I'm new to posting on here, join my journey! Currently working on a diploma in humanities, and a degree in literature and creative writing! I’m also an astrologist of 5 years- and I’d of course be super open to writing any astrological head cannons/ any questions involving characters if asked :p
Kinktober Masterlist
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Currently writing for:
✧ Steve Harrington
✧ Steve Rogers
✧ Thor
✧ Natasha Romanoff
✧ Bucky Barnes
⋆˚｡⋆୨✧୧˚ Asks Are Open ˚୨✧୧⋆｡˚⋆
Primarily my fics will be written with an x female reader in mind, since I tend to write from what I know. That said, I want my writing to feel welcoming for everyone- so if you don't relate with that perspective, please don't hesitate to add that to your ask. Also- I try to keep my writing inclusive for all skin tones, but if you would like your ask to include yours, please feel welcome to add that as well :)♡
I won't write: explicit violence/cruelty/torture, incest, bestiality, fics involving minors/ inappropriate age gaps
☙Some fics will feature power dynamics and legal age gaps☙
A lot of my work will be NSFW and labelled as 18+, and I would prefer that minors don't interact with asks- however, I don't really, super care how old you are if you're just reading my fics. Pls remember to use discretion when accessing content online!
I want to start this off by apologising for being so PATHETIC with kinktober I severely underestimated the number of assignments I had due HOWEVER- I will still be posting all of those fics asap🩷
Anyway-
I was tagged by the amazing @nonotwithoutu for the last line tag game! Which is so so fun.
rules: copy/paste the last line you wrote, and then tag some other people who you're excited to see what they're working on to keep the game going!
౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹
The last line I wrote is from a Stucky x Reader wip called A Fall From Grace, which I am hopeful to get posted soon ♡︎
(kind of cheating because its more than one line- I felt it needed the context LOL)
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Heaven is an ever glowing crack of salvation. It is a trembling breath that falls upon the kneeling sinner. It is pearlescent gold and aching caress, enough to see any lonely soul through ‘til the end of time. To the place where light breaks and finally buckles.
But, could that truly feel sweeter than the honey behind Steve’s eyes? The tender brush of his fingers? Could it truly quell the desire that bites at your loin- float down upon you and fill all of the empty spaces within your chest, the way Bucky's voice seems to?
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I am also super newww here so I'm just going to tag bestie hehe
Day four of kinktober⟢ dom bottom/sub top with Steve Harrington
cw: p in v penetration (riding) overwhelm
an: sorry I didn’t post this yesterday I was so so hungover 😭 I’m working on a full length fic rn and also will have day 5 ready to post later on 🩷
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Steve Harrington fucks like its a game he always wins. He’s got you straddling his lap, bouncing on his cock until your legs shake and your throat is raw from whimpering his name.
Your knees are digging into the mattress as you try to steady yourself, hands gripping his thick thighs behind you like a lifeline, but he doesn’t allow you to let up. He just sits back against the head board, bringing his arms up to cross over his chest with that smug, devastating smile like he’s been expecting this.
“C’mon honey” he drawls, his voice is low and teasing and shoots straight to your pussy, “you wanted this so bad, don't go soft on me now. You know how I like it.”
Your breath hitches, nails clawing at him as you try to lift yourself again, sinking back down with a broken whine. He’s so thick, stretches you out so good you just can’t bring yourself to keep going, can’t force your body into submitting the way he does so effortlessly. You lean in to kiss him instead, all timid and sweet, licking into his mouth gently. “Can’t keep it up, Stevie. S’too big” you huff.
Your attempt to soften him up works just as you wanted it to, as he reaches down to grip firmly at your waist, his touch bruising. He drags you up, then slams you back down until you’re sobbing into him. Every jab from his cock punches the air from your lungs, digging into that perfect place so mercilessly you can’t tell where the pain ends and pleasure begins. You bury your face into his neck, but he just hums softly, tilting your chin so you have to meet his eyes.
“You want me to take care of you baby? You wanna cum?” He murmurs, voice sugary as he slows your hips into a grind. You nod, eyes pleading.
“Mmh, then you gotta look at me while I ruin this sweet little pussy, yeah? Can you do that pretty girl? You don't stop ‘til I say so.”
And you can’t. Not with his biceps flexing, dragging you down harder each time your pussy tenses up and clenches around him, not when his voice and heavy groans melt through your chest like honey. You’re trembling, falling apart in his lap, and he keeps you moving relentlessly, until he hears every moan that pours from your throat.
By the time he finally lets you slow, after your orgasm has ripped through you and left you shuddering, chest heaving, utterly wrecked, he brushes your damp hair back from your forehead, presses a soft kiss there and tugs you against his slick chest. His hands turn soothing, smoothing up and down your back as he breathes, recovering from his own climax. “That’s my girl. Always so perfect for me.”
cw: biting- lips, neck, tits, legs and mentions of oral (f receiving)
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❤︎︎Bucky and his teeth Headcannons❤︎︎
Bucky just loves to bite you- anywhere he possibly can…
✧Your neck✧
He can’t not nip at your throat when he’s got you pressed up against him. Sometimes it's gentle, just barely there grazes, his teeth ghosting over your pulse point until you shiver. But other times it’s brutal- sharp bites that turn raw across your skin, like he’s claiming every inch of you. And he always kisses over them after, soft and wet and soothing.
✧Your lips✧
Bucky’s kisses are never just kisses. He’ll tug at your bottom lip until you’re gasping, the tiny pinch making you melt for him.
He loves it when you whimper into his mouth because he bit down just a little harder than you expected, it makes him huff with amusement while he runs the soft pad of his thumb over your plushy lip.
✧Your chest✧
Sometimes it’s light bites to the swell of your breasts, or just below them, in the softest curve of flesh where only he knows to look for the mark later.
He’ll sink his teeth around your nipple and tug gently, tongue rolling over the bite right after. He groans low when you moan for him, hums as he gives your tits a mix of soft languid kisses, and rough grazes of his teeth.
✧Between your thighs✧
He’ll nip your inner thighs mercilessly, leaving trails of sharp little crescent marks before finally giving you relief with tender swipes of his tongue and hot kisses.
He loves the sounds you make when his teeth flutter over your puffy lips, never too hard, just enough to send your hips jerking and your hands scrambling for his hair.
His firm hand pins you down when you try to wiggle away, his teeth biting into the fleshy mound of your pussy with a teasing smirk, before he plants little kisses that trail down all the way to your clit.
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Here’s a mini tiny blurb based off of these since I couldn’t help myself…
You feel like silk on his tongue.
He has your thighs spread wide, pinned firm in his hands, and every time you try to squirm away he grins wider.
“Hold still” he mutters, and then his teeth are sinking into the soft flesh of your inner thigh, just enough to make you gasp, enough to make heat flood through you until you shake. He doesn’t soothe the bite right away like you’re used to, instead his mouth drags higher, nipping and grazing every inch of your skin until your whole body trembles with his teasing.
By the time he reaches your pussy you’re already pleading, but Bucky just shushes you, letting his breath flow over your clit before his teeth begin to graze against it. The movement is so slight they’re barely there, but the feeling still makes you jump and tense in his hold.
“Sensitive little thing” he taunts, mouth hot on you now, tongue stroking in ruinous stripes where his teeth had just been.
Day one of kinktober⟢ public innocence with Steve Rogers
cw: mentions of oral (f and m receiving), mentions of bruises and hickeys, mentions of rough sex
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You’re the perfect image at his side. A picture of grace and elegance, all polite smiles and folded hands, and that soft, sweet voice of yours. The kind of girl mothers think fondly of, and men trip over themselves to open doors for. You always thank the server, keep your knees tucked together with perfect posture. You blush when someone compliments your hair or outfit.
But Steve knows you better than that.
He knows that those cherry lips whispering “thank you, sir” at the table are the same ones that begged for his mouth last night. The same ones that let out small hiccups and mewls as he settled between your legs and licked at your pussy slowly, giving your clit deep kisses and deliberate flicks, just how you like it. The same ones that were circled around his cock, wet and swollen from the way he’d held your head down until tears streaked your hot cheeks.
He knows you shift in your seat not because you're anxious, but because you’re still sore from the way he’d bent you over and fucked you so hard your legs wobbled, made you whimper his name over and over. He knows that the delicate way your hair curls around your collarbone is simply to hide the bruises that he’d sent blooming into your skin with his firm grasp, and the plum coloured hickeys he’d sucked up your throat, peppering into your hairline like petals.
To everyone else you’re sugar-spun innocence. But to Steve, you’re his dirty little daydream. And the way you look at him from across the table- wide eyed, plump lips curling into that secret smile, makes him want to ruin you all over again the very moment the waiter walks away.
✧ giving kinktober a try for the first time! ✧ - im trying to fill out my blog hehe.. some of these will be more tame, just involving kissing or touching/mentions of sexual acts. and tbh I’m keeping them short and sweet, and not doing the full 31 because I’m SWAMPED with college work lol- but I will still be posting fics in between too! ♥︎
✰each prompt will have their own warnings✰
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𐙚 1st. public innocence- Steve Rogers blurb
𐙚 3rd. teeth- Bucky Barnes headcannon
𐙚 4th. dom bottom/sub top- Steve Harrington riding blurb
𐙚 5th. blood- Thor blurb
𐙚 7th. kissing practice- Natasha Romanoff blurb
𐙚 8th. finger sucking- Steve Harrington blurb
𐙚 9th. edging with toys- Bucky Barnes blurb
𐙚 11th. lap sitting/light stimulation- Steve Rogers blurb
𐙚 13th. hand holding- Natasha Romanoff headcannon
𐙚 14th. car sex- Steve Harrington blurb
𐙚 15th. hair pulling- Thor headcannon
𐙚 17th. spanking- Bucky headcannon
𐙚 18th. threesome- Bucky x Natasha blurb
𐙚 19th. just the tip- Steve Rogers blurb
𐙚 21st. shared candy- Natasha Romanoff blurb
𐙚 23rd. first time- Thor blurb
𐙚 24th. finger fucking- Natasha Romanoff blurb
𐙚 25th. face fucking- Bucky Barnes blurb
𐙚 27th. quiet sex- Steve Rogers blurb
𐙚 29th. pussy eating- Steve Harrington blurb
𐙚 31st. exhibition- Steve Rogers blurb
༺☆༻
Anyone else who’d like to be added to the tag list for these, let me know! 🫶🏻
☆ 18+
steve rogers+ fem reader
𖹭 no excuse, i just want to spank cap's ass <3
the kitchen is warm, filled with the soft hiss of butter on the stove and the sweet smell of pancakes. steve's standing over the pan like he's got all the time in the world, spatula in hand, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
you watch him for a beat, the easy curve of his shoulders, the way his hair falls just a little messy when he's not on duty. you can't help yourself— your hand comes down sharp and playful across his ass.
the sound cracks through the kitchen.
"jesus—" steve nearly drops the spatula, eyes darting over his shoulder, cheeks already dusted pink. "babe—?" his voice is low, warning but shaky, like he’s not sure if he wants you to stop or do it again.
you bite back a grin. "what? pancakes making you shy?"
he stares at you a moment longer before sighing, shutting the stove off. the pan sizzles in protest, but he doesn't care. he sets the spatula aside, leans both hands on the counter, and exhales like you've just short-circuited his whole morning.
"you don't play fair." he mutters, though there's a smile tugging at his mouth.
you step in close, fingers hooking into his waistband. "didn’t say i wanted to."
his breath stutters, and he doesn’t stop you when you sink to your knees. he's already half-hard, heavy in your palm, and the way his lashes flutter when your tongue slides over his tip is almost too much.
"god.." he groans, gripping the counter behind him so tight the wood creaks. he doesn’t move, doesn’t dare thrust, every inch of him trembling with restraint. he could take control in a heartbeat, pin you down and ruin you— but he doesn't. he loves this too much, loves watching you set the pace, loves the heat pooling in his gut as you take more of him.
you hollow your cheeks, swallow around him, and he curses under his breath, the sound wrecked. "you're gonna kill me, sweetheart," he rasps, chest heaving, eyes glazed and desperate.
it doesn’t take long before he’s spilling down your throat, body shuddering, thighs shaking like he’s the one on his knees. you swallow every drop, licking your lips as you look up at him, smug.
steve's a mess— hair messed up, chest rising fast, knuckles still white where he grips the counter. when he finally manages to look at you, there's a crooked smile on his lips, soft and ruined all at once.
"guess you don't need pancakes anymore.." he says, voice hoarse. he brushes his thumb across your cheek, eyes warm, needy in a way that makes your chest ache. "already got a better tasting breakfast, didn't you?"
♡ tags/warnings: f!reader, college/university au, established relationship stucky, allusions to violence on college campuses, drinking (unrelated to the sex), hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, threesome, oral sex (f!receiving), fingering, p in v sex, multiple orgasms, spit/spit kink, dom bucky if you squint, pet names (sweetheart, honey, baby, sweet girl, etc.), dirty talk (use of ‘cunt’ and ‘pussy’), sex toys (vibrator), crying during sex (the good kind), aftercare, eventual poly relationship, happy ending, getting together
♡ word count: 16k
♡ synopsis:
Steve and Bucky have a reputation around campus. You've heard the whispers in the back of lecture halls about the way they are with girls and you make a point to generally avoid them if possible, even if only because you're worried you might willingly turn into another notch on their well-used bedpost.
When your own reputation gets dragged through the mud, you begin to understand them a little better—and maybe let yourself admit that you didn't really have the full picture the way you thought you did. But you do now, and it only makes you want them more.
Luckily, they want you too.
♡ please note! i am new to this format and am primarily used to posting on ao3, so if you see anything I forgot to mention and should include here, please ~kindly~ let me know for next time. thank you! x
[ also, this has not been checked yet for mistakes. ]
It’s taken you three years to break your ‘no-dating-during-undergrad’ rule, and you’re already regretting it.
It was a well thought out rule. The gap year you’d taken before college was stock full of poor decisions you probably wouldn’t make again, and while you don’t necessarily have regrets, you definitely came out of it with some things you didn’t want to experience again.
The dating pool is, quite frankly, shit. Everyone wants to build-a-partner on swiping apps or have a mediocre one night stand and then sneak out before the sheets have gone cold. You’ve yet to encounter a man your age that hasn’t been horribly immature or blatantly antagonistic, and the older men you very briefly considered dating treated you like you were the one lacking maturity.
That year had taught you a lot about wanting. But wanting fades, and you’d decided, moving forward, that casual flings weren’t really for you.
Brendan seemed to understand all of that at first. A little too well, maybe.
You thought that meant something, until you’d found out that the months you’d spent casually getting to know one another and building a connection was actually just the result of a bet to see how long it’d take you to put out. It feels like you’re in fucking high school all over again.
You’re more mad about the fact that you couldn’t see it for yourself. Hurt, even—if you can let yourself admit to it.
But now Brendan’s staring at you open-mouthed from his spot on the shitty sofa in his shittier frat house, surrounded by his friends and everyone else who knew and didn’t tell you before, and the drink you’d poured over his head is soaking into the material like watercolors. His face is ashen with disbelief, mouth wrenched open as he spits out liquid onto himself, fists clenched in festering anger. He looks like a child, which is fitting, really, for the way he acts.
You’ve kept your head down for three years. You don’t like making scenes, but this helped a little.
You storm out of the frat with your chin held high, distantly aware of the people recording on their phones. You hope it gets circulated online—Brendan deserves to be miserable and lonely until graduation, if not after that too.
You just sort of wish you didn’t feel the same.
“That was fucking awesome. God. I’ve never seen his face do that before. I’m saving this video. Can you set a video as a lockscreen?”
You stifle a laugh into your textbook, lifting your neck up for the first time in an hour or so. Your eyes hurt from reading and typing on your computer screen beside you, and when you look up, most of the library occupants that’d been here when you first sat down have left.
Except for Steve and Bucky, who’ve just arrived, seemingly, only to talk to you.
You raise a brow at Bucky as he slumps into the seat across from you. “You really want Brendan’s face to be what you see every time you pick up your phone?”
He grins. “If it’s you throwing a drink in it, hell yeah. S’good shit.”
“He’s got a point,” Steve adds, leaning against your table with his arms crossed over his university sweatshirt. “I think there’s about half the campus that’s been dreaming about doing what you did to him. Worse, probably. It’s a collective catharsis.”
“Look who’s taking an advanced English course,” Bucky reaches over to pinch him in the hip. Steve Steve swats him away, and Bucky looks back at you. “No, but. Seriously. People are being very supportive in the comments.”
“Comments?” you groan, closing your textbook.
“It is the twenty-first century,” Bucky reminds you.
You chew at your lip, trying not to picture the worst. “Are there any bad ones?”
Steve snorts as he helps you slide your laptop into your bag and then hefts it and your textbooks onto his shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Buck’s been on comment duty since it first went up, reporting anyone who’s being an ass.”
“I am now responsible for several suspensions,” Bucky says proudly, standing from the table with a mock bow.
“Thanks for defending my honor.” You pat his head a little condescendingly, but his smile is blinding enough to throw you off when he stands again and winks.
“Anytime, sweetheart.”
It’s dark outside the library when the three of you make it out to the courtyard, and you’re suddenly grateful they’d decided to show up. You hadn’t meant to stay so long, and while your campus isn’t necessarily scary, you don’t exactly relish walking alone at night.
You fall into step between them on the sidewalk, Steve’s sweatshirt and Bucky’s dark tee grazing either of your arms. A few other lingering students glance your way from across the quad, and you straighten up, putting some distance in between the three of you.
Steve and Bucky have a…reputation. And while you don’t care what they get up to in their personal time, you’d like to hold onto some semblance of your own reputation after all of this.
But they were also the only ones here who were honest with you, so you can’t be too picky. You clear your throat, unsure if you’ve said it before now.
“Hey, um. Thanks, again. For telling me about the bet in the first place.”
“You don’t need to thank us for being halfway decent human beings,” Steve says.
“Well. I wouldn’t go that far,” you tease, smiling.
“You’re welcome, is what he meant to say,” Bucky rolls his eyes, nudging his shoulder with yours. “We’ve got your back.”
“If I ever hear anyone in the girl’s bathroom making wagers about you guys, I’ll be sure to return the favor.”
Steve looks adorably concerned. “Do they do that?”
