BROTHER’S BEST FRIEND BUCKY X F!READER (college au)
SUMMARY. Being Steve Rogers’ sister meant years of boys looking at you like a warning sign. Now that you’re in college, your lack of experience becomes a major problem. So you ask your brother’s best friend to teach you everything. What starts as lessons becomes something neither of you have a name for yet.
WORD COUNT. 11.7K
WARNINGS. college au, brother’s best friend trope, MDNI, inexperienced reader, smut, tit play, handjob, dick pronouns, pussy inspection, pussy pronouns, oral (f and m receiving), an attempt at teabagging, cum swallowing, vaginal fingering, dry humping, bucky cums in his pants. No use of Y/N.
NOTES. You can imagine reader as Steve’s adopted sister, there will be no physical descriptions. One might argue this part is just porn without plot. One would be partially right.
Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || 1 ~ 2 ~ 3
READ ON AO3
A week goes by, and you kiss him twice more.
Once on his couch on Wednesday, which starts because you sit down close enough that the intent is pretty clear. The second time is Thursday, at his door when you’re leaving, which starts because you turn around and he’s right there.
You’re getting better at it. More confident, less in your own head, less managing the moment and more just in it.
Tonight is Friday, and you’re back on his couch.
“Can I try something?”
There's no version of him that would say no to your question. “Yeah.”
“I want to — I want to start it this time.”
He doesn’t ask what, because he already knows. He settles back slightly, like he’s making room. “Alright.”
So you close the gap and kiss him. The kiss in itself isn’t any different. But it feels different when it’s yours to start. You bring one hand up to his jaw the way he always does to you, and you feel him still like the contact surprised him. That small victory does wonders for your nerves.
He kisses you back slowly, letting you lead, his hand coming to rest at your waist with a patience that you are choosing not to read too much into. You shift closer and his grip tightens, fractionally, like some reflex he’s only barely managing.
When you finally pull back, his eyes open. His thumb makes one slow pass over your hip. “That was good.”
“You could be more specific.”
“You didn’t hesitate.” His thumb again, same slow drag. “That’s the main thing.”
You’re close enough that you can see the detail of him. The line where his jaw meets his throat, the soft stubble that’s absolutely not helping right now. The lamp behind him is the only light and it’s warm and doing nothing to help you think straight.
“What’s next?”
He looks at you for a moment, like he’s reading something. Then he stands up. Before you’ve quite registered what’s happening, his hands are at your waist and you’re being lifted. Foot-off-the-ground-lifted. He’s walking toward the bedroom with your face against his jaw, his mouth pressed to your temple.
You don’t say anything. You’re not sure you could.
Thing is, you've been in his bedroom before. But this is entirely different. You’ve been there to to grab something, just passing through. You know the where the bookshelf is, you know he has a photo of you and Steve, you know he has a lamp that sits in the corner.
But one of that prepared you for being carried into it. The fact that it's Bucky carrying you.
He lays you down on his bed and looks at you. There’s something in how he does it, that makes your whole chest tighten up.
“I’m going to take your shirt off.” You realise he’s telling you so you know what’s coming, giving you time to say no before he does anything. “Along with the rest of your clothes. And then I’m going to put my mouth on you.” He watches your face process this. “Questions?”
“That’s — that’s a lot of steps.”
“It’s really not.” He reaches down and gets the hem of your shirt in both hands. You sit up to let him pull it over your head. When you’re back down, his eyes move over you in a way that makes you want to simultaneously stay very still and also disappear.
His mouth finds your collarbone and works down slowly, hands mapping out the territory of your ribs, your waist, learning you, inch by inch.
He moves like he has a plan and also like the plan isn't the point. Like the point is every single inch of the way there.
But he doesn’t rush past your breasts. He cups one fully in his palm, thumb brushing slow circles over the nipple until it’s tight and aching under his touch. “These are sensitive,” his breath is warm against your skin. “We’re gonna take our time right here so you figure out exactly what you like. Tell me if it’s too much or if you want it harder.”
His lips close over your nipple and he sucks. Slow at first, then deeper, pulling the peak into his mouth that makes your toes curl. It’s nothing like the quick graze you expected.
This is hungry, his tongue swirling around it while he holds the suction. You arch hard, a shaky sound ripping out of you with his name. He switches to the other breast without breaking contact, sucking just as thoroughly, letting you feel every pull, every flick, until both nipples are swollen and slick and throbbing in the cool air.
You hadn't known it would feel like this. You'd thought that it would feel good, fine, whatever. You hadn't accounted for the quality of his attention. The way he's watching your face while he does it, checking, adjusting, reading you. It’s with the same focus he brought to explaining what made a good first date. It's the same focus and it's directed entirely at you. And you don't know what to do with that so you just make the sound his mouth is pulling out of you and try not to think.
When he finally releases them with a soft pop, he murmurs “you like that?” His dark eyes go over your face and decides it himself. “Yeah, you do. What about this?” He grazes his teeth over one sensitive bud, then bites down lightly, just enough pressure to sting in the best way. Your hips jerk and you moan outright, louder than you’ve ever let yourself be. He soothes the bite instantly with his tongue, then sucks again, harder this time, alternating between both breasts like he’s memorizing every reaction.
It feels like he's building a map of you for himself. For some purpose you haven't named yet. And won't name right now, because you can't think right now. Also because naming it would be a problem.
His mouth stays on you longer than you thought it would, sucking and licking and testing until your chest is heaving and your thighs are trembling around nothing.When you press them close together, he says against your chest, “don’t do that.”
“Do what—”
“Squeeze your thighs.” His hand slides between your knees and parts them easily. “Keep them open.”
Something about being told that with his mouth still on your breast rearranges your brain chemistry entirely.
He makes his way down your stomach, mouth and hands both, leaving heat everywhere they go. His stubble drags across your ribs, raising goosebumps. It's a small thing, the scrap of his beard on skin.
It shouldn't be a significant thing.
It is, though.
His fingers find the waistband of your underwear and tug them down your legs and off.
Then he just looks. Both hands on your inner thighs, spreading you open under the warm light of his bedroom, studying your pussy with an attention that makes your face go absolutely warm, sweat beading at your temples.
“Bucky—”
“Give me a second.”
“You’re staring.”
“You’re so wet.” He runs his thumb, a sliver of a touch, through your folds, and your hips jerk. His words aren’t quite to you, more like something he’s noting down for personal records.
“Why are you apologising?” He looks offended almost.
“Because it’s — it’s a lot.”
“Yeah.” He looks up at you, the blue of his eyes now only a ring. “It is. That’s good.” His thumb again, the same barely-there stroke, and you make a sound you weren’t planning on making. “That’s very good, actually.”
It’s the voice he uses when something matters to him. You've heard that voice applied to other things over the years. An arguement with Steve, the conversation with Jaxon before it got physical. It’s the serious kind of voice, the one that inevitably says ‘this matters to me.’
The fact that it's being applied to this, to you, like this, makes it harder to breathe.
He keeps your thighs spread open with his hands, and his voice is warm like he’s walking you through something just for the two of you. “That’s just your body showing me exactly what it wants. Nothing to be sorry about. I’m gonna touch you right here so you can feel what feels best for you. Just let me hear whatever comes out, okay? I want to know.”
