Joe Velasco x reader
warnings: language, really that's it for this chapter which is wild for this story. just some plot incoming for ya
Yup!! That's right! We are BACK! TBH I can't guarantee when these updates will continue to come out, or the pace they will but definitely faster than they have been LOL. cause I do really enjoy having a multi chapter fic to work on and honestly i've missed the dynamic with this group!
Thanks for reading! Thanks for sticking around! More to come!
Joe’s hand slipped into yours as the elevator doors slid open, squeezing gently and you glanced over towards him, finding a slightly nervous smile on his face.
“What?” You asked with a small laugh.
“Feels weird.” He mumbled, running his free hand over his face and you rolled your eyes.
“Pretty boy, your dick has been inside me. You don’t need to feel weird about holding my hand.”
He shook his head with a huff of a laugh, “I meant the whole lying thing. I don’t like it.”
“Blame Grace.” You replied with a shrug and he let out a breath.
He wasn’t sure he would ever be able to understand the way you were so casual with everything. You rarely expressed stress or anxiety, even with the job. You were the calming one, the one who almost always had a smile on her face yet didn’t have to be the center of attention. He was realizing that was one of the many reasons he was so drawn to you in the first place. You never once made him feel nervous, you never judged him, you simply held his hand and guided him through whatever struggle it was he was dealing with.
Even if that struggle was knocking on the door of his best friend’s apartment.
You nudged him with your shoulder, “my hands are full.”
“Shit, sorry.” He raised a fist and rapped it against the wood.
“Chill.” You squeezed his hand, leaning in to prop your chin on his shoulder, “we’re madly in love, remember?”
Joe looked down at you, catching the over dramatic way you were batting your eye lashes and laughed, a true, relaxed laugh. He forgot about where he was and ducked down to kiss you, your plan working perfectly as the door swung open just in time to catch said kiss.
“You made it!” Grace greeted and when you pulled your gaze to hers you caught the look in her eyes. She was practically vibrating, far more nervous than Joe was.
“You kidding?” You exclaimed, your voice raising to be heard through the apartment as you pulled yourself away from Velasco, “as soon as Joe told me it was an immediate yes! I’ve been dying to have some other couple friends.”
“Really?” Grace replied as Kat appeared at her side, kissing her cheek as she pinched at her elbow.
“Told you.” She shot the two of you a smile.
“It’s so great to finally meet you.” You extended a hand after elbowing Joe in the ribs and he came back to life.
“Yeah.” He shot them a signature grin, “heard so much about you.”
Kat nudged Grace’s shoulder, “are you gonna invite them in, or?”
“Shit, yeah.” She laughed, stepping back from the entry way.
“Jeeze Muncy,” you hip checked her, “ask my guy to play chef and this is the hospitality we get?” You shot her a wink as you moved passed the couple, placing a bag down on their kitchen breakfast bar. “I’ve got a bottle of red, a few Millers and some seltzers, help yourselves.”
“Thank you.” Kat gave the two of you a welcoming smile, “I told Grace we should be providing drinks, but she said you two had it all covered.”
“We woulda’ hosted,” Joe started as he unpacked the second bag full of dinner ingredients, “but our place is still a mess of boxes. This one,” he gestured toward you, “can’t decide which side of the closet she wants.”
Well aware of Grace’s eyes flitting between the two of you, you eyed him for a moment, not daring to give anything away. Considering the scene in the hall, you were starting to think this might not have been Joe’s game, turned out all you needed to do was shout ‘action’ and he was ready for it.
You looked toward the two girls with a shrug, “one side has more shelving, can’t decide if I want to hang all my pants or fold ‘em, struggles, right?”
They both laughed, Grace eagerly reaching into the refreshments bag to find a beer to hide behind. Kat pulled down a few wine glasses as she spoke.
“I didn’t realize you two had moved in already, that’s a big step.”
“Yeah.” You nodded, slipping into your role as you leant against the counter, sneaking a seltzer from the bag before giving Joe an adoring look, “just kinda felt right.”
“When you know, you know.” He smiled back at you.
“And with the New York housing market, why bother waiting?” You laughed, raising your can to cheers’ the others, “to new friends and new beginnings.”
Kat clinked her glass to you, “to finding love in this mess of a world.”
“Amen.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
*
Joe busied himself in the kitchen as the girls dragged you into the living room and he had never been more thankful that it was basically all one open space. A row of cupboards above the breakfast bar the only thing separating the rooms. He hadn’t thought about it, but the two of you hadn’t really discussed any details when it came to your ‘relationship’ and you’d need to stay on the same page throughout the night to keep the sham going.
He threw a pot of rice on the stove before turning back to the counter facing the three of you, helping himself to Grace’s knife collection to start dicing up a shallot. He liked cooking, maybe more than he would admit. When he started out he certainly hadn’t been very good at it, but he’d needed to learn. It was a task for him to focus on, especially in those early days, between making sure he was following the recipe correctly to having something to do with his hands. It relaxed him, calmed his mind on days when he needed it the most. If you’d asked anyone else in his profession they might think he was crazy, why, after working a daunting and incredibly long day, would you want another task to do? But it helped him forget, helped him process, on UC cases it helped remind him who he was.
Tonight, it was something to focus on instead of staring at you while you laid out stories and laughed along with the other two girls. There was a sparkle in your eye, glittering in the light from the patio styled fairy bulbs that adorned Grace’s living room, and he especially loved the way your smile was actually reaching your eyes tonight. Not in the mischievous way you’d grin at him or Terry, or the more professional smile you used at work. But one that made that little half dimple on your left cheek pop, the one that stayed on your cheeks after a bright laugh.
“Fuck.” He muttered to himself, dragging his eyes away from the living room as he gave his head a shake.
Chopped shallot moved to the side, he turned his back to the view, digging through Grace’s cupboards until he found the bowls and pulled one down. It didn’t take him long to chop up the herbs and garlic, mixing them together with the oil and spices. Glancing back up, he found your back to him, shoulder to shoulder with Kat as the two of you watched something on her phone.
“Baby,” he called out, half surprised at just how fast you turned, “come taste this for me?”
You nodded, placing your drink down on the coffee table before crossing the room to him, not holding back on the personal space, your hip bumping his at the counter. The corner of his lips curved up right as he glanced to the other two out of the corner of his eye and you had to hold back a grin. He dipped a spoon into the sauce, cupping his free hand underneath it as he held it up to your lips, waiting as you tasted it.
“Thoughts?”
“Mmm.” You licked a drop of it off your lips, “delicious. Could use a kick?”
“That’s what I was thinking,” he looked back towards the living room, “Kat, you okay with spice?”
“Bring it.” She laughed, “dunno about this one though.”
“Hey!” Grace frowned, pulling a laugh from the rest of you.
“Oh she can handle a few red pepper flakes.” You scoffed, your arm winding around Joe’s back as you leant in to press a kiss to his cheek, “tastes great baby.” Your hand squeezed at his side before you slipped out of the kitchen and back to the girls on the couch. And the entire time you were more than aware of his eyes on your ass. And the pink tinge on his cheeks.
“God you guys are cute.” Kat murmured as you picked up your drink, “I didn’t realize you’d been together this long.”
“I mean, we kept it a secret for as long as we could. Didn’t exactly want to go blabbing around the office the first time we kissed or anything. But this one,” you nudged Grace with your elbow, “like a dog with a bone. Knew something was going on.”
“Benson’s okay with it?”
“I’m honestly not sure she knows.” You laughed.
“Sometimes I think she doesn’t want to know.” Grace commented.
“Less is more when it comes to her and our personal lives.” You agreed, “but at this point basically the whole squad knows. If we haven’t told them, they’ve figured it out. I mean, you can only disappear from the bar together so many times before a team of detectives puts two and two together.”
Kat laughed, “I’d sure hope so!”
“But it’s nice.” You turned to glance at the kitchen, your chin propped up in your palm, “it’s been a while since I’ve really had someone in my corner, and Jose…” you trailed off, watching him laser focused on mincing more garlic, totally unaware of the dreamy smile on your cheeks, “no one has your back like he does. I know I’m safe, in every matter of the word.”
“That’s sweet.” Kat said.
It was Grace that yanked you off whatever road your mind was about to go down, “so who said I love you, first?”
You whipped your head around and for the briefest second you saw the flash of fear in her eyes. She wasn’t supposed to be the one leaning into this play, but then again, games were her thing.
“I did, obviously.” You laughed, taking a sip of your drink, “we both know Velasco’s not a man of many words.” You glanced over your shoulder, “but he definitely showed it first, ya know?”
“Wish I could say I do,” Kat teased, nudging Grace’s side, “but this one can’t keep her mouth shut.”
“Oh, c’mon!” She gaped, earning louder laughs from the two of you.
“What about you guys?” You focused your attention on them, eager to pay Grace back, “thoughts on moving in anytime soon?”
Grace nearly toppled her beer over, managing to save herself right as Kat looked at her with a warm smile.
“I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t crossed my mind.” Kat shrugged, her cheeks flushing slightly as she looked at her girlfriend.
“Really?” Grace’s eyes widened ever so slightly and you almost felt bad for poking the bear.
“Yeah.” Kat nudged her with her shoulder, “considering our jobs, it’s nice to have someone to come home to, and to be in said place with all of your things instead of having to always be carrying two bags.”
“You know if you just dealt with a car instead of taking the subway everywhere that wouldn’t be a hassle.” Grace replied and you had to stifle a laugh at just how clueless she could be.
Joe’s voice rang through the room before anyone could delve down that road any further, “ready when you are!”
Grace leaped up from the couch, darting towards the kitchen to help dish up dinner, set the table, refill drinks or literally anything she could be doing to distract herself.
Dinner was fine. It was more than fine. It was delicious. Entertaining. Educational. Everything that a group of budding friends needed and wanted while getting to know each other and learning more about their couple friends. Grace and Kat told stories about their first couple of dates, how they’d worked things out with their crazy schedules and different units. Grace had more than enough wild anecdotes about her brother, Kat talked about her boxing training and her love for UC work, both things that brought Joe out of his shell, having more than a few things to say on both matters.
And the entire time everything felt so right. So natural. Like out of the 8.5 million in the city, only the four of you mattered. Joe’s free hand rested on your leg when he wasn’t busy enunciating with it, yours coming to squeeze his bicep, lingering just a fraction too long when complimenting him. He wiped a drop of sauce from your lower lip before you could catch it, you ran your fingers through his hair, pushing it off his face and twirling that one strand you liked to leave practically framing his face. He stole a moment to kiss your cheek, to lift your hand from his lap and brush his lips over the back of it. Sometimes to make a point during conversation, others just out of the blue.
After dinner, Kat dragged you out to the balcony, fairy lights wound around the metal to illuminate the mini garden and plant collection she’d started at Grace’s place. Little things to keep alive, the satisfaction of growing your own herbs, both things that you knew Grace was likely struggling with.
Inside, Grace was (reluctantly) helping Jose with the dishes, scraping plates into the garbage and feeding them into the sudsy sink for him to wash. Then swapping sides to grab a dish towel to dry everything off before putting it away, the downside to the minimal counter space in her apartment.
“Like to think that went pretty well.” Joe murmured after a quiet couple of minutes, risking a glance out the sliding glass doors.
“Yeah.” Grace seemed almost surprised, “like… really well. Didn’t realize Parker was so good with people.”
Joe laughed, “I think that’s a pre-requisite of the job.” He nudged her shoulder, “makes me wonder how you landed the gig.”
“Hey!” She swatted him with the towel, scowling at him. “I guess I just didn’t think her and Kat would get along this much.”
“She’s a good person.” He glanced back towards you, “they both are.” He handed her a washed bowl, “Kat really loves you.”
Grace let out a soft sigh, looking out to the balcony, “I know. I really love her too.”
“Good. I’m happy for you.”
“Yeah?” She raised a brow, “what about you two? That was disgustingly sweet. I’m pretty sure I gagged like fifty times and it definitely wasn’t the food.”
He flicked a handful of soapy water at her, “you literally asked for this.”
“I know!” She shrieked, attempting to dodge the spray, catching what she could with the towel, “I’m only wondering if it’s as fake as you’ve told me. You two put on a fucking convincing act.”
“You do remember I had a super long stint in UC, right?” He raised a brow.
Before she could answer, you and Kat were back in the apartment and making quick time to the kitchen where you latched around his back, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck.
“Baby, we need to get one of those little herb gardens! She’s got basil, tarragon, chives, it’s so cool.”
He turned in your arms, smiling down at you, “oh yeah?”
“It doesn’t even have to be outside, we could put it on that little table by the kitchen window. C’mon” You squeezed at his sides, “you’d love cooking with real, fresh herbs!”
He ducked down just enough to leave a kiss on the tip of your nose, then leaning down further to press one to your lips.
“Yeah? Why don’t we go to the store tomorrow, see what we can find.”
Smiling, you turned back around, your attention returned to Kat as you chattered on something about herbs and plants that Joe couldn’t even pretend to focus on.
summary: James Buchanan Barnes has spent his entire career believing discipline solves everything. Then a brilliant, chronically late graduate student walks into his office, challenges every opinion he has and somehow turns his carefully ordered life upside down.
warnings: +18 MDNI explicit sexual content, age gap, enemies to lovers, forbidden romance, slow burn, sexual tension, office sex, praise kink, brat taming, dirty talk, dom Bucky Barnes, emotional hurt/comfort, mutual pining, power imbalance, happy ending.
a/n: I've been gatekeeping this story for three months since it was finished, and I started writing it in March! I'm glad I was finally able to post it this is my 1/4 for the Midterms & Metal Arms collab, make sure to see the rest! They will be posting every friday by @herejustforbuckybarnes, @buckysdecaflove & yours truly 🩶 (also, may I say thank you Esquire Malaysia for posting those pics? They're totally dean/professor Barnes coded)
read on AO3
You're twenty minutes late to your first mandatory meeting with the new Dean of Graduate Studies, and you don't even have a good excuse.
Well, that's not entirely true. You do have an excuse—your advisor's lecture ran over, and then there was a line at the coffee shop, and honestly, you'd forgotten about the meeting until you got the reminder notification—but whether it's a good excuse is debatable. Probably not good enough for someone like James Buchanan Barnes, whose reputation preceded him by about three weeks and several strongly worded emails.
The administrative assistant gives you a disapproving look as you breeze past her desk, still juggling your coffee and bag.
"He's been waiting for you for almost half an hour," she says, voice clipped.
"I know, I know. Traffic sucks."
It's 10 AM on a Wednesday, there was no traffic. She knows it. You know it. But you flash her your most charming smile anyway and knock twice on the heavy oak door before pushing it open.
"You're late."
His voice is deeper than you expected. Rough around the edges, like gravel and smoke. You take the opportunity to study him while his attention is elsewhere—dark hair that's a bit longer than typical administrator— short, sharp jaw, broad shoulders that fill out his button-down shirt in a way that's frankly distracting. He's younger than you pictured too. Mid-thirties, maybe. Which seems impossibly young for a dean, but then again, you'd heard he had an impressive background. Former military, something classified, then a PhD that he'd blazed through in record time.
Great. An overachiever with something to prove.
"Sorry," you say, not sounding particularly sorry. "My advisor's—"
"Save it." He finally looks up and you're struck by the intensity of his blue eyes. They sweep over you once, assessing, cataloging. You have the distinct impression he's already formed an opinion and it's not favorable. "Just don't let it happen again."
You bite back the retort on your tongue—yes, sir delivered with just enough sarcasm to be insubordinate— and instead, drop into one of the chairs across from his desk.
He watches you settle in, one eyebrow slightly raised. "I didn't say sit."
Oh, this is going to be fun.
"I assumed, since this is a meeting, we'd be sitting." You take a deliberate sip of your coffee, maintaining eye contact. "Unless you prefer to conduct business standing? I'm flexible."
Something flashes in his expression. Annoyance, maybe. Or disbelief that you'd speak to him like this in the first ten seconds of knowing him. "Ms—" He glances at his computer screen, confirming your name, even though you both know he already knows it. He called this meeting, after all. When he says your full name, it sounds like an indictment.
"You can just use my first name," you interrupt. "We're all adults here."
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "I've asked you here because your academic record has come to my attention."
"Oh good, I love being noticed for my achievements."
"That's not—" He stops, taking a deep breath through his nose. Patience, you realize. He's already exercising patience with you and you've been in his office for less than two minutes. "Your grades are exceptional. Some of the highest in your program. Your research proposal was brilliant, according to Dr. Morrison. Which makes the rest of your file particularly… concerning."
You wait. Let him say it.
"You've missed 40% of your mandatory seminars this semester. You've submitted three separate assignments past deadline. You were given a verbal warning last month for—" he checks his notes"—'disruptive behavior during a guest lecture'. And apparently, you've been avoiding your advisory meetings."
"I haven't been avoiding them… Dr. Morrison and I have an understanding."
"An understanding." He repeats it like he's tasting something sour. "What kind of understanding allows a master's student to simply not show up to scheduled meetings with their advisor?"
You shrug. "The kind where he knows I'm working and doesn't need me to hold his hand through every stage of the process. I send updates, he responds. It's very efficient, actually."
Dean Barnes closes his laptop with a decisive click. He leans forward, palms flat on the desk, and you notice for the first time that his left hand has some scarring across the knuckles.
"Let me be very clear," he says, voice low and controlled. "I don't care how brilliant your research is or how high your GPA sits. At this university, under my administration, you will attend your required seminars. You will meet deadlines. You will show up to your advisory meetings and you will conduct yourself professionally. Are we understood?"
The reasonable part of your brain—the small, usually ignored part—suggests that maybe you should just nod and agree. This man has the power to make your academic life substantially more difficult. He could put you on probation, revoke funding, even recommend dismissal in extreme cases.
But there's something about his tone, the way he's looking at you like you're a problem to be solved, a recruit to be disciplined, that makes your spine straighten and your chin lift.
"I understand that you've been dean for all of three weeks and you're very eager to make your mark," you say sweetly. "But micromanaging graduate students who are already producing exceptional work seems like a waste of everyone's time. Maybe focus on the students who are actually failing?"
The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees.
Dean Barnes straightens slowly and you notice he's tall. Really tall. The kind of presence that would be commanding even without the title and the office and the obvious military bearing.
"This meeting is a courtesy," he says, each word precisely enunciated. "The next one won't be. You have two weeks to demonstrate significant improvement in your attendance and professional conduct. If I don't see that improvement, we'll be having a very different conversation about your continued enrollment in this program."
Your heart kicks against your ribs with anger—not fear, you tell yourself— but you keep your expression neutral.
"Is that all, Dean Barnes?" You load his title with just enough emphasis to make it clear what you think of this entire conversation.
"Yes, you're dismissed."
You stand, gathering your bag with unhurried movements. At the door, you pause and glance back. He's already focused on his computer again, effectively erasing you from his attention.
"See you around," you say lightly, but don't wait for a response.
Outside, the administrative assistant gives you a knowing look.
"How'd it go?"
"Oh, you know. Just another power-hungry administrator on a mission." You adjust your bag on your shoulder. "I give him six months before he burns out."
She actually laughs at that. "I wouldn't underestimate Dean Barnes. He doesn't strike me as the burning-out type"
"Everyone's the burning-out type eventually."
But as you walk back across campus, coffee gone cold in your hand, you can't quite shake the memory of those sharp blue eyes and the controlled anger in his voice.
Two weeks. He'd given you two weeks.
You'd show him improvement. Just… maybe not the kind he was expecting.
You make it exactly five days before you're back in Dean Barnes' office.
To be fair, this time it's not entirely your fault. Well, it's mostly not your fault. The seminar was mind numbingly boring, the visiting professor had clearly not updated his research since 2015, and when he'd made a factually incorrect statement about recent developments in your field, you'd… corrected him.
Publicly.
Perhaps with a bit more enthusiasm than necessary. And maybe you'd rolled your eyes when he'd tried to double down on his outdated information.
"Please tell me," Dean Barnes says as you walk into his office—on time, you note, which should count for something—"that you didn't tell Professor Whitmore that his keynote address was 'a fascinating glimpse into how people thought about this subject a decade ago."
You hover near the door. He hasn't invited you to sit, and you're not about to make the same assumption twice. "I was complimenting his historical perspective?"
"Sit down." It's not a request, so you sit.
He's wearing a different shirt today—still button-down, still perfectly pressed, but this one's a dark henley that makes his eyes look even bluer. He's also skipped the jacket, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and you can see more of that scarring on his left forearm.
"Professor Whitmore," Dean Barnes continues, voice tight with controlled frustration, "is a respected scholar who has published over forty papers and—"
"Thirty-seven," you correct automatically. "And only twelve in the last ten years, most of which were just rehashing his—"
"That's not the point," he interrupts as he closes his eyes, like he's praying for patience.
"Then what is the point? That I'm supposed to sit there and smile while someone spreads misinformation to a room full of graduate students who might actually—"
"The point," he says, leaning forward, "is that you cannot speak to visiting faculty like they're undergraduates who got a question wrong on an exam. There's a way to engage in academic discourse that doesn't involve public humiliation."
"I didn't humiliate him. I just corrected—"
"You told him he should consider 'updating his references to include something from this century."
"And that's accurate feedback!"
"In front of sixty people!"
You're both on your feet now, though you don't remember standing. The desk is between you, but it feels like no distance at all.
"So what?" Your voice rises to match his. "I'm supposed to just sit there and nod along with bad science because his ego is too fragile to handle being challenged?"
"You're supposed to conduct yourself like a professional!" He slams his hand on the desk, and you actually flinch. Not from fear—from surprise at the crack in his controlled demeanor. "Do you have any idea how many complaints I've fielded about you in the past five days? Five days! You've been late to three more seminars, you got into an argument with Dr. Burns about her grading criteria, and now this!"
"Dr. Burns' grading criteria are arbitrary and—"
"I don't care!" He runs his hand through his hair. "I don't care if you're right. I don't care if every single person you've argued is wrong. You are a master's student at a prestigious university, and you will show respect to the faculty, or you will be gone. Do you understand me?"
The silence that follows is deafening.
You can hear your own heartbeat, can see the muscles ticking in his jaw, can feel the anger radiating off him in waves. "You want me to be a good little student," you say quietly, voice sharp as glass. "Smile and nod and never question anything, even when it's wrong."
"I want you to think before you speak. I want you to consider the consequences of your actions. I want you to act like someone who actually wants to be here."
"Jeez, Dean. I worked my ass of to get into this program, of course I want to be here!"
"Then act like it!" He's around the desk now, closing the distance between you. "Because from where I'm standing, you're doing everything possible to get yourself kicked out. Late, disruptive, insubordinate—"
"Oh, here we go." You laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Insubordinate. There it is. You know this isn't the military, right? You can't just bark orders and expect everyone to fall in line."
"You think I don't know that?"
"I think you're so used to people following your commands that you can't handle someone who pushes back."
"Pushes back?" He's close now, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. "You're not pushing back. You're acting like a spoiled brat who's never been told 'no' in her life."
The words hit like a slap. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." His voice is lower now, but no less intense. "You think your intelligence gives you a free pass to treat everyone around you like they're beneath you. You think because you're smarter than most people in the room, the rules don't apply to you."
"That's not—"
"When's the last time you actually listened to feedback? When's the last time you considered that maybe, just maybe, someone else might have a point? Or are you so far up your own ass that you can't see how you're sabotaging yourself?"
Your hands are shaking from anger… at least that's what you tell yourself.
"You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough." He's not yelling anymore, which somehow makes it worse. "I know you're brilliant and talented and completely wasting it because you'd rather prove you're the smartest person in every room than actually accomplish anything meaningful. I know you're going to talk your way out of this program within the semester if you don't get your act together. And I know—"
He stops abruptly, jaw clenching.
"What?" you challenge. "You know what?"
"I know I'm done trying to help someone who doesn't want to be helped."
The words settle between you like stones.
"I never asked for your help."
"No," he agrees, voice flat. "You didn't, which is why, effective immediately you're being placed on academic probation. You'll meet with me every Monday at 9 AM to review your attendance and conduct for the previous week. You'll submit weekly progress reports, and if I receive one more complaint about your behavior you're out."
Your mouth goes dry. "You can't—"
"I can, and I am." He steps back, putting professional distance between you again. When he speaks, his voice is completely detached. "You have potential, but potential means nothing if you can't work with other people. Consider this your last chance."
You want to argue, tell him exactly where he can shove his probation and weekly meetings and his condescending concern. But the look on his face stops you. He doesn't look angry anymore, he's disappointed. And somehow, that's so much worse.
"Fine," you bite out.
"Fine," he echoes.
"Is that all?"
"Yes, see you Monday 9 AM. Don't be late."
You turn on your heel and walk out, managing to keep your composure until you're halfway across campus. Then you find an empty classroom and let yourself feel the full weight of what just happened.
Academic probation. Weekly meetings with Dean Barnes. One complaint away from expulsion.
You should be terrified.
Instead, all you can think about is the way his eyes had blazed when he called you a spoiled brat, the way he'd gotten close enough that you could smell his cologne, the way your heart had raced you when he'd challenged you.
You're in so much trouble, and not just the academic kind.
The Monday meetings become a special kind of torture.
On week one, you show up on time with printed documentation of your perfect attendance and professionally worded emails to faculty. Dean Barnes reviews them with barely a nod, asks if you have anything else to report and dismisses you in under ten minutes.
Week two, you're three minutes late because the printer jammed. He doesn't say anything, just marks something in his notes while you apologize. You hate how the silence feels like criticism.
Week three, you're early. You bring coffee— one for you, one for him, because maybe if you try being nice, this will be less awful. He looks at the cup you set on his desk like it might be poisoned, but he drinks it anyway.
By week five, you've developed a routine. Monday mornings, 9 AM, sitting across from Dean Barnes while he reviews your week. You've been perfect. Perfectly punctual, perfectly polite, perfectly compliant.
You hate every second of it.
"Your attendance has been flawless," he notes, scrolling through something on his laptop. It's mid-October now, and he's traded the henleys for sweaters that somehow make him look more approachable and more intimidating at the same time. "Dr. Morrison says you've been attending all your advisory meetings."
"As required."
He glances up at that, catching the edge in your tone.
"Is there a problem?"
Yes, you want to say. The problem is that you've spent five weeks performing like a trained seal, and he hasn't once acknowledged that maybe, just maybe, his assessment of you was harsh. The problem is that you lie awake at night replaying your arguments, thinking of better comebacks, sharper retorts. The problem is that you've started noticing things about him—the way he drums his fingers on the desk when he's thinking, the small scar through his eyebrow, how his entire demeanor softens when he talks to the administrative staff.
The problem is that you can't stop wondering what it would take to crack that professional facade.
"No problem," you say instead.
He studies you for a long moment, and you have the unsettling feeling that he sees right through you.
"You seem…" He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "Subdued."
"I'm being professional, isn't that what you wanted?"
"I wanted you to engage constructively, not to shut down completely."
You laugh—a short, bitter sound. "I literally cannot win with you, can I? I'm disruptive, I'm a problem. I'm quiet, I'm shutting down. What exactly do you want from me, dean Barnes?"
His expression shifts, something unreadable flickering across his features.
"I want—" he stops, jaw tightening. "I want you to find a balance between being yourself and being respectful, that's all I've ever wanted."
"Right, because you know so much about who I am from our what, six conversations? All of which have been you telling me everything I'm doing wrong."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" You're leaning forward now, exhaustion and frustration bubbling over. "You decided who I was in our first meeting. Spoiled, bratty, someone who needs to be put in her place. You never once considered that maybe there are reasons I am the way I am."
"Then tell me." He matches your posture, leaning in. "Explain it to me."
"Why should I? So you can use it against me? Add it to your little file of everything that's wrong with me?"
"That's not—" He cuts himself off, breathing hard through his nose. "I've never wanted to use anything against you. From day one, I've been trying to help you succeed."
"By threatening to kick me out?"
"By giving you clear expectations and boundaries! Which, apparently, no one else in your academic career has bothered to do!"
"Don't pretend you know anything about my academic career!"
"I know you've been coasting on raw talent without even learning how to work with people! I know you alienate everyone around you because it's easier than being vulnerable! I know—"
He stops abruptly, like he's said too much. The silence is suffocating.
"You know what?" Your voice shakes, and you hate it. Hate that he's gotten under your skin like this. "I've done everything you asked. I've been to every seminar, every meeting. I've smiled and nodded and played the part of the good little student and it's still not enough for you."
"That's not true."
"Then what do you want from me?" The question comes out raw, almost desperate. "Just tell me what you want, and I'll do it, so we can both stop pretending these meetings are anything other than you reminding me how much of a disappointment I am!"
You're standing now—when did you stand?—and so is he, and the desk between you feels like both a barrier and the only thing keeping this situation from spiraling completely out of control.
"You're not a disappointment," he says, and his voice has gone quiet in a way that's more affecting than any of his anger. "You're brilliant and passionate and you care so deeply about your work that it scares you, so you hide behind sarcasm and antagonism, because if you don't care, you can't fail. But you do care. I see it every time you argue about methodology or challenge outdated thinking. You care so much it's destroying you."
The accuracy of it steals your breath.
"You don't know me," you whisper, but it sounds weak even to your own ears.
"Don't I?" He's moved around the desk—when did he do that?—and suddenly he's close, closer than he's been since that first argument. "You think I haven't noticed? The way you're first to arrive at seminars now but you sit in the back and never speak up? The way you flinch every time I ask if you have anything to report? It's like you're waiting for the other shoe to drop. You're miserable, and I—"
He stops, something warring in his expression.
"You what?" The challenge is automatic, but your voice is barely above a whisper.
"I hate that I did that to you." You weren't expecting that. "I thought I was helping," he continues, and he sounds tired. "I thought structure and discipline were what you needed, but I've been taking out my own frustrations on you. Every time you pushed back, it reminded me of myself before the army beat it out of me… all that fire and certainty and refusal to back down.."
His eyes meet yours, and there's something in them you haven't seen before. The confession hangs between you.
"I'm sorry," he continues. "I'm sorry for calling you a brat and making you feel like you had to change who you are. For not seeing until now that I've been the problem just as much as—"
"Stop." Your hand comes up, almost touching his chest before you catch yourself. "Don't apologize. I've been… god, I've been awful. To you, to the faculty. You were right about me coasting on talent. You were right about a lot of things.""
You don't know who moves first.
Maybe it's simultaneous, gravity and inevitability pulling you together. But suddenly there's no space between you at all, and you can see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes.
"This is a bad idea," he says, but he doesn't move away.
"Terrible idea," you agree, and then his mouth is on yours.
It's not gentle. There's too much pent-up frustration, too many weeks of tension for it to be anything but desperate and consuming. His hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back, and you grab fistfuls of his sweater. When he breaks away, you're both breathing hard.
"We can't—" he starts, but you cut him off.
"Your door is locked."
"That is not the point."
"Then what's the point?" You're using his words from earlier, and from the way his eyes darken, he knows it.
"You're my student."
"I'm a graduate student. An adult." Your hands slide up his chest. "And you're not my professor or my advisor. You're an administrator who's been making my life hell for six weeks."
"Making your life hell," he repeats, and there's something dangerous in his voice now. "Is that what I've been doing?"
"Yes..."
His hand comes up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing across your lower lip. "You've been making mine hell too. Do you have any idea how hard it's been, sitting across from you every Monday, watching you perform this perfect student act when all I can think about is—"
He stops himself, but you see the want in his eyes, the same want that's been eating you alive.
"Say it," you challenge.
Instead of answering, he kisses you again, harder this time, backing you up until your legs hit his desk. His hands span your waist, lifting you onto it with an ease that makes something hot coil in your stomach.
"You've been driving me crazy," he says against your mouth. "Every argument, every time you pushed back, every time you looked at me like you wanted to either kill me or—"
"Or what?"
His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher. "Or this."
You should stop this, you should think about the consequences, the professional boundaries, the fact that you're literally on academic probation. But when his fingers trace a way through your inner thigh, all rational thought evaporates.
"James," you breathe, using his first name for the first time.
"Bucky," he corrects, and the intimacy of it makes your heart stutter. "Call me Bucky."
"Bucky," you try out, and he makes a sound low in his throat that goes straight through you.
His fingers move higher, teasing, and when he brushes against your underwear, his eyes go wide. "Fuck, you're soaked."
The embarrassment is immediate and scorching, but before you can form a defense, he's kissing your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point.
"All those arguments," he murmurs against your skin. "All that fighting… and this whole time?" His fingers press more firmly, and you gasp. "Oh, sweetheart, who would've thought being such a brat make you this wet?"
"I'm not—" you start, but he slides your underwear to the side and touches properly, and whatever you were going to say dissolves into a moan.
"Not what? Not a brat?" His thumb finds your clit and he circles it. "That's all you've been, baby. Running that smart mouth, pushing every button, getting yourself all worked up." He slides one finger inside you, and your head falls back. "Getting me all worked up, is this what you wanted? Every time you argued with me?"
"No," you lie, but your body betrays you, your hips roll against his hand.
"No?" He adds another finger, and the stretch makes you whimper. "Because you're gripping my fingers like you've been thinking about this. Like maybe every Monday morning, you sat in that chair and wondered what it would take to make me snap."
"You're so arrogant," you manage, but it comes out breathy and weak.
He laughs, dark and low. "Says the woman who's about to come all over my desk during her probation meeting."
The worlds should be humiliating, instead, they make everything tighter, hotter. His fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes your vision blur.
"That's it," he encourages, his other hand coming up to wrap loosely around your throat. "Let go, stop performing for once and just feel."
You come while his fingers are still working inside you, he kisses you through it, swallowing your moans. When you finally come down, you find him looking at you with something that might be awe.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, withdrawing his fingers slowly.
You watch dazed, as he brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting you. The sight makes you clench around nothing.
"We're not done," you tell him, reaching for his belt.
His hand catches your wrist. "Are you sure?"
"Dean, if you don't fuck me on this desk right now, I swear to god—"
He kisses you hard. "There she is, there's my stubborn girl."
He makes quick work of his belt, and when he frees himself, you can't help but stare. He's big—bigger than you expected— and the intimidation must show on your face because his expressions softens slightly.
"We don't have to—"
"I want to," you cut him off. "I want you."
Something in his expression changes, and then he's pulling you to the edge of the desk, lining himself up. "Last chance to be sensible," he offers, but he's already pushing forward, just the tip.
"When have I ever been sensible?"
He laughs, breathless and pushes in slowly. The stretch is intense, almost too much, and you grab his shoulders for leverage.
"Breathe," he instructs, stilling. "Just breathe, baby."
You do, and he slides in further, inch by inch, until he's fully seated inside you. For a moment, neither of you moves, just adjusting to the overwhelming intimacy of it.
"Okay?" He asks, and the gentleness in his voice nearly undoes you.
"More than okay," you roll your hips experimentally, and his grip on your waist tightens.
He groans, and then he's moving, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, settling a rhythm that's deep and deliberate. Each thrust hits something inside you and you can't keep quiet.
"That's it," he murmurs, one hand sliding up to cover your mouth. "As much as I love hearing you, we need to be quiet, can you do that for me?"
You nod against his palm, and he rewards you by picking up the pace. The desk rattles with each thrust, papers scattering to the floor, but neither of you care.
"All semester," he says. "I've been trying to figure out how to handle you… turns out what you needed was this needed someone to put you in place."
You bite is palm in retaliation, and he actually laughs.
"Still got that mouth on you, even now" He pulls out suddenly, and you whimper at the loss. "Turn around"
You obey without thinking, and he bends you over is desk, one hand between your shoulder blades, the other hiking your skirt up around your waist.
"Much better," he says, running his hand over the curve of your ass. " Now I don't have to watch you try to be defiant while I'm fucking you senseless."
He pushes back in with one smooth thrust, and the new angle makes you cry out into your folded arms. It's overwhelming—the fullness, the angle, the sound of skin against skin, his words washing over you. You're helpless to do anything but hold on as he drives into you again and again.
"Touch yourself," he orders. "Make yourself come on my cock."
One of your hand slides between your legs, finding your clit and the additional stimulation makes everything tighten impossibly.
"That's my good girl," he praises, and his words combined with his relentless pace push you over the edge. You come hard, muffling your cries in your arms, and he follows moments later with a choked groan, spilling inside you.
For a moment, there's only the sound of harsh breathing. Then slowly, he pulls out and helps you stand, stepping back like you've burned him.
"Fuck," he says, running his hands through his disheveled hair. "Fuck."
You slide off the desk on shaky legs, pulling your skirt down. Your heart is still racing, but the way he's avoiding to look at you, makes dread pool in your stomach.
"Bucky—"
"This can't happen," he says, finally meeting your eyes. And god, the regret in his gaze nearly breaks you. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, but this— we can't."
"I know it's complicated, but—"
"It's not complicated, it's wrong." He's already tucking his shirt back in, rebuilding is armor. "You're my student, I put you on academic probation, I have direct oversight of your academic career… this is exactly the kind of ethics violation that ends careers."
"Then we'll figure it out," you say, hating how desperate you sound. "We can't disclose it, or—"
"No." The word is final. "Your probation is over, effective immediately. You've met all the requirements, but that's— that's all this can be."
You feel like you've been slapped. "All this can be? Are you serious right now?"
He won't look at you. "I need you to leave."
"Bucky—"
"Dean Barnes," he corrects and the formality is cruel. "Please, just go."
You grab your bag with shaking hands, blinking back the tears burning your eyes. "Right, okay. Got it."
"Wait," his voice stops you at the door. When you turn, there's something in his expression you can't quite name, but he just says, "This stays between us, no one can know."
"Don't worry," you say, voice brittle. "I'm very good at keeping secrets for men who regret me."
You don't wait for his response.
Six weeks later
The remaining weeks of the semester are torture.
You see Bucky exactly three times: once across the quad (he changed direction), once at a departmental meeting (he didn't make eye contact), and once in the administrative building when you had to drop off paperwork (he disappeared into his office before you reached the desk).
The message is clear, whatever happened in his office was a mistake he wants to forget, and you're a problem he's solved by simply avoiding.
Fine. You can take a hint.
You throw yourself into finals, spending sixteen-hour days in the library. Your research proposal gets accepted for publication, Dr. Morrison nominates you for a prestigious summer fellowship. You're thriving academically.
But you're also miserable.
You finish your last exam on a Tuesday afternoon, exhausted and emotionally drained.
One more paper to submit tomorrow and you'll be done and free for the summer. Free to leave the campus and not think about Bucky Barnes and his blue eyes and the way he'd made you feel before calling it all a mistake.
Dr. Morrison finds you packing up your carrel in the library.
"Heading out for the summer?"
"Yeah, got that fellowship in Boston. I'll be leaving next week."
"Boston's far."
Something in his tone makes you look up. "Is that a problem?"
"No, no. I'm happy for you, just… you're gonna be missed, that's all."
You're too tired to reply or try to deepen in his words, so you just nod and go back to packing.
You submit your final paper at 3 PM. It's done. The semester from hell is officially over.
You're heading to your car, already mentally planning your escape from this campus and all its memories, when you see him.
Dean Barnes, leaning against your car in the parking lot, and he's holding flowers. Peonies, specifically, though you can't remember ever telling him that. He straightens when he sees you, and even from a distance, you can see how nervous he is.
"What are you doing here?" You ask, stopping a few feet away.
"Waiting for you," he holds out the flowers. "These are for you."
You don't take them. "Mr. Barnes, what—"
"The semester's over," he says quickly. "Grades were submitted this morning, you're no longer under my administrative oversight—I transferred that six weeks ago to Dean Bell, which means I can finally tell you what I should have said that day in my office."
Your heart is pounding hard against your chest. "Which is?"
"That calling it a mistake was the real mistake, that I've spent six weeks working behind the scenes to remove every professional barrier between us because I couldn't stop thinking about you. That I'm sorry I hurt you, sorry I made you think I regretted you, when the truth is—" He takes a breath. "The truth is I've been falling for you since the day you walked into my office late and challenged everything I thought I knew about myself."
You can't breathe. "Six weeks? You've been planning this for six weeks?"
"I couldn't approach you before, it wouldn't have been ethical. But I've been getting my ducks in a row—transferring oversight, drafting new policies, making sure that when I did this, I could do it right." He steps closer, still holding the peonies. "I know I have no right to ask,but I'm asking anyway. Can we start over? For real this time?"
"I don't know… you kind of broke my heart," you whisper.
"I know, and if you tell me to leave right now, I'll accept that I fucked this up beyond repair." His voice drops. "But if there's any chance you feel even a fraction of what I feel for you, I'm asking for one more shot. To do this properly, take you on actual dates and tell everyone who'll listen that you're the most brilliant woman I've ever met and stop hiding how I feel about you."
You look at him. The dark circles under his eyes suggest he's slept as poorly as you have. The flowers in his hands are perfect, your favorite, a detail you don't even remember telling him. And the vulnerability in his eyes is so raw it makes your chest ache.
"You got me peonies," you say finally.
"I asked Dr. Morrison," he admits and manages a small smile. "He said you mentioned once they reminded you of your grandmother."
"You were doing research about my favorite flower?"
"I was doing research on everything about you." He takes another step closer. "And taking notes, paying attention to your coffee order, the way you tap your pen when you're thinking, which professor makes you roll your eyes, how you light up about your research. I've been memorizing you for months and trying to pretend it wasn't."
Tears prick your eyes. "I thought you regretted me."
"Never, not a single second." He finally closes the distance, his free hand coming up to cup your face. "I regretted how it happened, I regretted that I couldn't do it right the first time, but you? Never you."
"This is insane," you say, but you're leaning into his touch.
"Completely." His thumb brushes across your cheekbone. "Is that a no?"
You take the flowers from his hand, bringing them to your nose. "Take me to dinner, somewhere nice."
The smile that breaks across his face is like sunrise. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. But Bucky? If you ever shut me out like that again—"
"I won't, I swear to god I won't." He pulls you closer. "From now on, complete honesty."
"Good," you fist your hand in his shirt. "Now kiss me, we've wasted six weeks already."
He does, and it's different from your first kiss. This time is soft and sweet. When you break apart, you're both smiling. "So, there's this Italian place downtown. How does 7PM sound?"
"Like you've been planning this."
"For six weeks," he admits. "I have the whole evening mapped out. Dinner, then a walk by the river, then maybe coffee if you're not sick of me yet."
"You made an itinerary for our first date?"
"I'm a planner, you know this about me."
You laugh, and it feels like breathing for the first time in weeks. "You're ridiculous."
"And you're brilliant and infuriating and I'm gone for you." He kisses you again. "So, 7PM?"
"Pick me up at 6:45, and Bucky?" You smile against his mouth. "Wear the henley, the blue one."
"The one you kept staring at during meetings?"
"I was not staring—"
"You absolutely were,but don't worry." His grin turns wicked. "I was staring too, those skirts you wear should be illegal."
"Dean Barnes," you mock-gasp. "How inappropriate."
"I'm not your dean anymore," he reminds you. "Which means I can finally tell you that you've been driving me crazy since day one."
"Good," you say and kiss him again.
The date was perfect, because of course it was—Bucky had spent six weeks planning it.
The Italian restaurant was intimate and elegant, the kind of place with cloth napkins and wine lists that didn't make you feel judged. Over pasta and wine, he laid out everything he'd done in those six weeks: the ethics board meetings, transferring your academic oversight to Dean Bell, consulting lawyers, drafting new university policies.
The food was incredible, but you barely tasted it. You were too focused on him—how he listened, how he remembered details from months ago, how this felt like your old arguments but without the anger. All that intensity, channeled into something that made your skin warm.
After dinner, he took you on the promised walk along the river. The sunset painted everything golden, his hand warm in yours, and for a few minutes neither of you spoke.
"Boston," he said finally.
Your stomach dropped. "You heard about that?"
"Dr. Morrison mentioned it, the MIT fellowship." He stopped walking, turning to face you. "You're going to go, you're going to take that fellowship and be brilliant, and I'm going to be incredibly proud of you."
"But?"
"But nothing, that's it." He squeezed your hand. "I'm not going to ask you to stay, you've worked too hard for this opportunity."
"It's three months," you said quietly. "I leave next week."
"I know."
"And you're okay with that? We just got our shit together and now I'm leaving for the entire summer?"
"Am I okay with it? No." His laugh was hollow. "I hate it, actually. But that's my problem to deal with, not yours."
You searched his face for resentment, pressure, anything that would make this complicated, but you only found sincerity.
"You're serious."
"Completely." He cupped your face. "I waited six weeks to do this right, I can wait three months to keep doing it right. Boston's only four hours away, I can visit you on weekends, you can come back when you have breaks… we'll figure it out."
"You'd drive four hours to see me?"
"Sweetheart, I'd drive a lot further than that." He kissed you softly. "Besides, by August I'll have planned approximately twelve more perfect dates."
"You're ridiculous."
"And you're brilliant and leaving for an incredible opportunity, and I'm not going to be the guy who makes you feel guilty about it." His voice turned fierce. "I fucked up once by pushing you away, I'm not going to fuck up again by holding you back."
You kissed him then, there on the river walk with the sunset painting everything golden. This one was different than the others, it felt like a promise.
"Three months," you whispered against his lips.
"Three months, and then you come back to me."
"What if MIT tries to recruit me for their PhD program?"
"Then I guess I'm moving to Boston."
"You'd leave your job?"
"For you? In a heartbeat."
You walked for another hour, drinking a coffee he bought from the a street place, talking about everything and nothing. He told you about his time in the military, the injury that led to his discharge, the way the academia had saved him. You told him about your family, the pressure to be perfect, the fear that you were all potential and no follow-through.
"You know what I thought when you walked into my office that first day?" he asked as you circled back toward the parking lot.
"That I was a nightmare?"
"That you were magnificent," his smile was soft. "Completely infuriating and magnificent, twenty minutes late, coffee in hand, looking at me like I was the inconvenience. I knew right then you were going to be trouble."
"Good trouble?"
"The best kind." He opened your car door again. "Can I take you home? Or is it too presumptuous to assume the date should end?"
Your heart kicked. "Take me home… but Bucky?"
"Yeah?"
"You're coming upstairs."
The drive back to your apartment was charged with a different kind of tension. His hand found your thigh, resting there casually, and you couldn't stop thinking about his office, his desk, the way he'd called you his good girl.
"You're thinking very loudly," he observed.
"I'm thinking about your desk. Specifically, how you bent me over it."
He cursed under his breath. "You're going to kill me."
"Promises, promises."
He pulled into a spot near your building with slightly more speed than necessary. When you reached for your door handle, his hand shot out to stop you.
"Wait."
"For what?"
"I need a second." He was gripping the steering wheel with his other hand, knuckles white. "You can't just say things like that and expect me to function normally."
"Who said anything about normal?" You leaned across the console, lips brushing his ear. "I've been very well-behaved all night, Dean Barnes. Don't you think I deserve a reward?"
The sound he made was almost a growl. "You're doing this on purpose."
"Doing what?"
"Being a brat."
"I have no idea what you're talking about." You bit his earlobe gently. "I'm being perfectly sweet."
You didn't make it past the entryway.
As soon as the door closed behind you, Bucky had you pressed against it, his mouth on yours with six weeks of pent-up hunger. Your hands went to his hair, his found your waist, and for a moment, there was just kissing and breathing and the relief of finally being able to touch him.
"Where's your bedroom?" he managed between kisses.
"End of the hall."
He lifted you easily and you wrapped your legs around his waist as he carried you down the hallway. You were kissing his neck, probably leaving marks, definitely not caring.
Your bedroom was a mess of final papers and half-packed boxes for Boston, but Bucky didn't seem to notice. He set you down by the bed, hands going to the zipper of your dress.
"Can I?" he asked, and the courtesy of it made your heart clench.
"Yes, please, yes."
He unzipped you slowly, pushing the dress off your shoulders and letting it pool at your feet. His eyes went dark as he took you in—matching navy lingerie that you'd definitely chosen with this possibility in mind.
"You wore this for me," he said, not a question.
"Maybe I just like matching sets."
"Liar," his hands skimmed up your sides. "You wore this hoping I'd get to see it."
"Presumptuous—"
He kissed you hard, cutting off the word. "Stop being difficult."
"Make me."
Something shifted in his expression. "Careful what you wish for, sweetheart."
"I'm not scared of you."
"No," he agreed, backing you toward the bed. "You never have been, that's the problem."
"Problem?"
"Yes," he confirmed, and suddenly you were on your back and he was over you, fully clothed while you were nearly naked. "You walk around with that smart mouth, challenging everything, pushing every button—"
"You love it."
"I do," he admitted, lips brushing your collarbone. "Drives me absolutely insane, but I love it."
His mouth traveled lower, between your breasts, across your stomach. When he reached the waistband of your underwear, he paused.
"These are pretty," he observed. "Would be a shame to ruin them."
"Then don't—"
The sound of fabric tearing cut you off. You gasped as he literally ripped your underwear off and tossed the ruined lace aside.
"Bucky!"
"I'll buy you new ones." He was already moving lower, spreading your thighs, then his mouth was on you and coherent thought became impossible.
He took his time, building you up with long, slow strokes of his tongue, pulling back whenever you got close. It was methodical, deliberate, designed to drive you crazy.
"Stop teasing," you demanded, rolling your hips against his face.
He pulled back, and the sight of him between your thighs, lips wet, eyes dark with want, almost finished you off right there.
"What was that?" he asked, voice dangerous and smooth. "Did you just give me an order?"
"I—no, I just—"
"Because it sounded like you were being bratty again." His thumb pressed against your clit, circling too lightly. "And we both know what happens to brats."
"Bucky, please—"
"Please what?" He slid one finger inside you, and you clenched around it. "Use your words, you're usually so good with that mouth."
"Please make me come," you gasped out.
"Better," he added a second finger. "But I don't know if you've earned it yet. You've been so difficult all night. Testing me, pushing boundaries…"
"I'm sorry," you tried, but it came out too breathless to be sincere.
"No, you're not." He curled his fingers, finding that spot that made you see stars. "You love making me work for it, love seeing how far you can push before I snap."
It was true, god help you, it was true.
"So here's what's going to happen," he continued. "You're going to come on my fingers like a good girl, and you're going to get on your knees and show me how sorry you are for being such a brat. Think you can do that?"
You nodded frantically.
"Words."
"Yes, yes I can—"
"Good girl."
He worked you with his fingers, fast and relentless, while his other hand held your hip down to stop you from bucking up. The praise combined with the rough handling pushed you over the edge embarrassingly fast, and you came with his name on your lips.
Before you'd fully recovered, he was pulling his fingers out and standing up, working his belt buckle.
"On your knees," he instructed. "Now."
You scrambled to obey, still shaky from your orgasm, and knelt in front of him. He freed himself from his jeans, and your mouth watered at the sight.
"Open," he commanded, and you did.
He pushed into your mouth slowly, giving you time to adjust, but his hand tangled in your hair with clear intent. This wasn't going to be gentle.
"That's it," he praised as you took him deeper. "Such a good girl when you want to be, why can't you be this obedient all the time?"
You hummed around him in response, and his grip in your hair tightened.
"Don't get mouthy now," he warned, but there was amusement in his voice. "Just take it."
He set a rhythm, not quite rough but definitely demanding, and you focused on breathing through your nose and relaxing your throat. When you looked up at him through your lashes—a move that was absolutely calculated— he groaned.
"Fuck, look at you. So pretty with your mouth full." His thumb traced your stretched lips. "Been thinking about this since that day in my office, wanted to bend you over my desk and then have you on your knees, show you what happens to bratty girls who talk back."
The degradation should have been humiliating, instead, it made you moan around him and his hips stuttered.
"You like that, don't you? Like being called out for being difficult." He pulled out suddenly, leaving you gasping. "On the bed, hands and knees."
You moved quickly, assuming the position, hyper aware of how exposed you were. You heard him stripping off his clothes, the rustle of a condom wrapper—when had he gotten that?—and then he was behind you, hands running over your ass appreciatively.
"Look at you, so eager now." One finger traced through your wetness. "After all that attitude, all that pushing back, this is what you wanted all along, isn't it? Someone to put you in your place."
"Yes, sir," you said, past the point of pride.
"Sir?" he repeated, his voice rough with arousal. "That's new."
"Sorry, I didn't mean—"
"Don't apologize," he lined himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance.
He pushed in slowly, inch by torturous inch, until he was fully seated. You dropped your head to the pillow, overwhelmed by the fullness.
"You okay?" he asked, the care cutting through the scene.
"So okay."
"Good girl," he pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in, making you cry out. "Because I'm not going to be gentle. You've been asking for this all night, and I'm going to give you exactly what you've been begging for.
He set a punishing pace, each thrust deep and hard, the sound of skin against skin obscene in the quiet apartment. One hand stayed on your hips, controlling the rhythm, while the other reached around to find your clit.
"You're going to come again," he told you, circling that bundle of nerves with practiced precision. "Going to come all over my cock while I fuck this attitude out of you."
"Can't," you gasped, even as you felt yourself building toward another orgasm.
"Yes, you can." His voice was firm. "Come for me. Now."
His relentless pace combined with his fingers on your clit pushed you over, and you came with a muffled scream into the pillow. He followed moments later, hips stuttering as he spilled into the condom.
You stayed like that for a long moment. Then slowly, carefully, he pulled out and disposed of the condom before collapsing beside you on the bed. You lay there in comfortable silence, his fingers tracing patterns on your shoulder, your leg thrown over his. This was new too—the aftercare, the intimacy beyond the physical. With Bucky, everything came with attention and care.
"I'm going to miss you," he said quietly. "These three months."
"I'm going to miss you too." You propped yourself up on your elbow to look at him. "But we'll figure it out. Weekends, video calls, way too many texts…"
"I'm going to text you constantly. Fair warning."
"Good, I expect detailed reports on campus gossip."
"I'll send you care packages. What do grad students need? Coffee? Stress balls?"
"Your worn t-shirts," you admitted, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. "If we're being honest."
His expression softened impossibly. "You want my shirts?"
"Shut up, it's not weird."
"It's not weird, it's adorable." He kissed you softly. "I'll pack you a whole suitcase of them, you can build a fort."
"Now you're making fun of me."
"Never," he pulled you back down against his chest. "I'm serious about this, you know. About us, I know it's fast and probably complicated, but—"
"It's not that complicated," you interrupted. "We like each other, we're both adults, we're going to make it work."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that." You kissed him. "Unless you're already having second thoughts?"
"Absolutely not." His arms tightened around you. "You're stuck with me now, even when you're being bratty."
Tags/Warnings: dad's best friend!bucky, emotional smut, minor argument, ex-boyfriend is an asshole, oral (fem receiving), p in v, pet names, age gap (not super mentioned in the fic but implied), bucky is a little bit obsessed with reader, college!reader, bucky drops the L word
Summary:
Bucky Barnes was too old to be into his best friend’s daughter, but that never stopped him from hating every single boyfriend you’d ever brought home. In fact, hate was an understatement. He loathed them. When your boyfriend abandons you on the side of the road, Bucky finally shows you exactly why he hates your boyfriends so much.
Bucky Barnes was too old to be into his best friend’s daughter, but that never stopped him from hating every single boyfriend you’d ever brought home. In fact, hate was an understatement. He loathed them. Your dad couldn’t even fathom the vitriol Bucky seemed to harbor for every man interested in looking your direction, but he didn’t complain. Bucky kept shitty men away from his daughter. Why would he have a problem with that?