“Personally, I’d be happy to lend a hand to anyone looking to win a few bucks,” Bucky interjects.
You raise a brow as you pass underneath a streetlight. “At the expense of your dignity?”
“Not much there to begin with,” Steve mutters. Bucky reaches over you to shove him.
“Punk.” He smiles at Steve fondly for a beat too long, then looks back to you. “So. What’s the plan now that dickwad is out of the picture?”
“The plan?” you echo, shrugging. “Focus on school. Graduate. Get a job. Same as it was before him.”
“That’s great, sweetheart. But I meant less academically and professionally and more… you know, romantically and such.”
“I’m not sure that really fits into it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it just doesn’t,” you tell him, slightly harsher than you mean to. Both of them back off a little as you turn toward your small apartment building, and you sigh, feeling guilty for taking it out on them when they’re trying to cheer you up. “Look. I tried it, okay? I tried back home, I tried here, I tried again, just now, even though I probably shouldn’t have. I just think I need to get my feet under me first before I try anything like that again.”
“Because guys who are a few years older and have a job can’t also be assholes,” Bucky mutters.
“Buck,” Steve admonishes.
“I’m just saying—assholes are assholes. They can be any age, any place, any time. But that shouldn’t stop you from putting yourself out there because, against all odds, there are some of us who are, like. Halfway decent. And stuff.”
You huff a laugh. “Strong argument.”
“You know what I mean,” Bucky insists, uncharacteristically serious for a moment. “You deserve to be treated right, is all. And if you withdraw completely, you cut yourself off from the good stuff, too.”
You glance at his expression, waiting for the crack, the joke, but it never comes.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Bucky,” you agree gently.
You pause at the door to your building, scanning yourself in and standing in the open space to keep it from closing on you. You take your bag back from Steve and hold your textbooks, and Bucky leans back against the railing on the steps, crossing his ankles.
“Well. I’d say it definitely worked out for us, Stevie. We’re now friends with the coolest girl on campus.”
You look at him. “Friends?”
“She doesn’t have to be friends with us, Buck.”
“No, but she should be. We come with perks.”
You freeze for a second, suddenly worried that their kindness has all been culminating into them hitting on you. But you relax slightly as he continues, counting on his fingers.
“We’ll walk you home whenever you want. We always have snacks. And, uh. Steve will let you copy his work if you don’t feel like doing an assignment, probably.” He pauses, thinking hard, then breaking out into a cheesy smirk. “Also, free eye candy whenever you want it.”
Steve sighs, heavily. “That’s a dollar in the jar.”
“The jar,” you implore.
“The Douchebag Jar,” Bucky clarifies. “Which I am so not contributing to for that, by the way.”
“Oh, this is great,” you decide, ignoring him to turn to Steve. “Am I allowed to make him add to it, too?”
Bucky scoffs. “Hey!”
Steve shrugs. “Be my guest.”
“Well I guess that’s a reason to keep you guys around,” you tease. “This’ll be fun.”
Steve laughs, and Bucky sticks out an exaggerated lower lip, glaring at both of you. “This is so unfair. After everything I did for you in that comment section—”
“Alright,” Steve huffs, reaching over to yank his sleeve, pushing him down the steps. He glances back at you. “We’ll let you get inside. And, seriously, we’re glad everything went okay with the Brendan situation.”
“I mean it—lockscreen material!” Bucky says from the sidewalk.
“Thanks,” you tell them earnestly. You offer a smile as Steve joins him and the begin to head back toward the dorms, watching them walk so close together that they nearly blend into one shadow. At the corner Bucky tosses up a wave, and then they’re gone.
Sagging with the heaviness of your bag and books, you make sure the door’s security system activates and then drag yourself down the hall to the stairs. You pass a girl living on the floor above you on her way down. You used to make small talk with her in the hallways, but since the video, the conversation has significantly lessened, like she’s secretly afraid you’re going to toss a drink on her too.
With a measured inhale and exhale, you make it to your apartment and let yourself inside, slumping your things to the small table in the foyer to deal with after you’ve gotten some sleep. You’ve been here for three years and not really made many friends, but this is by far the most alone you’ve felt since you got here.
You’ve got Steve and Bucky, though, apparently. You don’t quite know how to feel about that accidental friendship yet, but it’s something.
Right now, you’ll take it.
You go home for spring break, avoiding all the festivities going on around campus. Brendan’s sure to be at all of them, and you’d like to save yourself the tension.
You figure that by the time you get back to campus, Bucky and Steve will have mostly forgotten about you. They’d done you a favor, and you hadn’t offered to sleep with them for it. You’re not sure what else they could want from you. Especially not after a week full of opportunities for parties and booze and ill-advised sexual encounters.
But your return only picks up right where you left off. The two of them begin showing up around you like stray dogs looking for a home, in the library, outside the lecture hall, the diner just off campus when you’re picking up food to-go. You want to be annoyed, and you’re still a little confused, but over time it gets easier just to accept the fact that you’ve befriended them. You might as well, you figure, since apparently this last year before graduation you’re doing all sorts of things that are outside of your comfort zone.
Privately, you wait for the other shoe to drop. You know that their reputation isn’t unwarranted; you’ve been classmates with girls who’ve had no issue regaling in fine detail their nights of passion between both of them. None of the stories have ever been bad, certainly not like some other guys around campus, but those other ones have made you leery of men in general. Especially lately, it’s difficult to let down your guard.
It doesn’t matter though, because they’re persistent. Steve is always quick to remind you that you don’t owe them anything, but you have genuinely come to enjoy the company sometimes. You’re so used to the sound of your own thoughts or your headphones that it was jarring, at first, having two people around you so often; Steve’s solid presence and Bucky’s perpetually running mouth.
It’s been nice, is all. Not being alone.
Even if you’re trying not to let yourself get used to it.
The first time you realize you might’ve been wrong about them is when you’re hanging out at their dorm, take out boxes scattered around you on the floor and a shitty movie playing on Steve’s computer.
You’ve all had a few drinks that Bucky bought from the gas station on the corner, and you picked up your favorite Chinese so that you could watch Steve’s cheeks go bright red with the seasonings. You’re already a little buzzed by the time you realize you’ve never seen Steve and Bucky drunk before, never overlapped at parties or events.
They aren’t drunk but they’re headed that way, Bucky all giggles and Steve more loose lipped than you’ve ever seen him before. You’re pleased to find out that they aren’t aggressive or rude, still nice to you even with their inhibitions lowered.
Lowered so much, in fact, that you’ve never seen them so touchy before. Not with you, but with each other.
All three of you have been talking over the movie, sharing food cartons and passing beers back and forth, but any hopes you had on refocusing for the end of it are gone when you can’t stop watching them instead.
Every few minutes Steve will lean over and say something in Bucky’s ear that makes him grin, crooked and private. You try to make yourself look away, back to your food or the movie, but they’re a little distracting.
At some point, their hands meet in the middle where their thighs are pressed together, leaning back against Steve’s sofa. You watch Bucky’s pinky wrap around Steve’s and then retreat, teasing, before Steve does it back. A minute later, Steve feeds Bucky a bite of chicken using his own chopsticks. When sauce smears at the corner of his mouth, Steve licks his thumb and presses it to the spot, lingering there for a few seconds longer.
Then, just as you’re about to look away, Bucky leans in to close the extra few inches and kisses him.
It’s quick, sweet, and obviously not really meant for your viewing. You yank your eyes away from them, heart beating rapidly in your chest, and blink at your rice as you readjust your perception of them inside your head.
You finish the last of the movie in silence, and by the time you’ve gathered enough courage to look back at them, everything looks relatively back to normal.
Which you’re now realizing is something very different than what you thought.
“So you two are…” you gesture between them, buzzed enough to bring it up but not enough to be eloquent about it, “...together.”
A few feet away from you, Steve looks sheepish, and Bucky looks resigned. Something has hardened in his expression that you aren’t used to, defensive, almost, as he purses his lips and avoids your eye.
“Yeah.”
“Oh,” you say distantly. “I thought it was just, like—a thing you did to…”
“To get girls into bed with us?” Bucky asks wryly, stabbing at his food. “Yeah. Most people think so.”
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed,” you tell them gently, guilt killing the rest of your pleasant haze from the alcohol.
“It’s not like we’re super public about it or anything,” Steve says, but even his smile is strained. “Don’t sweat it.”
“Is the not-public on purpose, or…?”
Bucky tosses up a shoulder. “Not really. People assume things. There’s a lot of people that wanna get in between us for a night or two. We just don’t really have that many friends. You know?”
Yeah, you think. “I know what you mean.”
Steve’s smile turns a little more genuine, and Bucky runs his eyes over your face for a minute, assessing. Eventually he relaxes, and you feel restless with the need to prove that you can be trusted with this.
“You got any other movies saved?”
Bucky announces that he’s choosing next, and you scoot a little closer to Steve on the rug, sharing fortune cookies between you.
Your eyes stray to the infamous Douchebag Jar on the dresser, wishing you had a dollar to put in it yourself.
Somehow, you get roped into attending another party—something else you’d sworn off for the rest of the semester.
And it’s not even for any fun reason. You have a group assignment ready to submit that makes up nearly half your grade in this course, and one person hasn’t logged in to sign off, which is the final barrier to submission.
You decide to cash in on your friendship perks that Bucky promised you before, enlisting him and Steve to accompany you to the party you know your groupmate will be at. The untouchable confidence you felt when you dumped your drink on him has dwindled into something sour now. Brendan might be an asshole, but he’s a frat asshole, and that means he’s got connections all over the place that you probably don’t know about. You’d pissed him off, and you don’t want him to retaliate somehow when you’re not expecting it.
Things are fine for the first bit of the night. You show up with Bucky and Steve in tow and find yourself a relatively quiet corner, talking with Bucky while Steve goes to the kitchen to find drinks that haven’t been spiked or taste revolting.
Eyes were on you the minute you stepped in, but upon closer inspection, you think maybe they’re just looking at Bucky. From this angle you both have a view of Steve over by the island, watching as a girl approaches him, lip caught between her teeth, a hand on the outside of his arm. You can’t even blame her. Steve looks as handsome as he ever does, like he was ripped straight from a vintage GAP men’s ad to be hung up on bedroom walls, and she’s really pretty.
You wonder if she’s their type. Briefly you consider asking Bucky, but you think that might be rude.
“Does that ever get old?” you ask him instead, nodding toward Steve.
Bucky stares for a minute, watching Steve politely duck out from under the girl’s attention. “Yes and no. Always nice to be wanted, I guess.”
He stops himself, and you tilt your head. “But…?”
“But sometimes, y’know.” He sighs. “It’s hard not to wonder if it would even matter if I was there too or not.”
You frown. “How so?”
“‘Cause—well, you know what people say about us. Steve’s the relationship guy. The guy you date, ‘cause he brings flowers and he pulls out the chairs and he’s charming without even trying to be. Sometimes more so when he’s not trying to be.” Bucky glances down. “And I’m—I’m the reason we have the reputation we do.”
“Bucky, that’s not true,” you tell him.
“It is. I’m the one that likes the more social shit. Getting to know people. And, yeah, sometimes that means going home with ‘em if everybody’s feeling it.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I just—it was something we did a few times, the first couple years. And then, suddenly, it was just like we were only known for that. Which sucks, because Steve’s really fuckin’ smart, and he’s a great artist, and I think he’d get a lot more accolades if my name wasn’t always attached to him.”
You study Bucky’s side profile, the curve of his shoulders and his hands stuffed into his pockets. It’s so easy to think of Bucky as confident with the way he presents himself, but you’re realizing now that he has a lot of the same insecurities that you do in relationships. It’s another thing that makes him feel more accessible to you, lowered from the isolated pedestal you’d put them both on before.
“I can’t say I know what that feels like, because I don’t,” you tell him, your elbows touching. “But I have had the displeasure of suddenly being known for only one thing this year. And it does suck. And I don’t know about everybody else, but I’m really glad that you guys thought I was worth sticking around for long enough that I could get the chance to be proved wrong, too.” You nudge him purposefully. “You guys are great, Bucky. Not just Steve. You balance each other, you know? And I’m—I’m just really glad I get to know you.”
Feeling oddly vulnerable after your impromptu speech, you clear your throat, hoping that the flush on your cheeks isn’t terribly vulnerable—even though Bucky’s private smile tells you that it probably is.
“We’re really glad to know you too, sweetheart,” he says.
The two of you have drifted closer throughout your conversation as the party got louder, your sides fully pressed together and Bucky’s face inches from yours. You feel yourself heat further once you realize your proximity, and you immediately shove down the memories of thoughts you might’ve had about them once or twice before you became friends.
Steve returns, saving you from breaking the tension yourself as he holds out a cup to you and Bucky with a smile.
“Okay, I hope you like plain coke because it’s about the only thing here that I could guarantee was safe to drink. Unless you want questionably dated orange juice.”
“I’ll take the coke,” you laugh.
“Definitely same,” Bucky agrees.
You cheers your plastic cups together and take a drink, scanning the small crowd in the house for your classmate and coming up unsuccessful.
The house buzzes as even more people find their way in, your corner feeling a little crowded as others begin coming up every few minutes, saying hello to Steve and Bucky and catching up. Apparently they haven't been going to many parties lately, either.
All of your earlier texts to your classmate have been left unread, but you check immediately when your phone finally buzzes with a response. You pull it out of your pocket while Steve chats with someone they know beside you, and Bucky peers over your shoulder.
“That him?”
“Yeah. He says he’s outside. I’ll meet him out there, make sure he signs, then we can go.”
“I’ll go with you,” Bucky offers, pushing off the wall.
“You go with Steve,” you insist, handing him your empty cup. “I’ll be fine. Seriously. Finish your conversation and then meet me out front.”
He glances between you and Steve with a frown. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Though he doesn’t seem pleased about it, you appreciate that Bucky lets you go without an argument. He slips into place at Steve’s side as you vacate the spot, and you head back toward the front lawn to get your digital signature.
It’s humid out front, and you squint at the setting sun as you descend the front steps and move off to the side to wait. There’s groups of other students hanging around on the porch and the sidewalk, each of them glancing at you periodically. You cross your arms over your chest, forcing yourself to stand your ground despite the unwelcome attention.
A minute turns into two, then five, and you find yourself wishing you had asked Bucky to come with you. You get out your phone again to text your classmate a series of question marks, and you get two words in response.
Look up.
You have about a split second to realize what’s happening before you look over your shoulder to find a group of Brendan’s friends huddled together on the third story balcony, a large bucket balanced on the railing.
They shout something at you and then tilt the thing over, and suddenly you’re standing in the middle of the yard, drenched head to toe in something sticky and ice cold, frozen.
You barely register voices coming out of the house, footsteps headed toward you. You cling to Steve as he strips off his jacket to cover you with, and when you peek out from under it, you see Bucky on the other end of the sidewalk gearing up to throw a punch at a guy who won’t delete the video. If you weren’t still partially in shock, it’d make you smile.
He joins you soon enough, once Steve has quickly walked you to the other side of the fence and far away from the house and anyone who might still have a camera.
“Hey. Let’s get out of here, huh?” Bucky asks, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and attempting to rub warmth back into your arm. Your teeth are chattering.
“I—I didn’t get the signature—”
“Don’t worry about that,” Steve says. “I was the TA in that course last semester and I still talk to the professor. I’ll speak to him and explain. It’ll be fine.”
Soaking wet and feeling horribly lost, you walk the same path to your apartment that you’ve taken with them countless times before. It’s not the first time you’ve felt grateful for them, but it is the first time you don’t really know what you would’ve done without them.
So much for trying not to get attached.
You let them spend the night.
They find something to eat while you’re in the shower, and by the time you come out of your bathroom with wet hair and a fresh set of pajamas on, the food’s ready, there’s a sitcom playing on the television, and the way Bucky rushes to put his phone away tells you he’s been on very dutiful damage control again.
You’re upset about what happened, but mostly tired at the moment, still too numb yet to cry or get angry. Steve tells you he’s emailed the professor as one episode rolls into another, the three of you sharing space on your small couch.
The comfort is much needed. They don’t make you talk about it but they remind you they’re there in other ways; Steve’s arm along the back of the couch for you to lean against while he rubs your shoulder, Bucky’s fingers hooking onto yours on the cushion between both of your legs the same way he’d done with Steve on the floor of their dorm room weeks ago. Their quiet conversation amongst each other anchors you enough that you can’t get lost in a rabbit hole of bad thoughts, but they also don’t expect you to jump in and try to be happy at the moment. You aren’t sure you could anyway.
It’s not a particularly high bar, but it does prove something important: Steve and Bucky have walked you home, seen you half drunk, been alone with you in their dorm and in your apartment, and now also when you’re emotionally vulnerable and looking for support.
And not once have they acted like any of your exes. They haven’t used any of it against you or to manipulate you into something.
“Will you stay?” you ask them between one episode and the next, the first words you’ve spoken since you got back.
Even then, they say yes without strings. Steve takes your couch and Bucky curls up in the armchair by the window, both in relatively close distance to your bed that you probably could have all fit on, if you’d tried.
You lay awake for long time that night, even when you can hear Steve snoring from the sofa and Bucky’s conked out against the side of the chair, cheek smushed against his arm.
You’re not just attached, you realize quietly. You’re something a whole lot more than that.
As graduation continues to get closer, so do the three of you. Maybe a little closer than you intended.
Steve left some of his books at your place the night before and you told him you’d drop them by before your classes. So, for the record, you had warned him.
Which is why you’re slightly surprised that it’s Bucky who swings open the dorm room door to greet you, his body blocking the view into the room.
His body, which is lacking a shirt and very nearly lacking pants too, strapped low across his hips. He’s breathing heavily, face flushed, pupils dilated and fixed on you with a focus that’s so intense you have to keep yourself rooted to your spot.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he grins. “Those for Steve?”
“Um. Yeah,” you say. “Is he—uh, here?”
Bucky chuckles. “Oh, he’s here. He’s just…occupied. At the moment.”
Your stomach drops in a split second, your confused smile going with it. You do take a step back then, holding out Steve’s things as a barrier between the two of you.
“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realize you guys had someone over.”
“What?” Bucky drops the smirk, stepping fully into the hallway with you. “There’s nobody else in there. Thought we covered that.”