His thumb strokes slowly through your folds, spreading the slick. He hums softly, when your breath hitches. “Breathe for me.” Then his thumb finds your clit and circles it once. It's soft, light and careful and your whole body jerks.
“Bucky—”
Eyes move to look at your face now. “Feels good?”
You make a sound that's both a gasp and a hum. He keeps the slow circles, then brushes over it with the lightest flick of his thumb. You gasp again, softer this time.
Bucky pulls the hood back just enough with one finger, gentle as anything, then circles again with a touch more pressure. Your thighs tremble under his palms and another soft moan slips out.
“Good girl. See how much wetter you’re getting?”
Does he realise you're not in any position to answer him…
His forefinger circles your entrance, for one small moment, you wonder if he's going inside. But he just collects the slick and brings it back to your clit in slow, patient strokes.
Just when you think you're used to what he's doing, he shifts down between your thighs and you feel his breath against your skin. That’s when you understand. When he'd said he's gonna put his mouth on you, he didn't only mean your tits.
“Wait — Are you — are you going to—”
“Yes.”
“With your — your mouth.”
“That’s generally how it works.”
“I know how it works, I’ve watched porn, I just —” You try to think of useful words, the verge of failing. “I didn’t think you’d actually —”
He looks up at you from between your thighs with the patient expression of a man who has all night. “You didn’t think I’d what?”
“I mean. It’s not — you don’t have to. Like it can’t be that enjoyable for you, it’s—”
“I want to.”
“But—”
“I want to.” He says it the second time like the first time didn’t register, which it didn’t, which he can tell. The second want is more enunciated, letting you know its value. “That’s not a polite offer. I want to put my mouth on your pussy. Are you gonna let me?”
The framing of that sentence evaporates any ability to construct a counter-argument. “Okay… yeah. Okay.”
“Now, relax.” He turns his head and presses a kiss to your inner thigh.
“Why’d you start with your mouth?” You question, mostly just to be saying something, because silence right now seems like more than you can manage. “I thought — I figured you’d use your fingers first. Mouth seems more—”
“More what?”
“Intimate? I don’t know. I thought fingers came first.”
He looks up at you again. “Before I put anything inside you, I want your body to know what pleasure feels like. I want you to know what it feels like to want more before I give you more.” He holds your gaze. “Does that make sense?”
Your mouth is very dry. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” And with that, his mouth meets your cunt. He exhales into you like he didn't mean to, this warm, involuntary breath, and it hits you that he wants this. He wants this specifically, not as the next step in the curriculum.
Because the sound he made when his mouth first touched you is not a teaching sound.
If you’d thought kissing him was breathtaking, this was on a whole another level. You decide to constantly remind yourself to breathe, because he sure as hell isn’t helping.
The first sensation your register is heat of it. Just that, just warmth and the soft press of his lips against your core. His tongue drags slowly through your folds and your hand shoots to his hair of its own accord.
He licks into you like he’s learning you, cataloguing every place that makes you twitch and keeps coming back to it.
You've watched enough of him to know the difference between him going through motions and him when he’s actually into what he’s doing.
Now, he’s into what he’s doing. The sounds coming from him are laced with want. They aren’t even pointed at you. It seems to escape him rather than come from him. Like he forgot he was supposed to be in control of this. Like you're the one doing something to him.
When his lips close around your clit, you make a noise that could only be described as a cry. Only reassurance after that mortifying ordeal is that he makes a sound back.
His lips close around your clit again, and you have to consciously bite down to not let another noise out.
Like he’s sensed your dilemma, he says against you. “You can be loud. No one’s going to hear you.”
“I’m not—” you start to object, but then he sucks and the rest of that sentence ceases to exist.
Your hand tightens in his hair without you deciding to. He actually groans at that, a vibration against your clit that shoots straight through you, and you loosen your grip immediately.
“Sorry—”
He comes off you just enough to speak. “Don’t apologise.” He looks up the length of your body at you. “You can pull it. You can do whatever you want with my hair. Grip it, pull it, push me where you want — however feels good. It’s for you.” A pause. “Yeah?”
He says it's for you. Like he wants to make sure you understand that. Like it matters to him that you understand that.
Only when you nod, and say yeah, does he go down.
He eats you with with an attention, learning what you respond to and using it, building pressure with his tongue against your clit while his hands hold your hips steady when they try to roll up into him.
At some point one hand leaves your hip and slides up your stomach to your breast, his thumb rolling over your nipple, and the moan that comes out of you at the combination is loud enough that you’re briefly grateful for thick walls.
“Bucky—”
A hum against your clit but he keeps going.
He hums like he's satisfied. Like that sound you just made is something he wanted.
Your hand is in his hair and you can feel him, how present he is in this, how little of him is elsewhere.
Nobody has ever been this entirely here with you before. Not that anyone has been with you before.
But even in the small ways like conversations, attention, the general experience of being in a room with people, you've always felt the slight elsewhere quality of other people's focus.
He doesn't have that. He's completely, entirely here. And not just now.
You know it isn’t something you should be analysing right this moment, but what he’s doing to you isn’t just physical.
Finally, your hand fists in his hair, the way he said you could. The sound he makes is something you’re going to be thinking about for a while. You know he’d said it was for you, but the way he’s responding, it’s hard not to think there’s a little something in it for him too.
You feel the tension building, coiling tighter with every stroke of his tongue, your thighs shaking either side of his head.
“Don’t stop,” you manage, “don’t — please—”
He doesn’t stop. His tongue works your clit in tight circles, his hand flexing into your hip. Everything tightens to a single unbearable point and then snaps. A sound tears out of your throat that you’ve never heard yourself make, your pussy clenching around nothing while he works you through every shuddering wave of it, slower now, softer. He draws it out until your legs are trembling and your hand in his hair has gone slack.
A kiss is pressed to your inner thigh. Then your hip. He’s moving back up your body and settling beside you. You try to remember what your name is.
“That was— I need a minute.”
“Take your time.”
You turn your head to look at him. His mouth is wet, his hair is a disaster from your hands, and he looks… he looks like someone who thoroughly enjoyed himself. There's something open in his expression, something that isn't quite contained, and you look at it for a second before he notices you looking and rearranges slightly.
You saw it. You aren’t in any condition to process it though.
“In porn,” you start and pause to catch your breath.
“Mm.”
“They make it look sort of — performative. Like they’re doing it but they’re also sort of doing it at the camera. That was nothing like that.”
“No.”
“That was—” You don’t have the word. “Better.”
He looks at you for a second with something in his face that he keeps mostly to himself. “I’m glad it was.”
He disappears for a minute and comes back with a glass of water and a washcloth warm from the tap. Sitting on the edge of the bed beside you, he hands you the water first. His hand stays on your knee while you drink.
When you’re done, he’s gentle with the washcloth, so careful, taking care of you like it’s just the next thing he wants to do and not a task he’s ticking off. Your face is warm and you try not to feel too much about the fact that someone is doing this, that he’s doing this, without being asked.
You wonder if this is part of the curriculum or entirely something else.
When he’s done he sets everything aside and looks at you. “You need anything else? Hungry, or—”
“No. Can — Can we just lie down for a bit?”
