runnin' down the road, loosen my load | steve and bucky (18+)
⤷ farmer!bucky barnes x city girl!reader x farmer!steve rogers
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, threesome, pining, alcohol, banter, touch starved stucky, sexual tension, lots of pent-up sexual frustration, the boys are clingy attention whores, manipulation (they want you to stay), breeding kink, oral (m receiving), size diff, m!masturbation, overstimulation, jealousy, degrading, praising, dirty talk, pet names: "pretty girl" "sweetheart" "darlin'" "baby"
⭐︎ word count: 18k
⭐︎ a/n: what's better than one touch starved farmer boy? TWO touch starved farmer boys who are best friends!!!!! it gets kind of dark at the end (steve and buck are desperate.) so please tread carefully.
synopsis:
Bucky and Steve live in a town filled with an endless stretch of green, animals, and their only company is other strong men and elderly women. When an attractive, young woman visits town for a research project, the touch-deprived boys can't help but want to play with the new piece of candy.
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Steve threw the last log onto the flatbed of the good ol’ truck, a thing that had seen more rust than oil changes in its life.
“That should be the last of it,” he announced from the back, closing the tailgate and giving it a solid slap to make sure it held. “Start her up, Buck.”
Bucky turned back to the wheel and twisted the key in the ignition. The truck answered with a loud rumble before sputtering out. He tried again, resulting in another shake that rattled the cab, and then… nothing.
Steve came up to the driver’s window, resting an arm on the sill as he wiped sweat from his face with a dirty towel.
“Lucy’s not startin’?”
“Does she ever?” Bucky sneered, turning the key once more as the truck grumbled in protest. “I thought you were supposed to look her over last night.”
“I was—then I got a call to round up some loose, wild chickens. After that I got sidetracked, and, uh…” Steve rubbed the back of his neck, guilty. “I fell asleep.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “Perfect.”
“Hey,” Steve said, nudging his shoulder roughly through the window. “While I was being productive last night, maybe you could’ve spent that time fixing her up instead of jerking off.”
Bucky shoved the door open without warning, forcing Steve to stumble aside. He gave him a sharp side-eye glare.
“I was not jerking off,” he muttered, heading for the front of the truck and popping the hood to peer into the engine.
Steve barked out a laugh as he stepped up beside him, clamping a heavy hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You keep tellin’ yourself that. The walls are paper thin, you know?”
“Shut up,” Bucky mumbled with a flushed face. He reached down, jiggled the loose battery cable, then tightened the clamp with a huff.
“All right,” he said, wiping his hands on his dirty jeans. “Try it now.”
“You sure that’ll—”
“Just get in the damn truck, Steve.”
With a shrug, Steve climbed back into the cab and turned the key. The engine coughed in front of Bucky, then rumbled to life, making the whole truck shaky but steadily idle.
Steve grinned out the open window. “Well, would you look at that. It’s our lucky day.”
“And we don’t get much of those,” Bucky agreed, not wasting a second as he slammed the hood shut and jogged around to the passenger side, yanking the door open.
“Don’t admire her too much now,” he warned, climbing in. “Start drivin’ before it gives out and we have to push this damn thing ourselves again.”
The truck rattled its way down the dirt road, tires crunching over gravel as the town came into view—if you could even call it that. The ‘town’ had a handful of weather-beaten buildings, a leaning water tower, and more livestock than people. Chickens scattered as Steve eased off the gas, the engine making a suspiciously loud noise that couldn’t even be ignored if they turned the radio up higher.
Fury’s place sat at the center of it all. A squat, sturdy building that had once been a general store several years ago, then a post office, and now served as whatever the town needed it to be. Meetings, supplies, paperwork.
Basically, everything important that no one else wanted to deal with.
A faded sign out front still read “COMMUNITY OFFICE,” though half the letters were missing.
“Made it,” Steve said, turning the engine off as he glanced at Bucky with a smile. “Told you Lucy had one more trip in her.”
“One,” Bucky huffed, hopping out. “Don’t get greedy.”
They climbed onto the flatbed and started unloading, tossing logs into a neat pile beside the building. The door creaked open halfway through, and Fury stepped out, cane in one hand. His good eye flicked over the truck, the wood, then the two of them.
“You’re late,” he said calmly.
Steve lifted his head as he tossed another log. “Truck trouble.”
Fury snorted. “That truck is trouble.” He eyed the woodpile with approval, though. “Still—this’ll last us through winter if rationed right. The town owes you.”
Bucky threw another log. “Town’s been owing us a while.”
Fury shifted his weight, tapping the end of his cane against one of the logs. “When you’re done,” he said, already turning back toward the door, “I’m gonna need you boys to come inside and sign the delivery papers. Wood tally, fuel credit, the usual nonsense.”
They both gave each other a look. Anything involving paperwork, pencils, and pens was well outside their familiar territory. Their comfort zone was muscles, strength, and work done with their bare hands.
The boys were… really good with their hands.
They finished stacking the last of the logs in relative silence, the only sounds being the dull thud of wood and the distant lowing of cattle.
Steve hopped down from the flatbed and dusted off his hands. “You ready, Buck?”
“Ready to skim the papers and not read a word of it?” Bucky wiped his hands on the dirty towel before tossing it through the open passenger window. “Sure.”
Inside, the building was way cooler, the air was filled with the smell of old paper, dust, and faint bitter coffee. Shelves lined the walls, stuffed with binders, ledgers, and boxes labeled in Fury’s neat handwriting. A single desk sat near the back, buried under forms.
The two men lingered by the front door, leaving a trail of dirt and mud beneath their boots as their eyes adjusted from the harsh sunlight to the dim interior.
“Come here, boys,” Fury called, circling around his desk.
Steve stepped forward—but Bucky stopped short, his attention snagging on something off to the side of the office.
“Uh,” Bucky raised a finger to point, not even trying to hide it. “Who the hell is that? She lost?”
There you sat, prim and composed, one leg crossed over the other, a newspaper folded neatly in your hands. Your clothes were clean, your shoes never touched by dirt, and the two suitcases at your feet looked like they cost more than what Steve and Bucky made in a day.
You looked like you had stepped off the wrong bus, yet decided to stay anyway.
Steve turned at Bucky’s voice, nearly breaking his neck to get a better look. His gaze trailed from your face down to your legs, the way you subtly bounced your foot as you were absorbed in whatever dull headline held your attention.
Your tongue darted out to wet your bottom lip, and Bucky’s breath hitched.
“Damn…” he muttered.
“No.” Fury emerged from behind the desk, glancing between the three of you. “She’s right where she’s supposed to be.”
You finally looked up when Fury tapped the side of your bench with his cane. Lifting your head, you pulled the earbud from your ear.
“Nick?”
“These are Rogers and Barnes,” Fury said. “They run the livestock operations on the outskirts.” Then he turned back to the two men. “And this is—” he paused, nodding to you, “—a family friend from the city, a couple hours away. She’s here for a research project.”
Steve stepped closer, raising a brow. “Research?”
You folded the newspaper and tucked it under your arm before standing. “Animal productivity,” you explained. “Sustainability in isolated farming communities. Breeding patterns, yield consistency, that sort of thing.”
Both of the boys tilted their head in sync, and Fury shook his own, looking at you. “You’re speaking a whole different language to these cave animals.”
Bucky crossed his arms, ignoring the jab. “And you picked this place?”
“I insisted she come here,” Fury said, raising a brow at him. “Why are you making it sound like this place is bad?”
Steve shrugged. “Well—”
“Don’t answer that,” Fury cut in with a sigh, waving a hand as he turned back to his desk. “Sign these. And once you’re done—” his gaze flicked to your suitcases, “—help her get settled in the farmhouse out back.”
“The farmhouse?” Bucky met Fury at the desk, planting both hands on the edge as he leaned over him. “You’re not stickin’ a girl like that in some dirty farmhouse, Fury.”
It seemed like every farmer you’d met so far was loud and painfully straightforward. You glanced down at yourself—your clothes, so different from the muted dresses the handful of elderly women wore around town. Since stepping off the bus, you’d been surrounded by the smell of manure, too much testosterone, and a growing sense of self-consciousness.
Fury looked up at Bucky with his good eye. “I already told her about our very limited lodging options.” He turned to you for backup. “And she was okay with it. Right?”
You were not okay with it.
You were used to a queen-sized bed in your comfortable city apartment, right in the heart of everything. Not a farmhouse.
“Yup,” you said anyway, forcing a nod and a smile.
For research. Right?
Bucky scoffed and clamped a hand down on Steve’s shoulder, pulling him closer hard enough that Steve nearly stumbled.
“You know, We’ve got Sarah’s old house right next to our farm—the one that’s been collectin’ dust,” Bucky said, giving Steve a firm slap on the back to rope him in. “What do you say, Stevie? Take us a few hours to clean it up, pull the mattress outta the closet, get it all nice and tidy for our little friend here.”
All three men turned to look at you, and you suddenly felt very small beneath their attention—especially under Steve and Bucky’s eyes.
“I… wouldn’t want to intrude,” you said gently, scratching at your temple. “I’m not sure how Sarah would feel if I just moved in—”
“Sarah—God rest her—wouldn’t want an impressionable young woman like you sleepin’ in a cold, dirty farmhouse,” Bucky cut in, flashing Steve a grin.
Steve let out a slow, patient breath through his nose. “I suppose you’re right. My mother wouldn’t want that.”
Bucky turned back to you, a charming smile tugging at his mouth. “How about it, pretty girl?”
You glanced at Fury, searching his face. He was the only person you trusted here, and as long as he trusted them, that would have to be enough.
Fury let out a quiet, weary sigh and gave you a small shrug. “They look like troublemakers,” he said, “but they’re the ones keeping this town running.”
He pointed at Steve while looking at you. “You can trust this one.” Then his finger moved slowly to Bucky. “But be careful with this one.”
“Hah. Hah,” Bucky replied dryly as he crossed the room, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath his heavy boots. He bent down, grabbed one of your suitcases, and tossed it toward Steve, who barely caught it off guard.
Bucky picked up the other bag and flashed you a smile.
“Our truck’s right outside. Come on.”
With one strong hand gripping the strap of your suitcase, his other hand—surprisingly respectful—settled at your lower back as he guided you towards the front door.
On the way out, he gave Steve a look, nodding once to signal him to follow.
“You two better take good care of her,” Fury called after them. “She’s a family friend. Remember that.”
Steve paused, glancing back at Fury with a sigh.
“Yeah, noted,” he muttered as he stepped outside with the luggage, following you and Bucky.
Fury waved you off, then turned back to the desk, eyeing the untouched stack of paperwork still waiting for signatures.
“Goddamnit,” he muttered.
Outside, Steve and Bucky tossed the luggage into the flatbed haphazardly. The heavy thud of your expensive bags made you flinch, especially knowing your laptop and notebooks were inside.
Bucky swung the passenger door open wide and motioned you over with a hand. “Come on in,” he said. “Lucy don’t bite.”
“Lucy?” you huffed a small laugh, hesitating as you stepped closer. Leaning inside, you saw the floorboards caked with dirt and mud; one step in and your shoes would be ruined in an instant. “Uh, I don’t think there’s room for me—”
“Sure there is,” Bucky interrupted.
Without warning, his rough hands found your hips and lifted you easily, setting you down on the passenger seat. “Scoot over,” he said. “You’re gonna have to be the middle man.”
Before you could even say anything, Bucky planted one heavy boot inside the cab and hopped inside, rocking the truck and forcing you to scramble over as he slammed the door shut. You barely had time to find your balance before Steve opened the driver’s door and climbed in, settling behind the wheel with a huff.
Now, you found yourself wedged between two broad, very dirty men who smelt like sweat and sun.
And suddenly, the cab felt very, very warm.
“Let’s see if she’ll turn,” Steve muttered, twisting the key in the ignition.
“What do you mean, let’s see?” you asked warily, tugging at the collar of your shirt. “And does this thing have air-conditioning?”
Steve pressed his lips together. “Air-conditioning would be the very thing that puts Lucy in the ground.” He tried again—the engine sputtered, then died. “She’s a little rough around the edges, but… she should come around.”
Your eyes fluttered shut as you focused on your hands folded in your lap, realizing what you had gotten yourself into. You were in the middle of pretty much nowhere, with spotty service, no sleep, wedged into a truck with two men you had never even met, headed for a house where who knew what kind of bugs were waiting for you.
“Oh my god,” you whispered to yourself, voice shaky.
Steve glanced at you, his expression softening just slightly. “Hey—don’t panic. She’ll start. Just gotta—” he turned the key again, then once more. The engine finally roared to life, rattling violently as the truck shook beneath you.
“There we go.”
Bucky rested his arm out the window, flashing Steve a grin over your head. “Our lucky day, you said?”
The corner of Steve’s mouth tugged into a smirk as he shifted into drive. “Don’t get greedy.”
As Steve pulled onto the road, the truck rattled and shook over every rock and rut. You reached for the seatbelt, tugging at it, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Seatbelts don’t work, sweetheart,” Steve said, glancing over at you with a reassuring smile before returning his focus to the road. “Just try to hold on tight.”
That did very little to calm you.
That was a safety hazard and straight up illegal.
You pressed your palms flat against your thighs, shoulders rigid. Your eyes switched between the flaws of the old truck— to the web of cracks in the window, to the dust on the dash—and the unfamiliar stretch of land rolling past. The farther you got from town, the quieter it became. Fewer houses, fewer people—just fields and fences stretching on forever.
Bucky could feel how tense you were from the faint brush of your shoulder against his.
“You alright?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light. “You look like you’re thinkin’ about jumpin’ out and runnin’.”
You looked up at him and forced a laugh, though it came out thin and brittle. “I’m fine. Just… adjusting, I think.”
“A lot different than city life, huh?” Steve asked from the driver’s seat.
“Yeah,” you admitted. “This is… very different.”
“Well,” Steve said, resting one hand on the window sill and the other on the wheel, “since we’ve got a bit of a drive, why don’t you tell us more about this research project of yours?”
“Yeah,” Bucky added. “You studyin’ cows or somethin’?”
“Not just cows,” you said. “Basically, when communities are geographically isolated, access to veterinary care, supplemental feed, and modern equipment becomes limited. That can unintentionally alter breeding cycles. Livestock may breed earlier or later in the season, fertility rates can fluctuate, and stress levels directly affect overall yield.”
Bucky scratched at his chin, letting out a thoughtful hum. “Breeding…”
Steve glared at him over your head.
You just kept going, oblivious as your hands lifted slightly as you explained, slipping deeper into familiar academic territory.
“I’m also comparing seasonal fertility rates,” you said. “In places like this, breeding windows tend to be less controlled, which can lead to overlap between generations. That affects herd structure, genetic diversity, and long-term productivity.”
Bucky nodded slowly, eyes still on the road ahead. “Uncontrolled breedin’, huh.”
“Buck,” Steve warned.
“What? I’m not doin’ anything.”
You glanced between them, finally catching the smirk tugging at Bucky’s mouth as he fought back a laugh and the disapproving look on Steve’s face, despite the smile he was clearly trying to hide by staring out the window.
For fuck’s sake.
You were realizing now that Dirty Man One and Dirty Man Two were trying to crack inappropriate sex jokes.
“Jesus,” you muttered, rubbing your temple. “You men are disgusting.”
“Hey! Don’t lump me in with him,” Steve said quickly. “I’m the one tryin’ to get him to settle down.”
The rest of the drive was surprisingly pleasant. Both of them asked about your school and your research, and every time you answered in more detail, you noticed their slightly dazed and confused expressions. Steve tended to ask the more in-depth questions, genuinely curious, while Bucky nodded along like he understood every word.
The truck bounced and swayed over ruts, rocks, and packed dirt as Steve turned into a long, wide driveway. Ahead stood a large farmhouse, with a smaller cabin-like building off to the side.
Farther to the left sat another structure.
A very, very small one.
Too small to be a house, but just big enough to be a storage shed.
“Here we are,” Steve announced as the truck rumbled to a stop and the engine cut out.
You raised a finger, pointing to the small shed. “Is that—”
Before you could finish the question, both men opened their doors and hopped out of the truck without a word. They grabbed your luggage—now smudged with grime and dirt—and started carrying it to the shed.
You scrambled out of the truck, nearly stumbling as your feet hit the ground, and hurried after them.
“Wait—hey!” you called, jogging to keep up as they headed straight for the shed. “T-that’s not where I’m staying, is it?”
Bucky glanced back over his shoulder, adjusting his grip on one of your suitcases. “That little building over there? Yeah. That’s it.”
Steve slowed a little, giving you a little apologetic look as you caught up. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he promised. “My mom used it as a guest place for a bit. Solid roof, no leaks—”
“And a whole lot better than the farmhouse Fury was gonna stick you in,” Bucky added.
You looked at the structure again as you walked —weathered wood, a single small window, and a door that had clearly seen better decades. Your pace faltered.
“Guys,” you said flatly. “That is a shed.”
Bucky stopped in front of it and set the luggage down, turning to face you with a grin.
“Technically,” he said, “it’s a converted shed.” He lifted a hand just in time to catch the key Steve tossed his way.
“We fixed it up, mostly.” Steve looked down at your expression, the way your teeth caught your bottom lip and the weary, beady eyes you’ve been wearing ever since they picked you up in their truck.
Without thinking, he rested a protective hand at your back, drawing your attention.
“I know this is different from the city life you’re used to,” he said gently. “But I promise, it just needs a few touch-ups. You’ll get comfortable in no time.”
The way Steve looked at you eased the tension in your chest. His smile was warm, his voice patient and kind. And if Fury said this was the one you could trust, then so be it.
“Thank you, Steve.”
The other one, on the other hand…
Bucky unlocked the door with a huff. Dust immediately billowed out, making him cough as he waved a hand in front of his face. He glanced back at you and Steve.
“Oh, by the way,” he said. “There’s no bathroom in here.”
Perfect.
Bucky nudged the door the rest of the way open and stepped inside, his heavy work boots creaking against the frail wooden floorboards. Steve followed, setting your luggage just inside the doorway.
You hesitated at the doorframe before stepping in after them.
The place was ridiculously tiny. One narrow room with a low ceiling, a single window coated in dust, furniture and cabinets that looked like it could barely hold up. It smelled like old wood, hay, oil and something faintly metallic—you didn’t know what.
Back in the city, you had white walls, clean linens, and the oddly relaxing hum of traffic outside your window. Here, you had stained wallpaper peeling at the edges and bawking chickens.
For your research project, you reminded yourself. You chose this.
Bucky looked around with his hands on his hips. “It’s small,” he said thoughtfully, “but I think it’s the perfect size for a girl like you.”
He smiled, and you weren’t entirely sure how you were supposed to take that.
When he noticed your silence, the smile slipped just a bit. “You okay?”
You snapped out of it, nodding a little too fast. “Yeah, I just…” You exhaled, rubbing your arms. “I think I really need a shower. If that’s—uh—even possible.”
“Oh,” Bucky said with a shrug. “Sure. But you’re not doin’ that here.”
You gave Steve a look, almost like a silent plea for backup, but he only shrugged in response as Bucky continued, smirk firmly in place.
“C’mon. Our place is right next door. Real bathroom. Hot water.”
You shifted on your feet, eyeing them both suspiciously. “And the door,” you asked carefully, “it locks?”
The two men exchanged a silent look, and immediately, you regretted asking. Here they were—offering you a ride, a place to stay they’d fix up just for you, even letting you use their shower—and you’d gone and asked if the lock worked, as if you were accusing them of being some kind of creeps.
But then they blinked at each other and burst into laughter.
Bucky let out a sharp bark, shaking his head. “Yeah,” he grinned. “It locks.”
Steve wiped at his face, trying to rein it in. “You know, you’ve got men out here showerin’ in their front lawns with a bucket of water and a bar of soap,” he added. “But I get it. Can’t blame you for askin’. City instincts.”
Your face immediately burned with embarassment. You’ve delt with your fair share of annoying men in the city, but it was something about being surrounded by farmer men that made the teasing feel ten times more insufferating.
“Yeah,” you mumbled, crossing your arms. “Very funny.”
Still smiling, Steve wiped at the corner of his eye and motioned toward the door. “Come on. Follow us—we’ll show you where you can wash up.”
After you quickly grabbed a fresh set of clothes out of your luggage, they led the way across the yard, Steve out front and Bucky hanging back just enough to make sure you were keeping up. The dirt path had been worn smooth by years of boots and tires, and on either side of it the farm stretched out in every direction.
Cows clustered near the fence line, tails swishing lazily. A pair of horses lifted their heads as you passed, ears flicking toward you with mild curiosity. Chickens roamed freely, darting around your feet like they owned the place. Everything felt alive— busy and loud in ways that reminded you of the city, though it couldn’t have been more different.
The farm loomed closer as you approached—big, solid, and weathered, with hay bales stacked nearby and buckets of feed scattered around the yard.
Walking past, you reached the house itself. It was a small, one-story, cabin-like structure built from dark wood. The door creaked as Steve pushed it open, and the scent inside was a stark contrast to the earthy, animal smells outside.
From the doorway, you could smell the soap, clean laundry, and coffee. You were met with heavy wooden furniture. Worn floors. Tools leaned neatly against one wall. A pair of muddy boots sat by the door.
Very manly was the only way you could describe it.
Steve stepped aside to let you in. “Watch your step.”
As you stepped in, dodging the muddy boots, the house felt sturdy and lived-in. Not polished, but definitely cared for.
Bucky shut the door behind you with his heel and jerked his head down the narrow hallway. “Bathroom’s this way.”
You followed, your gaze drifting over the details as you walked by. Family photos tacked messily to the wall—they didn’t look alike at all, had different lastnames, so siblings seemed unlikely, yet there were dozens of pictures of them together from childhood. A calendar hung nearby, crowded with notes about feed deliveries and vet visits, all scrawled in incomprehensible, sloppy boy handwriting.
Bucky paused and pointed at one of the photos—a younger version of him and Steve standing side by side with crooked smiles.
“Handsome, ain’t he?” he asked, tapping at himself.
You couldn’t help but grin. “I’ve seen better.”
Steve snorted while Bucky rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath. He stopped at the last door and pushed it open with his knuckle.
“Here we go.”
The bathroom was small but clean. White tile lined the walls, a deep tub sat beneath a real showerhead, and shelves held neatly folded towels alongside mismatched bottles of soap. A narrow window above the sink let in a stripe of late-afternoon light, dust motes drifting lazily in the air.
“Hot water takes a minute,” Bucky said, leaning against the wall. “Gotta let it run first.”
You looked between the two men, clutching your folded clothes to your chest. “Thank you—both of you. I really appreciate this.”
“Don’t mention it,” Steve said with a casual wave of his hand. “A friend of Fury’s is a friend of ours.”
Bucky pushed himself off the wall and stepped aside, giving you room to enter. “Steve and I will clean up the shed while you’re in here. By the time you’re done, it should be ready with the mattress and all.”
Your smile softened as you glanced at him. “You guys are great. Seriously, I couldn’t be—”
“Just make sure you shout us out in that research paper,” Bucky cut in with a grin, resting his hand on the doorknob. “And don’t forget to let the water run. Enjoy your shower, pretty girl.”
The door shut softly behind you.
And on the other side, Steve immediately whacked the back of Bucky’s head.
“Pretty girl? Pretty girl?” Steve whisper-yelled. “Are you kidding me?”
Bucky winced, rubbing the back of his head as they headed down the hall towards the front door. “What? She is pretty, Steve. And don’t act like you’re any better. ‘Sweetheart’? Really?”
“I’m trying to be respectful, Buck,” Steve sighed as he pushed the front door open.
“And I was being respectful,” Bucky clicked his tongue. “You know how rare it is for a beautfiul woman like that to be around here. Gotta make a good first impression.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “Get your head out of your ass. A girl like that would want nothing to do with dirty men like us.”
“Oh—come on, Steve,” Bucky whined, following after him like a bug in the air, “why you gotta be so hopeless, man?”
“Not hopeless,” Steve corrected, pushing the shed door open. “Realistic.”
Bucky scoffed as he followed him inside, heading straight for the closet. He hauled out the folded air mattress and the old hand pump, dropping them onto the floor. “Yeah, yeah. Still—doesn’t hurt to imagine, you know?”
Steve grabbed the broom and dustpan from the corner and started clearing dust and debris. “Imagine what, exactly?”
Bucky grinned, eyes drifting back to the window that faced the house for a second before he caught himself.
“I dunno. Coming home after a long day, boots covered in dirt, back sore as hell—and there she is. Clean, soft, talkin’ about all that smart stuff she knows. Maybe dinner’s on the stove, or she’s sittin’ at the front there with a book, lookin’ all pretty.”
Steve snorted. “You’ve lost your mind.”
“Have not,” Bucky said, laying the mattress out where Steve had just swept and starting to pump air into it. “Tell me you wouldn’t want that—a gorgeous girl like that walkin’ around the house, keepin’ it warm and cozy—barefoot and all.”
Steve went quiet as he lifted an old bed frame and leaned it against the wall. He didn’t answer right away, but the faint pink creeping up his ears gave him away at the thought.
“…I guess,” he admitted slowly, “it’d be nice to have someone to come home to.”
Bucky’s grin turned smug instantly. “Ah. There it is.”
“She’s here for research,” Steve reminded him firmly, snapping himself back to reality. “Not to get hitched to a couple of guys who spend all day haulin’ logs and tendin’ cattle.”
“But picture this, Stevie—” Bucky glanced up as he crouched on the floor, steadily pumping air into the mattress. “You work yourself half to death,” he went on, muscles flexing. “We both do. Up before the sun, down after it sets. Muscles sore, hands cracked, brain fried.” He slowed, leaning his weight against the pump. “Wouldn’t kill us to have someone who… helps take the edge off.”
“Jesus Christ,” Steve groaned, turning to try and hide the blush on his cheeks. “You’re gross, man.”
“Look—” Bucky sighed as he stood, “we haven’t had a woman like that around here in a long time. And she’s not just any woman—she’s smart.” He shook his head, scoffing lightly. “A man’s allowed to dream about comin’ home to somethin’ nice. Maybe even havin’ a smooth pair of legs wrapped nice and tight around—”
His voice trailed off as his eyes caught sight of you through the window.
You stood on the front porch, barefoot, a towel draped around your shoulders as water dripped from your hair. You were dressed in something light and easy—a dress. Nothing fancy, but far more comfortable than what you’d worn when they first met you.
… And somehow, far more domestic.
Steve followed Bucky’s gaze, his breath hitching once he saw you. Bucky swallowed hard. Neither of them spoke.
Then, they finally looked at each other, faces warm, wearing the same boyish, awed grin—just like the ones frozen in those crooked childhood photos on the wall.
“Pretty,” they both murmured at the exact same time.
They watched as you lifted a hand to shield your eyes, squinting against the afternoon sun as you scanned the yard. You took a few steps down the porch, bare feet tip-toeing around the dirt as you tried to squint at the shed.
Bucky straightened immediately, dropping the pump as it hit the wooden floors with a loud thud. “She’s lookin’ for us.”
Steve was already moving, setting the broom aside so quickly it wobbled, then clattered against the wall before falling to the floor. “Well—don’t just stand there!”
They headed for the door at the same time, bumping shoulders as they squeezed past each other, neither willing to give ground. When you spotted them walking toward you with Steve taking the lead and Bucky half a step behind, clearly trying to edge ahead, a small smile spread across your face.
“Oh—there you two are. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to—” you sighed in relief, gesturing vaguely at the farm around you. “—wander.”
Bucky let out a short chuckle, rocking back on his heels as he tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “You can wander all you’d like, darlin’,” he said. “What’s ours is yours.”
The nickname threw you off guard. You felt your face warm, heat creeping up your neck that had nothing to do with the sun as you tucked a damp strand of hair behind your ear. Back in the city, men didn’t really talk like that unless they were intoxicated at a bar and trying to get in your pants.
But this felt different. Maybe it was just that gentleman, charming, farmer boy thing.
“Oh,” you said, a little breathless. “That’s—uh… really sweet. Thank you, Bucky.”
Steve gave Bucky a look out of the corner of his eye—a careful look. Bucky, meanwhile, looked far too pleased with himself.
“Just don’t go wanderin’ too far, baby,” Steve added quickly, stepping up onto the porch beside you. “Some of the fences are old, and the horses don’t always respect personal place.”
If you hadn’t been flustered before, you definitely were now.
You didn’t get called things like darlin’ or baby very often, and even when you did, the words had never affected you like this. Not the way they sounded coming from two devastatingly handsome, accommodating men with soft southern accents.
“I—okay,” you said quickly, nodding as you snapped yourself out of it, though the corners of your mouth still tugged into a smile. “I’ll be careful.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as he glanced at Steve, then back at you, his own lips twitching like he was biting back a comment.
“We’ve fixed up the shed for you,” Bucky said instead, propping one leg on the porch step and resting a hand on the railing. “Mattress is ready if you wanna rest. You wanna take a look?”
Your attention drifted past the shed, toward the open fields, the fencing, and the animals moving lazily across the land.
“Actually,” you trailed, removing the towel from your shoulders, “would it be okay if I checked out the animals first?”
Bucky tilted his head. “Animals?”
“For my research,” you clarified quickly. “I’d really like to get an initial survey while there’s still daylight. Just some baseline observations—livestock condition, spacing, behavior. I won’t get in the way.”
Steve exchanged a glance with Bucky—a look you’d noticed they shared often since you arrived.
Then Steve smiled back at you. “Yeah, that’s fine. Just—” he gestured vaguely to the fences, “—stay where we can see you. Okay?”
“Don’t worry,” you said, rolling your eyes playfully. “I’m not planning on getting lost.”
As you turned back to the house, already half a step up the porch with the intention of grabbing your shoes, something caught the corner of your eye. Your gaze snapped to the far end of the pasture, where a small cluster of animals had gathered. A few cows wandered lazily nearby, but it was two chickens in particular that caught your attention.
A hen crouched low to the ground, wings spread slightly, tail lifted—while a rooster mounted her from behind.
Your eyes went wide.
“Oh—wait, wait, wait!”
Shoes forgotten entirely, you pivoted on your heel and hurried back down the porch steps, already digging your phone out of your dress pocket. “This is perfect timing! Hold this—please—”
Behind you, Steve barely had time to react before the towel was tossed his way, landing squarely over his head.
“Hey—” he started, but you were already jogging barefoot across the dirt, eyes locked on the breeding chickens.
Your hair breezed through wind and they got a good whiff of the pleasant scent before you ran off. Despite using the same shampoo as them, it smelled surprisingly soft and very feminine. A smell they weren’t used to, but one they’d easily grow fond of.
You slowed as you got closer, steadying your hands, snapping a few quick photos as discreetly as possible, and crouching slightly to keep from startling them. Your lips moved as you narrated under your breath.
Bucky stared after you, incredulous, before letting out a low whistle. He nudged Steve in the arm just as Steve pulled the towel off his face.
“What’d I tell you?” Bucky murmured with a crooked grin. “Barefoot—” he nodded inside the house, still warm and humid from your shower, “—and already keepin’ the house warm.”
“Alright. Enough gawking,” Steve warned, though his eyes were still still fixed on you. “Just ’cause we’ve got a pretty girl livin’ with us now doesn’t mean we don’t have work to do.”
Bucky snorted. “Yeah, keep tellin’ yourself that while you stare even harder.”
For the rest of the afternoon, until the sun laid low and the sky began to darken, the two men worked diligently around the farm. And despite Steve’s warnings not to gawk, their eyes found you anyway—again and again.
You crouched near the animals, scribbling notes into your journal, occasionally lifting an expensive-looking camera—one in far better condition than their own damn truck—to snap photos of the cattle. And even after they’d warned you about the fences, you climbed up onto the railings anyway, the wood creaking beneath your toes as you leaned forward, determined to get the perfect shot of the horses.
Wood was getting stacked, hay bales tossed aside, tools scattered and gathered again as needed.
Still, every so often, Steve would glance up from his work to try and look at you, but only to catch Bucky leaning against the farmhouse doorway, eyes trailing shamelessly in your direction.
“Whatcha starin’ at, Buck?” Steve grinned as he tied off a rope around a hay bale.
Bucky didn’t look away from you. His smile softened as he watched the way you held the camera carefully, how your toes balanced on the fence rail, the breeze tugging gently at your hair and dress.
“Just admirin’ the view.”
Steve’s gaze followed his, and he let out a low groan as he stood up. “She’s gonna fall off that fence if she keeps leanin’ over like that.”
“And we’ll be there to catch her,” Bucky replied with a grin, pushing off the doorframe to help with the bales.
You had no idea you were being watched so closely.
Unbeknownst to them, you had been sneaking glances of your own towards the farm. Their white tank tops—streaked with dirt and darkened with sweat—clung to their muscular bodies. Broad arms and strong backs flexed and tensed every time they lifted something heavy. Each hay bale toss came with a grit of teeth, a scrunched brow, and a low, rough groan.
And afterward, they would both exhale deeply, chests rising as they wiped sweat from their foreheads with thick forearms.
They were both strong, capable men—reeking of masculinity, so sure with their hands with what came from years of real work.
Men you’d never meet in the city.
Night had fully settled in now, the sky stretched dark blue and wide, scattered with bright stars. From where you stood, you watched Steve and Bucky just outside the house, pumping water through the pipes as they rinsed off their hands and faces.
Water trickled from their chins, disappearing into the deep lines of their firm chests beneath worn tank tops. They wiped their faces with towels, murmured something to each other—and then both turned your way.
Two sets of eyes found yours that stared at them shamelessly.
You immediately looked down at your camera screen, pretending to be fixated on the chickens you photographed as you tried to play it cool.
Then you heard footsteps, two sets of heavy footsteps treading through the grass and dirt and closer to you.
Fuck.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Steve approached, crossing his arms while he looked down at you. “We were gonna grab some food in a bit. You hungry?”
“Oh,” you hummed, your stomach already answering with a rumble. “Yeah. I could eat.”
“Every Friday night, the town heads down to the bar,” Steve continued. “More of a saloon, really. Beer, cheap whiskey, food. Sometimes there’s live music if Gary brings his guitar—or the jukebox, if it decides to work.”
“And line dancin’,” Bucky added. “Bad line dancin’.”
“I’m not sure if you have that kind of thing in the city,” Steve went on, resting a hand against the fence as he hovered over you, “but if you wanna tag along for a bite, you’re more than welcome.”
You closed your journal and slipped the camera strap from around your neck, standing with a small groan as you stretched. You were here for research, yes, but it wouldn’t hurt to see what the town had to offer beyond livestock and open fields.
“That sounds fun,” you said, smiling. “I’ll come. I just need to rinse up real quick and I’ll be right out.”
Your gaze dropped to your feet, dirt caked between your toes, bits of grass still clinging to your skin. Then you glanced down at your clothes.
“Is… what I’m wearing okay?” you asked, a little self-conscious as you smoothed the fabric down.
Steve’s eyes dropped before he could stop them, taking in the way the dress fit you—how it followed and hugged your curves, how the neckline framed your chest just right. Realizing how intensely he was staring, he snapped his gaze back up to your face. His jaw tightened as he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Yeah,” he nodded quickly, standing up straight. Then he cleared his throat. “Yeah, it’s— it’s fine. You’re fine.”
Bucky, on the other hand, took your question as an invitation to check you out shamelessly. His eyes roamed over you—appreciating your chest and legs. Liking what he saw, his tongue flicked out to wet his bottom lip, teeth catching it afterward.