The unfortunate side effect of Bucky’s hatred was that boyfriends didn’t tend to stick around very long. And you weren’t going to admit this, but he always ended up being right about them. They were shitty men, but you wanted attention as much as the next girl, and that was hard to find sometimes.
All of this information played in the back of your mind as you watched the taillights of your boyfriend’s car speed out of the parking lot you had just been abandoned in. It was after midnight, and the area wasn’t necessarily a safe one. You weren’t even supposed to be in this fucking parking lot, and now you had no way of getting home unless you wanted to walk or call Bucky, which was out of the question.
Bucky would narc on your whereabouts as soon as he could, and you were not losing the rest of your summer because of a stupid boy. Though, it would be nice to see Bucky again. He’d been hanging around less and less since you’d come home from college, and it was beginning to feel personal. Maybe you could convince him to keep your secret for you. Either way, you needed a way out of this sketchy parking lot.
“Shit.” You murmured, rolling your eyes and stomping with a dramatic, over-the-top huff. Bucky would’ve laughed and called you a kid for doing it, but it felt right given the circumstances. This entire situation felt so embarrassing, and you hated to tell him he was right. You called him, nonetheless.
He picked up before the second ring could finish.
“Hey, doll. You okay?”
His voice, raspy with sleep, sent goosebumps skittering down your spine. Doll. You tried not to blush into the phone.
“Hi Buck,” you murmured, “I’m sorry I woke you up.”
“It’s fine, doll. Where are you? I thought you were at the library with Brad. Chad? What was his name again?”
You snickered. He knew very well your now ex-boyfriend's name but couldn’t bring himself to say it. It didn’t matter now anyways.
“Yeah, about that,” you sighed. “We didn’t exactly go to the library. We got into a fight. I don’t know where he went, but he left.”
“Doll, where are you?”
His voice was much more alert now. You could hear him shuffling around in the background, probably looking for clothes to put on.
“I’m fine,” you reminded him, biting your lip. “I just need a ride home.”
“Tell me where you are, right now,” he demanded through gritted teeth, and because you were so good at listening to him, you did exactly that.
When Bucky pulled into the parking lot, he looked less angry than you were expecting. Worry painted his features, a stark contrast from the usual laid-back expression on his face. Worry faded into relief when he made eye contact with you. He was out of the car wrapping his arms around you faster than you could blink.
Your attention snagged on the grey sweatpants he was wearing, unable to keep your eyes from drifting down his tall figure.
“I’m gonna kill that guy,” Bucky mumbled into your hair, squeezing you against his chest. “He just left? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Buck. Thanks for picking me up.”
“Of course, Doll. Let’s get you home, okay?”
Bucky didn’t take you home. He took you to his home, which was much more preferable than trying to sneak into your dad’s house so late at night. The drive home had been quiet, likely due to the late hour, but also because Bucky was stewing in the driver’s seat. The longer he thought about your boyfriend abandoning you basically on the side of the road, the more upset he got.
What confused you the most was that his anger seemed to be directed mostly at you. It was as though having you safe and sound in his car made him more furious about the entire situation. He’d barely looked at you since getting in the car, and it was driving you insane.
When he pulled into his driveway, neither of you moved to get out of the car. He put the car in park, huffed, and then finally looked at you. He didn’t say anything, which made it all the more awkward for you.
When you couldn’t take it anymore, you said, “I don’t understand why you’re so upset.”
He scoffed.
“How many times did I tell you he would hurt you?”
It was your turn to scoff.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” you said.
You were lying through your teeth. It became his business as soon as you asked him for a ride so late at night, but you were too chicken to admit that out loud. His eyebrows shot into his hairline before he barked a laugh.
“None of my business? Doll, everything you do is my business. How many times have you come running to me when a boy hurts you? It’s Bucky’s job to pick up the pieces, but never to make you feel good, right? Is that it?”
“Oh, please,” you said, ignoring the spark of pleasure that shot through your body when he mentioned making you feel good. Claustrophobia overwhelmed you in the car. Being so close to Bucky’s handsome face and alluring scent launched your hormones into a frenzy every time you took a breath. He was everywhere and you couldn’t think straight. You shot out of the car, slamming the door behind you as you stomped away.
Bucky was right behind you, calling after you in a way that made your knees wobble. He gently closed his car door, sighing when he realized you were waiting for him by his front door.
“You’re right,” you mumbled, ignoring his searching stare as he unlocked the door and waved you forward. “It’s not fair to you, but you don’t have to say it like that.”
“Someone ought to,” he snapped. “Look at me.”
You turned away, purposely avoiding his gaze.
“Doll, look at me.”
He stepped in front of you, gently cradling your chin.
He whispered, “Look at me, please,” and because you were so good at listening to him, you did.
“Beautiful.”
He said it so quietly that you weren’t sure he meant for you to hear it. You froze under his watchful gaze, which flicked down to your lips and back up again.
“Do you want to stay here tonight?” He breathed, caressing your cheek with his thumb.
You swallowed, nodding slowly. You wanted to stay a lot longer than one night.
“This is a bad idea,” he murmured, glancing at your lips again. “I can’t want this.”
Suddenly, he was halfway across the room, fists clenched at his side. The sudden absence of warmth sent a shiver through you. He was so hot and cold that it was getting hard to keep up.
“Buck-,” you started, but he was moving again, and then his lips were on yours.
He groaned into the kiss, a desperate noise that mirrored your own desire for him. His arms wrapped around your waist, ferociously tugging you against his chest. You moaned into his mouth as swiped his tongue over yours.
“I’ve wanted to do this-,” he said, before kissing you again, unable to keep away now that he tasted the forbidden fruit, “-the entire summer.”
You could tell that he meant it. He kissed you like he meant it.
“I know I should feel bad,” he said, lifting you so that you could wrap your legs around his waist, “but I don’t. This feels fucking amazing, doll.”
“Bucky,” you moaned, whimpering when he attached his lips to your neck, nibbling at a spot that sent heat directly to your core.
“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, breathing into the crook of your neck. “Tell me you want me too,” he begged, nearly whining.
You were glad he was holding you up because you would’ve fallen to your knees at the sound of his whine. He gripped your waist tightly, waiting for your answer. You pressed your lips against his, wondering why it took him so long to finally admit that there was something between the two of you.
“I want you, Bucky,” you murmured against his lips, “I’m all yours.”
He smirked. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he said before slamming his lips against yours.
His bed was soft. You’d imagined lying in it a million times; underneath him, atop him, on all fours – but you’d never thought about how soft it would be. You’d removed your shirt halfway to his bedroom, throwing it in a random direction because you had to feel his skin against yours. He’d thrown you on the bed, tugging your pants down your legs in one smooth motion, and now he was standing at the end of the bed, watching you squirm beneath his gaze. His fingers lightly grazed your ankle, tickling.
“What is it?” You asked, crossing your arms over your exposed breasts.
“Don’t do that,” he chided, clicking his tongue. “Don’t hide. I want to see all of you.”
You slowly uncrossed your arms, exposing yourself to him. He sucked in a breath, slowly lowering his gaze from your face to your body.
“Can I touch you? Taste you? Fuck you?” He asked finally, and you nearly moaned at the rasp in his voice.
“Yes,” you moaned, “please.”
He didn’t waste any time, dropping his face to your core and swiping his tongue through your folds. You nearly bucked off the bed, but he held you down, groaning against you.
“Oh, fuck, Bucky,” you moaned, arching your back. “Don’t stop.”
His tongue was a glorious feeling against your skin, sucking and nibbling at your sensitive core. You’d never felt this good while getting head from anyone else, and you doubted you ever would again. He wound you up tighter and tighter until heat pounded in your core and you couldn’t remember which direction was up.
“I’ve wanted to taste you for so long, doll,” he murmured between licks, kissing your mound as you quivered beneath him.
“Please, Bucky,” you whined, heart pounding.
“Please what, baby?” He asked, tilting his head. He was teasing you, and you were putty in his hands.
“Please touch me. Please. I’m so close,” you mewled, squeezing your eyes closed. A desperate tear escaped as he teased you mercilessly.
“Since you asked so nicely, baby,” he said, finally swirling his tongue around your clit.
You exploded beneath him, gasping at the pleasure as it radiated through you. Wave after wave of your orgasm crested, relieving the pressure that had been building since the very first moment you’d seen Bucky in the parking lot earlier. You squirmed beneath him, grasping at the sheets before you finally wound your fingers in his hair, tugging.
“There you go, doll,” he murmured, coaxing you down from your high, running his fingers around your thighs in a soothing motion. “You’re so pretty when you come.”
You heaved, heart thundering in your chest. His cheek rested against your thigh, watching you come back to yourself. Slickness coated his chin, and you nearly came from the sight of him alone. His eyes, usually an icy blue, were dark oceans of desire, waiting patiently for a sign that you were ready for him.
“Fuck, Bucky,” you panted, “I should’ve called you a long time ago. That was insane.”
His eyes briefly darkened - the only indication that he was still upset with you for being so blind to his feelings – before he blinked it away, smirking.
“I’m not done with you just yet, doll,” he murmured, slowly inching his way up your exhausted body.
He trailed up your stomach, lightly pressing his lips to your soft skin and relishing the feeling with each kiss. When he made his way to your sternum, he paused, nuzzling his head to your chest.
“I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” he whispered, breath fanning across your exposed nipples, hardening them almost painfully. He hovered there for a moment, waiting for your consent again. “I’ve never wanted anyone more than I want you.”
You hazily blinked, trying and failing to focus on his words when his mouth was so close to your breasts.
“Can I have you, doll?” He asked, a ghost of a whisper. “Will you let me have this part of you? Will it be enough to satiate the need I have for you?”
You couldn’t tell if he was talking to you or to himself, but you didn’t care. Heat was coiling in your gut once again. His words alone were enough to elicit a whine from your throat.
“Will you still look at me in the morning the way you’re looking at me now?” He asked, squeezing the flesh beneath his fingertips. “One night will never be enough, but I won’t complain if it means you’ll have me tonight.”
You whimpered, unable to voice the desire you felt for him. He was everything you’d ever wanted and more.
“You’re mine,” he murmured, licking his lips. “All mine, tonight.”
“Always, Buck,” you gasped, arching your back so that his lips were even closer to your chest. “I’m yours, always.”
A genuine smile crossed his face, so sweet and obvious in its joy that his next movement sent a shock through your entire system. His tongue flattened against your breast, drawing a tantalizing line from your nipple to your collar bone before he kissed your throat. The sudden contact from his warm mouth sent you over the edge for a second time, clawing at his back for more, more more.
Grunting, he slid into you mid-orgasm, eliciting a moan from deep in your chest. You’d never felt so full before, and you loved it. You arched your back, begging him to move. No more waiting or teasing. You needed him everywhere, and he was more than happy to oblige.
“Shit, baby,” he cooed, warm breath heating your neck, “you feel so good.”
His need for you was visceral and endless. He pounded into you with such passion that your body couldn’t do anything except hold on and enjoy the ride. He teased, and nipped, and laughed into your skin as your bodies came together, an act of vulnerability you had never experienced with anyone before.
Not to mention how much he talked during it. He sang praises against the column of your throat, calling you the prettiest girl he’d ever seen, claiming he didn’t deserve the attention you were giving him, wishing he could stay this close to you forever. His words were overwhelming and incredibly seductive, breathing life into you as he sent you crashing over the edge, a showcase of pure greed for your pleasure.
He kissed you like he’d never get to kiss you again, begging another and another and another off of you, worshipping the softness of your lips and the heat in your gaze. He couldn’t get enough, holding you against him so tightly when he came that you could feel it in your bones.
“Breathe, baby,” he cooed, peppering your cheeks with kisses as your mind reeled with pleasure. “My pretty, pretty girl.”
You didn’t think you’d ever come down from your high, but eventually you blinked and could see the ceiling again. Tears sprung from behind your eyes, another emotional release that you didn’t quite understand.
“That was so good,” you exclaimed, more tears escaping down your cheeks. “I’m sorry it took me so long to see you, Bucky.”
Bucky wiped the tears away, kissing the streaks they left behind.
“I’m not mad, doll,” he said simply, shaking his head.
“I’m an idiot,” you sniffled, “I’m sorry.”
“You’re not an idiot,” he scoffed, and though he was smiling, you could tell he was serious. “Don’t worry about it, pretty girl. Just stay with me tonight, and we’ll figure everything else out tomorrow, okay?”
“Everything else?” You questioned, blinking away the last of the tears you’d shed.
He smirked, unable to hide his glee when he said, “I don’t know how I’m going to look your dad in the face after what we just did together. How do I tell him I’m in love with his daughter? He’s going to kill me.”
It was your turn to giggle as Bucky flopped onto his back, running his hand over his face in a pitiful manner. He hadn’t even realized what he’d said, which sent a shock of butterflies through your body. You decided to keep that little secret to yourself, enjoying the playfulness in his gaze.
“I think that’s a problem for tomorrow,” you commented, stifling another laugh.
“Too true,” he joked, shaking his head, “I’m way too old to be up this late.”
He gently tugged on your arm, pulling you toward him so that you were straddling his waist. He cradled your hips, running his fingertips along the skin he’d worshipped earlier.
“I have some bad news about that,” you murmured, leaning forward to kiss the crease that formed between his eyebrows. “I’m starving.”
He grinned, nipping at the skin beneath your collarbone.
“I have some bad news about that,” he repeated, smirking. A mischievous glint sparkled in his eyes as he said, “I’m starving too,” and kissed you so sensually that heat sparked deep in your core again.
He grasped your hips tightly, grinding your sensitive mound against his already hard member.
“Oh,” you tutted, smirking, “I guess we can put off breakfast for a little longer.”
“You’re sure?” He questioned, arching an eyebrow at you.
“Oh, yes,” you assured him.
Bucky Barnes was too old to be into his best friend’s daughter, but that never stopped him from hating every single boyfriend you’d ever brought home. Every single boyfriend besides one – he sort of loved the last one for sending you in his direction, but he’d never admit that out loud.
Characters/Pairings: bolotnik!Curtis Everett x Reader
Word Count: 4.2k
Summary: Unable to find rest in the heavy late stage of your pregnancy, you find unexpected solace in the dark hours of the night as Curtis soothes your aching body.
Author Note: Inspired by an askbox submission from @stargazingfangirl18. I know we very recently had an appearance by our fearsome lake monster, but... the muse. 🙃 There is almost no plot for this porn.
Previous Encounter | Series
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
You could not sleep, not truly, not anymore.
At least it felt that way. You could not remember what it was like to have a truly restful night of sleep now that you were so swollen with child.
Curtis shifted behind you, the weight of him a presence you were still not quite acclimated to, even after all these months. His arm groped around your middle, not gentle, but not cruel either—the grasping, possessive way he always had of reminding you that your body was his, that you had been claimed and would never, ever be unclaimed.
“Settle,” he rumbled, voice thick with sleep and something else—something that tinged the word with an implication, a warning, a plea. His hand splayed over your stomach, thumb tracing the tautest curve of your belly. You could feel the talon at the tip of his thumb, filed to more bluntness now for your comfort, but never quite harmless.
“I can’t,” you hissed, heat rushing up your neck. “It’s not comfortable, Curtis. I feel the stiffness in my hips, in my spine. I feel too tight, too—”
He rolled you to your back, so you faced him and the flicker of his phosphorescent blue eyes. He looked at you with rapt attention, like he was examining a rare specimen, one whose suffering was evidence of profound, necessary transformation. You hated him for it, and wanted to weep with relief that he might touch you, change you, ease the ache.
“Your body was made for this.” His hand cupped your jaw, then trailed down your neck, the pressure just shy of discomfort. “Do you remember the first night I claimed you?”
You did.
You remembered every moment: the sting of his teeth, the shocking stretch, the coolness of his skin, the relentless, remorseless fullness of him inside you. You remembered the moment shame and terror lost its edge and pleasure consumed the rest.
His hand moved to your chest, fingers splaying over the heavy curve of your breast. The child was not the only thing that had grown inside you; the rest of you had blossomed too, flesh thick and ripe, veins congesting with new blood. Every sense was heightened; your skin felt alive, every nerve exposed and raw, hungry for relief. The ache in your hips and spine was nothing compared to the ache between your thighs.
His hand squeezed, and you couldn’t help but arch into it, greedy for the pressure.
“You ache,” he said. It was not a question. “Let me help.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but already his hand was sliding, possessive, down your torso, across the vast swell of your belly. His touch was electrifying, not because it was gentle—he was never gentle—but because it was so exact, so insistent, as if he could knead away every complaint inside you, every complaint and every protest, until there was nothing left but the wanting. It seemed your body was always already in anticipation, every cell addicted to the inevitability of what he would do next.
“Curtis,” you tried, but the word came out as a sigh, as permission.
His tail was already curling under your knee, prying your legs apart with the unhurried strength of a tree root. He lowered his face to your neck and breathed in, the exhale chilling, the inhale so deep it felt like he was drawing the breath from your lungs. His hand was at your thigh now, squeezing the flesh, kneading it as if evaluating the meat on a haunch. He’d told you, more than once, that you’d filled out beautifully, that the lake itself approved of what you’d become.
You squirmed away from his cool heat, the pressure, but he only pressed his palm up to your pussy, and you yelped, not out of fear, but at the obscene, greedy pleasure of it. He inhaled again, and you realized that he was savoring the rising, salt-sweet scent of your arousal.
“You’re restless,” he said, tongue flicking in the hollow behind your jaw. “Let’s cure it.”
You thrashed, but the movement only succeeded in pressing you against his cock, which was already hard and waiting, resting like a threat against your thigh. His thumb found your clit, pressing down until you bucked, the pulse so fierce it brought tears to your eyes. He held you there, his mouth at your throat, tongue darting out—licking, flicking, biting. You could not have moved if you’d wanted to; every part of you was locked between the hardness of his body and the suffocating need in your own.
He took his time, always. He was deliberate; he seemed to relish the slow climb, the way every touch made you shudder, made your skin pebble, made your cunt throb with a greedy, insistent rhythm. His mouth found your nipple and sucked, pulling at it until you moaned, the sensation radiating out from your chest in a dizzying spiral. He bit down, and you couldn’t help it—you reached up and tangled your fingers in his hair, yanked him closer so the pain and the pleasure crashed together at the point of his teeth. His hand scrabbled for leverage on your hip, fingers digging deep as he sucked, scraped, and finally groaned into your chest, the sound wet and low, just this side of feral.
He lifted his head, mouth shiny with spit. “You need this,” he said, his voice ruined and ragged. “You need to be fucked. You need to be relentlessly filled with my seed, flushed with it so thoroughly it stitches your bones together around the ache. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re not wrong,” you choked out, clutching at his shoulders. They were slick with the faintest sheen of lake water, always, always, as if he carried the essence of his world with him, whether he was in or out of the water. Your whole body was trembling, aching, desperate for him.
He pressed the tip of his nose into your cheek, dragging it slowly along until it slid down the side of your neck, his breathing steady, his lips curled against your racing pulse. “You’re changing,” he murmured, and his hand stilled on your belly, spreading his fingers wide as if to encompass the entirety of you. “Do you feel it, little one?”
You whimpered and nodded, because it was impossible to ignore. You felt it wakeful, and you felt it always. Your body was not just growing, it was being remade. The softness of your skin had thickened to something more water-resistant, but only just. At night, you dreamed of gills blossoming open along your ribs, of your hands webbing at the base of each finger. Your eyes now reflected the moonlight with the same shimmer as his.
His hand cradled the base of your skull, claws gentle for the moment, a cage of tenderness you did not want but could not help but need. “It isn’t just the child,” he breathed, as if reciting a benediction. “It’s what happens when one like me mates with one like you. The biology is… transformative.” There was a hint of awe in his voice. “Every time I fill you, your body takes more of me, and less of your old life remains.”
He was fascinated by the heat of you. He had told you, after finally bringing you to his curious lair, that your human body ran so warm inside, and that your cunt felt like a living furnace, a molten trap that threatened to melt and consume him every time he entered you. He said it in the same way he said everything—half-worship, half-mockery, always with the edge of a threat—but you could tell he meant it. The lake was cold and deep, and he was made to thrive in it—the fire of your body was an impossible addiction.
Curtis pressed your legs apart even wider, nestling between your thighs as though he belonged nowhere else. His skin, always cooler than yours, felt almost feverishly good when it touched you. He braced himself on either side of your hips, and then, with unhurried care, pressed the head of his cock to your entrance. He was always so eager for the first breach, he always relished the shock and resistance, that first gasp, that split-second where you didn’t know if you could take him. Now, your body admitted him gladly, almost hungrily, and you felt yourself yield to the pointed insistent pressure, stretch around his girth, suck at him once he passed the initial resistance. The catching pain blended instantly with the pleasure, as familiar now as his voice, as expected as the tides. He groaned when he breached you, grinned so wide it seemed all teeth, and set a brutal, perfect pace at once—the slow, deep strokes that made you claw at the sheets, then faster, the piston rhythm that made it impossible not to buck up and meet him.
“You were born to take this,” he crooned, as he loomed over you, cock pounding out every remnant of sleep and doubt. “To crave it. I could keep you filled for a thousand seasons and you’d still want more.”
His hips never stilled, and his tail snaked behind, curling serpent-like around your ankle, claiming even more of you for himself. Your fingers clawed for purchase on his back, the scales there a cool counterpoint to the fevered pulse of your own skin. You felt yourself coming undone, senses overrun, the pressure building and building, rolling, deep pressure of his cock splitting you open again and again, and, oh, how you wanted more.
You had once thought that his rutting would get less urgent, less insistent over time, but if anything, Curtis fucked you harder every month, every week. He seemed to want to breed you anew every time, as if there was always a possibility you could be more his, more changed, more claimed. He would say things in your ear—“I can feel you opening for me,” “You’re so much tighter for me,” “No one else will ever fuck you this cunt that belongs to me,” “Do you like how I fill you, little one?”—and you did, you did, and you told him so, the words turning to gasps, to high-pitched whines as the pleasure outpaced any language you could give it. The world shrank to the bed, the pounding throb of his cock, the cold pressure of his scales, the way the air itself seemed to hum with the force of his need.
Curtis’s eyes gleamed in the semidark, and he gripped your face in both hands, thumbs pressing to your jaw, holding you steady so he could watch the pleasure breaking across your face with every stroke. “I love how you look when I fuck you,” he growled, hips never slowing. “You try to be strong, but you shatter every time. No one will ever see you like this but me.”
Dawn was hours off, and you had no expectation he would unhand you before then, even if by some miracle you managed to sleep. His stamina was naturally supernatural, and his hunger only that.
You came twice before you even realized it, the first at the seizing stretch, the second at the rolling, unyielding pressure of him grinding your clit with every pass. Curtis liked to feel the way your thighs trembled, the way your cunt clamped around him, the way you lost yourself in it. And you did, again and again, until the world burned white-hot and you were nothing but need and the squelch of your bodies meeting, hypersensitive to every flicker of sensation.
You didn’t notice at first what his tail was doing, too lost in the rhythm, in the hunger, in the collision of your hips. But then the cool, slick tip pressed behind you, teasing at your other entrance, and the shock of it made you jerk and squeal. Curtis laughed, low and wicked, and didn’t pause for a moment.
“Shhh, shhh—” he crooned, voice full of wicked, hungry delight, “just let me in, let me in—” and the pressure increased, cold and smooth and unyielding. He’d done this before, once or twice, always slow, always greedy, and you’d never been able to resistthe insistent, pulsing claim of his tail. The cool pressure breached you, slow and inexorable, until you were trembling, almost sobbing, with the shock of fullness from both ends. He waited only long enough for your body to yield—never gentle, but vigilant to the ways you stiffened, the catch of breath before pain. There was satisfaction in him, an echoing hum that radiated through his hands into your skin: a predator’s pride when prey surrendered to the jaw.
And how you surrendered.
He set a rhythm, fucking you with both cock and tail, every thrust calculated to reach further, fill more, feel more. You could not move, you could only ride out the onslaught, the relentless hammer and thrum and pleasure so staggering it threatened to dissolve you. Your body sang with it, nerves scattering into the ether, your mind reduced to the tidal wave of sensation. Every time you sobbed your pleasure, Curtis redoubled his efforts, drilling into you so hard you thought you could feel your whole womb twisting up to make room for the stretch. The twin fullness overwhelmed your nerves, a bright white so severe you almost begged for mercy. He gave none.
There was a point at which you were certain you could not take more, and yet your body learned to take it, to want it, to clutch him with desperate, greedy spasms, to refuse to let him go. All your muscles burned with the effort, with the need to hold him in, to be filled so absolutely that nothing else existed. Your cunt spasmed and wept and gushed around his cock, and you hardly noticed when your own arms lost the strength to clutch at his scales and simply splayed above your head, limp and pleading.
By the time you felt the first ripples of his climax about to break, you were slick with sweat. Curtis’s whole body tensed, every scale and muscle gone rigid. The groan that erupted from him was guttural, ripped from something ancient and primal inside him. He drove himself as deep as possible, until your breath caught and your pelvis ached with how wildly, impossibly full you were, and then he came. It was an abrupt flood, a torrent, so much and so shockingly intense you could feel it overflow around him, seeping hot and icy down your thighs, leaking from every stretched, desperate inch of you. His tail, still working at your other hole, pulsed too, and you felt another rush fill you there—this flooding from his tail a first, your body trembling, boneless.
You lay pinned beneath him, shuddering and shocked, and when he finally stilled, there was nothing else in the night but breathless, trembling aftermath. For a long time, neither of you moved; the weight of him, the chill and the heat, the press of his tail still inside you, the throbbing ache that was already shifting into a deep, heavy peace.
Then, gradually, you noticed something else—the strange, spreading numbness that radiated from the place where his tail breached you. It wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, it felt like a balm poured over the burning aftermath of climax, a slow, dreamy unraveling of every tension in your body. Your limbs went slack. The ache in your hips dissolved, your spine melted back into the mattress, and every muscle, every fraught, knotted nerve, at last let go. Your body, which had been a battleground of need and pain and pleasure, suddenly belonged to no one and nothing, and you drifted in a haze of perfect, suspended contentment.
“Curtis,” you managed, voice slurred and slow, “what are you—”
He stroked your hair, smoothed your brow, and quietly uttered a, “Shhh,” against your temple.
You didn’t have the strength to reply. The world glowed dimly at the edges but was mostly darkness, punctuated only by the chorus of your own heavy breaths and the lazy, overlapping whisper of the lake at the edge of the cool, cavernous lair of your new home. You lay there, half-buried under his body, feeling as if you might melt into the bed and the earth beneath it.
“I never told you about the venom of my tail. It’s not the kind you think—nothing lethal. But it is… potent.” His tail flexed, and you felt the last dregs of will drain from your limbs, leaving you hollowed out and weightless.
“It’s a sedative,” he explained, rolling you to your side and curling around you, spooning you with the possessive certainty of an apex predator. “It relaxes the bones and nerves, renders any prey motionless.”
He curled himself tighter around you, chest at your back, tail draped over your thigh, anchoring you in the nest of bedding and moss. In your boneless state, you could not escape the possessive drag of his palm over your skin—first up to the arch of your ribcage, then slowly, almost reverently, to the globe of your belly. He pressed his hand there as if you were both a relic and a promise, a rare treasure he’d stolen from another world, and you suppose you were.
In your mind, you felt the distant panic of a body that knew it should not be so helpless, that this creature had seized your survival reflex by the throat and throttled it—but after a few heartbeats, you realized you didn’t care. Curtis was pressed up behind you, his arms a wall of certainty wrapped all the way around your womb, your ribs, your shoulders. The ache was gone. The tightness was gone. You had been wrung out, emptied, and now you were nothing but full of him, inside and out.
He rumbled a sound from deep in his chest, almost a purr. The vibration traveled through your spine and straight to the place where pleasure had left you rawest. He nuzzled your hairline, then traced the shell of your ear with the tip of his rough tongue.
“Sleep,” he murmured, and you did. Or at least, you drifted on the edge of it, not quite inside sleep, not quite awake, suspended in the place where dreams bled into touch. Curtis’s hand moved over your skin the entire time, massaging the rounded slope of your belly, stroking your thigh, sometimes cupping your breast or tracing the curve of your jaw. The cocoon of his arms made you smaller, softer, less yourself and more a thing to be adored and kept.
You vaguely registered the way his cock, not even fully soft, pressed against the seam of your thighs, rutting at the seam like a persistent dream. You couldn’t have moved if you tried, but the feeling of him pushing between your thighs—wanting back in—was, impossibly, not unwelcome.
You wondered, or perhaps only imagined, if he could sense your dream-thoughts; the question seemed to amuse him. He gave you a moment of what passed for tenderness, nuzzling your hairline, rocking you back and forth in his arms, his tail stroking the flesh behind your knee. The sedative in your bloodstream left you blissed and limp, a ragdoll for his pleasure.
He was hard again, or nearly so, and the friction of his cock caught between your thighs was both a comfort and a question, as if your body had become the only vessel for his hunger.
Curtis’s hands never tired. You tried to imagine the monotony of your body, the sameness of your skin beneath his touch, but it seemed he could never get enough. He massaged your belly in long, slow arcs, sometimes lifting the weight of it as if to relieve you, sometimes holding so gentle and so firm that it seemed your flesh was his most prized, fragile artifact. His palm spanned the roundness, mapping every centimeter, sometimes dipping to the underside where your skin felt stretched to near-breaking, sometimes trailing up to the space above your navel. The gentle repetition of it—his touch, the rise and fall of his chest at your back—lulled you deeper into the velvet black of near-sleep. Even your mind became lazy, thoughts smudging at the edges until only sensation remained.
When he was satisfied that you’d gone slack, that your muscles had relinquished every old human defense, he shifted behind you. The cool press of his cock found the seam between your thighs—he never seemed to lose his interest for long, even in the slow moments. He nestled himself between your legs and, with a single, unhesitating thrust, pressed his half-hard length into your cunt. It was not rough, not this time; he moved with the patience of someone tending a sacred fire, easing in until your bodies were flush, and the faint ache became a deep, saturating fullness. Your mind drifted, but your body, trained and conditioned by months of relentless attention, responded in kind: you flexed around him, and a lazy, involuntary moan struggled up your throat. Curtis groaned, his chest pressed flat to your back, and rutted once, twice, before stilling, letting you sheath him while you both floated on the edge of sleep.
He didn’t use his hands now, not for pleasure, not directly. Instead, he gripped your hip for leverage, holding you open and tilted just so, and pulled your ass flush to his pelvis, driving his cock in to the hilt and then simply… staying there. You felt every twitch and pulse of his cock, every shift in the slow, animal rhythm of his breathing. He stayed hard inside you, using your body as a sheath, as a warm, wet cradle; you were perfectly pinned, utterly possessed, and you could do nothing but receive him.
Curtis exhaled into your hair, his voice a thick, slurred mumble. “You’ll keep me, won’t you? Keep me in you all night. That’s what I want, little one. I want to rut in you while you sleep. I want to use your heat, let my cock twitch and throb all night in that perfect cunt.” He rutted once, again, and you felt the faint flutter of his cum oozing out from the last round, slicking your insides. He seemed to relish the sensation, the lazy, languid pleasure of being buried and unmoving, until another aftershock rolled through him and made you gasp.
“I can feel your body holding me,” he said, the words warm and thick as sap with sincerity. “It’s all I want now. Just to be in you. You don’t even need to be awake for it, little one. Let me have you while you sleep. I’ll fuck you in your dreams if I have to, and you’ll wake up full of me.”
You tried to protest, but the sedative still dulled your tongue and every nerve, made your body heavy and dumb with pleasure. He rocked his hips, once, and the sensation rolled through you like a wave, sticky and slow and so deep it made your eyes water. The pressure of him inside you was a kind of lullaby, a constant, anchoring weight, and you found yourself drifting, drifting, until your thoughts were only the animal, helpless response of your body clutching around his cock, milking it with every slow, involuntary contraction.
“I’ll take care of you,” Curtis promised. “You’ll always feel good. I’ll see to every want you have, and every want you can’t even name.” The words were a net, a binding, and you believed him, not for comfort, but because he had never lied to you, he had no reason to.
The night drifted on. Curtis’s hand never left your belly; his cock never left your cunt. There were times, across the long hours, where you felt his fingers knead at your clit with lazy affection, almost absent-minded, and sometimes you came, even in this fugue—little contractions that made you clamp down and wring more pleasure from the fullness. He’d sigh when you did, and sometimes you came, even in this fugue—little contractions that made you clamp down and wring more pleasure from the fullness. He’d sigh when you did, the sound vibrating through your back, and sometimes he’d soothe you with a stroke of his hand, as if petting a restive animal. Occasionally, a tiny aftershock in him would pulse more of his seed into you, and it seemed like he was intent on keeping you topped up, leaking around his cock, overflowing with the certainty of his claim.
Sometimes he’d lick the sweat from the back of your neck, or whisper obscenities in your ear about how perfect you were, how he would keep you filled until it took, until you were more lake than girl, reminding you that you were changing, that every time you let him breed you, you became more his, less the fragile thing you had been. You believed it, because it was true: your body grew more resilient, your hunger more intense, your mind more focused on the simple, ceaseless need to be joined, to be filled.
This is what your life was now, and Curtis kept you like a pearl.
I make no apologies. I need to go shower.
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!
Characters/Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader x Steve Rogers
Word Count: 7.2k
Summary: Bucky teaches his friend many of the finer techniques in his favorite hobby - pleasuring his wife. UNABASHADELY PORN WITHOUT AN OUNCE OF PLOT.
Warnings: Explicit Smut, threesome (no crossing swords), objectification, dirty talk, oral (male and female receiving), clit play, breast play, overstimulation, voyeurism, exhibitionism, dacryphilia, light choking, fingering, brief cum play, slight worship, multiple orgasms, Bucky is a complete menace, insatiable lust, super soldiers aka super sex machines
Author Note: When I wrote Tutorials in Precision for @writer-in-a-cryofreeze, quiiiiiiiite a few of you clamored for more. CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR.
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
You’d expected a lot of things when you agreed your husband’s oldest friend should come spend the holidays with you, but not this: you naked and splayed open, your back against Bucky’s chest, and Steve knelt between your legs, focus absolute as they took you apart.
Bucky’s lips moved against your neck, not quite kissing, hand sliding to cup one aching breast. “You want to feel for the ridge, the soft roof inside. Feel it?”
Steve nodded, learning by the tremors that rippled through you.
And you? You could only moan as his fingers sought a place only Bucky had touched before tonight.
Steve’s breath ghosted along your thigh, cool in comparison to the heat pooling where his fingertips pressed. “Like this?” he asked, looking up, seeking confirmation from Bucky.
Bucky squeezed you, barely-there pressure, his thumb circling your nipple. “Yeah, there—you’ll feel it through the front wall. Little bump.”
Steve slid his fingers deeper, slow and careful, and you arched back against Bucky’s chest. The pressure inside shifted, molten but sudden, and you gasped at the feel of it when he found it—that ridge, the soft roof, as Bucky had described it. Steve’s big hand trembled just a little as he kept it inside you, gentle but greedy, desperate to get it right. The man was as worshipping as he was determined, brow furrowed, lashes dark against his cheek as he mapped each element of your reactions.
And Bucky watched, grinning against your ear, voice thick. “That’s it, Steve. Watch her face, see how her mouth falls open? Touch her there, a tiny bit harder, that’s it, yeah.”
He kept the pressure steady, calloused thumb skating circles over your clit while his fingers pressed up, learning you, working with the careful tenacity he applied to every complex operation.
Bucky’s own hand drifted lower, his touch rough at your hip, a grounding force. You couldn’t move if you’d wanted to, pinned between them, the air thick with sweat and something like ozone.
You bucked, pulse thumping in your throat, teeth gritty against a whimper. Steve’s eyes flicked up again, shining, hungry, and your swore you might come just on the taste of his focus. With every press against that spot, your vision stuttered out, blinking in firework-bright bursts.
Bucky’s voice pressed into the shell of your ear, low and lazy, but with that hint of command that still managed to thrill you, even after all these years. “She’s real sensitive right there, Steve. Just steady. Keep the rhythm—yeah, just like that.”
“Fuck, Buck—she’s gonna—” Steve’s fingers jittered, the tip of his thumb ghosting over your wet clit.
“Let her,” Bucky hummed, open-mouthed over her shoulder. His other hand covered her thigh, holding her so wide the ache felt like a dare. “Make her feel it.”
Steve’s hand was huge, careful, coaxing, until it wasn’t, until the motion grew greedy, needy. You’d never been shy with Bucky, but with the attention of two lovers you felt nearly too open and exposed, nerves sparking along every limb. Bucky’s thumb toyed with your nipple, drawing it taut, while Steve’s fingers pursued your impending orgasm relentlessly.
And the orgasm came with no warning, just an unbearable pressure and then a bright, skittering release, your vision white-out as you shrieked and clamped around Steve’s hand. He nearly lost his balance but Bucky steadied him—steadied you—bracing your shaking limbs as you rode the aftershocks. Even after the pleasure crested, Steve’s fingers didn’t stop. He worked you through every shudder, sucking a breath through his teeth, awed. His voice was a fervent whisper, “Jesus. You—fuck, you look good like this.”
“She always does,” Bucky replied, mouth slick on your jaw, catching the sweat there. “You wanna see her come again?”
Steve’s hand stilled, then slowly slid free, leaving you embarrassingly empty and sticky. He watched you with dazed awe, pink flush climbing from his collar to cheekbones, as if he couldn’t believe the thing he’d just made happen, for you.
“Yeah, I do. Will you let me?” he asked, eyes meeting yours again.
You nodded, voice gone to wool and cotton, incapable of anything but a whispered, “Please.” The word left your lips desperate, high-pitched, a note of wildness that made Bucky’s hand tighten against your thigh, a subtle anchor to keep you from dissolving completely.
Steve’s smile broke open on his face, that cocky little tilt that always got him his way. He ducked down and pressed his mouth to your thigh, some kind of benediction, before giving Bucky a look, a question you weren’t included in: permission, or maybe the next step in instructions. Bucky’s hand still gripped your thigh, and the pressure from his fingertips went from comfort to proprietary.
“Take your time,” Bucky told him, slow as syrup. “She’s got plenty more in her if you work it up right.”
You whimpered, and Steve’s hand found your knee, thumb brushing circles that didn’t seem to know whether they were meant to calm or tease. He spread you even wider, fingers delving again, but now the touch was softer, coaxing in a new way. He watched your face the whole time, never letting you look away, and the sheer heat of his attention made it impossible to catch your breath, impossible to be anywhere but here, between them, for them.
You let your head loll back on Bucky’s chest, and he inhaled you like a secret. Steve’s mouth ghosted over the inside of your knee, the lightest of touches, as his hand slid slick with you, coaxing you open again. There was awe in his expression, like he couldn’t believe the things your body was capable of. That he couldn’t believe you let him see it.
Bucky’s voice was right in your ear, velvet and wicked. “You love this, don’t you? How he touches you, how he looks at you?” His teeth grazed just below your pulse, almost biting, his metal hand now flat and heavy on your soft stomach.
Steve’s mouth found your clit then, hot and wet, and you bit your lip, trying not to break apart too quickly, but Bucky’s other hand snapped up to your chin, forcing your jaw open. He slid two thick fingers into your mouth, muffling your gasps as Steve reached for that place inside you again, a blunt presence that made your hips twitch uncontrollably, mouth kissing and lapping at your clit.
“Be our good girl,” Bucky murmured, voice a velvet drag along your nerves. “Let me hear you, sweetheart.” He pressed your lips open wider, thumb tight on your cheek. Everything about him said claim, but you felt less like territory and more like treasure—something precious they’d both agreed to share.
You moaned and sucked on Bucky’s fingers, desperate for something to hold onto. Steve’s tongue drew slow, wide circles, alternating with little flicks that made you see stars, and every time his fingers curled inside you, you wanted to shake apart. Bucky’s hand pressed at the base of your throat, a leash without pressure, just a reminder of where you belonged.
Steve’s tongue moved with a rough, hungry precision that made your lashes flutter, the strangeness of his mouth—different than Bucky’s, somehow broader and needier—forcing you up against the edge of your own appetite. He groaned into you, animal, and the vibration made your toes curl as your hips bucked, seeking more, seeking everything.
The sound of you—wet and needy—filled the room, obscene, and Steve was impossibly focused. You could feel the shift as Steve’s mouth grew unabashed, each lap and suckle more confident. He lapped greedily, not just at your clit but at the desperate, shuddering noises you made, feeding on them, letting them escalate him past any feigned self-control.
Bucky murmured filth in your ear. “Such a pretty thing, all open for Steve. He’s a fast learner, isn’t he?” His fingers slipped from your mouth, gliding down to squeeze your breast with proprietary delight. “Sensitive here, too, Steve. She likes it just a little mean when you bite.”
Steve’s lips left your cunt, replaced by the blunt, perfect drag of his teeth—just a graze, but amplified by the velvet heat radiating between your thighs. The wild sound you made told him everything he needed. He grinned, eyes bright, and gave you another drag with his tongue and the barest scrape of teeth. Your legs shook, clamped for a second around his broad shoulders as he tormented you, licking through the slick he’d made.
“She’s right there,” Bucky insists, “but don’t let up.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, chest heaving, as Bucky’s words poured through you, making it impossible not to want to give him everything, even the parts you thought you’d never let anyone else but him see. He tugged his hand from your mouth, and you gasped, “I’m close, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” Bucky coaxed, hand splayed again over your breast, pinching and then soothing. “Let him taste it. Let him taste everything.” He nuzzled the space behind your ear, catching the lobe between his teeth, a punctuation to his demand.
Steve’s hand, meanwhile, never stopped mapping you. His thick fingers curling again against that spot inside, a squirming, irresistible pressure, while his mouth closed around your clit and sucked, hard, and the world melted into a soundless scream in your throat. You bucked up, hands grasping at Bucky’s biceps, and came again, hard enough you thought you might black out.
This time Steve didn’t bother with awe, only a growl of triumph and gratitude as he licked you through every convulsion, not stopping until your thighs trembled against his head and Bucky had to murmur, “Enough, big guy, you’ll melt her.”
You didn’t remember the transition—somewhere in the haze of pleasure, Steve had shifted you onto his lap, his cock thick and leaking, pressed impossibly hard against your hip. Bucky sat facing you both on the foot of the bed, blue eyes greedy and soft at the same time, mouth slack with want. Steve held you to his chest, the thrum of his pulse wild and loud beneath your palm.
“Fuck, honey, you alright?” Bucky asked, thumb brushing along your jaw. You only nodded, eyes glassy, limbs a little insubstantial.
“She gets real soft after she comes,” Bucky explained. His metal hand stroked your cheek, thumb scraping your parted lip. “Steve, you ever eat a girl out til she can’t think straight, and then fuck her so good she gets slick again just from the memory?”
Steve’s gaze flicked down to your face, as if he needed to check in, as if the rules of this odd, shared gravity could change at your whim. But you only leaned harder into his chest, the memory of Bucky’s words blooming low in your gut. “Not like this,” Steve said quietly, the confession tumbling out like an apology. “Never had someone so slick and eager and pliant. She’s so fucking sweet.”
“She likes making a mess, especially when she knows someone’s gonna clean it up nice for her.”
It was obscene and beautiful in the same breath, the way your body pulsed and ached for these two men. You knew Bucky intimately, but Steve was still a new entity, it should be unbelievable what you were letting him do to you, and yet you were willing because Bucky said you could be.
“You wear her out, and she lets you do anything you want.” Steve pressed his lips to your temple, the gesture as tender as a prayer, but you could feel the tension in his body—like he was holding himself back as much as he was holding you up.
“Do you want him to fuck you?” It was as blunt as a knife’s edge; Bucky never did like to leave things to implication.
You meant to say yes, steeled and confident, but the only sound you could make was a whimper. Bucky grinned. “Use your words, honey. Steve’s been waiting a long time.”
Steve’s hands tightened on your hips. “Since your wedding,” he confessed, and you gasped.
Bucky nodded, proud, calm, even though this revelation was ricocheting through your mind. Steve had been overseas for years until just recently, and of course he hadn’t missed his best friend’s wedding—had been the best man—but it had also been the first time you’d met him.
You remembered the speech, the toast. Steve smiling at you across a room of strangers, nothing but friendship and pride in his voice, but now you wondered how long he’d been drinking you in, how long he’d been simmering in this kind of want.
You also remembered—vivid as if it bloomed on the backs of your eyelids—the way Steve’s eyes had lingered at the reception, how his hand seemed to swallow yours when he shook it, holding on a beat too long. You’d caught him watching you and Bucky slow dancing, his smile softer than it ought to have been, heavy with yearning. At the time you’d wondered if maybe he was just that kind of romantic, or maybe a little lonely after so much time away.
But now that memory rewrote itself, charged and electric, searing through you as Steve took your chin in his hand and kissed you—soft at first, learning the taste of you. His mouth tasted like you, and you shivered, deep in your bones, at being desired by these two men.
Bucky reached for you, steady hands bracketing your thighs, and you sank back against Steve’s chest. Your husband ducked lower, pressing a line of kisses from your hip bone to the soft, over-sensitive spot at the seam of your thigh.
You shivered as Bucky trailed his tongue through the wetness Steve had left behind, mouth hungry and reverent. He licked slowly, then nosed at your clit, already swollen and sore from Steve’s attention, and the jolt of sensation made you gasp into Steve’s mouth. He devoured your sounds greedily, tongue parting your lips as if he needed to taste how undone you were.
Bucky’s tongue was firmer than Steve’s, more insistent, and when he flattened it against you and sucked, you felt every vibration in your teeth. You whimpered into Steve’s kiss, and he swallowed the noise, hands squeezing your hips as you rolled against the heat of Bucky’s mouth, your body burning, melting, until there was nothing left but sensation.
You weren’t sure Bucky’s mouth could ever be called gentle, but right now it was a new kind of slow, each lap deliberate, stroking the sharp edge of oversensitivity and coaxing pleasure out of it until your eyes watered. Steve’s hand wound into your hair, guiding your head back against his shoulder, and you let him, lost in the heat radiating from both their bodies.
“She’s shaking,” Steve whispered, awe thick in his voice.
“She knows what she likes,” Bucky replied, voice muffled between your legs. His metal hand dug into your thigh, cool and greedy, while the other traced lazy patterns over your ribs, drawing your skin tight with anticipation for what would come next.
Bucky pulled his mouth away with a slick, obscene sound, smirking up at you. “You ready for cock?” he asked, and this wasn’t an idle question. Bucky wanted you to say it, wanted you to beg for it. Steve’s cock pressed up under you, thick and hot, and you could feel how desperate he was for it. You were too.
“Yes,” you said, or maybe just moaned it, letting your knees fall as wide as Steve and Bucky wanted them. “Yes, please.”
“Fuck, she’s polite,” Steve mumbled, hands already guiding you up, shifting you onto your knees, palms bracing the mattress as Bucky moved to the side of you, one hand fisting his own stiff cock, the other smoothing down your back and skimming over your ass. You could feel Steve’s cock, hot and insistent, nudging between your thighs.
“She likes a full feeling,” Bucky told Steve, the statement an offer and a warning both, and you blinked up at him, swallowing. “When you fuck her, you gotta go deep.”
Steve’s hands caught your hips, palms broad enough to span almost from waist to thigh. There was a reverence in his movements, but also the first hints of impatience—the way his fingers flexed, the way his cock jumped when it brushed against you, smearing precum along the seam of your body. He lined himself up and held, not yet pushing in, and the wait felt like another kind of pleasure, anticipation sharp as a blade.
Your chest seized—with anticipation or hesitation, you weren’t sure—as you realized Bucky was going to let Steve fuck you bare.
“He’s a big one, sweetheart,” Bucky warned, and you could hear the grin on his face. He planted a hand at the small of your back, keeping your spine bowed. “Nice and slow. She likes to feel every inch.”
You pressed your face into the pillow, bracing for a stretch that came slow and monumental—Steve’s cock parting you, nudging inside until you couldn’t breathe for the fullness, the hot-dull burn that quickly blurred into something sweeter.
“There you go, sweetheart,” Bucky murmured. “Let him all the way in.”
You were so wet he didn’t even need to force it; the broad head split you open easily. You heard Bucky’s purr, almost proud, as if he had made you this way, greedy for the kind of ache only they could give. Bucky loved to torment you with this kind of fuck when he slid inside you, so his direction for Steve to as well was to be expected.
Steve held, fully sheathing himself, body trembling with restraint. “You okay?” The sound of your name was different in his voice, kinder, stripped of any artifice.
You nodded, eagerly pressing your hips back, and the slide hit something deep, a place that made your toes flex and your mouth fall open. Steve’s hands stroked your hips, grounding you, his breath rough as he held as still as he could manage. Bucky’s voice was syrup-sweet at your ear, “Go on, Steve. She wants it.”
The first thrust was a slow, rolling motion that stole your breath. Steve drew out nearly all the way, then slid back in, the burn giving way to a greedy, clutching pleasure. You held perfectly still, squeezing your eyes shut, learning the new shape of yourself with Steve inside you. You keened, knuckles whitening in the bedsheets. Bucky stayed close, palm at the nape of your neck, his own cock hard and leaking, pressed to your shoulder as he watched Steve fuck you.
“She takes cock so well, doesn’t she?” Bucky crooned, his tone barely above a purr. “Bet you never seen anyone so hungry before.” His metal hand traced your spine, ratcheting the tension higher as he pet you and praised you, the words a molten thread tangled through every harder, deeper thrust. Steve’s hips pistoned slow, but with such force you swore you could feel it in your throat, each time catching a spot Bucky had mapped just for him.
Steve’s rhythm was a miracle of endurance, slow and deep, every thrust measured, watched, almost academic in its hunger. His hands never stopped moving, stroking your waist, your belly, your ribs, learning every inch of you as if he needed to memorize the route. His hips stuttered occasionally, evidence of his own struggle not to lose himself too quickly to the wet heat you offered him.
And he whispered your name between every other breath, like a vow, like he was kneeling in church.
Bucky’s hands grew rougher on you, easing your thighs farther apart, planting dirty encouragements in your head that made you slicker, filthier than before. “You should see her face, Steve. She’s so beautiful right now.”
Bucky coaxed your head up and to the side so Steve could see the exact, filthy pleasure contorting your features. And you felt it, the slide of your own tears, half-joy and half-overwhelm, as Steve picked up the pace, his thrusts deeper, harder.
Bucky wiped a tear from your jaw with his thumb, then sucked it into his mouth. “So beautiful when you’re ruined like this.”
Steve’s fingers dug into your flesh, and you could feel how close he was to letting go of decorum, of caution, of the last rags of self-control. You wanted it. You moaned for it. Your head swam with the ache of being so fucking full, of being seen and used and loved all at once.
“Not gonna last,” Steve groaned, the confession breaking at the seam. “Feels—fuck, Bucky, how do you keep your head—”
“I don’t, punk. That’s why I always make her come first.” Bucky’s laugh was sharp and breathless, the sound of a man profoundly in love with his own wife. He trailed a hand down your front, fingers gliding over the slick mess Steve had made of you. “And always make it up to her after, too. She loves that part too.”
Bucky’s hand found your clit, thumb and forefinger pinching, rolling it just this side of cruel, and you yelped, the sudden spike of pain-pleasure a match to the fullness Steve was feeding you, and your whole body shuddered. Bucky laughed—warm and wicked—and reached down, fingers sliding through the mess of slick and sweat and precum at the seam where Steve’s body split yours, then smeared it over his own cock.
He pumped himself once, twice, eyes locked on where Steve’s body met yours, and you watched, unabashedly.
Bucky leaned forward, mouth hot at your jaw. “You want me to fuck your mouth while Steve fucks you?”
The question, blunt and bright, sliced through your haze. You nodded, desperate, and Bucky grinned, wolfish. He pressed his thumb to your lips, smearing the taste of yourself across them, and then shifted around in front of you, kneeling up so his cock bobbed level with your mouth. It was already slick, the head flushed dark, and you opened for him automatically, tongue out, dutiful and greedy all at once.
“That’s my girl,” Bucky breathed, sliding in slow, letting you feel the heft of him as Steve’s cock ground into your cunt from behind. You could barely spare the coordination to suck and moan at the same time, the boundary between pleasure and humiliation dissolved.
Your throat worked, helpless, as Bucky fucked your mouth in shallow, reverent thrusts, and your jaw burned with the effort of taking him as deep as he wanted. He pulled back every time you gagged, not to spare you, but to watch the string of spit connect your lips to the tip of his cock. You blinked up at your husband, tears streaming freely now, and saw how it undid him—made him thrust a little deeper, fuck your mouth a little harder, hands cradling your jaw, both anchoring and guiding you.
“Pretty thing,” he muttered, almost gentle, “look at you. That’s it. Just like that. God, Steve, you’re going to love fucking her throat.”
“Buck, you can’t just—” Steve had to groan before he could finish his thought. “You can’t just say shit like that and expect me to last.”
You moaned, mouth full of Bucky and body full of Steve, your whole self strung taut between their appetites. The rhythm between Steve’s hips behind you and Bucky’s in front of you a terrifying, perfect sync.
Bucky smirked, thumb wiping spit from your chin, then dragged it down to your throat, pressing lightly so you felt the stretch of yourself inside. “Bet you want him in your mouth right after he fills you up, don’t you?” Bucky’s voice was honey-thick, tugging need like a thread from your cunt all the way up to your brain.
You nodded, desperate, and that was all it took—Steve’s grip on your hips locked down, his pulse a wild thrum against your skin, and he buried himself in you with one last, shuddering thrust. You could feel it, the way he pulsed and spilled hot inside, and the sound he made—it was raw, almost animal. He held inside, grinding so deep you felt it all the way up your spine, filling you so perfectly a whimper broke loose from your lips even with Bucky’s cock still in your mouth.
Bucky eased out of your mouth, palm still warm against your jaw, thumb stroking where his cock had just been. He grinned at you, all sweet-and-mean, then leaned in to press a kiss over your spit-slick lips. “That’s it,” he whispered, reverent, like he was kissing holy ground. “That’s my good girl.” The words landed low in your belly, twisting up with the mess Steve had left in you.
But his cock was still inside you, too, and he collapsed forward, chest to your back, his arms caging you in. You expected him to pull out, to give you a moment to recover, but instead he rocked his hips, slow and greedy, as if he couldn’t bear to lose the feeling of you squeezing around him.
And then, without warning, his hand slid under your belly, fingers finding your clit, already swollen and overstimulated. He drew tight, precise circles with the pads of first two fingers, not letting up, even when you whined and squirmed beneath him. Bucky’s hands held you steady, anchoring you so Steve could play your body like an instrument.
The friction was so good, so dirty, that your cunt clamped around him involuntarily, milked every last drop as Steve’s fingers worked you up again, your body already betraying just how ready it was to be used a second, third, hundredth time.
“Fuck, she’s insatiable, isn’t she?” Steve said, voice almost fond, the sound of it a pressure at the base of your skull.
“She’s always been that way,” Bucky answered, a frayed thread of pride winding through his voice. “After the serum, I never met a partner who could keep up with me until her. Like you were made for a super soldier, sweetheart.”
You laughed, or tried to, but it came out a shaky, desperate gasp as Steve’s fingers wrung another whimper from you. Your knuckles dug into the sheets, the only tether as your overstimulated clit set off sparks behind your eyes. “Bucky,” you croaked, barely audible, “I can’t—”
“You can, honey. You’ll show Steve just how much you can take.” His gaze was intent, and for a moment you remembered every night the two of you had built trust on, every whispered dare and secret need he’d coaxed from you, every time he’d made you shatter and put you back together.
