a/n - ok i get rlly into births i actually think they're rlly fucking interesting, like just yesterday i learned about paravaginal births and??? why is that an option??? but dw it doesn't happen here. i had to include the miss congeniality easter egg, bc i started this yesterday (apr 25th) benjamin and shawn are my sister wives. samira doesn’t leave the pitt, she just leaves the day shift, obv. i had a lot of fun with this, and i hope you do too!!! time to find out if it's a ronan or isadora! phoebe or phoebo! <3
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Your nursery colors were green and yellow. It was calming, and neutral but not gray. There were little dragonflies embroidered into the curtains, and flowers on the rug, and vintage children's book art hanging on the walls. Jack kept his nephew’s first ever hockey stick leaning against the bookshelf, barely two feet long, determined to get your little baby out on the ice as soon as possible.
You liked it in there. It was nice. You could sit in the cushy armchair with your feet up, breeze blowing in through the open window, making the dragonflies fly. It was a right side better than suffocating on your back in a sweltering bed under the weight of your baby. And sometimes, on hard days, you looked over into the empty crib and pictured a little red haired infant, fast asleep under the galaxy mobile.
Jack often found you asleep in there. Sometimes he found you awake, and you would say, “Oh, hun, now that you’re here, mind folding these hand me downs we got from Dana?”
But not anymore. The nursery was done, painted, dried, decorated, and stocked with anything you could need. The cot in your room was set up, along with a cart of midnight postpartum essentials, of which you got a list from every childbearing woman in your life. You had pounds of frozen meals ready in the freezer. You had decided on names. You had deep cleaned and decluttered the entire apartment from head to toe. You were absolutely ready.
In every way but the physical, of course. Every appointment you had, it was firm, undilated cervix, sitting high, and perfectly healthy. You were incredibly grateful the baby was healthy, but by week forty, you would have been almost as grateful to hear any note of progress.
But nada. Zip. No action.
You tried to stay positive, to remind yourself how lucky you were to be making it to term. Hadn’t you seen dozens of preemies in your line of work, who needed extensive, invasive care or worse, who didn't make it at all?
No matter how guilty it made you feel, though, you couldn’t quite help the annoyance that crept into your brain more and more with each day you spent still pregnant. You were truly becoming the stereotype of the angry pregnant lady, waddling around with a scowl, complaining about sweat, and not being able to see your toes.
“I hate this,” you said, two days after your due date. “The baby is healthy, the baby is ready, I’m certainly ready, so what’s the fucking hold up?”
You had had your forty week check up just that past Wednesday, where Jill was too happy to report that your cervix was wide, thick, and hard as a rock.
“I’m sorry,” said Dana, looking up from her charts. “Sometimes the baby just comes on their own damn schedule. You better get used to that.”
You grunted, pulling at your scrubs. Dana’s lips quirked in sympathy.
“Why don’t you head home?” she said. “There’s only an hour left in the shift, and you can start your maternity leave at forty weeks, can’t you? I’m sure Gloria couldn’t fault you for that if she got a look at you.”
“No way,” you said, slamming your computer keys harshly. “Jack’s taking twelve months off when the baby comes, only three of those are paid, and I need to save.”
“You’re fine,” Dana dismissed. “Jack has spent the last decade and a half making doctor money, taking overtime, and never taking a day off. He buys the same t-shirts and jeans every few years, toiletries, food, and that’s pretty much it. I know that guy’s got savings.”
“Yeah, I know, but I still —” you cut yourself off with a sharp gasp.
Your muscles were tightening, cramping more than you’d ever felt before. Dana took off her glasses.
“Woah,” you said, as the pain spread from the front to your back. “That’s new.”
“Braxton hicks?” asked Dana cautiously.
You shook your head.
“I don’t think so,” you breathed, rubbing your belly. “No, this is — worse.”
Dana rolled her chair right up next to yours, swiveling you to be knee to knee. She had an excited glint in her eye.
“Do you think, possibly, it could be…?”
You tried not to smile too wide. The pain was worse than it had ever been, but you could still talk through it.
“I don’t know, maybe,” you said. “D’you think?”
“Why not?” she said. “Start timing them!”
You pulled out your phone, fingers shaking slightly in excitement.
“Sixty-two seconds,” you said when it was done. “It lasted sixty-two seconds.”
“Good start,” said Dana, patting your knee. “Keep track of ’em, and who knows. The betting board might be cleared by this time tomorrow.”
It took everything in you not to squeal from pure excitement. You rested your phone open next to your computer, trying to focus back on work. Your eyes frequently flicked over to it, checking the time. It was five, ten, fifteen minutes before anything else happened. The same clenching pain, spreading from front to back, rolled over you.
“Another minute,” you said happily to Dana when that too had passed. “Sixty-four seconds, that time.”
“Want anything, kid?” she asked. “Heating pads, tylenol?”
“No thanks,” you said. “They’re not too bad yet.”
By the third contraction, Jack was walking through the door.
“Jack!” you said loudly, attempting to jump up, getting halfway through the motion, and sitting back down. “Jackie, a contraction!”
His face changed instantly from warm fondness, to worried shock. He picked up his pace, hurrying around the partition to kneel in front of you. His eyes were wide.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “How long?”
“One minute, with fifteen in between,” you said, showing him your phone. “What do we do? Should I go home now?”
He took your phone, thinking.
“Why don’t I give you a ride,” he said finally. “You can shower and eat, in case this is the real thing. How’s that sound?”
You thought it sounded good, starving and grimy as you were, so you gave everyone your excited goodbyes, loaded into his car, and went home. It took some convincing to get Jack to leave you. You had to remind him that he was scheduled to work in about fifteen minutes, and Robby wouldn’t be happy if he wasn’t there for shift change, before he kissed you goodbye.
You almost relished in the ache as you started your shower, positioning your phone right outside the door. You were so desperate for this pregnancy to end, you could work through the pain. As you were rinsing conditioner from your hair, another contraction started to hit. But as you reached through the glass door to document it, you saw that the timer read twenty minutes and counting.
Twenty minutes. The contractions had gone from fifteen minutes apart, to twenty. That wasn’t that unusual, was it? Things could be irregular in the beginning, but it would even out, right? But as you heated up some pasta for dinner, the increments between episodes became longer and longer. When a whole hour had passed without one, you knew it had been a false start.
Your heart was sinking as you texted Jack.
Contractions slowed down :( I don’t think it’s happening
His bubble popped up almost immediately.
I’m sorry honey. Want me to bring you waffles from Rosie’s in the morning?
You smiled.
You know me too well
You went to bed that night disappointed, but determined. You were starting to second guess your assessment that the cramps weren’t braxton hicks, but whatever they were, it was a first. It meant progression.
The next day at work you did some home remedy research. Castor oil was a no go, for obvious reasons, but there were still plenty of non medicinal measures that couldn’t hurt to try.
“Spicy foods, curb walking, uphill sprints,” Javadi read over your shoulder as you showed the list to Robby. “Dates, raspberry leaf tea…”
“You don’t really think any of these work, do you?” said Robby skeptically.
You glared at him.
“Until you have to start wearing adult diapers because you pee a little every time you bend down, kindly keep your opinions to yourself, Michael,” you said, and Javadi tried to stifle her snort. “That just cost you lunch. I require one extra hot jalfrezi with chicken.”
He didn’t dare argue, just snapped his mouth shut and went to make the order with his tail between his legs.
After your eye watering meal, one bite of which had Robby red as a tomato and wheezing into a straight mug of creamer, you decided to take a trip outside. You took Victoria with you, partly because the possibility of falling down and not being able to get back up was high, but also because the terror in her eyes every time you wobbled was slightly amusing.
You walked along the curb in the ambulance bay for as long as you could justify being away from the hub. By the end of it, you were panting, exhausted, and didn’t feel any closer to labor. You huffed and puffed your way slowly back inside, Javadi trailing awkwardly behind you.
“Any luck?” asked Dana.
You could only shake your sweaty head.
“Not yet,” you said, texting Jack, “but you never know.”
Please get dates!!!
A few hours later, when he was awake, he responded.
The fruit?
You rolled your eyes.
Obviously the fruit
He sent you back a thumbs up.
No one was convinced at the efficacy of your little tricks, but they all wished you luck as you waddled out to Jack’s truck. You could tell, as you updated him, that Jack had doubts of his own, but he was smart enough to stay silent while you munched on your dates.
“They’ll work,” you said. “They have to.”
Sure enough, later that night as you bounced on your yoga ball, you felt a now familiar sensation at the base of your belly.
“Fucking finally!” you said to no one in particular, perhaps Romeo where he lay snoozing on the couch.
You called Jack, and he answered on the second ring.
“What’s up?”
“Tell Robby he’s an idiot,” you said smugly. “Guess what I’m having right now?”
“A contraction?” he said. “Really?”
“Really,” you said. “It’s only the first one, but I just wanted to let you know to keep your phone close.”
But it seemed you sounded the alarms a bit too soon. The same contractions, now two minutes long, still fifteen apart, kept you up until one in the morning. They were helped by some nasty heartburn, no doubt from your ambitious spice level at lunch, but soon enough, they began to subside.
You groaned as you texted Jack.
Don’t say anything to Robby, the contractions have stopped >:(
He’s still an idiot though
At the very least, you had the day off. The last thing anyone needed was you, forty weeks pregnant, and running on five hours of sleep. By the time you woke up, Jack was beside you, snuffling snores.
The third night you felt contractions coming on, you were hardly as excited. You had Jack time them, but, as you expected, they fizzled out around midnight.
Each night, around seven or eight, contractions would start. Then, like clockwork, between the hours of twelve and one, they stopped. You wanted to pop a pill and go to bed, not bothered tracking something that was surely temporary, but Jack insisted.
“You never know when it could be the real deal!”
But it wasn’t the real deal, night after night. You were a zombie at work, snappy and grouchy, so much so that by the time you were forty weeks and five days, you were kicked out.
“You’re gonna regret this, Dana,” you growled as Jack pulled you towards the parking lot. “You’re gonna rue the day!”
With your newfound freedom away from the hospital, you kept up with your activities. Though, not the spicy food. That you’d learned your lesson from. Your days were filled with curb walking, dates, and teas. At least two hours a day you sat on your ball and pumped. You had even had sex every night, though it was hardly sexy. You couldn’t really move, so Jack had to prop up your hips with two pillows. It was helped, however, by Jack himself. You’d never seen the man so insatiable as when you were pregnant.
By the time you made it to your forty-one week appointment, you were itching for progress. You kept your fingers crossed tightly, hoping against hope as Jill performed her exam.
“You’re about one centimeter dilated,” said Jill apologetically.
You let out a helpless cry. Jack rubbed your shoulders.
“It’s still an improvement,” he reminded you.
“And you’ve softened a bit,” said Jill. “Most importantly, you’ve still got a good amount of amniotic fluid, so baby’s okay. I would like to do an NST, just because you’re past due. I’d also just like to offer you induction. It is typically recommended at this point—”
“No thank you,” you said firmly. “I’ve only heard horror stories, uterine ruptures, infection, hemorrhage —”
“I know you know how unlikely those things are, so I won’t tell you,” said Jill gently. “I figured you would say that, but how do you feel about a membrane sweep?”
“Great, amazing, do it now,” you said, and she chuckled.
The membrane sweep was certainly uncomfortable, but not exactly painful. Once it was over, you were strapped in for an NST and Jill tried to reassure you.
“It’ll probably be any day now,” she said. “Hopefully things will progress quickly from here, but if they don’t there are things you can do to help.”
“Curb walking? Spicy foods? Sex? Dates? Yeah, we’ve done them all,” you sighed. “Just tell me — how do I tell the difference between prodromal contractions and real contractions?”
Jill looked regretful.
“Oftentimes, you can’t,” she said. “You just have to keep monitoring, and wait for them to get closer together.”
All in all, it was a blue sort of afternoon. Even a big cookie from your favorite bakery wasn’t able to cheer you up. Upon returning home, you draped yourself over Jack on the couch. He practiced his braiding on you while you watched Law & Order, snacking on dates. You were beginning to become sick of them.
As planned, contractions started rolling in around nine. At first, they were average, easily breathed through. Then, they started to pick up. Not in duration, but in severity. Jack pulled your new braids away from your face as you hunched in on yourself, tense and unfortunately moist.
“Honey?” he asked. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“Bad,” you gasped. “Worse.”
“Okay,” he said, stroking your forehead. “Do you want to sit on your ball?”
You managed a nod, so he helped transfer you over to the blue ball. You started moaning, rolling your hips in great circles while he clutched your hands from his seat on the coffee table. As the clock struck half past one, he dared to speak.
“You know, if it’s this bad,” he said quietly, “maybe —”
“Don’t say it,” you snarled. “Don’t even think it.”
You were past the point of foolish hope. Without at five hours of clear, worsening contractions that reached five minutes apart, you weren’t even considering it a possibility. It wasn’t feasible to prepare every single time.
You were proven right, at nearly three in the morning, when the contractions once again quieted down. You could tell that Jack was struggling. The pain in his eyes was hard to ignore as he watched you curl in on yourself in agony. Hopeless, was the word, and it wasn’t helped by his being a doctor.
“Seven days,” he whispered into your hair as you drifted in and out of sleep. “Can’t be more than seven days.”
It definitely felt like more. You were becoming nocturnal, kept awake by contractions that never led anywhere, and sleeping it off well into the afternoon. It was like being back on night shift, but instead of patients, you got debilitating cramps and sweating.
It appeared that the membrane sweep really hadn’t helped, at the next appointment only three days later. You were still only one measly centimeter dilated. You cried all the way home out of pure exhaustion.
Jack did everything he could to try and help. He drew warm baths, gave foot rubs, always had the kettle ready for a hot water belt. But even food was becoming uninteresting to you, with nausea and fatigue plaguing you most of your waking hours.
You tried to stay positive when you started losing the mucus plug, even more so when it appeared bloody. You called Jack into the bathroom and shoved your dirty underwear in his face.
“The bloody show?” you said.
“I think so,” he replied.
It was exciting. You tried to let it be exciting. But some part of you must have known deep down that it wasn’t the time quite yet, and the days crept on. Jack finally decided to start his sabbatical when parting in the evening coincided with your cramps. He couldn’t stand to leave you folded over the kitchen table, swaying side to side in a futile attempt to work through the pain.
He had you drinking protein shakes and walking in circles around the apartment, just to get the bare minimum out of the way so you could spend the rest of the time sleeping. You were more like a zombie than a person at that point. You would wake, but you were never alert. You went through the motions, the routines, but without Jack, you wouldn’t have been any more active than a garden snail.
“Jill, you gotta give me something,” you said at your next appointment, just one day before the forty-two week mark.
You looked horrible. Bags under your bloodshot eyes, unwashed hair, barely able to stay upright for exhaustion. Jack wasn’t great either, mostly from pure stress at watching you being put through the wringer. He looked at Jill imploringly. She sighed sympathetically.
“Unfortunately, I believe the only thing I can offer at this point is Pitocin,” she said. “In fact, I think I need to highly recommend it.”
You leaned back against Jack. He swept your hair back and rubbed your shoulders.
“Do you think you’d be open to that now?” he said in a hushed tone.
You huffed weakly.
“I don’t know,” you said. “I — I don’t like it, but I can’t spend another day like this, I really can’t.”
Jack buried his nose in the crown of your head, trying not to lose it.
“How about this,” said Jill delicately. “We make an appointment for tomorrow evening, give you guys the whole day, and if nothing happens, you come in. You’re almost three centimeters, you have made progress this past week, which means the drip probably won’t do anything drastic. We need to speed you along. How does that sound?”
You weren’t ecstatic, but you agreed. You knew it would be dangerous for both you and the baby to stay stagnant for much longer. Still, it wasn’t exactly what you imagined as you ate your last meal in the afternoon the next day. You expected to wake excitedly in the night, and rush to the hospital. That period of “I think this is it” extending into “this is really happening right now.” All elements of surprise were zapped out of your trip to the ward. You weren’t excited, more morose, as you stared gloomily out of the window.
Jack was clearly excited, under the surface. He gripped your leg tightly on the drive, other hand tapping anxiously on the steering wheel. He tried not to show it, though, for you.
“I know this isn’t what you had in mind,” he said as he pulled you out of the car. “But just remember, we’re meeting our baby soon. Right? And then all the pain can be over.”
You took a heavy breath. He loaded up with all the bags. That was at least one good thing about having a planned birth; you could prepare.
“I don’t know,” you said in a glum voice, taking glum steps towards the glum side entrance. “I know he has to come out at some point, but it doesn’t feel real. I think I’ve stopped allowing myself to accept it, after all the false starts.”
You had gone right back to referring to the baby as “he” the past few weeks. Jack didn’t want to talk too much about it, just settled in resolutely to being a boy dad. You had stopped believing in another possibility as well, but it didn’t really bum you out the way it did him.
Jack pressed a kiss to your plump cheek.
“I know,” he said. “But try to believe it, baby. He’ll be in your arms before you know it.”
You grumbled while he let you through the familiar door.
“He better come out fat.”
Jack smiled.
“Yeah? How come?”
“Because he’s gotten so much extra time!” you exclaimed. “He better have been using that to get me some chunky baby rolls.”
Jack just chuckled as the two of you made your slow, painful way through the entrance to the ER. You figured you’d be better to cut through to the staff elevator rather than go in through the civilian entrance up on the OB floor, and you might as well say a quick hello-goodbye to the sorry plebs stuck working.
Indeed, you received quite the strong reaction from the hub as you toddled up.
“Look who it is!” said Dana, immediately encircling you in her arms. “Mom and Dad!”
You snorted as the others gathered round, fussing.
“Look how big you are!
“Can you believe today’s the day?”
“Think pink! Baby Princess is almost here!”
Princess squished your belly carefully, looking intense. After a while, she nodded smugly.
“That’s at least an eight-pounder,” she said happily. “Just like I predicted!”
“Well I should think so,” you said. “Two extra weeks of stealing my nutrients should do that.”
Robby stepped forward, looking exhausted, but he offered you a polite cheek kiss anyways.
“Looking stunning as always, Nurse Abbot,” he said, with a hint of jest in his tone. “The glow is overpowering!”
You fixed him with an unamused stare, and at least a week’s worth of sleep gunk in the corners of your eyes.
“Do you want something from me, Robinavitch?”
“Of course not,” he chided.
“What’s your bet?” you asked suspiciously. “Are you counting on me holding out for another three days or something?”
“Oh, no, no one expected you to go this long,” he said. “However, if the baby comes out with your hair, nine pounds, and a boy, I’ll be very happy.”
You rolled your eyes, and Jack started ushering you away from the mob.
“Goodbye Robby, I hope you lose!” you called behind you.
“Good luck!” said Dana.
“You can do it!” said Mel.
“Bring us a baby girl!” said Princess.
You could only wave halfheartedly as the elevator doors closed.
It was easy to be playfully annoyed at Robby downstairs, or sassy in the car, but the second you stepped into your reserved room, your delivery room, the panic took over. There was a large bed, and a convertible chair for Jack to sleep on, just like you pictured. But they wasted no time in hooking you up to a CEFM, and within the hour, a nurse had shoved a suppository up your vagina. You didn’t feel much like laughing at anything.
“And that’s —”
“Dinoprostone,” the nurse answered your boyfriend, while you tried to adjust. “0.3 milligrams. We’ll start the Pitocin in an hour or two.”
You let out a sigh as she left, pulling at your gown. You weren’t happy. Sitting there, sans underwear, on a Chux pad, waiting with anticipation for what would probably be the most painful, agonizing experience of your life, you felt the walls closing in a bit.
You glanced at the clock above the door. It was almost eight o’clock. Robby and Dana were probably just leaving, and Shen and Samira would be taking over. You soured at the thought that they’d probably be cozy in bed again before you had your baby. Hell, the way things had been going so far, you wouldn’t be surprised if you were barely five centimeters by that point.
“You wanna watch a movie, honey?” Jack asked quietly, watching your sullen face.
You rolled your head to the side so you could see his, though it looked much sweeter. You stroked a hand over his scruff.
“Yeah,” you said forlornly. “Miss Congeniality?”
He nodded diligently and extracted his laptop from one of the bags, setting it up in record time. To both of your surprise, you promptly opened your arms for him to join you on the bed. He did so, moving carefully so as to not upset your gown, or your monitor, or you. You weren’t at the point where you were cursing him or hated the sight of his face. In fact, you quite liked him at that moment. Better to take advantage of it before things progressed and he got the luteal phase side of you.
“I love you,” you said.
He sounded a little taken aback in his reply.
“I love you too, baby.”
You fiddled with the hem of his t-shirt.
“I just needed to remind us both, before I start hating you,” you explained.
“Of course,” he said.
You sat in the quiet for a while, half watching the movie you knew like the back of your hand. Within a few minutes, Jack’s gentle touch and steady breaths coaxed your eyes closed. On the brink of sleep, only one thing nowadays could really bring you back.
“Contraction,” you mumbled, as Gracie threw Matthews into a headlock.
“Do you want to move?” he asked.
“No,” you breathed, letting the now familiar discomfort wash over you. “Just stay.”
“Okay,” he said, pecking your forehead. “I’m right here. You know who else is here for you?”
“Who?”
“Benjamin Bratt,” he said. “Benjamin won’t let you down.”
You hummed, a hint of a smile on your lips as you forced your eyes open. Benjamin Bratt was your lifelong celebrity crush, and your friends had wasted no time pointing out some similarities between him and the father of your child when you’d revealed it.
“Of course he won’t,” you said, stroking a finger down his face on the screen.
As the usual contractions passed, you couldn’t help but feel a bit foolishly disappointed. Some small illogical part of you hoped that the prostaglandins would be enough of a push for your body to ramp it up on its own; but the pains were no different than they had been all week.
At a quarter to ten, Jill came in and checked you.
“Just about three centimeters dilated,” she said, to your agitation, “but about ninety percent effaced, so, progress.”
You huffed. Even your TV husband couldn’t distract you from the fact that you weren’t getting anywhere, no matter the positive spin Jill tried to pull. She didn’t seem to want to mention that you were also “just about three centimeters” the last time she saw you, over twenty-four hours previous.
“So now you start the drip?” you asked, and Jack squeezed your hand.
“Yes, now we start,” she said, while a nurse prepared the bag to hang. “Just a low dose, and then if nothing happens, we can gradually increase it. Sound good?”
“Sounds great,” you said, through gritted teeth.
She provided you with a peanut ball to put between your legs and then you were left in wait. Jack rubbed your back and instructed your deep breathing, while you tried to focus on the screen and not the pain.
To your brief respite, the pitocin didn’t intensify the contractions the way you expected them to. After an hour of absolutely zero action, Jill upped the dosage. Still, while they grew closer together, they felt no different. You could breathe through them quite well, and even talk if you felt determined. Maybe you had a high threshold, maybe you were desensitized after all the sleepless nights, maybe it was a bit of both, but what ended up nagging you the most was the hunger.
“Jackie,” you whispered between contractions, around midnight.
“What, baby?” he whispered back, though you were alone in the dark room.
“Can you go get me a soft pretzel?”
He stopped sponging your sweaty forehead, eyes narrowed in amusement.
“A soft pretzel?”
You nodded innocently.
“With plenty yellow mustard, please.”
He rang the washcloth out over the basin, looking half humorous, half distressed.
“Honey, I don’t think —”
“And a hotdog!” you interjected, eyes going wide. “Just get one of every condiment, actually. And I’m picturing a soft serve in a hat. Chocolate vanilla swirl. Okay?”
He wiped his damp hands off on a clean towel and cradled your face.
“Sweetheart, I will get you all of that and more,” he said earnestly, “just as soon as this baby’s outta you.”
“Oh, okay,” you sniffed. “So you don’t love me anymore. I get it.”
It was such a ridiculous notion, he couldn’t help laughing. You tried to smile back, but your face was suddenly crumpled in discomfort as another contraction hit you. Jack checked his watch, then the monitor.
“Five minutes,” he said desperately. “They’re getting closer together, honey. We’re moving.”
“They’re fine,” you hissed. “They’re only, like, double the pain of a bad period. It’s no big deal.”
Jack sent you a look you couldn’t see.
“Your periods get this bad?” he asked in horror. “Even half this bad? How do you get anything done?”
You couldn’t answer, just shook your head, as if to say what are you gonna do?
There wasn’t much, but damn it if Jack wasn’t going to try.
“You wanna try some massages?” he asked. “Some from lamaze class?”
You shook your head again.
“Okay… how about the birthing comb Perlah gave you?”
You didn’t immediately dismiss it, so he quickly dug into the bag and pulled it out. You opened your hand and he lined the teeth up with the crease of your palm. You squeezed hard. He watched you closely.
You took some deep breaths, massaging the bamboo tines into your tissue. Jack allowed himself some breaths as well, seeing the line between your brows soften a bit. He’d never dare complain after the weeks you’d had, but his brain felt a bit like a wrung out sponge. He could deal with sleep deprivation, he almost thrived on sleep deprivation, but seeing you, in agony, so exhausted you could barely eat a full meal? That was wearing down on him.
“Wait, what time is it?” you said suddenly. “Is it past midnight?”
Jack glanced at his wrist again.
“Closer to one,” he said, “why?”
Your lips turned down a bit.
“Nothing,” you sighed. “It’s just that… Ronan is a Scorpio.”
Jack glanced at his phone with befuddlement.
“Is that bad?” he asked. “Wait, aren’t I a Scorpio?”
“Yes,” you said. “Which is fine, it’s great, but now you’re both Scorpios. Scorpio men.”
He waited for you to explain, but you didn’t, so he just gave you a confused apology kiss.
When the contractions got to be three minutes apart, Jill came in to have a look.
“How are we holding up?” she asked, snapping on gloves, while Jack helped you place your feet in the stirrups. “Contractions manageable?”
“Oh, yeah, they’re great,” you deadpanned. “I’m loving how they’re basically back to back now. Real fun.”
“Well,” she said, looking sorry, “you’re still only almost five centimeters, and we’d like you to be closer to seven.”
You guffawed.
“Of course I am,” you croaked, rubbing your tired eyes. “Not even five, almost five, for fuck’s sake.”
“We are moving, hun, just slowly,” she said, patting your knee. “We’re going to break the waters now, though, and things should pick up after that.”
You nodded flatly, unconvinced, at that point, that anything could possibly speed things up. It was mildly uncomfortable as Jill stuck the amnihook up to your sore cervix, but a second later, you felt a small pop and a sudden gush of fluid. You craned your head up to peer over your bump.
“Is that it?” you asked. “It’s broken?”
“That was it,” said Jill, handing the soiled hook and pads off to a nurse. “Now, you’ll probably continue to leak as the baby moves, so we’ll keep this Chux here under you, and don’t be surprised if things pick up quick. Most times mothers start pushing within hours of the amniotomy.”
“Bet I’m an exception to the rule,” you muttered darkly.
However, despite your pessimistic attitude, things did pick up. Quickly, and painfully. In comparison, the early labor felt like child’s play once you had experienced the stabbing sensation that trapped you now. You watched the sunrise from the window, bent at a ninety degree angle with your arms on the sill. You were no longer cracking jokes; you let out rhythmic moans, while Jack squeezed your hips together.
“Let it out,” he said quietly. “You’re doing so good. So, so good, baby.”
You still clutched the comb in your hands, but any effect it had had earlier was now lost. You were slick with sweat and shaking. As the contraction leveled out, you took great, heaving breaths.
“I think I’m gonna puke,” you breathed, and Jack jumped up.
He guided you back to the bed so your weak knees could collapse, and held a bag up to your mouth. You spit into it, that familiar metallic taste flooding your tongue as you prepared. It was mostly bile that came up as you retched, with no food left in your rumbling stomach. When you were done, you sat back on your bum and braced your arms in front of you.
“I’m never… doing… this again,” you panted.
“Okay, love,” said Jack, adjusting your hair where he had tied it back the first time you’d vomited. “You never have to.”
Did he want more kids? Yes. But more importantly, he wanted you happy and safe. If you said you were done, you were done. Besides, he’d be lying if he said he would be up to seeing you in this much pain again. He kissed your warm cheek.
“I need the epidural,” you said. “Can we get that?”
Jack had never moved faster in his life. Once Jill was free, and you were back in position, she checked you.
“Seven centimeters,” she said. “Very good.”
“Yes,” you gasped. “Thank you universe.”
Jack all but crushed your hand between his.
“She was wondering about the epidural —”
“Certainly,” said Jill. “We can absolutely get anesthesiology in here, but I should remind you, it could very possibly slow down your progression. Is that a trade you’d be willing to make?”
They both looked at you. You felt about ready to cry. You were finally getting somewhere, would an epidural be setting you up for another twelve hours?
But in the end, you knew, you wouldn’t be able to get through birth without a couple hours of good sleep under your belt. So, you agreed to see the doctor.
It was definitely the right choice, you thought, once the drugs kicked in. Feeling the numbness spread through you was like going to sleep after a double, or sinking into a hot bath in winter time. The relief was palpable.
“Oh my god,” you moaned. “Oh my god, I had forgotten what it was like to not have contractions.”
Jack was relieved too, watching you munch on ice chips, eyes closed.
“You should get some sleep,” he said, stroking your forehead between your eyes. “You need rest.”
“So do you,” you said. “Hey — have you taken your leg off at all since we’ve been here?”
He thought. He had been far too preoccupied with you to notice the dull ache radiating up his right knee. He shrugged, but you were already back to your sass, however sluggishly.
“It’s almost been twenty-four hours, Jack Abbot,” you reprimanded. “Take it off and get in bed.”
“Yes ma’am,” he said lovingly.
He had to admit, it was a relief in its own right, removing the leg and the socks. He hadn’t even realized how much it had been bothering him, but you had always been on top of those things, the things he let fall to the back burner. Just like how he reminded you to eat on stressful days, or prepared hot water bottles when you were on your period. You looked out for each other.
Pulling his other shoe off, he carefully crawled into bed next to you, engulfing you in his arms. You weren’t sure how long you slept. All you knew was that upon waking, Jill was between your legs for a check.
As she covered you back up with the blanket, she could barely contain her smile.
“Ten centimeters. Are you ready to have a baby?”
♡♡♡
You’d thought, somehow, foolishly, that the pushing would be easy compared to the weeks of torture. Especially with the epidural keeping you almost completely numb, how could it be worse?
But now you were approaching your third hour of pushing, and they still couldn’t even see the baby’s head. The pain was barely an afterthought, but every upper muscle in your body was tense and tight from repeated use, and you were running out of energy.
You had Jack holding up one leg, a nurse holding the other, and a third person out of sight was wiping your forehead. You had had to ask, or scream at, someone to remove the ticking clock from above the door. Your eyes kept drifting towards it, and your heart filled with more and more despair as the minutes slid by.
“C’mon, honey, one more push,” Jack was chanting next to you, holding your thigh flush against your chest. “One more, you can do it!”
You fell back against him with a harsh cry as the contraction subsided. Perspiration was dripping down your flushed face, and you were panting like you’d just finished a sprint.
“I can’t,” you gasped. “I can’t do this any more. It’s not working.”
“The baby is moving,” said Jill from the other side of your bump. “They’re taking their time, but you’re doing really, really well, okay? Keep going, we should be seeing a head soon.”
“Did you hear that?” said Jack soothingly. “It’ll be over soon. You’re so close.”
You felt so close to slipping into sleep, and yet possibly less comfortable than you ever had been before. You felt your eyes beginning to sting. Maybe it was a good sign; throughout everything, you still hadn’t shed a tear. Could the cracks in your exterior mean this was almost at an end? Or were you really ready to give up?
“Here comes the next contraction,” said Jill. “Ready?”
“Big breath,” said Nurse Marta. “Chin to chest — good…”
You bared down with all your might, and the pressure was building.
“Hard, hard hard hard!” said Jill. “Good job, mom! I can just barely glimpse the head.”
Jack pressed a flurry of kisses to your knee, and if your eyes were open you would have seen his already beginning to tear.
“Oh my god,” you muttered as that contraction too passed.
“Can I see?” he asked cautiously. “The head, can I try to see?”
“We lost sight when she relaxed,” said Jill, eyes glued to the monitor. “But on the next contraction, we should begin to crown.”
“Okay,” he said breathlessly. “Okay, one more, and we find out who wins, Robby or Princess, right?”
“Better be Princess,” you grumbled.
You ran a limp hand over Jack’s curls.
“You’ll catch him, right?” you said. “When he comes out?”
“Yeah, baby, of course, I’ll be right there,” he said. “I promise. I mean, I love Jill, but —”
You almost laughed, or got as close to it as you possibly could with how winded you were. Jill spoke up, smirking slightly herself.
“Okay, about twenty seconds to the next contraction,” she said. “And I need you to really push hard, okay? Hard as you can.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing?”
“Alright,” she chuckled, “ready? Go.”
You pushed, and pushed, and pushed. All the blood rushed to your head, and your grip in Jack’s hair only tightened, accidentally bumping his chin against your knee, but he didn’t say anything. It was kind of funny — you were usually in a very different place when you did that.
“You’re so good, you’re so so good, honey,” Jack muttered quickly, unable to keep himself from peering over to watch. “Good, good, you’re so strong, you” — his breath stuttered — “I see the head! Oh, it’s red, the hair — Ronan —”
You let out a strangled sort of sound, half laugh, half cry.
“We’re crowning, I’m gonna need you to stop pushing,” said Jill. “Okay, stop pushing, and breathe, alright? Pant, deep and fast —”
You began to feel a bit lightheaded as you followed her instructions.
“Okay, now push again — good — and relax.”
You groaned, arms shaking and jumping all over the place. Hesitantly, you removed a hand from Jack’s hair.
“Can I feel?”
“Of course,” said Jill. She took your trembling hand and guided it down. “Feel the hair?”
That was it. That was the little push those tears needed to begin leaking from your eyes. It was the most bizarre feeling, not being able to sense touch against your own legs, but knowing that the head you felt was part of you this second. And the next, it would be separate. A whole little human.
“There’s a lot, huh?” said Jack in a wavery voice.
“Jack, if you want to catch, now’s the time,” said Jill, holding out a packet of sterile gloves. “You ready?”
He snapped them on in record time, though was reluctant to leave your immediate side.
“I’m right here,” he said, both for you and for him. “I’m still here next to you.”
“I know,” you said, taking up the hand of the nurse that replaced him.
“Push, mama, push,” Jill chanted from over Jack’s shoulder, watching carefully as he cradled the emerging head.
“You’re doing amazing!” said Jack, fully crying now. “Keep going!”
You did. By the end of the minute, the head was all the way out.
“I see him, I see him!” said Jack frantically. “He’s coming! One more push, just one!”
“Tell me what’s happening, okay?” you asked. “I wanna know.”
“Okay, honey.”
Your nurses pushed you up. It was time for the final contraction. Or, what would hopefully be the final contraction.
“Push!”
You put all your remaining strength behind that last push, tears now joined in the sweat running down your cheeks.
“Here come the shoulders,” said Jack. “Good job! Okay, great job, honey, they’re coming — okay, one, and — c’mon, Ronan, you can do it — c’mon — okay, yes! Yes, yes, yes, so good, okay, and the little arms, and the belly, and —”
There was a sudden release of pressure, and almost immediately, a sharp, strong cry rent the air. You were sobbing in earnest now, but still Jack held onto your baby while they wailed. You couldn’t see them, but you could see his face, transfixed, unmoving. You didn’t like the look. Worry began to creep in.
“What?” you asked wetly. “What’s wrong? Is he okay?”
“It’s” — Jack’s breath caught in his throat — “it’s a girl! It’s a baby girl.”
Your anxiety cleared, and you sighed in relief, a full body shudder as he gingerly lifted the little baby, your daughter, to your chest. Your eyes were as wide as his were, staring in awe at the little creature on your bosom.
“Hi,” you whispered, while Jill rubbed her vigorously with a cloth. “Hi, baby. You’re here.”
Jack, now gloveless, and hysterical, wrapped his arms around the both of you. Her whole tiny head was covered in sticky but unmistakable dark red hair. And it seemed Santos was right — she did have her dad’s nose. His everything, really.
“Isadora,” Jack said reverently through his tears. “You’re perfect.”
“You got your girl,” you said to Jack, eyes not parting from your Izzy for one second.
“Everyone’s gonna freak,” he said, stroking her head.
It wasn’t until later, with the cord clamped and cut, the placenta delivered, and the postpartum room moved into, you realized.
“Wait,” you said, watching Isadora curl sleepily into her father’s bare chest. “I just remembered something.”
“Way to go, Izzy,” he said. “First hour on earth, and you’re already beating Uncle Robby’s ass, huh? Atta girl. Just wait til you play him at hockey. He sucks.”
Your eyes, which had never fully dried, were beginning to tear up again. You knew it was to be expected with your hormones out of whack, but he was just holding her, for christ’s sake.
“C’mere,” you said lazily, beckoning him towards your bed. “You wanna call him up? Gloat in his face? I kinda do.”
“Nah,” said Jack calmly, settling in at your side. “I think for now it should just be me and my girls.”
You were sent home the next day, with an appointment for Izzy in the books and relatively minimal soreness, considering. Izzy was quickly proving herself to be a good eater, and a good sleeper.
“There we go, honey,” Jack cooed at her, setting her down in your arms. “All fed, all burped, all changed.”
He perched on the arm of your nursing chair. For once, it was exactly as you pictured. The breeze through the open window making the dragonflies fly, Jack by your side, and a little red haired baby resting in the green and yellow nursery.
Jax teller x Plus size! Hoochie mama/vixen reader headcannons
୨୧ just some head cannons of Jax and plus size! Hoochie/Vixen readers relationship
୨୧ Jen notes∘ʚ this is based off of this request. I kinda made this longer than I indented to, Highkey got carried away. I apologize in advance for any grammar mistakes, I’m still working on that.
𐙚₊ It was clear that Jax teller was down bad for you. Real bad. His entire life growing up was filled with leather, bikes, grease and dirt. Until you came along. It quickly becoming a blur of pink, animal print, hello kitty, plushies and the taste of your expensive lip gloss. Jax didn’t just love you. He was addicted to you. Loves everything you come with.
𐙚₊ Your style was one of Jax’s favourite things about you. It was definitely different from everyone in charming. You’d walk around wearing brands like baby phat, juicy couture, apple bottoms, true religion. You’d never been seen without your stacks of bangles jingling on your arms, or heels clicking against the ground no matter what the occasion or weather was. Always carrying around a new designer hand bag. And don’t forget your large earrings that Jax would get nervous about you wearing, scared you might accidentally tug on them.
𐙚₊ Walking into your house was like walking into a different dimension. One moment he’s at the clubhouse smelling booze, cheap perfume, bikes and guns all around him, and then he’s at your home. It’s a temple of pink and animal print and the smell of vanilla. You have a white faux fur on the ground, in the corner of your room a heel shaped chair, and your walls cheetah print covered wallpaper all around. It was funny seeing the Jax teller in your bed, he looked completely out of place yet so comfortable and relaxed. He would just lay his head on your lap while you are in your silk robe playing with his hair as he’s ranting about the club business.
𐙚₊ Your nails. Gosh he’s obsessed with them. So fascinated by them, wanting to see which colour and style you would do this time. When he’s free he would come to the nail salon with you, helping you which design and which charms to pick. You don’t remember the last time you paid for your own nails, own anything honestly. Your man always took care of everything. Jax favourite part was when you were both home after your appointments, your fresh set of nails rubbing up and down his dick, as your tongue licked his tip. Your way of saying thank you.
𐙚₊ One thing about Jax when it came to you he was an eater. Which is crazy cause he’s had a quite fair share of girls before meeting you and not once put his mouth on a pussy until you. He would waste no time pulling you to the edge of the bed, your legs tossed over his broad shoulders, not bothering to take off your 4 inch heels. He loved the slight pain of the heel digging in his back. When Jax eats your pussy it’s not something he quickly does, when his tongue hits your clit, he savours the taste of you. Making sure he takes his time to slowly build your orgasm.
𐙚₊ Those nails, it’s one of his favourite things to feel when he’s down there, losing himself in your taste, your hands into his hair. Your 200$ dollar nails he paid for, the ones with the leopard tips and tiny gold charms decorated over them digging deep into his scalp. He loves the stinging from the the gripping and scratching, humming against you, the harder your grip got. Your moans were like music to his ears. He would stop just a moment to hear you call out his name, smirking against your skin when you did, breathy moans escaping you. Once you cum in his mouth, he never wanted a single drop. Making sure to lick your creamy wet pussy clean.
𐙚₊ You and Jax would be laying in your bed, on your cheetah print sheets. You could be scrolling on your iPad just looking at clothes and accessories online while laying back on his chest and mutter. "This bag is cute" and keep scrolling. You think he isn’t listening cause he hummed in response, sounding half asleep but he’s already memorized the brand and model. A couple of days later you would come back home from somewhere and there it would be sitting on the kitchen island.
The limited edition 2000s baby phat bag you been wanting. Letting out a happy scream as you ran towards your man who was leaning against the counter, a beer in hand that he immediately put down to catch you as you jumped in his arms, mouth capturing his in a kiss. Your reaction was so worth the 2k he dropped on getting you this bag.
