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Three-Piece Suit

This is 100% inspired by this picture of Chris Evans. Enjoy.

Posted on AO3.

Bucky never thought that working for Mr. Steve Rogers would be quite like this. Sure, he’d heard the stories, just like everyone else—that Steve Rogers was cold and brutally efficient, that his job was his life, that he didn’t associate with anyone outside of the office, that he was a stoic bastard, too full of righteousness, that he was blinded by his stubbornness. The list could go on and on, really. Most of the gossip surrounding him was unflattering, bordering on rude. And Bucky had heard just about all of it.

And it’s pretty much all true is the thing. Bucky had learned that the hard way when he started working as Mr. Rogers’ assistant about six months ago. The first month had been a lesson in biting his tongue until it bled, in learning that late nights and little sleep were the new normal, that Steve Rogers in real life lived up to just about every expectation Bucky had of him. He had been so critical of everything—from Bucky’s suit (calling his $300 jacket ‘cheap’), to the way his hair had been styled (“cut your hair into something that won’t embarrass me”), to the volume Bucky typed, the way he organized files, how he answered phone calls, the scheduling of Steve’s meetings.

It had been so much, and Bucky hated him those first few months. But the pay was nice, and being able to look at Mr. Rogers when he wasn’t paying attention was even nicer. Because, prick he might be, he was also sexy as hell dressed in his very nicely fitting three-piece Tom Ford suits on the daily.

If Bucky’s being honest with himself, seeing Mr. Rogers in those suits, bossing him around with that trademark cool look on his face, did things to him. Bucky found himself by the end of the second month actually trying to improve himself—saving up for a nicer suit, going to a nicer joint for his monthly haircuts, trying to be more organized, seeking out Mr. Rogers’ approval.

The first time his boss had given him the approximation of a smile, Bucky had felt like his heart was going to beat out of his chest. It had gone on from there, Bucky trying desperately to get what little recognition and praise he could from Mr. Rogers, until something changed about two months ago.

Bucky stayed late because Mr. Rogers stayed late. That in itself wasn’t unusual, but Steve calling Bucky into his office, telling Bucky with all the poise afforded him, for Bucky to kneel down beside Mr. Roger’s desk—that, that was new. Bucky had done it without question, dropping down by the large wooden desk, the hardwood hurting his knees, but he’d stayed there for a little over an hour, until Mr. Rogers had reached out to pat at the side of Bucky’s head, telling him he did well, that he could go now—and to call him “Steve”.

It was innocuous, a one-time thing that Bucky spent way too much time over the next few days daydreaming about while sitting at the desk outside of Steve’s glass office doors, peeking at the other man from the corner of his eye.

But then it happened again at the end of the week, after everyone else had gone for the night, the floor just as hard and unforgiving as before, but this time, one of Mr. Rogers’—Steve’s—hands lay on the back of his neck the entire time. It soothed Bucky in a way, cleared out all of the tension and anxiety from the day’s work. And at the end of the night—two hours this time—Steve escorted Bucky out of the building, giving him a parting “Good night,” that Bucky thought about all the way home, until he finally collapsed into his bed.

It started happening more often after that, almost every night, Bucky on his knees beside Steve, Steve always touching him in some small way, showing him kindness that had eluded the other man all day, him barking out orders and critiques just like normal. And then it had started becoming more.

The first time Bucky sat under Steve’s desk between his legs, Bucky had been nervous. He wasn’t sure what to expect, because this—this was new, was different in whatever silent game they played. And then Steve had reached out—so gently, to bring Bucky’s face to rest against his thigh, his fingers just lightly pressing on Bucky’s cheek, and Bucky could’ve ended it there, could’ve stood up, walked out. But the fingers stroked back into his hair, sweet and gentle, and Bucky had just closed his eyes, leaning further against Steve’s strong thigh, the material of his suit pants softer than Bucky expected, and all the nerves had gone away, even when Steve eventually took his hand back to do more work.

It didn’t turn sexual right away. In fact, the first time had almost been an accident. With Bucky’s face pressed against Steve’s thigh, he’d shifted—his knee had been a little bruised from all the time on the floor, and he’d accidentally moved his head with the rest of his body, shifting up ever so much, until he felt the firm press of something against his jaw, and had stopped moving completely, freezing at the error he’d made.