You barely had time to brace—Steve’s closed closed hard and firm around your clit, pinching, sending a lightning bolt through you, and as your body seized, his mouth found the meat of your shoulder and bit down. Not a warning, not a tease—a real goddamn bite. It ricocheted up your spine and detonated any coherence you had left. Your vision went blinding white, then red, and you screamed, nails gouging at the mattress, his hardening cock still buried so deep inside you it felt like you were cleaved in half.
The orgasm hit different—shocking, jagged, beyond pleasure and into a place that was just sensation, raw and total. You were crying, you realized, drool and tears tracking down your chin, but you couldn’t stop, couldn’t get enough, not even when the world blurred and your whole midsection pulsed around Steve’s cock, milking him for everything he had.
Bucky held your gaze the whole time, watching you unravel, watching every second of you coming apart for his best friend.
“Never gets old,” Bucky said, voice ragged with want, “seeing you come apart.” He stroked your hair, gentling you even as Steve’s cock kept you pinned and shuddering.
Steve pulled out, finally, leaving a slick trail down your thigh, and you expected collapse—rest, maybe, or at least a breath of air.
You got part of what you wanted as you were manhandled with a gentle efficiency—Steve lowering you to the mattress and Bucky rolling you over onto your back. The two men bracketed themselves around you. Bucky’s thumb smoothed tears from your cheeks, his lips hovering at your brow. Steve’s palm swept your hair from your face, tucking the wild strands behind your ears, and he smiled at you, dazed and open and deeply, deeply gone himself.
“You okay?” he asked, voice so hoarse you wanted to laugh, if only you didn’t feel so utterly wrung dry.
Bucky’s hands mapped your body, stroking down your arms, your waist, as if to collect every piece of you that had scattered. “She’s perfect. She’s got a thing for being ruined,” Bucky said, rubbing his thumb hard across your jaw, “but it’s more than just the mess. It’s being wanted, isn’t it, sweetheart?”
You trembled, the answer right there but too big for your mouth. All you could manage was a soft, but firm, “It’s both.”
It was. The ache between your legs, the aftershocks twitching in your thighs, crescendoed in the knowledge that you belonged—here, between them—because you were wanted. Not just by Bucky, whose love for you was a still wildfire after the first few years of the life you were building together, but by Steve, the last person you ever expected to want anything at all.
They held you in the perfect kind of silence for a while. Bucky stroked your sternum with two fingers, tracing the rapid pounding of your heart, while Steve drew lazy patterns on your ribs, the gentle touch making your bones melt.
Steve was the one who broke the silence, voice still thick and slow. “I’m sure Bucky’s told you how everything feels amplified for us, after the serum?”
You nodded, not trusting your voice, but Steve caught your chin and made certain you were listening, blue eyes intent on the fall and rise of your chest. He thumbed the corner of your mouth, gentle in a way that didn’t match the bite mark blooming on your shoulder. “It’s true. Everything’s hotter, sharper. Smells, tastes, touch.” His hand wandered down your neck, tracing the chain of your pulse. “It’s like all the dials turned up past what they’re supposed to do.”
Bucky grinned, mouth curving against your temple, proud and a little feral. “It’s why we’re so good at this,” he said, and the “we” wasn’t just the two of them, but you too, looped into their satisfaction by being the one they found satiation with.
You remembered, dimly, what Bucky had once told you—something about how pain and pleasure were just colors in a spectrum for men like them, how sometimes the best you could do was grab hold of the brightest one and hang on until it faded.
You barely noticed when Bucky’s hand slid lower, two fingers sliding along the seam of you, dipping just inside. You’d thought you were emptied out, rung dry, but the dull ache at your entrance proved otherwise—the evidence of Steve inside you, the slow ooze of it, making your lashes flutter in a way that felt almost innocent.
“You want to keep going, honey?” He asked because this—the consent, the agency—was one of the roots of his pleasure. You nodded again, too spent for speech. “Yeah, you do,” he murmured, pressing his own cock flush against your thigh, hot iron against soft flesh. “And you want Steve to watch, don’t you?”
The way Bucky framed it, you didn’t just want to perform, to be seen—you wanted to be worshipped, to be watched while your body proved itself again and again. There was no performance anxiety; there was only the heat of two impossible men zeroed in on every twitch of your muscles. You felt your own slick between your thighs, the slow, filthy trickle of Steve’s cum pooling out of you, the ache where you’d been so thoroughly stretched.
“Sweetheart,” Bucky chuckled. “Words.”
You tried to say, “Yes, please,” but it came out as a sigh, and Bucky’s grin only widened.
Steve cradled your head like a priceless artifact, thumb pressing a sleepy circle against your jaw while his gaze moved between your eyes and the place where Bucky’s fingers cupped your cunt. You felt your hips roll up, wanton, trying to keep contact with Bucky’s hand even as he toyed with your entrance but never quite let you have the friction you needed.
“You want to show Steve how we fuck when it’s just you and me in the dark, how well you take me.” A statement, not a question.
“Mmmhmm,” you groaned, and Bucky pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then knelt up, hands guiding your unresisting legs apart. He knelt back on his haunches and pulled your hips close. You heard Steve’s breath stutter at the sight, and it filled you with a greedy, wild pride. Bucky teased the seam of you with the head of his cock, up and down, up and down, making you whine.
At the last moment, Bucky relented and pushed inside, filling you with a swift, brutal thrust that bottomed out in one motion. There was no slow stretch, no easing in—just the violent, relentless press of his cock, and you arched off the mattress with a helpless, desperate moan. Your body was made to take him, every inch of you was slick and trembling, so the pain blurred seamlessly into pleasure and back again until you weren’t sure which you preferred.
He moved slow at first, kneeling above you like a god, letting you feel the thickness of him as he rocked in and out, but it wasn’t long before he found the rhythm he liked—a rough, demanding piston that left you scrambling for breath, for touch, for anything to keep you from coming apart entirely. You felt every ridge and vein, every rutting pound as he chased his own need, each thrust fusing the two of you back together.
All you could do—wanted to do—was take it. The raw, pounding pleasure, the relentless stretch, the feeling of Bucky’s cock rutting into you deeply. You heard yourself sob—and it was not a neat or pretty thing, but a wrecked, raw sound that only made Bucky groan above you. He caught your thighs in his hands, spreading you wider, and you felt the obscene heat of the stretch, the way your cunt seized around him with each battering drive. The slick noise of it—your body, his cock, the fucking mess Steve had left in you—filled the room, a rhythm and a punctuation to Bucky’s breathing as he drove deeper, harder, faster.
Steve’s hand found yours in the sheets. He laced his thick fingers between yours and squeezed, grounding you, letting you feel the reverent awe rolling off him in slow, steady waves. But there was an unmet hunger still lingering there under the surface. You could feel it in the tense of his body next to yours, and when you turned your face, eyes seeking his, he met your gaze without hesitation.
Steve bent to kiss you, and there was no veiling tenderness or shy request for permission. His tongue pushed into your mouth, greedy and wild, tasting the ghost of Bucky on your lips, tasting the salt of your tears. You kissed back with everything you had, drawing another moan from your throat as Bucky pistoned into you, the force rocking your whole body up into Steve’s chest.
Bucky’s thrusts didn’t slacken—they were still relentless, still merciless—but as you and Steve kissed, the tempo oscillated into something deeper, a series of slower,seismic detonations. Each time Bucky bottomed out inside you, he held there, grinding, spine arched, as if the sight of you kissing Steve was as much a pleasure to him as the feel of your cunt squeezing him.
Steve groaned into your mouth, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw, and Bucky’s grip on your thighs tightened, like he needed to stake a claim even as he offered you up. With every new roll of Bucky’s hips, a different noise tore its way out of your throat—some for the pain, some for the pleasure, some for the blissful humiliation of being made a spectacle for their eyes.
“Fuck her mouth, Steve,” Bucky said, a low, hungry rumble.
Steve didn’t hesitate, and it was only for a fraction of a second before he was shifting up, the broad line of his thigh braced alongside your head. His cock was still half-hard, glazed with your slick and his own release. The sight of it, flushed angry-red and wet, made your cunt clench around Bucky. Steve cupped your chin, thumb curling along the hinge of your jaw, and you sucked him into your mouth, the taste salty and obscene.
You groaned around him, lips stretching, tongue flattening under the thick, salty weight. He barely thrust, just eased forward, but the size of him still made your throat protest. Bucky continued his slow, tortruous pace below, watching intently as Steve’s cock parted your lips, and the sight of it—his best friend fucking your mouth while he still pounded into your cunt—nearly undid him, you could feel it in the grip of his hands on your hips.
“Deeper,” Bucky ordered, and Steve obeyed. He slid in, careful but insistent, filling your mouth until you gagged, until your eyes watered anew. Steve slid in, your throat stretched, and the assault of it made you gasp around him, desperate for air, for mercy, for more. Steve petted your jaw, his other hand cupping the back of your head, and for all the brutality of the act there was infinite patience in how he held you there, letting you adjust, letting you learn the unique shape of his need. Somewhere above, Bucky laughed—a single breath of filthy awe, a marvel at the spectacle of you taking both their cocks at once like this.
The taste of Steve’s cum was thick in your mouth, the smell of sex and sweat and ozone burning in your nostrils. You wanted them both to know how much you liked this, how much you needed every inch of what they gave. So you hollowed your cheeks and sucked, rolling your tongue with just enough pressure to see the effect in Steve’s eyes—head thrown back, spine bowed glorious, hand clenching your jaw with a desperation that made you burn with pride.
Bucky’s cock pounded up into you from below, and Steve’s pushed into your mouth from above, and you—pinned, stretched, used—were nothing but bliss. The sensation was a hinge, your body swinging wild between the two of them. You felt the echo of your own heartbeat in your cunt, in your mouth, in every thrum of the mattress and grind of their hips.
Steve’s thrusts grew bolder, and at each push he eased a little deeper, patience thinning as your mouth softened to his shape. His voice, when it came, was raw and rough, “Fuck, fuck, you feel so good—” your name murmured as its own curse when it fell from his lips in this moment.
He spilled his seed down your throat, but not all of it. He pulled out and shot the rest over your breasts, warm rope after rope of it across your heaving chest as Bucky pistoned in even harder, the thudding slap of his hips the only sound in the world.
Bucky slammed harder, harder, until you felt the actual bruise of him inside you, some deep purple echo of the violence. He reached for your clit, pinched, and your body shuddered into another orgasm, spasms wracking you so hard you thought you’d bite your tongue. You moaned so sweet and so ruined as he flew over the edge.
Bucky’s cock throbbed inside you, a shuddering full-body tremor, and then he was coming, hips jammed flush as he spilled molten and messy into the deepest part of you. His moan was raw, unguarded, and he didn’t let up, kept grinding through every spurt, making sure you took every last drop. The pressure of it set off a chain reaction—your body seized, aftershocks tearing up your thighs and into your belly, squeezing around him in greedy, involuntary pulses.
Bucky’s head dropped back, his jaw flexing as he held your hips pinned. You watched him, glassy-eyed and adoring, as every muscle in his chest locked. “Christ,” he panted, eyes flickering to Steve, “This is unreal.” He pulled halfway out—slow, slow—then pushed in again, a wet, obscene sound marking every inch. “She’s still squeezing me, even after you ruined her.” Bucky’s grin was all teeth, all pride and filth. “Can feel your mess inside her, Steve. So fucking wet she’s dripping down my balls.”
You moaned in the hinge between them, wrung out and wild, as Bucky fucked you through the last quakes and Steve’s hand fanned gently against your throat, thumb pressing the pulse there like he wanted to count your heartbeats—maybe hold them for ransom.
Bucky let out a ragged exhalation and pulled out, the head of his cock dragging on hypersensitive nerves, leaving you gaping and gasping and dripping. Bucky didn’t bother to hide his satisfaction. Instead, he watched the spill with a sick, loving sort of pride, then reached down, scooped his own cum with his fingers and smeared it over your breasts, painting you in it, mixing it with his best friend’s seed until your whole chest was slick with it. He held you there for a moment, painted and panting and caught in the liminal pleasure, before tilting your face up and licking a stripe from your collarbone to your jaw, tongue lazy and flat. Bucky’s mouth found yours, and you tasted the salt of Steve and yourself on his lips. You kissed him like you were dying, and Bucky kissed you back harder, swallowing you whole.
Steve’s voice burrowed into your ear with shocking gravity, arms closing around your limp torso as if to protect you from the world outside this narrow, unrepeatable moment. “You are so fucking beautiful ruined like this,” he said, voice half-reverent.
Bucky’s thumb pressed under your chin, tilting your face: “You want more, don’t you?” You did. That was the devastating truth of it. Even as your body ached and stung from orgasm, you wanted all the ways they touched you, every version of this night.
“Are you sure, Buck?” Steve asked, incredulous.
Bucky’s laugh was a bright, sharp crack in the haze, so full of delight it rang in your bones. “Oh, sweetheart. Steve has no idea what you’re capable of after a few more rounds.”
He bent over you, hands braced by your head, and pressed a kiss to the center of your brow—a benediction at odds with the lazy trail of his hand down your body, cupping your breast, then skimming the mess he and Steve had left there. He rubbed their slick together with an idle curiosity, like a child finger-painting, until Steve’s hand joined his, pinching a nipple between two careful fingers and rolling it until you arched up, spent muscles clenching with electric aftershock.
“We could let her rest,” Bucky said, tongue laving your earlobe as he spoke, “but why waste a perfectly good afterglow when you haven’t even fucked my wife in the shower yet?”
WE ALL KNOW I'M RARELY CAPABLE OF CUTTING SOMETHING DOWN
SO
I HOPE YOU'RE ALL HAPPY/RUINED RIGHT ALONGSIDE ME.
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Prompt: You and Professor Barnes have made a habit out of meeting in supply closets and his office for forbidden rendezvous. But what happens when you both agree to a date where you pretend to be strangers?
Pairing: Professor James Barnes x college student reader
Word count: 5.4k
Notes / warnings: porn with plot; professor x student; age gap (reader is mid twenties, bucky is early forties); bucky is a little cheesy when flirting; secret relationship; semi-public sex (bar bathroom); dirty talk; p in v; unprotected sex; creampie; no use of Y/N
Inside Professor James Barnes’ classroom, the scraping of chairs and muffled chatter of students collecting their notebooks provides the perfect cover for you. You, lingering near the back, pretending to organize your bag by moving your laptop and pens between different dividers.
Professor Barnes—Bucky—doesn’t look up from the podium until the last student is halfway out the door, and only then does his gaze flicker to yours.
Immediately, the air between you is thick and charged, a live wire running the length of the classroom. Professor Barnes is shrugging back into his tailored tweed blazer, the action doing nothing to soften the broad line of his shoulders. His public persona is all sharp angles and intellectual rigor; the man hiding beneath is something else entirely. Something you have had one too many opportunities to witness.
“Don’t forget the paper on the role of historical memory in national identity is due next week,” he calls out, his voice pitched just loud enough for the few stragglers to hear.
You offer a small, neutral nod that is meant to convey ‘Student-Acknowledging-Professor,’ but in the brief, flickering moment your eyes meet, the actual message is rather a promise: ‘See you later.’
Later comes not with a knock on his office door, but with a buzz in your pocket. Your phone vibrates, displaying a message with a single, cryptic symbol (a military-grade encryption for ‘Clear?’) followed by a four-digit code that designates the meeting spot: Westing, 3rd Floor, Fire Exit Landing. Known only to the two of you, these corners of the campus are abandoned during the late afternoon, turning into the perfect spot for secret rendezvous away from prying eyes.
You wait nervously for ten minutes, forcing yourself to study a brittle poster for a long-past writing event. When the door to the landing hisses open the first time, it isn’t him. It’s a janitor pushing a cart, who gives you a tired look and moves on before you say ‘good afternoon.’ The scare makes your heart hammer against your ribs.
Every encounter is like this, a moment of pure dread followed by pure adrenaline, turning into soft hollowness that spreads through your limbs. Some days, you say this will be the last time. That you’ll be good, that you’ll behave. But then Professor Barnes looks your way with his intense blue eyes, and every bit of restraint drops from your mind.
When Bucky finally appears, he doesn’t announce himself. It feels like he simply materializes in the space, closing the heavy door with a quiet snick. The formal exterior of the professor is still there, but the moment he is alone with you, the brooding intensity in his eyes deepens, shifting from academic critique to raw desire.
Usually, he doesn’t speak. Speaking is dangerous, so instead, he’ll lean in and press his lips to yours, claiming what’s his. But today he dares to play into the danger.
“You look pretty today,” he whispers, taking three steps forward to close the distance and placing one hand flat against the cold concrete wall beside your head. “Let me rephrase that; you always look pretty. But you did something different today.”
Your cheeks blush a crimson red shade, but you’re not completely sure he can tell under the dim light of the room. Bucky leans forward, his other hand coming up to brush a strand of your hair behind your ear.
“You cut your hair,” he says softly. “I like it.”
And sure enough, you had cut your hair, styled it a little differently since the last time you’d been in his class. You had not, however, expected him to notice. Mostly, because you’re still not sure whether this thing you’re doing is a way to pass time between classes or something more. When you don’t give an immediate answer, he moves his hand from your hair to your lips, brushing his thumb over the soft skin, the pad of his thumb now tainted with the faint shade of your nude lipstick.
“Five minutes is all I can give you today,” he says, trapping you between his body and the unforgiving brick, his breath smelling faintly of coffee and mint. “But I had to see you.”
You can feel the heat radiating off him, the overwhelming presence of the man who is supposed to be nothing more than your History teacher. He isn’t supposed to be here. You aren’t supposed to feel the grounding weight of his hand resting lightly on your skin or the press of his lips against yours. Bucky kisses you slow, dragging one hand down to rest at your collarbone, the other coming off the wall and sliding into your hair, fingers curling around the strands and pulling you closer, deepening the kiss. This fleeting kiss is your currency, a reminder of the passion the two of you rigidly suppress for hours on end every day.
Bucky breaks the kiss but not without first tugging gently at your bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth before he lets go. The soft whine that leaves your lips makes him smile for a fraction of a second before he schools himself back into a neutral expression.
“Found this bar off campus,” he whispers, moving a hand to brush a slow circle against your hip bone, sensual on purpose. “Quiet. Lots of alcohol. The kind of place no one would know us,” he confirms, his voice a gravelly promise.
Your eyes meet his for a moment, trying to catch the meaning behind his words. Is he suggesting what his words very obviously mean?
“Are you asking me on a date?” You whisper back, biting on the inside of your lip. Bucky raises an eyebrow at you, not questioning but unsure.
“Do you not want me to?” He asks, and you think you see a flicker of vulnerability under his usually cool demeanor that throws you off your game. Yeah, you didn’t know what this was before, and it’s definitely not getting any easier to figure it out.
“Yes.” You answer without any real hesitation. Maybe Bucky expected hesitation, because his fingers dig into the flesh of your hip when you say that, his eyes somehow darker now. “On one condition, though.”
Next Friday night, you find the place easily—a downtown bar called The Foundry, deliberately chosen for its distance and its clientele, which skewed toward art students and finance types who will never frequent the quiet academic town you call home.
You arrive first, immediately shedding your student identity along with your heavy coat, leaving it at the coat check.
On one condition, though.
When Bucky invited you out, your first instinct was to say yes. Which is the reason you’re here tonight, dressed up in a way you haven’t dressed in a while. The reason you’re here alone, though, and not together, is because the condition you agreed on was: let’s pretend to be strangers.
Bucky was confused at first, not reticent, but genuinely trying to understand what the purpose of that game would be. It wasn’t a game, not to you, and the moment you explained you wanted to know what it would feel like if you’d met him anywhere else other than at college, if you had both been two strangers at a bar catching each other’s gaze in a swarm of people, he agreed to it immediately. No more questions asked.
Tonight, in this bar, you are just a girl in a short, white dress, feet carefully tucked inside pretty pointy heels that make you stand a little taller and your legs look like they are a mile long. Your heels click perfectly against the floor as you walk, finally taking a seat at the long marble bar before asking for a drink.
A few minutes later, when you’re already nursing a bourbon and watching the reflections in the mirror, the door of the bar opens and he walks in.
It startles you to see him in this ambience. Under the dim light, the noise of people talking and laughing, glasses clinking, music on the dance floor, Professor Barnes looks almost entirely like a different person. He’s wearing a black suit and white shirt, but without the waistcoat or tie that usually accompany him to classes. His regular put together look is replaced by a rugged, effortless handsomeness that makes him look less like a professor and more like a mysterious traveler passing through. Bucky scans the room, his eyes lingering on you for two seconds—long enough for a private, secret acknowledgement—before he moves to the opposite end of the bar, ordering himself a whiskey.
The game has begun.
You click your tongue between your teeth, and take a sip from your glass, letting the alcohol melt some of your nerves away. It helps, even if momentarily, but it doesn’t help with the heat that grew between your legs the moment you saw Bucky walk into this bar, clean-shaven and looking like a million bucks. You set the glass down, and your fingers brush against the rim in a soothing motion.
Three minutes.
Three minutes that feel like three hours, your heart thundering in your chest, is how long Bucky waits before he slips off his stool and walks towards you, his whiskey glass in hand. He makes a deliberate pause then, checks his phone and then offers you a perfectly neutral expression, though with a hint of faked intrigue.
“Excuse me,” he says, his voice deeper than his usual lecturing tone. “Is this seat taken?”
You swallow the lump of nerves in your throat before you meet his eyes, your lips slightly parted as you take in a small breath.
“No, it’s not,” you murmur, leaning back slightly to assess him, letting your gaze sweep over the lines of his suit. Bucky gives you a small nod and he slowly slides into the stool next to yours, resting his glass on the marble counter close to yours.
“Couldn’t help but notice a pretty girl like you when I walked in,” Bucky starts, and you hear it in his tone how he’s a little tense, trying to keep this slow and steady for now. But for the first time, you and Bucky are together someplace where no one knows who you are. You don’t want to be careful; you want to be a little shameless, a little careless.
“You look like trouble,” you say, resting your elbow against the bar. “What’s your name?”
“It changes,” he murmurs, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Tonight, it’s Bucky. And you?”
“Bucky.” You say it like you’re testing the name on your tongue, and Bucky’s eyes on you sharpen. You never really call him Bucky. It’s Professor Barnes during classes (or if you’re acting bratty), James when no one’s listening. He’d said before how his close ones called him Bucky. You never did. And tonight, he’s asking you to. Your eyes flick down to his hands, noting the steady grip on his glass. “My name isn’t nearly as interesting as you’d imagine. For tonight, you can just call me your distraction.”
That seems to stagger Bucky. He licks his lips, staring at you with renewed intensity before he brings the glass to his mouth to take a slow sip. The alcohol barely has any effect on the tension in the room. You mimic his gesture, except you down the rest of your drink with a small shudder than runs down your spine.
“Are you always this serious, Bucky? You look like you are waiting for a revelation.”
The tension in his shoulders cracks a little, muscles easing, and he gives you half a smile. “Revelations usually come in the form of a thick book and three weeks of research. I’m here for something more immediate.” He gestures toward your empty glass. “Are you going to let me buy you a drink, or would you prefer to accept cheap compliments from a stranger?”
“I’ll accept a better compliment,” you challenge, pushing the empty glass forward.
Bucky lifts two fingers to call the bartender, ordering another drink for you. He shifts closer on his stool, but doesn't yet touch you, doesn't even really reach for you. His eyes trail over your face and land on your lips. “You're dressed like you want to give sin a new name.”
You bite back a smile, taking a slow sip of your drink as you try to fight back the flush of your cheeks. “That’s a little cheesy.”
He grins, a flash of white teeth in the dim light. "Hey, I haven’t done this in a while. Give me a chance."
“You’re lucky I’m in a nice enough mood to give you a chance, Bucky,” you purr, leaning in slightly so that the scent of your perfume wafts over to him. “But a charming man like you must have more original material than that.” You take another sip of your drink, keeping your eyes locked on his, watching for the subtle tightening around his mouth that tells you he’s enjoying the game.
He chuckles, a low, warm sound that vibrates in the space between you. He lifts his whiskey glass, turning it slowly between his thumb and index finger, his gaze following the amber liquid as it swirls. “You want original? Okay.” He pauses for a beat, meeting your eyes again, and the intensity is back, sharper this time. “You know, I spend my days surrounded by dusty books and history that’s already been written. But you… you look like a chapter that’s being written right now. The kind of history I'd like to stick around for.”
It’s clumsy, blending his real life with this fictional moment, but the earnestness in his eyes makes it land less like a bad pick-up line and more like a sincere admission. You let an appreciative smile bloom.
“Are you always this prepared, or did you write down your opening lines on a napkin before you walked in?”
He takes the jab without missing a beat, a wry grin spreading across his mouth. “I never plan for the kind of trouble you look like. You’re an anomaly. I just knew if I didn't say something clever, you’d probably forget me by the time you finished that drink.” He glances pointedly at your glass. “I’m winging it, honestly. But I’m a quick study.”
You tilt your head, downing the rest of your drink before sliding the empty glass across the counter. “So, if I’m an unwritten chapter, what kind of plot do you think I have?”
He slides his glass closer to yours on the counter, closing the last physical gap between your drinks. He leans in closer too, lowering his voice conspiratorially, and you can smell the sharp scent of his aftershave mixed with the deeper notes of whiskey.
“Definitely a mystery,” he murmurs, his eyes scanning your face again as if trying to solve a puzzle. “One that starts with you walking into this bar and ends with me forgetting everything else I had planned for tonight.” He lets the comment hang in the air.
You lean back just enough to create a momentary distance, a classic push-and-pull. “You’re awfully confident for a stranger who only knows my drink order.” Your manicured fingers drum gently against the counter, quiet, but nervous.
“I’m either too cheesy or too confident. Which one is it?” He questions with no real heat, one hand taking the steps towards yours on the counter, but again, not touching.
“I think you’re secretly a prude trying very hard to sound dangerous.”
That gets him. His eyes widen just slightly, a flicker of genuine surprise before a deep laugh rumbles in his chest, making the tension in the air snap.
“A prude?” he repeats, shaking his head slowly, the corner of his lips twitching upward. “You’ve clearly made some incorrect assumptions about me.” He leans in again, his breath warm against your ear, and the shift in his voice—from charming stranger to something more familiar and possessive—sends a shiver down your spine. “Maybe I can prove you wrong tonight.”
The words settle between the small space keeping you two separated, but you hear it, in the tone of his voice, how the entire moment is bound to bend and break at any second. Your legs press together on the bar stool, and you swallow, but attempt to keep a semblance of composure.
“It’s hard to change my mind,” you announce, keeping the teasing going but struggling to match the heat of your words. Because you, truthfully, have melted at each of his words, cheesy or not, and at this point, you’d like nothing better than to be sitting on his lap, riding him until sunset came. But you’re playing a game, and you’re not about to break character.
"Listen," he started, "I'm going to be completely honest with you. The way you’re looking at me right now tells me that the only thing you need to worry about tonight is how loud you'll scream when I’m inside of you."
The statement is so direct, so filthy, and so utterly unlike the Professor Barnes who discussed Modern History, that it makes your breath hitch. It is precisely what you need to break the facade.
You lean away, fighting the intense blush rising in your cheeks, and give him an exaggerated, scandalized look.
"I don't think it's very nice to say something like that to a stranger," you manage, your voice trembling only slightly.
The corner of his mouth twitches into a predatory smirk. He finally reaches out fully, catching your chin lightly between his thumb and forefinger, forcing your eyes back to his.
"I never said I was nice," he breathes, his gaze burning, "but I know what pretty girls like you want."
Just like that, the game is over. The flirtation is real. You don’t argue, don’t reply. You simply grab his wrist, the one closest to you, and give him a single, powerful tug toward the back of the bar, bypassing the main crowd.
"Then show me," you challenge, pulling him toward the nearest bathroom door.
The door to the men’s room is plain, a slab of dark wood at the end of a short, dim corridor. You don’t hesitate, shoving it open and pulling Bucky in before kicking it shut with the heel of your shoe. The sudden silence was deafening, the only sound the mechanical hum of the ventilation fan and the quick sound of your own breathing.
"This is better," you whisper fiercely, already fumbling with the knob. Your fingers wrapped around his forearm, the muscle hard and unforgiving beneath the jacket.
The bathroom is small and empty, smelling faintly of disinfectant and stale beer. You barely register the cracked mirror or the chipped white tiles. All your attention is on the man you’d just dragged into the dark. You aren’t teasing anymore, so you push him against the door, fingers sliding against his chest, under the jacket—
“Wait,” he says, his voice a gravelly whisper, one that slices through the tension. He catches your face between his hands, stopping you mid-motion, his thumbs brushing against the hollows of your cheeks. His eyes, usually so guarded, are wide and dark with a mix of exhilaration and sudden concern.
“Are you sure?” he asks, the question laced with a genuine break in the facade. “I don’t want you to regret this.”
The real Bucky, your Professor Barnes, is in his voice, but you don’t let it stop you. You press a frantic kiss to his mouth, tasting the remnants of whiskey, and your tongue dances with his until you’re breathless. You break away and stare straight into his eyes, your heart pounding against your ribs.
“So I was right about you being a prude?” You breathe out, your voice a little shaky but firm. You are toeing the line, half you, half still in character. You reach up, not to touch his face, but to trace the line of his collarbone beneath his shirt. “I wanted this to be different. It is. Don't stop now, Bucky.”
The words are a challenge, a taunt that resonates with the dangerous look in his eyes from moments before. It is enough. The last flicker of hesitation vanishes, replaced by a dark hunger. He groans low in his throat and his hands drop from your face, one cupping the back of your head to deepen the kiss, the other snaking around your waist to yank you flush against the hard length of his body.
Your head is dizzy as he kisses you, the pleasure and danger mixing into the perfect blend. Your fingers slide into his hair and Bucky pulls away with a soft gasp, his forehead pressed against yours, eyes shut tight for a brief moment of self-control.
“This damn white dress,” he mutters, breath hot against your skin. “You have no idea what it’s doing to me. You look so innocent and so filthy all at once. Can’t stop imagining you walking toward me down an aisle.”
You don’t say anything, letting his admission fill the small space.
You didn’t know what this was, but Bucky’s making it sound like a lot more than you’ve ever allowed yourself to think about.
Instead of speaking, you reach down, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his white dress shirt, managing to undo them to expose the expanse of his chest. Your hands run over the skin, feeling his warmth, the muscles tight and perfect beneath your fingertips, and immediately, you’re in another space altogether.
Bucky helps you with your dress, hands gentle but decisive, pushing the skirt up until it bunches around your waist, exposing the pretty lace thong underneath. His fingers knead the flesh of your hips, moving back until they grope your ass and he turns the two of you then, moving you until your body presses against the marble counter of the bathroom. His eyes travel down your legs, taking in the sight of your underwear, your legs in those heels, and his eyes burn with a carnal admiration that makes your knees weak.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, his voice husky, before leaning down to capture your mouth again. That admission is as honest as all the others, but he says it with barely contained hunger and you know, in that moment, there’s no more playing pretend. You’re no longer pretending to be two strangers.
You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down, needing the feeling of his mouth, his hands, his body against yours. The marble counter behind you feels cold and hard against your lower back as he pushes you against it, lifting you slightly, forcing your legs around his waist. You drag one hand down his back, fingers digging into the muscles through the fabric of his jacket, and Bucky groans into your mouth before he lets go, dropping his lips to your neck and kissing up the length of it.
“About that scream…” you challenge, breathing the words into the air with your eyes half closed. Bucky bites down on the skin of your neck as a response.
“We’re just getting started,” he answers with a wicked glint in his eyes.
Always the enabler, you press your hips forward, a needy grind against the hard expanse of his crotch, where you can already feel him hard and warm, and a raw sound escapes Bucky’s throat. Not a gasp of pleasure, but rather a frustrated snarl, because he’s trying to maintain a measure of control, a futile attempt to savor the moment, but you’re intent on tearing it all away.
“You’re going to break me,” he rasps, his eyes burning into yours, before surging forward and sitting you up on the counter.
The shock of the cold marble against your bare skin is sharp but instantly eclipsed by the heat of his body. Bucky wastes no time, his large hands opening the button of his pants, pushing them down to his ankles, and maneuvering his boxers and your thong out of the way. Your hands hold onto his shoulders, fingers digging into the expensive suit material while he settles between your thighs.
You allow yourself one look down, finding his hard cock already leaking, tip a flush red, while Bucky pauses for a beat to stare at you in silent check. When you simply tilt your chin up, an undeniable invitation, one of his hands grips your waist and he drives himself into you.
The sudden fullness of him steals your breath. You squeeze your legs tight around his waist, pulling him in, and Bucky groans as your wetness envelops him fully. Always warm and wet for him, he slides inside of you with no resistance, buries himself to the hilt, balls pressed against your ass, and one of his hands rests beside your head, against the wall just below the mirror.
“I don’t believe in God, but I know this has got to be what Heaven feels like,” Bucky says against your lips, and through the haze and desperation of the moment, you manage breathless laughter.
“Being cheesy again, Professor,” you say, and Bucky gives an experimental, hard thrust into you that drags a moan out of you.
“Don’t call me that tonight,” he manages, voice thick, before he buries his face in the curve of your neck, teeth gently nipping at your pulse point, rough stubble scraping your jaw. “You wanted to know what we would be like away from campus. This is it.”
The cramped, stale air of the bathroom feels like it has been suddenly electrified, charged with the reality of your bodies meeting. None of it is gentle; there is a desperate urgency in his movements that mirrors the beating of your heart, fast and wild, cock hitting that spongy spot inside of you that makes your toes curl inside of your perfect heels.
You throw your head back, heels digging into his ass, the thump of his body against yours providing both of you with the right soundtrack. You have no capacity for words, only sharp little cries that you muffle with your hand, vaguely aware that this was the bathroom of a busy downtown bar. Bucky thrusts into you again and again, the sound of skin slapping skin feeling deafening in the silent bathroom, and he nips at your neck again; this time, you realize, to muffle his own groans of pleasure.
“Fuck, you make me so hard,” he mutters into the skin, and even as he defiles you on this counter, one of your hands buried in his hair, the other digging into his shoulders, you feel your cheeks grow redder than ever. Bucky was never shy about saying filthy things when he fucked you, but tonight feels different, like he wants you to know that between stolen kisses in supply closets and quick fucks at his desk, he wants more. Needs more from you.
Bucky holds you with an iron grip, one hand anchoring your hip, giving him leverage as he drives faster into you. This, right now, your white dress bunched up around your waist, him in a black suit ravaging you on this marble counter, is exactly what you had wanted: to meet him, for the first time, not as Professor Barnes, but as a mysterious stranger with whom you’d soon become familiar enough.
“Bucky, fuck—” you whimper, eyes half closed, and you pull on his hair, bringing his face back up. His eyes meet yours and you see him smirking, like the sound of you saying his name like that is everything he’s ever wanted to hear his entire life.
“You better say my name just like that when you cum,” he demands, dragging his hand from the wall beside your head to the middle of your legs, catching the bundle of nerves between his fingers and rubbing in the perfect rhythm he knows always gets you high. “Go on. Say my name. Tell me how hard I always make you cum.”
His words make your breath hitch, and you cling harder to him as he thrusts hard into you, groaning with every thrust, every movement of his cock in and out of your perfect heat. Your walls pulse around him, choking his length and every movement burns deliciously, in a way you know will make you walk a little funnier when you’re both leaving the bar tonight.
“Bucky, oh, Bucky… oh my God,” you whimper, too fucked out and drowned in pleasure to say anything other than his name on repeat.
“You’re so hot,” are the words you think you hear coming from him, but his voice sounds so rough and broken you aren’t even completely sure. “Never gonna let this pussy belong to anyone else.”
The push of his cock inside of you, mixed with his dirty talking and his fingers rubbing your clit with precision, sends a spark of lightning down your spine. Bucky groans your name against your lips, a sound ripped from his chest that sounds like surrender, and that’s the last thing you hear as the dam breaks, your climax tightening every muscle in your body and pulling a loud, gasping sob from your throat.
He follows right after, holding himself inside you as he shudders violently, his breathing ragged, fucking you through your orgasm as his own hits him like a tsunami. Bucky spills his release deep inside of you, fingers holding your hip so tight you think he might leave some bruises behind.
For a long moment, he just rests his forehead against yours, eyes shut, both of you panting in the still heat.
“That was incredible,” you manage, your voice weak but satisfied. You reach up, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. “Bucky.”
Your favorite person groans, not upset, just sensitive, as he slides himself out of you before he speaks. “Can’t tell you how much I love it when you say my name,” he murmurs, his voice returning to a recognizable, even if profoundly altered, version of himself. His hands remain on your hips, steady.
The intense urgency is gone, replaced by a heavy, languid contentment. Bucky takes half a step back and quickly adjusts his clothes, his movements economical and focused. He buttons his shirt first, a sudden return to propriety, and then his fingers are almost soothing as they put your thong back in place, readjust your skirt and pull it down your legs. His knuckles brush against the bare skin of your arms, and he offers you a hand to help you step down from the counter before he turns you, your back to his chest.
Your gaze meets his in the mirror of the bathroom. Bucky leans down, runs one hand over your hair, trying to salvage it and put it back in place, before he leans over you and presses a soft kiss to your temple.
“We should go,” he says with a sigh that makes it clear he wants everything but that.
You smile and brush a thumb over your lip, attempting to clean some smudged lipstick. “We should. I have a paper on the role of historical memory in national identity to write this weekend.”
That makes Bucky wince, the reminder of your academic relationship a painful point between the two of you. Still, he doesn’t complain. He doesn’t let go of you either. Just looks at you through the mirror, arms wrapped around your waist to pull you to him.
“Let me take you out to dinner next week,” he says, careful, as if expecting you to say no. “Proper date. No pretending we’re strangers. No college bullshit either. Just you being you… and me being me.”
In a swift movement, you turn in his hold again, leaving behind the gaze on the mirror and meeting his eyes full on this time, your lips curled into the softest smile as you watch him.
“I’d love that,” you say, hands traveling up his jacket, playing with the fabric between the pads of your fingers. “As long as I get to keep calling you Bucky.”
He smiles right back at you. “Don’t want you to call me anything else from now on.”
Prompt: When you turn in a paper arguing that the Allies weren’t entirely heroic in WWII, Professor Barnes calls you into his office to discuss your controversial opinion.
Pairing: Professor James Barnes x college student reader
Word count: 3.9k
Notes / warnings: porn with plot; professor x student; age gap (reader is mid twenties, bucky is early forties); desk sex; dirty talking; hair pulling; p in v; unprotected sex; no use of Y/N
Nervous fingers tap against the papers in your left hand, the hallway not nearly loud enough to drown your swirling thoughts. Today, you stand in front of your History professor’s office, red ink marking the graded paper you had handed over last week.
See me during office hours. Would like to discuss this paper further. Prof. J.B.
You're dreading this conversation. You knew, the moment you wrote this paper, this would be trouble. And yet you wrote it anyway. You, sitting in Professor Barnes’ class, wrote a full thirty pages on how the Allies were not entirely heroic during World War II. Dared to write and hand over to the man who had written several papers defending the importance of Captain America during the World War, who'd even helped set up an exhibit at the Smithsonian museum honoring several war heroes. And while knowing all of that, you still signed your name at the bottom of the page and handed it to him like it was just another paper.
A deep breath later, you finally raise your hand to knock on the hard wooden door before you hear a faint “Come in” calling.
When you open the door, you see Professor Barnes sitting behind his desk, hair slightly disheveled from maybe running his fingers through it too many times. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to his forearms, with a black waistcoat sitting carefully on top of it, hiding half of his carefully placed tie. He looks… well, unfair. As usual. It hasn't been easy to sit in his class with the way he looks, unfairly attractive, and that deep voice that always does wonders to your overly active imagination.
You walk in and close the door behind you before Professor Barnes gestures towards the chair in front of his desk.
“Sit,” he says, not really looking up but recognizing you all the same. His tone is carefully neutral, and he writes something down on a piece of paper while you take a seat.
You clear your throat, trying to ground yourself. “You wanted to discuss my paper, Professor?”
Professor Barnes moves some papers on the desk and finally looks up at you. His icy blue eyes are not nearly as neutral as his voice was, but you're not sure you can detect what's in them yet.
“I did.” He leans back against his chair, folding his arms across his chest. Some veins along his arms look more visible now. You try not to stare. “You made a very bold statement in your paper.”
Oh, here we go. You sit slightly straighter, as if that'll help you. You're confident in your paper and in the opinion you've stated, but there's a difference between writing that and discussing it with a man who's an expert in this field and almost twenty years older than you.
Professor Barnes notices you don't say anything, so he continues.
“There's a marked passage on your paper. Read it to me.”
Heat spikes through you. Embarrassment, a little fear, and panic. Your fingers tremble across the pages as you search for the passage highlighted in red before you start.
“The Allies, often lauded as heroic, were responsible for acts of destruction that were strategically effective but morally complex. The bombings of Dresden, Hiroshima, and Nagasaki demonstrate that even the victors of war leave behind a legacy of suffering.”
You pause to swallow because you feel like you're about to run out of air. Professor Barnes only taps one finger against the wooden desk.
“Keep going,” he murmurs, rough, and you feel like maybe he punched you in the chest. Those simple words shouldn't sound indecent. Why do they?
You read on.
“History tends to glorify winners, to simplify narratives of heroism and villainy. But true understanding requires acknowledging the shadows behind victory, the moral ambiguities that challenge the neat stories we are taught.”
That's the end of the highlighted text. You place the pages carefully on the desk before you meet his eyes. He looks at you with one slightly raised eyebrow, head tilted.
“You really stand by that claim?” Straight to the point.
You don't back down. You can't.
“Yes,” you answer, careful but attempting to be firm in your words. “Many of the allies’ actions were brutality dressed as victory.”
You think you notice a muscle in his jaw twitch.
“Do you think the world would have been better off if they hadn't acted?”
“I think moral purity is a myth,” you shoot back quickly. “Heroes have blood on their hands too. It's naive to believe otherwise.”
For a long moment, Barnes studies you. Maybe wondering how hard he has to push for you to break and back off your original statement, or whether or not he should continue this conversation.
“And you're not naive,” he finally says. So, he has decided for sharp provocation. You feel it between your ribs like a knife, your eyes only slightly narrowing before you clear your throat again.
“We glorify the Allies as if they never crossed any lines. But History is messy. No one walks away from a war with their hands clean.”
Professor Barnes stands from his chair in one quick motion, almost as if he's tired of you trying to prove your point, or maybe just tired of hearing your voice. His fingers scratch his beard around his jaw, almost in thought, before he walks around the desk and rests his hips against it, looking down at you. The leather of your chair creaks when you instinctively lean back a little.
“You're not wrong,” he finally admits, although that's not what you'd expected to hear. “But you argue it like it's an idea. Like you don't know the weight of it.”
Your lips part, words caught in your throat. His leg just barely touches your knee when you move—barely, maybe accidentally—and you almost spontaneously combust.
“I think I can understand more than you give me credit for,” you answer back.
Professor Barnes blinks once, and then his mouth curves, but not quite kindly. “You're bold.” He says it sharply, and he leans forward just enough that you catch a hint of his cologne. “Bold can get you in trouble.”
You're already in trouble. Because your Professor is debating your claims while heat pools in your stomach at the way he looks at you. Unconsciously, your teeth sink down on your bottom lip. His gaze follows the movement. You think you hallucinated that.
“Are you threatening me, Professor?”
“Warning you,” he says, eyes still lingering on your lips before he moves them back up to your eyes. “There's a difference.”
His fingers (you'd really never realized how long his fingers were until now, how veiny his hands are) curl around the edges of your paper, and he slowly hands it back to you. Your fingers and his touch for half a second when you take it, and you feel like you've been zapped.
“Are you always this defiant?” He asks, and although his voice is still sharp, there's an underlying tone you can't quite put your finger on.
“Some subjects bring it out in me.” You reply, eyes on his. And then, as if your mouth gained a life of its own, “Some Professors, too.”
That earns you a low chuckle from him, and the sound feels so out of place it throws you off balance. Professor Barnes shifts, bracing one palm against the arm of your chair, caging you in. In theory, the move is casual, but the way he looks at you is anything but as he leans in.
“You're not just bold. You're reckless.” The hand not in your chair moves and taps the pages in your hands. “You write something like that, say something like that… brave or foolish?”
Your heart hammers in your chest. “Both.”
The corner of his mouth twitches again, and he leans closer until his beard almost scratches your cheek.
“Do you know what happens when you poke at dangerous things?”
Fuck. This is so far from casual. You know you should stop and ask to leave; he's not moving, not pushing forward, and clearly waiting for a signal from your end to know he should continue.
You blink, eyes looking anywhere but at him.
“Maybe I want to find out,” you answer.
That does it. He moves one hand and drags his knuckles across your cheek, waiting for a reaction. When you don't flinch and don't say anything, he drags his thumb over the soft skin, and you tilt your head into his touch.
His head moves to meet your gaze.
“You're crossing a line,” he says, not really a warning—more of a reminder.
“So are you,” you tell him back.
And before you know it, Professor Barnes is closing the full distance and pressing his lips to yours. The kiss is hard and demanding, despite the softness of his fingers on your cheek, teeth nipping at your bottom lip like he'd been thinking of replacing yours the moment he saw you biting down earlier. Your mouth opens to him, and he only kisses you harder, tongue slipping past your lips, tasting you like his favorite treat.
His hands move to your waist, and he pulls you to him, raising you from the chair with a strong grip. You follow suit, dropping the pages of your paper as your hands cling to his waistcoat, but he doesn't stop the kiss, and neither do you. With both hands settled on your waist, he grips tight and turns the two of you so that your hips are now pressed against the desk, and leans down, your back bending over just a bit.
One of his hands moves up your body and tangles in your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss, before he finally breaks away for air. His breathing is ragged, but he only replaces your lips with your neck, lips trailing wetly over the skin under your jaw. You whimper, body arching into him, and his eyes gaze up when he catches that sound. Torn between it being his new favorite thing and his ruin. Maybe both.
“Professor,” you gasp, and his hips roll involuntarily against yours. You feel it, then. The very undeniable shape of him, of his hard cock, straining in his suit pants. He makes no effort to hide it even when he stops grinding against you, but your eyes only widen at the realization that your History professor is turned on by you. By this.
Your lips remain parted, as if waiting for him to claim them again, eyes watching the way he's masterfully exploring your neck, mouth kissing down the length of your throat, reaching just above your collarbone, and then his eyes are on yours again, and you feel like he's cut off your air supply.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he growls, teeth nipping at the skin. You almost whimper.
“Like what?”
“Like you want me to forget I'm your professor.”
You tugged at his black tie then, yanking it loose with shaky fingers, desperate to get to the man underneath all that careful, professional armor. You don't pull it off, though; just leave it hanging loose around his neck while you work to open the buttons of his waistcoat.
His hands slide up your thighs, bunching your skirt higher until the fabric is wrinkled around your waist. This fucking skirt—he's noticed you wearing it before, in class. How your legs carefully cross when you're wearing it, hiding what's between them so masterfully.
“Every time you sit in my class in this fucking skirt,” he rasps, biting at your jaw, “you drive me insane.”
Your breath caught as his lips claimed yours again, harder, rougher, while his fingers tugged at your blouse. Buttons open under his impatient touch, the fabric sliding off your shoulders until you are bare to his hungry gaze.
“Fuck…” he mutters, eyes raking down your body before locking back onto your face. “You came here not even wearing a bra?”
You only smirk before your fingers curl around his shirt to bring him closer, but the moment your fingers attempt to open the buttons, one of his hands catches your wrist, a filthy look in his eye.
“No, sweetheart. I'm gonna fuck you like this,” he says, hips rolling forward once, this time deliberate. “Need to remind you I'm still your professor.”
He's smiling as he lowers his head, catching one of your nipples between his teeth, tugging gently before lapping at the sting with his tongue. You squirm under him, but he holds you tight before his hands clear the path on his desk—sending papers and pens flying off—and sit you down on top of it without ever stopping the ministrations. He moans into your tits like you're a feast and he's been starving his whole damn life, and you only gasp, one hand reaching for his hair and tugging gently.
“Fuck—” he half growled into your breasts, resting his forehead for a few seconds against your skin like he's trying not to come on the spot. “Pull my hair like that again and I'm going to cum in my pants like a teenage boy.”
Your skirt was shoved higher, his suit pants straining against his arousal as he pressed against your heat.
That warning rumbles in your ears.
A smarter girl would’ve listened.
But you never did like to play safe.
Your fingers curl tighter into his thick hair, tugging harder this time, dragging his head back so you can look him right in those wild, blown-out blue eyes. The second you do, he lets out a guttural groan, his mouth falling open like you’d just ripped every last thread of control from him. He crashes his hips into yours hard, and you feel his body shake against yours as he buries his head between the valley of your breasts. And then, just barely, the feeling of a wet patch in his pants brushes against your thigh.
He did actually cum in his pants.
“Fuck—” he growls, and before you could smirk about it, his hands slam flat on the desk on either side of your hips, caging you in. His chest heaves against yours, suit pants presenting the evidence of just how badly you are undoing him.
“You're going to regret that.” His voice is wrecked and jagged, his hair messy from your grip.
With a snarl of frustration and arousal, he hauls you forward until you are perched right on the edge, your thighs spread wide as he steps between them, grinding his hips against the heat of your panties.
He buries his face between your breasts again, biting, licking, and sucking like he can't get enough, his beard scraping your sensitive skin. One hand squeezes your thigh so hard you know it will leave bruises, the other snaking up to grip the back of your neck, holding you in place for his mouth.
The hand in your thigh traveled high enough until his fingers could hook around the delicate fabric of your panties, and he slid them down your legs, letting them fall to the floor next to his feet. Before you have time to play any other dirty game, Professor Barnes slides one finger inside your already wet cunt, dragging a long moan out of you. He watches in awe and satisfaction as you react to his finger inside of you, fingers clawing at his shirt.
“Do you want to say something petty now? Do something funny?” He grunts as he fucks you with that one digit, your thighs trying to press together before he moves his other hand to your legs to keep them spread. “No, sweetheart, you're going to keep those pretty legs open for me while I fuck you. You're my smartest student. Don't play stupid now.”
Without ceremony, the Professor slides another finger inside of you, smirking as a louder moan falls out of your lips, your hips trying to buck into his hand as he fucks you faster, knuckles deep inside your fluttering pussy. Soft, wet noises fill his office, and he licks his lips as he watches you, eyes fixed between your legs, seeing you spread and slick for him.
“Can't say anything now? No more recklessness?” He teases, and he gives a particularly deep pump of his fingers, dragging another moan out of you. Your hands hold on to him, fingers buried on his shoulders, and your head falls back until you're right there, on the edge, so fucking close—
And then he stops.
Drags his fingers out of you when he feels your walls clenching around his fingers, and you open your mouth to complain, disappointment spreading across your figure. That's when you see him: hands working on the leather of his belt, snapping it open before he works his suit pants, shoving them down to his knees, his cock springing free.
It's half hard, leaking, and the mess from when you'd made him cum in his pants is spread over him. He wraps his large hand around himself, stroking his cock a couple of times at the sight of you spread on his desk, dripping for him, and soon enough he's fully hard again, the head of his cock flushed. And you bite your bottom lip hard, because fuck, he's big, and his fingers worked you masterfully, but you know you're still going to be tight around him.
The thought only makes you wetter.
“Been aching for this all fucking semester,” he rasps, lining himself up with your slick heat. “You think you’re clever, writing papers to test me—looking me in the eye while you push and push—” His words break into a groan as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, smearing you open, teasing your entrance. “But this is what you wanted all along, huh, sweetheart? To get fucked stupid on your professor’s desk.”
“Professor—please—” The plea rips out of you before you can think, thighs wrapping around his hips to pull him closer.
Professor Barnes smirks even through the haze, and he drags his cock across your entrance again.
“You beg so pretty,” he says, voice dripping with want. “Go on. Beg your Professor to fuck you again. Beg nice, sweetheart.”
You're unsure whether he's trying to get revenge for the way you undid him, or if sex with him is always like this, but either way, you are too turned on to be embarrassed. You curl one hand around his tie, dragging him close to you, and you look into his pretty blue eyes when you say,
“Professor, please fuck me.”
That wrecks him. He slams into you with one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt in your soaked cunt. You cry out, clinging to his shoulders as the desk rattles beneath you, his hands bruising your hips. He stills only long enough to feel the tight heat of you squeeze around him before his restraint snaps completely.
He fucks you hard, relentless, the desk shaking with every thrust, papers scattering to the floor around your feet. His black pants stayed half on, his shirt and vest a mess, and his tie wrapped around your hand. Professor Barnes makes no attempt to push you back onto the desk, and instead lets you pull him to you by the tie, tongue darting out to lick his lips as he thrusts into you.
“Knew you'd be so fucking tight,” he growls, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his temple.
Each thrust drives the air out of you, his cock hitting deep, making your nails dig into his shoulders, dragging down his back. He hisses at the sting but fucks you harder for it, grunting into your ear.
“Pull my hair again.” This time, it's not a dare. Not a challenge. You hear it in the way his voice almost breaks on the last word—it's a request. One of his hands grips your thigh hard, and you respond by curling your fingers around his dark locks and pulling hard. Professor Barnes buries his head in your neck, muffling a moan against your skin, and his hips stutter like he’s about to lose it. One hand rests on your breast, kneading the flesh softly in contrast with his harsh thrusts, and the contact sets your skin on fire, desperate whimpers dropping from your lips like prayers from a believer.
You cling to him, moaning, writhing, and desperate, as he drives you to the edge and keeps you there, teetering but not yet letting you fall off. “So tight, so hot… you feel so good, sweetheart,” he rasps, shaking with need. “You’re going to come on my cock,” his voice breaking. “Right here—where anyone could walk in and see your precious professor ruining his star student.”
Your head falls back, a whimper tearing out of you as the desk creaks under the force of him pounding into you. His hips snap against yours, merciless, his teeth scraping your throat as his breath comes fast and ragged.
And then—inevitable, overwhelming—the tension shatters. Moans, gasps, and the two of you collapsing together in a tangled, heated mess of limbs. Your orgasm rips through you like fire, your body clenching down around him hard, your thighs trembling as waves of pleasure crash over you.
“Christ, you’re squeezing me so fucking tight,” he says, broken, his grip tight on your thigh. “Soaking my cock like a good little student.”
Professor Barnes is barely holding it together; your walls are milking him, and the sound of his name breaking on your lips is all too much. With a strangled growl, he slams into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his release tears out of him.
“Fuck—fuck—take it—” he groans, forehead pressed to yours as his cock throbs inside you, pumping you full with every hot pulse of his cum. His whole body shakes, teeth gritted, breath coming in ragged gasps as he spills deep inside, unable to stop even if he wanted to.
He pulls you close after, lips pressing sweet, soft kisses to the length of your throat. Your fingers comb through his dark hair, not pulling anymore, just threading in places where sweat is dampening the strands.
“You really did warn me not to pull your hair, Professor,” you tease softly.
His grin widens, boyish for just a heartbeat. Then he nips at your jaw, playfully. “Good thing you didn’t listen.” Professor Barnes catches your lips, a softer kiss than before, tasting you, and a quiet gasp is breathed against your lips when he pulls away.