“Yeah, ‘course.”
He moves up the bed, and you roll toward him. That’s when you realise that he’s still in his sweats and his t-shirt. Entirely, fully dressed. And you are wearing nothing at all, which strikes you as a profound injustice.
“You’re still dressed.” Before he can say anything, you’re talking again. “That’s not fair.”
His eyes slowly drag over your body, which feels like a touch in itself. During the thorough once-over, he also appears to be giving this the serious consideration it deserves.
Without another word, he reaches back and pulls his t-shirt over his head in that one-handed way that shouldn’t be as effortless as it is. “Lift up.”
As you straighten up, he puts it on you himself, guides your arms through, smooths it down over you.
His face tips forward to press a kiss to your temple, just his mouth at your hairline for a moment. Your whole chest does something you’re going to deal with later.
He pulls the comforter up over you both. “Better?”
You hum. Find the space against his side that your body has apparently already decided belongs to you, your cheek against his shoulder, his arm settling around you.
He’s warm, too warm almost. It’s way too comfortable not to fall asleep.
You’re not going to fall asleep though. You’re just lying here, that’s all, with his t-shirt pooled around your thighs and the smell of him close enough to be a problem and his heartbeat doing something steady under your cheek.
There’s nothing to do and nowhere to be and his hand keeps moving, up and down, up and down.
This is nice.
He’s nice.
You close your eyes.
It's morning.
You can tell Bucky's awake because the arm around you is too still. Sleeping people don't hold that kind of stillness, it's a different quality entirely. He's doing a very convincing impression of someone unconscious and you're doing a very convincing impression of someone who isn't lying here thinking about his mouth.
Neither of you are particularly committed to either bit.
"You awake?" he asks after a while.
"No."
The sound he makes is almost a laugh. His thumb moves once over your shoulder. "How do you feel?"
You turn your head and he's already looking at you. The blueness of his eyes startle you in this grey light sweeping through the windows.
There's something underneath the casual delivery of his question that is very much not casual.
"I'm fine, Buck."
"First time's a lot. Even when it goes well."
The fact that he says 'even when it goes well' like he's genuinely leaving the door open. Like he'd sit there and hear it if you say, ‘actually, I have a few notes.’ You don’t say that. You have no notes.
"It went well. Quite well, actually. I'd go as far as really well."
"Yeah?"
"You were there."
"I was. Wanted to hear you say it."
That thing that's been quietly building since last night stirs again and you decide not to look at it directly. The part of your brain that is always oriented toward the next thing clears its throat. "I want to learn the other part."
He doesn't answer immediately. You fill the gap yourself. "How to touch someone. A guy. I want to know how to do it properly."
A breath. "Yeah. Okay."
"Should I … start with my mouth? Like you did?"
"No." He shakes his head once. "That's different."
"How?"
He's quiet for a second. You can tell he's actually thinking about how to say it rather than just saying something. "When I did that with you, it was because it was your first time. Even fingers can be a lot the first time. Guys don't need that. It's not the equivalent."
You think about it. It makes sense. The way he explains things always makes sense.
"Also, hands is easier to start. You'll know what you're doing before you're, you know. Down there."
"Right. And you don't need—"
Unlike you, it's not his first time. Any of this. You knew that going in, it was the entire point of coming to him, it was why you knocked on his door almost two weeks ago. And still there's a small stupid pang, that you are absolutely not going to mention.
He doesn't seem to notice. "So. Hands."
"Hands."
The covers shift to reveal his torso. There’s an intense urge to reach out and touch the plane of muscle. You don’t.
"Whenever you're ready."
You shuffle forward on your knees across the mattress until you're close enough that your body is almost touching his. He watches you with his hands loose at his sides, giving you the room.
He's still in his sweatpants. You get your hands to the waistband and he lifts his hips slightly to help, cooperating without making it a whole thing.
You look.
For a full second, maybe two.
Because your brain is constitutionally incapable of silence, you say, "hi."
Bucky closes his eyes briefly, the expression of a man asking for patience from a higher power. "You don't have to greet it."
"I wasn't greeting, I was — it was a general hi." You look up at him. He looks back down at you. "He's really pretty."
Something happens to Bucky's face that he was not prepared for. His mouth does a thing, not quite a laugh, but also not not one. "He’s — That's not — people don't usually—"
"I’m just being honest." You look up at him and then back down. "He's also big."
"Okay."
"No, I mean significantly." You're doing the math and the math is concerning. He's not even fully hard yet. "How is he going to fit?"
"It'll fit."
"That's not an explanation."
"You don’t have to worry about that now. I'll make it fit.” There's a pull at the corner of his mouth, the effort of keeping his expression neutral while you sit there conducting what is essentially a full appraisal. "Are you going to touch it, or..."
The first contact is just your fingertips. Light, just along the length of him. He pulls in a breath and his hips shift, barely.
"You're so soft." You mean it genuinely. The skin of him is warm and smooth, absolutely not what you'd expected at all. "Like the skin. I didn't think it'd feel like that."
"Yeah." His voice has gone slightly strained.
You wrap your hand around him loosely. More curious than purposeful. He goes very still, the kind of still that takes effort.
Your thumb drifts up to the tip. There's a bead of precum there, you touch it. The sound Bucky makes is quiet and completely wrecked, his head dropping back for one unguarded moment before he pulls it back together.
You did that. Your thumb did that.
You swipe your thumb over the head again and he hisses through his teeth. "Keep doing that. And this is going to be a very short lesson."
So naturally, you do that again.
"Fuck — okay. I — I'm gonna move your hand."
He takes your hand in his and adjusts everything. The grip, the angle, the pressure, and wraps your fingers around his cock properly. His hand over yours. "Not that tight — Just like that. You feel the difference?"
"Uh-huh."
He does one slow stroke with your hand inside his, all the way up. His jaw goes tight. And he does it again. On the third one, he lets go of your hand, and drops his to the sheet.
You do it on your own. Same grip. "Like that?"
"Exactly like—" He stops as you do it again, his whole body jerking once. "Yeah. Yeah, that's—" His hand tightens its grip on the sheet. "Good."
You find the rhythm easier than you expected.
Bucky is quiet in a way that's the opposite of silence. His breathing changes, his throat moves when he swallows, and the hand that isn't gripping the sheet finds your knee and holds it. Like he needs something to hold onto and your knee was there.
You shouldn't be this focused on how he looks right now. You are. The flush starting at the base of his throat. The way his jaw has gone slightly loose.
You've seen Bucky composed in every situation you can think of. Watching that composure come apart because of your hand is doing something to you that has nothing to do with learning anything.
"Is this okay?"
"More than." He gets it out with some effort. His eyes are on you and they've gone dark, most of the blue gone.
"You can talk to me." You glance up to his half lidded eyes. "I told you things."
"That's different."
"How is it different?"
He opens his mouth, closes it. You get the impression the answer to that question is more complicated than right now warrants. So you let it go and keep your hand moving.
When you twist your wrist slightly at the top, the noise he makes is involuntary. His hand comes off the sheet to catch your wrist.
"Where did you—"
"I was paying attention."
He stares at you. There are about four things happening in his expression at once and none of them are teacher friendly. He lets go of your wrist.