𐙚₊ Jax knew you had an addiction to hello kitty. Slippers, plushies, posters, shirts, shorts, panties, you name it. Why not add on to your collection? You mentioned to Jax that you were thinking of getting yourself a small hello kitty pendant. The next day he went out of town, finding a reliable jewler that was 3 hours away from charming. He talked to Prabh the jeweler for about 2 hours making sure everything was perfect making sure it was exactly how he would think you want it.
He didn’t just get you one, but two custom hello kitty chains. Completely iced with vvs diamonds. When Prabh said they were 6,000 a piece Jax didn’t hesitate taking the wads of cash from his duffle bag, sliding over the 12,000 on the glass counter like it was nothing. 6 days later he gifted them to you loved watching you pairing it with your baby phat teas. The large pendant resting on your heavy chest, leaning down to give him a kiss chain swinging in his face.
𐙚₊ if you asked Jax to jump he would immediately ask how high? He was like a little mutt for you, Always doing as you said. If you needed him, he was there. Everyone was worried how hooked you had Jax, they started to think you did some type of witch magic. Gemma especially was worried for her son, until she met you. She was never a big fan of any girls her son had around but you, she loved you. If Jax upset you in anyway it would put stress on himself, wondering how he could fix and make it better. If you asked him to massage you it’s done, clean? Done. He loved getting bossed around by you.
𐙚₊ lots of people in charming were shocked how soft Jax was with you, everyone kinda knew he slept around until rumours circulated about how he was in a relationship. Girls continued to flirt with him, but he payed them no mind. A lot of people judged Jax for being with you, not excepting him to settle down for a girl like you. In other words a black woman. It was known that Jax usually hooked up with blondes in his past. One time a man made a comment as you and Jax were at a little biker party, the man talking about how could someone ever settle down for a "fat bitch like you" Jax didn’t waste anytime coming to your defence punching the shit out of the guy, next day finding out the man went missing…Already knowing your man buried him 6ft in the ground somewhere.
𐙚₊ 20 minutes it’s been since Jax got home and those 20 minutes you were also cussing his ass out. He was supposed to pick you up, the two of you going out to dinner. That was 2 n half hours ago. You were dressed and ready to spend some quality time with him. He was too until he got an emergency call from tigs. You didn’t even let his ass get a word out as you continued to rant. "You know how long it took me to get ready Jax? Do my hair?" You yelled, fuming. He leaned against the wall arms cross staring at you. Even when angry you were gorgeous. Before he could apologize you launched one of your heels in his direction that would’ve hit his head if he didn’t duck. The heavy shoe hit the wall, as you reached down for the other one, getting ready to throw that one too. He moved faster. In a split second he has you spun around, your wrists firmly in his hand behind you as your back was against his chest.
"Listen I know I fucked up okay, there was an emergency at the club and I know that’s not an excuse. I own that" you moved your head to right facing away from him, as he tried to kiss the left side of your face, gripping your jaw he turned your head to face him, letting him see the pout that was plastered across your face. "Awe baby I’m sorry. I know you dressed up real pretty for me, but throwing shit ain’t gonna fix it. Now drop the shoe" the heel thudded on the ground between you, your frown deepening realizing you were being a bit dramatic. Turning you around he kissed your pouty lips. "I’m sorry. Okay?" He spoke slouching down to look at you. You murmured making him swat your ass. "Okay" you replied louder. "Good" he smiled lifting you up with ease, your thick legs wrapping around him. "You are too beautiful to be stressed out or mad" You continue to pout, but he starts placing kisses all over your face, a small smile creeping its way towards your face, making it impossible for you to stay upset.
𐙚₊ The sons would always call Jax pussy whipped. The way he wouldn’t really hang around anymore unless they had to go on a run or handle business. If they tried to make him stay for a drink he would only stay for one. Making sure to chug it down before dipping, wanting to go home to you. Sometimes they wouldn’t see Jax for days. When they would go handle business without him they would be riding around on their bikes. They would see you and Jax on the street usually around an area where lots of stores were located. He would be carrying your purse like it was his own as you would reapplying your lip liner and lip gloss through your little compact mirror, staring at you in awe waiting patiently for you to be done. Noticing the sound of engines he would look over seeing the crew staring at him shaking their heads in disbelief as he would just smile in return waving. He was right where he wanted to be.
𐙚₊ It’s no secret Jax loved spoiling you, your closet was starting to look like a store. Filled with new clothes, shoes, handbags. you two would be walking hand in hand passing a boutique your eyes catching a pair of heels mentioning how "cute they are" he’s already circling back there once he drops you home. He knew your style to a T, even if something he saw reminded him of you, he would get it right away. He would come home to you after a long run, smelling like leather and smoke, passing you a box. "Saw these, thought they would look sexy with your pretty feet in them" you open them seeing 6-inch fur-trimmed stilettos. He’ll sit on the zebra print chair, lighting a cigarette, just to walk you strut across the room for him with nothing but your heels on.
𐙚₊ Sometimes you would pop by Teller Morrow knowing that Jax can forget to eat at times. The sound of heels going click/clack against the pavement was heard as Jax whipped his head at the familiar sound. You looked so beautiful in your hot pink velvet tracksuit, the half unzipped jacket showing off the cheetah print bra under it, your boobs nearly spilling. Every step you took made your bangles jingle, the new 40 inch weave that Jax payed for, flowing down your back. Bobby, Chibs, Tigs stopped what they were doing and looked over, not missing the bling that sat comfortable on your chest. They didn’t even have to ask who paid for it, already knowing how crazy Jax was about his girl and would do anything for her. Jogging towards you, your man leaned down placing a firm kiss on your glossed lips, thanking you for the container of food you brought for him.
His hand cupping the back of your head, mouth to your ear whispering something low and filthy. Something along the lines of you riding his face later. You bit your lip and smile, giving him a playful little shove as you turned to walk away. He slapped your ass, it making a loud thwack sound as he said "I love you" a proud smirk on his face as he watched the recoil through your tight velvet sweats. "Bye boys" you called out waving your fingers. Jax walked back to the guys opening up the container as he sat on a chair man spreading, smirk never leaving his lips as he took a piece of the seasoned chicken, taking a bite. He noticed the crew staring. Dead silent. Bobby shook his head, being the first to speak. "Jackie boy you’re gonna go broke spending all that money on that girl. The things you buy her cost more than my bike parts." Jax just leaned back further into his chair, smug and completely unbothered. His eyes going back to the lot seeing you still there now having a conversation with Gemma. "I’ll make more money bobby. There’s only one of her, and she’s worth every damn penny. Even if I go broke in the process."
How the Sons react to overhearing someone hitting on you
How the Sons would comfort you after a nightmare
Being in a relationship with one of the Sons but having a secret admirer from the same club
How the Sons react to seeing you draw them
How the Sons would react to finding out they’re related to you
How they Act When They Have a Crush Or Feelings For You
How they react to you flashing your boobs at them to get out of an argument
How they react to your abusive father
How they would react to having an s/o who's aggressively affectionate with food
How the Sons would react to your oral fixation
How they would react to you flinching during an argument
How they react to an S/O who gets too adsorbed into things and forgets to eat
How the sons react to getting their rings stuck inside you
How the Sons react to finding out their fling/fwb is pregnant
How they react to their wife/gf tells them they want a baby
How the Sons react to finding out you have an eating disorder
How your first kiss and date with them would go
How the Sons react to forgetting your birthday
How the Sons would admit their feelings and ask you out
How the Sons react to the "I don't think I can pay the mortgage this month" trend
How would the Sons react to their old lady taking a bullet for a club member
When they realize they have feelings for you vs. When they realize they're in love with you
How they react to finding out that you've been attacked to send them a message
How they react to you getting your hair and nails done
How the Sons would act with a witchy s/o
The Soa guys doing couples costumes with you
How the Sons act giving and receiving love languages
The SOA guys dating at teacher a little too committed to her job
How the Sons act when their girlfriend is sick
How the Sons would propose to you
How they react to their partner bringing home a stray dog
How the Sons react to the "he just left, you can come over now" trend
How the Sons react to a partner who likes to bite them
How they react to their wife giving birth to a baby girl
How they act with a partner who has bad depression
How the sons react to you calling them by their name instead of a pet name
How the Sons react to hearing you speak in your native language for the first time
🇲🇴🇸🇹 🇹🇴 🇱🇪🇦🇸🇹
most to least likely to make the first move on you
most to least likely consider a threesome with you (and another son)
most to least likely to accidentally send you a nude
most to least likely to put their kutte on their partner during an intimate moment
most to least likely to have a one night stand
🇭🇪🇦🇩🇨🇦🇳🇴🇳🇸
Being Jax Teller's younger sister but secretly dating Opie would include
🇸🇴🇦 🇦🇸…
Popular romance tropes
🇸🇪🇷🇮🇪🇸
femalemechanic!reader - works based on being the only female mechanic at TM.
Jax Teller
Stay - Jax comes to you late at night needing comfort.
🇭🇪🇦🇩🇨🇦🇳🇴🇳🇸
Jax falling in love with the president's daughter from a rival mc would include...
Venus Van Dam
Short and Sweet - Venus gets possessive when she sees another woman talking to you at a bar (short!female!reader)
Marked and Mine - Seeing Juice make a pass at you Venus gets protective, she wants everyone to know you are hers.
Juice Ortiz
🇭🇪🇦🇩🇨🇦🇳🇴🇳🇸
Juice x Shy!Reader — Juice finally builds up the nerve to ask out the quiet girl he’s been lowkey crushing on forever.
Juice x Female!Reader — Juice comes to your aid when you’ve finally had enough of your abusive boyfriend.
Chibs Telford
No Face, No Name - Chib's faceless cam girl
Safe Heaven - When you accidentally stay late at one of the samcro parties the reason why you're so quick to leave shows up- your abusive boyfriend. But Chibs is quick to show him how to treat a lady.
Worth The Wait - after years of easy flirting and late-night banter, chibs finally stops holding back. A quiet moment in the TM break room turns into the kiss you’ve both been circling for too long.
Happy Lowman
First Lessons - You and Happy had been dancing around each other for weeks both clearly interested but when it gets down to it you have a secret you need to tell him before it goes too far.
I Got Her - you don't drive, can't drive. won't drive. a lot of people don't understand your fear of driving, but luckily for you not only does he understand, he's willing to let you be who you are. a passanger princess.
Synopsis: Winter had a nightmare and has hurt himself. He wordlessly asks for your help. You patch him up.
Warnings: blood, injury, allusions to self harm, allusions to HTP. MDNI +18. Fluff, recovery, taking care of him, tending to his injuries.
Author's note: I wrote this at like 1 am...guess inspiration hits at the weirdest times. I've been wanting to write a fic like this for a while now...might be a miniseries idk. It's a bit short lol
Anyway enjoy <3 (need me a winter soldier.)
You've been harboring this strange man in your home for a while now, the man you've come to know as the Winter Soldier.
The world's most deadly assassin.
You met him in an alleyway, offering him a coat which he refused, then showed up in your storage room a while later.
He probably stealthed his way inside through the window.
At first, he was wary, of everything, including you. Refeeding, sleeping, bathing were all a hassle, but he's grown more comfortable around you as time passed.
For the past few weeks now, he began seeking your presence at night.
You would either wake to him clumsily climbing into your bed next to you, his violent shivering apparent through the slight vibrations in the mattress, or just to his panicked gasps and that haunting scream.
Tonight though, you were still awake when his night terror began.
You knew better by now than to wake him in that state, as he nearly strangled you the one time you tried. He would usually show up a few minutes after he woke.
You were sitting at your desk, just staring at the wood, lost in your world when he stumbled into the hallway. The door was open, your table lamp casting an orange glow into the darkness, a beacon of light.
Even in your dazed state you saw the movement from the corner of your eye, which made you flinch before you realized who it was.
"Winter?" you called out to him.
Even if he referred to himself as Soldat, you chose to call him Winter instead.
It felt more like a name and less like a clinical, dehumanizing designation.
He didn't protest, and responded to the name regardless.
He just continued to stand awkwardly at the end of the hallway, just out of the light's range. All you could make out was his form, standing hunched over.
He seemed to slightly cradle one of his arms, and judging by his posture, he was contemplating leaving instead of disturbing you in your staring contest with the wood.
Whenever you slept, he could just sneak into your bed, not having to deal with your attention, which he actually started seeking out more often.
Still, he preferred to go unnoticed, following you from a distance like a shadow, a constant companion.
"What is it?" you called again, as he didn't respond the first time you did.
He slightly flinched at your words despite their gentle cadence through the darkness, making his gaze waver for a second.
Eventually, he took a tentative step closer, giving you a better view of him.
The white tank top he was wearing was stained red at his shoulder where metal connected to flesh. His other hand was awkwardly pressed into the junction, a bit of blood still spilling through his fingers.
The sight made you involuntarily freeze for a second, before he spoke.
"I'm...sorry," he rasped.
He rarely spoke, and when he did his words only consisted of short, clipped Russian phrases, so him apologizing in English was new to you.
"It's okay," you reassured him, despite not knowing what exactly he was apologizing for.
You made a move to stand, making sure your movements were slow and predictable. Despite your efforts though, his body still convulsed involuntarily.
"Can you tell me what's wrong?" your soft voice rang gently.
He slightly shook his head, and angled his body towards you instead of taking a step closer.
You cautiously made your way to him, watching as the usually towering man shrunk in on himself further. He fixed his gaze on the floor, avoiding eye contact.
Though you were closer now, from the lack of light, you still couldn't make out his injury, or why he was bleeding.
He abruptly turned on his heel and began walking back to the storage room with hurried steps.
When you didn't follow, he stopped in his tracks and looked over his shoulder, still hunched over.
Getting the message, you turned to follow him.
When you reached the storage room, a small ray of light spilled out from under the door.
So he was using the salt lamp you put in there.
As he disappeared behind the door, you took this and his silent message to follow, you too stepped into the room.
He was standing rigidly by the closet he spent so long hiding in, staring at the corner just behind the door he slept in.
He refused to use the couch, or the spare mattress you laid down for him, and instead slept on a thin blanket.
Now you could see that his flesh fingers subconsciously dug into the seam where steel met flesh, as his eyes nervously darted between you and the stain on the blanket.
"I'm sorry...for...mess..." he whispered so lowly, you almost missed it, his fingers digging further into the weeping wound.
Your eyes caught on his actions.
"Hey, you're hurting yourself..." you cautiously called out, the sight tugging at your heartstrings.
He felt the need to tell you about the mess he made. Maybe then, when you would've eventually found out about it anyway, the punishment wouldn't be so severe. Even if you never so much as raised your voice at him above a gentle song.
His gaze darted down to his hand, eyes freezing and glazing over.
He sucked in a harsh breath and ripped his hand away. His entire body went rigid.
You noticed his obvious reaction, you knew him that much by now.
You knew he was bracing for impact.
"It's okay, we'll clean you up in no time..." you gently called out, hoping to ease his nerves. You turned to fetch a first aid kit, a bowl and a rag along with a new blanket and shirt for him.
He waited for you, every nerve on high alert. What if you went for a weapon? A knife? Would you hurt him for having caused damage to himself? For the ruined blanket? What if-
His train of thoughts was interrupted as you stumbled back into the room, hands full of supplies. He immediately went to help you, before recoiling, realizing his hands were filthy, and they would just soil the fresh blanket you've brought.
You just gave him a gentle smile, hoping to ease some of his nerves.
Setting the blanket down and folding the stained one, depositing it to the side, you turned to him.
"Can I see your shoulder?" you asked cautiously, making sure your voice and body language were loose and nonthreatening.
Despite the "bond" you two have been building, you knew injuries and his shoulder were still extremely sensitive spots for him.
After slight hesitation, he allowed you to see. Refusal was out of the question, even if all he wanted to do was tuck tail and run.
"I'm gonna have to take your shirt off. Is that okay with you?" You asked again, making him tense up again. Eventually, as he sensed no malicious intent in your demeanor, he allowed you to step closer and carefully remove his tank top.
Despite having a build and posture that would make a grown man weak in his knees, he surely carried himself like he wanted to disappear entirely. His entire body language screamed submission, fear and defeat as you carefully pulled the fabric away from his injured skin.
You tried to ignore the myriad of other horrible scars that were now on display on his torso. His shoulder needed all your attention, and you didn't want to make him feel self conscious.
This was already an extremely vulnerable situation for him.
Once his shirt was gone, you silently motioned for him to sit down, crouching next to him.
You silently examined the wound, and luckily it wasn't as bad as you feared.
A cleaning and some well-applied bandages along with the serum in his veins will surely do the trick.
You reached for the bowl and rag, and you felt him tense before you.
"I'm going to clean your wound, wipe the blood off, then I'm going to bandage it. Is that alright with you?" you asked carefully.
He watched the bowl and rag like they were coals and heated iron, eyes wide, breathing irregular.
"It's just warm water and a rag. See?" you explained, as you reached into the water, and held up the rag, showing him you were unharmed by them.
His shoulders loosened just a fraction, and you took that as permission to begin cleaning his wound.
You carefully wiped his pale skin clean of the crimson, making sure your actions were slow and predictable. Your hand moved with a gentleness the soldier wasn't used to across his toned pec. He watched, intrigued as the blood slowly disappeared from his skin.
You took another few minutes carefully cleaning the small spaces between the plates of his steel shoulder.
He didn't understand why you were so calm about it. You should be angry at him, furiously scrubbing his skin raw.
Yet all he saw was a sleepy calmness.
The strokes calmed you both, your eyes drooping closed, a few yawns escaping here and there.
Then you began patching his shoulder up. He anxiously searched for sharp objects in you kit, but all he found was gauze and cotton.
You were treating him like he was precious. Like you were afraid, that being just a little too rough with him would make him shatter.
After you were done, his shoulder was nice and secure, no blood dripping down his chest.
You yawned again before reaching for his flesh hand with a silent question in your sleepy eyes. His own wide ones were fixated on your hazy ones, not really understanding just how you could be so...calm around him. Sleepy, even.
Most handlers and doctors in his vicinity were ever vigilant, always prepared with a syringe in their pockets with his name on it.
He slowly raised his flesh hand, presenting his open palm to you.
You took his warm hand in yours, and began cleaning his fingers of blood too.
His hand was covered in scars and callouses, too, just like the rest of him. The skin was rough and dry, the blood he spilled forever tainting it. Yet, once again, you were so careful with him.
Like he was worth losing sleep over.
He felt guilty for making you tend to him, even as you were so tired.
Even if you couldn't sleep just half an hour ago, tending to the soldier calmed your nerves enough that your body now demanded you get some sleep.
But, you can't sleep until Winter is patched up.
After having cleaned the last bit of blood from under his fingernails, you carefully rested his large hand in his lap. His eyes flickered up to yours upon the loss of warmth.
You reached behind you and held the fresh tank top in front of him, silently asking permission to dress him.
He complied wordlessly, allowing you to delicately pull the fabric over his skin.
You sighed, satisfied, and laid out the new blanket for him.
"Good night, Winter," you said, turning to leave and discard the now useless supplies, before his flesh hand slightly brushed against your arm.
You turned back to him.
He avoided your eyes, but an unspoken request was apparent in the way he stood before you, eyes downcast and hidden by his unruly hair.
"Come on," you coaxed him gently with a small smile on your face.
After having discarded everything, the two of you stepped into your bedroom.
As you settled in, you didn't feel the mattress dip.
He just kept standing over you for a few seconds. Then he moved onto the bed.
At first he laid on the far side of the mattress, laying on his uninjured shoulder.
Then, as the minutes passed, he gradually inched closer to you, until his body was pressed against yours.
He made no move to drape his arm over you, or to lay on your chest, but instead he curled up like a cat would, head pressed into your side.
Smiling, you raised your arm, and rested it above him, not sure if he would want your hand on his shoulder, or in his hair.
Soon, you felt his breathing even out, and that allowed you to drift off too.
Tags: @iamthatonefangirl (I remember telling u about wanting to write some WS fanfic, and u told me u'd like to be tagged .<3)
(I should make a general taglist too. LEMME KNOW IF ANYONE WANTS TO BE ADDED <3)
All my stories are R18. I write smut, and I may touch sensitive topics or topics that are not intended to be read by minors.
YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN CONTENT CONSUMPTIONS.
Masterlist
Pairing: Jealous!BuckyBarnes x Reader
Warning/Tags: Modern AU, Fluff, previous relationship established, mention of alcohol consumption, mention of John Walker (he is a warning on his own), insecure Bucky, spicy scene.
Word count: ~1.6k
Summary: Bucky is sure you love him—until he’s not. He’s sure until the thought of you choosing someone else gets into his head, and taking the worst of him, he goes to the bar just to check up on you, or that’s what he says to himself.
Author's Note: This came to my mind just because I was listening to “Like It’s Her Birthday” - Good Charlotte, and I remembered that was the song I used to listen to when I was getting ready to go out every weekend.
This is a repost; if you've seen it before, I've added one or two things at the end. Feel free to read it again. I'll also appreciate support to get back to the community I had.
If this is the first time you've read me, I'd love for you to read this post.
After everything he went through, Bucky had always thought he couldn’t have a very normal life—until you arrived. You came to him like a storm, on one of those nights when Sam convinced him to go to the bar. Things had been rough between them after all the Thunderbolts/New Avengers whole ordeal, and he couldn’t just say ‘no’.
And there you were, that exact same night, with your friends, you were celebrating one of your friends’ birthdays, you were not exactly the life of the party, but you certainly knew how to connect with people.
You saw him—bumped into him, on your way to the bar, making you spill your drink. You were so ashamed and tried to apologize at least ten times. Sam nudged him, and he had no option but to get you a new drink—even when it had been your fault. And then, you spent the whole night around each other.
Sam asked you for your number—he knew perfectly Bucky wouldn’t have the balls to do it, and you were passed out drunk to even think about it.
And that’s how it began. Bucky realized soon enough he couldn’t let go of you. You were that sunshine he thought he had lost decades ago; you were peace and smiles all over the place. But that was also his biggest problem; he soon realized you had half your inner circle wrapped around your finger, and you didn’t even pay attention to it.
Bucky found out he was the jealous type as soon as he saw how men approached you at the bar, even when you were just with your girl friends, or the times he picked you up from work, he could see one or two hands trying to reach your hip without your consent. Oh god, he always thought he had mastered not to get violent unless it was necessary—and he genuinely thought it could be necessary to break one or two hands at that moment.
So, there you were, months later, on your first birthday with him on your side, your friends had decided to take you to a bar, a bar Bucky knew was too crowded for his liking. So, he opted out for the time being, taking you earlier to a cute restaurant you had been talking about for weeks. He trusted enough in you to know you were going to drink, dance, and be with your friend, ignoring all the guys who were all over you.
But then he saw you. A dress that he swore he had never seen before. Short enough to show your legs, and a cleavage deep enough to be hypnotized by the sight.
“Where are you going?” He stuttered, he knew you were going, he was just—surprised.
“Bucky, I already told you—to the bar with my friends,” you were finishing the last details on your attire, “but you’re boring enough to not come with me.”
“Honey, you know I—I’m too old for that shit. And why would you—wear that…”
“Don’t you like it?” You looked down at it, confused.
“It’s not that I don’t like it—but, have you seen yourself? You look like a fucking goddess—and I’m not gonna be there to protect you from those creeps.”
“I will be fine, drama king. And, certainly, I’m not asking you to come; that’s why I called Walker and Sam to keep you company.”
Bucky almost stood up from the couch, “why the hell did you call Walker?”
“‘Cause Sam is trying to get along well with him, so you should too.”
He groaned as a response, and before he could mutter any word, a knock on the door interrupted him.
“Speaking of the devil, that must be them.”
You walked to the door and opened it. Sam held some beers while John had some pizza boxes in his arms. Both opened their eyes in surprise. They knew you were beautiful… everyone knew. But that day you looked—completely different from how they were used to seeing you.
“I—You—Wow.” That’s everything Sam could say without sounding disrespectful.
“You’re such an idiot. C’mon. He is in the living room.” You chuckled.
You said your goodbyes and took an Uber to the bar. Bucky held—strangled a beer in his hand while they watched a game on the TV. Almost three hours had passed since you arrived at the bar, and Bucky was holding himself back from texting you with the frequency he wanted to—at the end, he trusted you… but didn’t trust the rest of the world.
“I really want to know how you are holding yourself this much,” John said after drinking his beer.
“Huh?” Bucky said, looking at him.
“Walker, shut up,” Sam said in a very stern tone.
“No. I’m just saying—he’s here just watching a game while his girl is there surrounded by men her age and probably drinking or accepting drinks…. Did you see how good she looked? I’m still surprised he had a chance with her.”
“Walker—last warning. If Bucky stands up from his couch, I’m not defending you.”
But—unfortunately, John’s words landed in the worst way possible, Bucky was now questioning if you weren’t going to doubt at least a bit your whole relationship because of that night out. Was he really good enough to be with you?
“C’mon.” Bucky stood up and started walking while he searched for his car keys.
“Where the fuck are we going?” Sam looked perplexed.
“To the fucking bar.”
Sam looked completely annoyed at John.
“What?! I didn’t think he could react like this—I was expecting a punch, not a jealous scene.”
When the three men arrived at the bar—they couldn’t believe their eyes.
You were dancing all over the place, spilling drinks over your friends, making a complete scene. You were really a completely different person than the one they all knew, outshining everyone around you.
And suddenly, you saw him, standing with his mouth agape. You screamed out of happiness and ran directly to him.
“You really came!” You jumped directly to his waist, and he took you with his metal arm to hold you still, “I told everyone you weren’t coming, I’m so excited!”
He was almost embarrassed; he probably looked like a fucking psychopath following around his girlfriend, but you really didn’t see it that way—you didn’t even care, you were happy to have him there.
The night continued with Sam and John fooling around with some of your girl friends, while you were dancing on the floor, Bucky just watched from over the bar. He hated himself for being there; he was probably ruining your celebration, and you had to feign you were happy to see him.
Suddenly, a peck on his cheek took him out of his thoughts. You were there with glassy doe eyes, looking at him.
“What’s going on?” You furrowed your eyebrows.
“I’m such an idiot—I let Walker make me feel insecure, and we came, we should probably go—I should probably go.”
“Hey, hey. Pump your brakes,” you said, grabbing his hands, “I’m the happiest girl right now at this bar. You came— you’re here with me in a place you hate. I—I don’t know if I love the reason, but you’re here, and you should enjoy the ride while you’re here at least.”
He chuckled at your cheering. Then he saw how you were looking around— he knew you were planning something, and that usually was not something good.
“C’mon.” You took him by his flesh hand and walked to the nearest bathroom.
“What the hell are we doing?” He said nervously when he saw you lock the door of the bathroom.
“Reminding you that I’m yours.”
Before he could even answer, you attacked his mouth, both of his hands held your waist, making you as close as possible, he put you on top of the sink, and buried himself in the space between your legs. Your hands roamed on his broad back while his hands gripped the fabric that hid your skin.
“We should stop—someone can come in.” He said, really trying to hold the feeling back.
“Just a minute, we will be quick.” You said between kisses.
“Honey, you’re drunk—you’re not thinking straight. I promise you I’m good now. I will enjoy the night, but you don’t have to do this.”
“Bucky,” you pleaded with puppy eyes.
“Honey—tomorrow morning I’m gonna give you anything you want and ask, but I’m not gonna do it when you’re drunk and even less so in public.”
“Fine! But can you accept you’re one and only?” You created distance between you two. He nodded as a response, “Say it.”
“What?” He seemed genuinely confused.
“Say you know you are one and only.”
“Honey…”
“Say it, or I take my panties off.” You said pulling your hips up, and he stopped you at once.
“I’m—I’m one and only…” He sighed, but deep down he knew you were on your right to ask him to do that.
When both regained composure and went out, you ran directly to your group of friends while he tried to feign clarity as he walked to Sam and John’s direction.
“Huh—someone looks more relaxed.” John said throwing a beer at Bucky’s direction.
He caught it up on the air, “you’re pushing your luck, Walker.”
“So, now can you accept you’re an idiot for paying attention to this idiot right here?” Sam said with indignation.
Bucky smiled at the sight of you dancing with your friends around you. That smile. That disheveled appearance, everything reminded him that he was the luckiest man, and he had to accept the fact that you were his.
General taglist: @maplesyrizzup @wickedfun9 @herejustforbuckybarnes @w1nter-fairy @sassandscribbles @globetrotter28 @buckysouvenir @singulartoast @buckybsdoll @mathcat345 @elliestwoleftfingerss @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @phoenix-in-writing @onyx8514 @shitbewild @idkbeautiful @misswhiddless @buckybarneswife08 @beefybuckyplease @maxsaturdayhatesnarwhals @bunnybarnes1 +add yourself to my tag list!
Simon doesn’t get why you hate him so much.
simon riley x sergeant!reader who hates(?) his guts
tags/cw: nsfw 18+, explicit sexual content, afab!reader, simon kind of corners you for a sec so a smidge of dubcon but there’s verbal consent right after!, male masturbation, light masochism, sexual tension, brat kink, degradation kink, sparring as foreplay, hate sex (kind of), dirty thoughts & dirty talk, teasing, oral, orgasm denial, unprotected sex, creampie, FEELINGS, just hear me out okay. [5k words]
based off of this request!, read on ao3
Simon doesn’t get why you hate him so much.
Doesn’t understand why you’re perfectly polite with Price and the others but look at him like fresh shit smeared on your boot’s sole.
Not that he cares; it’s only mildly irritating to have to listen to you talk shit whenever he’s busy tracking a target down his scope.
Better not miss, Lt.
Would be a really big mess to clean if you fuck this up, Lt.
Don’t tell me you’re getting rusty, Lt?
A right anklebiter, you are. It gets worse when you’re both on base– when the verbal pettiness turns physical.
You’re both on the running track, doing your morning runs at the same time.
“On your right,” Simon grunts, just loud enough for you to hear. He pivots just a bit to your right so he can pass.
But then you also slide a bit to your right, speeding up on the way so that you’re still in front and blocking his way. When he tries going to the other way, you zig zag with him. Left, right, left, left, more left, right.
In the end, you stop when he stops. You turn towards him, eyeing him like a moldy meal you forgot to throw out.
“Oh. Hi, Lt.,” you say. “Didn’t see you there.”
“I told you to move, Sergeant,” he mutters.
“Sorry, Lt., what was that?” You cup your ears. “Couldn’t hear you over my music.”
You’re not even wearing any earbuds.
He turns on his heels and leaves with his fists clenched tight.
It’s been like this since you first joined. He remembers it as clear as day-- a younger, somehow more stubborn-looking you.
Plucked fresh from whatever unit you were in before them, you had greeted them— Price, Garrick, Johnny— with respect: a salute, a handshake, and a smile to boot.
But then you hear his name, see his mask, and it’s like hell freezes over on your face.
Lieutenant Riley, nice to meet you– like it was the exact opposite, like it caused you physical pain to even say his name.
Johnny makes fun of him for it. Dae ye know 'em? Face looked like ye curbstomped a bairn or something.
You drop the filter entirely once you settle into the team months later. Tongue gets looser, no pulled punches, thinly veiled contempt slipping into pure snark.
He needs to grab something from a cabinet you’re in front of? Your hand shoots out, waggling your fingers. Five quid and I’ll move, Lt.
Helping him bandage up on an op? He grunts when your fingers dig just a tad too deep into his skin and wrap the wound just a tad too tight. Maybe if you didn’t get hit in the first place, Lt.
It’s infuriating.
But you don’t stop because there are never any consequences.
No matter how many looks Price shoots him when the old man overhears the blatant disrespect.
No matter how many times other soldiers stare at you like you’re out of your goddamn mind (you are) for saying the shit you do.
Why?
Because the reason Simon never writes you up for insubordination is the same reason he's fisting his leaking cock in bed like some horny fucking teenager.
It's the same reason he lets you snark in his ear over comms, quietly grinding his rock-hard erection into cold dirt, and grunts to hide the pleasure that shoot down his spine when your nails dig into bloody skin.
It's the only thing he can think about when he's like this— your nails tracing the muscle of his back and gripping his cock until his spunk gets all over you.
Simon doesn't remember when it started. Doesn’t remember when the want became a need.
Maybe it was the time you sassed him in front of the others, or maybe it was when you looked him straight in the eye and told him 'you look like a cosplayer, Lt.' Or maybe it was since the beginning, on your very first day.
The one thing he is sure about is how much he wants to fuck you.
Simon wants to fuck you until you're all babbles and wails— bend you over in his bed until you can't think straight and all you can muster is how you want more of his stupid, stupid cock.
He wants you to want him as much as he wants you. But he doesn't want to fuck the fight out of you though, no.
Yeah, a part of him still wonders why you hate him so much, but he doesn't mind you sticking to whatever fucked-up preconceived notions you have of him.
Your fire is what makes it fun, and Simon loves to burn.
He cums like that, mind flush with the thought of you fucking yourself on his cock while telling him how much you can't fucking stand him.
When the haze of pleasure finally recedes, he's stuck with one goal in his mind,
—getting you in his bed.
Your lieutenant's acting strange.
Ever since he walked away from you on the track, Ghost has been... accommodating. Moreso than before.
It's suspicious as fuck.
You're not an idiot. You know your behavior should've gotten you sacked ages ago. Even though Ghost might let it slide for whatever reason, it's still highly disrespectful to your CO. (But you have your reason, as petty as it is. He deserves it.)
So it's strange when he starts acting almost-nice to you.
Exhibit A.
Standing up for you.
The 141 is respected amongst operators and soldiers alike; this is fact. But there's always bound to be a green recruit who thinks, I can do it, I'm special, why not me?
These are the ones you encounter most as the most recent and youngest addition to the 141. It's something you had to grow new skin for, but that doesn't mean it isn't fucking annoying to deal with.
"I bet I could take them in a fight. They don't even look that tough," the recruit prattles. "Do you think the captain will let me into 141 if I beat them?"
The group of soldiers he’s posturing to snicker and laugh. They don’t seem to care that you’re standing ten feet away, or that you can very visibly hear their conversation.
You're about to tell them to drop and give you fifty when a big hulking man steps towards the group.
"Think you got what it takes, corporal?" Your lieutenant drawls, staring down at the recruits who look like they're all going to piss their fatigues.
"L-lieutenant! No--yes, I mean, I--"
Ghost jerks his head towards the training mats.
"Let's see how good you are then."
The recruit gets dropped within ten seconds.
Your lieutenant mutters something to him before barking at the rest of the group. Get your asses on the field. You lot are runnin' laps until you know what it means to respect your betters.
Does he even know how hypocritical he’s being?
Later on during dinner, the recruit who insulted you walks up to 141's table, still ruffled from the nasty takedown and sweaty from running around base. He barely manages to squeak out an apology to you, shooting the smallest glance at your lieutenant before running away with his tail tucked.
(How do you grapple with the way your heart turns?)
Ghost doesn't react, doesn't even look up. Only sips his tea like nothing ever happened.
Exhibit B.
Since when did Ghost start talking back to you on comms?
"If you let me die tonight, I'm going to haunt you and your bloodline forever, Lt."
An undercover mission. Infiltrating some invite-only bourgeoisie gala that's an alleged meeting place for many, many VIPs. Coincidentally, 141's newest target happens to be invited and you are the one who's thrown into the lions' pit.
"My bloodline? Not happening."
He's somewhere out there, watching. On the roof of a nearby building probably.
There’s a sense of comfort in that. You may not like his guts, but you’ve never doubted him on overwatch.
"Why? Got no game, Lt.?"
"Got plenty," he says.
The soft rumble of his voice tickles your ear. It's unusual-- weird-- to hear him banter with you over comms like this. He usually only ever does it with Soap.
"Well, make it happen then," you mumble.
A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne. You smile politely, shaking your head ‘no’.
It’s not the highest risk mission, but the amount of armed guards you’re seeing is a bit annoying. That, and your target is still nowhere to be found.
If you have to send another flirty smile to another grimy man while waiting, you're telling Ghost to aim the crosshair at you instead. And then you're going to haunt him.
"You volunteerin'?"
Your brain short-circuits.
What?
Your mouth bobs open, then shut, and then open again. Hoping to whatever deity out there that your lieutenant's scope isn't actively trained on you right now.
Shit hits the fan faster than you can gather your thoughts.
Screams ring out through the ballroom as windows shatter and gunfire fills the air. Chaos quickly spreads through the masses as people run for cover. Ghost's voice flickers in over the noise.
"Sergeant, take cover, now! Go!"
You don't need to be told twice.
There'll be time to think about what he said later, when you aren't actively in danger of being hole-punched.
And then, Exhibit C.
This is how it culminates.
Outside, on the fields with your fellow sergeants and Ghost. The four of you toss sticks to decide sparring partners; it's sheer dumb misfortune that you end up pairing with Ghost.
You've sparred with him before. He's relentless. There's always a bruise or two on your body when he's done with you. Never once have you won against him; you don't expect this time to be any different.
“Let’s see if you’ve improved, Sergeant,” Ghost taunts.
“I swear I won’t accidentally kick your balls, Lt.,” you reply.
The two of you grapple at each other, swiping and pushing, body on body. Ghost is wearing a tight compression shirt today. You'd be lying if you said it wasn't somewhat distracting with the way it hugged the planes of his muscles— no! Keep focusing!
It's never easy to wrestle a man as big as him. But you have to try.
Your hands can barely wrap around his biceps, but you use what you have to your advantage. Nails nearly break skin as you dig deep. He grunts, grip tightening on your arms.
A man's strength can sometimes be his undoing.
You let your weight shift, using his hold on you as an anchor. Tilting back, you let your legs swing forward, grappling around his waist. The momentum has Ghost stumbling back, and you make your final move.
Ghost lets out a surprised grunt as you let go of his arms and force your way through his grip. You push through, pressing your forearms against his throat until his whole body tilts and falls back onto the mat.
Oh, you're gasping out breaths. Holy shit.
You did it.
Ghost is, like you, breathing hard through his nose, eyes lidded. His hands no longer wrap around your arms. Instead, they're settled on your hips, holding you firmly in place.
It occurs to you then the position you're in.
Legs spread over his waist, sitting right on his belly. You're bent forward, hands splayed across his chest and next to his head. Practically laying on top of him.
He's so warm.
An involuntary jolt rolls through your body as you jerk backwards, an attempt to get some distance from his face.
Big mistake.
Holy fuck, this is not happening right now.
You feel it beneath your ass. Unmistakably big, undeniably hard.
A shiver makes it's way down your spine. Your legs clench tight, squishing his abdomen and grinding deeper against him. With the way Ghost's fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, you know he feels it too.
There's a fog closing in on your mind. The sight of your lieutenant under you shouldn't turn you on like this— and yet, the growing dampness between your legs tells you otherwise.
Panicked, you rip yourself off of him and get on your feet. A look over at Soap and Gaz, but they're still in a grapple of their own. It's only a temporary relief that runs over you when you realize they hadn't seen what happened.
"Sergeant," your lieutenant calls out. He's propped up on his arm; you look anywhere but him.
"Sorry, Lt. Feeling a little sick," you say, licking your lips. "Going to freshen up a bit."
You don't wait for him to dismiss you before you're jogging back to your quarters.
Standing in front of your little bathroom sink, you splash cold water onto your burning face. It barely helps.
How did you end up here?
Was it when he started being nice to you, even though you were never anything but rude? Was it when he defended you against egotistic recruits?
Or has it been doomed since the start, when he first looked at you through his stupidly long lashes, like he was trying flip you inside out with his stare?
You weren't lying when you told him you felt sick.
It's a creeping feeling in your gut that's been burning low for a while now. Don't want to call it denial, but what else could it be?
(Betrayal, maybe. You shouldn't feel anything else. Shouldn’t be feeling anything but spite for your lieutenant. It isn't fair to your friend who—)
Knock knock.
The sound breaks you away from thought. A part of you dreads opening it, because you know who stands behind the heavy door. The other part of you is who turns the knob.
Ghost stands there, towering over you.
"Alright, Sergeant?"
His composure is unfair. It's like before never happened. You take a deep breath before replying.
"Yes, sir," you say. It comes out all crackly and rough. "Nothing to worry about."
The silence that falls between you is unsettling.
“If that’s all.” You start to close the door, but his hand catches it.
“Need to talk to you ‘bout something,” he says.
You feel your heart drop somewhere into hell. “Sir, there’s nothing—”
He pushes the door back, pressing into your room. “D’you have a problem with me, Sergeant?”
Eyebrows scrunched, you back up into the wall behind you. “What?”
“I repeat, do you have a problem with me?”
Ghost tilts your chin up. His hand feel like a brand on your skin. Your gaze moves back and forth from his eyes to where his lips shift under the mask, all of a sudden taken back to the picture of him lying beneath your legs. He follows your stare, searching.
“Yes or no, Sergeant?”
His voice is all guttural and deep, like he’s holding himself back from something.
“…N-no, I—”
“Good,” he hums. “Won’t have a problem with this then.”
He moves faster than you can process. Hand slipping his balaclava up, just enough to expose thin scarred lips and a crooked nose. You blink, and suddenly they’re pressing against yours.
Any semblance of self-control melts away after that.
He kisses you like a man deprived of oxygen. Feels more like he's eating you up rather than kissing you. Like he's trying to drink up the air you breathe and more.