“Could stay like this all day,” he whispers, his beard gently scratching the skin of your chin.
You smile even as your body remains oversensitive. “Pretty sure office hours are over, Professor.”
He chuckles low, chest vibrating against yours. “Not for you.”
The tenderness lingers as he holds you, stroking your skin, brushing sweat-damp hair from your face. But then his hand cups your ass firmly, voice dipping dark again as he kisses the corner of your mouth.
“Don’t think this gets you out of trouble. That paper of yours? Still controversial. Still needs a serious discussion.”
You smirk, rolling your hips just enough to make him hiss. “Guess I’ll need a private tutoring session, then.”
a/n: i've had this fantasy floating around in my brain ever since i came up with this au. damn it feels good to finally have it written out all sluttily as it deserves to be
summary: “well, well, well… what do we have here…” he slowly swept his broad thumb across your tender flesh as he gazed down at the discovery, “just a friend, huh? However, did you manage to lose your panties hanging out with your friend? Come on, I think we’d all love to know.”
warnings: camgirl!reader x various, pornstar!lee bodecker, pornstar!ari levinson, pornstar!lloyd hansen, pornstar!nick fowler, smut, porn au, college au, reader’s porn name is cherry blossom (UrLittleCherry), filming pornography, reader has been in the porn industry for a while now (maybe a few months?), voyeurism, exhibitionism, gangbang, daddy kink (probably the only scenario where you can catch me playing around with this kink, because in most circumstances it's sadly not my cup of tea), classic porn step fantasy, impact play, pussy inspection, hair pulling, masturbation, fingering, pussyjob, oral, handjob, dirty talk, size kink, manhandling, multiple orgasms, squirting, penetrative sex, anal, unprotected sex
word count: 2850
∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽
sugar & spice au masterlist | 101, intro to the au
masterlist | join my taglist
“Hey beautiful,” you heard over your shoulder as you sat in the kitchen of the rented house you found yourself in, putting the last finishing touches on your makeup for today’s shoot.
Twisting around, you swiftly leapt from your seat as you recognised the figure leaning against the doorframe “Ari!” you threw your arms around his bulky form, “hi! How are you?”
“Can’t complain,” his broad palm ran down your spine before you retracted from the embrace, “how about you? I’ve heard you’ve been quite busy lately.”
“Yeah, I have,” a short giggle bubbled out of you, “but it’s been so much fun, though I’m still figuring out the balancing act between this, camming and school.”
As his feet then began to shuffle, your own shifted as well and carried you back out into the other room where crew members slipped around and prepped the space. With half of their attention directed at their work, their heads still twisted as they zigzagged between the rest of the stars for today’s fantasy, as the guys, lounging on the set, dragged their old friends into whatever they were chatting about.
“Oh, I didn’t know you’d all arrived,” each of their head twisted at the sound of your voice, “I thought Ari was the only one apart from me.”
“Sorry to disappoint, sweetheart,” Nick caught your palm as you neared the poker table they surrounded and pressed his lips to the back of it.
“Good to see you again, Nicky,” you chuckled as the warmth of his peck lingered on your skin.
“Oh, you guys have worked together before?” Ari sank down into the last of the chairs around the games table.
“Uhm, well, we have,” you gestured to the brunette who’d just kissed your hand, “a fun little POV shoot a month ago,” your gaze then drifted to Ari, “and we’ve of course worked together, I don’t think I’ll have to remind you of that,” you smiled before shifting your vision to the last two, “but, this is my first time with each of them,” you pointed between the two moustachioed men before grasping first the hand of the one to the left, “Lloyd,” a flutter flicked through your lower abdomen as you met the pornstar’s dazzling gaze, “hi.”
“Don’t get starstruck on me now,” he winked, “if you’re gonna cream your panties, wait till the camera’s rolling.”
Puffing out an airy laugh at his joke, “no promises,” you then shifted to catch the other man’s palm, “and Lee,” he slowly rose from his seat as he shook your hand, “or should I say daddy,” a small chuckle rumble in his chest as you warmed up to the title he’d get to adorn in today’s storyline, “wonderful to finally meet you.”
“You too,” he smiled, then added before he let go of your fingers, “I’ve been looking forward to finally working with you.”
“Really?” an amazed grin lit up your face as you blinked back at the seasoned professional.
“Oh yeah, just ask my agent. I’ve been quite literally begging for this to happen.”
“Have you ever shot a gangbang before?” Lloyd then asked.
“Uhm, no,” you shook your head, “first gangbang–, or well, on screen that is. Although I haven’t ever been with four guys at once before, so that’s new,” your glance flickered over each of their faces, “but I’m excited! I’m prepped and ready, this is gonna be fun.”
But before your face could heat up any further, the doors to the room burst open and in strolled, not only the head of the studio, Romanoff Productions, but also the visionary who had signed on to direct the shoot herself.
“Oh, great! You’re all here,” Natasha came to a stop right before you all, “then it won’t be long now,” she stated before landing her gaze on you, “Cherry, should we take a look at what you’re gonna wear?”
“Yeah,” you followed along as she then slipped back into her swift stride, “I brought a few options, some different plaid skirts, all depending on what colour you had in mind.”
The camera low in Natasha’s grasp shadowed your ass, shyly peeking out from under your short blue plaid skirt with every quiet step, as you sneaked down the hallway from the front door and into the dimly lit living room.
“Breaking curfew…” a deep voice then rumbled somewhere in the darkness.
Spinning around, you spotted the group of men surrounding the round table in the corner, “Lee! Oh my god,” faking a fright, you clasped a palm over your exposed chest, as your tight shirt wasn’t just sparsely buttoned, but also gathered up and tied around your waist.
“Lee?” Lloyd murmured and shifted the cards in his grasp, “is that what you call your stepfather?”
Sinking your teeth down into your bottom lip, you quietly uttered, “…daddy...”
“Good girl,” Lee nodded, though didn’t glance over his shoulder at you as he then dropped his cards to the table and sighed, “now, are you gonna tell me why you were out so late or should I just punish you without knowing the full reason? I’m fine either way,” his fingers gently played with a stack of poker chips beside him.
“Oh, I don’t know if that is necessary,” you swiftly shook your head and attempted to shuffle closer towards the staircase, “I'm only 45 minutes late–”
“Come here,” his command was low and clear as his glare finally locked upon your figure in the dark.
“What?” your fingers fiddled lightly with the hem of your skirt, fluttering just above where a pair of long socks stretched up to.
“Cherry, you can come here right now, or you can get out of my house.”
Though it was all just pretend, his low tone still sent a shiver down your spine, “you’re gonna kick me out? Just for staying out a little bit too late?”
“But that’s not all you were doing, was it?” he tilted his head before pushing his chair back a few inches from the poker table, “come on,” his palm came down to clap his thigh, “don’t act like this is the first time your bratty ass has needed to be taken over my knee.”
Glancing around to the others, “shouldn’t we go up to my room? You have company,” you added in a whisper.
“Oh, they don’t mind,” he stated, keeping his gaze locked upon you as he raised his voice, “do you boys?”
“Not in the slightest,” Nick smirked and leaned back in his seat, eyeing you just as brashly as the rest of them did.
Slowly, you closed the distance to stand beside Lee’s seated form, though before even offering you another glance, the older man seized your frame and tilted you over his lap.
With your bottom barely covered in your tiny schoolgirl skirt, a yelp slipped up from your lungs as Lee sent his hand down to land, not a light beginning tap across it, but a harsh smack that had you jumping in his lap.
“So, are you gonna come clean and tell us all what you have been up to, young lady?” he asked after you’d lost count of his generous spanks.
“I-I was just hanging out with a friend from school,” you squeaked and dug your fingers into his thigh.
Though as his palm came down upon your ass once again, the smack caused your flimsy skirt to flip up, just enough for him to catch sight of the secret it had been hiding.
“Well, well, well… what do we have here…” he slowly swept his broad thumb across your tender flesh as he gazed down at the discovery, “just a friend, huh? However, did you manage to lose your panties hanging out with your friend? Come on, I think we’d all love to know.”
But you kept your mouth shut as goosebumps pricked and covered your skin.
“Fine,” the word that left his lips was accompanied by a swift spank that soared across your bare bottom, “you don’t wanna talk? I’ll just have a look myself then,” he murmured before tilting closer, ever so slightly, and began to spread you apart.
“What are you–,” you peeked back at him over your shoulder, though your objection melted from your lips as his touch then swept through your glistening folds, “oh, f-fuck…”
“Doesn’t seem to me like you were just hanging out with a friend…” sticky strings of want created a web as Lee probed your puffy petals apart, letting him inspect your little hole, “…you know, I don’t ask much of you, but I do require you to obey my rules, and this?” his touch ghosted against your clit, making you swallow a moan, “this breaks nearly all of them.”
“I'm sorry, I just–”
“Sorry is not gonna cut it anymore! You’re gonna have to learn that there are consequences to your actions,” he growled before landing a swift slap against your glistening pussy, causing you to let out another cry.
As you tried to wiggle off his lap, the hand he’d had splayed across your lower back soared up to tangle itself in the hair at the base of your neck to keep you in place as he let his fingers sweep through your folds.
“You just need a bit tough love to learn the rules, that’s all…” he uttered over the sinful symphony of his persistent touch against your embarrassingly wet cunt.
“You’re a fucking pervert,” you grumbled through a heavy pant.
“You can call me whatever you want, I don’t fucking care,” his grip in your hair then tightened as he yanked you closer, your back having to arch to reach the angle he searched for, “you can either get what you deserve, or I can throw you out on your ass,” his breath fanned across your hot cheek as his lips nearly grazed it with every seething word he uttered, “it’s your choice.”
“…fine,” you finally replied through your gritted teeth before his grasp let go of your hair and sent you back down to stare at the floor.
Slowly, as Lee slipped a finger inside of you and gradually began to stretch you out, your eyes drifted shut and didn’t flutter back open till another one of his digits had eased inside of you and tickled out a quiet whimper, deep from within your soul. However, as you blinked your eyes back open, they fluttered up to discover the hard lengths that the others around the poker table had freed from their pants.
“Oh my god!” your eyes widened as you watched their fists slowly jerk up and down, leisurely stroking themselves as they stared at you, “Lee! Your friends, they’re–”
“Shh,” he kept up his touch as you began to quiver, “don’t mind them.”
By the time you were fighting the unbearable urge to cum, your body was flailing so fiercely that Lee had to clasp a forearm down around your waist in order to keep you over his lap. In the intoxicating fog you found yourself submerged in, someone caught your hand, and it wasn’t till moments later that it truly sank through your haze and you squinted over to discover Lloyd’s grasp engulfing your own, as he guided your touch over himself, his girth throbbing beneath your fingers. The vision alone was enough for you to throw in the towel and lose the battle to the high that then promptly washed over you.
Before your daze had a chance to fade, your frame was flipped back upright to briefly sit in Lee’s lap, and your reality was still so fuzzy that it took a moment for you to register when some of the others reached out to rip your shirt off, though the blue plaid that clung around your hips as well as the high socks, those were allowed to stay perfectly in place.
“You wanna fucking learn what happens to little sluts, huh?” Lee clutched your jaw in his grasp and growled against your cheek, “because that’s how you’re acting, so you might as well learn what it’s like to be treated as one.”
Flinging you around, he manhandled you onto the table, the others swiftly swiping away the cards and chip stacks out of the way before you landed in the middle.
“Since you’ve got no problem spreading your legs for your little friends, then mine shouldn’t be an issue either, should it now?”
“I–,” you panted, blinking up at Lee as he nudged your trembling thighs apart, “fuck…”
“What was that?” he smacked your sensitive cunt to conjure a clearer answer.
“Ah!” you let out a shriek, “no, daddy! Fine! Let them use me, what do I care!”
“Oh, you’ll care, babydoll…” Lloyd swiftly snatched up your right hand and brought it back to his cock, “must warn you, we aren’t as gentle as those little boys you hang out with.”
“But that’s alright, isn’t it?” Nick smirked as he seized your other hand and yanked it towards his own dick, “your cute little pussy deserves the punishment.”
Glancing between them all, you uttered, “you’re all sick.”
“Says the girl who just came,” Lloyd pointed out through a short chuckle.
“I did nothing wrong!” you continued, raising your voice, “everyone my age fools around! It’s not like I came home knocked up or anything–”
“Somebody shut her up,” Lee suddenly exhaled before Ari appeared above your head and swiftly stuffed his fat girth into your mouth, snuffing out the remainder of your sentence as it vibrated against his cock.
Your legs were then folded up till both Lloyd and Nick at your sides caught them and held your limbs in place, keeping you open for Lee as he fiddled with his fly.
Staring down at your pussy, Lee finally freed his cock and uttered, “now…” offering himself a gentle stroke as he took a step closer to you, “what are we gonna do to you…” he then tapped the heavy weight of his dick against your petals, making you squirm as sticky strings of desperation clung to his length, “maybe a little something here? Is that what you need in order to finally respect my rules?” he briefly flicked the bulbous head through your folds before his lips tilted into a sly smirk, “nah, I don’t think so… you need to be filled up somewhere that hasn’t already fucked tonight.”
And then, with the slickness now glistening up his cock, as well as the juices that had already leaked and dripped down, Lee began to split open your ass.
A cry promptly escaped you at the mind-numbing stretch, though as the sound vibrated against Ari’s girth, he only seized the opportunity and slid down even further till the staggering imprint of his size was bulging in your throat and his heavy sack was nuzzled up against your face.
“That’s it…” Lee groaned as he slowly filled you up, “that’s what you needed, isn’t it, kiddo?”
Though you had no clue who, a few of the men began to play with your tits, offering them playful smacks to make them jiggle hypnotically or even tug and pull on your pebbly nipples.
“Oh, would you look at that fucking cunt?” you heard Lloyd grunt as he watched closely at how your empty pussy was blowing euphoric bubbles, before you felt him reach down to grab your desperate core, pinching the puff a moment as they all marvelled in unison.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s enjoying her little lesson,” Ari chuckled as you choked on his cock.
“How could she not?” Nick reached down and slipped a finger inside your leaky hole, “you’re just a little whore for your stepdad and his friends, aren’t you?”
Sliding a digit in as well beside the other pornstar’s, Lloyd then murmured, “maybe instead of playing poker when we come over, we could all just play with you.”
Letting his cock slip out of your mouth, Ari craned down to touch you as well and began to bully your puffy clit, “yeah, you’d be a perfect little toy, wouldn’t you? Your daddy will teach you right how to treat us all.”
As Lee’s heavy sack smacked against your slick skin at his next deep thrust, you once again unravelled before them all, though this time in a rippling display that had your poor pussy gushing around the men’s fingers.
“Oh! That’s a good fucking girl!” Lee pulled his cock out of your ass before he joined in on the other’s torture, though didn’t stop till you were shaking violently beneath them and they couldn’t tickle forth anymore squirt from your overstimulated cunt, “I honestly didn’t think you had it in you, but just look,” he caught your eye, “you’re learning already.”
A smile found his features before he then, without warning, stuffed his girth into your pussy, beside the fingers that no one, not even himself, slipped out, but instead utilised the leverage to pry your clambering and sensitive pussy open for Lee’s fat girth.
a/n: woop woop! here's the little slutty story that you guys voted for when i asked what you wanted to see happen next in this au ৎ୭
summary: “hey, I get it,” he flashed you a comforting smile, “I’m a complete stranger. You just shook my hand two seconds ago and now we’re expected to bang in front of a bunch of other people you also don’t know,” his broad thumb swept over your knuckles, “you just have to decide if you wanna pack up your things, go home and chalk this up to just a fun experience, a lesson learned about what corners your sexuality and such does and does not stretch to,” he uttered with sincerity, “or you can come back inside and we can make some magic happen. It’s up to you.”
warnings: camgirl!reader x various, pornstar!ari levinson, roommate!bucky barnes, porn director!bruce banner, smut, porn au, college au, reader’s porn name is cherry blossom (UrLittleCherry), filming pornography, reader's first time doing professional porn, kissing, masturbation, toys, oral, fingering, voyeurism, exhibitionism, dirty talk, size kink (pornstar!ari is famous for his monster cock, you're welcome), belly bulge, manhandling, multiple orgasms, squirting, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, facial
word count: 3832
∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽
sugar & spice au masterlist | 101, intro to the au
masterlist | join my taglist
Curled up and melted on your mattress, you absentmindedly scrolled through your phone. Your puffy pussy, hidden between your still trembling thighs, clenched in dull soreness from the fuck machine frozen by your feet and still glistening from the show you’d put on only moments earlier.
“Hey, pretty girl,” a familiar voice emanated from your doorway, “I didn’t know you were done streaming.”
Lazily blinking up at Bucky as he leaned against the frame, “yeah, just signed off a few minutes ago,” you exhaled, “did you just get home?” the question flowed from your lips and he swiftly nodded in confirmation, “how was class?”
“Oh my god, don’t get me started,” your roommate let out a groan and pushed himself off the wall, his stride swiftly carrying him the short distance to where you laid and plopped himself down beside you.
A soft smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you felt him press a slow peck to your exposed shoulder.
“Do you need help lifting the toy back in the closet or–,” Bucky’s kind offer was then cut short by the shuttering gasp that suddenly crawled out of your lungs.
“Oh my god,” your eyes grew to the size of saucers as you stared down at the message you’d opened on your phone, “oh my god!”
“What? What is it?” he propped himself up on a forearm to peek over your shoulder.
“I–…” your eyes scanned the email wildly, “this can’t be real, right?” you cast a glance back at your friend.
“Let me have a look,” and you swiftly handed him your phone before hearing him skim through it, “dear miss Cherry Blossom, bla, bla, bla… we here at Smash Studios really love your vibe and were wondering if you would ever consider doing professional pornography, because if so, then we would love to work with you,” his blue eyes flickered a moment longer over the screen before they fluttered up to meet yours, “no, I think it’s legit.”
“Holy shit…” you breathed, an airy giggle then bubbled out of you as this was quite the news to take in, even when one wasn’t still hazy from haven fucked one silly in front of hundreds of people.
“You think you wanna do it?”
“Beautiful, gorgeous! And look right here, up there, yeah, that’s it…”
Sharp clicks shuttered the camera and shot throughout the massive house as a photographer snapped the last of the stills for the shoot. You were posed perched and kneeling on a bed with your right hand buried in the already tiny crop top, you’d brought as one of the outfit options, and held up high to reveal your tits.
The groan of floorboards creaking then found your ears and your gaze swiftly fluttered towards the door where the salt-and-pepper-haired man, who you’d come to learn was the head of the little porn studio, crossed over the threshold.
“How are we doing in here?” Bruce adjusted his glasses before stepping further into the room.
“I think we’re about done,” the photographer lowered the camera from his eye and cast a glance to his boss, “think we got the shot.”
“Great,” Bruce clapped his shoulder as the other man passed by and exited the room. As you tugged the short t-shirt back down into place, you met Bruce’s gaze before he asked you, “how are you doing? You ready?”
Though your mind was way too preoccupied to offer him an answer and instead blurted, “has he arrived?” as you scooted off the bed and felt the tiny shorts you wore ride up enough for your grasp to float down to adjust.
“Not yet, I’m sorry,” he tilted his head, “trust me when I say that he isn’t usually this late. He wouldn’t have the stellar reputation he does if he was. But we can still begin without him and just fix it in post if you’re–”
Someone then poked their head and announced, “hey Banner? He’s here. I just spotted his bike roll up the driveway.”
Feeling your heart thump in your chest, you heard Bruce clap his palms together, “great!” before you followed him out of the bedroom and through the pristine halls of the rented modern mansion.
Just before your bare feet began to conquer the long staircase, your absentminded grip tightened on the glass railing as you looked down at the open living room, clearly visible from the wide balcony, and spotted the figure that then sauntered in.
“So sorry I’m late, traffic was literal hell.”
Ari Levinson.
With sun-kissed brunette locks flowing from his head and a motorcycle helmet nuzzled under his burly arm, the infamous pornstar was not only blessed with a smile that could make anyone swoon, but also a dick so huge that any sane person would be downright terrified by the idea of having it split them apart.
Though that wasn’t what had stopped you in your tracks, what had made your palms embarrassingly clammy when he soon shook one of them once you’d somehow made your way down the stairs.
Why did your very first partner have to be someone you’d obsessively been getting off to for years?
You were barely listening to what the people around you were saying as you couldn’t rip yourself out of the trance you’d snapped into.
“I’m sorry, what?” you soon blinked, trying to avert your gaze.
“I asked if you were ready,” Bruce patiently repeated.
“…for?” you breathed, feeling as if you were inside of a giant ethereal cheese bell, making the entire world around you seem blurry.
“For the shoot,” Bruce’s words still flew straight over your head, “I said that I was thinking that I’d do the filming myself, if that could make you more comfortable since you’ve already met me. That way it’ll just be me, the two of you and then Sam in the corner doing audio.”
“O-okay…” you said quietly, feeling your cheeks heat up as Ari let his gaze linger over you, an observant brow soon twitching as he spoke up.
“Wait, actually,” he placed a palm on Bruce’s forearm, halting him as he reached for the bulky camera resting on the white couch, “do you mind if I grab a quick smoke break first?”
“Yeah, sure,” he nodded, “let’s just all take five before we begin.”
It caught you completely off guard when the object of your distraction walked by you and paused to murmur in your ear, “come with me outside for a second, will you?”
Shadowing him all the way out of the tall glass door and onto the terrace, you watched him lean his frame against the fence and tilt his body for you to slot in beside him.
“I don’t actually smoke,” you uttered softly as you let your fingers ghost over the railing.
“Oh, neither do I–, or well, that’s not completely true, I do, just didn’t need one right now.”
“So then why did you ask for a smoke break?” you cocked a brow.
Blowing out a swift breath, Ari then twisted to face you more and gazed directly down at you.
“You mind if I hold your hand?” he held out his own palm.
“Oh, uhm,” your glance flickered down to his upturned hand before you carefully placed your own atop of it, “okay.”
His warm fingers swiftly engulfed your own as his stare stayed fast upon you.
“So, this is your first time, huh?”
“Oh, no, I'm not a virgin, I–”
“I meant porn, sweetheart,” he tilted his head to be more at your level.
“Right,” you averted your gaze as butterflies soared in your stomach, “yeah, I haven’t really done this before… I mean, I’ve some stuff, I’ve cammed for a pretty long time now and even recorded custom videos for some people, but no, I haven’t really taken this step before…”
You were staring down at his large hand engulfing yours as he then said, “you know, it’s okay if you don’t wanna go through with it. This field isn’t for everyone, in fact, only very few thrive in this environment, and if it’s not for you, then it’s okay.”
“Oh, no,” your eyes flickered up to find his as you urged, “I wanna do this, I really do. I’m sorry, I guess I just kinda got a bit more nervous than I expected.”
“Hey, I get it,” he flashed you a comforting smile, “I’m a complete stranger. You just shook my hand two seconds ago and now we’re expected to bang in front of a bunch of other people you also don’t know,” his broad thumb swept over your knuckles, “you just have to decide if you wanna pack up your things, go home and chalk this up to just a fun experience, a lesson learned about what corners your sexuality and such does and does not stretch to,” he uttered with sincerity, “or you can come back inside and we can make some magic happen. It’s up to you.”
“So, Cherry,” Bruce purred behind the camera as he knelt on the floor beside where you sat at the foot of the bed, “I can’t believe we finally convinced you to come have some fun with us. I gotta tell you, you are just a fucking dream come true…”
“Oh, thank you,” you smiled, kicking your feet slightly as they dangled over the edge.
“But you must get that all the time, I mean, look at you.”
“It has been known to happen on occasion,” you chuckled, thinking back to all of the lewd compliments the viewers of your streams generously tossed at you.
“So, a little birdy told me that this is your very first time fucking on camera. Is that true?”
“Yeah, it is,” you bit down on your bottom lip, “I’m so ready to pop that cherry.”
“Oh, you are, are you?” he smirked, panning the bulky camera over your frame as you tilted your head in a nod, “you’re just ready to show the whole world what a perfect slut you are?”
“Think it’s about time,” you giggled in response.
“Well, then why don’t you do something for me and stand up?” he shifted back a bit as you got up from the bed, “and now, I’ve already seen it, but can you please turn around and show everyone how fucking perfect your ass is?” a grin stayed fast on your face as you slowly spun around. Your butt was barely covered in the tiny shorts that clung around your hips, so when you twisted and let the camera catch that part of you, Bruce quietly groaned, “wow…” and he shifted his grip to let one of his hands float up towards you, “can I touch you?”
“Sure,” you arched your back a bit to make his palm’s journey that much shorter.
“Damn… this has got to be one of the greatest booties I’ve ever seen in my entire life,” he offered your softness a brief squeeze. His fingers first dented one cheek, then the next, before his grip caught your waistband and tugged your shorts up just a tad bit more, making the fabric momentarily rub against your covered pussy.
His flat palm then scooped around your hips and guided you back to face the camera.
“Do you wanna see my boobs?” you smiled as you blinked down at him with big doe eyes, your hands gently grazing over the hem of your crop top.
“Oh, yes, please,” he virtually begged as he let his warm palm stay glued to your waist.
Peeking down, you slowly lifted the shirt up and let your tits quite literally spill out as they jiggled slightly from the release of how fiercely you let the cotton graze over your skin.
“Jesus christ…” you heard him utter as your palms fluttered down to play with them, squeezing the soft peaks gently before Bruce’s fingers sneaked up to pinch one of your nipples.
Once you’d put on a show and pushed the tiny shorts down your legs, the crotch of which had been slightly soaked since you weren’t wearing any panties underneath, you rested back down on the bed and spread your legs wide for the camera, grinning as the older man asked you to play with yourself.
“Oh my god… I gotta tell you, I am so hard right now,” you watched how intently he stared at the small monitor, getting a closeup of how your fingers rubbed your little clit, “you have no idea how tough it is not to just fuck you right now, it’s crazy…”
“Oh yeah?” you giggled, the melody of your want echoing throughout the room at every teasing touch you offered yourself, “how bad do you wanna fuck me?”
“So fucking bad…” he uttered in a nearly hypnotise tone.
Continuing to circle your puffy pearl, your fingers briefly dipped down to tease your entrance, only shyly slipping inside before you swept back up.
“You know what?” Bruce said as he then began to twist a bit to get the open door to the room into frame, “I have a little surprise for you,” and perfectly on queue, Ari appeared at the threshold, burly chest on show with just a pair of jeans hanging low on his hips.
His stride was slow as he only stayed in the doorway a moment before sauntering over to where you sat, melted back and resting against the one forearm that propped you up.
“Hey,” he smiled and plucked up your face as soon as it was within reach.
“Hi,” you managed to utter just before he bent down and pressed his lips to yours in an unhurried and gentle kiss.
He kissed you as if he had all the time in the world, like some dude wasn’t pressing a bulky camera closer to the intimate act, but like he was the lead in a PG romcom.
When Ari withdrew, he let himself linger in your warmth, ever so slightly nuzzling his nose against your own as your fingers kept up the dizzying pattern you drew between your parted thighs. Tilting his head, his touch traced the length of your arm till his reach came down to aid your efforts, making you gasp from the way he caressed you.
“You,” he nudged his nose gently against your own, “look like you’re in need of some cock in that little mouth of yours.”
Letting out a soft chuckle, you said, “you read my mind,” before popping the button of his jeans and tugging the zipper down. Even though you’d seen his famed cock numerous times on screen before, it truly was something else to witness it in person. A breathy, “holy shit,” left your lips as you tried to wrap your fingers around his girth, though he only let out a soft laugh at the way your eyes grew wide.
Ceasing the caress he drew between your thighs, he instead grabbed the base of his heavy length with his fingers still glossy from your arousal. As you stuck out your flat tongue, he tapped the weight against you for a second before you tilted your chin and wrapped your lips around the bulbous head.
As you disappeared into the meditative motion of slobbering all over his cock, gradually taking more and more of his intimidating length, your frame twisted to lay on your side and face him more.
Blinking up into his hooded eyes as the corners of your lips burned from the severe stretch, you felt his hips begin to move, rolling to meet your every bob, till his fingers tangled in your hair and he got to take over completely, fucking your face till slobber dribbled down your chest and rained down on your crop top, still tugged up and framing your tits.
His free hand then snaked its way back down your body and cracked your legs open wide for the camera to see as he plugged your pussy up with two of his fingers, making you moan around his girth as the tip of him bruised your throat.
When he yanked your mouth off of his cock, he did so with a gravelly growl, like he could have lived in your silky warmth and it pained him to say goodbye so soon.
“Come here,” he grabbed you and flipped you around for your frame to face him as his feet stayed planted on the side of the bed. Kicking his jeans the rest of the way off, you panted up at him as you scooted even closer, nearly letting your butt hang off the mattress’ edge as you laid already crumbled and folded before him, utterly bewitched by the anticipation of what his legendary size must feel like stretching your poor pussy out.
Shimmery spiderwebs of your nectar clung to him as he then let you feel the weight of him tap against your puffy pearl, briefly skimming through your folds before he found your eyes and tipped down, nudging to catch your weeping entrance.
“Oh my g-god…” you gasped, all of the air escaping your body to accommodate as he slowly pressed just the tip inside. Your cunt clung around his dick as he gave you a second to catch your breath. Your pulse throbbed in your pussy as your silky walls moulded around him and your thighs gently trembled from the intensity of it all.
“Fuck,” he groaned as he gave you another inch, “you feel so good,” gently stuffing more of his length inside.
His grip dented your trembling thighs as he held you open for the camera to see how you struggled to take his cock. Even when the tip of him kissed your cervix and made you feel as if he was all the way up in your fucking throat, when you hazily gazed down to see where he split you apart, there was still a generous inch of him that your little pussy just couldn’t take.
As your eyes lingered a little longer, you too caught sight of how a dull bulge formed in the lower part of your belly, perfectly timed with each of his mind-numbing thrusts.
When you then tumbled over the edge, nearly blind from the overwhelming pleasure, your pussy couldn’t help but accidentally gush around Ari’s girth, simply because of how mind-boggling he felt.
“Oh, shit,” you panted. Still in your orgasmic daze, you swiftly cast a worried glance up at Bruce steady behind the camera, “I’m sorry,” you briefly broke the scene as Ari too paused his movements as you breathlessly spoke, “I really tried not to squirt, I know that wasn’t part of today’s plan, but–, fuck…” your eyes fluttered up to find Ari’s, “your dick’s just so goddamn big,” you hazily giggled.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Bruce’s voice washed over you as you watched a smile tug at Ari’s lips, “that was just an unplanned bonus.”
“Wait, so you’re not mad?” your neck twisted to cast a glance at the director.
“No,” he swiftly shook his head and flashed you a reassuring smile to calm the obvious anxiety that had bubbled up inside of you.
“Oh, good,” you let out a sigh, “sorry, I just got nervous for a second. Okay, alright, we can keep going.”
“You good?” Ari checked before he cracked out of his frozen form.
“Yep, yep, I’m okay, I’m wonderful,” you chuckled and let the last bit of nerves wash away.
“Alright,” he dipped down to press a soft kiss to your lips, before his hands guided your arms around his neck, slinking them around him.
His grasp then scooped down under you and he effortlessly plucked you up off the bed, a shy yelp bubbling up from your lungs as he picked your frame up to cradle you in his arms, his massive cock still lodged inside of you, though when he settled you in his strong hold, it felt as if he found a mystical way to slide even deeper.
Moans flowed from your lips and vibrated against his skin as your neck soon gave up and lent your cheek to smoosh against his fuzzy chest.
“There you go,” he stood up tall and bounced you in his arms like you were a toy, just a cocksleeve for him to get off with, “there you fucking go…”
As he picked up the pace and truly gave you a taste of how a real pornstar pounded a pussy for the camera, your eyes screwed shut tight and you felt yourself float away on a cloud, curled up in Ari’s burly arms and surrounded in a storm of your collective moans. The existence of the video camera even faded from your reality as you peeled your eyes open and peeked up at Ari from the pillow of his pec, knowing full well that he too could feel how you began to clench around his cock once more.
“You gonna cum again?” he repeatedly lifted you up and down on his fat girth, “you gonna be a good girl and cream all over my cock, huh?”
Blinking up at him, your brows crinkled in pleasure as you nodded, “uh-huh.”
“You think you can squirt again for me?” his grip dug into the plush of your ass hard enough for it to leave marks.
“I-I don’t know–”
“Oh, I think you can,” he switched up his pattern, slowing down slightly and dragging you all the way up till his cock nearly slipped out of you, only to sink you back down in such a rough, yet intensely slow manner, that it made your eyes roll in your skull, “just listen to that,” he smirked at the soft sloshing sound that sinfully echoed as his fat girth repeatedly slid against your g-spot, virtually bullying it till you surrendered, “it’s like she’s begging me to just spend the rest of the day making her gush over and over again until you fucking pass out…”
A shrill cry escaped your form as you let go once more, shaking in Ari’s grasp as Bruce knelt down to capture your sinful drizzle.
You nearly felt drunk, like you were hours into the best party of your life, when you eventually found yourself planted on the floor, quaking legs unsteady beneath you as you blinked up at Ari, looming above you and furiously fucking his fist.
“You want me to cum all over that pretty little face?” he grunted as you hazily stuck out your tongue.
“Yes,” the corners of your lips blissfully curled up into a grin, “please–”
Even though your bones had turned into jelly and your pussy clenched in soreness, the drawn-out moan that rumbled in Ari’s chest as hot ropes of his cum then shot out and painted your features sent tingles throughout your body and filled you with a desire to just wrestle him back down onto the mattress, hit rewind and do it all over again.
a/n: iihhh! first story in this slutty au! felt like this was a good place to jump off from. and also, i just wanna point this out because i nearly never do and perhaps some people don’t realise it, but if you have a thought, an idea, a wish or request in this au (or any other, my inbox is always open for requests) then feel free to click on my ask button and send it my way ♡
summary: “so, what I was thinking,” you tilted your head, “was that before I go give him his present, you guys could maybe help me prep a little bit, warm me up and stretch out my ass enough to fit his big fat cock. Would you guys like that?”
warnings: various x camgirl!reader, smut, porn au, college au, roommate!bucky barnes, roommate!steve rogers, roommate!curtis everett, ex!ransom drysdale, dilf neighbour!andy barber, reader's porn name is cherry blossom (UrLittleCherry), friends with benefits, happy hippie fun poly vibes, curtis’ birthday, partying, alcohol consumption, kissing, masturbation, impact play, fingering, toys, edging, clothed sex, voyeurism, exhibitionism, dirty talk, size kink, manhandling, multiple orgasms, anal, penetrative sex, unprotected sex
word count: 3953
∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽
sugar & spice au masterlist | 101, intro to the au
masterlist | join my taglist
The last rays of sunshine for the day streamed in through the half-drawn curtains and cast soft shadows across your form as you sat cross-legged on your mattress.
With your reach outstretched towards your laptop propped up on the chair situated at the foot of your bed, you clicked on the go live button and watched as a countdown appeared on the screen, overlaying your visage staring back at you as your gaze briefly flickered around to check your gear one last time.
Thanks to your three roommates who’d insisted on helping you upgrade your setup, there wasn’t just one, but two cameras pointing directly at you. One angle to catch all of your frame and one zoomed-in to capture a perfect close-up between your legs.
“Hey guys!” a warm smile swiftly dazzled your features as you watched the first few people jump at your notification, “good evening or good–, whatever time of day it is for you.”
The messages in the chat started rolling in, some with usernames you recognised and some you didn’t.
TheFrogo: Hi Cherry! How are you? Have you had a good day so far?
DrownByPussy: Omg you’re finally live! I’ve been hard all day knowing I’d get to see you today.
“Hi Frogo, yeah, I’ve had a pretty good day, but I’m hoping that it might get even better, because I’ve got something pretty fun planned for tonight,” your hands absentmindedly fidgeted along the length of your legs as you spoke, “so, today is a friend of mine’s birthday and–, wait,” you paused and leaned in closer to catch a better look of the scrolling messages, “I haven’t seen you write in the chat yet, but birthday boy, if you’re here, you better log off right now or you’ll ruin your surprise,” you warned, glancing straight into the camera, “I’ll give you five seconds get off,” a pointer finger then kissed each of your digits as you counted down, “five… four… three… two… one,” you squinted a moment longer before a giggle bubbled out, “okay, so now that it’s just us, I can tell you what I’ve got planned,” you switched up your seat, moving your legs to comfortably kneel on the mattress with your frame slightly turned at an angle for you to better see the screen, but retroactively grant everyone a view of the curve of your spine as the line swooped down over your waist and blossomed into the plush of your ass, sinfully on display in the pastel blue, mesh lingerie you wore, “there is one thing in particular that he has just been begging for… any guesses?”
A_B_Cunt_Destroyer: Hmm… is it a particular fantasy? A little bit of roleplay action?
8inchStallion: Threesome?
“Nope. All fun suggestions, but no.”
TittyCokeKingXXX: Is it to bang in public?
Cream314159: How about anal?
“Cream! Yes! You guessed it!” you excitedly threw your hands up in the air, “it is anal that he’s been dreaming about.”
Ddadddy6969: I mean, who can blame him.
ItsBradBtch: Fucking same.
TearinYoBootyUp: Wish it was my birthday today so you’d let me fuck your tight little ass.
“So, what I was thinking,” you tilted your head, “was that before I go give him his present, you guys could maybe help me prep a little bit, warm me up and stretch out my ass enough to fit his big fat cock. Would you guys like that?”
KyleKyleson: Yes!
UrPervyDaddy398: Hell yeah, let’s get you ready to take that monster cock.
Casting a glance out of the nearby window, your eye couldn’t help but catch sight of the neighbouring house. It didn’t look like the divorced dad who resided there was home, though you still nevertheless searched for him. You weren’t completely clueless to his infatuation with you, though it had almost turned into a game, always trying to catch him peeping at you through the windows, or even taking it further by purposely wearing something skimpy when you’d go get the mail or other activities where you would know you’d bump into him. You didn’t judge him to be the type of man to ever really do anything about it, to actually reach out and grasp a wet dream of a girl so much his junior, but the teasing had become too much fun for you to stop, you were too far gone to draw the curtains closed now.
As a quiet jingle sounded from your speakers, indicating that someone had tipped you, your gaze flickered back towards the computer screen.
A_B_Cunt_Destroyer: Is that the underwear set I bought you off your wishlist? You look even more gorgeous in it than I imagined.
“Oh, thanks A,” you let your palms graze down over the thin mesh, feeling your pussy clench as your touch brushed over your nipples poking through the baby blue material, “yeah, it is. It matches the dress I’m planning on wearing tonight, so I thought I’d be cute.”
Call_Me_Sir_844: Turn around, Cherry. Let us see it from the back.
“Yes, sir, of course,” you chuckled lightly before shifting around, purposely arching your back as you glanced over your shoulder.
729AlwaysHard: How is your ass even real?
Like1OfUrFrenchGrls: Damn, that butt is just begging for a spanking.
Raking your touch down your sides, you smirked, “oh, you want me to spank my ass?” before the jingle of a tip echoed from the computer, “alright, baby,” and like a cat, your frame scooped down, gliding on to all fours and sticking your bottom high up in the air, “how many do you think? Let’s say, highest tipper gets to decide, but please, be kind, I still have to be able to dance the night away tonight.”
TittyCokeKingXXX tipped $50 – 10 spanks, with a paddle
BootyLover47 tipped $35 – 4 spanks
MrHansen tipped $100 – 6 spanks
“Thank you guys,” you wiggled playfully for them, “and Mr. Hansen, wow, thank you so much!” you squeaked ecstatically, “well, I guess I better start counting then.”
After each smack your palm landed on your propped-up bottom, the coinciding number rolled off your lips till your ass was tingling and sore for all your viewers to see.
WinterIsCumming: Fuck, just seeing your little pussy through those panties… they’re soaked, aren’t they?
Gliding a hand down between your legs, your fingertips ghosted over the sheer fabric that clung to your core.
“They are, Winter,” you blinked up at the camera, “man, I wish you were here to give me a hand.”
NastyBoi: Show us that pretty little pussy, come on, don’t be shy now.
“You want me to take my underwear off for you? Take them off so that I can really play?”
And with the chimes of tips swiftly ringing in your ears, one of your fingers then hooked in the gusset and carefully peeled it to the side, letting it act as a frame as you momentarily teased them with just a glimpse of your glistening folds, before you slowly slid them off completely.
Eventually, after your slick digits had gotten a chance to warm you up and tease you till you were practically buzzing on both of the camera angles that now displayed you, as it hadn’t taken you very long till you switched to a split screen, both your face frozen in a silent moan and your pretty holes drooling for attention pressed up against one another, side by side on the stream, your fingers then reached for a toy, the pretty glass dildo you had picked out just before the show.
You first popped the toy in your mouth as you flipped around and relaxed back against your pile of pillows. Letting your gaze flicker over the downright filthy comments rolling across the screen, you sucked on the toy for a bit before pulling it out and letting it float down south.
“Fuck,” your eyes fluttered slightly as you rubbed the tip gently against your little rosebud, “oh, that feels so good.”
Cream314159: Yeah, Cherry, tease that little ass like a good slut.
8inchStallion: Fuck, you’re gonna make me blow my load soon if you keep looking like that.
Ddadddy6969: Has your fuck buddy really never had your ass before? Tbh kinda hard to believe considering what a whore you are for all of us. I love your anal shows, they’re always my favourite.
“I know, daddy,” a light giggle tore through your form, “I’m honestly kinda surprised as well, but no, it hasn’t happened yet.”
BongDong420: Wait, are you an anal virgin? Plot twist.
“No, no, I’m not, I love anal,” you sucked in a gentle gasp as you let just the tip of the toy breach your tight opening, “I just haven’t really done it yet with too many different people. Actually, I’ve only done it with one so far, now that I think about it,” you swiftly shook your head and forced your eyes to flicker to the messages to rid your thoughts of your ex.
Call_Me_Sir_844: Please open your mouth, I’m gonna cum!
“Oh, yes, please cum for me, sir,” you answered the comment and then let your lips part wide. As your tongue stuck out as well, a string of saliva soon dripped down as you waited, the spit colliding with your tits and running down your cleavage.
A_B_Cunt_Destroyer tipped $550 – Don’t let yourself cum. Edge yourself so that you can be all drippy and dumb for him like a good little present should be.
Since you and your roommates lived in a residential area too quiet for college ragers, some of the guys Steve and Bucky were on the football team with offered to throw the bash at their fraternity.
Music blared, nearly making the entire house rumble, as you walked around the place, searching for the one of your roommates who the party was in honour of.
Fiddling lightly with the hem of your silky dress as you peeked into the room where a rowdy game of beer pong was afoot, you still felt a little dizzy as desperation soaked through your ruined panties.
Though, as you checked the kitchen, a bulky frame bumped into you, though it wasn’t just any run-of-the-mill frat boy, incapable of watching where they went, it was the very last person you wished to lay your eyes upon.
“Y/n, hey,” the trust fund kid caught your arm before you could slip away.
“Ransom,” you couldn’t help but clench your jaw as you tried to free yourself of his hold, “hello.”
“I didn’t know you were gonna be here tonight.”
“Why wouldn’t I be here?” you nearly scoffed as you squinted up at him, “it’s my roommate’s birthday party.”
“Right, forgot you moved in with all of them, became just one of the boys…” as a beat of silence fell over him, he let his gaze then rake over your form, lapping up the soft blue material that draped across your curves, “you look good tonight, by the way.”
“I–…” your eyes fluttered shut as you let out a sigh, “Ransom, can we not? Just for tonight, can we not do all of this? Just let me be here, celebrate my friend, and then after that, if you so wish, we can get back to our regularly scheduled program. Just one night of peace, that’s all I’m asking for.”
His dark brows then furrowed as he cocked his head, “babe, come on–”
Cutting him off with a scoff, you spat, “I haven’t been your babe since you broke up with me.”
He had been all for landing a girl that was essentially a wet dream come true when it came to all of the sinful areas you were itching to explore with him, but what hadn’t been a part of his plans was having a girlfriend who wasn’t exclusively a slut for him and him alone. He’d told you to choose between him and your dirty little hobby, but to his surprise, you hadn’t even hesitated when you didn’t choose him.
A low sigh then puffed from his lungs, “fine.”
Heatedly ripping your arm free, you echoed, “fine,” before turning on your heel and exiting the kitchen.
Luckily, your search didn’t drag on too much further before you stumbled upon your celebrated friend.
“There you are!” you exclaimed, your voice ushering Curtis’ head to twist in your direction, his glance shifting from the pool table before him.
“Baby!” he swiftly threw open his inked arms and pulled you close, “hey!”
Hearing the heavy balls clank around on the table, you asked, “are you in the middle of a game or could I steal you away for a sec?”
“Nah, not this round,” he withdrew only ever so slightly, letting one of his arms stay draped over your shoulders, “what do you need?”
Pulling him with you in the direction of the wide staircase, you smirked, “I just have a present to give you…”
“Another one?” he blinked as you dragged him up the steps.
“Well, you deserve the world, so yes, you get another one this year,” you offered him a warm smile.
“Man,” he exhaled as you reached the upper level, “happy birthday to me,” a smirk spread across his features as he willingly let you push him into one of the rooms.
It was a study room filled with long communal desks, tall bookcases and velvet armchairs. It was also, thankfully, vacant of any other partygoers.
“Happy birthday, Curtis,” you didn’t waste any time, the door barely managed to slam behind you, before you yanked him in for a kiss.
It took him a second before he caught up with your sudden actions, but as soon as he did, a gentle giggle rumbled from his intoxicated form and vibrated against your lips as he enveloped his long arms around your frame.
Feet shuffling, your roommate soon bumped into one of the tables, lending him to half sit on it as you let your touch rake down his figure. Even with the swift and determined pace your desperation drove you to have, it still didn’t take that long for Curtis to be on the same page as you, and when your palm fluttered down to cup him through his pants, the tent twitched beneath your touch.
At first, when you then withdrew from the kiss, Curtis instinctively followed your disappearing lips till he noticed your knees buckling as you sank down onto the floor.
“This is so much better than losing at pool,” he gazed down at you between his thighs, nearly hypnotised as you tugged at his zipper.
“I’d sure hope so,” you nearly scoffed as you freed him of his binds, not hesitating to lean in and swipe your tongue silkily against the very tip of him as soon as you had the chance, “although, you know I never mind being a consolation prize.”
“Consolation prize?” his tone filtered through a soft groan as your fist enclosed around his base, twisting slightly as it jerked up to graze your mouth, “that’s not what you were last week.”
“Yeah, but that was different,” your giggle vibrated against him, “it’s okay, baby. Maybe next time we play at home you’ll get to win and show the others who’s boss,” you purred before your lips enveloped fully around his fat girth.
When spit and slobber soon bubbled out and dripped down onto your chest from your efforts, you got back up to your feet. As you let the back of your palm wipe a bit of the mess from your chin, you twisted your frame around and let your spine melt back against this broad chest.
As you felt Curtis’ fingers dig into your dress and hike it up, you rolled your hips back against him, nearly dizzy with want. Gliding a hand down between your thighs, you captured the sodden material, utterly ruined and clinging to your core, before you yanked it to the side, the leaky mess not yet ready to let go of the panties and spiderwebbing to where you pulled it to the side.
Reaching around, your grip captured his cock once again as you tilted him to teasingly brush through your folds, your activities from earlier made it almost pathetic how sloppy you got him in a matter of seconds.
As his lips pressed to your cheek in a hot kiss, you glanced over your shoulder to catch his eye and take in his reaction.
You didn’t warn him, nor say anything at all. Only a smirk glimmered on your lips as a forewarning before you led him away from the leaky entrance he naturally assumed you’d let him into, and instead arched your back and eased his slicked-up length into somewhere else.
“Oh–, holy shit,” his eyes flickered down to affirm what you were doing before blinking up at you in the assumption that it was a mistake, “baby, you’re–”
“I know,” you smiled at the way his chest heaved at the realisation.
“Wait, seriously?”
“Told you I had another present for you,” your gloating grin softened at the moan that slipped out as you sank down just a little further upon his dick.
His fingers dented both sides of your hips as you slowly let him feel more of you, “oh my god, you’re the fucking best…”
It was shallow at first, gentle as you controlled the pace, though still mind-meltingly intense as you fucked back against him till your knees began to wobble, feeling each and every little detail of his stretch your little ass out.
You felt his hot breath on the side of your face between the lazy pecks he planted there and occasionally veering further south to try and mark your neck up with his bites.
“O-oh, fuck,” you whimpered when one of his inked arms snaked around to your front and stretched down to rub your clit, swollen and throbbing between the pads of his rough fingers.
Since you’d backed away from the edge not too long before, its overwhelming return was swift and quickly rendered you a shivering mess in his arms as your rhythm came to a rest and the tight circles he drew over your puffy pearl pushed you into insanity.
Eyes still shut as you were panting for breath, you felt Curtis pluck up your chin and tilt it so that his lips could seize yours.
Though the blissful pause didn’t last very long before he manoeuvred you around, manhandling you into a new configuration, though all the while never slipping his cock out.
His palm was heavy against your back as he whirled you around and bent you over the table. Cheek smooshed against the smooth wooden surface, the thunderous snap his hips then offered caused the desk to rattle beneath you.
However, just as you sensed him begin to lose himself, burying his cock so deep inside of you that it caused you to see stars, the creaking sound of the door to the study swinging open sliced through the lewd harmonies already filling the room.
Even though you couldn’t really glance over your shoulder to see who it was that entered, the recognisable voices that then found your ears calmed your worries about why Curtis’ pace for some reason hadn’t slowed down in the slightest.
“No, I’m not kidding, that’s really what–, oh,” Bucky’s sentence paused as soon he spotted you, “hello you two.”
You attempted to tilt your head against the table as the last of your roommates came into view, shut the door behind them and stepped closer.
As you reached out a wobbly hand to grasp Steve’s, he sweetly caught it in his and chuckled at your cock drunk visage, “hey.”
“Hmm–, hi…” you attempted to greet them, Bucky swiftly bending down to briefly be at your height, letting his fingers brush some of your hair out of your face as Curtis’ efforts jolted your frame against the table at every feverish thrust.
“Was wondering where you guys were,” Steve held onto your hand a little longer as his glance met the blissful gaze of the man who was balls deep inside of you, “I thought she already gave you her little present.”
“You knew?” Curtis tilted his chin, to which you tried to explain with a mumble, though one of your roommates didn’t hesitate to playfully ask you to clarify.
“I’m sorry what was that? You’re being too much of whore right now for me to understand you,” Bucky pressed a peck to your brow before straightening back up, “look, I would have totally told you man, but she threatened us not to ruin the surprise.”
“Yeah, said that if you didn’t get to take a dip first, then none of us ever would,” Steve added.
“Aw,” you felt Curtis kneed your bottom as he slammed into you, “you’d really have done that?”
“I did say you deserve the world, so yeah,” you managed to squeak.
“It’s so cute how sappy birthdays make you,” Bucky smirked, “such a shame not one of us even hesitates to exploit it.”
As one hand stayed glued to the curve of your ass, his thumb hooked in your underwear to grant not only him but the rest a perfect view of just how well you took him, Curtis’ other hand then stretched out to grasp the half-empty beer that Steve handed him, briefly taking a swig before handing it back.
“Yeah, she really is just such a good little girl, aren’t you?” Steve found a seat on one of the nearby chairs.
“Mhm…” you barely caught sight of how both of them palmed themselves for an ounce of relief.
Sitting down as well, Bucky squinted cockily back at you as your hazy eyes briefly caught his, “what was that, sweetheart?”
“I’m a–,” you blubbered as Curtis’ cock stretched you so wide that you even felt it press against the sweet spots in your throbbing pussy, “I’m a g-good girl–”
“Yes, you are, baby, that’s right,” Curtis chuckled warmly behind you before offering your ass a swift slap, “the fucking best.”
“Oh, oh! She’s so close to cumming, I can see it!” Bucky exclaimed in an almost mocking tone as your eyes began to roll, “just look at that face,” he nearly jumped to get closer, “so fucking pretty.”
“Come on, Y/n,” Steve leaned back in his seat and squeezed his hard-on as he stared at your fucked out form, “give us a good show. Make it good for the birthday boy.”
Although, unfortunately, you were already too far gone by then to take any of their lewd comments into account as you tumbled over the edge, floating in the sea of your cheering roommates as a soundtrack.
After your friend had emptied himself into your haven, he simply slid your panties back into place so that his cum could leak out of you for the rest of the party and ruin your sheer underwear completely, perhaps even give up entirely and run down your shaky legs for all to see.
Bending down to smother you back to life with kisses, you also felt Curtis’ arms tangle around you as he hugged you and slowly lifted you off of the table.
“You wanna go down and dance?” his low timbre tickled the shell of your ear.
“Just give me a second,” you breathed through your hazy smile as you fought to blink your eyes back open, “my legs will first have to start working again. Maybe you could take over the music for a second and queue up something slow,” you light-heartedly suggested with an airy chuckle.
“Don’t you worry, baby,” Bucky smirked from across the table, “we’ll help keep you upright.”
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you've got a no good boyfreind. lucky bucky's here, to show you what you deserve✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, enemies to lovers, emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, cheating (not by bucky, it's deserved) fluff, big porn level smut (stripping, finger sucking, dirty talk, possessive sex, praise kink, teasing, fingering, light brat taming, softdom!bucky, pussy spanking, dumbification, making out, sensitive reader, manhandling, bucky gets nasty, blowjobs, body worship, oral f!reciving overstimulation, mean!bucky, degradation kink, big dick bucky, creampie, he fucks like a machine), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 8.6k✦
✦Author's Note: request! oh to be yearned after by bucky barnes in a kinda toxic but really hot way✦
“What the fuck is his problem?”
You don’t have to look, to figure out who your boyfriend is talking about. You can feel his glare from across the room, burning over your skin like a brand, making your leg bounce and your fingers pick restlessly at the label on your drink.
Bucky Barnes.
He always stares at you. It doesn’t matter if you’re hanging out at Steve’s place—technically Bucky’s place as well, but you refuse to give him any sort of credit about that—or getting coffee, or at the movies, or here, in another bar on a Friday night, trying to wash the week down with a drink, Bucky stares at you like he’s trying to kill you. It’s the kind of stare you’d find creepy from anyone else. A knit brow and heavy breathing, like just the sight of you makes him want to rip his head off. You glare back when you can, but tonight, you’re determined to ignore it. Ignore him.
Bucky can be as pretty and charming as he wants, he’s not getting a rise out of you. Not one that he can see, at least. When you got to the bar, he drawled your name and teased you about your drink, but you just grabbed your boyfriend’s hand and dragged him across the room without a look over your shoulder.
Maybe one look.
One look that Brock didn’t have to see, because he’s always accusing you and Bucky of having something. You’ve tried to explain to him that whatever something he thinks exists between you and Barnes is just the negative space of pure fucking loathing, but he doesn’t listen. He never listens.
“Barnes wants to fuck you,” he’d muttered last week, after you got home, and you’d rolled your eyes.
“Bucky does not want to fuck me, he can barely stand to be in the same room as me-“
“Because he wants to fuck you,” Brock has snapped. “I don’t want you hanging around him alone.”
You’d scoffed. “That’s- We’re friends-“
“Thought he hated you-“
“He does. But- It’s complicated.”