And Steve had frozen too, legs going rigid under Bucky’s head. But when Bucky had tried to pull his face away from the juncture of Steve’s strong thighs, the other man reached a hand down to cup the back of Bucky’s head, keeping him in place for a moment. And then Bucky had felt Steve’s erection grow against the side of his face, and heat had flooded his entire body. It left him breathing raggedly while he waited for what came next.

And he was not expecting Steve to work his dick out of his thousand-dollar slacks and guide Bucky’s mouth to it.

“Don’t touch yourself,” his order was quiet, fierce, and Bucky had let out a shaky breath right before Steve guided himself between Bucky’s lips.

Steve had done most of the work, fucking into Bucky’s mouth with a hand still cradling the back of his head, keeping him still for Steve’s thrusts. Bucky opened his mouth wider, sucked as hard as he could with little movement, worked his tongue around the head every time Steve pulled back enough for him to, used his lips and tongue to play with the slit at Steve’s head, tasting him on his tongue, swallowing as best he could when Steve pushed into his throat, again and again, even when Bucky’s eyes stung with prickling tears, Steve using him for his own pleasure.

It was impersonal like this, Bucky never seeing Steve’s face, but the heat of the other man, the way his hand curled tightly, achingly, in Bucky’s hair, the way he pressed two fingers to Bucky’s cheek, tapping frantically to convey he was close, as his body started to go rigid once again, as the stoic, harsh breaths from above the desk turned to the softest moans—it went to Bucky’s head in a way he didn’t expect, in a way no one had in longer than Bucky could remember.

He’d come into his dress pants long before Steve came into his mouth, Bucky stubbornly not pulling back, despite Steve’s warning. And Steve had moved his other hand down, then, both hands tugging at Bucky’s hair, holding him on his cock as he came onto Bucky’s tongue, down his throat, filling Bucky’s mouth.

And then, when Bucky had still been blinking stupidly, swallowing the remains of Steve’s orgasm from the corners of his lips, Steve had backed up, hauling Bucky up to sit on Steve’s lap, looking at him in a way Bucky had never seen Mr. Rogers look at anyone, anything.

And then he’d reached toward Bucky’s pants, but Bucky sluggishly shook his head, biting his lip—Steve’s eyes tracking the movement—as he looked away, embarrassed that he’d come like that, like he had a hair-trigger connected to his dick.

Steve’s hand on his chin forced him back, forced their eyes to meet, Bucky face-to-face with that cool look he’d come to know so well once again, but before Steve could open his mouth, could think to say anything, Bucky did.

“I didn’t touch myself.” And damn, his voice sounded wrecked, throat sore and scratchy. But Bucky didn’t hate the sensation, liked knowing he’d have something more tangible than memories to remember this by when the night finally ended.

Steve blinked at him, off-guardedly, until something in his expression shifted—once again back to that unknown expression. “Fuck,” he mumbled, feelingly, and then he’d kissed Bucky, hard and deep, before he pulled back, looking at Bucky for the smallest moment, then kissed him once more, a chaste point of contact, their lips barely touching before he pulled away, tucked himself back into his pants even as Bucky continued to sit on his lap, dumbfounded, lips still tingling.

They didn’t do anything like that again for a while. Bucky went back to sitting silently between Steve’s knees under the desk, added by the addition of a small pillow that Steve brought the day after Steve’s blowjob. It helped a lot. Bucky thought he might be able to stay like that for a full work day, if Steve would ever let him.

The next time, though, when Steve called Bucky into his office, telling him to lock the doors behind him—Bucky knew something would be different. This time when Bucky kneeled down, Steve sat back from the desk, pulling out an extra tie from his top drawer. He’d looked down at Bucky, a question in his eyes, a heat there, and Bucky had nodded without thinking. Steve tied the slip of material around his wrists, keeping them behind Bucky’s back as he reached down to undo his pants. Bucky licked his lips at the sight of him, wanting so desperately to feel Steve in his mouth.

But as Steve rolled his chair closer, he gave Bucky a hard look. “Don’t make me come. I have work to do. And don’t come until I do.” And then he’d slid himself once again into Bucky’s mouth, already half-hard.

