you.
He didnāt give you a second to recover.
He pulled his fingers out and brought them to his mouth, stuffing them past his lips, tasting you. He sucked them clean, groaning around the flavour of you, before he was crawling up your body, dragging his chest over your damp, trembling skin.
He thrust his tongue into your mouth without warning, sharing the taste of yourself with you. You opened for him eagerly, moaning into the kiss, your hands tangling in his hair and pulling him deeper.
Your fingers found his belt, the buckle clicking open under your quick, determined hands. He heard the rough rasp of his zipper, felt your palms push his jeans down over his ass, and you paused just long enough to squeeze, an appreciative grip that made him groan against your lips.
Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.Ā He was about to fuck you. Actually, really, truly, about to fuck you.
He had to contain his excitement, had to focus on his breathing, or he was going to spill like a goddamn virgin before he even got close to being inside you.
And then your hands were flat on his shoulders, shoving.
He pulled back, frowning, ready to ask what was wrong, but the look on your face stopped him cold. You were grinning up at him, wicked and beautiful.
āLet me suck your cock.ā
You didnāt give him a chance to respond. You shoved him sideways, trying to climb on top of him, trying to get your mouth on him, and the thought of your lips closing around him almost made his vision go white.
āNo, no, no, no.ā He caught your hips, tried to wrestle you back down onto your back. āNo, sweetheart, justāstayālet meāā
You were laughing, light and playful, but he was deadly serious.
āIf you even breathe on my cock, Iāll cum on the spot. I promise.ā His eyes met yours, desperate and honest. āPlease. Not tonight. Just let me have you. Iāve been waiting for thisāwaiting forĀ you.ā
You paused on his lap, considering. The laughter faded from your face, replaced by something softer, something thoughtful that made his chest ache.
He had to close his eyes. He had to focus on his breath.
Because your cunt was right there. Right on top of his dick. The heat of you seeping through his skin, the dampness of you threatening to coat his aching length.
He could feel every inch of your weight pressing down over him, and if he looked, if he moved, if he so much as twitched his hips, he was going to lose his entire fucking mind.
And then you began to slowly rock up and down his dick, the friction of your slick heat dragging against him like a live wire. You looked down at him with that small, knowing smile, the one that made his chest ache and his cock throb.
āYouāre really that desperate for me?ā
Bucky nodded, his jaw tight, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Painfully. Desperately. A confession without words.
You leaned down, your lips brushing his in a kiss so quick and soft it was almost cruel. āOkay, baby.ā
He let out a shuddering sigh of relief, of gratitudeā¦ and then his eyes flew wide.
Because you were rising. Rising off his lap. Reaching down between your bodies. Taking hold of his dick in your warm hand, and positioning it exactly where you wanted it.
He was hypnotised. Transfixed. The sight of his own flushed tip nudging against your soaking, glistening entrance made his brain short-circuit.
He felt a drop of saliva escape the corner of his mouth, rolling down his chin, and he couldnāt even muster the shame to wipe it away.
Jesus fucking Christ.
You were so tight. The first inch of him sliding into you felt like being wrapped in molten silk, searing and perfect. His eyes flicked up to your face, and he found yours squeezed shut, your lips parted, your breath catching in broken little gasps as you fed yourself his cock inch by agonising inch.
It felt like an eternity before your hips met his, before he was buried to the hilt inside you, and the sight of his cock disappearing completely into your body made his vision haze.
Your thighs settled flat against his, skin to skin, and he gripped your waist so hard he knew heād leave bruises.
āDonāt move,ā he rasped, his voice ragged. āStay still for me. Justā¦ keep still.ā
You clenched around him involuntarily, a soft, reflexive squeeze that made him groan deep in his chest.
āDonāt do that.Ā Donāt do that.ā
You pouted, your bottom lip jutting out, eyes still hazy with pleasure. āI canāt help it, Bucky.ā
And then you clenched again. Accidentally. Deliberately. He couldnāt tell. It didnāt matter.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.Ā He tried to think of other things. Disgusting things. Anything to keep from spilling inside you like a goddamn teenager.
Cut toenails. Moldy fruit. Steveās ass. None of it was working. Not when your heat was wrapped around him, not when you were sitting there looking so soft and sweet and patient, waiting for his permission.
He gave a strained nod, his voice barely a whisper. āOkay. Go ahead, baby.ā
You smiled and then you rose. Rose until only the tip of him remained inside you. And then you dropped.
Violently. All the way down, slamming into his hips, the force of it knocking the air from his lungs and making him grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached. And then you were bouncing, riding him like he was a fairy pony, your pace frantic and relentless, your walls gripping him with every upward stroke.