“Real pretty, doll,” he said lowly. “Wearin’ a dress like that around here… almost makes me wanna keep you to ourselves.”
You rolled your eyes, hoping the silver moonlight didn’t betray the flush on your cheeks or the way your lips twitched into a reluctant smile.
“You two are unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head as you stepped past them towards the house.
Halfway to the porch, you called back over your shoulder, your voice playful. “Do you flirt with every woman who crosses your path, or am I just lucky?”
Bucky’s mouth snapped open—a smart-ass remark already locked and loaded—but Steve cut him off instantly, pointing a stern finger at his chest. “Hey now! Don’t look at me. It’s him. He’s the problem.”
The sound of your light, airy laugh drifted back to them—a sound so soft and gentle, it seemed to knock the air right out of their lungs.
“I’ll be back in a minute!” you called with a wave, jogging up the porch steps and disappearing inside.
“Don’t take too long!” Bucky shouted after you. “Or else all the food will be gone by the time we get there.”
As the screen door clicked shut and you vanished from sight, their laughter trailed off. The silence of the countryside came back, broken only by the faint chirps of crickets in the distance.
Steve let out a heavy exhale, rubbing the back of his neck.
“…We gotta get a grip,” he muttered.
“I’m being serious, Stevie,” Bucky said, giving his friend’s arm a sharp nudge.
His flirtatious smirk was gone, now replaced with a protective look that Steve had only seen him give to their horses.
“I mean—look at her. If she shows up at the bar looking like that, every bastard in the county is going to be breathing down her neck.” He crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on the door where you had just been.
“…Yeah,” Steve huffed quietly. “I know.” His gaze stayed on the house, tracking your silhouette as it moved past the lit windows.
“Hell, half the men in this town would get worked up just seein’ a lady show a bit of ankle,” Steve added dryly. “I still can’t believe Fury told her to come to this dump.”
Bucky let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Listen to us—soundin’ real territorial all of a sudden.”
Steve scrubbed a hand down his face, his palm rasping against his stubble. “It’s just—she’s our responsibility while she’s here. Fury trusted us to look out for her. That’s all it is.”
“Yeah,” Bucky hummed. “That’s all.”
They stood in the yard, watching you move past the glow of the house windows.
In the long silence, they both realized how dead wrong they were. Truthfully, they weren’t all that much better compared to the sleazy, overworked men in town.
When they first laid eyes on you, they immediately wanted to keep you to themselves. And despite only having you here for a couple of hours, they were going to make sure to keep it that way.
Steve started talking lowly to Bucky, quiet enough to make sure you couldn’t hear—even though you were already inside.
“We stick close tonight. No one bothers her. No one gets handsy. And if anyone does—” Steve stopped himself, exhaling through his nose. “—we shut it down. Calmly.” He emphasized.
“Right.” Bucky nodded. “Calmly.”
“That means we don’t start fights, Buck.”
“Hey—I don’t believe in startin’ fights,” he mumbled, crossing his arms defensively. “Just… finishin’ ‘em.”
“Alright, enough loitering. Let’s start up Lucy.” Steve slapped a firm hand on Bucky’s back, nudging him towards the truck.
Bucky mumbled grumpily but trailed behind anyway, yanking the hood latch and propping it open while Steve climbed into the driver’s seat. The keys jingled as Steve turned the ignition.
The truck clicked, chugged, whined, and gave them nothing.
He tried again. Another cough, a weak sputter—and then silence.
“… You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Steve muttered, giving Bucky a flat look through the windshield.
Bucky leaned over the engine bay, bracing one hand on the frame. “Don’t look at me like that. She was runnin’ fine earlier.”
“Well, she’s got real bad timing,” Steve shot back sassily, twisting the key once more, like sheer will might help. The engine answered with a pathetic hiccup and died again. “We can’t invite her out and then tell her the truck’s dead.”
“I didn’t invite her,” Bucky said, poking at a hose. “You did.”
“Oh, don’t start.”
Bucky adjusted a loose wire, fingers blackening with grease. “Try it now.”
Steve turned the key, and still… nothing.
Steve leaned his head back against the seat, exhaling sharply. “Unbelievable. First night she’s here, and we’re about to tell her we can’t even get her into town.”
“Relax,” Bucky said, though his jaw was tight. “Lucy’s temperamental. Always has been.” He wiped his hands on his jeans and bent closer to look inside the engine. “Could be the starter. Or the battery. Or—”
The screen door slammed shut, and both men froze at the sound.
You stepped back out, shoes on this time, hair neatly fixed, looking entirely too put together for a place like this. You jogged towards the truck, a smile already on your face.
“Hey!” you called brightly. “You guys ready?”
Steve’s head snapped up so fast he nearly cracked his neck. Bucky straightened, narrowly missing the hood as he stood.
“Yeah—uh—we’re ready,” Steve said quickly, turning the key again. “C’mon…” he muttered under his breath.
Then the engine finally roared back to life, loud and rumbling, sounding like music to their ears. Both men looked at each other in disbelief.
Bucky slowly lowered the hood and gave it an affectionate pat. “Atta girl,” he murmured. Then he glanced at Steve, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Our good luck charm, ain’t she?”
Steve shook his head, trying to hide his own smile. “Yeah. She is.”
And you couldn’t tell if they were talking about the truck—or you.
Lucy rattled beneath you like she was held together by sheer luck alone.
The ride into town was loud and bumpy, the streets dark and lit only by the truck’s dusty high beams and the occasional window light from passing houses.
The windows were down, warm night air rushing through the cab, drifting in the scent of dust, grass, and something smoky from farther ahead. Steve drove with one hand on the wheel, relaxed now that the truck had decided to cooperate, while Bucky leaned back in his seat, elbow hooked out the window.
Town came into view slowly—a handful of buildings clustered under string lights and old streetlamps. It looked far more beautiful than it had in the broad daylight when you first arrived. The bar stood near the center, a squat wooden building with a faded sign swinging above the door. Even before Steve cut the engine, the twang of banjos and guitars met your ears.
“Well,” Steve said, hopping out and extending a hand to help you down. “We made it.”
The moment you stepped inside, you were greeted with the sounds of loud music, laughter, and the smell of cigarettes.
Glasses clinked, boots thudded and scraped against the old floorboards. A few men with weathered faces leaned against the bar with their sleeves rolled up, while a group of elderly women sat at a corner table with playing cards spread out before them. Someone whooped near the jukebox, and a few people were already on the floor, dancing and sweating.
One pair of eyes landed on you, then several.
Soon enough, nearly everyone in the damn bar was staring.
Conversation grew a little quieter. Curious, surprised, and a few openly appreciative glances lingered on you longer than they should’ve. You crossed your arms defensively on instinct, suddenly very aware of yourself.
And both of your boys noticed.
Steve stepped up beside you, resting a protective hand on your lower back that somehow managed to soothe you. Bucky moved to your other side quietly, his broad shoulders subtly boxing you in as he glared at everyone else in the room.
Most of the crowd looked away and returned to their drinks, but the younger men kept their eyes fixed on you.
“Don’t mind them,” Bucky murmured, leaning in so only you could hear. “Town don’t get many new faces. Especially not pretty ones.”
Before you could respond, someone at the bar shouted, “Rogers! Barnes! Thought that was Lucy I heard coughin’ her way into town!”
Steve laughed, lifting his other hand in greeting. “You know she wouldn’t miss a Friday.”
The elderly men at the bar chuckled, and one of them leaned back on his stool to get a better look at you. “Well, don’t just stand there hoggin’ her, Rogers,” he called out. “Come on over and introduce us to your new friend.”
You hesitated, your eyes darting between Steve and Bucky. Despite the protective hand on your back, Steve’s expression remained calm and gentle, clearly intent on not starting any trouble. Bucky, on the other hand, looked like he was ready to fight anyone who even dared to look your way.
“They’re alright,” Steve reassured you quietly. “Promise. Half the fellas at the bar are married.”
Then a burst of laughter exploded from a table near the back where a group of women sat hunched over cards and half-empty glasses—clearly the wives in question. One of them slapped the table. “That’s because you earned it, Marie!” another shouted back. “Now stop yellin’ and play your damn hand!”
You couldn’t help but smile.
Steve gave you a gentle nudge. “C’mon. Let’s say hello.”
They led you toward the bar, Steve’s hand relaxed and guiding at your back while Bucky stalked half a step behind you, mugging everyone who looked your way. The older men adjusted their stools, flashing friendly smiles as they made space for you.
“This is Frank,” Steve said by way of introduction, and you reached out to shake his hand.
“So,” Frank raised a brow, looking between the three of you. “Who’s the young lady?”
You returned his greeting with a polite smile. “I’m a family friend of Fury’s. I’m here for a research project.”
“Ohhh, Fury’s girl?” the bartender whistled, wiping down a glass. “Well, hell—someone warn the whole town not to lay a finger on this one.”
A few men barked a laugh, the scent of beer wafting from their breath, as Frank waved a finger between Bucky and Steve.
“Specially you two,” he said, looking at you. “These guys are the ones causin’ most of the trouble around here. Fury actually trusted you with them?”
“Hey, we’re perfect gentlemen,” Steve countered. “Ain’t that right, Buck?”
“Right,” Bucky muttered, his arms crossed as he glared at someone across the bar. “Gentlemen.”
You shrugged lightly, smiling. “They’ve been nothing but nice. They even fixed up a shed for me to stay in.”
“A shed?” one man barked, spit nearly flying. You took a subtle step back. “Rogers, Barnes—you stick a girl in a shed and call it hospitality?”
“Don’t sully my ma’s house like that,” Steve joked, reaching over the counter to grab himself a beer.
“Y’know, when Sarah was alive, she didn’t call it much of a house, either,” Frank added, stifling his cigarette in the ashtray as a cloud of smoke drifted toward you.
Steve reached over the counter again, this time snagging two more bottles and sliding cash to the bartender with a nod of thanks.
“Alright, alright,” he said good-naturedly. “Before you all start fillin’ our girl’s ears with nonsense, we’re gonna grab a table.”
Bucky tipped his chin to the back corner. “There’s an empty one over there.”
Steve nodded in that direction, gesturing for you to lead the way.
“Oh, so she’s your girl now!” the men teased, their laughter following you. As the three of you walked away, they called out their goodbyes. “It was nice meetin’ you, sweetheart!”
You looked over your shoulder, giving them a quick wave.
“And it was nice talkin’ to you too, Barnes!” Frank shouted sarcastically. Bucky didn’t even look back, simply raising a hand in a dismissive wave as he guided you to the booth.
Bucky stood aside, letting you take the inside seat of the booth. As you slid in, the cushions felt worn and soft—broken in by years of Friday nights exactly like this one. Once you were settled and had set your beer set on the table, Bucky slid in right next to you.
“I’ll grab us somethin’ to eat,” Steve said, standing at the edge of the table and scanning the chalkboard menu. “Place may be small and reeks of cigarettes, but they do grill a mean burger.”
You smiled up at him. “I’ll trust your judgment.”
Steve turned back toward the bar, weaving his way through the crowd. It was just you and Bucky now, surrounded by the loud music and people nearly tripping over themselves. You took it all in with curious eyes while Bucky leaned back against the booth, his arm draped lazily across the top of the seat behind you, beer resting casually in his hand.
“So,” Bucky huffed after taking a sip. “How’re you likin’ the small-town nightlife? Real glitz and glamour out here.”
Your eyes continued scanning the room—the scuffed, dirty floors, the dartboard with three crooked darts still stuck in it, and some burly men arm wrestling in the opposite corner.
“Oh, yeah,” you agreed sarcastically. “Definitely glitz and glamour. We do this all the time back in the city.”
“Yeah?” he laughed softly. “Definitely just like the champagne-and-rooftop parties you have every night. Uh-huh, got it.” He smiled at you before taking another swig of his beer.
You watched the lines crinkle attractively at the corners of his tired eyes—evidence of long days and too little rest. His tongue swept across his bottom lip to catch a stray drop, and the simple motion made your stomach flip, your pulse ticking up a notch.
You took a quick sip from your own bottle to hide your reaction, then cleared your throat.
“Anyway,” you started lightly, “what’s with everyone telling me that you two are trouble?”
Bucky let out a playful scoff. “That’s just old-timer slander. We’re model citizens.”
You gave him a skeptical look. “Right. So innocent that every person I’ve met has warned me about you two,” you added dryly.
“Absolutely,” he said, lifting his beer in a small toast. “Wouldn’t hurt a damn fly, darlin’.”
“Does that explain why you’ve been scowling at every man in here like you’re ready to fight since we walked through the doors?” you taunted.
He set his beer on the table and leaned in closer; you could catch the scent of it on his breath. “Look around you, sweetheart,” he rasped.
You did. The room was full of weathered faces, grease-stained flannel shirts, and men who had clearly seen better days. Most of the women were gathered at the cards table—all silver hair and loud, gravelly laughter.
“See any other woman as young and beautiful as you?” he asked. His eyes trailed over your face, down to your jawline and your neck while you were too busy scanning the bar to notice. “Stevie and I are just protectin’ you, that’s all.”
Protecting you?
Your face warmed, and the second you turned your gaze back to him, you found he was already watching you, leaning in dangerously close.
“That so?” you asked softly, your eyes searching his.
“That’s so,” he repeated lowly. You watched as his gaze dropped slowly from your eyes to your lips.
In the city, independence was everything; women were expected to take care of themselves. But here, it felt like those modern rules had been stripped away in favor of the old ways. It was traditional—strong, capable men protecting and providing while the women held down the home. It was a lifestyle that didn’t—couldn’t— exist in the city where everyone was always on the clock.
Just then, Steve approached, setting down plates piled with burgers, fries, and ribs. He had a wide grin on his face. “Eat up, princess.”
As you looked at the food and then back at the two of them, you realized that maybe you didn’t mind being taken care of—especially by them.
You all dug in, the smell of grilled meat and greasy fries making your stomach rumble. Bucky took a massive bite of his burger, already smearing sauce across his chin. He glanced over at you, smirking while he chewed.
“Bet you don’t eat this kind of slop back in the city, do ya?” he teased, nodding at your hands as you tried to steady a burger the size of your head. “Probably don’t even know how to eat with your hands.”
You rolled your eyes. “I do know how to eat with my hands,” you said, adjusting your grip. “I’m just eating with manners—something you two should try learning.”
“Hey, don’t be afraid of a little mess,” Bucky said, swiping a finger over a barbecue rib until it was coated in sauce. “That’s part of the fun.”
Steve gave him a disapproving look across the table. “Buck, no—”
But Steve’s warning went in one ear and out the other. Before you could react, Bucky reached over and swiped a thick line of barbecue sauce right over your lips and chin.
“Hey—!” You recoiled, pressing your lips tight to keep his finger from slipping into your mouth. Bucky sat back in his seat, letting out a roar of laughter at your reaction.
“Oh my god, Bucky! You are trouble!”
You reached for a napkin, but Steve snatched it away before you could grab it, snickering along with his friend.
“Steve, you too?!” you frowned dramatically, dropping your burger back onto the plate. You stood up, reaching across the booth to grab it, but Steve held it further back, laughing at your sad attempt. “How could you do this to me? You literally told Bucky no!”
“I know, I know,” he laughed, wiping a tear from his eye. “But look at you—you look so damn cute, sweetheart.”
With a groan, you leaned over the table, stretching just far enough to snatch the napkins right out of Steve’s hands. You immediately started dabbing at the mess on your chin.
“Jesus,” you said, shaking your head playfully. “Nick was right about you two.”
All three of you were still recovering from the laughter when two large shadows fell over the table, blocking the warm overhead light.
“Well, well,” a slurred voice drawled, catching the guys' attention. “Ain’t this a pretty picture.”
Bucky looked up, and it was like a dark cloud loomed over him; his smile was instantly replaced by a hard, dangerous frown. “Get lost, Mike.”
‘Mike’ didn’t even glance at Bucky. Instead, his bleary gaze raked over you, slow and hazy in a way that made your skin prick uncomfortably. You sank back into your seat, subtly trying to hide yourself behind Bucky’s frame.
“Hey there, sweetheart,” Mike said, leaning his hands on the edge of the booth, trying to keep himself from toppling over. You could smell the cheap whiskey on his breath from across the table. “Didn’t know Buck was harborin’ such a pretty little secret. Take a look at this prize, Dave.”
His buddy, ‘Dave’, snickered beside him, resting a lazy arm around Mike’s shoulders. “Oh, what a pretty thing you are. City girl, right? You bored with these two yet? You know, we could show you a real good time.”
Steve shot you a careful look. “Just ignore them—”
“I’m good where I am, thanks,” you answered sternly, the words out before you could even register Steve’s warning.
Bucky’s jaw clenched, his eyes never leaving Mike’s. “I said get lost.”
They ignored him again.
Mike tilted his head at you, a lopsided, ugly smirk on his face as he adjusted his footing, nearly stumbling. “You’re probably gettin’ real tired of being stuck with these two nobodies,” he scoffed. “Why don’tcha hang out with real men like us?”
That was when Bucky’s hand curled into a white-knuckled fist on the table.
Steve reached out, his fingers brushing Bucky’s forearm as a warning. “Buck.” Then, he faced the men, his voice calm and level. “Alright. That’s enough. She’s with us. Go stick with your arm wrestling and leave us be.”
Dave laughed—a mean, loud sound—and reached over to give Bucky a mocking nudge on the shoulder. “Yeah, listen to your boy-toy, Barnes. Like the loyal dog you are.”
Steve’s brow twitched. “What the hell did you just say to him?”
You rested a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, leaning in with a worried look. “Bucky, I think we should just go—”
But before you could finish the sentence, Steve moved in one quick, explosive motion—his boots hit the floor hard as he lunged out of the booth. A blur of movement followed as his fist cracked straight across Dave’s jaw. The brutal, clean punch of skin-against-skin echoed through the bar, followed by a startled gasps of people who stood nearby.
Mike blinked in shock, watching his friend drop, then let out a roar and swung at Steve. The punch caught Steve high on the cheekbone, snapping his head to the side.
People jumped out of their chairs, wood scraping against floorboards as they shouted and lifted their drinks. “Fight, fight, fight!”
“Jesus Christ!” you gasped, quickly getting up. You nudged Bucky in the shoulder hard. “Bucky, grab Steve and let’s get out of here—!”
But Bucky was already standing, and he had absolutely no intention of ending it.
His blue eyes were filled with fury as he closed the distance to Mike. He grabbed the man by the shoulder, spinning him around just to deliver a devastating blow straight to his face—then another immediately to his gut, sending Mike doubling over.
“Fuckin’ Barnes!” Mike wheezed.
A circle formed around them almost instantly, leaving you trapped inside the booth with no escape. People cheered, laughing and whooping as if this were a Friday night show rather than a real fight.
“Knock ’em silly, Rogers!”
“Your punches are gettin’ sloppy, Barnes!”
Your heart thumped fast in your chest as punches flew in a blur and blood splattered the floor. You twisted in your seat, scanning the room desperately for anyone who might step in—a security guard, a bouncer, any responsible grown-up.
The bartender just threw his head back and laughed, wiping the counter with a rag. “Ah, hell,” he called over the noise, sounding more amused than concerned. “Didn’t think it’d only take two drinks tonight.”
A few men near the bar raised their glasses, toasting to the chaos.
“Hey! Can someone stop them?!” you tried again, but no one heard you. Or, more likely, no one cared.
A couple of the older women at the card table barely glanced up from their game, still laughing among themselves.
“They’ll walk it off,” a guy at a nearby table said casually, taking a slow sip of his beer.
“Barnes always did have a temper,” one of the elderly women added from the card table, her voice sounding almost fond of the memory.
You watched in horror as Bucky and Mike stumbled into a nearby table, knocking it over and sending beers flying as they exchanged heavy blows. Next to them, Steve had Dave in a chokehold while Dave repeatedly drove his elbow into Steve’s gut, making him recoil with every hit.
The bartender noticed you trying to push your way out of the booth, your hands waving in frantic, useless circles as you tried to get him to stop the madness.
“Don’t try to fix it, city girl!” he called out, his booming voice carrying over the crowd. “They’ll be done when they’re done!”
Your shoulders slumped in defeat. Just then, the room erupted into cheers as Steve delivered a massive hook to Dave’s jaw, sending him crashing to the floor. Dave groaned, spitting blood onto the floorboards as he tried to push himself back up.
Steve stood over him, chest heaving as he adjusted his stance. “You done?”
Dave wiped his mouth. “Not even close.”
“Good,” Steve huffed, raising his fists again. “I could do this all day.”
Oh.
Despite the panic, a snort escaped you at how ridiculously corny that was. Yet for some reason, the line seemed to amp up the crowd even more—as if he were a pro wrestler and that was his legendary signature catchphrase.
“That’s it, Rogers!”
“Yeah! Show ’em!”
“Knock his teeth out!”
As you looked between the men, your shoulders eased just slightly. You realized Mike and Dave were in far worse condition than Bucky and Steve.
They weren’t losing.
They were in complete control, moving like they’d fought like this a plenty of times before. It was as if this bar floor had been their training ground since they were kids.
With a defeated sigh, you tipped your beer back and took several long swallows, emptying the bottle in one go. The cheap alcohol hit your system, mixing with the leftover adrenaline and replacing your earlier panic with a sudden, sharp spark of excitement.
You slammed the empty bottle down on the table, cupped your hands around your mouth, and shouted over the roar of the crowd.
“Kick his ass, Steve!”
A few heads turned—some giving you surprised glances—while other men cheered along with you.
“Come on, Buck—you can do better than that!” you yelled.
Bucky blinked at you, a surprised smile ghosting over his bloodied face before he used your voice as fuel to keep going.
Steve ducked a sloppy swing from Dave, landing a clean hook that snapped the man’s head to the side. Dave staggered backward, fighting to stay upright as the crowd erupted. Meanwhile, Bucky had Mike pinned against the floor, each punch making the wood rattle and creak.
You watched, breath caught in your throat. You were worried about their safety, but God—they were good at this.
And they looked good doing it.
Their hair was damp with sweat, trailing over their faces as they grunted and delivered heavy blows. You couldn’t help but notice the way their muscles flexed or the way the veins stood out on their large, powerful hands.
The brawl continued until more tables were upended and bottles shattered, glass spraying everywhere as the locals scrambled to avoid the crossfire.
Finally, the bartender slapped his rag onto the counter with a sharp, fed-up sigh.
“Alright! That’s enough!”
Steve grabbed Dave by the shirt, his fist cocked back, while Bucky buried another punch into Mike’s stomach, knocking the air out of his lungs. The bartender’s patience finally snapped for good.
“I SAID THAT’S ENOUGH!”
The room finally fell quiet.
He jabbed a finger towards the entrance. “Barnes. Rogers. OUT. And take Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum with you before you bleed all over my damn floor.”
By the time you all made it back to the farm, the night air had cooled significantly, the crickets still humming lazily just as they had before you left. Lucy rumbled to a stop, and the three of you climbed out in silence.
As you approached the house, the porch light flickered on with a weak, twitching buzz.
In the dim yellow glow, you finally saw the extent of the damage.
Steve’s cheekbone was already swelling, a dark bruise blooming beneath the skin, while dried blood traced a path from his split lip to his chin. His knuckles were raw and scraped open. Bucky didn’t look much better—one brow was split, a smear of red trailing down his temple, and dust was ground so deeply into his clothes it looked like he’d rolled through every inch of the town’s dirt.
“Well,” Steve sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess we’ll turn in. Big day tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Bucky added, brushing dirt off his shirt like that would somehow fix anything. “Let us know if you need anythin’, doll. We’ll keep the door unlocked for you.”
They both turned to the door, but your voice made them stop.
“No,” you said sternly.
They both looked back, Steve tilting his head in confusion. “No?”
“You guys are not going to bed like that.” You gestured wildly between their bruised faces. “You’re both bleeding. You’re filthy. And—God, both of your knuckles look like ground meat.”
Bucky glanced down at his fists and mumbled, “It’s not that bad…”
“It is,” you insisted.
He shrugged. “Fine. We’ll rinse off with some cold water and soap. Done.”
“Not done,” you corrected sharply. “You’ll wake up with infections and crusted in blood. You guys were rolling all over a floor covered in God-knows-what.”
They exchanged a glance, not really knowing what to say. You narrowed your eyes and crossed your arms over your chest.
“Inside. Now,” you ordered.
Steve opened his mouth, holding up a hand. “Honey, we’re fine. You should get some rest—”
You ignored him, pointing firmly past him toward the house. “Go.”
Inside, you guided them to the kitchen table like scolded schoolboys. Steve sat down, his posture stiff and awkward, while Bucky leaned against the counter with his arms crossed. He was trying to play it cool, though he clearly had no idea what to do with himself.
It had been years since they were in this position—not since they were kids and Steve’s mom was patching them up after a rough day of playing in the dirt and getting into scrapes. Back then, they’d have wide grins on their faces as she kissed their "boo-boos" goodbye.
But now, as grown men with a beautiful woman in their home tending to them, they were both as stiff as a load of bricks.
They watched in silence as you filled a bowl with warm water, found a clean cloth, and grabbed the small first-aid tin they pointed out in one of the cabinents.
You sat down in front of Steve. “Alright,” you murmured, dipping the cloth and wringing it out. “You’re first.”
You pulled your chair closer, tucking yourself between his knees as you gently tilted his face toward the warm overhead light. The bruise across his cheekbone looked even worse up close. When you pressed the damp cloth to his skin, he flinched.
“Sorry,” you whispered, softening your touch.
“S’okay,” he murmured back. “It feels nice.”
Bucky watched from the counter, his jaw clenching. He couldn’t quite place the feeling in his chest; all he knew was that he wanted the same focused attention Steve was getting.
So, when you said, “Bucky, come here. I’ll do you next,” his feet moved without hesitation.
He grabbed a chair and dragged it right up behind you—perhaps a little too close in his eagerness. He settled in as he impatiently waited his turn, sandwiching you between the two of them.
“Both of you,” you said, setting the bowl down and picking up the gauze. “Watch me. That way, when someone’s not here to take care of you, you can take care of each other the next time you get into a bar fight.”
You took Steve’s hand, and he shuddered at the contact. As you carefully wrapped his split knuckles, your fingertips grazed the sensitive skin of his inner wrist, making him swallow hard.
You could feel Bucky’s presence right behind you. He leaned over your shoulder, watching your hands work. Seeing how softly you cared for Steve hit him with a deep sense of longing he couldn’t hide anymore. He sighed softly, resting his forehead against your back, his rough hand finding your waist to give it a gentle, needy squeeze.
“I… need attention, too,” Bucky mumbled.
You finished wrapping Steve’s hand, snipping the excess gauze with a pair of scissors. A soft chuckle escaped you at Bucky’s blunt admission.
“Well,” you teased. “Maybe if you two hadn’t started a fight, you wouldn’t be in such desperate need of my attention.”
“We had to defend you, baby,” Bucky sighed. His hands palmed your waist, making you gasp softly.
For Bucky, there was something grounding about your proximity—the way you felt under his hands was relieving for him after the chaos of a long day.
“They were lookin’ at you with bad intentions, sweetheart,” Steve added, leaning in even closer as his eyes bored into yours. “We were just tryna protect you.”
You picked the towel back up, looking deep into Steve’s gaze. He was staring at you so intensely that it made the air feel thin. If you leaned in just an inch further, you could have kissed him.
And judging by the way his gaze dropped from your eyes to your lips, he was thinking the exact same thing.
“I’ve been stared at and talked about by plenty of nasty men in the city,” you explained softly, wringing the towel over the bowl. “But not once did anyone defend me the way you two did. You’ve both done so much for me since I got here, and I don’t know how to pay you back.” You lifted the damp cloth. “This is the least I can do.”
“You being here, taking care of us… that’s more than enough,” Bucky rasped.
You turned in your chair to face him, your brow furrowing as you took in his split skin. When you dabbed the towel gently against the cut, he hissed.
“You might need a butterfly bandage for your brow.” You frowned.
Despite the sting, Bucky let out a rough chuckle. “You’re speakin’ a different language, darlin’.”
You rummaged through the tin and, to your surprise, managed to find one. You held up the bandage; it was still in its wrapping, though the edges were a bit frayed.
“How long has this been in here?” you asked.
Steve shrugged. “I dunno. We don’t really use the kit. Not since my ma passed.”
“It should be fine,” you shrugged. “Better than nothing.” Because of Bucky’s height, even with him sitting, you had to stand up to get a clear look at the wound.
“Hold still,” you whispered, reaching out to push a few long, dark locks of hair out of his face.
Bucky’s hands didn’t stay still, they continued to roam around your waist, originally with the intention to steady you as you stood over him, but his touch was growing bolder.
He let out a low shudder as your fingers trailed over his forehead, smoothing his hair out of the way. The sensation of being taken care of by you finally broke through him as his palms slid from your sides toward the small of your back, pulling you just an inch closer.
Bucky looked up at you, his eyes dark and heavy—and it had nothing to do with the exhaustion of the day.
“You feel so warm underneath my hands, baby,” Bucky rasped, his thumbs grazing the hem of your shirt. “I like this sight. You takin’ care of us. Ain’t that right, Stevie?”
You felt the floorboards creak as Steve rose from his chair. A second later, his presence loomed behind you, solid and warm. You were completely trapped between them now—Bucky’s hands at your waist and Steve’s shadow falling over your back.
Steve leaned in, his face nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His breath was hot against your skin, sending a shiver straight down your spine that made your hands tremble as you held the bandage.
“You’re right, Buck,” Steve murmured against the smooth skin of your neck, resting his hands on your hips. “I like this. Very much.”
You stood frozen as Steve’s nose brushed against the sensitive spot behind your ear while Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened, his thumbs tracing slow, and smooth circles over your hips.
“You guys…” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper—breathless and trembling. You tried to focus on Bucky, your fingers shaking as you finally pressed the butterfly bandage over the split in his brow.
He leaned his face into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed as he let out a long, heavy exhale.
“Shhh,” Bucky murmured, his voice vibrating. He shifted his head to press a soft, lingering kiss to the palm of your hand. “Just stay here, baby. Let us hold you. We’ve had a long day.”
Behind you, Steve’s hands slid fully around to your front, his large palms splaying across your stomach as he pulled your back against his broad chest. He buried his face deeper into the crook of your neck, his lips grazing your skin as he spoke.
“Buck’s right,” Steve rumbled, his arms acting like a warm, heavy anchor. “Just for a minute. Stay right here.”
The silence of the night outside amplified the low, gravelly tones of their voices. They both spoke as if you weren’t there—or as if you were a prize— talking over and around you while their hands continued their slow, possessive exploration of your body.
“Fuck, she’s so soft, Stevie,” Bucky groaned.
His eyes were still closed, his forehead resting against your stomach as his hands slid lower, his calloused palms molding to the curve of your backside. “I didn’t think skin could be this soft.”
“Smells so good, too,” Steve murmured into your hair, his voice vibrating through your spine. He took a deep, shaky breath as his stubble grazed your neck. “Like vanilla… something sweet.”
Bucky let out a dark, huffed laugh, his grip tightening to let you know he wasn’t letting go. “What’d I say? A pretty girl taking care of us… ain’t this the dream? Makes you wanna keep her all to ourselves.”
Your breath hitched and your gaze dropped, looking down at Bucky as he sat between your legs. Through the thin fabric of your clothes, you could feel the heat of his body, but it was the sight of his heavy denim that made your heart skip a beat.
The friction of your bodies pressed together had clearly taken its toll because a prominent, hard bulge was straining against the fly of his jeans, mere inches from your legs.
Before you could even process the sight, you felt Steve shift behind you. He leaned his weight into your back, his large hands firmly placed on your hips. Then, he gave a subtle and slow rock of his hips, pressing his own growing hardness firmly against you from behind.
“You okay, sweetheart?” Steve whispered against your ear, his deep voice making your legs tremble. “You’re shaking.”
“It’s just… you guys are—” you swallowed nervously, embarrassment rushing to your face. “Hard.”
Bucky chuckled lowly, his hand coming down to palm himself through his jeans.
“Do you want us to stop, baby? We can stop—” he groaned, palming himself even harder as he looked at you with hungry eyes. “We’re good boys. We’ll stop if you want us to. We can behave. Right, Stevie?”
Steve was behind you, getting bolder with his movements as he rocked his hips deeper against the curve of your ass.
“Yes,” he grunted. “We’re good. Very good boys.”
Their hands continued roaming over your body eagerly. Bucky’s breath grew heavier as he touched himself through his pants, and the feel of Steve’s rock-hard erection pressing against you while he planted soft kisses on your neck was enough to make your head spin.
The whole kitchen reeked of lust, like there was spell in the air that only made you want them more and more.
“D-don’t stop,” you breathed, your eyes hazy with desire. “This is the least I can do to pay you guys back, right?”
Steve let out a sharp sigh and Bucky groaned so deeply—it was practically a growl.
Bucky pushed himself off his chair, his movements powerful and sudden as he crowded into your space. He didn’t give you a chance to breathe before his mouth crashed onto yours.
His kiss wasn’t gentle or patient; it was hungry and demanding, and you could taste the faint, bitter tang of the beer from earlier. His tongue swept against yours, a low, possessive sound vibrating in his throat as his hands moved from your waist to cup your face, his calloused thumbs brushing over your burning cheeks.
Now that Bucky was standing, Steve was able to press even closer, his large body a solid wall of heat against your back. His hands, now wrapped in the gauze from your careful work, slid upward from your hips.
One hand splayed across your stomach, bunching the fabric of your dress beneath his fingers as he pulled you firmly against his hips, rocking into you. Meanwhile, his other hand moved higher, his fingers groping your tits through the thin material.
Steve buried his face in the crook of your shoulder. “So good,” he murmured against your skin. “You fit so perfectly between us, sweetheart.”
You were drowning between them—lost in the friction of Bucky’s tongue and the way Steve’s hands explored your curves from behind. Your senses were completely overwhelmed. Every time Bucky tilted your head to deepen the kiss, Steve would find a new patch of skin on your neck to mark with his lips, leaving you gasping into Bucky’s mouth.
“Shit, baby,” Bucky groaned against your lips.
His hand slid down your arm, his fingers locking firmly with yours. He guided your hand down between your bodies, pressing your palm directly over the hard, straining heat of his denim. You could feel him twitch beneath your fingertips.
“Touch us, baby,” Bucky groaned, rocking his hips into your hand, his voice desperate. “Don’t be shy now. You wanted to take care of us, didn’t you?”
The friction of your palm against him made his eyes roll back for a second. Steve let out a low, approving growl against your neck. He reached around, his own hand covering yours, adding his strength to the movement as he pressed your hand even firmer against Bucky.
“That’s it,” Steve encouraged, his breath hitching as he watched your hand work. “Look at how tiny your hand looks against him. You like that, don’t you? Feeling so small and helpless between us?”
Bucky’s head fell back, his jaw tight as he fought for air. “God, Stevie…” he moaned. “Help her—guide her hand against me—fuck, just like that…”
Steve’s hand tightened over yours, his movements guiding the friction of your palm against Bucky’s heat. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear; his voice was a gravelly, commanding rumble.
“Get on your knees and take care of my best friend, would ya?”
“O…okay…”
You sank to the floor, the wood cool and hard against your skin as you settled between Bucky’s boots. He let out a ragged breath, his hands immediately finding your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands to tilt your head back so he could look down at you with raw, uncontrollable hunger.