Now confused and embarrassed, you feel your face heat. “I—we did. I just figured, since you answered the door, and you said he was still—sorry,” you rush out. “I misunderstood.”
Bucky stares at you for a second, and you desperately hope that you haven’t accidentally offended him again. Your reaction was more so rooted in your own feelings for them than anything about them, but you can’t exactly come out and say that right now.
Without looking away from you, Bucky twists the doorknob behind him and leans back enough to call through the gap.
“Stevie,” he says. “Make yourself decent.”
There’s a muffled answer on the other side and then some shuffling, and after a tense minute between you and Bucky in the hall, Steve stumbles to the door just as half-dressed and obviously mid-coital as Bucky had been. With glassy eyes and hair sticking up randomly, he knuckles at his eye.
“My stuff,” Steve says in belated acknowledgement when he sees you, offering you a small, breathless smile. “Thanks for bringing it by. I really appreciate it.”
“Move over,” Bucky grunts.
Him and Steve step back into the room, and Bucky holds the door open wide, waving you in. You hesitate for a second in the hallway before tentatively stepping forward, and he shuts it again behind you. He’s letting you see for yourself, you realize.
And, sure enough, the room is empty except for them. The sheets on the bed in the corner are all rucked up and half coming off the side, morning light spilling onto it from the window above the headboard. Steve’s desk, doubling as a nightstand, has a bottle of lube balanced on the edge of it, still open.
You turn slowly so you’re looking at them again, trying to come up with a way to apologize without giving yourself away. Bucky beats you to the punch.
“We haven’t brought anyone else here this semester,” he says deliberately, holding your eye. “You understand?”
So, before they told you about Brendan. Before you in general. The heat on your face feels like it spreads throughout your body, and you nod.
“Good,” Bucky says. “And just for the record, you’re welcome here anytime, no matter what we’re doing. You’re not interrupting anything we wouldn’t be okay with you interrupting.”
You glance at Steve for his reaction, but he seems to be in agreement. He steps up beside Bucky, bending to lean a dimpled cheek against Bucky’s shoulder atop his crossed arms, and smiles at you.
“Think you’re gonna be late, honey,” he says.
“Oh, shit,” you curse. “Yeah. I am, probably. Here,” you hand him his things clumsily, stepping forward into their space to trade it off.
You plan to take a quick step back but Bucky catches your arm before you can. Steve drops the books on the sofa and turns back to you too, and you’re promptly pulled into a three way hug, your face against their bare chests.
They’ve been more physical with you since staying over at your apartment, less hesitant to put a hand on your back or grab your hand or pull you into hugs like this one.
Usually they’re wearing clothes, though.
“Sorry,” you mumble, hugging them back. You feel Steve’s mouth against the top of your head.
“Don’t be. We’ll see you after class, huh?”
You nod, and Steve returns to the bed as Bucky walks you back into the hallway. His words from before still ring in your head about people’s assumptions, and even though Steve was alright with it, you feel like you owe Bucky another apology.
“I really am sorry, Bucky. I honestly didn’t mean it the way that it came out.”
“I know what you meant,” Bucky says, stepping closer, “because I would’ve done the same thing if Steve and I came over and I thought you had someone else inside.”
You swallow. “I haven’t—with anyone else, either.”
Bucky didn’t ask, and you aren’t really sure why you offered. It feels like you’re talking about the same things but you can’t be sure, and that’s scary enough to hesitate.
But Bucky gives you another long look, his head tilted as he drinks you in, and then he nods as if pleased by your answer. Stepping away from you feels like a loss, your limbs thrumming with how close you’d been.
“Good.” He smiles, then, and nods toward the exit. “Get to class. We’ll see you for lunch, okay?”
Still reeling, you follow his direction, nearly jogging as you try to make it to your morning lecture.
You get there, barely, but it’s no real use anyway.
All you can think about is what Steve and Bucky had been up to before you got there and—hopefully, maybe—what they’d finished after you left.
After that, it’s difficult to ignore the mounting tension between you. And with the dwindling time left before you leave campus, you’re antsy.
You’ve come to appreciate Steve and Bucky as genuine friends. What if you try to make it more than it is and you don’t click the same way in that setting, and then things are weird between you until graduation? What if you’d somehow misunderstood their intentions and they actually don’t want you like that anyway?
You’re pretty sure that last one isn’t the case. But you don’t really want to lose the one friendship you might manage to take out of college because of your libido.
It’s hard not to want more though when they give you just about everything you wanted and never got in your past relationships. You meet Bucky’s sister too when she visits for Steve’s birthday in July, and the three of you stumble your way through a very awkward explanation when you try to convince her that you aren’t, in fact, a part of their relationship and none of you have any real evidence against it.
Except for the sex. You are very much aware of the sex that is not being had in this situation.
Ultimately, it doesn’t take much to shift things into place.
You had dinner with them at a bar off campus, something a little nicer than the ones here, and none of you had been ready to part ways when you got back. Back at your place you change into something comfier while Bucky kicks off his boots and Steve sheds his jacket, the three of you spreading out in your space like you’ve been doing it forever.
Steve sits at your dining table, bent over a sketchbook he’d pulled from his bag. Bucky is fiddling with the bluetooth speaker that you broke last year and haven’t been able to fix, his tongue stuck between his lips as he pokes and prods, and you’re on the couch, scrolling through your playlists in hopes that he can get it up and running. There’s a lingering energy in all of you tonight that your typical movie marathon doesn’t seem like it would satiate.
The top you’d worn to the bar is a button down, soft enough that you’d left it on when you got home even though you changed your pants. You have to roll up the sleeves as you watch Bucky work, hotter outside and a different heat here in your apartment, your body keenly aware of where Steve and Bucky are inside of it.
The apartment. Not you, unfortunately.
With your hair let down and the makeup you’d put on this morning mostly smudged off now from laughing at dinner, you’re an odd mix between pleasantly relaxed and impatient for more.
“Aha,” Bucky cheers, pressing a button on the speaker. The traitorous thing that hadn’t worked when you did that gives a happy beep at Bucky’s touch, the lights on the front blinking to show that it’s ready to pair. He grins at you, lethal with his dark brown hair and the deep green of his sweatshirt, and holds out a hand for your phone. “You picked a song yet?”
You give it over, shuffling one of your most recent playlists when you couldn’t decide on anything else, and Bucky pairs it with the bluetooth. Soon enough there’s quiet music playing throughout your living room, and you realize how much you’ve missed having it to fill the silence.
Finished with the speaker, Bucky leaves it on the windowsill and crosses over to you, shoving the coffee table out of the way as he goes. He extends a palm. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
He drags you up from the sofa and to the center of the room, now an empty space, hands on either side of your waist.
“We’re going right here,” he says. “There was nowhere to dance in the bar.”
“I think there was, actually,” you point out.
Bucky gives you a flat look. “If I just wanted to grab onto your hips and hump you from behind for a few minutes, I’d prefer it not be in public, sweetheart.”
You stutter a laugh, allowing him to pull you close. One of his hands on the center of your back, the other holding yours against his chest underneath his collarbone. It puts his nose at your hair and yours near his neck, close enough to smell the cologne he’d put on this morning as he sways the two of you back and forth.
“I should probably tell you that I’m not very good at dancing,” you admit.
“Seems like you’re doin’ just fine to me,” he says. “Stevie? Thoughts?”
Steve grunts from the dining table. “Busy. Keep dancing”
The two of you turn in a slow circle, and when you begin to face him, you realize that Steve is drawing you and Bucky. You’re pretty sure he’d been working on something else before, but now his eyes keep flicking up to you every few seconds, tracing curves and hard edges, the line where you and Bucky meet in the middle and your shuffling feet as you try to stay off Bucky’s toes.
One song bleeds into another on the speaker, and you tilt your head enough to rest it opposite your hand on Bucky’s chest. You feel his sigh as much as you hear it, his pulse steady under your cheek.
“Been a long time since I’ve gotten to do this,” he tells you.
“It’s nice,” you agree. “I don’t think I’ve actually ever danced with anyone before this.”
Bucky pulls away from you only enough to guide you into a small spin, then tugs you right back with a wink. “You’re a natural.”
You’d enjoyed the momentary distraction of learning something new, but by the time the third song comes to a close, all you can think about is how close the two of you are.
You keep picturing the way he’d looked in the hallway in the dorms that day, flushed and sweaty and yet still in control. Letting you into their space, proving to you that there was no one else. You’d been embarrassed in the moment, but every time you’ve thought of it afterward you get distracted wondering what might’ve happened if you hadn’t had class, if you’d stayed, if you’d joined them in bed and finished what they’d started with each other before you got there. You wonder now if Bucky can feel your pulse picking up underneath his hands.
The sun is setting outside the windows and you can feel it through the cracked blinds, humid and inescapable. When you tilt your head up, you’re close enough to Bucky’s face to see the beginnings of sweat on his temples.
“S’warm,” you murmur, worried he might let go of you if you’re too loud. His mouth curves up at the corner, making a show of feeling your forehead before moving down to your cheek.
“You are, yeah,” he confirms, swiping a thumb over the collar of your shirt. “Maybe we should lose a few layers.”
You swallow. “I’m, um. I’m not wearing anything underneath.”
It’s meant to be more of a reason you can’t take it off than an attempt at flirting, but Bucky is visibly affected, inhaling sharply through his nose as his eyes run over your face. The hand on your lower back spreads out and tugs, pressing you tight against his chest.
It makes you stumble, catching yourself with a grip on his arm and a surprised noise. The shirt isn’t particularly thick, and neither is the lace bra you’re wearing underneath it. It doesn’t have any padding in it so every bit of your breasts go firmly against the heat of Bucky’s chest, with nowhere to hide and no place to conceal the hardened points of your nipples through the lace.
With an extremely measured exhale, the hand Bucky has on your cheek spares a thumb to trace over the outline of your lips. When you don’t pull away, Bucky leans in.
“You been wantin’ this as much as we have?”
You nod, breathless. Relieved. “Longer, probably.”
“Wanna bet?” Bucky cocks a brow, then winces. “Ah, fuck. Sorry. Bad choice of words.”
Your laugh is quiet, but it makes Bucky smile. Your fingers spread out on his chest, smoothing over his shoulder and up to his neck, grazing his hair that’s close to touching his shoulders now.
“And if I was feeling lucky?”
“I would say,” Bucky proposes faux thoughtfully, slipping both arms around your waist and lowering his voice to a whisper, “that there’s a damn near guarantee we could make Steve awful jealous right now.”
You fight a smile. “I think I like those odds.”
Bucky leans in closer, until the ends of your noses are touching. Everything about him is warm, his scent familiar and inviting, his arms easy to lean into. His eyes flick down to your mouth and back up again, and you tilt your chin for him without having to ask.
Bucky could probably tease you all night long, but if he wants you, he’s going to have to be the one to make the first move.
He doesn’t leave you waiting for long. His own face turns, just enough to catch your lips with his. A brief graze at first, and then more firmly. It’s been months now since you’ve kissed somebody, and you always forget how much you enjoy it. And the fact that it’s Bucky is just a really, really nice plus.
You lean into his weight as you abandon any former semblance of dancing altogether, standing still and sliding your hand fully up into his hair. He hardly parts from you enough to breath but neither of you seem to care, and for a few seconds, everything else falls away.
Everything except for Steve, that is; you can hear the soft scratch of his pencil stop as it hits the sketchbook and rolls off somewhere on the table, the thump of his feet on your floor, the added body heat at your back when he steps into your space.
It’s the only thing that makes you pull away from Bucky, twisting so you can make sure that, despite all the signals, he’s still alright with this happening.
He assuages your worries nearly immediately, turning you in Bucky’s arms so that he can take your face in his hands and taste you for himself. It’s surreal, having this in real life and not only in your head, and you cling to the front of Steve’s shirt like you had Bucky’s, caught between them both.
“What do you want?” Steve asks you, dropping his hands to hold yours, rubbing circles into your wrists in between your bodies.
“Anything you want,” Bucky agrees, pressing against your back.
You glance over toward your bed and ask them, for a second time, “Stay?”
Steve grins and you feel Bucky’s relieved exhale as his chest caves behind you. He bends to kiss your shoulder, and Steve slips his fingers through yours.
“Lead the way, sweetheart.”
It’s not as weird having Bucky and Steve in your bed as you thought it might be.
They’ve already been everywhere else in your apartment anyway, and it’s almost weirder that they haven’t been in it yet in some capacity or another. You’re glad to be rectifying that now.
You go down easily when Bucky lays you back on the end of the mattress, reluctant to part from your mouth. He does eventually though, if only to peel off his sweatshirt and leave him in a thin t-shirt, and Steve steps up in his absence to kiss you some more.
“How many times have you touched yourself, right here, thinking about us?” Bucky asks, grinning above you.
“Dollar in the jar,” you tell him.
He doesn’t even try to make a joke. “Dead serious, sweetheart.”
You look to Steve for support, but he only chews at his lip, sheepish. “I’m kind of curious too.”
Rolling your eyes, you kick Bucky in the hip with your leg. “Surprised your egos fit through the doorway.”
He catches your calf in his hand before you can draw it back to the bed and you watch, propped up on your elbows, as he rubs the skin there up and up and up. He kneels on the mattress beside you, fingers grazing your shin, the sensitive inside of your knee.
“You tellin’ me we’re wrong?” he asks. “That you’ve never once thought about us when you were in here, came home after seein’ us and needed some relief? Never slipped your fingers between these thighs and wished it was ours instead?”
He bends to attach his mouth to the side of your neck, and your head rolls to the side to allow him access even as you keep stubbornly quiet.
“Never imagined what it’d be like if we were there with you, huh? One on either side, keepin’ you warm. Makin’ you squirm.” His fingers trail up higher, just barely grazing the line of your shorts before pulling away. “Makin’ you beg.”
“Bucky,” you gasp.
He smiles like you’ve just proved his point, but schools it quickly to sit back on his knees with a shrug as Steve takes a seat by your ankles.
“‘Cause if you had pictured us, I was gonna offer to make your dreams come true. But I can’t really do that if you didn’t have ‘em in the first place, so—”
“I did,” you relent, too keyed up to deny it. “I—I thought about you. Both of you.”
Steve’s eyes light up at your admission, his own touch slipping around your ankle, rubbing. “Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Tell us about it?” Bucky prompts. “We’ll do whatever you want.”
You’re not sure you have a place to start. You’ve pictured this happening in a variety of different ways, none of them given to you quite so easily, and the unexpected power placed into your hands is something you aren’t sure you know how to hold just yet.
Steve ducks down to press his lips against your knee, then moves to pull his own shirt over his head. Bucky, seemingly sensing your dilemma, moves to sit behind you. He leans back against the headboard, slipping his hands underneath your arms to drag you back against his chest to watch Steve.
“How ‘bout we start with just one, hm? That make it easier?” He rubs your arms. “Why don’t you tell Stevie what you like about him?”
The man himself is shuffling at the end of your bed, his chest bare but his hands twitching like he still wants to shove them into the pockets of his jeans. You reach a hand out, and he comes closer, kneeling on the end of the mattress.
“Your hands,” you say first.
“They’re nice, aren’t they?” Bucky agrees. Your answer earns you Bucky’s hands slipping over your shoulders and down to the buttons of your shirt, flicking open one and then two. “Could probably hold these real good, one in either hand.”
He grips both of your breasts in his palms in display, and you bite back a gasp as you push up against him.
But just as easy as he’d moved toward them, he moves away. Casually, he runs a finger over the next button.
“What else?”
“You’re nice to me,” you tell Steve, whose smile softens a little at your words.
Bucky eases another button from its pocket. “That turns you on, sweetheart? His manners?”
“You care,” you rephrase, staring at Steve until he meets your eye despite the spreading flush on his cheeks. “You ask how my day was and actually care about the answer. Offer to help me carry things when I overcommit on accident. You check in on me if you know I’m having a hard time, and you always make sure I’m comfortable and feel safe.”
“Anyone would have done those things,” Steve argues.
“No,” you insist, “they wouldn’t. They haven’t.”
Unable to fight you on that, Steve can only look at you, surprised and quiet.
“Also, you have nice shoulders.”
That earns you a laugh, Steve’s aforementioned shoulders shaking with it as he sits fully on his bent legs on your bed. “Thanks, honey.”
Sitting up, you part from the warmth of Bucky’s chest behind you so that you can turn around and face him. He doesn’t stop you as you settle on his lap, just settles one hand on your hip and the other on one of your thighs as you get comfortable. He’s gone quiet, and you don’t like it.
“And you…” you trail off, using your hand to make him look at you.
“Not quite as polite as Stevie is,” he says with a subdued smile.
“Maybe, but that’s not what I like about you anyway,” you tell him easily. “If you were polite, you wouldn’t have monitored the comments on that video. Or punched someone in the face to defend my honor. Or marched up to me in the library all those months ago to let me know that my boyfriend was betting on my virtue, despite the fact that we were practically strangers before that.” You raise your brows when he opens his mouth. “And don’t tell me anyone would have done that, because almost everybody knew, and they didn’t say a word.”
He rolls his eyes, but you can tell that at least some part of what you said has settled him a little. “Yeah, alright.”
“You’re honest. That means a lot to somebody who’s been lied to before.”
“Well, shit,” he murmurs softly, looking at you. “Here I was thinking it was my rugged handsomeness that hooked you in, but—”
You lean forward and kiss him again, and he abandons his train of thought to kiss you back. You can’t resist grinning when you pull back, thumbing at the dimple in his chin.
“You are pretty handsome.”
The room goes quiet, all three of you smiling to yourselves. Even when you look to the side, Steve’s just watching the two of you, a fond expression on his face.
“I went off topic. Sorry,” you apologize. “Did I ruin the mood?”
“You’re half naked in Bucky’s lap,” Steve says pragmatically. “I’m not sure anything could ruin the mood for me right now.”
As if being reminded of the fact himself, Bucky’s eyes take a detour from yours, trailing down the front of your open shirt and lace bra and back up again as he draws in a slow breath. His fingers twitch on either side of your hips.
“Steve,” Bucky says, still looking at you. “Gimme your hands.”
Without question, Steve’s hands—the ones you said you’d liked so much just a few minutes ago—appear, one on either side of you at Bucky’s disposal, palm up. You watch as Bucky’s own hands curl around his wrists and tug, making Steve kneel behind you, his warmth obvious even through the thin layers.