All he could do was try to keep up. He dug his fingers into your hips, his hands guiding your rhythm, and began to fuck up into you matching your wild tempo, chasing the heat pooling at the base of his spine.
Bucky was pretty sure if his heart gave out right now; if he dropped dead beneath you, buried to the hilt, watching you fall apart on his cock, heād die the happiest man alive.
This was heaven. You were heaven. The way you moved on top of him, taking everything he had, stealing his breath, his sanity, every coherent thought heād ever had.
And then he realised.
You were still wearing that top.
The thin fabric clung to your skin, damp with sweat, hiding the one thing he needed to see more than his next breath.
Concealing the soft bounce of your tits with every roll of your hips. He reached up with both hands, fisting the hem, and you didnāt even notice, too busy fucking yourself on him, too lost in the rhythm to pay attention to anything else.
Until the violentĀ shrrripĀ of cotton splitting in two cracked through the air like a gunshot.
Your eyes flew open, head jerking back. āBucky!ā
āāM sorry.ā
The apology came out wrecked, and completely insincere. There was zero remorse in his voice, none in the greedy way his hands immediately found your bare chest, cupping the soft, heavy weight of your tits, his thumbs dragging over the stiff peaks of your nipples.
The moan that slipped past your lips was immediate.
āNeeded to see them,ā he rasped, watching the way they filled his palms, the way your back arched into his touch. āNeeded to feel them.ā
A breathless laugh escaped you, a soft shake of your head as you planted your hands flat on his chest and steadied yourself. And then you were bouncing harder, riding him like he was made for this, like you were trying to wring every last drop of sanity from his bones.
But he needed more.
The angle wasnāt deep enough. He couldnāt get close enough. Couldnāt be buried deep enough inside you.
Gathering every ounce of strength he had left, his hands locked onto your waist.
In one fluid, powerful motion, he used his hips to wrench you off balance and flipped you onto your back, twisting your bodies until he was hovering over you, and never once did he slip out of the slick, perfect heat of your body.
A delighted, breathless cry tore from your throat at the sudden shift in power. Your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, pulling him deeper.
He reached up, one hand curling around the wooden slats of the headboard. The frame groaned under his grip as he pulled back and snapped his hips forward. Harder. Deeper. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room mixing with your ragged breaths and the desperate groans rumbling in his chest.
Bending down, he pressed his mouth to the sweat-slicked curve of your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp, to feel your pulse flutter against his lips. āI need you to cum,ā he grunted against your skin. āPlease, baby. Need it.ā
āHuh?ā The word came out dazed, strangled. You hadnāt heard him. Your eyes were half-lidded, your lips parted, completely lost in the relentless rhythm of him pounding into you, too far gone to process anything beyond the next wave of pleasure building in your core.
āCum now,ā he grunted, the words ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. āShitā¦ now.ā
He drove into you harder, each thrust a desperate, punishing demand. The headboard groaned against the wall, the frame shuddering with every brutal snap of his hips.
Your nails raked down his back, sharp, frantic lines of fire that he felt all the way down to his bones. And then he heard it; a choked sob that broke past your lips. Not pain.Ā Release.
There.Ā Heād found it.
āRight there, Buckyāright thereāā
The cry was wrecked, broken, a plea that sexed through him like a current. He zeroed in on that spot, that deep, swollen place inside you that made your voice crack and your back arch off the mattress.
He bullied it with his cock, over and over, relentless, until your moans dissolved into something shattered and raw.
Then you broke.
He felt it in the way you clenched around him first; a sudden, violent flutter that turned into a pulsing grip, suffocating his cock, milking him with wave after wave of your release.
Your nails dug into the meat of his shoulders, your thighs locking around his waist, and the sound you made, a broken, keening gasp, was the most beautiful thing heād ever heard.
It was enough to push him over.
Bucky let go.
His balls drew up tight, a hot rush of pressure building at the base of his spine, and then he was comingā¦ violently, uncontrollably, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself into you with a guttural groan that sounded more animal than human.
He stayed buried deep, pumping into you through the aftershocks, his body trembling above yours, every nerve electric and raw.
For a long, suspended moment, there was nothing but the sound of ragged breathing and the slick, wet press of skin against skin.
Then his body went lax.
He collapsed onto his elbows, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his weight pinning you into the mattress as he tried to remember how to breathe. The high was liquid and warm, a blanket of bliss settling over his bones.
And thenā
āYouāre not gonna be weird about this, are you?ā
The words came soft. Disarmingly soft. That was the cruelest part of it.
