SUMMARY: you and steve have been mortal enemeies since you started working at wsqk. but hate can only go so far, especially when you're in such close proximinity to someone so aggravating...someone so arrogant...someone so steve.
CW: MDNI 18+, filthy gratuitous smut, mean!steve, enemies to lovers, slapping, degradation/name calling, spitting, hate sex in the back of the wsqk van, piv sex, squirting and oral (f receiving)
A/N: i have not written anything like this in years. i gotta say that i, too, am surpised that i am not writing hopper smut. but something about steve harrington and imagining him just going to town in the back of that goddamn van - i could not get it out of my head. this may be slightly OOC!steve, but it's mostly just for my own enjoyment - hope that you enjoy it too!
masterlist
Days like this at WSQK were hit and miss.
On one hand, you loved being able to sub in for Steve whenever he had to take over for Robin.
On the other hand, you hated having to spend the entire day with just Steve without Robin there to play referee.
Graduation from Hawkins High meant that you needed to get a job, especially since your savings for college were damn-near abyssmal. With a new radio station opening up on the outskirts of town, you knew you had a fairly good shot at getting the job. Especially since Robin was conducting the interview - you had shared a free period with her in your junior year and you managed to hit it off almost immediately.
You had no idea that you would be sharing your days with Steve "The Hair" Harrington, the so-called "King" of Hawkins High during his time. Had you known beforehand, you may have reconsidered.
Steve was someone you never talked to in high school, but you watched him from afar. Sure - he was boyishly handsome and had a generally good sense of humor. But he was incessantly arrogant, and that was something that always rubbed you the wrong way.
The potential Robin saw in him would always be a mystery to you.
The feelings of disdain grew as the months at WSQK passed. For some reason, from the very first time you formally met, Steve seemed to hate you. And you genuinely had no idea what you did to piss him off so much.
"You both will be working together to make sure all the back end stuff is going smoothly," Robin said, introducing you to one another.
"Well, you better have some idea of what you're doing," Steve sighed, crossing his arms. "I won't be picking up your slack."
Your eyes grew narrow, looking over at Robin with a laugh, "I think I can pick up my own slack just fine, thank you."
Ever since then, his mere presence bothered you. It seemed like every time you had something to say, he was right there with some smart ass comeback, an eye roll or a jab at your expense.
With only eight months of working together, Steve Harrington quickly became the bane of your existence.
Him with that snarky scoff, that cocky aura, that lucious hair, his soft eyes -
Okay, fine. Steve was objectively attractive.
And that somehow made everything worse.
Even when you weren't at work, you couldn't stop thinking about him. How much you wanted to slap him in his face before kissing the shit out of him.
You hated him.
"...and if you feel like dancin' as much as I do, here's some Whitney Houston to help you get your groove back," Steve crooned into the microphone, looking over at you to cue you to play the tape.
You clicked play on the tape deck before the opening synth of 'I Wanna Dance with Somebody' started to play.
Steve groaned, tossing his headphones on the desk and groaning, his hands rubbing at his eyes.
You scoffed, "Tough day just running your mouth? Figured that would be a walk in the park for you."
He squinted his eyes at you, "Don't you ever get tired of being such a bitch?"
You smirked, shrugging your shoulders, "Not when you're the object of all my bitching."
He shooked his head, closing his eyes, "How much longer do we have left?"
You looked at your watch, "I think we can actually wrap up in two songs."
"Great," he yawned, resting his hand on his stomach. "I'm starving."
You nodded, grabbing two other tapes and putting them in the cycle, "Remember, before we leave, we need to do that wire stuff for Robin in the van."
He looked over at you confused, before you filled in his memory gap, "Remember, the wiring is shorting out? Come on, Steve, you promised Robin you would fix it."
He groaned with a nod, "Yeah yeah I remember."
He stretched his arms up high, the sliver of skin revealing itself under his long-sleeve shirt catching your eye. You gasped lightly, causing you to cough.
"You 'sick' now, too?" he asked, refering Robin's last-minute "sick" call-out, no doubt just for her to go on a date with Vickie.
"No," you snapped. "Just caught a whiff of your god-awful cologne, Harrington - that's all."
"Oh, come on," he teased, looking over at you once more. "You love how I smell."
You rolled your eyes, a light blush playing on your cheeks.
He was right, you thought. He doesn't need to know that, though.
Steve wrapped up the bit rather quickly, nearly jumping out of his seat and heading to the tool kit to grab a wire stripper. You fumbled to get the cycle set to play three more songs to close out the night before you quickly followed him towards the WSQK van outside the station.
"Keep up, will ya?" he called out over his shoulder.
You huffed, checking his shoulder harshly as you passed him up, opening up the van door before climbing in. Steve followed in after you and closed the door behind him, which caused you to look at him questioningly.
"I'm sorry - did I ruin your plans to catch pneumonia in 50 degree weather?" he rolled his eyes, leaning over to immediately start fooling with the faulty wiring in the back of the shelf.
You shook your head, kneeling and beginning to adjust the satellite dish that was attached to the roof of the van.
"Do you even know what you're doing?" you asked, your eyes following the curve of his back before landing on the swell of his ass, hidden behind the tightest pair of dark blue demin Levi's you'd ever seen.
Why does he have to look so good?
"Do you?" he retorted, his biceps bulging under the shirt. With a huff, he pulls up the sleeves of his shirt before bending back over.
I hate him. Cocky, arrogant bastard.
"Okay - move the wheel to the right," he commanded, looking over his shoulder and smiling slightly when he caught your gaze on his ass.
You looked up at his eyes, your face unapologetic, "What's the magic word?"
"Do as your told," he replied with a smirk, kneeling up straight before crossing his arms.
You scoffed, cursing yourself internally as you felt yourself throb in between your thighs.
Dammit, control yourself.
You spun the wheel slowly to the right, the connection coming back on the radio.
"Good girl," he nodded, tossing the wire stripper somewhere on the shag carpet.
You looked at him with wide eyes. He surely didn't mean it to be anything more than a smart ass remark, but your body was having a real hard time believing that.
"You're such an ass," you laugh, kneeling back on your feet.
"I don't think you mean that," he sighed, unabashedly looking down your body before back up at your eyes.
"Well, that's probably why you shouldn't think," you replied. "You're wrong most of the time."
"Yeah?" he asked, moving towards you slowly.
"Yeah," you whispered, placing your hands on your thighs to ground you.
He smells so good.
"I might have my moments, but I'm not dumb," he said, looking at your lips. "I think that you like arguing with me, don't you?"
You laugh, looking away from him, "You think I enjoy wasting my time on you?"
He laughs back, "I think you get off on it."
You pause, looking at his eyes, "I...I do not."
"There she is," he murmured, leaning forward slowly so that his face was next to yours, your cheeks touching before his lips brushed against your ear. "I think it gets you wet."
Your eyes flutter shut, biting your lip, before biting out an "I hate you."
His eyes roam your face before hovering his mouth over yours, "Prove it."
I gulp, looking down at his mouth before glancing back up at his eyes.
So arrogant -
I couldn’t help myself - my hand clapped across his cheek harshly. I froze, about to start profusely apologizing before I saw his lips turn up in a small smirk.
His hand came up to touch his face with a sly grin, "That feel good?"
Your cheeks darkened a shade of pink, looking at the way the veins popped in his neck, his forearms, “Yeah. It did.”
Jesus, he's hotter than what should be legally allowed.
He grabs your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm, "Do it again."
You inhale sharply through your nose as you feel his soft plush lips dance across your palm. You bite your lip, slapping his face again before he grabs your hips roughly, pinning you to the carpeted floor of the van.
His hands raise your arms above your head, before pinning your wrists together against the floor with a single hand. His free hand roams down your arm before gripping your jaw between his fingers.
"Tell me to stop," he whispers before pressing a kiss to your cheek, waiting for you to protest.
You don’t.
After a beat, that’s all he needs before immediately sucking a bruise into your neck.
You let out a harsh breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding onto before wrapping your legs around his waist tightly, causing him to fall on top of your body. You moan, arching your back as he sucks a particularly vibrant bruise against your collarbone.
"Fuck!" you exclaim, whimpering as you felt his tongue glide across the slightly abused skin.
"I didn't think it would be so easy," he teases, kissing up to your chin. "You're such a little whore for it, aren't you?"
You groan, before spitting at his face, "You're such an asshole."
His eyes shift a darker shade, wiping his face before gripping your chin, "Open your fucking mouth."
You comply, the throbbing between your legs amplified as he pursed his lips, a drop of his spit dropping on to your tongue, "Swallow."
You moan, swallowing his spit and opening your mouth. He groans, his lips immediately melding with yours a rough passion.
In the time you knew him, you always imagined that Steve was a good old fashioned lover boy. Someone who took his time. Was gentle with his suitors.
The harsh way that his tongue bruised against yours, heated and frantic, absolutely proved you wrong.
Your head was swimming at the sensations he was putting on you - the softness of his tongue on yours, the smell of his cologne...
Everything around you was Steve, and you couldn't determine if you were in heaven or if you were in hell.
The dig of his cock through his jeans against your thigh opted you to lean more towards the former.
His free hand continues to roam down your body, lifting your shirt up slowly as his hips start to rock against yours. You try to move your hands, but he keeps his grip firm on your wrists.
"You wanna move?" he whispers against your mouth, his hips stilling.
"Please," you whimper. "Let me touch you."
"What do I get in return?" he smiles, kissing your chin.
"You don't get a kick in the balls," you mused with a huff, frustrated at the lack of movement from his hips.
"Hmm," he pretends to think. "Tempting offer."
He releases his hold slowly, both of his hands travelling beneath your shirt before cupping your breasts over your bra.
"I thought you were gonna touch me," he looks up at you before lifting your shirt over your head.
"I will..." you tease, watching him toss your shirt in the corner.
He grabs your hands and trails them down so your hands are cupping your own breasts, "If you're not gonna touch me, then I need you to touch yourself."
Your mouth opens slightly in shock before you sit up, "Only if you take your shirt off - otherwise I feel like it's a little unfair."
"Is that a request or are you telling me?" he asks, his nose rubbing against yours.
"Take. Your. Fucking. Shirt. Off,” you commanded, reaching behind your back to unclasp your bra.
His cheeks flush before he complies, lifting his shirt up and over his head. You smirk, tossing your bra in the same direction as both of your discarded shirts.
His eyes are glued to your bare breasts, causing you to grow embarrassed.
"I'd much rather you touch them," you sigh, leaning back before trailing your fingers down your chest, cupping them in your hands.
"Just like that," he whispers, his hands resting on your hips, before he presses a kiss to one of your hands, his mouth inches away from your nipple.
"You like what you see, Harrington?" you bite your lip, releasing your hold on your breasts before cupping his jaw, his eyes meeting yours.
"Yeah, I bet you'd like to hear me say that," he smiles, replacing your hands with his own before he begins to knead them, leaning forward to suck your nipple into his mouth with a moan.
You gasp, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling, causing a groan to rumble up his chest.
"Steve," you moan, scratching his scalp. "Do you have a rubber?"
He looks up at you, his lips parted slightly, "Eager, huh?"
You groan, tossing your head back, "I swear to god, if you don't fuck me after all of this teasing -"
"Okay, okay," he laughs, pressing a kiss to your stomach before reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. He pulls a condom out before looking at you adoringly, "I like this side of you. It's hot."
I reach for his zipper, practically pawing at his bulge, "It's your fault for getting me this riled up."
He shakes his head, shooing your hands away before unzipping himself, revealing a sight that made your mouth water.
He always walked around like he knew he had a big dick.
And, god, did he just prove that he did.
He takes himself in his hand, pumping himself slightly, "Take your pants off."
You move quickly, sliding your jeans and underwear off in one go, kicking them and your shoes off haphazardly.
"Eager little bitch," he groans, rolling the condom down his shaft slowly. "I want you on top of me."
He lies down before manhandling your hips until you straddle his waist, your pussy rubbing over him teasingly.
You hum, resting your hands on his chest, "Lazy fuck."
“Watch it,” he warns, rubbing his cock up and down your folds, brushing against your clit.
You whimper, biting your lip as you feel him tease, groaning when he begins to slide himself into you.
“Oh my god,” you whine, your hand reaching up to press against the ceiling of the van.
Steve moans, his hands grabbing your hips roughly before he starts to move his hips, “I’ll show you a lazy fuck.”
The next series of noises that escape your mouth are foreign to you as he hammers his hips up into yours, not giving you enough time to accommodate for his size.
You bounce on top of him, shouting in ecstasy when his thumb goes to rub tight and quick circles over your clit.
Your vision goes hazy, the van spinning before you fall on top of him, pressing kisses to his neck as he continues to slam his cock into you.
“God, Steve,” you whimper, rolling your hips, feeling his cock brush against that sweet spot inside.
“Ya gonna come already?” he grunts, the pace of his thumb increasing and making you see stars.
You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but the truth is that you were about to come quickly and you knew what was going to follow if he kept it up.
You whine high in your throat, your body stilling as you came around his cock, pussy contracting as he continued to rub over you.
“Steve!” you scream, gripping onto his shoulders tightly. “Don’t stop - I’m gonna -“
You groan, spurting around his cock uncontrollably, causing him to release a groan you’d never heard from him. He slammed his cock back into you as you continued to squirt over his shaft.
He flipped you both around, pulling out of you and removing the condom before pumping himself while he looked over you.
“Pretty little bitch in heat,” he moaned, leaning down to lick at your stomach. “Gonna make you keep coming just like that.”
You whimpered, your fingers grabbing hair as he lied in between your legs, resuming the motion of his thumb over your bud.
He looked up at you in awe, licking a stripe from your opening to where his thumb was rubbing over you, causing you to squeal.
“God, you’re insatiable,” you moan with a small smile, thrusting your hips up at his face.
“You’re such a pain in the ass,” he shakes his head, looking at your glistening cunt before sliding two fingers into your pussy. “But I fucking love it when you lose control like this. Hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
You toss your head back, melting into the feeling of his fingers ramming that sweet spot over and over and over again. You could feel the pressure building, noises tumbling off of your tongue as he sucked on your clit in tandem.
“Baby, I’m gonna-“ your legs shake, your second orgasm crushing over you in a wave so intense you forget to breathe.
He moans, pumping himself with a free hand as you release over his tongue, his other hand continuing to rub over you to prolong your orgasm.
He shouts into your thigh, coming across the carpet of the van in quick bursts.
You both breathe heavily into the air, the sound of crickets and the night air barely audible over your breaths.
You start to giggle, looking down at the mess you’ve both made.
“Don’t let this get to your head, Harrington,” you smile, still trying to catch your breath.
“Oh, of course not,” he laughs, pressing a kiss to your oversensitive clit before biting your thigh playfully. “Why would I ever feel any pride in making such a bitchy, arrogant priss squirt all over the company van?”
I sit up on my elbows, looking at him fondly as he rests in between my legs, “You think I’m an arrogant priss?”
“Don’t act so surprised,” he shakes his head.
“I think you’re an arrogant, cocky bastard,” I reply, touching his hair
He looks up with a smirk, “Well…say what you want about me. This whole ‘being angry at one another for no reason for months on end’ thing…super hot.”
I groan, collapsing against the floor, “It’s exhausting hating you, Steve Harrington.”
He crawls over your body, pressing a kiss to your lips, “You saying that you’re gonna start liking me?”
“God, no,” you chuckle, kissing him back. “Hating you is too much fun.”
pairing: steve harrington x reader
word count: 2.5k
summary: you don’t do dates. you do the backseat. you do frantic, messy sex on hideous shag carpet, killing time in a metal box while you both wait for the world to change, or maybe for it to just end. the rules of the crawl are simple. but whatever this thing with steve is? it's not even close.
warnings: 18+ mdni, st5 spoilers, friends with benefits to ...?, piv sex, touch/affection-starved!steve, sex as coping, ‘no-strings’ relationship, fwb with rules, rough hate sex, van sex, no-kissing sex (?), light power play, dirty talk, teasing/taunting, end-of-the-world angst, lil bit of mean!steve but in a nuanced s5 way, oh look he’s love-starved in this one again
a/n: ...fine. I caved. here’s angsty van-fucking w steve
Crawl nights always start out the same.
You, in the passenger seat, snapping gum between your teeth with your boots kicked up on the dash. Steve, slumped beside you, flipping through that same dog-eared copy of Cosmo he’s read so many times he could probably recite it in his sleep.
Crawl #8.
Two hours, eleven minutes, and counting.
The walkie’s been quiet tonight. And god, do you hate it. Because nights like this have started to feel dangerous in a whole new way. Because silence leaves room for thought, and thinking opens up doors you can’t afford to walk through right now.
The van’s parked beneath the treeline on Cornwallis, though it’s less than a pathetic excuse for a cover. The branches are stripped bare this time of year, skeletal limbs clawing at the sky, dripping silver in the cold moonlight.
There’s nothing to do here. Nothing to chew on except the same square of Wild Cherry Bubble Yum, sucking the sugar dry until the flavor’s gone and your jaw starts clicking louder than the aimless buzz of static.
It’s been months of this. Months of driving around in circles, chasing ghosts, getting nowhere. Months of Hopper’s vapid updates crackling through the radio while you and Steve rot in the van like two strangers locked in the same cage.
Except, you're not exactly strangers, are you?
No. Not after hours spent side by side in the dark, listening for things that aren’t there, waiting, hoping, pretending that this isn’t the closest thing either of you has had to a date in months.
But you don’t do dates.
You do the backseat.
You do frantic, messy sex on ugly shag carpet, killing time in a metal box while you both wait for the world to change, or maybe for it to just end already.
You fuck until it hurts, until your skin stings and your lungs burn, until the sound of your own blood is louder than the relentless beep-beep-beep-beep of the telemetry signal.
You fuck. You wait. Then you fuck again.
No restaurants, no movies. No roses or candles or foreplay.
None of that normal, mundane shit. Not anymore.
It’s just this. This van. This backseat. This hideous carpet and those cheap vinyl seats that squeak every time the car rocks.
This strange, suspended limbo where you touch each other like it doesn’t mean anything—just habit born of frustration and boredom—only it’s getting harder each time to keep pretending that’s true.
The windows are fogged up like hell tonight, late-December air leaking in through the busted seal on the back door. It nips at your skin, makes you squirm, sends a chill sharp enough to forget the gnawing emptiness that’s slowly eating you both alive.
Your foot’s wedged up against the ply lining, his jacket bunched beneath your head in a makeshift pillow. His skin glistens with sweat, slick to the touch; boy runs hotter than a furnace, even in the dead of a Midwestern winter. You feel his palms burn against the back of your thighs when he hoists up your legs, hooking them around his waist.
If you close your eyes, if you pretend hard enough, you can drown out the high-pitched beeps bleeding through the headphones beside you. Replace the crackle of static with the desperate slap of skin on skin, the creak of the van as it rocks and shudders with each snap of his hips.
But it's his voice that shatters your focus, his chest heaving against yours while he pants close to your ear:
“You know we’re—we’re not supposed to be doing this, right?”
No shit.
It’s kind of funny, actually. You almost laugh.
But the sound that comes out of your throat is less a laugh and more a strangled exhale, one that’s cut off and jagged because, well, it’s a little difficult to make noise when he’s fucking into you this fast, this hard, his weight pinning your ribs to the carpet with barely any room for air.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you manage, voice thick with breath and taunting mirth. Your words get punched out in uneven bursts that match the frantic pace of his hips. “Did you want to stop so you can ask for permission?”
You tip your head back, glancing pointedly at the walkie sitting on the dash, then turn back to him with a smile so saccharine it's nearly cruel. Lips pouty, brows scrunched in mock sympathy, it’s all, Too much for you to handle, huh? Poor baby.
It’s the same bullshit game. Every time.
You poke, you prod, you tease and you push, because he always has to push back. The suggestion that he can’t keep up, can’t fuck you good enough to hold your attention, that’s his hairpin trigger.
You feel it in the muscle running down his back, how it ripples under your fingers as his pace quickens, hips snapping harder.
It used to fluster him. God, it used to make him sputter: pink cheeks, hand to the back of his neck, indignant little huffs and breathless excuses. Back then, a jab like that—must be losing your edge, huh, Harrington?—was enough to make him roll his eyes and pretend he didn’t care as much as he did.
But the end of the world has a way of sanding people down.
And Steve Harrington has been ground into something different.
Sharpened by way of dulling, it’s left him callous. Darkened his appetite where he once craved softness: vanilla sex, vanilla sweetness.
Now, he doesn’t flinch at sharp edges. Doesn’t crave the normal, mundane shit. Not like he used to.
“You’re really kind of—hah, fuck—insufferable, you know that?” He breathes, teeth dragging down the curve of your neck, lips sealing around your pulse point to suck. It’s not hard, doesn’t hurt, but it stings all the same when you realize he's keeping it gentle on purpose. Aiming for bruises soft enough to fade come morning. None of it ever meant to last.
“Insufferable, huh?” you murmur, laughter breathy and slurred as he grinds you down into the carpet. “Jeez, big word for a guy who—”
You don’t get to finish. Not when he shifts, driving up at an angle that has your back arching off the floor. The pressure makes you clench around him involuntarily, a sharp gasp torn from your throat.
“Who’s what?” He’s impossibly close now, nose to nose, every ragged breath he draws leaving you gasping for your own. His arms cage you in, sparing no room to squirm away as he quickens his pace. He’s zeroing in on one spot and one spot only, hitting deep enough to make your eyes sting, pressure winding tight in your stomach.
“Finish it,” he murmurs, undercurrent of a command that has you clenching around him harder. “You had something to say, didn’t you? Say it then. Come on, baby.”
And it’s strange, isn’t it? This push-pull inside him. The way he taunts with a word so sweet and disarming as baby. The way he’s rubbing over your clit, caressing, really; two fingers, gentle circles and careful pressure. His other hand’s holding yours against the carpet, only he isn’t holding you down, no, he’s holding you in. Holding you close, holding onto you, fingers laced together, palm to palm.
And all the while, he’s got you pinned under his gaze. Staring down over the bridge of his nose, molten amber, sharp as broken glass, those eyes don’t miss a single thing. Sweat beads at his temples, hair falling into his eyes with every thrust as he tilts his head just so, predatory smile playing at his lips while he revels in the rapid flutter of your lashes, the way you struggle to return his gaze.
You squirm under the weight of it all, his attention, his intensity, the thick press of him nudging deep-deep-deeper inside.
"Yeah? Right there?"
He lets out a quiet sigh, almost a laugh, tongue lolling out to drag across his bottom lip. A flash of white teeth, a hairline fracture in flawless porcelain, it’s all mock sympathy; Too much for you to handle, huh? Poor baby.
“You close already? Gonna come for me?”
“Shut u—oh my—fuck!"
The pleasure slams into you all at once, more pain than relief. You clench around him like a vice, pulsing helplessly, squeezing, whimpering, endless waves of blinding-white heat crashing through you. The force of it cuts deep crimson half-moons across his skin.
“Shit!” He comes not a second later, collapsing onto his elbows and burying his cry into your mouth.
You’re still trembling through the tail-end of your orgasm when he slants his lips, licking into you, tongue sliding over yours in a slow, insistent rhythm that steals what little breath you have left. You’re too wrecked to question it, too gone to do anything but part your lips for him, panting wildly into the heat of his mouth. The aftershocks are making your whole body jolt, stomach tensing each time he draws out slowly before sinking back in, fingers refusing to let up on your throbbing clit.
He doesn’t stop talking afterward, either. Never does.
Quiet praises muffled against your lips, words tumbling free like he can’t hold any of it in:
Yeah, there you go. Keep coming. Let me feel it. So pretty, you know that? All fucked-out on my cock.
The blood’s rushing so fast past your ears it’s hard to hear much of it at all.
And yet, in the deafening roar of your own pulse, his words feel more real than anything he’s admitted in the light of day.
That's it. All mine, just like this.
...
The Wild Cherry bubble pops in the quiet of the van.
A tacky patch of it clings stubbornly to the corner of your mouth, and you chase it with your tongue just to have something to do.
The van smells like warm vinyl and sweat. Crisp deodorant. Steve’s shampoo.
Heat still clings to your skin in places you don’t want to acknowledge. Your thighs tack slightly against the faux leather when you shift.
Another pop of the bubblegum punctuates the silence like a starting pistol, restlessness coiling in your stomach until it snaps into confession:
“I think we should establish some rules.”
Steve freezes mid-page flip. For a guy who acts like nothing rattles him anymore, he’s still a stickler for order. Rules are the anchor he clings to when everything else is falling to shit.
His eyes snap to you.
“Rules?” he repeats. “For what?”
As if he doesn’t know.
You don’t bother answering, just let your gaze drift to the back.
The place where you’ve been making all your worst decisions since Crawl #4.
The ridiculous, shag-carpeted shrine where your self-control goes to die on its knees. Where Steve Harrington’s mouth has done just about everything, including the thing Rule #3 is about to outlaw in permanent ink.
He follows your gaze, blinking once, twice. His jaw tightens so sharply you can hear his teeth click.
Looking back, that should’ve been your first warning.
But you, idiot that you are, reach into the glove box instead, pulling out the beat-up WSQK notepad with the frayed spiral and the coffee stain on the cover.
You start writing.
Rule #1: No talking about it outside the van.
Rule #2: No touching once we’re done.
Rule #3: No kissing.
Rule #4: This e—
“—Woah, okay, hold on—give me that.” He snatches the notebook from you mid-scribble, lifting it up to read.
His eyes skim the list, and you watch his expression shift in real time.
Steve Harrington has never been good at hiding his face. It’s always been a little unfair to him, expressive in ways he’d probably kill to tone down. He tries to school it now, but you catch everything.
Confusion. Disbelief. Annoyance.
“No talking… fine, whatever,” he mutters, eyes darting back and forth. “No touching once we’re—” He squints, incredulous. “No kissing?”
He looks up at you then, blinking like he’s waiting for the punchline.
“But... we did that already. Like, a lot.”
You clear your throat. “Yeah. That’s why we’re making this list now.”
Something in his expression pinches, subtle but sharp. “Right. Sure. I mean, yeah. Makes sense if you were... if you weren’t into it.”
You shake your head, unconsciously mirroring the divot between his brows. “It’s not about that, Steve. I just… I don’t want this turning complicated, that’s all.”
He scoffs, quick and humorless. “Yeah, 'cause there’s nothing complicated about this, right? What, a whole legal contract just so we can... make out in a van?”
“Make out?” you echo, raising a brow.
He reddens. “You know what I mean.”
Wordlessly, you pry the notebook from his hands and finish writing the last rule.
Rule #4: This ends when the Crawls end.
He falls silent. Stares at that line for a long time.
Long enough that you start to wonder if he’s about to laugh, or call this whole thing off, or just climb out of the van and never look back.
When he finally lifts his head, his eyes aren’t the same. They’re muddled, knotted, dark with something you’ll never be able to put words to.
“The hell does that mean?” he asks quietly.
“It means… when the Crawls are done, this stops.” you say, equally quiet.
He blinks, slow. Once at you. Once at the notebook.
His head drops again, nostrils flaring in a tiny, sharp breath.
The page crinkles under his thumb.
“Yeah,” he says finally, voice low. “Okay. Rules. Sure.”
That should’ve quieted the ache inside you. It only stirs it up worse.
He keeps his eyes fixed on the page, jaw working quietly as he idly spins the plastic ring along the spine.
He draws in a breath.
“Except, just—” He falters, swallowing it back with a light shrug. “That third one seems kinda unrealistic, don’t you think?”
You tip your head, letting your voice lilt playfully. “Why, you don’t think you could do it?"
His eyes snap to yours, quick, sharp, the dim light doing nothing to soften the way he's glaring.
You hold his stare for all of one, two, three seconds before he huffs and looks away, eyes rolling to the ceiling.
Without looking at you, he thrusts his hand out. “Gimme the pen.”
You place it in his palm.
Jaw tight, he bends over the page and scribbles something fast at the very bottom, the scratch of the pen hissing sharp.
You don’t see what he’s added until he tosses the notebook back into your lap.
And later—when the weight of your own choice collapses in on itself and you’re left trying to make sense of the pieces—you’ll remember the way his hand trembled.
You’ll remember the tight press of his lips. The quiet, swallowed words he never let out.
And you’ll realize this was the moment where things truly went wrong.
Two letters. Pressed so hard into the paper you can feel them from the other side.
summary. bratty girls get bratty punishments. 0.8k words
cw. absolutely mdni. ex step brother bucky?? licking his... pants i guess??
a/n. my first sabrina inspired fic omg... i'm cheesing! made this on a whim! special thanks to @its-in-the-woods for sending me these seb sighting pics and inspiring me to write this.
dt. thank you to @houseofhyde for the title idea and the ex steps! 😋 ms. sabrina herself! @barnesonly for making me feel better about this moodboard. and for my lovely lovely friends who were present when i came up with this idea: @umbreoni @iamthatonefangirl @pinksplace @tw1sters @blowingbarnes
you had completely forgotten the events that led you to this. here you were, on an fours, licking your beloved iced fucking coffee off of your step brother's pants. his hands tugged on your hair, smushing your face against his cock—
you and bucky had never gotten along. not even when you were actually step siblings. your parents were now divorced but they'd been married for so long that you'd just became a part of each other's lives.
yet somehow, you still flinch when you heard the tread of his boots in the hallway, yet you stayed curled on the couch, not looking up from your phone.
"back," bucky grunted, settling the sweaty plastic cup down on the coaster right next to you. the condensation immediately started pooling around it. "got your stupid vanilla sweet cream cold brew with extra caramel. happy?"
you finally deigned to look at it, then up at him. his t-shirt was damp with his own sweat from the heat, sticking to the muscles of his chest. you reached for the cup, taking a slow sip through the straw.
but then your face immediately scrunched up in disgust.
"ugh! you drank some of this!" you accused, shoving the cup away. a little brown liquid sloshed over the lid and onto the table.
bucky stared at you with a furrowed brow. "what? no, i didn't."
"you did! it's all…backwashy. it's gross. i can taste it." you crossed your arms. there's a full-blown pout on your lips.
he let out an exasperated sigh, running a hand through his damp hair after taking his hat off. "for cryin' out loud. i did not drink your coffee. i drove twenty minutes in lunchtime traffic to get it. the lid's still on, see? the straw wrapper's right there."
"you could have taken the lid off and taken a sip and then put it back on," you insisted, taking on a whiny, bratty tone. "you totally did. it's ruined. i don't want it anymore."
he leaned down, planting his hands on the couch on either side of you, caging you in. his blue eyes had grown dark in irritation and frustration. "you're bein' a real brat, you know that?"
"so?"
a slow and dangerous smile across his face. "so, if you're gonna be a brat, you get a brat's punishment."
bucky snatched the cup, tore the lid off and sat down heavily on the couch right next to you. before you could process it, he upended the cup, pouring the entire contents—the sweet, tan coffee, the melted vanilla sweet cream, and the sticky caramel—right into his lap, over the thick fabric of his shorts.
you gasped. the dark, cold stain spread instantly across his crotch, soaking through, the ice cubes tumbled onto the cushion between his thick thighs.
"there," he said with a low voice, before tossing the empty cup aside. "now it's definitely contaminated. you were right, happy?"
you stared, wide-eyed, at the dark patch covering his groin and dripping onto the couch. "bucky… what did you—the couch—"
"forget the couch," his hand snapped out to circle your wrist, pulling you off your corner of the couch and towards him. you fell right on your knees in front of him. "you wanted your coffee. it's right there. so drink it."
he forced your head down. you only resisted for a weak moment but a sound escaped you. there was the sweet scent of coffee and caramel that filled your nostrils and beneath was the damp demin of his shorts.
"go on, baby," he said, tangling his other hand in your hair, not painfully but with authority. "you accused me of ruinin' it. now you're gonna lick it up. every. last. drop."
a shiver wracked your body in a confusion mix of humiliation and arousal. you hesitated, your lips inches from the soaked fabric.
"now," he commanded, giving your hair a slight tug.
you closed your eyes and pressed your mouth against the wet, cold spot. the flavour of the coffee exploded on your tongue.
but underneath it, you could feel the hard and thick shape of his cock beginning to stir against the fabric. you lapped at it, your tongue dragging through the sticky sweetness as a muffled whimper escaped you.
"that's it," he groaned, his head falling back against the couch. somehow, his hips gave a tiny involuntary jerk. "clean it up, you messy little brat. show me how sorry you are for bein' so goddamn difficult."
you obeyed, licking and sucking at the damp fabric. the act was so degrading yet so impossibly intimate, it made you dizzy. the coffee was mostly gone, but you kept going with slower movements, now seeking the heat beneath.
he let out a breath, bringing his hand down on the back of your neck as he spoke, "see? told you i'd make you drink it."
bucky shifted his leg slightly, placing his shoes methodically between your thighs. you tilted your head in response as if asking. you knew what he wanted—you simply wanted him to use his woods.
he gave you a knowing smile, tugging your hair back and making you look up at him. "ride my shoe, pretty girl."
really need you haters to be more creative now, okay? i can't use "suck my dick," "whiny bitch" or "stupid bitch" for all my prompts now :( it's getting overrated
"c'mon, you can take it," bucky grunted, his hips pounding into you. "such a stupid fucking bitch for my cock, ain't you?"
"yes! yes, bucky," you sobbed in response.
"say it," he growled, choking you slightly and tilting your head back. "tell me what you are."
"i'm your stupid bitch," you choked out as he countinued. "only yours."
"goddamn right you are. nothing but a dumb, pretty hole for me to use. feel me ruinin' you? markin' you up inside?"
you could only nod with a mess of whimpers as he spilled into you.