But you weren’t alone on the floor for long. You felt the floorboards groan as Steve knelt directly behind you, his massive frame shielding you from the rest of the room. His large hands slid under the hem of your dress, gathering the fabric upward until it was bunched around your waist, leaving your skin bare to the kitchen air.
As you reached for Bucky’s belt, your fingers fumbling slightly with the heavy leather, you felt Steve’s hand slide between your thighs. His thumb dragged across your clothed clit with a slow, agonizing pressure that made your back arch and your head drop onto Bucky’s lap.
“Focus, sweetheart,” Steve taunted from behind you with a low, condescending laugh. His other hand came around to cup breasts—teasing your nipple through your dress, holding you steady as his thumb continued to work you. “Take it off him. He’s been waiting all day.”
With a sharp tug, you finally eased Bucky’s jeans down. When he finally sprang free, the sight made the air leave your lungs in a sharp gasp. He was thick and heavy, his skin taut and pulsing with a heat you could feel even before you touched him.
Bucky let out a low groan at the sensation of being exposed, his hands tightening in your hair. He seemed to preen under your shocked gaze, his hips giving a small, instinctive twitch towards your face.
Steve chuckled darkly behind you. His hand was still buried between your thighs, and as his thumb made another slow, heavy pass over you, he felt the sudden, hot gush of moisture through your panties that coated his fingers.
“Fuck, Bucky. Look at that. It’s like she got even wetter just seeing how big you are.”
Bucky reached down, his fingers trembling as he cupped your chin, forcing you to look up at him.
“Is that right, darlin’?” he chuckled, his thumb catching on your bottom lip. “You like what you see?”
“Think you can fit me in your tiny little mouth, baby?” Bucky challenged. You watched as his cock throbbed, the tip already leaking and eager to be inside your mouth.
You swallowed hard. You weren’t sure if you could; you had spent a handful of nights with men in the city, but none of them were of… this size.
“I don’t know,” you admitted embarrassingly, your hand coming up to circle his shaft. “But I’ll try—”
Growing impatient, he pressed the head of his cock against the seal of your lips, the warmth making your heart beat faster.
“It’s okay,” Bucky reassured, breathing hard above you as he began pushing past your lips. “Steve will help you. Ain’t that right, Steve?”
You weren’t sure what he meant by having Steve help you, but he didn’t give you much room to think or ask anyway. He probed his length more firmly against your lips, forcing you to open up. You began taking in as much of his thick length as you could manage, your tongue swirling around the broad head as you started to bob your head rhythmically.
“Fuuuuck, that’s it,” Bucky hissed.
His hands stayed firmly anchored in your hair, his knuckles white as he held you in place. Behind you, Steve became even more relentless. You felt his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, tugging them aside until he could slide two fingers deep into your slick heat.
“God—you’re accepting me so easily, baby. Bet you’ve been wantin’ this from the moment we picked you up, huh?” Steve whispered, kissing your ear as he continued to work his fingers inside you.
“Jesus—Steve, I wish you could feel how warm her fuckin’ mouth is,” Bucky moaned, tossing his head back while giving you shallow, sharp thrusts. “This—this is incredible…”
The dual sensation was a sensory overload of pleasure—the feeling of Bucky stretching your mouth while Steve’s fingers curled inside you, hitting your sweet spot with every rhythmic movement of his hand.
“More… more…” Bucky groaned, his voice breaking as he tilted his hips up to meet you halfway. He was desperate, his breath coming in short, jagged hitches.
“You hear that, baby? He wants more,” Steve said.
He wasn’t just watching anymore.
His desire to see his best friend satisfied was overriding his patience.
You let out a small, muffled whimper of protest against Bucky’s shaft, your eyes watering as you reached your limit, but Steve didn’t let you pull away. He placed his large, heavy palm on the back of your head and…
… firmly pushed you down against Bucky’s cock.
Your eyes went wide as you took Bucky deeper than you thought possible, his length hitting the very back of your throat. He let out a sound that was half of a groan and a sob—a loud, desperate moan that echoed through the kitchen. He bucked his hips upward, losing all composure as he finally found the depth he’d been craving.
“Fuck—oh my god,” Bucky gasped, his eyes rolling back. “Just like that—keep her head down, Stevie—shit. Feels too damn good!”
The kitchen was filled with the lewd sounds of his ragged, uncontrolled breathing and the wet slide of your mouth working over him. Steve’s fingers were moving just as frantically inside you now, his rhythm matching the desperate pace of Bucky’s thrusts.
“That’s it, sweetheart, take it all,” Steve growled from behind you. “Keep your eyes open. Look at him. You’ve got him falling apart. Give him everything.”
Bucky’s eyes were blown wide, staring down at you with overwhelming lust.
“Fuck, Steve… she’s perfect. Her mouth—so tight… so warm,” he gasped, his voice cracking. He began to thrust more wildly, his hips snapping forward as he searched for that final bit of release.
“I’m gonna—fuck, baby, I’m gonna cum. Don’t you dare stop. Steve, hold her head. She’s gonna swallow every drop for me.”
“Do it, Buck,” Steve encouraged, his thumb hitting your clit with a press that sent sparks through your vision. “Fill her mouth up. Show her how much we needed this.”
Bucky finally snapped.
He bucked his hips hard against your face, his entire body shuddering as he began to pulse deep in your mouth. You whimpered, your hands gripping his thighs for balance as you felt the hot, heavy waves of his release hitting the back of your throat, making you choke around his shaft.
“Christ—God, her mouth is so warm… shit, Steve. You hear her chokin’ around me? She can barely swallow it down!”
“She’s fluttering all over my fingers too, Buck,” Steve groaned. “She’s gonna cum—I can feel it.”
Bucky finally pulled his cock out of your mouth with a wet, sloppy pop, his release dribbling down your chin as you fought for breath. Your head was dizzy from how brutally he had used your mouth and how deeply Steve was fingering you.
“Steve,” you gasped. “Don’t stop—please. Don’t stop—!”
But Steve didn’t give you the release you were begging for.
He abruptly curled his fingers and pulled them out of you with a sharp, wet sound that left you feeling cold and aching. You let out a cry of frustration, your hips twitching involuntarily to the space where his hand had just been.
Steve stood up, the floorboards creaking under his massive weight. He didn’t look satisfied. If anything, watching Bucky use you had only made him look more predatory. His hands went straight to his belt, the leather creaking as he unbuckled it impatiently.
“You don’t cum until you please the both of us first, darlin’,” Steve commanded.
“Steve, please,” you whined, turning around so that your hands tugged at his jeans. “I was so close.” You looked at Bucky next, frowning. “Bucky?”
“He ain’t gonna help you, baby,” Steve said. “On the table,” he ordered, nodding to the sturdy wooden surface where the medical supplies had been scattered. “Get up there and show us how much you want it. Lay on your back for me.”
Bucky was still catching his breath, leaning against the counter with a dazed, satisfied smirk.
“You heard him, baby,” he rasped, his voice still rough from his climax. “Better be a good girl and please him well.”
With your face burning in embarrassment and two sets of eyes watching your every move, you crawled onto the table, your panties soaked and dripping between your thighs. You slowly settled down on your back, with Steve standing before you and Bucky making his way to the other side.
Steve stepped up, reaching down and hooking his thumbs into the waistband of your panties, stripping them down your legs and tossing them onto the kitchen floor.
As soon as you were bare, he stepped into the space between your thighs, the heavy, scorching weight of his cock poking against your entrance. He was even longer than Bucky—not quite as thick, perhaps, but still more than big enough to stretch you to your absolute limit.
“Look at you,” Steve murmured, staring at you with hazy eyes as he stroked his length. “Look how ready you are for me.”
Bucky stepped closer, jeans still around his ankles, as he gripped his own half-hard length. He jerked himself off with slow, heavy pumps, his gaze fixed on Steve as he prepared to take you. With his free hand, Bucky grabbed the hem of your dress and hiked it all the way up to your neck, exposing your breasts to the cool air and their burning gazes.
“So pretty,” Bucky whispered in awe, as if he had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.
He leaned over, his fingers gently playing with your nipples as you whimpered and squirmed on the table, caught between the two of them.
Your heels dug into the wood of the table as you arched your back, the friction of Steve’s heat against your entrance making you whine. You were desperate for the fullness, your body burning with an unfinished ache that Steve was intentionally prolonging.
“Please,” you whimpered, your hands reaching out to grab Steve’s muscular forearms. “Steve, please... I need it.”
“Jesus,” Bucky rasped, his eyes dark with a mix of affection and hunger. “She’s so damn cute when she’s begging like this. Make it last, okay? I want to see our girl come apart nice and slow.”
“I’ll try,” Steve managed, his voice strained. He slowly pushed the broad head of his cock past your folds, stretching you open just enough to make you gasp before he pulled back, teasing the very edge of your sanity.
“Steve—please! Stop with the teasing, I can’t—” you begged, “I can’t take it anymore.”
Steve’s jaw clenched tight as he hissed through his teeth. “I know, baby girl. I know.”
Deep down, he wasn’t intentionally trying to tease you. The feel of your wet tightness already clamping down on him made him remember how long it had been since he’d fucked anything other than his own hand.
And it meant that, despite Bucky’s request, he likely wouldn’t be lasting nearly as long as he wanted to.
He slowly pushed in deeper and deeper, each inch making you gasp and arch your back off the table as you tried to adjust to his size.
“F-fuck, Steve!” you moaned.
Finally, he bottomed out completely inside you, his massive weight pressing you down into the sturdy wood of the table. Every time he slammed his hips forward, the medical supplies rattled and the table groaned under the force.
“Fuck, too tight,” he hissed.
His big arms circled your frame, holding you tightly as he began fucking you with a desperate, frantic hunger.
“God, you’re so tight,” Steve repeated, “so fucking warm.”
Bucky was right there, leaning over the side of the table to catch every detail. The sight of Steve losing his usual composure—seeing his best friend’s broad back muscles tensing and rippling as he drove into you—had Bucky’s cock snapping back to full attention for a second round.
He jerked himself off faster, his eyes darting between your flushed face and the place where Steve was disappearing inside you.
“Tell me how tight she is, Steve,” Bucky urged.
“Like you wouldn’t believe, Buck,” Steve groaned. “She’s squeezin’ me so good—it’s just like you said… a nice, smooth pair of legs wrapped tight around my waist. Fuck—it’s going to be so hard to pull out.”
Bucky’s eyes darkened at Steve’s words, the blue turning to a stormy midnight black. His cock was twitching and pulsing in his hand, slick with his own pre-cum and the lingering wetness from your mouth as he watched Steve’s massive body hammer into yours.
“Pump her full, Steve,” Bucky growled. “Breed her. Fill her up so damn deep she can’t think about anything or anyone else—until she thinks only about us.”
“B-breed…?” you whimpered, your eyes rolling back.
Your head spun at the words. The thought of Steve’s cum filling you— of that thick, heavy seed flooding your core while Bucky watched—sent a violent jolt of overwhelming pleasure through your body.
You felt your walls contract, clamping down on Steve’s length—milking him so hard that it made him choke on his own breath.
“B-Buck…” Steve gasped, his pace becoming erratic. He was losing the fight for control. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he felt your climax beginning to roll over him. “She’s so close… God, I’m gonna—”
“Cum inside her,” Bucky urged, leaning in close until his breath hitched against your ear. “Fill her up and make her our girl, Stevie. Pump her so full she’ll never want anyone else.”
The command from Bucky was the final blow to Steve’s restraint.
With a low, hungry roar that vibrated against your chest, Steve bucked. He rocked his hips into you one last time, pinning you to the table with his full weight as he bottomed out.
“Christ, take it, sweetheart! Oh—fuck, take it—”
His body went rigid as he began to pour himself into you. You felt the hot, thick jets of his release hit the very back of your womb. It felt like he was never going to stop—years of pent-up sexual frustration finally rearing its head.
Your mind fractured. The internal pressure of him, combined with the mental image of being bred, sent you over the edge.
“Oh my god, Steve! I’m—I’m gonna cum—!” you screamed into the crook of his neck, your walls seizing and pulsing in a violent, uneven rhythm that milked him for every last drop.
“Fuck—yes—take it all, baby,” Steve groaned, his voice jagged as he shuddered against you, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder.
Bucky stood before you, panting as he watched the liquid evidence of Steve’s climax begin to seep out and coat your thighs. Seeing you stretched and filled by his best friend was too much; with his own cock already hard again, he was more than ready for round two.
And this time, he wanted to be the one inside.
Steve slowly pulled out of you, the sound of the wet, suctioning release loud against the heavy breathing between the three of you. You let out a broken gasp, your body feeling hollow and sensitive as the cool air hit where his heat had just been. A thick trail of his release began to spill over your thighs, coating the wooden table beneath you.
Steve leaned down, his eyes a bit softer than they were before, reaching out to hook his arms under yours to help you up. “C’mere, sweetheart. Let’s get you cleaned—”
“Move aside, Steve.”
Bucky’s voice was like a whip crack.
He stomped over, his boots heavy on the floor, and physically brushed Steve’s hands away from you. There was no gentleness left in him now; his jaw was set, and his eyes were fixed on the mess Steve had left behind.
“Bucky?” you asked softly, trying to catch your breath. “Are you okay—?”
“I’m not done with her,” Bucky growled.
Before you could reply, he grabbed your hips and flipped you over. Your face was pressed down into the hard, cool wood of the table, your cheek flat against the surface as he forced your ass up high.
“B-Buck—!”
Without warning, Bucky lined himself up against your puffy slit, and in one aggressive motion, he buried himself deep in your overstimulated heat. You let out a muffled shriek against the table as he began to fuck you doggy-style, one hand pinning your head down while his other gripped your waist tightly.
“Fuck!” Bucky barked, biting his lip. “She is tight, Steve. Fuckin’ hell… like a tight, warm and wet fist wrapped around my cock.”
“Bucky—haaah, I… It’s too much—fuck—oh!”
The friction was almost too much to bear. You were a babbling, overstimulated mess, your voice reduced to broken sobs and incoherent pleas against the wood of the table.
With every heavy, bottoming-out thrust, you could feel Bucky physically pushing Steve’s cum deeper into your core. It was a strange, overwhelming sensation—the feeling of being claimed by one man while the other’s mark was forced even further inside you.
Steve stood by the side of the table, his chest still heaving as he watched. He looked genuinely surprised, a small, breathless huff of laughter escaping him as he watched Bucky go to work. “Christ, Buck... you're still going? Fuck. You’re ruinin’ her.”
Bucky only grunted like an animal in response as he gripped your waist tighter, rocking his hips even harder.
You were a drooling, slutty mess on the table, and the pathetic sight made Steve smile softly at you in sympathy. He reached out, his large hand stroking your sweat-dampened hair away from your face. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your temple while Bucky hammered into your hips from behind.
“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” Steve whispered, his voice a soothing balm against Bucky’s relentless pace. “Just let him in, darlin’. Such a good girl, taking him so deep for us. Just breathe through it for me.”
“Stevie,” you whined, your voice pitching higher. “He’s so th—thick… he’s stretching me so much…”
“I know, baby,” Steve murmured. You weren’t sure if his words were meant to soothe you, but his tone was shifting, becoming almost condescending—as if your overstimulated state was exactly where he wanted you.
He watched with a possessive sheen in his eyes as Bucky’s hips continued to batter against you. “Cum inside her, Bucky. Fill her up.”
Bucky let out a ragged, disbelieving laugh between the loud creaks of the table. “Shit, Stevie… you want me to knock her up too?”
Steve just kept stroking your hair, his thumb tracing the shell of your ear. “It’s just like you said—a pretty girl like her staying home and takin’ care of us. Don’t you want that, Buck? To see her round, glowin’, and barefoot? Somethin’ about keepin’ the house warm?”
The rhythm of Bucky’s thrusts faltered for a split second before becoming twice as violent. A low, needy sound escaped him.
“Fuck… I want that so bad. More than anythin’. Shit.”
Bucky leaned down, his chest crushing against your back, his voice sending tingles down your spine. “I’m going to breed her. She’s stayin’ here with us, Stevie. We’re makin’ her ours for good.”
The thought should’ve terrified you, but as you lay there pinned between them, lost in a haze of pure, unadulterated lust, the idea only turned you on even more. Your only concern now was whether you could even contain Bucky’s release inside you.
“I—I don’t think I can,” you babbled against the table, your words slipping out between broken gasps. “…take it… take Bucky’s cum… I—”
Steve didn’t let your panic spiral. He leaned down further, his large, warm hand moving from your hair to cup your jaw, forcing you to tilt your head so he could look you in the eye.
“Yes, you can, sweetheart,” Steve cooed. “You’re made for this. You’re made for us. Just relax those pretty muscles and let him in.”
He then pressed a soft kiss to your temple, his thumb stroking your cheekbone even as Bucky’s pace turned frantic.
“Look at her, Buck,” Steve whispered, his eyes never leaving yours. “She’s worried she can’t hold it all. Tell her what you’re gonna do.”
Bucky let out a choked, desperate sound, his fingers digging into your hips. “I’m gonna fill her to the brim,” he rasped, his breath hot against the back of your neck. “I’m gonna fill her so full she’ll leak all over the table.”
Another needy moan tore from his chest. “G-gonna knock her up until there’s—fuck— atleast one brunette and one blonde baby runnin’ around the house, Stevie.”
At Bucky’s nasty words, your walls spasmed, clenching around him as your second orgasm finally shattered. You let out a high, broken cry against the table, your vision sparking white as you came right along with him—completely spent, completely undone.
With a final, sloppy, and shaky thrust, Bucky fucked into you one last time. He groaned your name as his body locked up. You felt the first hot stream of his release hit you, and your eyes went wide as he began to pump himself empty.
He held you pinned to the table, his weight crushing you down, ensuring that every drop of his heat was forced deep into the space Steve had already claimed. “Yes, yes—that’s it…!”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Steve praised, his voice thick with pride. He watched the way your body jolted with every pulse of Bucky’s climax. “Takin’ it all, keepin’ it all inside for us. Such a good, fertile little thing.”
Bucky stayed heavy against you for a long time, his chest rising and falling in deep, heavy breaths.
Slowly, he eventually began to pull out. You let out a small, needy whimper at the loss of his heat, your body feeling heavy and thoroughly used. A thick, creamy mixture of both men began to spill out of you, making a mess of your inner thighs and dripping onto the dark wood of the table. He hooked his arm under your waist and gently pulled you back against his chest, tucking your head under his chin.
“Look at that,” Bucky rasped, his voice rough with post-coital bliss as he looked down at the mess they had made of you. He pressed a firm, possessive kiss to the top of your head. “You’re ours now, pretty girl. Every inch of you.”
Steve moved in from the side, his expression soft as he watched the two of you. He leaned down and wiped a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb before pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead.
“Our best girl,” Steve echoed softly, his large hand coming to rest over your stomach, splaying wide and possessive.
“We’re gonna take such good care of you. You’re never going anywhere else.”
I am so sorry about the massive wordcount. I got carried away at the end w/ all of the smut 🚬 anyways, credits to @earthsmightiestbenders for helping me come up with this massive filth of a line:
“G-gonna knock her up until there’s—fuck— atleast one brunette and one blonde baby runnin’ around the house, Stevie.”
thank you for taking the time to read my work, and I hope you enjoyed!
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader // Steve Rogers x reader // Stucky x reader
Synopsis: Stuck in the elevator. Stuffed in the elevator.
Warnings: MDNI // threesome. In an elevator. SIZE Kink (reader is explicitly mentioned to be shorter and smaller than both of them), MANHANDLING (he picks you up with ease, but hear me out..he's captain america, ofc hes gonna do it;), vaginal fingering, unprotected PiV, oral (f!recieving), nipple play, clit play. DRY HUMPING. Creampie. Pussy pronouns. Pussy inspection kinda(??). What's that position called where one of them is giving you head while the other is holding you in the air? If there's not a name yet, we all will call it venirogersandbarnes🙂↕️PRAISE kink.. established stucky, THEY TOUCH EACH OTHER, THEY LOVE EACH OTHER.
Word Count: 2.6k
A/N: this idea has been in my brain for weeks now. It's finally here. Night 3 of Eleven Nights Worth Remembering
Enjoy 💋
The hallway outside the meeting room was almost empty by the time you finished.
The silence hung heavy in the air. The overhead lights dimmed for nightfall, bathing the polished floors in a soft gold haze.
You rolled your neck, the ache of a long day finally settling in your muscles.
Normally you didn’t mind staying late. But lately there had been distractions.
Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. The two men that haunt your dreams—keep your thoughts a little entertaining during lonely nights—their mere existence has been the biggest distraction you'd ever seen.
They worked a few floors above and every time your eyes met with either of the blue ones, your breath lodged itself inside your chest.
Not that either of them did anything inappropriate. If anything, they were polite.
Professional.
There were moments, when the lines seemed to blur before snapping back to focus again.
Steve’s hand lingering a second too long when he passed you a file.
Bucky leaning against the breakroom counter watching you like he was starving. The glances they passed each other whenever you walked by.
But there were rumors. Whispered words between interns and agents alike, how the two men belong to each other. That the shared history is now on its way to a shared future. That it's beautiful—the blood that spilled is now blood that heals.
And you respected the rumors too much to ever cross that line.
So you ignored the way your eyes search for them in rooms.
Ignored the way Bucky’s voice sometimes dipped lower when he spoke to you.
Ignored the way Steve smiled at you like he knew something you didn’t.
You ignored everything.
The elevator dinged softly when it arrived. The metal doors opening with a quiet swish, and the sight that welcomed you made you wish you were at home— in the comfort of your bed— so you could relieve yourself of the itch that awakens upon seeing both of them.
Steve Rogers stood near the control panel, jacket slung over one arm, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal strong forearms, veins that looked like they were drawn on.
Bucky Barnes leaned against the mirrored wall beside him, dark hair falling slightly into his eyes, metal hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket.
Both of them looked up at the exact same time. Two pairs of curious eyes taking you in—no hint of professionalism to be seen anymore.
Steve smiled first, “Hey.”
Licking his lips, his eyes dipped down to your cleavage before snapping back onto your face, “Long day?” he asked gently.
“Mhm.”
The elevator doors slid shut with a soft thunk. The space suddenly felt very small. The scent of their combined colognes dancing in the air, filling your senses. Bergamot. Earthy musk. A hint of lilies. Rain.
You took a deep breath in, feeling one with them. Behind you, Steve adjusted his buckle, smirking at the brunet.
The elevator hummed as it began descending, floor numbers ticking down slowly.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
“Didn’t expect to see you here this late,” Bucky said, voice deep and raspy.
“I was stuck with the client. Timezones…” you mumbled.
Silence settled again.
You glanced up at the mirrored panel across from you and immediately regretted it—both of them were looking at you— gazes dark and hungry.
Your pulse skipped.
Seven.
Six.
Focus.
Just ignore them. Get home.
Five.
The elevator jolted. The lights flickered.
The hum of the machinery died abruptly, leaving a sudden heavy quiet in its place.
For a second, none of you moved.
Then the emergency lights flicked on, bathing the elevator in dim blue.
Your heart sank down to your stomach,
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Bucky breathed, shaking his head in…amusement?
Steve stepped forward toward the control panel— ever the captain— still taking charge of the situation, his hands on your lower back as he guided you away, and the elevator suddenly felt even smaller than before.
He pressed the emergency button, to no avail. He tried again. Only to find the same result.
Still nothing.
A slow, strange tension filled the air. You felt smaller than you've ever felt in your life. Stuck in a small space with two large men that also happened to be the subject of all your unspoken fantasies.
You didn't realise you were panicking until Steve stood in front of you, tipping your face up by the chin, “You're alright. We're right here, aren't we?”
You didn't know what to do. All you could feel was his thumb stroking your jaw, his warm breath caressing your skin, his strong body pressed impossibly close to yours.
“What do you think you're doing, Steve? Let her breathe… poor thing's scared.”
Bucky.
You felt two hands snake around your waist, pulling you in till your back met a solid chest.
“She's so scared….baby, you scared of the elevator? Or are you scared of us? Hm?” He nosed along your throat, lingering on your erratic pulse before licking the skin there.
Your hands shoot up to Steve's chest—feeling the strength corded through his muscles beneath your palm— “Steve…”
“Oh honey… you weren't expecting this, were you? Bucky and I… we're not blind. We see the way you shy around us.”
Bucky's lips continued sucking on your neck, “We hear the way you talk about us,”
Chucking, Steve slid his hands down to your neck, down to your chest, unbuttoning your blouse with torturous patience —
“We smell the way that greedy little pussy drools for us.”
With the last button undone, he slides the silk down your arms, exposing your lacy bra to both the men.
Bucky barked out a laugh, “You really wear this underneath all the sweet little shirts, huh?”
You gasped as they groped each tit in their hands, kneading and caressing over the lace.
Bucky unclasps it from behind, his movements revealing his, no doubt, experienced confidence. With your bare tits finally in their sight, they groaned in delight, Steve's hips bucking against yours instinctively, desire flowing in his veins.
“Look at her Buck, so much prettier than we imagined.”
You swallowed down the whimper that threatened to escape when he wrapped his mouth around one of your nipples—the other man's fingers twisting and plucking the other, making sure they both get their share of attention.
Your hands weave through his hair, tugging at the roots as he continued sucking your achy nipples.
Steve groaned against your chest as he pulled you away from Bucky—hard enough to send him stumbling back a step— grabbing you by the back of your thighs and wrapping your legs around his waist.
Ignoring your startled little noise, he slammed his lips against yours, big hands roaming your back and reaching down to squeeze your ass. His tongue roamed inside your mouth—playing with yours—teeth biting your lower lip until they were swollen and tingling with pleasure and pain.
“Fuck, angel— wanted you so bad… you're gonna make us feel so fucking good.”
He captures your lips in a filthy kiss, muffling your whines as Bucky rips your pants off in one clean move. Palming the softness of your curve as he removes the scraps of the fabric, pulling apart your cheeks to look at the leaky mess.
“God… I'm gonna ruin that pussy…”
With stupid ease, Steve turned you over, your back nestled against his broad chest, his hands under your knees as he pushes them up against your chest. His hard cock pressed against your ass, reminding you of the sheer size of him, just how much stronger he was than you.
Your drippy pussy was now on full exposure to Bucky.
He smirks as he studies your face, each expression flashing across your face like a storybook.
He kneels down—right there on the cold floor—face to face with your heat. Fingers trailing up your calves to your thighs, each brush of his hands igniting a heat inside you unlike any you've ever experienced.
His lips tug up in a crooked smile as he looks up—not at you, no— at the man holding you all spread up and open for him.
“She's crying so pretty f’me Steve. Wanna taste her?”
Steve laughs at that— a breathy, cocky sound—“Princess, you listening to this? He thinks you got this wet for him. Tell him the truth…”
Your words got lost in your throat as you felt two thumbs part your folds. Your hips jerked up on their own accord at the gentle exploratory touch, urging Steve to hold you tighter—hitching you up higher, till his chin touched the top of your head.
A drop of your arousal dripped down from your entrance, clenching at nothing. Bucky collected your juices on his finger, smearing it back to your pussy, rubbing it on your clit with gentle swipes.
“Bucky! Don't look down there—”
“Uh-uh. No need to hide from us…don't you trust us?”
With that he licked a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, humming loudly in wicked delight, relishing in your taste that he'd been craving like a madman.
“Fuck—she tastes so good, Stevie,” he groaned against your pussy, dipping his tongue inside your hole to taste more of you. You moaned out loud, your thighs closing on themselves—but unable to with Steve's vice-like grip on you.
“Yeah? Gimme a taste…”
Pulling away from your pussy— his beard drenched in your juices—he stood up to his full height. Fluttering his fingers up your ribs and caressing your nipples, he leaned in to kiss the blond. Lips moving with each other in tandem, you could only watch as they drank each other —drank you— in.
His hands left your tits and grabbed Steve's jaw to deepen the kiss, both men panting in each other's mouths, chasing each other with desperation.
Steve broke the kiss with a sigh, licking his lips, “yeah…she does taste good.”
“Hear that, angel? He likes how this sweet little pussy tastes…”
His words went straight down to your core, your pussy begging for any sort of relief now, any friction, anything.
“Please, Bucky…”
“Please what? Use your big girl words now.”
“Please touch me…”
“Aww...such a good girl for us. Gonna make you feel so good now, angel. Gonna make you regret not coming to us sooner….these fingers just never did the job, huh?”
You were on the verge of tears now, being in such a vulnerable position and being talked to, teased to, but never touched as you wished to.
“Bucky…please.”
Cooing at your pained voice, he dipped his fingers inside your entrance in one clean push. Your back arched in Steve’s arms as pleasure tickled at your nerve endings.
“Yeah? You like that?”
He pulled his fingers out, wet and shining, a string of your arousal connecting him to you, slowly pushing back in, following a slow rhythm.
Your eyes flutter close with each pass of his fingers against that one soft spot against you. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip as you try to keep in your breathy whines.
“Open your eyes, honey. Look at his fingers inside your pussy, isn't he doing good?” Steve asked you, his voice rough and thick with arousal, his raging hard on grinding against your ass.
“Hmmm…so good…”
His thumb came up to massage your clit, and your toes curled in your heels, vision blacking out as fireworks burst behind your eyes.
“Oh God, Steve…” you threw your head back, nuzzling Steve’s neck as Bucky continued pressing against that soft, gummy spot inside of you.
“You're clenching so hard, angel…you're gonna squeeze his cock so good,” he rasped, eyes twinkling at the thought of Steve pounding into you.
It was instant, the way Steve put you back down and slammed you roughly against the wall, hand at the back of your head to shield you from any pain. Still so thoughtful.
“Gonna fuck you so hard now, love, you'll be screaming nothing but my name…” he purrs against your neck, nipping and licking over the marks left by Bucky.
His hands went to his belt buckle—shaky but determined—to free out his hard cock.
It was beautiful.
That's all you could think. Hard and throbbing and leaking precum all over the blushed tip, veins adorning his length all over.
That was a beautiful cock if you've ever seen one.
Noticing your dazed expression, he smirked, “like what you see?”
“So much, Captain. You're so beautiful…”
He paused at that. A sudden air of vulnerability seemed to drape itself over him.
Bucky strolled over behind him, hands stroking his back and pressing a tender kiss to his neck, “the most beautiful man ever…”
Steve's eyes glistened in the dead blue of the emergency lights. He took a shaky breath—composing himself.
Looking back down at your naked body, all wet and ready and waiting desperately for him, he felt grateful.
He felt loved.
Bending down to consume you in a kiss, pouring every thing he couldn't speak into your mouth.
Bucky’s hands dipped down, palming Steve's cock, dragging the head of his cock up and down through your folds, rubbing over you clit—making you cry out with how deliciously dirty this whole situation was.
“Gonna put him inside you, sweetheart…”
The first inch of him inside had you squirming against him. The girth unforgiving, almost too much as it slowly slid in.
Almost.
He bottomed inside you with a deep groan, the veins in his neck bulging out with his controlled restraint that was fraying at the edges.
Bucky cooed at him, hands playing with his balls as he whispered praises into his sweaty skin.
“Fuck— she's tight.”
His hand came up to your neck, holding you. Not choking, just resting there, letting you feel the weight of him.
He pulls out, only to slam in again—harder, keeping a brutal rhythm.
His hips slammed into yours again and again, his cock filling you up in ways you'll feel him forever.
“Such a good boy, Stevie…. You're doing so good.” Bucky rubs his bulge over Steve's hips, using his thrusts inside you for his own pleasure. His cock pulsing with each push, even through the layers of his clothing.
You moan out a name—you didn't know whose— your walls clenching with each thrust, your juices coating your inner thighs. Not that you cared about the mess.
"Oh god—Buck…” Steve whined, turning his head to kiss the brunet.
Your legs were shaking, if not for the wall and Steve’s grip on you, you'd have not been standing upright. Your eyes shut close as you could feel the knot inside of you tightening with each passing second, before finally coming undone. You come with a scream, your chest rising and falling rapidly.
Your pussy clenching and fluttering against his cock push him off the edge, his hands tightening on your throat as his head falls backwards on Bucky's shoulder, guttural sounds from deep inside his chest filling the small space.
His hips lose their rhythm, twitching with each wave of bliss he went through. Hot streaks of cum fill you up, making you shudder in delight at the foreign feeling.
Bucky was the last to let go, coming in his pants, still not stopping to rub his sensitive cock against Steve.
Your pussy gaped with protest when he pulled out, his cum dripping out of you. He smiled at that, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek, before straightening up and looking back at Bucky—
“You can start the elevator now, Buck.”
well, it's finally here. I was struggling real bad with this. Changed out a few parts cus I just wasn't feeling bucky.
Oh and also, please please please come drop any filthy thoughts in my inbox. Requests are open. I've lost it for bucky. 🥹
Tagging my cutie patooties: @heldbybarnes @societyfolklore @willowhaylund @alpinebarnesworld @ornateglass @epiphanyrogers @sassandscribbles @buckybunni @stanmarvelous @eterna1reverie @juniebjonesin @highonmarvel @pinksplace @sheriff-bodecker @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @buckybsdoll @blobfishlol @buckysdecaflove @idkbeautiful @erina00 @sleepy-k0i
If you would like to be added to my taglist, do let me know!!🤭💖
pairing | drifter!bucky x fem!reader x drifter!steve
word count | 23.3k words (sorry yall, save this for bed)
summary | two drifters take refuge on a sun-blistered louisiana farm, but the real heat comes from the farmer’s enigmatic daughter who draws them in with slow, honey-thick temptation.
tags | 18+ (MDNI), Explicit Sexual Content, porn w plot (and i really think the plot is good), farmers!daughter!reader, multiple smut scenes (yeah i went overboard), southern gothic vibes, lots of erotica, sexual tension, STUCKY ANGST,mutual pining (heavy denial), lots of unprotected sex, piv, oral (m&f!receiving), secret sex, lying, seduction, threesome (m/m/f), sensory overload, horny!reader (unapologetically), reader is a freak, love triangle (and best believe this is a triangle with all three ends), voyeurism (self righteous steve), double penetration, first time stucky (reader is their main cheerleader), shameless!reader, manipulative!reader, knows exactly what she's doing, enjoys instigating and stirring the pot, steve rogers is repressed and in denial, bucky barnes has a dirty mouth and is easily jealous, pride vs desire, lotsssss of religious imagery, sin vs purity imagery, they all need therapy but instead they have sex, (there's probably more i should add, but i dont remember)
a/n | this has been sitting in ellipses for the last month, finally im free! jumping on the stucky train, and i have no shame abt it. and i really tried to edit and cut, but everything is important to the plot
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨
MASTERLIST
divider by @omi-resources
The two-tone ’78 Chevy sat wheezing on the shoulder, its hood punched open like a yawn in the late-afternoon heat. Beyond the ribbon of cracked asphalt, cane fields lay flat and humming, cicadas sawing at the silence. Bucky leaned both forearms on the grill, hair sticking to the sweat on his neck, and offered a lopsided grin that only made things worse.
“Relax, Stevie. Tank’s empty, not the end of the world.”
Steve slammed the driver’s door harder than he meant to; the truck shuddered like it might expire altogether. “Not the end of the world? We’re forty miles from a town anyone’s heard of, it’s a hundred degrees, we got eight dollars between us, and you didn’t think to check the gauge?”