But after all he's been doing these past few weeks, the contact feels like a deep reprieve in your bones— a relief you don't want to admit to needing.
You chase him when he pulls back.
“Do you hate me?” He asks, thumb tracing your swollen lips.
"I just let you kiss me," you say, breathless and incredulous. "And you're asking me if I hate you?"
He smirks-- it's stupidly attractive seeing a real expression on him.
"Can't be sure when it comes to you, Sergeant."
You furrow your brows, annoyed. "What's that supposed to mean— mmph!"
Ghost cuts you off with another kiss, hands moving down to your hips. You yelp when he pulls your legs up to wrap around his waist, hauling you up by your ass.
"Arms around me, love," he grunts between pecks.
Once your arms wrap around his shoulders, he pushes off the wall and carries you over to the bed. With surprising care, he drops you on the mattress and settles on top of you.
"Tell me to stop," Ghost growls against your neck. "And I will."
You should say no. No to fraternization, no to betraying your morals.
Stand strong in the face of evil temptation!
"More," you plead instead, because the devil lives inside you. "Want more, Lt."
He groans into your skin. It excites you infinitely more. Leaning back, he pulls his shirt off, revealing firm muscles and a soft belly.
Fuck, he’s so stupidly hot. Your own top and pants comes off a moment later, left forgotten on the floor.
The two of you are a mess of tangled limbs in your little bed made for one.
Ghost kisses down your body, latching onto your soft skin and sucking bruises down your chest. He says things that make you burn a fever pitch— fuckin’ gorgeous, sergeant, knew you needed me, isn't tha' right?
It’s unbearable how turned on you are.
Whines bleed through clenched teeth as you paw at his body. He bites, eliciting a sharp flinch from you.
Always pissin’ me off with tha’ smart mouth of yours, he mutters. Makin' me go wank off like a fuckin' teen.
Your mind is blur— everything is happening too fast, too hot, to process what he's saying to you.
Ghost moves down your body, giving your chest a rough fondle before settling in between your shaky legs.
When he drags your underwear down, your pussy is glistening with how utterly wet you are.
"All f' me?" He asks, pupils blown at the sight of his prize. "Fuckin' drippin'."
You squirm, cheeks searing hot. "Shut up—"
He doesn't let you finish, burying his face between your thighs in one smooth motion.
If Ghost kisses like a man starved, then he eats pussy like it's the only thing keeping him alive.
He pulls you close in his arms and drinks you up like the slick dripping from your pussy is his own personal ambrosia. Moans and groans like it's some divine providence to have his mouth on your cunt.
Your hands claw at his neck and shoulders, but it only spurs him on with more fervor. You feel it simmering into a boil in your belly; the telling signs of your orgasm building.
"Hah—Fuck, Lt., I'm gonna—," you moan, squeezing your eyes shut in anticipation.
But then he stills.
Just stops completely as his mouth leaves your pussy cold and shaking. You lift your head to look down at him, eyes in a frenzy from a ruined climax.
"W-why'd you stop—,"
"Never answered my question, love." He blows cold air on your clit, teasing.
"Huh?"
"Tell me why you hate me," Ghost says, staring at you through soft lashes. "Tell me why you act like such a fuckin' brat, and I'll let you come."
Your breath hitches. “You’re such a fucking asshole—“
You try to kick your leg at him, but he's strong and there's nothing you can do with them pinned down. He nips at your clit, making you yelp out in shock.
"Answer the question, Sergeant."
Ghost shifts his arm, bringing his hand over while still holding your leg down. It's sinful to watch it happen-- his tongue flicking out, licking two of his fingers until they're shimmering with saliva, petting your pussy from the clit down to your pulsing hole.
"Mmhh—"
The stretch of his fingers in your pussy makes you tremble with anticipation. But he doesn't move them the way you want. Only teases you slowly and gently.
"Please, Lt.—"
"Not fuckin' you 'til you tell me, pet."
And isn't that simply the most aggravating thing to hear?
You let out a frustrated whimper. Mind running back and forth over what you could possibly say so that he'll make you come. A shock of pleasure flickers through you when he suddenly crooks his fingers inside you.
Keeping your gaze, he flicks his tongue out and drags it slowly, tracing a line from where his fingers fuck into you, all the way up to your clit.
"Promise I'll fuck you right if you tell me."
The words bubble up your throat before you can stop them.
"...myfriendaskedyououtbutyourejectedthemsoI'mobligatedtohateyou— please, let me come, Lt.," you half-beg, half-sob.
It’s embarrassing. Borderline humiliating to say it aloud.
The real reason for why you treat him like trash— how you only really hate him by proxy.
Truthfully, there's never been any real ill intent. Only a sorry moral obligation to be as spiteful as possible for an old teammate who had confided in you after being coldly shot down by the masked lieutenant of 141— the very one that's currently knuckles deep in your throbbing cunt and covered in your juices.
“Wasn’t so hard, was it, love?” Ghost purrs, fingers still slowly pumping in and out of you.
He's still smirking, that fucking asshole. You wriggle your hips, but he keeps you still with an arm and it’s just not enough.
“Fuck you,” you cry out in frustration.
“I will," he hums. "All tha’ sass for what, hm? Someone I don’t even remember?”
He presses his nose into the plush of your thigh and takes a deep inhale.
"Jerk— hngh!"
Broken moans escape you as his lips find your clit once more. This time, he eats you up without mercy, thick fingers curving wickedly into that one spot inside you. A familiar spark beginning its ascent from where it first fell.
You want to tell him that he's mean, a straight jerk for not remembering someone confessing to them. That this was your friend he was dismissing like a nobody.
(Oh, but what would your friend say if they find out you're in bed with the man who rejected them?
It was so long ago though, your mind whispers. Surely, they've moved on by now, right?)
His tongue laps with just the right pressure on your bud, full broad strokes that make you see stars. His fingers work your pussy with focused precision, sinking into the spot that keeps making you cry out in pleasure.
It's all too much for you to take.
When he finally wraps his lips around your sensitive clit and sucks— you come with blinding lights in your vision, hips grinding up into his face uncontrollably.
"Tha's it, just like that, Sergeant," Ghost coos against your clit, sending another jolt through your legs.
He slips his fingers out of you and pulls himself up back towards your neck, nipping and nestling at your throat. His still-clothed cock grinds gently against your pulsating core.
With the crash comes some of your rationality.
"They liked you, you asshole," you accuse softly, boneless.
"Like me?" Ghost says bluntly against your skin. "They don't even know me."
You roll your eyes. "What, like I know you?"
He pulls back, both arms braced at the sides of your head. Something indecipherable in his gaze.
"Don't you?"
Don't you?
Your breath catches in your chest.
And what would it mean to know someone like Ghost?
His name? His face?
Is it to know the same ten jokes he tells on the field? Or how he always makes sure to give his soldiers a once-over before heading out, and is always the last to exfil?
Or maybe it's to know the sound of his voice in your ears, to be able to pick him out from a crowd of blurry faces. To be able to recognize the scarred curve of his lips, the rough callouses on his palms against your skin.
You sink into the deep end when you realize how close the proximity between you and the man-you-tried-to-hate has become.
"You with me, pet?"
Ghost pulls you out of your thoughts with a nibble on your throat.
"Worryin' too much," he nuzzles into your neck, suckling a sensitive spot that makes you whine. "Couldn't care less 'bout your friend."
You frown, opening your mouth to berate him again, but he beats you with a deep kiss.
“Don't care f'anyone else," Ghost utters between kisses. "Copy?"
The thought makes your head go fuzzy. You nod.
"Good, 'cause 'm gonna fuck you now."
Like a switch, Ghost goes back to teasing you. He kisses you hard, still as desperate and hungry as it was before. Your hands slip down his muscly frame, tugging at the hem of his pants.
"—off," you manage to say between breaths.
Ghost obliges, breaking free from you to tug off his pants. You salivate at the sight; you'd felt it before, on the training grounds— knew it would be big.
His cock is fat and heavy on your cunt when he settles back in between your legs. Even against the size of his bulk, he's fucking huge.
"Scared?" He teases.
You break eye contact with his cock to look up at him. The stupid smirk is back on his lips, irritating you in all the right ways. His eyes stare down you, as heavy as his cock feels.
"I've had bigger," you lie.
He tilts his head. "S'that right?"
Grabbing your hand, he pulls it down towards his cock. His own hands guide yours as he drags them up and down his length.
Holy shit, you can barely wrap your hands around him.
He makes you press his cock against your pussy. It squelches with how wet you are, as his cock slides against your lips. Your breath hitches when his fat tip catches on your slick entrance.
"So fuckin' wet f'me," Ghost groans. "Want my cock inside you tha' bad, pet?"
You whine, needy pussy fluttering every time his nudges his cock at your hole. "Please, please—."
"Please what? Use your words." He presses his tip in, just a bit.
"Need you to fuck me, Lt.—," you plead, grinding your hips down in attempt to fuck yourself on his cock.
"Say my name, pet. I know you know it."
Fucking. Asshole!
Frustrated, you dig your nails deep into his arms, earning a pained grunt from him.
"Oh, go fuck yourself, Simon."
You're not ready for the way Ghost absolutely buries his cock deep inside you with a pathetic whimper.
Your own breath is knocked out of you with how fucking big he feels, legs shaking at the sudden intrusion.
"Fuck— so fuckin' tight," Simon grunts out.
His hips shift back just a bit before plunging back into your ruined pussy, drawing a choked moan from you. The stretch is euphoric— combined with the way his tip rubs up against that spot in your pussy, it's all you can do to keep yourself from falling into the haze.
“D'you know—,” he says, sinking again and again into your cunt. “—how much I thought ‘bout this?”
"'Bout fuckin' this pretty cunt—" Thrust.
"Bending you over in my bed—" Thrust.
"Makin' you come over and over—" Thrust.
It's no use; you lose yourself in the pleasure of his cock, eyes rolling back as he repeatedly pounds you further into the bed. His hands squeeze tight around the curves of your ass, pulling you flush against him and stuffing you full with each thrust.
Simon doesn't stop teasing you.
"What's wrong, love? Got nothin' to say?" He taunts you, lifting both your legs over his shoulders and somehow fucking into you impossibly deeper.
"Cock's got your tongue?"
"F-fu-ungh—"
Tears trail down your cheeks as the simmer in your belly grows overwhelming.
He slips a hand between your legs and starts rubbing circles on your clit, coaxing a string of debauched sounds out of you.
"Sound so fuckin' good like this," Simon groans, eyes hazy and looking just as wrecked as you. "Should jus' keep y'here and fuck you forever."
"—mngh, f-fuck... you," you finally managed to choke out, voice raw and scratchy.
It doesn't distract from the way your cunt clenches tighter than before, not with the way you watch his eyes flicker dark.
He bottoms out with a particularly hard thrust at your words, leaving you a sobbing mess as he fucks you relentlessly.
You grasp away at him as your pleasure begins to overwhelm you— now threatening to boil over. Simon, Simon, Simon is all you can muster, but it's enough.
His cock ruts into you with no reprieve, fingers still flittering over your aching clit.
"Come f'me, pet."
And for once in your life, you obey your lieutenant.
Euphoria burns through your nerves as a second orgasm crashes over you from down under. Your cunt pulses in unrelenting waves, the pleasure borderlining too much. Squeezing his cock even deeper as Simon chases his own climax.
When he finally unravels, it's chaotic and frantic. Simon bends you over, covering you with his body and pulling you close as if to keep you under him. His eyes are squeezed shut, panting as sweat drips into the fabric of his mask.
Your pussy flutters one more time— milking his cock dry at the idea of knowing what Simon Riley looks like when he comes balls deep in your pussy.
“I still hate you,” you whisper, once the electricity fizzles out of the air, leaving only faint static remnants.
But there’s no real venom in your voice.
Simon huffs on top of you. You feel it in the way his chest jumps against yours.
“Right.” He relaxes his body onto you, weight squishing the air out of your lungs with a small ‘oof’. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, love.”
You can't describe the silence that falls over the both of you as comfortable, but... it's not bad, either. There's still a lingering sense of guilt in the back of your mind— but it's no longer screaming at you like before.
Simon's head shifts, the mask pulling on your sheets as he turns and mutters into your temple.
"Still plannin' on hauntin' me now that it's gonna be our bloodline?"
You slap his side as best as you can with your pinned arm.
can’t stop thinking about beefy bucky with reader who gives off shy/innocent/sweet energy (you wouldn’t in a million years expect her to be a freak) — Bucky and her have been dating a year and they’ve had sweet, vanilla sex but reader wants to give Bucky head and he agrees (not knowing the FREAK his gf is). I’m talking reader giving buck head for 2 rounds back to back and him becoming a subby whining mess whilst being jaw dropped at the freak he’s dating (this can go on to her riding him out of his mind - up to u)
(I’m ovulating don’t judge me)
Bucky truly thinks you’re joking.
Not because he doubts you, but because the request is wrapped in that same soft, shy energy you always carry. You’re curled against his side on the couch, fingers tracing idle patterns on his shirt, voice quiet like you’re asking for something fragile.
“Can I… try something different tonight?”
He hums, distracted at first, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Different how, doll?”
You hesitate just long enough for him to glance down—and when he does, your cheeks are pink, your eyes not quite meeting his. That’s what throws him. You look like you’re about to ask permission to hold his hand, not… this.
“I wanna… take care of you.”
It lands slowly. Then all at once.
Bucky stills.
“…You mean—”
You nod before he can finish, biting your lip.
And God, the way he exhales—half laugh, half disbelief. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your cheek, “you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” you cut in, soft but firm.
That’s new, too.
Bucky studies you for a second, searching your face, making sure. And when he finds nothing but quiet determination under all that sweetness, something in him shifts—warms, melts.
“…Yeah,” he says finally, voice lower now. “Okay.”
---
He has no idea.
He realizes very quickly that he has no idea.
It starts slow—hesitant, almost. You ease him back onto the bed like you’re not entirely sure of yourself, hands gentle, movements careful. Bucky props himself up on his elbows, watching you with that soft, affectionate smile he always gets when you’re nervous.
“Hey,” he murmurs, reaching for you. “We can stop anytime, alright?”
You nod.
But you don’t stop.
Because the moment you settle between his thighs, something changes.
It’s subtle at first—just a shift in your confidence, the way your hands steady, the way your focus sharpens. Bucky notices it in pieces, too distracted to put it together right away. He just knows that within minutes, his head is tipped back against the pillows, breath catching in a way it never has before.
“Sweetheart—” he starts, but it breaks off into something rougher.
You hum softly, and the sound alone makes his fingers curl into the sheets.
That’s when it hits him.
You’re not hesitant anymore.
You’re… intentional.
Every movement feels deliberate, like you know exactly what you’re doing—like you’ve been holding this back, tucked neatly behind that shy smile of yours for an entire year.
“Where the hell—” he breathes, voice strained, eyes blown wide as he looks down at you. “Baby, where did you—”
You glance up at him, innocent as ever.
And then you don’t stop.
Bucky swears under his breath, head falling back again, one hand coming up to cover his eyes like that might somehow help him hold it together. It doesn’t. Nothing about this is helping him hold it together.
“You’re—” he tries again, voice breaking into a helpless laugh. “You’re gonna ruin me.”
You don’t respond. You just keep going, steady and focused in a way that has his stomach tightening, his chest rising and falling too fast.
And when he finally reaches that edge—
“Wait—” he gasps, hand dropping to find yours. “Honey, I—”
You slow just enough to look up at him again.
Soft. Sweet. Completely unreadable.
“Can I keep going?” you ask, like this isn’t already destroying him.
Bucky stares at you.
“…You’re kidding.”
You shake your head.
And that’s how he ends up gone.
Completely.
The second round hits him harder—his body already sensitive, already on edge, already wrecked. He can’t even pretend to be in control anymore, not when every small movement has him reacting like it’s too much.
“Jesus—baby, please—” he chokes out, hand tangling in your hair, not to guide you but just to hold on to something. “I can’t— I can’t—”
You glance up again, and there’s something new in your expression now—something playful, something almost teasing.
“Oh,” you murmur softly, “you can’t?”
He actually whines.
The sound seems to flip a switch in you, because suddenly you’re not just focused—you’re driving him there, pushing him right up to the edge again with a patience that feels almost cruel.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he breathes, half-laughing, half-pleading, his free hand gripping the sheets so tight his knuckles ache. “I had no idea—no idea you were hiding this—”
You hum again, and he loses it.
By the time you finally let him come down, Bucky is sprawled across the bed like he’s just survived something catastrophic, chest heaving, hair a mess, eyes still unfocused.
“…You’re not real,” he mutters.
You climb back up beside him, tucking yourself into his side like nothing happened, like you didn’t just unravel him piece by piece.
“I am,” you say sweetly.
He turns his head to look at you, still dazed.
“…You’ve been holding out on me.”
You shrug, all soft smiles again. “Maybe.”
Bucky lets out a breath, dragging a hand over his face before pulling you closer, pressing his forehead to yours.
“Baby,” he murmurs, voice still rough, “you’re—”
He stops, searching for the word.
There isn’t one.
So he settles for pulling you into a kiss instead—slow, a little desperate, like he’s trying to ground himself again.
And when you shift in his lap a second later, pressing closer, like you’re not done yet—
He groans.
“…You’re trying to kill me.”
You just smile.
And Bucky realizes, a little too late, that whatever he thought he knew about you?
Everybody knew better than to ask if you and Jason were “together” or “broken up.”
The answer changed depending on the day, sometimes the hour. Your friends stopped asking after a while — if you were single, if you were still living with him, if you were back on his motorcycle in the middle of the night with your skirt riding up your thighs.
One week he was spoiling you with rooftop takeout and new jewelry, kissing your ankle while you lounged across his lap. The next, you were hurling his hoodie out your apartment window while he screamed up at you from the street.
It was toxic. Messy. Impossible. And yet—you always came back. Always.
Because Jason Todd was infuriating, jealous, reckless, and mean when he wanted to be. But he was also the only man who knew how to pamper you like a princess, the only man who grounded you when the world spun too fast, the only man who made you feel alive in ways no one else could touch.
Didn’t matter how loud the fights got, how messy the accusations were. Him glaring at you for being too friendly with some guy at the club, you screaming at him for letting a bartender linger too long with her hand on his arm. It always ended the same.
Words sharp enough to cut, slammed doors, and then—his hands bruising your hips, your nails raking down his back, the taste of blood and lipstick and desperation mixing like poison you both craved.
Tonight was no different.
Your phone buzzed, and you barely glanced at the screen before Jason’s sharp voice cut through your apartment.
“Who the hell is Mark?”
It always started the same way.
Screaming.
You froze mid-sip of wine, turning to see him leaning against the kitchen doorway. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Eyes sharp as gunmetal.
You rolled your eyes, tossing the phone onto the counter like it was nothing. “Oh my god, Jason. He’s just some guy. He asked if I wanted to grab a drink. Friendly.”
Jason’s laugh was harsh, biting. He pushed off the doorframe and stalked closer, boots heavy on the floor. “Friendly? Baby, he’s not trying to be your friend. Guys like that don’t want to talk about your day. They want you spread out on their bed. Yeah, that sounds real friendly.”
Your heels clicked angrily as you crossed the kitchen, meeting him head-on. “And what about you? Flirting with every bartender in Gotham? Letting waitresses give you their number like you’re God’s gift? You think I don’t see the way they look at you?”
His eyes narrowed, teeth gritted. “Difference is, I don’t answer them back.”
You shoved his chest, hard, your glossed lips curling into a bitter smile. “You’re such a hypocrite.”
Jason caught your wrist mid-swing, grip like iron, yanking you closer until your breath tangled with his. His voice dropped, low and dangerous, rough enough to make your thighs clench.
“And you,” he hissed, “are such a brat.”
Your pulse spiked. You tried to tug free, nails digging into his jacket. “Let me go, Jason.”
Instead, he caged you against the counter, his body hot and solid against yours, the tension vibrating between you like a live wire. His hand slid down to your ass, fingers digging in hard enough to make you gasp.
The air between you snapped, electric. You hated him. You loved him. You couldn’t breathe without him. His hand slid lower, to your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp.
“You want drinks with him?” he growled, lips brushing your ear. “Or do you want me to bend you over this counter and remind you exactly why you don’t need anyone else?”
You bucked against him, teeth bared. “Fuck you, Todd.”
“That’s the plan, princess.” His hand cracked hard against your ass, the sharp sound echoing in the kitchen.
Pain bloomed hot and immediate, followed by a dizzying rush of heat pooling low in your belly. You cried out, half fury, half filthy want, as he landed another stinging slap. “Always pushing,” he snarled, fingers digging into the tender flesh beneath your skirt. “Always gotta be a brat.”
“Stop—” you gasped moaning almost, writhing, but he pinned you tighter, grinding his erection against your backside. The familiar slide of leather against silk made your knees tremble.
Jason’s free hand dipped into his waistband.
Cold, unforgiving metal pressed against your inner thigh, the barrel of his Glock. You froze, breath hitching. He dragged it upward, tracing the seam of your panties before nudging them aside. The chill of the steel kissed your wetness, a shocking contrast to the fever burning inside you.
“Still wanna go?” His voice was gravel, rough with dark promise. He pushed the gun deeper, the unforgiving edge parting your folds. You whimpered, arching back against him instinctively. “Or you gonna be good?”
The safety clicked off. The sound was obscene. Final.
You shook your head, frantic. Words tangled in your throat, anger, fear, blinding need. He laughed low against your neck, biting down hard enough to bruise. “Didn’t think so.”
He withdrew the gun slowly, leaving you trembling and achingly empty. Then he spun you around, shoving you backward onto the cold granite countertop. Your glass or water shattered on the floor. He didn’t care. His hands ripped your panties down your thighs, fingers hooking behind your knees to spread you wide.
Jason’s eyes burned like hellfire. “Gonna tame this brat,” he vowed, lining himself up. “Gonna fuck you so deep you forget every other name but mine.”
The glock’s barrel pressed against your clit, cold and demanding. You gasped, hips jerking, not away, but toward the unforgiving steel. Jason’s thumb circled the trigger guard, rough leather scraping your inner thigh.
“Beg,” he commanded, voice stripped raw. “Beg me to put it inside you.”
You choked on pride, on fury, on the slick heat pooling between your legs. “Please,” you whispered. The word tasted like surrender. Like salvation.
He pushed the gun inside you slowly, brutally. The metal stretched you, cold against your burning walls. You cried out, nails scraping granite. Jason watched your face, rapt, as he worked the barrel deeper.
“Feel that?” he growled. “That’s mine. Only mine.” He twisted the grip, grinding the sights against your G-spot. Stars exploded behind your eyelids. Your thighs trembled violently, slickness soaking the counter.
Jason withdrew the gun, glistening with your arousal. He didn’t wipe it off. Just holstered it, then unbuckled his belt. “Now,” he rasped, flipping you onto your stomach against the counter. “Where I want you.” He shoved your skirt up, slapped your ass hard, once, twice, leaving stinging welts.
“Still thinking about Mark?” he taunted, spreading your ass. “Wonder what that prick would say if he saw you like this.” His cock slammed into you without warning, thick and punishing. You screamed into the granite, arching back. “Bet he couldn’t handle you,” Jason growled, hips pistoning. “Bet he’d cry when you scratched his back.” He leaned over, biting your shoulder blade. “But me? I fucking love it.” He pulled out abruptly, leaving you clenching around nothing.
Cold metal pressed against your entrance again, the glock’s barrel. “Open up,” he ordered, pushing it inside slowly. You whimpered, feeling the unforgiving steel stretch you wider than before. Jason chuckled darkly.
“See? Only I know how to fill you right.” He twisted the grip, grinding against that sweet spot until your legs shook. “Mark ever make you drip like this? Huh?” Another vicious thrust of the gun. “Answer me.”
“N-no,” you gasped, tears mixing with sweat on the countertop. “Just you.”
“Damn right.” His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back. “Remember this next time some asshole texts you.” His thrusts turned jagged, possessive. “Remember who owns this cunt.”
The glock withdrew again, slick and gleaming under the kitchen lights. Jason pulled your phone from your discarded purse, unlocking it with your thumbprint. He found Mark’s contact. Held the gun inches from your face.
“Smile, princess.” The flash blinded you. The shutter clicked. The photo captured everything: your tear-streaked cheeks, your swollen lips parted on a silent moan, the obscene glisten coating the barrel resting against your thigh. He sent it.
Just like that. No caption needed.
The notification pinged instantly, a horrified “???” flashing on the screen before Jason tossed the phone aside. “Let him see what he’ll never touch.”
He didn’t give you time to process the violation, the dizzying mix of humiliation and arousal flooding your veins. The cold metal pressed back against your entrance, pushing deep in one brutal shove. You cried out, arching off the counter.
Jason leaned over you, his breath hot on your ear. “Still feel like a brat?” He twisted the grip, grinding the unforgiving steel against your most sensitive spot.
Your hips jerked uncontrollably, a ragged sob tearing from your throat. “N-no!”
“Good girl.” The praise was rough, edged with dark satisfaction. He withdrew the gun slowly, the drag deliberate, making you whimper at the loss.
Before the emptiness could fully register, his cock slammed back into you, thick and searing hot after the gun’s chill. He fucked you with punishing strokes, each thrust punctuated by the sharp crack of his palm landing hard on your ass.
The sting bloomed across your skin, merging with the deep ache inside you. “This,” he snarled, fingers digging into your bruised hip, “is where you belong. Taking my cock. Taking my gun. Me.” He punctuated each word with a thrust that drove the breath from your lungs.
You were unraveling, the lines between pain and pleasure blurring into a white-hot haze. The sting of the spanking, the deep stretch of him, the lingering chill of the gunmetal inside you, it was too much.
Your orgasm ripped through you without warning, violent and consuming. You screamed his name, nails scraping uselessly against the granite, body convulsing around him.
Jason groaned, a raw, guttural sound, hips stuttering as your climax milked his own release. He buried himself deep, pulsing inside you, his breath ragged against your sweat-slicked back.
For a moment, the only sounds were your harsh breathing and the distant wail of a Gotham siren.
Silence settled, thick and charged. Jason didn’t pull out. His weight pressed you harder into the cold counter, his hand still possessively gripping your hip. His breath was hot and uneven against the nape of your neck.
Slowly, sensation returned, the ache in your hips, the sting on your ass, the profound emptiness where he’d been. He finally withdrew, the wet sound obscene in the quiet kitchen. You slumped forward, trembling, forehead resting on the cool stone.
The aftermath was a familiar cocktail: exhaustion, lingering adrenaline, and a bone-deep satisfaction that made your limbs feel heavy. You heard the rustle of leather as Jason buckled his belt, the metallic snick of the Glock being holstered.
Then, footsteps. He leaned against the counter beside you, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching you gather yourself. His gaze was hooded, assessing.
You pushed yourself upright with shaky arms, wincing at the protest from your hips and thighs. Your skirt was bunched around your waist, your panties long gone.
You met his stare, defiance sparking despite the wreckage. "You're a fucking idiot, Jay," you rasped, voice raw from screaming. There was no heat behind it, just weary acknowledgment. "Absolute fucking psychopath."
A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. He didn't argue. Instead, he uncrossed his arms and reached out, rough knuckles brushing a stray tear track from your cheekbone.
Unexpectedly, he dipped his head. His lips pressed lazy, almost chaste kisses along your shoulder, tracing the bite mark he’d left earlier. The tenderness was jarring, incongruous after the brutality. You shivered, but didn't pull away.
"Psychopath who knows how to shut you up," he murmured against your skin, the words vibrating softly. His hand slid down your arm, calloused fingers intertwining loosely with yours on the cold countertop.
It wasn't an apology. It was acceptance. Just another twisted piece of your impossible puzzle.
He straightened, his gaze lingering on your disheveled state, skirt rucked up, thighs trembling, the angry red welts stark against your skin.
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. "C'mere," he ordered, voice rough but lacking its earlier edge. He hooked a finger under the waistband of your ruined panties still tangled around one ankle and tugged gently.
You hissed as the delicate fabric scraped over tender flesh. He tossed them aside carelessly, then pulled your skirt down himself, smoothing the fabric over your bruised hips with surprising gentleness. His touch lingered on the curve of your ass, not punishing now, but possessive.
Appreciative.
He straightened, pulling you gently upright. Your legs wobbled, but his arm snaked firmly around your waist, holding you steady against him. His other hand smoothed your crumpled skirt down your thighs with surprising care.
"C'mon," he grunted, nodding towards the door. "Said something about drinks." His tone was gruff, but the underlying command was softened. He bent, effortlessly scooping your discarded panties off the floor.
He didn't hand them to you. Just stuffed them casually into the pocket of his leather jacket. A silent claim. You limped slightly as he guided you towards the apartment door, his arm a solid anchor.
The kitchen lay in ruins behind you, shattered glass glittering on the floor, the lingering scent of sex and gun oil hanging heavy in the air. Jason paused at the threshold, pulling the Glock from its holster.
He ejected the magazine with a practiced flick, checked the chamber was clear, and slid it back home. The metallic clicks were sharp, final punctuation to the scene. He holstered it, then glanced down at you, his gaze lingering on your swollen lips, the fading marks on your neck.
"Next time," he stated, voice low and devoid of its earlier fury, yet thick with dark promise, "you think about grabbing drinks with Mark…" He paused, letting the threat hang. Then, a dry, almost humourless chuckle escaped him. "…remember how much better I am at handling brats." He pulled you closer, his hand landing a sharp, stinging slap on your ass as he pushed you out the door.
"Good girl," he rasped against your ear. "Now let's get that drink. Try flirting with another man, see what happens." The door clicked shut behind you both, locking away the battlefield.
Gotham's grimy air hit your face, cool and damp. You leaned into him, exhausted, aching, utterly claimed. And somehow, impossibly, home.
cw ⭑.ᐟ NSFW, 18+ MDNI, college AU, angst & smut & eventual fluff, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, mean & bratty nerd gojo, unsafe motorcycle riding (WEAR PROPER SAFETY GEAR PLS), heavy pining (one sided), unrequited -> requited love, teasing & banter, a lot of "fuck you" "fuck you too" exchanges, POV switch, fingering, oral s*x (f & m rec.), unprotected piv s*x, chapter content: angst and some smut, alcohol consumption, smoking, a lil street racing, name calling (they're both kinda mean), heavy make-out, groping, thigh riding(we <3 riding here)
summary ⭑.ᐟ You're no stranger to competition with Gojo Satoru—a dork with an un-earned ego bigger even than his DnD figurine collection. So what the hell is he doing on a motorcycle? This can't be the same Gojo you've butted heads with for three years, because if it is... has he always looked like that under the giant glasses and stupid Digimon hoodies? How much—or how little do you actually know about this nerd? part 2 w/c ⭑.ᐟ 13k (what'd i say??)
a/n ⭑.ᐟ everyone say ty to my wife @madamechrissy for helping my indecisive ass land on making this a series! mwah <3 buckle up lovelies! oh wait, no seatbelts on a motorcycle. hold on tight then! | art in the header by the talented @/aliyartss on insta, dividers by @/cafekitsune and @/strangergraphics-archive <3
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Two drinks in along with an hour of dancing with Nobara, and you’re feeling much better than you were when you stepped into this club.
The air is thick, heavy with carbon dioxide from the sweaty, writhing masses on the dance floor, weighed down further by music you can feel in your bones. Strobing coloured lights flash over you every so often and render you a little blinded when they hit your retinas.
But you guess that it might be kind of fun. You and Nobara are doing whatever passes for dancing in your minds, laughing at and with each other. Yuuta and Maki are off on their own somewhere and Yuuji is trying to hype up Megumi into dancing with him—more than the little head bob and sway he’s doing now.
As you’re chuckling at the sight of them, you stagger forward and crash into Nobara who luckily stabilizes herself enough to catch you too. You pull yourself off her and whirl around to snap at whatever asshole just body checked you from behind.
And just your luck? You meet wide blue eyes blinking back at you from over a broad shoulder.
“Oh, sorry, didn’t see—“
“Watch it,” You snap, cutting him off and he pulls his hands off the girl working on fusing herself to his chest to raise them defensively. “The next person might knee you in the balls for that.” You turn away, putting your attention back on Nobara.
“Huh!? I can’t hear you!” That nails on a chalkboard voice squawks right in your ear, setting you back several progressive steps and right back into simmering irritation.
“I said—“ You whirl around, ready to connect your kneecap somewhere soft and vulnerable that’ll put him on the filth of the dance floor, but you stop instead as you meet Gojo’s face. So close that you can see every pale eyelash that flutters as he looks you over again, shamelessly, lingering more than the last time.
“Mind if I cut in? Since I’m right here anyways.” He looks to Nobara as he asks and she frowns and goes to respond, but you cut in before she can get a word out.
“Yes, I do mind, very much in fact.” You snap your head back to Nobara, “I’m going outside for some air, I feel like I’m suffocating right now.” You say loud enough to get your point across to everyone.
She lifts her eyebrows and it says, ‘yeah, I bet’ Before you both turn to head in opposite directions.
The cool night air hits your overheated skin as you step out of the club, prickling goosebumps across your chest even though you’re anything but cold. Stars dot the sky above, it’s not quiet by any means but it still feels calm here, soothing the frayed ends of your very confused nerves.
You get about two minutes of peace before a bright and familiar laugh sets your skin buzzing and your eye twitching. You contemplate just taking off in a sprint until you’re out of range and walking back to the estate Yuuta is putting you all up in, but you’re not fast enough.
“Silver! What are you doing up here?” Gojo walks right up to you, Geto leans against the wall next to you, lighting up a cigarette.
“Sorry, I told him he didn’t have to come with.” Geto offers sympathetically, you shake your head as he holds the pack out to you.
“It’s fine. It’s a public street, anyone can be out here,” Your eyes narrow at Gojo, “even the riffraff.”
“Pfft, riffraff? What, are you accepting your fate as a seventy year old cat lady already?” He laughs and it sends your stomach flipping up into your throat and your hand itches like it wants to say hello to his face. Gojo grins and it’s all straight white teeth and bright blue eyes lidded under stupidly long white lashes. “Y’know, it’s been scientifically proven that smiling and saying positive things out loud can improve mood and one’s overall health, even if it’s disingenuous. You should try it, it might even help your grade too.”
“I’ll keep that in mind and make sure to mention it next time you throw a temper tantrum over another internship spot.” You make a point of smiling as sweetly as you possibly can when you’re in Gojo’s vicinity.
Geto sighs next to you like he just wanted to have a cigarette in peace. But peace is never an option when it comes to you and Gojo.
“I’m over it,” Gojo waves a hand, brushing you off. “But you’re clearly still stuck on the midterm. You shouldn’t take it so hard, everyone else got the same question wrong too—well,” He grins again. “Except for me that is.”
It stings. It always does when it’s this fresh. The hours spent studying, pouring time and effort and your life into preparing for yet another test just to have him beat you by one stupid fucking question. It wouldn’t bother you so much, sure you’re competitive, but it wouldn’t hurt if he wasn’t always such an asshole about it. Rubbing your nose in your own loss.
“Fuck you, Gojo.” You spit the words with a glare.
“How vulgar,” He tuts, “I thought you were better than that.”
“Thought wrong, guess you’re not as smart as you think you are.”
“You’re so bitter, you really need to loosen up a bit.” He smirks, casting a glance over his shoulder before setting his eyes back on you with a brow lifted. “Wanna go for a ride? It’ll take the edge off and I can show you what it’s like to finally win.”
You can’t hold in the barked laugh that bursts out at that. You’re expecting him to admit to the joke, but he just stands there. Silent with a pale brow up expectantly as he stares like he’s waiting for something, an answer? “You’re kidding, right?”
“I don’t joke about winning.”
“Yeah,” You start with a flat look, “It’s gonna be a hard no, I’d like to survive till graduation.”
“Oh come on,” He drawls, wandering over to where the sleek black bike is parked and throws a leg over, leaning back in the seat with one hand on the grip. “Live a little, Silver, we can even race someone and you can ride the coattails of my win, the usual stuff.”
The bike starts with a momentary roar, quieting down to a purring hum that you can feel even at a distance. You shiver a little but it’s not from the cool night air. The memory of that race earlier today comes flooding back, the adrenaline that filled those seconds seeps in, making your pulse hum in time with the engine. It’s all just so… confusing. Knowing it was Gojo under that helmet is fucking you up a little.
You hate him.
So why are you getting kind of excited at the idea of taking him up on the offer? Why are you even considering it?
“What makes you think I’d go anywhere with you, Gojo? Especially not when you’ve been drinking.” You cross your arms, trying to ignore the little voice urging you to do it.
“Nah, don’t worry, I’m stone cold sober.” He assures with a nod. “And because I know you want to know what it’s like,” He revs the bike a little. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile like you did with your foot to the floor trying to keep up with me.”
He’s kind of right, but fuck him.
“So what happens when we crash? I like my dermis as it is—attached to the rest of my body, not smeared on the road.” His eyes flick down, dragging back up and over you as he hums.
Is he… checking you out?
You feel very aware of the kind of skimpy outfit you decided to wear out tonight as his eyes rove up your legs—bare up to the skirt that barely hits mid-thigh—and over the low cut top Nobara stuffed you into.
“We won’t crash, I’m pretty good at driving this thing.” He meets your eyes again with a smile that’s not the smug or cocky one he usually gives you, there’s something else there.
God damn it.
How could it be him? Does the universe really hate you that much?
How could your street racer, the biker boy of dreams you didn’t even know you had, be Gojo?
It feels like a prank, a cruel one. Or maybe a test, and you were already thinking about taking it, tempted to give in to an adrenaline junkie side that you had no idea even existed, not before him.
But you huff and give him grief because that’s what you and Gojo do. “You’re not going to stop until I say yes, huh? Why? Do you just want to scare the shit out of me?” He shrugs and you both stare silently for a few seconds.
Geto clears his throat next to you, “You can use my helmet... if you want.”
“Not helping.” You throw him a side eyed glare.
“See!” Gojo throws his hand out to Geto, beaming at you. “Totally safe. Just say yes, it’s so obvious that you want to.”
Fuck.
Are you really about to do this?
“Clearly my judgement is severely impaired right now.” You mutter, peeling off the wall to approach Gojo as he grins like the god damn cheshire cat.
Geto grabs his helmet for you and your stomach tightens as you watch Gojo slip his on, transforming into your faceless street racer right before your eyes once more. He flips the visor up and watches as you pull your hair back, tucking it behind your ears before tugging the helmet on.
You fiddle with the clasp a little, trying to clip it, head tilted back to expose your neck and give your hands more room. You flinch as warm fingers brush your jaw, taking the clasp out of your hands.
“Chill, I got it.” Gojo murmurs as his hands work, you let yours drop away and watch him as he secures the clasp, tightening the strap a little with head tilted and brow furrowed, a few pieces of snowy hair falling in his eyes.
You try to fight it, but as his thumb grazes your throat, right over your pulse point that’s humming away, you swallow hard.
“There we go,” He pulls back and slaps the top of the helmet, gripping it to shake your head a little and you jerk back out of his grasp. “All set, you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” You sigh, the sound muffled with the helmet covering your mouth.
“Hop on then, let’s go.” He twists to pat the space behind him. You eye it, then Gojo.
Against all better instincts, you lift and throw a leg over the back of his bike. The cool leather is like a shock as your ass meets the seat, holding your skirt down until you're sat. You grip the back of the seat, scooting and holding yourself back to keep distance between you and the ridiculously broad back right in your face.
Gojo turns, looking over his shoulder at you. “Hold on tight, I don’t go slow.” You can hear the smirk on his face and you roll your eyes.
You keep your hands on the back of the seat as he flicks the visor down and hefts the bike upright, flipping the kickstand up with his foot. Your toes lift off the ground and your balance falters, hands shooting out to steady yourself on the only thing in reach; Gojo’s back. Your feet search for purchase and find the rear pegs, settling there you regain some balance.
You can feel his laugh as you slide forward a little on the seat, chest pressed right up against him now. Closer to him right now than you’ve ever been in the three years you’ve known him, closer than you’ve ever wanted to get.
The purr of the bike as he walks it back goes right through you and it has to be fucking with your head because this all feels too good. The heat of his body against yours, feeling nothing but hard cut lines under your hands as you give in and wrap them around his waist.
Geto waves you both off. Gojo toes the shifter and nods to him, twisting the throttle a little and your knees squeeze around him, hands gripping the front of Gojo’s shirt as he shifts into gear, and peels off.
It’s all squealing tires and whipping wind and you realize that he was totally holding back when we raced. In a matter of blinks, you’re going faster than you think you ever have in your life and…
It feels amazing.
The adrenaline pumping through you now is greater even than when you raced him.
It feels almost natural, leaning a little with him as he takes corners, feeling him press his back into your chest as he brakes to make a sharp turn, leaning forward into him as he twists the throttle hard to get back up to breakneck speed on straight stretches.
Doing all of it with your mouth curved in a smile hidden by the front of Geto’s helmet as you look out at the scenery. The road he’s taken you both up to runs almost right next to the water. Winding and curved, only a couple of other cars are on the road with you, but he leaves them behind quickly.
You’re thinking it’s just going to be a ride like this, quiet and just the two of you aimlessly speeding along with the pretty view of a darkened—inky and almost black—ocean on your left. You’re admiring said view when Gojo slaps your thigh a few times, just above your knee and you startle and suck in a sharp breath at the sudden contact, turning your attention back to him as he points at something in the distance.