Academic rival!bucky x reader where reader works really hard to keep up her grades because her parents pressure her but Bucky’s naturally talented and doesn’t have to try and he also likes to rub it in her face because he knows she’s jealous
So in like one of the more important tests Bucky beats her to a high score and reader is like distraught because her parents are lowk evil asf and do bad stuff to her but then Bucky finds out and idk the rest I just had to pitch the idea to someone who can actually put it into words
You don’t have to write it I just had to tell it to someone!! Love your nerd Bucky work btw!!🤍🤍
the essence of fourier's law
college!bucky barnes x reader
summary. you had never truly liked james buchanan barnes. he somehow beats you at every single rivalry you could ever have, but he doesn't deserve it. not by the slightest bit. 1.5k words
a/n. this is like buying into that whole thing of "boys are mean to u bcs they like u." dont date mean men. it doesnt matter why, or how. dont date mean, emotionally unintelligent men. this is me going back to my roots of college/nerdy bucky fr
cw. NONE.
the scent of desperation was a familiar one. the library had grown to be your fortress, the place where you went to wage war against your textbooks and lecture notes. the silence was broken by the scratching of your pen and the breathing you were trying so hard to suppress.
you'd lost. again.
by half a point. a mere 0.5.
it felt like one big cosmic joke, a precise measurement of your inadequacy. professor helder had handed back the advanced thermodynamics exam with that smug smile, and there it was, in a red ink: 98.5. a brilliant score. a score to be proud of. and then, your absolutely traitorous eyes, flicked to the paper on your left.
bucky barnes, slumped in his chair as if he found the whole affair terribly boring, had a paper that read 99. he hadn't even looked at you but instead shoved the exam paper into his bag with a smug, victorious look, "tough break," he murmured as he passed your desk. "almost had me that time. if 'almost' only counts in hand grenades."
the words hit you in the face like an explosion. you kept your spine ramrod straight, and your chin held high, until you gathered your things and marched out with what you hoped was dignified fury. you made it all the way to your sanctuary before the dam broke.
now, you were hunched over the oak table. it was cold beneath your forearms. a single tear plummeted onto the open page of your textbook, landing squarely on the script of fourier's law. the ink bled, letters of the integral blurring into a galaxy of sorrow. you swiped at your cheeks with an angry motion but it grew useless. the tears were a leak you couldn't plug like a critical system failure in your carefully maintained posture.
"you know," a voice you grew to hate had started, "for someone who spends so much time in here, i'd have thought you'd learned how to cry quietly."
you froze as your blood ran cold. you didn't need to look up to know it was him. the universe, it seemed, was not done mocking you.
bucky barnes leaned against the bookshelf, like a mockery. the golden glow of the distant lights shined on him. his hands were tucked into the pockets of his pants and his posture was the epitome of confidence, contrasted to your own crumpled form.
"go away, barnes," you managed to let out a watery voice, muffled by the curtain of your hair. you kept your head down, like a prisoner behind the bars of your own making.
but he didn't go away. he took a few steps closer. "can't. i was looking for a book. 'the collected works of someone who isn't a sore loser', but i think it's checked out."
you let out a shaky breath that was both a sob and a laugh with undiluted frustration. "you're a real poet, you know that? did you come up with that by yourself or did it come to you fully formed?"
"see, there's that spark," he said, losing its mockery. he pulled out the heavy wooden chair opposing to you, the legs groaning against the floor. he folded his arms on the table, leaning forward and invading your space of misery without apology. "that's the girl i know. the one who fights back. so why the waterworks over a little decimal point? that's not even a full point. it's a half."
"it's not the decimal point," you snapped, lifting your head. your eyes were red-rimmed and swimming, but held a fire that made him blink. "it's the principle. it's you. you don't even try. you come into class half asleep with sweat and coffee clinging to you. you never take a single note. and you still… still…" you gestured helplessly at the space between you, as if the 0.5 difference was taunting you over the air.
he was quiet for a moment. his blue eyes, the colour of a deep winter lake, studying you in a way he never studied the subjects you took. "you think i don't try?"
"you know you don't!" the confession tore from you. "you love rubbing it in. 'tough break.' 'almost had me.' you treat it like a game, a little diversion between naps. this is my future. i have to work for this. i have to bleed for every single point, i have to carve my understanding out of stone with my hands, and you… you just exist, and it all falls onto your lap." the words tumbled out honestly. it was a confession you had never intended to make, not one to james buchanan barnes, laying your bruised ambition and ego bare on the table between you.
bucky's eyes dropped to your textbook, the tear stained page where your sadness had physically altered the text. he reached out to gently traced the warped paper with his finger.
"you're right," he said, so softly you didn't almost hear him. "it is a game to me. but you're wrong about the rest."
you stared at him, sniffing. "what?"
"i don't just exist," he said, surprisingly earnest. "my brain just works differently. it connects things, sees patterns. it's fast. it's the one thing i've always been able to count on. and when i see you.. with your colour coded notes and your highlighted flashcards and force of will.. when i see you working ten times harder than i ever could, it…" he trailed off, dropping his gaze as he searched for the word.
"it what? it amuses you?" you asked, the fight slowly draining out of you as curiosity replaces it.
"it intimidates me,"
the silence that followed was a vacuum that sucked all the sound from the world. the only sound was the eternal hum of the ventilation system.
"what?" you repeated out of disbelieving exhale.
"you heard me," he looked almost embarrassed, running a hand through his dark, messy hair. "you're like this force of nature. you're relentless. you're disciplined. you're going to change the world because you'll outwork everyone in the room, you'll outlast them. what do i have? a trick. a parlor trick my brain does. it doesn't mean anything. not really. not compared to what you have."
you were honestly stunned. the entire foundation of your rivalry, a constructed narrative of a lazy genius versus a hard-working striver, was crumbling around you. the dust of it settled quietly around you. the symbolism wasn't lost; the tear on fourier's page, a law about heat transfer and dissipation, and here you were, feeling suddenly warm and letting it spread through you, defying all known principles.
"so.. you mock me to make yourself feel better?" you asked in a whisper, the sound so quiet in the vast of the library.
"i tease you because it's the only way i know how to get your attention," he admitted with a faint blush creeping up his neck. "because when you get all fired up and your eyes flash and you start throwing scientific insults, it's the most alive i feel all day. it's the only time you, or anyone for that matter, really looks at me, and i mean really see me, not just the guy coasting by."
you closed the textbook slowly, the thud of the cover marked the end of an era, the end of a war. "so what you're saying is you'r really an idiot, barnes?"
a smile slowly spread across his face, transforming it and softening the lines of his jaw. "see? there she is."
you shook your head, a real, albeit watery, smile finally touching your face. "you found me crying in the library. you have a terrible, terrible way of showing you like someone."
"i never said i liked you," bucky countered but his eyes were dancing with a light playfully lit. "i said you intimdated me. there's a difference."
"is there?" you joked. there was suddenly a new equilibirum between you, a delicate balance that was both thrilling and terrifying. this wasn't a battle of wits anymore; it was a conversation of a terra incognita.
he leaned back onto his hciar, the old bucky smirk returning but it didn't have the same effect anymore. less a weapon and more an invitation. "guess you'll have to study me a little more to find out. though, given our history, i'd say variables are in my favour."
you rolled your eyes but didn't look away. "you're impossible."
"and you," he said, dropping to that lower rumble. " are still 0.5 points behind me. i believe that means you owe me coffee as a trophy."
you laughed then, startling the sound of the library. "in your dreams, james."
"constantly," he said, and this time there was no mistaking what he said. "meet me at the campus cafe in ten. we can, you know, debate the finer points of the second law of thermodynamics. i'll even let you take notes."
he winked and turned to leave. but he stopped by the doors to say, "oh and wipe your face. a rival of mine should always look good."
as he disappeared into the stacks, you were left alone with the scent o fold books and the quiet of a new beginning. you looked down at the tear-stained textbook of the blurred equation. it no longer was a symbol of defeat but just a simple water damage.
and you had a feeling that the next chapter was going to be much, much more interesting.
real ones know lumberjack!bucky and i go way back <3 bringing him back because i want him so bad
"c'mon, darlin'. that's it. take it." bucky's everywhere—his big hands pinning your hips, his chest sweating wall against your back, and the muscles of his thighs forces yours apart.
"bucky—" you gasp, the name fracturing as he drives into you, stretching you to a sweet ache.
"i know, i know," he grunts, arm wrapping around your waist to haul you back against every punishing thrust. "you're so little. fuck, just look at you. swallowed up by me. tell me. tell me who's got you."
"you—" you choke out, your fingers scrabbling against the skin of his forearm. "you have me."
"damn right i do." he shifts, pulling you up onto your knees, making you cry out as the angle changes, hitting a spot that makes you see stars. "my good girl. my tiny, perfect girl. gonna feel me for days, ain't ya?"
all you can do is nod. you're a sobbing mess, the headboard slamming against the wall.
"gonna come," he snarls. "gonna fill my pretty little girl up. mark my territory."
happy… 1k…. the concept of train checker bucky….. huh…. ….. wonder who this request is from….. huh
my 1k event has been over for a week already but ill made an exception for my beautiful drea 🫵😛 but like say less. when we had this convo i literally formed a fanfic in my brain. this is for @devililithh as well.
“alternative payment.”
ticket checker!bucky barnes x reader, smut +18
the moment you had watched a group of pre-teens running to the other side of the train, you knew you were fucked.
you barely have time to glance behind your shoulder before the ticket checker is in your cart, wearing a pressed uniform and a raised brow, hand extended and expression unreadable as passengers handed him their tickets to check.
you’re about to get up and act like you’re going to the toilet, but by the time you leave your seat and head to the next cart over, you can hear his boots thumping against the carpeted floor.
“stop.” his stern voice echoes through the rickety cart, “ticket.”
shit.
you turn. the ticket checker is there, broad shoulders filling out the slim walkway of the cart, his crisp uniform catching the flicker of the overhead light. his hand is outstretched, palm open and an expectant expression.
you give him a practiced smile, but it’s obvious you’re trying to stall. you reach into your bag, rummaging through it with zero intention of actuallh pulling anything out.
“it’s probably at the bottom of my purse by now. god knows what kind of stuff i have in here.” you awkwardly laugh. “maybe you could just… take my word for it?”
his brow twitches. he’s not buying it. “i can wait all day.”
the way he says it isn’t impatient. it’s challenging, almost a promise. he means it, and unfortunately, you don’t have all day to stand around in this awkward duel with him.
“okay, i don’t have a ticket.” you admit with a sigh, hand reaching into your bag again and pulling out your wallet, “but i can pay you upfront. what do you take? cash or card?”
for a moment, he just stares at you. then he looks you up and down. he’s observing you— probably thinking about what a tight ass you are for getting on the train and not getting a ticket like everybody else.
he motions with his head for you to follow him, his jaw flexing before he speaks, “come with me.”
“what?” you blink, awkwardly stepping towards him as he turns around, “am i, like… under arrest or something?”
“just shut up and follow me.” he snaps, and god forbid you deny the demand of a man double your size with a pretty face.
and that’s essentially how you ended up kneeling on the floor of the train bathroom in front of the ticket checker with a mouthful of his cock stuffed in your mouth.
it wasn’t exactly ideal— you had actually LIKED how your makeup had turned out today and your bottoms were definitely going to have scuff marks on them— but you weren’t exactly complaining either.
this guy was almost greek god attractive. tall, broad, dark haired, sharp jawline, and with moans and groans that sound like they’re straight out of a porno. through teary eyes, you look up at him, and it almost feels like watching a carved marble statue in a museum. it’s almost a shame that they’ve shoved him into a uniform and hid him away from the world.
he glides a hand into your hair, fingers wrapping around the strands to give him something to hold. he unconsciously drags your head up and down, head thrown back in pleasure.
“fuuuuuck, just like that.” he groans low, voice still hushed in the quiet of the bathroom, “you think you can take me deeper?”
but he pushes your head down anyways, the question a mere warning of what he was going to do. you feel the tip of his dick dragging against the walls of your throat, hot and pulsing as it glides impossibly deep.
you hum against his cock, one hand digging into his bare thighs while the other fondles his balls, hands wet with your own saliva and his precum. he pulls you back up and you suck in a raggedy breath, eyes fluttering as you gather yourself.
“you’ve got such a pretty face and a pretty mouth.” he pants, his head tilting as he watches you lean back down and tongue desperately at his dick, “you always do this? always get on your knees when things don’t go your way? you enjoy sucking off men you don’t know?”
and you just nod, because god, you’re enjoying this a bit too much. you almost wonder if you’d do this to any other hot guy in a uniform, unsure if you’d feel the same pull like you do with him.
you lick a long stripe up the length of his dick, taking him into your mouth again. he groans as he watches you bob your head up and down, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear just to get a better view of the way you’re taking him.
he almost smiles when you look up at him through your lashes, “fuck— gonna cum in that tight little throat, and you’re gonna swallow all of it, aren’t you sweetheart?”
you hum, the vibrations making him pulse into your mouth. he’s close and you can feel it in the way his thighs tense and the way he bucks his hips up to meet your lips.
with a final thrust, he pushes your head down until your nose brushes pushes up against his pelvis. you struggle not to gag as he spills down into your throat, and you do exactly as he said you would— you swallow it all.
he lets your head go and you pull off of him with a small pop, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips to the tip of his cock.
his chest heaves as he comes down from his orgasm. then as if nothing happened, he’s pulling his pants up and fastening his best as if nothing had happened.
you’re still kneeling on the floor and trying to catch your breath. you look up at him, eyes still teary and half-lidded.
“did you—“ you swallow, wiping off the saliva that’d pooled in the corner of your mouth, “did you still want me to pay for the ticket?”
he laughs— a deep, almost taunting laugh that makes your stomach flip— and runs a hand through your hair again. he looks down at you again like it’s the last time he’ll ever see you, and it almost breaks your heart.
“you don’t have to. think of what just happened as alternative payment.”
and then he slides open the bathroom door, giving you a small smile before he shuts it on you. you dont even know his name.
thinking of riding bucky in reverse this fine afternoon <3
now imagine your hands are braced on his thigh as his grip is tight on your hips, digging into your skin as you move. the room is nothing but the sound of skin slapping skin, your breaths, and his groans.
"that's it, just like that," he grunts. "fuck, look at you. takin' me so deep."
you lean forward, arching your back, and he lets out a choked groan. "christ, that view. gonna be dreamin' about this."
his hands slide around to your front. "so fuckin' pretty when you fall apart for me. c'mon, baby, one more. come for me. wanna feel you."
his words are a filthy, and desperate against your spine. "my good girl. all mine. ruin me, sweetheart, just like this."
the hare, the hunter & the soldier: dulce bellum inexpertis
bucky barnes x fem!reader x steve rogers
summary. the cage was wide open but now what? the decision is up to you. 18k words.
cw. dostoyevsky references. smut. p in v. degradation . noncon elements. dubcon. grief. depression. feelings of inadequacy. isolation. reader's entire family dying. then smut. literally like 5k words worth of steve undressing reader. cunnilingus. fingering. steve being a FREAK. bucky being a FREAK. exhibitionism. voyeurism. masturbation. cuck couch?? rizzlord bucky. praise. dumification. steve asks for consent.. sort of. reader is implied to be a inexperienced? maybe even a virgin.
a/n. this took me only. three months. to get done but whatever yolo. not proofread AT ALL
dividers by enchanthings-a
i am not responsible for your media consumption.
part i.
the door opening is a solid sound and reassuring as the bones of the house itself. here, you shut out the shouting city, the clatter-clang of trains, the countless strangers hurrying under dripping umbrellas.
it smells of beeswax, layered over that sweetness of your father's pipe tobacco—nightcap—a scent as much a part of him as a limb. and beneath it all, the deep, musk of leather bindings and paper, the accumulated ghosts of a thousand stories breathing softly from the floor-to-ceiling shelves lining the hall, each spine a sliver of another world. you wrestle the coat off, the chill of the walk clinging to your face like sticky cobwebs.
sound rushes in, like a tapestry of belonging: tick-tock-tock of the grandfather clock standing in the hall. its pendulum swings. the grave inevitability, counting down to an unknown measure.
from beyond, your older brother at the piano. debussy. clair de lune. the music sounds like water slipping over stones in a secret garden that exists only in the mind.
it's a sound that creates tenderness and an ache beneath your ribs, like a sweetness verging on sorrow.
"there you are," your father's voice. in the study hearth, visible through the open door. he doesn't look up from his chair, spectacles hang low on the bridge of his nose.
a volume rests open on his lap—tolstoy's war and peace. the gold lettering on the spine catches the light. his pipe rests in the green glass ashtray shaped like a sleeping hound. a ribbon of smoke curls upwards, drawing lazy spirals in the still air. the familiarity of the sight is a stone dropped into the murky pool of your school-day weariness.
then, a sudden blur of grey trousers and a shock of hair mirroring your own. your twin. he materializes beside the dark wood newel post at the foot of the stairs, leaning against it with an ease born of belonging.
a half-smirk shows on his lips, identical to the one you feel tugging at your own. there's a well-thumbed, a dog-eared copy of stevenson's treasure island between his fingers.
"took you long enough." he says.
no need for loud greetings. there's a current you both breathe, like a secret language written in glances and infinitesimal shifts.
you press your cheek against the warmth of his shoulder. it's a silent communication older than memory, older than words.
he smells of pencil shavings, mud and rain.
the drawing-room door opens wider, burgundy wall and the piano's black lacquer revealed. the cascade of notes falters.
your older brother turns on the piano stool. his face still holds the focus of the music, then softens into a smile. one that crinkles the corners.
"homework or hot chocolate first?" he asks. his fingers rests on the keys. behind him, on the marquetry side table is a volume of dickens' great expectations.
the room beyond is a haven of rich burgundy walls, good but unostentatious silver frames holding landscapes. comfortable wealth. quiet, unspoken privilege.
you dump your satchel, burdened with the weight of latin conjugations and unforgiving geometry theorems, onto the ottoman near the study door.
"chocolate," already turning towards the warmth and promise emanating from the kitchen doorway. there is a scent of baking gingerbread. your twin falls into step beside you.
in the study, your father turns a page of his book – the sound of time passing peacefully.
and the piano begins again, exploring a new phrase, a different shade of light on water.
the clock marks the steady rhythm beneath it all. tick. tock. tick. tock.
it's this.
this alchemy of sound and scent and silent communion. the grounding weight of your father's intelligence from his chair.
the silent, almost cellular understanding between you and your twin.
your older brother's gentle, melancholic artistry spilling into the spaces between the furniture, between the heartbeats, filling the house with a beauty that feels both transient and eternal.
the solidity of the books – austen's persuasion peeking from a shelf, a volume of keats beside it – standing like wise guardians.
the city presses its damp face against the tall windows, a blurred world of strangers and noise, but in here, warmth pools all around you, making itself known.
it feels eternal. unshakeable. the very air is filled with a belonging so profound it roots you to the spot just inside the drawing-room doorway, watching the sun catch the dust dancing like stars above your older brother's head as he coaxes beauty from the keys.
you don't know, yet. you don't know how the scent of beeswax, years hence, in a cabin buried under silent tons of mountain snow, will suddenly strike you not as comfort, but as the cloying perfume of the past, smelling only of loss.
you don't know how the sound of a piano, any piano, will become a phantom limb, a ghost resonating in the hollow of your chest with such force it feels like your ribs might splinter.
you don't know how the space beside you, where your twin's shoulder presses against yours now with the easy certainty of gravity, will become a yawning, hollowed-out void, colder and more absolute than the deepest crevasse in the endless mountains you will flee to.
you don't know how the grandfather clock's steady, comforting tick-tock-tock will transform, in memory, into the deafening countdown to scratchy wool uniforms smelling of mothballs and anticipation, to the silence that follows the arrival of thin, official envelopes – not letters, just three small, folded flags delivered by a stiff-lipped stranger with each a wordless epitaph.
you don't know the fragile, mortal bones beneath this warm flesh of home, the intricate scaffolding of love already under an unseen and approaching weight, about to be irrevocably splintered by the indifferent fist of history crashing down upon the world.
you only know, in this suspendedl moment, breathing in the perfume of pipe smoke, baking gingerbread, damp clothes, old paper, and the ozone smell of city rain still clinging to your own sleeves, that you are home.
completely.
a small, perfect, self-contained universe held safe within these solid walls, in the golden light of a late autumn afternoon, measured by the comforting tick-tock-tock marking a time that feels blessedly, infinitely, like forever.
you lean your head against the wood of the doorframe, closing your eyes, just listening. just breathing it in. the piano. the clock. the rustle of a page. the presence of your twin beside you. the rumble of your father shifting in his chair.
this is everything.
the warmth before the long, cold burial.
the belonging before the scattering.
the deep breath before the plunge into silence.
you think hiding in the mountains, in the snow, in the endless quiet, will be escape. you think solitude is a fortress.
you are wrong.
grief is not a storm you outrun; it's the avalanche you carry within you, waiting for the quiet to fall.
peace isn't found by avoiding the echoes of life; it's forged in the unbearable stillness after the echoes fade, when the only sound left is the relentless, hollow ticking in your own chest, counting out a time stripped bare of forever.
this moment, heavy with the scent of gingerbread and oblivion, is the last, perfect note before the burying begins.
tick. tock.
──★ ˙🍓 ̟ 🐇!!
the door spills open, and you step inside, boots crusted with snow you make no move to dislodge. your empty bag hangs lim, a declaration of your inadequacy.
the scene inside is painfully peaceful. steve is seated on the floor, his back resting against the base of the couch where bucky lies like a battered king. he's holding a book with faded words, untouched until now: jack london's 'the call of the wild'.
his voice, low and surprisingly gentle, resonant even in its quietness, fills the charged space, reading aloud: "...deep in the forest a call was sounding, and as often as he heard this call, mysteriously thrilling and luring, he felt compelled to turn his back upon the fire and the beaten earth around it, and to plunge into the forest, and on and on, he knew not where or why..."
bucky's eyes are closed, head tilted back against the pillows, but he's not asleep. his face is relaxed,nmaking him look almost peaceful. one hand rests lightly on alpine, who's a circle of white fur curled deep in the hollow of his lap.
they both turn their heads as the invasive cold hits them, as your presence, crackling with fury and failure, disrupts the calm like a stone thrown into still water.
steve's eyes widen slightly, taking in your snow-caked form – especially that damning emptiness of the bag. he lowers the book slowly.
bucky opens his eyes. the eyes of a sniper, a survivor.. sweep over you. from the snow-dusted wool clinging to your head, down to your parka, pausing for a second on the lifeless bag before finally lifting to meet your eyes.
there's no surprise there. only a deep, unnerving dissection. he sees the blizzard inside you, the shame, the panic. because bucky always sees.
alpine lifts her head, a soft questioning mrrp.
london's dying words about the wild's siren call and the larctic tension you've dragged in with you.
steve looks concerned, genuinely troubled. bucky looks... like he knows.
"pack what's yours," you say. flat, cold, scraped raw beyond a lethal finality, through the quiet like your sharpest gutting knife parting through the hare's fur and flesh. "you're leaving. today."
nobody moves. steve stares at you, confusion claws deep lines onto his forehead. bucky doesn't flinch. doesn't shift. his gaze holds yours. alpine blinks slowly.
the stillness is infuriating. the calm domesticity – steve's reading, bucky's relaxed listening, the fire's warmth, the cat's purr – feels like a vicious mockery of your empty hands, your shame, your desperation. you are the blizzard, the avalanche crashing into their fragile, firelit hearth, and they just... sit there.
"did you hear me?" you slam the door shut, sealing the cold you carry inside with you, trapping your storm of emotions within these log walls.
snow melts instantly in dirty patches around your boots, like tears on stone. "i said pack. you're gone. today. now."
steve finally finds his voice. "leave? but... bucky's leg... the snow... it's basically waist-deep out there, maybe more." he gestures towards the window. "where would we even go? we'd freeze before sundown if it even comes up."
"not. my. problem," you snap. you stalk further into the room, drawn against your will towards the stove's heat hating the weakness it reveals. the snow on your shoulders melts faster.
"you should've thought of that before you crashed here. before you..." you trail off, the real accusation – before you made me weak, before you made me forget who i am, before you made me miss – too humiliating to voice.
"before we what?" bucky shifts slightly with a wince tightening his features as his injured leg protests against the movement, but his eyes never leave yours. "before steve hesitated over a hare? before i called you 'doll'?" he says the word slowly, watching your face like a hawk.
heat, smothered by a wave of scalding rage, betrays you. bur he sees it.
"or before you decided you couldn't stand the scent of us in your precious silence anymore? couldn't stand the warmth?"
"it's my air!" you spin to face him fully, putting your back to the stove's warmth, feeling it sear through your layers. "my mountain. my home. my rules. and you've overstayed your welcome. look at you. sitting there like... like you belong. listening to stories." the word is spat like poison. "while i come back with nothing."
steve looks genuinely pained. "you missed?" he asks softly, the disbelief clear in his voice. "but... you never miss. you're... you're the best shot i've ever seen."
"exactly!" the word explodes from you, sharp as the rifle shot that found only empty snow. "i never miss! until you." you stab a mittened finger towards him. then you swing it towards bucky.
"and you. filling this place... this sanctuary... with your goddamn wars, your history, your..." you struggle, gasping, the images flooding back with force – the sounds of bodies moving, the friction against the cold bathroom door, the distracting and fucking consuming heat that had cost you the shot, cost you your identity.
"...distractions! you're a liability! both of you! bucky's broken! you're..." you look at steve, confusion on his face, the memory of his body yielding under your hands... "you're dangerous!"
bucky barks a short, humorless laugh. "dangerous? we're the dangerous ones?" he pushes himself up a higher on the pillows, wincing again but his eyes becoming predatory, focused on you.
"look at you. stalking in here covered in ice and failure, breathing frost, spitting orders like you're some wrathful god of this frozen wasteland. you're the one who vanished today because you couldn't keep your own damn head straight." he leans forward slightly. "sounds to me like the only real danger here, babydoll, is you... to yourself."
his words strike like arrows, finding every crack in your armor, burrowing themselves deep and invasive. the shame flares. he's right. devastating, humiliatingly right.
the hunter had become the hare. distracted. frozen. vanishing into the landscape of her own unraveling.
steve closes the book. like a tomb sealing in the silence.
"you're scared," steve says. the realization is quiet, simple, and devastating. "not of us. not really. you're scared of... this." he gestures with the closed book, encompassing the space between the three of you, the forced intimacy that had become something else entirely.
"of needing something... someone... besides the silence. besides the hunt. besides just surviving."
"shut up!" you snarl, the fury erupting again, but it's bleeding out fast, replaced by a wave of vulnerability.
the facade is cracking. fast. the ice melting under the heat of your own shame, leaving you exposed, naked in the open. the hare caught in the merciless dawn light.
"don't you dare analyze me, rogers! i don't need anything! especially not you! pack! your! things!" you wrench yourself away, turning your back on them, facing the glowing the stove.
you hear the rustle of blankets behind you. not the sound of packing. bucky settling back against the pillows with a sigh. steve shifting his weight on the floor.
"it's a lot of snow out there," bucky observes, conversational, lazy. "deep. easy to get lost in. vanish without a trace." he pauses, letting the implication hang – like the hare. like you almost did out there today. like you're trying to make us do.
"steve reads pretty good, you know," he continues. "london... he knew a thing or two about the wild. about the call it has. about the things that pull you out of the warmth, away from the fire." another pause, but tgen his voice drops to an intimate tone, aimed directly at.. you. "sometimes, doll... the thing you're running from hardest... is the exact same thing you ran to the wild hoping to escape."
you close your eyes tightly.
the hunter had returned empty-handed, spitting orders, convinced she was the predator driving out the threat.
but the threat wasn't outside. it was curled up right here. it was the the connection sparking between the three of you.
the hare wasn't just the one you'd missed.
it was you, trembling in the dawn, realizing with sickening clarity that you'd been running from the one thing the wild could never provide: the essential, life-giving heat of another human soul.
and now, frozen in the center of your own cabin, covered in ice and the evidence of your failure, ordering these men – these complicated, dangerous, warm men – to march into a frozen death sentence... you weren't the hunter reclaiming her territory. you were the hare, cornered, terrified, lashing out blindly at the very shadows that had finally found the hidden entrance to your burrow.
lthe lesson, carved in ice, is brutally clear: you can run to the wild, but you can't run from yourself, or from the need for the fire's warmth.
the call buck heard wasn't just to the forest; it was a warning against the isolation you'd embraced. and you'd ignored it. now the trap was sprung.
steve didn't glance at bucky. his eyes locked onto you like a predator sighting its quarry in the final moment before the pounce, pinning you against the counter as effectively as chains.
he rose, unfolding his frame with a fluid, predatory movement that seemed to draw the very oxygen from the room. a grizzly shaking off sleep to claim its territory. he stalked towards you, measured, with an intent.
"stay the hell away from me, rogers," you said, scraped bloody by panic and impotent fury. your back pressed harder into the bite of the counter's edge.
"hush," he murmured. a command whispered not to the storm outside, but to the hurricane howling within the cage of your ribs. "it's gonna be okay." the promise hung, terrifying in its simple audacity.
"listen to him, doll," bucky's voice drifted from the couch. a spectator to your slow demolition.
"don't call me that!" you spat. you backed up until the timber pressed against your spine, imprinting its roughness onto your skin. cornered. the hare backed against the sheer rock face, no bolt-hole, no escape, the frozen earth denying even the hope of a burrow. the rifle strapped across your back dug into your shoulder blade, a hard reminder of the hunter's identity slipping through your fingers.
steve didn't stop. he kept coming, filling your vision until he was the only world you knew. he stopped mere inches away, leaving you lightheaded.
you could smell him and it was intoxicating, like a siren song to senses starved for anything but pine and blood and silence. paralyzing. terrifying in its allure.
"i swear to god, rogers..." you breathed. you bit down hard on your bottom lip, a sacrifice to the altar of your control.
he looked down at you, devastating caress tracing the map of your survival – the wind-chapped plains of your cheeks, the snow melting in your lashes like frozen tears of a forgotten spring, the tight canyon of your jaw, the vulnerable curve of your lower lip trapped between your teeth like a wounded creature.
then, his tongue darted out, wetting his own lower lip.
it happened in slow motion, the words tumbling out of his mouth before you could even process his movements.