Bucky shrugged, easy as a breeze. “Gauge is busted, remember? Besides, you were the one drivin’ last—”
“Because you were too busy sweet-talking that waitress to keep your eyes on the road.”
“Tyra?” Bucky’s smile widened. “She gave us pie for free.”
“Great. Maybe we can burn it for fuel.” Steve dragged a hand through his hair and squinted up the road; nothing but heat rippling off the tarmac. “We need a plan.”
“We got one,” Bucky said, straightening. He rapped the hood twice, like patting a tired mule. “We walk. Someone around here’s gotta sell gas. Maybe even trade a couple hours’ work for a full can.”
“Or they’ll run us off with an axe.” Steve’s voice softened despite himself; frustration never stuck to Bucky for long. “This was supposed to be different, Buck. Thought we’d find steady work in New Orleans—”
“And we did, for a minute. Things change.” Bucky’s gaze drifted past Steve to the hazy edge where pasture met cypress and moss. “Look, the road forks up ahead—left’s more fields, right’s water. Bayou country. People out here always need strong backs.” He slung their one duffel over his shoulder. “C’mon. Sun’s not gettin’ any kinder.”
Steve glanced at the truck and sighed. “You really think we’ll ‘figure it out’?”
“We always do.” Bucky’s grin turned conspiratorial, the one that had gotten them into brawls and out of worse. “Besides, you love savin’ my ass. Gives you purpose.”
“One of these days,” Steve muttered, though a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth, “your luck’s gonna run out.”
“Then I’ll borrow yours.” Bucky tipped an imaginary hat and started down the asphalt, boots crunching gravel. After a beat, Steve fell in beside him.
The sun slid lower, painting the sky blood-orange. Somewhere to the east, a smear of water reflected the light. The air smelled of cane juice and distant brackish rot.
Eventually dusk bled over the cane fields in long bruised stripes, the sky turning molasses-thick and purple. For close to an hour, the only sounds had been boot soles on gravel and Bucky’s running commentary; little jokes about gator crossings, predictions of cold beer “just past the next bend,” memories of music drifting out of French Quarter bars.
He talked as if words could keep the darkness from settling on their shoulders.
Steve let most of it wash past. Sweat glued the back of his shirt to his spine; the sun had scalded the bridge of his nose raw. Every mile without a plan felt heavier than the duffel bumping against his hip. When Bucky announced, for the fourth time, that “things always work out,” Steve only answered with a quiet grunt and kept walking.
Then the road took a shallow dip and opened onto a low rise of pasture, and there it was—a farmhouse half-hidden behind live oaks, porch lights already flickering on like fireflies. Off to the right, a tin-roofed barn crouched at the edge of a bayou inlet, its stilts mirrored in dark water. Smoke drifted from a chimney in a lazy ribbon; somewhere close, a cow lowed.
Bucky stopped dead and threw out an arm as if presenting a miracle. “Told you, pal. Luck’s a lady tonight.”
Steve studied the place; fencing mended in patches, tractor parked beneath a tarp, rows of tomatoes staked with twine. Not prosperous, but lived-in, cared for. “Or it’s someone’s home, and we’re about to get run off for trespassing.”
“Won’t know ’til we ask.” Bucky’s grin caught the last shred of light, turning his eyes almost silver. “Guy like you knocks on a door, says ‘Sir, evening, we’re lookin’ for some shelter for the night,’ who’s gonna say no?”
“Plenty of people,” Steve muttered, but the fight had drained out of his voice. He glanced back the way they’d come, miles of empty asphalt slowly disappearing into night, and exhaled. “All right. We try.”
They left the road, boots whispering through knee-high grass that smelled of sun-baked sugarcane and river mud. A chorus of frogs started up, rhythmic and lewd, as if cheering them on. When they reached the split-rail fence, Bucky vaulted it in one easy swing; Steve followed, slower, feeling the rail creak beneath his weight.
Closer now, Steve noticed the details Bucky’s optimism had missed; shutters needing paint, porch boards warping at the ends, the faint uneven beat of a generator somewhere out back. A place run by sweat and necessity, not spare cash.
Bucky rolled his shoulders like a man warming up for a dance. “Let me talk first. I’ll soften ’em up.”
Steve’s mouth twitched. “And if sweet talk doesn’t cover room and board?”
“Then you flex those big-boy muscles and show ’em we’re worth feeding.” He winked.
Steve looked past him to the porch. A screen door stood ajar, warm lamplight spilling through, and inside he caught a glimpse of movement—someone crossing a threshold.
“Yeah,” Steve said finally. “Could be worse.”
Behind them the sun sank, and the bayou lapped soft against the stilts, as if tasting something new in the twilight air.
The screen door slapped once against its frame and stayed half-open, lamplight spilling across warped porch boards. A man stepped out. A raw-boned figure in dungarees and a sweat-stained work shirt, the brim of his straw hat casting his face in shadow. The pump shotgun balanced in the crook of his arm said everything his tight mouth didn’t.
Bucky lifted one hand, palm out, easy smile already in place. “Evenin’, sir. Hate to trouble you—”
“You’re already doin’ it,” the man cut in, voice dry as crushed shell. His eyes flicked from Bucky’s scuffed boots to the duffel on Steve’s shoulder, then back. “Road’s that way if you’re passin’ through.”
Bucky chuckled like they were all sharing a joke. “Wish we were. Truck ran dry few miles back. Just lookin’ for a spot of ground to lay our heads, maybe point us toward gas come mornin’.”
Mr. Moreau, Steve caught the stitched name on a feed-store cap hooked to a nail by the door, didn’t blink. “Folks who show up empty always want more’n a night’s sleep.”
“Not us,” Bucky said, still smooth but softer now, reading the room. “Couple hours on a cot, we’re golden.”
Steve stepped forward, wiping his palm on his jeans before offering it. “Sir, we don’t expect charity. We grew up working yards and warehouses in Brooklyn. Let us put in a day’s labour; repair fence, muck stalls, whatever needs doing, in exchange for a meal and a corner of your barn. Tomorrow we’ll walk to town, buy fuel, and be gone.”
The old man studied Steve’s hand like it might bite. Up close Steve could see the lines etched deep around his mouth, the cautious flare of his nostrils, the calculation behind the suspicion. When he finally spoke, he addressed Steve, not Bucky.
“You fix fence?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Know your way around a baler?”
“Can learn quick.”
Moreau’s gaze shifted to Bucky. “And you?”
Bucky’s grin turned boyish. “I swing a hammer straight and don’t complain about blisters.”
A long moment of silence stretched, filled only by the bayou’s night chorus and the low thrum of a diesel generator. Then Moreau nodded once, sharp. “Barn’s there.” He jerked his chin past a line of pecan trees toward the weather-silvered structure on stilts. “You’ll sleep in the loft—floor’s solid. I’ll send my girl with sheets, pillows and supper.”
He paused, shotgun still resting easy but present. “Sunup, you start mending the northeast fence line where the posts lean. No smoking, no liquor, no wandering past the pens after dark. Gators like the warm water.”
Steve’s shoulders loosened a fraction. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
Bucky tipped two fingers from his brow. “Much obliged, Mr. Moreau.”
Steve offered his hand again; Mr. Moreau finally considered the gesture, then shook once. It was firm and testing. “Careful, bayou’s mean at night, and I ain’t friendlier.”
They watched him retreat across the porch, boards groaning under deliberate steps. Inside, a screen door banged and lamplight shifted, framing a second silhouette for half a heartbeat, before it disappeared deeper into the house.
As they crossed the yard the porch lights dimmed, leaving only moon-slivered clouds and the distant lantern glow of the barn.
Bucky exhaled a satisfied breath. “See? Luck.”
Steve shot him a side-eye that was half exhaustion, but reluctant amusement won out. “Your kind of luck usually gets me shot at.”
“Guy didn’t even chamber a round. We’re fine,” Bucky said, swinging the duffel like a lunch pail. “C’mon, punk. We got hay to fluff before the linens arrive. Wouldn’t want the lady of the house thinking we’re ungrateful.”
They crossed the yard toward the barn as cicadas struck up their night chorus, and behind them the bayou breathed thick water-scent into the dark.
The barn’s lower doors groaned shut behind them, sealing in the smell of hay dust, old saddle soap, and the faint sweetness of cane. A thick ladder hugged one beam; Bucky scrambled up first, boots thudding on the rungs. When he pushed through the loft hatch he let out a low whistle that echoed off the rafters.
“Well, hell—thought we’d be beddin’ down with the cows.”
Steve followed, palms rough against the rails. The space wasn’t the raw hayloft he’d pictured. Slanted cedar walls glowed amber in the lamplight, and a faded striped couch sat center stage, its cushions sun-soft. A trunk doubled as a coffee table; books leaned drunkenly on handmade shelves beside a beaten-brass telescope aimed through a cut-out window toward the purpling sky.
Bucky flopped onto the couch, springs sighing. “Damn. Better than half the motels we’ve stayed in.” He stretched, hands locked behind his head, boots still on. “Called it—Barnes luck.”
Steve shot him a look. “Boots off. Don’t wreck the place five minutes in.”
“Boots are fine.” Bucky toed one heel against the other anyway, dropping them beside the trunk. Then he tipped his head back, scanning rafters strung with paper stars and a single model airplane dangling by fishing line. “Knew Moreau wasn’t as mean as he let on.”
“Or this belongs to his daughter, and he’ll tan you for putting your filthy socks on her couch.” Steve drifted to the telescope, brushing a thumb over its brass barrel.
In the corner sat a small writing desk cluttered with jars of dried flowers, a stub of vanilla candle, and a horsehair brush still catching the lamplight in its bristles. Feminine touches, but nothing frilly enough to feel staged.
He glanced at Bucky, who had already settled deeper, arms splayed like a victorious cat. “We’ve got one night of goodwill, Buck. Tomorrow we work till our backs snap, and then we’re still broke. Gas isn’t growin’ in that south field.”
Bucky closed one eye, pretending to sight something on the ceiling. “You worry too loud. We fix the fence, maybe fix the truck while we’re at it—they toss us a few extra dollars, or a jerry can. Folks out here respect elbow grease.”
“Respect doesn’t fuel an engine.”
“Neither does frettin’. You’ll give yourself ulcers before thirty.” He rolled to his side, propping his head on a bent elbow. “Come on, take a seat. Feel this cushion. It’s practically luxury.”
Steve ignored the invitation and set his eye to the telescope. Through dusty glass he caught a sliver of bayou, water black and mirror still, framed by cypress knees. Fireflies sparked like stray embers above the reeds. Something about the view stirred a bone-deep ache for order he couldn’t name.
Behind him Bucky huffed. “You’re really gonna stand there brooding? You’ll ruin my mood, Rogers.”
“You have a mood?”
“Best mood this side of the South, if you’d let it breathe.” The couch creaked again; Bucky’s feet thumped the floor. “Fine. I’ll do a full inspection. Make sure no ghosts under the bed.” He padded toward a curtained alcove where a narrow mattress crouched beneath more quilts.
Steve lowered the telescope. “Careful.”
“Relax, I’m just checking.” Bucky flipped back the curtain, paused, then called over his shoulder, softer, “There’s a vase of fresh magnolias in here, Steve.”
Steve nodded once. “All the more reason to treat this place right.” He dragged fingers through hair damp with sweat and twilight humidity. “Tomorrow, we fence. After that, we find a way to buy gas.”
Bucky chuckled, but it came out tired. “Tomorrow, we survive. Tonight, we sleep on feather cushions like kings.”
A scrape sounded below, the barn’s side door opening. Lantern light bobbed on the ladder rungs. Steve stepped forward, heart ticking faster despite himself, as he caught the soft shuffle of feet heading toward the loft.
“Guess Mr. Moreau’s ‘girl’ brought supper,” Bucky murmured, straightening his shirt, suddenly attentive.
Steve’s pulse thudded, nerves tight for reasons he couldn’t quite blame on hunger. He smoothed his face into politeness.
“Remember,” he muttered, “boots off the furniture. And be respectful.”
Bucky grinned, eyes flicking to the ladder hatch where a warm glow now haloed the first edge of a tray. “No promises, pal.”
Boot-steps creaked up the ladder—slow, sure.You appeared in the hatch with twilight at your back, balancing a tin tray loaded with two enamel plates, a fat mason jar of water beaded with condensation, pillows and neatly folded sheets tucked beneath one arm.
“Evenin’, boys.”
Bucky was on his feet before the last syllable hit the rafters, grin flashing like he’d been rehearsing it. “Evenin’.” He slid a hand under the tray, thumb brushing the outside of your wrist as he relieved you of the weight. “Smells incredible. You must be the angel Mr Moreau mentioned. I’m James Bucky Barnes, and the tall, worried lookin’ fella is Steve Rogers.”
You arched a brow, amused, “Angel, huh?” The word tasted ironic coming from you, syrupy drawl cut with something sharper. “More like delivery girl. Pillow-fairy if you’re polite.”
You set the pillows on the couch arm, smoothed the patterned sheet across the cushions. Up close, sweat-shine on their skin smelled of road dust and cut cane.
Steve cleared his throat, polite even with his sleeves rolled and collar limp. “Thank you for supper… and the linens, ma’am. This your cookin’?”
“Jambalaya,” you hummed, rolling the word slow. “Daddy says it keeps visitors honest—pepper’ll burn lies off a tongue. Hope you’re hungry.”
Bucky inhaled over the plate, eyes closing like a man at church. “Starvin’, darlin’.” Then, glancing around the loft, “Guess this is your spot? Kinda figured we’d be burrowin’ into hay bales.”
Your shrug said maybe tomorrow. “Daddy doesn’t usually let strangers sleep on his land, much less up here.” You perched on the trunk, unbothered by their looming height. “Guess he saw somethin’ useful in you.”
Steve straightened, earnest. “We appreciate it. If you’d rather we sleep downstairs—”
“Relax, Captain Courtesy,” Bucky cut in, throwing him a side-eye. “We’ll keep our boots off the sofa, promise.” To you, softer, “You’re welcome to sit a spell, if you’re not busy. Share a plate. Tell us the house rules.”
The offer hung there with the dust motes, cicadas whirring through the slats, night air thick with sweetgrass and something darker underneath. You let it linger, watching how Steve’s jaw flexed when Bucky talked, how Bucky’s fingertips tapped the tray like he had more to say with them.
Finally you leaned back on your palms, eyes flicking from one to the other. “House rule’s simple; earn your keep. Fence line’s a mess, cows need milkin’, and Daddy hates slackers.” A slow smile uncurled. “But I might come up later, see if the telescope’s still pointed true.”
Bucky’s grin sharpened. “We’ll set it for the moon.”
You rose, brushing hay dust from your jeans. “Eat while it’s hot. I’ll fetch y’all at first light.” At the hatch you paused, tilting your head just enough that lamp-glow kissed the line of your neck. “Sweet dreams, city boys.”
Boot-steps receded, leaving the scent of spices and warm wood in your wake. Bucky let out a low whistle, passing Steve a plate. “Tell me again why you thought today was a bad day.”
Steve didn’t answer. He just watched the ladder, heart knocking once, twice—like somebody’d tapped a match to kindling he’d forgotten was there.
The wire rasped through worn leather gloves as Steve cinched a new section taut against the post.
Morning heat hadn’t hit full force yet; the light was soft, hazy, dust motes floating like lazy sparks each time the staple met wood. Across from him, Bucky should’ve been driving the next nail, but his hammer paused halfway, blue eyes angled toward the paddock.
You were out by the dairy pen, skirt hem stopping at mid-thigh, knees braced to the churn of a milk pail. Every now and then you tipped the tin to pour a pale ribbon into the waiting bucket, the motion flexing your thighs.
Bucky’s lips pulled into a slow grin. “Tell me that view doesn’t make fence-mending a religious experience.”
“Eyes on the post,” Steve muttered, tamping the staple flat. “We finish the south line before the sun’s overhead.”
“M’hands are workin’, my eyes are multitaskin’.” Bucky leaned, deliberately stretching the thick cotton of his vest. “Can you blame me? Those legs could power a tractor.”
Steve followed the angle of Bucky’s gaze despite himself—caught the way morning light traced the curve of your calf, the slip of skin above a worn boot. He cleared his throat and yanked the next length of wire. “Point is, don’t stare. It’s rude. And we told Mr Moreau we’d act right.”
“Act right?” Bucky’s laugh was a slow roll, low enough only Steve heard. “Saint Rogers over here pretending he didn’t spend the last five minutes studying her ass like it’s a map to salvation.”
Steve’s jaw ticked. “I was making sure she wasn’t lifting more than she should.”
“She’s strong. Didn’t you see her lop that bale? Girl could throw you through the barn door if she tried.” Bucky’s hammer finally met the post—thunk, thunk—driving the nail, though his gaze drifted again to the milking stall. “Bet she smells like vanilla and brown sugar up close.”
“For God’s sake—”
“You’re the one sniffing the air like a bloodhound.” Bucky shot him a sideways grin. “Relax your righteous feathers, punk. We fix the fence, we earn lunch, maybe catch her eye after chores. No harm in looking.”
Steve said nothing, but his ears burned hotter than the sun. The fence gave a satisfied hum under tension. Beyond it, you straightened, wiping the back of your wrist over your brow before hoisting the sloshing bucket to your hip. The movement pulled your skirt higher; both men went still, identical pulses jumping in their throats.
You glanced over, caught them, and offered a small smile before turning toward the barn.
Bucky’s voice dropped, sincere in spite of the teasing. “That smile’s an invitation, pal.”
Steve set his hammer on the top rail, exhaling hard. “It’s a warning.”
“Same thing, if you read it right.” Bucky twirled the hammer once, then thunked it into his belt. “Come on, we finish quick, we wash up, maybe wander by the paddock—”
Steve lifted the next coil of wire, but a reluctant curve tugged his mouth. “Finish quick and it better be neat. If her dad sees a sloppy fence, we’re gone before sunset.”
Bucky nailed the last staple with a flourish, dusted his palms, and followed Steve down the line.
The sun hung lazy-low, just warm enough to slick skin but not yet cruel. Fence posts were set, woodchips scattered like confetti around the chopping stump where Steve swung the maul in steady, clean arcs. A few yards off, Bucky rolled hay bales into neat ranks, muscles jumping under sweat-dark cotton.
Bootheels tapped along the packed lane. You appeared with a mason jar in each hand, glass sweating so hard it dripped onto your bare thighs. The hem of your skirt rode high; your cropped tank left a sliver of midriff glowing. You stopped at the paddock rail, hips cocked, watching them work like it was your own private picture show.
“Y’all look parched.”
Bucky straightened first, forearm wiping grit from his brow. One lazy grin and he was sauntering over to you. “Angel, you’re a vision.”
“Uh-huh.” You handed a glass to Steve, eyes glittering. “Don’t spill it.”
Steve set the maul aside, palms broad and pink from the handle. He accepted the lemonade with a murmured thanks—voice gone rough in a way that wasn’t from thirst alone. “Smells like lemons and cane sugar. You make it yourself?”
“Fresh this mornin’. Daddy swears by it.” You sipped from Bucky’s jar, lips glistening, then handed it to him. His gaze tracked the curve of your mouth like a compass needle. “Saw you two knockin’ that fence line out fast. Figured a reward was fair.”
Bucky tipped the drink, throat working. “Could use more rewards just like this.” His eyes drifted down, unapologetic. “Gotta say, the scenery makes hard labour downright spiritual.”
Steve cleared his throat, shooting Bucky a side-long glance that begged for decorum. He turned to you instead. “Is it just you and Mr. Moreau runnin’ all of this?”
“Daddy’s got three hands from town come by Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays.” You shrugged, playful. “So he was mighty generous lettin’ you bunk the loft—already plenty of help around here.”
“Generous man,” Bucky echoed, elbow nudging Steve. “Maybe we earn a longer stay. Few more fences need mendin’? Any chores need extra muscle?”
Steve flicked him a warning, but you only smiled, amused at the jockeying. “We’ll see what Daddy thinks.”
Bucky leaned on the rail, voice dropping. “What about what you think?”
“I think city boys burn quick in bayou heat,” you teased, running a finger along the condensation of Steve’s jar. “But if you don’t mind a little sweat, maybe stick around. Could be fun.”
You tapped the rim of Steve’s glass, then Bucky’s. “Finish up. Lunch at the house in twenty. Don’t keep me waitin’.”
With that you turned, skirt swishing just enough to make both men swallow. The backs of your thighs glowed in the noon light as you sauntered toward the barn, humming something slow and sweet.
Bucky watched every step. “One more day, Stevie. Let’s charm the old man, top off the tank, see where the night goes.”
Steve drained the lemonade, eyes still on your retreating sway. “We charm him by working, Buck. And by keeping our mouths clean.”
“Hands might not stay that way, though,” Bucky muttered, rolling his shoulders before grabbing another bale.
Steve hefted the maul again, but there was a new looseness in the set of his jaw, in the way he glanced toward the barn door you’d slipped through.
The dining room smelled of fried catfish and sweet corn fritters—hot oil, cracked pepper, a shimmer of cayenne that clung to the air like summer sweat. Cedar-plank walls held the noon light soft and amber; a battered ceiling fan turned slow overhead, pushing the warm scent around.
At the rough-hewn table sat Mr. Moreau, back straight, elbows planted wide like fence-posts. His gaze pinned both men while your small radio whispered an old Fats Domino tune from the sideboard.
You settled first, bare calf crossing over knee, skirt riding high so a ribbon of thigh caught the fan breeze. No fuss, no apology, just a lazy slide into the chair to the left of the old man. Bucky and Steve perched side by side on the long bench, shoulders too broad for the narrow space.
Mr. Moreau cleared his throat. “So.”
Bucky flashed an easy grin. “Sir, we wanted to thank you for lunch—and for the loft last night. Fence is tight, wood’s stacked, goats’re lookin’ downright smug. Thought maybe we could hang on a bit. Give you a few more solid days’ work.”
Steve nodded, posture crisp. “We don’t expect pay. Just room, board, maybe a little gas when all’s done.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed, slow as an eclipse. “Men who drift in askin’ favours are usually runnin’ from somethin’.”
Bucky’s grin softened, but didn’t falter. “Only thing we’re runnin’ from is bad luck and an empty tank.” He lifted a fried fillet in salute. “Figured we’d trade sweat for supper till fortune turns.”
Mr. Moreau grunted, slicing into cornbread. “Luck’s earned, not begged.”
Across the table, you leaned your chin into one hand, nails tracing idle circles on the lacquer. “Daddy.” The single word mild and amused. “Fence never looked that straight. Saved you two of the town boys this morning.”
Bucky shot you a grateful wink. Steve took a careful sip of sweet tea—eyes flicking from the old man to the curve of your mouth as you licked a crumb of batter from your bottom lip.
“Could use them on the west pasture, too,” you added, voice syrup-slow. “Boards are rotten through. And your back’s been talkin’.”
The old man’s jaw ticked, like admitting pain was heresy. “Mmph.”
You shrugged, turning your attention to the drifters. “Reckon they stay through the weekend, that job’s done.”
Bucky’s boot nudged Steve’s knee under the table. He straightened. “We’ll have that pasture tight by Sunday. After that, we’ll roll on, no trouble.”
Mr. Moreau studied them, then you. “Ain’t your habit takin’ strays, girl.”
You tucked a damp piece of hair behind your ear. “Maybe they’re useful strays.”
Bucky coughed a laugh; Steve nudged him this time—behave. But you’d already hooked a foot beneath Bucky’s boot-lace, giving it a slow teasing drag. His breath caught, just a fraction, before he masked it with another bite of fish.
Steve felt the shift, the invisible pull of your attention, and he flushed hotter than cayenne pepper. You shifted again, thigh brushing his denim under the table’s edge, bare skin against coarse cotton for half a heartbeat, then you broke contact, like a cat pretending no mischief at all.
Mr. Moreau missed all of it, “My daughter’s comfort counts first.”
Bucky leaned forward, forearms on the table, voice dropping to a respectful drawl. “Sir, we’d sooner limp to Baton Rouge barefoot than disrespect your home or your daughter.”
You tipped your glass, amber iced tea shining against your mouth. “Told you they got manners, Daddy.”
Steve cleared his throat, earnest. “Mr. Moreau, we may have never grown up around farms… but work here feels right. Let us finish what we started.”
Silence stretched, thick as cane syrup. A fly buzzed the rim of the pepper sauce; the fan creaked overhead. Your toes traced a line up the inside seam of Bucky’s jeans, making him swallow hard. Steve’s knee jostled under your hand, and his fork stalled halfway to his mouth.
Finally Mr. Moreau set down his cornbread. “Two more days. West pasture, chicken-wire pen, then you go. I’ll spare a gallon for your tank—no more.”
“See it done proper.” He pushed back from the table, chair legs scraping. “I got hogs to check.” Then he turned to Steve, stern but not unkind, “You strike me as a man who knows straight from crooked. Keep him,”—a nod at Bucky—“on the square.”
“Yes, sir.”
The old man left through the side door, screen slapping shut. The room exhaled, something easier curling in the hot air.
Bucky looked at you, mischief lighting every line of him. “Appreciate the save, darlin’. Didn’t think we’d pass inspection.”
You rose, gathering plates, the hem of your skirt lifting as you reached across Steve’s shoulder—letting him feel the soft brush of your hip before you eased away. “Didn’t do it for free. Fence straight Sunday means I pick my payment.”
Steve tried for steady. “And what payment is that?”
You stacked dishes on the sideboard, glancing back over your shoulder. “Surprise me.” Then, softer, to Bucky, “And y’all behave. Daddy’s got a rifle on the porch.”
Bucky’s grin widened. “Lucky for us I’m faster than buckshot.”
“We’ll see.” You disappeared through the kitchen arch, leaving the faint scent of honeysuckle lotion in your wake.
Bucky exhaled a slow whistle. “Think she likes us.”
Steve dragged a hand down his face. “She’s teasing, Buck.”
“Teasing’s just foreplay writ large.” He elbowed Steve, leaning in. “Did you feel her on your leg? Damn near thought my heart’d stop.”
Steve pushed his chair out, cheeks flushed. “Focus, please.”
Sun-bleached boards thudded under their boots as they stepped off the porch. The cicadas had switched to their slow, drowsy rhythm—a back-of-the-throat drone.
Steve kept his voice low but firm. “We’ve got a good thing here, Buck. Two days’ work, a gallon for the Chevy, and a place that doesn’t smell like diesel. Don’t screw it up.”
Bucky shot him a sideways look, half-smile already fading. “Why’s it always ‘don’t screw it up,’ Stevie? Maybe let a man enjoy the view.”
“We promised Mr Moreau we’d behave,” Steve’s glare held steady. “You act like you’ve never seen a pretty girl before.”
“I promised to respect his house. Didn’t promise to walk around blind.” Bucky kicked a pebble off the path, hands sliding into his back pockets. “Besides, she’s not just ‘a pretty girl.’ She’s—” He paused, searching for the right weight of the word. “—a woman. Curves like a prayer and a mouth that could talk the devil into church.”
Steve stopped, jaw tight. “You’re thinking with your dick.”
“Guilty as charged.” Bucky’s grin flickered, then fell when Steve didn’t soften. “Come on, I’m not gonna leap on her in broad daylight. I can look.”
“Looking becomes touching, and touching gets us tossed back on the road.” Steve’s shoulders slumped with the day’s work, but the edge in his voice stayed sharp. “I’m tired, Buck. One calm weekend—that’s all I’m asking.”
Bucky dragged a hand through sweat-stiff hair, irritation creeping in. “You ever get tired of being the saint? Ever just… feel something and want it?”
“I’m not dead.” Steve’s gaze drifted back toward the house where you were in, then snapped back. “I just know consequences.”
Silence yawned between them, warm and weighty. A dragonfly skated past, wings catching the sunlight.
Finally Bucky exhaled, palms up in surrender. “Fine. No dirty business. Cross my heart. Happy?”
“I’ll be happy when we’re rolling down the highway with a full tank.” Steve started walking again. “Fence first. Daydreams later.”
Bucky fell in beside him, muttering, “Still gonna daydream,” but the bite had gone out of his voice. He cast one last glance at the house, wondering if you were watching from a window, then squared his shoulders and matched Steve’s pace.
Night pressed soft against the loft, all damp cricket-song and the slow pump of the bayou. Bucky slept hard—one arm flung over his face, snore sawing in and out like a loose screen door. Steve lay staring at the beams, sweat cooling on his chest, counting every creak of the rafters until the numbers tangled.
Finally he slid upright, feet finding the quilt-cool boards. Maybe a glance through the telescope would bleed off the restlessness. Just stargazing, nothing more.
The brass tube stood ready at the cut-out window, still flecked with dust from the afternoon. Steve angled it toward the water first—silver ripple, cypress knees shining. Pretty, but the hush didn’t fill him. The lens drifted past the dark smear of the barn roof, climbed to the house on the slight rise. One window glowed warm at the top floor—the only light left awake.
Curiosity, he told himself. He dialed the focus with thumb and forefinger, glass settling on the open curtains.
You moved into frame like a slow exhale, backlit amber. Bare shoulders, skin glinting where the lamp touched. A thin bra—lace maybe, pale against the line of your ribs. Matching panties sat low on your hips, soft fabric hugging the curve he’d pretended not to follow all day.
Steve’s breath stalled. He should pivot away, point the scope at the moon. Instead he watched, heartbeat thudding dull over the swamp’s night chorus.
You worked lotion over your body, hands moving over your chest, throat lengthening with each drag. Heat pooled low in Steve’s stomach, spreading tight. His underwear grew snug; he shifted, ashamed and hungry all at once.
Then your hands slid behind your back. A tiny hitch of shoulders, a flick—straps loosened, the bra easing forward before you peeled it off, slow as a secret. Breasts cupped the lamplight, perfect weight swaying when you dropped the scrap of lace onto a chair.
Steve’s palm tightened on the telescope barrel. He wanted to look away, give you privacy, keep the promise he’d made to himself and to Bucky, but he couldn’t. Not while you turned, adjusting the lamp wick, the soft underside of your breast catching the glow. His breath fogged the eyepiece; he wiped it with a trembling thumb and stared harder, pulse hammering through every inch of him.
Below, Bucky’s snore cut off, shifted, resumed. Steve froze, spine prickling, but the other man didn’t stir. Only the wind moved, pushing thick bayou air over Steve’s damp skin, over the ache pressing urgent inside his shorts.
In the window you stretched, arms above your head, nipples tightening against the night chill. A small satisfied sigh seemed to carry across the dark, Steve almost felt it on his tongue.
“God,” he whispered, a prayer or a curse, he wasn’t sure.
You turned then, facing the glass fully, eyes half-lidded, unaware of the distant drifter watching like a sinner. Steve’s heartbeat slammed. One more second, he promised himself, just one—
A floorboard groaned behind him. He jerked away from the telescope, heat flushing his face even in the dark. Bucky muttered, rolled, settled again. Steve pressed knuckles to his mouth, breathing through the thunder in his chest.
He lay back down but sleep didn’t come. The image of you; smooth skin, bare and unhurried, glowed behind his eyes, bright as the wildfire heat pooling low, refusing to let him go.
A pulse of want rolled through Steve so sharp it bordered on pain. He imagined stepping into that warm-lit room, sliding behind you, palms cupping the soft weight he could only see now in glass and reflections—thumbs circling your nipples until your breath stuttered.
He could almost feel the heat of your skin against his tongue, taste salt and honeysuckle lotion as he mouthed the tip and heard you sigh his name. The thought hit low and thick, tugging at him until his boxer briefs felt two sizes too small.
He tried to drag the vision back to something polite, tried to picture himself knocking on the door, asking if you needed help with chores, but the reel kept slipping; his hands spreading over your hips, his mouth trailing down to suck at the lush underside fo your breast where the lamplight painted shadows.
He wanted to trace every curve, let you arch beneath the weight of his body, feel you shiver when his tongue flicked over pebbled skin. The wanting rode him hard, ruthless, until he clenched his fists against the quilt and swallowed a groan, knowing the taste of you would haunt his tongue long after dawn.
Crickets sang louder, the bayou hummed, and Steve counted the beats until dawn, pulse trapped in the fist of his own wanting.
The next day the sun was high but merciful, tucked behind a gauzy veil of clouds. Steve worked the auger alone, shoulders bunching with every crank. He’d barely spoken since dawn, jaw tight enough to creak.
Across the pasture, you crossed the grass with a slow swing in your hips, skirt flirting just above your knees. Bucky spotted you first; the post-hole digger hit the dirt with a muffled thud. His grin arrived a heartbeat later.
“Afternoon, darlin’. Come to supervise?”
You stopped beside him, fingers trailing the rail he’d just set. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you. Your friend over there”—you nodded toward Steve—“can hardly look me in the eye without blushin’.”
Bucky followed your gaze. Steve never looked up, but his strokes came faster, as if he felt the attention. “That’s Stevie for ya. Spends half his life polishing a halo no one asked him to wear.”
“And you?” Your tone dropped silk-low. “What do you polish, hotshot?”
“Depends who’s askin’.” He leaned on the fence, sweat darkening the vee of his T-shirt. “If he’s the saint, guess that makes me the sinner.”
You hummed approval, thumb idly circling the rough grain near his wrist. “Sinner’s a big word.”
“Earned it.” His gaze dragged the length of your legs, unapologetic. “Figure sin’s just pleasure folks’re too scared to call by its proper name.”
“That right?” You shifted closer, the scent of hay and skin mingling. “Tell me a sin, then. One you’d commit if no one was watchin’.”
Bucky’s smile dipped wicked. “Start with a kiss, slow and sweet, right where that pulse flickers.” He trailed a knuckle just shy of the soft hollow beneath your ear. “Maybe taste that sheen of sweat on your throat—follow it down, see where it gathers.”
Your breath caught, but you kept your poise, folding arms under your breasts so they lifted, tempting. “Bold talk for a man on probation.”
“Two days’ probation.” His eyes sparkled. “Could make ’em holy or make ’em worth repentin’.”
You glanced back at Steve; he’d stopped, one hand braced on the auger, head dipped like a man praying for composure. A smirk curved your mouth. “Your boy looks ready to burst.”
“My boy’s got eyes.” Bucky lowered his voice. “Bet he’s thinkin’ the same dirty things. Just afraid to name ’em.” He leaned in until his lips almost grazed your ear. “Maybe we should show him sin ain’t so scary.”
Heat spiraled low in your belly at the promise. You slid a fingertip over the tops of Bucky’s work gloves, tracing the crease where leather met skin. “Maybe I like watching men wrestle temptation. Makes the reward sweeter when they finally give in.”
“Careful, angel. I’m a simple man once the rules come off.”
“So take ’em off,” you whispered, stepping back with a tease-slow smile. “When the work’s done.”
Your gaze drifted past the fenceline, toward the shimmer of water where the bayou curved like a dark ribbon through cane and cypress. Bucky’s eyes followed, hungry for whatever had your attention—even hungrier when they slid back to him.
“Pretty out there at night,” you murmured, thumb idly tracing the crease of his glove again. “Moon hangs low, fireflies float so thick it looks like somebody scattered diamonds over the water.”
“Sounds downright romantic,” he said, voice roughening on the word. His fingers twitched as if they’d rather close around your waist than the post-hole digger. “You a fan of romantic things, sweetheart?”