Bucky presses Steve’s palms flat against your ribs, letting you feel the weight and shape. He moves them slowly up, still watching your face, until Steve’s cupping the underside of your breasts. Both of them can feel the hitch in your breathing, but you can’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed.
From the look on his face, Bucky knows exactly what he’s doing to you.
Finally, just when you’re about to pester him about it, Bucky slides Steve’s palms up the last couple of inches to mold over the shape of your breasts fully. The three of you exhale a variety of different noises—you, a gasp, Steve’s stuttered moan, Bucky groaning low in his throat, eyes half-lidded as he watches Steve learn your shape.
You sway a little, off balance, but Steve’s right there behind you to rest against. Leaning back into him pushes your chest up and forward, further into his eager hands, and he squeezes briefly, enough to pull a surprised noise from you again.
“So soft,” Steve murmurs, dipping forward to nose at the side of your neck. His thumbs sweep over the line dividing flesh from lace underneath your shirt, slow and steady until he can find the hard peak of your nipple under the material. You whimper, your hips restless against Bucky’s underneath you.
“Look at that,” Bucky says, tucking your hair behind your ear. “See what happens when you tell us what you want?”
His hands slip down to grip your waist more firmly, hauling you up against him closer until the bulge of his hardening cock sits snug in the split of your legs. You’re separated by his jeans and your underwear, but the heat, the shape, the feeling—it’s already so good.
“We thought about you too,” Steve admits, breathing harder against your neck as he slips two fingers beneath the fabric of your bra to press against your nipples with nothing in between.
It takes a moment for the words to catch up with you. You lift your head from his shoulder. “Really?”
“Fuck. Yeah.”
“Steve,” Bucky warns. His cheeks are the slightest bit more flushed, and you wonder, briefly, what could have been so depraved that even Bucky would be blushing.
You desperately want to know.
“You’re so—we didn’t think you’d ever want this. But we’d talk about it. Sometimes.”
“‘Sometimes’ as in over brunch,” you question breathlessly, slipping a hand back to slide it into Steve’s hair, “or sometimes like that day at your—?”
“Both,” Steve moans when you pull. “Definitely both.”
You turn your chin enough that Steve can kiss you over your shoulder, his other hand yanking Bucky forward against your chest. One of Steve’s hands leaves you as his tongue teases the corner of your mouth, and you hum into his mouth when Bucky’s teeth graze the spot Steve’s wandering fingers just vacated.
Kissing Steve is warm and intense, slicker than you thought it’d be. Something about Steve made you think his kisses might be chaste and just as polite as the rest of him, but he holds the back of your neck and gets as close to you as possible, sharing air and cradling your lower lip with his own with a focus so heavy it makes you a little dizzy.
Which isn’t to say that Bucky isn’t doing his best to distract you anyway; his arms have wrapped fully around your waist now to hold you against his chest, his mouth mapping out the path of skin between your breasts with aching intent. Every few seconds you feel his teeth, nipping and teasing, but it’s hardly enough. You put a hand to the back of his neck and press until he commits, mouthing at you in wet trails and sinking his teeth and tongue into your skin enough that it’ll leave a mark or two behind.
It’s more sensitive the closer he gets to your nipples, the skin thinner and easier to bruise. But he hears your muffled noises against Steve’s mouth for what they are, easing up on you as he takes one in his mouth before swiping a tender thumb over the blooming marks to solidify them.
“Can I taste you?” Steve pants against your lips, pulling back. “Please. Been thinkin’ about it, what you taste like—”
“He’s real good with his tongue, sweetheart,” Bucky rasps in addition, as if you need any more convincing.
No sooner have you nodded do you find yourself plucked off of Bucky’s lap and laid on your back on the mattress, and the loss of solid heat between your legs feels like an ache. You reach for Bucky, kissing him messily as he flicks open the last of the buttons on your shirt and Steve eases your underwear down and off your legs. It feels jarring, a little, until Bucky leans up to strip his own shirt off, and you see Steve losing his pants in the corner of your hazy vision as Bucky leans in to kiss you again.
He does it differently than Steve does, rougher, less composed. The same flash of teeth you’d felt against your breasts is the one you feel now against your lips, and he likes kissing you nice and long and deep and then pulling back, watching you chase him for more. You’ll make some sort of joke about that cocky grin, some time when you aren’t otherwise occupied.
Steve’s hands slide up the outside of your legs, over the tops of your thighs, running up and down to the inside of your knees and back up again. You’re ticklish there, and you shiver when his mouth follows closely behind, the bed creaking as he settles in the space you’ve made for him between.
“So fuckin’ wet,” Steve marvels distantly, and the thickness of his voice draws you back into the moment. You break from Bucky’s mouth with a gasp and a string of spit still connecting you, and Bucky thumbs it away as you glance down between your legs at where Steve is openly staring at you. His eyes flick up to your face for a second, a spark of something mischievous in his gaze. “Bet you’re soft here too.”
Without further ado he lowers his mouth to your cunt, and you groan, dropping your head backward into the quick reflex of Bucky’s hand that cradles it.
“Don’t be afraid to tell him what you like,” Bucky murmurs against your jaw. “He takes orders like a champ.”
You file that away to be explored later. The affect it has on you is obvious—to Steve, at least—who moans against you when your cunt bears down around the wet heat of his tongue. You slide a hand down to slip it into Steve’s hair and against his scalp, but don’t direct him otherwise.
“Don’t know what feels good. Haven’t done this part much.”
At your admission, Steve slips his arms underneath your thighs, pulls your legs over his shoulders, makes a noise that you can feel. He laps at you without shame, but you can feel that focus in every movement; the angle of his sharp jaw, the suction in his cheeks, each measured exhale that makes you shiver before he settles his mouth over the bump of your clit and sucks, then goes back to flicking his tongue.
It’s true, nonetheless—none of your previous partners have bothered much with eating you out, and if they had, it was always a couple minute precursor to penetrative sex and nothing more. And that was usually just to get you wet enough, which…is not looking like it’s going to be much of an issue here.
Steve’s eyes flick up to you again, finding yours atop the rolling wave of your stomach as you try and fail not to grind your hips up against his mouth. He holds your gaze as he rubs one warm fingertip through your excitement and then hovers it above your entrance, thoroughly prepared by his tongue, and you nod.
His tongue makes wide, firm circles against your clit as the digit sinks into you. Not quick, not rough, slow enough that you feel every aching inch of it until there isn’t anymore to go. You whimper, pushing against him for more, but it’s Bucky that answers.
His hand wraps loosely around your throat to get your attention, fingers on your neck and thumb pressed to your chin to tilt it back. He’s been watching you while Steve takes you apart, quieter than you typically know him to be, but the heaviness in his eyes tells you it’s arousal and not anything bad that’s got his tongue tied.
The thumb on your chin raises by an inch, pressing down on the thickest part of your lower lip. You open for him, eager for whatever you’ll be given, but he doesn’t kiss you.
Instead, as Steve eases a second finger in underneath the relentless roll of his tongue, Bucky hovers above you, purses his lips, and spits, slow, into your open mouth.
You shudder, clenching down hard against Steve’s fingers as you’re pushed even closer to your first orgasm of the night. Bucky sees it all—watches your eyes roll backward before the flutter closed, lets you squeeze the outside of his wrist against your throat, doesn’t look away for a moment as you close your mouth to swallow what he gave you and then open again so he can check.
“Fuck,” he curses, drawing the word out long and pressing it into your tongue as he drops down to kiss you. It’s overwhelming, the thrust of Bucky’s tongue similar to the motion of Steve’s fingers inside you; it’s so deliciously close to what you’d pictured all the times you’d thought about this alone in bed.
Just that the real thing is better.
Your hand finds the side of Bucky’s face as you kiss, and you find your nails dragging across the roughness of his facial hair. It’s somewhere between stubble and a beard and you like the in between, can’t help thinking about the marks it’d make if he took Steve’s place between your legs right now.
“I like this,” you tell him, rubbing your hand over it. “Liked it both ways, but it looks good grown out.”
“Both ways?” Bucky lifts a brow. “You knew about us before this year?”
Steve tilts his hand, curves his two fingers up into you to find your spot, shoves his tongue in the space left over. You shiver, your brain-to-mouth filter momentarily offline.
“In the stands. Football game. Freshman year. You always had crowds around you.”
“No shit,” Bucky breathes, chuckling as he smears a kiss against your cheek. “Can’t believe we wasted so much fuckin’ time.”
You pull his mouth back to yours, one hand in his hair and the other digging your nails into Steve’s arm that’s been spread over your stomach to keep you from bucking away from him too far. His jaw must be aching by now, you think; your other partners certainly would have complained by now that you hadn’t come yet.
Before you can start feeling guilty and trying to make yourself, Bucky pulls you back with a hand on your face. “Hey. You wanna come like this?”
Your lower lip disappears behind your front teeth, still tasting of Bucky. If you say yes, there’s a chance it’s a means to an end—you get off, then they get off, and then it’s over. You want this to last as long as possible.
“I don’t know.”
“Let me rephrase, then,” Bucky says, catching the lobe of your ear between his teeth. “If Steve makes you come now with his mouth, can you do it again for me afterward?”
“Yes,” you nod frantically. “Yes. Please.”
Bucky grins. “Atta girl.”
With a clear goal in mind, Bucky slips rough fingertips down the front of your body, between the valley of your breasts and down your quivering abdomen, past your hips until he reaches where Steve’s head is settled in between your shaking thighs. He goes even further then, using two digits to spread you apart nice and wide, the way Steve can’t while he’s holding your waist and fucking you on his fingers.
The position means that there’s nowhere left to hide now, no reprieve from the sensation of Steve’s tongue. It’s warm and wet and unyielding, sucking and flicking and drawing your clit to full attention for him. With toys or fingers it might be too much sensation to really feel good, but the pressure of his mouth is just right.
You cling onto Bucky’s arm and Steve’s hand as you begin to tense up, the coil in your stomach tightening. You like this part, this little plateau before the plunge, and it’s been so long—if ever—since you’ve actually gotten to experience it at the hands of someone else and not just your own.
If you could talk, you’d say right there or don’t stop or I’m close, but your breath is getting stuck in pants and hiccups, your hips twitching, out of your control. You feel molten underneath both of their gazes, anticipating your release but not rushing you toward it.
You let your eyes close, welcome the sudden press of Bucky’s fingers against your mouth and Steve’s hand to keep you grounded, and let everything else fall away for a minute.
The orgasm doesn’t take you by surprise. It builds, slowly and then in quicker increments, until it takes you over. Your mouth wrenches open noiselessly, eyes wet with overwhelmed tears, and all of you tenses tight before rapidly unraveling between the fixed points that Steve and Bucky make around you.
It keeps going, Steve’s mouth and fingers insistent as he works you through it. Noise fades back in as the ringing in your ears adjusts, Steve’s moans as you get him wet with your release, Bucky’s rough, raspy whispers of praise against your hair, your own shameless whines and squeaks as you ride it out completely.
Eventually, when you’re spent, you collapse back against the pillow Bucky put under your head and blink idly at the ceiling. You feel cold between your legs when Steve pulls away, your cunt pulsing, displeased at the sudden emptiness.
It’s worth it—if only because you get to lie back and catch your breath while Bucky drags Steve in by the neck and ravages his mouth with his tongue, tasting him. Tasting you.
Their hands are all over each other in a way that betrays the fact that they’ve been in a much longer relationship, aware of each other’s limits and weak spots. Steve groans when Bucky yanks his head backward and sinks his teeth against his neck, smearing you even further across Steve’s skin, leaving visible wetness behind. You watch, half surprised and still valiantly turned on, when his palm smacks the side of Steve’s ass and squeezes before he pulls away.
Both of them are hard, Bucky’s bulge significant underneath his boxers and Steve’s briefs rucked dangerously low against his hips, enough to see the hair around the base of his cock. He must’ve been grinding against the bed. You push your thighs together again with a whimper at the thought.
The noise draws Steve’s attention, and he crawls back on top of you, turning your bent legs to the side but keeping your back against the sheets as he kisses you. Soft, slow, more like what you thought he’d be like in the first place.
“Was that good?” Steve asks you.
“So good,” you agree with a smile, pushing a hand through his hair. “Thank you.”
“Both of you are too polite,” Bucky sighs. “What am I gonna do with you two?”
Steve slants his eyes from you over to Bucky, sly. “Something with your dick, preferably.”
You choke at his forwardness; you’ve never known Steve to be that bold. Bucky laughs at your expression, and Steve seems unabashed.
“You ain’t heard nothin’ yet, sweetheart,” Bucky tells you. “Just wait ‘til I’m fuckin’ him through the mattress. He gets real filthy, then.”
“Fuck,” you exhale. Your filter’s still not totally back.
Biting down on a smile, Bucky leans in to look up at Steve with you, appraising. “He does make quite the picture like that. But maybe…” he turns, talking right into your ear. “Maybe you take him first, huh? Been so patient, both of you—you want that?”
You nod. “Yes. Yeah.”
“Then, after he’s finished, when you’re all shaky and sensitive—it’ll be my turn. Roll you over. Slip into you, nice and easy. Fuck you deep enough that you can feel me right here,” Bucky continues, reaching down between you and Steve to press a palm against the cradle of skin between your hips.
“Bucky,” you moan. “Yes. Please. All of it.”
Lazily, Bucky rolls his head to look up at Steve. “Stevie?”
“You gotta fuckin’ ask?” he mutters to a laughing Bucky. You raise a brow, and he shifts his gaze to you, smiling crookedly. “When I said we’d talked about this, I meant in detail.”
You laugh with them, which is something else that hasn’t happened during sex with anyone else. It feels good. You feel good. Your body is loose from your first orgasm and you’re comfortable enough with Steve and Bucky that you don’t feel like you have to put on a show or hold a certain position. Which is good, because they seem to be developing a habit of arranging you however they like.
Like you’re a delicate addition to the well oiled machine of their relationship, Steve wraps his arms around your thighs again and pulls you down to the center of the mattress, and Bucky locates one of their wallets from the floor to grab a condom. The thoughtfulness makes you momentarily emotional, one less thing you have to think or worry about.
The condoms in their wallets that, you’re realizing right now, are probably more so for them to have sex with each other than they are to hook up with girls like you initially thought. You’re glad to understand better, now.
While Bucky’s up he grabs a water from your fridge and pops the cap, drains a good third and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before tossing it to Steve. He does the same, then leans down to hold it against your lips while Bucky fixes the pillows behind you. It’s oddly intimate, given everything you’ve already done, and you flush with heat at the unexpected gesture.
The boxers come off, Steve’s and then Bucky’s. You drink them in with a stare that’s only partially intentional, your mouth dry despite the water, suddenly glad that Steve had opened you up on his fingers in addition to his mouth. It’s been a while, and they’re both fairly well endowed.
It’d be the perfect place to make a crude joke at your expression, but it never comes. Steve leans in, fingers brushing your cheek. “You okay? We can do something else, if you want.”
“Or stop, if you’re tired,” Bucky adds.
True to your word, care and honesty really do seem to be what gets you going these days.
You shake your head, pulling your legs apart and Steve in between them as you lay back with Bucky’s thigh as a pillow. The condom sits idly on the bedspread to the side, and you pick it up and hand it to him in invitation.
With a smile and a final press of his lips to your forehead, Steve kneels up between your legs and rips it open, rolling it onto himself. He takes a few measured breaths as he looks at you, working his fist over the length of his cock in three slow pumps before he relents and braces on his knees.
Steve’s broad all over, and he spreads you wide without even meaning to. The span of his thighs and hips pushes your legs open enough that when he leans forward on top of you his dick is already straining where it wants to go, and you hiss when it bumps against your still-sensitive clit, shivering.
He grips it and swipes it through your wetness, letting it rest against you so you can feel the weight and shape of it before anything else happens. He’s warm, velvet hot against you, and you’re so wet that you can feel it on the sheets underneath you. Open from the orgasm and Steve’s fingers too, you think he should be able to slide in fairly easily.
You hook a leg over Steve’s hip as he leans forward further, the head of his cock pushing barely inside of you. Both of you moan, and Bucky lets you squeeze his hand as hard as you want in open anticipation.
Holding himself there, Steve gives a few slow thrusts against you. Shallow and brief, working himself in just slightly more each time. His thoughtfulness is a tease without meaning to be, making you clench down around nothing each time he withdraws.
Then, on a particular forward thrust, his cock sinks in a little deeper. He holds himself still, then repeats it all again. By the time he’s halfway inside of you you’re both holding your breath, sweat beading on Steve’s hairline, his grip tight enough to leave marks on your hip.
“Shit. Bucky. I’m—” Steve curses, squeezing his eyes shut as he pauses, shivering.
“Get it together, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs, pushing some of his hair back from his face. “Promised her a good time, did we not? You gonna deliver?”
Steve nods quickly, but the muscles in his neck and shoulders are pulled taut as he swallows audibly. “She’s—tight, Bucky. Fuck.”
“You would know, since you just had your fingers inside her, big guy.” Bucky flashes you a grin. “Sorry. Steve gets a little stupid about good pussy.”
“Liar,” Steve manages, breathless. “Never had one like this before.”
Being with them is apparently unlocking various new kinks for you. You feel suspended, weightless, anchored only by the thick pressure of Steve’s cock stretching you open, the biggest you’ve ever taken. You couldn’t form words if you tried.
“Your—” Steve chokes, trailing off. He grits his teeth, forces his eyes open and looks straight into yours as he slides the rest of the way inside of you. “Fuck. Your cunt. This tight little fuckin’ cunt.”
You cry out, arms shooting up and sideways to grip onto whatever you can to steady yourself. It doesn’t hurt, though you’re sure to be sore later. But you’ve never taken anyone this big before and it’s different in a way you hadn’t thought to expect.
You can feel him, hot inside of your body. Every inch of you is aware of it too, making room, adjusting, overwhelmed. You struggle to get air in for a moment but keep a shaky hand pressed to Steve’s side so he doesn’t pull out, trying to catch your breath.
Steve noses at your cheek. “That okay? S’it—?”
“Yeah,” you manage, blinking rapidly to clear your vision. “Deep. It’s—so full.”
Tender as anything, Bucky wipes at your cheeks to catch the tears you hadn’t managed to hide and strokes over your flushed skin with his thumb. “He’s big, isn’t he? Knows how to use it, too.”