"you're pretty," he says.
it wasn't flirtation, not empty charm. it was an observation, simple as a mountain peak against the sky, devastating in its unexpected, unadorned truth.
pretty.
a word for delicate things, for spring blooms sheltered in valleys, not for a woman forged in the crucible of blizzards and solitude, standing with the bitter ashes of fury and failure.
it shattered something deep inside, a brittle pane of self-reliance, revealing whatever thing beneath.
you couldn't breathe.
then, his hands moved. with slowness. like an archaeologist brushing millennia of glacial ice from a priceless artifact, terrified of damaging its fragile beauty. like unwrapping something infinitely precious, a gift long buried beneath layers of frost and self-imposed exile.
he reached for your parka hood first, the canvas crusted with snow. his fingers brushed the skin just beneath your jawline as he gently, so gently, and pushed the fabric back from your face.
the touch sent a shiver through you, a tremor born not of cold, but of a unwelcomed thaw. the hood fell back, droplets cascading down your neck and shoulders. the tears of a glacier weeping, a baptism into vulnerability.
next, your hat. his fingers slid beneath the wet brim, grazing the shell of your temple. he lifted it away, achingly slow, as if removing a crown of thorns. he dropped the sodden hat carelessly to the floor, a discarded husk, a fallen bastion.
his eyes never left yours. it held you captive, more effectively than the unyielding wall at your back.
you saw your own reflection swimming in the dark, dilated pupils. the hunter reduced to mesmerized prey caught in the consuming stare of the wolf. and in that reflection, you saw not weakness, but a nascent awakening.
his hands moved to the scarf, knotted tightly at your throat, the final bastion shielding the pulse of your life. his fingers, astonishingly deft against the wool, worked at the knot with unhurried patience.
each tiny movement, each brush of his knuckles against the column of your throat, sent seismic ripples in your frozen lake.
he peeled the fabric away slowly, millimeter by excruciating millimeter. you swallowed, the pulse in your throat like a visible betrayal, a white flag you hadn't meant to raise.
then, the mittens.
he took your right hand first, cradling it entirely within his palm, engulfing it. your hand looked like a small in his, lost in the landscape. his thumb brushed slowly, a promise written in heat.
he began to peel the mitten off, a ritual of unveiling. each inch of exposed skin felt sensitive , shocked into life by the sudden warmth and the devastating intimacy of his touch.
your bare hand emerged, pale and cold, trembling now, a creature blinking in unaccustomed light, looking impossibly small and lost in his grasp. he held it for a moment, an eternity in the air. he let it drop gently, as if setting down a wounded bird, then repeated the torturous, sacred process with your left hand.
your bare hands hung uselessly at your sides, feeling obscenely exposed, disconnected from the capable woman who could field-dress a hare in minutes.
steve paused. you stood swathed in damp layers – steam began to rise from your shoulders, your head, curling towards the ceiling.
you were shedding your winter skin, your frozen carapace, under his gentle assault. the hare's pelt, stripped away not by violence, but by unbearable tenderness. you are thawing, the steam whispered. you are alive beneath the ice.
bucky chuckled softly from the couch, a s ound of pure, possessive. "look at her steam, stevie, like a ghost risin' right outta the snow. breath returnin' to a frozen thing."
like the hare vanishing into the cold air, only this one's choosing to come back, choosing to thaw, right here in the warmth we offer. like alpine coming back to life after being buried in a mountain of snow four miles up north.
steve's hands moved again, returning to the open front of your parka. he didn't shove it off. he grasped the canvas at your shoulders. then began to slide it down your arms, agonizingly slow.
the weight lessened with languor. you felt the rifle strap bite deeper into your shoulder as the parka slipped, like a symbol of the solitary hunter's identity being stripped away, layer by frozen layer.
he eased it down, down, over the lines of your elbows, the bend of your forearms, the bones of your wrists. it pooled heavily around your boots, a sodden heap of defeated winter, a fallen rampart.
you stood in your sweater, steam now curling visibly from your damp hair, rising in wisps from your sweater, and his nearness finally reaching skin that hadn't felt true, penetrating, human warmth in years – perhaps since before the mountain claimed you.
he didn't stop.
his hands settled firmly on your waist, just above the belt line of your canvas trousers. the touch burned, searing your skin beneath, a brand of possession, of connection.
he looked down at you, his face so close you could map the stubble shadowing his jaw, count the tiny flecks of gold like buried treasure in the blue depths of his irises, feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over you forehead.
he was unwrapping you, each frozen layer, not just of snow and wool, but of ice and years of enforced solitude.
revealing the starved creature beneath – the hare caught, frozen not by fear of death, but bythe hunter's gaze.
the snow, your shield, your cloak of invisibility, your emotional armour forged in loneliness, was gone,
melted into shameful, forgotten puddles at your feet. all that remained was the overwhelming, inescapable presence of the man who had cornered you, not with violence, but with sanctifying slowness.
this wasn't conquest; it was liberation. an excavation of the woman buried beneath the ice.
bucky watched, a silent, dark sentinel from his throne on the couch. steve, with patience born of empathy and a shared longing, began the careful, devastatingly tender work of dismantling the last of her walls.
the hunt had irrevocably shifted ground. the prey had stopped running. the hare stood revealed in the firelight, not as a victim, but as a woman rediscovering the warmth of her own humanity.
and the wolf, stripped bare of his own armor long ago, offered not fangs, but sanctuary. the undressing was mutual. it was communion.
steve's large hands, slid from your waist, leaving brands. they found the sodden hem of your sweater, fingers curling under the edge.
a tremor ripped through you, violent, seismic.
stop him. shove. scream.
the commands, flashed and dissolved before reaching your leaden limbs.
why? the weight of the answer pressed down, a truth settling in your gut: utter exhaustion. the war against the blizzard, the hunt, the years-long siege against connection – it had bled you dry. the mountain had claimed its victory. your bones felt packed with river stones, inert. resistance wasn't defiance now; just... more crushing weight. and you couldn't carry another ounce.
his gaze never wavered. it held yours, lik a physical tether in the dizzying vortex of your surrender. shock and profound paralysis rooted you. this tenderness, this agonizing reverence – it was a language foreign to the harsh, efficient syntax of survival you spoke.
you knew violence, the cold calculus of pragmatism, the solace of solitude.
this dismantling? this worship of your vulnerability? it disarmed you completely, scouring your mind blank, locking your muscles in a strange, humming stasis. you could only watch, as the soldier's hands began the inexorable lift of the heavy sweater.
th wool dragged over your ribs. rough, intimate against the thermal shirt beneath. you felt every movement of its retreat, the cold air rushing into the exposed space, instantly. up, over the taut plane of your stomach, your waist, the dip below your ribs. your arms lifted, puppet-like, obeying the gentle pressure, the command woven into the soldier's touch. the sweater cleared your shoulders, and landed on the sodden pile of parka. another bastion of your carapace fallen.
now, only the thermal remained. it revealed the scarred lines of your shoulders, your breasts constrained by survival's harness. steam rose, like a shimmering halo around your upper body, dancing wraiths in the firelight.
you felt obscenely exposed, your defensive layers stripped down to this single, fragile, human veil. being seen. truly, utterly seen. that was the terrifying core of it.
he wasn't just seeing the capable survivor. he was seeing you, the woman beneath the frost, the one the soldier had dared to call 'pretty'.
and his eyes confirmed it. the recognition was a drug, intoxicating, melting the ice around your soul faster than any fire.
the soldier didn't speak. words were superfluous. his eyes said everything: empathy for the loneliness that had forged it. then, slowly, the soldier sank to his knees before you.
he was eye-level with your navel now, his shoulders, like the bulwark of a fortress, filling the space before you.
his hands, still emanating that warmth, settled on your hips once more, thumbs pressing deep into the crests of your pelvis.
his eyes lifted, locking onto yours again. deep in your stomach, a primal need, starved by eons of ice and silence, roared to life. it answered the heat in his hands, the promise in the soldier's eyes. touch. connection. warmth.
it was a siren song the exhausted hare could no longer resist, its pull now stronger than any ingrained fear.
his fingers slid lower, tracing the curve where your hip met your thigh, a cartography of the hunter's terrain.
then they hooked, purposefully, into the ice-crusted waistband of your canvas trousers. one tug.
this surrender felt like a survival instinct, the only path left. fighting the soldier in this moment of terrifying thaw felt like trying to outrun an avalanche barefoot. yielding was the sole passage through the disorienting warmth, the only way to draw breath.
so the soldier began.
his hands peeled the frozen canvas down. the shocking contrast with the heat from the kneeling soldier making you shiver. not from cold. from the overwhelming sensory onslaught, the vulnerability of being unveiled layer by layer.
you trembled, your legs threatening to buckle under the dual assault of sensation and exposure, but his grip on your hips steadied you even as he undid you.
the trousers fell around your boots, another layer joining the pile of winter. now, only the thin thermal shirt and your long underwear remained above, your legs clad in woolen long johns tucked into your boots.
he paused, the soldier-kneeling before you, his hands resting lightly on your thighs, just above your knees.
his eyes, still chained to yours, deepened, darkened to the turbulent blue of a winter sea at midnight. across the room, bucky remained a statue on the couch. alpine, sensing the tension, stretched with a mrrp and flowed like liquid smoke onto the kitchen counter, observing the unfolding reclamation with unblinking eyes.
the hunter, observing his hare's capitulation, orchestrating the soldier's patient conquest.
steve's hands slid upwards, tracing the contours of your thighs through the wool, back to the familiar territory of your hips. his fingers found the waistband of your long johns, the final, intimate barrier. but the soldier didn't use his hands this time.
instead, he leaned forward.
slowly. inexorably. a predator closing the final distance.
he rested his chin against your lower belly, just below your navel. the rough scrape of his stubble against the shirt sent a spark of sensation.
then he tilted his head back, looking up the entire length of your body. the angle was devastating. his face was tilted up in pure, predatory admiration. those blue eyes held yours, deep enough to drown the world.
you felt weightless, tethered only by that drowning gaze. you could vanish into it. cease to be the hunter, become only the seen. the thought was terrifying, wildly alluring.
his lips parted. not to speak. he caught the waistband of your long johns between them.
a gasp tore from your throat, involuntaril. the sensation was shocking in its intimacy – the scrape of teeth against wool. he tugged. down.
it wasn't fast. it was an unraveling measured in heartbeats.
it slid down your hips, over your ass. he was using his mouth, his teeth, like tools of exquisite precision, stripping away the last barrier with a slowness that bordered on the sacred.
the wool resisted, clinging with determination, but the soldier's persistence was unveiling ordained by will alone. down, past the swell of your hips, down to the mid-point of your thighs, the underwear bunched there, exposing the skin of your upper legs, the sensitive, untouched inner flesh.
he stopped. the waistband rested halfway down your thighs.
you stood before the kneeling soldier, a creature laid utterly bare. steam rose in plumes from your exposed skin, from your hair, a testament to the thawing happening within.
you, cornered not by fang or claw, but by tenderness, stood utterly revealed.
bucky watched. the puppet master observing his handiwork reach its inevitable climax. alpine, from her perch, blinked slowly.
steve's hands slide down from the cage of your ribs, leaving trails of heat. they glide over the jut of your hips, those twin peaks of bone you've honed against the world's harsh edge. he holds you there, anchored before him, a ship lashed to a rock in a storm-tossed sea.
his chin, rough with the night's shadow, presses lower now. not against the hollow of your navel, sanctuary of breath and core, but lower. significantly lower. firm against the shield covering the hidden heart of you, the vulnerable nexus beneath the thermal shirt and the final barrier of panties.
you shudder. a convulsion that feels less like a tremor and more like the earth cracking beneath your feet. it's so loud, so obscenely obvious in its helplessness, you know bucky sees it from the couch.
you're losing. losing the glacial control, the shell forged in decades of isolation. losing yourself molecule by molecule, a star collapsing inwards, drawing you into its gravity well. an ocean swallowing a glacier whole. you're melting,ndripping onto the floorboards, pooling around your boots.
he holds yours, drowning you, pulling you under their impossible depth.
"pretty," he says. a shiver, colder than the vanished blizzard, races down your spine, chased by a wave of heat. "so damn pretty."
you feel his breath, like a dragon's sigh, seeping through the layers. then, lower, the voice dropping into a register that vibrates in the pit of your belly, "can smell it off you, hare. even through all this. smell how ready you are. how sweet. like wild honey comb found deep in a lightning-struck pine."
your cheeks flame, hotter than the fire's core, a conflagration of humiliation and a liquid pull deep in your stomach of a riptide dragging you under.
he shouldn't know. he can't know this secret, shameful truth. but he does. he smells it. names it. claims it as his due.
he shifts again, just an adjustment of his shoulders, like a mountain settling its roots. his head tilts infinitesimally. you feel it. the rough drag of his stubble against the fabric, a rasp like stone on stone, marking territory.
then... the wet, scorching heat of his tongue. a broad, devastating stroke. right over the center of your covered pussy. through the thin shield of panties.
the layers do nothing to mute the shockwave; they merely conduct it, amplify it. it's a lightning strike searing through frozen ground, grounding itself deep in the molten core of you.
a gasp, a sound like ice shearing off a cliff face, rips from your throat. your hips move involuntarily, an instinctive flinch away from the overwhelming sensation, against his hands. he holds you firm. prevents escape. pins the butterfly to the board.
"fuck," he breathes, reflecting the firelight like trapped stars in his eyes. "smells good. tastes good too, even through this."
another slow lick. the flat of his tongue presses, drags, explores the shape of you through the fabric, mapping the contours with precision. it ignites nerve endings you never knew existed, dormant pathways suddenly screaming to life.
"your pretty little pussy, hare." the vulgarity, the claiming intimacy of the word pussy falling from his lips, shatters something fundamental.
the hunter's last pretense, the final ice-wall, collapses into glittering dust. "soaked for me already." the confirmation, the revelation of your body's treason.
"smells like mine now." he punctuates it with another lick, swirling this time. it'sa torturous orbit around the sensitive, stiffening nub hidden beneath the layers. it's a hidden star responding to his gravitational pull. your legs tremble, threatening to fold like green wood in a gale.
you'd fall, a broken thing, if not for his hands pinning your hips, holding you upright for his consumption.
he doesn't stop. the licking becomes a slow liturgy. each stroke is a brand, an affirmation of his dominion, a sacrament performed on the altar of your vulnerability.
each flick of his tongue against the hardening peak sends undiluted pleasure arcing through you.
you can't breathe. your chest heaves, trapped and escaping in shallowly. the rhythm is syncopated with the sound of his tongue on fabric.
your hands clench uselessly at your sides, fingers digging into themselves, seeking something in self-inflicted pain, finding none.
surrender isn't a choice anymore; it's a biological imperative, a tectonic plate shifting. you're unspooling under his mouth, under their eyes, the threads of your control snapping one by one.
the soldier's patient, devastating assault. the hare's inevitable, beautiful downfall, played out in the flickering firelight.
"that's it. let go. just feel it. feel how good it is." another long. a slow voyage across a hidden sea. you whimper. the sound is pathetic, torn from a place deeper than thought. a raw scrape of surrender dragged up from the bedrock of your being.
"so sweet. all for me. all this pretty wetness..." his tongue presses harder circles, applying pressure to the ache. he's a sculptor shaping clay.
"...drippin' for my tongue even through your clothes." the truth of it makes your muscles clench helplessly. "bucky sees it too." the reminder is a fresh brand of exposure. "sees how you come apart just from my tongue through your panties. sees how the steam rises off you like you're burnin' from the inside out. sees how bad you need it. how deep the hunger goes."
the awareness of bucky's eyes, witnessing your every movement, cataloging your every gasp in response to the soldier's mouth working your covered cunt, adds a layer of soul-deep exposure.
you're laid bare not just physically, stripped of wool and canvas, but psychically, your unraveling need illuminated by the fire and their eyes. you are the specimen, pinned and studied in the moment of your dissolution.
he nuzzles lower, his nose pressing insistently against the seam, the very threshold. he inhales deeply, a rumbling growl vibrating in his chest, the sound traveling through the fabric, resonating directly against your most sensitive, hidden flesh.
"god, yes." the words are a prayer, a profane benediction. "smell it deep. smell your surrender, hare. ripe in the air." his tongue flicks out again, a serpent tasting paradise, tracing the hidden outline of your lips through the layers, teasing the entrance, a pressure at the gate.
"smell how your pretty little pussy just wants to be opened. wants to be tasted proper. wants to flood my mouth." the promise, the raw, carnal intent in his words with the heat of his mouth working you through the fabric – a simulation of penetration – pushes you towards a precipice you've never glimpsed before, a chasm of sensation yawning wide.
the first touch, skin to skin. the first true taste, direct and unmediated. the first shattering, body and soul.
it's happening here, on your knees in spirit, held upright only by his conquering hands, unraveled by his tongue through your panties, witnessed by the silent, satisfied hunter in the firelight.
the soldier claims you with every lick, every word that vibrates through your core, every second his blue eyes hold yours captive, reflecting the bonfire of your own immolation.
you are lost. gloriously, finally lost.
the hare is caught, not in a snare of wire, but in a web of heat and need spun by the soldier's patient mouth, and there is no struggle left, only the trembling anticipation of the final, inevitable bite.
steve's chin lifts. the firelight swims in his eyes, reflecting your own expression – a cracked mirror held up to your soul's surrender.
his voice murmurs through the fabric, through your pelvis, into your core, stirring the embers into a conflagration.
"ever had this, hare?" he asks like a stone dropped into the dark well of your exhaustion. "a man's mouth on you? tasting you?"
your throat locks. words are frozen artifacts, glacial relics lost in the permafrost melt flooding your system, drowning the hunter beneath the rising tide of the woman.
he reads the void, the drowning panic in your eyes – a shipwrecked sailor glimpsing the leviathan's maw – the tremor threatening to shatter your frame into a thousand shards of ice.
an expression touches his lips. not a smile. like a predator's satisfaction, the glint of the blade finally finding the artery.
"no," the single syllable is a confirmation. "didn't think so." his blue bores into yours, not just seeing, but excavating. "can i? taste you proper? no more layers. just... you." just the raw, trembling truth of you, stripped of hide and history.
the world tilts, the axis of your existence wrenching sideways. the wall at your back feels like the only solid thing left in a universe dissolving into steam and sensation, a cliff face against a devouring sea.
your head moves. barely. a fractional dip of your chin, a microscopic acknowledgment dragged from the depths of your surrender, a single snowflake falling onto a waiting pyre. it's not defiance. it's exhaustion meeting a gravity too strong to fight, the hare lowering its head not just to the hunter's blade, but onto the sacrificial stone.
but his eyes catch it. they flare, like arctic ice catching the midday sun, igniting with a light that could blind gods. seen. your permission, like a spun-sugar dream, instantly incinerated in the furnace of his approval, leaving only ash and acquiescence.
he doesn't remove the panties. not yet. the final veil remains, a cotton shroud over the sacred. instead, his hands, those impossibly large manacles on your hips, exert gentle pressure. wider.
he spreads your legs, just a bit more, unfolding, forcing your stance wider against the protesting muscles of your inner thighs. he stretches you like a canvas prepared for a masterpiece of ruin.
you feel exposed, a specimen pinned against the wall, the soldier kneeling between your spread legs like a supplicant before an altar.
the hunter's dark gaze is an approving weight from the couch, the silent architect of this desecration turned devotion.
alpine, a silent ghost on the counter, blinks slowly – an ancient witness.
then, his fingers hook into the damp cotton waistband of the panties. not pulling them down, but aside. a shocking displacement, like drawing back the curtain on the holiest of holies.
the cabin air rushes against exposed skin – the glistening folds hidden beneath, now laid bare only for him, only for the soldier's gaze and the hunter's silence, as a hungry witness.
the intimacy is staggering, a violation and a revelation rolled into one, a sacred profanity. a whimper escapes you, scraping you raw, the sound of a creature unmade.
his head dips. lower. lower still. a slow descent. past the jut of your hip bone, past the plane of your lower belly, a landscape quaking under imminent eruption. his breath washes over your exposed core first, an intimate caress, the precursor to the storm. it ghosts over the hidden petals, making them flutter like moth wings against glass. then... contact.
not his tongue first. his cheek, the slightest of his stubble, grazing your thigh. then, the wet, searing heat of his tongue. right up the center of your exposed folds. from the very bottom, where tight muscle guards the entrance like a temple gate, all the way up to the aching peak above, the altar flame.
your back arches involuntarily off the wall, only a ragged gasp escaping – the death rattle of resistance. his hands clamp down on your hips, like iron bands slamming you back against the wood, pinning you in place. a butterfly speared, wings still trembling. no escape. only offering.
"fuck," he groans through your most sensitive flesh. "even better." his voice is muffled with the first taste of you, a connoisseur savoring a long-anticipated vintage.
"sweeter than i dreamed, hare. like sunlight on snowmelt." then he dives in. not as a conqueror taking spoils, but as a pilgrim finally reaching the sacred spring, one that's desperate to drink.
this is worship through absolute, consuming immersion. his tongue is a living brand, an instrument of divine revelation.
he laps at your folds with possessive strokes, gathering the wetness beading there like sacred oil, anointing himself.
he presses in, seeking the source of hidden heat. a flick against the swollen bud – the clapper striking the bell within you
you cry out, an echo in the cathedral of your own undoing. he answers with a vibration against your skin, a beast claiming its territory, and drives his tongue deeper. deeper still.
it's an invasion. a claiming. a holy communion. his tongue parts your folds like sacred texts, delving into you within.
not just lapping at the surface, but plunging into the sanctum. exploring the hidden, velvet contours with agonizing precision, mapping the uncharted geography of your surrender.
each inward stroke is a penetration, a mimicry of a deeper joining, a promise whispered in the language of flesh.
he's inside you. not with his cock, not yet, but with his mouth, his tongue, his will, his very breath. seeped through the layers he unraveled, past the defenses he shattered with glacial patience, and now... inside the citadel.
the soldier breaching the final gate, welcomed by the hare's shattered nod, invited into the trembling heart of her vulnerability.
he laps like a man starved for grace, like a desert wanderer at an oasis spring.
long, languid, worshipful strokes gathering your essence, followed by flicks against the nerve-rich peak that make your vision blur into starbursts and your knees threaten to sink into the floorboards.
he pulls back occasionally, not to stop, but to breathe, to savour, to look.
his nose buries itself in the wetness he's pushed aside, inhaling deeply, sound of pure, animal satisfaction rising – the sound of a dragon hoarding gold. and his eyes.
oh god, his eyes.
even as his tongue delves deep, spearing into your xynt, his gaze remains locked on your face.
he watches. he devours your reactions. the flutter of your eyelids, the parting of your lips, the desperate clench of your jaw, the tears that well but don't fall – he sees it all.
he worships not just your body, but the symphony of pleasure plastered across your features for him to see, share, devour.
the visible unraveling of the hunter into the surrendered woman.
he drinks in your whimpers, your cries, the way your head falls back against the wood. every flinch, every tremble, every helpless arch is an offering he accepts with rapturous intensity.
"christ," he rasps, lifting his head just enough for his words to be clear. he glistens with your essence, like a sacred dew.
"smell that? all that pretty pussy? smells like heaven." he dips again. his tongue surges around your entrance like a painter defining the edge of paradise before plunging back in, deeper of a pilgrim seeking the source.
"tastes like it too. all sweet cream." another languorous lick, lapping up the evidence of your body's utter capitulation of a sacrament consumed. "soak my face, hare. let me drink you down. all for me. all this..."
his tongue swipes against your clit, making you whimpers against his restraining hands, a sob catching in your throat like a hooked fish. "...s'like pretty fucking surrender. drowning in it. so beautiful."
he alternates – worshipful strokes that cover every inch of your exposed sex, anointing you anew, gathering your arousal like precious myrrh. he follows it with a deep, penetrating thrusts of his tongue that mimics a far more intimate possession. claiming of an inner sanctum.
each time he lifts his head, even momentarily, it's growl his approval against your skin, to inhale your scent deeply from the displaced panties, a ritual inhalation of sanctity, to lock his burning eyes onto your drowning eyes and remind you, with a rough caress against the wet, open petals of you using his voice.
"so good." lick. a slow drag from root to tip. "so fuckin' sweet." another one. a strike to the nerve center. "all mine now, hare." another deep, penetrating lap. his tongue spearing in, curling, exploring the hidden folds.
"feel it? feel me inside you? taste you deep? bucky sees it." his eyes dart towards the couch for a second, ensuring the witness, before snapping back to yours.
"sees how you take my tongue. how you drip for it. how you tremble..." his tongue plunges deep again, an invasion. "...just from my mouth on your pretty little cunt. worshipping you. drinking you in."
you're unraveling. completely.
the threads of your being, the hunter's control forged in ice and isolation, the hare's desperate flight instinct honed by decades of solitude – all dissolving under the soldier's mouth with his worshipping tongue.
your whimpers are constant now, a wordless litany falling from your lips, a prayer to the god of sensation destroying you.
your hands claw uselessly at the wall behind you, finding nothing, only the unyielding reality of your surrender.
your hips try to move to ride the wave threatening to drown you, but his hands hold you immobile, forcing you to simply receive his worship, his conquest, the relentless tide of pleasure he commands.
you are pinned. consumed. witnessed. the soldier devours you, a sacrament of flesh and fire. the hunter observes his trap sprung. the hare ensnared not by teeth but by tenderness turned overwhelming, and the hare... the hare simply burns as a willing sacrifice laid bare on the altar of her own longed-for undoing.
he's inside you. he's part of you now. his tongue. and you let him.
the nod echoes in the sounds filling the cabin. the slide of his tongue. the soft, obscene suckling. the gasp of your breath. all harmonizing with the fire, the hungry silence of the hunter from the shadows, the worship that strips you down to your core.
steve's mouth never stops its worship.
his tongue laps up the flood of your arousal like a man dying of thirst finding an oasis.
each stroke gathers the slickness, painting your folds with your own essence. a testament to the hare's complete surrender.
"fuck, hare," he lifts his head just enough to speak. "taste that? all that sweet cream pouring out for me? fuckin' river of it."
he dips again, his tongue spearing deep into your entrance with a penetrating thrust that makes you cry out. he swirls it inside, curling, exploring your insides, before dragging it back up, collecting more.
"like honey warmed on the hearth. perfect. made for my mouth. so sensitive there, pretty thing. just for me. singing for me." his praise is a constant, vibrating through you. "good hare. so fuckin' good. giving it all up. soaking my chin. fuck, look at you."
"feel how deep i get?" a thrust of his tongue inside you, mimicking possession. "filling you up with just my mouth. just my tongue. fuck." he groans, muffled against your flesh. "so hot inside. so tight. clenching already? yeah, feel it. want it deeper? want more?"
he doesn't wait, driving his tongue in again, deeper, harder "that's it. take it. take my tongue deep, hare. show me how bad you want it. tell me." but words are beyond you. "yeah, like that. your body tells me everything. tells me you need filling."
then, the impossible heat of his mouth is joined by something else.
blunt. seeking pressure of a fingertip. it's now slicked with your own wetness as he dips it into your folds.. slightly. but not enough. it circles your entrance beside his thrusting tongue.
"shh, easy," he murmurs, lips pressed against your thigh. "just givin' you what you need, hare. what you're beggin' for."
the fingertip presses in, just the tip. it's a burning stretch, a deeper invasion than tongue alone.
"fuck, so tight. even after my tongue. greedy little cunt, holding out on me?" he crooks the finger slightly, trying to find that spot inside you that makes stars behind your eyelids. his fingers move inside you for a while, his eyes watching your face contort in different expressions and levels of pleasure.. but then..
"there. there it is. found your sweet spot, pretty thing. fuckin' velvet."
he adds a second finger, stretching you wider and deeper. he works his fungers in with slowly. rolling his wrist while his tongue licks against your clit. "taking my fingers so well. feel that? feel how deep i get now? filling you up proper. just like you need. just like you've been starvin' for under all those fuckin' layers."
he alternates, a master conductor orchestrating your ruin. languorous licks that cover your entire sex, bathing you in sensation.
he follows this by flicks against your clit that send sparks skittering behind your eyelids, all while his fingers pump steadily, curling inside you, finding that spot again and again.
"so responsive," he breathes hotly against your cunt. "you feel it everywhere, don't you? lighting you up inside?"
then a plunge, his tongue penetrating your entrance alongside his fingers, working in and out. "fuck yes, move those hips for me. grind on my face. fuck my fingers. use it, hare. use my mouth."
"look at you," he breathes, pulling back slightly to watch your face. your head is thrown back against the wood. sweat streak paths down your temples despite the cold, lost in your hairline.
"so fuckin' beautiful like this. just for me. bucky sees it." his eyes look back towards the couch, ensuring the hunter's dark gaze is fixed on the spectacle. "sees how you fall apart on my tongue. how you drip. how you shake. how you take my fingers."
then another deep suck combined with a curl of his fingers inside you that makes you sob. "all mine. this pretty little cunt. this sweet surrender. fuckin' drownin' in it. let him watch you drown."
your fingers scrabble uselessly against the wood. your thighs tremble. you feel stretched, invaded, and you force your eyelids open.. just a bit.
across the room, bucky sits forward slightly on the couch. the blanket pooled in his lap shifts subtly. one hand is hidden beneath it. you could see the slow movement of his arm.
a groan escapes him. "fuckin' beautiful," bucky rasps, his voice thick with arousal, dark eyes burning into yours. "love watchin' her take it, steve. watchin' her fuckin' melt."
the hunter, hidden in plain sight, stroking himself as he watches his hare being devoured.
the sight, the sound of his voice, the knowledge of his pleasure, sends shame and desperation, and you clench hard around steve's fingers.
"there it is," steve murmurs. his voice is triumphant. "feel it comin', don't you, hare? seein' bucky gettin' off on you? seein' him watch you take my fingers? that big wave. that sweet crash. i can taste it building. feel it 'round my fingers, hare."
he abandons the deep thrusts for a moment, focusing entirely on your clit now. his tongue rubs hard against your cunt, vibrating on the hypersensitive clit, while his fingers continue their rhythmic pumping, curling around that sweet spot.
"let it go. give it to me. all of it. soak my face. drench my fingers. give bucky the show he's fuckin' waitin' for. cum for us, hare. cum for him."
he seals his mouth over your entire clit, sucking hard and applying devastating pressure. at the same time, his tongue flicks against it with speed and his fingers drive deeper, rubbing hard. the triple assault is catastrophic. "yes, fuck, just like that. taking it so well. takin' my mouth, takin' my fingers. gonna make you scream. scream for bucky."
"cum," he commands. "cum for me, hare. right now. show me. show bucky how good my mouth, my fingers, make you feel. cum on my tongue. flood me. i want to feel you lose it. want bucky to see you shatter. let go, pretty thing. let it all go. give it to us."
the command, the vibration, the pressure, the sight of bucky's hidden movement – it shatters you. a silent a moan comes from your chest, your mouth wide open but barely any sound emerges, choked off by the sensation.
the world whites out, dissolving into pure static. the wave hits, not a crash but an implosion, a supernova in your core. heat, floods outwards, washing through your veins, melting bone, incinerating thought.
you feel yourself gush against his mouth, a hot, wet pulse that seems endless, flooding over his chin, while his fingers stay buried deep inside you.
"fuck yes," he says against your cunt. "that's it. good girl. such a fuckin' good hare for me. soaking me. perfect. so fuckin' perfect. taste it, bucky? smell it? she's fuckin' divine."
from the couch, a moan answers him, bucky's hand moving faster. "fuck, steve... yeah," bucky grits out, his eyes are glued to your body. "look at her go. fuckin' beautiful wreck."
the tremors wrack you uncontrollablely. your legs shake so badly you would collapse if not for his hand pinning your hips to the wall, while the other fingers pulses inside you, drawing out the aftershocks.
the pleasure is so intense it borders on pain. a sweet, exquisite agony that leaves you gasping, with tears threatening to stream freely now. your body is a trembling wreck held upright only by the soldier's grip and the wall at your back.
he doesn't stop immediately. but gentles his mouth, softening the suction, yet his tongue continues its worship, lapping up the aftermath. his fingers slowly withdraw, coated in your cum.
he savours it, nuzzling into your cunt, inhaling deeply. "still trembling," he murmurs approvingly, looking up at your shattered face. "still giving me little shivers. perfect. fuckin' perfect."
"christ," he breathes, lifting his head finally. his face is a mess, coated in your cum that he pushed out of you. his lips are swollen pink.
he looks utterly feral, beautiful in his conquest. he meets your wide eyes, utterly vacant.
"fuckin' gorgeous," he mumbles and swipes the back of his hand across his mouth, never breaking eye contact.
"tasted like victory, hare. sweetest fuckin' thing." his thumb brushes your trembling lower belly, a possessive caress. "and just the first course."
across the room, bucky shifts on the couch, with a sigh escaping him as his hidden hand stills beneath the blanket. "hell of a show, doll."
alpine, from her perch on the kitchen counter, blinks slowly. her tail twitches once, like a benediction on the hare's trembling form.
the soldier's gaze holds yours, promising more, promising everything he could give, as you float in the shattered, liquid aftermath of your undoing, the pulses of his fingers still echoing deep inside.
one moment his mouth is a brand searing yours, his hands are biting into the flesh of your hips, the next, his palms cradle the fragile architecture of your skull.
the shift is dizzying, a tectonic slide from the intimate furnace between your thighs to this almost sacred touch.
his thumbs trace hollows beneath your ears, tilt your face upwards, forcing your eyes to look up into the fathomless blue of his eyes as he rises from his supplicant's posture before you.
the scent of your capitulation – the impossible sweetness he'd murmured against your cunt – clings to him, like a heady perfume, woodsmoke and the cold sweat of his exertion.
it's the aroma of an altar defiled and sanctified simultaneously.
then his mouth crashes down onto yours. it's not a collision; it's a sacrament. a reverence poured into desperate, consuming vehemence.
his lips move over yours, an opposition to the animalistic eagerness that had wrung cries from your lungs moments before.
his tongue, tasting distinctly, irrevocably of you – the deep musk of arousal, that nectar he'd praised like a devotee – sweeps into the sanctuary of your mouth. an intimate, violating communion, forcing you to taste the physical evidence of your own renounce, the flood tide he'd relished into with unholy devotion.
you whimper against his lips with absolute need, your exhausted body arching into the solidity of him. his arms become pillars, wrapping around you, pulling you tight.
one hand remains cradling your head, fingers tangling in the strands. the other slides down the knotted landscape of your spine, vertebrae smoothened like river stones beneath his consumption, pinning you to him.
he kisses you like a pilgrim starved for grace, yet with a terrifying tenderness that unravels the last threads of your resistance. his tongue explores, a cartography, mimicking the deep thrusts it had performed below, but softened now. a shared sacrament, forcing you to partake in the essence he'd drawn from your deepest wellspring.
you taste yourself on him, a confession written in salt on his tongue. your own tongue meets his, shy and uncertain, and he groans low in his chest, a vibration passing directly into your mouth, resonating in your hollowed bones.
his kiss deepens, becoming slower, savouring your hesitant response like the rarest vintage, drawing little gasps from your lungs that he swallows whole, claiming even your breath and turning it into his.
the world narrows—in fact, it collapses, to the heated altar of his mouth, the blasphemous taste of your own release with the exhale of his worship.
his hand, the anchor on your back, begins its pilgrimage. it glides upwards, tracing the sacred ridge of your spine.
higher, over the muscles of your shoulder blade – a landscape sculpted by survival – then sweeping around the curve of your ribcage.
his palm cups the full swell of your breast through the soaked fabric. you gasp into his mouth as if touched by divine fire. the sensitive nipple, already a hardened from the cold and the cascade of sensation, tightens into painfully under his thumb as it finds its target through the clinging veil.
he circles it slowly with the focus of a monk polishing a relic, applying just enough pressure to make you whine high. it's a desperate psalm, and your hips pressing helplessly against him.
"shh, my pretty, perfect thing," he says against your lips, breaking the kiss just enough to let the words spill onto your skin.
"just feel it. drink it in. feel how exquisitely good you are. how flawlessly made." still that drowning blue but now etched with a covetousness that steals the remnants of your being, locks onto yours.
he lowers his head again, capturing your bottom lip between his teeth with a gentle scrape that sends shivers cascading down your spine like falling icicles, before soothing the tiny sting with the velvet of his tongue.
his hand tightens slightly, molding the weight of your breast in his palm. his thumb flicks over yours nipple intent that is a direct assault, making your legs tremble like saplings in a gale.
"so beautifully responsive," his lips brushing yours with each syllable. "every little touch sings through you. still trembling for me. still your body chants its devotion." his other hand releases your hair, sliding down to cup your other breast, mirroring the first.
he holds their weight, testing the fullness through the wet shirt like a man appraising sacred vessels with worshipful circle. steam still rises faintly from your body, creating a halo of vapour in the firelight, the aura of a martyr consumed.
across the room, the rustle of the blanket continues, a profanity against the wet sounds of your hymns. bucky hasn't moved from the couch still with his movement beneath the rough wool. his dark eyes are fixed on you, hotter even than steve's worshipping hands. a groan escapes bucky's lips, torn from a place of voyeuristic need.