It’s a car. A little hard to tell what kind in the dark but it’s low and sleek and looks like it could probably go fast. You’re about to yell at him to ask ‘what about it?’ but he grips the handle again, downshifts, and cranks the throttle.
He catches up to the car quickly, coming up close on the bumper of maybe... a mustang? You're not sure, you've never really been into cars outside of their function and utilization in hypotheticals for momentum in Newtonian mechanics.
Your grip around Gojo tightens further as he swerves around to pull up next to the car and it dawns on you exactly what he’s doing.
He’s about to fucking race this guy.
The thought sends a jolt of lightning up your spine, making you shiver again. The night air is cool, but the drinks you’ve had tonight and Gojo’s body heat leeching through his shirt and right into you keeps you warm despite the wind tearing around you.
A silent conversation passes between Gojo and the guy driving the car, revving and nosing ahead of each other in a mechanical dick measuring contest. Through the open window you can see there’s a girl in the passenger seat of the car, leaning hard into the driver with his hand high up on her thigh.
You’re all too aware of how you and Gojo look right now, how you’re touching, chest pressed to his back and thighs around his hips. To the couple in the car, you probably look, well, the same as them.
It’s so confusing because it doesn’t disgust you like you expect it to. Like his hands on your neck, on your thigh should have. He’s an asshole, a nerd with an ego too big to fit inside his helmet or even his big fat stupid head.
When did he even start riding a bike? It’s so out of character for him—at least from what you know about him with all the annoying back and forth you two have been doing over the years.
From the very first interaction, when he’d pointed out how close your score was even though you topped his, not even saying ‘hi’ before he got under your skin, you’ve felt nothing but burning, white hot hatred for him. Three years worth of it built up. You’re definitely still burning, but it’s something alive, hot and deep in your gut that makes your knees clench tighter that you’re feeling right now.
Gojo yanks you out of your churning thoughts, urging the bike faster and faster. The sound of both the car and his bike peaking to max RPM’s before shifting and somehow getting even faster. You can’t see the speedo, but you know it’d probably make your stomach flip to see as you approach a straight stretch, coming out of a turn that has you so close to the car as its tires squeal and fight for grip.
You come out of the turn and the back tire skids a little, fishtailing in a terrifying wobble that steals your breath and stops your heart, white-knuckling his shirt as Gojo fights it, throttling to push the bike through, and he does.
He opens the bike up again and tears ahead, faster than the car could ever hope to recover from the corner and taking the lead, only gaining more distance between the car as he pushes harder, faster.
There was never a finish line set for the race, but in unspoken street-racing rules, you assume Gojo has all but actually claimed gold here as you round another corner and the car disappears from sight, defeated and backing off.
Even over the wind and the bike, Gojo’s whooping laugh rings out loud and clear as he pumps a fist in the air, savouring his victory lap as he slows a little to a slightly less heart-pounding speed.
And you’re grinning. Laughing right along with him because that was exhilarating. It feels so good, the way your heart beats at your ribcage, thudding against his back with your senses so alight the air smells sharper, the dark waves that roll and lick at the shore seem alive.
Everything around you feels crisp and clear.
The feeling that spreads as Gojo slaps his hand on your thigh, gripping and leaving it there with his long fingers pressing into your soft flesh higher than before. Laughing victoriously still, like he’s claiming a prize.
You know the feeling. It’s not unfamiliar, but it’s foreign and confusing for it to be flooding in around Gojo.
Hands unclenching from his shirt, your fingers ease and splay out against his sternum, palms pressed to abs you had no idea he had.
You feel almost high and chalk it up to adrenaline from a near skid out and the endorphins of winning. Not the way he squeezes one more time and pulls his hand off so slowly, fingers dragging tortuously over your skin to replace on the grip after what feels like somehow way too long and not nearly enough time.
The touch is seared onto your thigh, the heat of his hand there burned into your skin and brain as you cruise on, looping back to head into town again. Head turned and resting the side of the helmet against Gojo’s spine as you look out at the quiet streets that blur past, it all feels so good and you let yourself just feel it. Knowing it’s fleeting.
He hates you just as much as you hate him—well, maybe you hate him just a little more—and that still stands of course, but maybe just for tonight you can allow yourself to feel something else.
For this ride, he can just be your nameless, faceless street racer instead of your mortal enemy. You deserve that, right?
You press hard into Gojo as he brakes, screeching to a near full stop and pulling the bike around to park in front of not the club as you’re expecting, but a small shop. Windows lit with colorful neon signs that cast bright colors on the sidewalk out front.
“What are you doing?” You ask, pulling away from him as he shuts the bike off. “We should probably get back to the club.”
“Just a quick pit stop, this place has really good ice-cream sandwiches.” He’s muffled a little with the helmet still on, twisting to look over his shoulder as he gestures to the shop. “They use monster cookies and like half a pint of whatever flavor you want.”
You’re stopping for… ice-cream? You make a face behind the cover of the blacked out visor. “Oh, um… okay.”
He leans the bike and hops off first, holding a hand out to help you off.
You stare at it.
It feels weird. Sure you’ve been smushed against his back with your arms around him for the last—you’re actually not sure how long you two have been out for, you realize—but that was out of pure necessity.
This is just… nice?
Gojo Satoru, being nice, to you?
You think it might be a trick, a prank to let you fall on your face should you actually lean on him at all. But, for some reason, you take the offering anyway. Taking his hand as you swing your leg over and slide down the side. You don’t fall, he doesn’t yank his hand away at just the right time, he just… helps you get off the bike.
He pulls his helmet off, shaking his head to make already messy platinum hair even fluffier, like one of those Persian cats after they’ve been blow-dried and you chuckle at the sight, getting a flat look back.
Pulling off Geto’s helmet, Gojo gets one look at you and howls, throwing his head back to laugh at you with zero hesitation, returning the favour.
You tuck the helmet under an arm and pat your head, feeling your own messy hair. Scowling at Gojo as you fix it a little with a finger comb.
Leaving both helmets on the seat of his bike, Gojo walks into the shop ahead of you. Holding the door for you to grab behind him—not like a gentleman, but also not letting it slam in your face as would be usual.
Tonight just feels weird. Nothing is going how you would imagine it to—hell, you never would have imagined getting on that bike in the first place, not while knowing who was driving it. But here you are, getting ice-cream with Gojo.
There are already a couple other people inside when you walk in, one on his phone at a table trying to focus on the screen and failing miserably—very clearly drunk—and a girl ordering at the counter.
“So, you’ve been here before?” You ask Gojo as you line up behind the girl.
“A few times, yeah.” He peers at the display case, humming and looking over the options as the girl ahead pays for her order. “For you, I’m gonna say… vanilla seems fitting, with oatmeal raisin cookies, also fitting.” He turns back to you, shit eating grin stretched wide across his face.
You ignore that and step up to the case to look in. “For you, cotton candy—predictably over the top—and… ah, sugar cookies, same reason.” You turn back to Gojo and he’s still just smiling down at you.
“Sounds like you just think I’m sweet.”
“Sounds like you think I’m classic and consistent.”
“To a fault, although,” He tilts his head a little, “Maybe not as boring as I thought.”
Usually, you’d snap something back at him, call him a loser or tell him to get back to moderating his Digimon reddit forum and quit thinking about you.
But you don’t.
Instead, you lift your chin a little, hands loosely clasped in front of you instead of crossed and guarded. “Yeah, I’ve been surprising even myself today.”
Now he looks surprised, blinking once as the grin slips a little like he wasn’t expecting that either.
“Yeah…” His jaw works, a muscle feathering for a moment like he’s holding something back and he clears his throat. “If you really feel like living it up tonight, you should try the salted caramel. There are crunchy caramel bits and a ripple in there too. Still on the boring side, but with a little bit of, mmm, something else.” Your lips part and he steps up to the counter.
These personality reads disguised as ice-cream flavours are weird. Is he kind of right, though? Maybe about you, but maybe about himself too. He’s being weirdly nice. Weirdly sweet.
What the fuck is going on?
Gojo gets strawberry cheesecake with—and you grin as he does, brimming with satisfaction at being spot on with your assumption—sugar cookies. Deciding to take Gojo’s advice, you get the salted caramel with classic chocolate chip cookies and he grins as you do, looking equally satisfied.
You go to pull some cash out of a pocket in your skirt, Gojo has his wallet out and taps a sleek dark card on the reader. You go to hand over a few bills for your order, but Gojo says something that makes your face screw up, mouth hanging indignantly.
“I got it.”
Okay… what the actual fuck is going on?
Taking you for a ride on his bike, touching you, stopping for ice-cream, paying for said ice-cream, being kind of nice to you all the while.
It’s all too much like stuff people do on dates and if you didn’t hate each other's guts, you’d say it kind of feels like that too.
But you do.
You hate him.
He hates you.
So it’s all just weird instead.
The woman working hands Gojo a dark purple box, beaming at him as she does and you eye Gojo as he takes it, returning her smile with one of his own. She’s giving him that look people do when they see something they like, eyes lit up and glued to his face like it’s the best part.
Your body is doing stupid shit as he turns to you, box in hand and tips his head to the door, some of his fluffed up platinum hair falling across his bright eyes, so weird to see unobscured by glasses. Smile almost as bright as the shade of cerulean in his irises. You turn away, from Gojo and from the weird feeling tightening across your chest, twisting in your stomach and making this shop too warm all of a sudden.
He follows you out, opening up the box and handing you your dessert. He leans on his bike and you lean against the wall outside the shop as you both take the first bite.
You really, really hate to admit it, but Gojo was right.
“This is—mmf—really good.” You mumble around cookie crumbs and the not too sweet ice-cream that coats your mouth with a slightly salty tinge that compliments the ribbon of thick and creamy caramel perfectly, those little crunchy bits offering something kind of nutty too.
“Mmm—I know right,” He nods, mouth full of his own sickly sweet concoction. “I knew you’d like that one.” You’re about to take another bite, but that makes you falter, hand halted just before the thick sandwich reaches your open mouth.
He’s munching away at his own dessert and his hand comes up like he’s about to adjust his glasses, but realizes they’re not there and he drops it back to hold the cookie. It’s something you’ve seen him do hundreds—god, probably thousands of times and it forces the last bit of the realization in through a crack opening.
You’ve known Gojo for three years, been around him for a lot with you both working towards the same degree in the same field, you’re in pretty much every class together, spent almost the entirety of your college life with him.
You do know him, maybe not well, but he clearly knows you too. Maybe not by choice but more by the forced proximity despite M.I.T. being a massive school.
But this is the first time you’re seeing him like this, a little softer around the edges.
“Y’know,” You start, lowering your hand from your mouth. “I think this is the longest we’ve ever gone without insulting each other.” His eyes find yours and he swallows the mouthful of cookie and ice-cream.
“Feels kinda weird, right?” You nod slowly and he chuckles. “I can say something about the midterm and you can call me an egotistical asshole or something, get back to the usual stuff if you want?”
“You don’t have to bring up the midterm, I’ll call you an egotistical asshole anytime.” He laughs at that.
“Of course, silly me.” You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling and you take a bite to force your mouth to do something else.
Gojo finishes first, that big fat mouth is good for more than just shit talking you guess, and you peel off the wall as you pop the last bit in your mouth, walking back to Gojo leaning on his bike. He stands and gives you a look that makes your stomach flip a little.
“Wanna try sitting up front?”
“You mean like… driving?” The ride was fun, but the thought of being the one in control of the sleek black rocket makes that flip in your stomach turn to full on somersaults and he laughs.
“No, no,” He wipes a fake tear. “No way I’m letting you drive,”
You scowl, “What’s so funny? Don’t think I can?”
“I never said that,” He lifts his hands, palms out and placating. “And it’s not while the bike is moving, just to sit.”
“Just to sit?” You echo and he nods. “What’s even the point of that?”
“It’s fun,” He shrugs, “and I can show you how to work it.” You feel heat flood into your cheeks at that, going wide eyed and he laughs. “Get your mind out of the gutter, the bike, I mean.”
“Tch, whatever.” Your eyes roll again, but you do step up and swing a leg over, taking the front seat. Up on tip toes, your hands splay on the tank for balance, expecting him to stand there and point out all the buttons and controls.
But he doesn’t.
Gojo takes the seat behind you, his weight sinking the bike’s suspension a bit. His hips pressed to your ass. Breath catching as he leans forward to look over your shoulder, his chest against your ramrod straight spine, your whole body going stiff as his closes around you.
A pale forearm, veins and muscle prominent under his skin, reaches around you to point things out on the bike in front of you. “Okay, the important stuff first, throttle, clutch, and—you’ll like this one—brake.” The teasing lilt to his voice makes you itch to turn and scowl over your shoulder, but he’s right there and if you do… it’d be too close.
“Alright, hands on the grips and feet on the pegs,” You do as he says, holding the grips tight and shifting your toes to rest on the pegs—thankful you opted for cute sneakers instead of heels for tonight, they’re coming in handy for more than just the dancing you’d planned. “Good, you’re a natural! Stay just like that.”
You swallow hard against something tight in your throat as heat spreads throughout your entire body, emanating from deep in your center. You don’t think he’s ever commended you, definitely not like this, not with his hard chest against you as he pushes the bike upright, both feet on the ground to balance.
“Okay, this switch here, flick it.” He points it out and you do so with your thumb, staying silent as he walks you through the steps of starting the bike and it roars to life. He shows you the shifter near your foot, how to work the clutch in tandem with it and the throttle and you try to follow along, but your head is a little scattered.
“Okay so… hold the clutch, shift to gear, ease off the clutch and onto the throttle, right?” You ask, going through the steps over again.
“Yeah, you’ve got it. But remember to steer too, no smashing into walls.” You scoff, turning to give him a look like ‘yeah, no shit.’ before you can think twice on it and come face to face with Gojo. The look wiped right off to instead stare wide eyed back at him.
“So,” He looks ahead of you, to the bike as his other arm comes around, hand brushing yours as he thumbs a button near the grip. “That’s the horn,” His hand drops, flicking a switch near the speedometer. “Lights are—“
“Why are you doing this?” You blurt, the words jumping up and out of your throat, forced out by your stomach twisting on itself with Gojo so close, pressed in and around you.
He looks at you again, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
His mouth opens, hesitating for a second and letting a sigh out as his eyes drop, feeling his breath fan over your lips as he does. “Just trying to be nice, I guess.”
Your jaw clenches, hands tightening on the grips. “But, why though?” His eyes flick back up to yours, brow low but not frowning, not smiling either.
“Felt like trying something new, doing something different. Is that allowed?” His voice is thin, words clipped like you’ve hit something and it’s irritated him. You almost want to ask what’s wrong, but you don’t.
“You’re so all over the place.”
A smirk quirks his mouth, smugness tugging his lips. “I think you just have a hard time keeping up with me.”
There it is.
“It’s impossible to keep up with inconsistency.” Your eyes narrow a little and his do too, but there’s a slight lift to them as well.
“It doesn’t even seem like you’re trying.”
You glare now, the usual irritation that simmers between you two rising to cut through whatever else you’re feeling having him so close. “Have you crashed this thing already? You’re talking like someone with head-trauma. Trying to do something impossible sounds pretty damn similar to the definition of insanity people love to misquote.”
He’s acting crazy right now, toeing waters that aren’t meant for you and Gojo. The familiarity of butting heads isn’t pleasant but it’s less heart pounding than whatever else is stirring—has been stirring since that race.
“Right back to insulting me, lasted all of five minutes with that one, nice.” He scoffs and you return it, whipping your head forward.
“It was like ten minutes, and it’s hardly an insult if it's true.”
“So if I’m ever nice, it has to be because of head-trauma?” He barks a laugh, loud and humourless in your ear. “How else am I supposed to take that if not as an insult? Last time I ever buy your ungrateful ass ice-cream, damn.”
“Ungrateful?” You echo, pitched and undignified and more like a squawk than a retort. “I never asked for that,” You scramble to get off the bike, needing space and to not be six inches away from his face when you look at him. You slide off, leg up and on the seat and your foot gets caught. Gojo goes to help you and you snap. “Don’t, I’ve got it.”
He backs off, hands up as you yank your foot off and stumble back. “Okay! God, don’t pop a blood vess—”
“I never asked for this, never asked for any of this actually.” You jab a finger at him, probably looking a little wild with wide eyes and helmet hair. “You dragged me out here and I have no idea why—“
“Oh stop, just admit it,” He cuts you off. The engine dies as he flips the kickstand out and leans the bike again. “You had fun.”
You blink, finger still aimed accusingly but curling in on itself as he stands. “What?”
“I know you’re not actually deaf,” You have to tilt your head to look up at his stupid smug face again as he stands with hands in his pockets barely two feet away, again. “Even though it does seem like it sometimes with how shit goes right through your skull like it’s empty or something.”
“Me?” You scoff, incredulous. “Your brain must be fried from all the hot air blowing up your fat head if you think I’ll admit that this was anything other than dangerous and idiotic. I was right, you are insane and not nearly as smart as you think you are if you decided to start riding a motorcycle.”
“Says the one who snatched that helmet from Suguru like it was the One Ring and hopped on my bike like you were dying to ride it.” Your nose scrunches, frowning as he bends, leaning just a little closer. “Admit it, when we raced—I was letting you keep up by the way, but I saw how you looked at me, you were totally dying to ride it. Which was it though? The bike, or me?” He smirks like he knows the choked noise of disgust that rips from your throat is feigned.
“You are such a fucking pig, I can’t believe I ever thought—” You cut yourself off with a forced huff, turning away from him. Again, does the universe just fucking hate you or something? And how could you have ever thought that Gojo would be anything but your mortal enemy.
“Thought what?” He prods, straightening a little as you take a few steps towards the wall with your fists balled at your sides, nails digging into your palms again.
“That you would ever be anything other than a disgusting, egotistical asshole.” You snap over your shoulder.
“Yeah, I can’t believe I ever thought you’d be anything other than a boring, stuck up bitch, but I guess I can be wrong sometimes.” He laughs and it’s devoid of anything resembling humor and you whirl around at that.
“Fuck you.” You spit out, glaring as he does the same right back.
“Yeah? Well fuck you too.”
Your whole body is tense, rigid again and burning hot as you glare at each other. Your eyes betray you, flitting over him for a split second, seeing his thick biceps flexed, broad shoulders hiked a little like he’s coiled up in anticipation for something.
You can feel it. The heated static charge that sits in the space between you. The ‘fuck you’ you exchanged hanging somewhere in there too. His icy blue eyes betray him just that same as yours, dragging over you for a moment as a muscle feathers in his jaw.
God, you fucking hate this guy.
So why does it feel like the moment after lightning strikes, when you’re waiting for the inevitable clap of thunder that follows? There’s no thunder with you and Gojo, there’s no lightning, there’s no storm that could ever bring such things.
He’s Gojo Satoru, your natural nemesis. Your faceless street racer doesn’t exist because it was Gojo the whole time and that will just never happen.
He might be ridiculously hot, but in no world would you ever—
Space disappears way too easily. Your hands grip the front of his shirt, feeling his toned chest as your fingers splay and ball the soft fabric up, yanking him. He grabs your waist with one hand, fingers digging hard into the curve there as his other tangles in your hair, tugging to tilt your head back as he pulls you flush against him.
Your spine curves with the position he’s forced you into and your mouth opens for a sharp gasp to escape at the sting of your hair being pulled not so much with pain, but with a sharp jolt of something hot that floods your body as his mouth crashes against yours.
It’s not nice and soft and romantic as first kisses often are, as they’re supposed to be. It’s heated, rough and hard, his lips bruising against yours and you push back against it, pulling at his shirt and pushing up to fight back.
That’s what it is. It’s a fight, just as you and Gojo do in every aspect of your lives. A clash for dominance that neither of you will ever give up without tearing each other apart for first.
He tugs your hair again and you groan into his mouth, around his tongue as it sweeps along yours, tasting strawberries and sugar and something else underlying that must just be Gojo as you meet each wet slide of his tongue.
It’s all teeth and tongue and noses bumping. Both panting with each break of your lips from his to gasp for the oxygen your racing blood demands, only getting more of his hot breath before being suffocated again.
Why does it feel so good? He tastes too good, his body feels too good against yours, under your hands. His own hungry and desperate and exploratory, gliding and squeezing up and down your side, drifting under your shirt to grip bare flesh. That feels way too good.
It’s like every insult you’ve ever hurled at each other is just fuel on flames licking at your heels, urging you further and it seems Gojo is feeling the same demanding heat.
He steps forward, forcing you to take one back. His mouth never leaves yours as he grips your hips with both hands, thumb digging into the bone hard enough to ache. Walking you backwards until he shoves you to hit the wall behind you and you break apart with a sharp gasp.
Your eyes fly open to find his lidded and dark with pupils wide, pieces of messy, silvery hair falling across them. Your hands splay out flat on his chest and shove, but the six-foot-something bastard barely budges, just leaning back a little to give you space as you both huff and pant for breath.
Your lips waver, you want to say something, ‘what the fuck?!’ maybe, or another ‘fuck you’ but nothing comes out except for the sound of gasping desperately for oxygen. His eyes searching your face, from your eyes, to your lips. Throat bobbing as he swallows, looking for something in your features.
Palms still flattened over the plane of his chest, his hips pressed to you and pinning you to the concrete wall, all of it still feeling too good for this to be Gojo.
Maybe you went through a dimensional rift when you raced and you’re in an alternate reality now, or something like back to the future. But there’s no past, present or future where you’d ever do this with the Gojo from your universe.
Maybe this is actually a body-snatcher alien that you’re grabbing the shirt of again to yank back down to you.
Feeling the shitty smile spreading on his face as you give in and kiss him again, arms up over his shoulders and threading your fingers into soft hair.
The moan that escapes is involuntary, ripped from your throat as he slots a leg in the heated space between yours and pulls your hips to him. Dragging you over the hard muscle of his thigh with nothing between your cunt—sensitive after sitting on that vibrating seat pressed up against Gojo—and the texture of his jeans but cotton panties already damp and sticking to you.
His smile widens at your noise and he rocks your hips as his leg lifts, pressing harder into the sticky heat between your legs, sparking electricity to make your clit throb. Made only worse feeling where he’s hard and heavy behind the closure of his jeans, the thick heat of his cock pressing into your hip. Moaning softly into your mouth as he pulls you closer and thrusts against you a little.
Something hot and needy floods in, deep in your core making you chase the friction. The insane amount of pleasure that sparks as your clit grinds on his thigh. As you feel the guy you fucking hate getting hard against you, for you.
You tug his hair and hisses, biting your lip, catching it between his teeth. Sharp and prominent canines sink in hard enough to make you gasp, feeling his smile around your caught lip.
“I hate you,” It comes out breathy and quiet on a whine, want cloaked behind hot and simmering hatred as you practically hump his leg. “So fucking much.”
“Yeah? You do this with all the guys you hate?” His tone is thick and condescending, but he’s breathless too with his own undeniable desire underlying it all. “If you hate me so much, tell me to stop.”
That doesn't happen. Your mouths crash together again, hard and spiteful and full of desperation you hate that you feel for him. Hate that you like this brand new fight for dominance you’re clashing against and grinding into him for.
Hate him.
Your tongue swirls with his and you arch up. He moans into your mouth with your tits pushing up to his sternum and your hip rubbing on his cock. Blunt nails dig into your hip as one hand drifts under the hem of your skirt and up to grip the cusp of your thigh—almost your ass—and you rock back into his hand for a moment.
Lost in this and falling deeper, chasing the heat and tension twisting through your gut with every slide of your lips against his, every touch and breathless sound. With your skirt riding up, pulled up by Gojo’s wandering hand squeezing your ass now, somehow your dazed and clouded mind knows you have to stop now before this goes any further with him, and with you in public like this.
Your palms flatten on his chest again and you shove, harder this time and he must not have been expecting it because he actually staggers back a step, leaving the space between your legs achingly empty.
“Fuck you, Gojo.” You pant out, glaring as you straighten and pull yourself off the wall, yanking your skirt down. His lips are glossy and dark pink from your kiss and he drags a hand through his hair, the rise and fall of his chest slowing as he catches his breath.
“Fuck you too,” His laugh is breathy and low, tinged with something beside the smug tone. “Kinda seems like it’s what you want.”
“Fuck off, don’t talk like you know me.” You scoff, brushing past Gojo to walk back to the bike and grab Geto’s helmet. “Just take me back, we’ve been gone for way too long.” You pull it on and fiddle with the clasp again, shaky fingers fumbling with the complicated fixture. “Fucking stupid—fuck, I hate this thing!” You drop your hands and take a deep, cooling breath with eyes shut tight.
“Hateful little thing, aren’t you?” Gojo asks, and your eyes open to him in front of you, too close again. “Need me to get it again?” He offers and you roll your eyes, crossing your arms. But you tilt your head back and Gojo takes the clip and fixes it closed for you, fingers brushing tortuously over your jaw again, down your throat in a way that feels purposeful.
Hate him, I hate him. It repeats in your head like a mantra over and over as he takes his hands away, going to pull his own helmet on again as he takes his seat on the bike, starting it up as you move to sit behind him.
You stifle a whimper as the vibration of the engine humming through the seat goes right into you, reigniting everything Gojo started when he pushed you into the wall. Putting your arms reluctantly around his waist as he walks the bike back, shifts, and takes off again.
The ride is brief and absolute torture. The shop wasn’t far from the club and it takes maybe five minutes to get back. But it’s five minutes of being pressed up against Gojo again with his bike purring reverberations exactly where you’re already overheated and stimulated.
You quite literally leap off the bike the moment he rolls to a stop beside the others, scrambling to get off before he’s even shut the thing off. Geto is standing out front again and you undo the clasp quickly as you walk towards him, luckily that part is easier than doing it up.
“You guys were gone for a while, how was the ride?” He asks, taking a drag off his cigarette. You say nothing as you yank his helmet off and shove it at his chest, jaw tight and your whole body stiff and hot as he takes it from you with an eyebrow raised, looking over your shoulder for a moment. But he doesn’t say anything else and you stomp back into the club, flashing a stamp on your wrist at the bouncer.
The bar is your first stop and you down a full glass of water in an attempt to cool yourself down from the inside out. It doesn’t work.
It’s something deep that’s keeping you burning and overheated, something unfulfilled that you know won’t die down and go away until it’s sated. But you’re not about to give it what it wants.
Your pussy does not have your best interest in mind.
“Oh my god! I was looking everywhere for you, where the fuck did you go?” Nobara grabs your shoulder and leans into your line of sight as you’re leaning on the bar, deep in contemplation over the life choices that have led you to this point.
“Oh, um…” You start, not looking her in the eye and swallow. You can’t tell her, you can’t tell anyone and you’re praying to whatever god will take mercy on you and listen that neither will Gojo. “I, uh, went for a walk, lost track of time.”
“You had everyone freaking out, send a text or something next time, jeez!” She thumps you over the head, not hard but enough to get the message across and you nod. You don’t really have it in you to fight back or argue that it wasn’t your fault, because what would you even say?
No, you’ll be taking this one to your grave.
“Let’s go, we’re gonna stay for a few more songs then we can dip!” She tugs your arm and you allow yourself to be dragged back to the dancefloor. No will to fight, and it’s not as if you could get any hotter than you already are right now anyways.
Hopefully you can just make it through the rest of the night without bumping into Gojo again, then flee to the safety of Yuuta’s mansion and stay there for the rest of the break.
The faint crashing of waves and a soft pool of golden light across the bed are the first things you hear and see as you stir awake. Stretching out and taking up the entirety of the massive king size mattress, a smile curls your lips as you silently thank Yuuta for his newfound family and for sharing the insane getaway with you all.
The sun is peeking, just getting started with its early rise as you do the same. Your internal clock has been reset to function around early classes so getting up with the sun is typical for you, that won’t change even on vacation you guess.
There’s a mild ache in your head, likely from the alcohol but it might be thanks to the amount of justification and mental gymnastics you’ve been doing since getting back to the club last night. Your body is certainly feeling the after effects of every stupid thing you did—your back is stiff, hip aching with a reminder.
But you’re safe from all of it now. Safely tucked away behind wrought iron gates and tall hedges and are free to hide here for the rest of break with your one obliged outing done and over with. Whatever Gojo is doing here, wherever he is, you won’t have to see him again until school starts up and there, you’ll be back to the usual dynamic.
There, he’ll be hidden away behind geeky glasses and oversized hoodies again with absolutely no motorcycles nearby to stir heated excitement.
Because that’s what it was. It was the bike.
You hum as you stand and shove the thin gauzy curtains aside, agreeing with yourself and the statement in your mind out loud to solidify it as you look out over the view of the quiet beach bathed in honeyed light.
Coffee. Sitting on that picture perfect beach with coffee as you watch the sunrise, now that might just be the perfect morning.
You shuffle barefoot along the cool hardwood floor towards the stairs down to the main floor. The house is quiet, everyone else is likely still passed out and yet to feel the effects of the rowdy night out. As you finish the steps down, the heated marble flooring seeps warmth into your feet with each step. Your cold bare feet grateful for the insane amount of modern tech this place has.
The air is cool against your bare arms and legs with just pajama shorts and an over-sized tee-shirt, but once you head outside and sit under the warm glow of a sunrise, you’ll warm up in no time. Maybe you’ll even get a little bit of a tan if you do this every day.
The thought makes you kind of giddy and you walk faster to the kitchen, the sound of your quickening footsteps slapping on stone echoes through the long, wide hallway.
The tour Yuuta had given you all was brief, only showing the things he and Maki had found when they had first arrived. You know where the kitchen, a living room with a TV that takes up almost an entire wall, a couple of bathrooms, and your room are. You’ll have to do some exploring at some point.
You round the corner to see the bright kitchen, the countless large windows that line the room, modern stainless appliances, pristine white cupboards and cabinets. The large island with a pale marble counter to match the rest and a breakfast bar with Gojo sitting in one of the tall chairs.
Wait, what?
Your eyes sweep right over him at first and you halt mid step into the kitchen as it registers in your sleepy one track mind. You do a literal double take and actually look at him sitting there with a mug in one hand and his phone in the other.
He hasn’t seen you yet, didn’t hear you walk into the kitchen with a pair of black headphones on and your mind churns, contemplating backing away and questioning what the hell he’s even doing here?
The realization dawns on you, hitting like a bucket of icy water as Yuuji’s words slam in like a truck.
Long lost cousin. Sharing the place with a long lost cousin.
“Fuck my life.” You mutter, still standing frozen and staring dumbly at the edge of the kitchen with your veins thrumming under your skin like they might burst out.
The universe does hate you. It’s an absolute fact now solidified by the platinum headed menace sipping coffee, screen reflected in black rimmed glasses and head nodding slightly to whatever music is playing through the headphones. The sleeves of a loose white tee-shirt with a cute Sanrio character plastered on the front rolled up a little, showing relaxed biceps and a peek of broad shoulders. His hand envelops the coffee cup so wholly as he lifts it to his lips, lips that had been pressed hard to yours not even twelve hours ago.
As he takes a sip, he looks up from his phone, eyes flickering in your direction and going wide and round as they find yours and he chokes on the sip of coffee.
You feel a twinge of satisfaction as he splutters, coughing into his arm. He drops his phone to the counter and sets the mug down, yanking off the headphones and taking a few ragged breaths.
“What the—why are you just standing there?” He manages to get out as the fit dies down. “Creep.”
You ignore all of it as you finally break from the spot to approach the coffee maker. “So you’re Yuuta’s long lost cousin? Fuck, that figures.” You start opening cupboards, searching for the mugs.
“Well actually, he’s kinda the ‘long lost’ one, I've been here the whole time.” Gojo huffs a laugh and stands, walking into the other side of the kitchen. “They’re over here.”
You turn to Gojo as he grabs a mug out from one of the far cupboards, his shirt rides up as he reaches for one on the upper shelf, showing pale skin and a curved line that disappears into the waistband of grey sweatpants slung low on his hips. A trail of wispy white hair leading down from his bellybutton, to where you can see the outline of his—
You look away quickly, heat rising up your neck to creep into your face like you can feel it all over again, feel the heat of his hands all over your body. Cut that out.
You go to take the mug from him as he approaches, but he walks right past you to the machine. “I’m capable of making a cup of coffee.” You say flatly, crossing your arms.
“Didn’t know where the mugs were, but you know where the spoons are? Where the sugar is?” He replies, amused as he grabs both from a drawer and another cupboard.
“I would’ve figured it out, there’s only so many—” Your face scrunches, confusion furrowing your brow. “Hold on, why do you know how I take my coffee?” Your eyes are scrutinizing as he puts a spoon of sugar in and just enough cream to lighten it to a dark caramel colour. Exactly how you take it.
“Lucky guess,” He hands you the mug, one corner of his mouth lifted. “Or maybe you’re so basic that you take your coffee how literally everyone else in the world does, makes it pretty easy to remember.”
A smirk tugs your mouth, “I take up so much space in your head that you remember my coffee order?” You hum and take a sip, and it’s perfect.
Gojo leans back on the counter next to you, a hand gripping the edge to brace. “Like a parasite that feeds on my synapses. Every time I learn something about you I can feel the connectors dying and I get a little dumber.” He flicks his own forehead and you laugh before you can catch it.
“You might be on Toji’s level by the end of break then.”
His head tilts a little, straightening against the counter. “Are you saying I’m gonna get to know you?”
Just like last night, the idea of it doesn’t totally revolt you. You open your mouth for something unusually genuine to come out, but it dies halfway up your throat as you think better on it.
This isn’t what you two do, you don’t want to get to know him and you don’t want him to know you. But the confusion, the whiplash of going from insulting each other to him buying you ice-cream, back to insulting each other just to crash together and into the best and definitely most confusing kiss you’ve ever had, feeling something so intense and foreign that is just not going away.
That feeling followed you last night, persisting through till morning and now it’s hanging over your head and curling up to set up permanent residence in your body. Relentless as you look up at Gojo with his hair still messy from sleep, dressed in pajamas and those glasses that take up damn near half his face.
No bike in sight, just the familiar nerdy guy who made you a perfect cup of coffee from memory alone.
You ignore the question, repeating the mantra in your head to stifle down something else whispering that his glasses are kind of cute. “Why are you even hanging out with those guys? Trying to fit in with the cool kids now?”
“I felt like doing some fun, dumb stuff and that’s their thing, so I invited them to come with Suguru and I.” He crosses his arms, fixing you with a lifted brow and a sly smirk. “Are you implying that I’m not cool too?”
You snort, “Yes.” Gojo’s face falls, you aren’t sure what he’d been expecting, a no?
“Like you can talk, that might be the one thing you beat me out at.” The smirk pulls the corner of his mouth again.
Your eyes narrow but your mouth is curved a little as you scoff. “Yeah right, being the biggest dork in existence is the one thing I’ll gladly admit that you beat me at.” You jerk your chin at him, “You have Hello Kitty on your shirt for fucks sake.”
“Cinnamoroll.” He corrects, and your eyes roll.
“Whatever, same shit. Doesn’t change you being a dork.”
“Yeah, but I’m like the cool, hot dork,” You scoff at that and he looks you over again, eyes flitting in a quick once over before meeting yours again and tilting his head. “And you’re… boring.”
There it is.
Your hand grips the mug so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t shatter. “Fuck you.” You bite it out with heat coiling throughout your body, boiling your blood and setting your skin on fire as he straightens off the counter.
Close, he’s too close again, so close you could just reach out and grab him, just like last night—not gonna happen.
“Fuck you too.” He says it with a smile, eyes lidded but intense and locked on yours like he’s remembering what happened after you’d thrown the same lines at each other last time.
But that’s not happening. That’ll never happen again. “Thanks for the coffee, too bad that parasite hasn’t eaten whatever makes you an insufferable asshole.” You say with a polite smile and turn to leave, ready to get as far away from this kitchen as possible.
“You’re welcome!” He chirps behind you and the noise grates on the frayed ends of your spent nerves.
How are you going to make it through a week of this? This house is massive, you can definitely avoid him if you try hard enough but this was supposed to be a break, from school and everything there.
But it’s just followed you here, and it’s worse than ever because even as you settle into one of the cushioned chairs on the porch, looking out over the perfect beach as the sun continues its journey, every sip from the mug in your hand is like swallowing liquid flame.
A hot, creamy, perfectly sweetened reminder of everything you’ve done.
Gojo Satoru, is inescapable.
This is hardly new information to you, but you’ve been avoiding him like the plague for two days, and just like the plague, he always finds you.
Laying out on the beach with Nobara and Maki, finally getting through a spicy book you picked up nearly six months ago? Gojo is running around with the other three stooges in a water gun fight, white tee-shirt sopping wet and transparent, clinging to every stupidly defined muscle. Making you re-read the same line five times before huffing that you need to go somewhere quieter and storming off.
Watching a movie with everyone in the living room? Gojo waltzes through and casually leans over the couch, way too close to you as he grabs a handful of popcorn from the bowl in your lap, spoils the plot twist, and leaves.
In the kitchen making breakfast in the peace and quiet before everyone else is up? Not with Gojo under the same roof. He’s strolling in, calling out a chipper “Goooood morning!” Reaching over you to grab a mug from the cupboard, muttering that what you’re making smells good. Stealing your god damn food right off your plate before you can smack his hand away. Muttering that it “tastes good too” before walking away, leaving you overheated and suddenly without an appetite.
Taking a walk around the property to explore? Gojo is hopping on his bike with Geto to head into town, calling out to you as you head for the front door, “Wanna go for another ride?!” Laughing as you flip him off over your shoulder and shut the door hard behind you. Jaw clenched so hard your teeth might shatter.
He’s a god damn torture specialist.
It all feels so purposeful and you’re on the verge of snapping. Your nerves are so frayed you’re convinced you’re going to actually punch him if he says another god damn word to you, even if it’s just hello.
The worst part? The way he looks at you as he does it. Like he knows the set to your jaw is in a confused and complex frustration and he’s feeding off of fuelling it.
No. Actually, the worst part was finding out that he’s in the room right next to yours.
Leaning against the railing, you’re drinking wine on the balcony just outside your room against your own better judgement. But you’re determined not to let your vacation be completely ruined by the menace next door, you’re going to enjoy the quiet starry night sky with the sound of waves lulling you into a false sense of security, even if it’s the last thing you do god damn it.
Your mind already fuzzy around the edges, like a vignette has been laid over to keep your focus narrowed on the bright, near full moon reflecting off the inky expanse of ocean.
No thoughts of school and the mountain of assignments and reading and immediate quizzing professors will inevitably be throwing you into the moment break is over to snap you back into reality. All those thoughts sit at the back of your brain to make room for appreciation for mild weather, great views, rosé and…
…The memory of being shoved up against a wall.
The dark rolling waves of the ocean below annoyingly remind you of the view from your tandem ride. The bright white moon reflecting off the ocean is silvery just like the annoyingly soft head of hair your fingers had tangled in. The warmth from the wine that emanates from deep in your body out through your limbs is all too similar to the fire that danced across your skin at every lingering touch, every bruising grip.
Oh yeah, he left you with a nice reminder of everything on your hip where he’d pressed his thumb in hard. You’re pretty sure the mark that bloomed and has been darkening to a light indigo was from when he actually pushed you into the wall, it certainly felt like it in the moment.
Apparently, you’re such a god damn masochist that you find yourself pressing your own fingers into the bruise without even thinking of it. Gasping a little at the ache as it floods your entire body with a heated tingle that leaves you feeling breathless and frustratingly empty.
The heated exchanges from the last few days are nothing new. But it feels like every ‘fuck off’ or ‘fuck you’ or ‘dear god, do you ever shut up?’ is different. The eye contact that lasts a little too long like fuel on a raging fire you’re throwing pitiful cups of water on in an attempt to douse, and when it doesn’t work, you turn around and stroll away like it’s definitely not a problem. Not yours at least.
You’re so lost in the thoughts that have overtaken your mind like a forest fire, singeing everything in its path, that you don’t notice Geto until he’s leaning over the railing right next to you.
“Jesus fuck!” You jump as he appears in your periphery, sloshing rosé over your hand as you startle. “Don’t sneak up like that, asshole. Look what you made me do.” You mutter, taking the mug into your other hand to flick the liquid off your fingers.
“Sorry,” He lights a cigarette and slips the rest of the pack into the pocket of his dark sweatpants. He gestures to the mug in your hand as you shake residual wine off the other. “You do know there are actual wine glasses here? Crystal ones too, fancy shit.”
“Yeah, I don't really feel like footing the bill if I break one. This seemed like the safer option.” You sigh at your own sticky fingers, shoulders dropping a little as you glance sidelong at Geto. “Where’s thing two?”
It’s not like you want him around, but it’s unusual to see one without the other.
Geto exhales through his nose, almost a laugh and a wisp of smoke curls. “We do some things separately, we’re not attached at the hip, you know.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“We fool a lot of people.”
You chuckle at that and take a sip of the significantly depleted wine in your mug. Another glance at Geto and you hold up your mug. “Wanna swap?”
He lifts a slim, dark brow. “I thought you didn’t smoke?”
You shrug, “You’re right, but spring break rules say fuck it, right?” He concedes and takes the mug, hands you the lit cigarette and you cheers the two.