And Bucky wasn’t sure exactly what he should do—if he should suck or not, take him all the way in, nurse the head of his cock or the shaft. So he just opened his mouth, let Steve make the choice for him—he liked when Steve made the decisions, honestly.

His jaw ached by the time Steve decided he’d had enough. Bucky had been drooling for a while now, discovering that swallowing the mixture of spit and precome in his mouth had been a bad idea when Steve hissed when he had, hips thrusting, his taste getting stronger. So Bucky slacked his jaw, moving to gentle suckles and Steve had relaxed back into his work. He knew the spit covered his chin, must be a little puddle on the floor in front of his knees by now, and his wrists felt a little chaffed from the tie, but Bucky cared about none of it, especially when Steve rolled back, looking down at Bucky after a few hours, and started stroking his cock, Bucky’s saliva wetting the way.

Bucky didn’t think he’d ever forget that view, Steve looking down at him, his fist closing over his erection, dragging up and down so tightly Bucky’s own cock ached in sympathy, throbbing between his legs. And when Steve’s thighs started to tremble, when his strokes became more erratic, his throat emitting those small, soft moans that Bucky already couldn’t get enough of, Bucky just tilted his head back, opening his mouth.

As if that had been all Steve was waiting for, he’d come, letting himself go above Bucky’s face, coming into Bucky’s open mouth, on his cheek, his jaw, a few drops sliding down toward his neck.

And fuck, Bucky wanted to come so bad, wanted anything Steve would give him, swallowed down his come like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted, so, so desperate for any little thing from Steve, from this gorgeous, amazing man above him.

When Steve caught his breath, he reached out a still-sloppy hand toward Bucky, pushing it into his hair to grip the locks. “Can you come like this?”

Bucky nodded, feeling the desperation, the heat pooling in his gut, the way the front of his pants were so slick, ruined now, just like his other ones, pressed against his dick, trapping it.

Steve’s hand moved down to caress Bucky’s sore jaw. “Then do it. Come for me.”

Bucky did, moaning loudly, hips stuttering against nothing, his knees trembling, giving out on him as the orgasm overtook him. But Steve caught him, let Bucky fall against his open legs, trailed his fingers through Bucky’s hair, down to the back of his neck.

“That was so fucking good, Bucky. You’re so good for me. Thank you.”

The words had been soft, almost sweet, sounding like that expression Steve wore last time on his face. It didn’t escape Bucky’s notice that Steve’s still-exposed cock had hardened a bit at Bucky’s display, but the other man didn’t at all seem concerned with it. Bucky closed his eyes, never wanting the moment to end, and Steve seemed posed to let him.

It didn’t go beyond that for a while, until that one time that Steve had sat Bucky down on his lap, his knees on either side of Steve’s thighs in the chair, Steve’s hands on Bucky’s hips, their cocks rocking together through the material of their pants, Steve panting harshly against Bucky’s throat as he thrust his hips up, working himself off against Bucky. He’d come embarrassingly quick that time, moaning what might’ve been Steve’s name as he did. And then Steve had groaned—an actual, real sound, so different from the small noises Bucky’d become accustomed to—and his hips stuttered against Bucky’s.

Of course, that was when Steve had told Bucky to get onto his knees before he went to the bathroom, coming back out in just his crisp white shirt, jacket, vest, and tie all gone, and wearing different pants. He’d tossed the pants he’d been wearing at Bucky’s feet and told him to get rid of the come before it stained.

So Bucky had, tonguing the material for all he was worth, until Steve was deemed satisfied.

It happened with more frequency following that. Bucky never quite knew what to expect—sometimes he sad under the desk, innocently, sometimes with Steve’s cock in his mouth—one notable time with Bucky sucking on Steve’s balls—and sometimes Steve sat Bucky on his lap, Steve’s exposed erection sliding against the seam of Bucky’s pants as Steve somehow still managed to get work done even as he destroyed and remade Bucky’s existence, so painfully hard with the feeling of Steve’s warm cock sliding against the most sensitive parts of him, over his covered asshole, all the way down to where his balls had drawn up tight inside of his pants.

Bucky ruined more pants than he ever thought possible, until little, unassuming boxes started showing up at his desk in the mornings after they ‘worked late’ together, with high quality suit pants in varying styles and colors, the measurements just a little smaller than what Bucky wore—and when Steve started casually grazing his hand over Bucky’s ass during the work day when Bucky would bring him a file here, or a coffee there, Bucky understood exactly why that was.