"fuck, stevie... look at her. look how her tits fill your hands... perfect handfuls... s'like it's made for you to worship." his own hand moves faster beneath the blanket. "christ, look at her arch into it. like a fuckin' offering. pure. wish i was tastin' her too... fuck. wish it was my cock she was grinding those sweet tits against... milking me dry while you fuck her..."
steve's lips curve into a dark smile against yours, absolutely beatific. he pulls back slightly, just enough to look down where his hands cradle your breasts.
"hear that, hare? bucky likes watching me touch what's mine. likes seeing how your pretty, perfect tits fit my hands... like they were carved just for me." he squeezes gently, rolling the flesh in a motion that is both adoration and ownership.
"likes imagining how they'd feel... wrapped tight around his cock..." his thumbs press harder, rubbing in tight, and cruel directly over you. "you'd like that too, wouldn't you, my sweet little whore?" his voice is laced with mocking degradation.
"feelin' him thick and hard between them? bucky's cock sliding against your skin. all that greedy heat? bet you'd arch and moan. show him what a greedy little slut you are... even after i've wrecked you." he dips his head, capturing you with his mouth again
he plunges deep in a mimicry of possession as his thumbs continue their worshipful torment. the combination of the explicit degradation, and bucky's voyeuristic groans, reigns desperate embers deep within your spent flesh.
steve breaks the kiss again, dark with the turbulent blue of a storm-lashed sea, hunger. he lowers his head, nuzzling the sacred hollow of your throat, inhaling, as if drawing strength from your very essence.
"gonna make you come again, my hare," he promises, a vow and a threat. "gonna make you scream this time. scream my name. loud enough for bucky to hear every broken, beautiful note." his hands slide down from your breasts, over the landscape of your ribs, coming to rest once more on the altar of your hips.
he pulls you against him, letting you feel the hard ridge of his erection straining against the fabric of his trousers. "gonna fill you up proper now. give you what your tight, untouched little cunt's beggin' for. what bucky's beggin' to see."
he grinds against you. his cock is an unabated pressure even through the blockade of fabric, a promise of violation disguised as boon. "gonna wreck this pretty, untouched body all over again. show you what you were made for."
with heavy intent, he turns towards the couch. "watch close, buck," like a priest summoning a witness to the sacrifice. "watch her take me. watch her tight little hole stretch for my cock. watch her fall apart on it."
from the couch, a tremulous gasp answers him, followed by the frantic, unmistakable wet sound of bucky's fist moving with desperate urgency beneath the blanket. alpine, on the kitchen counter, flicks her tail once, disdainful. the sacrificial hare caught between the soldier's claiming and the hunter's covetous eyes.
the soldier's hands tighten on your hips, positioning you with intent as clear and inevitable as the rising tide.
your body is already trembling in terrified anticipation of the next, and deeper invasion. the next wave of ecstasy masquerading as desecration. the unraveling was a martyrdom, far from over.
then, the pivot.
his hands on your hips shift, sliding to your back, the other gripping your shoulder like a vise.a surge of strength, and the world spins violently.
your palms slap against the log walls, cold and abrasive. the impact jars up your arms.
before the disorientation clears, before you can even gasp, his body presses into you, trapping you completely. one arm snakes around your waist, and hand splays on the plane of your stomach, fingers pressing into the softness below right your navel.
the other hand fists in the tangle of your hair. and it's not gentle. it forces your posture.
he yanks your head back, exposing the vulnerable, sacred column of your neck to the firelight. your gasp is strangled, swallowed by the inescapable pleasure.
"that's it, my hare. brace. take your fuckin' blessing." the arm around your waist shifts. his fingers plows into the flesh just above the bunched wool of your long johns still rucked around your thighs. he yanks them down, scraping over your skin like a penance, pooling heavily around your ankles with the rest of the defeated winter armor.
exposed from the waist down, the thermal shirt is slid up, barely covering the swell of your ass, leaving the backs of your thighs, the curve of your cheeks, bare. you feel the texture of his trousers against the sensitive backs of your thighs, his cock pressing against the cleft of your ass as a demanding promise. no more gentle seeking. no more preparation.
the hand in your hair keeps your head pulled back, forcing you to look towards the couch, towards bucky, forcing you to witness your own exposure. you see his eyes, burning like coal, fixed on where steve's body traps yours against the wall, on the skin revealed.
you see the desperate shifts beneath the blanket. you hear the obscenely wet sound of his own fist working his cock.
"fuck yes. fuck her, steve. fuck her hard. make that tight little cunt scream. been too long since she took cock, bet she's clenching like a virgin... fuckin' break her open."
steve's free hand drops. you hear the slow descent of metal teeth. then his fingers are there, sliding through what he's already wrung from you. he gathers your own offering, spreading it over your folds.
"soaked," he grunts, "dripping for it. begging like the pretty little slut you are." two thick fingers plunge into you without warning, working ruthlessly, curling, scissoring, stretching your tight passage. it mimics the brutal invasion to come. the stretch burns, a sharp reminder of your long solitude.
"gonna feel every inch, hare," he promises, then his lips are grazing the tendon in your exposed throat. "gonna split this tight little hole wide open. gonna make you take it all, virgin-tight or not."
he withdraws his fingers, glistening in the firelight like sacred oil, and you feel the blunt tip of his cock. it's huge and fucking terrifying nudging against your vulnerable pussy.
"steve—" and it's a terrified whisper, a plea lost before it's fully formed.
"shut up, whore," he orders. the grip in your hair tightens viciously, pulling your scalp taut, silencing you. "take your god."
and he drives forward. a searing stretch, a tearing fullness that steals everything you have in you.
you cry out an animalistic sound, ripped straght out of your soul, as he buries himself in your cunt.
the logs scrape your cheek, biting into your palms as you push back instinctively as a futile attempt to escape the violating invasion.
his arm wraps around your waist, impaling you impossibly deeper. he holds there, buried to the root, letting you feel the thickness stretching your pussy with his cock lodged deep inside.
"fuck... like a fuckin' vise... so goddamn tight, hare... untouched perfection... fucking made for this cock." his hips grind against your ass, settling deeper, making you whimper, the fullness bordering on discriminating misery. "bet you haven't felt this in years... or ever—god fuck. forgot what a cock feels like buried inside? 'cause you're clenching like a scared little rabbit... relax, slut. take it."
then he moves. he pulls back almost entirely, leaving you achingly empty for a suspended heartbeat, then slams back in with force. your body slams against the unyielding wall. again. and again. deep and hard, each thrust a claiming blow, a vandalism disguised as worship like it's a reward for your surrender.
the wet slap of skin, a brutal punctuation in the dark. your cries, a ragged and broken rhythm. his grunts, low and guttural, a feral counterpoint. bucky's breath, a harsh saw cutting the air. and underneath it all, the frantic, slick music of the couch, a wet, gasping metronome keeping time with the ruin.
a symphony of ruin. a wet, open-mouthed gasp. the percussion of skin on skin, not applause, but a beating. your sobs, the melody—cracked, off-key. his growls, the bass line, vibrating through the floorboards. bucky's sharp panting, the hi-hat, keeping a frantic, terrible time. and the couch, oh the couch, its springs singing a rusty, weeping harmony. a wet, sucking sound, the encore nobody asked for.
it's a cacophonous symphony of possession. the soldier taking what the hunter surrendered, defiling the altar he professed to worship.
his hand in your hair keeps your head cruelly turned towards bucky, forcing you to witness the hunter's burning, covetous gaze, the fevered, almost painful movements beneath the blanket. "look at him," steve grunts, his breath hot and ragged against your ear, each word punctuated by a deep, jarring thrust that rocks your body against the logs.
"look at him watch me fuck this tight little cunt. watch you take my cock like the desperate little whore you are." he pistons harder, deeper, driving sharp, involuntary cries from you.
"see how hard he is? see how bad he wants a taste of this sweet, stretched hole? wants to bury himself in your greedy cunt after i've wrecked it? after i've made it nice and loose for him?" he rams into you, the angle shifting, hitting a spot that makes you see stars.
"maybe he will. maybe i'll let him clean up my mess... suck my come out of your well-fucked pussy... wouldn't you like that, slut? two cocks for your hungry little hole?"
the arm around your waist snakes up with purpose. it slides across your collarbones, beneath your chin and locks around your throat. it's a collar of flesh and bone, a claiming that makes your pulse hammer wildly, against the inside of his forearm. it's a silent reminder of his absolute control, his dominance.
the soldier's arm, a shackle of living steel. the hare, pinned, penetrated, collared. the hunter, watching, consuming the spectacle.
"fuck, yes! like that.." bucky's voice is a strangled shout. "choke her. make her feel it! make her take every fuckin' inch. show her who owns that cunt!" his voice breaks on a moan. "so fuckin' tight. look at her struggle. look at her takin' it..."
steve's forearm presses harder. your breath becomes shallow, labored, desperate whistles past the constriction. sparks dance at the edge of your vision, descending darkness. the sensations amplify unbearably – especially bucky's eyes devouring your degradation.
you're reduced to pure sensation, the hammering of his hips fucking your flesh, the thick cock splits you open again and again. your cries are muffled things, desperation forced past the constriction, sounds of a creature being unmade.
"gonna come," the urging of his hips differ, losing their brutality. they turn feral, animalistic. the arm around your throat tightens. "gonna fill you up, my hare. flood this perfect, untouched cunt. mark you inside where you belong."
his hips slam into you, burying himself to the hilt. a triumphant moan burrows out of his throat, muffled against the skin of your shoulder. he holds himself buried. you feel it—the swell, a hot, liquid truth erupting in the cathedral of your core.filling the hollows he'd stretched. "mine," he snarls against your skin, signing his name in the hollows he'd carved a space into.
the pressure on your throat lessens, allowing you to breathe finally. you're pinned, impaled, filled, trembling..a landscape trembling with the visceral aftershocks of his earthquake.
your legs are a forgotten language, held up only by the iron grammar of his grip and the brutal poetry of the logs at your back
you are not a person. you are a territory. a map redrawn in the dark. wreckage, and the quiet, terrible peace that comes after the storm has claimed its ground.
steve doesn't pull out. he stays buried, and his hand slowly releases your hair, sliding down to grip your hip again. he turns your head slightly, forcing your eyes back to bucky.
the hunter's face is a mask of ecstasy, beneath the blanket he was reaching a crescendo. his eyes are locked on where steve is still buried inside you, on the mess of come and arousal glistening on your inner thighs, on the arm still threateningly banded around your throat.
bucky's mouth is open, slack with lust.
"see him, my broken little hare?" his hips give another grind, making you whimper pitifully as his softening cock shifts inside your ravaged insides, sending a wave of discomfort-pain washing through you.
"see how bad he wants what's left? wants the scraps from my table? almost there, buck? gonna spill all over yourself just watching me fill her up? watching my come leak out of her?" steve's hand slides down from your hip, over your ass. eventually, his fingers find your abused pussy again, filled with both of you, like a the mingled evidence of conquest.
he rubs slow, deliberate, torturous circles over your hypersensitive clit, an impossible, agonizing overstimulation that makes your entire body jolt and spasm weakly. "do it, buck. come for us. come watching the wreckage i made of her. come knowing she's mine."
bucky moans out in desperation ripped from the depths of his being. his back arches l off the couch, head thrown back.
you see the jerking beneath the blanket reach a fever pitch, a blur of motion, then absolute stillness. a gasp, then another. his body slowly goes boneless, collapses back onto the couch.
alpine lets out a soft, almost disapproving mrrp, then pointedly turns her back, washing a paw, as if cleansing herself of the spectacle.
the soldier holds you pinned and filled, marked, collared, holding your violated flesh. the hare, thoroughly broken, soul-deep ravaged, hangs suspended between the unforgiving wall andthe soldier, the hunter's satisfied groan the profane note in the symphony of your annihilation.
──★ ˙🍓 ̟ 🐇!!
the world outside the cabin is a cathedral of white, contrast to the symphony of ruin that had echoed inside its walls.
you move through it, like a ghost in your own skin, a haunting of the person you were just a few days before.
every step is a reminder of the violation, the way your body has been remade into a territory you no longer recognize, erased by borders of a foreign flag planted deep in your soil.
the ache between your legs is a persistent, the soldier's possession, a limb of an act you can't sever.
the cold stings your face, but it is a clean, simple pain. nothing like the complex hollows of his mouth, his cock, that had felt less like being burned and more like being forged in some fire, reshaped against your will.
you keep a meter of air between you. a demilitarized zone, the war zone perhaps. a moat dug with the shards of your composure.
it is the only boundary you can enforce, even in your own home. you cling to it, because you're a prisoner marking the perimeter of their own cell, terrified of what's beyond and the smaller terrifying confinement within.
steve moves beside you, like a disturbance in the perfect stillness. he's silent for a long time, the sound of his footsteps against the powder of snow grinds your nerves to dust.
"the tracks lead up this ridge. probably scared anything off for miles, but we might get lucky." his voice is too loud, too normal. it isn't the low, like from the cabin, the bass line of your defilement. it is conversational. it scrapes against your nerves like sandpaper, a mockery of a world where such mundane things still matter.
you don't look at him. your eyes stay fixed on the horizon, anything that isn't him. you focus on the skeletal branches of the black pines, so honest in their barrenness. not like the suffocating interior of your own body, a landscape now littered with the wreckage of his passage, a city after a siege.
"should've brought the heavier pack. this wind's picking up." he tries again. his words fall into the sacre space between you and landing with a dull thud.
how can he speak of packs? of wind? as if the architecture of your soul hadn't been bulldozed hours ago. as if he hadn't been the architect of its ruin, laying waste to your foundations with a precision, worshipping the collapse as he caused it.
your gloved hand tightens on the rifle strap. the cold, certain metal of the barrel. these are your languages. violence. pragmatism. survival.
the other thing—the feeling of being filled to the brim, the unwelcome clench of your cunt that had betrayed you, answering the soldier's thrusts with a mind of its own—that is a foreign tongue. an invasive colonization of your very biology. it had felt like dying. it had felt like coming horrifically, shamefully alive.
and he had made you watch the hunter watch it happen. he had forced you to see the covetous hunger in bucky's eyes, like a second violation layered over the first. you weren't just the soldier's. you were their spectacle. their ruined thing, a lesson taught in the language of flesh.
"you're favouring your left side. are you—?" his voice dips with a concern that feels like the most profound obscenity of all, a blasphemy against the reality he created.
"cut it out, rogers."
the words leave your mouth, cold and lifeless. they don't sound like your voice. they are the rustle of a dead leaf over stone. just a command from a general whose entire army has been massacred.
the sound of his name in that dead tone seems to finally pierce the bubble of whatever normalcy he is trying to construct. he falls silent. the meter of space between you seems to grow with a vast and freezing emptiness.
"cut what out?" he asks, but too solid in this world of ghosts.
"the act," you say. "the concerned captain routine. it doesn't suit you. not after what you did. it's a ugly fit."
you can feel his gaze on your profile, but you refuse to turn. you are a landscape of complex emotions, a cartography of shame. there is the shame of being used, of being stretched and filled and marked. the deeper, more insidious shame of having responded, of that warmth that had pooled in you despite your terror, because the body, it seems, is a stupid, traitorous animal that knows only invasion, friction and release.
and then, layered over it all, a loneliness so complete it dwarfs anything you have ever felt in your solitude.
because to be alone was one thing. to be this intimately known, seen in your absolute degradation, witnessed in your most unraveled state, and to then be left inside this flayed skin... that is a loneliness of an entirely new magnitude.
the hunter's eyes is a brand you still feel, a third set of footprints in the snow alongside yours. he is back at the cabin, satisfied by the fire, but his presence is here, in the way you hold yourself, in the memory of his panting, the hi-hat keeping time to your ruin.
"it wasn't an act in there, and this isn't an act out here."
it's mostly a laugh. mostly. or atleast that'swhat you gaslit yourself into believeing. all you know is that it's ripped from a place you thought had been cauterized. "you expect me to believe that? you switch it on and off like a faucet. the monster and the man. which one is the real you, rogers? the one who held me down or the one who asks about the goddamn weather?"
"they're the same man," he says, and there's no apology in it. "the one who holds you down is the one who makes sure you don't freeze to death after. it's the same instinct. possession. protection. it all comes from the same place."
"possession," you spit the word, turning your head just enough to see him. "is that what you call it? you keep using that word. it doesn't make it noble. it just makes you sound like a thug who stole something."
"what would you call it?" he stops walking, forcing you to stop or leave him behind. you stop, rooted by the force of his will. "what happened in that cabin. give it a name. any name you want."
you flinch, turning your face back to the safety of the horizon. you can't name it. every word you grasp for—rape, violation, assault—feels simultaneously true and utterly inadequate. they don't capture the terrifying complexity, the way pleasure had been woven through the pain like a thread in a burial shroud.
"see?" he says, and his voice is softer now. "you can't. because it was more than any one thing. it was a negotiation. it was your fuckin' surrender, your a baptism. i took something. i gave you something else in return. something you didn't even know you were starving for."
"you gave me nothing!" you whirl on him then, and it sends a hot lance of pain through your core. you welcome it because it is a clean, honest one. "i said cut it out, rogers," the words coming out of you are no longer dead leaves but shards of glass. "just... stop. stop trying to pretty it up with your fucking poetry. you fucked me. you used me. you let him watch. call it what it is."
he stands his ground. his face, usually so open, is a neutral mask, but his eyes are a storm over an frozen sea. "stop what? stop pretending that you didn't arch your back for it? that you didn't scream my name into that fucking wall like it was a prayer and a curse all at once?"
the truth, the vulgarity in it, fucking hits you. you take a step back. “i was scared,” you whisper.
“you were fuckin’ alive,” he counters, invading that step, that obscene, offensive distance you tried to take. “terrified, and furious. and so fucking alive it was like watching a star come to life. i didn’t pretty it up. i stripped you down to the bone. to the fuckin’ nerves. until there was nothing left but the truth of you. and it was the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen.”
“beautiful?” you choked on the word as a hysterical blob rises in your throat. “you’re insane.”
“am i?” that meter of distance is gone. it’s pain all over again. being invaded and taken over, having forced his way into you. it triggers the memory. “or are you jus terrified of what you looked like, stripped that bare? of what you felt?”
“you had no right,” you said through gritted teeth, proclaiming whatever power you had left.
“rights are the first thing to do in a war zone,” he says. “and that cabin was a warzone. a war against yourself. i just chose a side.”
“my side? you brutalized me.”
“i woke you up!” he finally lets go of whatever thread of control he had left of himself. his control wasn’t loud but it was a force of nature contained. “i made it so you couldn’t lie to yourself after! to make sure you couldn’t pack it away in some little box in your head and call it a mistake, a moment of weakness, something that happened in the dark that you can pretend didn’t! he was a witness to your fuckin’ surrender, yes. but mostly to your own goddamn awakening. so you could never, ever forget it fuckin’ happened.”
you stare at him, blindsided. the logic is insane. it is brutal. it is… horribly, terrifyingly perceptive. he has seen the deepest, most hidden mechanism of your soul—the self deception, the fear—and he has taken a hammer to it. “you think i don’t know that look?” he continues. “that deer-in-headlights panic when your own body betrays you? when it starts feeling soemthing you’ve spent a lifetime telling it it shouldn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t feel? you think i don’t know the first instinct is to run, to hide, to rationalize it away? i took that option off of the fuckin’ table. you can’t un-know what happened. you can’t unfeel what you felt. and you can’t pretend he didn’t see it on your face, in the way your body moved. it’s done. it’s in you now. so what are you doing to do about it?”
your mouth is dry. the wind is colder. he has looked right into the heart of your shame, the core of your terror, and he has named it. he saw the unwanted pleasure as a betrayal to be weaponized. he saw the horrifying, unfamilar warmth as a thing to corner and expose in a way that could not be denied.
“dulce bellum inexpertis,” you whisper. the words slip out like a cold, hard stone in your mouth. “war is sweet to those who never experienced it. you speak of awakening as if it is a gift. you talk of feeling alive as if the cost isn’t everything you were before.”
“and what were you before?” he shoots back immediately, refusing to let you walk away. “you were a ghost in a fuckin’ cabin. a story that ended decades ago. a monument to your own survival, but a monument is just a fancy tombstone. how could you live and have no story to tell? you were buried alive in that silence and i dug you up. it’s messy. it’ll continue to be ugly. that’s what being dug up feels like.”
“you had no right,” you whisper again. the fight bleeds out of you, leaving nothing but a hollow void, like a new born thing left on the ice.
“i had every right,” he counters, and it’s not kind at all. “you gave me that right when you stopped fighting. when you let me in. that wasn’t just your body, and you know it. that was a door, and you opened it. the cage is open now, and you can walk out anytime you want. the rifle is in your hand. the woods are right there. so why are you still here? why are you standing in the snow with me instead of putting a bullet in my chest and running as far as your legs will carry you?”
the question shoots a void right through you. it crushes your ribs, and seeps right through your heart and every ounce of your being. it rushes into your bloodstream and tears you apart vein by vein. why aren’t you running? why isn’t the rifle coming up? why are your feet blocks of ice, frozen to this spot facing him?
“you and… you and him… talk about me like i’m some… some project,” you say. “a broken thing for you to fix with your fucking… methods.”
“not your soul,” he says. softening infinitesimally, which is somehow worse than his anger. “your wiring. your instincts. we know them because they’re ours too. the freeze. the fight. the flight. the fucked up way pleasure can twisted up with pain and fear until you can’t tell one from the other, until you start to need the one to feel the other. we know what it is to have a body that’s a weapon first and a home a distanct second. bucky… he watched because he understands. not to get off on it. to see it. to see you come out on the other side. to know it’s possible.”
“you’re angry because something in you liked it,” he states, simple as that. no judgment. just a cold, hard truth laid bare on the snow between you. “and that terrifies you more than any blizzard, more than any avalanche around here ever could. you’re not angry at me. you’re angry at that part of yourself you can’t control. the part that’s still just an animal that wants warmth and touch and to not be alone in the dark.”
the tears escaping your eyelids froze instantly on your cheek. you refuse to acknowledge them. he sees everything. he sees straight through you, the anger, the hunter, straight to the terrified, thawing hare within.
“and what if i can’t control it?” you ask, admitting the deepest, most shameful fear. “ what if it.. what if it changes me? what if it wins?”
a smile touches his lips. cruel and fucking painful, like… like it crept up. “good,” steve rogers says, the soldier and the man perfectly aligned in that single word. “let it.”
the winds lonely sound that seems to mock your silence. the tracks they were supposed to be following are already buried, erased as if they had never been there at all. the metaphor was not lost on you. the two of you stand there in the silence. the question he’d asked still hung there, frozen in the air. the truth was a mountain at your back.
why are you still here?
you have no answer left for him. no answer for yourself. only the memory of a fire that had burned your entire world away, the ghost of a bucky’s gaze, and the terrifying, hollow ache of the silence it had left behind, an emptiness inside you fills his words, his anger, his terrifying truth and have done nothing to fill.
──★ ˙🍓 ̟ 🐇!!
the cabin door groaned open, sealing you into the warmth of the cabin once again. it had felt like a fever after the clean, cold knife of the outdoors. it was different inside, given the memory of what had happened the last time you were here.
bucky was right where you’d left him, a dark chair on the couch, sharpening a knife with a rhythmic scrape-scrape that sets your teeth on edge. it’s a sound as old as time, as old as war. his eyes flicked from yours to steve’s, flushed with cold and the memory of everything, to you as you marched past, like a soldier retreating from a battlefield you’d lost.
“no luck?” the sound felt like touch on freshly bruised skin. intimate yet unwelcomed.
you didn’t answer, nor did you even glance his way. to look at him was to acknowledge the witness, the validate the spectator of your own undoing. you kept your eyes on the door to your bedroom, a sanctuary that was no longer a sanctuary, just the least exposed place to bleed.
“wind picked up. tracks were gone,” steve said with the voice of a diplomat answering for a hostile nation. you heard a shrug in his tone, born our of forced casualness. it made your skin crawl.
you didn't stop. you pushed the bedroom door open, the simple act feeling like a monumental effort. the room was dark, cold, tasting of dust and old wood. you didn't bother with the lamp. you didn't take off your coat, your trousers, the clothes that smelled of cold air and sweat. you just toed off your heavy boots, letting them fall on the floorboards. then you collapsed onto the bed, face first, into the rough wool of the blanket, ridden of sleep or a cry but simply just... existing. hollowed out, a shell waiting for the echo to fade.
a moment later, a small weight indented the mattress beside you. a soft, mrrp? alpine. she'd been hiding under the bed. now she emerged, pressing her small nose against your temple in a gesture of pure inquiry, then curling into the space between your arm and your body. her purr was the only honest sound in the world, untouched by shame or strategy.
you didn't know how long you lay there before the murmur of their voices slithered under the door. low at first, a rumble.
"...pushing her, steve." bucky's voice, a blunt instrument.
"she's not made of glass, "
"what the hell happened out there? she looked like she'd walked through her own grave."
"she's figuring it out." the voice of a man who believed he held the blueprint to a bomb he'd already triggered.
"figuring what out? how you broke her?"
you could picture steve's jaw tightening, the way it did when he was holding back a torrent of righteous conviction.
"i didn't break her."
"smells like a nightmare, not a wake-up call. she didn't even look at me. couldn't meet my eyes."
"maybe she's not afraid of you. maybe she's afraid of what she let you see."
he saw too much. he always saw too much. the memory of bucky's dark gaze from the couch, absorbing every flinch, every suppressed gasp, was a brand on your soul.
"she's a house of cards, and you blew on it. you and your... grand, fucking revelations."
"a house of cards is meant to fall. a fortress is meant to be breached. which one is she?"
"right now?" bucky's voice dropped, laced with a surprising, gritty empathy. "she's a person who went out to hunt dinner and came back looking like she'd seen a ghost. her hands were shaking when she walked past me, steve. shaking."
"she did," steve's voice dropped, but you could still hear it, a verdict delivered. "she saw her own."
the truth of it was a punch to the gut. you squeezed your eyes shut, burying your face deeper into the wool, trying to block out the clarity that was more painful than any confusion. alpine kneaded her claws gently into your arm, a counterpoint to the agony.
"so what's the plan, captain?" bucky's voice was laced with a sarcasm that felt like concern twisted into a weapon. "you've exposed the ghost. now what? you gonna teach it to tango? make it a nice little companion for your collection of lost causes?"
"i'm going to give it a reason to stay."
"and if it doesn't want to? if it prefers being a ghost? if the warmth is more terrifying than the cold?"
"then it will," steve said, and the acceptance in his tone was more frightening than any demand, any cage. "the door is open. she can walk out anytime she wants. i won't stop her."
the words from the mountain came back, echoing in the dark room. why are you still here? the question had no answer anymore, only a feeling—a terrifying weight of possibility.
bucky let out a short, harsh breath, a sound of pure frustration. "you talk about her like she's one of your strategic operations. an objective. a story to be finished."
"everyone has a story, bucky," steve's voice was softer now. "she was just pretending hers was over. how can you live and have no story to tell?" a pause, filled only by the scrape of the knife stopping. "i'm just turning the page. she's the one who has to decide what gets written on it."
"that's a hell of a lot of responsibility to drop on someone who just had their foundations blown out from under them."
"it's the only kind of freedom that matters."
the conversation lulled then. but it seeped under the door like a gas, filling the room.
you were a ghost they were arguing over. a story they were trying to rewrite. a fortress, a house of cards, a hare, a ghost. you were all of it and none of it. you were a question they were debating, and you didn't even know the language of the answer.
you curled onto your side, pulling alpine closer. against their voices, against the analysis, against the terrifying, wide-open freedom of the unlocked cage. you could walk out. you knew every path, every hidden trail, every place to disappear. you could vanish back into the white silence and never be found, a ghost returning to its haunt.
but you didn't move.
you lay there in the dark in the clothes that smelled of the forest and the soldiers, and listened to the two men on the other side of the door decide who you were, their voices a map of a territory you were lost in.
the cage was open. and the most terrifying thing of all was that you had no idea where you wanted to go, because for the first time, the emptiness inside wasn't just silence; it was a question.
hare taglist. @fluorjscent @avgdestitute @hannah9921 @henrywinterreincarnate @luvlikathyu @nandanandada @btwbaureidrc @bucklesby-barnes
“Would you ever wanna try something a little… different?”
“Different how?”
“Mm, nothing crazy. Just… rougher, maybe?”
pairing: steve harrington x reader
warnings: established relationship, softservicedom!steve, sub!reader, first time bdsm, light bondage, rope, oral (f!receiving), piv sex, dirty talk, praise, pet names, light orgasm control/degradation, hint of possession kink, lots of check-ins, kink negotiation/exploration, nervous loverboy stevie, light angst, domestic fluff, steve's pov, aka ur his one-way ticket out of vanilla-town
word count: 4k
a/n: he ties you up but like, he loves you or whatever | playlist 𝜗ৎ
Steve Harrington can take a punch.
He’s taken plenty, actually. To the face, the gut, the ego.
He’s been thrown into walls, into worlds that shouldn’t exist. Walked away from concussions, black eyes, bruised ribs, a goddamn Russian torture lab under a shopping mall.
He can take a hit, is what he’s saying.
He’s learned how to breathe through the pain. How to swallow the blood and ignore the ringing in his ears. Tape over the cracks. Wash off the dirt. Pretend the ache doesn’t reach as deep as it does.
But the thought of hurting you?
That’s the one that floors him.
That’s the kind of fear that crawls up into his throat and sits there, trembling.
ꨄ
“Baby, you’re overthinking this.”
Your voice comes soft, lilting with amusement. You’re sat cross-legged on the bed, wearing one of his old shirts: faded navy, collar slipping off your shoulder in a way that makes his brain fuzz out a little. He loses focus for all of two seconds before he starts pacing again, back and forth over the same six feet of carpet.
“I’m not,” he says. Biggest lie in America.
“Uh-huh.” You glance at the floor. “I think the rug might disagree.”
He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair again, that nervous tic that’s been with him since high school. The same hands that used to grip baseball bats and steering wheels now twisting through his own hair, because it’s the only way he knows to keep still.
“I just... I don’t wanna screw this up. You said you wanted to try, and I do too, but—” He swallows. “What if I get it wrong?”
You tilt your head, eyes soft. “You won’t.”
“What if I do, though?”
“Then we talk. That’s the whole point, right? To figure it out together.”
He lets out a slow breath, nods.
He’s trying. Really, he is.
But his eyes won’t stop drifting.
Toward the bed. Toward the thing sitting there like a dare.
It’s a ten-foot coil of rope.
Soft, white cotton. The kind they sell in loops at Melvald’s, next to the gardening shears and seed packets. Ordinary, if you don’t know what it means. Harmless, except for the way it’s making his stomach feel like it’s going to launch out of his throat.
He stares at it like it might sprout teeth.
“Hey,” you murmur, reaching out to touch his wrist. “Come here.”
You tug him down beside you, thigh to thigh, your skin warm through his jeans. Your hand finds the back of his neck, thumb tracing over the ridges of healed scars he still avoids in the mirror sometimes.
“You know we can stop any time,” you whisper, smile gentle.
He nods. “I know. I want to. I just... don’t wanna mess it up.”
“You won’t,” you tell him again, even softer this time. Your eyes track him for a moment, quiet and fond.
Then you smile. Let your voice drop honey-warm, just a tad teasing: “Hey, how about you stop worrying for a bit and just kiss me?”
He huffs out a laugh, shaky. “Yeah, okay.”
That, at least, he knows how to do.
ꨄ
It started as a whisper in the dark, weeks ago.
Drowsy pillow talk turned into a question. Naked and tangled together, your voice soft against his chest.
“Would you ever wanna try something a little... different?”
He’d blinked up at the ceiling, pulse stuttering. “Different how?”
“Mm, nothing crazy. Just… rougher, maybe?”
It followed him around for days, that word.
Tugged at him while he showered, while he washed the dishes, while he tried, unsuccessfully, to focus at work.
He carried it with him everywhere, turning it over and over like a smooth stone in his pocket.
Wondering what it meant, coming from you.
You, who never asks for more than he can give. You, who makes him feel seen, wanted, safe.
He thought about it long enough that he started noticing things he hadn’t before. Like how your breath hitches when he gets a touch bolder with you, when he pulls you in by the hips, when his voice gets a little firmer, drops a little deeper.
And now that he's seen it, seen you, he can't unsee it. Can't stop imagining what this might mean for you.
For him.
What rougher might look like between two people who love each other the way you do.
ꨄ
Three days later, he drove all the way up to Chicago to run “errands.”
Spent the whole afternoon wandering through record shops, bookstores, antique stalls, looking for something he didn’t quite have words for, until he found it: tucked in the back of a cramped little store that smelled like incense and weed.
A zine.
Hand-stapled, smudged with black ink:
Soft Restraint: Notes on Safety & Play
The title alone made his pulse jump.
He flipped through it in a corner like a kid sneaking a dirty magazine.
Except... it wasn’t dirty. It was gentle. Thoughtful. It talked about trust and boundaries and “the quiet work of keeping someone safe.”
That part stuck.
So he bought it, stuffed it between two Duran Duran tapes, and drove home with his heart thumping double time. Spent the weekend cross-legged on his bed, reading safety notes and how-to guides, squinting at tiny diagrams while he practiced.
A shoelace around a chair leg. A necktie around a throw pillow. A silk scarf looped between two slats of his headboard.
Learning the rhythm of it: tying, untying, tightening, loosening. Two fingers loose, always.
"Every knot you tie is a promise, not a bond."
He memorized that line. Repeated it under his breath until it felt like prayer.
ꨄ
Tonight, that prayer’s being tested.