He turns his attention to Steve, sinking fingers into your hair and settling up against your scalp, holding you steady. Sparks dance along your nerve endings at the promise of it, and you can’t help bearing down, drawing Steve further into you in anticipation.
“Show her, Steve.”
Steve shifts, bracing his palms on the bed in preparation obediently, but he pauses to kiss you again first, each one sweeter than the last.
“Tell me if it’s too much, ‘kay?”
With your approval, he widens his stance by your shoulders, bends his knees to push yours apart a little further, and braces himself to draw backward.
It’s slow—achingly so, at first, but necessary to get you used to him. He pulls back only halfway before pushing back in, working out of you the same way he’d worked himself in. Your wetness makes it all perfectly audible, the obscene slick noises echoing in all three of your ears each time he shifts.
You wrap a hand around his bicep, feeling the movement of the muscles underneath, and squeeze to let him know you can take a little more. His thrusts deepen, pulling nearly all the way back out of you before returning this time. It exaggerates the length of his cock, makes every drag of it feel even deeper, every brief moment of emptiness like a loss.
The three of you are quiet as he works up to a rhythm, entranced by the sight and sound and feeling of him taking you for the first time. You’re struck by a moment of disbelief at how unlikely this had seemed to you before; a fantasy you’d never actually get to have.
But you do, and it’s better than you imagined, and you’re not planning to waste it thinking of past hypotheticals.
You clench around Steve again, wiggling your hips, and he seems to get the message. With a quick readjustment of his grip on your hips, he kneels up and drags you with him, laying your ass against the slope of his thick, tensed thighs. It rushes blood to your head that’s still on flatter ground against Bucky’s leg and you gasp, feeling exposed and split open as your legs fall further apart to accommodate him.
Steve fucks you deep and the right amount of rough, a divot between his eyebrows that tells you it must be feeling good for him too. He’s glistening with sweat now, bare chest and muscles on display, and it’s hard not to feel self conscious around the two of them. But he’s making you feel good enough that it’s easier to let go, and if that didn’t do the trick, Bucky bending over you to kiss you again surely does.
Watching the two of you kiss makes Steve quicken his pace again. He grunts with each thrust of his hips, your wetness spreading all over his lap and the inside of your thighs and making a mess. When he thumbs over your clit you cry out into Bucky’s mouth, your body suddenly beginning to strive for release again.
“Fuck,” Steve pants, the circles of his thumb rough with the pace of his thrusts. “Baby. Want—I want you to come with me. Can you?”
“Nightstand,” you gasp to Bucky on autopilot. “Top drawer.”
He goes without question, stretching himself out so that he doesn’t have to move you to get to the nightstand. The drawer opens and things rattle to your left as Steve lowers your body back flat to the sheets and begins fucking you in sharp thrusts aimed right at your spot. It’s so good but you need just a little bit more, just—
“Fuckin’ hell,” you hear Bucky groan as he finds your vibrator and frees it from its not-so-secret hiding spot. You’ve resorted to it more often than not lately, the idea of a quick and efficient release more enticing than a slow workup if you’re tired or stressed. “How many times’ this thing heard our names, huh?”
You don’t give him the answer to that, because it’s mortifying. Instead, you say, “Second button. Hold it down, then press it twice.”
Seconds later, you hear it buzz to life. Even the sound of it seems to push you closer, the sensation so closely linked to release in your mind that you’re aching for it. Steve’s thumbs are digging into your hips, Bucky’s skin hot beneath your cheek, your body rising to meet each one of Steve’s movements. You’re so overwhelmed you feel like you might cry again—the really good kind of tears.
And then Bucky presses the vibrator against your clit.
You do cry, then, and yell something you’ll probably find embarrassing later on. But Bucky knows what you need, doesn’t let you wiggle away from it. There’s nowhere for you to go, even, not when Steve’s cock is buried so deeply inside of you.
And it is deep; he’s not pulling out as much anymore, holding you still, fucking into in long, punctuated thrusts, never once leaving you empty. He grinds into you in a concentrated effort now that the vibrator’s on you, careful not to knock it off.
“You gonna come for me?” he grunts to you, disheveled in a way so unlike Steve that it threatens to unravel you. His perfectly styled hair is in ruins lying across his forehead from you and Bucky’s fingers, scratch marks across his chest, a red flush working its way down from there with his restraint. His want.
You nod, trying and failing to form the words. Bucky, as if reading your mind, kicks the vibrator up just one more notch and presses.
“Oh, fuck,” Steve shudders, fucking you harder. “M’not—not gonna last. God, you—you’re squeezing me so fuckin’ tight, baby.”
“Yeah? Is he right, sweetheart? You feelin’ real good? I got this in the right place?” Bucky asks above you.
You nod, blurry with tears and pleasure. “Don’t—don’t stop.”
“Nobody’s stoppin’, honey. Promise. Not ‘til you come for us again.”
You don’t wait for a command or a cue, can’t even wait to make sure that Steve’s there with you before you go tumbling over the edge again. The orgasms with the vibrator are sharper and more sudden, rolling over you in waves. You say their names this time, repeating them as you whimper and squirm between the onslaught of Steve’s cock and the toy, caught in an endless loop of pleasure.
This one doesn’t last as long, but you’re slower to come back from it. Once your body stops rolling with the last dredges of your orgasm, you feel little things—Steve’s tight grip around your waist, his teeth in your shoulder, the added weight and wetness between your legs as he fucks himself through his own orgasm into the condom. Bucky’s hands still in your hair, his voice praising both of you, the fixed points at the edges of his smile.
You stay like that for seconds, minutes, you aren’t sure, basking in the aftermath of it. It’d been unexpectedly intense, and you’re once again glad that this is them and not anybody else, content to let yourself float in it for a minute before you have to be coherent again.
Steve eases off of you slowly, carefully, mindful of your sensitive and spent body as he pulls up and out of you. The emptiness this time around feels more severe, and you’re embarrassed at the noise you make and the fact that Steve has to reach down and curl three fingers back into you until it feels like less of a loss.
You aren’t certain how long it’s like that—Bucky stroking over your arms, your legs, your thighs, Steve’s fingers gently fucking into you without purpose until your body is more okay with letting him go. Even then there’s a smoothness to it all, a system with you in the center.
Steve gets up to toss the condom and grab another water while Bucky pushes the last of the other one to your lips and helps you finish it. Awareness begins to trickle in again, your muscles a little sore and the wet spot on the bed less than ideal underneath you, but Bucky remains a solid, sturdy weight at your side.
Bucky, who’s still achingly hard against his own hip and hasn’t made a single move to do anything about it. He could’ve fucked your mouth while Steve was fucking you, could have gotten himself off with his own hand and come on your chest. It’s not like you would have said no.
But he hadn’t done any of that, because you had a plan, and because he’s more polite than any of you give him credit for apparently.
Roll you over. Slip into you, nice and easy. Fuck you deep enough that you can feel me right here.
Lazily, you roll off of Bucky’s thigh and into a dry spot on the sheets, laying your cheek against the pillow to look up at him. He really is handsome, his hair and his face and his body and his heart, and you want him just as badly as you wanted Steve. You still do, if he’ll have you.
You reach blindly across the bed to grab his hand and tug. He leans on an elbow beside you obligingly, running a hand up your spine. When you make another noise, he finally undoes the clasp that’d been barely holding your bra still on you all night, and the straps fall open, baring your back to him fully.
“You wanna sleep, sweetheart?”
You shake your head, fumbling for his wallet on the corner of the nightstand. You’re still shaking a little but you manage it, flipping one side open and pulling another condom out with two of your fingers to hand back to him.
With the audacity to look surprised, Bucky glances at you, wide eyed. He leans closer, stroking a hand down the back of your head. “Still want me?”
You nod against the pillow, slipping one of your arms beneath your head. “Just—slow.”
“‘Course,” Bucky agrees.
He arranges you so you don’t have to move anymore, letting your head stay comfortable while he nudges your hips up onto a pillow and into place for him. You’re already wet and open and ready for him and you hope the thought is as exciting to him as it is to you, that he’s been waiting for this as much as you have.
Distantly, you register movement. The condom being ripped open, footsteps returning, soft voices, the bed creaking under new weight. With anyone else, you would’ve had to be on high alert. Wouldn’t have trusted them to be so vulnerable with. You’re not scared with Steve and Bucky.
As if proving the point, your body opens for him easily when he presses inside. You’d liked seeing Steve face to face but this way everything is so much tighter, warmer, softer around the edges, every inch of Bucky’s body pressed against yours keeping you anchored to the bed. He’s not as long as Steve but he makes up for it in thickness, the weight of him filling you like pressing on a lovebite you don’t want to fade.
He pauses for a minute when he’s settled to the hilt, just holding you. Your breathing syncs, heart rates much calmer now, and you welcome him in so much that you think you could nearly fall asleep if he held still long enough.
And then he moves.
An arm tucked underneath your shoulders and another keeping a forearm pressed into the pillow beside your head for leverage, Bucky doesn’t bother with the rough fucking Steve had given you. He hardly pulls out much at all. Instead, he grinds into you in steep, slow circles, making sure that neither of you miss any fleeting detail. It’s the most quiet you think he’s ever been around you before, both of you listening, moving, communicating with each other in a way you haven’t before.
The angle is so different than being on your back. The times you’ve been on your front before were all hands and knees, nothing like this; not the intimate press of a warm chest to your bare shoulder blades, not an open palm against the thud of your heartbeat, not with anyone close enough to feel the reactions of what they were doing to your body.
It builds quickly this time, and without any conscious effort. You lean gratefully into Steve’s fingers when they move your hair from your face, but otherwise, you’re overwhelmed by nothing but Bucky. He’s thorough and attentive, seemingly conscious of the same approaching crescendo as you are. You can believe it, after making him wait all night.
Bucky moves your hair from your shoulders too, kisses the curve of your neck, your shoulder, the first notches of your spine. The hand on your chest rises briefly to hold your throat again, keeping you steady as he rocks into you over and over again.
There’s a subtle tremble in the strength he uses to hold himself above you, a few last strings that need cutting. He’s still taking care of you.
The pillow propping your hips up gives enough room to reach underneath and touch yourself, but it’s not your hand that you want there.
Lifting your tired limbs, you shift your arm until you can wrap your fingers around Bucky’s wrist that’s around your chest. You drag it down between your hips and push it where you need it, Bucky’s rough fingers finding your throbbing clit with ease.
Relief rolls over you at the intensity of it. You don’t have much energy except to tilt your hips back and try to move them back and forth between Bucky’s cock and his fingers, but it’s enough.
The angle’s better and Bucky slides into you even deeper, his helpless groans matching pitch with your frantic whimpers. It’s not going to take much this time, not with so much build up, and when you feel Bucky’s thighs begin to shake around yours where he’d shoved one up at to the side, you tighten around him, the contractions of your muscles drawing your own orgasm to the surface.
Bucky takes your jaw in his hand as you come one last time, his fingers spreading out over your face to hold you while he fucks you through his simultaneous release. It’s the least intense one of the night but your tired body feels every ebb and flow of it, clutching onto every part of Bucky you can with how much it rocks you, makes you feel vulnerable.
He keeps you steady through it, boxed in in his arms just like when you were dancing earlier. Even when you’re both finally through the aftershocks he stays there inside of you, lips pressed against your shoulder, hand tucked underneath your cheek.
He leans up just enough to press a kiss there too when he eventually lifts himself off of you, and you can feel Steve at the ready with a cool rag to wipe you down. It’s not as good as a shower would be but there’s no way you have the energy for that right now. You appreciate the change in temperature and the gentle treatment as your body winds down from the rush of endorphins you’d flooded it with, and when you’re mostly clean, Steve helps you sit up and slip on Bucky’s shirt while Bucky strips the sheets and tosses a clean blanket over the mattress.
You settle in between both of them, already nearly asleep when you curl against Bucky’s front and feel Steve slip an arm around you from behind. Bucky’s the last one to talk, thick with sleep and something else you can’t name just yet.
“Thank you, sweet girl.”
You press an open mouthed kiss against his chest in response. You’d missed his voice.
Brendan (and the rest of the campus, for that matter), are all shocked to find out that the school’s biggest brat and its equally notorious playboys are all in a relationship. Even more so when it lasts through another semester and after graduation, too.
You’re not, though. They’d been wrong about all three of you, so it makes sense they’d be wrong about this too. You’ve stopped caring so much about proving people wrong, especially when you have so many other things to put your focus toward.
Nudging open the door of your apartment with your shoe, you let yourself inside and set the last moving box down by the dining room table. You smile at the sketchbook that’s been left out, a rough drawing of Bucky on one side, you on the other.
“Okay, I think that’s everything,” Bucky announces, falling back onto your couch.
“Until we have to move everything up another floor next week,” Steve reminds him, gulping down water from your sink. Bucky groans.
“Don’t fuckin’ remind me.” He tosses an arm over his eyes dramatically. “You sure we can’t just live here, sweetheart?”
“Yes,” you answer immediately. “The size of your unit is practically double mine. If anything, I would be moving in with you.”
Peeling his arm away, Bucky gives you a mischievous grin. “Now there’s an idea.”
You laugh, walking over to him. “Easy, tiger. One thing at a time.”
“Oh? S’that the plan now?”
You settle on his lap, both of you sweaty from moving their boxes to your place temporarily. The window Steve cracked isn’t doing much in the way of cooling you down, but you sort of like the way Bucky’s hands feel like brands on your hips.
“No plans. We’re going with the flow, remember?”
“Ah, that’s right.” He nods, thumbing at your lip. “Does the flow entail us takin’ a break so I can get this mouth on me again?”
“Horny jar,” you say at the same time as Steve, both of you grinning at Bucky’s groan.
“I’m not using that damn jar anytime I want my girl,” Bucky complains. “I’d be broke.”
“Yeah, but we’d have rent covered for the first, like, three months at least,” Steve reasons.
Tossing an arm over the back of the couch to flip him the middle finger, Bucky uses his other hand to curve around your neck and pull you down to his mouth. He kisses you deep, slow, as lazy as the heat in the apartment, and your sore muscles go slack against him.
“Maybe we can take a little break before trying to organize everything,” you tell him.
With a cheer, Bucky lifts you clean off the couch and sets you on the ground, spinning you in his arms. “Fuck yeah. You have the best ideas. I love you.”
He kisses you again, but both of you pause when you realize what he just said. You glance from Bucky to Steve, who’s already looking over at you from the kitchen, equally frozen.
“Uh,” Bucky says. “Hey, so. I love you?”
Your mouth splits into a slow grin when he doesn’t retract it but tells you again, and you laugh as you lean up to kiss him again.
“I love you too.”
His arms slip around your waist, keeping your mouths together as he walks you back toward your bed. You can hear Steve clearing your pathway, then finally feel him against you once you hit the mattress.
“I guess Buck beat me to it,” he smiles, “but I love you, too.”
“Well, I love you…three?” you ask, giddy as you pull him down against you.
“So much love,” Steve murmurs against your mouth. “Does this mean we have to start a love jar now?”
“Nah,” Bucky insists, stripping out of his shirt. “We’d lose count.”
The three of you collapse into a pile in the center of your mattress in a happy heap, all smiles and wandering hands, and you think, as Steve peels his borrowed boxers down your legs with your shorts, that this is the best you’ve ever felt in a relationship in your life.
When you feel safe enough, you’ve discovered, you kind of like not having a plan.
They settle in around you easily, slotting into place, and stay.
Content warnings: 18+, mutual yearning, miscommunication trope, angst, oral (F receiving), p in v penetration, choking, overwhelm and minor size kink, kind of sort of thigh riding
Summary: After a cold mission debrief, you decide it’s easier to shut Steve out completely. But after weeks of him burning for you, he decides something has to give. You thought detachment would cool the fire.. he’s about to show you how wrong you are.
❀ an: in true Pisces fashion i have taken a silly sex pollen fic and turned it into something longful. also I’m so sorry for LYING. I really thought I’d get this posted yesterday but I was fighting for my life to get this finished along with my workload from college so forgive me :,( therefore this features a kind of lazy ending heh ♥︎
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The conference lights felt too bright, the kind that hummed behind your eyes, swirled mercilessly through your skull. You sat motionless, hands clutched together in your lap, knuckles paling from the pressure. You decided to fix your eyes on a crack in the table where the laminate had worn away, instead of the man across from you.
Steve’s jaw worked, tight as stone and twice as sharp. He wasn't near, but not exactly far either, just close enough that the air between you both felt stretched thin, humming like a live wire. Every answer from his lips was clipped and perfectly neutral, as a trained soldier’s should be. Each reply neatly slotted into the dotted lines of the mission report, and they didn’t do much of anything to calm the tension building between you. His hands stayed folded on the table but it all felt too precise, each of his movements too rehearsed. Like a man trying to strangle the guilt of more collateral damage that just couldn't be avoided in these life-or-death situations.
Your pulse stuttered hard in your throat. You told yourself to breathe, to let the sound of his voice skim off the surface instead of sinking to where it hurt, but your lungs felt entirely incapacitated.
Natasha was watching you, and you wondered if she could hear it- that thin tremble within your chest. You wondered if he could.
The shield officer to your left leaned forward, tapping her stylus against a tablet. To her, this was just another debrief, a protocol that droned on until she could finally go home. It was rattling, her overall greyness. Mixed with the scent of coffee gone cold swirling through the clinical, glass-walled room. And Steve, sat before you like a series of carefully placed bricks taking the shape of a uniform, of victory, of legacy. The contrast made your skin burn, turned your stomach. People were enamoured with him, looked at him with hope and admiration. To them he was a hero- and he was, of course, but they didn’t see him, not really. Not as you did.
“Let’s move on to the protocol deviation.”
Her tone was disorientingly neutral, but the words made your skin prick into chills anyway.
“Agent”
Her eyes flicked up to you, swallowing you whole.
“You presented with acute destabilisation after contact with the toxin derivative. Correct?"
Your throat caught. You forced a nod.
”Dr Banner, could you confirm the treatment option you settled on, and describe why?”
Bruce shifted in his chair, clearing his throat as he fiddled with some papers he'd strewn on the table before him.