“Mm-hmm. When they’re done right.” You stepped just close enough that your skirt brushed his thigh, letting him feel the heat that lived in the inches between your thighs. “Question is—do you like romance, or are you all talk and no follow-through?”
“Oh, I follow through.” His grin tilted wicked. “Give me a porch swing, bit of night air, someone worth sittin’ close to? I’m a poet.”
“A poet?” You teased, but the word sparked a pleasant thrum low in your belly.
“Maybe more a—” His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lowered, lingered at the neckline of your tank. “—hands-on storyteller.”
“Then maybe I’ll tell Daddy I’m takin’ the skiff after supper.” Your voice stayed soft, but the promise in it was as thick as the noon heat. “Could show you that view once your better half’s asleep.”
His breath hitched. “And what view would that be?”
“The one where moonlight paints the bayou silver…” Your fingers ghosted up the inside of his bare forearm. “…and nobody’s around to see if I dip my toes into the water.”
He swallowed hard. “Could be dangerous out there.”
“Only if you scare easy.” Your lips curved. “You strike me as the kind that doesn’t.”
“Saint back there might beg to differ,” he said, jerking his chin toward Steve, who was still hammering like salvation depended on it.
“He’s busy saving souls. I’m busy tempting sinners.” You stepped back, leaving the faintest drag of your nails along his wrist before the distance sealed. “Finish your posts, handsome. Meet me by the dock after dark. We’ll see if romance fits you.”
Bucky’s voice was just a rasp now. “Yes, ma’am.”
You turned toward the barn, hips swaying like slow jazz. Behind you, the clink of wire and rasp of shovel sounded suddenly frantic—as if the devil himself told him every nail he sets is one minute closer to sin.
Across the pasture, Steve finally looked up, sweat-slick hair falling in his eyes. He watched Bucky watching you and couldn’t quite name the tightness curling in his gut; couldn’t decide if it was jealousy, dread, or something hotter than either.
The loft was heavy with darkness—rafters lost in shadow, only a ribbon of moonlight sneaking through the cut-out window. Steve rolled onto his back, blinked, and blinked again. The couch beside him should’ve been groaning under Bucky’s long sprawl, but the cushions sat empty, quilt folded neat as a flag.
“Damn it, Buck,” he muttered.
Boots in hand, he eased to the ladder, the barn’s hush broken only by the soft drip of night dew through the roof tin. Outside, the world glimmered silver—pasture brushed in moon-pale grass, house lights long since snuffed. Steve angled toward the porch first, nothing. He circled the truck, checked the tool shed, found only his own irritation sharpening.
Last option, water.
He followed the narrow path that cut between cane rows, the air warm and wet against his skin. Crickets chirred in lazy chirr-chirrs; now and then a bullfrog belched from some hidden hollow. The bayou opened ahead, black water reflecting slices of stars.
That’s when he heard it—soft at first, a breathy hum sliding into a low, bitten-off moan. Another, higher, drenched in pleasure and muffled by sleepy dark. Steve stopped dead. The sound floated from the dock where the skiff rocked, a rhythm that was distinctly human, distinctly intimate.
He swallowed, pulse thumping in his throat. A rustle followed, then a hushed male laugh—Bucky’s, unmistakable, husky with mischief. Another sigh answered him, velvet-sweet. Steve’s cheeks flamed; every warning he’d given rattled back in his skull.
He stepped closer, shoes silent on damp earth, but stayed behind the screen of cypress trunks. The voices blurred but the tone was clear—slow, wet kisses; a whispered “you like that, darlin’” that tightened his gut. Wood knocked softly, a back hitting the dock, maybe, then a tremor of breathy laughter, yours, sliding straight beneath Steve’s skin.
Steve’s boots sank into the soft mud as he edged forward, the cypress shadows cloaking him like a guilty secret. The air hung heavy, laced with the musky tang of the bayou and something sharper—sweat, skin, raw need.
His heart hammered against his ribs, each step pulling him deeper into the forbidden pull of those sounds; the slick glide of bodies, the creak of the dock under shifting weight, your gasps weaving through Bucky’s low, filthy murmurs.
He parted the low-hanging branches, breath held tight, and there it was—laid bare under the fractured moonlight. The old wooden dock stretched out over the inky water, a threadbare blanket rumpled beneath you, your body arched and exposed in stark naked glory.
Legs splayed wide, knees hooked over Bucky’s hips, you lay on your back, skin flushed and glistening, breasts heaving with every ragged inhale. Bucky loomed above you, just as bare, his muscled frame glistening with effort, driving into you with relentless force—like a piston hammering home, hips snapping forward in a brutal rhythm that made the skiff bob gently against the pilings.
“Goddamn, angel, you’re so fuckin’ tight,” Bucky rasped, voice gravel-rough and dripping with heat, his arm braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh to spread you wider.
He plunged deep, cock thick and veined, disappearing into your slick folds with each savage thrust, the wet squelch of your cunt taking him echoing softly over the water.
You encouraged him, nails raking down his back, leaving red trails that made him hiss and buck harder.
“Yeah, just like that… fuck me deeper, honey, don’t stop,” you moaned, voice husky and demanding, hips rolling up to meet him, chasing the friction that had your toes curling against the blanket.
Steve’s gut twisted, a vicious knot of jealousy coiling tight. That smug son of a bitch—breaking their word, claiming you right here where anyone could stumble on it.
Part of him wanted to storm the dock, drag Bucky off you, demand answers—Why you? Why him? Why not…?
But his feet stayed rooted, eyes glued to the obscene union where Bucky’s cock stretched you wide, emerging slick and shining with your arousal before slamming back in, balls slapping heavy against your ass.
He couldn’t tear away. Watched, transfixed, as Bucky’s ass clenched with every drive—muscles bunching tight, flexing under the moonlight as he powered forward, burying himself to the hilt.
Your pussy lips clung to him on the outstroke, puffy and soaked, the connection a filthy, mesmerizing sight that sent heat surging through Steve’s veins. Jealousy warred with the fire building low in his belly, his cock swelling hard and insistent against his pants, throbbing with a need that shamed him even as it gripped him tighter.
Bucky leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss, tongue thrusting in time with his hips, while his hand slid between your bodies to circle your clit, making you arch and cry out into his mouth.
“Come on, pretty girl, squeeze me—milk this cock like you own it,” he grunted against your lips, pace turning frantic, the dock groaning under the onslaught.
You bucked beneath him, moans spilling free, body trembling on the edge, and Steve’s hand drifted unconsciously to his zipper, palm pressing against the rigid length straining there, breath coming in shallow pants as arousal drowned the anger, leaving only the pounding urge to watch you shatter.
His resolve cracked like dry earth under the relentless pull of what was unfolding before him. His hand trembled as it fumbled with his belt, the zipper rasping down too loud in the humid night, but the bayou swallowed the sound.
Shame burned hot in his chest, a sick twist of disgust at his own weakness—spying like some pervert, palming his aching cock free into the cool air. It sprang out, thick and heavy, veins pulsing with the blood roaring through him, pre-cum already beading at the tip as he wrapped his fingers around the shaft, stroking slow at first, then matching the brutal rhythm Bucky set.
Bucky shifted, his thrusts deepening, hips grinding forward with a force that buried him balls-deep, your slick walls clenching around his length in greedy pulls. Steve’s eyes locked on the way your body yielded, pussy stretched taut around Bucky’s girth, juices coating him shiny and wet with every withdraw.
He pumped his fist tighter, breath hitching, hating how the sight made his balls draw up, how the jealousy gnawed deeper when Bucky dipped his head to your chest.
Bucky’s mouth latched onto one breast, sucking hard on the swollen nipple, tongue lashing the peak while his teeth grazed just enough to make you whimper.
Your back bowed off the blanket, fingers tangling in his hair to hold him there, and Steve’s gut clenched like a fist—fuck, he wished that was him, his lips sealing over that pebbled flesh, tasting the salt of your skin, drawing those desperate sounds from your throat.
“Harder, handsome—suck ’em like you mean it,” you gasped, voice raw and pleading, and Steve’s strokes quickened, imagining those words spilling for him, your body writhing under his weight instead.
He leaned against the cypress trunk for support, the rough bark biting into his palm as he jerked himself off in frantic pulls, the wet schlick of his hand mirroring the obscene slap of Bucky’s hips against yours. Every encouragement you tossed out—“Yes, just like that, fill me up”—twisted the knife of envy, but he devoured them, pretending you meant him, that your heat was clenching around his cock, not Bucky’s.
Then it hit—you shattered with a loud, keening moan that sliced through the night, body convulsing as your orgasm ripped through you. Steve watched your pussy spasm, milking Bucky’s shaft in rhythmic squeezes, walls fluttering visibly around him.
Bucky groaned low and guttural, the sound vibrating from his chest as he felt it, your release soaking him further.
“Fuck—yeah, cum all over me, sweet thing,” he grunted, pace turning savage, hips pistoning faster, chasing his own edge with short, brutal drives that made your tits bounce and the dock shudder.
Steve’s vision blurred, the coil in his gut snapping as he stared at the frenzy—your nails digging into Bucky’s shoulders, his ass flexing with each punishing thrust, cock slamming home through your climax.
It was too much; his balls tightened, and he came with a stifled grunt, hot spurts erupting over his fist, splattering the mud at his feet. Ecstasy flooded him in white-hot waves, cock twitching in his grip, but as the peak crested, shame crashed down like a Louisiana storm—disgust churning in his veins, sticky and vile, for getting off to his best friend fucking, to you choosing Bucky’s roughness over whatever Steve might have offered.
Bucky kept going, mouth claiming yours in a sloppy, devouring kiss, tongues tangling as he rode out the aftershocks, hips still rolling deep.
Steve’s hand shook as he tucked himself away, cum-smeared fingers fumbling the zipper up, heart pounding with the need to vanish before the guilt swallowed him whole.
He backed away silent as a ghost, retreating into the cane rows, the sounds of your shared breaths fading behind him, leaving only the bitter ache of what he’d seen, and what he’d done, in the humid dark.
Morning sweated slowly into afternoon, the sun floating white-hot behind a gauze of haze. Down in the west pasture the fence line rattled beneath the steady thunk of a post-hole digger, but today its rhythm belonged to only one pair of hands.
Steve drove the iron blades into the soil again and again—shirt plastered to his back, jaw set so tight the tendon jumped. Every few minutes he straightened, wiped the grit from his palms, and turned the next section of wire without so much as a glance toward the barn.
Bucky tried talking first thing, an easy joke about cane toads croaking love songs, but Steve answered with a curt nod and buried himself in work. Now, hours later, Bucky was done pretending it didn’t sting. He stalked up the fenceline, boots crunching weeds, sweat glistening on his forearms.
“Alright, punk, what crawled up your ass?”
No answer. Steve slammed another staple home, muscles flexing under sunburned skin.
“Come on, Rogers. Usually I can’t shut you up about alignments and load-bearing angles. Now you’re growlin’ like a kicked dog.”
The hammer paused mid-swing. Steve’s eyes cut sideways, bruised with sleeplessness. “I’m working.”
“Yeah, and ignoring me like I shot your horse.”
“You’d have to own a gun first,” Steve muttered, turning away.
The hammer came down hard, bending the staple sideways. Steve cursed under his breath, pried it out, tried again. Bucky leaned on a fencepost, arms folded.
“You gonna keep this up all day?” he asked, softer now. “Or tell me what I did.”
Steve’s shoulders heaved once, twice. Finally he tossed the hammer into the grass and faced him. “I saw you.”
Bucky blinked. “Saw me what?”
“Last night.” The words grated out like gravel. “By the bayou. With her.”
Silence sucked the air from between them. A cicada screeched somewhere overhead; the wind died.
Bucky’s mouth opened, shut, then set in a thin line. “You spying on me now?”
“I came looking because your dumb ass snuck off.” Steve’s voice cracked with heat—not anger alone, but something raw beneath it. “We agreed, Buck. No screwin’ around with Mr Moreau’s girl.”
“She’s not a girl, Steve. She’s a woman. And she made the first move.”
Steve barked a humorless laugh. “So that clears your conscience? She offered, you took, and the rest of us be damned?”
Bucky pushed off the post, expression hardening. “Don’t pretend it’s about conscience. It’s about you bein’ jealous I got there first.”
Steve flinched as if struck. “You think this is a competition?”
“Isn’t it?” Bucky stepped closer, voice dropping. “I’m tired of tip-toeing around you so you can pretend you’re above wanting her.”
A flush crawled up Steve’s neck. “This isn’t about me. It’s about respect—”
“It’s about you not knowing what to do with what you feel,” Bucky shot back. “So you call me reckless to make yourself feel righteous.”
Steve’s fists clenched. “Reckless? You call sneaking out to fuck the farmer’s daughter on the dock responsible? You risked us getting thrown off the property.”
“Worth it,” Bucky said, and the word was all challenge, “I’m not ashamed of wanting her. She sure as hell wasn’t ashamed of wanting me.”
Steve’s breath hitched; the memory flashed—moonlight on skin, your voice breaking open. Shame burned inside him like lye. “We’re guests here,” he managed. “We owe Mr Moreau respect.”
“I didn’t touch her where he could see.”
“That’s not the point.” Steve turned away, picking up the wire as if work could armour him. “You never think past the next thrill. And I’m always the one patching whatever you tear up.”
“So patch this,” Bucky said, jaw tight. “Or admit the real reason you’re mad is because you wanted to be where I was.”
Colour surged up Steve’s throat. He took a half-step back, fists clenching, then exhaled hard. “You don’t know what I want.”
“You think I can’t see it? You stare at her like she’s Sunday salvation—then play saint when she looks back.” Bucky shook his head, frustration edging his tone. “I’m not sorry, Steve.”
Steve’s gaze flicked toward the house, shutters still closed and curtains fluttering soft. His jaw worked. “If you cared half as much about respect as you do about getting off—”
“Respect?” Bucky scoffed. “I asked her what she wanted. She said yes—loud enough the gators could hear.”
Steve’s eyes flashed, hurt bleeding through. “You don’t get it.”
“What I get is a partner who can’t decide if he’s my brother or my warden.” Bucky’s voice dropped, rough. “If you wanted her, you should’ve said so.”
Steve spun, eyes blazing. For a heartbeat words tangled unsaid—about loyalty, about how long he’d followed Bucky into trouble and how this, somehow, hurt worse than any fight in a back alley. Instead he grabbed the digger, drove it into the ground with a grunt.
“Go inside,” he muttered. “I’ll finish the line.”
Bucky took a step, but not back. His voice dropped to a thread. “You gonna tell her you watched?”
The tool froze mid-lift. Steve’s gaze snapped up, raw panic flickering before he masked it. “Don’t.”
Bucky’s anger faltered, replaced by something like wonder. “Jesus, you did more than watch, didn’t you?”
Steve’s face went white, then red. The digger slipped; he caught it, palms stinging. “Shut up.”
Bucky exhaled, disbelief softening into a rueful smile. “Saint Rogers,” he murmured. “Guess halos tarnish after all.”
Steve’s eyes glinted, hurt and humiliated. He dropped the tool, stepped past Bucky, shoulders stiff. “I’m done talking.”
“Steve—”
But Steve was already striding toward the cane rows, boots kicking dust, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. The sky boiled with late-day clouds, thunder rumbling somewhere distant. Bucky watched him go, chest tight with something that wasn’t victory at all.
The stall smelled of clean straw and warm horsehide, lantern light pooling soft over the cedar boards. Steve stood at the far end, shirt stuck to him, shoulders working a curry brush over the sorrel mare’s flank. The rhythm was steady, measured—every stroke a word he couldn’t speak.
You eased between the stalls, plate balanced on your palm, hips brushing the half-open doors as you passed. “Skipped lunch,” you said, “Figured a man could use somethin’ besides self-reproach for fuel.”
He turned, blue eyes wary until they landed on the sandwich, then gentled. “Ma’am, you didn’t have to—”
“Didn’t ask if I had to.” You held the plate until he took it, fingers grazing his knuckles, a quick spark you pretended not to notice. “Eat before you faint and scare my horses.”
Steve managed a crooked smile, sank onto an overturned feed bucket. The first bite broke the tension in his shoulders; you leaned against the stall door, arms folding under your breasts, watching him chew like it was the most interesting thing in Louisiana.
“You work too hard,” you said after a moment. “Makes me nervous—like I’ve gone and offended you.”
His gaze flicked up, guilt flashing. “You haven’t. I’m… just wired tight today.”
“Wired tight.” You tasted the words, slow. “Could loosen you, if you’d let me.”
He focused on the sandwich, and cleared his voice, despite colour creeping up his throat. “Wasn’t raised to pester a lady while I’m a guest under her roof.”
You hummed, unconvinced. “Feels more like you’re dodgin’ than mindin’ manners. You won’t hardly look at me unless I corner you.”
Steve set the plate on his thigh, thumb worrying the edge. “I—” He paused, swallowed. “You make it hard to keep my thoughts straight.”
“That so?” You pushed off the door, closed the distance until your boots touched his. Fingers slipped beneath the collar of his damp T-shirt, brushing the salty line of his neck. His breath caught hard.
“You ain’t doin’ anything wrong, sugar,” you whispered, letting your nails trace a half-moon before sliding away. “Least not with me.”
The mare huffed behind Steve, but neither of you moved. Your palm skimmed the line of his shoulder, slow and coaxing, to where the muscles knotted beneath damp cotton. “Tell me what’s eating you, pretty boy,” you murmured, thumb easing up the column of his throat to the sharp square of his jaw.
Steve’s lashes flickered. He tried to keep his eyes on the half-eaten sandwich, but the gentleness in your touch tugged his gaze up—and once he met your stare, whatever dam he’d built cracked. “I— last night,” he rasped, voice scraping raw. “I went looking for Bucky. I saw you two… by the bayou.”
Heat rushed to his cheeks. “I stayed. Watched. Should’ve turned around, but I—”
The confession spilled in a tumble of guilt and want. “I hated how jealous I felt. Hated that I couldn’t stop.”
“Oh, baby.” The words were a hush, almost a lullaby. You slid your fingers into the short hair at his nape and guided his head forward until his brow rested against the fine cotton of your shirt just above your navel. He inhaled, sun-warmed linen and honeysuckle, and shuddered.
“You didn’t do wrong by me,” you whispered, stroking the back of his neck. “Feelings aren’t sins.”
Steve’s hands hovered, uncertain, then settled at the backs of your thighs, big and tentative. You stroked his hair once more, let the silence breathe. Outside, the afternoon cicadas blurred into a single shimmering note.
“You can want something without tearing the roof down,” you said, voice low. “All that goodness in you doesn’t disappear ‘cause your body woke up.”
He nodded against you, and the movement, the trust in it, pulled a soft ache in your chest. You tilted his chin, thumb brushing the stubble-rough corner of his mouth. “Look at me, Steve.”
He did, eyes ocean-deep and storm-tossed at once. Your pulse skipped. “Let me show you it’s all right,” you breathed.
You bent, brushing your lips to his—a feather’s kiss, barely there. Steve’s exhale trembled, lashes falling shut as though the simplest touch was sacred. You tasted salt and sun and something sweeter before you lifted away a sliver. His eyes opened, dark with wanting, but he waited, polite even here, and that patience lit a spark low in your belly.
So you kissed him again, surer this time. The soft drag of mouths lingered, then opened; tongues met in a slow glide that tasted like a promise. Steve’s grip tightened at your thighs, thumbs sweeping small circles against your skin as though mapping sacred ground. You inched forward a fraction, pressing him back onto the overturned feed bucket; the move stole a breathy groan from him, swallowed into the kiss.
The stables seemed to narrow around you—lantern glow pooling honey-thick, dust motes floating like sparks in the slanted light. Somewhere a horse stamped, but the world had fallen to heat, straw, and the soft slick slide of lips.
You pulled back just enough to speak against his mouth. “Still feel like you’ve done wrong?”
His eyes opened; blue storm clearing to summer sky. He shook his head, a dazed smile ghosting. “Feel like I’m still figuring out what right feels like,” he murmured.
Your thumb traced the edge of his lower lip, swollen now, beautifully kiss-bitten. “Right’s easy,” you said. “It’s what makes you breathe easier, not harder.”
Steve’s gaze dipped to your mouth, then to the stretch of skin exposed where your shirt rode up. Courage flickered. One big hand slid higher, fingertips brushing the curve just beneath your hemline—a question more than a claim. You answered with a slow nod, lowering your weight a breath closer until his knuckles pressed warm between your ribs.
You slid the half-eaten sandwich and tin plate to the floor with one careless sweep, then eased a knee onto Steve’s lap, settling astride him. The overturned feed bucket creaked; Steve’s hands darted automatically to steady your hips, then froze as if he touched fire.
“Wait—” His voice was a husky scrape. “What about Bucky?”
You leaned in, thumbs brushing the fine blond stubble at his jaw. “Bucky’s not here, sugar.” Your hips sank a fraction, finding the thick shape straining beneath his work jeans. A tremor ripped through him; his eyelids fluttered.
“I can feel how bad you want it,” you murmured, amusement curling in the words like smoke. “Been feelin’ it since I met you. You think I didn’t notice?”
Heat bloomed crimson along Steve’s cheekbones. “I— I keep tryin’ to be respectful.”
“You are.” You cradled his face between your palms. It was steady and reassuring. “Respect doesn’t mean pretendin’ you don’t ache.”
His fingers finally unclenched, sliding up your thighs, rough thumbs stroking slow circles that raised gooseflesh. You rocked once, lazy and testing, and the low sound that spilled from his throat made the lantern sway on its hook.
“I want you too,” you confessed, voice just above a breath. “Want to hear you forget every polite word you know.”
Steve swallowed hard. “That might… take some coaxin’.”
You smiled, nose brushing his. “Lucky I have time.”
Storm-cloud light flickered through the high slats; somewhere beyond the stables a first fat drop of rain hit the tin roof with a hollow ping. You tilted his head back, claiming his mouth again—slow at first, letting him taste the yes in every slide of your tongue. His hands gripped your waist now, anchoring you as though the whole building could spin away.
“Tell me,” you whispered against his lips, “does this feel wrong?”
“No,” he exhaled, breath shivering through the single syllable.
“Then let it feel right.” Your fingers threaded into his hair, guiding him to the soft hollow of your throat. He pressed his mouth there, and the sharp sigh he let out bloomed heat low in your belly.
Rain pattered harder, drumming steady on the roof—cover for any sound you might choose to make. You rolled your hips once more; Steve answered instinctively with a slow lift of his own. The friction dragged a gasp from you both, tangled in the humid air.
You ground against him harder, hips circling with deliberate pressure, the denim barrier between you doing nothing to dull the rigid heat of his cock pressing up into your core. Steve’s mouth yielded under yours, the kiss turning rough—tongues clashing wet and urgent, his lips bruised from the depth of it. He looked utterly lost in it, eyes half-lidded and glassy, like a man three shots deep into whiskey, chasing the burn of your flavor.
Your teeth nipped his lower lip, drawing a ragged inhale from him as you murmured against the corner of his mouth, “That’s it. Touch me, honey. Feel how wet you’re makin’ me already.”
His palms hesitated for a split second, then surged upward, callused fingers digging into the swell of your ass, kneading the flesh through your skirt with a grip that bordered on desperate.
“Good boy,” you breathed, nipping his earlobe before sucking it between your teeth, the vibration of your praise humming into his skin, “pull me down harder. Make me ride that thick length of yours.”
Emboldened, Steve’s hands clenched tighter, yanking you flush against him with a low groan that rumbled from his chest. The force of it slammed your clit right over his bulge, friction sparking white-hot through your veins, your pussy throbbing with the need to be filled.
He bucked up to meet your rhythm, the overturned bucket groaning under the strain as you rutted rougher, denim grinding cotton in slick, heated drags that had slickness soaking through your panties.
Steve’s breaths came in hot pants against your neck, his confidence blooming like the storm outside—fingers spreading wide to cup your cheeks fully, thumbs pressing into the cleft, urging you to grind faster, deeper.
“God, you feel so good,” he rasped, voice thick and broken, finally shedding that polite shell as his hips rolled up hard, chasing the pressure building between you both.
The storm raged fiercer, rain lashing the roof like a thousand frantic fingers, drowning out the world beyond these weathered walls. Impatience clawed through you, a hot coil tightening low in your gut—you needed more than this teasing grind, needed him bare and buried deep.
With a frustrated sound against his lips, you lifted your hips just enough to break the contact, the sudden absence making your clit ache from the loss of friction.
Steve chased it instinctively, a desperate buck of his hips upward, his bulge straining toward you like it had a mind of its own.
“Easy, baby,” you soothed, voice a husky purr as you pressed a palm to his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heart beneath sweat-damp cotton. “I got you… gonna take care of that ache right now.” His eyes were wild, pupils blown dark with lust, but he stilled under your touch, breath ragged and waiting.
Your fingers fumbled hastily at his belt buckle, the metal clinking sharp in the humid air before you yanked the zipper down with a swift tug. Steve’s mouth never left your skin, latching onto the pulse point at your throat with hot, open-mouthed sucks that sent shivers racing down your spine—teeth grazing just enough to sting, tongue lapping greedily like he was starving for your taste.
His hands, bold now in their roaming, shoved up under your shirt, palms rough and seeking as they cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your hardening nipples through the thin lace of your bra. He squeezed , rolling the peaks until you arched into him with a sharp gasp, the dual assault of his mouth and hands making your cunt clench with raw need.
Diving into the open fly of his jeans, your hand slipped past the waistband of his boxers, fingers wrapping around the thick, velvety length of his cock. God, he was huge. Hot and heavy in your grip, the foreskin sliding smooth over the swollen head as you gave him a testing stroke.
Excitement surged through you, a fresh gush of wetness soaking your panties. “Fuck, Steve,” you breathed, as you pumped him slowly, feeling the way he throbbed and leaked pre-cum against your palm.
He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his blue eyes hazy and uncertain, searching your face for that green light—like a man on the edge, waiting for permission to shatter.
You smiled, thumbing over the flushed tip to smear his slickness down the shaft. “I love uncut men,” you murmured, low and filthy, watching heat flood his cheeks even as his cock twitched harder in your fist.
“Makes ’em feel so damn good… sensitive and real. Yours is perfect, honey. Thick and ready to stretch me wide.” Confident, you stroked him firmer, twisting your wrist at the base where veins pulsed hot under your fingers, drawing a guttural groan from deep in his chest.
You released him just long enough to hike up your skirt, bunching the fabric around your waist to expose the damp lace clinging to your thighs. Hooking your fingers into the crotch of your panties, you shoved them aside roughly, the cool air kissing your slick folds for a heartbeat before you positioned yourself above him.
His cock stood rigid, flushed and glistening from your touch, the head nudging insistently at your entrance as you hovered there, teasing the tip through your wetness—letting the anticipation build until his hands gripped your hips like iron, urging you down with a plea in his eyes.
Slowly you sank down onto his cock, the thick head parting your slick folds and stretching you inch by agonizing inch. A sharp hiss escaped your lips at the burn of it—uncut skin gliding smooth against your inner walls, every ridge and vein dragging delicious friction as you took him deeper.
You watched him like a predator savoring prey, drinking in the way his jaw clenched, brows furrowing in overwhelmed bliss, those blue eyes fluttering half-shut before snapping back to yours. The power of it surged through you, your pussy clenching around him just to feel him twitch inside, the sight of his restraint cracking making your clit throb with wicked satisfaction.
“That’s it,” you murmured, voice a sultry rasp laced with filth, leaning in close enough for your breath to ghost his ear. “Feel how wet I am for you? Squeezin’ this fat cock like it belongs in me. Tell me how it feels—c’mon, baby, use those words.”
Your hips settled fully, grinding in a lazy circle to seat him to the hilt, his balls pressed snug against your ass, but you held still for a beat, teasing him with the velvet grip of your heat. The rain might as well have been a memory; all you heard was his ragged breathing, the wet sounds of your bodies joined.
Slowly, you started to move—lifting just enough to let half his length slide free before easing back down, the drag pulling a low moan from your throat.
“Take what you want, sugar,” you encouraged, nails digging into his shoulders for leverage, voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Grab my ass, my tits—fuck me like you’ve been dreamin’ about. I ain’t fragile; I want it rough, want you to ruin me with this thing.”
He answered in groans at first, deep and guttural, vibrating through his chest as his hips jerked up to meet your descent. “God... so tight,” he murmured, the words tumbling out low and broken, like they were dragged from some hidden place.
“Feels... too good... can’t—” Another thrust from below cut him off, his cock spearing deeper, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His hands roamed hungrily now, one sliding down to grip your thigh, the other tangling in your hair to pull you into a messy kiss, his tongue thrusting in time with his subtle bucks.
The pace quickened as impatience won out; you bounced a little harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing, your juices coating his shaft and dripping down to soak his jeans. Steve’s control frayed further; he shoved your tank top down with a rough yank, the fabric bunching at your waist and dragging your bra along with it.
Your breasts spilled free, heavy and bouncing with each rise, nipples peaked and begging for attention in the humid air. He stared for a split second, awe flickering in his lust-glazed eyes, before his hands were on them—palms cupping the soft weight, thumbs flicking over the sensitive tips.
“You’re beautiful,” he breathed, voice sweet and polite even in the haze, like a gentleman undone. “These... perfect. So full, so soft—wanna taste ’em, if that’s alright.”
The contrast hit you like lightning, his polite words amid the filth of what you were doing, making your core clench tighter around him. You arched into his touch, moaning as he leaned up to latch onto one nipple, sucking hard while you bounced faster, the dual sensations coiling that heat low and fierce.
The rhythm turned frantic as you picked up speed, hips slamming down harder onto Steve’s cock. Your ass slapped against his thighs, the wet smack mingling with the creak of hay beneath you and the thunder rumbling outside. He thrust up to meet you now, powerful bucks from below that jolted through your core, his body finally surrendering to the instinct you’d been coaxing out.
You reveled in it, a smile splitting your face as you caught him still fixated on your tits—bouncing wildly with each bounce, nipples grazing his chest when you leaned forward, flushed and heaving from the effort.
“Yeah, that’s it baby,” you murmured, voice breathy, threading your fingers through his hair to tug his head back just enough to force his eyes to yours.
“Fuck me back like you mean it—tell me, Stevie, you like poundin’ into me? Like how my pussy milks this cock?” Your words were a filthy prod, urging him past the groans into something more, wanting to hear that polite facade shatter completely.
He groaned louder, the sound raw and desperate, but he managed words this time, spilling them between gritted teeth as his mouth returned to your breast—sucking the peak hard, teeth grazing just enough to sting.
“Love it... shit, love how you take me,” he rasped, voice muffled against your skin, one hand squeezing your ass to pull you down firmer.
“These tits drivin’ me crazy, so damn perfect, bouncin’ like that. And you... tight, hot, beggin’ for it without sayin’ a word.” The sweetness laced his filth, his blue eyes locking on yours mid-thrust. It fueled you, that mix of gentlemanly sweetness and primal drive, making your walls flutter around his length as you rode him relentlessly.
Eventually, you reached between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen clit amid the slick mess where you joined. You rubbed in firm circles, the pressure building fast under your touch, chasing that edge while his cock stretched you full.
“Keep talkin’, sugar,” you gasped, bouncing even more furiously, the pace turning punishing, your juices soaking his balls with every slap. “Tell me what you like about me—my tight little cunt? How I ride you like I own this cock?”
Steve’s response was a guttural curse, his free hand joining yours briefly to press your fingers harder against your clit, like he couldn’t help but take over even there.
“Everything... your fire, the way you squeeze me—god,” he murmured, thrusting up with a force that nearly unseated you, his cock throbbing inside.
The words tipped you over; your orgasm crashed through like lightning, walls clamping down in rhythmic pulses around him, milking his shaft as waves of pleasure ripped cries from your throat. You shuddered through it, grinding down to ride out the bliss, clit pulsing under your touch while your body trembled atop him.
He followed seconds later, the vice of your release undoing him completely. “Shit—cummin’...”
Steve groaned, hips snapping up one last time, burying himself to the root as he erupted. Hot spurts flooded you, his cock jerking with each pulse, filling your spasming heat until it leaked out around him, mixing with your own wetness.
His hands gripped your hips bruisingly, holding you in place as he rode the high, face buried in the crook of your neck, breaths ragged against your skin. The stables seemed to spin for a moment, the rain’s roar returning as your pulses slowed, bodies slick and spent in the humid aftermath.
Steve stayed where he was, like he didn’t quite trust his own limbs yet—face pressed into the warm softness of your chest, breath still uneven against your skin. His hands hadn’t moved either, still anchored at your hips like if he let go too fast you might disappear on him.
You smoothed your fingers through his hair, slow and steady, easing him down from that sharp edge he’d been riding. “Easy, baby… breathe,” you murmured, voice soft, coaxing. “That’s it.”
He let out a shaky exhale, shoulders finally dropping a fraction. The tension in him didn’t vanish, but it softened, melted under your touch instead of snapping tight like it had all morning.
“I didn’t—” he started, then stopped, words catching somewhere between guilt and something softer. “I didn’t think I’d… be like that.”
You tipped his chin just enough to look at him, thumb brushing the flush still high on his cheek. “Like what?” you asked gently.
“Needy,” he admitted, quiet. “Rough. Thought I was better at keepin’ things… under control.”
You huffed a quiet little laugh, not mocking, just warm. “Control’s overrated.” Your hand drifted down his arm, tracing the muscle there, feeling the last little tremors still working through him. “Ain’t nothing wrong with wanting somebody. Ain’t nothing wrong with taking what’s given, either.”
His eyes searched yours, still unsure. “Even… like this?”
“Especially like this.” You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re a man, Steve. You feel things. You want things. That don’t make you bad.”
He swallowed, something easing in his expression, though a crease of doubt lingered. “Doesn’t feel like the way I was raised.”
“Maybe the way you were raised ain’t the only way to live.” Your fingers slid back into his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp, coaxing another quiet exhale from him. “You keep tryin’ to fit yourself into something too tight. No wonder you’re all wound up.”
His grip on your hips loosened, hands shifting instead to rest like he was finally allowing himself to just be there with you instead of bracing for what came next.
“You didn’t look like you thought it was wrong,” you added, a teasing lilt slipping back into your tone, eyes flicking to his mouth. “Not when you took me like a rowdy bull.”
A faint, embarrassed smile tugged at his lips. “No… guess I didn’t.”
“There you go.” You nudged his nose with yours, playful now. “Honest for once.”
He let out a soft breath that almost sounded like a laugh, the sound low and a little disbelieving, like he wasn’t used to feeling this light after something that intense.
Outside, the rain had started to ease—softening from a roar to a steady patter. Inside the stall, the air stayed thick and warm, the kind that made it easy to linger. Steve shifted slightly beneath you, one hand coming up to your back, resting there more confidently now.
“Thank you,” he said, quieter this time.
You tilted your head, studying him for a beat, then smiled. “Don’t start getting all polite on me again,” you warned lightly. “We just fixed that problem.”
That earned a small huff from him, the ghost of his usual composure returning, but looser now, less rigid. Your fingers traced idly along his shoulder again, slow, absentminded, like you had all the time in the world.
“Better?” you asked, softer.
Steve nodded, eyes lingering on your face—then dipping, just briefly, before coming back up. There was still heat there, still want, but now it sat easier on him. Less like something to fight. More like something he was starting to understand.
“Yeah,” he said. “Better.”
Rain sheeted against the loft’s tin roof hard enough to rattle the rafters, a steady percussion that should’ve lulled tired muscles to sleep.