You pressed them into his skin, your cheek turned against his hair, your voice a low, sleepy murmur. One hand rested loose at the nape of his neck, thumb tracing an idle, almost tender path across the damp skin there.
Like you hadnāt just carved something out of him.
Bucky went still.
He forced his lungs to keep moving. Forced the tension in his shoulders to dissolve before you could feel it. His face was still buried in the curve of your shoulder, his mouth hot and wet against your collarbone, his body a weighted, useless thing draped over yours.
The room smelled of them. Sweat and salt and the crushed-flower sweetness of your perfume, tangled with the raw musk of sex that clung to the sheets.
Below, the house was still alive. The bass was a distant heartbeat through the floor, the drone of voices rising and falling like surf against stone.
Ten seconds ago, he had beenĀ floatingĀ in it.
Ten seconds ago, he had felt stupidly, dangerously complete.
The whole night had collapsed into this single moment; this bed, this room, the slick, fluttering grip of your body around his, your fingers knotted in his hair, holding him at the center of something that felt, for one perfect, delusional instant, like it mattered.
He had let himself thinkā
No.
He didnāt get to finish that thought.
Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose. Then he laughed, a short, easy sound that he shaped into exactly the right shape.
āWeird?ā He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. āMe?ā
Your mouth curved, āYeah. You.ā
He gave you the grin. The practiced one. The one that had saved him from worse than this.
āSweetheart, Iām the most normal guy you know.ā
A beat. āThat is deeply untrue.ā
You laughed then, and the sound hooked into his ribs. He let himself feel it, just for a second.Ā There. Itās fine. Keep it light.
He could do this. He could keep the room warm if he didnāt push. He could lie here, tangled in you, and pretend the words hadnāt hit him like a fist.
Slowly he shifted his weight and pulled out of you. The sound was wet, obscene in the quiet, and it twisted something low in his gut. The heat he had been drowning in vanished the second he was empty.
The chill that replaced it crept up his spine and settled cold in his chest.
Still, he didnāt move away.
His arm stayed heavy across your waist, palm spread flat against the curve of your hip. His thumb began a slow, lazy stroke against your skin, a betrayal of every intention he had to act unaffected.
Bucky swallowed the bitterness climbing his throat and ducked his head, pressing his mouth to the warm skin just under your jaw. Not quite a kiss. Soft enough to deny.
āRelax,ā he murmured against you, the words a low vibration. āIām not gonna propose before breakfast.ā
Your fingers paused against his cheek. For one terrible second, he thought he had said the wrong thing.
Then you huffed a laugh, thinner than before. āGood.ā
Good.
Bucky smiled anyway, pressing it into your skin.
āWouldāve been a nice proposal, though.ā He said it like a joke, because apparently he couldnāt stop picking at the bruise. āReal romantic. Me, you, Tonyās guest room, half the house tanked downstairs.ā
āYouāre an idiot.ā
āYeah,ā he said softly, lifting his head to look at you properly. āProbably.ā
Your smile flickered.
There it was. That tiny break in you, so fast he would have missed it if he hadnāt spent months training himself to read your face. Your eyes searched his, and for a breath, he thought you might take it back.
Thought you might pull him down and kiss him until the hollow ache in his chest stopped screaming.
Instead, your gaze dropped first.
āI just donāt want things to get complicated.ā
Bucky stared at you.
Complicated.
You were in his bed. Your body was still warm and pliant beneath his hand. You were still wet with him. The scratches from your nails were still raised and stinging on his back. His heart was beating so hard it felt exposed, shameful.
And you were talking about complicated like it was something waiting outside the door, not something you had already dragged in by the throat.
He nodded once. āRight.ā
Your eyes flicked back to him. āBuckāā
āNo, I get it.ā
He didnāt get it, yet he got it perfectly.
Both were true. It was becoming a theme with you.
He pulled the blanket up over your hip because some stupid, aching part of him noticed you shiver. Then he settled back beside you, close enough for your shoulder to press against his chest, close enough to pretend nothing had shifted if he tried hard enough.
And he did try. God, he tried.
He let his lips graze your temple. Let his hand find yours under the sheet. Let himself feel the way your fingers curled, briefly, around his before loosening again.
Downstairs, someone screamed with laughter, a bright, drunken shriek that cut through the bass like glass.
The music kicked louder, the walls shuddering with it, the whole house groaning under the weight of bodies and noise.
You closed your eyes.
Bucky stayed awake, watching the ceiling blur above him.
Your warmth was pressed all along his side, your thigh hooked loosely over his, the damp glide of your skin against his making it impossible to forget where they had been ten minutes ago.