The sounds he makes are quieter than yours were. Held back, like he's rationed himself. But they're there. His hips move into the drag of your hand, just slightly, small involuntary pushes he's not entirely winning against.
Warm puffs of breath are on your neck, as he drops his forehead to your shoulder.
You've had his attention directed at you for two weeks but this feels different. This is him needing something to lean on and choosing you as destination.
His hips buck up, once, fully. Immediately, he pulls back fast. "Fuck — sorry—"
You want to tell him not to apologise, that watching him lose his composure is doing something to you. You don't say any of that.
He's close. You know it before he says anything, from the way his thighs have gone rigid and his breathing's come apart entirely.
"I'm almost — Stop." His hand closes around your wrist.
You let go and drop your hand back to your own knee. You knew what was coming but you didn't quite anticipate it. He exhales deeply and spills across his own stomach, his grip on the sheets going white for a moment, a low groan working out of his chest before his whole body goes loose.
Before anything sensible catches up with you, you reach out one finger and drag it slowly through the mess on his stomach.
There’s no lesson in curriculum that says you have to touch his release. You don’t care about it at this moment.
You're curious, is all. You've been curious about him in increments for the past two weeks and this is just the latest increment.
The sound Bucky makes comes from somewhere very deep and takes his whole body with it. At once, his hand snaps up and catches your wrist.
"Don't." His voice is completely wrecked. He looks it too. Undone in a way you haven't seen him before, fighting hard against something that might be a laugh and losing to both at once. "Do not."
"Why not?"
"Because." Completely black pupils gaze over you. "Because I just came and you're going to — Fuck. Why are you like this?"
"I was curious."
"Of course you were." He drops his head back against your shoulder and laughs.
You feel the laugh through his whole chest. You feel it against your shoulder and through your arm and somewhere behind your ribs. It's the kind of laugh that makes you want to make him laugh again.
His hand is still loosely around your wrist. He hasn't let go.
"Was that okay? Genuinely. Tell me if I did something wrong."
He lifts his head to look at you. "You did nothing wrong."
"The wrist thing—"
"Was very much not wrong." His voice is strained, but also a little offended, like you're being ridiculous. "Where did you even pick that up?”
"I told you. I was paying attention. Do I get a grade?"
"You're not getting a grade."
"Feedback then?"
"The feedback is that you're going to be a problem."
You don’t know what he means by that. You don’t ask.
Two dates happen, but you are very intent on calling them lessons.
The first one is a bookshop and coffee after, which Bucky picks because he remembered you mentioning it three years ago. You tell yourself normal people hold onto information like that. After all, you remember his favourite author too.
He buys the book before you can get your wallet out. When you open your mouth, he says it's part of the curriculum, with a completely straight-face. You tell him that's a stretch. He shrugs and holds the door open.
The second one is harder to explain away.
He cooks. Which was not on any syllabus you'd agreed to. You sit on his kitchen counter and talk for two hours before the food is even on the table.
You're calling them lessons. That’s easier.
But why’s it becoming harder?
The next time you see Bucky it's a Thursday, and the word lesson doesn't come up at all.
What does come up, eventually, is his mouth on your clavicle. The fact that there’s a movie playing matters less now than it did five minutes ago. Somehow, you've ended up horizontal with his weight half over you. His lips trail up to your throat. Tipping your head back, you give him more space to work with.
But there’s one specific thing in your mind that needs attention right now. That’s been lying dormant for a week. "Teach me something."
"I am teaching you." There’s no attempt on his part to untangle from you. In fact, he moves, rucking your shirt as he goes. His mouth takes in your pebbles nipple, and you make a sound you hadn't planned on, your hand going to his hair. He does it again, the slow suction almost pulling your body off the couch.
"That's not teaching me anything," you manage.
"Sure it is." He doesn't look up. "You're learning what you like."
"That's not—" He does it again and and you lose your train of thought.
There’s no point in being logical about this, you let him play with your tits however he pleases.
After what feels like a lifetime, he surfaces. His face still rests on your torso as he looks up to you.
"Can you please show me the next thing?"
"There’s a next thing?" His crooked lips tell you he’s messing with you.
"You know what I mean."
"No, I don’t."
"Bucky."
“If you want it that bad, you can say it.”
Trying to glare at him from this angle not only proves to be a minor exercise, but also futile because he just smirks. “Fine. Blowjob. I wanna know how."
He holds your gaze. Then he sits up, which means you sit up too. He's doing that thing where he actually thinks before he opens his mouth. The fact that it’s rarer in people makes you like him a little more. If that’s even possible.
"Okay.”
"Just okay?"
"Did you want a longer answer?"
"Well, for starters, I want to know how to actually do it."
His hand comes to the back of your neck. Before you've worked out what's happening, he's pulling you in. His other hand rests warm on your bare waist as he kisses you. "Sure you want to switch right now?" he asks against your mouth.
"Yes. I've been thinking about it since the handjob."
Something happens to his expression that he doesn't manage to contain. "Have you now?"
"Don't make it weird."
"I'm not making it weird." He sits back. You feel the absence of his warmth immediately. "Honest explanation or the polished version?"
"Honest, obviously."
"See what gets you a reaction, what doesn't. Same as everything."
"Teeth," you say immediately. "And I don't know what to do with my hands. And how do I even breathe?"
"Don’t forget you have teeth."
"I’m sorry, what?"
"No, I just mean, if you’re just conscious of it — like keep it in the back of your mind, it's gonna be okay. Breathe through your nose. If you need air, just pull off, it’s not a big deal.”
“And what about hands?”
"Base of the cock, whatever you can't reach with your mouth. Or thighs. Both. Whatever feels right." A pause. "It’s okay if you can’t take all of it."
"What if I want to?"
"Then you'll gag and we'll deal with it."
A checklist forms inside your head as he speaks. "Okay but I have a genuine question. It's called a blowjob. But literally no one is blowing anything in the videos I’ve watched. So what is actually happening?"
His mouth opens, and then closes. Then the laugh comes out of him, a real one, helpless, the kind that takes his whole face. Your chest does something embarrassing at that sight.
Framing your face with both hands, the softest kiss is planted on your lips. "You're" kiss "so" kiss "adorable" kiss "y’know" kiss "that?"
Oh God. You’re melting. You’re losing it all. Physically, you can hear your heart melt. But you take his face in your hands right back, mirroring him.
"I" kiss "know."
He grins against your mouth and kisses you properly this time, both thumbs drawing circles at your cheeks.
"Suction," he says when he pulls back. "That's the answer. Suction and tongue. The name's just a name."
"But why is it called that?"
"I — genuinely don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I've never thought about it."
"How have you never thought about it?"
"Because it's never mattered before."
The way he’s tilting his head tells you he’s at least mildly curious about it. Proving you right, he pulls out his phone.
"Buck. No. Don't google it."
"I have to."
"Bucky—"
He's already reading. His expression cycles between certainty and not quite confusion. "Okay so apparently, there are several competing theories."
"Of course there are."
"One is that it comes from a slang term for the act that has nothing to do with the literal — "
There’s nothing else to do but indulge him. "I don't want competing theories. I want one answer."
"Etymology is rarely that simple."