“We decided that semen was the best treatment option. It carries proteins and enzymes that the body could bind to. The toxin is designed around reproductive biology, forcing the system into overdrive until it burns itself out. Male DNA acts as an anchor. Certain Y chromosome markers latch onto receptors and force stability. This is all hypothetical, we’re still researching the full mechanism.”
His words landed like glass, splintering up through your chest. You felt silly, truthfully. You knew this was all scientific, an unfortunate accident that was fairly common in your line of work- but it didn’t change the outcome. That warm simmering you were feeling for Steve now couldn’t be fixed with some calculations. You were stuck.
The officer nodded, turning a page. ”And Captain Rodgers was selected as donor due to immediate compatibility, physical viability, and availability in the field, correct?"
A pause stretched thin before you heard a faint exhale from Steve’s nose. “Confirmed.”
You could almost hear the subtext in his voice, stripped of all tenderness. All that remained was a sickly sense of culpability, coiled so tight it could snap. It was like he was ashamed of himself, and it made you want to disappear into the floor.
“Proceedings were carried out consensually?”
”Yes” you murmured, your voice tripping over his as he replied the same.
“Captain Rogers initiated stabilisation through physical and genetic exchange. Confirm in detail.”
Steve’s eyes flickered, just for a moment. “Contact was made. Prolonged stimulation allowed for full absorption. Stabilisation was achieved.” His precision was unbearable. Every syllable carved distance, and you wanted him to falter, to let any form of emotion through so you’d know where to go from. He remained immovable.
“Define prolonged? and confirm the methods used.”
“Penetrative, approximately thirty minutes.”
You sat rigid, heat flooding your face, while the intimacy that had shaken your bones was filed away like evidence before you. Every word was another incision, slicing the memory into sterile pieces, and you could feel every eye in the room. All but Steve’s. Tony was the one to break the silence, leaning back in his chair. “That's one hell of a field dressing“ he said lightly, “beats duct tape and super glue, huh?”
He received a few huffs in response, a sharp glance from Natasha, and the tension cracked just enough to keep the room moving- for everyone but you and Steve. You both remained still, eyes down.
Inside, you felt yourself calcify, folding in sharp edges around the raw place that still remembered his arms, the heat of his voice in that dark room. You couldn't afford to feel an ache this deep, this was your job- your livelihood. You loved what you did, you didn't have much of anything else. Your days were always quiet, a mellow kind of blue. If this is what you had to do to maintain peace within yourself, then it was done.
The meeting finished up with the scraping of chairs and the shuffling of papers. You were the first out of your seat, excusing yourself with a quiet “thank you” and slipping out of the door wishing you could find a way to erase yourself entirely. Steve was strong, he was steadfast, built for this. You had to admire that in him, even with how it dizzied you.
The corridor was colder than the conference room, white walls that glared with strip lights. Before the door could even close behind you, you felt it. The sting of his large hand wrapping around your wrist. It made you flinch with the memories it summoned you back into, how they’d felt over your aching skin earlier, how they’d soothed and ruined all at once.
“Wait.”
You didn’t turn, instead slipping your wrist out of his hold, bringing your arms up to cross over your chest. “Can we talk now?”
“About what?” Your voice came out softer than you’d meant. You knew what would come next, and you couldn't take hearing him admit how guilty this had made him, you couldn't take him apologising for something that had ignited every part of you so deeply.
“I think it’s all been thoroughly covered.”
Steve remained in the sterile corridor, his silence following you as he watched you walk away. It wasn’t often he lost his footing, but you’d just kicked it out from under him.
He’d meant to tell you that he didn’t regret what had happened between you, that it had meant more to him than he’d been able to foresee. He knew it had been building for a while- and he was actually relieved. He had a whole disoriented confession teeming beneath his tongue for the entirety of the debrief, waiting for his chance to finally express everything to you- but you couldn’t even look at him, recoiled from his touch. Maybe what he had wanted to say wasn't worth the weight it would add to you.
For him, the whole day had snowballed into a muddle of perplexity that left him feeling more out of touch than ever before.
The isolation of it all had never gotten easier. He pretended it did, folded himself into the silence it left like a symbol of unshakeable existence. He wished he could live up to being all steel and momentum, something engineered to move forward without faltering, without feeling the weight of the miles behind him. Instead, he just felt like a passenger in his own body, weak in all the ways that counted. Wrecked with the ghost of his own past, and too easily swayed by the sound of your voice.
If you so much as brushed past him again, he knew he’d trail you like a shadow, unable to pull himself back into the real world. To him, your beauty was not just the softness that curved around your features, or the way that light played across your hair. It was something that he’d been chasing as long as he’d lived.
As much as he’d been distracted, he couldn’t help but pay attention to it. He noticed everything, the way you had a smile for everyone, always had time for anyone. The way you valued connection and the little things- home-cooked meals, movie nights and cupcakes on the weekend. All of it, of you, painted the most complete picture. You radiated home in a way that rattled his most hidden parts, wanting that had never been enough for him.
Everything always came down to the body with him- flesh and pulse. His was manufactured and, truthfully, one he’d never felt content inside of. He was nothing but a revenant, only half as holy. And yours, it felt like comfort, left him damaged in a way that broke down every carefully constructed wall within him. The irony left him jaded, he was genetic perfection yet you were, in his eyes, an impossible purity. One that had graced him in the most intimate way, and he'd been wishing there was something underneath the chemicals that tethered you to his touch, as enduring as his loyalty to good. But, it was not by choice. Not because you wanted to. That was abundantly clear to him now.
When it came, the honesty of it all was convulsive. A tremor spreading out from within his chest, shuddering through every vein. And for a moment he actually felt like himself again in the ruin left by his longing. Alone in a long series of corridors, shoulders squaring under the weight.
☽✧❀✧☾
Sleep pulled him under like ice every night that followed. There was no soft lull of rest, no comfort in his exhaustion- just the lack of you. An absence so big it pulled into a presence that circled his every thought, every question, every breath. Even his dreams reached for you, sometimes tender and gentle and more often than not, burning. Some nights he could’ve sworn you really were there, mouth open, warm and gasping beneath him. He felt the drag of your nails across his shoulders, the sharp intake of breath as he pushed into you, splitting you open as deep as the ache inside of him. He could taste the sweet of your perfume, hear himself rasp across skin. But upon waking, the emptiness came like a thief, dragging him back from your glow. Every day without fail.
The longing became its own ghost, one he tried to free himself from with every mission, every order, until the horizon blurred flaring and distant. Every time he thought he thought he’d learnt to hold the line, that he’d finally be able to go to bed without feeling haunted, he felt you pulling at the back of his mind.
He reached for you in silence, stretched thin and scattered like dust in the wind. But every time he'd see you, you just seemed rattled. Struggling to temper the weight of an already stressful job, and the sharp-edged strain that seemed to be building in the air.
In the quiet, he found himself talking to the ghost. Asking it questions to save you from his whirring mind. Stringing together explanations that convinced not even himself. Other times, he just played music loud enough to drown out the silence. One night he went through thirty-two punching bags before he forced himself back to his room.
No matter how hard he pushed, it always came back. Angry and swinging.
And when Steve came upon the information that he’d be paired with you for tomorrow's designated training, his heart almost stopped beating. You’d really shown him the mastery of elusion that only years of training could grant during those past agonising weeks. Slipping out of rooms before he even had a chance to get the door jarred, finding different routes to all of your daily tasks, never using the same hallway. But tomorrow, you couldn’t slip away from him.
He was done being haunted by distance, broken by the way his entire brain pivoted around you like you were its axis. He hopelessly searched for you behind every door he walked through, listened for the cadence of your breath in every quiet room. He couldn’t take any more. Tomorrow was his chance to finally break through, say what he had to, and your response didn’t matter to him. Even if it was just more silence.
☽✧❀✧☾
Steve spun you around, your back collided with his chest with a soft thud that felt only that much lighter when paired with the heat that poured off him. You swore wordlessly in your head. Of course you were paired with him, swallowed back into his burning touch without the very needed reprieve of belligerence.
You’d both begun the session in total silence with no words exchanged to lift the awkward tension. Every night for longer than you could remember at this point, you had been struck with unrelenting memories of Steve’s heavy breathing, his firm arms pulling and tugging at your limbs. The way one of those arms locked around your chest now sent you swimming.
His breath grazed the curve of your ear, barely giving you time to register a possible counter move before his other hand clamped down on your lower hip, finger tips digging into the flesh. Close, so dangerously close to the gentle crease of your groin. It sparked a wave of stirring deep in your stomach.
“Don’t leave yourself open like that” he muttered.
You felt the words differently, simmering into the cool air like heat waves. You jerked against him, twisting in an attempt to free yourself but his grip only tightened. The movement dragged the curve of your ass against his upper thigh, causing the pressure to feel disorientingly intimate. Your breath stuttered.
“Steve..”
He released you, only to pivot and catch your wrist to swing you forward. The mat hit your knees as you landed, before you had a chance to recover you felt his weight boring down on you. His body pressed back into yours in a way that almost felt purposeful. You felt the gallop of his heart beat against your spine, and his warmth bled through every point of contact.
You let out a frustrated grumble, bucking hard into a roll that placed you directly beneath him— face to face. His shoulders blotted out the lights overhead, his knees bracketing your hips. You tried to shove his chest, no concern for maintaining proper techniques through your growing frustration. He caught your wrist mid push and pinned it down to the floor beside you, eyes burning in deep contact with yours. For a second, neither of you moved.
Charged silence flickered between you both, mingling in with your heavy breathing. His face was so close to yours you could almost taste him, and as if on cue his gaze dipped to your open lips. It lasted only seconds, barely perceptible but it was enough to send your stomach plummeting. You used the distraction to twist your hips and throw him off balance. You reversed the hold, straddling him with your palms pressed hard at his chest. You thought you’d have a chance to escape finally, but his hands swiftly caged your hips to him, pressing bruises into your skin. You desperately fought off a shiver, skin burning under his touch.
“Is this what it takes to get you to look at me?” He questioned suddenly.
You felt a sharp sting at the sentiment behind his words. Did he really want you to? Wouldn’t that just cause more pity from him, to see you yearning after him with every flutter of lash? You brought your brows together, studying his face. He seemed worn out, a man exhausted. And that look was there again, like he was following every breath, skimming each of your features. Your chest heaved as you watched him, feeling his heart thrumming steadily beneath your palms which only seemed to make yours pound harder.
“Don’t you think that would just make things worse?” You breathed, pulling your hands away to somewhere they felt safer. “I don’t like what I see behind your eyes.”
Steve faltered. His mouth tightened at the corner, spine straightening as he exhaled. “What do you see?”
You swallowed through a dry throat, careful resolve crumbling by the minute just as you knew it would. You should’ve stayed away, feigned a sickness or personal emergency and spared yourself the embarrassment.
“It’s like you’re bracing for me to blame you.”
His brow furrowed, confusing breaking through the fatigue in his features. “Guilt? You think this is guilt?”
You didn't reply, just stared back at him. His question had stunned you into silence- left you wracking your brain to figure out what else it could’ve been. The grip on your hips softened, as if he’d only just noticed how tightly he was holding onto you. Silence drew in thick again as the truth settled between you like falling leaves, dancing in the wind. He pulled himself upright bracing on his arms, and his face was sharper.
His eyes locked with yours, unflinching. “It's not guilt. It's wanting you. Every second I'm near you, I'm fighting myself not to touch you.”
The clarity was sobering. That ache you'd buried under doubt, ran away from with every chance, he felt it too. It wasn't pity, it was him burning up the same way you were.
For a long, trembling second you just stared at him. You drew in a long breath, shaking your head as you tried to find your words. You couldn't seem to explain to him how much you longed too. It felt strange, the suddenness of it all, you'd never noticed before how perfectly he fit you- too caught up in being a good agent to imagine how it'd feel to belong to someone, to him.
“I guess we really did need to speak, didn't we?” you huffed, trying not to let your embarrassment seep through. You needed to buy yourself some time to digest the heavy realisation, prepare yourself for what was to come.
“Im going to get cleaned up. Can you come see me in an hour?”
He just nodded, the weight of his gaze following you as you got on your feet and slipped from the room, pulse still hammering.
☽✧❀✧☾
The scent of pink pepper and amber swam around you as you lit a candle, flame flickering faintly on your nightstand. It danced over the jade walls like a lullaby, wrapped you in cosy soft gold.
Steam from your shower still clung to the air. Your dried hair tumbled around you, pyjamas loose and comforting on your skin, but your body still hadn't settled despite your efforts. The feeling of his closeness was still woven around you, dipped into your thoughts and your breath.
The knock on your door came sharp, and you froze as your heart lurched. Steve stood framed in the doorway, his expression was soft, enough to calm the pressure that buckled within you. You shifted back, perching against your dresser as he slowly closed the distance with deliberate steps. He no longer looked weary, just painted with hot restlessness.
“Just tell me this is what you want”
He didn't really need to ask, it was evident in the way your chest rose and fell. But you appreciated the sentiment.
“It is. Of course it is.”
Steve cupped your cheek with a steady hand, rubbing slow circles over your warm skin. You held his intense gaze, his eyes were clear, crystalline blue, and lit with the same unwavering determination you’d only ever seen on missions. This time the ferocity focused wholly on you. He leaned in closer, broad chest solid against yours as he slid a thick thigh between your legs, parting them only slightly. His strength pinned you in place as his leg settled flush against your heat, firm enough for the sudden friction to make you dizzy. The tension between you felt like a string drawn taut, ready to snap with every rise and fall of your chests against each other.
His thigh began to move in slow, barely-there undulations against your clit until the air caught in your lungs. Steve leaned in, warm lips brushing yours first, a ghost of breath falling against them before he sealed the distance with a fervent kiss. His hand on your cheek never wavered as he deepened it, sucking gently at your bottom lip and pausing to nibble lightly, before softening the sting with a delicate caress from his tongue.
You struggled for breath, melting into his touch as his thigh began to press more firmly across your soaking pussy, then lighter again. The searing heat that rose within you was so sharp, so intense, it sent you spiralling back into the day of the toxin. He disoriented you so thoroughly that it perfectly mimicked that same pull you’d felt, the utterly hopeless, heady bliss that wracked your sparking nerves. But this was all him, every touch intentional, unravelling your brain with his desire.
His other hand grasped your hip, touch almost bruising as he dragged you down harder against his thigh. It was possessive, leaving you no room to escape the already overwhelming sensation. You stuttered into the kiss, pulling your head down to let out a panting moan. Your eyes locked onto his large hand, the way the tendons rippled with his grip as your head swam.
Steve’s lips dragged along your jaw, leaving open-mouthed kisses and a trail of warmth glistening in their wake. He lingered when he reached your neck, a broad hand sliding to cradle the back of your head as he tilted it to the side. His mouth sealed to the delicate skin there, tongue dragging slow, deliberate circles. You felt every ridge of it, before he pulled back just enough to let his cool breath drift over the damp spot, sending a sharp chill over your skin.
His thigh stilled but stayed pressed firmly against you. His other hand wandered up your side, bunching your shirt up and tugging it higher with each pass until he stripped it away in one smooth motion. He had been thinking about your perfect tits for weeks, reminiscing on their softness, how your pebbled nipples felt under his palm. Finally seeing them again felt like a dream. He gripped your shaking hand, guiding it down to his cock and squeezing. You let out a breath as you felt it straining against his pants, rock solid and brazen.
A low sound rumbled in his chest as you curled your fingers around it. His own hand traced back up your stomach, trailing hot skin until he reached the fleshy swell of your breast. He teased your hardened nipple with the back of his fingers, agonisingly slow strokes that made your breath hitch, before gently pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. He began to tug, flicking the flat of his thumb over it.
Then he bent low, sliding a hefty arm beneath your back to arch you up toward his mouth. His lips closed around your other nipple, tongue laving over the sensitive bud in a quiet rhythm, sucking until he heard your heart rate pick back up. He alternated between gentle swirls of his tongue and sharp tugs from his fingers, every sound that broke from your throat spurring him on.
He pulled back up, hungry gaze locking with yours, lips wet and swollen. “Wanna take it slow this time, show you how much I want you.”
Your chest tightened at his words, half in anticipation, half in flooding relief. You could never get enough of hearing that, how Steve really longed for you, you didn’t think you’d ever get truly used to it either.
Without waiting for an answer, he began a patient descent, kissing down the valley of your breasts, trailing over your stomach with almost worshipping slowness. Each press of his mouth drew him closer and closer to where you ached for him most, the helpless realisation left your thighs tightening against themselves.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, pushing them down until they dropped to the floor. He slipped his arms around your thighs, effortlessly lifting you to sit on the dresser as he found his place on his knees. It was cold and worn beneath you, but you appreciated the grounding contrast of it.
His hands parted your legs, pushing his palms flat as he hitched them up over his shoulders. You sucked in a gasp as he began to kiss along the inside of your flesh, licking stripes, leaving little nibbles. He blew a puff of air over your aching cunt, humming as he pressed his lips directly over your slick clit. He gave a few short, slow flicks of his tongue before wrapping his lips eagerly around it, failing in his efforts of restraint. His lips and tongue worked in tandem, sucking and pushing against your clit, slow and sensual. The pleasure bubbled up from your heat as he worked you over for what felt like an hour, each ragged press of his tongue intensifying it into a deep sear that tore through your stomach. You jolted against him, quiet mewls breaking through your lips as you desperately tried to hold back the impending orgasm already threatening to shatter you. “S-Ste-”
He pulled his mouth away, pressing a sweet kiss to the fleshy mound above your clit. “Mm, baby? What is it,” he asked teasingly, bringing a finger to circle your wetness torturously, lightly skipping over where he knew would give you the most relief. “Gone already? My kisses just knock the sense clean out of you, don't they.”
You felt the heat rush the skin of your back, starting low in sharp prickles that danced up and swallowed the entirety of your spine- right up to the skin beneath your hairline. He let out an amused huff. His thick hands left you too spread to escape the way he mouthed back at your cunt. The view of him beneath you, his slick, lazy kisses lapping up your arousal, delving his tongue into your aching hole until you clenched so hard you thought you’d break, it left you reeling. You ground your hips against him, sobbing and babbling, too far gone to hold anything back, and he just squeezed your thighs harder, humming into it.
Your hips jumped, everything cutting to white noise as your puffy clit pulsed under his tongue. Your breath halted completely as you felt your climax rush over you, exploding deep under your ribs. You whined as he pushed you through it, suckling until you were shaking.