“Okay. How’s that feel?”
“Good.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Steve. It’s perfect.”
He checks again anyway, fingers trembling as he tugs at the restraint. It drapes in clean lines across your wrists, pale rope winding around the dark mahogany of his bed frame.
He hadn’t planned on using rope at all. Thought he’d get something familiar and harmless, like one of his many neckties (he’s got plenty, all unused), but the guide had warned about narrow fabrics cutting off circulation. He’d taken one look at the words nerve damage, muttered “jesus christ,” and driven straight to Melvald's.
Poor Don didn’t even glance up from his Wednesday crossword when Steve walked up, cheeks redder than a stop sign, and asked for ten feet of cotton rope.
Now, kneeling over you on the bed, his face is flushed that exact same shade of cherry. Hair a mess, shirt tossed somewhere on the floor, his lips swollen from all the times you pulled him down, stealing kisses whenever he leaned too close.
You’re grinning up at him now, happy and radiant and impossibly calm, which admittedly makes him more uneasy. Makes him more determined to get this right.
“You know,” you muse, “I’m starting to think you might’ve missed your calling as a Boy Scout.”
He snorts, loosening one knot just to retie it. “Yeah, well. If I’m gonna do it, I wanna get it right.”
“Baby.”
“Yeah?”
“Breathe.”
He lets out a shaky laugh. “I am breathing.”
“Barely.”
It’s teasing, but there’s tenderness behind it. And when he looks down at you—at your hands, at your face tipped up toward him, smiling like you’ve never been safer—something inside him goes quiet.
“I’m never gonna finish this if you keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, lips twitching.
Your laughter fills the room. It’s a sound he’d build a life around, if he could. He’s been thinking about that a lot, actually.
He stops fussing with the rope long enough to take your hand. Threads his fingers through yours, palm to palm, tracing the faint indents where your rings usually sit.
Wonders, not for the first time, what it would mean to add another one there someday.
“You’re sure about this?”
“I’m sure.”
“Not just because you think I’ll like it?”
“Steve,” you smile, eyes certain. “I trust you.”
ꨄ
Trust.
Steve Harrington has been rebuilding that word from the ground up.
He’s spent years trying to be someone worthy of it. Chipping away the old armor, the fake cool, the paper-thin ego he balanced like a crown because it was easier than being known.
He used to be the king of pretending.
Steve Harrington knows how to take a punch because he’s been taking them his whole life—some with fists, most with silence.
His first heartbreak wasn’t with any girl. It was with a front door closing at age twelve, the sound of his parents’ car pulling away for another “business trip.” The kind that lasted weeks. He’d wander around his empty house with a bottle of Coke and the TV humming, pretending the static counted as company. His mom would call twice, maybe three times a month. Once, from Paris, to ask if he’d fed the dog they didn’t have anymore.
So he learned early: if you want to survive, you get good at pretending. You smile. You make it look easy. You become the kind of person people envy, so they don’t see how empty you are.
Smirks sharp enough to cut glass, laughter loud enough to drown doubt. He coasted on locker-room bravado and casual cruelty. Smoke and mirrors. Nothing but bullshit.
He used to think confidence meant control. That being untouchable meant being safe.
But monsters changed that. Watching his friends bleed changed that. Realizing he’d die for any one of those dumb, brave kids changed that.
You changed that.
You taught him that caring out loud is its own kind of courage.
That love isn’t what you earn by being impressive, it’s what you build by being honest.
And if he's being honest, if there’s one thing Steve's come to realize about himself—after monsters and heartbreak and all the quiet, ordinary fears that came in between—it’s that he’s never been cool about caring. Never. And when it comes to you?
He doesn’t even want to try.
He wants to be the guy who cares. Loudly. Clumsily. The guy who asks, who listens, who gets it wrong and learns. The guy who remembers the little things: the sound of your laugh, the weight of your hand, the way you sigh out his name when you’re close.
He used to think trust meant being liked.
Never getting dumped. Never getting left behind.
Now, he knows better.
It’s quieter.
It’s earned.
It’s work.
Tonight feels like a trust fall. His biggest one yet.
ꨄ
“Too tight?”
“No.”
“Can you move your fingers?”
You wiggle them. “See? All good.”
He exhales. “Okay. The book said it should be, like, two fingers loose, so—"
“Wait,” you grin, “you read about this?”
He scoffs, ears turning red. “Well, yeah. Figured I should, you know… practice.”
You study him for a long moment, quiet.
“Wow,” you whisper, awe blooming behind your teasing smile. “So you’re an expert now, huh?”
Cheeks tinged pink, he grins, thumb stroking over the soft curve of your lips. Dips his voice all low and playful, edged with something daring:
“Guess you’ll have to find out.”
You giggle softly, and he can’t help but lean down. To kiss you slow and sweet, even as everything inside him riots: heart hammering, mind buzzing, all his instincts screaming be careful, be good.
He’s trying. Really, he is.
He brushes his fingers up your arm, light as a sigh.
“Still okay?” he whispers.
“Still okay.”
“You’ll tell me if you want to stop?”
“Steve.”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
He blinks, throat tight.
“I love you too.”
ꨄ
He eats you out first, always.
He gets lost in it, goes a little crazed for it, the way he tends to do when he’s down here. Tip of his nose glistening, pressing, soft nudges to your clit that punctuate the relentless pressure of his tongue as he licks his way inside. The taste, the feel, the rich heady scent and the slick glide of it against his lips—its enough to quiet everything else.
His hand slides up your thigh, past the junction of your hip, reaching up your stomach. But where he expects to find the familiar grasp of your fingers threading through his, that grounding touch he relies on to steady himself just as much as you do, he finds only empty air.
For a moment, he falters.
It’s strange. Disorienting, even. He’s used to that anchor, the feel of you squeezing back with a grip so tight it borders on desperation, a silent promise that you’re right there with him, holding on.
But now... now there’s space where your fingers used to be. And when he hears the dull rasp of cotton grating against wood... that’s new, too. So is the sight that greets him when he glances up, past the swell of your stomach, your breasts, the faint shimmer of sweat at your collarbone.
The subtle pressure at the bend of your elbows. The contrast of linen-white braids against your skin.
Steve’s gaze lingers there. Tracing the lines of it, studying it.
It’s a simple double-column knot, one he practiced over and over on a pillow until his fingers could do it without shaking.
But seeing it now, on you, it feels different. Alive. An extension of his touch in some strange, perfect way. And even though he can’t reach you there, can’t ground you the way he wants, it still feels right. Safe.
He lets that thought ground him instead as your hips start to stir beneath him, impatiently canting toward his face.
The sound of your soft whimpering pulls him back.
He smiles, eyes flicking down to the place he knows by heart, the place that beckons him louder than anything else.
Even in the low light, you’re positively dripping. Glistening under the dark glow of his bedside lamp, golden pools of warmth illuminating everything that’s wet: his fingers, his chin, the inside of your thighs.
He swallows hard, hand splayed over your knee as he gently pushes it back.
“God,” he breathes, tongue dragging across his bottom lip, licking up every bit of you left behind. “What’s got my girl so worked up, hm?”
You let out a soft groan, headboard creaking again as you tug on the binds.
His gaze flicks up. “Wrists feel okay?”
You nod, fingers flexing. Then, quiet as breath: “Steve?”
“Yeah, baby.”
“Please?”
Heat flares through him. Something primal and tender sparking at the sight of your pleading gaze, made of equal parts awe and responsibility. He watches the rope flex against your skin, the way your body bends and arches with it.
Following the pull. Trusting the pressure.
Vulnerability, given fully.
It’s captivating. More stunning than anything he could’ve conjured up in his mind.
He almost tells you as much, right then, just how beautiful you look bound like this.
But then he remembers what you had told him, before this whole night started.
You wanted him a little different tonight.
A little firmer. A little meaner.
So he climbs back up your body. Swallows the softness in his voice and lets something steadier take its place.
His chest heaves as he leans down, brushing sweaty strands of hair from your temple, holding your face in both hands.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low. “All tied up like this. This what you wanted?
Your reaction is immediate, the creak of wood giving you away before any nod or whimper can. The sheets rustle under your back as you wriggle your hips.
“Y-yeah. ‘S what I wanted.”
“Thought so,” he hums, sliding a hand down to feel the velvety warmth of your slit. He drags a slow line upward, teasing over your folds, gathering up the pooled wetness on the pad of his index. Brings it back up to your mouth; he’s barely tapped his finger against your lips when you start opening for him, suckling instinctively.
“Wish you could see yourself right now,” he murmurs, watching the way your lips purse around his finger. “All spread out like this.”
Your hips twitch, the headboard groans.
“Soaking wet. Desperate. So greedy, you know that?”
“Stevie,” you moan around his finger, struggling harder. “Please.”
He tuts softly, pulling his hand away. “Stay still. Don’t move unless I tell you.”
The words land somewhere deep in his throat, the timbre of it surprising even him.
It’s new. Near frightening in its weight. But beneath that fear is a warmth, a rightness. A promise. Care that takes shape in guidance.
“I got you,” he whispers, chest pressing into yours. “Don’t pull too hard on the rope, okay? If anything doesn’t feel good, tell me.”
Your nod is all the permission he needs.
He shuffles closer, pressing against the back of your thighs and pushing them back. His own cock twitches against his stomach, tip red and swollen and leaking something fierce. He grants himself two quick strokes before he lowers himself fully.
The headboard gives a deep, resonant creak as he sinks in slow, reveling in the wet, plush stretch of your entrance. He watches your face the entire way. Doesn’t stop until he’s all the way inside.
“Fuck, Steve—” you gasp, fists clenching tight above your head. “S-so—it’s so deep. Feels so good.”
“Yeah? Right there?” He makes quick work of tucking a pillow under your hips, finding the angle that would’ve had you marking him in crescents if your hands weren’t folded helplessly above you.
“You like being tied up, baby?” He grunts, brows knitting as he starts rolling his hips; slow, deep rocking motions that have your lashes fluttering with every stroke. “Held down, made to—made to take my cock?"
Even now, after everything, hearing himself say it sends a hot flush crawling up his neck. That sudden surge of boldness, the raw, heady implication behind the words, it all sends a quiet thrill tightening in his chest. But you only mewl louder, head rubbing against the pillow as you nod fiercely.
“Yes,” you whisper, voice trembling. He can tell from the soft clench of your eyes, the tiny tears beading at the corners, just how much of him you’re feeling. “M-make me take it. Want to be... want to be good for you.”
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, hips pistoning faster, fingers circling your clit in tandem with his thrusts. “You’re so good. Taking me so good.”
Words start to fail you; your jaw falls slack, mouth hanging open in a silent scream. Every thrust makes your head loll back, your eyes glassy and half-lidded as you try to hold onto his gaze. You’ve gone quiet in a way he recognizes, letting out nothing but soft, breathy little gasps that punctuate the rhythm of his relentless pace. It’s the way you get when everything's too much, too good, too intense, words unable to keep up with how you’re feeling.
“Oh god,” you inhale sharply, tightening around him all of a sudden. “Steve, I’m... c-can I… hm—"
“What do you need, baby? Tell me.”
“Can I—ah, can I please come?”
“Hah, shit—”
Your question knocks the air out of him before he can even think. Hits him squarely in the chest with all the blunt force of a Mack truck.
He lets out a strangled groan: loud, guttural, punched out of his lungs and edged with something close to pain. He has to stop thrusting for a second, has to bow his head, press his forehead against your shoulder and fist the sheets to stave off his orgasm.
You’d brought this up during The Talk. About wanting to ask for permission. For his permission to come.
Still, it catches him so off guard it leaves him reeling, gasping for air.
He takes a slow breath to recover, eyes clenched tight. Then he resumes his pace, nodding against your neck.
“Y-yeah, go ahead, baby. Let me feel you. Come for me.”
He keeps his fingers working over your clit, his other hand tucked under your knee so he can hike your leg up higher and drive in at just the right angle. Sucks soft welts above your collarbone while he whispers quiet, adoring encouragements into your skin.
It’s not long before he feels you flutter around him, clenching hard—once, twice—your moans pitching higher and higher against his ear—
And yeah.
Yeah.
He gets it now.
Really, truly gets it.
Why there are books and movies and magazines dedicated to this stuff. Whispers of a world he never quite understood before.
Beautiful doesn’t even begin to cover it.
There’s something near spellbinding in the way you move: the slow twist of your wrists, the curve of your spine, the turn of your face as you press your nose into your arm, one delicate teardrop rolling down your temple.
You look caught between two instincts; pulled into the warmth of him, recoiling from the depth of it, wanting to escape the intensity and reach for him in the same breath.
There’s no solving it, no containing it. No way to deal with it, except to surrender.
To feel it. To take what he’s giving you.
And he watches, struck silent, realizing that he’s the one drawing that reaction from you.
“There you go,” he grunts, keeping his thrusts deep, stroking over that sensitive spot inside you. There’s this strange, heady sensation that surges through him while he watches you squirm, his chest seizing with an overwhelming desire to protect, to hold, to keep. “Such a good girl. My girl. All mine, aren’t you?”
You nod through your orgasm, unable to do much else but whine and whimper and rock your wrists side to side as the pleasure crests.
“That’s it. Take it. Take all of it, baby. Let me feel you.”
Your orgasm hits harder and longer than he’s ever seen it. You can’t seem to stop quivering, shaking, squeezing around his cock in long, drawn-out pulses, over and over. And every time he thinks you’re about done, there’s just a little more.
He rides it all out with you, his own climax washing over him with a quiet shudder. It’s insignificant compared to watching yours unfold; he’s too mesmerized to pay it much mind.
And afterward, it takes a few quiet moments for you to come back to the world. He waits, hand smoothing over your thigh while he stays buried inside you.
When your eyes flutter open, lashes jeweled with tears, you let out a soft laugh: a fucked-out, watery sound that floods him with relief.
He drops himself down, lips colliding with yours in a desperate rush of feeling. Knows he should give you another second to catch your breath, but this is the only way he knows to bleed out some of that intense pressure in his chest. Well, that and:
“God, I love you. Love you so much. You’re so fucking beautiful.”
You giggle, panting softly, giving his lips another peck. “So... you liked it, then? The rope?”
“Liked it?” He huffs, nuzzling your neck, lips trailing soft kisses down your throat. “Baby, I fucking loved it. Can’t believe I got to see you come like that.”
You laugh at the ceiling, letting out a quiet puff of air. “Ok, good.”
He glances up at the headboard. “You feel okay? Wrists hurt?”
You hum quietly, flexing your fingers. “Not at all. Guy who tied 'em up did a really good job.”
He lets out an affectionate huff, dipping down for another kiss because he can’t help himself. “Oh yeah? He sounds hot.”
“Eh, he’s okay.”
He quirks a brow, pushing himself up on his hands—still buried inside you, still half-hard.
“Just okay?”
You nod, smile blissed-out and lazy. “Mm, yeah. I try not to encourage it. He—” A quick nudge of his hips forward, just a tad, and it earns a soft gasp from you. “—h-he gets a little cocky sometimes.”
He snorts, sinking down onto his elbows, licking a smirk across your lips.
“Don’t think you were complaining about his cock a second ago.” He mumbles, gently rolling his hips, feeling himself grow fully hard again. Knows he could go for at least three more rounds, easy.
He reaches his hand down to tease your clit, feeling the slick heat of you under his fingers, a living, pulsing reminder of just how hard he made you come. He knows you’re sensitive, especially after an orgasm so intense, but this—this was another one of your brilliant, wicked ideas: to draw out the pleasure, take whatever he wants to give you.
Your breath hitches against his mouth, and suddenly a dozen new ideas start rushing through his head.
“You wanna keep going?” he breathes, glancing up to where you’re still bound to the bed. His eyes sweep along the gentle indentations along your wrist: no irritation, no signs of strain.
“Mhm,” you nod, breathless, utterly boneless in his arms.
And wrapped up in the quiet power of your surrender, Steve’s mind starts to wander again.
To burnt pancakes and mismatched mugs.
To messy gardens and sun-warmed porches.
To footprints in flour and laughter filling the kitchen.
To days that start with your smile and nights that end with your hand curled in his. To shared plans whispered in half-sleep and the deep, unshakable comfort of knowing that no matter what comes next, you’ll be beside him through every season.
Love. Devotion. The sweetness of home he’s found in you without ever realizing he’d been searching for it.
And now, threaded through all of that, is something new. Something tender but fierce, a protective warmth that takes root in his chest.
He’s only just beginning to understand it. Only discovered it because you trusted him first—trusted him in ways he’s still learning how to live up to.
He hopes he’ll get to spend his lifetime cherishing that trust.
Cherishing you, if you’ll have him.
You smile up at him, hazy and adoring, and he mirrors it without thought.
“You want more?” he whispers, stroking your cheek in a quiet sort of promise.
“Yes.”
“Then ask me nicely, honey. I want to hear you say it.”
if you want to read abt how these cuties ended up together, this fic is sort of a sequel to this one!
the hare, the hunter & the soldier: dulce bellum inexpertis
bucky barnes x fem!reader x steve rogers
summary. the cage was wide open but now what? the decision is up to you. 18k words.
cw. dostoyevsky references. smut. p in v. degradation . noncon elements. dubcon. grief. depression. feelings of inadequacy. isolation. reader's entire family dying. then smut. literally like 5k words worth of steve undressing reader. cunnilingus. fingering. steve being a FREAK. bucky being a FREAK. exhibitionism. voyeurism. masturbation. cuck couch?? rizzlord bucky. praise. dumification. steve asks for consent.. sort of. reader is implied to be a inexperienced? maybe even a virgin.
a/n. this took me only. three months. to get done but whatever yolo. not proofread AT ALL
dividers by enchanthings-a
i am not responsible for your media consumption.
part i.
the door opening is a solid sound and reassuring as the bones of the house itself. here, you shut out the shouting city, the clatter-clang of trains, the countless strangers hurrying under dripping umbrellas.
it smells of beeswax, layered over that sweetness of your father's pipe tobacco—nightcap—a scent as much a part of him as a limb. and beneath it all, the deep, musk of leather bindings and paper, the accumulated ghosts of a thousand stories breathing softly from the floor-to-ceiling shelves lining the hall, each spine a sliver of another world. you wrestle the coat off, the chill of the walk clinging to your face like sticky cobwebs.
sound rushes in, like a tapestry of belonging: tick-tock-tock of the grandfather clock standing in the hall. its pendulum swings. the grave inevitability, counting down to an unknown measure.
from beyond, your older brother at the piano. debussy. clair de lune. the music sounds like water slipping over stones in a secret garden that exists only in the mind.
it's a sound that creates tenderness and an ache beneath your ribs, like a sweetness verging on sorrow.
"there you are," your father's voice. in the study hearth, visible through the open door. he doesn't look up from his chair, spectacles hang low on the bridge of his nose.
a volume rests open on his lap—tolstoy's war and peace. the gold lettering on the spine catches the light. his pipe rests in the green glass ashtray shaped like a sleeping hound. a ribbon of smoke curls upwards, drawing lazy spirals in the still air. the familiarity of the sight is a stone dropped into the murky pool of your school-day weariness.
then, a sudden blur of grey trousers and a shock of hair mirroring your own. your twin. he materializes beside the dark wood newel post at the foot of the stairs, leaning against it with an ease born of belonging.
a half-smirk shows on his lips, identical to the one you feel tugging at your own. there's a well-thumbed, a dog-eared copy of stevenson's treasure island between his fingers.
"took you long enough." he says.
no need for loud greetings. there's a current you both breathe, like a secret language written in glances and infinitesimal shifts.
you press your cheek against the warmth of his shoulder. it's a silent communication older than memory, older than words.
he smells of pencil shavings, mud and rain.
the drawing-room door opens wider, burgundy wall and the piano's black lacquer revealed. the cascade of notes falters.
your older brother turns on the piano stool. his face still holds the focus of the music, then softens into a smile. one that crinkles the corners.
"homework or hot chocolate first?" he asks. his fingers rests on the keys. behind him, on the marquetry side table is a volume of dickens' great expectations.
the room beyond is a haven of rich burgundy walls, good but unostentatious silver frames holding landscapes. comfortable wealth. quiet, unspoken privilege.
you dump your satchel, burdened with the weight of latin conjugations and unforgiving geometry theorems, onto the ottoman near the study door.
"chocolate," already turning towards the warmth and promise emanating from the kitchen doorway. there is a scent of baking gingerbread. your twin falls into step beside you.
in the study, your father turns a page of his book – the sound of time passing peacefully.
and the piano begins again, exploring a new phrase, a different shade of light on water.
the clock marks the steady rhythm beneath it all. tick. tock. tick. tock.
it's this.
this alchemy of sound and scent and silent communion. the grounding weight of your father's intelligence from his chair.
the silent, almost cellular understanding between you and your twin.
your older brother's gentle, melancholic artistry spilling into the spaces between the furniture, between the heartbeats, filling the house with a beauty that feels both transient and eternal.
the solidity of the books – austen's persuasion peeking from a shelf, a volume of keats beside it – standing like wise guardians.
the city presses its damp face against the tall windows, a blurred world of strangers and noise, but in here, warmth pools all around you, making itself known.
it feels eternal. unshakeable. the very air is filled with a belonging so profound it roots you to the spot just inside the drawing-room doorway, watching the sun catch the dust dancing like stars above your older brother's head as he coaxes beauty from the keys.
you don't know, yet. you don't know how the scent of beeswax, years hence, in a cabin buried under silent tons of mountain snow, will suddenly strike you not as comfort, but as the cloying perfume of the past, smelling only of loss.
you don't know how the sound of a piano, any piano, will become a phantom limb, a ghost resonating in the hollow of your chest with such force it feels like your ribs might splinter.
you don't know how the space beside you, where your twin's shoulder presses against yours now with the easy certainty of gravity, will become a yawning, hollowed-out void, colder and more absolute than the deepest crevasse in the endless mountains you will flee to.
you don't know how the grandfather clock's steady, comforting tick-tock-tock will transform, in memory, into the deafening countdown to scratchy wool uniforms smelling of mothballs and anticipation, to the silence that follows the arrival of thin, official envelopes – not letters, just three small, folded flags delivered by a stiff-lipped stranger with each a wordless epitaph.
you don't know the fragile, mortal bones beneath this warm flesh of home, the intricate scaffolding of love already under an unseen and approaching weight, about to be irrevocably splintered by the indifferent fist of history crashing down upon the world.
you only know, in this suspendedl moment, breathing in the perfume of pipe smoke, baking gingerbread, damp clothes, old paper, and the ozone smell of city rain still clinging to your own sleeves, that you are home.
completely.
a small, perfect, self-contained universe held safe within these solid walls, in the golden light of a late autumn afternoon, measured by the comforting tick-tock-tock marking a time that feels blessedly, infinitely, like forever.
you lean your head against the wood of the doorframe, closing your eyes, just listening. just breathing it in. the piano. the clock. the rustle of a page. the presence of your twin beside you. the rumble of your father shifting in his chair.
this is everything.
the warmth before the long, cold burial.
the belonging before the scattering.
the deep breath before the plunge into silence.
you think hiding in the mountains, in the snow, in the endless quiet, will be escape. you think solitude is a fortress.
you are wrong.
grief is not a storm you outrun; it's the avalanche you carry within you, waiting for the quiet to fall.
peace isn't found by avoiding the echoes of life; it's forged in the unbearable stillness after the echoes fade, when the only sound left is the relentless, hollow ticking in your own chest, counting out a time stripped bare of forever.
this moment, heavy with the scent of gingerbread and oblivion, is the last, perfect note before the burying begins.
tick. tock.
──★ ˙🍓 ̟ 🐇!!
the door spills open, and you step inside, boots crusted with snow you make no move to dislodge. your empty bag hangs lim, a declaration of your inadequacy.
the scene inside is painfully peaceful. steve is seated on the floor, his back resting against the base of the couch where bucky lies like a battered king. he's holding a book with faded words, untouched until now: jack london's 'the call of the wild'.
his voice, low and surprisingly gentle, resonant even in its quietness, fills the charged space, reading aloud: "...deep in the forest a call was sounding, and as often as he heard this call, mysteriously thrilling and luring, he felt compelled to turn his back upon the fire and the beaten earth around it, and to plunge into the forest, and on and on, he knew not where or why..."
bucky's eyes are closed, head tilted back against the pillows, but he's not asleep. his face is relaxed,nmaking him look almost peaceful. one hand rests lightly on alpine, who's a circle of white fur curled deep in the hollow of his lap.
they both turn their heads as the invasive cold hits them, as your presence, crackling with fury and failure, disrupts the calm like a stone thrown into still water.
steve's eyes widen slightly, taking in your snow-caked form – especially that damning emptiness of the bag. he lowers the book slowly.
bucky opens his eyes. the eyes of a sniper, a survivor.. sweep over you. from the snow-dusted wool clinging to your head, down to your parka, pausing for a second on the lifeless bag before finally lifting to meet your eyes.
there's no surprise there. only a deep, unnerving dissection. he sees the blizzard inside you, the shame, the panic. because bucky always sees.
alpine lifts her head, a soft questioning mrrp.
london's dying words about the wild's siren call and the larctic tension you've dragged in with you.
steve looks concerned, genuinely troubled. bucky looks... like he knows.
"pack what's yours," you say. flat, cold, scraped raw beyond a lethal finality, through the quiet like your sharpest gutting knife parting through the hare's fur and flesh. "you're leaving. today."
nobody moves. steve stares at you, confusion claws deep lines onto his forehead. bucky doesn't flinch. doesn't shift. his gaze holds yours. alpine blinks slowly.
the stillness is infuriating. the calm domesticity – steve's reading, bucky's relaxed listening, the fire's warmth, the cat's purr – feels like a vicious mockery of your empty hands, your shame, your desperation. you are the blizzard, the avalanche crashing into their fragile, firelit hearth, and they just... sit there.
"did you hear me?" you slam the door shut, sealing the cold you carry inside with you, trapping your storm of emotions within these log walls.
snow melts instantly in dirty patches around your boots, like tears on stone. "i said pack. you're gone. today. now."
steve finally finds his voice. "leave? but... bucky's leg... the snow... it's basically waist-deep out there, maybe more." he gestures towards the window. "where would we even go? we'd freeze before sundown if it even comes up."
"not. my. problem," you snap. you stalk further into the room, drawn against your will towards the stove's heat hating the weakness it reveals. the snow on your shoulders melts faster.
"you should've thought of that before you crashed here. before you..." you trail off, the real accusation – before you made me weak, before you made me forget who i am, before you made me miss – too humiliating to voice.
"before we what?" bucky shifts slightly with a wince tightening his features as his injured leg protests against the movement, but his eyes never leave yours. "before steve hesitated over a hare? before i called you 'doll'?" he says the word slowly, watching your face like a hawk.
heat, smothered by a wave of scalding rage, betrays you. bur he sees it.
"or before you decided you couldn't stand the scent of us in your precious silence anymore? couldn't stand the warmth?"
"it's my air!" you spin to face him fully, putting your back to the stove's warmth, feeling it sear through your layers. "my mountain. my home. my rules. and you've overstayed your welcome. look at you. sitting there like... like you belong. listening to stories." the word is spat like poison. "while i come back with nothing."
steve looks genuinely pained. "you missed?" he asks softly, the disbelief clear in his voice. "but... you never miss. you're... you're the best shot i've ever seen."
"exactly!" the word explodes from you, sharp as the rifle shot that found only empty snow. "i never miss! until you." you stab a mittened finger towards him. then you swing it towards bucky.
"and you. filling this place... this sanctuary... with your goddamn wars, your history, your..." you struggle, gasping, the images flooding back with force – the sounds of bodies moving, the friction against the cold bathroom door, the distracting and fucking consuming heat that had cost you the shot, cost you your identity.
"...distractions! you're a liability! both of you! bucky's broken! you're..." you look at steve, confusion on his face, the memory of his body yielding under your hands... "you're dangerous!"
bucky barks a short, humorless laugh. "dangerous? we're the dangerous ones?" he pushes himself up a higher on the pillows, wincing again but his eyes becoming predatory, focused on you.
"look at you. stalking in here covered in ice and failure, breathing frost, spitting orders like you're some wrathful god of this frozen wasteland. you're the one who vanished today because you couldn't keep your own damn head straight." he leans forward slightly. "sounds to me like the only real danger here, babydoll, is you... to yourself."
his words strike like arrows, finding every crack in your armor, burrowing themselves deep and invasive. the shame flares. he's right. devastating, humiliatingly right.
the hunter had become the hare. distracted. frozen. vanishing into the landscape of her own unraveling.
steve closes the book. like a tomb sealing in the silence.
"you're scared," steve says. the realization is quiet, simple, and devastating. "not of us. not really. you're scared of... this." he gestures with the closed book, encompassing the space between the three of you, the forced intimacy that had become something else entirely.
"of needing something... someone... besides the silence. besides the hunt. besides just surviving."
"shut up!" you snarl, the fury erupting again, but it's bleeding out fast, replaced by a wave of vulnerability.
the facade is cracking. fast. the ice melting under the heat of your own shame, leaving you exposed, naked in the open. the hare caught in the merciless dawn light.
"don't you dare analyze me, rogers! i don't need anything! especially not you! pack! your! things!" you wrench yourself away, turning your back on them, facing the glowing the stove.
you hear the rustle of blankets behind you. not the sound of packing. bucky settling back against the pillows with a sigh. steve shifting his weight on the floor.
"it's a lot of snow out there," bucky observes, conversational, lazy. "deep. easy to get lost in. vanish without a trace." he pauses, letting the implication hang – like the hare. like you almost did out there today. like you're trying to make us do.
"steve reads pretty good, you know," he continues. "london... he knew a thing or two about the wild. about the call it has. about the things that pull you out of the warmth, away from the fire." another pause, but tgen his voice drops to an intimate tone, aimed directly at.. you. "sometimes, doll... the thing you're running from hardest... is the exact same thing you ran to the wild hoping to escape."
you close your eyes tightly.
the hunter had returned empty-handed, spitting orders, convinced she was the predator driving out the threat.
but the threat wasn't outside. it was curled up right here. it was the the connection sparking between the three of you.
the hare wasn't just the one you'd missed.
it was you, trembling in the dawn, realizing with sickening clarity that you'd been running from the one thing the wild could never provide: the essential, life-giving heat of another human soul.
and now, frozen in the center of your own cabin, covered in ice and the evidence of your failure, ordering these men – these complicated, dangerous, warm men – to march into a frozen death sentence... you weren't the hunter reclaiming her territory. you were the hare, cornered, terrified, lashing out blindly at the very shadows that had finally found the hidden entrance to your burrow.
lthe lesson, carved in ice, is brutally clear: you can run to the wild, but you can't run from yourself, or from the need for the fire's warmth.
the call buck heard wasn't just to the forest; it was a warning against the isolation you'd embraced. and you'd ignored it. now the trap was sprung.
steve didn't glance at bucky. his eyes locked onto you like a predator sighting its quarry in the final moment before the pounce, pinning you against the counter as effectively as chains.
he rose, unfolding his frame with a fluid, predatory movement that seemed to draw the very oxygen from the room. a grizzly shaking off sleep to claim its territory. he stalked towards you, measured, with an intent.
"stay the hell away from me, rogers," you said, scraped bloody by panic and impotent fury. your back pressed harder into the bite of the counter's edge.
"hush," he murmured. a command whispered not to the storm outside, but to the hurricane howling within the cage of your ribs. "it's gonna be okay." the promise hung, terrifying in its simple audacity.
"listen to him, doll," bucky's voice drifted from the couch. a spectator to your slow demolition.
"don't call me that!" you spat. you backed up until the timber pressed against your spine, imprinting its roughness onto your skin. cornered. the hare backed against the sheer rock face, no bolt-hole, no escape, the frozen earth denying even the hope of a burrow. the rifle strapped across your back dug into your shoulder blade, a hard reminder of the hunter's identity slipping through your fingers.
steve didn't stop. he kept coming, filling your vision until he was the only world you knew. he stopped mere inches away, leaving you lightheaded.
you could smell him and it was intoxicating, like a siren song to senses starved for anything but pine and blood and silence. paralyzing. terrifying in its allure.
"i swear to god, rogers..." you breathed. you bit down hard on your bottom lip, a sacrifice to the altar of your control.
he looked down at you, devastating caress tracing the map of your survival – the wind-chapped plains of your cheeks, the snow melting in your lashes like frozen tears of a forgotten spring, the tight canyon of your jaw, the vulnerable curve of your lower lip trapped between your teeth like a wounded creature.
then, his tongue darted out, wetting his own lower lip.
it happened in slow motion, the words tumbling out of his mouth before you could even process his movements.