"Oh my god." You reach over and take the phone out of his hand. He lets you. "You just googled the etymology of blowjob."
"You asked."
"I didn't ask you to do it with that level of academic commitment." You set the phone face-down on the cushion. "Forget it. Never mind."
He's still smiling when he stands up. But the heat has returned, to him, and to you.
What you don’t understand is why he’s standing. “I need you to sit.”
“Why? This’ll be more comfortable for you.”
“I just — I wanna kneel.”
"You don't have to kneel."
"I want to."
"You can do it just as well sitting down, it's easier on your—"
"Buck." You look at him. "I want to kneel."
An exasperated but equally fond sigh leaves him. He reaches back and picks up the throw pillow from the other end of the couch without another word, setting it on the floor in front of where he’ll be sitting.
"Floor's hard," he says.
You don't say anything about that. You just kneel on the pillow and he sits on the edge of the couch. You're struck, not for the first time, by how completely not-strange this is. How it's just him. How that seems to be doing a lot of quiet heavy lifting lately.
When you tug at his sweats, he lifts to make it easier for you. You stare at his dick. His dick stares back at you.
This is also the time you can show him that you’ve indeed learnt something. You start with the grip you know he likes, watching him thicken and pulse under your fingers until he’s rock-hard and leaking.
When you lean in and run your tongue, on the tip, through the slit once, his breath shifts immediately.
His hand immediately flies to your head. You lick the tip again, slower this time, savoring the salty bead that wells up, then drag your tongue along the thick underside, tracing every throbbing vein from root to tip. The weight of him on your tongue feels perfect.
When his hand presses gently at the back of your head, you close your lips over the tip of him and suck, carefully. A whole body jerk accompanies an involuntary sound that he desperately tries to swallow back. You take a little more, tongue working the underside the way he’d said.
As you try to take more, your jaw strains with it. If he’d felt bigger in your hand before, he’s an entirely different story in your mouth. The stretch catches you off guard.
He sees you struggling to take him, and he adjusts your fingers around his length. "Your hand — Whatever your mouth can't cover. That's what it's for."
Mouth on the upper half, hand at the base, you finally find the thing that makes his breath change. The slow drag of your tongue and suction combined makes him shudder, you notice. You do it again. Though they’re held back, the sounds coming out of him make it very difficult to concentrate on the task at hand.
“Atta girl.” It slips out quiet, almost hard to catch.
The words hit low in your belly and you feel yourself clench around nothing. You almost lose your rhythm from merely two words. Chiding yourself, you try to recover. His hips twitch like the praise cost him the last scrap of control he had left.
The idea that you could make him forget himself, make him slip like that, make him say something he wasn't planning on saying.
You want more of that. You want all of that.
As you work him deeper, tongue dragging slow and wet along the underside with every suck, your eyes flick lower without meaning to. His balls are heavy and tight just below where your hand grips the base, skin flushed and drawn up.
It is impossible to ignore now. You pull off.
He makes a sound of protest that is thoroughly undignified.
You glance up at him, lips shiny and breathing hard. “What about… those?” Sucking cock has your voice strained. “Do I — should I do something?”
“You don’t have to,” he says, reading it immediately, breath still ragged.
“But I should know, right?”
“It’s — if you want to, cup them first. Get a sense of it.”
He stands up without a word, feet planted wide in front of the couch, cock jutting out heavy and slick right at eye level. The new angle gives you everything you need.
His balls are warm and soft in your palm, making him go very still. You drag your tongue over them experimentally, feeling them draw tight under the wet heat. “Like this?” you murmur against the sensitive skin.
“God, yeah — fuck,” he breathes, thighs trembling. A raw and surprised groan rips out of him when you take one carefully into your mouth and gently suck. His hand fists tight in your hair and releases. “Christ.”
You switch to the other, licking and sucking with growing confidence, tongue swirling as his breath turns ragged. “You’re gonna make me lose it already,” he mutters. “If you don’t want me to blow already, you should come off.”
Satisfied with the way he’s shaking, you reach up and wrap your hand around his cock at the same time, stroking him slowly while your mouth stays sealed around his balls.
His hips jerk hard against your mouth. “Shit — wait—” His fingers slide into your hair and tug you off gently but firmly. “If you keep sucking my balls and jerking me off like that I’m gonna — fuck — cum way too fucking soon. Slow down. Please.”
You pull off from his balls to gently shove him back to the couch. He lands with a soft thud and a groan, and you immediately come back to his cock, lips closing over the head.
This time you don't hold back. You want more of that. More of everything. The sounds of him, the way his control keeps slipping in these small visible ways.
Wet sounds fill the room alongside his ragged breathing. You stop being self-conscious about any of this entirely. Spit on your chin. His hand gripping your hair. You try to take him deeper than you have and it makes you gag, eyes watering. It’s a mess when you do pull off, coughing with tears pricking the corners.
Without a word, his thumb comes to your chin to wipe it. "What did I say?"
"I almost had it."
"You didn't have it."
"I was so close."
"Take me back in your mouth. And stop competing with yourself."
Mouth sliding back down, you take what you can and work what you have. His hips buck upward involuntarily, shoving deeper into your throat for one dizzy second before he catches himself. "Shit — sorry." He forces his ass back down. But the control slips again seconds later, another helpless roll that has you moaning around his cock.
You’re doing this to him.
His hand in your hair is gripping properly now. He says your name and it comes out rough.
Till this time, you were so concentrated on him, you didn’t realise you were dripping wet. Those panties sure are soaked by now.
"Come up." His hand migrates to your shoulder. "Come on, come up."
You don't. You remember his he pulled your hand during the handjob, and you don’t want that to fallen again.
"Baby." The hand tightens. "I mean it — come up —"
It slips out. Just the once, just that word, clearly not planned. You stay where you are and look up at him through your lashes. He forces his eyes to stay open, to keep his gaze on you, but his jaw goes tight and his head drops back. The swear that comes out of him is helpless as his whole body goes rigid and still.
The first hot, thick rope of cum hits the back of your throat, salty and bitter and so fucking him. You swallow it down greedily, sucking harder through every pulsing spurt until he’s shaking and empty.
The taste of him is all over your tongue. "Fuck," his voice is wrecked.
He is a sight as you sit back on your heels.
His chest is heaving. There's a flush across his face and throat. He's looking at you from somewhere between wrecked and something else, something that's been showing up on his face more lately.
"First time, you don't usually swallow. You don't know if you'll like the taste — that's why I was trying to—" He pauses to take a breath. "You should've let me pull you off."
Both of your hands go to his jaw. "Buck." You make him look at you. "I liked it. Very much. Can we do it again?"
Droopy eyes stare back at you, and you generously add, “not right now, obviously."
Something gives in his face and he laughs. His hand comes up to cover both of yours where they're resting on him. Turning his head, he presses his mouth to your palm, warmth transferring from his lips. "Twenty minutes," he says into your hand.
"Fifteen."
"Twenty." A kiss to your palm.
"Seventeen and that's my final offer."
"We can go straight to your cock. I'm ready."
Bucky looks at you. "No, you're not."
"I literally just—"
"Lie down."
There's no room in his voice for the conversation you were about to have. Because you know him well enough, you know that tone means he's already thought about this more than you have. It's annoying. You've gotten used to it. You lie down.