He didn’t feel nearly as bad about ruining the pants Steve gave him. It was all his fault, after all. Until one of them had the smart idea to start actually undressing in advance. Bucky’s not sure if it was him or Steve, but the next thing Bucky knew, his pants had been taken off, lying in a puddle on the floor, abandoned.

Of course, Bucky forgot just about everything when Steve had then laid Bucky down on his stomach over the desk in front of his chair, ass exposed, on display, not at all expecting it when Steve started to eat him out, licking and nibbling and working his tongue in and out of Bucky’s body until he was a moaning, writhing mess, shirt sticking to his back with sweat, Bucky’s fingers clutching at the edge of the desk in vain, willing himself to be good, to stop moving for Steve, the man’s iron grip on his hips seeming to do nothing to keep him still.

He’d come clenching his ass around Steve’s tongue, moaning loudly, throat raw from begging for the orgasm every time Steve had pulled away, had pressed a thumb or a finger inside, until Bucky felt like he would go insane from the pressure building up inside of him.

And then Steve had stood up, looming over Bucky’s back, sliding his cock along Bucky’s slickk crack, over his hole, head almost catching on it with each slide, stealing what little breath Bucky could drag in, until Steve came over his ass cheeks, slapping his softening cock against Bucky’s hole once he finished as if to punctuate that he would try that out next.

They didn’t really talk about penetration—didn’t really talk about anything. Neither one mentioned their late night sessions, nor their one-time kissing; they simply went about as if things were normal. And then one day, just like the small boxes appearing at Bucky’s desk, a folded piece of paper greeted him, telling him Steve was clean in so many words.

Bucky left his own on Steve’s a few days later.

Everything since then had been a waiting game, amping up this thing between them to a new level. Each night, Bucky wondered if it would be tonight. He’d made sure to be thoroughly clean each evening just in case.

And then, one night, the waiting finally ended.

The intercom buzzed like normal, as soon as everyone else had left, and Bucky abandoned his desk, walking through the doors to Steve’s office without a word. Steve didn’t sit at his desk, giving off the pretence that this might be anything other than what it was. Instead, he stood in front of it, hands in his pockets, hips cocked, head tilted, that intense, unreadable look in his eyes, watching Bucky’s every movement.

Bucky stopped in front of him, their eyes locking for a long moment before Bucky dropped to his knees in front of his boss. When Bucky reached out to undo Steve’s pants, Steve didn’t stop him, just kept looking down at Bucky with that heavy gaze, watched him as Bucky took Steve into his mouth, as he started sucking Steve off for all he was worth, using every trick he’d learned over the last few months, knowing exactly what Steve liked and giving it to him. He wanted this to be good for Steve, wanted to be good for Steve. He swallowed him down, until his nose pressed against the soft hairs that trailed down Steve’s torso from his belly button, swallowing convulsively around the head of Steve’s cock before pulling back, tracing the vein on the underside of Steve’s cock with his tongue, worshiping the other man’s dick like this might be the last time he gets to do this, gets to feel the heavy, silky-hard length on his tongue, gets to taste his precom, feel how hot and hard Bucky makes him.

And then all too soon, Steve pulled Bucky off him, pulled him up to standing, surprising Bucky with a kiss that Bucky thinks might have flayed him alive, since he can no longer feel his own body.

The kiss didn’t last long before Steve reached out to strip Bucky of his clothes, those strong, steady fingers working at his buttons, pushing his jacket and shirt over his shoulder for the first time, his eyes hungrily raking over Bucky’s chest, even as his hands moved down to work Bucky’s tight pants from his hips, down his legs, until Bucky cursed at his shoes and did his best to step out of them along with his pants and underwear.

Steve began to undress then, taking care to fold each piece of his suit after it had been taken off, setting his cufflinks, watch, and tie down on top of the small pile when he finished. And then Steve reached behind himself, arm outstretched over the desk, and pushed all of its contents to the floor. Pens skidded across the hardwood, papers went everywhere, Bucky thought he heard the shatter of a paperweight. But Steve didn’t seem to care, just looked at Bucky as he sat atop the oversized desk, spreading his legs, his hard cock bobbing.