“Fuck it.”
Geto takes a sip and watches as you take a drag. Bitter smoke fills your mouth and trickles into your lungs, burning and tickling at the same time. Your eyes water, nose stinging and you struggle to hold the coughing fit in that's threatening to tear out.
Geto sighs, “Just let it out, it'll be worse if you try to hold it.”
A cloud of smoke bursts out with the first choked cough. Your lungs feel like they're collapsing in on themselves as you hack and splutter. The taste of burnt tobacco coats your mouth, your throat, the lingering bitterness goes all the way down to your stomach that's currently threatening to turn itself inside out.
Geto pats a hand on your back as you lean over the railing on the verge of death. “I would’ve warned you not to hold it but I thought you knew.” He laughs a little, getting some amusement out of watching you suck sputtering, ragged breaths of fresh ocean air in finally.
“Nope,” You wheeze. Geto takes his cigarette back, the filter a little squished from your pinched fingers death gripping it and replaces the devil stick with your wine again. The alcohol doesn't help exactly, but it's liquid and it eases the smoky residue coating your insides when you take a few small sips. “Thanks, and don't ever let me do that again.”
Geto laughs at that, taking an easy drag off the half finished smoke. “Satoru said the same thing the first time he tried one too.”
“Oh, please tell me he died at least as much as I did.”
“Worse. He puked.” You snort a laugh, vindicated. “Don't tell him I told you that.”
“I'm gonna shove his face in it the first chance I get.” Geto shoots you a side eyed look and you raise a defensive hand. “Kidding, his mortifying secret is safe with me.”
You’ve never had an issue with Geto, it was always more of his proximity to Gojo that made it difficult to get along, or even just be around him. You tend to try to get the fuck out of wherever Gojo is as fast as possible, which doesn’t leave much room for conversation with his dark haired counter part.
As you look back out at the water, the near full moon mirrored off the inky expanse and putting that reminder back in your head, you can’t help but ask. The wine might be lowering your guard a little too much.
“Was smoking part of the new, wannabe bad-ass thing he’s going for?”
You catch the slight smirk that pulls the corner of his mouth as he quips back quickly, “Why do you care?”
Shit.
Why do you care?
“I-I don’t. It’s just…” You drum your fingers on the mug, chewing your lip for a moment as you think. Why? “It all just seems out of character. That’s all. He’s not going through a quarter-life crisis, is he?” You chuckle a little and glance at Geto, expecting him to join in, but he doesn’t.
He takes a long drag, eyes on the glowing cherry and holds the breath, looking up to the stars. He looks almost pained, sad at the mention. When he lets the breath out, it's a sigh. And when he finally answers, it’s not what you’re expecting either.
“There’s a lot going on right now, he’s kind of… coping, in a way.” The smirk returns as he meets your eyes again. “But you should ask him yourself if you want to know, it’s not really my place to say anyways.”
“Well… I mean, I did, kind of. I asked him why you guys were hanging out with the meatheads.”
“And?”
“What do you think?” You deadpan. “He brushed it off, and then insulted me.”
Geto throws his head back and lets out a laugh, shoulders shaking a little. “Ah, yeah, that sounds about right.” He drags a hand down his face, exacerbation tinged with fondness. “For two of the smartest people at school, it’s uncanny how terrible you both are at proper communication.”
“I’m great at communication so don’t group me in with that asshole.” You snap back immediately and Geto gives you a questioning look. “What is that even supposed to mean?”
He raises both brows at you expectantly and realization hits a moment later with a furious flush that begins to creep up your neck.
You scowl. “Fucking big mouthed asshole.”
“You really expected that he wouldn’t tell me the moment you guys got back? That’s just naive.” You feel the sudden need to down the last of the wine in your mug, and you do. “I mean, come on, you know him. He can’t shut up on a normal day, he finally kissed the girl he’s been tripping over himself for for the last three years and you expect him not to explode? The poor guy was practically dying to tell me.”
“What?” Your head snaps to Geto fully. Maybe you just misheard, you’re pretty tipsy right now and the single drag of that cigarette definitely made your head a little fuzzy, even lighter than before.
Geto looks at you, sees the bewilderment and disbelief in your eyes and immediate regret floods his features.
“Oh fuck.” He mutters, turning fully to you. Incredulity twists your features and you take a gasping breath, readying to go off, but he cuts you off, waving his hands up in your face. “I thought you—fuck, you can’t tell him I—shit, ugh, just-just please for the love of god, talk to him.”
“What do you mean? Finally? What—I-I don’t, what does that—”
“No! Just-just, please, don’t tell Satoru I said anything, and talk to him yourself.” Geto runs a hand up through his dark hair, pushing his bangs up just for them to fall back down almost immediately.
As if on cue, the voice that sets your skin on fire and lights up every nerve ending on your body with a much more confused kind of simmering heat calls out from the room next to yours.
“Suguru! Hurry up, we’ve been paused for like an hour!”
“Eh, shut up you idiot!” Geto calls back over his shoulder, “It’s been like ten minutes, don’t get your panties all twisted!”
He gives you one last pleading look and you groan, pressing your forehead into your hand. “Do whatever you want to, but leave me out of it, please.”
“Fine,” You sigh, resigned at least for tonight to let the jarring topic go. “Go, your boyfriend is waiting.” You wave him off, peeling yourself off the balcony and Geto gives you a flat look but doesn’t say anything else. Just nods and walks off to the cracked door adjacent to yours, leaving you alone with the bomb he dropped.
It is a bomb.
Finally? Finally implies time, time spent wanting something before it happened.
That kiss was probably one of the most impulsive things you’ve ever done, second only to getting on that bike with Gojo in the first place.
You hate him.
And he… hates you, too?
For the first time in your life, you’re questioning that fact. Is it even a fact anymore? Facts are indisputable, cold and hard and not open to scrutiny or questioning.
But Geto dropped a bomb that’s forcing that tiny crack open. The one that you could feel splintering in front of that ice cream shop in the reality where you hate Gojo and he hates you and that's all there is to it.
Impulsivity doesn’t have rationale behind it. That's the point of it being impulsive, you don’t think, you just do. Was that kiss impulsive for Gojo?
Your brow furrows, lip catching between your teeth.
Was it impulsive for you?
It was weird, sure, but that night was… it was nice. Well, up until you exploded at each other, but hell, even then it wasn't bad. You kissed, had his body against yours, pawing at you like he was desperate to touch you. Had he thought about that before it happened?
Everything before that. The ride, eating ice cream together, laughing with each other, laughing at him, the version of him you're used to after he made you coffee that first morning.
Could you and Gojo ever be more than enemies?
He’s been terrible to you, feeding uncertainty and the idea that you’d never quite live up to a standard he’s set and insists on pushing you to keep up with. Laughing at you when you trip and fall behind.
Maybe he could never be nameless and faceless and just a hot stranger again, but you did get along with him knowing full well who was under that helmet. Jabbing and teasing each other without it being painful.
Is that possible? Could it be like that instead?
Geto is right, annoyingly so because this is definitely a conversation you’re not looking forward to. But you need to talk to Gojo.
Finally? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
a/n ⭑.ᐟ eeeek it's here!! >.< we're getting Gojo POV next part so get ready for that! let me know if you listen to that playlist and if there are any song recs! <3 (dw about those sad songs at the end heh.... O.O) taglist is open! comment here or on the masterlist to be added!
“I know that you’ve got daddy issues, and I do too.”
part iii of love songs for ghosts — a multi-au bucky barnes x reader series inspired by music, memory, and the ache of unfinished love.
----------
You meet him on the worst day of your life.
Which feels dramatic, until you tally the facts:
Your father is dead.
His funeral was this morning.
You’ve just totaled your car trying to outrun the grief.
And now you’re stranded in a one-road town you’ve never heard of, wearing black heels and mascara-streaked rage, with no signal, no cash, and no goddamn idea what to do next.
It’s 6:42PM when your shoe snaps on the gravel outside the only building with a neon sign still glowing.
"STARK’S GARAGE. OPEN LATE."
You limp inside.
And that’s when you meet him.
Grease stains up to his forearms. Dark hair tied back. A black henley that fits like sin.
He’s got a socket wrench in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
And he looks at you like he’s already decided you’re a problem.
“Shop’s closed,” he says.
You blink.
“It says open.”
He jerks his chin toward the door. “Sign’s stuck.”
You cross your arms.
“My car’s dead on the road. I just need help getting it towed.”
“Not a tow company.”
“You have a truck.”
He lifts a brow. “And you’ve got nerve.”
“Do you always treat people like shit, or am I just lucky?”
He smirks.
And God help you—it's attractive.
“Depends if they walk in like they own the place,” he mutters.
You pause.
Take a breath.
“My dad just died,” you say flatly. “I wasn’t trying to own anything. Just trying not to fall apart in the road.”
Something flickers behind his eyes.
He sets the wrench down.
“Keys?”
You blink. “What?”
“Give me your keys. I’ll tow it.”
You hand them over.
His hand brushes yours.
It’s warm. Steady.
You hate how badly you want to feel it again.
The tow takes ten minutes.
He’s silent the whole time.
You watch from the passenger seat of his truck while he hauls your car onto the flatbed with quiet, practiced strength.
Your legs are still shaking.
But your hands are calm.
That doesn’t happen around strangers.
“Engine’s toast,” he says, once you’re back in the garage. “But the body’s fine.”
You nod absently.
He glances at your heels. “You got a place to stay?”
You look away.
“No.”
He sighs.
Wipes his hands on a rag.
“C’mere.”
You follow him to a tiny back office that smells like leather and burnt coffee.
He opens a drawer, pulls out a key.
“There’s a room upstairs. Couch folds out. Shower works. No charge.”
You stare at him.
“Why are you helping me?”
He shrugs. “Everyone’s got a worst day. Seems like you found yours.”
You learn his name later that night.
James Barnes.
But everyone calls him Bucky.
He owns the garage.
Runs a bike club out back.
Drinks his coffee black. Doesn’t talk about his past. Doesn’t ask about yours.
You learn he’s a former soldier.
That he’s not from here.
That he only sleeps three hours at a time.
You learn that his left arm is metal.
And that no one in town asks why.
You stay one night.
Then three.
Then a week.
He lets you work the front desk. Just until your car’s fixed.
But even after it’s running, you don’t leave.
You’re not sure when the town stopped feeling like a layover and started feeling like penance.
But Bucky never asks questions.
Just nods toward the guest room each night.
Leaves black coffee for you each morning.
And teaches you how to rebuild things with your hands instead of your heart.
The first time he touches you, it’s unintentional.
You’re under the hood of a 1970s Chevelle, cursing the seized bolt.
He steps behind you.
Reaches around with one hand to brace the socket.
His other hand settles low on your hip for balance.
You freeze.
So does he.
But he doesn’t move.
You don’t either.
The silence burns.
When he finally steps back, neither of you say a word.
But the air between you has changed.
You start craving it.
Two nights later, you kiss him first.
It’s behind the garage, under a sky cracked open with stars.
You’re leaning against the chain-link fence, laughing about some dumb customer who asked for “tire juice.”
And then you’re kissing.
Hard.
Fast.
Desperate.
His hands grip your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
Yours twist in his shirt like you’ll drown if you let go.
You don’t make it inside.
He lifts you onto the workbench.
And makes you come with your dress hitched around your thighs and his name on your lips like salvation.
You don’t talk about it.
The next morning, he pours your coffee like usual.
But he watches you longer.
And you let him.
A month passes.
You move your suitcase upstairs.
He doesn’t say anything.
But you catch him smiling at it.
You start calling the guest room our room.
He still won’t sleep next to you.
You let it slide.
You learn his scars by touch, not explanation.
You learn what songs he plays when he’s mad.
You learn that he drinks too much when he dreams of war.
You learn that he loves you long before he says it.
The first time he whispers it, you’re standing in the rain beside his motorcycle.
He tugs your helmet strap gently, eyes fierce.
“If you go,” he murmurs, “don’t bother coming back.”
You blink.
“I’m just going to the store.”
“I mean it,” he says. “You leave for real—you don’t get to take me with you.”
Your heart cracks.
“Buck—”
“I love you,” he says, fierce and low. “But I won’t be abandoned again.”
You reach for him.
Kiss the corner of his mouth.
“I’m not my father,” you whisper.
His voice breaks.
“Neither am I.”
I know that you’ve got daddy issues / And I do too.
He doesn’t talk about his old man much.
Just once.
You find him in the garage late one night, knuckles split, breath ragged.
He tells you about the fists.
The shouting.
The way he learned early that silence was safer than softness.
You hold his hand.
And tell him about the funeral.
The guilt.
The way you still dream of his voice, even if it was never kind.
You sit on the floor of the garage with whiskey between you and pain in your blood.
And when you wake the next morning in his arms, neither of you feels dirty about it.
Just clean.
New.
One night, a stranger rides into town.
Leather cut.
Skull ring.
Looks at you too long.
Bucky watches.
Doesn’t say a word.
Until the man follows you into the back office.
You tell him to leave.
He doesn’t.
And then Bucky is there.
Fists flying.
Voice like thunder.
“You touch her, I break your spine.”
You’ve never seen him that feral.
But you’re not scared.
Because his fury isn’t aimless.
It’s protective.
It’s primal.
It’s love.
Later, he wipes the blood off his knuckles and kisses your palms.
“I won’t lose you,” he murmurs.
“You won’t,” you promise.
But you both know fear isn’t rational.
And love doesn’t always fix what came before.
The club grows.
The town learns to look at you differently.
Less like a stray.
More like something claimed.
You don’t mind.
Because Bucky never cages you.
He just makes sure you know the way home.
One afternoon, you ask him what forever looks like.
He doesn’t flinch.
Just hands you a ring box covered in grease smudges and velvet hope.
You marry him in the back of the garage.
Motor oil on your hands.
Leather jacket over your shoulders.
You kiss him to the roar of his bike and the sound of your own name changed in his mouth.
Years pass.
Your father’s voice fades.
Your old wounds scar.
But your love?
It stays wild.
Like the engines.
Like the man.
Like the version of yourself you found in the wreckage and built new with his hands on your spine.
And if I could change, I would take all the shame away.
But you know I can’t.
craving for a drabble with sugardaddy!buck <3 maybe something fluffy? a cute shopping spree blurb or when reader takes care of him when he’s sick or something HAHAHAH i miss him already!!!!!
well hello there! I wouldn’t mind a fluffy sugar daddy bucky moment 😏
Bucky doesn’t get sick — he’s made that clear to you time over time, adamantly and confidently, even daring to rub it in when you’re stuck battling the common cold.
“Haven’t been sick since I was a kid,” he chirps, dropping a kiss to the top of your head as he hands you a steaming mug of tea.
“Congrats on your immune system. Would you like a trophy or a ribbon?” you grumble, taking a sip.
He smiles as he tucks in the mountain of blankets on top of you, leaving no room for a chill to creep in. His gaze softens when he spots your red-tipped nose and the dark circles under your eyes.
“How are you feeling, my love?”
“Like my days are counted.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Better question is what’s right. My throat hurts, my head is pounding, and my body can’t decide if it’s hot or cold.” You look up at him, lips in a deep pout. “Hold me?”
To your surprise, he doesn’t even hesitate, creating an opening in the blankets and sliding in next to you. You sigh contentedly as your head meets his shoulder, his familiar heat and smell already bringing a sense of relief to your exhausted body. His lips graze your ear.
“I got you, sweetheart.”
You settle into his hold, cold fingers curling tight around his sleeve. “Sorry in advance if I get you sick,” you whisper.
He chuckles, deep and vibrating against you. “I think I’ll be fine.”
Famous last words.
The next day, Bucky “I don’t get sick” Barnes wakes up freezing and sniffling and moaning and groaning. You stir when you hear him shuffle into the bathroom, a hacking cough trailing after him that he covers up poorly.
“No, no, no,” you hear him whine. He comes running out of the bathroom, curled in on himself and visibly trembling. “I’m sick,” he cries, blue eyes watery, skin pale. “You got me sick.”
“Bucky—“
“I haven’t…I never get sick. You…what did you do to me?”
You struggle to sit up, the cold still claiming ownership over your body. “I didn’t do anything — you insisted on kissing me after I told you not to.”
“Because I don’t get sick!”
You roll your eyes. “And I’m a virgin. Now come back to bed, you need to rest.”
Bucky looks on the verge of tears, shaking in front of you in nothing but his briefs and a t-shirt. “But…work…”
“Honey,” you laugh, watching your big, strong man come undone by a little illness. “You’re sick. Accept it and take the excuse to lay in bed with me all day, or make yourself suffer and go to work.”
He deflates, arms wrapping around his middle as if to keep himself together. You hold the blankets open, shuffling closer and raising an eyebrow at him. Bucky gives a pathetic little cough before falling into bed, immediately resting his head on your chest and intertwining every limb; you run your hands gently down his back, pulling him close. He whimpers.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur. “You’ll be okay.”
“Everything hurts. I can’t breathe. Start looking at headstones.”
“You’re more dramatic than me,” you giggle.
“There’s no end in sight,” he wheezes.
“Alright, alright,” you soothe. “I got you, you baby. I’ll take care of you.”
He groans, burying his face into your chest. “That’s supposed to be my job.”
“We’ll make an exception this time. How about some tea?”
Bucky holds you tighter, letting out a small sniffle.
“In a little bit. Can you just…hold me?”
You smile, brushing your lips against his forehead, and do as you’re told.
hi! it's my first time requesting something so i hope i'm doing it right :)
it's my birthday today and i kinda need some comfort! i'd love a teammate bestfriend bucky realizing he's in love with reader and confessing :). I leave all the other details for your imagination! 🥰
(i love all your work, brw, big big fan!🫂)
thank you so so much!! ✨️
You hadn’t told anyone it was your birthday.
It wasn’t that you hated it. You just… didn’t love the spotlight. Didn’t love the expectation that today was supposed to feel bigger or brighter than the rest. Missions still happened. Paperwork still piled up. The world didn’t stop just because you’d survived another orbit around the sun.
Still, there was a small, quiet ache in your chest when you woke up alone in your room at the Tower and checked your phone. A couple of texts from old friends. A sweet voice memo from your mom. Nothing from the team yet.
You swallowed it down. You were fine.
By noon you were in the training room, sweat slicking down your spine, pretending that the dull heaviness behind your ribs was just exhaustion. You were mid-spar when Bucky caught your wrist.
“Hey,” he said, breathing a little hard. His metal fingers were warm against your pulse point. “You’re distracted.”
“I’m not,” you lied, twisting free.
He didn’t push. He rarely did. That was the thing about Bucky—your best friend on the team. He noticed everything, but he never cornered you with it.
Instead, he stepped back, studying you with those steady blue eyes that always made you feel seen in a way that was both comforting and terrifying.
You finished the session early. Claimed you had reports to finish. Escaped before anyone could look too closely.
It wasn’t until evening that it hit you harder. You were in the kitchen, staring blankly at the fridge light, debating whether leftover takeout counted as a celebratory meal, when you heard boots behind you.
“You’re terrible at pretending,” Bucky said quietly.
You didn’t turn around. “About what?”
“About being fine.”
The gentleness in his voice almost undid you.
You sighed and shut the fridge. “It’s just a day, Buck.”
He went still.
“What day?”
You hesitated. You hadn’t meant to tell him like that. But you’d never been good at lying to him.
“My birthday.”
The word hung in the air between you.
There was a beat of silence. Then another.
“You didn’t tell anyone?”
You shrugged. “Didn’t seem important.”
Something shifted in his expression—something tight and almost wounded. “It’s important.”
You gave him a small smile. “It’s fine, really. I didn’t want a big thing.”
“I’m not a big thing,” he said, almost defensively.
You blinked at him. “What?”
“I mean—I don’t have to make it a whole circus. But I should’ve known.” He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once across the tile like he was trying to solve a mission brief. “I should’ve known.”
“Buck,” you laughed softly. “You’re not psychic.”
“No,” he muttered. “But I’m supposed to be your best friend.”
The word hit differently tonight.
You looked at him fully then. The way his jaw was tight. The way his shoulders were rigid, like he’d somehow failed you.
“You are,” you said gently. “You didn’t fail anything.”
He stared at you for a long moment. And then something in him cracked.
“You think it’s not important,” he said quietly. “You think you’re not important.”
“That’s not what I—”
“You hide when something hurts. You joke it off. You pretend it doesn’t matter. And I let you.” His voice wavered, just slightly. “I let you do that because I thought staying quiet was easier.”
Your heart was pounding now.
“Bucky…”
He took a step closer.
“I don’t want easy,” he said. “Not with you.”
The air felt charged. Like the second before lightning strikes.
You tried to keep it light. “You’re being dramatic over a cupcake, Barnes.”
“I’m not talking about cupcakes.”
The way he said it—low, steady, certain—made your breath hitch.
“I’ve been trying not to say anything,” he continued. “For months. Maybe longer. I told myself it was just—protective instinct. Teammate stuff. Best friend stuff.”
Your stomach flipped.
“But it’s not.”
The kitchen felt too small.
“You smile at someone else and I feel it in my chest like I’ve been shot,” he admitted, a little breathless now. “You get hurt on a mission and I forget how to breathe. You don’t answer a text and I convince myself the world’s ending.”
You were frozen.
“I tried to ignore it,” he said. “Tried to be what you needed instead of what I wanted. But today—you thinking you’re not worth celebrating—” His jaw tightened. “I can’t just stand here and pretend I don’t feel like this.”
Your voice came out softer than you intended. “Feel like what?”
He stepped close enough that you could see the faint scar along his cheek. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him.
“Like I’m in love with you.”
Everything stopped.
The hum of the fridge. The distant sound of traffic outside. Even your own thoughts.
“I didn’t mean to,” he said quickly, like he was bracing for impact. “I didn’t plan it. I didn’t want to complicate things. You’re my best friend. You’re my teammate. You’re—” His voice faltered. “You’re everything steady in my life.”
Your chest ached.
“And I thought if I kept it buried, it would stay simple,” he finished. “But it’s not simple. Not when it’s you.”
There was fear in his eyes now. Vulnerability laid bare in a way he rarely allowed.
“You don’t have to say it back,” he added, quieter. “I just—I couldn’t let today end without you knowing.”
You stared at him.
All those little moments over the past year flashed in your mind—the way his hand always found the small of your back in crowded rooms. The way he memorized your coffee order. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.
“You idiot,” you whispered.
His face fell slightly. “Yeah. Probably.”
You reached for him.
His breath caught when your fingers curled into the front of his shirt.
“I didn’t tell anyone it was my birthday,” you said softly, “because the only person I actually wanted to spend it with was you.”
His eyes widened.
“I thought you just saw me as your best friend,” you admitted. “And I was scared to ruin that.”
Something like hope bloomed across his face—slow and disbelieving.
“You’re not going to ruin it,” he said.
“Good,” you breathed.
And then you kissed him.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t dramatic. It was warm and certain and long overdue. His hands came up slowly, like he was afraid you might disappear, settling carefully at your waist.
When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“Happy birthday,” he murmured, voice rough.
You laughed softly, tears pricking unexpectedly at your eyes. “This is a pretty good gift.”
He huffed a quiet chuckle. “I didn’t wrap it.”
“Don’t need to.”
His thumb brushed gently under your eye, catching a tear before it fell.
“You’re worth celebrating,” he said firmly. “Not just today. Every day.”
For the first time all day, the ache in your chest faded because you truly believed him.
pairing: bucky barnes x reader | 1.3k
warnings: explicit content 18+, enemies to lovers, one bed trope, mission tension, rough sex, mating press, hand over mouth, overstimulation, size kink
summary: enemies on a mission forced to share a bed… until bucky finally breaks, and so do you
day 13, and my laster contribution to galentines with the lovely @wildflowersandvibranium and @pinksplace. thank you ladies so much for putting this event on, i had the best time!!🤍 read day one, day four, day seven & day ten here!
-------
The storm rolls in fast, thunder snapping above the trees as you and Bucky sprint the last few yards toward the safehouse. Rain drenches you instantly, cold and stinging, and Bucky practically shoves you through the cabin door.
“You’re welcome,” he mutters, dripping everywhere.
“I didn’t thank you,” you mutter back.
He shoots you a look—sharp, narrowed, the same one he gives right before telling you your form is sloppy or that you breathe too loud on recon. The two of you have been like this since the day you met: combustible, oil-and-spark, one wrong move from igniting.
Tonight might be the wrong move.
You peel off your wet jacket and slam it on the hook. “Please tell me there’s at least two beds.”
Bucky opens the door to the bedroom.
There is one bed.
He exhales through his nose, a dark amused sound. “Don’t worry. I won’t bite.”
“I’d rather sleep in the woods.”
“Cute. You say that like you could survive ten minutes without me.”
You roll your eyes so hard you’re shocked they don’t pop out. “I survive missions despite you, not because of you.”
His jaw ticks. “Funny, coming from someone who almost got shot today.”
“Only because you—”
“You gonna blame me for your mistakes all night, or you gonna shower?”
You want to strangle him. You want to shove him into the mattress. You want to kiss him just to wipe that smug look off his face.
You grab your bag and storm into the bathroom instead.
---
When you come out, clean and warm and wearing the only sleep clothes you packed—tiny shorts and a thin tank—Bucky Barnes is sitting on the bed.
Not just sitting.
Lounging.
Back against the headboard, hair slightly damp, shirtless, tattoos and scars on full display.
You freeze.
His eyes lift immediately. They drag over you—slow, heavy, lingering too long on the hem of your shorts. His tongue moves behind his teeth, jaw flexing.
You hate the way your stomach flips.
“You done staring?” he asks quietly.
You bristle. “You’re taking up the whole bed.”
“It’s a queen.”
“You’re huge.”
Another flicker of something darkens his eyes. “You say that like it’s a problem.”
“It is a problem.”
“Then come solve it.”
Your breath catches. You hate him. God, you hate him. And you’ve never wanted to climb on top of someone more.
You yank back the blanket and lie down as far to the opposite side as possible, your body angled toward the edge. “Do not touch me.”
“No promises.”
“Barnes—”
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
It shouldn’t affect you. It does. His voice wraps around the pet name like a fist, low and rough.
Minutes pass.
Then an hour.
The storm outside thins but the heat between your bodies does not.
You’re not sure when you fall asleep—but you wake up with his arm around your waist.
A metal arm.
A very strong metal arm.
Pinning you.
You gasp softly and try to shift, but he only tightens his hold.
“Stop movin’,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and something else—something far too honest. “You’re wrigglin’ all over me.”
You freeze. “I’m trying to get your arm off.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you touching me.”
“Liar.”
You should shove him. You should snap back.
Instead, you whisper, “Let go, Bucky.”
He doesn’t.
He rolls his hips forward—slow, deliberate—and you feel him. Hard and thick, pressed right against your ass.
A soft sound escapes you before you can swallow it.
His breath stutters. “Fuck… you’re killing me.”
“Then move,” you breathe.
“But you feel too good.”
The room goes silent.
Then the tension—weeks, months, maybe years of it—finally cracks.
You turn under his arm, facing him in the dim light. His face is inches from yours, breath warm, eyes blown wide.
“Still wanna pretend you hate me?” he whispers.
You grab his jaw. “I don’t have to pretend.”
He growls—a real, low, chest-deep sound—and then his mouth is on yours, hot and furious. Your legs wrap around his waist before you even think; he rolls you beneath him, the mattress creaking.
“Been waitin’ for this,” he mutters against your throat. “Mouthy little thing… always pushin’ me. Always lookin’ at me like you want my cock but won’t admit it.”
“Shut up,” you hiss, pulling his hair.
He moans. “Knew you’d be a handful.”
His hand slides between your thighs, two fingers slipping under your shorts to find you already wet.
“Fuck. You’re soaked.” His tone shifts—rough shifting into reverent. “Tell me this is for me.”
“Not everything is about you.”
“Sweetheart…” He drags his fingers through your slick, slow and devastating. “It is tonight.”
You arch into him helplessly.
He strips your shorts off in one smooth motion, then pushes your knees up, spreading you wide. His pupils blow impossibly larger.
“Goddamn,” he breathes. “I knew you’d be pretty. But this?”
Your cheeks burn. “Bucky—”
“Gonna fuck you,” he murmurs, leaning down, forehead against yours. “Gonna ruin you. But you gotta ask me.”
You refuse. He knows you will.
You won’t give him the satisfaction.
Then he drags the head of his cock through your folds.
Your head snaps back, a broken whine spilling out.
“Ask me.” He lines up against your entrance but doesn’t push in. “C’mon. Just say it.”
You hate him.
You need him.
“Bucky…” You dig your nails into his shoulders. “Fuck me.”
That’s all he needed.
He thrusts in deep, thick stretch punching the air from your lungs.
“Jesus—fuck—” you gasp.
His jaw clenches, arms braced on either side of your head as he tries not to lose it immediately. “You’re… you’re perfect. Fuck—so tight—”
You can’t speak. Can barely think. He starts moving and everything becomes heat and friction and your name torn from his throat like a prayer and a curse all at once.
Then he shifts your legs higher—your knees nearly pressed to your chest—and all the air punches out of your lungs.
“Wait—Bucky—”
“Shh.” He kisses you hard, swallowing your gasp as he sinks impossibly deeper. “Take it. You can take it.”
You don’t just take it—you unravel.
The angle has you shaking, each thrust punching against your cervix. He holds you down effortlessly, muscles tense, sweat rolling down his throat.
His hand covers your mouth as you cry out.
“Quiet,” he growls softly. “Unless you want anyone nearby hearin’ how good I fuck you.”
Your muffled moans vibrate against his palm.
“Good girl.”
The praise detonates something inside you.
Your vision blurs. Your legs tremble. He feels you clench hard around him and snarls.
“You gonna come?” he pants. “Gonna come all over my cock after actin’ like you hate me?”
You nod desperately.
“Do it,” he commands. “Come for me.”
You fall apart—shuddering, choking on your moan under his hand, body arching helplessly as pleasure crashes through you.
Bucky’s rhythm breaks. He thrusts harder, sloppier, forehead pressed to yours.
“Fuck—fuck—sweetheart—look at me—shit—”
You grab his face, dragging him into a kiss as he comes with a groan that shakes his entire body, spilling deep inside you.
He stays there, buried to the hilt, breathing hard against your mouth.
Neither of you move.
Eventually, he opens his eyes. Searching. Soft in a way that scares you more than the sex.
“Still hate me?” he whispers.
You should say yes.
Instead, you whisper, “Not right this second.”
A slow smile spreads across his face.
“Good,” he murmurs, lowering his lips to yours again. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”
You shiver.
And Bucky Barnes—your infuriating, impossible, enemy-turned-something-else—rolls his hips again.
yayayayay for spring break!! I had an idea!! what about reader who tells (beefy) bucky she can't come during sex with a partner but she still enjoys it and he's all understanding & sweet but then they're having sex and he puts her in a mating press and she comes for the first time ever with someone and he loses it and is all cocky and saying "you just needed it deeper" and then every time after that, she's whiny and desperate to come and he's teasing her saying "you need me to put you in position?" and she begs for it, only coming when he puts her in a mating press
- @buckybsdoll 🫶🏼
mating press mention; hello blue!
--------
You’d told him on the couch, legs tangled under a blanket, his metal fingers tracing lazy circles on your thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world. Bucky had listened with that soft, patient look he saved just for you—brow furrowed, blue eyes steady.
“I just… I don’t finish with partners,” you’d said, cheeks burning. “I get close, I enjoy it, but it never happens. I still want you. I still want this. I just don’t want you to feel like it’s your job to fix me or whatever.”
He’d cupped your face, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Doll, nothing about you needs fixing. If you wanna feel good with me, we’ll feel good. If you don’t come, we’ll still have fun. I’m not keeping score.” Then he kissed you slow and sweet until you were breathless, and that was that.
Two hours later you’re in his bed, sheets already twisted, his mouth between your legs like he’s got all night. He’s so careful—broad shoulders keeping your thighs open, tongue slow and filthy, two thick fingers curling just right. You’re moaning, hips rolling, pleasure coiling tight and warm in your belly, but you know how this ends. You always know.
“Bucky,” you gasp, fingers in his hair, “you don’t have to—”
He lifts his head, lips shiny, eyes dark. “I want to. Let me take care of you, baby.”
You nod, because how are you supposed to say no to that? He crawls up your body, all that beefy muscle and warm skin, cock heavy against your thigh. When he pushes in—slow, thick, stretching you open—you moan loud enough to echo. He feels incredible. He always does. You rock with him, hands on his back, nails digging in as he fucks you deep and steady, murmuring praise against your throat.
“That’s it, sweetheart. So fucking tight for me. You feel so good.”
You’re lost in it, in the drag of him, the way his dog tags brush your chest, the low rumble of his voice. But the edge stays just out of reach, same as always.
Then Bucky shifts. He hooks his hands behind your knees and folds you clean in half.
Your eyes fly open.
The press is sudden—your thighs pressed to your chest, ankles by your ears, his massive frame pinning you down so completely you can’t even squirm. He sinks in deeper than you thought possible, cock dragging right against that spot that makes your brain short-circuit. The angle is filthy, overwhelming. Every thrust grinds against your clit and punches straight into the place that’s never been touched like this.
“Oh my god—Bucky—”
He feels it the second you clench. His hips stutter. “Fuck, doll, you’re squeezin’ me so tight—”
You come like a freight train.
It hits you so hard your vision whites out. Your whole body locks up, thighs shaking against his shoulders, a broken cry ripping out of you as you pulse around him, wet and hot and endless. You’ve never come with anyone before. Never. Not once.
Bucky loses it.
His eyes blow wide, pupils swallowing the blue, mouth dropping open in pure stunned lust. “Holy shit—did you just—?” He drives in again, harder, chasing the way your cunt flutters and gushes around him. “You came. You came on my cock, baby. Fuck, look at you.”
He’s grinning now, cocky and wild, sweat dripping down his temple as he fucks you through it, hips snapping sharp and deep. “You just needed it deeper, huh? That’s all it took? My pretty girl been waiting for me to fold her in half and ruin her little pussy?”
You can’t even answer—just whimper and nod, tears slipping down your temples because it feels too good, too much. He groans, low and wrecked, and comes right after you, buried to the hilt, growling your name like a prayer.
After that, everything changes.
The next night he’s got you bent over the kitchen counter, fucking you slow and lazy while you try to finish the dishes you started. You’re close—whining, pushing back on him—but it’s not enough. You know what you need now. You hate how badly you need it.
“Bucky… please…”
He chuckles, dark and knowing, and slows down even more. “What’s wrong, doll? You sound so desperate. Use your words.”
You shove your face into your arms, mortified and aching. “The position. Please. I need—”
He pulls out, spins you around, and scoops you up like you weigh nothing. In two strides he’s got you on the couch, legs shoved up and back until your knees are by your shoulders. The second he sinks back inside you come again—hard, fast, sobbing his name while he laughs softly against your mouth.
“Greedy little thing,” he murmurs, still moving, still hard. “One taste and now you can’t get off unless I bend you in half like a pretzel, huh?”
It becomes your thing.
Every time after that you turn into a whiny, desperate mess the second he teases you with shallow thrusts. You’ll be riding him, hands braced on his chest, bouncing so pretty, and he’ll just smirk up at you.
“You close, baby?”
You nod frantically, hips grinding faster. “Mhm—Bucky—please—”
He grabs your waist, stilling you. “Nah. Not like this.” His voice drops, filthy and sweet all at once. “You need me to put you in position? Need me to fold those pretty legs up and fuck you so deep you see stars?”
You whine, high and pathetic, cheeks burning. “Yes—yes, please, Bucky, I need it—”
He flips you so fast your head spins. Knees to chest, his massive body looming over you, cock sliding back in with one brutal thrust. You come instantly, screaming, nails raking down his back while he fucks you through it with that smug, adoring grin.
“Every damn time,” he growls, hips snapping. “Only come when I’ve got you pinned and open like this. My perfect girl. Say it.”
“I—fuck—I only come when you put me in the mating press—oh god—”
He kisses you messy and deep, still thrusting, still teasing. “That’s right. And you’re gonna keep begging me for it, aren’t you?”
You nod frantically, already feeling the next one building.
Because now you know the truth: you can come. You just need Bucky Barnes to press you down, fold you up, and give it to you deeper than anyone ever has.
yayayayay for spring break!! I had an idea!! what about reader who tells (beefy) bucky she can't come during sex with a partner but she still enjoys it and he's all understanding & sweet but then they're having sex and he puts her in a mating press and she comes for the first time ever with someone and he loses it and is all cocky and saying "you just needed it deeper" and then every time after that, she's whiny and desperate to come and he's teasing her saying "you need me to put you in position?" and she begs for it, only coming when he puts her in a mating press
- @buckybsdoll 🫶🏼
mating press mention; hello blue!
--------
You’d told him on the couch, legs tangled under a blanket, his metal fingers tracing lazy circles on your thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world. Bucky had listened with that soft, patient look he saved just for you—brow furrowed, blue eyes steady.
“I just… I don’t finish with partners,” you’d said, cheeks burning. “I get close, I enjoy it, but it never happens. I still want you. I still want this. I just don’t want you to feel like it’s your job to fix me or whatever.”
He’d cupped your face, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Doll, nothing about you needs fixing. If you wanna feel good with me, we’ll feel good. If you don’t come, we’ll still have fun. I’m not keeping score.” Then he kissed you slow and sweet until you were breathless, and that was that.
Two hours later you’re in his bed, sheets already twisted, his mouth between your legs like he’s got all night. He’s so careful—broad shoulders keeping your thighs open, tongue slow and filthy, two thick fingers curling just right. You’re moaning, hips rolling, pleasure coiling tight and warm in your belly, but you know how this ends. You always know.
“Bucky,” you gasp, fingers in his hair, “you don’t have to—”
He lifts his head, lips shiny, eyes dark. “I want to. Let me take care of you, baby.”
You nod, because how are you supposed to say no to that? He crawls up your body, all that beefy muscle and warm skin, cock heavy against your thigh. When he pushes in—slow, thick, stretching you open—you moan loud enough to echo. He feels incredible. He always does. You rock with him, hands on his back, nails digging in as he fucks you deep and steady, murmuring praise against your throat.
“That’s it, sweetheart. So fucking tight for me. You feel so good.”
You’re lost in it, in the drag of him, the way his dog tags brush your chest, the low rumble of his voice. But the edge stays just out of reach, same as always.
Then Bucky shifts. He hooks his hands behind your knees and folds you clean in half.
Your eyes fly open.
The press is sudden—your thighs pressed to your chest, ankles by your ears, his massive frame pinning you down so completely you can’t even squirm. He sinks in deeper than you thought possible, cock dragging right against that spot that makes your brain short-circuit. The angle is filthy, overwhelming. Every thrust grinds against your clit and punches straight into the place that’s never been touched like this.
“Oh my god—Bucky—”
He feels it the second you clench. His hips stutter. “Fuck, doll, you’re squeezin’ me so tight—”
You come like a freight train.
It hits you so hard your vision whites out. Your whole body locks up, thighs shaking against his shoulders, a broken cry ripping out of you as you pulse around him, wet and hot and endless. You’ve never come with anyone before. Never. Not once.
Bucky loses it.
His eyes blow wide, pupils swallowing the blue, mouth dropping open in pure stunned lust. “Holy shit—did you just—?” He drives in again, harder, chasing the way your cunt flutters and gushes around him. “You came. You came on my cock, baby. Fuck, look at you.”
He’s grinning now, cocky and wild, sweat dripping down his temple as he fucks you through it, hips snapping sharp and deep. “You just needed it deeper, huh? That’s all it took? My pretty girl been waiting for me to fold her in half and ruin her little pussy?”
You can’t even answer—just whimper and nod, tears slipping down your temples because it feels too good, too much. He groans, low and wrecked, and comes right after you, buried to the hilt, growling your name like a prayer.
After that, everything changes.
The next night he’s got you bent over the kitchen counter, fucking you slow and lazy while you try to finish the dishes you started. You’re close—whining, pushing back on him—but it’s not enough. You know what you need now. You hate how badly you need it.
“Bucky… please…”
He chuckles, dark and knowing, and slows down even more. “What’s wrong, doll? You sound so desperate. Use your words.”
You shove your face into your arms, mortified and aching. “The position. Please. I need—”
He pulls out, spins you around, and scoops you up like you weigh nothing. In two strides he’s got you on the couch, legs shoved up and back until your knees are by your shoulders. The second he sinks back inside you come again—hard, fast, sobbing his name while he laughs softly against your mouth.
“Greedy little thing,” he murmurs, still moving, still hard. “One taste and now you can’t get off unless I bend you in half like a pretzel, huh?”
It becomes your thing.
Every time after that you turn into a whiny, desperate mess the second he teases you with shallow thrusts. You’ll be riding him, hands braced on his chest, bouncing so pretty, and he’ll just smirk up at you.
“You close, baby?”
You nod frantically, hips grinding faster. “Mhm—Bucky—please—”
He grabs your waist, stilling you. “Nah. Not like this.” His voice drops, filthy and sweet all at once. “You need me to put you in position? Need me to fold those pretty legs up and fuck you so deep you see stars?”