He comes down beside you, and his mouth finds the side of your neck first, and then your jaw. "Have you done this before?"
The audacity of this man. “I’m sorry — If I'd done this before. Why would I be here?"
His lips press somewhere near your ear. "With yourself. Have you touched yourself?"
Oh.
"Yes. Obviously." You didn't mean for the ‘obviously’ to come out quite so defensive.
"This'll be different."
The audacity again. "Yeah, you’re gonna be better —"
"No, I just meant — my fingers are bigger."
Right. You take a breath. He's right, you know he's right. The size, and when you add his experience to the mix... "Okay."
"I want you to show me something first." When you turn to look at him he's already looking at you. He proposes it like it's simple. "How you do it. What you do when you're alone."
The heat that climbs your throat is immediate. "Bucky."
"You don't have to. But it'd be nice if you did."
"No I just —" You press your lips together. It's not that you don't want to. It's just that there's a difference between doing something and doing something with him watching your face for your reaction. "You'll literally be right there."
"That’s kind of the point." A quiet fact.
Working up whatever nerve that requires, you slide your hand beneath the waistband of your underwear.
For the first few seconds you're almost entirely in your own head about it, hyperaware of him, of his attention. But your body doesn't especially care about that. It knows what this is. And gradually, the weight of being watched tips over into something else. The sound that comes out of you is not measured.
That’s when you register a movement without fully tracking it. You feel his breath against your inner thigh, you understand he's not beside you anymore, he's between your legs. Right there, watching up close as your hand moves under the thin fabric.
That is a lot of new information at once.
"Take these off." His hand is at the edge of your underwear.
To make it easier, you lift your hips. He drags them down and off in one slow pull and drops them somewhere behind him. The cool air hits your slick folds. But the most striking part of it all is that he's just looking, eyes dark and fixed on the way you're already glistening, the lips of your pussy flushed and wet from your own fingers. “God, I missed her.” The words slip out before he can stop them.
"Did you — did you just call my pussy 'her'?" The question comes out breathless though you're trying to sound sharp. You can't help picking at him even when your thighs are trembling under his hands.
He doesn't answer, so you naturally continue, "you wouldn't let me call your cock 'him'. But now you're out here naming mine like she's an old friend? That's rich." You manage to get the words out, but your voice cracks halfway through, the heat of his stare making it hard to keep the brat in check.
"That was different." The corner of his mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile. "But, you can do whatever you want, gorgeous."
Did he just — did he just call you gorgeous and send your nervous system into an overdrive? Or did he call your pussy gorgeous? Sometimes it’s hard to keep track, especially when you’re inches away from losing it.
You try for a comeback, but there’s none, the words dissolve into a shaky moan before they’re even formed. Partly because his thumbs are already spreading you open again, exposing every slick inch to the cool air and his hungry gaze.
“Don’t stop on my account.” He urges your fingers to continue their motion, and you find your clit to work the slow circle you know. His hands stay spread open on your outer lips.
His breath is warm against you and it is genuinely insane how much that alone is doing to you. You can feel yourself getting wetter under his gaze, which is embarrassing, and also apparently fine. Because when he notices, he makes a soft involuntary sound that vibrates right through your core. "Put your finger in for me."
For him.
After a short shaky breath, you work one finger in. The stretch is small and familiar but the sound you make is not.
"Just like that… fuck, look at you." You can feel him looking. Not at your face. "Leave it right there."
His thumbs, on either side of your lips, spread you open gently, slightly more. To look at you, at where your finger disappears inside your dripping pussy, at all of it, up close.
"She's soaking wet already." His thumb sweeps through your folds in one slow drag, collecting the slick until it shines on his skin. "Look at her pulsing for me."
A soft whimper leaves you as you try to keep pumping in and out of you.
“Fingers out.” There’s an urgency to his voice now, eclipsing all softness there was there before.
You draw your hand back, and you're about to just keep going, bring them up, towards you. But his hand closes lightly around your wrist. Redirecting you.
He brings your fingers to his mouth, his lips closing around them, his eyes up and on yours while he sucks. He hums like this is a perfectly normal thing to be doing.
The second he releases your hand, his face descends to your inviting cunt, sealing his mouth over your clit. Your hand goes straight to his hair.
He groans at that, a sound that vibrates all the way through you, and his grip on your thighs tightens in response.
The pain of it, just that slight pull of his hair under your fist, makes him groan again. You save this particular information in the box that’s been filing everything about him for almost many years now.
He licks around your entrance, just teasing, testing, then goes back to your clit. You find yourself trying to grind up into him because your hips seem to have their own agenda now. When you roll up, he adjusts, tilts his head, his hands steady on your thighs, not stopping you.
He looks up at you. Actually holds eye contact while his tongue moves against your clit, which is an absolutely unreasonable thing to do to a person. Your hand tightens in his hair. He makes that sound again.
Mouth wet, he surfaces to rest his chin on your inner thigh for a second. "I'm going to use my fingers now."
"Yes," you say immediately. "Please."
His hand traces down your stomach, two fingers this time, slow through your folds. "Breathe."
"I'm breathing." You’re, in fact, not breathing.
"Are you?"
It’s the second time you’re swallowing your words today. Because he decides to slide one finger through your entrance, no further, just to the first knuckle, and stops.
"You okay?"
The stretch is different from your own. He's right about the size of it. But it's not too much, it's just new, it's just a presence you have to get used to. "Yeah, that's — yeah."
He pushes in slowly and it's very different now. The angle, the size, the fact that it's him and not you and that he's watching your face while he does it, which you are acutely aware of. When he's in fully, he stays there for a moment, unmoving. His thumb brushes over your clit, giving your body something else to focus on.
"Doing so good," he murmurs, as he curls his finger, just slightly, and your back bows off the bed. He does it again, finding the same spot, watching your face with that look of his. Patient. Like he has all the information he needs and is simply using it.
"Bucky—"
"I've got you, baby. You’re so good."
It’s the seventh time he’s called you 'baby'. You’ve tried not counting, but everytime it slips out of him without his knowing, it gets lodged into your brain.
His thumb keeps its steady circles and his finger moves in a slow drag. This is the point at which your body stops taking notes entirely and just exists in what he's doing to it. You pull his hair. He just hisses and keeps going.
"More. Buck — please."
"Yeah? You can take me?"
"Yeah — please—"
He adds the second finger. The stretch makes you grip the sheets, makes a sound come out of you that breaks in the middle. He stills immediately. "Too much?"
"No." The word is out before you've finished thinking it. "No, don't stop."
He works them slowly, both fingers, curling and dragging while his mouth reattaches to your clit. Now, that and doing this at the same time is a lot. It splits your attention in a way that eventually gives up trying to split anything and just becomes one overwhelming thing.
There’s no warning this time, it happens suddenly without any notice, you come with your hand fisted in his hair and your face pressed to his pillow, sound muffled. His mouth works you through it slowly, drawing it out until your thighs are shaking.
When he finally slides his fingers free, you feel their absence immediately.
His lips press a soft kiss to your inner thigh, your pubic bone, and then just below your navel. Your whole body is doing something between boneless and stunned.