And it was. Bucky was Steve’s best friend, and Steve was your work husband, and Natasha was your best friend, and Steve’s actual girlfriend, and Bucky’s work wife, and Sam was Bucky’s other best friend and work husband, and your best friend—you’d even lived together, in college, which Brock never seemed to understand the concept of—and Steve’s business partner, which made him your boss, but you Nat’s and Bucky’s boss, and it was a tangled mess of relationships and years of history that became impossible to unweave. You and Bucky were friends because if you weren’t, you were enemies, and that always hurt right under your ribs in a way you never wanted to acknowledge.
Bucky wasn’t a bad guy. He was a stubborn ass sometimes, and he stared a lot, and got kind of judgey about stupid things, but so did you. The first time you met, you’d just stared at each other for—according to Natasha—five straight minutes. Once you’d been at some stupid charity gala, and you’d spent the whole time gossiping in the corner about the old, rich assholes who needed a party to give their endless money to a good cause. You’d thought that you were friends. Really friends. Friends that could’ve been something more, if he’d asked you to be.
But he hadn’t. He never had. And you’d started to butt heads more, and he didn’t ask if you were good like he used to. He avoided you at the stupid parties and didn’t ask your opinion about small things. He didn’t wait for you to go to lunch, or sit with you when you had to stay late, and suddenly the friendship had slipped through your fingers, because it had been so fast you hadn’t been given time to realize you were supposed to hold on.
Some days you wonder what you did, and you want to strangle the answer out of his pretty, thick head. You thought you’d been good. You’d really thought you’d been good, and then he’d just gone and decided that you weren’t. That there was something about you he just couldn’t stand, and you never get to know what it was.
So if he wanted to play the hating game, you’d play it, and you’d win. You ignored him almost every day, only sneering back when you had a comment that you knew would land like a headshot.
“You look comfortable,” he’d muttered last week at Nat’s, and you’d shot him a glare.
Bucky’s mouth had twitched, as you’d just stared at him. He always seemed to enjoy making you want to kill him. You hope he also enjoyed it, when you actually killed him.
“No boyfriend tonight, huh?” He’d smirked, and you swallowed on your venom. “What, he off fucking strippers again?”
Your lip had curled. You’d just kept glaring, and Bucky had laughed.
“Don’t give me that look, doll. It’s not your fault you can’t keep him satisfied-“
“I keep him satisfied,” you’d snapped, your patience finally fraying.
And Bucky had given you a strange, tired look. It was sharp around the edges, but dull everywhere else. Almost cold. Almost exhausted.
“I bet you do,” he’d muttered, and you’d snapped.
“At least I have someone to satisfy, Barnes,” you’d hissed. “No one can even put up with you for a one night stand.”
Bucky had flinched, and the knot in your gut had been immediate. You told yourself you liked the second his armor shattered slightly. You liked the win. You told yourself over and over, that it was fine, because he struck first.
But your body hadn’t learned the lesson. And it felt wrong to be in your skin, whenever Bucky made that broken, vulnerable face. Like he’d almost forgotten how cruel you could be. Like he’d cared at all, that you’d struck back.
He didn’t. You reminded yourself that he didn’t. It was complicated, because it needed to be, for the sake of explaining to Brock. But to you, it was really, painfully simple.
You’d been in a small, blooming love with Bucky. He’d recoiled and poured hatred on you like pesticide, and your loved had curled and shriveled, but never fully died. You think there might be something wrong with you, that you can harbor feelings for a man who brings you nothing but storms. You gave up on trying to understand it a long time ago. Maybe, one day, you’ll tell your therapist. You’re really hoping the love just dies first. It’s humiliating enough to feel it, let alone say it aloud.
Brock demanded he come with you tonight. To keep an eye on Barnes. You didn’t fight him, because fights with Brock aren’t something you win. He was a relationship you started before Bucky, that had been on and off and on and off for years. In the sacred months where Bucky had liked you, Brock had been off on some work trip in Germany. He’d gotten back right when Bucky had decided to hate you, and you’d been a raw, vulnerable creature, just crawling on the beach for a new shell to call home. Brock had been there. He’d been a tight fight, and the love you’d felt for him had soured from the joy of Bucky, but you’d just needed something. And Brock had been asking you to be exclusive for years. So you’d finally just… given in.
It’s not a dream relationship. Sometimes you worry you’re going to marry him and have his babies, and he’d make such ugly babies. You don’t want them. You don’t really see another way.
You wouldn’t mind having Bucky’s babies. That’s not a very productive thought to have.
“He always stare this much?” Brock asks, and you shrug.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“Yeah?” Brock snaps. “Or maybe. Can’t be both, sweetheart.”
“Yeah and maybe,” you mutter. “I don’t know.”
“Either he stares or he doesn’t-“
“He stares, I just don’t know what’s this much-“
“Then you should start paying fucking attention.”
You sigh, and give Brock a tight smile. His lip curls, and his eyes narrow, and you fight the urge to flinch away.
Bucky hates you. Your boyfriend doesn’t seem to like you all that much either. He won’t let Nat sit with you, and he certainly won’t let Sam sit with you, so now you’re just fucking here. At the crowded bar, all but alone, even with half a dozen worried or hateful eyes on you. You only give yourself eyes for your drink.
At least you have your drink.
You’re smiling. Laughing. Lighting up the whole bar from your little corner, and Bucky’s stuck over here in the dark.
He wants to drink until he can’t anything but your face and a whole blur of colors, but he got stuck being one of the drivers. He wants to go over and sock your stupid boyfriend in the face, but that would lead to a bigger conversation he knows you don’t want to have. This is a grave he dug for himself, but it didn’t even work right. He was supposed to bury himself alive and forget about you, high above him, brighter than the sun and prettier than the sky.
Instead he’s just lying in the dirt, six feet down, only able to watch you orbit around him like an angel. It’s hell. It’s torture. It’s exactly what he fucking deserves.
“You’re sulking again,” Steve says casually, and Bucky grunts.
“So?”
“It’s bringing everyone down, Buck-“
“They’re fine.”
Steve sighs. He does that a lot, when it comes to you and Bucky. He sighed when Bucky told him that he’d fallen in love with you. He sighed when Bucky decided you deserved better and started to push you away. He sighed when Bucky would lock himself on the fire escape for hours after parties, smoking and staring out at the city skyline until the wind was threatening to bite his skin off, and he had to be dragged inside.
Bucky knows Steve thinks he’s an idiot. Hell, most days Bucky thinks he’s an idiot. There isn’t a moment that passes where he doesn’t want to go back and suck up the fear, take the gamble, and just tell you he’d fallen for you. Hard enough to break the sound barrier, hard enough to snap him in half before he even hit the bottom, hard enough that he was never going to be able to climb his way back up. But he’s a veteran with a missing arm and a pile of baggage he can’t even shoulder some days. You’d looked at him like he was something good. You’d looked at him like you thought it could’ve been easy, to fall right back.
And Bucky couldn’t have that.
The only thing worse than never having you would’ve been having you, and breaking you. Letting you down. Letting you love him, then letting you realize how wrong you were, to bother to try. So he’d pushed you away.
Steve said that didn’t give him the right to sulk about it all the time. Steve was probably right, but Bucky sulked anyway. It was all he had, now.
That, and hating your stupid fucking boyfriend.
Brock. Dumb name. Sounded like rock. Bucky had a better name. He’d even let you call him James, like you used to. You’re the only person that ever made Bucky sound like an insult instead of a marker of affection. He wants to go back to being James, just for you. But he can’t. Because of Brock.
“What does she even see in him,” he mutters, and Steve sighs. Again.
“I don’t know, but-“
“He’s not that good looking,” Bucky narrows his eyes at Brock. Leaning over the table. Grabbing your arm. Bucky should be the one touching you. “His dick is probably small.”
“I- Uh- Yeah, sure-“
“She deserves better-“
“Better like you?”
That makes Bucky’s head snap to the side. Steve doesn’t even blink, his brows raised in almost mocking gentleness. It pisses Bucky off sometimes, how he’s not allowed to be pissed at Steve.
“You know she’s with him because he asked her, right?” Steve says, and Bucky scowls.
“That’s not- I- He doesn’t treat her right-“
“And you do?”
Bucky tastes bile. Steve still doesn’t back down, just giving Bucky that sympathetic puppy look, and Bucky wonders if he digs himself another foot down, Steve will do him a favor and bury him alive.
“You could just- Talk to her,” Steve murmurs, and Bucky snorts.
“She doesn’t care what I gotta say, Stevie-“
“Because you made her think you don’t care at all.”
“I don’t care,” Bucky snaps, louder than he means to, and Steve gives him an unimpressed look. Bucky scowls and turns back to his drink. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say a thing-“
“You’re thinkin’. I can hear it.”
Steve sighs. Bucky’s going to shove a fist into his mouth, to get him to stop. “I’m just saying, Buck,” Steve murmurs. “Nat thought she was finally going to get over Brock. Before you decided to be an ass to her all the time.”
Bucky scoffs, then pauses. He didn’t actually understand what that meant. It sounded like it meant something important, something he was really supposed to understand, but for the life of him, he can’t work out why. He turns back to Steve with a frown, ready to ask what the hell that meant, but the words are drowned in aloud smash from across the bar.
Bucky’s attention snaps to the side in a second, his body realizing what’s happening before his brain. He’s on his feet when Brock shouts at you, and walking when you shove Brock. He almost breaks into a sprint, when he sees Brock’s hand curl into a fist. It only gets slammed on the table, but Bucky’s heart still threatens to burst through his throat. The bar is crowded. Too crowded. It’s taking him too long to get to you, and Brock shouts something, and you scream something back, and some lady tries to grab Bucky to flirt, but he shoulders her off.
He almost loses you in the chaos. A door slams, and he’s not sure if it’s you or Brock. He looks around for Nat—wherever you went, she’ll be there too—but can’t find her. He stumbles to the table, and his mouth goes dry.
You’re not hurt, but you’re crying. You’re crouching against the wall, Nat petting your head and trying to calm you down. Brock is nowhere to be found. Smart move, Bucky thinks. He was seconds from getting his face knocked in.
“What the hell happened?” He grunts to Nat, kneeling in front of you.
She shakes her head, lips in a thin line. “I’m not sure. They started fighting, Brock smashed a glass, then just- Fucked off, I guess.”
“What’d they fight about-“
“She won’t tell me,” Nat sighs, and you glare at her under gorgeous, wet lashes.
“I’m right here,” you snap, and Nat gives you an apologetic smile.
“I know, but- You won’t tell me.”
You sniff, glancing over to Bucky, then down to the floor. “I don’t want to talk about it,” you mutter, and Nat murmurs your name.
“Was it-“
“Yeah.”
Nat scowls, and Bucky feels like he’s being left out of something.
“Nat, I-“ You grab her wrist, voice small and pleading. “I just want to go home.”
Natasha’s throat bobs, but she nods. Bucky frowns. Nat’s been drinking. Everyone’s been drinking except you and him, and he doesn’t think you should be driving when you can’t even get off the floor.
“I’ll take her,” he mutters, and you shoot him a poisoned glare.
“No.”
“Listen, kid, I’m offering to help-“
“I don’t want your help,” you sneer, and Bucky sighs. He deserves that. He knows he does. Doesn’t make it any easier or sweeter to swallow.
Natasha mutters your name, watching Bucky from the corner of her eye. “It’s either him, or an uber-“
“Uber,” you say immediately, and Nat gives you a flat look.
“That wasn’t a real option. You’re going with Bucky.”
You pout, inching away from him, and Bucky’s face burns. He stares at his hands, trying to pretend he can’t hear your whispers. Trying to pretend they don’t cut into a sensitive, raw, needy part of his heart that no amount of self-inflicted burns has ever been able to steel.
“I don’t want to go with Bucky,” you hiss at Nat, and Nat just shrugs.
“I don’t want you to be alone right now-“
“Then you get in the Uber with me.” Your voice is small. Almost pleading. It breaks Bucky’s heart.
Nat shakes her head, voice gentle, as if you’re a wounded animal. “Bucky will drop you at my place, alright? I just have to take care of something first.”
Your nose wrinkles, but you agree. Bucky doesn’t think you’re happy about it. He can almost feel the disdain emitting from your body like radiation, as Nat helps you to Bucky’s car. He decides not to tell you that Nat’s thing is probably hunting down Brock and killing him. Bucky would join her, if he didn’t have to deal with you. He doesn’t think there’s anything more noble. His worry is devotion. It’s a shame you’re blinder than a real god, to see it.
The drive is dead quiet. Bucky glances at the radio every few minutes, but loses the debate with him over and over to turn it on. He doesn’t want you to hate his taste in music.
You curl up against the window, as far away from him as you can get without jumping onto the freeway. Bucky drums his fingers on the wheel to fill the silence. Your breathing has steadied from short, shallow gasps, but he can still hear you sniffle every few seconds. It makes his vision line with red, and he knows he’s the worst kind of hypocrite, but knowing never helped anyone. He doesn’t understand, how Brock could treat you so horribly. He doesn’t understand how you—beautiful, smart, sweet but unwavering and sharp—could tolerate it.
Bucky parks the car outside of Nat’s. You don’t move, and he wishes he could build the anger to make you. But you smell like vanilla and something summery, and you look like an angel in the streetlights, and all he can feel is bubbling red and green. It spills out of his mouth like vomit, before he can garner the will and kindness to shove it down.
“What do you see in him,” Bucky mutters, and you look over with a frown.
You stare at him. Bucky stares back. He loves it when you do that. It’s a little off-putting, but he thinks he can tell you the truth with his eyes. He’s not sure, though, if you ever see it.
“He’s good to me,” you mutter finally, and Bucky snorts. “He is, don’t- Don’t fucking make that face-“
“I’m not makin’ a face-“
“You are,” you point at him, eyes narrowed, voice cold. “He is good to me, Bucky.”
Bucky raises his brows. It only seems to work you up more.
“Fuck you,” you spit. “Brock loves me, he- He’s- You just don’t see the side of him that I do-“
“I don’t think he’s got enough sides to hide anything, doll,” Bucky drawls, and you scowl.
“You’re just jealous.”
Bucky recoils, fingers tightening on the wheel. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he grunts, and you roll your eyes.
“Fuck off, it’s so obvious-“
Bucky mutters your name in warning, but you just keep going.
“You’re jealous that someone like me could have a partner that loves them, when you’re alone. But guess what, Bucky,” you lean forward, words spitting over Bucky’s slack face. “You’re going to die alone, and I’m not, so fuck you.”
You push the door open, and storm out onto the street. Bucky’s frozen in the drivers seat for a second, a faint ringing in his ears. You’re right. You’re right, and it’s his fault. Not about Brock—that piece of shit isn’t capable of love, even for someone as perfect as you—but- But-
He’s moving before he can think about why. Shoving his way out of the car and shouting your name, chasing you up the sidewalk like a madman. You ignore him. Of course you do. It’s what he’s fucking earned.
“Just- Wait-“ He catches your wrist. You yank it away.
“Leave me alone, Bucky-“
“No, I got somethin’ I wanna say-“
“Well I don’t want to hear it-“
“I know, I know, just-“
“No!” You scream, round on him with a pointed finger, and Bucky feels something split right down his chest at the tears in your eyes. “No, I don’t want to fucking- I- You don’t get to tell me anything about- About anything. This is your fault, your-“
You cut yourself off, and Bucky blinks, leaning back. “My fault?” He laughs in disbelief, when you nod, not meeting his eyes. “How the hell is it my fault?”
You wrap your arms over your stomach, gaze fixed firmly on your shoes. “Brock thinks you want to fuck me,” you mumble, and Bucky’s heart falters in his chest. “That’s what the- The stupid fight way about, alright? And he thinks I shouldn’t be around you anymore, because of it.”
Bucky gapes at you. He’s trying to think of a way to ask that isn’t selfish. He can’t come up with it. “But you’re not going to listen to him, right?”
You shrug. “It’s not like you like being around me,” you mumble, and Bucky’s hands fists.
“That’s not the fuckin’ point, doll-“
“Isn’t it?” You give him a tired look. “Don’t you want me to just- Just go away? Aren’t you fucking happy, that you’re never going to have to deal with me again?”
Bucky’s throat his too tight to speak. This is a walking nightmare, but he can’t seem to wake up. You’re right. This is the part he’s supposed to want, where you bury him and he never has to see you’re beauty and wonder what if. But he’s selfish. He’s too fucking selfish, and he doesn’t want the sun to go away. He can’t lose you. Not like this, not when you seem to have halfway lost yourself.
You give him a prompting glare, tipping up your chin when he’s been silent too long. He swallows. His fingers flex, and he works his jaw until he can speak.
“Don’t,” he rasps, watching you under hooded eyes. “Don’t go away.”
You laugh, but it doesn’t sound read. “Don’t do that, Bucky, don’t act like you care-“
“I do care-“
“No.” You point at him, face tight. “No, you don’t- You don’t-“
Bucky catches your hand, and you immediately go quiet. He takes a small step forward. You don’t take a step back.
“I care,” he croaks, squeezing your hand once. “I care, doll. I- I’ve always cared, I-“
He moves to his knees. You stare down at him, like you’re not sure what you’re supposed to do. Bucky doesn’t need you to do anything. He only prays at the only alter he knows—your feet—that you’ll listen.
“I love you,” he whispers, and your mouth falls open.
“Bucky…”
“I know I’ve been a dick,” he rasps. “I know, and I- I don’t expect you to forgive me, or say anything back. If you wanna slap me, I’ll let you. I’ll let you do anything, doll, just- Please don’t listen to him.” Bucky swallows, daring to wrap a hand around the back of your thighs, silently begging you to stay. “If he’s told you no one else is gonna love you, he’s dead wrong. If you’re letting him tell you what to do ‘cause you think it’s the only way to make him stay, let him fucking leave. You deserve better. You’ve always deserved better. Than-“ His words catch, painful in his throat. “Than me. But also than him. You deserve better.”
He digs his fingers into your soft skin, and you swallow, blinking down at him with soft, glossy eyes.
“I love you,” Bucky echoes like a prayer. “I swear I love you, doll. And I really don’t expect nothing, but- Please.”
You straighten up, and Bucky tries not to flinch when you cup his cheek. Your hand is so warm, so soft. He doesn’t deserve the touch.
“Bucky,” you murmur. “Stand up.”
He blinks at you, then scrambles to his feet. Your mouth twitches. He thinks that’s a good sign.
You stand barely an inch apart, staring into each others eyes. Bucky lets every bit of himself crumble away, until the only thing left for you to see is his love. You let out a sharp breath, and glance to his parted lips.
“You mean it?” You whisper, and he nods in a heartbeat.
“With everything I got.”
You laugh, soft and nervous, and meet his gaze again. “But- You were such an asshole- I thought you hated me.”
“Never,” he whispers. “I- I mean- I was an asshole, but I never hated you doll, ever. I just- I kinda loved you too much, and I’m an idiot-“
Bucky’s voice dies easily, when you push up and press a small kiss to his lips. His hands twitch to catch you, but he holds them back. Not daring to move. Not daring to let this fall apart. Your lips are so soft, and you taste like that sugary drink you’d been nursing, and he thinks he might have just taken a hit of a drug he’s never going to kick.
He’s panting, when you pull away. You smile at him, shy and gorgeous, brows raised in challenge, and he laughs like a ruined man. He dives back down, grabbing your face between his hands and kissing you hard. Kissing you the way he dreamed, your lips molding together and body arching up to his touch, your tongue darting over his lip before he squeezes your jaw, and you open for him with a moan. He chuckles and spits into your mouth, wrapping an arm around your waist. You scratch his neck and press back with twice the force, dragging a low groan from his chest.
Bucky yanks himself back, and you stare at each other, flushed and panting. You find it in you to speak first. Bucky’s not surprised.
“You love me?” You demand, and he nods.
“All the time.”
You nod, and he thinks he’s got the kind of luck they talk about in kings.
“Good,” you mutter, straightening the collar of his shirt before fixing him with that enchanting, dangerous stare. “Prove it.”
Bucky smiles, and presses a harsh but loving kiss to your lips. You really have no fucking idea.
Proving it is going to be the easy part.
You’ve had dreams about this. So many dreams that living through it takes a lot of convincing, for you to believe it’s reality. You think, through the power of Bucky’s hands and lips, you’re going to get there.
You kissed and stumbled into Nat’s house with your hands roaming and feet tripping over everything but each other. Bucky had ripped your shirt over your head and kicked the door behind him, letting his searing mouth wander over your jaw, your cheeks, your nose and back to your lips. You’d pulled the buckle of his jeans while he made quick work of your bra, using the straps to pull you right back against his chest before tossing it the same way as your shirt.
“Look at you,” he’d muttered, palming your breast with an air of awe to his every word. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.”
You’d flushed and kissed him before he could say any more nice things. They were already making your heart soft and prone to forgiveness. The kind you were trying to make him earn, even if he was probably about to get it for free.
Bucky slid his hand around the back of your neck and kissed you like it was a movie. You’d melted into him, clinging to the hooks of his jeans and letting him angle your face further back. You’d tugged him closer and he’d grunted, wrapping his full bicep around your neck and sliding his hand on your breast down your side. He’d cupped your ass and squeezed it before dipping his fingers under your waistband, pulling it back and forth as he dragged his tongue over your lower lip.
“Wanna take care of you,” he’d muttered, like he was speaking to himself. “You gonna let me take care of you?
“Ye- Yeah,” you breathe, nails digging into his wrist. You’re trying to stay steady. You’re not sure it’s working, with how the room is spinning and your skin is getting heated. “Yes, please.”
Bucky chuckles, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. Your mouth falls open with a tiny gasp, and his brows furrow tight. He slides the pad of his finger between your lips, and you flick your tongue against it. Your eyes droop, and your head tips back as you start to suck on him. Bucky groans, his fingers digging into your hips.
“Jesus,” he rasps. “Always knew you’d be the death of me, doll.”
You coo, and Bucky’s nostrils flare. His hand drifts further down your back, hooking on your bottoms and pulling them with him. You make another soft, humming sound, smiling at him around his thumb, and his throat bobs.
“That’s it,” he rasps. “Just like that, nice and easy.”
Your bottoms fall to the floor, leaving you in only your panties. Bucky glances down, his tongue darting over his lips, and then looks right back to you. He pulls his thumb away, cups the back of your head, and pulls your face back for him to kiss. You moan against his mouth and he groans, pressing over you until there’s no space for anything else left. It’s all just Bucky, everywhere around you and so warm you start to get dizzy. You almost don’t know what to do with yourself, yanking at his shirt and trying to meet every kiss, but it’s hard. Bucky’s demanding, and you’ve wanted this for too long. Just his hands on your bare skin are better than anyone else being inside of you. It’s really unfair.
Bucky cups your pussy when your back hits the wall, and you mewl. He leans back to watch your hips roll against his hand, his eyes going fully dark and a low, rumbling grunt falling from his lips.
“Fuck, baby,” he rubs his hand back and forth, a sweet, lewd sound filling the room. “This wet, just for me?”
You nod a little shamefully, watching him under fluttering lashes. He pulls on the fabric of your panties and snaps it against your cunt, making you buck up with a squeak. Bucky chuckles and rubs over the hurt, leaning down until your lips are brushing together.
“You want me to play nice?” He whispers. “Or fuck you like I’ve been dreamin’ about.”
You blink at him, mouth hanging open and face burning. It’s hard to think, with the drag of his rough, gentle hand against your cunt. For a little while you just stare at him helplessly, and Bucky takes a small mercy, snapping your panties back against your pussy, shocking your heartbeat enough to make you think.
Like he’s been dreaming. You’ve been dreaming too. Holding fantasies about Bucky giving it to you just how you want, walking that thin line you never trusted Brock to balance on. But you trust Bucky. Your Bucky, before the whole mess. The Bucky you can see so clearly now, features shining with affection as he watches you already start to come apart.
“That,” you say, small but certain. “Do- Do it like that.”
Bucky pauses. “Like-“
“How you want,” you whisper, and he goes still.
Bucky scans over your face for an ounce of hesitation. You don’t have any, so you hold his gaze.
He lets out a rough, broken breath. “You sure-“
You press up and kiss him hard. He gets the idea.
Bucky rips your panties off like they’re made of paper, drops one arm under your thighs, and picks you up with barely a grunt. You squeal and try to push away on instinct, but he’s strong. Stronger than you thought, and you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time ogling his muscles. He slams his mouth over yours for a brief, hungry kiss, spits down your throat, and tosses you right over his shoulder.
“Bucky-“
“Shh,” he slaps your ass and you squeak again, dropping your face right into his shoulder. He squeezes over the pleasurable sting then starts to walk, keeping you steady over him.
“Where- Where are we going?” You try to push up to see over his shoulder. Bucky lands another spank on your ass, and you fall right back down with a whine. “James- Shit-“
He’s dragging his fingers over your sopping wet cunt, smearing the mess everywhere he can, humming while he walks. Your thighs clench, but that only seems to give him easier access, and you whine.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“Ah,” Bucky slaps your pussy, and you muffle your moan against his body. “That’s not what I want to hear, doll.”
You swallow and shake your head, bunching his shirt between your trembling fingers. Bucky spanks your pussy again and it clenches around nothing. His thumb drifts, teasing over your clit in tiny brushes, back and forth and back and forth. You whimper, but he just hums, dragging two fingers through the mess between your thighs, before returning to your swollen little button.
“Come on,” he coos, encouraging and mocking all at once. “Use your words for me.”
You can’t. You muffle another moan in Bucky’s shoulder, writhing best you can in his iron grip. Bucky hums like this is casual, like he’s not already taking you apart with the lightest of touches. A door creaks open, and you barely have time to recognize the carpet of Nat’s guest room before you’re being tossed down onto the bed.
You bounce slightly, and Bucky catches your ankles, dragging you right to the edge of the mattress. You stare at him, mouth hanging open, completely unsure what to do with yourself. His lips twitch and he lowers down, pressing a gently, loving kiss to your lips. You arch up and he rubs your thighs, easing you down into his touch. You slump forward, running your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low, satisfied sound from the back of his throat.
Bucky traces his hand a little higher up your thigh, and you try not to buck into his touch. It’s not very successful, and he smiles against your lips, pinching your upper thigh. You whimper and turn your head, trying to save useless face. Bucky chuckles, sucking a small mark under your throat, then flicking his tongue against the sensitive skin.
“James…” You moan, and he goes still. You turn nervously, worried you somehow, already, ruined it. “Bucky?”
His throat bobs. He grabs your chins between two fingers, eyes boring through you, like he can see all your hazy, love-colored thoughts.
“Buck-“
“James,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lip. “Keep callin’ me James, doll.”
You nod, a faint flush burning your cheeks. It’s not even from the way he’s touching you. Not right now. James isn’t a name Bucky lets anyone use. You used to, but then he started pushing you, and you didn’t want to lose that last sacred closeness, of being allowed to use his nickname. But if James is what he wants. He’ll get it. You’ll give him almost anything, right now.
“James,” you breathe, and Bucky’s throat bobs. He leans down for another, slower kiss. You close your eyes and let him control the depth, the unmeasured but drizzle passion like honey. When he pulls away you’re breathless, and he’s on his knees.
Naked and on his knees.
You make a tiny sound, gaping shamelessly at his cock. It’s thick and heavy looking, leaking with pre-cum and probably more than you can take. But you want to try. You want to drool around it in every possible way, looking up and Bucky and getting that faint, affectionate smile.
“You seein’ something you like?” Bucky teases, and you give him a hopeless, embarrassed look. He chuckles and grabs himself, stroking slowly and holding your gaze. “You want it bad, huh,” he mutters, smearing some drool over your cheek. “He ain’t been fuckin’ your right, either. Left you so needy for so long, you get all quiet just seeing a real cock?”
Your face is on fire, but your core is throbbing and aching. You drop your brow against Bucky’s, fixated on his fist, pumping that massive dick.
“Spit on it,” Bucky grunts, and you obey thoughtless, letting some of your need fall from your lips to Bucky’s shining cock. He groans and smashes his lips over yours, his hand pumping faster until he’s groaning your name against your lips.
Then he pulls back, lets go of himself, and just stares at your slack, desperate expression. You swallow, and his lips curve into a faint, starved smile.
“You need to be treated like a whore, huh,” he mutters. “Fucked like a toy ‘till you remember how nice it is, to have my attention.”
Oh, God. Your thighs try to press together. Bucky shoves them apart, using his thumb to part your puffy, swollen pussy lips.
“Pretty little thing,” he mutters, pressing over your clit before dragging his thumb back down. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll fuck you right. Gonna open you up,” he presses his thumb hard against your entrance, smirking at your tiny sound. “Then give you exactly what you need. That sound good?”
“Ye- Yeah,” you manage to babble, remembering his thing about words. “Yes, please.”
Bucky smiles, and presses a quick kiss to your lips. “Good girl.”
You whine, and Bucky doesn’t waste time. He sinks fully down, kissing over your tummy as he shoves your legs fully apart. You watch him, breathing ragged, and weave your fingers through his hair for balance. He kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other. Nips at the sensitive skin, then flicks his tongue over the hurt before kissing it again. He takes his time, kissing all around your cunt, but never letting his mouth go where you really fucking need.
“James,” you whine, tugging on his hair. “Don’t- Don’t tease.”
He chuckles, his lips brushing right against your clit. You squirm, but he holds your thighs down and gives you a stern look.
“I’ll tease you all I fuckin’ want, babydoll,” he mutters, giving the quickest, lightest kiss to your clit. “You’re too pretty and reactive not to play with.”
You whimper, unable to come up with a response that isn’t a fuck you. As fun as it would be to push his buttons and find out just what punishment under Bucky’s attention is—being dragged over his lap, forced to sit on his cock until you’re drooling, brought right up to the edge over and over but never being allowed to fall—you’re too desperate right now. You might cum just from looking at him, it’s been so long, and he seems to know it.
“Needy pussy,” he mutters, tracing his thumb in circles around your clit. “Gonna take real good care of you, pretty girl.”
You mewl because god help you, you really believe him. Bucky pulls back the hood of your clit, blows on it in a way that makes your whole body seize up, then presses a long, slow kiss to the bundle of nerves.
“Fuck- James- James-“
“I know,” he coos, tongue flicking against your pulsing cunt. “Such a greedy fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for me.” He kisses your clit again, making out with it until you’re panting and struggling to sit up. “Lucky I’m feelin’ generous,” he mutters, and whatever restraint he’d been pretending to have was gone.
Bucky shoves his face into your pussy, his beard scraping your thighs and his tongue licking a long, rough stripe up your core until it hits your clit, swirls, and dives back down. Plunging in and out of your dripping hole before repeating the lick, playing with your clit more and more every time. Thick hands keep your legs spread when you start to get restless, but he lets you buck freely up into his mouth. He seems to enjoy it, how you pull on his hair and cry his name. If anything, his mouth just works harder against you, tongue flicking against your clit in rapid, tiny strokes that send you into a frenzy.
You fall back with a sob, grinding up and craning your neck to try and keep watching him. It’s a beautiful sight, Bucky drowning himself between your thighs. He winks at you, pressing his tongue flat over your entrance, and you fall back with a moan. You’re getting there fast. It would be embarrassing, with anyone but Bucky. He just kisses your thigh and bumps his nose against your clit, muttering you’re close against your skin before diving right back in.
“Bu- Bucky-“ You grab at the sheets, your pussy throbbing like a ticking bomb before an explosion. “Bucky- I- I’m gonna-“
His teeth graze your clit, and he wraps his lips tight around the nub, sucking on it hard. You scream as your vision goes white, your hips flying off the bed, but Bucky doesn’t stop. He lets wraps his arms around each thigh, shoves your legs close around his head, and keeps sucking on your clit, it starts to get all tingly and numb in the best way. It’s almost like he’s tickling it with his tongue, the pressure of his mouth perfect and unbearable, your eyes rolling back in your head as you writhe.
“Oh- Oh my god-“ You sob, pushing at his head. “Bucky- I- I can’t, please-“
He kisses your clit a little more gently, spanks your pussy, and gives you a stern look. “Yes, you can.”
It doesn’t seem to be something that’s up for argument.
Bucky keeps you pinned to his face, sucking and sucking and sucking, no real care for what else you do. You cry and pull at the sheets, trying and climb away with no avail, and end up rolling onto your stomach, your face pressed into the sheets. Bucky still stays locked against your pussy, the feeling only intensifying when he’s beneath you. You’re all but sitting on his face, grinding you cunt down onto his jaw, sobbing into the sheets as your body becomes taut and wired and ready to snap.
A second orgasm rolls over you like a thunderstorm. Wet and loud and hot. You gush against Bucky’s face, tears starting to stream down your face from the overstimulation. You haven’t even had one proper orgasm in… longer than you want to admit. Brock never really gave you anything more than a shiver, and your patience in your own body was limited to a vibrator and ten minutes before a dull, anti-climatic orgasm that didn’t feel like much, but still made you too sensitive to keep going. Bucky just pulled two out of you, with his mouth alone.
He pulls back when you’re trembling, leaving a last, gentle kiss over your clit.
“Best fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever tasted,” he mutters, giving it one more spank before he starts to crawl over your body. “Coulda died there, doll, I swear.”
He laughs to himself, and you whimper against the sheets. Bucky pauses, caging you against the mattress with massive arms, and slowly rolls you over onto your back. You stare up at him, starry-eyed and spent, and his mouth twitches down.
“You alright?” He murmurs, brushing the hair from your face. You nod, and he doesn’t look convinced. “Are you-“
“Bucky,” you whisper, and his throat bobs. “If you don’t fuck me, I’m leaving.”
He laughs, throaty and dry, and ducks back down to give you another, slower kiss. One hand slides down your body, palming at your breast, rolling a nipple between his fingers between pinching gently. Bucky smiles, at the tiny whine it pulls out of you.
“Could spend forever here,” he mutters. “Givin’ every single part of you the attention it deserves. Sucking on these tits while you ride my thigh. Bending you over and opening up that cunt with just my hands, just playing with your ass until you’re drippin’ on my lap.” He groans, his cock twitching against your thigh. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, babydoll. You got no idea.”
You hum, the tears on your cheeks shiner than before. He means it. Whatever doubts you’d had before fade, because you’re sure. Bucky means it.
He settles himself fully between your legs, the more aggressive, dominant mask seeming to fracture, like light splitting through the clouds. Always there, even when he pretends. Coming out when you most need to see it.
“Gonna go right in,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Opened you up real good. Shouldn’t even hurt.”
You hum, pressing your face against his neck. Bucky rubs his cock against your cunt slowly, covering himself in your arousal before tapping his head against your clit—almost ceremoniously, like paying homage—and notching himself against your entrance.
The stretch isn’t as bad as you thought it would be. Bucky’s still big, so big you can feel it in your throat, so big you don’t think you’ve ever been this full, but he’d prepped you so well, it’s just a faint burn before it molds into pleasure. Bucky’s warm breath fans over the top of your neck as he watches your pussy mold around his cock. He moans something like your name against your skin, and you wrap your arms tight around his head.
“Feels so good,” you moan as he pushes further in. “So- So good.”
Bucky grunts, and you whimper as he bottoms out, balls pressed tight to your ass.
For a few moments, neither of you move. Bucky looks up at you with a wrecked expression you can feel in your chest, and you give him a faint, nervous smile.
“You know I love you too, right?” You say, because it’s the only thing you can think.
Bucky’s throat bobs. He doesn’t seem to have any words, and gives you a slow, romantic kiss. He rolls his hips experimentally, and you gasp against his lips. He’s curved in a way that presses right up against your g-spot, and it’s almost like a massage. You clench down, and Bucky grunts, but he repeats the motion anyway.
“James- Ooooh-“ Your eyes roll back, and Bucky sucks and kisses over your jaw, grinding his cock right against that soft, gooey spot. “Fuck- James-“
Bucky makes a deep, almost feral sound, and starts to move faster. Shallow, brutal thrusts that split you right open. You grab his bicep for dear life, and he watchers your every reaction with a sharp attention. You mewl when he does a swivel move, almost flying off the bed, and he pins you down with a hand splayed over your stomach.
“Feel that?” He grunts, pulling all the way out before slamming back in. “You fuckin’ feel that, babydoll? How good we feel together? Greedy little pussy, swallowin’ my cock up like the whore you are- Fuck-“
Bucky falls back over you, kissing you with spit and teeth and brutal force. You wrap your arms around your neck, moaning loud and shameless as he picks up his pace. Small, measured thrusts turn into the bed creaking, Bucky’s cock drilling into your pussy like he’s trying to knock every thought from your head. It’s working. You’re a drooling, wound up mess below him, and he grins against your lips.
“That’s my girl,” he mocks. “Smart head so fuckin’ empty, when I got you on my cock. No one else makes you feel like this, do they?”
You don’t answer—you can’t—and Bucky smacks your clit.
“Do they?”
You shake your head, babbling out a pathetic half-answer. “N- No-“
“Who fucks you right?” Bucky demands, words harsh but touch gentle when he grabs your jaw.
“You.” Tears start to fall down your cheeks again. “You, Bucky- Please-“
You moan as he hits that spot again, and Bucky groans, dropping down to kiss the tears away, then mold his lips back over yours.
“Damn right, me,” he grunts, skin slapping against skin, the wet, sinful sound of him bullying into your cunt almost drowning out the words. “My fuckin’ girl.”
Bucky leans up, and you almost cry for him before you realize what he’s doing. Bucky grabs your knees with one arm and presses them up to your chest, leaning down to kiss you as he fucks you deeper into the mattress. The angle is deeper like this. You can feel it everywhere, from your toes to your lips. You make a strangled, undignified sound when Bucky’s thumb returns to your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles.
“Cum with me, babydoll,” he grunts, kissing your calf and rutting into your drooling, pulsing cunt. “Come one, wanna fill you up, pump this pussy up ‘till everyone knows, just-“ He groans. “Gimme just one more.”
You don’t know where it comes from. You didn’t think you had it in you, but Bucky manages to pull it out. A third orgasm, slower and longer than the last too. Hotter, as well. Pooling in your gut before flooding out of your cunt. Down your thighs and over Bucky’s cock as you flutter and he doubles over with a roar.
You’re not sure what’s Bucky’s cum and what’s yours. There’s just wet stickiness, filling you up everywhere until your eyes are unfocused and your body is twitching. Bucky kisses you through the orgasms, fucking shallowly into your pussy like he can’t help himself. When you both ease down, you’re blinking at the ceiling with heavy eyes and a warm feeling blooming back into your chest. Free and light and easy, in a way you never expected yourself to have.
This is going to be a mess in the morning. Right now, you don’t really care.
“I guess Brock was right,” you muse. “You did want to sleep with me.”
Bucky sits up with a glare. “Don’t say that when I’m still inside of you.”
You giggle, reaching up to brush some hair from his brow. His gaze softens and he catches your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.
“Do you believe me?” He mutters, and it’s small and worried. As if, after that, you’d somehow ever let him get away again.
“Yeah,” you smile, and his shoulders slump in relief.
“Thank god-“
“But,” you squeeze his hand. “I think you should keep proving it.”
Bucky chuckles, giving you an amused look before dropping his face right back into your boobs. You beam at the ceiling and pet the top of his head, neither of you in a rush to clean up. You probably should. You really should. Bucky seems to realize why at the same moment you do.
“Nat’s gonna kill us,” he groans, and you snort.
“Yeah. You.”
Bucky props his chin on your chest. “You too-“
“No,” you shake your head. “I’m her favorite.”
“That’s-“ Bucky sighs, and drops his face back down. “Yeah.”
You laugh, and he grins against your boob.
“Worth it,” he mutters, and you smile like a fool.
Because yeah. It was.
✦End note: sometimes... cheating is okay!✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Summary: Cal reveals why he leaves so early in the mornings.
Companion piece to:
Tarot - Cal needs a little divine intervention in the aftermath of his diagnosis.
You wake up to the scent of coffee.
Freshly roasted grounds with tasting notes of apricot and dark chocolate truffle.
Ghost Town.
The brand that Cal keeps stashed in your cupboard because he’s a secret coffee snob and anything else simply won’t do.
You slip out from the sheets, your tarot cards still resting on the nightstand where you placed them last night after Cal’s reading. You think about them as you pull an old AC/DC Thunderstruck t-shirt and a pair of fresh panties from the dresser. What they revealed about Cal’s mental state, about his diagnosis. He’s been struggling for so long in silence, it’s time to make sure he knows he’s not alone, that he has you fighting in his corner despite the outcome.
The cards slide into your hand, an old friend and a comfort as you slip through the bedroom door, padding down the hallway. You pause in the arch of the kitchen, shoulder resting against the frame that still has your height notched into the wood from when you were a kid.
Cal’s back is to you, grey sweats riding low on his hips. The scars from the dozens of wars he’s fought are etched into his skin, carved into the plains of his back like a roadmap of his journey. You’ve memorised every single one of them over your nights together, your mouth tracing over them, your fingertips following the weaving paths.
“Surprised to find you still here this morning.” You say, shuffling the cards through your hands. “You’re usually already out the door before I wake up.”
There’s no malice behind your words, there never has been. You understand he rises with the sun, that he disappears as the light passes through the windows. He’s always claimed not to be a cowboy, that he leaves that to Kayce Dutton, but you’ve always known there’s more than a little Montana in his heart. The women before you have tried to tame him, but you let him run with wind. You let him be free.
“Yeah, I thought I might stop doing that.” He turns to face you, his dark hair sticking up at all angles from you gripping it when he went down on you again before the dawn. On the counter in front of him are two mugs with emblem for your nonprofit, Lilac Pines etched on them. A French press brewing beside them. “You know the leaving thing, that alright with you?”
You nod, the cards flipping through your hands like a blackjack dealer. He watches them, back and forth, back and forth, as you let the silence sit far better than any interrogator he’s ever met.
“My diagnosis, it’s made me realise what’s important and you know that I… I have trouble saying the things I feel, so I run and that’s what I do every morning with you…” His hand runs through his dark hair as he fumbles for the words. They roll off his tongue in that clumsy way of his you remember from way back then. He’d been so closed off when he first came to your nonprofit, so damaged. That’s what being in the military does to you, it forces you to shut down, to prioritise the mission. Opening up again, it’s like tearing open the stitches of a festering wound, it’s got to hurt in order to heal. “At night I can pretend that I deserve you, that I’m meant to be here with you but in the cold light of day…”
“You fall back into old patterns.” You summarise. He looks away, the line of his jaw tensing as he swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You think you aren’t worthy?”
“No one wants a broken soldier.” He repeats the line his ex-wife fed him when she left, the whole fucked up reason he ended up at Lilac Pines to begin. It’s the reason he has that the six-inch scar that runs all the way up his left arm because Kayce had been so scared he’d taken his gun.
“You aren’t broken.” You step towards him, your arms slipping through his, your fingers lacing at the base of his spine as you hold him close. Your lips brush over the bullet wound just over his heart, the one that almost ended his life back in the SEALs. “A little battle scared but you’re certainly not broken.”
“When you say it, I almost believe it.” He murmurs, his arms wrapping around you, clasping you to him like he never wants to let you go.
“You should believe it.” You tell him, tilting your head up to meet those woeful dark eyes of his. “Because trust me Pete, it’s true.”
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Pairing: Fem!Reader x Steve Rogers; Curtis Everett; Jake Jensen; Lloyd Hansen; Robert "Mr. Freezy" Pronge
Word Count: 4,415
Summary: Jake is the absolute sweetest, and he makes your confidence soar.
Warnings: AU. Explicit language. Explicit sexual content. Mercenary!babes. Reader is enjoying a sex rotation with the babes, so far. Fluff and silliness. Brief cum eating. Titty fucking. Unprotected sex. Being bathed by another.
A/N: I am embarrassed by how long it’s been since I updated this story 🫣 I was feeling really stuck on it for some reason, but here we go, some progress! And Jakey finally gets his day in the sun hehe.
Mercy Masterlist
You’d been lingering in the kitchen of the safe house because you knew it would be the best place to catch Steve once he returned from his morning run.
And once he finally did, his white t-shirt transparent with sweat and plastered to his torso, your brain actually glitched as you gaped at him, and you forgot why you were waiting around for him in the first place.
“Good morning,” Steve smiled at you, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he passed by to move toward the fridge and gather ingredients to make his morning protein shake.
“Mmm hmm,” you responded distractedly as you stared after Steve, your gaze dropping to the way his jogging pants clung to the firm curve of his ass.
“Better watch it, sweetheart," you could hear the smile in Steve’s voice as he shifted to work at the counter preparing his shake. “It’s Jensen’s night tonight, but you keep watching me like that, I’m gonna need to bend you over this counter and do something about it.”
“Sorry!” you squeaked, slapping your hands over your eyes to give your brain a moment to reboot. And your heart a moment to return to its normal rhythm.
“Don’t be, I’m not,” Steve teased, sending you a wink once you were done hiding and trying not to outright stare at him. “Were you waiting around for me?”
“Yes, actually,” your gaze turned shy now as you fiddled with your fingers, feeling Steve’s eyes on you as he patiently waited for you to broach whatever topic was on your mind. “You know how Jake set aside that money for me?”
“Yeah, you need to access it?”
You nodded, peeking over at Steve. “I’d really like to get some new clothes and essentials. With how quickly everything happened, and just, the craziness of that night, I didn’t do a very good job at packing, and there’s just stuff I need, and want.”
“Hey,” Steve moved across the kitchen, until he was looming over you. His hands felt so big and warm as they cupped your upper arms and gave you a gentle squeeze. “It’s your money, and you don’t need to justify using it. I’ll make sure Jensen sets you up so you have direct access to everything. "I'm sorry I didn’t think of that until now.”
“No, it’s okay! You all have been so generous.” You hesitated, biting your lower lip as your next ask teetered on the tip of your tongue.
“Go on,” Steve encouraged with a soft smile. “I like when you ask for what you want, when you put yourself first.”
Your belly fluttered before you asked, “Do you think maybe you could take me into town to go shopping for everything I need?”
“Of course. We’ll go today–”
“Well, we don’t have to! I’m sure you’re very busy and–” your words turned into a startled squeak as Steve pressed close and kissed you quiet.
“I’m never too busy for you,” he murmured, stealing another kiss before pulling away with a grin. “Plus, I think it will be fun–watching you try on a bunch of clothes.”
Your face warmed as he winked at you, but before you could respond, Lloyd appeared in the doorway, as if summoned by the talk of fashion.
“Did someone say shopping spree? Count me in,” he declared, dropping his hands to his hips and giving a thrust.
Steve rolled his eyes as you giggled, and Lloyd shot his superior a glare.
“You know I have an eye for fashion,” he sniffed. Lloyd’s annoyed gaze shifted to you, and softened. “Come on, pumpkin, you want me to tag along, right? I’m the only one in this house who actually likes to shop. And we’ll get you all dolled up real fast.”
You peeked over at Steve to see if he truly looked put out at the idea of Lloyd joining in on your outing, but he just seemed amused as he met your gaze and gave a small nod. If anything, he liked that you were getting on so well with the team.
“Okay,” you smiled at Lloyd. “It will be fun.”
“You bet your sweet ass it will be fun.”
You were still buzzing from your outing earlier with Steve and Lloyd, your smile so big as you glanced at yourself in the mirror and gave a little spin. Your cute new dress flared out around your thighs, and you laughed, feeling pretty–and much more like yourself than you had in a long time.
You’d been under your father’s thumb for so long, in every possible way, even when it came to what you wore, that you forgot how freeing–and soothing–it could be to just… be yourself, wear what made you happy and comfortable.
It seemed such a small, meaningless thing, but you felt so happy in a way you hadn’t in years.
So you had a little bounce in your step as you made your way to Jake’s bedroom. You were excited to spend some time with him, because out of all of the mercenaries, he seemed the most normal.
Down to earth, sweet, funny.
Truly, Jake was just the icing on the cake of your already great day.
You knocked on his door, and barely a second later, it swung open to reveal Jake grinning big and warm, and wearing a t-shirt that looked like a tuxedo.
“Your shirt is so cute!” you giggled.
“Thanks!” Jake’s grin widened as he glanced down at himself. “It’s kind of the only way I could get dressed up for you, so much of my stuff is just tac gear or novelty shirts, so…”
“I love it,” you assured him.
“And you! Wow, you look…wow,” Jake stuttered, his eyes taking their time inching over you as you stood before him, nervously wringing your hands.
“Thank you,” you whispered, biting back a stupid smile as your eyes flickered down to your feet.
“So, um, come in!” Jake encouraged you as he stepped back and waved you inside his room eagerly. Once you were inside and glancing around curiously, he closed the door behind you both before stepping up beside you, his gaze following to where yours was fixed.
Jake’s room as a whole was tidy, with everything in its place, but it was the small two-seater table across the room that had your eyes lighting up.
It had been set like at a fancy restaurant; there were lit candles in the center of it, lending ambiance to the room. You weren’t sure what was in the takeout food containers set between the plates and glasses, but whatever it was smelled heavenly and had your stomach growling loud enough to make you cringe in embarrassment.
“It’s okay,” Jake chuckled, shifting his weight beside you. “I’m starving too. You wanna eat now?”
You glanced over at him, your eyes soft as you nodded, because Jake looked just as nervous–and slightly awkward–as you. As he went to step away, you reached for him, your fingers touching his wrist, and then finding his hand so you could give it a squeeze.
“Thank you for doing this, Jake, it’s so sweet.”
He blushed from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, shrugging those big, round shoulders of his as he gave you a small smile. “It’s no big deal.”
“To me, it is. You’ve made me feel special.”
“You are special,” Jake returned, his brows furrowed a little, like he thought this truth was the most obvious thing in the world.
Belly swooping, you followed Jake over to the dinner setup, giggling as he acted the gentleman and pushed in your chair for you before darting over to take his own seat across from you.
“I hope you like Thai food? There’s this awesome restaurant a few towns over, so that’s what I got for tonight.”
You nodded eagerly, your tummy rumbling again and making Jake laugh. He was quick to serve the food, until both your plates were full and you both dove into your meals,
chatting in between bites and learning more about each other.
Jake told you about his sister and nieces that he missed so much, and how he always used to attend all of their soccer games. In return, you told him about your mother, and how helping her in her garden had always been your favorite way to spend time together.
“I’m sorry you had to leave it behind,” Jake frowned, pushing his now empty plate away. “I bet that was really hard.”
You swallowed against the lump in your throat, mustering a smile and shrug so you didn’t totally kill the fun vibe that had been brewing between you.
“Hey, I bet one day, you’ll have a new garden–your own garden–and it will be amazing!” Jake smiled, his eyes bright in a way that made you believe that he really did wish that for you.
“Yeah, I bet you’re right,” you smiled back at him.
You took a moment to just really take him in. His fluffy hair and bright blue eyes, his handsome features and ridiculously built body. Jake really was so handsome, but it was the kindness in his eyes that kept drawing you gaze again and again.
It was so strange, that you had spent so much of your life despised for merely existing, and now, you were becoming surrounded by people who seemed to genuinely care for you, who looked at you like you mattered, like they wanted what was best for you.
It was Jake’s resulting smile that made you realize you were smiling at him like a dope, and you gave an embarrassed, nervous giggle as you plucked your napkin from your lap and set it down beside your finished meal.
“You know uh…” Jake hesitated, rubbing his hands along his thighs as he sat back in his seat. He was blushing again–rosier than before–as he continued, “We don’t have to, yanno, if you don’t want to.”
“Oh.” You blinked, straightening in your seat as your fingers fell to twist the hem of your dress. “Do you… not want to?”
“No!!” Jake said it so loudly, you both winced. “Sorry. I uh want to. Like, wow do I want to,” he emphasized, making you giggle. “But also, I don’t want you to feel pressured or anything."
Feeling yourself melt at his thoughtfulness, you reached across the table, setting your hand on top of his as you met his gaze and gave him a warm smile.
“How about we just see where the night takes us? No pressure for either of us.”
“Okay! I’d really like that.”
The two of you moved over to the small loveseat against the far wall, chatting some more. Jake told you how he had joined the team, how he felt like he was making a difference even if most people didn’t know about it, but that he also really missed his family.
And something about how sad he looked as he muttered that confession had you leaning over and kissing his cheek.
Jake stilled, turning to look at you with wide eyes, and you found yourself smiling as your gaze flickered to his parted lips, the plumpness of which drew you in closer and closer.
You heard Jake’s breath hitch a second before your lips met his, and then your eyes closed and your pussy fluttered at the guttural groan that rose up at the back of Jake’s throat.
Something about how careful Jake was with touching you–his hands hesitant to frame your face–and then his thumbs gently gliding back and forth along your cheeks, it made you feel so special, so desirable and wanted.
It had you clambering into his lap until you were straddling him, and you both pulled away from each other’s mouths long enough to exchange wide-eyed wanting looks before you were sinking into another round of sweet, frantic kisses.
When you started to rock in his lap, seeking friction, Jake moaned, pulling back and panting as he met your floaty gaze and asked, “You wanna move over to the bed?”
He grinned as you nodded enthusiastically, the two of you nearly tripping over each other in your rush to relocate. You both fell atop the bed together, giggling and breathing heavy as Jake leaned up over you and took a moment to just look at you.
“God, you’re so pretty,” he murmured, his fingers reaching out to caress along your face. “And so soft. And smell so good.” He ducked lower, tucking his face against the side of your neck and breathing in deep before exhaling a “Hnnngh,” against your skin and making you laugh.
You continued to giggle as Jake snuffled along your neck, your fingers sinking into his hair, gently stroking the blonde locks as you told him, “You’re very sweet.”
Jake pressed a kiss against the top of your chest before pulling away, his gaze meeting yours–both eager and tentative–as he asked, “Can we take this off?” he tugged at your dress.
“Of course,” you nodded, the two of you quickly working together to rid you of your new dress.
“Oh god, boobs,” Jake breathed as his gaze fell to your chest, which was encased by one of your pretty new bras.
He reached for your chest without thinking–his gaze going glassy–and just a beat before he touched you, he remembered himself. Pulling up short, he gave you a sheepish grin as he asked if he could touch you.
Feeling all fluttery that he was seeking consent, you nodded again, shyness creeping up on you as things got steamier.
You gasped as Jake groped your tits, his hands so big against your softness, the weight of him settling over you now too as he shifted closer.
His thumbs caught in the edge of lace cupping you, and he tugged it lower, until your nipples popped free and he could pluck at them, making you gasp and arch up into his touch.
“This okay?” Jake asked, his voice deeper than before, huskier, as his lust-darkened gaze flickered up to yours.
“Y-yeah,” you trembled, licking your dry lips as you told him, “You can take it off if you want, my bra.”
“Hell yeah I want,” Jake nodded, his hands already moving to slip off the pretty, lacy piece. “Fucccck me, you’re so hot,” he groaned once you were bare save for your cute panties.
His touch was firmer now as he cupped both your breasts and squeezed until you were gasping and writhing beneath him. When he dropped his head to catch one of your nipples in his mouth, you moaned, spreading your legs and rutting up against Jake’s hips, desperately seeking friction.
Groaning, he pulled away from your tit with a wet pop before showing the other just as much attention.
“Jake, please,” you begged, your body nearly vibrating with need now as you pawed at him.
“Wait, I… there’s something I wanna do first, before we, yanno,” he confessed.
Pressing your thighs together, you tried not to pout as you asked, “What?”
He blushed so hard, he resembled a tomato, as he asked, “Can I please uh fuck your tits? I just… I’ve always wanted to do that, but always felt weird asking, but you… you make me feel brave.”