You whine, high and pathetic, cheeks burning. “Yes—yes, please, Bucky, I need it—”
He flips you so fast your head spins. Knees to chest, his massive body looming over you, cock sliding back in with one brutal thrust. You come instantly, screaming, nails raking down his back while he fucks you through it with that smug, adoring grin.
“Every damn time,” he growls, hips snapping. “Only come when I’ve got you pinned and open like this. My perfect girl. Say it.”
“I—fuck—I only come when you put me in the mating press—oh god—”
He kisses you messy and deep, still thrusting, still teasing. “That’s right. And you’re gonna keep begging me for it, aren’t you?”
You nod frantically, already feeling the next one building.
Because now you know the truth: you can come. You just need Bucky Barnes to press you down, fold you up, and give it to you deeper than anyone ever has.
pairing | drifter!bucky x fem!reader x drifter!steve
word count | 23.3k words (sorry yall, save this for bed)
summary | two drifters take refuge on a sun-blistered louisiana farm, but the real heat comes from the farmer’s enigmatic daughter who draws them in with slow, honey-thick temptation.
tags | 18+ (MDNI), Explicit Sexual Content, porn w plot (and i really think the plot is good), farmers!daughter!reader, multiple smut scenes (yeah i went overboard), southern gothic vibes, lots of erotica, sexual tension, STUCKY ANGST,mutual pining (heavy denial), lots of unprotected sex, piv, oral (m&f!receiving), secret sex, lying, seduction, threesome (m/m/f), sensory overload, horny!reader (unapologetically), reader is a freak, love triangle (and best believe this is a triangle with all three ends), voyeurism (self righteous steve), double penetration, first time stucky (reader is their main cheerleader), shameless!reader, manipulative!reader, knows exactly what she's doing, enjoys instigating and stirring the pot, steve rogers is repressed and in denial, bucky barnes has a dirty mouth and is easily jealous, pride vs desire, lotsssss of religious imagery, sin vs purity imagery, they all need therapy but instead they have sex, (there's probably more i should add, but i dont remember)
a/n | this has been sitting in ellipses for the last month, finally im free! jumping on the stucky train, and i have no shame abt it. and i really tried to edit and cut, but everything is important to the plot
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨
MASTERLIST
divider by @omi-resources
The two-tone ’78 Chevy sat wheezing on the shoulder, its hood punched open like a yawn in the late-afternoon heat. Beyond the ribbon of cracked asphalt, cane fields lay flat and humming, cicadas sawing at the silence. Bucky leaned both forearms on the grill, hair sticking to the sweat on his neck, and offered a lopsided grin that only made things worse.
“Relax, Stevie. Tank’s empty, not the end of the world.”
Steve slammed the driver’s door harder than he meant to; the truck shuddered like it might expire altogether. “Not the end of the world? We’re forty miles from a town anyone’s heard of, it’s a hundred degrees, we got eight dollars between us, and you didn’t think to check the gauge?”
Bucky shrugged, easy as a breeze. “Gauge is busted, remember? Besides, you were the one drivin’ last—”
“Because you were too busy sweet-talking that waitress to keep your eyes on the road.”
“Tyra?” Bucky’s smile widened. “She gave us pie for free.”
“Great. Maybe we can burn it for fuel.” Steve dragged a hand through his hair and squinted up the road; nothing but heat rippling off the tarmac. “We need a plan.”
“We got one,” Bucky said, straightening. He rapped the hood twice, like patting a tired mule. “We walk. Someone around here’s gotta sell gas. Maybe even trade a couple hours’ work for a full can.”
“Or they’ll run us off with an axe.” Steve’s voice softened despite himself; frustration never stuck to Bucky for long. “This was supposed to be different, Buck. Thought we’d find steady work in New Orleans—”
“And we did, for a minute. Things change.” Bucky’s gaze drifted past Steve to the hazy edge where pasture met cypress and moss. “Look, the road forks up ahead—left’s more fields, right’s water. Bayou country. People out here always need strong backs.” He slung their one duffel over his shoulder. “C’mon. Sun’s not gettin’ any kinder.”
Steve glanced at the truck and sighed. “You really think we’ll ‘figure it out’?”
“We always do.” Bucky’s grin turned conspiratorial, the one that had gotten them into brawls and out of worse. “Besides, you love savin’ my ass. Gives you purpose.”
“One of these days,” Steve muttered, though a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth, “your luck’s gonna run out.”
“Then I’ll borrow yours.” Bucky tipped an imaginary hat and started down the asphalt, boots crunching gravel. After a beat, Steve fell in beside him.
The sun slid lower, painting the sky blood-orange. Somewhere to the east, a smear of water reflected the light. The air smelled of cane juice and distant brackish rot.
Eventually dusk bled over the cane fields in long bruised stripes, the sky turning molasses-thick and purple. For close to an hour, the only sounds had been boot soles on gravel and Bucky’s running commentary; little jokes about gator crossings, predictions of cold beer “just past the next bend,” memories of music drifting out of French Quarter bars.
He talked as if words could keep the darkness from settling on their shoulders.
Steve let most of it wash past. Sweat glued the back of his shirt to his spine; the sun had scalded the bridge of his nose raw. Every mile without a plan felt heavier than the duffel bumping against his hip. When Bucky announced, for the fourth time, that “things always work out,” Steve only answered with a quiet grunt and kept walking.
Then the road took a shallow dip and opened onto a low rise of pasture, and there it was—a farmhouse half-hidden behind live oaks, porch lights already flickering on like fireflies. Off to the right, a tin-roofed barn crouched at the edge of a bayou inlet, its stilts mirrored in dark water. Smoke drifted from a chimney in a lazy ribbon; somewhere close, a cow lowed.
Bucky stopped dead and threw out an arm as if presenting a miracle. “Told you, pal. Luck’s a lady tonight.”
Steve studied the place; fencing mended in patches, tractor parked beneath a tarp, rows of tomatoes staked with twine. Not prosperous, but lived-in, cared for. “Or it’s someone’s home, and we’re about to get run off for trespassing.”
“Won’t know ’til we ask.” Bucky’s grin caught the last shred of light, turning his eyes almost silver. “Guy like you knocks on a door, says ‘Sir, evening, we’re lookin’ for some shelter for the night,’ who’s gonna say no?”
“Plenty of people,” Steve muttered, but the fight had drained out of his voice. He glanced back the way they’d come, miles of empty asphalt slowly disappearing into night, and exhaled. “All right. We try.”
They left the road, boots whispering through knee-high grass that smelled of sun-baked sugarcane and river mud. A chorus of frogs started up, rhythmic and lewd, as if cheering them on. When they reached the split-rail fence, Bucky vaulted it in one easy swing; Steve followed, slower, feeling the rail creak beneath his weight.
Closer now, Steve noticed the details Bucky’s optimism had missed; shutters needing paint, porch boards warping at the ends, the faint uneven beat of a generator somewhere out back. A place run by sweat and necessity, not spare cash.
Bucky rolled his shoulders like a man warming up for a dance. “Let me talk first. I’ll soften ’em up.”
Steve’s mouth twitched. “And if sweet talk doesn’t cover room and board?”
“Then you flex those big-boy muscles and show ’em we’re worth feeding.” He winked.
Steve looked past him to the porch. A screen door stood ajar, warm lamplight spilling through, and inside he caught a glimpse of movement—someone crossing a threshold.
“Yeah,” Steve said finally. “Could be worse.”
Behind them the sun sank, and the bayou lapped soft against the stilts, as if tasting something new in the twilight air.
The screen door slapped once against its frame and stayed half-open, lamplight spilling across warped porch boards. A man stepped out. A raw-boned figure in dungarees and a sweat-stained work shirt, the brim of his straw hat casting his face in shadow. The pump shotgun balanced in the crook of his arm said everything his tight mouth didn’t.
Bucky lifted one hand, palm out, easy smile already in place. “Evenin’, sir. Hate to trouble you—”
“You’re already doin’ it,” the man cut in, voice dry as crushed shell. His eyes flicked from Bucky’s scuffed boots to the duffel on Steve’s shoulder, then back. “Road’s that way if you’re passin’ through.”
Bucky chuckled like they were all sharing a joke. “Wish we were. Truck ran dry few miles back. Just lookin’ for a spot of ground to lay our heads, maybe point us toward gas come mornin’.”
Mr. Moreau, Steve caught the stitched name on a feed-store cap hooked to a nail by the door, didn’t blink. “Folks who show up empty always want more’n a night’s sleep.”
“Not us,” Bucky said, still smooth but softer now, reading the room. “Couple hours on a cot, we’re golden.”
Steve stepped forward, wiping his palm on his jeans before offering it. “Sir, we don’t expect charity. We grew up working yards and warehouses in Brooklyn. Let us put in a day’s labour; repair fence, muck stalls, whatever needs doing, in exchange for a meal and a corner of your barn. Tomorrow we’ll walk to town, buy fuel, and be gone.”
The old man studied Steve’s hand like it might bite. Up close Steve could see the lines etched deep around his mouth, the cautious flare of his nostrils, the calculation behind the suspicion. When he finally spoke, he addressed Steve, not Bucky.
“You fix fence?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Know your way around a baler?”
“Can learn quick.”
Moreau’s gaze shifted to Bucky. “And you?”
Bucky’s grin turned boyish. “I swing a hammer straight and don’t complain about blisters.”
A long moment of silence stretched, filled only by the bayou’s night chorus and the low thrum of a diesel generator. Then Moreau nodded once, sharp. “Barn’s there.” He jerked his chin past a line of pecan trees toward the weather-silvered structure on stilts. “You’ll sleep in the loft—floor’s solid. I’ll send my girl with sheets, pillows and supper.”
He paused, shotgun still resting easy but present. “Sunup, you start mending the northeast fence line where the posts lean. No smoking, no liquor, no wandering past the pens after dark. Gators like the warm water.”
Steve’s shoulders loosened a fraction. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
Bucky tipped two fingers from his brow. “Much obliged, Mr. Moreau.”
Steve offered his hand again; Mr. Moreau finally considered the gesture, then shook once. It was firm and testing. “Careful, bayou’s mean at night, and I ain’t friendlier.”
They watched him retreat across the porch, boards groaning under deliberate steps. Inside, a screen door banged and lamplight shifted, framing a second silhouette for half a heartbeat, before it disappeared deeper into the house.
As they crossed the yard the porch lights dimmed, leaving only moon-slivered clouds and the distant lantern glow of the barn.
Bucky exhaled a satisfied breath. “See? Luck.”
Steve shot him a side-eye that was half exhaustion, but reluctant amusement won out. “Your kind of luck usually gets me shot at.”
“Guy didn’t even chamber a round. We’re fine,” Bucky said, swinging the duffel like a lunch pail. “C’mon, punk. We got hay to fluff before the linens arrive. Wouldn’t want the lady of the house thinking we’re ungrateful.”
They crossed the yard toward the barn as cicadas struck up their night chorus, and behind them the bayou breathed thick water-scent into the dark.
The barn’s lower doors groaned shut behind them, sealing in the smell of hay dust, old saddle soap, and the faint sweetness of cane. A thick ladder hugged one beam; Bucky scrambled up first, boots thudding on the rungs. When he pushed through the loft hatch he let out a low whistle that echoed off the rafters.
“Well, hell—thought we’d be beddin’ down with the cows.”
Steve followed, palms rough against the rails. The space wasn’t the raw hayloft he’d pictured. Slanted cedar walls glowed amber in the lamplight, and a faded striped couch sat center stage, its cushions sun-soft. A trunk doubled as a coffee table; books leaned drunkenly on handmade shelves beside a beaten-brass telescope aimed through a cut-out window toward the purpling sky.
Bucky flopped onto the couch, springs sighing. “Damn. Better than half the motels we’ve stayed in.” He stretched, hands locked behind his head, boots still on. “Called it—Barnes luck.”
Steve shot him a look. “Boots off. Don’t wreck the place five minutes in.”
“Boots are fine.” Bucky toed one heel against the other anyway, dropping them beside the trunk. Then he tipped his head back, scanning rafters strung with paper stars and a single model airplane dangling by fishing line. “Knew Moreau wasn’t as mean as he let on.”
“Or this belongs to his daughter, and he’ll tan you for putting your filthy socks on her couch.” Steve drifted to the telescope, brushing a thumb over its brass barrel.
In the corner sat a small writing desk cluttered with jars of dried flowers, a stub of vanilla candle, and a horsehair brush still catching the lamplight in its bristles. Feminine touches, but nothing frilly enough to feel staged.
He glanced at Bucky, who had already settled deeper, arms splayed like a victorious cat. “We’ve got one night of goodwill, Buck. Tomorrow we work till our backs snap, and then we’re still broke. Gas isn’t growin’ in that south field.”
Bucky closed one eye, pretending to sight something on the ceiling. “You worry too loud. We fix the fence, maybe fix the truck while we’re at it—they toss us a few extra dollars, or a jerry can. Folks out here respect elbow grease.”
“Respect doesn’t fuel an engine.”
“Neither does frettin’. You’ll give yourself ulcers before thirty.” He rolled to his side, propping his head on a bent elbow. “Come on, take a seat. Feel this cushion. It’s practically luxury.”
Steve ignored the invitation and set his eye to the telescope. Through dusty glass he caught a sliver of bayou, water black and mirror still, framed by cypress knees. Fireflies sparked like stray embers above the reeds. Something about the view stirred a bone-deep ache for order he couldn’t name.
Behind him Bucky huffed. “You’re really gonna stand there brooding? You’ll ruin my mood, Rogers.”
“You have a mood?”
“Best mood this side of the South, if you’d let it breathe.” The couch creaked again; Bucky’s feet thumped the floor. “Fine. I’ll do a full inspection. Make sure no ghosts under the bed.” He padded toward a curtained alcove where a narrow mattress crouched beneath more quilts.
Steve lowered the telescope. “Careful.”
“Relax, I’m just checking.” Bucky flipped back the curtain, paused, then called over his shoulder, softer, “There’s a vase of fresh magnolias in here, Steve.”
Steve nodded once. “All the more reason to treat this place right.” He dragged fingers through hair damp with sweat and twilight humidity. “Tomorrow, we fence. After that, we find a way to buy gas.”
Bucky chuckled, but it came out tired. “Tomorrow, we survive. Tonight, we sleep on feather cushions like kings.”
A scrape sounded below, the barn’s side door opening. Lantern light bobbed on the ladder rungs. Steve stepped forward, heart ticking faster despite himself, as he caught the soft shuffle of feet heading toward the loft.
“Guess Mr. Moreau’s ‘girl’ brought supper,” Bucky murmured, straightening his shirt, suddenly attentive.
Steve’s pulse thudded, nerves tight for reasons he couldn’t quite blame on hunger. He smoothed his face into politeness.
“Remember,” he muttered, “boots off the furniture. And be respectful.”
Bucky grinned, eyes flicking to the ladder hatch where a warm glow now haloed the first edge of a tray. “No promises, pal.”
Boot-steps creaked up the ladder—slow, sure.You appeared in the hatch with twilight at your back, balancing a tin tray loaded with two enamel plates, a fat mason jar of water beaded with condensation, pillows and neatly folded sheets tucked beneath one arm.
“Evenin’, boys.”
Bucky was on his feet before the last syllable hit the rafters, grin flashing like he’d been rehearsing it. “Evenin’.” He slid a hand under the tray, thumb brushing the outside of your wrist as he relieved you of the weight. “Smells incredible. You must be the angel Mr Moreau mentioned. I’m James Bucky Barnes, and the tall, worried lookin’ fella is Steve Rogers.”
You arched a brow, amused, “Angel, huh?” The word tasted ironic coming from you, syrupy drawl cut with something sharper. “More like delivery girl. Pillow-fairy if you’re polite.”
You set the pillows on the couch arm, smoothed the patterned sheet across the cushions. Up close, sweat-shine on their skin smelled of road dust and cut cane.
Steve cleared his throat, polite even with his sleeves rolled and collar limp. “Thank you for supper… and the linens, ma’am. This your cookin’?”
“Jambalaya,” you hummed, rolling the word slow. “Daddy says it keeps visitors honest—pepper’ll burn lies off a tongue. Hope you’re hungry.”
Bucky inhaled over the plate, eyes closing like a man at church. “Starvin’, darlin’.” Then, glancing around the loft, “Guess this is your spot? Kinda figured we’d be burrowin’ into hay bales.”
Your shrug said maybe tomorrow. “Daddy doesn’t usually let strangers sleep on his land, much less up here.” You perched on the trunk, unbothered by their looming height. “Guess he saw somethin’ useful in you.”
Steve straightened, earnest. “We appreciate it. If you’d rather we sleep downstairs—”
“Relax, Captain Courtesy,” Bucky cut in, throwing him a side-eye. “We’ll keep our boots off the sofa, promise.” To you, softer, “You’re welcome to sit a spell, if you’re not busy. Share a plate. Tell us the house rules.”
The offer hung there with the dust motes, cicadas whirring through the slats, night air thick with sweetgrass and something darker underneath. You let it linger, watching how Steve’s jaw flexed when Bucky talked, how Bucky’s fingertips tapped the tray like he had more to say with them.
Finally you leaned back on your palms, eyes flicking from one to the other. “House rule’s simple; earn your keep. Fence line’s a mess, cows need milkin’, and Daddy hates slackers.” A slow smile uncurled. “But I might come up later, see if the telescope’s still pointed true.”
Bucky’s grin sharpened. “We’ll set it for the moon.”
You rose, brushing hay dust from your jeans. “Eat while it’s hot. I’ll fetch y’all at first light.” At the hatch you paused, tilting your head just enough that lamp-glow kissed the line of your neck. “Sweet dreams, city boys.”
Boot-steps receded, leaving the scent of spices and warm wood in your wake. Bucky let out a low whistle, passing Steve a plate. “Tell me again why you thought today was a bad day.”
Steve didn’t answer. He just watched the ladder, heart knocking once, twice—like somebody’d tapped a match to kindling he’d forgotten was there.
The wire rasped through worn leather gloves as Steve cinched a new section taut against the post.
Morning heat hadn’t hit full force yet; the light was soft, hazy, dust motes floating like lazy sparks each time the staple met wood. Across from him, Bucky should’ve been driving the next nail, but his hammer paused halfway, blue eyes angled toward the paddock.
You were out by the dairy pen, skirt hem stopping at mid-thigh, knees braced to the churn of a milk pail. Every now and then you tipped the tin to pour a pale ribbon into the waiting bucket, the motion flexing your thighs.
Bucky’s lips pulled into a slow grin. “Tell me that view doesn’t make fence-mending a religious experience.”
“Eyes on the post,” Steve muttered, tamping the staple flat. “We finish the south line before the sun’s overhead.”
“M’hands are workin’, my eyes are multitaskin’.” Bucky leaned, deliberately stretching the thick cotton of his vest. “Can you blame me? Those legs could power a tractor.”
Steve followed the angle of Bucky’s gaze despite himself—caught the way morning light traced the curve of your calf, the slip of skin above a worn boot. He cleared his throat and yanked the next length of wire. “Point is, don’t stare. It’s rude. And we told Mr Moreau we’d act right.”
“Act right?” Bucky’s laugh was a slow roll, low enough only Steve heard. “Saint Rogers over here pretending he didn’t spend the last five minutes studying her ass like it’s a map to salvation.”
Steve’s jaw ticked. “I was making sure she wasn’t lifting more than she should.”
“She’s strong. Didn’t you see her lop that bale? Girl could throw you through the barn door if she tried.” Bucky’s hammer finally met the post—thunk, thunk—driving the nail, though his gaze drifted again to the milking stall. “Bet she smells like vanilla and brown sugar up close.”
“For God’s sake—”
“You’re the one sniffing the air like a bloodhound.” Bucky shot him a sideways grin. “Relax your righteous feathers, punk. We fix the fence, we earn lunch, maybe catch her eye after chores. No harm in looking.”
Steve said nothing, but his ears burned hotter than the sun. The fence gave a satisfied hum under tension. Beyond it, you straightened, wiping the back of your wrist over your brow before hoisting the sloshing bucket to your hip. The movement pulled your skirt higher; both men went still, identical pulses jumping in their throats.
You glanced over, caught them, and offered a small smile before turning toward the barn.
Bucky’s voice dropped, sincere in spite of the teasing. “That smile’s an invitation, pal.”
Steve set his hammer on the top rail, exhaling hard. “It’s a warning.”
“Same thing, if you read it right.” Bucky twirled the hammer once, then thunked it into his belt. “Come on, we finish quick, we wash up, maybe wander by the paddock—”
Steve lifted the next coil of wire, but a reluctant curve tugged his mouth. “Finish quick and it better be neat. If her dad sees a sloppy fence, we’re gone before sunset.”
Bucky nailed the last staple with a flourish, dusted his palms, and followed Steve down the line.
The sun hung lazy-low, just warm enough to slick skin but not yet cruel. Fence posts were set, woodchips scattered like confetti around the chopping stump where Steve swung the maul in steady, clean arcs. A few yards off, Bucky rolled hay bales into neat ranks, muscles jumping under sweat-dark cotton.
Bootheels tapped along the packed lane. You appeared with a mason jar in each hand, glass sweating so hard it dripped onto your bare thighs. The hem of your skirt rode high; your cropped tank left a sliver of midriff glowing. You stopped at the paddock rail, hips cocked, watching them work like it was your own private picture show.
“Y’all look parched.”
Bucky straightened first, forearm wiping grit from his brow. One lazy grin and he was sauntering over to you. “Angel, you’re a vision.”
“Uh-huh.” You handed a glass to Steve, eyes glittering. “Don’t spill it.”
Steve set the maul aside, palms broad and pink from the handle. He accepted the lemonade with a murmured thanks—voice gone rough in a way that wasn’t from thirst alone. “Smells like lemons and cane sugar. You make it yourself?”
“Fresh this mornin’. Daddy swears by it.” You sipped from Bucky’s jar, lips glistening, then handed it to him. His gaze tracked the curve of your mouth like a compass needle. “Saw you two knockin’ that fence line out fast. Figured a reward was fair.”
Bucky tipped the drink, throat working. “Could use more rewards just like this.” His eyes drifted down, unapologetic. “Gotta say, the scenery makes hard labour downright spiritual.”
Steve cleared his throat, shooting Bucky a side-long glance that begged for decorum. He turned to you instead. “Is it just you and Mr. Moreau runnin’ all of this?”
“Daddy’s got three hands from town come by Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays.” You shrugged, playful. “So he was mighty generous lettin’ you bunk the loft—already plenty of help around here.”
“Generous man,” Bucky echoed, elbow nudging Steve. “Maybe we earn a longer stay. Few more fences need mendin’? Any chores need extra muscle?”
Steve flicked him a warning, but you only smiled, amused at the jockeying. “We’ll see what Daddy thinks.”
Bucky leaned on the rail, voice dropping. “What about what you think?”
“I think city boys burn quick in bayou heat,” you teased, running a finger along the condensation of Steve’s jar. “But if you don’t mind a little sweat, maybe stick around. Could be fun.”
You tapped the rim of Steve’s glass, then Bucky’s. “Finish up. Lunch at the house in twenty. Don’t keep me waitin’.”
With that you turned, skirt swishing just enough to make both men swallow. The backs of your thighs glowed in the noon light as you sauntered toward the barn, humming something slow and sweet.
Bucky watched every step. “One more day, Stevie. Let’s charm the old man, top off the tank, see where the night goes.”
Steve drained the lemonade, eyes still on your retreating sway. “We charm him by working, Buck. And by keeping our mouths clean.”
“Hands might not stay that way, though,” Bucky muttered, rolling his shoulders before grabbing another bale.
Steve hefted the maul again, but there was a new looseness in the set of his jaw, in the way he glanced toward the barn door you’d slipped through.
The dining room smelled of fried catfish and sweet corn fritters—hot oil, cracked pepper, a shimmer of cayenne that clung to the air like summer sweat. Cedar-plank walls held the noon light soft and amber; a battered ceiling fan turned slow overhead, pushing the warm scent around.
At the rough-hewn table sat Mr. Moreau, back straight, elbows planted wide like fence-posts. His gaze pinned both men while your small radio whispered an old Fats Domino tune from the sideboard.
You settled first, bare calf crossing over knee, skirt riding high so a ribbon of thigh caught the fan breeze. No fuss, no apology, just a lazy slide into the chair to the left of the old man. Bucky and Steve perched side by side on the long bench, shoulders too broad for the narrow space.
Mr. Moreau cleared his throat. “So.”
Bucky flashed an easy grin. “Sir, we wanted to thank you for lunch—and for the loft last night. Fence is tight, wood’s stacked, goats’re lookin’ downright smug. Thought maybe we could hang on a bit. Give you a few more solid days’ work.”
Steve nodded, posture crisp. “We don’t expect pay. Just room, board, maybe a little gas when all’s done.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed, slow as an eclipse. “Men who drift in askin’ favours are usually runnin’ from somethin’.”
Bucky’s grin softened, but didn’t falter. “Only thing we’re runnin’ from is bad luck and an empty tank.” He lifted a fried fillet in salute. “Figured we’d trade sweat for supper till fortune turns.”
Mr. Moreau grunted, slicing into cornbread. “Luck’s earned, not begged.”
Across the table, you leaned your chin into one hand, nails tracing idle circles on the lacquer. “Daddy.” The single word mild and amused. “Fence never looked that straight. Saved you two of the town boys this morning.”
Bucky shot you a grateful wink. Steve took a careful sip of sweet tea—eyes flicking from the old man to the curve of your mouth as you licked a crumb of batter from your bottom lip.
“Could use them on the west pasture, too,” you added, voice syrup-slow. “Boards are rotten through. And your back’s been talkin’.”
The old man’s jaw ticked, like admitting pain was heresy. “Mmph.”
You shrugged, turning your attention to the drifters. “Reckon they stay through the weekend, that job’s done.”
Bucky’s boot nudged Steve’s knee under the table. He straightened. “We’ll have that pasture tight by Sunday. After that, we’ll roll on, no trouble.”
Mr. Moreau studied them, then you. “Ain’t your habit takin’ strays, girl.”
You tucked a damp piece of hair behind your ear. “Maybe they’re useful strays.”
Bucky coughed a laugh; Steve nudged him this time—behave. But you’d already hooked a foot beneath Bucky’s boot-lace, giving it a slow teasing drag. His breath caught, just a fraction, before he masked it with another bite of fish.
Steve felt the shift, the invisible pull of your attention, and he flushed hotter than cayenne pepper. You shifted again, thigh brushing his denim under the table’s edge, bare skin against coarse cotton for half a heartbeat, then you broke contact, like a cat pretending no mischief at all.
Mr. Moreau missed all of it, “My daughter’s comfort counts first.”
Bucky leaned forward, forearms on the table, voice dropping to a respectful drawl. “Sir, we’d sooner limp to Baton Rouge barefoot than disrespect your home or your daughter.”
You tipped your glass, amber iced tea shining against your mouth. “Told you they got manners, Daddy.”
Steve cleared his throat, earnest. “Mr. Moreau, we may have never grown up around farms… but work here feels right. Let us finish what we started.”
Silence stretched, thick as cane syrup. A fly buzzed the rim of the pepper sauce; the fan creaked overhead. Your toes traced a line up the inside seam of Bucky’s jeans, making him swallow hard. Steve’s knee jostled under your hand, and his fork stalled halfway to his mouth.
Finally Mr. Moreau set down his cornbread. “Two more days. West pasture, chicken-wire pen, then you go. I’ll spare a gallon for your tank—no more.”
“See it done proper.” He pushed back from the table, chair legs scraping. “I got hogs to check.” Then he turned to Steve, stern but not unkind, “You strike me as a man who knows straight from crooked. Keep him,”—a nod at Bucky—“on the square.”
“Yes, sir.”
The old man left through the side door, screen slapping shut. The room exhaled, something easier curling in the hot air.
Bucky looked at you, mischief lighting every line of him. “Appreciate the save, darlin’. Didn’t think we’d pass inspection.”
You rose, gathering plates, the hem of your skirt lifting as you reached across Steve’s shoulder—letting him feel the soft brush of your hip before you eased away. “Didn’t do it for free. Fence straight Sunday means I pick my payment.”
Steve tried for steady. “And what payment is that?”
You stacked dishes on the sideboard, glancing back over your shoulder. “Surprise me.” Then, softer, to Bucky, “And y’all behave. Daddy’s got a rifle on the porch.”
Bucky’s grin widened. “Lucky for us I’m faster than buckshot.”
“We’ll see.” You disappeared through the kitchen arch, leaving the faint scent of honeysuckle lotion in your wake.
Bucky exhaled a slow whistle. “Think she likes us.”
Steve dragged a hand down his face. “She’s teasing, Buck.”
“Teasing’s just foreplay writ large.” He elbowed Steve, leaning in. “Did you feel her on your leg? Damn near thought my heart’d stop.”
Steve pushed his chair out, cheeks flushed. “Focus, please.”
Sun-bleached boards thudded under their boots as they stepped off the porch. The cicadas had switched to their slow, drowsy rhythm—a back-of-the-throat drone.
Steve kept his voice low but firm. “We’ve got a good thing here, Buck. Two days’ work, a gallon for the Chevy, and a place that doesn’t smell like diesel. Don’t screw it up.”
Bucky shot him a sideways look, half-smile already fading. “Why’s it always ‘don’t screw it up,’ Stevie? Maybe let a man enjoy the view.”
“We promised Mr Moreau we’d behave,” Steve’s glare held steady. “You act like you’ve never seen a pretty girl before.”
“I promised to respect his house. Didn’t promise to walk around blind.” Bucky kicked a pebble off the path, hands sliding into his back pockets. “Besides, she’s not just ‘a pretty girl.’ She’s—” He paused, searching for the right weight of the word. “—a woman. Curves like a prayer and a mouth that could talk the devil into church.”
Steve stopped, jaw tight. “You’re thinking with your dick.”
“Guilty as charged.” Bucky’s grin flickered, then fell when Steve didn’t soften. “Come on, I’m not gonna leap on her in broad daylight. I can look.”
“Looking becomes touching, and touching gets us tossed back on the road.” Steve’s shoulders slumped with the day’s work, but the edge in his voice stayed sharp. “I’m tired, Buck. One calm weekend—that’s all I’m asking.”
Bucky dragged a hand through sweat-stiff hair, irritation creeping in. “You ever get tired of being the saint? Ever just… feel something and want it?”
“I’m not dead.” Steve’s gaze drifted back toward the house where you were in, then snapped back. “I just know consequences.”
Silence yawned between them, warm and weighty. A dragonfly skated past, wings catching the sunlight.
Finally Bucky exhaled, palms up in surrender. “Fine. No dirty business. Cross my heart. Happy?”
“I’ll be happy when we’re rolling down the highway with a full tank.” Steve started walking again. “Fence first. Daydreams later.”
Bucky fell in beside him, muttering, “Still gonna daydream,” but the bite had gone out of his voice. He cast one last glance at the house, wondering if you were watching from a window, then squared his shoulders and matched Steve’s pace.
Night pressed soft against the loft, all damp cricket-song and the slow pump of the bayou. Bucky slept hard—one arm flung over his face, snore sawing in and out like a loose screen door. Steve lay staring at the beams, sweat cooling on his chest, counting every creak of the rafters until the numbers tangled.
Finally he slid upright, feet finding the quilt-cool boards. Maybe a glance through the telescope would bleed off the restlessness. Just stargazing, nothing more.
The brass tube stood ready at the cut-out window, still flecked with dust from the afternoon. Steve angled it toward the water first—silver ripple, cypress knees shining. Pretty, but the hush didn’t fill him. The lens drifted past the dark smear of the barn roof, climbed to the house on the slight rise. One window glowed warm at the top floor—the only light left awake.
Curiosity, he told himself. He dialed the focus with thumb and forefinger, glass settling on the open curtains.
You moved into frame like a slow exhale, backlit amber. Bare shoulders, skin glinting where the lamp touched. A thin bra—lace maybe, pale against the line of your ribs. Matching panties sat low on your hips, soft fabric hugging the curve he’d pretended not to follow all day.
Steve’s breath stalled. He should pivot away, point the scope at the moon. Instead he watched, heartbeat thudding dull over the swamp’s night chorus.
You worked lotion over your body, hands moving over your chest, throat lengthening with each drag. Heat pooled low in Steve’s stomach, spreading tight. His underwear grew snug; he shifted, ashamed and hungry all at once.
Then your hands slid behind your back. A tiny hitch of shoulders, a flick—straps loosened, the bra easing forward before you peeled it off, slow as a secret. Breasts cupped the lamplight, perfect weight swaying when you dropped the scrap of lace onto a chair.
Steve’s palm tightened on the telescope barrel. He wanted to look away, give you privacy, keep the promise he’d made to himself and to Bucky, but he couldn’t. Not while you turned, adjusting the lamp wick, the soft underside of your breast catching the glow. His breath fogged the eyepiece; he wiped it with a trembling thumb and stared harder, pulse hammering through every inch of him.
Below, Bucky’s snore cut off, shifted, resumed. Steve froze, spine prickling, but the other man didn’t stir. Only the wind moved, pushing thick bayou air over Steve’s damp skin, over the ache pressing urgent inside his shorts.
In the window you stretched, arms above your head, nipples tightening against the night chill. A small satisfied sigh seemed to carry across the dark, Steve almost felt it on his tongue.
“God,” he whispered, a prayer or a curse, he wasn’t sure.
You turned then, facing the glass fully, eyes half-lidded, unaware of the distant drifter watching like a sinner. Steve’s heartbeat slammed. One more second, he promised himself, just one—
A floorboard groaned behind him. He jerked away from the telescope, heat flushing his face even in the dark. Bucky muttered, rolled, settled again. Steve pressed knuckles to his mouth, breathing through the thunder in his chest.
He lay back down but sleep didn’t come. The image of you; smooth skin, bare and unhurried, glowed behind his eyes, bright as the wildfire heat pooling low, refusing to let him go.
A pulse of want rolled through Steve so sharp it bordered on pain. He imagined stepping into that warm-lit room, sliding behind you, palms cupping the soft weight he could only see now in glass and reflections—thumbs circling your nipples until your breath stuttered.
He could almost feel the heat of your skin against his tongue, taste salt and honeysuckle lotion as he mouthed the tip and heard you sigh his name. The thought hit low and thick, tugging at him until his boxer briefs felt two sizes too small.
He tried to drag the vision back to something polite, tried to picture himself knocking on the door, asking if you needed help with chores, but the reel kept slipping; his hands spreading over your hips, his mouth trailing down to suck at the lush underside fo your breast where the lamplight painted shadows.
He wanted to trace every curve, let you arch beneath the weight of his body, feel you shiver when his tongue flicked over pebbled skin. The wanting rode him hard, ruthless, until he clenched his fists against the quilt and swallowed a groan, knowing the taste of you would haunt his tongue long after dawn.
Crickets sang louder, the bayou hummed, and Steve counted the beats until dawn, pulse trapped in the fist of his own wanting.
The next day the sun was high but merciful, tucked behind a gauzy veil of clouds. Steve worked the auger alone, shoulders bunching with every crank. He’d barely spoken since dawn, jaw tight enough to creak.
Across the pasture, you crossed the grass with a slow swing in your hips, skirt flirting just above your knees. Bucky spotted you first; the post-hole digger hit the dirt with a muffled thud. His grin arrived a heartbeat later.
“Afternoon, darlin’. Come to supervise?”
You stopped beside him, fingers trailing the rail he’d just set. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you. Your friend over there”—you nodded toward Steve—“can hardly look me in the eye without blushin’.”
Bucky followed your gaze. Steve never looked up, but his strokes came faster, as if he felt the attention. “That’s Stevie for ya. Spends half his life polishing a halo no one asked him to wear.”
“And you?” Your tone dropped silk-low. “What do you polish, hotshot?”
“Depends who’s askin’.” He leaned on the fence, sweat darkening the vee of his T-shirt. “If he’s the saint, guess that makes me the sinner.”
You hummed approval, thumb idly circling the rough grain near his wrist. “Sinner’s a big word.”
“Earned it.” His gaze dragged the length of your legs, unapologetic. “Figure sin’s just pleasure folks’re too scared to call by its proper name.”
“That right?” You shifted closer, the scent of hay and skin mingling. “Tell me a sin, then. One you’d commit if no one was watchin’.”
Bucky’s smile dipped wicked. “Start with a kiss, slow and sweet, right where that pulse flickers.” He trailed a knuckle just shy of the soft hollow beneath your ear. “Maybe taste that sheen of sweat on your throat—follow it down, see where it gathers.”
Your breath caught, but you kept your poise, folding arms under your breasts so they lifted, tempting. “Bold talk for a man on probation.”
“Two days’ probation.” His eyes sparkled. “Could make ’em holy or make ’em worth repentin’.”
You glanced back at Steve; he’d stopped, one hand braced on the auger, head dipped like a man praying for composure. A smirk curved your mouth. “Your boy looks ready to burst.”
“My boy’s got eyes.” Bucky lowered his voice. “Bet he’s thinkin’ the same dirty things. Just afraid to name ’em.” He leaned in until his lips almost grazed your ear. “Maybe we should show him sin ain’t so scary.”
Heat spiraled low in your belly at the promise. You slid a fingertip over the tops of Bucky’s work gloves, tracing the crease where leather met skin. “Maybe I like watching men wrestle temptation. Makes the reward sweeter when they finally give in.”
“Careful, angel. I’m a simple man once the rules come off.”
“So take ’em off,” you whispered, stepping back with a tease-slow smile. “When the work’s done.”
Your gaze drifted past the fenceline, toward the shimmer of water where the bayou curved like a dark ribbon through cane and cypress. Bucky’s eyes followed, hungry for whatever had your attention—even hungrier when they slid back to him.
“Pretty out there at night,” you murmured, thumb idly tracing the crease of his glove again. “Moon hangs low, fireflies float so thick it looks like somebody scattered diamonds over the water.”
“Sounds downright romantic,” he said, voice roughening on the word. His fingers twitched as if they’d rather close around your waist than the post-hole digger. “You a fan of romantic things, sweetheart?”
“Mm-hmm. When they’re done right.” You stepped just close enough that your skirt brushed his thigh, letting him feel the heat that lived in the inches between your thighs. “Question is—do you like romance, or are you all talk and no follow-through?”
“Oh, I follow through.” His grin tilted wicked. “Give me a porch swing, bit of night air, someone worth sittin’ close to? I’m a poet.”
“A poet?” You teased, but the word sparked a pleasant thrum low in your belly.
“Maybe more a—” His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lowered, lingered at the neckline of your tank. “—hands-on storyteller.”
“Then maybe I’ll tell Daddy I’m takin’ the skiff after supper.” Your voice stayed soft, but the promise in it was as thick as the noon heat. “Could show you that view once your better half’s asleep.”
His breath hitched. “And what view would that be?”
“The one where moonlight paints the bayou silver…” Your fingers ghosted up the inside of his bare forearm. “…and nobody’s around to see if I dip my toes into the water.”
He swallowed hard. “Could be dangerous out there.”
“Only if you scare easy.” Your lips curved. “You strike me as the kind that doesn’t.”
“Saint back there might beg to differ,” he said, jerking his chin toward Steve, who was still hammering like salvation depended on it.
“He’s busy saving souls. I’m busy tempting sinners.” You stepped back, leaving the faintest drag of your nails along his wrist before the distance sealed. “Finish your posts, handsome. Meet me by the dock after dark. We’ll see if romance fits you.”
Bucky’s voice was just a rasp now. “Yes, ma’am.”
You turned toward the barn, hips swaying like slow jazz. Behind you, the clink of wire and rasp of shovel sounded suddenly frantic—as if the devil himself told him every nail he sets is one minute closer to sin.
Across the pasture, Steve finally looked up, sweat-slick hair falling in his eyes. He watched Bucky watching you and couldn’t quite name the tightness curling in his gut; couldn’t decide if it was jealousy, dread, or something hotter than either.
The loft was heavy with darkness—rafters lost in shadow, only a ribbon of moonlight sneaking through the cut-out window. Steve rolled onto his back, blinked, and blinked again. The couch beside him should’ve been groaning under Bucky’s long sprawl, but the cushions sat empty, quilt folded neat as a flag.
“Damn it, Buck,” he muttered.
Boots in hand, he eased to the ladder, the barn’s hush broken only by the soft drip of night dew through the roof tin. Outside, the world glimmered silver—pasture brushed in moon-pale grass, house lights long since snuffed. Steve angled toward the porch first, nothing. He circled the truck, checked the tool shed, found only his own irritation sharpening.
Last option, water.
He followed the narrow path that cut between cane rows, the air warm and wet against his skin. Crickets chirred in lazy chirr-chirrs; now and then a bullfrog belched from some hidden hollow. The bayou opened ahead, black water reflecting slices of stars.
That’s when he heard it—soft at first, a breathy hum sliding into a low, bitten-off moan. Another, higher, drenched in pleasure and muffled by sleepy dark. Steve stopped dead. The sound floated from the dock where the skiff rocked, a rhythm that was distinctly human, distinctly intimate.
He swallowed, pulse thumping in his throat. A rustle followed, then a hushed male laugh—Bucky’s, unmistakable, husky with mischief. Another sigh answered him, velvet-sweet. Steve’s cheeks flamed; every warning he’d given rattled back in his skull.