When he comes to rest besides you, his mouth finds yours. You can taste yourself on his lips and that is also a sentence you're going to need a moment with.
"You did so good for me," he murmurs against your mouth, and the way he says it is so straightforward. Something behind your sternum goes a little weak. His thumb moves over your cheekbone once. He pulls back to look at you.
You lie there and just try to breathe. He's propped beside you, his hand resting on your stomach, moving with the rise and fall of it.
The lamp in the corner is doing something to the room, making it amber and small.
"You know — you can’t just — just say ‘she’s pretty’ okay? That’s not — it’s not—"
"Mm." He hums to let you fumble through your sentence.
You do. You fumble. "That — that was an incredibly unfair thing to say."
"Was it?"
"Yes!" Then, calming yourself down, "yes."
He laughs, a proper one, and you feel it through his ribcage where your arm is pressed against him. "I'll keep that in mind."
Your heart does something it's been doing more frequently around him lately. It’s a problem you’re currently not equipped to take a closer look at.
Shifting away from his grip, you turn yourself to look at him. The thought that's been in the back of your head for the last twenty minutes makes itself known again. "Please give me your cock."
The remainder of his laugh doesn’t come out.
"Bucky."
"I heard you."
"So—"
Taking your hand, he presses your palm flat against the front of his sweats. Where he’s hard. Properly hard. The heat and the shape of him is undeniable under your touch. "It's all yours."
The air leaves your body. The words leave your brain. All the blood in your entire cardiovascular system reroutes to your face in a single catastrophic second and you stare at his chest because you cannot currently look at him.
"I—" Nothing. You have nothing. Completely blank.
He doesn't move your hand away. If anything, he tightens his grip, just lets it sit there under his, while you attempt to reconstruct language.
"That's—" The warmth of him through the fabric is not helping. "You're—"
"Yeah." You don’t know what you were about to say, so you don’t know what he’s actually agreeing to. But he doesn’t seem to have a problem with that.
The smugness is radiating off him, and your voice comes out appropriately three times higher than usual, "I wasn't — I wasn't ready for that."
"You asked."
"I know I asked." Your face is genuinely so warm right now. "I asked and you—" You make a vague gesture with your free hand. "You can’t just — just do that ‘cause I asked."
The completely insufferable almost-smile at the corner of his mouth could power a city. He is enjoying every second of this.
"Stop looking at me like that," you tell his clavicle, because you still cannot bring yourself to look at him. Especially since your hand is enveloping his crotch, both enveloped by his own hand.
"I'm not doing anything."
You risk looking at his face, which is a mistake, because the expression on it is fond in a way that completely destroys you. You bring yourself to look back at his clavicle.
His thumb makes one small stroke over your knuckles, where your hand is still pressed to him, still warm, and you feel it in your whole chest.
The gesture is less reassuring than it should be.
Before you can process what’s happening, he shifts. Sits up properly, back against the headboard. His arm goes around your waist.
One smooth pull, barely any effort in it, and you're up — actually off the mattress for half a second — and then you're over him, knees sinking into the sheets on either side of his hips.
The logistics of it take a moment to catch up with your brain. You're straddling him. You're bare from the waist down and he's still in his sweats and you're straddling him.
You’re also not fully dropping your weight on him, just hovering, thighs tight with the effort of not fully sitting.
"Sit down." His hands rest at your hips, thumbs at the crease where thigh meets the curve of your ass.
"Bucky, I — I'm going to crush him."
Bucky sighs like a patient man, who’s tired of hearing the same thing for the hundredth time. "You're not going to crush him."
"I'm serious, Bucky—"
"So am I. Sit."
You try. That's the thing, you genuinely try. You shift your weight, start to lower yourself, and then the thick line of him presses up against you, the fear of crushing little Bucky surfaces again. You can feel him there, right there, even through the fabric, even from an inch away, and your nervous system is having a full board meeting about the implications of closing that distance. What if you actually crush him?
"Still hovering," he observes.
"I'm trying."
"You're not going to crush me."
"You don't know that."
"I do, in fact, know that. I’m the experienced one, remember?"
Let there be a single moment where he doesn’t remind you of his sexual escapades. You almost consider retaliating by putting all of your weight on him in one go, but you need this guy, you need his cock.
"Shut — shut up."
"Sit down."
"Bucky."
"Sit."
You make an undignified noise at him. He looks back at you like he’s content to simply wait, which he will, indefinitely, and you both know it.
But like everything with Bucky, he surprises you. One slow slide of his hand, down between your bodies, and his thumb finds your clit. It’s one light flick, barely anything. But your hips betray you completely. Your knees buckle and you drop fully.
The sound you make when you land on him is not something you'll be repeating in polite company.
The rough fabric of his sweats drags through your folds and presses flush against you. Your brain, which had been managing perfectly well up until thirty seconds ago, simply stops.
His cock is right there, thick and hard under the thin cotton, pressed directly against your clit, and you are bare, not to mention wet and sitting on him.
The moan that comes out of you has his name in it and very little else.
"Good girl. There you go."
You grab his shoulders. Mostly for something to hold onto, partly because the alternative is floating off the bed entirely.
"Bucky—"
"Feel that?"
You feel absolutely nothing but that, actually. The pressure alone is making your thoughts go sideways. Your hips twitch, chasing it without permission.
His jaw goes tight and he tips his head back against the headboard for one unguarded moment before he levels out again.
His mouth finds your neck immediately. Open, dragging up toward your jaw and back down while one hand palms your breast, thumb working your nipple in slow circles until it aches. You press into his lap, just slightly, and feel him exhale through his nose.
"What are you—" Your own voice comes out strange. "Bucky, if you don't stop—"
"Don't stop what?" He says it against your throat.
"That. All of — just. Don't stop."
He laughs, low, the sound vibrating against your skin. "You want me to stop or not?"
"I want — stop asking me questions."
"Alright." He switches to the other side of your neck and you stop being able to track the conversation.
The thing is, every tiny shift you make drags your pussy across the front of his sweats. The friction is wet and warm and you are not entirely in control of your hips anymore. You rock forward, without even deciding to, and the pressure catches your clit just right and makes your teeth snap shut.
"Let's try something," he says.
You're mostly liquid at this point. "What?" It comes out slurred, half a word, because his cock is pressing exactly where it shouldn't be. He's also got his mouth on the underside of your jaw and your nipple is between his fingers. It's just a lot of ongoing information for your head to process.
He looks at you. His cheeks are already flushed and his eyes have gone the dark kind of blue. "Grind on me."
What?
You just stare at him, hoping he’d give you something more than that.
"Like this." His hands settle on your hips, guiding you. Forward, then back. Your clit drags across the ridge of him, making you bury your face in his neck. "Bucky—"
"Again." His hands repeat it. The same rhythm, forward and back. The fabric is already damp from you and the drag of it is obscene. "You feel that?"
You feel it fucking everywhere. "Yes."
"Just like that."
He keeps his hands on your hips for a few more strokes, setting the pace. Then lets go, one of them migrating to your nipple, the other to your back. Which means you have to do this yourself, in front of him, consciously.
But soon enough, your hips find the drag again and the self-consciousness evaporates.
"There it is.”