“How are you being this sweet right now?” you marveled before reaching for the back of Jake’s neck and yanking him in for a very ardent kiss. “And yes, you can do that,” you whispered, too shy to say it out loud, but your pussy was leaking a small river at the idea of fulfilling one of Jake’s naughty fantasies.
“You’re the best,” Jake grinned, nearly falling off the bed in his excitement to undress.
You giggled, reaching out to help steady him, and then your eyes were going wide as dinner plates once Jake was completely naked and you realized just how built he was. You swore every single one of his muscles was either bulging or defined, his body looking like that of a Greek god as he hovered over you.
“Wow,” you breathed, reaching out to trail your fingers down Jake’s stomach. “You’re so beautiful, Jake.”
“I am?”
“Yeah,” you laughed, meeting his gaze and giving him a soft smile. “Really, really, really beautiful. Like a work of art.”
He puffed out his chest, looking very pleased–and genuinely surprised–by your admiration. “Thanks.”
Your fingers kept trailing lower, and you bit your bottom lip as you caressed along the head of his cock, your fingers coming away sticky and covered in his pre-cum. You met Jake’s gaze as you sucked your fingers into your mouth, making a delighted sound at the briny taste of his cream.
“Ohhhh fuck,” Jake grunted, his cock twitching as he dropped a hand to grip himself. “You keep doing stuff like that, and I’m not gonna last long at all.”
“Well then you better hurry up and get to the good stuff, huh?” you grinned at him.
In the back of your mind, you were surprised at yourself–at how playful you were being, how teasing–but something about Jake made you feel confident. Maybe it was the way he had this genuine air of awe for you–to be with you–but it made you feel sexy.
And it made you want to make him feel good, too. Really good.
So you didn’t even cringe or shy away at all as you cupped your breasts and held them together in offering.
“Ohhh my god, it’s happening,” Jake whispered, his gaze glossing over and his lips parted and he moved to straddle your torso.
His gasp when he pressed his hard, warm cock between the softness of your tits was so wrecked already that it had you gushing into your panties, squirming beneath him as you stared up and watched–mesmeraized–as Jake began to gently rut against your chest.
“Oh my god,” he groaned as you pressed your curves around him more firmly, increasing the pressure around his cock, until his head was dropping back in ecstasy, and he lost himself to his pleasure.
When his tempo increased, his rhythm starting to falter, you found yourself sticking out your tongue, trying your best to catch the flushed, leaking crown of Jake’s cock on his next thrust.
At the first feel of your tongue lapping at his head, Jake’s eyes shot open, his head darting up, his gaze big and shocked and so turned on as you did it again, then again.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, you’re gonna make me cum,” he panted, curling over you and gripping the headboard as he stilled.
“You can,” you told him, “I don’t mind, I want you to.”
“Wanna cum inside you,” Jake whispered, staring down at you in awe. “And I wanna make you cum, too.”
“So do it.”
Laughing at your cheeky grin, Jake scrambled away from you, then on top of you properly, not even asking–not that you minded–as he yanked off your underwear and carelessly tossed them behind him.
“Oh, thank god,” he breathed once his fingers dragged along your slit and found you soaked and messy for him. “God, you’re so wet.”
“Well, you put on quite the show, Jakey,” you grinned shyly at him.
“Yeah?” he looked very chuffed that you found all of this–found him–as sexy as he found you.
“Mmmhmm, now please, I’m so worked up,” you whined, spreading your legs wider. “I think I’ll cum without any real effort at all.”
“Thank god two point oh, because I’m ready to blow,” Jake laughed, sinking down between your thighs and lining himself up.
You both moaned as he drove into you slowly. The sharp gasp was spilling past your lips before you even realized it, because Jake was so thick. Like, yes, you had seen he had a very impressive cock, but to feel it inside of you, stretching your inner walls to their limits...
It had your head falling back on a ragged, “Oh my god!” as Jake finally bottomed out with a primal grunt and a sharp rut for good measure.
“You feel incredible,” he panted, dropping his forehead to yours.
You fluttered wildly at his praise, making him moan and rock against you in response.
“Oh god, I’m really not gonna last, please don’t judge me,” Jake laughed nervously, but he looked a little panicked as his chest heaved and he tried to remain very very still.
Concentrating less on how desperate you were to cum, and more on Jake–on his momentary insecurity–you opened your eyes and met his gaze without wavering. Cradling his cheek with your palm, you gave him a soft smile.
“Jake, I never would. You’ve been amazing, in so many ways,” you assured him. “And I’m pretty sure I’ll be right there with you, so, let’s just… do this thing.”
Snickering, Jake dropped the rest of his weight on top of you, making you murmur in approval as he curled one of his arms over the top of your head and began to fuck you.
You moaned on his very first thrust, arching up against him as you begged him to go, “Harder, faster, please!”
“Fuck,” Jake groaned, burying his face into the crook of your neck as he started to pound into you.
You keened as he hit a spot that had your body lighting up in a brand new way, making a choked squeal of a sound as you cried, “Right there, oh my god, please don’t stop!”
Hnnnghing against your sweaty neck, Jake doubled down, fucking you like you wanted and having enough functioning brain cells left to dig his free hand between your bodies so he could rub your clit to hopefully push you to the edge before he himself fell over it.
You gasped at the added stimulation, your eyes slamming shut as you felt that delightful build up start deep in your core.
“Yes, yes, yes!” you chanted, your hips rocking and rising to meet the thrust of Jake’s cock, your words dying away into unintelligible gasps and cries as you got closer and closer to your climax.
“Oh fuck, oh god, oh fuck, Jesus Christ,” Jake’s string of curses and nonsense, along with the way he was relentlessly plowing into you now, rocking the whole bed as he desperately sought his own orgasm–found so much pleasure in your very willing body–it tipped you right over that glorious ledge.
You came with a sharp, ragged cry, each and every muscle in your body locking up tight as your pussy went wild–fluttering and clenching so hard it sent Jake rocketing over the edge right after you.
You were still riding the wave of your pleasure as you felt Jake cum inside you, his spend a thick, warm gush that made you moan and flutter all over again as you squirmed beneath him.
“Fuccccck,” Jake groaned against your shoulder, his teeth sinking into your skin, not hard enough to cause pain, but enough to have you whimpering and clenching around him until he was babbling as you milked his cock of every last drop of cum.
The two of you clung to each other tightly, both breathing hard–like you had just run a marathon together–as Jake sank against you, feeling just as boneless as you yourself felt.
There was a long, pleasant stretch of silence as the two of you took your time coming down from your highs. You were nearly dozing with your lips tilted into an almost smile as Jake nuzzled against your neck, pressing soft kisses to your skin like he was wordlessly thanking you for making him feel so good.
“I have one more surprise for you,” he eventually murmured, his head popping up as he looked as mussed and wrecked as you were sure you yourself looked right about now.
“You do?” you smiled like a dope. “I hope it’s close by so we don’t have to move because I don’t think my legs will work after that.”
Laughing, Jake shook his head, pouting a little as he broke the bad news that, “We have to walk just a little, but not far, I promise. And I’ll shoulder your weight so you barely need to walk at all.”
“My hero,” you giggled tiredly, groaning as Jake finally pulled away from you before helping you out of bed.
You didn’t even feel self-conscious to be naked and leaking his cum, still feeling nothing but giddy and satisfied as you curled close to Jake’s side and allowed him to lead you just a few feet away to the closed bathroom door.
And when he opened it, he stole your breath away yet again, because awaiting you in the small space was a gorgeous bouquet of flowers on the sink counter, and a bath tub rim decorated with candles and rose petals, setting the mood for what you knew would be a relaxing, luxurious bath.
“Oh my god, Jake! You’re so sweet! I can’t believe you did this for me!”
His smile was shy as he led you over to sit on the edge of the tub before kneeling beside it and cranking on the water. You watched as he doctored the steamy rush with a bubble bath that smelled incredible, and once the tub was perfect for soaking, Jake took your hand and helped you settle in.
“Join me?” you asked hopefully.
“Actually,” Jake looked the shyest you had seen yet. “If it’s okay, I’d really like to bathe you.”
You blinked at him, your shyness creeping up again at that, but you couldn’t help the small smile that curled your lips as you sank back against the porcelain with a quiet, “Okay.”
“Yeah?” Jake perked up, looking more hopeful and less shy as you met his gaze.
“Yeah.”
Smiling, he settled on his knees, reaching for a colorful loofah and pouring some body wash onto it. “I know I’m not as suave or experienced as the others,” he confessed. “But I just… I want you to feel appreciated. And beautiful, because you are.”
Feeling your belly flutter, you caught Jake’s free hand, twining your fingers together as you replied, “I feel both of those things, Jake, thanks to you.”
And it was the truth.
You felt beautiful, appreciated, and so very, very cared for as Jake gently began to wash you, looking so focused and intent as he drew the loofah over your skin, and lulled you into a state of utter, boneless bliss.
AHHHH! Jakey! The sinful sweetheart sunshine boi we all deserve!!!! I so hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please take a moment to let me know your thoughts! Also, maybe buckle up for what’s coming up next ::nervous laughter::
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⸝⸝ SUMMARY ─ ❝ 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. ❞ ⧽ 23k
！SMUT, 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
⤷ 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 » 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 » 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.
One that decrees who is a man and who is a wanted man. It prints the latter on paper and nails it somewhere decent folk can see. 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 someone 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. Only women are rarely granted the dignity of being weighed by their own choices. Instead, they too are valued by a bad man’s wrongdoings.
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. 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 men’s 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. 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 town’s binary judgement.
Your heart, unfortunately, had never shown much interest in good men.
So that’s 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 that’s 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.
You’ve 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 has drawn close around the house. 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.
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.
At first, he is only a shape amongst shapes.
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 woman’s 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 something 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 slowly to where your dress has come loose at your throat, 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 didn’t.
An appreciative rumble hums low from his lips, before his thumb draws back the hammer of his gun with a pointed click.
“Don’t stop on my account, sweetheart.”
For a moment, you’re 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 sheriff’s ledger, or by the schoolmaster’s 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 schoolmaster’s 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 the powerful thighs spread wide as he sat, revealing the 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, 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.
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.
“Good girl,” he drawls, “prettiest damn thing I’ve seen in weeks.”
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. God, he’s 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. There’s no other word for the way it lingers on him as he steps closer.
It slips first over the dirty blond hair that has fallen loose beneath the brim of his hat. Then it catches on his face, and there’s no mercy for you in how gently it treats him. Long lashes cast low shadows under his eyes, and whatever blue hasn’t 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 can’t 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.
It’s nailed up outside the mercantile for decent folk to study and condemn. Some sheriff’s 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.
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.
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 shove 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. 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.
You the press barrel up under his jaw with enough pressure to make him tilt his head back against the quilt, 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, 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, close enough to see the way his pupils dilate further, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.
“You’re late, Rogers.”
He doesn’t reply straightaway. Instead, his 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 - to you. Sat above him in the moonlight, furious and half-naked and close enough to touch. There’s 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 can’t quite believe the world has been kind enough to put you in front of him again, and now that he’s 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. 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.
“Missed me?” 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, as his hips shift beneath yours. It’s only a small, helpless grind, but it’s 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 you’re angry.
Almost.
“You were supposed to be here three days ago,” you remind him, intending to be stern, but not convinced you achieved it.
“Train was delayed,” Steve replies, 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.
“Fine,” he concedes. “Train was delayed ‘cause I robbed it.”
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. “You worried about me, sweetheart?”
You scoff, “I was debating whether, if the bounty hunters didn’t put a bullet in you, I ought to do it myself.”
It would’ve sounded better if your voice hadn’t 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.
“Gun’s not loaded,” His voice goes quieter there, the teasing easing at the edges. “Never is. You think I’d point a loaded gun at you?”
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.
You hate him more for making you care enough to count the days. For making the nights stretch mean when he doesn’t come when he’s 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.
“Don’t mean I’m not angry with you,” you whisper, though there’s no bite in your voice.
His gaze drops to your mouth.
“Yeah?” 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. “Want to show me how angry?”
Your throat tightens. The revolver drops from your hand onto the quilt beside his head. Steve’s 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.
“I ought to punish you for makin’ me wait,” 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.
Steve’s hand tightens on your neck, keeping you close enough that his lips brush yours when he answers. “You ought to.”
Your hands shove at his coat, dragging it off his shoulders with more force than grace. Steve only helps enough to get free, too busy chasing your mouth again, greedy and open, his tongue sweeping against yours like he’s trying to taste every desperate sound he’s pulled from you. You tug at the buttons of his shirt next, 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.
“I ought to send you back out the window you came in.”
His grin returns at that, mischief bright in his eyes despite the way his cock twitches under you. “You ought to get that fixed,” he rumbles, one hand sliding possessive over your waist. “Who knows what kind of bad men could get in?”
You punish him for the clever little comment with another roll of your hips. Steve’s 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.
“I ought to make you beg,” you whisper, mouth dragging down over his jaw, his beard rough against your lips as you kiss the place where his heartbeat pounds beneath his skin.
“Yes, ma’am,” Steve breathes, hands holding you tight over the thick, straining shape of him. “You ought to.”
Your chemise has ridden high over your thighs, and every drag of your body over his makes the ache in you sharper.
“Start with sorry,” you instruct.
Steve’s 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.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he murmurs.
You lift your head just enough to look at him, raising an expectant brow. His thumbs stroke once over your hips, softernow.
Steve’s eyes flick over your face, softening at whatever he finds there. “I’m sorry I worried you.”
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, “I’m sorry I have to leave again at dawn.”
You still completely. Steve’s eyes find yours beneath his mussed hair, and there is and ache there so open it makes your chest hurt. Too honest for a man who’s worth more dead than most men will ever be alive. You can’t bare it for long. 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.
“Then don’t waste my night, cowboy,” you breathe against his lips, rolling your hips down until his cock jerks beneath you. “You’ve got a lot to make up for.”
Steve answers with his hands. A sudden greed of them at your waist, then sliding further up beneath your chemise. His thumbs brush the underside of your breasts with just enough pressure to make you gasp into his mouth. Then he’s tugging the fabric higher, impatient now, and you lift your arms before he has to ask.
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. Over 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.
Steve’s hands tighten at your hips, his thumbs dragging once over the bare skin above your drawers.
“You missed me somethin’ awful, didn’t you?” 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.
“Love it when you’re mean,” 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 there’s 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. Precum smears against your skin as he twitches there, hard enough to make your mouth go dry.
It’s like you forget just how big he is until he’s in your hand again, fat and veined and heavy enough to make you wonder if he’ll 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. 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 Steve’s 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.
“Fuck, ‘atta girl,” he rasps, head falling back against the quilt. “Get my cock nice and wet. Make yourself feel good, use me.”
So you grind down harder, slicking his cock with the mess he’s made of you, feeling his abs flex beneath your hands every time his tip nudges your tight entrance.
“Steve,” you whine, nails digging into this skin hard enough to leave marks. “I want it. I want your cock in me.”
“Yeah?” he breathes, and the little edge of a grin he tries for doesn’t last. Not when you reach between you, wrap your hand around the thick, wet length of him. “Then take it, ma’am. It’s yours.”
You push up on your knees, thighs trembling on either side of him, the thick muscle of Steve’s biceps bunching as he holds you steady. His cock pulses with anticipation in your grip, veins standing out beneath your palm as you line him up with your entrance.
You’re 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 stretches 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.
Your pussy flutters around him, tight and greedy, sucking him in with little needy clenches that make his hands dig harder into your hips.
“Missed this,” he groans, every muscle in him straining with the effort not to thrust up and take more than you give. “Missed your tight cunt so bad I damn near wore out my own fist thinkin’ about it.”
The filthy praise goes straight to your cunt, sending a fresh wave of arousal dripping around him as you sink lower. Your head tips back, his name spilling from your lips in broken little sounds as you take him inch by inch.
Steve’s eyes fix on where you’re 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 you’ve even taken all of him.
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 it’s taken all of him.
“Fuck, Steve,” you whine, nails dragging over his chest. “You’re so big.”
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. The first few strokes are messy, your thighs trembling as you lift and sink. But Steve’s palms stay firm at your hips, helping you find the rhythm, holding you steady while you fuck yourself down onto him.
“But you’re takin’ it, sweet girl,” he groans, helping you down harder, pulling you into each stroke until your tits bounce and the room fills with the slick slap of your body meeting his. “Takin’ my cock so pretty. Always do.”
The bed complains beneath you, wood knocking softly against the wall, but it’s nothing compared to the wet, shameless sound of your pussy taking him over and over.
“Steve—” Your voice breaks into a cry when he hits that deep spot again, “Need—fuck—”
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.
Steve’s eye’s darken at the sight. “Pretty cunt’s makin’ such a mess on my cock, can feel her squeezin’ me. Feel you gettin’ close.”
You nod, pathetic and needy. “I need you,” you gasp, “Steve, please, I’m—”
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.
“That’s what you needed, sweetheart?” Steve rasps, watching you fall apart above him. “Then let me feel that tight pussy come on my cock.”
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. “Fuck,” he grunts out, hands grabbing for hips as his restraint finally snaps. “Fuck, ma’am, can’t—”
One second you’re 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.
“Steve!” 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.
“There you go,” he grits out, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh high against his hip. “‘Atta girl. Fuck, you feel too good, this cunt’s tryin’ to keep me.”
You can’t 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 he’s making of you like it’s the prettiest thing he’s seen in weeks.
Steve’s 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.
“Good girl,” he rumbles, thumb smearing through the mess he’s made before he seems to remember himself. His mouth finds yours once, beards scratching softly over your skin as you make a tired little sound against his mouth. “Took me so good, sweets. So fuckin’ good for me.”
His lips move over your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, 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.
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 doesn’t tease. He only drags the cloth lower, gentle between your thighs, cleaning the sticky mess from your skin.
“So perfect,” he whispers, pressing a kiss just beneath your ribs when he’s done. “My best girl.”
Tossing the cloth aside, he climbs into bed beside you, greedy for your warmth. His arm hooks around you waist instantly, 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 you’ve 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. You’re half asleep by the time your voice finds him again.
“Missed you Stevie,” you mumble, so low he might have missed it if he hadn’t been listening for every breath. “Was worried.”
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. “I know,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t mean to leave you countin’ days.”
“What really happened?”
Steve exhales slowly behind you, mouth pressing to your shoulder before he answers, like he can feel the tightness gathering there already. “Train 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.” His hand tightens when your brow pinches in worry, though your eyes stay closed. “No, honey. Not like that. They got a shot off, but it only grazed me.”
Your eyes crack open. “Only?”
“I’m here, ain’t I?” he breathes, trying for that crooked little arrogance and not quite managing it. “Takes more than that to put me down.”
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. “Mean little thing,” he whispers, but his arm tightens around you, and his lips linger. “I’m alright. Truly. Just took longer than I wanted.”
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.You’re almost asleep when the thought slips out of you, small and wounded.
“Don’t wake me when you leave.”
His chest stops moving against your back.
“I mean it,” you add, fingers finding his where they rest over your stomach. “I can’t watch you choose the door.”
That one hurts him. You feel his arm curl tighter around your waist like some selfish part of him wants to promise he won’t go at all. For a second, you think he might argue. But Steve Rogers has never been cruel enough to promise something so foolish.
“Alright,” he whispers, voice rough. “I’ll leave quiet.”
You nod once, already drifting, but your fingers tighten around his. Steve turns his hand beneath yours and holds on. “But I’m here now,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your skin. “Sleep, honey. I’ve got you.”
Morning doesn’t wake you kindly.
One moment you’re 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 doesn’t care. 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 hadn’t 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. The window is shut.
Not forced down, not wedged in crooked, not sitting stubborn in its swollen frame. Shut. Properly shut. The latch sits clean in its catch, holding firm beneath the careful press of your fingers.
It’s silly, really, to stand there with your throat gone tight over a fixed window. But it’s 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 that’s likely for the best. Good news rarely travels fast where men like Steve Rogers are concerned; bad news, however, travels like wildfire. 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. It’s 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 you’ve no good reason to expect, yet hope for all the same.
But it isn’t hoofbeats that pull you from slumber tonight.
It’s the violent thud 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.
“Hello?!” a man shouts through the door, breathless and frantic. “Miss! For God’s sake, tell me you’re in there!”
He swears under his breath, his voice comes again, but lower this time. “Goddammit, Rogers, if you gave me the wrong damn house—”
His fist hits the door again, harder now, rattling the latch in its frame.
“Open up! Please, open the door!” he yells. “Name’s Barnes—Bucky Barnes—I’ve got Rogers with me, and he’s shot real bad!”
Steve. 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.
“Miss!” Barnes shouts, followed by a strained grunt and the scrape of boots dragging over your porch boards. “Please! I ain’t got time to stand here proper, he’s slippin’!”
Steve had 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 isn’t 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. When you speak, your voice is steadier than the rest of you feels. “If you’re lyin’, Mr. Barnes, you ought to know I’ve got a shotgun pointed at this door.”
“Lady, you can shoot me after if you’re still of a mind to,” he shouts back. “Right now I need you to open the damn door before Rogers bleeds out on your porch!”
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 Steve’s voice, frailer than you’ve ever heard it, trying to make your name out of what little strength he has left. 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.
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 Steve’s arm, with his own locked tight around Steve’s waist. Steve’s boots scrape uselessly over the boards when Bucky shifts him higher. It is clear, terribly clear, that Steve is only standing because Bucky has decided he will.
He’s 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 didn’t seem to pull through him with effort.
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.
“Steve!”
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. His skin is damp beneath your hands and it’s 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.
“Steve,” you repeat, thumb brushing his cheek. “Look at me. Please, look at me.”
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.
“Told Buck not to wake you,” he slurs, stopping after it to drag in another shallow breath. “Told him you needed sleep.”
Bucky grunts a disbelieving laugh next to you.
“Alright, Romeo, that’s real touching,” he snaps, shifting Steve’s weight higher with a grunt, “but you’re bleeding on the lady’s porch. Miss, I need him flat, I need light, and I need clean cloths. Now.”
The kitchen table is where Bucky wants him. There’s no time to argue about the indecency of it, or the blood, or how Bucky’s supposed to get him up there without injuring Steve further.
Bucky pulls Steve through the door with one brutal shift of his weight, dragging him over the threshold whilst Steve’s boots scrape and stumble over your floor. The wound pulls with the movement, wrenching a raw, bitten-off sound deep from his chest.
“Clear it,” Bucky orders, jerking his chin toward the oak table.
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 don’t hear it over the rush of blood in your ears.
Bucky gets one hand under Steve’s arm and the other braced hard at his back. “Alright, Stevie,” he mutters, more to himself than to Steve. “Up we go.”
The lift tears a brutal cry out of Steve.
You’ve 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 Steve’s too far gone to care about that now.
“I know,” Bucky says at once, voice gone tight as he arranges Steve onto the table. “I know, I know. M’sorry, Stevie. I’m sorry.”
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 Steve’s abdomen and presses down hard.
Steve’s whole body jerks.
“Shit,” Bucky grunts out, leaning his weight into it when Steve tries to curl away from the pressure. “I know, pal. Ain’t got a choice.”
You just stand there, frozen.
That’s the shame in it. 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. But 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.
“Lady,” Bucky snaps. “I need you with me.”
But you don’t answer, eyes fixed on the slow rile and fall of Steve’s 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.
Bucky’s bloody hand slams against the table. “Miss!”
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. His jaw is set, his breathing hard, one hand still pressed down over Steve’s wound while the other points at you like he can drag sense back into you by force.
“You can stare at him dead or you can help me keep him livin’,” he says. “Pick quick.”
The words snap you back to reality. Your throat tightens, and you take a steadying breath, “What do you need?”
You scramble through your own house, trying to remember everything Bucky lists as fast as he names it.
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 Steve’s 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 hadn’t.
It looks smaller than it should for all the red it has made, one ugly hole low on Steve’s abdomen, close to his hip, and swollen angry at the edges. Blood keeps welling steadily no matter how quickly Bucky clears it. Steve’s stomach jumps beneath every touch, muscle pulling tight before giving out again.
“Bullet’s still in,” Bucky confirms, mouth grim. “Ain’t deep. That’s the good news. Bad news is you’re takin’ it out and sewin’ him up.”
“No!” You’re shaking your head before the word has even finished leaving your mouth. “You crazy, mister? I can’t do that!”
Steve makes a rough sound, half breath, half pain, and Bucky glances down long enough for something scared to flash over his face.
“Well, little lady, unless you reckon you can hold down two hundred pounds of half-delirious cowboy when he starts thrashin’ while I go fishin’ through his guts, then yes, you can.” Bucky’s hand clamps harder over Steve’s middle when Steve shifts with a broken sound, his shoulders lifting from the table before the strength goes out of him again. “Because if he comes off this table, he’ll tear himself up worse than he already is, and I can’t hold him and dig the bullet out at the same time.”
Your mouth opens, but nothing follows.
The lamp catches the sweat on Steve’s throat and the red glistening on Bucky’s hands. Too much of it. Too much on the table, too much soaked into Steve’s shirt, too much slipping between Bucky’s fingers no matter how hard he presses.
You nod once, firm, forcing the fear down into something more useful. Some of the harshness leaves Bucky’s 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.
“Good girl, I’ll talk you through it,” Bucky says, already reaching for the whiskey. “Steady hands is all I need from you”
So you give him steady hands. 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.
“I know, I’m sorry, pal,” Bucky murmurs, hands firm at Steve’s shoulders. “But you gotta try and stay still Stevie, please.”
The softness in his voice does nothing to gentle his grip. If anything, that’s what makes it worse: the way he bends close to Steve’s 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 Steve’s teeth, fingers careful at his jaw.
“Bite down,” he instructs. “Before you break your damn teeth trying not to make noise.”
Steve’s lashes flutter, eyes too glassy to find either of you properly, but his teeth close around the leather. Bucky’s hand lingers one second at the side of Steve’s 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 doesn’t 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 Bucky’s instruction, you search for the bullet, stopping every time Steve’s body bucks beneath Bucky’s hold. It feels endless, a handful of seconds stretched cruel by the sound of Steve’s breathing and the red shining over your fingers. Then the forceps catch on something hard, something that does not belong inside a man, and Bucky’s voice cuts through the room at once.
“That’s it. Easy now. Pull straight.”
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 doesn’t let go of Steve. “Good,” he praises, rough. “That’s real good, darlin’. Now stitch him.”
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.
“Doin’ good, Stevie,” he murmurs. “Stay with me. There you go. Tough bastard like you don’t get to die in a schoolteacher’s kitchen.”
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 Bucky’s grip.
“Fuck—I’m sorry Steve,” you whisper before you can stop yourself, pulling the stitch through with a shaking hand. “I’m nearly done, promise.”
Bucky glances at you, then back down at him. “Hear that, Rogers? Lady’s apologisin’ to you while saving your sorry hide. You better live long enough to thank her proper.”
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 Steve’s 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.
“Alright,” Bucky says at last. “Now we keep him warm, and thank God he’s a stubborn son of a bitch.”
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. His body has finally given itself over the exhaustion, sleeping so deeply you watch for his breaths to make sure he’s 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 Steve’s 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 Steve’s breathing changes, Bucky’s head lifts. Every time Steve shifts, Bucky’s 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 you’re seeing something usually kept from view.
It’s a strange thing to witness from a man with his name on a wanted poster. It’s a strange thing to witness from a man at all, really.
‘The Winter Kid’ the papers call him - always printed near Steve’s name like one shadow following another. He’s 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. They’re 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 Steve’s.
“What?” he asks, tilting his head.
You shrug, a little embarrassed, but you hold his gaze. “You don’t look much like your picture.”
“Yeah, well.” The corner of his mouth twitches, and for the first time you feel that charm Steve warned you about, battered but not dead. “They charge extra for likeness.”
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 Steve’s 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.
“I expected you shorter,” you admit, causing Bucky to raise a brow. “You know, from the name.”
Bucky groans like this is a wound all its own, head tipping back against the chair for half a second. “Christ. Not you too.”
“Well, it does give a certain impression,” you add, just to goad.
“It gives me a headache is what it gives me.” He drags a tired hand down his face, though the shape of a smile keeps threatening at his mouth. “You know how hard it is to be taken serious by women when half of ’em start grinnin’ soon as they hear Kid?”
“From what Steve tells me,” you say, glancing down at the man asleep between you, “you seem to manage just fine.”
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.
“Oh yeah?” he drawls, voice smoother than it should be after all his shouting. “And what exactly has Rogers told you about how I treat a lady, darlin’?”
You reach for the damp cloth beside you and wring it out over the basin, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking flustered. “Careful, Mr. Barnes. I’ve still a mind to pick my shotgun back up.”
Bucky seems more pleased by your threat than scared, but lifts his hands in surrender all the same, “Of course, Miss. I’ll behave.”
After that, the conversation drifts into exchanging stories about Steve. 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 can’t avoid the question anymore.
“What happened?”
Bucky’s smile disappears instantly, replaced by a grimace. “Rumlow.”
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 town’s measure because he kills with the sheriff’s blessing.
“He caught our trail two days west,” he explains. “We thought we’d shaken him after the river crossin’. But Steve said the tracks were too clean, and of course he just had to be right.”
His mouth twists, though there’s no humour in it now.
“Rumlow had men waitin’ 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.” Bucky’s hand goes to Steve’s hair again before he seems to notice it, fingers combing once through the damp strands before he pulls away. “I told him to ride. He didn’t.”
Of course he didn’t.
That is what hurts most, perhaps. Not the recklessness - you made your peace with that, or tried to. No, it’s 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. He might be a wanted man, but he’s good down to the marrow.
“He drew their fire long enough for me to get my rifle,” Bucky continues. “I 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 fussin’.”
“That sounds like him,” you say quietly, reaching for Steve’s hand beneath the blankets. His fingers are cool when you fold them into yours and loose in a way that makes your throat tighten.
“Yeah.” Bucky huffs through his nose. “Stubborn 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.”
Your hand tightens around Steve’s before you can stop it. Bucky’s eyes catch it - for all his exhaustion, there is very little the man seems to miss.
“Kept off the road after that, muddied the trial in the creek too.” Bucky says. “Lost ’em for tonight, I reckon.”
“For tonight?”
His eyes lift to yours, and they give you the answer before his mouth does. “Rumlow’s still breathin’, ain’t he?”
That answers enough.
Bucky leans 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.
“Stitches are holding,” he confirms. “You did good, darlin’, real good.”
Then his gaze drops to Steve, hand resting on his shoulder.
“Course,” he adds, murmuring almost to himself. “Rogers always did know how to pick good people.”
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.
“Yeah,” you reply softly, holding his gaze. “He does.”
The corner of Bucky’s 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.
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 the cool drag of a cloth over his face when fever leaves him damp and restless. Sometimes the hand at his brow is yours. Sometimes it’s Bucky’s 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, “Quit bein’ a jackass, Rogers,”but 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 he’s 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 you’re a bossy little thing. Your quiet snicker follows, easy enough by then to tell Steve you’ve already learnt not to be scared of Bucky’s 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 won’t catch when he moves.
Still, his gaze flicks back to the empty chair, a little more wounded at being left alone than he’d admit.
But then he hears voices drift in from the window. Yours first, bright enough to pull his eyes open properly. 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 he’s charming his way out of.
The sound of you both laughing together is too sweet to resist, and it pulls at Steve 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.
By the time he makes it to the doorway, he’s 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.
Bucky’s leaning against the fence with his sleeves rolled to his elbows - an unabashed display of his toned forearms if Steve’s 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, he’s smiling at you like he knows just how handsome he is, which, Steve thinks fondly, he does.
“You call that fixed?” you ask, eyeing the board.
“It’s standin’, ain’t it?”
“It was standin’ before.”
“Well, now it’s standin’ better.”
Your mouth opens in disbelief, and Bucky’s 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. “You this particular with all the men who do chores for you?”
“Only the ones who do half a job and then stand there lookin’ pleased with themselves.” You jibe, mouth curving before you can help it. “Steve never gives me cause to complain.”
Bucky presses a hand to his chest, wounded clean through. “Darlin’, I am beginnin’ to think you don’t appreciate the quality of my help.”
Steve watches your face as you say it, the way your smile tugs despite your best efforts to keep stern. You’re 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.
“You remember I have a shotgun, right? Any more excuses from you and I’ll get it back out and see if it motivates you proper,” you warn, though there is too much warmth in it to do much harm.
Bucky looks far too pleased by that. “How could I forget?” He dips his head, absolutely unrepentant. “Pretty thing like you pointin’ a gun at me ain’t a picture a man forgets easy.”
He really should mind that.
Only the longer he watches, the more it just seems… right. That’s the simple answer. The more complicated one is that there’s a want in him he hasn’t allowed himself to acknowledge until now.
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 Steve’s stomach twists hot, and it’s not the bullet wound.
Oh.
Well.
That explains a few things.
When you pull back, your fingers drag lightly down Bucky’s sleeve before falling away. And then your eyes catch Steve in the doorway.
The smile drops straight off your face.
“Steve!” you chide. “Good lord, you shouldn’t be standin’ up yet!”
Bucky turns fast, all charm gone in an instant. “You stupid son of a—”
“Why aren’t you in bed?” you demand, already crossing the yard towards him. “You’re meant to be resting. You’ll tear the stitches, you’ll—”
“What’re you doin’?” 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.
“Stealin’ your woman?” 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.
“Take her,” he shrugs, turning back towards the house, pretending with little success that every step doesn’t 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.
“What?” he says, mouth twitching as he makes his slow way back to bed. “Take her.”
Bucky watches him go, grin crooked and eyes a little too soft. “Well, you’re a romantic bastard, I’ll give you that.”
You climb into bed that night tentatively, careful to keep your distance from Steve so you can’t accidentally hurt him.
He watches you fuss with tired amusement, flat on his back beneath the blankets. He’s been patient all day because he’s 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. “C’mere.”
“But you need to be careful—”
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.
“Steve,” you hiss, braced on one elbow, already trying to take some of your weight off him. “You’re going’ to hurt yourself.”
“Worth it,” he murmurs.
You open your mouth to argue, but his lips find your shoulder first. He kisses over your skin lazily, as if he has all the time in the world and no bounty hunter breathing down the road. Then 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.
“Missed you,” he hums, pleased with himself.
The words catch somewhere tender, and before you can stop it, the fear you’ve been holding back for days slips free. “I thought you were going’ to die.”
Steve’s 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. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
You stare at him, eyes burning, and Steve’s bravado doesn’t survive it. His expression softens before he pulls you closer despite the faint wince it costs him, burying his face against your neck.
“No,” he murmurs, voice rough now. “Make a big deal out of it.”
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.
“You’re a fool,” you grumble against his chest.
“I know,” he agrees easily.
“And stubborn.”
“I know that too,” 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. “Don’t sound so smug.”
“Can’t help it.” His hand slides from your waist, broad palm warm through the thin cotton of your nightdress. “You get awful sweet when you forget to be cross with me, ma’am.”
You should scold him. You mean to. Instead your head tips, giving him more room, and Steve’s breath warms where your pulse has already started tripping under his mouth. 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 isn’t an answer at all. It’s 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.
“Poor thing,” he murmurs. “You’re soaked already.”
You make a small sound of protest, breath catching as your hips shift against his palm. “You should be resting.”
“I am resting,” he counters. “You’re the one making all that noise.”
Heat rushes straight through you. “Steve.”
He grins, because he knows what that tone means. His fingers drag through your pussy, spreading the slick of you over your skin until you can’t hold back the needy little moan that escapes. “Buck been winding you up all day, huh? Flashing those pretty eyes at you, running that mouth, standing too close every chance he got.”
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.
“Mm. Saw the way you looked at him.” His thumb presses a little firmer, drawing another helpless sound from you as his voice drops rougher by your ear. “Saw the way he looked at you too. Like he was wondering how sweet you’d sound if somebody got a hand under your skirt.”
You turn your face into his shoulder, scandalised and burning, but the heat pooling low in you stomach tells a different story. “You can’t say things like that.”
“Seems I just did.”
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.
“Atta girl,” he murmurs, voice rough at your ear. “Open up for me, sweetheart.”
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.
“That’s my girl,” Steve coos. “Been so good taking care of me, haven’t you? Let me take care of you now.”
“Wait—fuck—Stevie, he’ll hear us.” you protest weakly, eyes flicking toward the door, where Bucky is sleeping on the couch on the other side.
Steve’s fingers slow, but they don’t stop. If anything, his touch turns crueller, pumping in and out of your pussy with an unhurried drag as his thumb circles your clit.
“Good,” he says at last.
Your eyes widen.
Steve curls his fingers inside you, pressing just right, and your whole body jerks against him. “Let him.”
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.
“S’okay, honey,” he encourages, kissing beneath your ear. “I don’t mind. You make those pretty noises for me and let Buck hear what he’s missin’ out on.”
“Steve,” you whimper into his neck, overwhelmed by the heat of it, by the way he says Buck’s 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. “Poor bastard probably spent all afternoon thinkin’ about what you’d sound like if he got his hands on you,” he rumbles, fingers driving deeper until your breath catches sharp. “Now he’s out there listenin’ to me do it.”
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. “Steve—”
“Don’t.” His hand tightens on your thigh, stubborn even now, even with sweat at his temple and breath caught in his chest. “I’m fine, pretty girl, promise. Just need your hand on my cock. Need my girl to make it better.”
Your answering moan is too wanton to stifle, and out on the couch, Bucky hears it.
He’s 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 - that’s 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, that’s hardly his fault, 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 Steve’s fingers must find something good. Heat pulls through him before he can talk sense into himself. It’s been crawling under his skin all day. And now Steve’s 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.
Bucky shuts his eyes as his lips part around a groan of relief.
He should feel worse about it, probably. A gentleman might. Then again, he’s never made much of a claim to being one, and there’s 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 Bucky’s cock.
His fingers work the buttons of his trousers open, and he’s so wound up that the first touch to his throbbing length makes his hips jerk up. He’s 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 doesn’t spill too fast, listening to the shift of the bed in the next room and the wet sound of Steve’s fingers fucking you.
“Don’t hide from me,” Steve rumbles, voice carrying just enough. “Want him to hear how pretty you get when you come”
The needy moan you cry out in response, makes Bucky’s hand tighten and his eyes squeeze shut. He can picture it all wall for a man who hasn’t a right to see any of it. Your thighs spread under Steve’s hand, nightdress pushed up, tucking your face into Steve’s neck as you try and fail to keep quit. Steve, wounded and recovering, still generous enough to make sure Bucky knows what he’s missing.
“Stevie,” you gasp, and Bucky’s 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.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” Steve groans. “Bet Buck’s got his hand around his cock right now, listenin’ to you. Bet he can’t help himself.”
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.
“Wish he could see you right now,” Steve goads, and Bucky nearly spills right there. “So wet for me. Sweet little pussy takin’ my fingers so good. He’d lose his fuckin’ mind.”
His hips buck desperately into his first, breath coming harsh through his nose as Steve keeps talking like he knows every dirty place Bucky’s mind has gone and means to walk you through all of them. Your moans pitcher higher, thinner, more desperate.
“Please Stevie—so close,” you whine, and Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything more beautiful.
“I’ve got you, sweet girl,” Steve coos. “Come for me. Let him hear.”
The sound you make as you fall apart under Steve’s hand is obscene. You pleasure spills out into the dark as Steve praises you in that honey-deep register like he’s got his fingers buried in the best thing he’s 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, and God, Bucky knows that sound. 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 enough 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 Steve’s 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. 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.
“Romantic bastard,” he scoffs into the dark.
You wake reaching for Steve, hands sliding over the sheets in search of the warmth that’s 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. Still there.
The joy it brings is so small and foolish it almost hurts. Steve’s still beside you, warm beneath your palm, alive beneath your hand, his breath moving slow and steady. You don’t mean to smile as hard as you do for something that won’t last, but you feel it happen anyway.
Steve’s eyes crack open, tired blue finding you through the grey morning light. His mouth curves faintly.
“Mornin’,” he rasps.
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.
“You are pale enough to haunt this house, Steve Rogers. Sit still.”
His brows lift, innocent as sin. “Jus’ thinkin’ about breakfast is all, ma’am, swear.”
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.
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 he’s 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; he’s been gone since first light, having ridden into town for coffee, cartridges, and whatever else two outlaws and one increasingly compromised schoolteacher might need. You’re 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. “What?”
Bucky sets the sack on the table. “You feel well enough to ride?”
Steve frowns. “If I have to.”
“Good.” Bucky’s eyes flick over you, brows tightening, then back to Steve. “Rumlow’s in town, asking questions at the mercantile. Offered coin for anyone who knew anythin’ about Steve Rogers and The Winter Kid.”
Steve face flattens, jaw setting into that hardened mask he uses to cover whatever else he’s feeling. Nodding once, he pushes up from the chair.
“Steve—” 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.
“We’ll draw him off, honey,” he murmurs, clearly misinterpreting your worry. “He won’t know you had anything to do with us.”
Then he turns to Bucky. “Get the horses ready. We’ll cut south - maybe this time we stop talking about Mexico and actually head there.”
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.
“Take me with you.”
Both of them immediately stop.
Steve turns firs,t protest already written across his face. “Sweetheart, you can’t seriously —”
Bucky interrupts, sharper. “Absolutely not.”
“I wasn’t askin’,” you counter firmly, mustering up the same voice you use in the schoolhouse when a child thinks they might try their luck.
Steve’s brows pull together. “You don’t know what you’re suggestin’.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.” Bucky cuts in, which only makes you angrier. “This life ain’t—”
“Ain’t what?” you return. “For a lady?”
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.
“After last night, I think any claim I had to bein’ a lady has been thoroughly mishandled.”
A flush climbs through the rough gold of Steve’s 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. 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.
“I’m a schoolteacher in a town that’s been dyin’ for years,” you continue. “Folk still smile at me like I’m 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 Steve’s death.”
Steve’s face falls, and he looks at you with such earnest guilt that you have to look away or you’ll lose the nerve to finish. Your eyes sting badly enough that you have to blink hard and focus on staring at the floorboards.
“I’m no fool,” you say. “I know what I’m sayin’. Long days. Cold nights. Men with guns behind us. I know it won’t be some grand adventure out of a penny paper.” You lift your head again. “But I want a life I choose. I want more than waitin’ in this house for grief to come find me. And I want to be with you.”
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. “You’d have to listen.”
“To both of us,” Bucky adds. “When it counts. If Steve says run, you run. If I say stay put, you don’t move a muscle.”
“You’ll ride until you ache,” Steve says, eyes searching your face for the first sign of regret. “Sleep under open sky. Eat beans out of a tin when there’s nothing else. Go without a proper bed more often than you’ll have one.”
Bucky leans his hip against the table, arms folding, his expression hard despite the tired edge of him. “And you’ll keep that shotgun close. Learn a pistol too, whether you like it or not. Pretty face won’t do much good if Rumlow catches up.”
“I’ll do it,” you agree, looking at Steve first, then Bucky, making yourself hold both their gazes long enough for them to see there’s fear in you, plenty of it. Just none useful enough to change your mind. “I’ll do it all, I promise.”
They seem satisfied enough to move again, almost. Steve’s hand twitches toward the supplies, Bucky’s eyes flick to the door. But you stop them before the moment can run away from you.
“The only thing I won’t do,” you continue, quieter, “is watch either of you die. I’ll skip that scene, if you don’t mind.”
Steve’s hand closes around yours before you can busy yourself with anything else, or turn away and pretend the words weren’t all too honest.
“Once we go,” his eyes hold steady on yours, “we go.”
There’s warning in it, but there’s promise too. You squeeze his hand in confirmation.
“Then let’s go.”
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 pass 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 there’s 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.
He’s always warm - despite the nickname - and complains when your cold hands slip under his coat in the mornings, but never makes you move them.
It’s on one such morning that the question slips out before it’s even fully formed in your head. Absent in its curiosity.
“Bucky?”
He turns his head back slightly, catching your face in the corner of his eye. “Hmm?”
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 he’s not listening and close enough you know he is.
“Do you ever wonder, if I’d met you first, that we’d be the ones the get involved?”
Bucky makes a thoughtful sound, as though this is a matter requiring serious study. “But we are involved, sugar.”
You lift your head. “Are we?”
“You’re ridin’ my horse with me.” His hand covers yours where it rests against his stomach, thumb brushing once over your knuckles. “In some countries, that’s the same as being married.”
Steve glances back over his shoulder. “Name one.”
“Plenty, Stevie,” Bucky shoots back without missing a beat. “Just ‘cause you ain’t a romantic don’t mean it ain’t true.”
“That mean you don’t know any?”
“Means I’m a man of mystery, Rogers. Let me have that.”
You laugh into Bucky’s 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 Bucky’s directions. Bucky mocks Steve’s caution. Steve tells him caution is the reason he’s still alive, and Bucky retorts, “Barely,” with a pointed look at the bandage under his shirt.
You learn to sit between it and smile into the back of Bucky’s 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 it’s too much - of course he doesn’t. 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 you’re 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, Bucky’s coat under your head, Steve’s hand tucked around your waist, pleased now he can finally pull you close.
You learn quickly; you have to.
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.
Rumlow stays behind you like bad weather you can’t outride, always somewhere on the edge of the horizon. Some days there’s 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 Steve’s 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 Bucky’s 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.
“We need money,” Bucky says one evening, poking at the fire with a stick.
Steve doesn’t look up from the map. “I know.”
“We need quite a bit of money.”
“I know.”
You look between them. “Why do I get the feelin’ neither of you is about to suggest honest work?”
Bucky grins. Steve sighs.
A plan is soon in place, and you quickly realise you aren’t just being given soft work. They aren’t just tucking you safely away and asking you to wait pretty by the horses. No, you’re the distraction. Steve watches your face intently whilst they explain your part, 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.
“Mean little thing when you’re nervous,” Bucky murmurs.
“You’d know better than to test me, then,” you snap back, much to his delight.
And that’s 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, there’s a saddle under your hips, stolen money in Steve’s 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 you’d expect for a man who just planned and executed a successful robbery.
“You know,” he considers, tilting his head. “When I was a kid, I always figured on bein’ a hero when I grew up.”
“Too late now,” Bucky shoots back instantly.
Steve turns in the saddle, mouth pulled into an exaggerated pout that almost looks genuinely hurt by the insinuation. “You didn’t have to say that—What’d you have to say that for?”
“Because we just robbed a bank and you’re gettin’ wistful about virtue. Felt like someone ought to keep you on track.”
You laugh before you can stop yourself, and Steve looks betrayed for all of half a second before his own mouth gives him away.
“I could still be heroic,” he argues.
“Of course, Stevie,” you soothe, reaching over to squeeze his arm. “And if heroism ever starts includin’ bank robbery, you’ll be the first man I nominate.”
Steve shakes his head, but there’s warmth in it. There’s warmth amongst all three of you now. 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, it’s mercifully large enough to have a hotel, though only just. 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.
You’ve 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. “Name?”
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. Steve’s hat shadows most of his face, though there is only so much a brim can do against a jaw like his. Then the clerk’s gaze drops to you, lingering on the plain dress, the tired hem, the cheap ring on your finger where your hand rests neatly against Steve’s sleeve.
“Long road?” he asks.
“Long enough,” you answer before Steve can, sweet and harmless. “My husband’s been poor company since noon.”
The clerk’s mouth twitches. “That so?”
“I get hungry,” Steve says.
“He gets sulky,” 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.
“Cabin four,” he says. “Out and to the right.”
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.
Tonight, the empty space at your back bothers you more than it ought to, and you drift off feeling faintly abandoned by both outlaws.
Until finally you stir to the mattress dipping behind you and warmth settling along your back. It’s broad and familiar enough that your half-asleep mind doesn’t ask questions. Instead, you arch back into him, pleased to have your outlaw close, fitting your ass against his hips.
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.
“Took you long enough,” 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, 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.
“Stevie,” you whine, catching his wrist again. “Quit makin’ me ask.”
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.
“That’s it, honey.” You hear Steve drawl, but his voice doesn’t come from behind you. “Keep grindin’ that pretty ass over Buck’s cock, he’s been waitin’ weeks to feel how sweet you are.”
Your eyes snap open.
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 he’s 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.
“Easy, pretty girl,” he coos, voice dropping softer. “You’re alright. Ain’t nobody cross with you.”
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 you’re awake, and the restraint loosens something in your chest.
You sink back against him again, and a quiet, needy “Steve” slips from your mouth.
“Well, quit teasin’ him then, sweetheart. You dragged Buck’s hand down to that needy pussy yourself.” His eyes stay on yours, smile turning wicked. “You want him to touch you, don’t you?”
You nod, “Yes, Stevie, please.”
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.
“Christ,” Bucky breathes, the word warm against your neck. “You’re soaked through darlin’.”
Your hips chase his hand before you can help it, opening wider as his fingers circle your clit. He parts you slowly, gathering the mess of you over his fingertips before circling your clit. And God, does he learn quickly. Taking each broken breath and twitch of your thighs as instruction, until your body is rolling against him with shameless impatience.
“That feel good?” he murmurs. “Been wondering how sweet you’d get for me.”
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.
“Yeah, I can feel that.” One finger presses into your pussy, drawing a thin moan from you as he works it deeper. “Taking me so easy. Such a good girl for us.”
Bucky pushes a second finger into your pussy, and the stretch of them pulls a broken moan from you. His hand is rougher than Steve’s, 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 Bucky’s knuckles.
“That it?” he asks against your skin. “Right there, sugar?”
“Yes—God, Buck—”
Bucky curses when your walls tighten around him. “She’s so damn sweet, Stevie.”
Steve’s mouth curves.
“If you think she’s sweet around your fingers,” he says, voice low enough to make your stomach clench, “wait till you get a taste of her.”
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.
“That eager, darlin’?”
“Yes,” you gasp, spreading your thighs wider to accommodate those broad shoulders. “Please.”
Steve leans back in the chair, hand now palming over his cock as he watches.
“Go on, Buck,” he drawls. “Show her that mouth’s good for something besides bein’ a clever jackass.”
The first slow drag of Bucky’s tongue 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.
“There,” Steve rumbles, hand pressing harder over his thick length, still trapped beneath too much fabric. “She likes it right there. Don’t rush her, Buck. Keep your tongue flat and make her grind on it.”
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.
“That’s it,” Bucky praises against you. “Good girl. Use me.”
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.
“Buck—Steve—God—”
Their names tangle together as Bucky curls his fingers into the place that makes your thighs shake. 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 quickly 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.
“Easy, darlin’,” he soothes, breathless against you. “I’ve got you. Let me have it.”
But you can’t. You need more. Need both of them.
Your hand reaches blindly toward Steve even though he’s still too far away, fingers stretching uselessly through the space between you as his name leaves you in a broken plea. “Stevie.”
He’s out of the chair before the word has finished. Steve comes to the bedside and catches your reaching hand, pressing it against his chest as he bends over you.
“I’m here, pretty girl,” he coos. “You close?”
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 Bucky’s tongue flicks hard over your clit again.
You moan against Steve’s lips as his hand slides into Bucky’s hair.
“Closer, Buck,” Steve pants into your mouth, pushing him more firmly between your thighs. “She’s trying to run from it. Don’t let her.”
Bucky groans and buries his face deeper, lips and tongue turning greedy while Steve kisses you through every broken sound. The hand in Bucky’s hair holds him just where you need him, and Steve’s other palm cups your jaw, keeping your mouth against his as your body begins to lose all control.
“That’s my best girl,” Steve praises between kisses. “Lettin’ me share this sweet pussy with Buck. Look how greedy you’ve got him.”
Your fingers knot in Steve’s shirt as your hips rise hard against Bucky’s 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 Steve’s name breaking against his lips and Bucky’s muffled beneath it, your whole body shuddering as slick spills over Bucky’s 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 Bucky’s hair.
Bucky lifts his head slowly, mouth shining and eyes dark with satisfaction, looking every bit as wrecked as you feel. He’s knelt between your thighs, one hand warm against your hip, whilst Steve is still leant over you. It leaves them close enough that Steve’s gaze has nowhere else to fall but Bucky’s mouth.
“Fuck Stevie,” he breathes, wiping his thumb beneath his lip only to suck the taste from it. “Can’t believe you kept her to yourself for so long. Greedy bastard.”
But Steve’s gaze is too focused on Bucky’s swollen lips, glistening with your arousal, for his brain to think of a response. His tongue flicks out absently, 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. Steve’s hand stays curled around his jaw. Bucky’s fingers bunch in the front of Steve’s shirt. The rough scrape of stubble and the unfamiliar shape of another man’s 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 Bucky’s mouth with a low groan, greedy for every trace of you left on his tongue. 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.
Steve’s tongue pushes deeper into Bucky’s mouth, licking over his lips and teeth as though Bucky has become another place from which Steve can take his fill. Bucky groans, one hand sliding around the back of Steve’s neck while the other tightens possessively on your thigh. 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 Bucky’s chin. Steve’s 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 Bucky’s hand drops between them. His palm settles over Steve’s straining cock, and Steve groans into the kiss. 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 Steve’s 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. Bucky’s mouth is red and wet, Steve’s no better, and neither of them moves for a moment as they watch your fingers circle desperately between your thighs.
“Well, look at her,” Bucky murmurs, his hand still cupped around Steve. “Got herself all worked up watching us.”
You whine softly, pressing harder against your clit.
Steve’s eyes darken. “Poor pretty thing.”
Bucky gives Steve’s cock another slow squeeze, making his jaw tighten. “Reckon we ought to find that mouth something to do besides whine.”
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 Steve’s trousers slowly at first, then surer when Steve does nothing to stop him. His hand closes around Steve’s 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 Bucky’s fist when he gives one cautious stroke.
Steve’s 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. Steve’s 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. You’ve 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. Steve’s 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. Steve’s 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.
“Now that ain’t kind,” he murmurs, gathering your hair away from your face with one hand. “Stevie’s been real good, lettin’ me have my fill of you, and here you are making him suffer for it.”
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. Bucky’s fingers tighten in your hair.
“Think you oughta thank him proper.”
The push is slow but firm, guiding you down Steve’s 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 Steve’s thighs, and the sound Steve makes is loud enough to fill the room.
His forehead drops against Bucky’s.
“Fuck,” he groans straight into Bucky’s mouth, breath breaking between them while your throat works helplessly around his cock. “Sweet girl, always so damn good to me.”
The praise goes straight through you. You moan around him, and Steve curses as the vibration rolls over his cock.
Bucky’s grip settles more firmly in your hair, guiding you back until Steve’s 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 Steve’s hips twitch, holding you in place long enough to make him feel the wet heat of your mouth before easing you back again. 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.
Then Steve seems to decide he’s had enough of Bucky being the only one left with any composure. His hand drops between you, fumbling once at Bucky’s trousers before dragging them open. Bucky’s breath breaks into the kiss when Steve wraps a fist around his cock, giving him an experimental stroke.
“Stevie,” Bucky groans against his lips.
Steve’s 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.
“Goddamn, sugar, look at you,” he breathes , looking down at the wet heat waiting behind you. “Spread wide and drippin’ all over yourself for my cock.”
Steve follows his gaze.
His fist slows around Bucky’s cock, drawing the swollen head through the mess between your thighs. You whimper around Steve as Bucky’s cock slides over your clit and nudges against your entrance.
Bucky presses forward slowly, teasing you with every inch of his cock. He isn’t 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.