Instead, Steve lay flat on the thin mattress pulled beside the couch, eyes fixed on the low slope of the ceiling where moon-gray water stains mapped the wood. The darkness felt thick, scented with damp hay and the copper tang of dying storm, but it was the silence between the two men that really pressed on his ribs.
Across the narrow space Bucky shifted, springs creaking under the old couch cushions. Not asleep. Steve could tell from the rhythm of his breathing; too shallow.
They’d worked the afternoon in tense near-silence, traded a few practical words over supper, then climbed to the loft when Mr. Moreau doused the lanterns downstairs. Since then… nothing.
Steve’s guilt gnawed as loud as the rain. All the righteous bullshit he’d thrown at Bucky that morning felt paper-thin now, ripped by the memory of your thighs bracketing his hips, the slick pull of your body around him. He’d sinned in the very place he’d condemned… maybe deeper. Bucky had broken a promise, sure, but Steve had broken it twice. First by watching, then by taking.
If he spoke first, will it sound like confession or a challenge? He imagined Bucky’s face if he admitted what happened in the stables—those bright blue eyes narrowing, that crooked grin folding into something sharp and hurt. Bucky was reckless, yes, but he was proud; jealousy cut him close to the bone. Steve couldn’t blame him. He felt the same knife when he’d watched Bucky with you, a sick cocktail of envy and desire he still tasted on the back of his tongue.
A board popped in the loft floor; Steve flinched. Bucky exhaled, a quick huff that could’ve been a sigh… or a laugh, it was hard to tell.
“Storm’s loud tonight,” Bucky muttered into the dark.
Steve swallowed. “Yeah.”
Another beat. Rain drummed harder, then softened in waves. Steve could picture the bayou swelling, black water rising under the dock where everything had changed. He tried not to think about how your moans had sounded layered over the water, how his own had answered hours later in a dusty stable.
“You finish that west line tomorrow,” Bucky said finally, voice low, almost casual. “We’ll have Moreau paid up.”
“Almost done,” Steve answered. He wet his lips, searching for something, anything really, to ease the weight in the room. The apology caught behind his teeth.
Bucky shifted again, the couch springs squealed. “Punk, you gonna stew all night?”
Steve closed his eyes. I don’t want to fight you. I don’t want to lie either.
Outside, lightning flashed white through the high window slats, illuminating dust motes and the curve of the telescope aimed at dripping darkness. The quick burst etched Bucky’s silhouette; hands behind his head, stare fixed on the rafters, then vanished.
Steve drew a breath, let it out slow. “We should get some sleep,” he managed. “Finish early.”
Bucky’s chuckle was soft, humorless. “Sure.” A pause. “Night, Stevie.”
“Night, Buck.”
The rain settled into a gentle hiss, but sleep stayed distant. Steve lay listening to the space between heartbeats, wondering how long secrets could hang in rafters before they dripped down like stormwater, soaking everything beneath.
Dawn slipped through the loft slats in gauzy stripes, lighting dust motes and the tired curve of two backs turned on one another. Steve sat on the edge of his mattress, boots half-laced, guilt thrumming like an ache in his teeth. Across the aisle, Bucky tugged yesterday’s shirt over his head, humming nothing in particular, almost normal again after a night of storm-soaked silence.
Steve cleared his throat. “Mornin’, Buck.”
Bucky flicked him a sideways grin. “Look who’s talkin’ to me.”
Steve managed a huff of a laugh, tension easing a notch. “Didn’t mean to be a bear yesterday.”
“Figured you were just hungry.” Bucky stretched, joints popping. “Or constipated.”
“Yeah. Something like that.” Steve stood, wiped his palms on his thighs. “Listen—there’s somethin’ I gotta say before we head out.”
Bucky’s brows lifted, but the grin stayed. “Alright, preacher. Floor’s yours.”
For a heartbeat Steve couldn’t find air; the loft felt too small for the words. He ran a hand through his hair, stared at the warped floorboard between them. “Yesterday… after the rain started… I was in the stables.” He forced his gaze up, blue meeting blue. “She came by to give me some lunch and— and things got… outta hand.”
The smile died on Bucky’s mouth, shoulders stiffening under crumpled cotton. “Outta hand how?”
Steve swallowed. “We— I—” The confession lodged, then fell. “I slept with her.”
Silence crashed heavier than the storm. Bucky’s jaw ticked once, twice… his eyes flared a darker shade. “You mean right after you tore me a new one for fucking her?”
Steve winced. “Yeah.”
Bucky laughed. It was short, sharp and no humour in it. “That’s rich, Stevie. Real righteous.”
“I know it’s hypocritical,” Steve said, voice clipped. “But it happened.”
“‘Just respect Mr. Moreau,’” Bucky mocked, pitching his voice higher. “‘We’re guests, Buck.’ Then you go and fuck his daughter in the hay like a damn barn animal.”
“Wasn’t like that.” Heat licked up Steve’s neck. “It wasn’t planned. We—talked, and—”
“And you forgot all about your sermon.” Bucky crossed his arms, biceps bulging. “Tell me, did you watch yourself grunt and moan the way you watched me?”
Steve’s cheeks flamed. “Don’t make this dirtier than it is.”
“Dirtier? Brother, the mud’s already up to our knees.” Bucky stepped closer, anger bright and brittle. “You wouldn’t even let me feel good of what I had with her. Now you want me to swallow this and play nice?”
“I’m not askin’ for forgiveness.” Steve’s voice rose. “But you deserved the truth.”
“Truth is you’re jealous as hell and didn’t want to admit it,” Bucky shot back. “So you took your turn and still wanna be the saint.”
Steve’s fists clenched. “You think this feels right to me? I don’t think I can even look her father in the eye.”
“Good. Maybe you’ll choke on that guilt.” Bucky pivoted, pacing a tight line, boots thumping. He stopped, spun. “Fine. Let’s skip the guilt. Let’s ask her straight out who she wants. Winner keeps the girl, loser keeps their mouth shut.”
“That’s childish,” Steve snapped.
“Better than self-righteous,” Bucky muttered.
They stared each other down, breath quickening with a frustration edged in something hotter. Outside the loft, a rooster crowed. The tension held, buzzing like a live wire between their chests.
Steve exhaled first, the fight draining to weary honesty. “We can’t turn her into a prize, Buck. That ain’t right, and you know it.”
Bucky’s shoulders sagged, but the jealousy still smouldered in his eyes. “Then what? We keep sneakin’ behind each other until Mr. Moreau shoots one of us?”
“I don’t know.” Steve scrubbed a hand down his face. “But we finish that fence today. After that—figure it out with her, together. No more secrets.”
Bucky studied him, jaw working. Finally he nodded stiffly. “Finish the fence,” he echoed. “Then we talk.”
The afternoon never quite decided if it was rain or sleet; it just hurled water sideways until the posts sagged in the muck and both men were soaked to the bone. By the time they slogged back to the barn, the sky looked like a dull bruise and the west line was still three rails short. No one said it, but they were glad for the excuse to quit early.
Up in the loft, Steve kicked off his mud-caked boots and dropped onto the couch, hair plastered to his forehead. Bucky lingered at the hatch, stripping and changing out of his drenched shirt, drops tapping the floorboards. He found a rag, swiped at his face, then tossed the cloth aside.
Tense didn’t begin to cover it. They moved around each other the way soldiers do when the truce is thin—careful, eyes sliding away after the briefest glance. Steve rummaged for dry socks, Bucky fished for a cigarette he never lit. Rain pattered on the roof, steady as a clock.
The ladder creaked.
You appeared with a bundle of quilts over one arm, hair damp, skin glowing from kitchen heat. “Thought y’all could use somethin’ dry,” you said, voice gentle, eyes flicking from Steve’s rigid shoulders to Bucky’s tight jaw.
Neither man answered right off, and the hush sharpened until even the rain felt awkward. You crossed to the couch, shaking out a faded patchwork, the cotton smelling of starch and chamomile. Steve took it with a muttered thanks, knuckles brushing yours; his gaze skittered away before it could catch.
“Fence fight back?” you teased, hoping to coax a smile. It earned only a grunt from Bucky and a shrug from Steve.
You laid another quilt over the couch arm, slower this time—testing the air, feeling the edge in it. “Storm’s supposed to clear by dawn,” you offered, smoothing a corner that didn’t need smoothing. “Plenty of time to finish tomorrow before ya’ll leave.”
Still the silence. Bucky’s cigarette twirled restlessly between his fingers; Steve’s fingers dug into quilt batting like he might wring the tension out of the fabric.
You straightened, eyes narrowing just a touch. “The weather ain’t the only thing foul up here,” you said softly, but there was firmness under the honey. “Y’all gonna tell me what’s crawled between you, or am I supposed to guess?”
Neither answered, but their gazes finally met. It was brief, charged… and you felt the spark skip the space between them like summer lightning.
Bucky broke first, voice rough. “Y’know what this is, sweetheart? A game. You’ve been playin’ us—fuckin’ us both and watchin’ which dog growls louder.”
You propped a hip against the couch arm, arms loose across your chest, unbothered. “Playin’? Honey, I just like good company. Can’t a girl enjoy both flavors without pickin’ a favourite?”
Steve’s tone came gentler but no less raw. “Why, though? If you care for either of us, why throw a match on gasoline?”
“Why not?” You lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug. “World’s big enough for more than one kind of want. I didn’t hear either of you complainin’ at the time.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. “’Cause I thought it meant somethin’—til I find out you rode him next like a county fair row-pony.”
You arched a brow. “Meanin’ like you cared about Stevie’s feelin’s when you waited ‘til he was dead asleep to slide into my bayou and make me holler? Glass houses, James.”
The barb hit; he flinched, fingers whitening around the cigarette he still hadn’t lit. Steve opened his mouth, a protest half-formed, and you cut him a sidelong glance. “And you—moral high ground looked real pretty till you let me grind it to dust in the hay. Hypocrite suits you about as tight as those jeans did yesterday.”
Colour scorched Steve’s ears. “I won’t deny it,” he said quietly. “I was jealous. Still am.”
“Same,” Bucky snapped, softer now, wounded pride bleeding through. “Feels like we’re bein’ measured for sport.”
You blew out a breath, voice dropping to something low, coaxing. “I’m measurin’ the way I measure ripe peaches—by taste, not by pit. Didn’t reckon either one of you wanted claim-stakes hammered down.”
Bucky ran a hand through his hair, restless. “Can’t keep splittin the difference. Not without someone gettin’ cut.”
You let a slow breath roll out, smoothing the air like a hand over rumpled sheets.
“Alright—enough chest-thumping,” you murmured, voice a lazy drawl meant to soothe. You pivoted first to Bucky, stepping in just close enough that the lantern light caught the silver flecks in his eyes.
“Y’know what I like about you, Bucky?” Your fingers brushed the inside of his forearm—just a ghost of touch, but it made his shoulders ease a notch. “It’s that wildfire charm. You see somethin’ you want, and you grab it like life’s too short for second thoughts. Had me tremblin’ on that dock, remember? You move like you own the night, and for a minute I believed you did.”
A faint, reluctant grin tugged at the corner of his mouth despite the hurt still smouldering there.
Then you turned to Steve, reaching to smooth a wet lock from his forehead. “And you? Gentleman on the surface, but lord—the heat underneath once you let it out.” Your hand slid to cup his jaw; Steve leaned into it without meaning to, “You made me feel wanted in every sweet, filthy way a woman craves. Like I was worth every ounce of that control you dropped.”
Their gazes flicked to each other, some of the sharpness dulling with your words.
“You boys’ve been best friends forever, ain’t that right?” you asked, stepping back so you could see them both. “Shared bruises, shared bottles… but you never learned to share a woman?”
Bucky’s brows knitted. “Ain’t exactly the way we were taught.”
Steve rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting to Bucky, then you. “Not sure how that even works.”
“Works however we want it to,” you said with a shrug. “Could be one night. Could be more. Only rule is nobody’s feelings get shoved in a dark corner.”
They traded another look. This one was longer, uncertainty warring with curiosity. Rain pinged softly on the roof, a gentler rhythm now, like the storm itself was catching its breath.
You smiled. “Me? I’d rather see the two of you side-by-side than at each other’s throats. Twice the fun, half the guilt.”
Silence hovered, but the tension had shifted, no longer a taut wire ready to snap, more a low hum in the rafters. Bucky wet his lips, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth. Steve exhaled, shoulders softening, as if the idea wasn’t as impossible as it had sounded a minute ago.
Lantern-light flickered across the loft as you stepped between them, storm-tamed curls brushing Steve’s cheek. One hand found the back of his neck, guiding him down; your mouth covered his in a slow, coaxing seal. At first he held himself still, surprised, then his hands rose, steadying at your waist while he answered, tongue sweeping to taste the invitation you offered. The kiss went deep, unhurried, a warm pull that drew a hum from somewhere low in his chest.
Across the narrow space Bucky watched, arms folded but jaw tight, jealousy flashing bright before he masked it. You felt the weight of his stare; when you finally let Steve breathe you kept your gaze on those blue eyes gone hazy, then pivoted without missing a beat.
Your free hand snagged the front of Bucky’s T-shirt, knuckles brushing the hard plane beneath, and you tugged him forward.
“C’mere, hotshot,” you whispered.
He came, like the magnet he’d always been, meeting your mouth with none of Steve’s hesitation. The kiss landed hungry, teeth grazing, his hand sliding to cup the side of your throat. Where Steve’s earlier sweetness lingered, Bucky’s heat sparked bright, and you let both flavors mingle on your tongue a heartbeat longer than strictly fair.
When you broke away the air felt thicker, three sets of breaths stirring the dust motes. Your lips, plush now and tingling, curved into a satisfied smile.
“See?” you murmured, voice lazy as molasses. “Turns out sharing ain’t so hard.”
Steve stood rooted, wide eyes flicking from your mouth to Bucky’s. Bucky’s stare, darker now, drifted to Steve, sharp edge softened by the flush riding both their cheeks. Rain pattered gentle drums on the roof above, the storm’s worst anger spent, leaving only a hush that felt charged rather than tense.
“You pull us in opposite directions long enough,” Bucky said, half-grin creeping back, “might find we land in the same place.”
“Wouldn’t that be a sight,” you answered, giving his shirt a playful tug before smoothing the crumpled cotton flat. You turned, letting your knuckles brush Steve’s knuckles—an invitation to stay right where he was. “The three of us could keep warmer than any blanket in this loft.”
Neither man moved to argue. Steve’s throat bobbed, eyes searching Bucky’s. Bucky’s shoulders shifted, like he was trying on the feel of standing this close without bristling. A tentative thread of curiosity stretched between them stronger than the jealousy that had ruled the morning.
You stepped back just far enough to see them both, palms open. “Fence can wait,” you said. “Weather looks set to keep us indoors.” Outside, thunder rumbled a soft bass note, agreeing.
The air in the loft hung heavy, thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and the raw edge of anticipation. You stood between them, Bucky and Steve, their breaths syncing in ragged pulls, eyes locked on you like you’d become the only fixed point in the dim lantern glow.
Your fingers hooked under the hem of your damp shirt, the fabric clinging to your skin from the earlier drizzle. You peeled it up slowly letting the cool air kiss your ribs before it whispered over the swell of your breasts still trapped in lace. Their gazes followed every inch, darkening as you tossed the shirt aside onto the couch.
Then came the bra—clips snapping free with a flick, straps sliding down your shoulders. Your breasts spilled out, full and heavy, nipples tightening into stiff peaks under the weight of their stares. Bucky’s tongue darted over his lips, a low sound rumbling in his throat, while Steve’s jaw clenched, his eyes dropping straight to the soft curves, tracing the way they rose with each breath you took.
Not done yet. Your hands moved to the button of your jeans, popping it open with a soft click that echoed in the charged quiet. The zipper rasped down, and you shoved the denim over your hips, hooking your thumbs into your panties and dragging them along for the ride. They pooled at your ankles, and you kicked them free, standing bare before them—skin flushed, thighs slick with the ache building between them.
Bucky’s breath hitched, his cock straining visibly against his jeans, and Steve shifted, a flush creeping up his neck as he drank in the sight of your naked body, every curve and shadow laid out like an offering.
“Who wants to touch first?” you purred, voice husky, letting the words drip like honey over the tension.
It took barely a second—Bucky, of course, moving like he’d been coiled for it. His hand shot out, fingers tangling in your hair to yank your head back, crashing his mouth against yours. His tongue plunged deep, fucking into your throat with a possessive thrust that made your knees weak, tasting of salt and coffee and that unashamed want.
He hauled you flush against him, your bare tits mashing into the rough cotton of his shirt, nipples dragging against the fabric as his free arm banded around your waist, grinding his hard length into your belly through his clothes.
You melted into the kiss, moaning around his invading tongue, but then—hands. Warm, callused palms sliding onto your waist from behind, tentative at first, then firmer as Steve pressed his body against your back. His chest was a solid wall of heat, his cock throbbing hot against the cleft of your ass even through his jeans.
Those hands trailed up, slow and careful, cupping your breasts with a gentleness that contrasted Bucky’s roughness—thumbs brushing the undersides before squeezing soft, kneading the flesh until your nipples ached under the pressure.
A shiver raced down your spine as his mouth found your throat, lips parting to suckle the pulse there, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks straight to your clit.
Bucky didn’t let up, his kiss turning sloppier, wetter, tongue battling yours while Steve’s breaths fanned hot against your neck, his squeezes growing bolder, rolling your breasts in his palms like he couldn’t get enough of the weight, the give.
The kiss with Bucky lingered like a brand, his tongue retreating with a final, teasing swipe that left your lips swollen and slick. You twisted in his grip, turning your head to capture Steve’s mouth instead, and he met you halfway—eager, almost desperate, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that stole your breath.
His tongue delved deep, exploring with a fervor that matched the way his hands still cradled your tits, thumbs circling your hardened nipples until they throbbed under his touch.
Bucky didn’t yield an inch, his mouth shifting to the curve of your neck, hot and insistent, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin as he sucked a mark into place. One of his hands slid down, palming the swell of your ass with a firm squeeze, fingers digging in to guide your hips forward. You ground against him instinctively, feeling the rigid bulge of his cock press into your belly through the denim, thick and insistent, pulsing with every roll of your body.
Steve’s kiss deepened in response, turning rougher, his free hand tangling in your hair to angle your head just right, devouring your mouth like he needed to erase Bucky’s taste.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” Bucky rasped against your throat, his voice a gravelly vibration that sent shivers racing down your spine, his breath fanning over the damp spot he’d left behind.
You hummed into Steve’s kiss, the sound vibrating between your pressed lips.
Steve broke the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw, whispering hot against your ear, “You’re perfect... so soft, so sweet,” his affirmations spilling out like confessions, voice thick with awe and need as he nuzzled into your shoulder.
You pushed at their chests, firm but playful, breaking their hold. “I want both of ya’ll to eat my pussy,” you said, eyes flicking between them as you backed toward the small mattress piled with worn blankets on the loft floor.
You sank down onto the makeshift bed, the rough weave scratching your bare skin just enough to heighten the thrill. Spreading your legs wide, you exposed yourself fully—the swollen folds of your cunt glistening with arousal, clit peeking out begging for attention.
Bucky and Steve froze mid-step, their eyes locking onto the sight between your thighs, breaths catching in unison. Bucky’s jaw went slack, that smirk faltering into raw want, while Steve’s flush deepened, his cock tenting his jeans obscenely as he swallowed hard.
Then, like a dam breaking, they lunged,both scrambling forward in a tangle of limbs, shoulders bumping as they vied for position.
“Move over, punk,” Bucky murmured, shoving at Steve’s arm, trying to wedge in closer.
Steve pushed back, his voice a strained mutter, “There’s room—back off a sec.” They bickered like that, half-hearted jabs and elbows, but neither stopped advancing, knees hitting the mattress as they crowded between your open legs.
Their argument dissolved into action, mouths descending on your pussy in a frenzy of heat and hunger. Bucky got there first, his tongue lapping broad and flat up your slit, collecting your wetness with a groan that rumbled against your sensitive flesh. Steve wasn’t far behind, angling in from the side to suckle at your inner thigh before dragging his lips to your clit, enveloping it in wet suction that made your hips buck.
They jostled for space, Bucky’s shoulder knocking Steve’s as he delved deeper, tongue fucking into your entrance with sloppy thrusts, while Steve latched onto your nub, flicking it relentlessly with the tip of his tongue.
The dual assault overwhelmed you—Bucky’s mouth devouring your hole, slurping noisily at the gush of arousal leaking out, his stubble scraping your thighs raw; Steve’s lips sealed around your clit, sucking hard enough to pull whimpers from your throat, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady.
“Taste so fuckin’ sweet,” Bucky mumbled between licks, the words vibrating into you, while Steve hummed agreement, his tongue circling faster, teeth grazing just enough to teeter on the edge of pain.
Their mouths battled over your dripping cunt like starving men, tongues and lips a chaotic symphony of slick heat that had you mesmerized. You watched through half-lidded eyes, pulse hammering in your ears, the way Bucky’s tongue plunged deep into your hole, fucking in and out with obscene wet sounds, only for Steve to shove in closer, latching onto your clit with a fierce suck that made your toes curl.
Their faces were inches apart, cheeks brushing, breaths mingling hot and ragged, and fuck, the sight of it twisted something filthy in your gut. You imagined it—their tongues slipping free from you, tangling together in a messy, saliva-slick kiss, tasting you on each other, and the thought alone shoved you toward the edge.
“God, yes—right there,” you gasped, hips grinding up into their faces, fingers yanking at their hair to hold them in place.
Bucky groaned low, the vibration humming straight through your core, “You like watchin’ us fight over this pretty pussy, huh?” Steve mumbled something incoherent against your thigh, too lost in the feast to form words, but his tongue flicked faster, relentless.
It hit you like a storm surge, that orgasm sneaking up fast and brutal—your walls clenching on nothing, release gushing out in hot waves that soaked their chins. You cried out, back arching off the mattress, thighs quaking as pleasure ripped through you. Bucky and Steve didn’t pull back; if anything, they dove deeper.
“So damn good,” Steve finally rasped, voice muffled as he licked a stripe up your seam, sharing the taste with a quick, accidental brush of his tongue against Bucky’s.
The intensity bordered on too much, sparks of overstimulation prickling like needles as their mouths kept working, tongues still probing and sucking without mercy. “Wait—fuck, too much,” you panted, hands flying to their heads, trying to shove them away, but your pushes were weak, body still humming from the high.
They lingered a second longer, reluctant, before Bucky’s eyes flashed with that predatory glint. In a blur, he shouldered Steve aside, “My turn, Stevie”—the bigger man stumbling back on his knees, jeans strained tight over his erection.
Bucky didn’t waste a beat, fingers fumbling with his belt, the clink of metal echoing in the loft as he yanked it open. His jeans shoved down just enough, his cock sprang free—thick, veined, the flushed head already leaking pre-cum, curving up with a slight leftward tilt.
He gripped the base, stroking once, twice, before dragging the length through your soaked folds, coating himself in your release. The friction teased your entrance, bumping your clit with each pass, and you bit your lip, doing nothing to stop him—hell, you spread your legs wider, inviting the invasion.
“Yeah, just like that,” Bucky muttered, voice rough as gravel, lining up and sinking in slow, inch by torturous inch, your pussy stretching around his girth with a burn that blurred into bliss.
He bottomed out with a guttural groan, balls slapping against your ass as he started thrusting—deep, claiming strokes that rocked your body against the mattress. “Still so tight... takin’ me so good,” he grunted, hands pinning your hips as he set a punishing rhythm, the wet slap of skin filling the air, mingling with the rain’s fury outside.
You took it, moaning with each plunge, walls fluttering around him, but your gaze flicked to Steve, who knelt there looking adrift—lips shiny with your juices, chest heaving, cock throbbing untouched in his pants, a mix of uncertainty and need in his blue eyes.
“Aw, c’mere, sugar,” you cooed softly, voice breathy from Bucky’s relentless pace, reaching out a hand to beckon him closer. He hesitated for a split second, then crawled forward, drawn like a moth to flame.
You pulled him down, crashing your lips to his in a messy kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. Bucky’s thrusts didn’t falter, each one jolting you into Steve’s mouth, making the kiss deeper, hungrier. “Mmm, don’t look so lost,” you murmured against Steve’s lips, nipping at his bottom one before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “I want you in my mouth—wanna taste that big cock of yours while he fucks me.”
Steve’s breath hitched, a flush creeping up his neck, but he nodded, fumbling with his zipper as Bucky chuckled, hips snapping harder. “You heard her, pal. Feed her that dick.”
Steve’s fingers trembled on his zipper, the metallic rasp cutting through the humid air as he finally freed himself—his cock springing out, thick and heavy, the head already flushed and glistening with pre-cum. You watched for a beat, heat pooling fresh in your belly, but then impulse hit like lightning. With a hum, you planted your hands on Bucky’s chest and shoved hard. He blinked up at you, confusion flashing in those blue eyes as his cock slipped free from your clenching heat with a wet pop, leaving you achingly empty for just a second.
“What the—” Bucky started, but you didn’t let him finish, pushing him sideways until he toppled onto his back, jeans still bunched around his thighs, legs splayed. The mattress creaked under his weight, and before he could protest, you swung a leg over him, straddling his hips. His dick slapped against your inner thigh, hot and insistent, as you gripped it at the base and sank down in one fluid motion, taking him balls-deep with a satisfied moan.
“Fuck yeah, angel,” Bucky rasped, hands flying to your waist, thumbs digging into your skin as he bucked up once, testing. “Ride me like one of them horses out in the pasture—hard and wild.” His voice was all gravel and hunger, that smirk creeping back as he watched you take control.
You laughed breathlessly, rolling your hips in a slow grind before lifting up and slamming down, “You’ve got a real dirty mouth on you, handsome,” you teased, picking up the pace, bouncing steadily now, the rough denim of his jeans scraping deliciously against your thighs with each drop. The friction added a bite to the bliss, making you hiss through your teeth.
Bucky groaned, head tipping back against the mattress, but his eyes stayed locked on you. “Shit, just like that. Tighter, darlin’, squeeze me.”
Your gaze shifted to Steve, who hovered there, cock in hand, looking equal parts left out and starved. You flashed him a soft, encouraging smile, slowing your rhythm just enough to beckon him with a crook of your finger. “C’mon, honey. I want you right here.”
He swallowed hard, adam’s apple bobbing, but he shuffled closer on his knees, positioning himself near Bucky’s head, close enough that the scent of his arousal mixed with the musk of sweat and rain-soaked hay.
You leaned forward without missing a beat, your breasts swaying with the motion, and wrapped your lips around the tip of Steve’s cock. He was pretty—long and girthy, the foreskin peeling back as you sucked gently, tongue swirling over the sensitive head to taste the salty bead of pre-cum. “Mmm,” you hummed around him, the vibration pulling a choked gasp from his throat.
Steve’s hand tangled in your hair, not pushing, just holding on as you licked a broad stripe up the underside, tracing the thick vein before taking him deeper, cheeks hollowing with the suction.
“God, your mouth... feels so damn good, beautiful,” he murmured, voice rough and genuine, hips twitching forward instinctively.
Bucky’s thrusts didn’t let up—he drove into you from below, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until it pebbled hard under his touch.
“Look at you, takin’ us both like a champ,” he panted, pinching lightly, sending sparks straight to your core.
But then his rhythm faltered for a split second, eyes darting sideways as your head bobbed right next to his face, the wet sounds of your sucking filling his ears. Steve’s cock glistened with your saliva, inches from Bucky’s cheek, and you caught the way Bucky’s gaze lingered, a flicker of something strange and curious in his expression.
“Hey, eyes on me,” you pulled off Steve with a pop, grinning down at Bucky as you clenched around him on purpose, making him curse under his breath. “Or you wanna join in? Taste him too?”
Bucky chuckled hesitantly, squeezing your other breast in retaliation. “Temptin’, but I’m good buried in this pussy for now.” He bucked harder, the scrape of denim biting into your skin again, urging you back to work.
You obliged, moaning around Steve’s length as you took him to the back of your throat, nose brushing the unkept hair at his base. Steve’s free hand braced on Bucky’s shoulder for balance, the accidental touch making both men tense, breaths syncing in the charged air.
“Fuck, I’m not gonna last,” Steve warned, fingers tightening in your hair, but you just hummed encouragement, riding Bucky faster.
Bucky’s eyes gaze flicked back up, locking onto the way your lips stretched around Steve’s throbbing dick, slurping and sucking with greedy abandon. Steve’s face was a mask of pure ecstasy; eyes squeezed shut, mouth parted in a silent groan, and Bucky couldn’t resist. “Hey, punk, she’s got you leakin’ like a damn faucet.”
Steve’s breath hitched, his hand flexing in your hair, but he shot Bucky a glare through half-lidded eyes. “Shut it, Buck,feels too good to argue.”
You hummed around Steve’s length, the vibration making him buck forward, your free hand cupping his heavy balls, rolling them gently in your palm, feeling them tighten as he teetered on the edge.
Bucky hummed, spreading your ass cheeks wider, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to where his cock pistoned in and out. “Nah, saint, you’re blushin’ like a virgin. Gonna blow already?”
“Screw you,” Steve panted, but there was no heat in it, just desperate need as his cock twitched against your tongue. You could feel him swelling, the salty pulse of pre-cum flooding your mouth, he was seconds from exploding.
But you weren’t ready to let him go over yet. With a deliberate pop, you pulled off, your hand still stroking his slick shaft lazily, denying him that final push. Steve’s eyes flew open, pained and pleading, his chest heaving as he stared down at you.
“Please... don’t stop,” he begged, voice cracking, hips jerking futilely into your grip.
You paused your bounces on Bucky, clenching around him to keep him buried deep but holding still, the ache of denial making your thighs quiver. Leaning up slightly, you cupped Steve’s jaw with your free hand, thumb tracing his lower lip as you met his gaze softly. “Shh, pretty boy. I want you to finish inside me… fill me up proper. Not like this.”
Bucky stilled beneath you, his hands loosening on your ass just a fraction, brows knitting in confusion as he glanced between you and Steve. “You kickin’ me out now?”
Steve mirrored the look, his cock bobbing neglected in the air, still rock-hard and dripping. “But... Buck’s already...”
You grinned, sweet and reassuring, “Fellas, I’ve got room for two. Plenty of space in me.”
Your words hung in the humid air like a challenge, that smile still playing on your lips as you picked up the pace, bouncing with renewed vigor, your ass slapping against his thighs, the wet sounds of your pussy devouring him echoing in the dim loft.
Steve shifted behind you, his uncertainty clear in the way his hands trembled slightly on your waist. He was rock-hard, tip leaking and flushed, but his mind raced ahead—assuming you meant something else entirely. With a hesitant nudge, he pressed the head of his cock against your ass, the pressure firm but tentative, like he was testing uncharted waters.
A soft laugh bubbled out of you, light and teasing, cutting through the tension as you twisted your head to glance back at him. “Oh sweetheart, that’s not quite what I had in mind.”
Steve froze, cheeks burning even in the low light, his cock twitching against your skin. “I... thought... shit, sorry. You said—”
Before he could finish fumbling, you reached back with one arm, your fingers wrapping around his thick shaft—hot and pulsing in your palm. You stroked him once, firmly, drawing a sharp hiss from his lips, then guided him downward, angling him right toward your soaked entrance where Bucky was already buried deep.
The tip brushed against your folds, slick with your arousal and Bucky’s pre-cum, nudging insistently at the stretched opening.
Steve’s eyes widened, confusion etching deeper lines on his face as he stared down at the impossible sight. “Wait, but... how the hell—?”
You paused your grinding just enough to lean forward, bracing one hand on Bucky’s chest, nails digging into his skin for leverage. “There’s enough room in this greedy little pussy, honey. Stretch me wide, fill me up until I can’t think straight.”
Your words were a sultry command, eyes fluttering half-shut in anticipation, but you shot Steve a reassuring wink over your shoulder.
Bucky’s head snapped up, his blue eyes meeting Steve’s in a shared look of stunned disbelief. “You serious, darlin’? Both of us... in there? Shit, that’s—”
“Insane,” Steve finished, voice hoarse, but his hips inched forward anyway, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance alongside Bucky’s girth. They exchanged another glance; uncertain, a flicker of worry in Bucky’s eyes and Steve’s furrowed brow. This wasn’t some quick tumble; it was pushing boundaries they’d never imagined.
“Yeah, insane,” Bucky echoed, but his voice dropped an octave, laced with a sliver of excitement as he held still inside you, letting you feel the throb of him. “You sure you can take it, angel?”
“Mm, more than sure,” you murmured, rocking your hips experimentally, which only wedged Steve’s tip a fraction deeper, the dual pressure making your breath catch. “Come on, Stevie—push. I want to feel you both sliding in, rubbing against each other in me.”
Steve swallowed hard, resolve flickering to life in his gaze as he nodded, hands steadying on your hips. “Alright... alright, if that’s what you want, sweetheart.” He started pushing in slowly, inch by agonizing inch, the stretch burning sweet and intense as your walls accommodated him.
You breathed in deep, eyes squeezing shut, a shudder rippling through you as you balanced on Bucky’s chest—fingers splaying wide over his pounding heart, grounding yourself in the heat of his skin.
Bucky groaned low, his cock twitching inside you as he felt Steve’s length pressing in against him.
Steve’s breath stuttered, his forehead beading with sweat as he sank deeper, the sensation overwhelming—your pussy clenching around them both, hot and velvety, while Bucky’s cock pulsed right against his own. “It’s—tight as hell. You okay?”
You nodded, biting your lip to stifle a whimper, the fullness bordering on too much but tipping straight into ecstasy. “Keep goin’... just like that. Oh, fuck. Yeah, both of you, right there.”
The stretch was exquisite agony, your body locked in place between them, every nerve ending firing as Bucky and Steve filled you to the brink—two thick cocks wedged deep in your pussy, pulsing hot and insistent against each other through your slick walls.
You could barely shift, let alone move, the overwhelming fullness pinning you like a vice, your thighs quivering from the strain. A hazy fog clouded your mind, cockdrunk and drifting in the haze of sensation, every shallow breath pulling a whimper from your lips.
“F-Fellas,” you gasped, voice slurred with lust, fingers clutching at Bucky’s shoulders for any semblance of control. “I... I can’t—move for me. You gotta fuck me like this.”
Bucky’s eyes darkened, a feral glint cutting through the sweat beading on his brow. He nodded once, rough and sure, his hands clamping harder on your hips. “Yeah? You want us to use you, sweet thing? Pound this greedy little hole till she breaks?” His voice was gravel, hips shifting first—tentative at the start, pulling back an inch before slamming upward, the drag of his shaft grinding against Steve’s in the tight confines of your cunt.
Steve mirrored him a beat later, hesitant but hungry, his broad chest heaving as he withdrew slightly, then thrust in—the dual motion sending sparks exploding behind your eyes. “God, it’s... too much,” he groaned, voice cracking on the edge of a moan, his cock sliding against Bucky’s.
They found a rhythm, tentative thrusts syncing into something primal, back and forth like a seesaw of pure heat—Bucky pushing deep as Steve eased out, then reversing, their groans mingling with the wet slap of skin and the creak of the mattress beneath.