Without missing a beat, he was back upright, towering over you. He scooped you up in one swift motion and laid you down against your bed, his strength tempered with a softness only he could maintain. His clothes came off in a blur you barely registered, too lost in the dizzying hush left by your orgasm to pay much attention.
You felt the mattress dip under his weight, jogging you slightly. The small candle you’d lit before your shower cast a glow wavering on his cheeks and painting gilded streaks into his hair. The rest of the room was swallowed in a nebulous darkness, the small light source unable to dilute it all. He almost looked sacred like that, and there was a softness in his gaze that lulled you in a strange and unfamiliar way. You had never been religious, worshipping a holiness you’d never looked upon felt like a fanciful pursuit, but this- cradled before Steve, simmering buzz still skitting over your skin, it felt impossibly akin. You found yourself beginning to understand the sentiment in a strange stirring of comprehension, as if this was how it was meant to feel to tremble at the foot of a cross- in awed surrender, utterly undone.
He leaned in, brushing over your cheek, eminently tender in comparison to the hunger you were both just lost to. “Hey,” he breathed, “we can leave it here for tonight if you’d prefer?”
His other hand rested over your sternum, feeling the quick beat of your heart below it. There really was no rush in him now, he was all reverence and care as his eyes searched yours. “No, no I want to keep going. I want all of you.”
He darkened again at your words, though the care in his eyes never left. “Sweetheart, you'd better be ready for what that’ll feel like.”
His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, dipping inside your mouth. His jaw tightened at the sight of your pillowy lips pouting to accommodate the digit, you circled your tongue around it, sighing as you looked at his throbbing cock bobbing between his legs. The sound seemed to undo him even further, his eyes fluttered as he chewed on his own lip. “You hear me? No running this time, want you to stay right here with me and take it.”
His thumb left your mouth with a pop and the press of his lips was gentler than the grip that followed, hand sliding from your sternum to your wrists, guiding them up and locking them in place above your head in one hand. He lined himself up with his other hand, groaning as he felt your wet heat against his tip. He didn’t move for a moment, just kept you there clenching around nothing before dragging his length in circles over you, teasing your hole, denying you what you so desperately wanted. His lips pushed into a grin as he took in your face, free hand sliding to press your thigh wider apart. “S’okay, I'll make sure you do.”
His weight pinned you into the mattress so you couldn’t even shift as he pushed into you slowly, and he didn’t grace you with a pause to steady yourself after the thick head of his cock popped inside. Your stomach flared, spine arching up into him as your whole body flushed needily. The stretch was so intense it almost threw you off- you didn’t remember it feeling this intrusive last time.
Every one of his thrusts was sharp, punishing, the kind that made your eyelids heavy and your chest quake with broken cries. He leaned in low, breath warm against your ear forcing every single sense to bow to him in overwhelm. His free hand locked around your neck, applying firm pressure against your pulse until it felt like you could slip out from under him at any moment.
He pressed his forehead to yours, voice coming out soft and coaxing as he split you in half- “That’s it baby, I got you, just breathe.” The words sounded tender, but the way his grip tightened around your throat, and the brutal snap of his hips betrayed the act.
“That pretty little pussy wasn’t made to take all of me, huh? But look at you, trying so hard.”
You sobbed into his chest, jaded in the space left between his soothing voice and relentless cock.
“So good for me, such a good girl.”
His thrusts slowed, deliberate, pulling out until only the thick head of his cock lingered inside of you. Your body loosened around the emptiness, feeling the hollow ache of his absence, only for him to drive back in, bottoming out with brutal force.
Over and over, he made you take him like that- easing out until you felt a flicker of relief, then burying himself to the hilt before you could even breathe. You couldn’t catch up with him making every thrust feel like the first, unbearable, leaving you tense and struggling to adjust below him.
He pressed light kisses to your temple, his thick length sending sparks of carnal euphoria through your trembling body as you mewled and spewed out a plethora of curses. Steve's cock twitched at the lewdness falling from your saccharine lips, hard enough for you to feel it.
“Dirty, dirty mouth,” he tutted, rising back on his heels and pressing down hard on your lower stomach as if he was disciplining you. He exhaled, mouth dropping open slightly as he felt it from the outside, the way his cock bullied up against your cervix, urging him to quicken his pace.
His wide shoulders glistened with sweat, muscles flexing as he moved his other hand to spread your puffy lips open. Warmth bit at his chest as he watched himself sliding into your pussy, pulling him in so greedily. “Bet I could put it to better use- make sure you can’t speak at all” he teased as he gave a harsh tap to your clit.
Another needy moan broke from your throat at that, and his jaw set, the veins in his throat straining as his rhythm turned into a sharp grind, angling himself to brush at that spongy spot that made your eyes glaze over. You couldn’t think, or form anything beyond a sputtering sound that was swiftly swallowed by Steve’s mouth. His tongue tangled with yours needily, a world away from his earlier kisses. This was all heat and vehemence, clouding you until the coil in your belly drew in, scorchingly dense with no reprieve.
“C’mon doll,” he urged against your lips, “can feel you clenching around me. Let me watch you cum all over my cock again.”
Your body obeyed him before your mind could catch up, orgasm tearing through you in blinding white hot splinters that shocked even yourself. He rode you through it, never breaking his rhythm, whispering praises in your ear with each wave.
He grit his teeth as he finally gave in to his own pleasure, grunting as his hips became sloppy and desperate. He gripped your chin, thumb pulling at your raw lower lip. “Tell me it's mine.”
You shuddered hard, trying to focus through the punches he wracked your sore hole with.
“It’s yours Steve, my pussy’s all yours. Nobody could fuck me like you do.”
His head teetered back, short breaths sounding forced out of his chest as he shot thick sticky spurts of white inside you. He kept rutting carefully, wanting to make sure it marked you deep before finally stilling. He didn't pull out for a while, you just laid in silence with him tucked inside, fingers laced, breath syncing with the flicker of candle light, low and burning.
The unspoken between you was finally enough.
//
an: can you guys tell how terrible I am with tense dialogue 😹 SORRY I hope you enjoyed nonetheless ♡︎
♡ tags/warnings: f!reader, established relationship / first time together, fingering, multiple orgasms, use of pet names (sweetheart, honey, one use of 'good girl'), hickeys, dirty talk
♡ word count: 6k
♡ synopsis:
you’ve been dating steve for a while now, and you’re both more than okay with taking things slow after less than ideal past relationships on both ends. he’s been the perfect gentleman - picking you up for dates with fresh flowers, pulling out your chairs and getting the doors, kissing you goodnight so sweetly it makes you weak in the knees before he goes. he takes whatever you’re willing to give him, and he never pushes for more. you’ve always liked that about him.
but now you’re getting a little impatient. and when the topic of sex comes up and steve finds out that none of your past partners have been able to get you off before, you see a side of him that’s as surprising as it is exciting.
steve rogers has never done anything in halves.
♡ please note! i am new to this format and am primarily used to posting on ao3, so if you see anything I forgot to mention and should include here, please ~kindly~ let me know for next time. thank you! x
[ also, this has not been checked yet for mistakes. ]
You’re backtracking.
“It’s nothing against them,” you insist. “And I’m sure if I’d tried a little harder, I could have found someone that knew what they were doing.”
Across the table from you, Steve seems unconvinced. You’re in the back of a modestly decorated Italian place—upscale enough to have a private dining room but affordable enough that you can attempt to pay your half of the bill before Steve snatches it up anyway—and you’ve both already finished your meals. A slice of chocolate cake sits in the center of the table cloth next to a flickering candle, both of your forks stealing bits of it in between conversation. Dates with Steve usually end this way; both of you doing everything you can to make them last even longer.
Except this time you’d metaphorically shoved your foot into your own mouth, and you’re struggling to get it back out again.
“I’m sorry,” Steve says placidly, “are you implying that someone else’s inability to be an attentive lover was somehow your fault?”
“No. I’m not doing that. I’m just saying that—well, I facilitated it, a lot of the time.”
Steve’s head tilts. “How so?”
“I—” you start quietly, searching for the right words to use to describe this in a public establishment.
You’re not sure Steve’s looked away from you for the last five minutes. You’re not usually easily embarrassed, but you can feel your face heating under his gaze. It’s not scrutiny, but something, decidedly, else—it’s a way he hasn’t looked at you before.
“I’m just saying that sometimes it was easier to, you know…fake it.”
Steve blinks expectantly.
“Sometimes,” he hedges.
You blow out a sigh. “Okay. All the time,” you admit. “But it’s not like they were bad people, or bad at sex in general, really. We just didn’t click quite right and if I already knew it wasn’t going to be anything long term, I just thought—what’s the point, you know?”
From the way he’s looking at you now (and also the fact that he is, despite everything, a man) you’re guessing that he doesn’t actually know. You glance down at the table, slicing your fork through the remaining cake and bringing it to your mouth. You’re hoping the action will be cue enough to change the subject.
But Steve doesn’t understand that, either.
He abandons his own silverware to reach for your wrist, stopping it halfway to your mouth with a gentle grip. The motion brings him in close atop the intimately sized table, decorum discarded as he leans over the top of it.
Still watching you, Steve rubs the pad of his thumb over your pulse, and you’re sure he can see, hear, and feel the way it jumps underneath his attention.
“If I ever get the privilege of getting my hands on you,” he says, eyes dipping to your lips and back up again, “you’re going to have a very, very different experience.”
If your face had been hot before, you’re burning up now.
Caught off guard, you’re inordinately still as Steve curls his fingers around yours and uses them to guide the fork to its destination, slipping the sweet bite past your lips and into your mouth. It takes a conscious effort to chew and swallow when he’s so close, hyper aware of the dwindling space in between the two of you and the newfound electricity that’s begun to spark inside of it.
You’ve always been attracted to Steve. That wasn’t a question. But it really has been nice to take things slow for once, knowing that both of you cared enough to see if you were a good match before taking anything further.
That said, the waiting has added a layer of anticipation to things that you don’t usually feel. It makes you a little worried that the disappointment will be harder if things don’t live up to expectation, but Steve hasn’t given you any reason to believe that could be the case. In fact, all he’s really done is give you reason to believe that you’ve severely underestimated him.
You’re beginning to think he might be right.
Steve pulls back, steals your fork to pick up another bite of the cake, then slips it into his own mouth, pointedly tonguing at the barely-there stain of your lips on the steel.
“Big talk, Rogers,” you tease, but it comes out breathier than you mean for it to. Steve’s lips slant sideways into a smirk. He lifts a shoulder.
“Just honest.”
You clear the rest of the plate together in comfortable but charged silence, abundantly obvious that you’re both envisioning each other in ways you haven’t really allowed yourselves to before. You feel like you’re on your very first date all over again, an aching sort of hope inside of you that hasn’t been there in a long time.
Steve looks at you with all of that eagle-eyed precision that he typically reserves for things more along the lines of life and death than a few faked orgasms, and you get the distinct feeling that something’s shifted between the two of you tonight.
He’s never met an objective he didn’t thoroughly fulfill, and you’re his next mission.
Suddenly, waiting feels like a much less interesting idea.
Even so, you end up waiting longer.
Now that the coil of tension between you has found a crack in the molding, desire seems to shine through regardless of things like work schedules or general propriety.
The weekends are easiest for you, but Steve’s calendar is a little more unpredictable. Depending on the mission, there’s not always things he can disclose. Something that’s supposed to last twenty-four hours might turn into a week, or a month long project might end up only taking half the time. You’ve learned to let go of the expectation of normalcy at this point, for your own sanity as much as the fact that you can tell Steve beats himself up every time something doesn’t go according to plan.
This mission was one that was supposed to be a couple of days and had taken nearly triple as much, and then he’d been called into another the following day. You’d seen him for lunch in the small overlap, with him exhausted and you in a hurry to get back to work afterward, brief and unsatisfying.
Even those touches feel weighted, however fleeting they may be. A kiss to your cheek, a hand on your waist in passing, fingers twined with yours walking down the pavement. It was all so sweet and romantic before—it still is—but now, now you also can’t stop thinking about those kisses, hands, and fingers in other places.
You’ve enjoyed everything up to this point; it’s been sort of thrilling, the way that Steve openly wants you without pushing your boundaries or ever getting mean about it. It’s a low bar, but it’s one many guys don’t care much about passing these days.
You’re still thinking about that when he calls you, three days into the second mission and previously no-contact. It makes your pulse kick up on instinct, your body reacting to him even when he’s not even here.
“God, it’s good to hear your voice,” he sighs over the line when you pick up, and you hide a smile in your own shoulder.
“How is it?”
There aren’t a lot of things you’re allowed to ask sometimes, at least not while it’s all still in progress. But you’ve learned to phrase questions open-ended enough that Steve can share whatever he wants. The specifics don’t matter anyway—both of you know that you’re not asking for a mission report, you’re asking about Steve.
So he tells you all he can, but most of it’s classified, even the personal parts, until he gets home. It leaves a gap in the conversation before either of you are ready to say goodbye, so you fill it with the first thing that comes to mind.
“I miss you.”
“Yeah?” Steve asks, and you can see the slow smile that spreads across his face in your head. “You been thinking about me?”
“You know I have,” you mutter. You’ve never been the clingy type in relationships. Never had much of a reason to be. At first you thought you only felt like that with Steve because he was gone a lot and you wanted what you couldn’t have, but you think the real answer’s a lot more straight forward than that.
You just like him. A lot. And care about him. Are on the way to loving him, even, but—one thing at a time.
He exhales, long and slow, into the phone. “Been thinking about you too.”
“Are you alone?”
“I am.” He huffs a laugh at the bluntness of your question, but you do hear the creak of a bed in the background of the call that confirms it. “I’m feeling the need to ask if my virtue is at risk somehow.”
You roll your eyes, biting back a grin. “Not yet, it’s not.”
“Scandalous,” Steve teases. He sobers afterward, then says more softly, “What’s on your mind?”
“I know all of it’s still up in the air, but I was thinking, when you get back to the city…” you trail off, picking at the side of your nail in a nervous habit. “Maybe you’d like to spend the night?”
There’s a pause. You’d phrased it deliberately, enough that you know Steve would understand what you’re saying without actually having to say it. You’d rather that part be in person, if possible.
Eventually Steve’s voice returns, lower than it’d been moments before. Controlled.
“You want me to?”
“Yes,” you say, past caring about sounding anything other than honest. “Very much.”
Steve takes another slow breath in and out, this one more grounding. You hear him shift on the bed again. “Sounds like we’ve got a date.”
“Sounds like we do,” you echo.
“Do something for me in the mean time?”
“Sure.”
“Keep thinking of me,” he tells you, as deliberate a choice as your phrasing of spend the night. “I wanna hear all about it when I get back.”
The implication rattling around the inside of your head, you press your thighs together and clear your throat.
“I can do that.”
When Steve talks, he sounds like he’s smiling again.
“Good.”
You were on each other the minute you opened the door.
Steve had fumbled through yanking off his jacket and kicking off his shoes, and there’s a fresh bouquet of flowers haphazardly laying across the dining room table which you’re sure you’ll appreciate later—when Steve isn’t kissing you like you’re the first meal he’s had in weeks.
You were right before; something had shifted between you. Steve has more self restraint than any other member of the population does, and he’d been using every bit of it to make you comfortable. Keeping things brief, never lingering for too long or pressing too hard or asking for too much. But since that dinner and especially since that phone call, he’s different.
He doesn’t pull away this time, doesn’t stop touching unless you redirect him somewhere else. You’re dizzy with the feeling of his hands on you, making you feel smaller in the way that would have scared you with anyone else. Knowing you’re safe with Steve makes you feel all the more confident, all the more willing to give pieces of yourself you’d kept locked away with anyone else.
You’d ended up on the couch, Steve taking the brunt of the fall back onto the cushions with you in his lap. You’d shifted to the side at some point, turned into his chest, the backs of your thighs across the top of his, your hand on the back of his neck to keep him close. His own fingers drift randomly, squeezing your knee, rubbing at the small island of your ankle with his thumb, running his pointer finger along the inside of your thigh further than he’s ever dared to before, until they’re teasing the edge of your sleep shorts.
“I like kissing you,” you mumble against his mouth, catching your breath.
Steve laughs, his breath fanning against your lips. “Yeah? I like kissing you too.”
He leans back in as if to prove it, kissing you again, messy and intentional about it. You’ve done a lot of this with him over the last few months, and you’ve come to crave it as much as anything else. Steve kisses for the sake of kissing itself, seems to genuinely enjoy it the way that you do.
It’s somehow always more intimate than you remember it being. Sharing breath, the heat on top of flushed skin, the swollen, spit-slick teardrop curve of a mouth as it returns for more and more—and getting it, no questions asked. You like how much it allows you to touch, Steve’s neck and shoulders and chest, all composed of strong, corded muscle, his soft hair in between your fingers, the way he groans when your nails catch his scalp.
He doesn’t understand, though, that you don’t just like kissing. You like kissing him.
“Was never enough, before,” you explain, hazy as his kisses slant toward your jaw. “Wasn’t like this.”
At the confession, Steve pulls back to look at you. He smiles a little unexpectedly and wraps a bit of your hair around two of his fingers, watching it slip through his grasp. “Not sure what those other idiots were thinking, but you’re welcome to kiss me all you want.”
You trade a few more just because you can, but they’re shorter and more pointed than the rest. Steve makes his way toward your jaw again with his mouth, but this time he doesn’t stop.
“They just jump straight in, then? If they didn’t like kissing?” he asks, wetting the side of your neck with his tongue and a tease of teeth. You tilt your head to the side.
“Pretty much. A couple minutes of making out, and then—” you mime something vaguely suggestive with your hands, lacking in passion as much as the memory calls for. Steve makes a noise.
“Idiots,” he breathes again, settling on a spot on your neck and sucking gently.
You inhale sharply, certain that the jabbing of other people’s canines hadn’t felt quite so scorching before. But Steve isn’t stabbing at you with blunt edges, no—it’s a gradual thing, an intentional mark. He’d chosen the spot, primed it with his lips, then his tongue, using his teeth only once the skin was all suctioned and sensitive, your brain lagging several moments behind the initial sensation.