"you're pretty," he says.
it wasn't flirtation, not empty charm. it was an observation, simple as a mountain peak against the sky, devastating in its unexpected, unadorned truth.
pretty.
a word for delicate things, for spring blooms sheltered in valleys, not for a woman forged in the crucible of blizzards and solitude, standing with the bitter ashes of fury and failure.
it shattered something deep inside, a brittle pane of self-reliance, revealing whatever thing beneath.
you couldn't breathe.
then, his hands moved. with slowness. like an archaeologist brushing millennia of glacial ice from a priceless artifact, terrified of damaging its fragile beauty. like unwrapping something infinitely precious, a gift long buried beneath layers of frost and self-imposed exile.
he reached for your parka hood first, the canvas crusted with snow. his fingers brushed the skin just beneath your jawline as he gently, so gently, and pushed the fabric back from your face.
the touch sent a shiver through you, a tremor born not of cold, but of a unwelcomed thaw. the hood fell back, droplets cascading down your neck and shoulders. the tears of a glacier weeping, a baptism into vulnerability.
next, your hat. his fingers slid beneath the wet brim, grazing the shell of your temple. he lifted it away, achingly slow, as if removing a crown of thorns. he dropped the sodden hat carelessly to the floor, a discarded husk, a fallen bastion.
his eyes never left yours. it held you captive, more effectively than the unyielding wall at your back.
you saw your own reflection swimming in the dark, dilated pupils. the hunter reduced to mesmerized prey caught in the consuming stare of the wolf. and in that reflection, you saw not weakness, but a nascent awakening.
his hands moved to the scarf, knotted tightly at your throat, the final bastion shielding the pulse of your life. his fingers, astonishingly deft against the wool, worked at the knot with unhurried patience.
each tiny movement, each brush of his knuckles against the column of your throat, sent seismic ripples in your frozen lake.
he peeled the fabric away slowly, millimeter by excruciating millimeter. you swallowed, the pulse in your throat like a visible betrayal, a white flag you hadn't meant to raise.
then, the mittens.
he took your right hand first, cradling it entirely within his palm, engulfing it. your hand looked like a small in his, lost in the landscape. his thumb brushed slowly, a promise written in heat.
he began to peel the mitten off, a ritual of unveiling. each inch of exposed skin felt sensitive , shocked into life by the sudden warmth and the devastating intimacy of his touch.
your bare hand emerged, pale and cold, trembling now, a creature blinking in unaccustomed light, looking impossibly small and lost in his grasp. he held it for a moment, an eternity in the air. he let it drop gently, as if setting down a wounded bird, then repeated the torturous, sacred process with your left hand.
your bare hands hung uselessly at your sides, feeling obscenely exposed, disconnected from the capable woman who could field-dress a hare in minutes.
steve paused. you stood swathed in damp layers – steam began to rise from your shoulders, your head, curling towards the ceiling.
you were shedding your winter skin, your frozen carapace, under his gentle assault. the hare's pelt, stripped away not by violence, but by unbearable tenderness. you are thawing, the steam whispered. you are alive beneath the ice.
bucky chuckled softly from the couch, a s ound of pure, possessive. "look at her steam, stevie, like a ghost risin' right outta the snow. breath returnin' to a frozen thing."
like the hare vanishing into the cold air, only this one's choosing to come back, choosing to thaw, right here in the warmth we offer. like alpine coming back to life after being buried in a mountain of snow four miles up north.
steve's hands moved again, returning to the open front of your parka. he didn't shove it off. he grasped the canvas at your shoulders. then began to slide it down your arms, agonizingly slow.
the weight lessened with languor. you felt the rifle strap bite deeper into your shoulder as the parka slipped, like a symbol of the solitary hunter's identity being stripped away, layer by frozen layer.
he eased it down, down, over the lines of your elbows, the bend of your forearms, the bones of your wrists. it pooled heavily around your boots, a sodden heap of defeated winter, a fallen rampart.
you stood in your sweater, steam now curling visibly from your damp hair, rising in wisps from your sweater, and his nearness finally reaching skin that hadn't felt true, penetrating, human warmth in years – perhaps since before the mountain claimed you.
he didn't stop.
his hands settled firmly on your waist, just above the belt line of your canvas trousers. the touch burned, searing your skin beneath, a brand of possession, of connection.
he looked down at you, his face so close you could map the stubble shadowing his jaw, count the tiny flecks of gold like buried treasure in the blue depths of his irises, feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over you forehead.
he was unwrapping you, each frozen layer, not just of snow and wool, but of ice and years of enforced solitude.
revealing the starved creature beneath – the hare caught, frozen not by fear of death, but bythe hunter's gaze.
the snow, your shield, your cloak of invisibility, your emotional armour forged in loneliness, was gone,
melted into shameful, forgotten puddles at your feet. all that remained was the overwhelming, inescapable presence of the man who had cornered you, not with violence, but with sanctifying slowness.
this wasn't conquest; it was liberation. an excavation of the woman buried beneath the ice.
bucky watched, a silent, dark sentinel from his throne on the couch. steve, with patience born of empathy and a shared longing, began the careful, devastatingly tender work of dismantling the last of her walls.
the hunt had irrevocably shifted ground. the prey had stopped running. the hare stood revealed in the firelight, not as a victim, but as a woman rediscovering the warmth of her own humanity.
and the wolf, stripped bare of his own armor long ago, offered not fangs, but sanctuary. the undressing was mutual. it was communion.
steve's large hands, slid from your waist, leaving brands. they found the sodden hem of your sweater, fingers curling under the edge.
a tremor ripped through you, violent, seismic.
stop him. shove. scream.
the commands, flashed and dissolved before reaching your leaden limbs.
why? the weight of the answer pressed down, a truth settling in your gut: utter exhaustion. the war against the blizzard, the hunt, the years-long siege against connection – it had bled you dry. the mountain had claimed its victory. your bones felt packed with river stones, inert. resistance wasn't defiance now; just... more crushing weight. and you couldn't carry another ounce.
his gaze never wavered. it held yours, lik a physical tether in the dizzying vortex of your surrender. shock and profound paralysis rooted you. this tenderness, this agonizing reverence – it was a language foreign to the harsh, efficient syntax of survival you spoke.
you knew violence, the cold calculus of pragmatism, the solace of solitude.
this dismantling? this worship of your vulnerability? it disarmed you completely, scouring your mind blank, locking your muscles in a strange, humming stasis. you could only watch, as the soldier's hands began the inexorable lift of the heavy sweater.
th wool dragged over your ribs. rough, intimate against the thermal shirt beneath. you felt every movement of its retreat, the cold air rushing into the exposed space, instantly. up, over the taut plane of your stomach, your waist, the dip below your ribs. your arms lifted, puppet-like, obeying the gentle pressure, the command woven into the soldier's touch. the sweater cleared your shoulders, and landed on the sodden pile of parka. another bastion of your carapace fallen.
now, only the thermal remained. it revealed the scarred lines of your shoulders, your breasts constrained by survival's harness. steam rose, like a shimmering halo around your upper body, dancing wraiths in the firelight.
you felt obscenely exposed, your defensive layers stripped down to this single, fragile, human veil. being seen. truly, utterly seen. that was the terrifying core of it.
he wasn't just seeing the capable survivor. he was seeing you, the woman beneath the frost, the one the soldier had dared to call 'pretty'.
and his eyes confirmed it. the recognition was a drug, intoxicating, melting the ice around your soul faster than any fire.
the soldier didn't speak. words were superfluous. his eyes said everything: empathy for the loneliness that had forged it. then, slowly, the soldier sank to his knees before you.
he was eye-level with your navel now, his shoulders, like the bulwark of a fortress, filling the space before you.
his hands, still emanating that warmth, settled on your hips once more, thumbs pressing deep into the crests of your pelvis.
his eyes lifted, locking onto yours again. deep in your stomach, a primal need, starved by eons of ice and silence, roared to life. it answered the heat in his hands, the promise in the soldier's eyes. touch. connection. warmth.
it was a siren song the exhausted hare could no longer resist, its pull now stronger than any ingrained fear.
his fingers slid lower, tracing the curve where your hip met your thigh, a cartography of the hunter's terrain.
then they hooked, purposefully, into the ice-crusted waistband of your canvas trousers. one tug.
this surrender felt like a survival instinct, the only path left. fighting the soldier in this moment of terrifying thaw felt like trying to outrun an avalanche barefoot. yielding was the sole passage through the disorienting warmth, the only way to draw breath.
so the soldier began.
his hands peeled the frozen canvas down. the shocking contrast with the heat from the kneeling soldier making you shiver. not from cold. from the overwhelming sensory onslaught, the vulnerability of being unveiled layer by layer.
you trembled, your legs threatening to buckle under the dual assault of sensation and exposure, but his grip on your hips steadied you even as he undid you.
the trousers fell around your boots, another layer joining the pile of winter. now, only the thin thermal shirt and your long underwear remained above, your legs clad in woolen long johns tucked into your boots.
he paused, the soldier-kneeling before you, his hands resting lightly on your thighs, just above your knees.
his eyes, still chained to yours, deepened, darkened to the turbulent blue of a winter sea at midnight. across the room, bucky remained a statue on the couch. alpine, sensing the tension, stretched with a mrrp and flowed like liquid smoke onto the kitchen counter, observing the unfolding reclamation with unblinking eyes.
the hunter, observing his hare's capitulation, orchestrating the soldier's patient conquest.
steve's hands slid upwards, tracing the contours of your thighs through the wool, back to the familiar territory of your hips. his fingers found the waistband of your long johns, the final, intimate barrier. but the soldier didn't use his hands this time.
instead, he leaned forward.
slowly. inexorably. a predator closing the final distance.
he rested his chin against your lower belly, just below your navel. the rough scrape of his stubble against the shirt sent a spark of sensation.
then he tilted his head back, looking up the entire length of your body. the angle was devastating. his face was tilted up in pure, predatory admiration. those blue eyes held yours, deep enough to drown the world.
you felt weightless, tethered only by that drowning gaze. you could vanish into it. cease to be the hunter, become only the seen. the thought was terrifying, wildly alluring.
his lips parted. not to speak. he caught the waistband of your long johns between them.
a gasp tore from your throat, involuntaril. the sensation was shocking in its intimacy – the scrape of teeth against wool. he tugged. down.
it wasn't fast. it was an unraveling measured in heartbeats.
it slid down your hips, over your ass. he was using his mouth, his teeth, like tools of exquisite precision, stripping away the last barrier with a slowness that bordered on the sacred.
the wool resisted, clinging with determination, but the soldier's persistence was unveiling ordained by will alone. down, past the swell of your hips, down to the mid-point of your thighs, the underwear bunched there, exposing the skin of your upper legs, the sensitive, untouched inner flesh.
he stopped. the waistband rested halfway down your thighs.
you stood before the kneeling soldier, a creature laid utterly bare. steam rose in plumes from your exposed skin, from your hair, a testament to the thawing happening within.
you, cornered not by fang or claw, but by tenderness, stood utterly revealed.
bucky watched. the puppet master observing his handiwork reach its inevitable climax. alpine, from her perch, blinked slowly.
steve's hands slide down from the cage of your ribs, leaving trails of heat. they glide over the jut of your hips, those twin peaks of bone you've honed against the world's harsh edge. he holds you there, anchored before him, a ship lashed to a rock in a storm-tossed sea.
his chin, rough with the night's shadow, presses lower now. not against the hollow of your navel, sanctuary of breath and core, but lower. significantly lower. firm against the shield covering the hidden heart of you, the vulnerable nexus beneath the thermal shirt and the final barrier of panties.
you shudder. a convulsion that feels less like a tremor and more like the earth cracking beneath your feet. it's so loud, so obscenely obvious in its helplessness, you know bucky sees it from the couch.
you're losing. losing the glacial control, the shell forged in decades of isolation. losing yourself molecule by molecule, a star collapsing inwards, drawing you into its gravity well. an ocean swallowing a glacier whole. you're melting,ndripping onto the floorboards, pooling around your boots.
he holds yours, drowning you, pulling you under their impossible depth.
"pretty," he says. a shiver, colder than the vanished blizzard, races down your spine, chased by a wave of heat. "so damn pretty."
you feel his breath, like a dragon's sigh, seeping through the layers. then, lower, the voice dropping into a register that vibrates in the pit of your belly, "can smell it off you, hare. even through all this. smell how ready you are. how sweet. like wild honey comb found deep in a lightning-struck pine."
your cheeks flame, hotter than the fire's core, a conflagration of humiliation and a liquid pull deep in your stomach of a riptide dragging you under.
he shouldn't know. he can't know this secret, shameful truth. but he does. he smells it. names it. claims it as his due.
he shifts again, just an adjustment of his shoulders, like a mountain settling its roots. his head tilts infinitesimally. you feel it. the rough drag of his stubble against the fabric, a rasp like stone on stone, marking territory.
then... the wet, scorching heat of his tongue. a broad, devastating stroke. right over the center of your covered pussy. through the thin shield of panties.
the layers do nothing to mute the shockwave; they merely conduct it, amplify it. it's a lightning strike searing through frozen ground, grounding itself deep in the molten core of you.
a gasp, a sound like ice shearing off a cliff face, rips from your throat. your hips move involuntarily, an instinctive flinch away from the overwhelming sensation, against his hands. he holds you firm. prevents escape. pins the butterfly to the board.
"fuck," he breathes, reflecting the firelight like trapped stars in his eyes. "smells good. tastes good too, even through this."
another slow lick. the flat of his tongue presses, drags, explores the shape of you through the fabric, mapping the contours with precision. it ignites nerve endings you never knew existed, dormant pathways suddenly screaming to life.
"your pretty little pussy, hare." the vulgarity, the claiming intimacy of the word pussy falling from his lips, shatters something fundamental.
the hunter's last pretense, the final ice-wall, collapses into glittering dust. "soaked for me already." the confirmation, the revelation of your body's treason.
"smells like mine now." he punctuates it with another lick, swirling this time. it'sa torturous orbit around the sensitive, stiffening nub hidden beneath the layers. it's a hidden star responding to his gravitational pull. your legs tremble, threatening to fold like green wood in a gale.
you'd fall, a broken thing, if not for his hands pinning your hips, holding you upright for his consumption.
he doesn't stop. the licking becomes a slow liturgy. each stroke is a brand, an affirmation of his dominion, a sacrament performed on the altar of your vulnerability.
each flick of his tongue against the hardening peak sends undiluted pleasure arcing through you.
you can't breathe. your chest heaves, trapped and escaping in shallowly. the rhythm is syncopated with the sound of his tongue on fabric.
your hands clench uselessly at your sides, fingers digging into themselves, seeking something in self-inflicted pain, finding none.
surrender isn't a choice anymore; it's a biological imperative, a tectonic plate shifting. you're unspooling under his mouth, under their eyes, the threads of your control snapping one by one.
the soldier's patient, devastating assault. the hare's inevitable, beautiful downfall, played out in the flickering firelight.
"that's it. let go. just feel it. feel how good it is." another long. a slow voyage across a hidden sea. you whimper. the sound is pathetic, torn from a place deeper than thought. a raw scrape of surrender dragged up from the bedrock of your being.
"so sweet. all for me. all this pretty wetness..." his tongue presses harder circles, applying pressure to the ache. he's a sculptor shaping clay.
"...drippin' for my tongue even through your clothes." the truth of it makes your muscles clench helplessly. "bucky sees it too." the reminder is a fresh brand of exposure. "sees how you come apart just from my tongue through your panties. sees how the steam rises off you like you're burnin' from the inside out. sees how bad you need it. how deep the hunger goes."
the awareness of bucky's eyes, witnessing your every movement, cataloging your every gasp in response to the soldier's mouth working your covered cunt, adds a layer of soul-deep exposure.
you're laid bare not just physically, stripped of wool and canvas, but psychically, your unraveling need illuminated by the fire and their eyes. you are the specimen, pinned and studied in the moment of your dissolution.
he nuzzles lower, his nose pressing insistently against the seam, the very threshold. he inhales deeply, a rumbling growl vibrating in his chest, the sound traveling through the fabric, resonating directly against your most sensitive, hidden flesh.
"god, yes." the words are a prayer, a profane benediction. "smell it deep. smell your surrender, hare. ripe in the air." his tongue flicks out again, a serpent tasting paradise, tracing the hidden outline of your lips through the layers, teasing the entrance, a pressure at the gate.
"smell how your pretty little pussy just wants to be opened. wants to be tasted proper. wants to flood my mouth." the promise, the raw, carnal intent in his words with the heat of his mouth working you through the fabric – a simulation of penetration – pushes you towards a precipice you've never glimpsed before, a chasm of sensation yawning wide.
the first touch, skin to skin. the first true taste, direct and unmediated. the first shattering, body and soul.
it's happening here, on your knees in spirit, held upright only by his conquering hands, unraveled by his tongue through your panties, witnessed by the silent, satisfied hunter in the firelight.
the soldier claims you with every lick, every word that vibrates through your core, every second his blue eyes hold yours captive, reflecting the bonfire of your own immolation.
you are lost. gloriously, finally lost.
the hare is caught, not in a snare of wire, but in a web of heat and need spun by the soldier's patient mouth, and there is no struggle left, only the trembling anticipation of the final, inevitable bite.
steve's chin lifts. the firelight swims in his eyes, reflecting your own expression – a cracked mirror held up to your soul's surrender.
his voice murmurs through the fabric, through your pelvis, into your core, stirring the embers into a conflagration.
"ever had this, hare?" he asks like a stone dropped into the dark well of your exhaustion. "a man's mouth on you? tasting you?"
your throat locks. words are frozen artifacts, glacial relics lost in the permafrost melt flooding your system, drowning the hunter beneath the rising tide of the woman.
he reads the void, the drowning panic in your eyes – a shipwrecked sailor glimpsing the leviathan's maw – the tremor threatening to shatter your frame into a thousand shards of ice.
an expression touches his lips. not a smile. like a predator's satisfaction, the glint of the blade finally finding the artery.
"no," the single syllable is a confirmation. "didn't think so." his blue bores into yours, not just seeing, but excavating. "can i? taste you proper? no more layers. just... you." just the raw, trembling truth of you, stripped of hide and history.
the world tilts, the axis of your existence wrenching sideways. the wall at your back feels like the only solid thing left in a universe dissolving into steam and sensation, a cliff face against a devouring sea.
your head moves. barely. a fractional dip of your chin, a microscopic acknowledgment dragged from the depths of your surrender, a single snowflake falling onto a waiting pyre. it's not defiance. it's exhaustion meeting a gravity too strong to fight, the hare lowering its head not just to the hunter's blade, but onto the sacrificial stone.
but his eyes catch it. they flare, like arctic ice catching the midday sun, igniting with a light that could blind gods. seen. your permission, like a spun-sugar dream, instantly incinerated in the furnace of his approval, leaving only ash and acquiescence.
he doesn't remove the panties. not yet. the final veil remains, a cotton shroud over the sacred. instead, his hands, those impossibly large manacles on your hips, exert gentle pressure. wider.
he spreads your legs, just a bit more, unfolding, forcing your stance wider against the protesting muscles of your inner thighs. he stretches you like a canvas prepared for a masterpiece of ruin.
you feel exposed, a specimen pinned against the wall, the soldier kneeling between your spread legs like a supplicant before an altar.
the hunter's dark gaze is an approving weight from the couch, the silent architect of this desecration turned devotion.
alpine, a silent ghost on the counter, blinks slowly – an ancient witness.
then, his fingers hook into the damp cotton waistband of the panties. not pulling them down, but aside. a shocking displacement, like drawing back the curtain on the holiest of holies.
the cabin air rushes against exposed skin – the glistening folds hidden beneath, now laid bare only for him, only for the soldier's gaze and the hunter's silence, as a hungry witness.
the intimacy is staggering, a violation and a revelation rolled into one, a sacred profanity. a whimper escapes you, scraping you raw, the sound of a creature unmade.
his head dips. lower. lower still. a slow descent. past the jut of your hip bone, past the plane of your lower belly, a landscape quaking under imminent eruption. his breath washes over your exposed core first, an intimate caress, the precursor to the storm. it ghosts over the hidden petals, making them flutter like moth wings against glass. then... contact.
not his tongue first. his cheek, the slightest of his stubble, grazing your thigh. then, the wet, searing heat of his tongue. right up the center of your exposed folds. from the very bottom, where tight muscle guards the entrance like a temple gate, all the way up to the aching peak above, the altar flame.
your back arches involuntarily off the wall, only a ragged gasp escaping – the death rattle of resistance. his hands clamp down on your hips, like iron bands slamming you back against the wood, pinning you in place. a butterfly speared, wings still trembling. no escape. only offering.
"fuck," he groans through your most sensitive flesh. "even better." his voice is muffled with the first taste of you, a connoisseur savoring a long-anticipated vintage.
"sweeter than i dreamed, hare. like sunlight on snowmelt." then he dives in. not as a conqueror taking spoils, but as a pilgrim finally reaching the sacred spring, one that's desperate to drink.
this is worship through absolute, consuming immersion. his tongue is a living brand, an instrument of divine revelation.
he laps at your folds with possessive strokes, gathering the wetness beading there like sacred oil, anointing himself.
he presses in, seeking the source of hidden heat. a flick against the swollen bud – the clapper striking the bell within you
you cry out, an echo in the cathedral of your own undoing. he answers with a vibration against your skin, a beast claiming its territory, and drives his tongue deeper. deeper still.
it's an invasion. a claiming. a holy communion. his tongue parts your folds like sacred texts, delving into you within.
not just lapping at the surface, but plunging into the sanctum. exploring the hidden, velvet contours with agonizing precision, mapping the uncharted geography of your surrender.
each inward stroke is a penetration, a mimicry of a deeper joining, a promise whispered in the language of flesh.
he's inside you. not with his cock, not yet, but with his mouth, his tongue, his will, his very breath. seeped through the layers he unraveled, past the defenses he shattered with glacial patience, and now... inside the citadel.
the soldier breaching the final gate, welcomed by the hare's shattered nod, invited into the trembling heart of her vulnerability.
he laps like a man starved for grace, like a desert wanderer at an oasis spring.
long, languid, worshipful strokes gathering your essence, followed by flicks against the nerve-rich peak that make your vision blur into starbursts and your knees threaten to sink into the floorboards.
he pulls back occasionally, not to stop, but to breathe, to savour, to look.
his nose buries itself in the wetness he's pushed aside, inhaling deeply, sound of pure, animal satisfaction rising – the sound of a dragon hoarding gold. and his eyes.
oh god, his eyes.
even as his tongue delves deep, spearing into your xynt, his gaze remains locked on your face.
he watches. he devours your reactions. the flutter of your eyelids, the parting of your lips, the desperate clench of your jaw, the tears that well but don't fall – he sees it all.
he worships not just your body, but the symphony of pleasure plastered across your features for him to see, share, devour.
the visible unraveling of the hunter into the surrendered woman.
he drinks in your whimpers, your cries, the way your head falls back against the wood. every flinch, every tremble, every helpless arch is an offering he accepts with rapturous intensity.
"christ," he rasps, lifting his head just enough for his words to be clear. he glistens with your essence, like a sacred dew.
"smell that? all that pretty pussy? smells like heaven." he dips again. his tongue surges around your entrance like a painter defining the edge of paradise before plunging back in, deeper of a pilgrim seeking the source.
"tastes like it too. all sweet cream." another languorous lick, lapping up the evidence of your body's utter capitulation of a sacrament consumed. "soak my face, hare. let me drink you down. all for me. all this..."
his tongue swipes against your clit, making you whimpers against his restraining hands, a sob catching in your throat like a hooked fish. "...s'like pretty fucking surrender. drowning in it. so beautiful."
he alternates – worshipful strokes that cover every inch of your exposed sex, anointing you anew, gathering your arousal like precious myrrh. he follows it with a deep, penetrating thrusts of his tongue that mimics a far more intimate possession. claiming of an inner sanctum.
each time he lifts his head, even momentarily, it's growl his approval against your skin, to inhale your scent deeply from the displaced panties, a ritual inhalation of sanctity, to lock his burning eyes onto your drowning eyes and remind you, with a rough caress against the wet, open petals of you using his voice.
"so good." lick. a slow drag from root to tip. "so fuckin' sweet." another one. a strike to the nerve center. "all mine now, hare." another deep, penetrating lap. his tongue spearing in, curling, exploring the hidden folds.
"feel it? feel me inside you? taste you deep? bucky sees it." his eyes dart towards the couch for a second, ensuring the witness, before snapping back to yours.
"sees how you take my tongue. how you drip for it. how you tremble..." his tongue plunges deep again, an invasion. "...just from my mouth on your pretty little cunt. worshipping you. drinking you in."
you're unraveling. completely.
the threads of your being, the hunter's control forged in ice and isolation, the hare's desperate flight instinct honed by decades of solitude – all dissolving under the soldier's mouth with his worshipping tongue.
your whimpers are constant now, a wordless litany falling from your lips, a prayer to the god of sensation destroying you.
your hands claw uselessly at the wall behind you, finding nothing, only the unyielding reality of your surrender.
your hips try to move to ride the wave threatening to drown you, but his hands hold you immobile, forcing you to simply receive his worship, his conquest, the relentless tide of pleasure he commands.
you are pinned. consumed. witnessed. the soldier devours you, a sacrament of flesh and fire. the hunter observes his trap sprung. the hare ensnared not by teeth but by tenderness turned overwhelming, and the hare... the hare simply burns as a willing sacrifice laid bare on the altar of her own longed-for undoing.
he's inside you. he's part of you now. his tongue. and you let him.
the nod echoes in the sounds filling the cabin. the slide of his tongue. the soft, obscene suckling. the gasp of your breath. all harmonizing with the fire, the hungry silence of the hunter from the shadows, the worship that strips you down to your core.
steve's mouth never stops its worship.
his tongue laps up the flood of your arousal like a man dying of thirst finding an oasis.
each stroke gathers the slickness, painting your folds with your own essence. a testament to the hare's complete surrender.
"fuck, hare," he lifts his head just enough to speak. "taste that? all that sweet cream pouring out for me? fuckin' river of it."
he dips again, his tongue spearing deep into your entrance with a penetrating thrust that makes you cry out. he swirls it inside, curling, exploring your insides, before dragging it back up, collecting more.
"like honey warmed on the hearth. perfect. made for my mouth. so sensitive there, pretty thing. just for me. singing for me." his praise is a constant, vibrating through you. "good hare. so fuckin' good. giving it all up. soaking my chin. fuck, look at you."
"feel how deep i get?" a thrust of his tongue inside you, mimicking possession. "filling you up with just my mouth. just my tongue. fuck." he groans, muffled against your flesh. "so hot inside. so tight. clenching already? yeah, feel it. want it deeper? want more?"
he doesn't wait, driving his tongue in again, deeper, harder "that's it. take it. take my tongue deep, hare. show me how bad you want it. tell me." but words are beyond you. "yeah, like that. your body tells me everything. tells me you need filling."
then, the impossible heat of his mouth is joined by something else.
blunt. seeking pressure of a fingertip. it's now slicked with your own wetness as he dips it into your folds.. slightly. but not enough. it circles your entrance beside his thrusting tongue.
"shh, easy," he murmurs, lips pressed against your thigh. "just givin' you what you need, hare. what you're beggin' for."
the fingertip presses in, just the tip. it's a burning stretch, a deeper invasion than tongue alone.
"fuck, so tight. even after my tongue. greedy little cunt, holding out on me?" he crooks the finger slightly, trying to find that spot inside you that makes stars behind your eyelids. his fingers move inside you for a while, his eyes watching your face contort in different expressions and levels of pleasure.. but then..
"there. there it is. found your sweet spot, pretty thing. fuckin' velvet."
he adds a second finger, stretching you wider and deeper. he works his fungers in with slowly. rolling his wrist while his tongue licks against your clit. "taking my fingers so well. feel that? feel how deep i get now? filling you up proper. just like you need. just like you've been starvin' for under all those fuckin' layers."
he alternates, a master conductor orchestrating your ruin. languorous licks that cover your entire sex, bathing you in sensation.
he follows this by flicks against your clit that send sparks skittering behind your eyelids, all while his fingers pump steadily, curling inside you, finding that spot again and again.
"so responsive," he breathes hotly against your cunt. "you feel it everywhere, don't you? lighting you up inside?"
then a plunge, his tongue penetrating your entrance alongside his fingers, working in and out. "fuck yes, move those hips for me. grind on my face. fuck my fingers. use it, hare. use my mouth."
"look at you," he breathes, pulling back slightly to watch your face. your head is thrown back against the wood. sweat streak paths down your temples despite the cold, lost in your hairline.
"so fuckin' beautiful like this. just for me. bucky sees it." his eyes look back towards the couch, ensuring the hunter's dark gaze is fixed on the spectacle. "sees how you fall apart on my tongue. how you drip. how you shake. how you take my fingers."
then another deep suck combined with a curl of his fingers inside you that makes you sob. "all mine. this pretty little cunt. this sweet surrender. fuckin' drownin' in it. let him watch you drown."
your fingers scrabble uselessly against the wood. your thighs tremble. you feel stretched, invaded, and you force your eyelids open.. just a bit.
across the room, bucky sits forward slightly on the couch. the blanket pooled in his lap shifts subtly. one hand is hidden beneath it. you could see the slow movement of his arm.
a groan escapes him. "fuckin' beautiful," bucky rasps, his voice thick with arousal, dark eyes burning into yours. "love watchin' her take it, steve. watchin' her fuckin' melt."
the hunter, hidden in plain sight, stroking himself as he watches his hare being devoured.
the sight, the sound of his voice, the knowledge of his pleasure, sends shame and desperation, and you clench hard around steve's fingers.
"there it is," steve murmurs. his voice is triumphant. "feel it comin', don't you, hare? seein' bucky gettin' off on you? seein' him watch you take my fingers? that big wave. that sweet crash. i can taste it building. feel it 'round my fingers, hare."
he abandons the deep thrusts for a moment, focusing entirely on your clit now. his tongue rubs hard against your cunt, vibrating on the hypersensitive clit, while his fingers continue their rhythmic pumping, curling around that sweet spot.
"let it go. give it to me. all of it. soak my face. drench my fingers. give bucky the show he's fuckin' waitin' for. cum for us, hare. cum for him."
he seals his mouth over your entire clit, sucking hard and applying devastating pressure. at the same time, his tongue flicks against it with speed and his fingers drive deeper, rubbing hard. the triple assault is catastrophic. "yes, fuck, just like that. taking it so well. takin' my mouth, takin' my fingers. gonna make you scream. scream for bucky."
"cum," he commands. "cum for me, hare. right now. show me. show bucky how good my mouth, my fingers, make you feel. cum on my tongue. flood me. i want to feel you lose it. want bucky to see you shatter. let go, pretty thing. let it all go. give it to us."
the command, the vibration, the pressure, the sight of bucky's hidden movement – it shatters you. a silent a moan comes from your chest, your mouth wide open but barely any sound emerges, choked off by the sensation.
the world whites out, dissolving into pure static. the wave hits, not a crash but an implosion, a supernova in your core. heat, floods outwards, washing through your veins, melting bone, incinerating thought.
you feel yourself gush against his mouth, a hot, wet pulse that seems endless, flooding over his chin, while his fingers stay buried deep inside you.
"fuck yes," he says against your cunt. "that's it. good girl. such a fuckin' good hare for me. soaking me. perfect. so fuckin' perfect. taste it, bucky? smell it? she's fuckin' divine."
from the couch, a moan answers him, bucky's hand moving faster. "fuck, steve... yeah," bucky grits out, his eyes are glued to your body. "look at her go. fuckin' beautiful wreck."
the tremors wrack you uncontrollablely. your legs shake so badly you would collapse if not for his hand pinning your hips to the wall, while the other fingers pulses inside you, drawing out the aftershocks.
the pleasure is so intense it borders on pain. a sweet, exquisite agony that leaves you gasping, with tears threatening to stream freely now. your body is a trembling wreck held upright only by the soldier's grip and the wall at your back.
he doesn't stop immediately. but gentles his mouth, softening the suction, yet his tongue continues its worship, lapping up the aftermath. his fingers slowly withdraw, coated in your cum.
he savours it, nuzzling into your cunt, inhaling deeply. "still trembling," he murmurs approvingly, looking up at your shattered face. "still giving me little shivers. perfect. fuckin' perfect."
"christ," he breathes, lifting his head finally. his face is a mess, coated in your cum that he pushed out of you. his lips are swollen pink.
he looks utterly feral, beautiful in his conquest. he meets your wide eyes, utterly vacant.
"fuckin' gorgeous," he mumbles and swipes the back of his hand across his mouth, never breaking eye contact.
"tasted like victory, hare. sweetest fuckin' thing." his thumb brushes your trembling lower belly, a possessive caress. "and just the first course."
across the room, bucky shifts on the couch, with a sigh escaping him as his hidden hand stills beneath the blanket. "hell of a show, doll."
alpine, from her perch on the kitchen counter, blinks slowly. her tail twitches once, like a benediction on the hare's trembling form.
the soldier's gaze holds yours, promising more, promising everything he could give, as you float in the shattered, liquid aftermath of your undoing, the pulses of his fingers still echoing deep inside.
one moment his mouth is a brand searing yours, his hands are biting into the flesh of your hips, the next, his palms cradle the fragile architecture of your skull.
the shift is dizzying, a tectonic slide from the intimate furnace between your thighs to this almost sacred touch.
his thumbs trace hollows beneath your ears, tilt your face upwards, forcing your eyes to look up into the fathomless blue of his eyes as he rises from his supplicant's posture before you.
the scent of your capitulation – the impossible sweetness he'd murmured against your cunt – clings to him, like a heady perfume, woodsmoke and the cold sweat of his exertion.
it's the aroma of an altar defiled and sanctified simultaneously.
then his mouth crashes down onto yours. it's not a collision; it's a sacrament. a reverence poured into desperate, consuming vehemence.
his lips move over yours, an opposition to the animalistic eagerness that had wrung cries from your lungs moments before.
his tongue, tasting distinctly, irrevocably of you – the deep musk of arousal, that nectar he'd praised like a devotee – sweeps into the sanctuary of your mouth. an intimate, violating communion, forcing you to taste the physical evidence of your own renounce, the flood tide he'd relished into with unholy devotion.
you whimper against his lips with absolute need, your exhausted body arching into the solidity of him. his arms become pillars, wrapping around you, pulling you tight.
one hand remains cradling your head, fingers tangling in the strands. the other slides down the knotted landscape of your spine, vertebrae smoothened like river stones beneath his consumption, pinning you to him.
he kisses you like a pilgrim starved for grace, yet with a terrifying tenderness that unravels the last threads of your resistance. his tongue explores, a cartography, mimicking the deep thrusts it had performed below, but softened now. a shared sacrament, forcing you to partake in the essence he'd drawn from your deepest wellspring.
you taste yourself on him, a confession written in salt on his tongue. your own tongue meets his, shy and uncertain, and he groans low in his chest, a vibration passing directly into your mouth, resonating in your hollowed bones.
his kiss deepens, becoming slower, savouring your hesitant response like the rarest vintage, drawing little gasps from your lungs that he swallows whole, claiming even your breath and turning it into his.
the world narrows—in fact, it collapses, to the heated altar of his mouth, the blasphemous taste of your own release with the exhale of his worship.
his hand, the anchor on your back, begins its pilgrimage. it glides upwards, tracing the sacred ridge of your spine.
higher, over the muscles of your shoulder blade – a landscape sculpted by survival – then sweeping around the curve of your ribcage.
his palm cups the full swell of your breast through the soaked fabric. you gasp into his mouth as if touched by divine fire. the sensitive nipple, already a hardened from the cold and the cascade of sensation, tightens into painfully under his thumb as it finds its target through the clinging veil.
he circles it slowly with the focus of a monk polishing a relic, applying just enough pressure to make you whine high. it's a desperate psalm, and your hips pressing helplessly against him.