You were their plaything now, jolted between them like a ragdoll, body bouncing on the wave of their cocks, the pressure building in your core until it bordered on delirium. Lost in the rhythm, Bucky’s hand snaked up your back, fingers tangling in your hair to yank you down, crashing his mouth against yours in a bruising kiss—tongue plunging deep, tasting the salt of your shared sweat, devouring you like he owned every gasp. You melted into it, moaning into his mouth as their cocks speared you harder.
But Steve wasn’t going to be left out anymore. As Bucky released you, Steve’s strong arm hooked around your waist, pulling you upright with a possessive tug, his free hand cupping your jaw to turn your face to him. As he sealed his lips over yours—kissing you slower but no less fierce, tongue tracing the seam of your mouth, drawing out a needy whine as his hips snapped forward, grinding deeper alongside Bucky.
Your mind spun, pleasure dazing you into a stupor, words tumbling out in a breathless haze. “Kiss... kiss each other.”
Bucky faltered for a split second, his blue eyes flicking up to Steve’s, surprise flashing before lust swallowed it whole. “What—darlin’, you—”
You didn’t let him finish, one hand snaking behind Steve’s head, fingers threading through his damp hair and pushing down firmly, guiding him toward Bucky’s waiting mouth. “C’mon, hotshot, kiss your golden boy for me.”
Bucky’s breath hitched, resistance crumbling under the weight of your words and the relentless pump of his hips. They kept moving, cocks buried to the hilt, sliding in tandem as their faces drew closer—lips brushing tentative at first, then crashing together in a passionate lock. Bucky’s tongue darted out, claiming Steve’s mouth with the same hunger he fucked you with, a muffled groan escaping them both as the kiss deepened.
You watched, transfixed, the sight of their mouths fusing; tongues tangling, breaths mingling, pushing you over the edge. The coil in your belly snapped, orgasm ripping through you like lightning, your pussy spasming wildly around them both, walls fluttering and squeezing in rhythmic pulses.
“Fuck—yes, oh god, I’m cumming!” you cried, body arching as waves of ecstasy crashed over you, soaking their cocks in your release.
Their kiss broke on a shared gasp, Bucky pulling back first, eyes wide and wild as he felt the vice-like grip of your climax. “Fuck—baby, you’re squeezin’ me so goddamn tight,” Bucky grunted, voice strained, his grip bruising your hips as he drove up into the slick chaos of your pussy, feeling the hot flood of your release coat him. “Gonna make me—”
Steve beat him to it, a choked groan tearing from his throat as his body seized. “Oh shit—can’t hold—”
His cock throbbed wildly inside you, swelling against Bucky’s before unleashing thick ropes of cum, pulsing deep and flooding your core. The warmth spread instantly, mixing with your own juices, the sensation of his load spilling out around their joined shafts pushing Bucky right to the brink.
That was it—the wet heat of Steve’s release seeping through your walls, drenching Bucky’s cock in the messy proof of his friend’s orgasm. Bucky’s eyes squeezed shut, a guttural moan ripping free as he slammed home one last time. His shaft jerked violently, erupting in heavy spurts, pumping load after load into you until it overflowed, the combined seed sloshing with every twitch.
They emptied everything, cocks twitching with brutal oversensitivity, veins pulsing against your fluttering insides. You shuddered between them, body limp and quaking, every nerve raw from the overload.
Bucky’s hands roamed your sweat-slick skin—tracing the curve of your spine, cupping your ass, kneading your thighs—as if grounding himself in the aftermath, his breaths coming in harsh pants against your ear. “Easy, angel... we got you,” he murmured, voice hoarse, fingers digging in just enough to soothe the lingering ache.
Steve, still buried deep, pressed his lips to the pulse at your neck, kissing softly at first, then with more urgency, tongue flicking out to taste the salt on your skin. “So good... you feel so good, sweetheart,” he whispered, nuzzling closer, his chest heaving against your back as he fought to steady the tremors racking his frame.
Steve was the first to stir, reluctance clear in the way his hands lingered on your waist. With a careful shift, he eased back, his softening cock slipping free with a lewd, wet pop. The rush hit immediately—a gush of warmth spilling from you, their mingled cum trickling down in thick rivulets, soaking the denim of Bucky’s jeans beneath.
“Ah—sorry,” Steve muttered, flushed and spent, collapsing onto the mattress beside Bucky, his arm draping loosely over his eyes as if to block out the intensity.
You let out a shaky breath, muscles protesting as you lifted yourself off Bucky next, the drag of his cock pulling a sharp whine from your throat. More seed followed, sliding hot and sticky down your thighs, pooling where you’d been joined. Bucky hissed through his teeth, hips bucking involuntarily at the loss.
“Fuckin’ hell—that’s... messy,” he rasped, a low chuckle rumbling out despite the sensitivity, his hand coming up to swipe at the spill on his jeans.
Exhausted, you collapsed between them, body sinking into the rumpled sheets, limbs twitching with aftershocks. Silence fell, broken only by the trio of heaving breaths syncing in the humid loft air, thick with the musk of heat and raw sex, undercut by the distant patter of rain on the roof and the faint, the sweet trace of your honeysuckle lotion clinging to sweat-damp skin.
Then Bucky’s voice cut through the hush, like he was trying to toss a joke over something that felt too big to stare at.
“Well… guess we learned how to share after all.”
You let out a small huff that might’ve been a laugh if you’d had more air in your lungs, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Your body still felt like it was humming—too warm, too wrung-out, like you’d been shaken up and put back together wrong in the best way.
Steve made a sound that could’ve been a chuckle, “S’pose that’s one way to put it,” he murmured.
Above your head, Steve turned his head towards Bucky. That familiar, easy glance they’d shared a thousand times in their lives, the one that always said you good? and yeah, I’m good, the one that had carried them through worse than a Louisiana storm. Only now it didn’t land the same.
Because now “you good?” had more weight.
Steve’s eyes flicked to Bucky’s mouth, just a fraction too long, and something tightened in his chest, warm and confusing. A flash of it, all over again, the wet press of tongues, the wrongness-turned-rightness of it, the way it had sparked through the whole loft like lightning.
The two of them had spent their whole lives calling it brotherhood because that word was safe. Best friends. End of the line. A story you could tell people without watching them look too closely.
But you had made them look too closely.
Bucky broke eye contact first, like he felt the heat of the thought and didn’t want to stand in it, his gaze dropping to you like he needed somewhere safer to look. His hand came up, fingers warm and careful at your throat, thumb resting at your pulse like he could feel your heartbeat still stuttering there. He tilted your face toward him with a gentleness that didn’t match his normal charm at all.
“You’re somethin’ else,” he murmured, and there was no swagger in it, no performance. “One hell of a woman.”
“Not so bad yourself, handsome,” you breathed back, a lazy little smile tugging at your mouth.
He kissed you, slow and lingering, like he was claiming the moment for himself. You let him. Let him have the softness. Let him taste the last traces of you on your own lips without making it a fight.
And you felt Steve’s attention sharpen across your skin.
At first it was just presence. Then it became something else, that ugly twist of jealousy rising in him again, quick and hot, like he’d hated it earlier and still couldn’t stop it now.
Only this time it wasn’t simple.
It wasn’t just Bucky’s kissing you and I’m not.
It was tangled up with the memory of Bucky’s mouth against his, with the fact Steve had felt it… felt how it changed the air, how it changed the shape of his chest when he thought about it too long. It was the unsettling realization that what he wanted wasn’t cleanly separated into categories anymore.
He didn’t want to name that.
So he did what Steve always did when he didn’t want to name something, he acted.
His hand came up, palm warm against your cheek, and he guided your face toward him with a firmness that bordered on petulant—like he couldn’t stand being left out even for a breath anymore.
“Hey,” he muttered, as if the word could justify what he was about to take.
Then he kissed you.
Deeper than Bucky had, because Steve kissed like he was trying to anchor himself, like if he could taste you hard enough, he could drown out every complicated thought trying to rise. His mouth was hot and sure, tongue slipping in with a confidence he hadn’t carried before the stables, before the loft, before you pulled all the polite restraint out of him and taught him what he looked like without it.
You hummed into the kiss, letting it be messy, letting him be greedy.
Bucky watched, jaw tightening, though not angry exactly, not anymore. Just… lit up. Like he didn’t know where to put his hands, his pride, his hunger. Like the sight of Steve taking something he wanted did something ugly and thrilling to him at the same time.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, lips swollen, eyes heavy. Your voice came out soft and unhurried like you weren’t about to let either of them pretend this was simple.
“You boys keep lookin’ at each other like you don’t know what you’re seein’,” you murmured, eyes flicking between them. “Ain’t like you didn’t already cross the line.”
Steve’s throat bobbed. His gaze cut away for half a second, reflex and denial, then returned.
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “She’s got a point, punk.”
Steve shot him a look. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m not startin’,” Bucky said, almost too calm. “I’m just… takin’ inventory.”
That made Steve’s brow furrow, something wary and pulled-tight in his expression.
You shifted between them, the movement small but enough to draw both their eyes, enough to remind them you were still the center of gravity here, whether they wanted to admit it or not.
Steve felt it in the quiet seconds after, watching you push yourself upright, stretching like a cat that’d just had its fill. The lamp on the little trunk threw a golden wash over you, catching the curve of your shoulder, the soft hollow at your throat, the confidence in the way you didn’t rush to cover yourself.
And in his head, Steve hated how perfectly Bucky’s pet name fit you now. Angel.
He had always thought angels were meant to guide you back toward the straight path. You were the opposite kind. The kind that smiled sweetly and led you off the road on purpose, deeper into the dark, deeper into want, like sin wasn’t something to fear but something to finally stop lying about.
He should’ve hated that.
Instead it felt… like relief.
It felt like coming home to a part of himself he’d kept locked up tight, because being Steve Rogers meant being good, meant being steady, meant being the one who held the line. Out here… on this farm, in this heat, with your hands on him and your mouth on his—he didn’t have to perform holiness. He could just be a man. Hungry, human and wanted.
And Bucky, reckless, charming and always halfway out the door, had been tempted into stillness for once. Steve could see it. Even now, with Bucky sprawled beside him, breathing slower, eyes heavy, there was a calm in him that didn’t usually last longer than a cigarette.
You’d done that. To both of them.
Then you spoke again, and the words hit like cold water.
“Shame you boys’ll be leavin’ tomorrow.”
You said it so goddamn easy. Like you were talking about weather. Like you hadn’t just cracked something open between them that didn’t fit back the same way.
The warmth in the loft went cold.
Steve’s throat tightened. He glanced at Bucky without meaning to, like he needed confirmation he hadn’t imagined the sting. Bucky’s face had gone still, brows drawn together, mouth set in a line that looked almost… hurt. Just that faint pout of a man who didn’t like realizing he’d started wanting something he couldn’t have.
Steve recognized the expression because it was sitting on his own face too.
Leaving had always been the plan. Finish the fence. Get the gas. Roll out. Keep moving. That was Bucky’s rhythm. That was the only rhythm Steve had been able to follow for months without losing him.
But now, hearing you say it out loud, Steve felt something stubborn rise up in him. Possessive in a quiet way. Not of you exactly… though that was in it. Of the whole thing. The strange little pocket of peace this place had offered. The way his shoulders had stopped riding his ears. The way he’d slept deeper here, even on a hayloft mattress.
He could feel that same resistance in Bucky, of all people.
Steve swallowed, voice coming out quieter than he meant. “Who says we have to leave tomorrow?”
“My daddy’s got you on a job. Fence gets finished, you take your gas, you go,” you said. “That was the arrangement.”
Bucky shifted beside you, shoulder tightening. “Arrangements can change,” he muttered, rougher than necessary.
Steve’s eyes snapped to him, surprised by how fast the words came out of Bucky’s mouth. Bucky didn’t meet his gaze. He stared at the sheets instead, jaw working like he was annoyed at himself for saying anything at all.
Steve felt a tug in his chest.
You tilted your head, studying them both. “Y’all don’t like bein’ told when to leave, huh,” you murmured, almost amused. “Thought drifters lived for the road.”
Bucky’s laugh came out flat. “Usually.”
Steve looked at you, really looked, and he didn’t like what he saw. You didn’t look afraid of losing them. You looked like you knew exactly what it did to men to feel wanted, then be reminded it had an end date.
Steve’s voice dropped, honest without meaning to be. “This place… it’s been good for us.”
Bucky’s fingers flexed against the quilt. “Don’t start getting sentimental,” he muttered, but there was no bite in it. Only discomfort.
Steve glanced at him again, then back at you. “If we asked, again, would your father consider letting us stay a few more days?”
The question hung in the air, heavier than the rain outside. Bucky finally looked up, and for a second their eyes met again.
You let the silence sit just long enough for it to sting. The lamp warmed your skin into gold again, turning you soft around the edges, almost holy if a person didn’t look too closely. But Steve knew better now. Bucky did too.
Two grown men were lying on either side of you like you were the altar and they were the ones who’d come to kneel.
Your mouth curved. “I’ll talk to Daddy,” you said, voice lazy, sweet as iced tea. “If he’s in a good mood.”
Bucky’s brows lifted, hope and irritation tangled. “And what puts him in a good mood?”
You hummed, rolling a shoulder in a shrug that made Steve’s throat go dry. “Could be the fence looks right. Could be he slept decent. Could be the Lord whispers in his ear.” Your eyes flicked to Steve. “Could be the sun decides to shine.”
Steve felt his chest tighten on a rough breath. He didn’t know whether to laugh or grit his teeth.
“Mm-hmm.” You let your lashes lower. “Seems y’all are good at waitin’ when you want somethin’ bad enough.”
Steve had been stuck his whole life being the good one, the noble one, and you’d given him freedom not to be. Bucky had waited his whole life for something to matter enough to make him stay. And now here they were, both acting like it was anything but your hand on the leash.
You didn’t even have to tug it.
You simply settled back down between them, shoulder brushing Steve’s arm, thigh sliding against Bucky’s, casual contact that made both men go quiet. You fit there too easily, like you belonged in the seam between them.
You lay between them like a secret, like a blessing, like a sin dressed up in honeysuckle and honeyed words.
Angel, Steve thought again—then corrected himself. No. Not an angel. A temptation that looked like one.
Your hand drifted lazily up Steve’s chest, fingers splaying over his heartbeat as if counting it. Your other hand found Bucky’s wrist on your waist, thumb stroking once, absentminded.
You sighed, content, as if the question of tomorrow didn’t matter nearly as much as the fact that tonight was still yours.
“If the morning’s kind,” you murmured, voice soft as prayer, “maybe I’ll keep you boys a little longer.”
And you didn’t say anything else. You didn’t promise, didn’t explain, didn’t give them the comfort of certainty. You just settled deeper between them, warm and wicked and impossibly at ease, like the devil himself could’ve learned a thing or two from you about patience.
And outside, rain kept whispering its steady sermon against the roof.
a/n | hope ya'll enjoyed my freakiness, tell me what you think, also im thing abt starting a fresh new taglist, so let me know. and i had to a lotttt of research, so i hope my potrayal of New Orleans, Louisianna is the tiniest bit accurate. the title is based on the movie Wild Things, obviously this fic has no relation, except for the very heated sex and erotica
also the barn loft was based on my man, Clark Kent's favourite spot
⸝⸝ SUMMARY ─ ❝ as an outlaw, steve rogers has two rules: keep moving, and don't go back. but for you he's broken the second one more times than he can count. he comes when he can, leaves before dawn, and you don't ask what he gets up to in between. until one night it's not just steve at your door, but his partner, bucky barnes, with your outlaw bleeding through his shirt and bounty hunters four days behind them. ❞ ⧽ 23k
！SMUT, like seriously there is so much smut in this (3 separate scenes lol), dry humping, cock grinding, p in v, fingering, handjob, voyeurism/exhibitionism, masturbation (m), slight pervy!bucky?, oral (m & f receiving), threesome (reader goes to paris!), m/m content, praise kink, hair pulling, soft doms!stucky but lowkey switch!steve!, heavy yearning, three idiots in love, kinda one bed trope?, slow burn, shameless flirt bucky, bisexual awakening!stucky, angst, probably very medically inaccurate wound treatment, probably also historical inaccuracies, frontier/wild west AU, 18+ MDNI
⤷ from mads: this is my contribution to the Captain Americana film festival collab for steve's birthday (happy belated birthday stevie!!). i decided to base my fic off the film "butch cassidy and the sundance kid", because the first time i watched this i was just like... oh this is my stucky cowboy AU fr. plus, i thought steve deserved both you and bucky as his birthday present. half of this was written sleep deprived so sorry for any errors » cowboy edits of steve and bucky made by me with canva, pinterest and a dream please be kind and don't look too closely xx » MASTERLIST
Frontier towns always think they can tell a good man from a bad one.
A good man does honest work with honest hands. A good man comes to church on Sundays. Most importantly, a good man is known - by his name, his family, and his business. In a town like this, familiarity passes easily for virtue. A bad man, then, is the one nobody can place. And the town, never fond of a question, fills it with the worst thing it can imagine.
The law has a simpler system still.
One that decrees who is a man and who is a wanted man. It prints the latter on paper and nails it somewhere decent folk can see. Ink drawings of men with shadowed eyes and a jaw made harsher by the hand that drew it. Beneath that is the list of wrongs they have done, and a number in dollars that someone is willing to pay to see him answer for them.
Fifty dollars for a fool. Five hundred for a danger. Five thousand for a dead man walking.
Women, of course, have their own sorting. Just like bad men, women have a value. Only women are rarely granted the dignity of being weighed by their own choices. Instead, they too are valued by a bad man’s wrongdoings.
What he has done to her. Or what he is rumoured to have done with her. Or what he wanted badly enough to lie about. That is how a town makes its ladies. That is how it makes its whores, too.
There are no other kinds of women. Not in this town, or anywhere else for that matter. A third kind would require people to admit women have lives beyond the reach of men’s hands, and no one is in any hurry to go inviting that sort of trouble.
By all accounts, the town had decided kindly on you. A credit to the schoolhouse and a blessing to the children you teach. They would say that you are a fine young lady, and that any good man would be lucky to have you.
No good man, so far, has come and asked. Perhaps that should worry you more than it did. After all, a woman could only remain a fine young lady for so long before the title began to sour on her. A woman in your position was expected to want a steady hand, a clean name,and a ring bought with honest wages. A good man, by the town’s binary judgement.
Your heart, unfortunately, had never shown much interest in good men.
So that’s why tonight, like every other night, your walk home is made alone. Save for the company of crickets keeping up their endless racket, and the watchful hum of a town that likes to sleep with one eye open.
Your skirts hush against the dry grass as you walk further beyond the last few houses, where the town thins to prairie. There waits your little house at the edge of it all, porch sunk crooked in the middle and windows dark as shut eyes. Except the window over the washstand that’s still open; it never sits quite right in its frame. It swells in the summer heat, shrinks in the winter cold, and no matter the season, refuses to latch unless you lean your weight against it.
You’ve been putting off fixing it for months. A respectable man might have fixed it for you by now, had one ever made himself useful.
By the time you step through your front door, the night has drawn close around the house. Moonlight slips through the narrow gap in the curtains, laying a soft glow across the floorboards. Enough to not bother with a lamp.
The schoolbooks go on the table. You set your hat beside them. Your boots are worked off by the bed, left where they fall. Then your fingers find the buttons of your dress.
The first slips free at your throat, then the second follows. The dress loosens by degrees, surrendering the shape of the schoolteacher the town knows so well, until all that remains is the woman beneath it. You drag in a deeper breath, eyes falling shut for a moment as the pressure eases. There is no sweeter mercy than taking off the day. No greater pleasure than unlacing yourself from what the world expected you to be.
With one hand still at your bodice, you turn towards the washstand.
Your eyes catch on a shadow in the chair by your bed. A shocked gasp leaves your lips before you can stop it, sharp and uselessly small in the dark of your room.
At first, he is only a shape amongst shapes.
But the shadow is too still for a drunk, too quiet for a fool, and too comfortable for any man with honest business in a woman’s bedroom after dark. The chair complains beneath the size of him. One boot is planted flat against the floorboards, the other stretches lazily before him. A hand rests on his thigh, and something metallic in it glints in the moonlight.
It points straight at you.
Your breath stalls somewhere high in your chest, trapped behind the open buttons at your throat as your vision adjusts slowly to the dim light. His coat hangs open over a shirt that used to be white, now marked with trail dust and the stain of something you hope is mud.
The gunman tilts his head, and only then does the dark give up the glinting blue of his eyes - fixed on you with the possessive satisfaction of a man finding what he came for. They drop slowly to where your dress has come loose at your throat, exposing the delicate slope beneath your collarbone, and the first soft swell of your chest. Enough skin to make a decent man look away and a worse one very glad he didn’t.
An appreciative rumble hums low from his lips, before his thumb draws back the hammer of his gun with a pointed click.
“Don’t stop on my account, sweetheart.”
For a moment, you’re frozen. Just standing there with your fingers still curled in the loosened front of your dress, breath held tight beneath your ribs. The room narrows to the man in your chair and the gun pointed steady in his hand. He watches you without speaking, patient as a hunter, until he gives an expectant nod of the head.
Slowly, your fingers move again, buttons slipping free beneath your touch. His eyes fixate on the reveal, tongue dipping out the wet his bottom lip in anticipation.
By any measure the town would use, he is a bad man. By the sheriff’s ledger, or by the schoolmaster’s careful catechism about the sorts of men a young lady ought to avoid, the man in your chair is exactly the kind of ruin women are warned against.
You have never much cared for the schoolmaster’s catechism.
Instead your gaze drags over him in return, less innocent than the gasp you might have given. Over the breadth of his shoulders where his shirt pulls tight beneath his open coat. Over the narrowness of his waist and the careless sprawl of his body in your chair, as though he belongs there. Over the powerful thighs spread wide as he sat, revealing the hard, unmistakable bulge pressing against the front of his trousers. Indecent in its honesty and all the more shameless for the way he makes no attempt to hide it.
He watches you notice it, too. Watches your eyes catch and linger, watches your throat work around the breath you have not quite managed to take.
The last button slips free.
Your dress gives way, sliding from your shoulders and falling in a soft heap around your feet. It leaves you in your chemise, though the thin cotton does such a poor job of covering you that the word feels generous. Moonlight passes through it almost cleanly, turning the fabric pale and sheer over the shape of your body: the curve of your waist, the shadow between your thighs, the soft weight of your breasts barely hidden beneath it.
Your nipples tighten into hard little points against the cloth, visible enough that you know he must see them. The knowledge makes your skin burn hotter than any shame ought to allow.
A deep, pleased groan escapes his chest.
The gun stays steady in his hand, but the other shifts against his thigh, fingers flexing into the worn fabric before his palm slides higher. He presses over himself through his trousers, just enough to ease some of the ache there. Just enough to make no secret of what the sight of you has done to him.
“Good girl,” he drawls, “prettiest damn thing I’ve seen in weeks.”
Your stomach pulls tight at the praise, and your thighs press together beneath the thin fall of your chemise before you can think better of giving him any satisfaction.
But the satisfaction arrives in the slight curve of his mouth before he rises from the chair. God, he’s tall, taller than he looks sitting down. And broader too.
If the dark had made a threat of him, the moonlight makes something worse. It loves him. There’s no other word for the way it lingers on him as he steps closer.
It slips first over the dirty blond hair that has fallen loose beneath the brim of his hat. Then it catches on his face, and there’s no mercy for you in how gently it treats him. Long lashes cast low shadows under his eyes, and whatever blue hasn’t been swallowed by desire or the dark gleams too bright. His mouth is plusher than it ought to be on a man with a gun in his hand. Soft in a way the beard can’t rough out, though it tries.
It decorates his jaw, dragging a little danger back over a face that might have been too pretty without it.
The kind of face you know.
It’s nailed up outside the mercantile for decent folk to study and condemn. Some sheriff’s artist had done his best to make a villain of him in ink, darkening the eyes, sharpening the jaw, flattening the mouth into something easier to fear. Anything, perhaps, to keep a lady from looking too long and noticing what the moonlight gives away in your bedroom.
Better, then, to look beneath his name at the hefty four figure sum printed there. And remember what kind of man earns a price like that.
A careful one, you would think.
A man worth that much should know better than to stand so close. And he should definitely know better than to let his defences drop. Most of all, he should know better than to let desire soften the hand with the gun in it.
You move quickly. A sharp twist, a shift of your weight, and the revolver is in your hand instead of his. Then your palm hits the centre of his chest and you shove your weight against his chest.
He falls a little too easily back onto the bed with a rough laugh, his hat knocked loose and tumbling somewhere behind him. You follow before he can sit up, climbing over him with one knee pressed into the mattress on either side of his hips. The chemise rides high on your thighs as you settle your weight over him, and his hands instantly find a home there.
You the press barrel up under his jaw with enough pressure to make him tilt his head back against the quilt, exposing the long line of his throat. All that arrogant ease goes still beneath you. Then his Adam's apple bobs beneath the rough gold of his beard, and the ridiculous blue of his eyes go wide.
He looks stunned. Worse, even, he looks delighted, as though some wicked part of him had been hoping all along that you would do exactly this.
You lean down until only inches remain between you, close enough to see the way his pupils dilate further, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.
“You’re late, Rogers.”
He doesn’t reply straightaway. Instead, his eyes move over your face as though the rest of the room has fallen away, as though the weeks and the miles have all narrowed done to this - to you. Sat above him in the moonlight, furious and half-naked and close enough to touch. There’s something in his expression far too soft for the size of him, too tender for the outlaw laid out beneath you with a revolver pressed to his throat.
Something that looks almost like disbelief, as if he had spent the whole ride dreaming of you and even still, you looked sweeter than his dreams. Like he can’t quite believe the world has been kind enough to put you in front of him again, and now that he’s here, he means to drink down every inch of you before it can change its mind.
Then the tension eases out of him all at once.
His body goes loose beneath yours, the last of the game slipping from his shoulders as his hands slide higher up your thighs. They wrap around your ass, warm and possessive. The corner of his mouth curves, slow and devastatingly boyish beneath the ruggedness of his beard. Entirely too pleased for a man currently pinned beneath his own gun.
“Missed me?” he drawls, already sure of the answer
You press the gun harder into the soft skin beneath his jaw in answer. His fingers tighten on your thighs, as his hips shift beneath yours. It’s only a small, helpless grind, but it’s enough for you to feel the hard line of his cock twitch against the heat between your legs. The satisfaction of feeling his need for you is almost enough to make you forget you’re angry.
Almost.
“You were supposed to be here three days ago,” you remind him, intending to be stern, but not convinced you achieved it.
“Train was delayed,” Steve replies, his blue eyes bright with the kind of trouble men get hanged for.
Your eyes narrow. He has the decency to look a little sheepish.
“Fine,” he concedes. “Train was delayed ‘cause I robbed it.”
His thumbs trace slow circles over your hipbones, familiar and possessive, like he has any right to soothe you after being the source of your concern. “You worried about me, sweetheart?”
You scoff, “I was debating whether, if the bounty hunters didn’t put a bullet in you, I ought to do it myself.”
It would’ve sounded better if your voice hadn’t come out breathier than you intended. If his body were not so solid and warm beneath you, his thighs hard muscle under your spread legs, his hands moving against your skin as though he had been starving for the feel of it.
“Gun’s not loaded,” His voice goes quieter there, the teasing easing at the edges. “Never is. You think I’d point a loaded gun at you?”
You hate him a little for that. For the empty gun. For the fact that some stubborn, tender part of him had crossed God knows how many miles with a bounty on his head and still remembered to make his filthy little performance safe.
You hate him more for making you care enough to count the days. For making the nights stretch mean when he doesn’t come when he’s meant to. For making you understand, with an anger that burns too hot to be good, what sort of woman waits on a bad man.
“Don’t mean I’m not angry with you,” you whisper, though there’s no bite in your voice.
His gaze drops to your mouth.
“Yeah?” His hands slide back along your thighs, slow enough to make your stomach tighten, high enough to make the thin cotton of your chemise feel like no barrier at all. “Want to show me how angry?”
Your throat tightens. The revolver drops from your hand onto the quilt beside his head. Steve’s eyes lift to yours, and there he is beneath the outlaw. Tired, alive, and yours for the few hours he has no right to give you.
You kiss him hard, pouring all that fear and anger and need into his mouth.
Steve takes it with a groan, his head dropping back against the quilt again. One hand leaves your thigh to catch the back of your neck and drag you closer. This isn't a careful reunion. He bites your lip and the sound you make against his mouth ruins whatever patience he had left.
His tongue pushes possessively into your mouth, licking into you until your fingers twist in the front of his shirt just to have something to hold. When you rock down against him, grinding the damp heat of your pussy over the hard line of his cock through too much fabric, his answering sound catches high and helpless in his throat.
“I ought to punish you for makin’ me wait,” you breathe against his mouth, though the threat loses some of its dignity when your hips roll down again and your own breath breaks at the friction.
Steve’s hand tightens on your neck, keeping you close enough that his lips brush yours when he answers. “You ought to.”
Your hands shove at his coat, dragging it off his shoulders with more force than grace. Steve only helps enough to get free, too busy chasing your mouth again, greedy and open, his tongue sweeping against yours like he’s trying to taste every desperate sound he’s pulled from you. You tug at the buttons of his shirt next, fingers clumsy on the open collar before patience fails you entirely and you pull hard enough to strain the buttons.
You need skin. Need the warmth of him under your palms and the pulse of him beneath your mouth.
“I ought to send you back out the window you came in.”
His grin returns at that, mischief bright in his eyes despite the way his cock twitches under you. “You ought to get that fixed,” he rumbles, one hand sliding possessive over your waist. “Who knows what kind of bad men could get in?”
You punish him for the clever little comment with another roll of your hips. Steve’s fingers clamp around your waist and the sound he makes is almost a whine, mouth falling open against yours.
His chest rises hard beneath your hands, broad and golden in the moonlight, warm muscle shifting under your palms with every rough breath he takes. Scars litter his skin - some you know the stories of and some he has never given you. You touch them anyway, touch him anyway, needing the proof of him beneath your palms. Then your hips grind down again, and his stomach flexes, abs pulling tight as he lets out a rough groan.
“I ought to make you beg,” you whisper, mouth dragging down over his jaw, his beard rough against your lips as you kiss the place where his heartbeat pounds beneath his skin.
“Yes, ma’am,” Steve breathes, hands holding you tight over the thick, straining shape of him. “You ought to.”
Your chemise has ridden high over your thighs, and every drag of your body over his makes the ache in you sharper.
“Start with sorry,” you instruct.
Steve’s breath catches when you slow the roll of your hips, turning the grind into something almost cruel. His hands flex at your waist, big enough to move you if he wanted, strong enough that he could flip you easily. But instead he lies there beneath you, shirt open and cock hard under your weight, letting you make him wait. Letting you have this dizzying power over him and looking up at you like he would let you ruin him if you asked sweetly enough.
His throat works beneath your mouth.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he murmurs.
You lift your head just enough to look at him, raising an expectant brow. His thumbs stroke once over your hips, softernow.
Steve’s eyes flick over your face, softening at whatever he finds there. “I’m sorry I worried you.”
Satisfied with his obedience, you lean down to kiss him again in reward. But Steve catches the breath between your mouths, his lips brushing yours when he adds, quieter, “I’m sorry I have to leave again at dawn.”
You still completely. Steve’s eyes find yours beneath his mussed hair, and there is and ache there so open it makes your chest hurt. Too honest for a man who’s worth more dead than most men will ever be alive. You can’t bare it for long. Your mouth finds his again, harder this time, before the feeling can name itself. That foolish hope of keeping a man who only ever comes to you with one foot already out the door.
“Then don’t waste my night, cowboy,” you breathe against his lips, rolling your hips down until his cock jerks beneath you. “You’ve got a lot to make up for.”
Steve answers with his hands. A sudden greed of them at your waist, then sliding further up beneath your chemise. His thumbs brush the underside of your breasts with just enough pressure to make you gasp into his mouth. Then he’s tugging the fabric higher, impatient now, and you lift your arms before he has to ask.
He drags the cotton over your head, tossing it aside with the rest of your clothes until the night air has you bare above him.
His gaze rakes over you with such naked want that your stomach clenches. Over the tight peaks of your nipples, and lower still till to where you are spread over him in nothing but your drawers and stockings, already damp enough that the fabric clings between your thighs.
Steve’s hands tighten at your hips, his thumbs dragging once over the bare skin above your drawers.
“You missed me somethin’ awful, didn’t you?” he teases, the corner of his mouth twitching, though his voice comes out rougher than the smile deserves.
You should scold him for that. You mean to, truly. But then his mouth closes over your breast, and the words break apart in your throat.
His beard scrapes over your skin as he sucks your nipple between his lips, tongue dragging over the tight peak before his teeth catch, sharp enough to make you dry out. Your hands fly to his hair, and you tug - meaner than you intend - but Steve groans against your tit, delighted.
“Love it when you’re mean,” he pants against your skin, mouth moving to the other breast, leaving the first wet with his spit in the moonlight.
His head tips beneath your grip, golden hair sliding through your fingers. He lets you guide him, all that size and strength beautiful under your hands. Because for all his sins, Steve is clever enough to know there’s power in obedience when it comes to the right woman.
His hands shove your drawers down over your hips, hurried and clumsy for the first time all night. They catch at your knees before you kick them away, leaving you naked above him, trembling with the kind of want no decent woman was ever supposed to admit by name.
Your fingers go to his trousers, but the buttons take too long. You curse them for it, and Steve gives a breathless little laugh that dies the second your hand slips inside and wraps around him. His cock springs free, slapping heavy against your thigh, already leaking at the tip. Precum smears against your skin as he twitches there, hard enough to make your mouth go dry.
It’s like you forget just how big he is until he’s in your hand again, fat and veined and heavy enough to make you wonder if he’ll still fit. But your cunt clenches desperately around nothing like it already knows the answer.
You sink your teeth into your lower lip and drag yourself over him, sliding the wet heat of your pussy along the length of his cock. He groans at the first slick pass, at the way your folds part around him, coating him in creamy white wetness until every rock of your hips makes an obscene, sticky sound between you.
The fat head catches against your clit with each pass, enough to make your hips stutter and your head tip back with a needy little whine. But Steve’s arms clamp over your hips, muscles flexing as he keeps you humping his cock. His precum mixes with the mess dripping from your needy hole, smearing over his shaft and down onto the golden muscle of his stomach under you.
“Fuck, ‘atta girl,” he rasps, head falling back against the quilt. “Get my cock nice and wet. Make yourself feel good, use me.”
So you grind down harder, slicking his cock with the mess he’s made of you, feeling his abs flex beneath your hands every time his tip nudges your tight entrance.
“Steve,” you whine, nails digging into this skin hard enough to leave marks. “I want it. I want your cock in me.”
“Yeah?” he breathes, and the little edge of a grin he tries for doesn’t last. Not when you reach between you, wrap your hand around the thick, wet length of him. “Then take it, ma’am. It’s yours.”
You push up on your knees, thighs trembling on either side of him, the thick muscle of Steve’s biceps bunching as he holds you steady. His cock pulses with anticipation in your grip, veins standing out beneath your palm as you line him up with your entrance.
You’re both wet enough that it should be easy, your cream smeared down his shaft, his precum sticky on your fingers. But the first push of the mushroom tip stretches you open with a burn so sweet and full it feels like being split in half. Your mouth falls open the same moment his does, both of you moaning at the sensation after weeks without each other.