The sounds you’re making are nowhere in your control. Small and helpless but rhythmic with your hips. And you can't locate any part of yourself that cares. His hand at your back presses you closer, and the extra pressure makes your breath hitch.
"You're soaking through my sweats," he says into your hair. He sounds ruined by this. "D'you know that? Can feel you through the fabric."
The fact that he's saying this out loud makes you grind harder and your moan is muffled against his neck.
"That's good, yeah." His voice has shed several layers of composure. "Keep going."
His breathing has changed underneath you, shorter, less controlled. With his chest rising and falling faster, you understand you’re taking him apart the same way he's been taking you apart this whole time.
There was some point where his attention, his hands, his mouth, all of it were directed at you, for you to learn. But it’s changed now. It definitely goes both ways. You can feel that now under your hips, in the way his hands are gripping you, grabbing your skin for more. It’s becoming less and less like a teacher.
It’s more like a person who is losing his grip on something. On several somethings.
An urgency finds you now, pace picking up solely because you need to see him as flustered as you are.
"Fuck—" His voice is strangled. "Slow—"
You don't slow down. Your hips have their own agenda now, chasing something that's pulling tight and urgent in your stomach. Bucky's hands flex at your waist but they don't actually stop you, just hold on.
You're close. You know you're close because the friction has gone from good to unbearable in the space of about thirty seconds and your thighs are shaking and his name keeps coming out of you between breaths like punctuation.
"Bucky — I'm — don't—"
"I'm not going anywhere." Still ragged. His hand moves up your back, into your hair, just holding. "Cum for me."
Stuttering, your hips grind down one last time as your orgasm crashes through in waves. You feel him shudder underneath you, his grip tightening, his whole body going rigid.
Breathing his name into his shoulder, you both stay in a limbo.
When you finally manage to open your eyes and lift your head, he's flushed. His neck and his cheeks and the top of his chest. Hair stuck to his forehead, lips parted, he’s breathing like he’s run across the campus.
Something clicks when your gaze travels between his face and the dark, obvious wet patch spreading across his sweats.
"Did you—"
His ears go pink. That alone is enough to confirm it.
"Bucky. Did you just—"
"Yeah." He scrubs a hand over his face. "I did." The tips of his ears are genuinely red and you've never seen this on him before. "I came in my sweats, yes, you don't have to—"
"You came in your sweats."
"I'm aware of what happened."
"Without me even—" You gesture at the general situation. "I was just sitting there."
"You were not just sitting there," he says, slightly pained. "You were. Doing all of that. For quite a while. And you're — " He stops himself, something crossing his face that he seems to decide against finishing.
The laugh starts somewhere in your chest and works its way up before you can stop it. Helpless, falling out of you. You press your hand to your mouth but it's already too late.
"Go on. Get it out." He says dryly.
"I'm not—" You're laughing properly now, shoulders shaking. You can hear him hiss when you shift, your hips rolling just a fraction with the laugh, because your body hasn’t figured out how to stay still yet. The sound he makes is raw, like it got dragged out of him against his will.
“Fuck — give me a minute, baby, please,” he breathes, one hand clamping down on your hip to hold you there. Freezing you in place. His eyes are squeezed shut now.
“Shit, sorry—” the laughter dies in your throat.
“Don’t be.” He exhales, eyes cracking open again. They’re still glassy, that post-cum haze making the blue look almost black. “I’m just… over-sensitive right now. You moved and it’s—” Another small hiss when you breathe too hard. “Yeah. That.”
You bite your lip, trying not to smile again even though the whole thing is kind of hilarious and kind of hot at the same time.
His thumbs stroke slow circles on your hips. You feel the way his cock is still half-hard underneath all that mess, twitching every time your weight settles.
You trace a finger along the side of his neck, right where his pulse is jumping. “Can I… give you a hickey? Just one. Or two.”
His head tips back against the headboard so he can look at you properly. The corner of his mouth lifts, tired but fond. “Hickey?”
“Yeah… I’ve always wanted to…” you trail off.
“Have at it,” he makes space for your mouth, titling his head to one side.
Immediately, you lean in and press your mouth to the spot just under his jaw, sucking slowly at first, letting your tongue drag over the skin until you feel him swallow hard. He tastes like salt and musk. Pulling back just enough, you see the little red bloom starting, then move lower, right where his neck meets his shoulder, and do it again. Teeth grazing just enough to make him hiss through his teeth in a completely different way.
His hand slides up your back, fingers threading into your hair. “Mark me up, gorgeous.”
So, you are gorgeous.
Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Next Part
EXTRAS. Thank you for reading. Hope that wasn’t just porn without plot. Last part will be up next Thursday.
Tags: Dom/sub, bdsm au, dom Bucky, sub reader, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, gay sex'n'stuff, straight sex'n'stuff, Steve being a literal Golden Retriever, mental health issues, dub-con, forced submission, bakery au, m/f/m, gentle domination, total power exchange
Summary: The stigma and shame of being a submissive has kept Mary unfulfilled and in the closet her whole life, until an inciting incident leads to Bucky and Steve taking her in and giving her everything she was always too afraid to ask for.
Trigger warnings: This story contains themes of eating disordered behavior, body image issues, self-harm, childhood trauma, and alcohol abuse (basically, the ofc's a hot mess).
My favorite part about several of his eating scenes is that he wasn't suppose to be eating. Like, it wasn't written the the script or discussed before hand that was just Robert being hungry and, once again, sneaking snacks on to the set. It worked very well for his character.
I do love the public libraries, but I do have one bone to pick with them, and it is that I believe they aren’t connected enough. Where I live, libraries are connected by county, meaning if what you wanted/ needed wasn’t in the county, they’d need to order it new, or you wouldn’t get it.
So, for example, as a kid, I remember reading this book, which I really liked, and this book had a part two. Unfortunately, my family moved before I could get part two from the library. Good news, though, our new home was literally down the street from a new library. Bad news, we were in a new county, so their resources did not share the same rotation and they did not have part to or that series for that matter. I asked the library to order it, but it never came.
I just talked to my mother about this post and came to the realization that the library probably did have the book I was looking for and simply didn't give it to me because it was for an older group and was inappropriate for my age ( Blood, guts, gruesome deaths, etc.).
I'm going to go back and see if I can get it now since I'm bigger now.
I do love the public libraries, but I do have one bone to pick with them, and it is that I believe they aren't connected enough. Where I live, libraries are connected by county, meaning if what you wanted/ needed wasn't in the county, they'd need to order it new, or you wouldn't get it.
So, for example, as a kid, I remember reading this book, which I really liked, and this book had a part two. Unfortunately, my family moved before I could get part two from the library. Good news, though, our new home was literally down the street from a new library. Bad news, we were in a new county, so their resources did not share the same rotation and they did not have part to or that series for that matter. I asked the library to order it, but it never came.
People talk about how the MCU New York must be terrible and people must be leaving in droves. And I say it must be GREAT just imagine those prices.
Think about it. The city has had Three head on attacks with more than a dozen weird shit happening off in the streets or neighborhoods. People wouldn’t want to live there all that happening people would be moving as fast as they could to get away from the big cities that always have some kind of invasion.
And works would always have an excuse. Why are you late for work “sorry alien fell on my car” and this is very believable as the city has been attacked by aliens THRICE.
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