"shh, my pretty, perfect thing," he says against your lips, breaking the kiss just enough to let the words spill onto your skin.
"just feel it. drink it in. feel how exquisitely good you are. how flawlessly made." still that drowning blue but now etched with a covetousness that steals the remnants of your being, locks onto yours.
he lowers his head again, capturing your bottom lip between his teeth with a gentle scrape that sends shivers cascading down your spine like falling icicles, before soothing the tiny sting with the velvet of his tongue.
his hand tightens slightly, molding the weight of your breast in his palm. his thumb flicks over yours nipple intent that is a direct assault, making your legs tremble like saplings in a gale.
"so beautifully responsive," his lips brushing yours with each syllable. "every little touch sings through you. still trembling for me. still your body chants its devotion." his other hand releases your hair, sliding down to cup your other breast, mirroring the first.
he holds their weight, testing the fullness through the wet shirt like a man appraising sacred vessels with worshipful circle. steam still rises faintly from your body, creating a halo of vapour in the firelight, the aura of a martyr consumed.
across the room, the rustle of the blanket continues, a profanity against the wet sounds of your hymns. bucky hasn't moved from the couch still with his movement beneath the rough wool. his dark eyes are fixed on you, hotter even than steve's worshipping hands. a groan escapes bucky's lips, torn from a place of voyeuristic need.
"fuck, stevie... look at her. look how her tits fill your hands... perfect handfuls... s'like it's made for you to worship." his own hand moves faster beneath the blanket. "christ, look at her arch into it. like a fuckin' offering. pure. wish i was tastin' her too... fuck. wish it was my cock she was grinding those sweet tits against... milking me dry while you fuck her..."
steve's lips curve into a dark smile against yours, absolutely beatific. he pulls back slightly, just enough to look down where his hands cradle your breasts.
"hear that, hare? bucky likes watching me touch what's mine. likes seeing how your pretty, perfect tits fit my hands... like they were carved just for me." he squeezes gently, rolling the flesh in a motion that is both adoration and ownership.
"likes imagining how they'd feel... wrapped tight around his cock..." his thumbs press harder, rubbing in tight, and cruel directly over you. "you'd like that too, wouldn't you, my sweet little whore?" his voice is laced with mocking degradation.
"feelin' him thick and hard between them? bucky's cock sliding against your skin. all that greedy heat? bet you'd arch and moan. show him what a greedy little slut you are... even after i've wrecked you." he dips his head, capturing you with his mouth again
he plunges deep in a mimicry of possession as his thumbs continue their worshipful torment. the combination of the explicit degradation, and bucky's voyeuristic groans, reigns desperate embers deep within your spent flesh.
steve breaks the kiss again, dark with the turbulent blue of a storm-lashed sea, hunger. he lowers his head, nuzzling the sacred hollow of your throat, inhaling, as if drawing strength from your very essence.
"gonna make you come again, my hare," he promises, a vow and a threat. "gonna make you scream this time. scream my name. loud enough for bucky to hear every broken, beautiful note." his hands slide down from your breasts, over the landscape of your ribs, coming to rest once more on the altar of your hips.
he pulls you against him, letting you feel the hard ridge of his erection straining against the fabric of his trousers. "gonna fill you up proper now. give you what your tight, untouched little cunt's beggin' for. what bucky's beggin' to see."
he grinds against you. his cock is an unabated pressure even through the blockade of fabric, a promise of violation disguised as boon. "gonna wreck this pretty, untouched body all over again. show you what you were made for."
with heavy intent, he turns towards the couch. "watch close, buck," like a priest summoning a witness to the sacrifice. "watch her take me. watch her tight little hole stretch for my cock. watch her fall apart on it."
from the couch, a tremulous gasp answers him, followed by the frantic, unmistakable wet sound of bucky's fist moving with desperate urgency beneath the blanket. alpine, on the kitchen counter, flicks her tail once, disdainful. the sacrificial hare caught between the soldier's claiming and the hunter's covetous eyes.
the soldier's hands tighten on your hips, positioning you with intent as clear and inevitable as the rising tide.
your body is already trembling in terrified anticipation of the next, and deeper invasion. the next wave of ecstasy masquerading as desecration. the unraveling was a martyrdom, far from over.
then, the pivot.
his hands on your hips shift, sliding to your back, the other gripping your shoulder like a vise.a surge of strength, and the world spins violently.
your palms slap against the log walls, cold and abrasive. the impact jars up your arms.
before the disorientation clears, before you can even gasp, his body presses into you, trapping you completely. one arm snakes around your waist, and hand splays on the plane of your stomach, fingers pressing into the softness below right your navel.
the other hand fists in the tangle of your hair. and it's not gentle. it forces your posture.
he yanks your head back, exposing the vulnerable, sacred column of your neck to the firelight. your gasp is strangled, swallowed by the inescapable pleasure.
"that's it, my hare. brace. take your fuckin' blessing." the arm around your waist shifts. his fingers plows into the flesh just above the bunched wool of your long johns still rucked around your thighs. he yanks them down, scraping over your skin like a penance, pooling heavily around your ankles with the rest of the defeated winter armor.
exposed from the waist down, the thermal shirt is slid up, barely covering the swell of your ass, leaving the backs of your thighs, the curve of your cheeks, bare. you feel the texture of his trousers against the sensitive backs of your thighs, his cock pressing against the cleft of your ass as a demanding promise. no more gentle seeking. no more preparation.
the hand in your hair keeps your head pulled back, forcing you to look towards the couch, towards bucky, forcing you to witness your own exposure. you see his eyes, burning like coal, fixed on where steve's body traps yours against the wall, on the skin revealed.
you see the desperate shifts beneath the blanket. you hear the obscenely wet sound of his own fist working his cock.
"fuck yes. fuck her, steve. fuck her hard. make that tight little cunt scream. been too long since she took cock, bet she's clenching like a virgin... fuckin' break her open."
steve's free hand drops. you hear the slow descent of metal teeth. then his fingers are there, sliding through what he's already wrung from you. he gathers your own offering, spreading it over your folds.
"soaked," he grunts, "dripping for it. begging like the pretty little slut you are." two thick fingers plunge into you without warning, working ruthlessly, curling, scissoring, stretching your tight passage. it mimics the brutal invasion to come. the stretch burns, a sharp reminder of your long solitude.
"gonna feel every inch, hare," he promises, then his lips are grazing the tendon in your exposed throat. "gonna split this tight little hole wide open. gonna make you take it all, virgin-tight or not."
he withdraws his fingers, glistening in the firelight like sacred oil, and you feel the blunt tip of his cock. it's huge and fucking terrifying nudging against your vulnerable pussy.
"steve—" and it's a terrified whisper, a plea lost before it's fully formed.
"shut up, whore," he orders. the grip in your hair tightens viciously, pulling your scalp taut, silencing you. "take your god."
and he drives forward. a searing stretch, a tearing fullness that steals everything you have in you.
you cry out an animalistic sound, ripped straght out of your soul, as he buries himself in your cunt.
the logs scrape your cheek, biting into your palms as you push back instinctively as a futile attempt to escape the violating invasion.
his arm wraps around your waist, impaling you impossibly deeper. he holds there, buried to the root, letting you feel the thickness stretching your pussy with his cock lodged deep inside.
"fuck... like a fuckin' vise... so goddamn tight, hare... untouched perfection... fucking made for this cock." his hips grind against your ass, settling deeper, making you whimper, the fullness bordering on discriminating misery. "bet you haven't felt this in years... or ever—god fuck. forgot what a cock feels like buried inside? 'cause you're clenching like a scared little rabbit... relax, slut. take it."
then he moves. he pulls back almost entirely, leaving you achingly empty for a suspended heartbeat, then slams back in with force. your body slams against the unyielding wall. again. and again. deep and hard, each thrust a claiming blow, a vandalism disguised as worship like it's a reward for your surrender.
the wet slap of skin, a brutal punctuation in the dark. your cries, a ragged and broken rhythm. his grunts, low and guttural, a feral counterpoint. bucky's breath, a harsh saw cutting the air. and underneath it all, the frantic, slick music of the couch, a wet, gasping metronome keeping time with the ruin.
a symphony of ruin. a wet, open-mouthed gasp. the percussion of skin on skin, not applause, but a beating. your sobs, the melody—cracked, off-key. his growls, the bass line, vibrating through the floorboards. bucky's sharp panting, the hi-hat, keeping a frantic, terrible time. and the couch, oh the couch, its springs singing a rusty, weeping harmony. a wet, sucking sound, the encore nobody asked for.
it's a cacophonous symphony of possession. the soldier taking what the hunter surrendered, defiling the altar he professed to worship.
his hand in your hair keeps your head cruelly turned towards bucky, forcing you to witness the hunter's burning, covetous gaze, the fevered, almost painful movements beneath the blanket. "look at him," steve grunts, his breath hot and ragged against your ear, each word punctuated by a deep, jarring thrust that rocks your body against the logs.
"look at him watch me fuck this tight little cunt. watch you take my cock like the desperate little whore you are." he pistons harder, deeper, driving sharp, involuntary cries from you.
"see how hard he is? see how bad he wants a taste of this sweet, stretched hole? wants to bury himself in your greedy cunt after i've wrecked it? after i've made it nice and loose for him?" he rams into you, the angle shifting, hitting a spot that makes you see stars.
"maybe he will. maybe i'll let him clean up my mess... suck my come out of your well-fucked pussy... wouldn't you like that, slut? two cocks for your hungry little hole?"
the arm around your waist snakes up with purpose. it slides across your collarbones, beneath your chin and locks around your throat. it's a collar of flesh and bone, a claiming that makes your pulse hammer wildly, against the inside of his forearm. it's a silent reminder of his absolute control, his dominance.
the soldier's arm, a shackle of living steel. the hare, pinned, penetrated, collared. the hunter, watching, consuming the spectacle.
"fuck, yes! like that.." bucky's voice is a strangled shout. "choke her. make her feel it! make her take every fuckin' inch. show her who owns that cunt!" his voice breaks on a moan. "so fuckin' tight. look at her struggle. look at her takin' it..."
steve's forearm presses harder. your breath becomes shallow, labored, desperate whistles past the constriction. sparks dance at the edge of your vision, descending darkness. the sensations amplify unbearably – especially bucky's eyes devouring your degradation.
you're reduced to pure sensation, the hammering of his hips fucking your flesh, the thick cock splits you open again and again. your cries are muffled things, desperation forced past the constriction, sounds of a creature being unmade.
"gonna come," the urging of his hips differ, losing their brutality. they turn feral, animalistic. the arm around your throat tightens. "gonna fill you up, my hare. flood this perfect, untouched cunt. mark you inside where you belong."
his hips slam into you, burying himself to the hilt. a triumphant moan burrows out of his throat, muffled against the skin of your shoulder. he holds himself buried. you feel it—the swell, a hot, liquid truth erupting in the cathedral of your core.filling the hollows he'd stretched. "mine," he snarls against your skin, signing his name in the hollows he'd carved a space into.
the pressure on your throat lessens, allowing you to breathe finally. you're pinned, impaled, filled, trembling..a landscape trembling with the visceral aftershocks of his earthquake.
your legs are a forgotten language, held up only by the iron grammar of his grip and the brutal poetry of the logs at your back
you are not a person. you are a territory. a map redrawn in the dark. wreckage, and the quiet, terrible peace that comes after the storm has claimed its ground.
steve doesn't pull out. he stays buried, and his hand slowly releases your hair, sliding down to grip your hip again. he turns your head slightly, forcing your eyes back to bucky.
the hunter's face is a mask of ecstasy, beneath the blanket he was reaching a crescendo. his eyes are locked on where steve is still buried inside you, on the mess of come and arousal glistening on your inner thighs, on the arm still threateningly banded around your throat.
bucky's mouth is open, slack with lust.
"see him, my broken little hare?" his hips give another grind, making you whimper pitifully as his softening cock shifts inside your ravaged insides, sending a wave of discomfort-pain washing through you.
"see how bad he wants what's left? wants the scraps from my table? almost there, buck? gonna spill all over yourself just watching me fill her up? watching my come leak out of her?" steve's hand slides down from your hip, over your ass. eventually, his fingers find your abused pussy again, filled with both of you, like a the mingled evidence of conquest.
he rubs slow, deliberate, torturous circles over your hypersensitive clit, an impossible, agonizing overstimulation that makes your entire body jolt and spasm weakly. "do it, buck. come for us. come watching the wreckage i made of her. come knowing she's mine."
bucky moans out in desperation ripped from the depths of his being. his back arches l off the couch, head thrown back.
you see the jerking beneath the blanket reach a fever pitch, a blur of motion, then absolute stillness. a gasp, then another. his body slowly goes boneless, collapses back onto the couch.
alpine lets out a soft, almost disapproving mrrp, then pointedly turns her back, washing a paw, as if cleansing herself of the spectacle.
the soldier holds you pinned and filled, marked, collared, holding your violated flesh. the hare, thoroughly broken, soul-deep ravaged, hangs suspended between the unforgiving wall andthe soldier, the hunter's satisfied groan the profane note in the symphony of your annihilation.
──★ ˙🍓 ̟ 🐇!!
the world outside the cabin is a cathedral of white, contrast to the symphony of ruin that had echoed inside its walls.
you move through it, like a ghost in your own skin, a haunting of the person you were just a few days before.
every step is a reminder of the violation, the way your body has been remade into a territory you no longer recognize, erased by borders of a foreign flag planted deep in your soil.
the ache between your legs is a persistent, the soldier's possession, a limb of an act you can't sever.
the cold stings your face, but it is a clean, simple pain. nothing like the complex hollows of his mouth, his cock, that had felt less like being burned and more like being forged in some fire, reshaped against your will.
you keep a meter of air between you. a demilitarized zone, the war zone perhaps. a moat dug with the shards of your composure.
it is the only boundary you can enforce, even in your own home. you cling to it, because you're a prisoner marking the perimeter of their own cell, terrified of what's beyond and the smaller terrifying confinement within.
steve moves beside you, like a disturbance in the perfect stillness. he's silent for a long time, the sound of his footsteps against the powder of snow grinds your nerves to dust.
"the tracks lead up this ridge. probably scared anything off for miles, but we might get lucky." his voice is too loud, too normal. it isn't the low, like from the cabin, the bass line of your defilement. it is conversational. it scrapes against your nerves like sandpaper, a mockery of a world where such mundane things still matter.
you don't look at him. your eyes stay fixed on the horizon, anything that isn't him. you focus on the skeletal branches of the black pines, so honest in their barrenness. not like the suffocating interior of your own body, a landscape now littered with the wreckage of his passage, a city after a siege.
"should've brought the heavier pack. this wind's picking up." he tries again. his words fall into the sacre space between you and landing with a dull thud.
how can he speak of packs? of wind? as if the architecture of your soul hadn't been bulldozed hours ago. as if he hadn't been the architect of its ruin, laying waste to your foundations with a precision, worshipping the collapse as he caused it.
your gloved hand tightens on the rifle strap. the cold, certain metal of the barrel. these are your languages. violence. pragmatism. survival.
the other thing—the feeling of being filled to the brim, the unwelcome clench of your cunt that had betrayed you, answering the soldier's thrusts with a mind of its own—that is a foreign tongue. an invasive colonization of your very biology. it had felt like dying. it had felt like coming horrifically, shamefully alive.
and he had made you watch the hunter watch it happen. he had forced you to see the covetous hunger in bucky's eyes, like a second violation layered over the first. you weren't just the soldier's. you were their spectacle. their ruined thing, a lesson taught in the language of flesh.
"you're favouring your left side. are you—?" his voice dips with a concern that feels like the most profound obscenity of all, a blasphemy against the reality he created.
"cut it out, rogers."
the words leave your mouth, cold and lifeless. they don't sound like your voice. they are the rustle of a dead leaf over stone. just a command from a general whose entire army has been massacred.
the sound of his name in that dead tone seems to finally pierce the bubble of whatever normalcy he is trying to construct. he falls silent. the meter of space between you seems to grow with a vast and freezing emptiness.
"cut what out?" he asks, but too solid in this world of ghosts.
"the act," you say. "the concerned captain routine. it doesn't suit you. not after what you did. it's a ugly fit."
you can feel his gaze on your profile, but you refuse to turn. you are a landscape of complex emotions, a cartography of shame. there is the shame of being used, of being stretched and filled and marked. the deeper, more insidious shame of having responded, of that warmth that had pooled in you despite your terror, because the body, it seems, is a stupid, traitorous animal that knows only invasion, friction and release.
and then, layered over it all, a loneliness so complete it dwarfs anything you have ever felt in your solitude.
because to be alone was one thing. to be this intimately known, seen in your absolute degradation, witnessed in your most unraveled state, and to then be left inside this flayed skin... that is a loneliness of an entirely new magnitude.
the hunter's eyes is a brand you still feel, a third set of footprints in the snow alongside yours. he is back at the cabin, satisfied by the fire, but his presence is here, in the way you hold yourself, in the memory of his panting, the hi-hat keeping time to your ruin.
"it wasn't an act in there, and this isn't an act out here."
it's mostly a laugh. mostly. or atleast that'swhat you gaslit yourself into believeing. all you know is that it's ripped from a place you thought had been cauterized. "you expect me to believe that? you switch it on and off like a faucet. the monster and the man. which one is the real you, rogers? the one who held me down or the one who asks about the goddamn weather?"
"they're the same man," he says, and there's no apology in it. "the one who holds you down is the one who makes sure you don't freeze to death after. it's the same instinct. possession. protection. it all comes from the same place."
"possession," you spit the word, turning your head just enough to see him. "is that what you call it? you keep using that word. it doesn't make it noble. it just makes you sound like a thug who stole something."
"what would you call it?" he stops walking, forcing you to stop or leave him behind. you stop, rooted by the force of his will. "what happened in that cabin. give it a name. any name you want."
you flinch, turning your face back to the safety of the horizon. you can't name it. every word you grasp for—rape, violation, assault—feels simultaneously true and utterly inadequate. they don't capture the terrifying complexity, the way pleasure had been woven through the pain like a thread in a burial shroud.
"see?" he says, and his voice is softer now. "you can't. because it was more than any one thing. it was a negotiation. it was your fuckin' surrender, your a baptism. i took something. i gave you something else in return. something you didn't even know you were starving for."
"you gave me nothing!" you whirl on him then, and it sends a hot lance of pain through your core. you welcome it because it is a clean, honest one. "i said cut it out, rogers," the words coming out of you are no longer dead leaves but shards of glass. "just... stop. stop trying to pretty it up with your fucking poetry. you fucked me. you used me. you let him watch. call it what it is."
he stands his ground. his face, usually so open, is a neutral mask, but his eyes are a storm over an frozen sea. "stop what? stop pretending that you didn't arch your back for it? that you didn't scream my name into that fucking wall like it was a prayer and a curse all at once?"
the truth, the vulgarity in it, fucking hits you. you take a step back. “i was scared,” you whisper.
“you were fuckin’ alive,” he counters, invading that step, that obscene, offensive distance you tried to take. “terrified, and furious. and so fucking alive it was like watching a star come to life. i didn’t pretty it up. i stripped you down to the bone. to the fuckin’ nerves. until there was nothing left but the truth of you. and it was the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen.”
“beautiful?” you choked on the word as a hysterical blob rises in your throat. “you’re insane.”
“am i?” that meter of distance is gone. it’s pain all over again. being invaded and taken over, having forced his way into you. it triggers the memory. “or are you jus terrified of what you looked like, stripped that bare? of what you felt?”
“you had no right,” you said through gritted teeth, proclaiming whatever power you had left.
“rights are the first thing to do in a war zone,” he says. “and that cabin was a warzone. a war against yourself. i just chose a side.”
“my side? you brutalized me.”
“i woke you up!” he finally lets go of whatever thread of control he had left of himself. his control wasn’t loud but it was a force of nature contained. “i made it so you couldn’t lie to yourself after! to make sure you couldn’t pack it away in some little box in your head and call it a mistake, a moment of weakness, something that happened in the dark that you can pretend didn’t! he was a witness to your fuckin’ surrender, yes. but mostly to your own goddamn awakening. so you could never, ever forget it fuckin’ happened.”
you stare at him, blindsided. the logic is insane. it is brutal. it is… horribly, terrifyingly perceptive. he has seen the deepest, most hidden mechanism of your soul—the self deception, the fear—and he has taken a hammer to it. “you think i don’t know that look?” he continues. “that deer-in-headlights panic when your own body betrays you? when it starts feeling soemthing you’ve spent a lifetime telling it it shouldn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t feel? you think i don’t know the first instinct is to run, to hide, to rationalize it away? i took that option off of the fuckin’ table. you can’t un-know what happened. you can’t unfeel what you felt. and you can’t pretend he didn’t see it on your face, in the way your body moved. it’s done. it’s in you now. so what are you doing to do about it?”
your mouth is dry. the wind is colder. he has looked right into the heart of your shame, the core of your terror, and he has named it. he saw the unwanted pleasure as a betrayal to be weaponized. he saw the horrifying, unfamilar warmth as a thing to corner and expose in a way that could not be denied.
“dulce bellum inexpertis,” you whisper. the words slip out like a cold, hard stone in your mouth. “war is sweet to those who never experienced it. you speak of awakening as if it is a gift. you talk of feeling alive as if the cost isn’t everything you were before.”
“and what were you before?” he shoots back immediately, refusing to let you walk away. “you were a ghost in a fuckin’ cabin. a story that ended decades ago. a monument to your own survival, but a monument is just a fancy tombstone. how could you live and have no story to tell? you were buried alive in that silence and i dug you up. it’s messy. it’ll continue to be ugly. that’s what being dug up feels like.”
“you had no right,” you whisper again. the fight bleeds out of you, leaving nothing but a hollow void, like a new born thing left on the ice.
“i had every right,” he counters, and it’s not kind at all. “you gave me that right when you stopped fighting. when you let me in. that wasn’t just your body, and you know it. that was a door, and you opened it. the cage is open now, and you can walk out anytime you want. the rifle is in your hand. the woods are right there. so why are you still here? why are you standing in the snow with me instead of putting a bullet in my chest and running as far as your legs will carry you?”
the question shoots a void right through you. it crushes your ribs, and seeps right through your heart and every ounce of your being. it rushes into your bloodstream and tears you apart vein by vein. why aren’t you running? why isn’t the rifle coming up? why are your feet blocks of ice, frozen to this spot facing him?
“you and… you and him… talk about me like i’m some… some project,” you say. “a broken thing for you to fix with your fucking… methods.”
“not your soul,” he says. softening infinitesimally, which is somehow worse than his anger. “your wiring. your instincts. we know them because they’re ours too. the freeze. the fight. the flight. the fucked up way pleasure can twisted up with pain and fear until you can’t tell one from the other, until you start to need the one to feel the other. we know what it is to have a body that’s a weapon first and a home a distanct second. bucky… he watched because he understands. not to get off on it. to see it. to see you come out on the other side. to know it’s possible.”
“you’re angry because something in you liked it,” he states, simple as that. no judgment. just a cold, hard truth laid bare on the snow between you. “and that terrifies you more than any blizzard, more than any avalanche around here ever could. you’re not angry at me. you’re angry at that part of yourself you can’t control. the part that’s still just an animal that wants warmth and touch and to not be alone in the dark.”
the tears escaping your eyelids froze instantly on your cheek. you refuse to acknowledge them. he sees everything. he sees straight through you, the anger, the hunter, straight to the terrified, thawing hare within.
“and what if i can’t control it?” you ask, admitting the deepest, most shameful fear. “ what if it.. what if it changes me? what if it wins?”
a smile touches his lips. cruel and fucking painful, like… like it crept up. “good,” steve rogers says, the soldier and the man perfectly aligned in that single word. “let it.”
the winds lonely sound that seems to mock your silence. the tracks they were supposed to be following are already buried, erased as if they had never been there at all. the metaphor was not lost on you. the two of you stand there in the silence. the question he’d asked still hung there, frozen in the air. the truth was a mountain at your back.
why are you still here?
you have no answer left for him. no answer for yourself. only the memory of a fire that had burned your entire world away, the ghost of a bucky’s gaze, and the terrifying, hollow ache of the silence it had left behind, an emptiness inside you fills his words, his anger, his terrifying truth and have done nothing to fill.
──★ ˙🍓 ̟ 🐇!!
the cabin door groaned open, sealing you into the warmth of the cabin once again. it had felt like a fever after the clean, cold knife of the outdoors. it was different inside, given the memory of what had happened the last time you were here.
bucky was right where you’d left him, a dark chair on the couch, sharpening a knife with a rhythmic scrape-scrape that sets your teeth on edge. it’s a sound as old as time, as old as war. his eyes flicked from yours to steve’s, flushed with cold and the memory of everything, to you as you marched past, like a soldier retreating from a battlefield you’d lost.
“no luck?” the sound felt like touch on freshly bruised skin. intimate yet unwelcomed.
you didn’t answer, nor did you even glance his way. to look at him was to acknowledge the witness, the validate the spectator of your own undoing. you kept your eyes on the door to your bedroom, a sanctuary that was no longer a sanctuary, just the least exposed place to bleed.
“wind picked up. tracks were gone,” steve said with the voice of a diplomat answering for a hostile nation. you heard a shrug in his tone, born our of forced casualness. it made your skin crawl.
you didn't stop. you pushed the bedroom door open, the simple act feeling like a monumental effort. the room was dark, cold, tasting of dust and old wood. you didn't bother with the lamp. you didn't take off your coat, your trousers, the clothes that smelled of cold air and sweat. you just toed off your heavy boots, letting them fall on the floorboards. then you collapsed onto the bed, face first, into the rough wool of the blanket, ridden of sleep or a cry but simply just... existing. hollowed out, a shell waiting for the echo to fade.
a moment later, a small weight indented the mattress beside you. a soft, mrrp? alpine. she'd been hiding under the bed. now she emerged, pressing her small nose against your temple in a gesture of pure inquiry, then curling into the space between your arm and your body. her purr was the only honest sound in the world, untouched by shame or strategy.
you didn't know how long you lay there before the murmur of their voices slithered under the door. low at first, a rumble.
"...pushing her, steve." bucky's voice, a blunt instrument.
"she's not made of glass, "
"what the hell happened out there? she looked like she'd walked through her own grave."
"she's figuring it out." the voice of a man who believed he held the blueprint to a bomb he'd already triggered.
"figuring what out? how you broke her?"
you could picture steve's jaw tightening, the way it did when he was holding back a torrent of righteous conviction.
"i didn't break her."
"smells like a nightmare, not a wake-up call. she didn't even look at me. couldn't meet my eyes."
"maybe she's not afraid of you. maybe she's afraid of what she let you see."
he saw too much. he always saw too much. the memory of bucky's dark gaze from the couch, absorbing every flinch, every suppressed gasp, was a brand on your soul.
"she's a house of cards, and you blew on it. you and your... grand, fucking revelations."
"a house of cards is meant to fall. a fortress is meant to be breached. which one is she?"
"right now?" bucky's voice dropped, laced with a surprising, gritty empathy. "she's a person who went out to hunt dinner and came back looking like she'd seen a ghost. her hands were shaking when she walked past me, steve. shaking."
"she did," steve's voice dropped, but you could still hear it, a verdict delivered. "she saw her own."
the truth of it was a punch to the gut. you squeezed your eyes shut, burying your face deeper into the wool, trying to block out the clarity that was more painful than any confusion. alpine kneaded her claws gently into your arm, a counterpoint to the agony.
"so what's the plan, captain?" bucky's voice was laced with a sarcasm that felt like concern twisted into a weapon. "you've exposed the ghost. now what? you gonna teach it to tango? make it a nice little companion for your collection of lost causes?"
"i'm going to give it a reason to stay."
"and if it doesn't want to? if it prefers being a ghost? if the warmth is more terrifying than the cold?"
"then it will," steve said, and the acceptance in his tone was more frightening than any demand, any cage. "the door is open. she can walk out anytime she wants. i won't stop her."
the words from the mountain came back, echoing in the dark room. why are you still here? the question had no answer anymore, only a feeling—a terrifying weight of possibility.
bucky let out a short, harsh breath, a sound of pure frustration. "you talk about her like she's one of your strategic operations. an objective. a story to be finished."
"everyone has a story, bucky," steve's voice was softer now. "she was just pretending hers was over. how can you live and have no story to tell?" a pause, filled only by the scrape of the knife stopping. "i'm just turning the page. she's the one who has to decide what gets written on it."
"that's a hell of a lot of responsibility to drop on someone who just had their foundations blown out from under them."
"it's the only kind of freedom that matters."
the conversation lulled then. but it seeped under the door like a gas, filling the room.
you were a ghost they were arguing over. a story they were trying to rewrite. a fortress, a house of cards, a hare, a ghost. you were all of it and none of it. you were a question they were debating, and you didn't even know the language of the answer.
you curled onto your side, pulling alpine closer. against their voices, against the analysis, against the terrifying, wide-open freedom of the unlocked cage. you could walk out. you knew every path, every hidden trail, every place to disappear. you could vanish back into the white silence and never be found, a ghost returning to its haunt.
but you didn't move.
you lay there in the dark in the clothes that smelled of the forest and the soldiers, and listened to the two men on the other side of the door decide who you were, their voices a map of a territory you were lost in.
the cage was open. and the most terrifying thing of all was that you had no idea where you wanted to go, because for the first time, the emptiness inside wasn't just silence; it was a question.
hare taglist. @fluorjscent @avgdestitute @hannah9921 @henrywinterreincarnate @luvlikathyu @nandanandada @btwbaureidrc @bucklesby-barnes
(a super late starter that i owe a very lovely lady (@shan-rps))
(divider by @strangergraphics)
Billy didn’t like surprises, most of his surprises growing up had given him reasons to be angry, so inflicting a surprise onto someone else wasn’t normally his MO. However, for some reason, for some fucking insane reason, Billy was sitting in his car outside of Shan’s house, thumbs tapping on the steering wheel.
Every time they’d hung out, both of them would lament not being able to get away and actually go to any of these places. Which is how he was… or why he was, exactly, walking up to Shan’s door and banking on the fact that she’d told him the right weekend. He was quite literally screwed if he got it wrong and would have a (definitely not planned out) road trip to go through by himself.
Which would suck.
And be incredibly embarrassing.
He ran his hands through his hair once more before knocking on her front door, and as soon as she’d unlocked it and swung it open, Billy spoke before she could.
Shan looked at the man at her doorstep with a slight expression shock that quickly turned to curiosity.
“A road trip? Do I get to know where we’re going?”
She moved aside, gesturing for Billy to come inside before shutting the door behind him and heading down the hallway to her bedroom to start throwing her stuff into a duffel. A weekend trip with Billy? Was she dreaming?
Pairing | Ghostface!Stucky x Reader
Summary | After watching "Scream" with Bucky and Steve, ideas begin to flow. With Ghostface masks and a hunger for you, they tap into their inner masked killer. You can run, you can even try to hide, but when they find you, they fuck you.
Warnings/Tags | MDNI (18+), nsfw, smut, dubcon (just to be sure), literally porn without plot (sue me! Actually don't, I'm broke), roleplaying, chase kink, knife play, marking/blood kink (Bucky's gotta mark what's his, I don't make the rules) (I actually do, I wrote this shit), dom!Steve, soft dom!Bucky, oral (f + m receiving), hand job, praise kink, dacryphilia, overstimulation, kissing, rough sex, unprotcted sex, p in v sex, save a horse; ride a Bucky, breast play, anal, double penetration, use of slut, pet names (darlin', sweet girl, pretty girl, pretty baby, baby, sweetheart), no use of y/n
Word Count | 6.7k
A/N | Holy fucking shit, lovlies! Happy day 4 of Bucktober!! I wrote this in two days, so if it's shit, talk with my lawyer. I've never written for Steve, so idk what this is exactly. Guess who I love more in this fic, bet you can't (sorry I favored Bucky). Literally went insane writing this, ask the Stan-tastic Association. Updates every hour, it was crazy. I think I went into psychosis at one point...Anyways, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 700 FOLLOWERS! Forehead kisses for everyone, I love y'all fr fr. Hope you enjoy:))
A late Saturday night. The wind whistled just outside with an eerie tonality. It was quiet, relaxing, despite the spine-chilling sounds that the television produced. A bright, flashing light illuminated the space, the TV giving your skin a soft glow in the dim living room.
No one vacated the Avengers' compound besides you, Bucky, and Steve. Being newer to the team meant training relentlessly—a couple of uninterrupted weeks of working your ass off to prove yourself. And, of course, the two Avengers were assigned to instruct you, along with a few others, but they were long gone on the weekends.