You slip a hand further up the back of his head and lean in close, but Steve doesn’t stay in the spot. He releases your skin, grazes his lips to it a final time and then finds his way back up to your mouth again.
“So they didn’t take their time. Get you all warmed up first,” he continues.
“I mean…” you hesitate, wanting to laugh but failing to find the humor at the moment. “Not unless you count grabbing at my chest for a few minutes as foreplay.”
Steve looks at you flatly.
“I don’t.”
You’re in pajamas, which didn’t feel like much of a revelation before. But Steve had gotten in late and come straight here after dropping his things at his apartment and showering off, and you hadn’t had time to get dressed for anything by the time he let you know he was on his way. The mention of your chest has you remembering that you’re not wearing anything underneath your t-shirt, and a part of you thrills at the oversight; your breasts have been pressed up against Steve’s side this entire time—has he noticed? Can he feel them now?
Is he thinking the same things you are?
As if having heard your question, his fingers climb further up the outside of your thigh, over the material of your sleep shorts and barely nudging against the bare skin of your stomach resting just above the band. You suck in a slow, measured breath.
It’s just Steve, sure—but it’s also Steve. With the others, you felt like you were pretty much on even ground. But you’re pretty sure that Steve would be a lot to compete with even if he weren’t enhanced somehow, spending so much time running and working out and on the job. You’ve made him wait, and even if you wish it weren’t there, there’s still a big part of you that wants to impress him. That wants him to like what he sees.
“We can stop here, you know,” he says, quiet and kind as his lips trace the shell of your ear. His thumb rubs slow back and forth over your hip, but he doesn’t go any higher. He must’ve heard your heart rate pick up.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab his wrist and slide it higher, until his palm is pressing into the fleshy blank space between your ribs, soft and searing. He practically hisses in a breath, his senses more heightened than all of yours, and you feel his fingers twitch against you in some semblance of self restraint.
“You can keep going,” you whisper.
You’re not sure that you want your shirt off yet, but this, the touching, is okay. It’s nothing he can’t tell from the outside of your clothes, anyway—he can already hear your heart beat, has already felt that all that’s separating the two of you is an old t-shirt and nothing else. The only thing he hasn’t felt before is—
Both of you falter when his hand rises enough to cup the underside of your breast, your careful breaths leaving you in a gasp of air. Steve’s eyes are half lidded above you, unwilling to look away from your face, even as he closes that last bit of distance and cradles the weight of you more properly, swiping a thumb over one of your peaked nipples.
“Sweetheart,” he breathes, almost a moan, and his grip cinches tight for a second before going sweet again. It’s enough promise that it makes you tremble, and the noise you make gets lost somewhere in his mouth as he touches and strokes and pinches, enjoying drawing more out of you.
“Tell me what you didn’t like about the others,” he says as he switches to the other to give it the same attention.
You raise a brow, slow to answer. “You want me to talk about other guys while your hand’s underneath my shirt?”
“If it’s more proof about how much better at this I am than they are,” Steve says pragmatically, like he already knows that it will be, “then yes, I do. Very much.”
“That’s a little—ah,” you lose your train of thought when he rolls your other nipple in between his rough fingers, then smooths over it again with his thumb. “...Presumptuous,” you finish breathlessly.
He grins, crooked.
“Is it?”
It’s really not. If you’d said something like that to any of the others, they’d have driven themselves crazy with some baseless need to prove their own self worth and probably been irritated with you for inadvertently insulting them in the process.
But Steve is unshaken. He’s so casually confident about all of this despite it being new territory with you, and the quietness of his certainty is refreshing. You’re not even sure what to do with the lack of insecurity you’ve been accustomed to, but you’re glad for the fact that you don’t have to worry about coddling anyone while you’re trying to focus on getting off.
It’s nice. It’s…really doing it for you.
His mouth descends on the side of your neck once more, slow and indulgent, while he alternates touches between your breasts, never predictable enough to let you get used to them. His other arm tightens around your waist to bring you closer against him, heat building quickly between you.
“Keep talking,” he urges.
As soon as he says it, his hand starts moving again, stealing your attention. His hand feels like a brand against your skin, down, down, until it reaches the hem of your shorts again. He strokes a finger underneath the elastic, and you don’t stop him—even when he deliberately pauses for your reaction—as he dips fully underneath.
“For starters,” you manage, attempting to refocus as he drifts toward the heat at the apex of your thighs, “I guess most guys aren’t really joking when they talk about not knowing how to find what they’re looking for down there.”
“You mean this?”
Counterpoint to his casual tone, two of Steve’s fingers curve down over your vulva and in, pressing directly up against your clit over the top of your underwear. You open your mouth, just barely holding back the noise in your throat, as your face flames and Steve watches raptly.
“Yeah. That’s—mhm.” You nod.
“Hm,” Steve hums, considering. “They touch you here instead?” His fingers leave you, and you have to keep yourself from chasing after the brief touch. He presses instead to the crease between your thigh and your labia, then again on the other side, too high to give you any relief. “Here, maybe?”
“Tease,” you huff, grinning.
Steve chuckles, warm against your cheek as he nudges you into another kiss. “Nah. Not a tease. Not when I can feel every twitch you make each time I touch you somewhere new. Not when you know I’m gonna give you exactly what you need.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself again, I think,” you sigh, even as a touch against your inner thigh nearly makes you jump.
“You’re right. I’ll slow down.”
“Steve,” you whine.
With a laugh, Steve relents, his fingers slipping back on top of your underwear and finding the seam of your folds easily. The material isn’t doing much for you at this point; they’re not the high end, fancy set you’d always envisioned yourself wearing the first time Steve touched you. They’re just cotton—thin and plain and not doing much at all to conceal the way you’re getting wet, have been since Steve started kissing you earlier. They cling to your every curve at this point, and Steve has no issue feeling out the bump of your clit as it practically begs for his attention.
“So, they didn’t know how to find this,” he reminds you, rubbing in small, slow, deliberate circles. “What else?”
You struggle to think. “Um. Even if they did, they—they were too rough about it. Too fast and—hard.”
Steve nips at the bite he left on your neck, but his fingers don’t change pace. “Not a fan of fast and hard?”
“Not thirty seconds in, I’m not,” you quip. He grins against your neck.
“Fair.”
“I like a little roughness,” you admit after a moment, “but—intentional. Not just on accident because they were impatient.”
The arm wrapped around your waist shifts, Steve’s free palm sliding up over your back, between your shoulder blades, up into your hair. He spreads his fingers wide and then brings them back together and tugs, just enough to ignite all of those pleasure-pain receptors you’d never struck a good balance with before now.
Your head follows the movement as you hiss in a breath, the roughness of his grip and the sweetness of the kiss he places to the underside of your chin a sharp, thrilling contrast.
“Shh,” he murmurs as his fingers press against you a little firmer, a little faster now. “Got you.”
For several minutes, all you can focus on is the slow build of heat in your stomach. Your breasts feel heavy and sensitive, your nipples hard and rough against the typically soft material of your t-shirt, left wanting from Steve’s attention. Your stomach is rising and falling with quickening breaths—you’re not close, not yet, but you could get there, like this. That’s new.
“Hey. Stay with me, huh?” Steve kisses your mouth again until you blink some awareness back into yourself. “Gotta question. How many orgasms you think you’ve faked before?”
“Steve,” you protest.
“I’m serious,” he says. “Ballpark. Doesn’t have to be exact.”
You do your best to rack your brain for a number, flicking through memories that all pale in comparison. You haven’t really been with that many people, mostly relationships that lasted a few months but hit a dead end eventually, and each of them would try several times. You hadn’t really thought it worth keeping count.
“I don’t know. Eight or nine? Maybe?”
“We’ll round it up to ten,” Steve decides.
You hum noncommittally, lost in the sensation of his fingers, before some coherent part of your brain comes back online and you lift your head from where it’d fallen against his shoulder to look at him.
“Round what up to ten?”
“Let me worry about it,” he assures you, rubbing the back of your head as his fingers quicken slightly again. “Only thing you gotta do tonight is feel good. Sound okay?”
“You’re not seriously planning on—” you start, only to have a moan startled out of you when Steve uses the two fingers he’s been rubbing your clit with to land a gentle slap against it instead. You tremble, fighting to keep your thighs apart for more. “Fuck.”
“Yeah, there you go,” Steve exhales, going sweet again. “We’ve got all damn night. You n’me, nowhere to go, nothing for me to do but touch—” he presses down, “—and taste—” he sucks another bruise into your neck, “—and give you something no one else has before.”
His fingers drop down a bit, pressing on the soiled cotton covering your entrance for a moment before drawing back up to rub tight circles on your clit again.
“Ain’t that right? Gonna give it to me, sweetheart? Gonna let me make you feel good?”
You nod, but… “What about—you?”
“Maybe later,” Steve dismisses. “I’ve got some other priorities first.”
His other hand drops from your hair down your back and to the outside of your thigh, peeling it open further. You’ve slumped over against him since he started touching you, your sides nearly pressed together and feet out in front. He uses a leg to nudge yours up onto the edge of the coffee table, giving himself a better reach down your front and between your legs. It changes the angle just slightly, just enough, and you toss your own hand down on top of his to keep it in place.
“There,” you gasp, pleasantly surprised when Steve’s pacing and trajectory doesn’t change at all.
“Yeah? That’s the spot?”
Hoping that was rhetorical, you slide your clammy fingers over the top of Steve’s on your thigh for something to hold onto, and he obliges easily, turning it over to hold your hand. It’s so much after months of nothing at all—his mouth beside your ear, his hands in places you’ve been dreaming about, unable to hide from sensation as he says things you hadn’t known Steve—kind, respectable, gentleman Steve—was even capable of.
“Look at you, pushin’ against my hand,” he marvels, and you flush even deeper at the taut stretch of your torso as you roll your hips in time with his fingers. “Could get used to this if we’re not careful, sweetheart.”
“You can—” you gasp, unable to articulate anything past that. “You can.”
“Oh yeah? Can have this whenever I want it now, s’that it? Not sure if I deserve that, honey. Gonna get me spoiled.”
It’s too much. It’s exactly what you’ve been picturing, and Steve’s just giving it to you. You didn’t have to give him something first, and you didn’t have to dress up or put on a show, and suddenly, you realize with giddy surprise, you’re close.
You squeeze his hand. “Steve, I’m—”
“You close?” he asks, hooking his chin over your shoulder to watch. “Gonna get my fingers in you for the next one, so I’ll know. Feel you inside, tightenin’ up around me, keeping me close. You want that?”
“Please,” you beg, turning your face into his neck as you pant.
“Mm. Not goin’ anywhere. Couldn’t if I tried. Got all I need right here, don’t I?”
“Steve,” you warn, choking on air as your hips buck up into his hand and the tension in your abdomen seizes.
You’re right on that edge where you usually have to stop, where one right move could send you over but the dozens of wrong ones could keep you frustrated and unsatisfied and pretending. You’re tired of pretending.
“Come on,” Steve murmurs against your cheek, seemingly as invested in this as you are. Even still, he’s encouraging, not demanding, and you appreciate the difference. “C’mon, honey. Little more, just a little, give you whatever you need. You know that? Just wanna see you fall apart for me, want you to feel so good—”
The frantic thread of urgency in his voice, like he can feel you hovering there, sends you over the edge. His chest swells behind you with an inhale as you lose your breath altogether, letting him hold you still as you take his advice and fall, thoroughly, apart.
He stays steady, constant, lets you ride out every last bit of it against his persistent fingers, your tangled hands that he’s pressed to your stomach to hold you in place, to watch, and it takes you apart from the inside. Whatever you’ve been building up these last few months unravels in a wave of sensation and white heat, and you can only—like Steve said—sit back and let it happen, feel it in twitches and snapshots.
Steve’s fingers are slowing by the time you force your eyes open again, his voice still in your ear, your legs and the muscles in your stomach twitching with oversensitivity. You like to go for a second orgasm when you’re alone—they’re always deeper and more intense than the first one, lasting longer and leaving you more satisfied. But now you’re getting ahead of yourself; no one else has ever made you come before at all, and Steve’s just done that. It’s enough. It’s more than enough, even if it’s only—
“Shit,” you breathe as Steve’s fingers bypass your underwear altogether and go straight for skin.
You can feel your pulse between your legs, still reeling from your release, and you know he can too. The orgasm’s made you a mess, sticky and hot, your clit swollen enough that it bumps against Steve’s knuckles and palm even without meaning to. But he gives you a break from that for a moment, one finger sliding through your excitement, spreading it around, hovering at the seam of your entrance that feels egregiously empty at the moment.
He pauses there, and you tilt your hips in response. The digit, eased thoroughly with slick, slips inside of you between one breath and the next.
Your reactions differ. You whine, you think, or maybe make some other kind of noise, hyper aware of the size and length and warmth of the welcome intrusion. Your body recognizes that you can take more before even you do, clenching around the lone digit and bucking your hips up for more.
And Steve—Steve groans behind you as he sinks in as far as he can fit, pausing there for a second with his forehead pressed to your shoulder as he gathers himself. You can feel that restraint running through him again as if you’re the one who’s enhanced, and you don’t want it anymore. The first one had only broken the dam on your desire, and now you want to cash in on the rest.
“Oh,” Steve sighs as he eases in a second one and curls them up, like a filthy sort of embrace. “You’re so tight, sweetheart. So wet. This all for me?”
Sure enough, every movement he makes between your legs is audible in the quietness of your apartment. His hand is only making more of a mess, spreading your wetness on your shorts and the insides of your thighs, undoubtedly getting closer to the cushion beneath you the more you shift your hips, restless.
It’s so easy to come a second time if you get the timing just right, if you’re still sensitive from the first one. You reach down and hold Steve’s hand still as you grind up against it, slow circles at first, then sharp snaps of your hips, up and down. You’re past being able to articulate what you need but Steve seems to intuit enough, keeping his fingers curved and pressed upward, not trying to do anything fancy with them, just listening to your body and letting you use them to get yourself off for a second time.
The thought of it makes you even hotter. You like pleasing your partners, like being good. But there’s something to this too, you think—something about the fact that Steve could have given up on this and gotten himself off ten times over by now and he hasn’t. Priorities, he’d said.
It’s been a long time since you’ve been treated like one of those.
And he’s still watching you, splitting time between your face and the spot between your legs, pausing at your heaving breasts on every upslide of his gaze. There’s open want there, the same way you look at him, and the fact that you’re gasping and writhing and practically on top of him while he keeps his composure is—it’s going to get you there again.
You don’t have to warn him this time. Just like he’d predicted, he feels it from the inside when you’re close, clenching in rhythmic intervals as you work yourself higher and higher, your noises matching in pitch. This is—you didn’t know it could feel this good with someone else.
“You gonna come for me again? Gonna let me see you? Let me feel it?”
You can only give him the proof as your response, keeping your eyes open this time to watch his face as he pushes you over the edge. You feel tears burn at the edges of your vision this time, feel the bottom of your stomach dropping out the way it always does the second time around, replaced with so much pleasure it’s a little scary for a second.
But that’s only the tip of it, and the rest is the landslide that comes afterward—waves of it coasting through you, noises pulled from your throat as you tremble with it, Steve’s sharp blue eyes the one fixed point as sparks dance along your skin and replace any other receptors with the sweet relief of endorphins.
“Fuck. Good—” Steve stops, looks at you, then commits as his eyes darken while you shake in his arms. “Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”
He kisses you through the last of it, stubborn aftershocks racking your limbs as he slows his fingers incrementally and then warns you before he pulls them out. He squeezes your upper thigh with his hand as he pulls away, leaving a brand of heat and your own wetness behind, casually proprietorial in a way no one’s ever been with you before.
Leaving that hand on top of your leg next to the crooked mess of your shorts and underwear, his other one comes up to push the hair back off your forehead and press his lips to the sweat gathered there as you catch your breath.
“Need a break?”
You think about it for a moment, checking in with yourself. You bend your toes, stretch your legs a little, shift your hip to a more comfortable angle. You’re still a little shaky, but you’re not sore. And on your more adventurous nights alone, you’ve managed to hit five times before you felt like stopping.
Granted, those times had all been with a trusty, fully charged vibrator, but. You have a feeling Steve’s got that sort of stamina anyway.
And you can feel him now, hard between his own legs where he’s pressing into your back, but if he’s offering…
You shake your head no.
“Good.” He pats your thigh, then scoops a hand underneath you and lifts you straight off the couch as you cling to him, reflexes delayed. “Not nearly finished with you yet.”
Oh. My. God. Genuinely the best fanfic I’ve ever read (which is saying something, I read a LOT hehe). You are so insanely gifted- I am not okay 🥹 pls everyone read your life will be changed.
He’d have you spread out as open as possible, thighs pinned wide by those massive biceps while his mouth dragged you through the kind of orgasm that made your vision spin out and flicker in white. He wouldn’t care how loud you got, his grip only tightening when you squirmed against him, pulling your pussy closer against his tongue like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.
And no matter how much you wriggle around in his iron grasp, he’d barely even register it. He’d just taunt you- “What’s wrong baby? Don’t you like it when I lick your pussy like this?”
When he does finally pull up from between your thighs, lips raw and chin slick, arms tensing as he flips you over like you weigh nothing- he’s laughing under his breath because you’re already so fucked out.
He’d hold you down, pressing a firm hand to your lower back, forearm like steel, while the other lines himself up. “Relax,” he’d mutter, voice dark, lips brushing your ear. “Want it in there deep, we both know you can take it.”
And then slowly, he’d push in. Bruising, thick, splitting you open until you’re crying into the sheets. His arms would lock around you again, heavy and firm as he drags you back onto him with every thrust. His pace brutal and unrelenting as he bullies into you.
“You feel that?” He’d pant, forehead pressed to your shoulder. Each push of his cock dragging the air from your lungs, leaving you trembling in his hold.
“Mmh, I know you do. Just take it, doll, let me ruin you, nice and slow.” His voice comes low, almost soothing, but you whimper anyway, fingers curling into the sheets.
“S-Steve— s’too much-”
But his thrusts would stay merciless, and every vein, every ripple through those arms is a reminder that he could break you apart at any time if he wanted to, but all he ever does is cradle you tighter. His grip keeps you locked to him, and it doesn’t falter- not even when you’re a blubbering, shaky mess.
Not until he has you sobbing, fading helplessly back into a haze of red-hot, earth-shattering orgasm.