“Fuck me, Steve,” Bucky groans, driving in until his hips meet your ass. “You been fillin’ this pussy every chance you get and she’s still tight enough to choke my cock.”
Steve’s 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. Steve’s 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.
Steve’s 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 Bucky’s cock reaches so deep your legs threaten to give beneath you.
“Look at her, Buck,” Steve rumbles, watching your lips stretch around him. “Can’t decide which cock she wants more, so she’s takin’ both like the greedy little thing she is.”
Bucky groans and drives in deeper, his hips pressing flush to your ass, causing your mouth to jolt forward around Steve. “She loves it, Stevie. Can feel her squeezin’ me every time you push down her throat.”
Your walls clench hard around Bucky at the filth in their words, milking his cock as another broken moan vibrates around Steve’s.
“Think she likes hearing us talk about her.”
Steve’s gaze drops to you again, dark with affection and something far less gentle.
“Course she does,” he murmurs, thumb brushing through the spit shining on your chin. “Our filthy girl likes knowing she’s got both her outlaws pleased.”
Bucky’s thrusts begin to turn rougher behind you, each one driving you further onto Steve’s cock whilst Steve keeps one hand cradled against your jaw, thumb catching the drool that slips from the corner of your mouth. They feel your orgasm building, your pussy gripping Bucky and your moans breaking around Steve, and they chase it without mercy.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” Steve groans, eyes fixed on yours. “Come for us. Let Buck feel what that greedy pussy does when she gets everything she wants.”
Bucky’s hand tightens in your hair as his hips snap into you again. “Go on, sugar. Come all over my cock while you choke on his. Show us how good we make you feel.”
It’s 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. It’s 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. “That’s it darlin’,” Bucky growls as your pussy milks him, hips stuttering against your ass. “Keep choking me like that and I’m gonna paint this pretty back with my come.”
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 Bucky’s cum. It’s enough to break him, spilling down 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 Bucky’s palm smooths over your hip.
“Such a sweet little thing,” Bucky murmurs behind you, still breathless. “Think your girl likes being shared, Steve.”
Steve’s 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.
“Our girl.”
The next morning, you stir to Steve trying to leave the bed without disturbing you. 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.
“Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”
You answer by tightening your fingers around his wrist, unwilling to surrender the place you have spent the night tucked between your two outlaws. Steve’s 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.
“There,” Bucky mumbles into your hair. “Quit fussin’.”
You melt into him happily enough, eyes drifting shut again while Steve dresses nearby. Buck’s 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.
But then Steve’s curse cuts through the quiet.
“Buck.”
Bucky doesn’t move immediately. “Mm?”
“Get up.”
The tension in Steve’s voice does what the words alone can’t. Bucky’s 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.
“What is it?” Bucky asks, reaching for his trousers.
Steve lets the curtain fall back into place. “We’ve got company.”
Bucky crosses the room barefoot, keeping himself close to the wall as he looks out. His expression hardens. “How many?”
“Too many.”
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.
“Stay back from the window.”
“What’s happening?”
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.
“Steve,” you push, and when Steve glances back at you, the desperation on your face is enough to make him stop pretending.
“Street’s surrounded,” he finally admits. “Sheriff’s got men covering the front, both ends of the alley and the stable yard. More on the roofs across from us.”
The words make you freeze. “How did they find us?”
Steve looks toward the door, jaw working once. “Maybe the clerk didn’t buy our performance after all.”
Bucky looks through the curtain again, studying the street below. “Back window?”
“Two men in the alley, three more watching the yard. We’d need to draw them round the front first.”
They continue to move through possibilities quickly, cutting each one down almost as soon as it’s spoken. There are too many men. That’s 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.
“No.”
Steve’s face closes. “Sweetheart—”
“No.”
Bucky sets the rifle down. “Sugar, listen.”
“I know that look.” Your voice shakes despite every effort to steady it. “You’re working out how to get me clear.”
Steve crosses to you, hands finding your cheeks and tilting your face to his. “Buck and I will draw them towards the front, and once they’re focused on us, you slip through the yard and take the first horse you can reach.”
Your eyes burn as you look between them. “And what chance does it give you?”
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 wouldn’t share. You would endure the cold, the hunger, the long days in the saddle and every bullet sent chasing after them, but you wouldn’t 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.
“You take the horse south,” he says. “Don’t stop in the next town. Just keep goin’ ‘till you can’t.”
You search their faces for another answer and find none. They’re terrified - you know them well enough now to see it. But they’re simply more frightened for you than they are for themselves. So you nod.
Steve’s hands linger against your cheeks for another second before he releases you, and Bucky’s thumb brushes the back of your neck once more before both men turn away, returning to plan as they let you dress.
Your fingers feel clumsy fastening your stays, though you force them through each familiar movement, pulling on yesterday’s dress and tying your hair back with shaking hands. Bucky crouches beside the bed and spreads their remaining cartridges across the floorboards, counting beneath his breath until a thought makes him pause with one round still caught between his fingers.
“Wait a minute - you didn’t see Rumlow out there, did you?”
Steve glances over from the rifle. “Rumlow? No. Why?”
“Thank God for that.” Bucky exhales and drops the cartridge onto the pile. “For a minute there, I thought we were in trouble.”
Steve’s expression flattens while a startled laugh escapes you despite everything, and the crooked grin Bucky sends your way suggests that was precisely what he’d been aiming for.
Steve returns to checking the rifle with a quiet shake of his head. “Idiot.”
Bucky’s smirk lingers only a moment before the boys begin getting ready in earnest.
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.
It’s Steve who comes to you first. 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.
“Promise me you’ll run,” Steve begs against your lips.
Before you can respond, Bucky adds “And don’t look back.”
You turn toward him, already crying despite the effort you’ve made not to. Bucky’s 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.
“You promise us, sugar,” he murmurs against your mouth. “You hear the gunfire, you run.”
Your bottom lip trembles, tears spilling freely, but you manage to keep you voice steady enough to reply “I promise.”
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.
“Sheriff’s moved two more men toward the front,” he observes, peering through the narrow gap in the curtains. “Looks like they’re expecting us to make a grand entrance.”
Steve cocks his gun. “Well, I’d hate to disappoint.”
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. They stand beside the door with their weapons ready, drawing one steadying breath before looking at each other.
“Till the end of the line,” Steve says.
Bucky’s answer comes without hesitation. “Always.”
Then they burst through the front door.
Gunfire erupts immediately, deafening in the close quarters, answered by the heavy crack of Steve’s revolver and the sharper report of Bucky’s 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 they’re 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. i’m tinkerbell coded. love u <33
american pie. | steve and bucky (18+)
ᯓ★ chapter one. the dbf! mini-series masterlist.
⤷ dbf!steve rogers x f!reader x dbf!bucky barnes
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, dad's best friend au, sexual tension, age gap, forbidden relationships, dips into taboo territory, jealousy, possessive behavior, size difference, they both have dad bods and big dicks bc I said so, mentions of alcoholism and recovery, love marks, groping, dry humping
⭐︎ word count: 10.9k
⭐︎ a/n: i've been wanting to write some sort of dbf fic inspired by the song "im on fire" by bruce springsteen, and what better way to do it then make it fourth of july americana themed? here goes the first part, and i hope you guys like it! link to the fic playlist if you'd like to follow along :)
synopsis:
Your dad always kept his inner circle of friends small and close. Steve Rogers was one of them. He was respectful, kind, and someone you looked up to and trusted. What you didn't understand, though, was how your dad could also be best friends with a broody, grumpy man like Bucky Barnes. But when your dad leaves for a work trip over the Fourth of July, Bucky decides to remind you exactly why he’s so close with your father—except Steve keeps getting in his way to stop him.
← previous fic | main masterlist
You and your dad always had a plan for the Fourth of July weekend.
In the morning, you both would go to the 24-hour diner just a few blocks away in your pajamas and order the classic All American Breakfast. It was a tower of buttermilk pancakes with a side of bacon and sunny side up eggs cooked to perfection.
By noon, you’d be swimming with friends and family under the bright, burning sunlight while your dad took over the backyard. He would have the grill ready, making the best burgers— the kind that were a little burnt at the edges, and hot dogs that were charred and crispy on the outside but soft and juicy on the inside.
Beers and seltzers would already be chilled in the coolers, the ice nearly melted because it couldn’t keep up with the summer heat, and you’d crack a cold one just as the sun went down and the fireworks began to light up the sky.
Fourth of July weekend was the holiday you looked forward to most—so when your dad told you he wouldn’t be home for it, you could only imagine your disappointment.
You were lying in your bedroom with every intention of sleeping in since every plan for the weekend was out window, but the sun piercing through the glass window and the sound of rustling in the living room downstairs woke you up.
Climbing out of bed tiredly, your bare feet padded softly down the wooden steps. You were still rubbing the sleep out of your eyes by the time you reached the kitchen.
“Dad?” you mumbled sleepily. “You’re home already—?”
Once the sleepy vision fog cleared, what you found in your kitchen was not your father, but rather...
“Not your daddy,” Steve said, turning to face you from the kitchen island. He set the mail he’d just picked up and his spare keys down on the counter. “But someone better.”
The spare keys.
The ones your dad had lent to Steve for ‘emergencies’—which he never actually used them for but instead used them to come over whenever he wanted, watch TV, and crash on the couch. But you didn’t mind, because you liked and respected Steve.
Plus, it had been a while since you had last seen him.
“Well, are you just gonna stand there and gawk? Or are you gonna give your good ol’ Steve a hug?”
You flashed a droopy, sleepy grin as you met him at the counter. Getting up on your tippy toes, you raised your hands to wrap them around his neck, and he returned the gesture with a tight hug around your waist.
“Mmm,” he hummed with a squeeze. “There she is.”
“What are you doing here, Stevie?” you asked as you pulled away.
“What? You don’t like seeing your dad’s favorite best friend over?” he asked with a playful grin and a matching head tilt.
You chuckled tiredly. “That’s not it, and you know it. It’s just… what brings you here? My dad isn’t even in town.”
“That’s the point, sweetie.” He leaned back against the counter, folding his large arms over his broad chest.
You swore he was too old to be wearing shirts that were always one size too small for him.
“I know how much celebrating the Fourth of July means to you—and since he’s out of town… well… I figured I’d take over the celebration.”
You crossed your arms and raised a brow, half suspicious yet half amused. “Did he make you do this?”
“What? No. I’m doing this out of the kindness of my old heart,” he chuckled lightly. “And besides, I wouldn’t want to celebrate my birthday alone this year. So… how ‘bout it? A fun weekend with just you and me?”
Hanging out with Steve on the Fourth of July weekend was far better than doing nothing all alone. And by hanging out with Steve, it meant he’d pay for everything—breakfast and all. You knew you couldn’t turn him down—not that you wanted to—but you still wanted to try and pull his leg.
“I don’t know,” you sighed dramatically, running a finger along the tile of the counter. “You should’ve asked me a lot sooner. My friends already planned something this week.”
You didn’t even need to look up to see Steve’s frown.
“But it’s also my birthday,” he said pathetically. “You wouldn’t leave me all alone on the Fourth of July now, would you?”
You had to bite back a smile. He looked like a kicked golden retriever. It was never a question of how or why your dad became friends with Steve Rogers—he was just too much of a likable guy all around.
“Well, since you’re asking so nicely—I guess I’ll spend it with you.”
His smile was so wide it was contagious.
“That’s my girl.”
Steve swiped the keys off the counter and twirled the keychain around his rough finger. “Your dad told me all about your guys’ adventures over a beer one time. Wouldn’t shut up about it. So the only right way to do this is by starting off with breakfast at a diner, right?”
Your lips quirked into a half smile as you bit your lip. “Not just any diner. It’s Mama Joann’s, just a few blocks away. And not just any breakfast, either. We get the—”
“—All American,” Steve finished with a smug grin. “I know. Your old man talks a lot.”
He pocketed his phone and wallet into his jeans and nodded towards the front door. “I’ll get the car started. Go on and get dressed now.”
When you didn’t move an inch, he paused and raised a brow at you.
“Guess my ‘old man’ forgot to mention during his ramblings that we actually go in our pajamas,” you explained, waving a finger at him. “So technically—you’re the one who isn't dressed.”
Steve’s face was unreadable as he scratched at the stubble on his chin.
“Honey, if you wanted to see me in nothing but my underwear, you should’ve just told me.”
Your face immediately warmed at his bold statement. “Y-you—! What—!”
But before you could even stammer out a coherent sentence, Steve was already walking out the front door to wait for you.
A red 1966 Ford Mustang was parked at the curb of your house. It was an old thing that made more odd sounds than it did distance.
It was Steve’s pride and joy—that typical man project he was always working on in his garage. He rarely ever took it out, occasionally driving it around the neighborhood just to keep the engine breathing. You guessed he had actually planned on spending time with you this weekend before today, because he’d gotten it all fixed up and ready just for you.
The car creaked and groaned as it made its way to Mama Joann’s, the radio connected to an aux cord playing Bob Dylan—his favorite.
He had the top down, leaving your hair to whip wildly in the wind. You caught him glancing at you through the side mirrors.
“What are you staring at, Stevie?” you asked without looking at him.
Steve held the wheel with one hand, while the other rested casually on the gear shift. “Nothin’,” he said, a grin evident in his tone. “It’s just… your pajamas.”
“And what about them?” You looked down at yourself, peering over the rim of your sunglasses. You were wearing a soft white tank top and a pair of light pink plaid sleeping shorts. “Did you take me out to breakfast just to make fun of my sleeping clothes?”
He chuckled—deep and raspy. He glanced over at you, blue eyes dancing over the rim of his own dark sunglasses as they traced the curve of your bare leg up to your tank top. You realized just then that you weren’t wearing a bra, since you never slept in one and hadn’t bothered to put one on.
“Not making fun of you, sweetie,” he said, pinning his focus back on the road. “Just think the shorts are cute and all.”
Despite the wind blowing in your face, you still felt warm.
Finally pulling into Mama Joann’s busy parking lot, Steve stepped out of the car.
When riding with Steve, he never let you open the doors yourself. He would quickly park, scramble over to your side, and hold the door open for you. Every time he did it, your dad would always say, “See what Uncle Stevie does for you? This is why I won’t let you settle for anybody less.”
“Thank you,” you said with a smile, grabbing his hand. “But you know you don’t have to do that when my dad’s not around, right?”
“When has your dad being here ever mattered?” he asked genuinely, raising an eyebrow as he shut the door behind you and locked it.
You shrugged. “You know how he is—he’ll always be like, ‘Look at Steve! When you get a boyfriend, make sure he respects you like Steve does,’ yadayada.”
A short snort left his lips as he held the diner door open for you. “Honey, I don’t think there’s any man out there who’ll be respectable enough for you anyway. It’s best you save yourself from the disappointment and stay single.”
You raised a brow at that. Sometimes, you found him acting more paternal than your actual father did with how often he lectured you.
The bell chimed with a welcoming jingle, and Steve stepped in right behind you.
As always, Joann was walking around with a black apron wrapped around her waist, refilling the coffee cups of everyone seated at the booths. The bell chiming caught her attention, and she smiled upon seeing you.
“There you are!” she greeted so loudly it caused the customers to look up at you and Steve. “You had me believin’ for a second that you’d be missin’ out on a yearly tradition.”
She set the pot down, motioning to the booth by the window that she always gave to you and your dad.
Speaking of which…
“Now, this handsome man next to you ain’t your daddy,” she said, nodding to the six foot two man standing right beside you. “Who’s this? And is he single?” she asked shamelessly.
Steve chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’m Steve—a good friend of her dad’s.”
“Hey, Joann,” you waved with a smile. “My dad is out of town for a work trip, so Steve insisted on taking me out for the Fourth of July weekend.”
You two slid into the booth as Joann laid two menus over the sticky wooden table.
“Well, ain’t he sweet,” she cooed. “I know you and your dad always get the All American, but in case your friend here wants somethin’ different, I’ll give you guys some time to look over the menu.”
Then, before leaving, she threw a wink in Steve’s direction, though she was talking to you. “And if Mr. Steve wants to hang out with someone more… age-appropriate—just know that the folks in town call me Mama for a reason—”
“—Okay, thanks, Joann!” you quickly dismissed her with a burning face and an embarrassed wave of your hand.
Steve chuckled, lifting the menu and leaning back in the booth. It looked way too small for a man his size with the way he filled the space.
“She’s a sweetheart, isn’t she?” he joked.
You blew a raspberry and gave him a look, glancing at your own menu despite already knowing what you were going to order. “Should I invite her back over to have breakfast with us, then?”
Steve grinned wolfishly. If he didn’t know any better, he might’ve assumed you were jealous. His eyes raked over the menu. “So, the All American, you said?”
You nodded enthusiastically, looking giddy as you smiled brightly over the top of the menu. “It’s the best thing here. Joann’s buttermilk pancakes are the best—better than anything you can get from a chain.”
You pointed to where it said ‘with a side of bacon and sausage’ on the menu, and tapped on the bacon text. “And make sure to get the bacon extra crispy.”
“Geez,” Steve huffed a laugh, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling up handsomely. “Sounds like you and your dad know what you’re doing.”
You laughed at the fond memory of your father taking you to this same diner since you were a little girl. The fact that he wasn’t here to celebrate was saddening, but you couldn’t have asked for a better man to spend it with than Steve.
You watched as he reached for his coffee mug, his large hands cradling the ceramic. It looked tiny and weightless in his grip, the tight hold emphasizing the veins and roughness of his hands. He lifted the mug to his lips, blowing on it gently before swallowing in slow gulps that made his Adam’s apple bob.
You swallowed hard and tried to avert your gaze so he wouldn’t catch you staring. But instead, your eyes trailed lower to his built chest and the way his stomach slightly pushed against his tight shirt.
He set his mug down and glanced up.
He caught you staring, and he smiled.
You quickly tried to save face.
“Yeah, um—I bet the calorie intake will probably throw off your entire game,” you stammered out with a chuckle that sounded awkward and nervous. Jesus. What were you saying?
‘Nervous’, however, wasn’t in Steve’s vocabulary.
Awkward? Probably.
“What?” he frowned.
Steve glanced down at himself, noticing his slouch and the way his belly seemed… a bit softer as of late. He had one too many steaks and far too many beers.
He looked back up at you, his grin turning slow and lazy. He rested his large forearms on the edge of the table, leaning in just enough to make himself look even more imposing.
“What’s the matter?” he murmured, his voice dropping deep and gravelly in a way that made your nerves dance. “A girl like you doesn’t like a man with a little meat on his bones?”
Your breath hitched and your eyes widened. Before you could even stammer out a response, he continued.
“Besides,” his blue eyes twinkled with amusement as he maintained eye contact, “don’t you think I need a little extra fuel if I’m gonna keep up with you all weekend? Unless you’re planning on keeping me busy enough to burn it all off, that is.”
It was way too early for Steve fucking Rogers, of all people, to be making you feel this way.
This unexpected, flustered and butterflies-in-your-stomach type of feeling caused by your own father’s best friend.
You had never seen Steve in any light other than as your father’s highly respectable, closest friend. At this point, you couldn’t tell if he was just taunting you like he normally did, or if he was actually flirting. But with the way he was looking and smiling at you—no.
Surely, he wouldn’t take that risk.
Then again, with your dad out of town, maybe there was a side to Steve he usually kept hidden—one you knew nothing about, but was now curious to unravel.
Desperate for a distraction, you grabbed your own coffee mug, which had cooled down enough for you to swallow it in big, hasty gulps.
“Easy, girl.”
“Just…” you wiped your lips, “…thirsty.”
Steve grinned. “Coffee is a diuretic, silly goose.”
And there was the taunt. You mentally groaned, wanting to kick yourself for even entertaining the possibility that Steve would ever blur the line between himself and his best friend’s daughter.
“It’s too early for you to be teasing me like this, Stevie,” you mumbled shyly, tracing your finger along the wooden table.
Steve wore a wolfish grin, resting both of his large arms on the table as they crossed over each other, taking up even more space in the tiny booth. “Sorry, I can’t help it,” he snickered. “Especially when you react the way you do.”
“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean—” you started to say, but your words died in your throat as a large presence that was hard to ignore fell over the booth.
“What do we have here?”
The voice was gruff and deep, lacking the playful warmth you and Steve had just been exchanging. You and Steve both froze, staring up at Bucky, who stood at the edge of the table holding his own coffee mug. His expression was unreadable, his sharp eyes glancing back and forth between the two of you as you sat there completely dumbfounded.
He raised a brow at your silent, wide eyed stares. “There a party going on that I don’t know about?”
While your father was best friends with Steve, you didn’t know how your father also managed to become best friends with a man like Bucky Barnes.
Growing up, Bucky had his share of good moments—he helped you learn how to drive, despite snapping at you impatiently whenever you hit the curb. He picked you up from parties whenever you were too drunk to get yourself home, and he would often spoil you with sweet treats or something he found at a store, always with a simple, “Saw this running errands, thought you might like it.”
But, in return, Bucky also had plenty of bad moments.
He was incredibly specific about how he liked things. If you ever tried to help him or your dad with something—like the grill or fixing a drink— Bucky would already be over your shoulder, nudging you away and taking the tongs right out of your hands.
“I got it. You’re just making a mess.”
There were times where you would be dressed up to go out with friends, and he would be sitting on the porch with your dad for a smoke. He would look you up and down, eyes lingering, and say something like, “You’re really going out looking like that? Go put a jacket on.”
Or sometimes, when your dad was away and you needed a hand around the house whether it be checking on the locks or fixing a leak, Bucky would show up, but he’d be short tempered the entire time. He would constantly scoff while he worked, acting like he had a million better places to be.
Your dad always told you that Bucky was part of the family—that it was just how he was, and that was how he showed his love.
But you didn’t buy it.
You felt like he had something personal against you.
And… it also felt like he might have something personal against Steve, too.
“Bucky,” Steve greeted, though it sounded more like a warning.
Or maybe, it was Steve that had something personal against him.
Bucky’s eyes flickered down to meet Steve’s, holding his gaze for a long moment. “Steve.”
While the two men stared at each other in a silent competition, you took this opportunity to take in Bucky. He wore a dark leather jacket that had seen better days with a white tank top—that strained against his thick lower belly—tucked beneath his belt and jeans.
Bucky tore his gaze away from Steve to look down at you.
“Well?” Bucky’s lips tugged into a lazy, tired smirk. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
There were times when Bucky would disappear, going M.I.A. for weeks at a time. It had gotten to the point where even your father had gotten involved, leaving late at night, scrambling out the door with nothing but a hasty, “Don’t wait up for me, okay? Uncle Bucky is… uh, going through something and he needs me right now.”
It hadn’t taken you long to piece together that your father kept having to pick him up from bars, or even the police station. Yet despite his recent wrongdoings, just like your father, you still had a soft spot for him that you could never push away, no matter how much he worried you.
“Of course I am,” you finally said.
Even with your lack of enthusiasm, Bucky seemed pleased with your answer. His leather jacket creaked as he gestured with his coffee mug to the empty spot on the bench right next to you. “Mind if I sit? Or is this seat reserved for someone else?”
“Sit down, Buck,” Steve said. All the warmth he had shared with you gone and thrown out the window now that Bucky was here. “We were just about to order.”
Bucky glanced at Steve, pursing his lips as he gave a short nod. “Good.”
He set his mug down on the wooden table and slid right next to you in the booth. His denim clad knee brushed roughly against your bare leg, making you shudder and feel even smaller. “Because I’m starving.”
Bucky rested his hands on the table, intertwining his fingers. He looked like he worked with his hands, and he smelled like Marlboro Reds.
You could see the dirt trapped underneath his fingernails, his skin calloused—the rough texture of someone who spent his life either fixing things or breaking them. He scratched the stubble on his chin.
Just like Steve, it looked like he hadn’t shaved in weeks.
He caught your gaze and smiled, letting his eyes trail down to your legs. “Cute pajamas.”
Steve’s eyebrow twitched.
“Thanks,” you said shyly, looking down and playing with a stray string that had come loose from your shorts. “My dad—well, when he’s actually in town—likes to take me to this diner on the morning of the Fourth of July weekend. It’s usually our tradition.”
While Steve already knew your tradition with your father like the back of his hand, Bucky had no clue.
“Ain’t that sweet,” Bucky hummed in amusement, giving you his full attention. “What else do you and your dad do? I wanna hear all about it.”
You smiled just thinking about it. “We always host—”
“—a party in their backyard, grilling burgers, drinking beer, and swimming,” Steve cut in, taking a sip of his coffee as he glared a sharp dagger straight into Bucky’s eyes. “The one he hosted last year was fun. And the one before that too. It’s a shame you missed it, Buck.”
Steve wasn’t being sympathetic at all, and both of you knew it. He was being petty, even immature, throwing it in Bucky's face that he hadn’t been around for any of the holidays—or that he didn't even know your father was out of town, for that matter.
Bucky’s jaw clenched, but he kept his smile up, trying to save face just for you.
“Is that right?” he murmured. “Guess I had some important business to take care of last summer. But I’m here now, Stevie. So why don’t you fill me in on what else I missed?
Steve had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something offensive.
“You missed a lot, Buck,” Steve said flatly. “More than you think.”
You sat there, sandwiched between a tension that was rapidly becoming suffocating.
It was clear that whatever Steve and Bucky had going on—which you had no clue about—they never communicated or resolved. You figured it might have had something to do with Bucky and his recent downward spiral—traveling down a wrong, bumpy path with signs that led to nowhere. But you weren’t going to sit here and become their mediator.
Clearing your throat, you caught both of their attention.
“I have to use the bathroom,” you announced. “If Joann comes by, you already know what to order for me. Bucky, will you excuse me, please?”
Bucky nodded before sliding out of the seat. He offered his hand to help you out of the booth, and the two older men watched you walk off towards the restroom. As you left, Bucky wore a grin that Steve knew all too well—a smile that meant nothing but trouble.
“Look at her,” Bucky said, watching you from afar with a soft look in his eyes. “Our baby is all grown up.”
Steve scoffed in disbelief. “Our baby?”
The smile Bucky was wearing quickly dropped into an annoyed frown now that you were no longer there to witness it. He slid back into the booth, leaning across the table as he glared at Steve.
“What the hell is your problem?” Bucky hissed, ditching his good boy facade entirely.
“My problem?” Steve sneered, leaning across the table to meet Bucky halfway. “My problem is that you show up after months of silence whenever it’s convenient for you—bringing all sorts of trouble with you.”
Steve kept his voice low, trying to maintain enough control to avoid drawing attention to their booth.
“What the hell have you been doing these past few months?”
Bucky’s brows drew together so closely as he glared back at his childhood best friend. Before your father came into the picture, Steve and Bucky had been two peas in a pod. They were inseparable growing up, but as they got older, they naturally drifted into their own separate lives, with only occasional chatter here and there.
Steve had already gone through the whole marriage routine. He had tried to start a family with his ex-wife, Peggy, but after she cheated on him, he went through a heartbreaking divorce. Meanwhile, Bucky had suffered a string of devastating losses.
Bucky had always prided himself on being a family man, and when he lost it all, he felt like he had nothing left. His mother, Winnie, and his sister, Rebecca, had both passed away in the same year. From there, Bucky fell into a dark stupor, finding comfort only in solitude and alcohol.
Over time, Steve grew to despise the way Bucky coped—hating to watch his best friend drink himself silly and end up in places he shouldn’t be. Bucky, on the other hand, hated being lectured by Steve. He believed that a true friend should support him at all costs, through all the good and the bad.
Eventually, they both just kept their distance, leaving you and your dad as the middle ground.
“I’m in recovery, Steve,” Bucky protested weakly, his fingers digging into his palm as he tightened his fist.
“Yeah?” Steve scoffed with a bitter smile. “And how’s that working out for you?”
Regret washed over Bucky’s blue eyes, and for a split second, Steve nearly softened. But he couldn’t. His friend had pulled his leg for far too long. The mental reminders of Bucky taking advantage of him over the years were enough to make Steve push down his guilt.
“Look, I’m trying, okay?” Bucky muttered, staring into his half-empty mug. “I just wanted to pay a quick visit to town—see how you and her dad are doing.”
“See how he and I are doing?” Steve folded his arms across his chest, sitting back. “Or see how she’s doing?”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. He kept his head down but raised his eyes to glare back at him. “And if I was, is there something wrong with that?”
Steve really tried his best to keep his composure. Bucky knew exactly how to get under his skin—using a voice that could pass for innocent when it was anything but.
“You have no right showing up back in town after all the bullshit you pulled. Did you even know her father was out of town? Or did you take advantage of him being gone just so you could spend time with her?” When Steve realized how loud he was getting—catching the attention of some of the diner staff—he dropped his voice to a harsh whisper.
“If you’re still involved with whatever shit you were getting into, leave it behind. Don’t drag her into this—”
“—Jesus. Where the hell is the waitress?” Bucky muttered, throwing his arm over the back of the seat and looking behind him.
Steve snapped his fingers to yank his attention back. “And don’t think for a second I didn’t notice you checking her out. Are you fucking kidding me, Buck? She’s your best friend’s daughter!”
“Hey—all I did was call her shorts cute.” Bucky turned back to Steve. “I was just being nice.”
Steve ran out of scoffs to give. “You’re a lot of things, Bucky, but you’ve never been subtle.”
Bucky could feel his own patience frying. “Wanna know what’s funny, Stevie?”
“What?”
Now, it was Bucky’s turn to lean in so no one else could eavesdrop. “To an outsider, you look like an old, perverted man taking a young, respectable lady out on a date. Come on, Steve. How old are you again?” he tilted his head with that taunting tone that made Steve’s blood boil. “You’re drilling me so hard over something so trivial, but you’re no saint either.”
Steve slammed his hand on the table, causing the wood to shake and making the family of four at the next table gasp. So much for being discreet.
“What the hell kind of person are you trying to make me out to be?”
“Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it,” Bucky shot back. “A pretty girl like her—looking up at you the way she does, with that cute smile of hers.”
Steve opened his mouth, his face turning a furious shade of crimson. “What are you saying—!”
Bucky held his gaze, his eyes boring deeply into Steve’s. “Look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t thought about fucking her, Steve.”
Neither of them had noticed Joann standing there, her pen poised over her notepad. She stared at them completely dumbfounded, her mouth slightly agape in shock.
“Uh,” she drawled, her gaze shifting slowly between the two grown men. “What’ll it be, boys?”
Both Steve and Bucky blinked up at her.
They cleared their throats rapidly and sat back, trying to put as much distance between each other as the small booth allowed. Steve forced his charming smile back onto his face, acting as if he hadn’t just slammed his hand down and yelled a second ago. Across from him, Bucky crossed his leg and turned his head, pressing a hand over his mouth to hide his frustration as he forced himself to look out the window.
“We’ll have the All American,” Steve said.
Joann jotted down their orders—along with an extra chocolate milkshake added by Bucky, which earned him a side-eye from Steve, since Steve was the one paying for it all.
On your way back from the bathroom, you bumped right into her.
“Oh, hey Joann. Did you already take our orders?”
“Sure did, but honey, you better be careful with those two,” Joann warned, pointing her pen over her shoulder toward your booth with a worried expression. “They look like they bite.”
The chance to elaborate was long gone as she was already walking off towards the kitchen. Turning your attention back to the booth, you saw Steve pressing his cheek against his palm, staring morosely out the window, while Bucky casually sipped his coffee.
You smiled to yourself, oblivious to all the tension.
From where you stood, it looked like they had gotten along just fine while you were gone.
The breakfast platters were already cleared away, leaving nothing but a pile of crumpled napkins and Bucky’s drained milkshake glass.
Up front by the old cash register, Steve stood with his back to the booth, digging into his wallet as Mama Joann rang up the bill. Even from behind, Steve’s broad shoulders were still stiff from his earlier irritation.
Breakfast had gone by smoothly enough—though it wasn’t quite as fun as it normally was with your dad, you still appreciated their company. The entire time, however, it felt like they were talking to you rather than to each other. Every time Bucky asked you a question, you would answer, only for Steve to immediately grab your attention next. Once you replied to Steve, Bucky would subtly try to fight for your focus again.
The whole dining experience felt more like a job interview than spending time with close family friends.
Now, you were left alone in the booth with Bucky. With Steve away from the table, Bucky’s shoulders eased up just slightly.
“So,” he drawled. “What are you and Stevie going to do after this?”
You thought about it for a moment, realizing you and Steve hadn’t actually planned much of anything.
“I’m… I’m actually not sure,” you replied with a shrug. “Breakfast was all we talked about today.”
“Sounds boring, and sounds just like Steve,” Bucky said, leaning back against the seat and draping his arm over the top as he looked down at you.
Under his cold stare, you always felt so small.
You knew Bucky was the kind of man who just took what he wanted—and right now, it felt like he only wanted you.
“You remember Becca’s old house? The one by the lake?” he asked.
You blinked, caught off guard. Ever since his sister’s passing, your father had strictly warned you never to bring up Bucky’s family. It was only safe to do so if Bucky brought them up first, and even then, you had to be careful to avoid any painful triggers.
“I do,” you nodded, keeping your response brief to let him control the conversation.
“It’s been a while since I’ve been over there,” Bucky explained, his blue eyes studying your face. “I think I can fix up her old boat in the shed. Maybe we can take it out for a spin on the lake.”
Your mouth parted slightly with a loss for words. Bucky was inviting you to his late sister’s house? To ride on her boat, no less? He rarely ever spoke about Rebecca, let alone extended an invitation to her place. You were pretty sure not even your dad had ever been invited over there.
“And considering it’s been some time since I last saw you, I think it’d be a great opportunity for us to catch up,” Bucky added.
“Catch up on what?”
Both you and Bucky looked up to find Steve standing at the edge of the booth. He was pocketing his wallet in the back of his jeans, taking in your wide eyes and Bucky’s slouched, unbothered posture.
Bucky kept his arm draped casually over the seat behind you. “Just telling her about Becca’s old place,” he said with that smug tone. “Thinking about going down to the lake later. Get some fresh air. You know, since you didn’t make any plans.”
Steve’s jaw clenched so hard you were sure you heard his teeth click. He crossed his arms tightly over his broad chest, glaring down at Bucky.
“Oh, is that so?” Steve huffed. He then shifted his gaze to you. “And what did she say about it?”
Being put on the spot made your stomach drop. It felt like there was no right answer.
Your eyes flickered back and forth between them. You could understand Steve’s apprehension—Bucky’s reputation hadn’t been... the best, as of late. But looking at Bucky, seeing as much hope as he could muster in those tired blue eyes and the vulnerability of him sharing a piece of his late sister’s memory with you, you already knew your answer.
“I’d love to check out Becca’s house and ride on the boat,” you finally said.
Bucky let out a quiet breath of relief, while Steve’s brows pinched together in disbelief.
“…But,” you added quickly, “I think it’d be fun if Steve tagged along, too.”
The disgruntled noise that left Bucky’s mouth would’ve made you laugh, but the way Steve’s eyes nearly bulged out of his sockets beat you to it.
Bucky pulled his arm back, throwing you an incredulous look that he didn't even bother trying to hide. “Sweetheart, I was actually hoping it would be just the two of us—”
“I would love to come,” Steve interjected, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face that Bucky wanted nothing more than to wipe off.
A smile broke across your face. You knew there was still an underlying tension between them, but the prospect of visiting Rebecca’s old house for the first time and riding in a boat was far better than sitting around doing nothing.
“Yay!” You clasped your hands together, your enthusiastic gaze flickering between the two of them. “Steve and I will stop by the house first so I can change—”
“No,” Bucky interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “You already extended an unwanted invite to Steve, and I’ll only forgive you if you don’t keep me waiting.”
He kept his eyes locked on Steve as he slid out of the booth, rising to his full height to meet him face to face.
“You remember the way to Becca’s house?” he asked.
“‘Course I do.”
“Good.” Bucky spared a quick glance down at you as you began sliding out of the booth yourself, before turning his attention back to Steve. He leaned in, voice dripping quietly so only Steve could catch it.
“Don’t have too much fun with her on the way, yeah?”
Steve only glared harder.
On the drive to Rebecca’s house, you noticed Steve’s grip on the steering wheel was tight, his knuckles taut. One of his favorite songs came on the radio, and he didn’t even care to acknowledge it.
There was something deeply wrong between him and Bucky—something you had missed entirely while you were in the bathroom.
Finally mustering the courage, you decided to address it. “Steve—”
“There’s something you should know about Bucky,” Steve cut you off, deciding to it for you.
“Okay,” you murmured, prompting him to continue.
“I don’t know how much your dad has told you,” Steve said, letting out a deep breath through his nose. “But Bucky’s been through a lot. He isn’t the same guy he used to be. I know he’s… family to you, and I know your dad trusts him. But Bucky’s been running with a bad crowd lately. Getting into things he shouldn’t be, making promises he can’t keep. He’s reckless.”
You leaned back slightly in your seat, your right arm propped on the window sill as you watched Bucky’s truck ahead of you. Everything he was saying to you wasn’t exactly new.
“Where are you going with this?”
“He treats everything like a game. People, relationships,” Steve continued.
He paused for a moment, chewing his bottom lip in apprehension as he tried to find the right words.
“I recognize the way he’s looking at you, and I don’t like it one bit. He’s looking at you like a distraction from his own mess. I just... I don’t want to see you get hurt, or caught in the middle of whatever trouble he’s dragging behind him.”
You slowly let out the breath you had been holding.
For the most part, you were grateful that Steve was actually being open with you about Bucky and his bad habits. Whenever Bucky’s name came up around your father, your dad was always quick to beat around the bush, never addressing anything seriously.
“Ah, Bucky is just going through a rough patch right now.”
“He’s just in another one of his moods. Leave him be.”
“I invited Bucky to your birthday party, but he… he couldn’t make it. You know how he is.”
Even though Bucky was everything a girl like you should avoid, at the end of the day, he was like family. And the idea of him being alone this weekend while he was back in town killed you.
He had his ups and downs, and as much of a grumpy old man he could be now, you weren’t going to throw away all the good times just because of the bad.
“I’m a big girl, Steve,” you reassured him, glancing over. He kept his gaze locked on the road. “I can make my own decisions. Bucky invited me to his late sister’s boat—and despite everything, I couldn’t refuse that. You know why.”
Up ahead, Bucky’s truck slowed down, turning left onto a narrow, gravel driveway lined with overgrown pine trees. The reflection of the sun hit the lake and shone through the branches in the distance.
Steve pulled up right behind him, shifting the car into park but keeping his foot firmly on the brake. He turned fully in his seat to look at you, his blue eyes searching yours with earnesty.
“I know. It’s just… promise me you’ll stay close to me today,” Steve pleaded softly.
You unbuckled your seatbelt and gave him a reassuring smile. You nodded towards Bucky’s truck, where he was just hopping out of the driver’s seat and slamming the door shut.
“You act like he’s going to murder me.”
Despite your attempt at a joke, Steve’s expression didn’t waver.
“Your dad left you under my watch, so in a way, I feel responsible for protecting you—”
“—protecting her from what?” Bucky asked, slapping his calloused hands against Steve’s window and leaning over. “Woah—this car is still running? You know, my sister used to love this thing. Coulda’ sworn you were gonna win her over with it every time you pulled up to the house.”
Steve gave Bucky a deadpan look. With a grunt, he pushed his door open—forcing Bucky out of the way. But just as Steve started walking around to your side to open your door, Bucky beat him to it.
“Watch your step,” Bucky said, holding your hand to help you out of the seat. “Lots of rocks.”
“Since when did you get so sweet?” you teased, sandals stepping down onto the crunching gravel.
Bucky chuckled—a low, raspy sound as he shook his head. “Geez, you really think I’m an awful guy, don’t you?”
You gave him a small smile, which he returned with a gentle one of his own before letting go of your fingers.
Steve kicked a pebble with the toe of his boot. He didn’t like this interaction one bit, but he swallowed down his pride for your sake.
He looked around the property, taking in the overgrown grass and the faded paint on the siding of the old house. The place hadn’t been maintained in what looked and felt like years. The fences had once been painted a bright coral blue—Rebecca’s favorite color—but now, they were stained with dirt and weathered from years of neglect.
Steve glanced at you, knowing you were thinking the same thing. A solemn look settled into your eyes. You knew how close Bucky and his sister had been, and leaving this house to him had obviously been more than he could handle.
Bucky stood there stiffly, hands shoved into the pockets of his worn leather jacket. The playful twinkle his eyes had held for you just moments ago slowly faded the longer he stared at the house.
“It hasn’t changed much,” Steve said quietly, clearing his throat. He was trying to ease the tension, even though they both knew it was a lie.
Something between a snort and a self-deprecating laugh left Bucky’s lungs.
He nodded towards the path wrapping around the side of the building. “Come on. The shed’s down by the dock.”
The three of you fell into a single file line, with you taking the middle spot. As you approached the shed, Bucky fished around in his pocket for the keys. It took him a moment to find the right one, but when he finally pushed the door open, it revealed an eighteen foot wooden motorboat right in the middle.
The deep emerald green paint on the hull was flaking away in brittle scabs, exposing the gray, sun bleached wood underneath. Inside, the white oak ribs were coated in dust and cobwebs, and the stagnant rainwater pooling in the bilge smelled faintly of rot, causing you to wrinkle your nose.
Bucky took the first step inside, his hand reaching out to gently touch the worn steering wheel.
“We’ll get her fixed up today,” he murmured. “We’ll take her out on the lake.”
He spoke so softly you weren’t sure if he was talking to you, or to himself.
“I don’t know, Buck,” Steve hesitated, dragging a finger along the side. “She might leak like a sieve if you put her in the water right now. You’re gonna need a miracle to get this thing to turn over, let alone idle.”
Bucky’s shoulders dropped, his expression turning somber. He knew Steve was right, and seeing that defeated look pulled at your heart. He was already carrying so much emotionally, it ached to watch him rarely try to plan something special, only to see it fall apart.
“Chin up, you guys,” you spoke up enthusiastically, breaking the silence. “It doesn’t look that bad. Especially since there’s three of us—we can fix this in no time.”
Steve raised a skeptical brow at you. “You’ve never even touched a boat, sweetheart. There’s a lot of heavy lifting to be done here.”
“Well—it’s a good thing I’ve got two strong men by my side!” you joked, hopeful eyes flickering between the two of them. “Even if we don’t fix it completely, even if we just end up floating out there,” you shrugged, a smile tugging at your lips, “at least we got it on the lake, right?”
That, at least, managed to pull a small smile from Bucky.
And with the soft spot Steve always had for you, he knew he couldn’t deny your wishes.
With a reluctant sigh, he started moving around the shed, scanning the shelves for the tools they would need. “Well? What are we standing around for, then?”
For the rest of the afternoon, the three of you worked side by side to bring Rebecca’s old boat back to life.
Steve and Bucky took turns with the heavy lifting, hauling out the rusted battery and helping each other realign the heavy parts of the inboard motor. Bucky insisted on handling the delicate mechanical work—scraping away layers of rust, cleaning out the gummed up carburetor, and replacing the brittle fuel lines.
You did your best to help where you could, taking a wire brush to the flaking paint on the hull and wiping down the dusty wooden benches. Mostly, you acted as their mediator, passing wrenches and screwdrivers back and forth while they worked in relative silence.
By the time the sun began to slip behind the trees, painting the sky in beautiful shades of orange and pink, the boat was far from perfect, but it finally looked cared for again.
Bucky stood over the engine block, hands on his hips. He had discarded his leather jacket hours ago, and his shirt was now thoroughly drenched in sweat.
He looked over at you with a grin. “Think she’s good enough to take for a spin?”
Your lips started to tug into a smile. “Yes—!”
Steve shook his head, shutting you down. “No. The bilge pump is shot. It needs to be replaced before we put her in the water.”
Sitting on the wooden bench inside the boat, you glanced over your shoulder and met Steve’s eyes with a frown. “But we worked on it all day. Are you sure we can’t take it out? Not even for a little bit?”
“Without that pump, water is going to leak through the planks like crazy,” Steve explained.
But caught between your crestfallen look and the disappointed crease between Bucky’s brows, he sighed and gave in.
He checked his watch, tapping the glass. “It’s just past five. The auto parts store in town closes at seven on Fridays. If I leave right now, I can grab a replacement pump and be back before it gets dark.”
“Really? You’d do that, Stevie?” you beamed, your excitement returning in an instant.
Steve’s eyes softened. He hated how easily he gave in to you. “Yeah. I’ll be quick—just stay here, alright?”
Bucky shifted, rocking back on his heels with a rare and slightly sheepish look. “Thanks, Steve.”
Steve stepped away from the boat, fishing his car keys out of his pocket. Before he turned around, he pointed a stern finger at Bucky. “Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”
To anyone else, that saying could have passed as typical, lighthearted banter between two old friends. But you knew Steve well enough to hear the real warning underneath it.
Bucky just shrugged, unbothered. “How can I? When you’re taking all the stupid with you.”
Steve was already walking briskly up the path towards the driveway, keys jingling in his hand. He muttered something under his breath and shook his head, ignoring Bucky’s comment entirely.
The two of you watched him get into his car and drive off. The moment the sounds of Steve’s engine faded away, Bucky turned back to you.
A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face—it was a look that insinuated he was up to no good.
“How ‘bout we take her out anyway?” Bucky asked, nodding to the lake. “Just to see how long she’ll float?”
You gasped. “Bucky, no! Steve literally just said she’ll leak—”
“Steve worries too much,” Bucky scoffed, clicking his tongue. He stepped over to the stern and began pushing the boat towards the lake, ignoring the fact that you were still sitting inside. “It’ll take time for the water to really start coming in. We’ll just go out a hundred yards, turn around, and come right back.”
You knew Steve would be furious, and logically, sitting in a boat that was destined to take on water was a terrible idea. But looking at the sudden, bright spark of life in Bucky’s eyes—the first real glimpse of the carefree guy your dad used to talk about—you found yourself softening.
“A hundred yards,” you bargained, pointing a stern finger at him. “And the second my feet get wet, we turn right around.”
“Deal.”
Before you could change your mind, he shoved the boat down the wooden launch ramp. “Hold on tight!”
The cedar hull hit the once calm glassy surface of the lake with a splash, sending a hard ripple across the water. Bucky tied her off to the dock quickly, then vaulted over and immediately went to work on the flywheel.
He wrapped a pull rope around the starter, took a deep breath, and gave it a hard yank.
The engine coughed, sputtering out a cloud of blue gray smoke, but failed to catch.
“Come on,” Bucky muttered to the machine, wrapping the rope again. He gave it another tug.
This time, the engine sputtered, groaned, and then loudly chugged to life. Bucky laughed triumphantly, the sound so raspy and genuine— it made butterflies swarm in your belly.
He unhooked the mooring line from the dock and tossed it into the bow, then hopped back to the center of the boat to take the steering wheel, gliding the boat away from the dock and further into the water.
The cool lakeside breeze greeted your face, a godsend from working under the sun for hours. Surprisingly enough, the engine and boat remained stable while the sun turned the lake into a pretty pool of liquid gold.
Bucky had a gentle look on his face, the lines around his eyes creasing slightly as he wore a soft smile.
“My sister and I used to ride this boat all the time,” he explained softly, eyes boring into the sun dipping past the lake line. “We would go fishing—and she’d always hate me for catching the biggest fish.”
You smiled softly. It wasn’t often that Bucky shared a part of himself, but every time he did, it was beautiful.
“We should go fishing one day,” you said. “My dad loves fishing, and it’s been a long time since he saw you. Maybe we could do it when he gets back.” You chuckled quietly to yourself at the idea. “He’d probably be so jealous if he found out I got to ride your boat before he did.”
Bucky hummed, the corners of his lips quirking up.
The two of you stayed quiet for a moment as he steered the boat deeper into the lake. Compared to you and Steve, your conversations with Bucky weren’t as lighthearted or enthusiastic. Majority of the time, it’s just you sitting in awkward silence—well, awkward for you—while Bucky just basks in the moment.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been around these days,” he suddenly murmured, back still turned to you as he kept his focus on the sunset. “I’ve been caught up with a lot of things. I’m sure your father has told you, and I’m also sure I lost all his respect for me.” He huffed a self-deprecating laugh as he added, “Not that I deserve it, anyway.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself.” Even though he wouldn’t look at you, you kept your eyes on his back. “He still respects you.”
Then, Bucky slowly looked over his shoulder, eyes half lidded and tired.
“And what about you?” he rasped. “Do you still respect me?”
You tilted your head and raised a brow, not expecting him to care about your respect for him of all things.
“Of course I do, Bucky.”
“Good,” he nodded, looking back at the lake. “That’s good…”
While on the topic of respect, you couldn’t help but wonder…
“What about you? Do you respect me?”
Bucky’s lips curved up into an even bigger impish grin. “I don’t know yet,” he teased.
Your eyes bulged. “Huh? What’s that supposed to mean—!”
But the already short teasing interaction got cut even shorter, a wet sensation seeping through your sandals and between your toes.
You glanced down, catching the way the water was bubbling up through the gaps in the floorboards like tiny miniature fountains. The dark pool in the bilge had risen past the soles of your sandals, and with every small wave that hit the hull, the water level crept higher toward your ankles.
“Bucky,” you gasped, lifting your foot. “Bucky! Look down!”
Bucky glanced down, that impish grin stripped off his features as he lifted his boot, now dampened with water. “Shit.”
Your eyes flickered in a panic around you. The dock looked tiny in the distance. The shoreline was far away—way further than the promised a hundred yards. In the middle of your conversation, Bucky had kept driving obliviously and you were now stranded right in the deep center of the lake.
“Bucky, we’re too far out!” you shrieked as you lifted your knees to your chest, trying to keep your feet out of the freezing water.
The bilge was filling fast, making the boat feel heavy and sluggish.
“Turn it around!” you urged.
“I’m trying—” Bucky grabbed the lever, but the moment he shifted it into reverse to swing the boat around, the engine made a startling noise with a sputter that choked on the rising water. And died.
“Shit. It’s not turning—can you swim?” He met you in the center of the boat, where it rocked dangerously, and he grabbed your wrist.
“Oh, God,” you felt your heart race in horror. Being stranded in the middle of a lake with no life vest was a far reach from your usual swimming capabilities that only belonged in a swimming pool.
“Bucky—I don’t know how—”
“It’s okay,” he tried to reassure you, grabbing both your wrists, which only caused you to panic even more. “Just hold still—”
He tried to widen his stance to keep his balance, but your flailing caused him to hiss impatiently, pulling you closer to his chest with a harsh and sudden tug.
He was strong—strong enough to cause you to collide into his chest, and without the engine running to keep the boat steady, the sudden movement tipped the vessel. The momentum caused you to fall over, bringing Bucky down with you.
A shriek managed to escape your lips before you were engulfed completely under the freezing lake water.
You flailed your arms, trying to figure out which way was up. Bucky found your wrists again, pulling you upward with him as your head broke the surface. You gasped for air, blinking the dirty lake water out of your eyes.
“I got you—I got you, okay? Just stay with me,” he reassured, his deep and asserting voice overriding your panic momentarily as his long, dark hair hung wet over his gruff face. “Don’t let go.”
You stood in the middle of the first floor bathroom with Bucky. He was frantically rubbing you down with a towel, ruffling your hair into an even wetter mop than it already was as he kept mumbling things about not wanting to get you sick, and how both your father and Steve would kill him if he did.
“I’ll be okay, Bucky,” you grabbed the towel from his hands, pausing him. “You need to take care of yourself too. You’re drenched.”
“Right. Well, I was only able to find one towel in here—” He started browsing through the other cabinets, his large hands shifting through expired bottles and dusty toiletries out of the way.
As he rummaged deeper, his movements started to slow.
Hidden behind a stack of old soap bars was a small, dusty bottle of vanilla perfume and a faded pink hair ribbon—things left abandoned by Rebecca years ago, who was… no longer around to use them.
His shoulders dropped as he just stood there, staring at them.
You frowned softly, watching the change in his expression. “Are you okay?”
He closed the cabinet door slowly and shrugged, trying to shake it off, but there was no use. “I couldn’t find another towel, so I’ll just air dry.” He answered instead.
Your frown deepened as the water droplets from his hair hit the cold tile floor.
He was soaked from head to toe, and he was shivering. You knew there might have been a spare towel somewhere in the house, but you knew Bucky didn’t want to look. It had been clear that there weren’t any signs of life in this house after his sister’s passing up until now, and if he got shaken up from just seeing the perfume bottle and hair tie alone, then you could only imagine what he’d go through if he walked through the rest of the house.
“Don’t be stupid,” you murmured softly, gathering the damp towel and pressing it against his hair.
Bucky went still, his breath hitching as you began to dry his wet strands. You wiped the back of his neck, then moved down to gently dab at his broad shoulders and the damp fabric of his shirt.
“You should take your shirt off,” you explained. “You’ll get sick.”
He huffed a short laugh, glancing subtly over his shoulder down at you. “I could say the same thing to you, but that’d be inappropriate.”
Pausing, you quickly glanced down at yourself and realized just how inappropriate this already was—even with your shirt still on.
Your white cotton tank top was soaked right through, your cold and perky nipples poking against the fabric obscenely. Your shorts, completely damp, clung tightly to the curves of your body, riding up as water drippled down your thighs.
The entire sight was improper, and you were sure Bucky was thinking the same thing—he just didn’t want to address it.
Slowly, he turned around to face you, his hands finding your wrists and gently catching them to stop you.
“Thank you for riding the boat with me,” he murmured, gently guiding your hand with the towel over his damp and stubbled cheek.
Your breath shuddered. Bucky—your dad’s friend, who was usually always walking around with grumpy frown lines and his arms crossed—looked so utterly small and vulnerable in the small space of this cold bathroom.
“Of course,” you whispered.
Bucky’s grip on your wrists loosened, his large hands sliding slowly up your forearms, past your elbows, until they found comfort on your waist.
Even though he was drenched, his hands felt warm against your skin. Pulling you closer, his thumb brushed against the bare skin of your hip bones where your tank top had rose up.
“Every time I leave town, my mind always screams at me—telling me to come back to one thing,” he spoke quietly, his eyes tracing the vulnerable column of your neck. “Not even to your dad, or to Steve, or even… this house.”
He stepped closer, one strong leg finding its way between yours as he pushed you gently back against the sink’s counter.
“But to you. Isn’t that so wrong of me?”
You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until you found out he was actually waiting for an answer.
“I don’t see how that can be wrong,” you spoke, more timidly than you’d like. “We’re like family, aren’t we?”
Bucky’s brows furrowed so deep it should’ve scared you.
“That’s what makes it so wrong,” he murmured, one hand coming up to cup your cheek, letting his thumb glide over the curve. “Because I have these thoughts—thoughts a man like me shouldn’t have for a girl like you. Like how badly I want to kiss you.” Bucky rasped, his voice conflicted as he pulled you closer against him, until no space was left. “I know I shouldn’t. But hell, everything in my body is telling me to.”
The look in his eyes matched the conflict he poured into every single word.
His hands held you tight, keeping you trapped between the counter and his body, but the look in his eyes was begging himself to let you go.
You knew you shouldn’t encourage this. You knew this wasn’t right.
And yet…
You reached up, your fingers tangling into the wet strands of his hair, and pulled him down and met his lips with yours.
The gasp that caught in his throat was overcome by the warm sensation of your mouth. Shock paralyzed him, but the longer he felt your lips press against his, he lost all the resolve that was screaming at him to stop.