Bucky moved, almost pouncing on the other man, climbing up on the desk, his thighs cradling Steve’s hips, sitting back so Steve’s cock rubbed against Bucky’s ass, his arms wrapping around Steve’s neck, keeping them both upright.

Reaching back, Steve dug in a drawer, coming away with a bottle of lube—and Bucky felt his face flame at that, at Steve being so ready to take him. Steve’s eyes met Bucky’s again, leaning his head back to bring their lips together in something more bitey than sweet, even as he popped the cap of the lube, then brings his fingers to Bucky’s rim. Bucky shivered at the coolness, at the way Steve’s fingers circle his rim, warming the lube and Bucky’s body with his ministrations.

Bucky let out a long sigh when Steve slid the first finger inside of him. Steve had only done this the one time he ate Bucky out—memorable as it was, Bucky was ready for something more, had taken to stretching himself out every morning before work.

He told Steve this, felt the other man’s erection twitch against him, ground down on it, even as Steve added a little more lube and pushed in with two fingers. Bucky moaned at the feeling, Steve’s fingers filling him up better than his own could, getting to work at stretching him for Steve’s cock, working wet and firm inside of Bucky’s body, twisting and scissoring until he managed to push a third finger in. Bucky squirmed back against them, wanting them deeper, chasing the ghost of sensation when Steve dragged his fingers over Bucky’s prostate.

And then Steve’s fingers left, hands moving to guide Bucky down, Steve’s cock sliding again against him, catching at his rim, but this time sliding in, stretching Bucky out, filling him up until he’s so full, unable to move with the pleasure of finally, finally having Steve inside of him.

Bucky only came back to earth when Steve lifts his head, gazing at him, eyes dark, heavy-lidded. “Don’t touch yourself.”

And it’s like a repeat of their first time—Steve holding onto Bucky, taking his pleasure from him, chasing his own release. Grabbing at Bucky’s hips, Steve worked his hips up as he pulled Bucky down, taking him in hard, deep thrusts, rubbing relentlessly at Bucky’s prostate once he found the spot. Bucky clutched at Steve’s neck, fingers digging into his shoulders as Steve maneuvered him up and down, rocking their hips together in an almost desperate drive that left them both gasping into the space between them. Steve’s hands move eventually to splay over Bucky’s ass, pulling his cheeks apart, continuing to thrust, long, hard strokes that Bucky felt all the way to his core. He all but keened when Steve pressed a finger to his rim, to where Steve’s cock stretched him open, filling him up, rubbing at the rim until me managed to press just the tip of his finger inside.

Bucky came with a shout, his orgasm taking him by surprise, the heat flooding his body at being so full—so full of Steve—overcome by the feeling of Steve surrounding him, giving Bucky everything he wanted.

“Fuck.” Steve hisses, “Shit, Bucky—” And then Steve moved both hands back to Bucky’s hips, thrusting in earnest now with rough, long strokes, hips stuttering, his breath ragged, moaning, eyes closed as he gave himself over to it. Bucky watched in fascination, panting, their bodies slick with his come where they’ve pressed together. Steve’s mouth opened on a groan and Bucky didn’t think anything of leaning forward, closing the distance, of covering Steve’s mouth with his own.

This kiss was different—tender, almost. Steve cradled Bucky’s jaw in one of his palms when they’ve finally pulled away from each other.

Still panting, Steve opened his mouth, eyes open and staring into Bucky’s. “You’re fucking perfect, Bucky.” Steve pressed his forehead against Bucky’s, neither one of them in any rush for Steve to pull out, even as the sweat and come starts to cool on their skin. “I can’t believe I get to have you.”

Bucky wasn’t sure how, but he managed to find his voice, pressing one more chaste kiss against Steve’s lips. “Only you, Mr. Rogers. Just you.”

Steve swore again, bringing his lips back to Bucky’s as his hips rocked just the slightest bit inside of Bucky, making them both moan into the kiss. Bucky couldn’t wait for the next round.

No, Bucky never thought that working for Mr. Steve Rogers would be quite like this.

#stucky fic #stucky smut #stucky #freshwoods: fic #a whole lot of suit kink and some D/s if you squint #buckystan-plums