He stepped closer, shoes silent on damp earth, but stayed behind the screen of cypress trunks. The voices blurred but the tone was clear—slow, wet kisses; a whispered “you like that, darlin’” that tightened his gut. Wood knocked softly, a back hitting the dock, maybe, then a tremor of breathy laughter, yours, sliding straight beneath Steve’s skin.
Steve’s boots sank into the soft mud as he edged forward, the cypress shadows cloaking him like a guilty secret. The air hung heavy, laced with the musky tang of the bayou and something sharper—sweat, skin, raw need.
His heart hammered against his ribs, each step pulling him deeper into the forbidden pull of those sounds; the slick glide of bodies, the creak of the dock under shifting weight, your gasps weaving through Bucky’s low, filthy murmurs.
He parted the low-hanging branches, breath held tight, and there it was—laid bare under the fractured moonlight. The old wooden dock stretched out over the inky water, a threadbare blanket rumpled beneath you, your body arched and exposed in stark naked glory.
Legs splayed wide, knees hooked over Bucky’s hips, you lay on your back, skin flushed and glistening, breasts heaving with every ragged inhale. Bucky loomed above you, just as bare, his muscled frame glistening with effort, driving into you with relentless force—like a piston hammering home, hips snapping forward in a brutal rhythm that made the skiff bob gently against the pilings.
“Goddamn, angel, you’re so fuckin’ tight,” Bucky rasped, voice gravel-rough and dripping with heat, his arm braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh to spread you wider.
He plunged deep, cock thick and veined, disappearing into your slick folds with each savage thrust, the wet squelch of your cunt taking him echoing softly over the water.
You encouraged him, nails raking down his back, leaving red trails that made him hiss and buck harder.
“Yeah, just like that… fuck me deeper, honey, don’t stop,” you moaned, voice husky and demanding, hips rolling up to meet him, chasing the friction that had your toes curling against the blanket.
Steve’s gut twisted, a vicious knot of jealousy coiling tight. That smug son of a bitch—breaking their word, claiming you right here where anyone could stumble on it.
Part of him wanted to storm the dock, drag Bucky off you, demand answers—Why you? Why him? Why not…?
But his feet stayed rooted, eyes glued to the obscene union where Bucky’s cock stretched you wide, emerging slick and shining with your arousal before slamming back in, balls slapping heavy against your ass.
He couldn’t tear away. Watched, transfixed, as Bucky’s ass clenched with every drive—muscles bunching tight, flexing under the moonlight as he powered forward, burying himself to the hilt.
Your pussy lips clung to him on the outstroke, puffy and soaked, the connection a filthy, mesmerizing sight that sent heat surging through Steve’s veins. Jealousy warred with the fire building low in his belly, his cock swelling hard and insistent against his pants, throbbing with a need that shamed him even as it gripped him tighter.
Bucky leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss, tongue thrusting in time with his hips, while his hand slid between your bodies to circle your clit, making you arch and cry out into his mouth.
“Come on, pretty girl, squeeze me—milk this cock like you own it,” he grunted against your lips, pace turning frantic, the dock groaning under the onslaught.
You bucked beneath him, moans spilling free, body trembling on the edge, and Steve’s hand drifted unconsciously to his zipper, palm pressing against the rigid length straining there, breath coming in shallow pants as arousal drowned the anger, leaving only the pounding urge to watch you shatter.
His resolve cracked like dry earth under the relentless pull of what was unfolding before him. His hand trembled as it fumbled with his belt, the zipper rasping down too loud in the humid night, but the bayou swallowed the sound.
Shame burned hot in his chest, a sick twist of disgust at his own weakness—spying like some pervert, palming his aching cock free into the cool air. It sprang out, thick and heavy, veins pulsing with the blood roaring through him, pre-cum already beading at the tip as he wrapped his fingers around the shaft, stroking slow at first, then matching the brutal rhythm Bucky set.
Bucky shifted, his thrusts deepening, hips grinding forward with a force that buried him balls-deep, your slick walls clenching around his length in greedy pulls. Steve’s eyes locked on the way your body yielded, pussy stretched taut around Bucky’s girth, juices coating him shiny and wet with every withdraw.
He pumped his fist tighter, breath hitching, hating how the sight made his balls draw up, how the jealousy gnawed deeper when Bucky dipped his head to your chest.
Bucky’s mouth latched onto one breast, sucking hard on the swollen nipple, tongue lashing the peak while his teeth grazed just enough to make you whimper.
Your back bowed off the blanket, fingers tangling in his hair to hold him there, and Steve’s gut clenched like a fist—fuck, he wished that was him, his lips sealing over that pebbled flesh, tasting the salt of your skin, drawing those desperate sounds from your throat.
“Harder, handsome—suck ’em like you mean it,” you gasped, voice raw and pleading, and Steve’s strokes quickened, imagining those words spilling for him, your body writhing under his weight instead.
He leaned against the cypress trunk for support, the rough bark biting into his palm as he jerked himself off in frantic pulls, the wet schlick of his hand mirroring the obscene slap of Bucky’s hips against yours. Every encouragement you tossed out—“Yes, just like that, fill me up”—twisted the knife of envy, but he devoured them, pretending you meant him, that your heat was clenching around his cock, not Bucky’s.
Then it hit—you shattered with a loud, keening moan that sliced through the night, body convulsing as your orgasm ripped through you. Steve watched your pussy spasm, milking Bucky’s shaft in rhythmic squeezes, walls fluttering visibly around him.
Bucky groaned low and guttural, the sound vibrating from his chest as he felt it, your release soaking him further.
“Fuck—yeah, cum all over me, sweet thing,” he grunted, pace turning savage, hips pistoning faster, chasing his own edge with short, brutal drives that made your tits bounce and the dock shudder.
Steve’s vision blurred, the coil in his gut snapping as he stared at the frenzy—your nails digging into Bucky’s shoulders, his ass flexing with each punishing thrust, cock slamming home through your climax.
It was too much; his balls tightened, and he came with a stifled grunt, hot spurts erupting over his fist, splattering the mud at his feet. Ecstasy flooded him in white-hot waves, cock twitching in his grip, but as the peak crested, shame crashed down like a Louisiana storm—disgust churning in his veins, sticky and vile, for getting off to his best friend fucking, to you choosing Bucky’s roughness over whatever Steve might have offered.
Bucky kept going, mouth claiming yours in a sloppy, devouring kiss, tongues tangling as he rode out the aftershocks, hips still rolling deep.
Steve’s hand shook as he tucked himself away, cum-smeared fingers fumbling the zipper up, heart pounding with the need to vanish before the guilt swallowed him whole.
He backed away silent as a ghost, retreating into the cane rows, the sounds of your shared breaths fading behind him, leaving only the bitter ache of what he’d seen, and what he’d done, in the humid dark.
Morning sweated slowly into afternoon, the sun floating white-hot behind a gauze of haze. Down in the west pasture the fence line rattled beneath the steady thunk of a post-hole digger, but today its rhythm belonged to only one pair of hands.
Steve drove the iron blades into the soil again and again—shirt plastered to his back, jaw set so tight the tendon jumped. Every few minutes he straightened, wiped the grit from his palms, and turned the next section of wire without so much as a glance toward the barn.
Bucky tried talking first thing, an easy joke about cane toads croaking love songs, but Steve answered with a curt nod and buried himself in work. Now, hours later, Bucky was done pretending it didn’t sting. He stalked up the fenceline, boots crunching weeds, sweat glistening on his forearms.
“Alright, punk, what crawled up your ass?”
No answer. Steve slammed another staple home, muscles flexing under sunburned skin.
“Come on, Rogers. Usually I can’t shut you up about alignments and load-bearing angles. Now you’re growlin’ like a kicked dog.”
The hammer paused mid-swing. Steve’s eyes cut sideways, bruised with sleeplessness. “I’m working.”
“Yeah, and ignoring me like I shot your horse.”
“You’d have to own a gun first,” Steve muttered, turning away.
The hammer came down hard, bending the staple sideways. Steve cursed under his breath, pried it out, tried again. Bucky leaned on a fencepost, arms folded.
“You gonna keep this up all day?” he asked, softer now. “Or tell me what I did.”
Steve’s shoulders heaved once, twice. Finally he tossed the hammer into the grass and faced him. “I saw you.”
Bucky blinked. “Saw me what?”
“Last night.” The words grated out like gravel. “By the bayou. With her.”
Silence sucked the air from between them. A cicada screeched somewhere overhead; the wind died.
Bucky’s mouth opened, shut, then set in a thin line. “You spying on me now?”
“I came looking because your dumb ass snuck off.” Steve’s voice cracked with heat—not anger alone, but something raw beneath it. “We agreed, Buck. No screwin’ around with Mr Moreau’s girl.”
“She’s not a girl, Steve. She’s a woman. And she made the first move.”
Steve barked a humorless laugh. “So that clears your conscience? She offered, you took, and the rest of us be damned?”
Bucky pushed off the post, expression hardening. “Don’t pretend it’s about conscience. It’s about you bein’ jealous I got there first.”
Steve flinched as if struck. “You think this is a competition?”
“Isn’t it?” Bucky stepped closer, voice dropping. “I’m tired of tip-toeing around you so you can pretend you’re above wanting her.”
A flush crawled up Steve’s neck. “This isn’t about me. It’s about respect—”
“It’s about you not knowing what to do with what you feel,” Bucky shot back. “So you call me reckless to make yourself feel righteous.”
Steve’s fists clenched. “Reckless? You call sneaking out to fuck the farmer’s daughter on the dock responsible? You risked us getting thrown off the property.”
“Worth it,” Bucky said, and the word was all challenge, “I’m not ashamed of wanting her. She sure as hell wasn’t ashamed of wanting me.”
Steve’s breath hitched; the memory flashed—moonlight on skin, your voice breaking open. Shame burned inside him like lye. “We’re guests here,” he managed. “We owe Mr Moreau respect.”
“I didn’t touch her where he could see.”
“That’s not the point.” Steve turned away, picking up the wire as if work could armour him. “You never think past the next thrill. And I’m always the one patching whatever you tear up.”
“So patch this,” Bucky said, jaw tight. “Or admit the real reason you’re mad is because you wanted to be where I was.”
Colour surged up Steve’s throat. He took a half-step back, fists clenching, then exhaled hard. “You don’t know what I want.”
“You think I can’t see it? You stare at her like she’s Sunday salvation—then play saint when she looks back.” Bucky shook his head, frustration edging his tone. “I’m not sorry, Steve.”
Steve’s gaze flicked toward the house, shutters still closed and curtains fluttering soft. His jaw worked. “If you cared half as much about respect as you do about getting off—”
“Respect?” Bucky scoffed. “I asked her what she wanted. She said yes—loud enough the gators could hear.”
Steve’s eyes flashed, hurt bleeding through. “You don’t get it.”
“What I get is a partner who can’t decide if he’s my brother or my warden.” Bucky’s voice dropped, rough. “If you wanted her, you should’ve said so.”
Steve spun, eyes blazing. For a heartbeat words tangled unsaid—about loyalty, about how long he’d followed Bucky into trouble and how this, somehow, hurt worse than any fight in a back alley. Instead he grabbed the digger, drove it into the ground with a grunt.
“Go inside,” he muttered. “I’ll finish the line.”
Bucky took a step, but not back. His voice dropped to a thread. “You gonna tell her you watched?”
The tool froze mid-lift. Steve’s gaze snapped up, raw panic flickering before he masked it. “Don’t.”
Bucky’s anger faltered, replaced by something like wonder. “Jesus, you did more than watch, didn’t you?”
Steve’s face went white, then red. The digger slipped; he caught it, palms stinging. “Shut up.”
Bucky exhaled, disbelief softening into a rueful smile. “Saint Rogers,” he murmured. “Guess halos tarnish after all.”
Steve’s eyes glinted, hurt and humiliated. He dropped the tool, stepped past Bucky, shoulders stiff. “I’m done talking.”
“Steve—”
But Steve was already striding toward the cane rows, boots kicking dust, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. The sky boiled with late-day clouds, thunder rumbling somewhere distant. Bucky watched him go, chest tight with something that wasn’t victory at all.
The stall smelled of clean straw and warm horsehide, lantern light pooling soft over the cedar boards. Steve stood at the far end, shirt stuck to him, shoulders working a curry brush over the sorrel mare’s flank. The rhythm was steady, measured—every stroke a word he couldn’t speak.
You eased between the stalls, plate balanced on your palm, hips brushing the half-open doors as you passed. “Skipped lunch,” you said, “Figured a man could use somethin’ besides self-reproach for fuel.”
He turned, blue eyes wary until they landed on the sandwich, then gentled. “Ma’am, you didn’t have to—”
“Didn’t ask if I had to.” You held the plate until he took it, fingers grazing his knuckles, a quick spark you pretended not to notice. “Eat before you faint and scare my horses.”
Steve managed a crooked smile, sank onto an overturned feed bucket. The first bite broke the tension in his shoulders; you leaned against the stall door, arms folding under your breasts, watching him chew like it was the most interesting thing in Louisiana.
“You work too hard,” you said after a moment. “Makes me nervous—like I’ve gone and offended you.”
His gaze flicked up, guilt flashing. “You haven’t. I’m… just wired tight today.”
“Wired tight.” You tasted the words, slow. “Could loosen you, if you’d let me.”
He focused on the sandwich, and cleared his voice, despite colour creeping up his throat. “Wasn’t raised to pester a lady while I’m a guest under her roof.”
You hummed, unconvinced. “Feels more like you’re dodgin’ than mindin’ manners. You won’t hardly look at me unless I corner you.”
Steve set the plate on his thigh, thumb worrying the edge. “I—” He paused, swallowed. “You make it hard to keep my thoughts straight.”
“That so?” You pushed off the door, closed the distance until your boots touched his. Fingers slipped beneath the collar of his damp T-shirt, brushing the salty line of his neck. His breath caught hard.
“You ain’t doin’ anything wrong, sugar,” you whispered, letting your nails trace a half-moon before sliding away. “Least not with me.”
The mare huffed behind Steve, but neither of you moved. Your palm skimmed the line of his shoulder, slow and coaxing, to where the muscles knotted beneath damp cotton. “Tell me what’s eating you, pretty boy,” you murmured, thumb easing up the column of his throat to the sharp square of his jaw.
Steve’s lashes flickered. He tried to keep his eyes on the half-eaten sandwich, but the gentleness in your touch tugged his gaze up—and once he met your stare, whatever dam he’d built cracked. “I— last night,” he rasped, voice scraping raw. “I went looking for Bucky. I saw you two… by the bayou.”
Heat rushed to his cheeks. “I stayed. Watched. Should’ve turned around, but I—”
The confession spilled in a tumble of guilt and want. “I hated how jealous I felt. Hated that I couldn’t stop.”
“Oh, baby.” The words were a hush, almost a lullaby. You slid your fingers into the short hair at his nape and guided his head forward until his brow rested against the fine cotton of your shirt just above your navel. He inhaled, sun-warmed linen and honeysuckle, and shuddered.
“You didn’t do wrong by me,” you whispered, stroking the back of his neck. “Feelings aren’t sins.”
Steve’s hands hovered, uncertain, then settled at the backs of your thighs, big and tentative. You stroked his hair once more, let the silence breathe. Outside, the afternoon cicadas blurred into a single shimmering note.
“You can want something without tearing the roof down,” you said, voice low. “All that goodness in you doesn’t disappear ‘cause your body woke up.”
He nodded against you, and the movement, the trust in it, pulled a soft ache in your chest. You tilted his chin, thumb brushing the stubble-rough corner of his mouth. “Look at me, Steve.”
He did, eyes ocean-deep and storm-tossed at once. Your pulse skipped. “Let me show you it’s all right,” you breathed.
You bent, brushing your lips to his—a feather’s kiss, barely there. Steve’s exhale trembled, lashes falling shut as though the simplest touch was sacred. You tasted salt and sun and something sweeter before you lifted away a sliver. His eyes opened, dark with wanting, but he waited, polite even here, and that patience lit a spark low in your belly.
So you kissed him again, surer this time. The soft drag of mouths lingered, then opened; tongues met in a slow glide that tasted like a promise. Steve’s grip tightened at your thighs, thumbs sweeping small circles against your skin as though mapping sacred ground. You inched forward a fraction, pressing him back onto the overturned feed bucket; the move stole a breathy groan from him, swallowed into the kiss.
The stables seemed to narrow around you—lantern glow pooling honey-thick, dust motes floating like sparks in the slanted light. Somewhere a horse stamped, but the world had fallen to heat, straw, and the soft slick slide of lips.
You pulled back just enough to speak against his mouth. “Still feel like you’ve done wrong?”
His eyes opened; blue storm clearing to summer sky. He shook his head, a dazed smile ghosting. “Feel like I’m still figuring out what right feels like,” he murmured.
Your thumb traced the edge of his lower lip, swollen now, beautifully kiss-bitten. “Right’s easy,” you said. “It’s what makes you breathe easier, not harder.”
Steve’s gaze dipped to your mouth, then to the stretch of skin exposed where your shirt rode up. Courage flickered. One big hand slid higher, fingertips brushing the curve just beneath your hemline—a question more than a claim. You answered with a slow nod, lowering your weight a breath closer until his knuckles pressed warm between your ribs.
You slid the half-eaten sandwich and tin plate to the floor with one careless sweep, then eased a knee onto Steve’s lap, settling astride him. The overturned feed bucket creaked; Steve’s hands darted automatically to steady your hips, then froze as if he touched fire.
“Wait—” His voice was a husky scrape. “What about Bucky?”
You leaned in, thumbs brushing the fine blond stubble at his jaw. “Bucky’s not here, sugar.” Your hips sank a fraction, finding the thick shape straining beneath his work jeans. A tremor ripped through him; his eyelids fluttered.
“I can feel how bad you want it,” you murmured, amusement curling in the words like smoke. “Been feelin’ it since I met you. You think I didn’t notice?”
Heat bloomed crimson along Steve’s cheekbones. “I— I keep tryin’ to be respectful.”
“You are.” You cradled his face between your palms. It was steady and reassuring. “Respect doesn’t mean pretendin’ you don’t ache.”
His fingers finally unclenched, sliding up your thighs, rough thumbs stroking slow circles that raised gooseflesh. You rocked once, lazy and testing, and the low sound that spilled from his throat made the lantern sway on its hook.
“I want you too,” you confessed, voice just above a breath. “Want to hear you forget every polite word you know.”
Steve swallowed hard. “That might… take some coaxin’.”
You smiled, nose brushing his. “Lucky I have time.”
Storm-cloud light flickered through the high slats; somewhere beyond the stables a first fat drop of rain hit the tin roof with a hollow ping. You tilted his head back, claiming his mouth again—slow at first, letting him taste the yes in every slide of your tongue. His hands gripped your waist now, anchoring you as though the whole building could spin away.
“Tell me,” you whispered against his lips, “does this feel wrong?”
“No,” he exhaled, breath shivering through the single syllable.
“Then let it feel right.” Your fingers threaded into his hair, guiding him to the soft hollow of your throat. He pressed his mouth there, and the sharp sigh he let out bloomed heat low in your belly.
Rain pattered harder, drumming steady on the roof—cover for any sound you might choose to make. You rolled your hips once more; Steve answered instinctively with a slow lift of his own. The friction dragged a gasp from you both, tangled in the humid air.
You ground against him harder, hips circling with deliberate pressure, the denim barrier between you doing nothing to dull the rigid heat of his cock pressing up into your core. Steve’s mouth yielded under yours, the kiss turning rough—tongues clashing wet and urgent, his lips bruised from the depth of it. He looked utterly lost in it, eyes half-lidded and glassy, like a man three shots deep into whiskey, chasing the burn of your flavor.
Your teeth nipped his lower lip, drawing a ragged inhale from him as you murmured against the corner of his mouth, “That’s it. Touch me, honey. Feel how wet you’re makin’ me already.”
His palms hesitated for a split second, then surged upward, callused fingers digging into the swell of your ass, kneading the flesh through your skirt with a grip that bordered on desperate.
“Good boy,” you breathed, nipping his earlobe before sucking it between your teeth, the vibration of your praise humming into his skin, “pull me down harder. Make me ride that thick length of yours.”
Emboldened, Steve’s hands clenched tighter, yanking you flush against him with a low groan that rumbled from his chest. The force of it slammed your clit right over his bulge, friction sparking white-hot through your veins, your pussy throbbing with the need to be filled.
He bucked up to meet your rhythm, the overturned bucket groaning under the strain as you rutted rougher, denim grinding cotton in slick, heated drags that had slickness soaking through your panties.
Steve’s breaths came in hot pants against your neck, his confidence blooming like the storm outside—fingers spreading wide to cup your cheeks fully, thumbs pressing into the cleft, urging you to grind faster, deeper.
“God, you feel so good,” he rasped, voice thick and broken, finally shedding that polite shell as his hips rolled up hard, chasing the pressure building between you both.
The storm raged fiercer, rain lashing the roof like a thousand frantic fingers, drowning out the world beyond these weathered walls. Impatience clawed through you, a hot coil tightening low in your gut—you needed more than this teasing grind, needed him bare and buried deep.
With a frustrated sound against his lips, you lifted your hips just enough to break the contact, the sudden absence making your clit ache from the loss of friction.
Steve chased it instinctively, a desperate buck of his hips upward, his bulge straining toward you like it had a mind of its own.
“Easy, baby,” you soothed, voice a husky purr as you pressed a palm to his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heart beneath sweat-damp cotton. “I got you… gonna take care of that ache right now.” His eyes were wild, pupils blown dark with lust, but he stilled under your touch, breath ragged and waiting.
Your fingers fumbled hastily at his belt buckle, the metal clinking sharp in the humid air before you yanked the zipper down with a swift tug. Steve’s mouth never left your skin, latching onto the pulse point at your throat with hot, open-mouthed sucks that sent shivers racing down your spine—teeth grazing just enough to sting, tongue lapping greedily like he was starving for your taste.
His hands, bold now in their roaming, shoved up under your shirt, palms rough and seeking as they cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your hardening nipples through the thin lace of your bra. He squeezed , rolling the peaks until you arched into him with a sharp gasp, the dual assault of his mouth and hands making your cunt clench with raw need.
Diving into the open fly of his jeans, your hand slipped past the waistband of his boxers, fingers wrapping around the thick, velvety length of his cock. God, he was huge. Hot and heavy in your grip, the foreskin sliding smooth over the swollen head as you gave him a testing stroke.
Excitement surged through you, a fresh gush of wetness soaking your panties. “Fuck, Steve,” you breathed, as you pumped him slowly, feeling the way he throbbed and leaked pre-cum against your palm.
He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his blue eyes hazy and uncertain, searching your face for that green light—like a man on the edge, waiting for permission to shatter.
You smiled, thumbing over the flushed tip to smear his slickness down the shaft. “I love uncut men,” you murmured, low and filthy, watching heat flood his cheeks even as his cock twitched harder in your fist.
“Makes ’em feel so damn good… sensitive and real. Yours is perfect, honey. Thick and ready to stretch me wide.” Confident, you stroked him firmer, twisting your wrist at the base where veins pulsed hot under your fingers, drawing a guttural groan from deep in his chest.
You released him just long enough to hike up your skirt, bunching the fabric around your waist to expose the damp lace clinging to your thighs. Hooking your fingers into the crotch of your panties, you shoved them aside roughly, the cool air kissing your slick folds for a heartbeat before you positioned yourself above him.
His cock stood rigid, flushed and glistening from your touch, the head nudging insistently at your entrance as you hovered there, teasing the tip through your wetness—letting the anticipation build until his hands gripped your hips like iron, urging you down with a plea in his eyes.
Slowly you sank down onto his cock, the thick head parting your slick folds and stretching you inch by agonizing inch. A sharp hiss escaped your lips at the burn of it—uncut skin gliding smooth against your inner walls, every ridge and vein dragging delicious friction as you took him deeper.
You watched him like a predator savoring prey, drinking in the way his jaw clenched, brows furrowing in overwhelmed bliss, those blue eyes fluttering half-shut before snapping back to yours. The power of it surged through you, your pussy clenching around him just to feel him twitch inside, the sight of his restraint cracking making your clit throb with wicked satisfaction.
“That’s it,” you murmured, voice a sultry rasp laced with filth, leaning in close enough for your breath to ghost his ear. “Feel how wet I am for you? Squeezin’ this fat cock like it belongs in me. Tell me how it feels—c’mon, baby, use those words.”
Your hips settled fully, grinding in a lazy circle to seat him to the hilt, his balls pressed snug against your ass, but you held still for a beat, teasing him with the velvet grip of your heat. The rain might as well have been a memory; all you heard was his ragged breathing, the wet sounds of your bodies joined.
Slowly, you started to move—lifting just enough to let half his length slide free before easing back down, the drag pulling a low moan from your throat.
“Take what you want, sugar,” you encouraged, nails digging into his shoulders for leverage, voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Grab my ass, my tits—fuck me like you’ve been dreamin’ about. I ain’t fragile; I want it rough, want you to ruin me with this thing.”
He answered in groans at first, deep and guttural, vibrating through his chest as his hips jerked up to meet your descent. “God... so tight,” he murmured, the words tumbling out low and broken, like they were dragged from some hidden place.
“Feels... too good... can’t—” Another thrust from below cut him off, his cock spearing deeper, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His hands roamed hungrily now, one sliding down to grip your thigh, the other tangling in your hair to pull you into a messy kiss, his tongue thrusting in time with his subtle bucks.
The pace quickened as impatience won out; you bounced a little harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing, your juices coating his shaft and dripping down to soak his jeans. Steve’s control frayed further; he shoved your tank top down with a rough yank, the fabric bunching at your waist and dragging your bra along with it.
Your breasts spilled free, heavy and bouncing with each rise, nipples peaked and begging for attention in the humid air. He stared for a split second, awe flickering in his lust-glazed eyes, before his hands were on them—palms cupping the soft weight, thumbs flicking over the sensitive tips.
“You’re beautiful,” he breathed, voice sweet and polite even in the haze, like a gentleman undone. “These... perfect. So full, so soft—wanna taste ’em, if that’s alright.”
The contrast hit you like lightning, his polite words amid the filth of what you were doing, making your core clench tighter around him. You arched into his touch, moaning as he leaned up to latch onto one nipple, sucking hard while you bounced faster, the dual sensations coiling that heat low and fierce.
The rhythm turned frantic as you picked up speed, hips slamming down harder onto Steve’s cock. Your ass slapped against his thighs, the wet smack mingling with the creak of hay beneath you and the thunder rumbling outside. He thrust up to meet you now, powerful bucks from below that jolted through your core, his body finally surrendering to the instinct you’d been coaxing out.
You reveled in it, a smile splitting your face as you caught him still fixated on your tits—bouncing wildly with each bounce, nipples grazing his chest when you leaned forward, flushed and heaving from the effort.
“Yeah, that’s it baby,” you murmured, voice breathy, threading your fingers through his hair to tug his head back just enough to force his eyes to yours.
“Fuck me back like you mean it—tell me, Stevie, you like poundin’ into me? Like how my pussy milks this cock?” Your words were a filthy prod, urging him past the groans into something more, wanting to hear that polite facade shatter completely.
He groaned louder, the sound raw and desperate, but he managed words this time, spilling them between gritted teeth as his mouth returned to your breast—sucking the peak hard, teeth grazing just enough to sting.
“Love it... shit, love how you take me,” he rasped, voice muffled against your skin, one hand squeezing your ass to pull you down firmer.
“These tits drivin’ me crazy, so damn perfect, bouncin’ like that. And you... tight, hot, beggin’ for it without sayin’ a word.” The sweetness laced his filth, his blue eyes locking on yours mid-thrust. It fueled you, that mix of gentlemanly sweetness and primal drive, making your walls flutter around his length as you rode him relentlessly.
Eventually, you reached between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen clit amid the slick mess where you joined. You rubbed in firm circles, the pressure building fast under your touch, chasing that edge while his cock stretched you full.
“Keep talkin’, sugar,” you gasped, bouncing even more furiously, the pace turning punishing, your juices soaking his balls with every slap. “Tell me what you like about me—my tight little cunt? How I ride you like I own this cock?”
Steve’s response was a guttural curse, his free hand joining yours briefly to press your fingers harder against your clit, like he couldn’t help but take over even there.
“Everything... your fire, the way you squeeze me—god,” he murmured, thrusting up with a force that nearly unseated you, his cock throbbing inside.
The words tipped you over; your orgasm crashed through like lightning, walls clamping down in rhythmic pulses around him, milking his shaft as waves of pleasure ripped cries from your throat. You shuddered through it, grinding down to ride out the bliss, clit pulsing under your touch while your body trembled atop him.
He followed seconds later, the vice of your release undoing him completely. “Shit—cummin’...”
Steve groaned, hips snapping up one last time, burying himself to the root as he erupted. Hot spurts flooded you, his cock jerking with each pulse, filling your spasming heat until it leaked out around him, mixing with your own wetness.
His hands gripped your hips bruisingly, holding you in place as he rode the high, face buried in the crook of your neck, breaths ragged against your skin. The stables seemed to spin for a moment, the rain’s roar returning as your pulses slowed, bodies slick and spent in the humid aftermath.
Steve stayed where he was, like he didn’t quite trust his own limbs yet—face pressed into the warm softness of your chest, breath still uneven against your skin. His hands hadn’t moved either, still anchored at your hips like if he let go too fast you might disappear on him.
You smoothed your fingers through his hair, slow and steady, easing him down from that sharp edge he’d been riding. “Easy, baby… breathe,” you murmured, voice soft, coaxing. “That’s it.”
He let out a shaky exhale, shoulders finally dropping a fraction. The tension in him didn’t vanish, but it softened, melted under your touch instead of snapping tight like it had all morning.
“I didn’t—” he started, then stopped, words catching somewhere between guilt and something softer. “I didn’t think I’d… be like that.”
You tipped his chin just enough to look at him, thumb brushing the flush still high on his cheek. “Like what?” you asked gently.
“Needy,” he admitted, quiet. “Rough. Thought I was better at keepin’ things… under control.”
You huffed a quiet little laugh, not mocking, just warm. “Control’s overrated.” Your hand drifted down his arm, tracing the muscle there, feeling the last little tremors still working through him. “Ain’t nothing wrong with wanting somebody. Ain’t nothing wrong with taking what’s given, either.”
His eyes searched yours, still unsure. “Even… like this?”
“Especially like this.” You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re a man, Steve. You feel things. You want things. That don’t make you bad.”
He swallowed, something easing in his expression, though a crease of doubt lingered. “Doesn’t feel like the way I was raised.”
“Maybe the way you were raised ain’t the only way to live.” Your fingers slid back into his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp, coaxing another quiet exhale from him. “You keep tryin’ to fit yourself into something too tight. No wonder you’re all wound up.”
His grip on your hips loosened, hands shifting instead to rest like he was finally allowing himself to just be there with you instead of bracing for what came next.
“You didn’t look like you thought it was wrong,” you added, a teasing lilt slipping back into your tone, eyes flicking to his mouth. “Not when you took me like a rowdy bull.”
A faint, embarrassed smile tugged at his lips. “No… guess I didn’t.”
“There you go.” You nudged his nose with yours, playful now. “Honest for once.”
He let out a soft breath that almost sounded like a laugh, the sound low and a little disbelieving, like he wasn’t used to feeling this light after something that intense.
Outside, the rain had started to ease—softening from a roar to a steady patter. Inside the stall, the air stayed thick and warm, the kind that made it easy to linger. Steve shifted slightly beneath you, one hand coming up to your back, resting there more confidently now.
“Thank you,” he said, quieter this time.
You tilted your head, studying him for a beat, then smiled. “Don’t start getting all polite on me again,” you warned lightly. “We just fixed that problem.”
That earned a small huff from him, the ghost of his usual composure returning, but looser now, less rigid. Your fingers traced idly along his shoulder again, slow, absentminded, like you had all the time in the world.
“Better?” you asked, softer.
Steve nodded, eyes lingering on your face—then dipping, just briefly, before coming back up. There was still heat there, still want, but now it sat easier on him. Less like something to fight. More like something he was starting to understand.
“Yeah,” he said. “Better.”
Rain sheeted against the loft’s tin roof hard enough to rattle the rafters, a steady percussion that should’ve lulled tired muscles to sleep.
Instead, Steve lay flat on the thin mattress pulled beside the couch, eyes fixed on the low slope of the ceiling where moon-gray water stains mapped the wood. The darkness felt thick, scented with damp hay and the copper tang of dying storm, but it was the silence between the two men that really pressed on his ribs.
Across the narrow space Bucky shifted, springs creaking under the old couch cushions. Not asleep. Steve could tell from the rhythm of his breathing; too shallow.
They’d worked the afternoon in tense near-silence, traded a few practical words over supper, then climbed to the loft when Mr. Moreau doused the lanterns downstairs. Since then… nothing.
Steve’s guilt gnawed as loud as the rain. All the righteous bullshit he’d thrown at Bucky that morning felt paper-thin now, ripped by the memory of your thighs bracketing his hips, the slick pull of your body around him. He’d sinned in the very place he’d condemned… maybe deeper. Bucky had broken a promise, sure, but Steve had broken it twice. First by watching, then by taking.
If he spoke first, will it sound like confession or a challenge? He imagined Bucky’s face if he admitted what happened in the stables—those bright blue eyes narrowing, that crooked grin folding into something sharp and hurt. Bucky was reckless, yes, but he was proud; jealousy cut him close to the bone. Steve couldn’t blame him. He felt the same knife when he’d watched Bucky with you, a sick cocktail of envy and desire he still tasted on the back of his tongue.
A board popped in the loft floor; Steve flinched. Bucky exhaled, a quick huff that could’ve been a sigh… or a laugh, it was hard to tell.
“Storm’s loud tonight,” Bucky muttered into the dark.
Steve swallowed. “Yeah.”
Another beat. Rain drummed harder, then softened in waves. Steve could picture the bayou swelling, black water rising under the dock where everything had changed. He tried not to think about how your moans had sounded layered over the water, how his own had answered hours later in a dusty stable.
“You finish that west line tomorrow,” Bucky said finally, voice low, almost casual. “We’ll have Moreau paid up.”
“Almost done,” Steve answered. He wet his lips, searching for something, anything really, to ease the weight in the room. The apology caught behind his teeth.
Bucky shifted again, the couch springs squealed. “Punk, you gonna stew all night?”
Steve closed his eyes. I don’t want to fight you. I don’t want to lie either.
Outside, lightning flashed white through the high window slats, illuminating dust motes and the curve of the telescope aimed at dripping darkness. The quick burst etched Bucky’s silhouette; hands behind his head, stare fixed on the rafters, then vanished.
Steve drew a breath, let it out slow. “We should get some sleep,” he managed. “Finish early.”
Bucky’s chuckle was soft, humorless. “Sure.” A pause. “Night, Stevie.”
“Night, Buck.”
The rain settled into a gentle hiss, but sleep stayed distant. Steve lay listening to the space between heartbeats, wondering how long secrets could hang in rafters before they dripped down like stormwater, soaking everything beneath.
Dawn slipped through the loft slats in gauzy stripes, lighting dust motes and the tired curve of two backs turned on one another. Steve sat on the edge of his mattress, boots half-laced, guilt thrumming like an ache in his teeth. Across the aisle, Bucky tugged yesterday’s shirt over his head, humming nothing in particular, almost normal again after a night of storm-soaked silence.
Steve cleared his throat. “Mornin’, Buck.”
Bucky flicked him a sideways grin. “Look who’s talkin’ to me.”
Steve managed a huff of a laugh, tension easing a notch. “Didn’t mean to be a bear yesterday.”
“Figured you were just hungry.” Bucky stretched, joints popping. “Or constipated.”
“Yeah. Something like that.” Steve stood, wiped his palms on his thighs. “Listen—there’s somethin’ I gotta say before we head out.”
Bucky’s brows lifted, but the grin stayed. “Alright, preacher. Floor’s yours.”
For a heartbeat Steve couldn’t find air; the loft felt too small for the words. He ran a hand through his hair, stared at the warped floorboard between them. “Yesterday… after the rain started… I was in the stables.” He forced his gaze up, blue meeting blue. “She came by to give me some lunch and— and things got… outta hand.”
The smile died on Bucky’s mouth, shoulders stiffening under crumpled cotton. “Outta hand how?”
Steve swallowed. “We— I—” The confession lodged, then fell. “I slept with her.”
Silence crashed heavier than the storm. Bucky’s jaw ticked once, twice… his eyes flared a darker shade. “You mean right after you tore me a new one for fucking her?”
Steve winced. “Yeah.”
Bucky laughed. It was short, sharp and no humour in it. “That’s rich, Stevie. Real righteous.”
“I know it’s hypocritical,” Steve said, voice clipped. “But it happened.”
“‘Just respect Mr. Moreau,’” Bucky mocked, pitching his voice higher. “‘We’re guests, Buck.’ Then you go and fuck his daughter in the hay like a damn barn animal.”
“Wasn’t like that.” Heat licked up Steve’s neck. “It wasn’t planned. We—talked, and—”
“And you forgot all about your sermon.” Bucky crossed his arms, biceps bulging. “Tell me, did you watch yourself grunt and moan the way you watched me?”
Steve’s cheeks flamed. “Don’t make this dirtier than it is.”
“Dirtier? Brother, the mud’s already up to our knees.” Bucky stepped closer, anger bright and brittle. “You wouldn’t even let me feel good of what I had with her. Now you want me to swallow this and play nice?”
“I’m not askin’ for forgiveness.” Steve’s voice rose. “But you deserved the truth.”
“Truth is you’re jealous as hell and didn’t want to admit it,” Bucky shot back. “So you took your turn and still wanna be the saint.”
Steve’s fists clenched. “You think this feels right to me? I don’t think I can even look her father in the eye.”
“Good. Maybe you’ll choke on that guilt.” Bucky pivoted, pacing a tight line, boots thumping. He stopped, spun. “Fine. Let’s skip the guilt. Let’s ask her straight out who she wants. Winner keeps the girl, loser keeps their mouth shut.”
“That’s childish,” Steve snapped.
“Better than self-righteous,” Bucky muttered.
They stared each other down, breath quickening with a frustration edged in something hotter. Outside the loft, a rooster crowed. The tension held, buzzing like a live wire between their chests.
Steve exhaled first, the fight draining to weary honesty. “We can’t turn her into a prize, Buck. That ain’t right, and you know it.”
Bucky’s shoulders sagged, but the jealousy still smouldered in his eyes. “Then what? We keep sneakin’ behind each other until Mr. Moreau shoots one of us?”
“I don’t know.” Steve scrubbed a hand down his face. “But we finish that fence today. After that—figure it out with her, together. No more secrets.”
Bucky studied him, jaw working. Finally he nodded stiffly. “Finish the fence,” he echoed. “Then we talk.”
The afternoon never quite decided if it was rain or sleet; it just hurled water sideways until the posts sagged in the muck and both men were soaked to the bone. By the time they slogged back to the barn, the sky looked like a dull bruise and the west line was still three rails short. No one said it, but they were glad for the excuse to quit early.
Up in the loft, Steve kicked off his mud-caked boots and dropped onto the couch, hair plastered to his forehead. Bucky lingered at the hatch, stripping and changing out of his drenched shirt, drops tapping the floorboards. He found a rag, swiped at his face, then tossed the cloth aside.
Tense didn’t begin to cover it. They moved around each other the way soldiers do when the truce is thin—careful, eyes sliding away after the briefest glance. Steve rummaged for dry socks, Bucky fished for a cigarette he never lit. Rain pattered on the roof, steady as a clock.
The ladder creaked.
You appeared with a bundle of quilts over one arm, hair damp, skin glowing from kitchen heat. “Thought y’all could use somethin’ dry,” you said, voice gentle, eyes flicking from Steve’s rigid shoulders to Bucky’s tight jaw.
Neither man answered right off, and the hush sharpened until even the rain felt awkward. You crossed to the couch, shaking out a faded patchwork, the cotton smelling of starch and chamomile. Steve took it with a muttered thanks, knuckles brushing yours; his gaze skittered away before it could catch.
“Fence fight back?” you teased, hoping to coax a smile. It earned only a grunt from Bucky and a shrug from Steve.
You laid another quilt over the couch arm, slower this time—testing the air, feeling the edge in it. “Storm’s supposed to clear by dawn,” you offered, smoothing a corner that didn’t need smoothing. “Plenty of time to finish tomorrow before ya’ll leave.”
Still the silence. Bucky’s cigarette twirled restlessly between his fingers; Steve’s fingers dug into quilt batting like he might wring the tension out of the fabric.
You straightened, eyes narrowing just a touch. “The weather ain’t the only thing foul up here,” you said softly, but there was firmness under the honey. “Y’all gonna tell me what’s crawled between you, or am I supposed to guess?”
Neither answered, but their gazes finally met. It was brief, charged… and you felt the spark skip the space between them like summer lightning.
Bucky broke first, voice rough. “Y’know what this is, sweetheart? A game. You’ve been playin’ us—fuckin’ us both and watchin’ which dog growls louder.”
You propped a hip against the couch arm, arms loose across your chest, unbothered. “Playin’? Honey, I just like good company. Can’t a girl enjoy both flavors without pickin’ a favourite?”