Bucky took the control he wanted to have over you for a long time. His hands gripped your waist, meeting your first gentle kiss with a rough, demanding one. He slipped his tongue in as he lifted your body up until you were sitting right on the edge of the sink counter. He stepped closer, forcing your legs to open and let him in.
He didn’t want this moment to slip away, or even grace you with the opportunity to change your mind. His hands explored all over your body, large palms sliding to cup the curve of your ass, rocking the erection that grew in his pants within seconds just from being close to you.
“Fuck—we shouldn’t do this,” he rasped against your lips before pulling away to catch his breath. “We shouldn’t—shit—”
“I don’t care,” you whimpered, your pleading eyes meeting his hungry ones. “I want this.”
A dark, raspy chuckle left his lips. “You’re gonna get me in trouble.”
His mouth trailed down your jawline to bury his face in the crook of your neck. He bit and suckled at your sensitive skin, making you arch your back as his hot breath and wet tongue sent shivers straight down your spine. His hands slid up, fingers hooking under the hem of your soaked white tank top and pushing the fabric up until it was bunched beneath your chin.
You shuddered as the cold air hit your skin. Bucky’s eyes were dark and hungry, staring at the water dripping down between your breasts like a taunt.
“Christ, look at you. Looking like every man’s dream,” he groaned, greedy hands coming up to cup your tits before pressing both of them together. “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”
He leaned down to capture one cold, perky nipple between his lips. He swirled his tongue around the peak, sucking it deep into his mouth with a tug that had your fingers gripping his shoulders in pleasure, your hips rolling up against the bulge of his lower stomach as you filled the bathroom with the slutty sounds of your breath.
You arched your back, tugging at his hair while his tongue feverishly licked and sucked at the sensitive bud. While his mouth gave its attention to one nipple, his rough fingers would play with the other. Then he would switch between the two, giving your body all the love he knew it was lacking.
Bucky pulled his face away with a wet pop of his mouth, a string of saliva connecting to your chest as he licked his lips clean.
“This… this is so wrong,” his words drifted uselessly in the air as he broke the space again, his nose to your neck as his tongue found something new to play with.
His warm mouth danced around the skin of your neck, sucking, biting, and groaning with every nibble.
He was sure to leave marks, but you didn’t have the strength to tell him to stop—you didn’t want him to.
“Keep going,” you said breathlessly, your head rolling to the side while he made love to your neck and memorized your body with his hands. “Don’t stop, Bucky—”
Suddenly, all the tension in the room shifted into something far more wicked than what was transpiring between you and Bucky.
The door slammed open, hard enough that the knob left an indent on the wall, and right there, standing in the doorframe, was Steve—who had once been holding the brand new bilge pump that had fallen and hit the floor.
“What the fuck is going on here?”
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you and Bucky hate each other, so it's not unusual for him to act cold around you. but this is differant. this is... feral. and you're starting to wonder what's wrong✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, enemies to lovers, ragebating Bucky Barnes, emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (dry humping, manhandling, bucky's feral, emotional sex, dry orgasm, truly foul dirty talk, hyperspermia, pussy eating like crazy, fingering, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, mean!bucky, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 11.1k✦
✦Author's Note: i'm so normal about sex pollen✦
It doesn’t bother you. If you tell yourself enough, you’re really going to believe that it doesn’t bother you.
But he’s everywhere.
There isn’t a corner of the damn building without Bucky Barnes. You go to the kitchen and he’s there making a sandwich, watching you move around the counter like he thinks you’re going to bite him. In the gym he’s at the weights and the punching bags, and you try to ignore him but he grunts and moans and you think he’s doing it on purpose. the living area he takes over the TV and watches whatever he wants to catch up with the times. No matter how politely you ask him to switch to something else, he always tells you to just wait. Then you try, but he’s spread out on the couch until your knees have to bump, and your face gets all hot, and you have to stomp away before you start acting on all your stupid thoughts.
Because it’s not just Bucky’s eternal presence and stubbornness and smirking that burrows under your skin. It’s that you like it.
That when you’re next to him on the couch, all you can think about is that place where your body’s connect. He’s warm. Tall and warm. Your skin tingles at the contact point, and whenever he shifts it’s like you’re being shot up with a drug.
“You’re squirmy.” He grumbles, glaring at you in the dark. “No one ever teach you to sit still?”
You stick your tongue out. “No one ever teach you to mind your own business?”
“Hard to mind my business when you’re movin’ all the cushions, doll-“
“Then go sit somewhere else, robot man.”
Bucky’s jaw twitches. “I’m not a robot.”
“Uh huh.”
“I’m not-“
“You act like one.” You snap, and Bucky closes his eyes. Like he’s fucking praying.
“I was here first.” He mutters. You don’t balk.
“Congratulations.”
You hold his glare, and Bucky lets out a heavy breath through his nose. He narrows his eyes, tongue flicking over his lips. His full lips. Pretty and chapped, but in the perfect, soft way-
Get a fucking grip.
“There’s a chair over there.” You point across the room, sinking back into the cushions. “Go sit in it, if I’m so squirmy.”
Bucky scowls, and opens his mouth, but whatever jab he’s got for you, you don’t want to hear it. You reach over and unpause the movie—probably another one of Sam’s this is what you gotta catch up on, Barnes suggestions, because there’s no way Bucky picked out the Goonies himself—and fix your glower on the TV screen. You hate this movie. You’re going to watch it all the way through, just to show Bucky that he doesn’t bother you.
You spread your own legs wide, too. If men are allowed to do it, so are you. Bucky grunts as your knee pushes over his thigh, and you smirk at the TV.
It has nothing to do with the thick muscle you can feel under his sweatpants, that you keep your legs like that for the rest of the night. Bucky’s fingers flex a few times, and brush over the inner curve of your knee and the top of your thigh, like he’s thinking about just shoving you away. At one point, you hear him grunt, and look over with mockingly raised brows.
“Everything okay?” You almost simper, and he grunts and nods.
That’s all you get. Bucky fixes his anger on the movie, you win this round, and you get to be close to him without thinking about it.
You’ll think about it later. In the comfort of your own bedroom, you’ll think about it and think about it and think about it all night. You’ll think about it until your wrist hurts. But Bucky doesn’t get to know that.
As far as he needs to be concerned, you never spare him a second thought. It’s all he spares you. And you’re not going to be the pathetic girl who falls for someone who only thinks of her as a buzzing gnat around his head. Who worships the ground of a man who would step on her like a flower into concrete, not because he was seeking to hurt, but just because he didn’t notice you were there at all.
Although Bucky does seem to notice where you are.
The farmer does like to keep track of pests in his crops.
“You skipped the mission briefing.” Bucky grunts in the morning, glaring at you over a cup of coffee.
Something soft in you swells like a prodded bruise. He noticed where you were.
You ignore it in favor of flipping him off.
“I was busy.”
“Too busy for your job?”
“It’s not my job-“
“Your name was on the roster.” Bucky slams the folder down on the table, and your lips twitch.
“Have you been carrying that around all day?”
“That doesn’t matter-“
“Yes, it really does-“
Bucky hisses your name. There’s a fury under his tone, that makes your mouth snap shut. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.
“You need to be there, Steve was talkin’ about safety shit, and if you don’t know it you could get killed-“
“I know how mission briefing work, I’ve been here longer than you have-“
“Really? ‘Cause you don’t act like it-“
“I don’t act like it?” You snort. “Last I checked I’m ranked higher than you, Sargent.” You raise your chin, letting your lips curl. “Which is why I’m allowed to defer missions, and you’re not.”
“I’m skipping.” You shrug, grabbing an apple from the counter. “And if I’m skipping, I don’t need to be at the briefing. But thanks for checking on me, dad.”
Bucky’s eyes narrow. You expect him to snap something about experience and you not being responsible enough or needing to care more.
But instead his fists curl and uncurl at his side. His nostrils flare. He grabs the counter, his scowl burning right through you. You take a large bite of your apple, and his gaze darts down. Juice drips down your chin, and you wipe it off with light fingers. That only seems to make him angrier.
“Why’re you skipping.”
You shrug. You should say none of your business. But part of you is childish. A very big, loud part that wants him to react to something you know he isn’t actually going to care about.
“I have a date.”
“A what.” It’s not a full reaction. He’s mostly staring at you like he didn’t understand the word. Maybe they called it something different in the 40s.
“A date?” You roll your eyes, a little meaner than you mean to be. He always bring that out in you, though.
Bucky always brings everything out in you. It’s incredibly annoying.
“You know.” You push mockingly. “Where you go out with someone. And flirt like people, instead of robots.”
“Robots flirt.” Bucky grunts, and you snort.
“Yeah, but they don’t have sex-“
The counter cracks. It’s loud, echoing through the kitchen. You start and twitch, and Bucky blinks at his metal hand, like he’s just as surprised as you are. He looks back to you, shakes his head, and takes a large step back.
“What’s-“
“Steve’s callin’ me.” He mutters, and you blink.
“No, he’s not-“
“Have fun.” Bucky ignores you. His words sound pushed through his teeth. “On your human date.”
Then he’s gone.
And you’re left in the kitchen with your apple and a cracked counter, staring at where he’d vanished through the door. You don’t care about the date.
You just need to know what the fuck that was.
There’s a part of you that feels bad, for the man Natasha set you up with. She’d picked him out specifically because he had a vague resemblance to Bucky—because you’ve never told her your secret, but you didn’t need to, she’s Natasha—but it wasn’t enough.
He didn’t have the underlying accent, or the gleam in his eyes. You made a sharper edged joke, and he just laughed. He didn’t spar. He didn’t push your buttons in a way that made you light up. He just smiled at you all night—wrong smile, too—and then didn’t pay. Bucky would’ve paid.
You have no evidence of that. It’s just a feeling, that comes from how he still opens doors for you, even when you’re at each other’s throats. All polite and handsome and insufferable. You hate him.
And there’s not a single point during the night, where you’re not thinking about him.
“We should do this again.” The Date—you’ve forgotten his name, and it’s certainly not a good time to ask—says at the end of the night.
You’re shivering. Bucky would’ve offered you his jacket. He did once, on a mission in the Andes. You got all cold and he rolled his eyes and muttered that he told you to bring another layer, but still gave you his jacket all the same. This man is just grinning at you after not calling you a cab and saying he wanted to stand outside in the misty, chilly night. He said he wanted fresh air, and now your freezing, and he thinks he’s getting a second date.
At the very least, you feel a little less guilty about only thinking of Bucky and the mission the whole time. He deserved it.
“Sure.” You smile, because even with superstrength, it’s easier to tell a man yes and then vanish than it is to deny them to their face. “Have a good night.”
He tries to hug you. Your phone buzzes, and you duck away to check it.
The mission is over.
Two days early.
Your jaw tightens.
Most people would think that a job being done early is a good thing. That it means the team was just so focused and coordinated that they sped through every single step, and ended in a total victory. But you’ve been on this job too long. Early mission conclusions only ever happen for one reason.
Something went wrong, and they have to come back.
You rush back to the compound with barely a goodnight to the Date. It’s mostly because you forget, in the blur of worry. You’d skimmed the mission files before they left, just to make sure it wasn’t anything too dangerous. Bucky had been mad about you not going with them. Maybe he’d thought they’d need the hands, but it had just looked like a retrieval mission. Old Hydra facility with some data Tony wanted. Nothing too hard.
But they’re back early.
And if someone’s hurt, you could’ve stopped it. You could’ve been there, instead of on that stupid fucking date. Which also means that Bucky was right, and that’s incredibly annoying. He’s going to weild it over your head, and the mocking is going to turn you on more, and you’ll have earned it which isn’t going to help anything at all.
You get back to the compound, and it’s not in lockdown. There aren’t med staff flooding the grounds or emergency sirens blaring. You go right to the hanger, and find that it’s already been cleared out. The jet isn’t being quarantined.
Maybe they really did just… Finish early.
You’re heading back to your room when you slam right into them.
Steve and Bucky, standing in the middle of the hall, arguing in hushed voices.
“You need to go, Buck-“
“I’m fine-“
“No, you’re not. You can lie to the docs, don’t lie to me-“
“I ain’t lyin’, I’m fine-“
Your too lost in your own head, barely even hearing what they’re saying. You barrel straight into Bucky’s back.
He goes rigid. You stumble a little, and he grabs your upper arm.
His hand is hot.
Not sexy hot—although it’s also that—but literally, physically hot. Almost searing, against your shivering skin. You look up at him, and swallow.
He’s flushed. There’s sweat clinging to his brow, and an exhausted shadow over his features. His eyes are so blown out they’re almost fully black. You blink at him, and his mouth falls open in a ragged pant.
“Hi.” You whisper.
His throat bobs. “You’re back.”
“I- I got the alert.” You glance over to Steve, who’s gone oddly pale. “Did the mission go okay? It was fine that I wasn’t there, right-“
“Yep!” Steve almost shouts, and you blink. “I mean- We were all good. Wish you were there, we all missed you, but- We were fine. Right, Buck?” Steve grabs Bucky’s shoulder. “We were all good.”
Bucky doesn’t look away from you for a single second. He grunts, and his grip tightens on your arm.
“Let go.” Steve mutters, and Bucky shoots him a glare.
He releases you like you burned him, then wipes his hand on his pants. You scowl. He was the one touching you.
“I was gonna.” He grumbles, and Steve sighs.
“I know, but-“ You get a weary look. Like Steve doesn’t want you to hear their conversation. “I think- You know what I think-“
“Steve-“ Bucky cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand over his face.
He still hasn’t looked away from you. Or moved that far out of your proximity.
“I’m fine.” He says, low and under his breath. You’re rooted to the ground under his gaze, unsure what you could even think of to say. “It’s- I’m fine.”
Steve’s lips press in a thin line. Bucky takes a large, jerking step back. Like he’s dragging himself away.
“How was your date?” He grunts.
“Bucky-“
“I’m just askin’ a question.” He snaps, still not sparing Steve a look.
The attention is getting to be too much. Bucky is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, and it’s making your body almost buzz in anticipation. You want to jump on him and feel those hot hands all over your body. His nostrils flare like he can smell your arousal. If he can, you might jump off a bridge.
You hope he’d catch you, then fuck you until your can’t even walk.
Get a fucking grip.
“Bad.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest. “He sucked.”
And that’s the kind of thing Bucky would usually mock you for. Skipping a mission just for a bad date.
But a low, rumbling growl falls from his chest. His tongue darts over his lips. He takes a half-step forward, and you lean in to the gravity of his stare.
“We have debriefing!” Steve shouts, grabbing the collar of Bucky’s suit. “Bye!”
Before you can even register it, Steve’s dragging Bucky down the hall. You swear you hear another feral noise, and a crash after they turn the corner.
Something had to have happened on the mission. You just have no fucking clue what.
Bucky’s only been acting stranger. You’d pretend it didn’t bother you, if you could get away from it for a single fucking second.
You walk through the compound, and he’s somehow more everywhere than he was before. Around every corner, in the library, on the grounds, even in the control room while you’re going through the mission files.
“What’re you doin’.” He grunts, and you sigh.
You’re not surprised he’s there. It’s the fifth time today that he’s snuck up on you.
“I’m going through the reports on the mission.” You drawl. “Don’t you have better things to do than follow me around?”
Bucky grunts. It seems to be a no. You roll your eyes and go back to poking through the system. It’s hard to pretend that you can’t feel his presence behind you. There’s heat almost rolling from his body, and thick, spicy and musky scent that’s filling the room. It’s making you a little dizzy. It’s all you can do, not to look back at him.
That would be dangerous. He probably still looks feverish and animalistic. You might moan.
You find the files for the mission, and try to open them. Big, read access denied, contact your handler for permission to these files flashes over your screen. Your mouth falls open, and you whip back to glare at Bucky before you can think about it.
Mistake. Just like you’d thought, big mistake.
He looks even worse and better than you thought. He’s wearing just a t-shirt and sweats, and they’re clinging to his sweaty body. His eyes are hooded and his lips are parted. His attention is so wholly fixed on you that it almost makes you fall out of your chair. You almost forget you’re annoyed with him. Every single nerve in your body is alight, and your fingers are itching to comb through his sweaty hair.
You somehow—just barely—fight it.
“Why can’t I access these files.”
Bucky leans over you, his nostrils flaring. If you reach up, you could trace the stubbled line of his jaw. It’s hard to maintain your glare.
“Barnes-“
“You weren’t on the mission.” He mutters. “Not your files to see.”
You scowl. “I can access the files of every other mission I was on-“
“Steve should change that.”
God, you wish he wasn’t so pretty. It would be easier to think about punching him.
“I know something happened out there.” You hiss, sitting up a little taller. “You can’t hide it from me. I’ll figure it out.”
Bucky chuckles. It’s a low, raspy sound that runs through your body, making you shiver.
“Sure, doll. Have fun with that.”
You shoot to your feet, and Bucky lurches back. Another one of those deep, rumbling growls rolls from his chest, and for a second you think he’s going to pounce on you.
And then you blink, and he’s gone. Leaving you with only that hazy smell, and desire rolling through your veins.
You wish that was the extent of it, but it’s barely the start. And it only gets worse.
Bucky doesn’t do his movie nights anymore, which means you get the TV all to yourself. You watch what you want, and try not to look at the spot next to you. Where your body feels like he’s supposed to be. You stretch out your legs, but they ache strangely without his touch. You get more restless without him. Around midnight, you shuffle to the kitchen, hoping one of those soothingherb thingys that Wanda says help with her nightmares will be there.
Instead, you find Bucky.
He’s drinking a glass of ice, with a little bit of water. He freezes when he sees you, and moves further behind the counter.
You sigh. You’re too tired to fight him.
“Can’t sleep?” You mumble.
He just nods.
You sigh, and walk over the cupboard.
“You want hot chocolate?”
A grunt. Better than silence. You make two mugs, one for you, one for Bucky.
And maybe it’s just that you’re really starting to worry, but you don’t bother pretending to hate him. Your fingers brush when you pass him his mug, and his body seizes like you shocked him, but you just offer a tiny smile.
His mouth falls open. He stares at you like he’s spent years only looking at the muddier reflection of stars in the water, and has finally thought just to tilt his head up. You let out a small, shaking breath. He’s still burning up. You can feel it from your place a foot away. But you don’t dare to push it.
Not when he’s looking at you like this. The way you’d always, secretly and shamefully, dreamed he would.
“I’m watching Star Wars.” You mumble. “You wanna…”
You trail off, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
He nods again. A new tendril of worry blooms, overlapping with the growing tangle of them in your gut. He might not be able to speak.
But he follows you to the living area, and takes his place on the couch. His knee pushes against yours. He’s breathing awfully shallow, but you’re a selfish coward that wants him close, so you don’t mention it.
You barely pay attention to the movie. All you can focus on is Bucky at your side. How he doesn’t even seem to be sparing the TV a glance. He’s not really touching you, save for that place where your thighs are always pushed together, but every time you shift he grabs your knee. You blink at him, and his throat just bobs. He still hasn’t said a word. You’re afraid that when he does, it will break this fragile illusion.
That he wants to be here.
Near you.
He passes out near the end of the movie. His head falls against your shoulder and his body goes limp, almost a blanket over yours. You don’t move, just staring at a lit up, black screen. He looks more peaceful than you’ve ever seen. His fever isn’t breaking, but it does seem to be easing. You run your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low sound like a purr.
Then he takes a deep inhale, right against the crook of your neck, and a different noise leaves him.
It’s almost a moan.
You swallow. Suddenly you need to move. You don’t know what’s going on with him, but this can’t be what he actually wants. To be asleep almost in your arms, purring and moaning. That’s not a part of him you get to have.
But when you try to move, his grip around you tightens.
You feel almost sick.
It takes almost an hour, to roll off the couch without him pulling you back. When you’re free, you still cover him in a blanket and press a hand to his brow. Just to check. You can’t really help it.
His fever is building again.
You wish he would just tell you what was wrong. Even if he thinks you hate him, he can’t think you wouldn’t care enough to help.
When you start to walk away, he moans again. You could swear it sounded a little like your name.
You force yourself to go to bed. You’re not sure if you want him to remember in the morning.
If anything, you just pray he gets better. It’s hard to hide your undying care for him, when he’s in pain. Impossible to ignore how much it bothers you, that he’s hurting. ‘
But it is Bucky.
And he’s never going to make anything that easy.
You walk out of your room in the morning, and he’s right there. Lingering in the hallway, staring at you with those blown-out eyes, working his jaw like he’s trying to bite his own tongue off.
“Hi.” You say lamely.
He stumbles back like you punched him. “You- You’re-“
“Bucky, are you-“
“’M fine.” He says it mostly to himself again. There’s sweat gathering on his brow and bags under his eyes.
You’re not going to tell him, but you’re getting worried. This is the third morning in a row you’ve found him here. The first night you asked if he’d slept there, and he’d scowled and stomped away.
But from the look of him, you don’t think he’s been sleeping at all.
“Do you need something?” You ask. You sound soft, but you can’t help it. The worse he looks, the more your heart tightens. “I can call Steve-“
“Don’t get Steve.” He steps back. The same jerked movement from the first night. It’s the only way he’s been moving around you, lately. “I’m fine.”
You give him a doubtful look. His tongue flicks over his lips. You take a step forward, and he takes another step back. Like you’ve got a polarity field around you. Like he can’t even stand to breathe the same air.
And yet he’s here. Outside your door, and breathing through his mouth like an animal.
“Bucky-“
“Don’t.” He shakes his head, stumbling another step back. “Just- Don’t.”
You swallow, and don’t give chase when he walks away. Jogs away. He yanks himself away, then runs like he thinks you’re going to catch him and drag him back. You won’t.
But you do go right to Steve.
“What happened on the mission.”
Steve flinches, gagging on his sandwich. You’re glaring down at him with your hands on your hips, and you think he knows his little charming smile isn’t going to work on you here. That doesn’t seem to stop him from trying anyway.
“Hey, um- Do you want a cookie-“
“Steven.” You hiss, and he swallows. “What happened.”
Steve winces, avoiding your gaze. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”’
“What do you mean you’re not supposed to tell me-“
“I mean I- I can.” He mutters. “But then Bucky will kill me. And I don’t want Bucky to kill me.”
You scowl. “Tough shit, because guess who’s going to kill you if you don’t tell me?”
Steve sighs. “Is it you?”
“Yep.”
He stares at his sandwich, like it’s somehow going to get him out of this situation. You wait for him to realize it won’t. You have plenty of time.
“I’m really not supposed to tell you-“
“I really don’t care.”
“Well- You will.” Steve looks up with a sad little puppy eyes.
You don’t have the same reservations about punching him in the face, that you have with Bucky. He’s basically asking for it right now.
“Steven, I swear to fucking God-“
“I can’t tell you.” He cuts you off with a shake of his head, and you scoff.
“No, you just won’t tell me-“
“That’s not- I can’t, okay? Please stop asking me to-“
“Why, because Bucky doesn’t want you to?” You leer. “Because last I checked, you’re the Captain. And if Bucky is your friend, you should be telling his teammates he’s in danger so they can help-“
“That’s the problem!” Steve shouts, and you blink. “You- Look, you’re going to want to help, and I can’t let you.”
“You can’t let me help?” You echo, and Steve winces.
“I know how it sounds-“
“Do you? Because what I’m fucking hearing that your best friend is in danger, and you won’t let me fucking help-“
“Why do you even want to help?” Steve fixes you with a pointed look. “All you ever do is complain about Bucky and how he’s annoying you. I would’ve thought you didn’t care.”
You narrow your eyes, and Steve raises his brows. You know what he’s doing. Smug fucking asshole.
“That won’t work on me.” You grunt, and he shrugs.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Steve-“
“But,” he says causally. “If I did, I’d say that’s why I can’t tell you. And you know that.”
You hate it when he speaks in riddles. Like you’re just supposed to read between the lines when your brain is fogged with worry about Bucky.
“I- I don’t-“ You let out a slow breath, looking down to your shoes. Heat is flooding your cheeks. It’s annoying. “It’s not- I’m just- Please.”
Your voice cracks suddenly. You’ve been losing more sleep over this than you’re ever going to tell anyone. You almost feel ill with it—like the worry is an infection, knotting up your stomach and making your heart pick up—but that might just literal exhaustion. Something happened. No one will tell you what. It’s making you feel useless and hopeless and torn up to tiny, useless shreds.
“Bucky.” You say slowly. “Is- He’s not okay. I know he’s not okay.” You force yourself to meet Steve’s gaze. “Just- Lie to me and say he’s fine, and fix it, or tell me and let me help. But I- I can’t just-“
You don’t even know how to finish the sentence. There’s a burning feeling behind your eyes and a lump in your throat. You’re so worried. Worried this is something that’s going to kill him, and you’re going to lose him forever.
And there’s pity, in Steve’s gaze. It’s enough to make him break, his voice softening completely.
“Alright.” He murmurs. “But- You can’t tell him I told you.”
You nod quickly. “I’ll say I just got into the files, or- Something- Please.”
Steve sighs. “Okay. Okay.” He shakes his head. “It was on the mission. Bucky was distracted the whole time, and when we got jumped he wasn’t being controlled with his punches. He swag to hard on an Hydra agent. Knocked them back into some vials, and- Well they burst. All over both of them. We put the agent in containment, but he was displaying worse symptoms. Bucky- I think it’s the serum, or just… Bucky. But he’s been controlling it better.” Steve grimaces. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not still knocked up with stuff.”
You nod slowly. That’s not that bad.
But Steve didn’t want you to know for a reason.
“What are the symptoms?”
Steve won’t meet your gaze. “Fever. Nausea. Hormone flares. Um- Increased… libido.”
Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “What.”
“Hydra makes some weird stuff. Tony thinks this was, um- A breeding drug. We don’t know why they were developing it, but- There’s no other name.” Steve’s nose wrinkles. “The agent- His cell is disgusting.”
“But- Bucky-“
“I told you, he says he’s got it under control.” Steve shrugs, but doesn’t really sound like he’s convinced himself. “The agent has been, ah… begging for anyone. Bucky doesn’t have the same liberty with what will help. He says it’s going to pass, and he’ll be fine.”
“And will it?” You breathe. “Pass?”
Steve shrugs. “It did for the agent.”
“Before or after the mating?”
Steve’s silence is an answer. You swear under your breath.
“Why wouldn’t you tell me this, Steve? We- We need to get him to someone, this could fucking kill him-“
“I know that!” Steve snaps. “I know that just as well as you do! As he does! But- Jesus.” He shakes his head. “He won’t take anyone. He’ll only- Well- You know.”
“I know? I don’t fucking know, none of you have been telling me shit-“
Steve says your name plainly. You blink.
“What-“
“Nothing. Just- Why do you think he’s been lingering around you?”
You stare at him. He raises his brows, and you swallow.
“Steve-“
“I didn’t say anything-“
“Yes, you did-“
“Nope.”
You press your lips in a tight line. He can’t mean what you think he means. That would be to easy. Too good. “Bucky- He doesn’t- That’s not how he feels about me.”
Please don’t say it is. It’s not fair if you’re lying.
“Funny.” Steve shrugs. “He says the same thing about you.”
This is a bad idea.
Bucky hasn’t left his room in a day. You’d spent all of last night replaying your conversation with Steve, trying to pick it apart for a single reason he didn’t mean what you thought he did. What you hoped he did. What you’d always hoped for, only in the dead of night where no one would ever find out.
But it didn’t matter how you turned or picked at Steve’s words. There was only one conclusion. The beautiful, horrible one that you can’t even fully wrap your head around. It would mean you spent years hating him for no reason. Year thinking about kissing his stupid face, when you could’ve been actually kissing him. If Steve’s right, you’re going to kill Bucky.
After you fix this for him.
If Steve means what you think, you can fix this for him. He just has to let you.
Which is why this is a horrible idea. If Bucky turns you down, you’re going to have to quit your job and change your name and move to Indonesia.
But if he doesn’t turn you down…
You steel yourself and knock on Bucky’s door. It’s worth the risk, just for him. Always just for him.
“Fuck off, Stevie-“
“I’m not Steve!” You call, and for a second there’s no response.
Then there’s a muffled banging, and you almost fall forward when Bucky yanks the door open.
He looks even worse than before. And better. And hotter, and oh God, your knees are already weak.
His shirt is gone, and his broad, muscled chest is shining with sweat. His hair flops over his eyes, mussed up and soft looking. He’s breathing through his nose, even as his swollen mouth hangs open. His metal fist is curled against the door, making the wood crack under his fingers. Standing through his sweatpants is the long, proud outline of his cock.
You swallow, your mouth watering. Bucky says your name, and you can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a plea or a prayer.
“You shouldn’t be here-“
“Steve said you need me.”
You stare at each other. Bucky’s tongue flicks out, and you chew on your lower lip. This is it. If he turns you down, you’ll walk away and live. A new life, across the world. You’ve never been to Indonesia, but you hear they have good food and community, and you’re sure you’ll be able to fit right in over time, and if you don’t at least Bucky will never find you to make you relive this humiliation, because it’s been almost two full minutes and he hasn’t said anything, so you should probably pull out your phone and start researching Indonesian names-
“Steve shouldn’t have told you anything.” Bucky growls, and you swallow.
“I- I made him.”
He sighs. You could swear his dick twitches. “Of course you did.”
“I was worried about you-“
“You don’t have to be, doll. I’m-“
“If you say I’m fine, I’m going to fucking punch you.”
Bucky scowls. You scowl harder. You have a feeling neither of you are going to back down.
“You’re sick.” You say plainly, and Bucky lets out a sharp exhale through his nose.
“Maybe. But it’s not the kinda sick you can help with-“
“Steve says it’s the kind of sick only I can help with.”
He’s silent again. You risk a tiny step forward, and he takes one back, muttering your name. It’s a warning. A plea.
“Don’t do this.” He mutters, fists balled at his side. “Not outta pity, not for me-“
“It’s not pity.” You stop in his doorway, making your voice soft. “I want to help, Bucky. Let me help.”
He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, you- You just- You don’t feel like that for me-“
“You don’t feel like that for me.” You breathe, and Bucky’s body locks up.
“Who says?”
“You’re an ass to me-“
“You’re an ass to me.”
“I don’t mean to be.” You whisper. “I- I don’t- I’m not good at… You know.”
Bucky’s throat bobs. He still doesn’t move.
“Me neither.”
You nod. “But…”
“Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah. I do.”
You take a deep breath. His whole room is filled with that musky, spicy smell. The heat is almost rolling off his body.
“Please ask me to help.” You don’t bother to hide the desperation in your voice. He needs to know that you mean it. “I- I want to, Bucky, I want you so bad-“
Bucky muffles your pleas, crashing forward and pressing his mouth over yours.
It’s not the soft, loving kiss of your fantasies. It’s rough and desperate, the kiss of a man finally letting his leash snap. He grabs your neck and scrunches his fingers in your hair, dragging a moan from the back of your throat. It turns into a hungry cry, when he pushes his tongue between your lips. Your knees wobble from the bruising force of it. You grab his shirt for balance, scrunching the fabric between your fingers.
Bucky grunts, pressing further over you. One arm drops to wrap around your waist, and the other slide up to cradle the back of your head. The touch his shockingly gentle, for the demanding way he’s almost eating your kisses. You’re standing nowhere near a wall, but he’s caged you all the same. There’s nothing to do but feel the way his cool, metal fingers dig into your hips, and the unrelenting heat of his mouth.
You kiss until your breathing is ragged. He tastes like mint and salt, and it’s a little addictive. Even after you’re light-headed and whimpering, Bucky sucks on your lower lip and takes just a little more. You whimper, gasping for air that he doesn’t seem to need. He tugs on your hair, forcing you to tip your neck back, and he plants open, hungry kisses over every place he can reach.
“You gotta be sure.” He murmurs against your skin. “Tell me you’re sure, doll, ‘cause- I don’t think I can go easy.”
And oh God, isn’t that lovey thought. Bucky not going easy. Combined with his tongue flicking over a pulse point, you almost fall over from the pure thought of it.
But he’s asking real permission. His hold on your hip is getting tighter, and his shoulders are squared and tense. He’s keeping himself from taking what he really wants, until you give him total permission.
You didn’t know you could want him more.
“I- Oh-“ Your eyes flutter, as he nips on sensitive skin under your jaw before kissing away the hurt. “I’m sure, Bucky, I- I don’t want you to go easy.”
For some reason, that only makes him more tense. He takes an uneven breath, pressing his brow against your head and almost pulling you off your feet as he hugs you tighter. You wait, slowly wrapping your arms around him and dragging your nails soothingly over the nape of his neck.
Bucky draws himself back, his expression unreadable as he scans over your face. You offer him a tiny, nervous smile, and he lets out a shaky laugh.
“You- You got no idea, do you?”
Your face falls to a pout. “I have a lot of ideas-“
“No, you don’t.” He drops his brow over yours. “You got no fuckin’ clue, what you do to me.”
And your brain stalls. It gets all gooey and soft, as you just blink up at him. You’re already on unsteady legs. You never thought he’d catch you if you fell, but with the way Bucky’s looking at you right now, you think he’d dive off a cliff to be at your side.
“Bucky…” You breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours. Your noses bump. His gaze darts between your lips and eyes, and you think you might be burning alive.
“You smell so good.” He mutters, before leaning down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. “Taste better than I imagined.”
“You-“ You almost whimper, when he pulls away. “You imagined?”
He chuckles, kissing just your upper lip. You’re already putty under his hands, and you might turn to just a steam of desire if he doesn’t stop kissing you so softly.
“Didn’t you?”
You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch.
“Bet I imagined more.”
And you doubt that, but Bucky’s kissing you again before you can tell him that you imagined so much it scared you sometimes. The way you were sure that you’d never be able to recover, from an addiction to a drug you’d never even taken.
You’re certainly never going to recover now. Kissing Bucky is even better than you’d let yourself dream about. His lips are just as soft as you thought. Even with the way he’s holding himself back, his touch is possessive. He traces your sides like he’s trying to memorize them, and kisses you the same way.
“Got no idea what I’m gonna do to, either.” He rasps against your lips. “If you let me, doll… You shouldn’t- But-“ He groans, pushing his nose into your cheek, kissing over the slope of your jaw. “Fuck, I want you to.”
You want him to. You want to feel those sloppy, devout kisses everywhere, to get that infernal tongue between your legs. His cock is almost bursting through his sweats, protruding into your thigh. He’d be heavy on your tongue, and split you better than the toys that you’ve used in his place before. The ache in your core throbs from just the idea, and you can feel your heart trying to burst all out of your throat with confession of desire and adoration. But you’re not sure if he’s going to believe them.
“Tell me.” You whisper. “Tell me what you’ve dreamed about doing to me.”
Bucky pulls back, and you worry you’ve stepped on an invisible landmine. That you’re going to be shoved out of the room, the door slammed in your face instead of behind you, locking you out of the room you’ve longer to be in since you met him. Bucky stares at you. You open your mouth to apologize and take it back, but he loves to move faster than your lustdrunk mind can understand.
You squeal as he walks you backward, but not out of the room. He kicks his door shut as you pass it. It slams, right as Bucky pins you between against the wall. He kisses you before you can protest or ask questions, and keeps going until you’re squirming against him and unsure if you should pull him closer or push him away. His kisses wander your cheeks, over your nose and hairline and back down to your ear.
“I wanted you just like this.” He chokes out, and your swallow. He sounds wrecked, and you’re not even kissing anymore. “Wanted you everywhere. Would see you in a meetin’ and think about bending you over the table. You’d get under me on the training mats and I’d wanna get in a headlock between your legs. Bet you taste so good.”
He shudders, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. His dick has shifted to push right near your core, and it’s almost too much pressure, while not being nearly enough.
“Would sit next to you on the plane and think about gettin’ on my knees.” He rasps, beard ticking against your skin. “Worshipping your pussy like it deserves. Makin’ you- Fuck- Call my name-“
Bucky moans, his hips jerking forward. A tiny moan escapes your lips, and Bucky almost whines and does it again. You don’t think he can help it.
“Wanted to stuff your pretty little lips with my cock.” He thrusts again, his whole weight almost collapses over your body. “You’d get all mouthy and I- I jerk off to the idea of puttin’ you over my knee or gettin’ you lying in my bed. I’d- I’d fuck you so nice, doll, I swear I’d be good, but- Fuuuck-“
He’s rutting between your thighs, and seems to forget the story he’s supposed to be telling you in favor of sucking on your neck. You whimper, pushing your hand between your bodies. Not to stop him—never to stop him—but to wrap your fingers around his cock through his sweats.
Bucky moans, his voice breaking with raw, starved relief. You try to pull him back to kiss him, but he just wraps closer around you. He’s almost shaking. You think he’s trying not to fuck your hand.
You can’t have that.
“It’s okay.” You drag your fingers over the line of his cock, and he whimpers against your neck. “I- I’ve thought about it too.”
Bucky slams forward, and you smile at the air.
“Wanted you to shove me down and fuck me stupid. Wanted to ride you until I passed out. I bought a dildo, baby, just to pretend it was you.”
You use your free hand to pet the back of his head, slowly sliding his sweats down to give yourself better access. Bucky’s thick and heavy in your hand. Your fingers don’t even come close to wrapping fully around, and whenever your nails graze his balls, he bucks forward with a strangled moan.
“Wasn’t as big.” You breathe, stroking his dick in long, tight motion. “You’re so big, Bucky, I don’t think it’s gonna fit.”
He grunts, his teeth grazing your neck. “Gonna- Fuck-“
You squeeze him at the base, and he doubles over. He’s almost fully collapsed against you. You want to feel him come apart.
“Gonna make it fit.” He hisses in your ear, and you hum.
“How?”
“Open you up.” He mutters, words slurred like he’s drunk. “Get you all over me, doll- Wanna watch you cum over and over and- God-“
His dick is twitching, and you giggle. He’s working himself up.
“You think this is funny?” He rasps.
You smile, swiping your thumb over the weeping slit of his dick. “A little. You wanna make me cum but you won’t even touch me.”
He makes an annoyed sound, and tries to push off of you. You tug his cock a little harder, and he falls back over with a moan. You giggle again.
“You- You’re a fuckin’ brat-“
“I’m helping you, Barnes.” You whisper in his ear.
He chuckles, and the sound rolls through your body. “Helpin’ me would be sitting on my face- Fuck-“
Bucky’s whole body shakes, when you squeeze him one last time, and his control slip. You pet him through his orgasm, unsure if you want him to notice how you press your legs tighter to try and get more stains of his cum. He pants and groans against your skin, his lips latching back around that one bruise he seems to be obsessed with.
There’s so much cum. Bucky grinds into your fist, and it just keeps coming and coming and coming until your fingers are sticky and drenched. The idea of him doing that inside you is almost a little terrifying. You’ve never wanted anything more.
A choked sound like your name comes out, muffled against your skin. You smile, leaning back to try and meet his gaze.
Bucky seems to need a second. You hope you didn’t already wear him out.
“You okay?” You whisper, and he tenses.
Bucky pulls back, and your pulse picks up into a drum.
Whatever he’d been before, it had been tame compared to this. His jaw is clenched, his attention fixed on you like a predator. His chest heaves, his hands limp at his side. You swallow, feeling a lot smaller than you did a second ago.
You can’t stop yourself from looking down. It only makes things worse.
He’s bigger than he felt. His cum is dripping down his thigh, and it’s barely been a minute, but he’s already getting hard again. You drag your eyes up the expanse of his chest—all flushed skin and muscle—and realize he hasn’t stopped staring at you. You lick your lips. He mimics the movement.
“It won’t fit.” You says again, but your tone has lost all the teasing mockery of before.
And Bucky’s smirk is dangerous. A thrill rushes through you at the sight of it. You’ve gotten exactly what you wanted.
“Gonna make it fit.” He growls.
You yelp, as he grabs your wrist and yanks you forward. You don’t even slam into his chest before he’s lifting you off the ground with another mind numbing kiss. It’s a distraction. You know that. You don’t really care, though, returning it in a second.
Bucky carries you like you’re a doll, your knees bent like some princess and his warmer arm locked around your waist. He leans over, lowering you to the mattress with a shocking care. For a second you’re fully lost in him. The gentle motion of his lips over yours, the way his hands wander and map your body as he settles you into the mattress.
“So soft.” He mutters. “All that bite, doll, but I knew you’d be so fuckin’ soft for me.”
You’d like to protest, and say that you’re not soft. But Bucky’s kisses are making your head spin, and no single, clear word can make it out of the daze. All you manage is a high, long whine.
Bucky chuckles. His hand pushes under your shirt, almost tickling over your sides.
“You like that?” He tease, his knuckles tracing over the underside of your boobs. “You like bein’ my sweet girl?”
You are not sweet. You try to snap that, but it mostly just comes out a feral grumble. You don’t know how he’s the one with a sound mind right now. You’re not under a sex drug.
You’re just under Bucky. Where it’s very, very warm, and sticky, and nice. His cum is dripping over your clothed core and midriff. You shiver as it hits bare skin, and Bucky smirks against your lips.
“Say it and I give you more.” He rasps. “Say you like it.”
And it’s a game. You know that you like it. He does too. But he’s poking and teasing you, trying to get you spar with him. To get you to play.
So you glare at him when he leans back, spreading your legs wider at the same time. You keep your mouth stubbornly shut.
Bucky grins. He traces the curve of your hips with massive hands, his thumb angling to smear his cum over your navel.
“Look at you.” He mocks. “Beggin’ for me and then can’t even admit she likes it.”
You wrinkle your nose, turning up your chin. Bucky smacks your inner thigh, then rubs his metal palm right over your pussy. The sudden sting then harsh pleasure make your hips push off the bed with a cry. Bucky takes his hand away to splay it on your abdomen, shoving you back down.
“You like gettin’ tossed around, too?” He laughs, and heat floods right to your core. “I’ll toss you around, baby. Make you into a nice little cockslut for me, even let you put my in that pretty mouth.”
He grabs your jaw, and you part your lips in a second. Bucky groans, his cock getting impossibly harder.
“Already listen so well.” He mutters, teasing his two forefingers over your mouth. “Just can admit you fuckin’ love it, do you? Can’t be a good girl and tell the truth.”
You narrow your eyes in defiance, and pretend to bite down on his fingers. It’s not a real bite. Just teeth grazing knuckles. But Bucky understands what it means.
Permission to go further.
His eyes gleam. His cock is already leaking with pre-cum.
“Alright, babydoll.” He rubs your thighs, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. “Have it your way.”
In a single second, Bucky rips off your clothing like it’s paper. You barely have time to feel the cold of the air before he’s grabbing your waist, flipping you onto your stomach, and dragging your ass up in the air. You yelp, fisting your hands in the sheets, and try to twist and see where he is.
A dazed part of your brain that doesn’t remember his hands on your hips sees no one behind you, and almost freaks out.
Then the first stroke of Bucky’s tongue hits your pussy, and you collapse fully into the sheets.
“Oh my-“ Your eyes roll back, as he teases the very tip of his tongue around your clit before dragging it through your folds. “Oh my God-“
“Sensitive fuckin’ pussy.” Bucky muses, and you feel the stubble of his cheek pressing against you thigh. “Barely even touching it. Wonder if I-“
His thumb drags circles just around your clit, and you squeak. He kisses the curve of your ass, going a little fast. You whine trying to drag your own ass in circles to match his motions. You can’t see him. Can’t know if you’re doing well outside of his lips tracing your thigh, and the pleased hums against your skin.
Bucky jerks his thumb suddenly to the side, pushing directly over your clit. You scream, your knees sliding back. Bucky grabs them and pushes them back up, fully exposing your pussy to the air.
“Look at you.” His breath is warm, over that most sensitive spot. “Bet I don’t even need to fuckin’ prep you. You’re so wet, you’d just…”
He makes a deep, rumbling sound, and you almost sob as he drags his tongue right back between your puffed pussy lips. You clench around nothing, his stubbled scraping your clit. Bucky angles his face, letting his tongue flick over your clit. It goes back and forth and back and forth, toying with it before pressing flat. He sucks, hard like a lollipop, and you almost sob into the mattress.
“Sweet.” Bucky whispers, his metal arm wrapping around your legs. “So fuckin’ sweet.”
“Bu- Bucky-“
“Shhh.” He kisses right over your pussy. “Wanna taste, pretty girl. I gotta fuckin’-“ He moans, and the vibration shoots right up your spine. “Gotta taste-“
Bucky presses his face fully into your cunt, and the sound that leaves you almost isn’t human.
He’s good at this. So good at this. It’s a little unfair. Your mouth can’t do anything but hang uselessly open, as Bucky works his jaw against you. He eats you like he’s starved for it. Like he’s a man that wants to drown of an insatiable thirst.
Two hands hold you up in the air, as his tongue plunges ruthlessly in and out of your cunt. You keen, trying to push further back, and the warmer hand wraps up to your spine and shoves your stomach down. It’s a tighter fit like this. Bucky drags his tongue around, and it hits every sensitive area. His beard tickles and scratches, and cold fingers tease your skin.
You get more and more sensitive, with every flick and suck and groan. You’re so wet it’s almost drooling down your legs, mixing with the stains of cum he’d gathered from your midriff and smeared over your legs. The dual heat with his cold hand makes all your nerves stand on end. You pussy clenches again, and Bucky chuckles.
“That’s right.” He mutters, making out with your clit as you gasp for air into the bed. “That’s it, baby, you’re already lettin’ go, aren’t you.”
You whine, and Bucky nips at your ass.
“Aren’t you?”
“Ye- Yes.” You mumble. “’S good, Bucky- So good-“
“I know.” He grunts, pressing his cold, metal thumb down into your clit. “Fuck, baby, I know.”
You whimper, and Bucky starts up on your dripping pussy again. He’s lapping at it, pushing his tongue into your tight hole as he plays with your clit, and white lines your vision.
“I- I’m gonna- Fuck- Bucky-“ You scratch at the sheets. “I’m gonna- Oh God-“
He smacks your clit, spits onto your pussy, and resumes with double the effort. You cry his name, as your orgasm wracks your body. You can feel yourself seizing around him, twitching and writhing in his tight grip as your vision lines with white.
And Bucky doesn’t stop. You’re making a mess all over his face, and he’s rising up, but it’s just pushing you further into the mattress. You whimper, your cunt too sensitive, but he doesn’t even come up for air.
“Shit- Bucky- Oh- Ohhhhh-“
The ache quickly fades into pleasure again. Blinging pleasure that’s just on the wrong side of too much, but pleasure all the same. You squeal, and Bucky just moans against your cunt.
Then you hear it. The slam of his fist against his cock.
He’s jerking off while he eats you out. He’s fucking himself so hard you can hear it, hear the slap of skin, feel all his little moans and grunts right against your pussy, and the thought sends you right over the edge again.
Bucky moans louder, as you cum on his tongue. Just like before, it seems to make him more and more feral. You have a feeling what lucidity that let him tease you before is gone. He’s eating you out the same way he’s kissed you, with rough lips and a fervor that’s almost animalistic. You’re boneless and whimpering into the sheets, taking it over and over as Bucky just keeps working his mouth against your cunt, and fucking his hand.
Then, suddenly, he’s gone. You whine from the lose, trying to roll over and look at him, but he just shoves you back down with a growl. The sound of his hand is getting faster and faster, and a hot weight drops over your back. Bucky presses his face into your neck, and takes a deep breath. You whimper, and he groans. His hips must be rocking, with how the bed is shaking.
“Smells good.” He rasps. “Gonna- Fuck-“
Bucky snaps back up, and you feel him cum more than you even hear it. Hot ropes spurt over your ass and back, seeping down the back off your thighs and into your pussy. You moan at the sensation, pushing back on trembling hands. There’s always just more of it, until you’re so marked up with him you’re sure you’ll never be able to wash it off.
You don’t want to.
With how Bucky grabs your hips and spreads the stain over your skin, you don’t think he does either.
“Shit.” He breathes out, and you hum in agreement. “Gotta- Flip for me, c’mon-“
Bucky helps you roll over. His touches are gentle again, but the gleam in his eyes hasn’t faded. You blink at him, flat on your back with your legs spread. Bucky traces the lips of your cunt, then slowly pushes two fingers inside you. Fucking his cum back into your tight hole. You mewl, eyes fluttering. Your head tosses back, and Bucky smiles
“Good girl.” He coos.
You try not get all gooey and weak just from the praise. Bucky laughs, and you think you might’ve failed.
“Strangling my fingers, doll.” He teases, pulling them right out.
You whimper. You’re too wet and ready not to take something. It’s really not fair to make you wait.
“I know.” He kisses your brow, voice rough. “Trust me, I fuckin’ know. You just gotta tell me you like it, then-“ His cock drags between your folds, and you keen. “All yours.”
You blink at him, opening your mouth to comply.
But you’re at an advantage.
Bucky’s hard again. His body is wound so tight above you, and his every word is thick. Like it’s an effort to speak. He’s still trying to fight against the drug running through his veins.
You want him to give in.
So you close your mouth, and give him a defiant glare.
Bucky growls again, and there’s no more teasing.
His mouth pushes over yours, and it’s not a loving kiss. It’s rough and quick, stealing your breath in seconds and distracting you as Bucky grabs your knees and shoves them back. You try to chase his lips, when he pulls away, but he shoves you back down with a grunt.
“Wanna be a brat.” He grunts. “Gonna get fucked like a brat.”
You almost beam. Yes, please.
Bucky folds you under him, your knees pressed to your chest and your cum-stained pussy on full display. He doesn’t waste time, tapping the head of his cock against your clit before slamming right inside. You’re so soaked you take it with only a hitched breath, but that doesn’t mean your eyes don’t roll back.
He hits right against you pelvis, when he bottoms out. His heavy balls sit on your ass, and the stretch of him is just enough pain to heighten the pleasure. Bucky kisses all over your face as he lets you adjust, but your pussy is greedy. He’d prepared you too well. You’re more than ready within seconds.
“Bu- Bucky-“ You gaps out, and he growls against your neck. “Move.”
If he’d told you to wait, you wouldn’t have been surprised.
But the drug seems to have overtaken him again, and all you get is a noise like a snarl against your throat before Bucky draws almost all the way out, and slams back in.
The air is knocked clean from your lungs. This time, he hit right against your g-spot, and your whole body seizes up. Bucky makes a low, deep noise, and repeats the motion. Again, he drives right into that gooey spot deep inside of you. You clench around him, and he doubles over, rutting deep inside of you.
“The- There-“ You whimper, fingers scrambling in the sheets. “Fuck, baby, right there-“
Bucky grunts an agreement, and starts to fuck you into the mattress. The angle is so deep you’re worried he’s going to permanently rearrange your guts. Every slam of his cock into your makes you see heaven, and Bucky pants over your, his eyes locked onto yours as your face contorts with pleasure.
He’s not even fucking you like a brat. He’s fucking you like a doll. He grabs at your limbs and moves them below him like you’re just a sleeve for his dick, and he needs you into just the right spot. One hand fists in your hair, forcing your neck a little up so you can watching your arousal gleam on his cock every time he pulls out. He moans every time he pushes back in, and you watch your cunt swallow his dick whole. A wet, smacking sound filling the room as he drills into you. He bends you even further to kiss over your neck and breasts, his tongue dragging in rhythm with his dick.
You try to clench around him every time he bottoms out, but your head is sort of empty, and now you’re just a drooling pussy around his massive cock, moaning his name and happily milking every bit of pleasure.
“Oh- Oooooh-“ You mewl, smiling like a cockdrunk idiot at the air. “Buuuucky-“
His mouth presses back over yours, and the kiss is strangely soft. His fucking hasn’t slowed or relented, but there’s a care with how his lips move over yours that makes you feel worshipped.
That’s what he’d said he’d do. Worship you. And you can really feel it here.
Bucky draws back, and the hand that had been fisted in your hair moves to your jaw. He squeezes again. You open for him easily, and his lips twitch.
“Good girl.” He coos, even if the words are tighter than before.
He spits into your mouth. You swallow obediantly, and open again when he squeezes your cheeks. Bucky slams forward with a groan, looking like a man wrecked.
“You fuckin’ like it, don’t you-“
“Love it.” You gasp, unable to even think to deny him again. “Love you, Bucky- Oh- Oh my god-“
Bucky makes a ragged, choked sound, and cums almost without warning. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, as he pumps you full of his release. It feels like even more than before. Like you’re going to burst with how full you are, spurts of it still being forced out as Bucky fucks you through. You’ve never felt so totally claimed, with him all over every inch of your skin. He kisses you and you giggle, dazed and almost high on the feeling.
And he’s not even done.
The period of lucidity between orgasms gets shorter before it gets longer. Bucky’s ability to control himself almost vanishes all together. You get a kiss and broken mumble of your name before you’re being flipped back onto your stomach and fucked from behind. There will be handprints on your ass and thighs in the morning, and the sheets are stained with your drool from how Bucky railed you from behind.
You’re dragged into his lap right after, and he pushes his thumb into your mouth, then ruts up into your gaping cunt. You’re all moans and ditzy smiles by that point. When rolls you back onto your stomach and sits up on his knees, you just take it with moans and giggles and cries of delight.
He hasn’t just ruined you. He’s pulled you apart a million times over, until you’re just a puddle that sings his name.
You don’t even fully realize he’s done, when he kisses pulls out that last time. You whine, and clench around nothing, but expect to get filled right back up.
Then Bucky kisses you, and it’s slow. Savoring and sweet. Romantic. His voice is hoarse, but it’s lost the strained quality. He’s fully teasing again, smiling against your lips.
“So soft.” He coos, rubbing your thoroughly abused pussy with his warm hand.
You writhe, trying to get further and closer at the same time. Bucky chuckles, and kisses the corner of your mouth.
“Jesus, doll. You’d think you were the one that got sex drugged.”
You try to glare at him, but forget why the moment you see his pretty eyes, shining on yours.
They’re blue again.
“You’re back?” You breathe, and Bucky grins.
He ducks down, and presses another quick kiss over your lips.
“I’m back.”
You’re ordered not to move, while he cleans up. You don’t think you could if you tried. Your body is jelly, everything is sore in the best way, and your head is spinning with too many thoughts of what the fuck happened.
You told Bucky you love him. You told Bucky you love him. You’d never even fully admitted it in your head and he just fucked it right out of you. You said it fast, too fast, he thought you hated him four hours ago and now he must think you’re some kind of freak for just saying you love him.
He makes you drink water and go to the bathroom. Draws you a bath and brings you a snack and changes the sheets. You manage to find the strength to stand out of the tub and dry yourself off, wrapping the towel around your body before shuffling out in the center of his room.
God, he’s so handsome. All tan muscles and scars you want to trace with your tongue. Too bad you fucking blew it, and now you’re never going to get to touch him again-
Bucky turns, and smiles when he sees you. You swallow, bracing for the worst as he crosses the room.
He takes your face between his hands and kisses you. Deep and gentle and maybe he just forgot-
“Love you too.” He says against your lips. “Just- Uh- While we’re saying it.”
Oh.
Or that. That’s nice.
You throw everything you have into kissing him back, but end up tackling him down onto the bed with the sudden surge of strength. Bucky chokes out a laugh in surprise, wrestling you over onto your back with kiss and wandering hands. You giggle, trying to push back, and he nips at the tip of your nose.
Then he pauses, and pulls up with a small, worried frown.
“You’re stayin’ the night, right?”
You almost snort. There’s no getting rid of you now. You’re going to stay forever, and as long as he’ll allow after that.
“Yeah. I’m staying.”
✦End note: this was longer than my college thesis btw. and i. put more effort into it.✦
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