The weekends meant everything to you; it was a cause for rest that your body craved. It was also an excuse to get close to the two whom you'd considered your friends. Though you knew them long before your introduction into the team, it was still nice to get alone time with them once in a while. They were happy to indulge you during your break because of how hard you worked early in the week.
You were sprawled on the couch across the two like a lap dog. Your head was a gentle weight on Bucky's thigh as your legs draped over Steve's knees—your favorite position.
It was your idea to watch a movie together. You suggested Scream, one, because Halloween was right around the corner, and two, because you hadn't watched it in some time.
Bucky and Steve knew better than to argue with you about your pick, so they shut their mouths. They grabbed a bucket of buttery popcorn and plopped down on the sofa like a pair of loyal companions. Snuggling up to you with a navy blanket, they cloaked you with their warmth.
Calloused fingers danced in your hair as you watched the movie. Bucky was keen on playing with your hair; it gave him solace. He was nervous about touching you before, when he was still shedding the Winter Soldier from his fragmented form. But now, he couldn't keep his hands off you, even if he tried.
Some days, it was his arm just lightly grazing yours or his head resting on your shoulder. But others—the harder days—his touch was firmer.
Like when he would come up from behind you and wrap his strong arms around your middle or his metal hand gripping your upper thigh—that would inevitably lead to a heat pooling in your lower stomach. You didn't dare comment on that, though.
You also found comfort in his touch, as well as Steve's. His warm hands had found your feet under the blanket, gently massaging them. His thumbs dug into the heel of your foot, clearing the tension from your muscles.
It was the part of the film where Billy and Stu revealed themselves as the killer, one of your favorite scenes. The intense buildup all leading to this satisfying betrayal.
Billy was licking off the fake blood from his fingers, causing your thighs to squeeze together. It was such a simple action, but the way he was looking at Sidney as he did it was a surprising turn on.
You bit your lip to hide the smile spreading across your face. This was supposed to perturb you with how sick the two men were, but it had the complete opposite effect.
"Whatcha doin', darlin'?" Bucky's voice came, raspy and laced with a teasing lilt. Almost as if he had uncovered a secret, and he wasn't hesitant to spill it to anyone who might listen.
Your head jerked upward, locking eyes with him. He had a Cheshire smile plastered on his face. That damn smirk, you thought.
"What's that lip doin' between your teeth?" he added, flesh hand drifting down to free it with his pointer finger. His touch lingered, dragging it slowly over your bite-swollen bottom lip before pulling away.
Steve turned, glancing down at you with a just as wide grin. "Huh, I think she's turned on, Buck?" He pinched your thigh, eliciting a squeak from your lips.
You swallowed hard, heart racing. They caught you red-handed, and there was no way out of this one. "I-I-" you stuttered, not quite knowing what to say.
"Oh, definitely. She can't even defend herself," Bucky agreed.
Your embarrassment faded, turning to a sharp anger clawing at your rib cage. You balled your hand into a fist, lightly punching Bucky in the gut.
He feigned a pained grunt. "Hey, he's the one who said it," He exclaimed, pointing at the blonde beside him.
You wiggled your foot from Steve's grasp, hitting him weakly in the stomach. "You're both assholes," you muttered, crossing your arms over your chest like a spoiled child.
Steve snorted, squeezing your knee. "Sorry, pretty girl. Didn't mean to make you mad. It's just-" he cut himself off, tilting his head thoughtfully.
You leaned forward slightly. "It's what?"
He shrugged, "I didn't realize you were into that. The, y'know," he gestured to the television, "dark thing."
You rolled your eyes, embarrassment creeping back in. "Can we just watch the damn movie?" you grumbled, gaze focusing back on the screen.
You saw Steve shake his head out of the corner of your eye. "It's not a jab, just an observation."
You ignored him, nuzzling your head back into Bucky's thigh and watching the way Billy and Stu crowded themselves around Sidney. That feeling in your stomach resurfaced as you imagined yourself in the woman's place.
Steve sighed, but dropped the subject altogether. Bucky's hand was back in your hair, but this time it felt less like it was for himself and more to soothe you. The rest of the night was uneventful as you finished out the movie in the super soldier's laps.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
The next morning came and went in a flash; the dark of the night seeping into your walls once more. You hadn't seen either of your other temporary housemates. It was strange. You contemplated whether you had scared them off with the revelation of your darker side.
It wasn't like you were on your knees begging for it; it was just some fantasy that lay dormant in your skull. It was never about the men on screen, but the idea—a man chasing you in light of his hunger for you. However, the film expanded on that idea, turning one man into two. And having two bodies under you as they touched your figure made your head spin with too many ideas. So, really, it was their fault.
But now you were waiting in the kitchen, a fork pushing around food gone cold. The prongs poked at the mashed potatoes on your porcelain plate.
You were independent. You didn't need someone around all the time, but at the same time, you hated the feeling of being alone. It crept into your very bones and settled into you like a form of deterioration. So, the empty compound felt like an echoing chasm, so still, you could hear a pin drop.
As if on cue, you heard a noise from downstairs—a loud crash, like two symbols coming together. You stood from your seat, the legs of the chair screeching against the floor tiles, and wobbling before correcting itself. "Hello?" You shouted. "Steve? Bucky? Is that you?"
No answer, just a tapping followed by a long scrape. You shivered; you really shouldn't have suggested that movie if you're this on edge. You stalked forward, your bare feet padding through the kitchen like you're playing a game of "the floor is lava".
You peeked around the corner, checking the downward flight of stairs. You took each step one at a time. The metal whined with every motion of your tiptoes, like it was greeting whomever was the other occupant in the facility. Almost as if the stairs themselves were saying, she's trying to be quiet, but she's doing a shitty job.
Once you reached the bottom, your head swiveled this way and that, but there was no one in sight. You shrugged to yourself, turning. Maybe you were crazy after all, hearing things that weren't actually there. You made your way back upstairs, head lowered, so you wouldn't miss a step and fall on your ass.
Then, you glanced up only for a split second. Your heart dropped into your stomach. A dark, cloaked form was hovering over the stairs. And the fucking cherry on top of the sundae, they were wearing the same mask you saw last night on the flickering screen—the Ghostface mask.
Your eyes widened in horror, your hand gripping the railing so tightly that you thought the metal might snap. Before you could even fully process, your feet were moving again. You skipped several steps, descending them like a cheetah. You honestly couldn't believe your speed. You instantly heard the sound of heavy boots hitting each step with a force. As if you thought you couldn't get any quicker, you picked up your pace.
You whipped around the corner, heading straight for the door, when you stopped dead in your tracks—a second form, veiled in midnight, and the same white, contrasting mask. You glanced down, rapidly spotting the silver gleam in this one's hand. A knife, black handled and pointed steel, shining from the outside bulb. Was this a sick joke, or were you getting murdered tonight? It was as if all your training flew out the window, and you stood there in shock.
A scream escaped you, sharp and loud. It split through the calm of the night like a bullet. Booming footsteps came from behind you. You glanced over your shoulder, spotting the first Ghostface now standing with a wide stance and tilted head. You were surrounded. Your chest heaved, but not just from the exertion of your short race, but from this utterly fucked situation you found yourself in.
You darted to the side, changing your strategy and running towards the only other exit. You heard rather than saw the two of them follow after you. You kept your eyes forward, not wanting to lose all the distance you gained.
You could hear their breathing from behind you, but it wasn't as heavy as yours. It was steady and measured, as if the chase didn't faze them. You made it to the door, jiggling the handle. Your first couple of attempts were unsuccessful as the door wouldn't open. Your shaking hands were your own personal hell as your sweat-slick palms slipped from the knob repeatedly. You eventually found purchase, swinging it open. You couldn't help but spare a single glance back. The two dark figures were slow in their approach, as if they were taunting you, making it seem like they were going easy on you.
Your stomach churned, but it almost felt like a blaze in the pit of your stomach. Were you really aroused at a time like this? Holy shit, you're pathetic.
You pushed the sensation down, venturing past the precipice of the doorway and into the chill of the air. The wind whoshed past your ears as your legs pushed off the ground, bare feet getting muddied along the way.
You felt like you had been running for ages, with the way your lungs burned. You couldn't keep doing this; you needed to come up with a new plan. The gears in your mind turned, finally settling on hiding as your best course of action. You just had to find a safe place to lie low for now until you could retrieve your phone from your back pocket and call for help.
You didn't bother peeking over your shoulder to see if they followed you; you ran into the dense forest for a quick hiding place. Low-hanging branches and greenery brushed your uncovered legs as you ran. A few dug into your clear skin like jagged claws. You, no doubt, had scrapes and scars wrapped around your calves like a miniature dog had mauled you.
You eventually spotted a bush and rushed towards it. You crouched low, crawling on your knees and elbows into the underbrush. It enveloped you like a hug, twigs getting twisted in your hair as the bigger branches poked your flesh.
You took a few steadying breaths before pulling out your phone. The brightness of the screen highlighted your face, eyes squinting as they adjusted to the white light. You debated calling the police, but only for a second, as the pair of super soldiers popped into the forefront of your mind like a flashing sign.
You scrolled through your contacts, pressing the first person on your list and hitting that green phone as if it were your lifeline. The call rang quietly on your end. Then, louder in the woods. What?
You heard a rustling before it blared louder. "Oh, Stevie," a too-familiar voice came, but it sounded darker in this context. "Look who's calling me."
A deep chuckle came from your left. "Cute, she needs help," the blonde answered. His voice rose, trying to get your attention. "I'm a little offended you didn't call me, sweet girl."
Your breathing slowed, not just because of the well-needed break from extending your legs, but from the realization. "Steve? Bucky? What the fuck. You scared the shit out of me," you admitted. You slithered out of your temporary hiding spot, brushing the dirt from your flesh and pulling some loose twigs from your hair.
You scoffed, "You're both assholes, you know that?" You glanced around the wooded area, trying to seek them out now that the ruse was up.
Bucky snorted, leaves crinkling under a set of boots that sounded closer and closer with every step. "You said as much last night," he mumbled. "Or did you forget about yesterday? Turned on by the mere thought of someone chasing you. Dirty, dirty girl."
You swallowed, the embarrassment heating your cheeks. "What?" you asked, but it came out smaller than you intended. "I thought we dropped that?"
You heard two roaring laughs fill the space. It echoed around you, their voices doubling and tripling like waves rippling on the sand. "You think we'd drop that delicious information?" Steve clicked his tongue, "You are sadly mistaken."
Your eyebrows knitted together in frustration. You wrapped your arms around your middle to bring back some warmth into your shivering body. Your skin dotted with goosebumps from the icy air like a brand. "Well, I'm cold, so I'm heading back inside. You two can freeze your asses off for all I care," you murmured angrily, cautiously trudging through the forest once more.
In a blink, one of the cloaked figures was in front of you. You ceased your movements as the other stepped out from behind him, like a reflection. You couldn't tell which one was which; it was irrelevant at this point.
"Run," Bucky's voice dipped into something terrifying. It set you on edge, but strangely made that fire in your core ignite.
"I'm not playing your fucked up game anymore," you glared into the pitted eye sockets of their masks like four tiny black holes sucking you in.
"I don't think Buck stuttered," Steve growled, low and insistent. "Run. And when we catch you…" He trailed off, looking to his match.
"We fuck you," Bucky finished, and you could hear the grin even under his covering.
Your breath caught in your throat, a quick sound escaping as a tightness filled your chest. The fire in your gut felt like a raging inferno, consuming your insides like a forest fire. You had never seen this side of them before; your usually calm friends were penetrating your very being with their voices alone, like a large drill boring into you.
You don't know why, but you immediately obeyed, knowing their tones left no room for argument. Your feet carried you swiftly back into the woods, feet slipping from the muddy ground. They chased right after you, the sound of boots bouncing clear across the wooded section.
Your heart thumped against your chest, but not from fear, but…excitement. You were living a fantasy that was only ever constructed in your mind, like a spinning film reel. You sprinted with a newfound purpose, the adrenaline propelling you. They gained on you rapidly. Of course, they were super soldiers and clearly weren't using all of their abilities to catch you.
You ducked under a particularly large branch, jerking your head left and right for a place to conceal yourself, but to no avail. Their boots trudged behind you like a thumping bass to a creepy song.
"Tired yet, sweet girl?" Steve called, voice barely worn. "Better save some energy for us. We're gonna be a handful."
Your stomach flipped as you surged forward. You almost stopped, the desire making your blood run hot in your veins. Instead, you took a sharp turn toward a towering, wide tree and came to a halt in front of it. You knew it was a bad idea, but you decided to go along with it anyway.
You planted your bare foot onto the rough bark while you swung your arm up to grasp a thicker branch. You hauled yourself up with all the strength you could muster without the leverage of shoes. Your other arm came up to wrap around it, pulling yourself further up.
Leaves crunching announced the pair's arrival, boots slowing to a stop. "Oh, darlin'. You gotta be smarter than that," Bucky mused.
His words went in one ear and out the other as you continued your pursuit. One foot slipped from its position, causing you to slide down slightly, pieces of bark chipping off like old paint. "Careful, wouldn't want to hurt yourself. We'll be doing plenty of that ourselves. Leave you absolutely wrecked, sweetheart," Steve warned you cheekily.
You dug the ball of your foot into a branch, lifting yourself like you couldn't even hear either of them. You didn't even glance down to acknowledge their presence, just ascended higher.
"Enough of this," Bucky muttered, footsteps marching onward. You felt cool metal fingers wrap around your ankle and gave a hard yank. You gasped, palms getting cut up from your descent. You scrambled, trying to regain your balance, but his touch remained firm.
"Bucky," you screeched, "Quit. You're hurting me." Your pleas fell on deaf ears as he continued to tug, fingers digging into your ankle as if to show you he could do much worse. He jerked on your leg, causing your opposite foot to slip from its spot and plummet.
You fell into his arms, bridal style, with short, intakes of breath. You pushed and shoved at his shoulders, but he didn't budge. Instead, he threw you to the ground with a forceful thud, sticks splintering beneath you. "'M done waitin'," Bucky snapped, hovering over you. Steve came into view next to him, and you knew the game was officially over.
Still, you fought. You rolled over onto your stomach, elbows pressing into the dirt as you crept away. This time, a warm hand found your calf, pulling you back and turning you over. "You don't listen, do you?" Steve inquired, but it didn't seem like he was waiting for an answer. "Game over. You lost. Now, we claim our prize."
He kneeled, his strong hand pinning your arms above your head while the other removed the mask. He leaned forward, and now you saw the hunger sparkling in his wild eyes. You squirmed, but it was useless. You didn't want to leave anyway; the way he was gazing down at you was too tempting to resist him anymore.
"Squirm all you like. 'S not gonna change what's gonna happen to you." His fingers traced along your jaw until he cupped it firmly. "Open wide."
You hesitated, which wasn't the correct response because he squeezed, forcing it slightly agape. You parted your lips, opening your mouth for him. "Good girl," he cooed before promptly spitting into your mouth. You were briefly stunned, but he pulled you right back to reality as he spoke, "Swallow f' me."
You did as he asked, letting his saliva slide down your throat, and he hummed in approval. "Givin' you a sample before all you can taste is me, huh? You won't be able to wash me from your mouth once 'm done with you."
You felt a set of hands—metal and flesh—gliding up your legs to part them, settling between your thighs. Fingers danced on your flesh, inching closer to your throbbing pussy. Two digits skimmed across the seam of your shorts, making your hips jerk upward at the sensation it sent to your clit through the thin fabric.
"So wet," Bucky commented darkly. "Someone is either really turned on by gettin' chased or by the thought of us destroyin' you."
Letting impatience cloud his judgement, he hooked his fingers into your shorts and tugged them down the length of your legs. He tossed them somewhere in the grass without remorse. He lowered himself, removing the mask, along with the cloak, to gawk at the panties you were sporting—pink and lacy. They could almost be perceived as innocent if not for the wet spot dampening the material. "Picked such a pretty pair f' me, huh, darlin'?" He stated cockily, his eyes darkening.
Bucky breathed deeply, inhaling your scent as his nose appeared to be inches away from your cunt. His tongue darted out, licking his lips with a hum. Steve gripped your chin, forcing your gaze back to the blonde. "You gonna let him taste you, pretty baby?"
You nodded, though you knew you didn't truly have a choice; he was just giving you an illusion of having one. "Such an obedient little slut. My little slut," Steve murmured against your lips before capturing them in a heated kiss. Your eyes fluttered closed, softly moaning at the brush of his lips.
His mouth was persistent, demanding access to yours. He nipped at your bottom lip, dragging a gasp from your throat. He took the opportunity to shove his tongue through the gap between your lips. Tongue prodding into all the crevices of the cave of your mouth.
You heard a shing, then something with a cold bite gliding across your inner thigh. Your initial thought was Bucky's metal finger, trailing down your flesh, but it had a serrated edge. Your eyes shot open, but Steve was holding you in place.
Steve's hand drifted to the back of your neck, craning it back to deepen the kiss. You melted back into the kiss, letting your worries dissolve. However, that didn't last long.
Piercing pain to your soft, supple skin. Roger's lips muffled your screams, and you squirmed once more. "Shh," Bucky soothed, dragging the blade down as his other hand gently massaged your thigh in a strangely comforting manner. "Just wanna make sure you know who you belong to."
The knife clattered to the ground, your blood seeping over the slit he created with the blade. His mouth was on you in an instant, lathering you in his saliva as he cleaned your wound. His mouth left you, but not before placing a tender kiss on the injured area.
Icy fingers pulled your blush panties to the side, hot breath fanning across your slick folds. Bucky flattened his tongue, licking a broad stripe through your wetness. You whined into Steve's mouth, but he swallowed your sounds with another sweep of his tongue.
Bucky lifted your leg, hooking it over his shoulder. He pressed your other thigh to the ground, keeping you spread for him. "Tastes so sweet. Could get addicted to this sweet pussy," he rasped, diving in for another taste. The tip of his tongue swirled around your sensitive bud before sucking it into his mouth. You arched your back, hips wiggling from the pleasure he was giving you.
Steve pulled away, his teeth biting your bottom lip and tugging gently before freeing it. Your chest rose and fell with heavy breaths as you glanced down at the man feasting upon you like a wild animal—a lion devouring a pure, feeble fawn. His feral eyes locked on you, looking up through his lashes as his tongue dipped, teasing your tight hole.
You let out a strained whimper, the pleasure coiling in your gut like a spring ready to release with a pop. Steve sat back on his haunches, releasing you from his grasp in the process. He shed the black cloak, leaving it to float to the ground like a deflated ghost. His nimble fingers fiddled with his belt, metal clanking as he extracted the leather from its buckle. You jerked your head, watching the action intently.
His hardened cock sprang forth as he yanked the denim and boxers down his hips. Your jaw dropped; what the fuck were you supposed to do with that monster? Your pussy clenched at the sight, squeezing Bucky's tongue that was jabbing into you.
"Gimme your hand, sweet thing. Be a good girl and stroke it, alright?" Steve coaxed, taking your outstretched hand. He brought it to his dick, wrapping your delicate digits around his girth. He moved your hand for you at first, giving himself the perfect grip with your fingers. Precum leaked from the aching tip, glistening slightly even in the dark of the night.
Steve's knuckles grazed over the apple of your cheek, grinning down at you. "There you go. Doin' so good," he praised, dropping his hand to his side to sit back and enjoy the show. You pumped him at a leisurely pace at first, admiring the way he felt in your palm.
Bucky groaned against your cunt, vibrations rippling through your body. You moaned, his tongue working you closer to the edge with every sensual suck, swirl, and lick. You stroked Steve quicker in response, forcing a low grunt from his lips.
Bucky's tongue lashed between your folds like a weapon, flicking it over your clit before diving back down to lap at your juices. You writhed beneath him, his unabating tongue sending sparks across your flesh.
"Buck," you whined desperately. Still, your fist continued to move along Steve's shaft in harsh strokes.
"I know, darlin'. Let me get you there," he mumbled around his working tongue. He pushed the tip back into your weeping pussy, practically fucking you with it.
Steve inclined forward, reaching down. His fingers advanced to your swollen clit, rubbing slow, precise circles into it. You keened, hips canting upward as the pleasure became overwhelming.
Without much more effort, the damn broke, pleasure washing over you in waves as you came on Bucky's unyielding tongue. Hips bucked, and your free hand dug into the grass below, ripping out the green threads.
Still, neither of them ceased their pleasing actions. You were wailing, hand falling away from Steve's cock, flicking back towards his lower stomach with a gentle slap. You tried and failed to push at Bucky's shoulder and Steve's forearm, but they didn't give in.
"Please," you begged, "too much."
"Oh, Pretty girl. 'M afraid you don't know what that's like yet," Steve growled with a saccharine smirk. His hand shifted off your overstimulated clit to grab your throat. Not to restrain, but to hold you there against the forest floor.
"Now, open. I'll show you what too much is," he demanded. You obeyed, your mouth wide as erotic noises were ripped from your throat.
Steve patted your cheek in acclamation before he gripped the base of his dick and brought the tip to your parted lips. He eased into your mouth and down your throat. His tip bumped the back of your throat, making you wrap your lips around him as you choked on the length of him.
Spit sputtered around your lips, and still he kept going until your nose pressed against his skin. You gagged around him, tears pricking your eyes like a reminder of what they were doing to you.
"Such a perfect throat," he groaned, squeezing your neck for a moment before going back to the same pressure as before. "Ooh, I can feel myself in there."
His hips pulled back and then thrust forward again. "Gonna fuck this pretty throat until you've memorized the feel of it, baby," Steve added while his hips jerked onward.
You were still high on your orgasm, another one building as Bucky mouthed at your cunt. Now, your head was reeling from both sensations the super soldiers were giving you.
Your nails dug into the flesh of Steve's thigh while he fucked your mouth senseless. Your other hand searched for something to grab to ground yourself. Bucky's metal hand found yours, and he squeezed it before gingerly resting your interlocked hands on your torso.
"I've got you, darlin'," Bucky's rough voice came, planting a kiss on your bundle of nerves, and then going back to work.
It wasn't long before you were moaning around Steve's cock, another orgasm threatening to wrack through you. A muffled animalistic noise escaped you as you fell over the edge for a second time. Two back-to-back climaxes brought your body to a shuddering mess.
Steve withdrew his dick so that you could breathe through your release. After drawing your orgasm a little longer, Barnes' mouth finally relented.
Your eyelids closed automatically, utterly exhausted just from two intense releases. Steve leaned down, pressing a few kisses to your cheeks, forehead, and the tip of your nose. Bucky trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses to your limp form until they both were hovering above you.
"You doin' alright, sweetheart?" Steve asked, tone laced with concern. You nodded weakly, not quite ready to open your eyes.
"Poor thing," Bucky remarked, knuckles brushing over your heated cheeks. Without further deliberation, he picked you up from the ground, standing up with your head resting against his shoulder.
"Wrap your legs around me, baby." He nudged your thigh lightly, coaxing. You did as you were told, loosely enveloping his waist while you folded your arms over his neck. "There ya go. Gonna get you inside."
He pressed a kiss to your hairline, arm firmly covering your back as his other palm cupped your ass. He carried you into the compound, Steve hot on his heels.
In a blink, you were in Bucky's bedroom, hiking your legs up, so he didn't crush them as he lay down. You gazed up at him, a small smile spreading across your lips.
"There she is," he whispered, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. "Ready for more, or do you need a longer break? We'll wait as long as you need."
He glanced at the end of the bed where Steve had undressed himself. The bed dipped under his weight as he waited for your answer, analyzing you for any sign of wanting to back out.
"I'm ready," you confirmed, pushing up on Bucky's chest, adjusting to straddle his hips.
Your dripping cunt lingered over the strain in his jeans. You dragged your slick folds over the seam along the denim, and you shivered while he grunted, fingers grabbing at your hips. You fidgeted with the button, pushing it through the slit of his pants.
Steve scooted in behind you, palms greedily gripping your waist as his mouth attacked your neck. You shifted, tugging at Bucky's denim-clad thighs, but they wouldn't budge. Steve chuckled against your skin, "Let me help with that."
He took over, grasping at the material and pulling it down his legs until his friend's cock was freed. An angry, red-tipped dick taunted you—the length, the girth. If you thought you wouldn't be able to handle Steve's before, you certainly weren't able to take this one.
"Fuck," you mumbled lowly.
"Look how hard you got him, just from getting you off," Steve observed, seizing Bucky's cock with a rough pump of his fist. Bucky moaned, head falling back against the sheets. Steve's other palm came back to your torso, holding you steady as he lined up Barnes' tip with your entrance.
The pair forced you unhurriedly down his length. You whined as he stretched you out with every delicious inch. Bucky spoke through his clenched teeth, "So fuckin' tight, shit-"
You sank further onto his dick, reaching behind you to cup the side of Steve's face as your other hand stayed as a support on Bucky's toned chest. You tilted your head, and the blonde's mouth was on yours in an instant, devouring any of your sounds. The kiss was all tongues lashing and teeth nipping.
The super soldier below you bottomed out, leaving you whimpering against Steve's lips. You broke the kiss to focus on Bucky again. Your hips rose, then you slammed down on him. He let out a sharp curse, gaze focused on you as you began to ride him. You bounced up and down on his cock as Steve's hands wandered up your figure, taking the shirt with him.
"That's a good girl. Ride him nice and slow, just like that," Steve encouraged, slipping you out of your top.
You were entirely bare for both of them, tits on full display. Bucky's eyes went hooded, looking lost—lost in you and in his desire. "Fuckin' gorgeous." He promptly released your hip to cup your breast, squeezing delicately as his thumb and forefinger pinched your nipple.
"Prettiest girl I've ever seen," Steve muttered into the crook of your neck, massaging your other breast with extra care.
"Come 'ere," Bucky lured you in with his voice alone. You lowered yourself while he craned his neck to suck one of your peaked nipples into his mouth. You gasped, his tongue swirling and teeth lightly biting.
Steve's dick pressed against the swell of your ass. He squeezed and gripped your cheeks, most likely leaving an indent. When you glanced over your shoulder, he was lining himself up with your ass, tip nudging your second hole.
Your breath hitched, "Steve, I can't-"
The blonde swiftly cut you off, "S'alright, sweet thing. I'll be gentle, promise." He planted a kiss on the line of your spine to comfort you. His hips twitched forward, pushing into you with a deep groan. Your nails dug into Bucky's chest, creating little crescent moon shapes as you cried out.
Barnes' arm wrapped around you, hauling you into his chest. You laid down flat, cheek squished against his peck as Steve's cock penetrated you. Bucky rubbed soothing circles into your back as you adjusted to both of them. "Shh, I said I got you, baby," he reassured once more.
"So full," you whined.
"Oh, but you're takin' us so well," Steve commented with a snap of his hips. You screeched, your body trembling from the new sensation.
Bucky's heels dug into the mattress, rocking his hips up into you. You bit your lip so hard that blood dribbled down your chin. Your face contorted in pleasure as Steve thrusted from behind, an iron grip on your hips as he lost control.
They worked in tandem; one driving deep into your pussy as the other pulled out slightly, then vice versa. If you were overwhelmed by their actions before, you didn't know what you were now. Utterly cock drunk, full, and slipping into a cloud of ecstasy.
The next second, they picked up their pace, thrusting into you without any real rhythm. You were a moaning, whimpering mess as you felt the actual weight of the double penetration.
"Please," you pleaded again, but you weren't exactly sure what for. You didn't want them to stop, but the way they were filling you, it felt like the thin wall between them might break you.
Steve's hands were dragging down your sides, coaxing and gentle. "You're doin' so good, just stay like that."
"Feels so fucking good," you wailed, burying your face in Bucky's chest.
"There you go, give in to it, darlin'. Bein' such a good girl, letting us destroy you like this," Bucky praised, hips stuttering slightly. "You're ruined for everyone else, aren't you?"
You nodded against his firm muscles, trying not to fall over the edge too soon. You were getting used to the feeling, loving how they felt sliding against one another, with only a thin barrier between them. There was absolutely no other way you wanted to be fucked.
"Breathe, sweetheart. Almost there," Steve said, squeezing the globes of your ass and spreading you further.
You tried to calm yourself; inhale through your nose, exhale through your mouth. It was too damn difficult with the way their cocks prodded into your tightening holes.
Bucky shifted you slightly, and with the new position, he bumped your sweet spot repeatedly. You crooned, cunt clenching around him like a vice.
"Ooh, I felt that. You close, pretty girl?" Steve asked, but he really didn't need the answer, given how your body quivered.
Steve's hand wedged between you and Bucky's body, searching for your sensitive bud, hoping to make you fall apart onto both of their cocks. His fingers rubbed at your clit with a violent force. Your form jerked, back arching into Steve.
"Fuck, darlin'. That's it. Come all over our cocks. Make it messy. Wanna see you come apart on my cock," Bucky rambled, hands framing your face as he brushed the hairs from your eyes. He stared at you with every inch of his attention, intent on watching your climax unfold.
It didn't take long before your pussy fluttered around Bucky, asshole clenching right along with it. You came with a broken sob, tears threatening to spill onto your cheeks.
Your vision went white; you swore you saw stars in the height of your orgasm. Your eyes fluttered closed, your head feeling heavier in Bucky's palms. "Fuck," he grunted, voice strained from the tight hold you had on him. "So beautiful when you come."
Your body nearly convulsed as they continued to fuck you through it. Their cocks almost twitched in unison as they moaned loudly; nothing but sounds of pleasure and skin slapping together filled the room.
Bucky lifted his hips, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you. Then it was Steve's turn to jam his dick as far as it could go, it pulsing inside you as hot ropes of cum filled you from both angles.
You fell onto Bucky's chest, your whole body sighing from exhaustion. You felt impossibly full, your combined releases dripping down your inner thigh and creating one giant mess.
You felt sticky and worn, your head spinning from the experience. But at the same time, you felt utterly content.
Steve pulled out of you with a hiss, steadying himself against the edge of the mattress. The other super soldier didn't make any move to rid himself of you. Instead, his arms draped across you like a blanket.
"Did so good f' us, darlin'," Bucky mumbled, tucking your head under his chin.
The bed creeked as Steve's form left the two of you before returning with a wet rag. You shivered as he wiped down the places that were slick with mess.
You hummed, nuzzling your cheek into Bucky like a cat, cuddling into her owner. "Thanks, Stevie," you acknowledged weakly.
He chuckled in return, "My pleasure, sweetheart." After he threw the cloth in its designated hamper, he crawled back into the bed beside the two of you.
"Gonna move you, okay?" Bucky mentioned before lifting you effortlessly off his length with a sharp intake of breath. He drew you into his side, placing you between the blonde and himself. Your face squashed into Bucky's peck like your own personal pillow as Steve curled behind you, resting his arm over your waist.
"Super soldier sandwich," you murmured softly, already drifting off to sleep.
They laughed at your tired-out state. "That's right, baby," Steve whispered, kissing the shell of your ear. The space was filled with a quiet as the three of you settled against each other.
After a few silent minutes, Bucky spoke up, "That's not the last time that's happening, just so y'know, darlin'."
You groaned lowly, squeezing your eyes shut. Bucky let out a satisfied sigh, planting a lingering kiss on your forehead before letting you rest.
You couldn't even think right now, let alone think about another round in any capacity. But it felt nice to revel in the company of the men on either side of you. You snorted to yourself; fuck, Scream just became your new favorite movie.
you scoff, the smile plastered on your face deepening as you plant yourself over the sheriffs plush abdomen. you knew he could never say no to you, and you relished in that fact. the apples of your cheeks burning at the taut muscles as you sat yourself down on his belly, moving in soft circles with soft, barely there grunts. "hm, you love it, sheriff..."
he couldn't deny that, especially when you're already taking what's rightfully yours. Lee tips his head back against the headboard with a thunk, muttering something to him self low and hushed, but you couldn't care less — not when you had him below you, letting you use him just how you'd like.
the smile on your face morphed into bliss, jaw tightening, lips parted as you exhaled through your nose, eyes closing at the sensation. it wasn't just the fact you were using him for your own pleasure, it was his hands that gripped your hips, toying at the flesh, moving you up and down his tummy the way he would if you were properly riding him.
he loved having you on top — you were a vision to behold. hair mussed, lips parted, tits in his face. he loved how you took and took and took, always too fucked out to talk so he opted to whisper soft praises into the heady air around you. "doin' so well", "just look at you, sugar", and your favourite, "that's it, babygirl." he always knew just what to say.
your hips drove faster, lee's hands guiding you every step of the way through your bliss as you bucked your hips against his stomach again and again, chasing the finish line you could just about make out.
"you got this, sugar," his voice low, feigning from showing any kind satisfaction in his voice but he knew it wasn't really worth it with that smug twitch of his lips. his eyes never stop watching you, face contorting in ecstasy at each graze of your clit, each ounce of praise Lee murmured to you. brows creased, teeth bared, clenching around nothing as you feel the oncoming surge of release wash over you. "that's it, babygirl. take it, take it all." and you did.
your hips twitch with every push against his gut. his thumbs easing gentle circles into your skin as you take, shushing you tenderly as you whimper, finally feeling the burn in your thighs. "So good, y'did so good," his eyes bore into your face, full of reverence you've never seen in a man like him — all hard edges and authority. "atta girl… did so fuckin' good f'me, didn't cha?"
he manoeuvred you forward into his chest, arms wrapping around your back as you make home in his neck, nudging your face into his skin, breathing him in. he let you unwind, allowing his familiar scent, his warmth to envelop you as your breathing subsides. "my girl… did so good f'me, hm?"
thas literally my uncle………. i lvoe lee so much. i said this as a joke in tbc but.. i had to do something
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
gamechangershow
dailybridgerton
romaincrisis
blakekathryn