Steve’s tone came gentler but no less raw. “Why, though? If you care for either of us, why throw a match on gasoline?”
“Why not?” You lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug. “World’s big enough for more than one kind of want. I didn’t hear either of you complainin’ at the time.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. “’Cause I thought it meant somethin’—til I find out you rode him next like a county fair row-pony.”
You arched a brow. “Meanin’ like you cared about Stevie’s feelin’s when you waited ‘til he was dead asleep to slide into my bayou and make me holler? Glass houses, James.”
The barb hit; he flinched, fingers whitening around the cigarette he still hadn’t lit. Steve opened his mouth, a protest half-formed, and you cut him a sidelong glance. “And you—moral high ground looked real pretty till you let me grind it to dust in the hay. Hypocrite suits you about as tight as those jeans did yesterday.”
Colour scorched Steve’s ears. “I won’t deny it,” he said quietly. “I was jealous. Still am.”
“Same,” Bucky snapped, softer now, wounded pride bleeding through. “Feels like we’re bein’ measured for sport.”
You blew out a breath, voice dropping to something low, coaxing. “I’m measurin’ the way I measure ripe peaches—by taste, not by pit. Didn’t reckon either one of you wanted claim-stakes hammered down.”
Bucky ran a hand through his hair, restless. “Can’t keep splittin the difference. Not without someone gettin’ cut.”
You let a slow breath roll out, smoothing the air like a hand over rumpled sheets.
“Alright—enough chest-thumping,” you murmured, voice a lazy drawl meant to soothe. You pivoted first to Bucky, stepping in just close enough that the lantern light caught the silver flecks in his eyes.
“Y’know what I like about you, Bucky?” Your fingers brushed the inside of his forearm—just a ghost of touch, but it made his shoulders ease a notch. “It’s that wildfire charm. You see somethin’ you want, and you grab it like life’s too short for second thoughts. Had me tremblin’ on that dock, remember? You move like you own the night, and for a minute I believed you did.”
A faint, reluctant grin tugged at the corner of his mouth despite the hurt still smouldering there.
Then you turned to Steve, reaching to smooth a wet lock from his forehead. “And you? Gentleman on the surface, but lord—the heat underneath once you let it out.” Your hand slid to cup his jaw; Steve leaned into it without meaning to, “You made me feel wanted in every sweet, filthy way a woman craves. Like I was worth every ounce of that control you dropped.”
Their gazes flicked to each other, some of the sharpness dulling with your words.
“You boys’ve been best friends forever, ain’t that right?” you asked, stepping back so you could see them both. “Shared bruises, shared bottles… but you never learned to share a woman?”
Bucky’s brows knitted. “Ain’t exactly the way we were taught.”
Steve rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting to Bucky, then you. “Not sure how that even works.”
“Works however we want it to,” you said with a shrug. “Could be one night. Could be more. Only rule is nobody’s feelings get shoved in a dark corner.”
They traded another look. This one was longer, uncertainty warring with curiosity. Rain pinged softly on the roof, a gentler rhythm now, like the storm itself was catching its breath.
You smiled. “Me? I’d rather see the two of you side-by-side than at each other’s throats. Twice the fun, half the guilt.”
Silence hovered, but the tension had shifted, no longer a taut wire ready to snap, more a low hum in the rafters. Bucky wet his lips, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth. Steve exhaled, shoulders softening, as if the idea wasn’t as impossible as it had sounded a minute ago.
Lantern-light flickered across the loft as you stepped between them, storm-tamed curls brushing Steve’s cheek. One hand found the back of his neck, guiding him down; your mouth covered his in a slow, coaxing seal. At first he held himself still, surprised, then his hands rose, steadying at your waist while he answered, tongue sweeping to taste the invitation you offered. The kiss went deep, unhurried, a warm pull that drew a hum from somewhere low in his chest.
Across the narrow space Bucky watched, arms folded but jaw tight, jealousy flashing bright before he masked it. You felt the weight of his stare; when you finally let Steve breathe you kept your gaze on those blue eyes gone hazy, then pivoted without missing a beat.
Your free hand snagged the front of Bucky’s T-shirt, knuckles brushing the hard plane beneath, and you tugged him forward.
“C’mere, hotshot,” you whispered.
He came, like the magnet he’d always been, meeting your mouth with none of Steve’s hesitation. The kiss landed hungry, teeth grazing, his hand sliding to cup the side of your throat. Where Steve’s earlier sweetness lingered, Bucky’s heat sparked bright, and you let both flavors mingle on your tongue a heartbeat longer than strictly fair.
When you broke away the air felt thicker, three sets of breaths stirring the dust motes. Your lips, plush now and tingling, curved into a satisfied smile.
“See?” you murmured, voice lazy as molasses. “Turns out sharing ain’t so hard.”
Steve stood rooted, wide eyes flicking from your mouth to Bucky’s. Bucky’s stare, darker now, drifted to Steve, sharp edge softened by the flush riding both their cheeks. Rain pattered gentle drums on the roof above, the storm’s worst anger spent, leaving only a hush that felt charged rather than tense.
“You pull us in opposite directions long enough,” Bucky said, half-grin creeping back, “might find we land in the same place.”
“Wouldn’t that be a sight,” you answered, giving his shirt a playful tug before smoothing the crumpled cotton flat. You turned, letting your knuckles brush Steve’s knuckles—an invitation to stay right where he was. “The three of us could keep warmer than any blanket in this loft.”
Neither man moved to argue. Steve’s throat bobbed, eyes searching Bucky’s. Bucky’s shoulders shifted, like he was trying on the feel of standing this close without bristling. A tentative thread of curiosity stretched between them stronger than the jealousy that had ruled the morning.
You stepped back just far enough to see them both, palms open. “Fence can wait,” you said. “Weather looks set to keep us indoors.” Outside, thunder rumbled a soft bass note, agreeing.
The air in the loft hung heavy, thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and the raw edge of anticipation. You stood between them, Bucky and Steve, their breaths syncing in ragged pulls, eyes locked on you like you’d become the only fixed point in the dim lantern glow.
Your fingers hooked under the hem of your damp shirt, the fabric clinging to your skin from the earlier drizzle. You peeled it up slowly letting the cool air kiss your ribs before it whispered over the swell of your breasts still trapped in lace. Their gazes followed every inch, darkening as you tossed the shirt aside onto the couch.
Then came the bra—clips snapping free with a flick, straps sliding down your shoulders. Your breasts spilled out, full and heavy, nipples tightening into stiff peaks under the weight of their stares. Bucky’s tongue darted over his lips, a low sound rumbling in his throat, while Steve’s jaw clenched, his eyes dropping straight to the soft curves, tracing the way they rose with each breath you took.
Not done yet. Your hands moved to the button of your jeans, popping it open with a soft click that echoed in the charged quiet. The zipper rasped down, and you shoved the denim over your hips, hooking your thumbs into your panties and dragging them along for the ride. They pooled at your ankles, and you kicked them free, standing bare before them—skin flushed, thighs slick with the ache building between them.
Bucky’s breath hitched, his cock straining visibly against his jeans, and Steve shifted, a flush creeping up his neck as he drank in the sight of your naked body, every curve and shadow laid out like an offering.
“Who wants to touch first?” you purred, voice husky, letting the words drip like honey over the tension.
It took barely a second—Bucky, of course, moving like he’d been coiled for it. His hand shot out, fingers tangling in your hair to yank your head back, crashing his mouth against yours. His tongue plunged deep, fucking into your throat with a possessive thrust that made your knees weak, tasting of salt and coffee and that unashamed want.
He hauled you flush against him, your bare tits mashing into the rough cotton of his shirt, nipples dragging against the fabric as his free arm banded around your waist, grinding his hard length into your belly through his clothes.
You melted into the kiss, moaning around his invading tongue, but then—hands. Warm, callused palms sliding onto your waist from behind, tentative at first, then firmer as Steve pressed his body against your back. His chest was a solid wall of heat, his cock throbbing hot against the cleft of your ass even through his jeans.
Those hands trailed up, slow and careful, cupping your breasts with a gentleness that contrasted Bucky’s roughness—thumbs brushing the undersides before squeezing soft, kneading the flesh until your nipples ached under the pressure.
A shiver raced down your spine as his mouth found your throat, lips parting to suckle the pulse there, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks straight to your clit.
Bucky didn’t let up, his kiss turning sloppier, wetter, tongue battling yours while Steve’s breaths fanned hot against your neck, his squeezes growing bolder, rolling your breasts in his palms like he couldn’t get enough of the weight, the give.
The kiss with Bucky lingered like a brand, his tongue retreating with a final, teasing swipe that left your lips swollen and slick. You twisted in his grip, turning your head to capture Steve’s mouth instead, and he met you halfway—eager, almost desperate, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that stole your breath.
His tongue delved deep, exploring with a fervor that matched the way his hands still cradled your tits, thumbs circling your hardened nipples until they throbbed under his touch.
Bucky didn’t yield an inch, his mouth shifting to the curve of your neck, hot and insistent, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin as he sucked a mark into place. One of his hands slid down, palming the swell of your ass with a firm squeeze, fingers digging in to guide your hips forward. You ground against him instinctively, feeling the rigid bulge of his cock press into your belly through the denim, thick and insistent, pulsing with every roll of your body.
Steve’s kiss deepened in response, turning rougher, his free hand tangling in your hair to angle your head just right, devouring your mouth like he needed to erase Bucky’s taste.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” Bucky rasped against your throat, his voice a gravelly vibration that sent shivers racing down your spine, his breath fanning over the damp spot he’d left behind.
You hummed into Steve’s kiss, the sound vibrating between your pressed lips.
Steve broke the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw, whispering hot against your ear, “You’re perfect... so soft, so sweet,” his affirmations spilling out like confessions, voice thick with awe and need as he nuzzled into your shoulder.
You pushed at their chests, firm but playful, breaking their hold. “I want both of ya’ll to eat my pussy,” you said, eyes flicking between them as you backed toward the small mattress piled with worn blankets on the loft floor.
You sank down onto the makeshift bed, the rough weave scratching your bare skin just enough to heighten the thrill. Spreading your legs wide, you exposed yourself fully—the swollen folds of your cunt glistening with arousal, clit peeking out begging for attention.
Bucky and Steve froze mid-step, their eyes locking onto the sight between your thighs, breaths catching in unison. Bucky’s jaw went slack, that smirk faltering into raw want, while Steve’s flush deepened, his cock tenting his jeans obscenely as he swallowed hard.
Then, like a dam breaking, they lunged,both scrambling forward in a tangle of limbs, shoulders bumping as they vied for position.
“Move over, punk,” Bucky murmured, shoving at Steve’s arm, trying to wedge in closer.
Steve pushed back, his voice a strained mutter, “There’s room—back off a sec.” They bickered like that, half-hearted jabs and elbows, but neither stopped advancing, knees hitting the mattress as they crowded between your open legs.
Their argument dissolved into action, mouths descending on your pussy in a frenzy of heat and hunger. Bucky got there first, his tongue lapping broad and flat up your slit, collecting your wetness with a groan that rumbled against your sensitive flesh. Steve wasn’t far behind, angling in from the side to suckle at your inner thigh before dragging his lips to your clit, enveloping it in wet suction that made your hips buck.
They jostled for space, Bucky’s shoulder knocking Steve’s as he delved deeper, tongue fucking into your entrance with sloppy thrusts, while Steve latched onto your nub, flicking it relentlessly with the tip of his tongue.
The dual assault overwhelmed you—Bucky’s mouth devouring your hole, slurping noisily at the gush of arousal leaking out, his stubble scraping your thighs raw; Steve’s lips sealed around your clit, sucking hard enough to pull whimpers from your throat, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady.
“Taste so fuckin’ sweet,” Bucky mumbled between licks, the words vibrating into you, while Steve hummed agreement, his tongue circling faster, teeth grazing just enough to teeter on the edge of pain.
Their mouths battled over your dripping cunt like starving men, tongues and lips a chaotic symphony of slick heat that had you mesmerized. You watched through half-lidded eyes, pulse hammering in your ears, the way Bucky’s tongue plunged deep into your hole, fucking in and out with obscene wet sounds, only for Steve to shove in closer, latching onto your clit with a fierce suck that made your toes curl.
Their faces were inches apart, cheeks brushing, breaths mingling hot and ragged, and fuck, the sight of it twisted something filthy in your gut. You imagined it—their tongues slipping free from you, tangling together in a messy, saliva-slick kiss, tasting you on each other, and the thought alone shoved you toward the edge.
“God, yes—right there,” you gasped, hips grinding up into their faces, fingers yanking at their hair to hold them in place.
Bucky groaned low, the vibration humming straight through your core, “You like watchin’ us fight over this pretty pussy, huh?” Steve mumbled something incoherent against your thigh, too lost in the feast to form words, but his tongue flicked faster, relentless.
It hit you like a storm surge, that orgasm sneaking up fast and brutal—your walls clenching on nothing, release gushing out in hot waves that soaked their chins. You cried out, back arching off the mattress, thighs quaking as pleasure ripped through you. Bucky and Steve didn’t pull back; if anything, they dove deeper.
“So damn good,” Steve finally rasped, voice muffled as he licked a stripe up your seam, sharing the taste with a quick, accidental brush of his tongue against Bucky’s.
The intensity bordered on too much, sparks of overstimulation prickling like needles as their mouths kept working, tongues still probing and sucking without mercy. “Wait—fuck, too much,” you panted, hands flying to their heads, trying to shove them away, but your pushes were weak, body still humming from the high.
They lingered a second longer, reluctant, before Bucky’s eyes flashed with that predatory glint. In a blur, he shouldered Steve aside, “My turn, Stevie”—the bigger man stumbling back on his knees, jeans strained tight over his erection.
Bucky didn’t waste a beat, fingers fumbling with his belt, the clink of metal echoing in the loft as he yanked it open. His jeans shoved down just enough, his cock sprang free—thick, veined, the flushed head already leaking pre-cum, curving up with a slight leftward tilt.
He gripped the base, stroking once, twice, before dragging the length through your soaked folds, coating himself in your release. The friction teased your entrance, bumping your clit with each pass, and you bit your lip, doing nothing to stop him—hell, you spread your legs wider, inviting the invasion.
“Yeah, just like that,” Bucky muttered, voice rough as gravel, lining up and sinking in slow, inch by torturous inch, your pussy stretching around his girth with a burn that blurred into bliss.
He bottomed out with a guttural groan, balls slapping against your ass as he started thrusting—deep, claiming strokes that rocked your body against the mattress. “Still so tight... takin’ me so good,” he grunted, hands pinning your hips as he set a punishing rhythm, the wet slap of skin filling the air, mingling with the rain’s fury outside.
You took it, moaning with each plunge, walls fluttering around him, but your gaze flicked to Steve, who knelt there looking adrift—lips shiny with your juices, chest heaving, cock throbbing untouched in his pants, a mix of uncertainty and need in his blue eyes.
“Aw, c’mere, sugar,” you cooed softly, voice breathy from Bucky’s relentless pace, reaching out a hand to beckon him closer. He hesitated for a split second, then crawled forward, drawn like a moth to flame.
You pulled him down, crashing your lips to his in a messy kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. Bucky’s thrusts didn’t falter, each one jolting you into Steve’s mouth, making the kiss deeper, hungrier. “Mmm, don’t look so lost,” you murmured against Steve’s lips, nipping at his bottom one before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “I want you in my mouth—wanna taste that big cock of yours while he fucks me.”
Steve’s breath hitched, a flush creeping up his neck, but he nodded, fumbling with his zipper as Bucky chuckled, hips snapping harder. “You heard her, pal. Feed her that dick.”
Steve’s fingers trembled on his zipper, the metallic rasp cutting through the humid air as he finally freed himself—his cock springing out, thick and heavy, the head already flushed and glistening with pre-cum. You watched for a beat, heat pooling fresh in your belly, but then impulse hit like lightning. With a hum, you planted your hands on Bucky’s chest and shoved hard. He blinked up at you, confusion flashing in those blue eyes as his cock slipped free from your clenching heat with a wet pop, leaving you achingly empty for just a second.
“What the—” Bucky started, but you didn’t let him finish, pushing him sideways until he toppled onto his back, jeans still bunched around his thighs, legs splayed. The mattress creaked under his weight, and before he could protest, you swung a leg over him, straddling his hips. His dick slapped against your inner thigh, hot and insistent, as you gripped it at the base and sank down in one fluid motion, taking him balls-deep with a satisfied moan.
“Fuck yeah, angel,” Bucky rasped, hands flying to your waist, thumbs digging into your skin as he bucked up once, testing. “Ride me like one of them horses out in the pasture—hard and wild.” His voice was all gravel and hunger, that smirk creeping back as he watched you take control.
You laughed breathlessly, rolling your hips in a slow grind before lifting up and slamming down, “You’ve got a real dirty mouth on you, handsome,” you teased, picking up the pace, bouncing steadily now, the rough denim of his jeans scraping deliciously against your thighs with each drop. The friction added a bite to the bliss, making you hiss through your teeth.
Bucky groaned, head tipping back against the mattress, but his eyes stayed locked on you. “Shit, just like that. Tighter, darlin’, squeeze me.”
Your gaze shifted to Steve, who hovered there, cock in hand, looking equal parts left out and starved. You flashed him a soft, encouraging smile, slowing your rhythm just enough to beckon him with a crook of your finger. “C’mon, honey. I want you right here.”
He swallowed hard, adam’s apple bobbing, but he shuffled closer on his knees, positioning himself near Bucky’s head, close enough that the scent of his arousal mixed with the musk of sweat and rain-soaked hay.
You leaned forward without missing a beat, your breasts swaying with the motion, and wrapped your lips around the tip of Steve’s cock. He was pretty—long and girthy, the foreskin peeling back as you sucked gently, tongue swirling over the sensitive head to taste the salty bead of pre-cum. “Mmm,” you hummed around him, the vibration pulling a choked gasp from his throat.
Steve’s hand tangled in your hair, not pushing, just holding on as you licked a broad stripe up the underside, tracing the thick vein before taking him deeper, cheeks hollowing with the suction.
“God, your mouth... feels so damn good, beautiful,” he murmured, voice rough and genuine, hips twitching forward instinctively.
Bucky’s thrusts didn’t let up—he drove into you from below, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until it pebbled hard under his touch.
“Look at you, takin’ us both like a champ,” he panted, pinching lightly, sending sparks straight to your core.
But then his rhythm faltered for a split second, eyes darting sideways as your head bobbed right next to his face, the wet sounds of your sucking filling his ears. Steve’s cock glistened with your saliva, inches from Bucky’s cheek, and you caught the way Bucky’s gaze lingered, a flicker of something strange and curious in his expression.
“Hey, eyes on me,” you pulled off Steve with a pop, grinning down at Bucky as you clenched around him on purpose, making him curse under his breath. “Or you wanna join in? Taste him too?”
Bucky chuckled hesitantly, squeezing your other breast in retaliation. “Temptin’, but I’m good buried in this pussy for now.” He bucked harder, the scrape of denim biting into your skin again, urging you back to work.
You obliged, moaning around Steve’s length as you took him to the back of your throat, nose brushing the unkept hair at his base. Steve’s free hand braced on Bucky’s shoulder for balance, the accidental touch making both men tense, breaths syncing in the charged air.
“Fuck, I’m not gonna last,” Steve warned, fingers tightening in your hair, but you just hummed encouragement, riding Bucky faster.
Bucky’s eyes gaze flicked back up, locking onto the way your lips stretched around Steve’s throbbing dick, slurping and sucking with greedy abandon. Steve’s face was a mask of pure ecstasy; eyes squeezed shut, mouth parted in a silent groan, and Bucky couldn’t resist. “Hey, punk, she’s got you leakin’ like a damn faucet.”
Steve’s breath hitched, his hand flexing in your hair, but he shot Bucky a glare through half-lidded eyes. “Shut it, Buck,feels too good to argue.”
You hummed around Steve’s length, the vibration making him buck forward, your free hand cupping his heavy balls, rolling them gently in your palm, feeling them tighten as he teetered on the edge.
Bucky hummed, spreading your ass cheeks wider, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to where his cock pistoned in and out. “Nah, saint, you’re blushin’ like a virgin. Gonna blow already?”
“Screw you,” Steve panted, but there was no heat in it, just desperate need as his cock twitched against your tongue. You could feel him swelling, the salty pulse of pre-cum flooding your mouth, he was seconds from exploding.
But you weren’t ready to let him go over yet. With a deliberate pop, you pulled off, your hand still stroking his slick shaft lazily, denying him that final push. Steve’s eyes flew open, pained and pleading, his chest heaving as he stared down at you.
“Please... don’t stop,” he begged, voice cracking, hips jerking futilely into your grip.
You paused your bounces on Bucky, clenching around him to keep him buried deep but holding still, the ache of denial making your thighs quiver. Leaning up slightly, you cupped Steve’s jaw with your free hand, thumb tracing his lower lip as you met his gaze softly. “Shh, pretty boy. I want you to finish inside me… fill me up proper. Not like this.”
Bucky stilled beneath you, his hands loosening on your ass just a fraction, brows knitting in confusion as he glanced between you and Steve. “You kickin’ me out now?”
Steve mirrored the look, his cock bobbing neglected in the air, still rock-hard and dripping. “But... Buck’s already...”
You grinned, sweet and reassuring, “Fellas, I’ve got room for two. Plenty of space in me.”
Your words hung in the humid air like a challenge, that smile still playing on your lips as you picked up the pace, bouncing with renewed vigor, your ass slapping against his thighs, the wet sounds of your pussy devouring him echoing in the dim loft.
Steve shifted behind you, his uncertainty clear in the way his hands trembled slightly on your waist. He was rock-hard, tip leaking and flushed, but his mind raced ahead—assuming you meant something else entirely. With a hesitant nudge, he pressed the head of his cock against your ass, the pressure firm but tentative, like he was testing uncharted waters.
A soft laugh bubbled out of you, light and teasing, cutting through the tension as you twisted your head to glance back at him. “Oh sweetheart, that’s not quite what I had in mind.”
Steve froze, cheeks burning even in the low light, his cock twitching against your skin. “I... thought... shit, sorry. You said—”
Before he could finish fumbling, you reached back with one arm, your fingers wrapping around his thick shaft—hot and pulsing in your palm. You stroked him once, firmly, drawing a sharp hiss from his lips, then guided him downward, angling him right toward your soaked entrance where Bucky was already buried deep.
The tip brushed against your folds, slick with your arousal and Bucky’s pre-cum, nudging insistently at the stretched opening.
Steve’s eyes widened, confusion etching deeper lines on his face as he stared down at the impossible sight. “Wait, but... how the hell—?”
You paused your grinding just enough to lean forward, bracing one hand on Bucky’s chest, nails digging into his skin for leverage. “There’s enough room in this greedy little pussy, honey. Stretch me wide, fill me up until I can’t think straight.”
Your words were a sultry command, eyes fluttering half-shut in anticipation, but you shot Steve a reassuring wink over your shoulder.
Bucky’s head snapped up, his blue eyes meeting Steve’s in a shared look of stunned disbelief. “You serious, darlin’? Both of us... in there? Shit, that’s—”
“Insane,” Steve finished, voice hoarse, but his hips inched forward anyway, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance alongside Bucky’s girth. They exchanged another glance; uncertain, a flicker of worry in Bucky’s eyes and Steve’s furrowed brow. This wasn’t some quick tumble; it was pushing boundaries they’d never imagined.
“Yeah, insane,” Bucky echoed, but his voice dropped an octave, laced with a sliver of excitement as he held still inside you, letting you feel the throb of him. “You sure you can take it, angel?”
“Mm, more than sure,” you murmured, rocking your hips experimentally, which only wedged Steve’s tip a fraction deeper, the dual pressure making your breath catch. “Come on, Stevie—push. I want to feel you both sliding in, rubbing against each other in me.”
Steve swallowed hard, resolve flickering to life in his gaze as he nodded, hands steadying on your hips. “Alright... alright, if that’s what you want, sweetheart.” He started pushing in slowly, inch by agonizing inch, the stretch burning sweet and intense as your walls accommodated him.
You breathed in deep, eyes squeezing shut, a shudder rippling through you as you balanced on Bucky’s chest—fingers splaying wide over his pounding heart, grounding yourself in the heat of his skin.
Bucky groaned low, his cock twitching inside you as he felt Steve’s length pressing in against him.
Steve’s breath stuttered, his forehead beading with sweat as he sank deeper, the sensation overwhelming—your pussy clenching around them both, hot and velvety, while Bucky’s cock pulsed right against his own. “It’s—tight as hell. You okay?”
You nodded, biting your lip to stifle a whimper, the fullness bordering on too much but tipping straight into ecstasy. “Keep goin’... just like that. Oh, fuck. Yeah, both of you, right there.”
The stretch was exquisite agony, your body locked in place between them, every nerve ending firing as Bucky and Steve filled you to the brink—two thick cocks wedged deep in your pussy, pulsing hot and insistent against each other through your slick walls.
You could barely shift, let alone move, the overwhelming fullness pinning you like a vice, your thighs quivering from the strain. A hazy fog clouded your mind, cockdrunk and drifting in the haze of sensation, every shallow breath pulling a whimper from your lips.
“F-Fellas,” you gasped, voice slurred with lust, fingers clutching at Bucky’s shoulders for any semblance of control. “I... I can’t—move for me. You gotta fuck me like this.”
Bucky’s eyes darkened, a feral glint cutting through the sweat beading on his brow. He nodded once, rough and sure, his hands clamping harder on your hips. “Yeah? You want us to use you, sweet thing? Pound this greedy little hole till she breaks?” His voice was gravel, hips shifting first—tentative at the start, pulling back an inch before slamming upward, the drag of his shaft grinding against Steve’s in the tight confines of your cunt.
Steve mirrored him a beat later, hesitant but hungry, his broad chest heaving as he withdrew slightly, then thrust in—the dual motion sending sparks exploding behind your eyes. “God, it’s... too much,” he groaned, voice cracking on the edge of a moan, his cock sliding against Bucky’s.
They found a rhythm, tentative thrusts syncing into something primal, back and forth like a seesaw of pure heat—Bucky pushing deep as Steve eased out, then reversing, their groans mingling with the wet slap of skin and the creak of the mattress beneath.
You were their plaything now, jolted between them like a ragdoll, body bouncing on the wave of their cocks, the pressure building in your core until it bordered on delirium. Lost in the rhythm, Bucky’s hand snaked up your back, fingers tangling in your hair to yank you down, crashing his mouth against yours in a bruising kiss—tongue plunging deep, tasting the salt of your shared sweat, devouring you like he owned every gasp. You melted into it, moaning into his mouth as their cocks speared you harder.
But Steve wasn’t going to be left out anymore. As Bucky released you, Steve’s strong arm hooked around your waist, pulling you upright with a possessive tug, his free hand cupping your jaw to turn your face to him. As he sealed his lips over yours—kissing you slower but no less fierce, tongue tracing the seam of your mouth, drawing out a needy whine as his hips snapped forward, grinding deeper alongside Bucky.
Your mind spun, pleasure dazing you into a stupor, words tumbling out in a breathless haze. “Kiss... kiss each other.”
Bucky faltered for a split second, his blue eyes flicking up to Steve’s, surprise flashing before lust swallowed it whole. “What—darlin’, you—”
You didn’t let him finish, one hand snaking behind Steve’s head, fingers threading through his damp hair and pushing down firmly, guiding him toward Bucky’s waiting mouth. “C’mon, hotshot, kiss your golden boy for me.”
Bucky’s breath hitched, resistance crumbling under the weight of your words and the relentless pump of his hips. They kept moving, cocks buried to the hilt, sliding in tandem as their faces drew closer—lips brushing tentative at first, then crashing together in a passionate lock. Bucky’s tongue darted out, claiming Steve’s mouth with the same hunger he fucked you with, a muffled groan escaping them both as the kiss deepened.
You watched, transfixed, the sight of their mouths fusing; tongues tangling, breaths mingling, pushing you over the edge. The coil in your belly snapped, orgasm ripping through you like lightning, your pussy spasming wildly around them both, walls fluttering and squeezing in rhythmic pulses.
“Fuck—yes, oh god, I’m cumming!” you cried, body arching as waves of ecstasy crashed over you, soaking their cocks in your release.
Their kiss broke on a shared gasp, Bucky pulling back first, eyes wide and wild as he felt the vice-like grip of your climax. “Fuck—baby, you’re squeezin’ me so goddamn tight,” Bucky grunted, voice strained, his grip bruising your hips as he drove up into the slick chaos of your pussy, feeling the hot flood of your release coat him. “Gonna make me—”
Steve beat him to it, a choked groan tearing from his throat as his body seized. “Oh shit—can’t hold—”
His cock throbbed wildly inside you, swelling against Bucky’s before unleashing thick ropes of cum, pulsing deep and flooding your core. The warmth spread instantly, mixing with your own juices, the sensation of his load spilling out around their joined shafts pushing Bucky right to the brink.
That was it—the wet heat of Steve’s release seeping through your walls, drenching Bucky’s cock in the messy proof of his friend’s orgasm. Bucky’s eyes squeezed shut, a guttural moan ripping free as he slammed home one last time. His shaft jerked violently, erupting in heavy spurts, pumping load after load into you until it overflowed, the combined seed sloshing with every twitch.
They emptied everything, cocks twitching with brutal oversensitivity, veins pulsing against your fluttering insides. You shuddered between them, body limp and quaking, every nerve raw from the overload.
Bucky’s hands roamed your sweat-slick skin—tracing the curve of your spine, cupping your ass, kneading your thighs—as if grounding himself in the aftermath, his breaths coming in harsh pants against your ear. “Easy, angel... we got you,” he murmured, voice hoarse, fingers digging in just enough to soothe the lingering ache.
Steve, still buried deep, pressed his lips to the pulse at your neck, kissing softly at first, then with more urgency, tongue flicking out to taste the salt on your skin. “So good... you feel so good, sweetheart,” he whispered, nuzzling closer, his chest heaving against your back as he fought to steady the tremors racking his frame.
Steve was the first to stir, reluctance clear in the way his hands lingered on your waist. With a careful shift, he eased back, his softening cock slipping free with a lewd, wet pop. The rush hit immediately—a gush of warmth spilling from you, their mingled cum trickling down in thick rivulets, soaking the denim of Bucky’s jeans beneath.
“Ah—sorry,” Steve muttered, flushed and spent, collapsing onto the mattress beside Bucky, his arm draping loosely over his eyes as if to block out the intensity.
You let out a shaky breath, muscles protesting as you lifted yourself off Bucky next, the drag of his cock pulling a sharp whine from your throat. More seed followed, sliding hot and sticky down your thighs, pooling where you’d been joined. Bucky hissed through his teeth, hips bucking involuntarily at the loss.
“Fuckin’ hell—that’s... messy,” he rasped, a low chuckle rumbling out despite the sensitivity, his hand coming up to swipe at the spill on his jeans.
Exhausted, you collapsed between them, body sinking into the rumpled sheets, limbs twitching with aftershocks. Silence fell, broken only by the trio of heaving breaths syncing in the humid loft air, thick with the musk of heat and raw sex, undercut by the distant patter of rain on the roof and the faint, the sweet trace of your honeysuckle lotion clinging to sweat-damp skin.
Then Bucky’s voice cut through the hush, like he was trying to toss a joke over something that felt too big to stare at.
“Well… guess we learned how to share after all.”
You let out a small huff that might’ve been a laugh if you’d had more air in your lungs, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Your body still felt like it was humming—too warm, too wrung-out, like you’d been shaken up and put back together wrong in the best way.
Steve made a sound that could’ve been a chuckle, “S’pose that’s one way to put it,” he murmured.
Above your head, Steve turned his head towards Bucky. That familiar, easy glance they’d shared a thousand times in their lives, the one that always said you good? and yeah, I’m good, the one that had carried them through worse than a Louisiana storm. Only now it didn’t land the same.
Because now “you good?” had more weight.
Steve’s eyes flicked to Bucky’s mouth, just a fraction too long, and something tightened in his chest, warm and confusing. A flash of it, all over again, the wet press of tongues, the wrongness-turned-rightness of it, the way it had sparked through the whole loft like lightning.
The two of them had spent their whole lives calling it brotherhood because that word was safe. Best friends. End of the line. A story you could tell people without watching them look too closely.
But you had made them look too closely.
Bucky broke eye contact first, like he felt the heat of the thought and didn’t want to stand in it, his gaze dropping to you like he needed somewhere safer to look. His hand came up, fingers warm and careful at your throat, thumb resting at your pulse like he could feel your heartbeat still stuttering there. He tilted your face toward him with a gentleness that didn’t match his normal charm at all.
“You’re somethin’ else,” he murmured, and there was no swagger in it, no performance. “One hell of a woman.”
“Not so bad yourself, handsome,” you breathed back, a lazy little smile tugging at your mouth.
He kissed you, slow and lingering, like he was claiming the moment for himself. You let him. Let him have the softness. Let him taste the last traces of you on your own lips without making it a fight.
And you felt Steve’s attention sharpen across your skin.
At first it was just presence. Then it became something else, that ugly twist of jealousy rising in him again, quick and hot, like he’d hated it earlier and still couldn’t stop it now.
Only this time it wasn’t simple.
It wasn’t just Bucky’s kissing you and I’m not.
It was tangled up with the memory of Bucky’s mouth against his, with the fact Steve had felt it… felt how it changed the air, how it changed the shape of his chest when he thought about it too long. It was the unsettling realization that what he wanted wasn’t cleanly separated into categories anymore.
He didn’t want to name that.
So he did what Steve always did when he didn’t want to name something, he acted.
His hand came up, palm warm against your cheek, and he guided your face toward him with a firmness that bordered on petulant—like he couldn’t stand being left out even for a breath anymore.
“Hey,” he muttered, as if the word could justify what he was about to take.
Then he kissed you.
Deeper than Bucky had, because Steve kissed like he was trying to anchor himself, like if he could taste you hard enough, he could drown out every complicated thought trying to rise. His mouth was hot and sure, tongue slipping in with a confidence he hadn’t carried before the stables, before the loft, before you pulled all the polite restraint out of him and taught him what he looked like without it.
You hummed into the kiss, letting it be messy, letting him be greedy.
Bucky watched, jaw tightening, though not angry exactly, not anymore. Just… lit up. Like he didn’t know where to put his hands, his pride, his hunger. Like the sight of Steve taking something he wanted did something ugly and thrilling to him at the same time.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, lips swollen, eyes heavy. Your voice came out soft and unhurried like you weren’t about to let either of them pretend this was simple.
“You boys keep lookin’ at each other like you don’t know what you’re seein’,” you murmured, eyes flicking between them. “Ain’t like you didn’t already cross the line.”
Steve’s throat bobbed. His gaze cut away for half a second, reflex and denial, then returned.
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “She’s got a point, punk.”
Steve shot him a look. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m not startin’,” Bucky said, almost too calm. “I’m just… takin’ inventory.”
That made Steve’s brow furrow, something wary and pulled-tight in his expression.
You shifted between them, the movement small but enough to draw both their eyes, enough to remind them you were still the center of gravity here, whether they wanted to admit it or not.
Steve felt it in the quiet seconds after, watching you push yourself upright, stretching like a cat that’d just had its fill. The lamp on the little trunk threw a golden wash over you, catching the curve of your shoulder, the soft hollow at your throat, the confidence in the way you didn’t rush to cover yourself.
And in his head, Steve hated how perfectly Bucky’s pet name fit you now. Angel.
He had always thought angels were meant to guide you back toward the straight path. You were the opposite kind. The kind that smiled sweetly and led you off the road on purpose, deeper into the dark, deeper into want, like sin wasn’t something to fear but something to finally stop lying about.
He should’ve hated that.
Instead it felt… like relief.
It felt like coming home to a part of himself he’d kept locked up tight, because being Steve Rogers meant being good, meant being steady, meant being the one who held the line. Out here… on this farm, in this heat, with your hands on him and your mouth on his—he didn’t have to perform holiness. He could just be a man. Hungry, human and wanted.
And Bucky, reckless, charming and always halfway out the door, had been tempted into stillness for once. Steve could see it. Even now, with Bucky sprawled beside him, breathing slower, eyes heavy, there was a calm in him that didn’t usually last longer than a cigarette.
You’d done that. To both of them.
Then you spoke again, and the words hit like cold water.
“Shame you boys’ll be leavin’ tomorrow.”
You said it so goddamn easy. Like you were talking about weather. Like you hadn’t just cracked something open between them that didn’t fit back the same way.
The warmth in the loft went cold.
Steve’s throat tightened. He glanced at Bucky without meaning to, like he needed confirmation he hadn’t imagined the sting. Bucky’s face had gone still, brows drawn together, mouth set in a line that looked almost… hurt. Just that faint pout of a man who didn’t like realizing he’d started wanting something he couldn’t have.
Steve recognized the expression because it was sitting on his own face too.
Leaving had always been the plan. Finish the fence. Get the gas. Roll out. Keep moving. That was Bucky’s rhythm. That was the only rhythm Steve had been able to follow for months without losing him.
But now, hearing you say it out loud, Steve felt something stubborn rise up in him. Possessive in a quiet way. Not of you exactly… though that was in it. Of the whole thing. The strange little pocket of peace this place had offered. The way his shoulders had stopped riding his ears. The way he’d slept deeper here, even on a hayloft mattress.
He could feel that same resistance in Bucky, of all people.
Steve swallowed, voice coming out quieter than he meant. “Who says we have to leave tomorrow?”
“My daddy’s got you on a job. Fence gets finished, you take your gas, you go,” you said. “That was the arrangement.”
Bucky shifted beside you, shoulder tightening. “Arrangements can change,” he muttered, rougher than necessary.
Steve’s eyes snapped to him, surprised by how fast the words came out of Bucky’s mouth. Bucky didn’t meet his gaze. He stared at the sheets instead, jaw working like he was annoyed at himself for saying anything at all.
Steve felt a tug in his chest.
You tilted your head, studying them both. “Y’all don’t like bein’ told when to leave, huh,” you murmured, almost amused. “Thought drifters lived for the road.”
Bucky’s laugh came out flat. “Usually.”
Steve looked at you, really looked, and he didn’t like what he saw. You didn’t look afraid of losing them. You looked like you knew exactly what it did to men to feel wanted, then be reminded it had an end date.
Steve’s voice dropped, honest without meaning to be. “This place… it’s been good for us.”
Bucky’s fingers flexed against the quilt. “Don’t start getting sentimental,” he muttered, but there was no bite in it. Only discomfort.
Steve glanced at him again, then back at you. “If we asked, again, would your father consider letting us stay a few more days?”
The question hung in the air, heavier than the rain outside. Bucky finally looked up, and for a second their eyes met again.
You let the silence sit just long enough for it to sting. The lamp warmed your skin into gold again, turning you soft around the edges, almost holy if a person didn’t look too closely. But Steve knew better now. Bucky did too.
Two grown men were lying on either side of you like you were the altar and they were the ones who’d come to kneel.
Your mouth curved. “I’ll talk to Daddy,” you said, voice lazy, sweet as iced tea. “If he’s in a good mood.”
Bucky’s brows lifted, hope and irritation tangled. “And what puts him in a good mood?”
You hummed, rolling a shoulder in a shrug that made Steve’s throat go dry. “Could be the fence looks right. Could be he slept decent. Could be the Lord whispers in his ear.” Your eyes flicked to Steve. “Could be the sun decides to shine.”
Steve felt his chest tighten on a rough breath. He didn’t know whether to laugh or grit his teeth.
“Mm-hmm.” You let your lashes lower. “Seems y’all are good at waitin’ when you want somethin’ bad enough.”
Steve had been stuck his whole life being the good one, the noble one, and you’d given him freedom not to be. Bucky had waited his whole life for something to matter enough to make him stay. And now here they were, both acting like it was anything but your hand on the leash.
You didn’t even have to tug it.
You simply settled back down between them, shoulder brushing Steve’s arm, thigh sliding against Bucky’s, casual contact that made both men go quiet. You fit there too easily, like you belonged in the seam between them.
You lay between them like a secret, like a blessing, like a sin dressed up in honeysuckle and honeyed words.
Angel, Steve thought again—then corrected himself. No. Not an angel. A temptation that looked like one.
Your hand drifted lazily up Steve’s chest, fingers splaying over his heartbeat as if counting it. Your other hand found Bucky’s wrist on your waist, thumb stroking once, absentminded.
You sighed, content, as if the question of tomorrow didn’t matter nearly as much as the fact that tonight was still yours.
“If the morning’s kind,” you murmured, voice soft as prayer, “maybe I’ll keep you boys a little longer.”
And you didn’t say anything else. You didn’t promise, didn’t explain, didn’t give them the comfort of certainty. You just settled deeper between them, warm and wicked and impossibly at ease, like the devil himself could’ve learned a thing or two from you about patience.
And outside, rain kept whispering its steady sermon against the roof.
a/n | hope ya'll enjoyed my freakiness, tell me what you think, also im thing abt starting a fresh new taglist, so let me know. and i had to a lotttt of research, so i hope my potrayal of New Orleans, Louisianna is the tiniest bit accurate. the title is based on the movie Wild Things, obviously this fic has no relation, except for the very heated sex and erotica
also the barn loft was based on my man, Clark Kent's favourite spot
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