And your words were still lodged cold beneath his ribs, sharp as swallowed glass.
Not weird. Not complicated. Not a thing.
He turned his head and looked at you anyway, because he was weak, because he was stupid, because he had apparently decided that dignity was optional where you were concerned.
Your face had softened into sleep. Lashes dark against your cheeks, lips parted just enough to let the slow rhythm of your breath slip through.
You looked younger like this. Softer. Less like the girl who could walk into a crowded room and tilt his whole goddamn world sideways without breaking stride.
He hated you a little then.
The thought came sudden and ugly, rising from his chest like bile.
He hated you.
Hated the way you could lie here, still slick with him, your body still marked from his hands, and ask him not to make it mean anything.
Hated the way you took his wanting like it was expected, like it was easy, like he hadnāt spent months carving pieces of himself off and pressing them into your palm while you barely noticed.
Selfish, he thought.
And yet his arm tightened around you anyway.
Selfish fucking brat.
You take and you take and then you get scared it might mean something, so you push it away before it can push back.
The words burned through him. He imagined saying them. Imagined the way your mouth would part, the little furrow between your brows, the wounded look you would try to hide.
Good, some cruel part of him whispered.Ā Let it hurt. Let you feel stupid for once. Let you feel even half of what I feel right now.
He wanted that. For one vicious, starving second, he wanted to hurt you exactly where you had hurt him.
Then you shifted in your sleep. Barely a breath of movement, a sigh, the slow curl of your fingers against his chest, your palm pressing flat over his heartbeat.
And Bucky melted.
He looked down at your hand resting over his heart and felt the anger lose its teeth.
Not disappear,it stayed there, sore and simmering beneath his ribs, but it had nowhere to go when you were tucked against him like this, soft and warm and trusting him with your sleeping body even while you refused to trust him with your heart.
His throat tightened.
āYouāre so fucking confusing,ā he whispered, the words barely a vibration against your hair.
He turned carefully onto his side, gathering you closer despite every reasonable part of him screaming to pull away.
His arm slid around your waist, his palm spread wide against the dip of your back, and you came easily, your forehead finding the hollow beneath his jaw as if your body knew where to belong.
The party roared on beneath them. Drunk and careless and alive. The whole house shaking with it.
And Bucky lay there, holding you, feeling like someone had cracked his chest open and left it that way.
He should have moved away. Should have rolled onto his back and let the cold settle between them, let it harden into the shape you had asked for.
Should have protected himself before morning came and you slipped back into whatever version of yourself could smile at him over breakfast like he hadnāt been inside you, like you hadnāt held his face in your hands and asked him not to love you.
Instead, he held you tighter.
Because this was still more than he had before.
Because despite everything, you had become the shape of his world.
His want began and ended with you. His mood rose and fell on the sound of your laugh, the lift of your eyes, the careless brush of your fingers against his.
You made him desperate and angry and embarrassingly alive. You made him feel chosen. You made him feel disposable. You made him feel completely insane.
And he would take it. Every scrap. Every confusing, contradictory piece.
He would take it because he didnāt know how to stop.
Bucky closed his eyes, his jaw tight enough to ache, his arms locked around you like holding on hard enough could keep the morning from coming.
āDonāt worry, sweetheart,ā he murmured into your hair, almost mean with the tenderness bleeding through it. āI wonāt be weird.ā
a/n | my initial plan was after the smut reader avoids, and then bucky freaks out and screams at her during another party and lays out all his frustrations that steve and sam have to physically remove him. three months pass without contact until you two see each other again and we finally get a look at whatās going through readerās mind and ends with hurt/comfort and hopeful ending
A list of my 50 favorite things [3/50]
āThis is new for me. I didnāt have a moment to
deal with anything, you know? I had a little calm in Wakanda.
Other than that I just went from one fight to another for 90 years.ā
Sebastian Stan as
BUCKY BARNES ā¢ THE WINTER SOLDIER
2011ā | Marvel Cinematic Universe
BUCKY BARNES / THE WINTER SOLDIER
ā¢ Captain America: The First Avenger (2011)
ā¢ Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014)
ā¢ Captain America: Civil war (2016)
ā¢ Black Panther (2018)
ā¢ Avengers: Infinity War (2018)
ā¢ Avengers: Endgame (2019)
ā¢ The Falcon and The Winter Soldier (2021)
As long as theyāll keep calling Iām there, you knowā¦ but I donāt knowā¦ I get old too. Like everyone in the world I age! I donāt know what that means. Maybe it doesnāt mean anything? I have no idea.
HAPPY 39th BIRTHDAY SEBASTIAN STAN ā b. August 13, 1982