Your pussy flutters around him, tight and greedy, sucking him in with little needy clenches that make his hands dig harder into your hips.
“Missed this,” he groans, every muscle in him straining with the effort not to thrust up and take more than you give. “Missed your tight cunt so bad I damn near wore out my own fist thinkin’ about it.”
The filthy praise goes straight to your cunt, sending a fresh wave of arousal dripping around him as you sink lower. Your head tips back, his name spilling from your lips in broken little sounds as you take him inch by inch.
Steve’s eyes fix on where you’re joined, watching the slow, wet slide of himself disappearing inside you. His jaw clenches beneath his beard, every muscle in him pulled taut like the sight of your tight pussy struggling around him might make him spill inside you before you’ve even taken all of him.
When your hips finally meet his, the fat tip of his cock kisses your cervix and it empties your head clean of any coherent though. You feel him twitch inside you as your walls give a wet squeeze around him, your cunt clinging tight like it needs a second to believe it’s taken all of him.
“Fuck, Steve,” you whine, nails dragging over his chest. “You’re so big.”
You slowly try and find a rhythm, rolling your hips down until the tip of his cock hits deep enough to make your whole body jolt. The first few strokes are messy, your thighs trembling as you lift and sink. But Steve’s palms stay firm at your hips, helping you find the rhythm, holding you steady while you fuck yourself down onto him.
“But you’re takin’ it, sweet girl,” he groans, helping you down harder, pulling you into each stroke until your tits bounce and the room fills with the slick slap of your body meeting his. “Takin’ my cock so pretty. Always do.”
The bed complains beneath you, wood knocking softly against the wall, but it’s nothing compared to the wet, shameless sound of your pussy taking him over and over.
“Steve—” Your voice breaks into a cry when he hits that deep spot again, “Need—fuck—”
Your pace turns desperate, hips rolling and lifting, chasing the thick slide of him inside you. Every time you sink down, your cunt grips him tighter, cream slicking the base of his cock in a white ring that smears against his skin and drips lower, making a filthy mess of his heavy balls.
Steve’s eye’s darken at the sight. “Pretty cunt’s makin’ such a mess on my cock, can feel her squeezin’ me. Feel you gettin’ close.”
You nod, pathetic and needy. “I need you,” you gasp, “Steve, please, I’m—”
His hand leaves your hip and slips between you, thumb finding your swollen clit. Your rhythm breaks, hips jerking as a needy moan catches in your throat. You try to keep riding him, but it turns sloppy fast, more grinding than bouncing now, your body chasing his hand while his cock stays buried deep inside you.
“That’s what you needed, sweetheart?” Steve rasps, watching you fall apart above him. “Then let me feel that tight pussy come on my cock.”
The pressure snaps tight in your belly, sharp enough to steal the air from you. One more stroke of his thumb, one more dirty grind down on his cock, and your orgasm crashes through you.
Your cunt strangles his cock, pulsing around him in tight, wet flutters. “Fuck,” he grunts out, hands grabbing for hips as his restraint finally snaps. “Fuck, ma’am, can’t—”
One second you’re on top of him, shaking through it, and the next his strength is under you and around you, flipping you onto your back like you weigh nothing at all. Steve settles between your thighs with a groan as he drives back into your soaked cunt in one deep thrust that punches the breath from your lungs.
“Steve!” You sob his name, oversensitive and helpless under him, but your legs hook around his waist anyway. Steve fucks into you harder, deeper, mouth catching yours in a messy kiss.
“There you go,” he grits out, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh high against his hip. “‘Atta girl. Fuck, you feel too good, this cunt’s tryin’ to keep me.”
You can’t answer, not properly. Not with him pounding into you like this, all that leashed strength finally let loose, his cock dragging over your oversensitive walls while your legs shake around him. All you can do is cling to him and babble his name, too ruined to do anything but take it.
His thrusts turn rougher as his cock throbs inside you. At the last second, Steve pulls out with a broken groan, his hand wrapping around his slick cock as he spills hot over your stomach. Hot white ropes spill across your skin while his hips jerk into his fist, eyes fixed on the mess he’s making of you like it’s the prettiest thing he’s seen in weeks.
Steve’s strokes slow, his fist still wrapped around himself as the last of his release spills over your belly. His eyes drag from the mess on your skin to your face, and his expression softens instantly.
“Good girl,” he rumbles, thumb smearing through the mess he’s made before he seems to remember himself. His mouth finds yours once, beards scratching softly over your skin as you make a tired little sound against his mouth. “Took me so good, sweets. So fuckin’ good for me.”
His lips move over your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, murmuring praise between each kiss, until the words sink under your skin. Then he forces himself away with a rough breath, tugging his shirt the rest of the way off before shoving his trousers down his hips. His boots hit the floor with a dull thud, followed by the rest of his clothes.
Naked, he crosses to the washstand with all that golden muscle and road-worn swagger, shoulders broad in the moonlight, hair mussed from your hands. He comes back with a damp cloth and cleans you himself.
One big hand rests tenderly at your hip while the other wipes his come from your stomach. His gaze flicks up to yours once when you shiver, mouth curving beneath his beard, but he doesn’t tease. He only drags the cloth lower, gentle between your thighs, cleaning the sticky mess from your skin.
“So perfect,” he whispers, pressing a kiss just beneath your ribs when he’s done. “My best girl.”
Tossing the cloth aside, he climbs into bed beside you, greedy for your warmth. His arm hooks around you waist instantly, dragging you back against him like even the few inches between your bodies are more than he can spare. His chest presses warm against your back, his thigh slides between yours, and his mouth finds your shoulder before you’ve even settled.
For a while, neither of you says anything.
Steve keeps kissing you anyway, and his hand rests heavy over your stomach, fingers spread wide like he means to keep you against him forever. But his thumb moves gently. Back and forth. Back and forth. A quiet apology against your skin. You’re half asleep by the time your voice finds him again.
“Missed you Stevie,” you mumble, so low he might have missed it if he hadn’t been listening for every breath. “Was worried.”
Steve goes still behind you for a moment, then his thumb starts moving again, slow over the bare skin of your stomach like he can soothe the ache he put there. “I know,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t mean to leave you countin’ days.”
“What really happened?”
Steve exhales slowly behind you, mouth pressing to your shoulder before he answers, like he can feel the tightness gathering there already. “Train job got messy. Payroll car was heavier than we heard, and the guard had more friends than sense. Had to ride south after, lose a posse near the creekbed.” His hand tightens when your brow pinches in worry, though your eyes stay closed. “No, honey. Not like that. They got a shot off, but it only grazed me.”
Your eyes crack open. “Only?”
“I’m here, ain’t I?” he breathes, trying for that crooked little arrogance and not quite managing it. “Takes more than that to put me down.”
You make a sleepy, displeased sound and press back harder into him, grumbling something unkind into the pillow
Steve huffs a quiet laugh and presses his smile to your shoulder. “Mean little thing,” he whispers, but his arm tightens around you, and his lips linger. “I’m alright. Truly. Just took longer than I wanted.”
After that, the room settles around you. His hand stays where it is, warm and broad over your middle, and his breathing slows behind you.You’re almost asleep when the thought slips out of you, small and wounded.
“Don’t wake me when you leave.”
His chest stops moving against your back.
“I mean it,” you add, fingers finding his where they rest over your stomach. “I can’t watch you choose the door.”
That one hurts him. You feel his arm curl tighter around your waist like some selfish part of him wants to promise he won’t go at all. For a second, you think he might argue. But Steve Rogers has never been cruel enough to promise something so foolish.
“Alright,” he whispers, voice rough. “I’ll leave quiet.”
You nod once, already drifting, but your fingers tighten around his. Steve turns his hand beneath yours and holds on. “But I’m here now,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your skin. “Sleep, honey. I’ve got you.”
Morning doesn’t wake you kindly.
One moment you’re warm enough to feel the man behind you, and the next your hand is sliding across the mattress, reaching for a body that is no longer there. Still, you lie with your hand pressed to the place where Steve had been, as if there might still be enough of him left in the sheets to count for something.
The scrape of his beard still burns faintly along your shoulder. Your thighs ache when you shift. Proof everywhere, and still no man beside you.
The day doesn’t care. It waits for no woman, least of all one foolish enough to miss a man with four figures under his name. So you get up.There is no use in grieving a man who is not dead, and no sense in missing a man who warned you he would go.
You go about your morning routine and pull on your dress, fastening every button back into place until the schoolteacher returns piece by piece. Nothing to suggest what an outlaw had done to her in the dark. By the time your books are gathered, your hands have almost stopped shaking.
You check the stove before you leave. The door latch. The chair by the bed, sitting innocent in the morning light, as if it hadn’t held an outlaw the night before. Last, out of habit more than thought, you cross to the window over the washstand.
Your hand is already braced to force it closed when you freeze. The window is shut.
Not forced down, not wedged in crooked, not sitting stubborn in its swollen frame. Shut. Properly shut. The latch sits clean in its catch, holding firm beneath the careful press of your fingers.
It’s silly, really, to stand there with your throat gone tight over a fixed window. But it’s what almost does you in. Your bad man, making sure no worse men can get in.
Weeks pass with no word from your outlaw.
You tell yourself that’s likely for the best. Good news rarely travels fast where men like Steve Rogers are concerned; bad news, however, travels like wildfire. Still, each morning you find yourself scanning the newspaper columns with a sour twist in your stomach, looking for his name with morbid compulsion and praying not to find it. It’s the same grim, self-torturous routine every day, waiting for the one where some column out west reports Steve Rogers and the Winter Kid dead, captured, or hanged.
By night, the worry is worse. It follows you into bed and slips into your dreams, filling up the space Steve left empty. You sleep poorly when sleep comes at all, one ear tuned toward the road like a fool, listening for hoofbeats you’ve no good reason to expect, yet hope for all the same.
But it isn’t hoofbeats that pull you from slumber tonight.
It’s the violent thud of a fist hammering on your front door, hard enough to shake the frame and send you bolting upright with your heat already halfway up your throat.
“Hello?!” a man shouts through the door, breathless and frantic. “Miss! For God’s sake, tell me you’re in there!”
He swears under his breath, his voice comes again, but lower this time. “Goddammit, Rogers, if you gave me the wrong damn house—”
His fist hits the door again, harder now, rattling the latch in its frame.
“Open up! Please, open the door!” he yells. “Name’s Barnes—Bucky Barnes—I’ve got Rogers with me, and he’s shot real bad!”
Steve. Shot badly.
The words make your blood run cold, but fear is not enough to make you foolish. Graveyards are full of women who opened up because they believed bad men with good stories.
“Miss!” Barnes shouts, followed by a strained grunt and the scrape of boots dragging over your porch boards. “Please! I ain’t got time to stand here proper, he’s slippin’!”
Steve had spoken of a Bucky Barnes before, of course he had - Buck, usually, said with the kind of rough fondness he tried to hide and never quite managed - but knowing a name isn’t the same as knowing a voice through the door in the middle of the night.
You move for the shotgun. A lady might have felt shame keeping such a thing so close to her bed. A woman who lives alone knows better.
You cock it loud enough for the sound to carry through the door.
The knocking stops. When you speak, your voice is steadier than the rest of you feels. “If you’re lyin’, Mr. Barnes, you ought to know I’ve got a shotgun pointed at this door.”
“Lady, you can shoot me after if you’re still of a mind to,” he shouts back. “Right now I need you to open the damn door before Rogers bleeds out on your porch!”
Before you can answer, a low groan drags from the other side of the door, followed by Bucky swearing under his breath. Then you recognise Steve’s voice, frailer than you’ve ever heard it, trying to make your name out of what little strength he has left. It makes the shotgun feel useless in your hands.
You flip the latch up before you can think better of it, though you keep one hand on the shotgun as you pull the door open - barrel tipped down but ready.
Bucky Barnes is braced on your porch, with Steve Rogers sagging against him.
His jaw is clenched from the strain of the weight, one shoulder shoved beneath Steve’s arm, with his own locked tight around Steve’s waist. Steve’s boots scrape uselessly over the boards when Bucky shifts him higher. It is clear, terribly clear, that Steve is only standing because Bucky has decided he will.
He’s bent nearly double, folded into the wound, hanging off Bucky with no strength of his own. His head dips heavy towards his chest, and he might almost look drunk if his skin were not so pale beneath the dirt, or if every breath didn’t seem to pull through him with effort.
One hand rests low on his abdomen, fingers spread over a blooming red patch that has soaked through his shirt and keeps smearing beneath his palm. But the hand is slack. His arm trembles with the effort of keeping it over the wound, slipping through the blood rather than stopping it. Every breath drags through him shallow and uneven as though his body has begun bargaining over what it can afford.
“Steve!”
The shotgun clatters to the floor in an instant, forgotten in your panic. You reach for him instantly, palms cupping his face because you need to see his eyes. Need some proof behind the boneless sag of him. His skin is damp beneath your hands and it’s too cold for a man sweating so badly. When you lift his head, it comes slowly, with too much weight in it, his neck offering almost no help at all.
He looks worse than any newspaper ever managed to make him.
His mouth hangs open around each thin pull of breath, lips dry and parted beneath the rough gold of his beard. Dirt clings to the sweat along his hairline. There is a smear of blood near his lip, and his jaw has gone loose under your hands, all that stubborn Rogers grit worn down to something frighteningly human.
His eyes slide over you without settling, and that scares you more than the blood.
“Steve,” you repeat, thumb brushing his cheek. “Look at me. Please, look at me.”
Recognition gathers slowly, blue eyes dragging themselves back from somewhere far away. Then the worry comes with it, because even like this, Steve Rogers is sorry. His brows draw together as if he has been carrying one thought all the way to your porch and means to set it down before his body gives out beneath him.
“Told Buck not to wake you,” he slurs, stopping after it to drag in another shallow breath. “Told him you needed sleep.”
Bucky grunts a disbelieving laugh next to you.
“Alright, Romeo, that’s real touching,” he snaps, shifting Steve’s weight higher with a grunt, “but you’re bleeding on the lady’s porch. Miss, I need him flat, I need light, and I need clean cloths. Now.”
The kitchen table is where Bucky wants him. There’s no time to argue about the indecency of it, or the blood, or how Bucky’s supposed to get him up there without injuring Steve further.
Bucky pulls Steve through the door with one brutal shift of his weight, dragging him over the threshold whilst Steve’s boots scrape and stumble over your floor. The wound pulls with the movement, wrenching a raw, bitten-off sound deep from his chest.
“Clear it,” Bucky orders, jerking his chin toward the oak table.
And you move only because your body takes over. A book hits the floor. Then the bowl you left out after supper, shattering somewhere near your feet. You don’t hear it over the rush of blood in your ears.
Bucky gets one hand under Steve’s arm and the other braced hard at his back. “Alright, Stevie,” he mutters, more to himself than to Steve. “Up we go.”
The lift tears a brutal cry out of Steve.
You’ve never heard that sound from him before. Pain has pulled groans from him, curses too, all stubbornly swallowed before anyone could make much of them. But Steve’s too far gone to care about that now.
“I know,” Bucky says at once, voice gone tight as he arranges Steve onto the table. “I know, I know. M’sorry, Stevie. I’m sorry.”
Steve is too far under to hear him properly. His head rolls against the wood, lashes fluttering, mouth open around another broken sound when Bucky drags his legs up after him. The table creaks beneath his weight. Blood smears across the pale grain in a dark, ugly sweep. Then Bucky plants one hand low on Steve’s abdomen and presses down hard.
Steve’s whole body jerks.
“Shit,” Bucky grunts out, leaning his weight into it when Steve tries to curl away from the pressure. “I know, pal. Ain’t got a choice.”
You just stand there, frozen.
That’s the shame in it. You stand there with your hands curled uselessly at your sides and your bare feet near broken crockery, staring at your outlaw bleeding out across your kitchen table. There is some part of you, in the back of your head, that understands the urgency of the scene, begging you to move. But the rest of you is somewhere else entirely, watching from a distance as the biggest, most capable man you have ever known lies pale as linen and fights for the next breath.
“Lady,” Bucky snaps. “I need you with me.”
But you don’t answer, eyes fixed on the slow rile and fall of Steve’s chest. The terrible wait between each shallow pull of air and the next. The horrible stillness after every breath, when your heart seems to stop with his and only starts again when his chest moves.
Bucky’s bloody hand slams against the table. “Miss!”
Your eyes jerk to him, though the rest of you stays frozen in place. He looks furious - terrified too, but masked beneath the practical need to keep moving. His jaw is set, his breathing hard, one hand still pressed down over Steve’s wound while the other points at you like he can drag sense back into you by force.
“You can stare at him dead or you can help me keep him livin’,” he says. “Pick quick.”
The words snap you back to reality. Your throat tightens, and you take a steadying breath, “What do you need?”
You scramble through your own house, trying to remember everything Bucky lists as fast as he names it.
Lamps first, hands shaking hard enough that the chimney glass knocks against the metal. Then cloths from the press. The clean sheet from your bed, yanked free with one sharp pull and bundled under your arm. Thread from the sewing box. Needle. Whiskey from the cupboard that you only keep in for Steve. You put water on the stove and nearly drop the pot before you get it settled.
Behind you, Bucky cuts Steve’s shirt open. The sound of Steve groaning under the movement turns your stomach, but Bucky only mutters a low apology and keeps working, dragging ruined cloth away from ruined skin before reaching for the whiskey and one of the clean rags you brought him. He wipes around the wound with brisk, careful pressure, until the blood smears thinner and the shape of the damage begins to show.
You wish at once that he hadn’t.
It looks smaller than it should for all the red it has made, one ugly hole low on Steve’s abdomen, close to his hip, and swollen angry at the edges. Blood keeps welling steadily no matter how quickly Bucky clears it. Steve’s stomach jumps beneath every touch, muscle pulling tight before giving out again.
“Bullet’s still in,” Bucky confirms, mouth grim. “Ain’t deep. That’s the good news. Bad news is you’re takin’ it out and sewin’ him up.”
“No!” You’re shaking your head before the word has even finished leaving your mouth. “You crazy, mister? I can’t do that!”
Steve makes a rough sound, half breath, half pain, and Bucky glances down long enough for something scared to flash over his face.
“Well, little lady, unless you reckon you can hold down two hundred pounds of half-delirious cowboy when he starts thrashin’ while I go fishin’ through his guts, then yes, you can.” Bucky’s hand clamps harder over Steve’s middle when Steve shifts with a broken sound, his shoulders lifting from the table before the strength goes out of him again. “Because if he comes off this table, he’ll tear himself up worse than he already is, and I can’t hold him and dig the bullet out at the same time.”
Your mouth opens, but nothing follows.
The lamp catches the sweat on Steve’s throat and the red glistening on Bucky’s hands. Too much of it. Too much on the table, too much soaked into Steve’s shirt, too much slipping between Bucky’s fingers no matter how hard he presses.
You nod once, firm, forcing the fear down into something more useful. Some of the harshness leaves Bucky’s face, not enough to soften him completely, but enough for you to see the man Steve must have trusted with all the worst parts of himself.
“Good girl, I’ll talk you through it,” Bucky says, already reaching for the whiskey. “Steady hands is all I need from you”
So you give him steady hands. Or try to.
You wash them until the water in the basin clouds pink from blood. Bucky talks all the while, voice firm enough to keep you moving from one instruction to the next. He pours a splash of whiskey over the wound and Steve flinches from the table with a staggered cry, only for Bucky to catch him hard across the chest and shove him back down.
“I know, I’m sorry, pal,” Bucky murmurs, hands firm at Steve’s shoulders. “But you gotta try and stay still Stevie, please.”
The softness in his voice does nothing to gentle his grip. If anything, that’s what makes it worse: the way he bends close to Steve’s ear and coaxes him like a wounded horse whilst holding him down with enough strength to bruise. He gets the belt from his own waist and folds the leather between Steve’s teeth, fingers careful at his jaw.
“Bite down,” he instructs. “Before you break your damn teeth trying not to make noise.”
Steve’s lashes flutter, eyes too glassy to find either of you properly, but his teeth close around the leather. Bucky’s hand lingers one second at the side of Steve’s face before he reaches into his coat and pulls out a small roll of oilcloth, the kind of thing only carried by men on the wrong side of the law with no doctor waiting.
Inside is a short knife, and a pair of narrow steel forceps. He snatches those up first and presses them into your palm.
You take a steadying breath. It doesn’t help much
The first touch of metal to torn flesh makes Steve cry out around the belt, the sound muffled and awful. His hand slams against the table hard enough to rattle the bowl, but Bucky catches his wrist and pins it down without looking away from the wound. He murmurs something too low for you to catch.
Apology, prayer, curse; with men like them, there may not be much difference.
Under Bucky’s instruction, you search for the bullet, stopping every time Steve’s body bucks beneath Bucky’s hold. It feels endless, a handful of seconds stretched cruel by the sound of Steve’s breathing and the red shining over your fingers. Then the forceps catch on something hard, something that does not belong inside a man, and Bucky’s voice cuts through the room at once.
“That’s it. Easy now. Pull straight.”
The bullet comes free slick with blood and drops into the bowl with a dull little clink. For all the damage it has done, it looks far too small.
Bucky lets out a breath, but he doesn’t let go of Steve. “Good,” he praises, rough. “That’s real good, darlin’. Now stitch him.”
Threading the needle takes three tries and a muttered curse before the thread finally slips through. Cloth never prepared you for this - it stays put under your hands. Flesh has a give to it that turns your stomach, but you swallow it down and focus on the path of the needle, in one side and out the other, the thread slowly drawing the wound closed.
Bucky watches the first one go through, then the second, and whatever he sees must satisfy him enough to turn more of his attention back to Steve.
“Doin’ good, Stevie,” he murmurs. “Stay with me. There you go. Tough bastard like you don’t get to die in a schoolteacher’s kitchen.”
Steve makes a sound around the belt, weak now, worn down by pain and blood loss until even agony seems to cost too much effort. Then the needle catches wrong, just enough to make his body twitch beneath Bucky’s grip.
“Fuck—I’m sorry Steve,” you whisper before you can stop yourself, pulling the stitch through with a shaking hand. “I’m nearly done, promise.”
Bucky glances at you, then back down at him. “Hear that, Rogers? Lady’s apologisin’ to you while saving your sorry hide. You better live long enough to thank her proper.”
By the time you tie off the final stitch, your back aches, your hands are cramped, and your nightdress is ruined past saving. Bucky binds the wound tight with strips torn from your clean sheet, wrapping them firm while you hold Steve’s hand and try not to notice how loosely his fingers curl around yours now.
When Bucky finally steps away, the room seems to take its first full breath since two outlaws crashed into your evening. He wipes his hands on the edge of the sheet, eyes tracking over Steve, watching for any fresh red spilling through the bandage. He nods once to himself when none does.
“Alright,” Bucky says at last. “Now we keep him warm, and thank God he’s a stubborn son of a bitch.”
With the worst of the work done, the night settles into a long, sleepless vigil.
Steve is covered with every blanket you own, and neither of you can tear your eyes away from him long enough to do much beyond tend to him. His body has finally given itself over the exhaustion, sleeping so deeply you watch for his breaths to make sure he’s still alive. You clean what you can from him with a wet cloth - the dirt on his cheek, the sweat from his brow, the blood on his hands.
Bucky stays in the chair by Steve’s head.
He looks half-dead himself, shoulders bowed beneath exhaustion, eyes shadowed, jaw slackening each time sleep nearly takes him before he drags himself back from it. Every time Steve’s breathing changes, Bucky’s head lifts. Every time Steve shifts, Bucky’s hand is already there, soothing him back to stillness. Small, tender brushes of his hand through damp blond strands. He does it without thinking, with the ease of habit, and you get the feeling you’re seeing something usually kept from view.
It’s a strange thing to witness from a man with his name on a wanted poster. It’s a strange thing to witness from a man at all, really.
‘The Winter Kid’ the papers call him - always printed near Steve’s name like one shadow following another. He’s younger than the posters make him look, or maybe just more human. Handsome too, though that thought feels poorly timed and unwelcome. But true all the same.
Maybe he can feel you looking, because his eyes lift to yours a moment later. They’re unfairly blue against the tan of his skin and the dark fall of his hair,and for one strange second you feel caught in them the way you do in Steve’s.
“What?” he asks, tilting his head.
You shrug, a little embarrassed, but you hold his gaze. “You don’t look much like your picture.”
“Yeah, well.” The corner of his mouth twitches, and for the first time you feel that charm Steve warned you about, battered but not dead. “They charge extra for likeness.”
A small laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. Bucky hears it, and the corner of his mouth seems to twitch a fraction further up, pleased with himself. The air between you seems a little lighter after that, still ruled by Steve’s breathing, but less like two strangers keeping watch over a dying man and more like two people bound, against all better judgement, to the same stubborn fool.
“I expected you shorter,” you admit, causing Bucky to raise a brow. “You know, from the name.”
Bucky groans like this is a wound all its own, head tipping back against the chair for half a second. “Christ. Not you too.”
“Well, it does give a certain impression,” you add, just to goad.
“It gives me a headache is what it gives me.” He drags a tired hand down his face, though the shape of a smile keeps threatening at his mouth. “You know how hard it is to be taken serious by women when half of ’em start grinnin’ soon as they hear Kid?”
“From what Steve tells me,” you say, glancing down at the man asleep between you, “you seem to manage just fine.”
His expression shifts slightly at that. Surprise first, then something warmer he tries to hide by leaning back in his chair and letting the charm crawl into the corner of his mouth. Worse now you know to look for it.
“Oh yeah?” he drawls, voice smoother than it should be after all his shouting. “And what exactly has Rogers told you about how I treat a lady, darlin’?”
You reach for the damp cloth beside you and wring it out over the basin, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking flustered. “Careful, Mr. Barnes. I’ve still a mind to pick my shotgun back up.”
Bucky seems more pleased by your threat than scared, but lifts his hands in surrender all the same, “Of course, Miss. I’ll behave.”
After that, the conversation drifts into exchanging stories about Steve. It feels odd to speak of him like this whilst he lies pale beneath your blankets, yet necessary too, as if each foolish little detail sets another small weight on the side of the scale that says living.
Eventually, though, you can’t avoid the question anymore.
“What happened?”
Bucky’s smile disappears instantly, replaced by a grimace. “Rumlow.”
Just the name is enough to fill the room with dread.
Brock Rumlow has a reputation that travels ahead of him. Bounty hunter, most folk call him. Brutal killer, if folk were feeling honest. But a good man by the town’s measure because he kills with the sheriff’s blessing.
“He caught our trail two days west,” he explains. “We thought we’d shaken him after the river crossin’. But Steve said the tracks were too clean, and of course he just had to be right.”
His mouth twists, though there’s no humour in it now.
“Rumlow had men waitin’ by the ridge. More than we counted on. First shot took my horse out from under me, and Steve came back for me like the damned fool he is.” Bucky’s hand goes to Steve’s hair again before he seems to notice it, fingers combing once through the damp strands before he pulls away. “I told him to ride. He didn’t.”
Of course he didn’t.
That is what hurts most, perhaps. Not the recklessness - you made your peace with that, or tried to. No, it’s the unfortunate fact that no part of you can imagine him doing anything else because you know by now that Steve has never had much sense when someone he cares for is in danger.
“He drew their fire long enough for me to get my rifle,” Bucky continues. “I managed to drop one man, maybe two. Then Rumlow put a bullet in him from the rocks. Steve stayed in the saddle after, somehow. Long enough to swear at me for fussin’.”
“That sounds like him,” you say quietly, reaching for Steve’s hand beneath the blankets. His fingers are cool when you fold them into yours and loose in a way that makes your throat tighten.
“Yeah.” Bucky huffs through his nose. “Stubborn bastard made it near six miles telling me it was only a graze. Then he went white as flour and damn near pitched off the horse.”
Your hand tightens around Steve’s before you can stop it. Bucky’s eyes catch it - for all his exhaustion, there is very little the man seems to miss.
“Kept off the road after that, muddied the trial in the creek too.” Bucky says. “Lost ’em for tonight, I reckon.”
“For tonight?”
His eyes lift to yours, and they give you the answer before his mouth does. “Rumlow’s still breathin’, ain’t he?”
That answers enough.
Bucky leans forward and peels the edge of the blanket back just far enough to check the bandage. With gentle fingers, he presses near your stitches, watching for fresh blood, and you find yourself holding your breath until he lets the blanket fall back into place.
“Stitches are holding,” he confirms. “You did good, darlin’, real good.”
Then his gaze drops to Steve, hand resting on his shoulder.
“Course,” he adds, murmuring almost to himself. “Rogers always did know how to pick good people.”
That makes you look back up at him, at the two of them together. And for a second you see it all playing out: Steve riding back into gunfire, Bucky dragging him through the dark, the two of them printed side by side on every wanted paper like the world has always known they come together.
“Yeah,” you reply softly, holding his gaze. “He does.”
The corner of Bucky’s mouth lifts without any of the charm from before. This smile is smaller, more honest. Grateful in a way neither of you can bear to acknowledge.
The next couple of days pass in pieces for Steve.
Pain consumes most of it, sharp enough to drag him sleep sometimes. But he always wakes to company and the cool drag of a cloth over his face when fever leaves him damp and restless. Sometimes the hand at his brow is yours. Sometimes it’s Bucky’s calloused palms, not a soft but no less careful for it.
When he shifts too quickly, one of you is always there to press him back down. Your voice comes sweet near his ear, telling him to to rest and stop being difficult. Bucky has less patience about it, muttering, “Quit bein’ a jackass, Rogers,”but the softness in his voice gives him away.
By the second day, he starts catching more of the world around him. Mostly, he catches the two of you speaking over him like he’s some troublesome piece of work you have mutually agreed to keep alive. He hears you show Bucky how to change the sheets without jostling him, and Bucky grumbling that you’re a bossy little thing. Your quiet snicker follows, easy enough by then to tell Steve you’ve already learnt not to be scared of Bucky’s bark. And it settles him enough to fall back into another slumber.
Yet, when Steve wakes properly, the house is quiet. His mind goes straight trouble - you and Bucky hurt, or worse, taken.Then he sees the fresh cloth waiting on the washstand, the cup of water set near the bed, the plate of food left within reach. Someone has even pulled the blanket back from the edge of his bandage so it won’t catch when he moves.
Still, his gaze flicks back to the empty chair, a little more wounded at being left alone than he’d admit.
But then he hears voices drift in from the window. Yours first, bright enough to pull his eyes open properly. Bucky answers beneath it, rougher and far too pleased with himself, and Steve rolls his eyes fondly at the ceiling. He knows Bucky in that mood, and exactly the kind of trouble he thinks he’s charming his way out of.
The sound of you both laughing together is too sweet to resist, and it pulls at Steve before he can think better of it. So he presses one hand to his side, grits his teeth and pushes himself upright with a low grunt.
By the time he makes it to the doorway, he’s sweating through his shirt, and lightheaded enough that he has to lean against the frame for support. But when his vision focuses on the two of you, the pain pulsing from his side seems to subside.
Bucky’s leaning against the fence with his sleeves rolled to his elbows - an unabashed display of his toned forearms if Steve’s ever seen one - hat tipped back and a loose board braced beneath his boot. He must have been fixing it before he got distracted. Or before you distracted him. Either way, he’s smiling at you like he knows just how handsome he is, which, Steve thinks fondly, he does.
“You call that fixed?” you ask, eyeing the board.
“It’s standin’, ain’t it?”
“It was standin’ before.”
“Well, now it’s standin’ better.”
Your mouth opens in disbelief, and Bucky’s grin widens like he has been waiting all morning to earn that exact look from you. He shifts the hammer in his hand, letting it hang loose at his side. “You this particular with all the men who do chores for you?”
“Only the ones who do half a job and then stand there lookin’ pleased with themselves.” You jibe, mouth curving before you can help it. “Steve never gives me cause to complain.”
Bucky presses a hand to his chest, wounded clean through. “Darlin’, I am beginnin’ to think you don’t appreciate the quality of my help.”
Steve watches your face as you say it, the way your smile tugs despite your best efforts to keep stern. You’re standing closer than you need to. Close enough to swat his arm when he mutters something about schoolteachers being as scary as he remembers. Bucky catches your wrist before your hand drops, letting his thumb skim once across the inside of it before he lets it go.
Too friendly, some part of Steve thinks. He should mind that. He knows himself well enough to expect the old ugly twist, the hard little claim in his chest that has no manners and less patience. His girl. His Buck.
“You remember I have a shotgun, right? Any more excuses from you and I’ll get it back out and see if it motivates you proper,” you warn, though there is too much warmth in it to do much harm.
Bucky looks far too pleased by that. “How could I forget?” He dips his head, absolutely unrepentant. “Pretty thing like you pointin’ a gun at me ain’t a picture a man forgets easy.”
He really should mind that.
Only the longer he watches, the more it just seems… right. That’s the simple answer. The more complicated one is that there’s a want in him he hasn’t allowed himself to acknowledge until now.
Then Bucky says something softer, and whatever it is makes your expression change. The teasing slips. You step forward and wrap your arms around him, gentle at first, then tighter when Bucky folds around you in return. His hand spreads over your back, yours presses between his shoulders, and he rests his chin on your head.
Something in Steve’s stomach twists hot, and it’s not the bullet wound.
Oh.
Well.
That explains a few things.
When you pull back, your fingers drag lightly down Bucky’s sleeve before falling away. And then your eyes catch Steve in the doorway.
The smile drops straight off your face.
“Steve!” you chide. “Good lord, you shouldn’t be standin’ up yet!”
Bucky turns fast, all charm gone in an instant. “You stupid son of a—”
“Why aren’t you in bed?” you demand, already crossing the yard towards him. “You’re meant to be resting. You’ll tear the stitches, you’ll—”
“What’re you doin’?” Steve asks.
His voice is rough from sleep and disuse, but it cuts through your panic all the same. You stop a few feet short of him, caught between scolding him like one of your schoolchildren and reaching for him. Bucky has followed you, but that damn mouth of his curves back into his signature smirk.
“Stealin’ your woman?” he replies.
Steve huffs a laugh at that, breath catching a little in his chest from the pull of it. He shakes his head, looking between the two of you with something warm and wry beneath the exhaustion.
“Take her,” he shrugs, turning back towards the house, pretending with little success that every step doesn’t pull at his side.
You both go quiet behind him. Steve pauses at the doorway just long enough to glance back, tired eyes moving between the two of you.
“What?” he says, mouth twitching as he makes his slow way back to bed. “Take her.”
Bucky watches him go, grin crooked and eyes a little too soft. “Well, you’re a romantic bastard, I’ll give you that.”
You climb into bed that night tentatively, careful to keep your distance from Steve so you can’t accidentally hurt him.
He watches you fuss with tired amusement, flat on his back beneath the blankets. He’s been patient all day because he’s had no choice in the matter, but now, with you so close, what little patience he has left wears thin.
His arm reaches for you beneath the quilt. “C’mere.”
“But you need to be careful—”
He tugs you closer before you can finish, stubborn as always, and though the movement pulls a faint wince from him, it also draws a low, pleased rumble from his chest when you end up pressed along his side.
“Steve,” you hiss, braced on one elbow, already trying to take some of your weight off him. “You’re going’ to hurt yourself.”
“Worth it,” he murmurs.
You open your mouth to argue, but his lips find your shoulder first. He kisses over your skin lazily, as if he has all the time in the world and no bounty hunter breathing down the road. Then moves to side of your throat, where his beard scrapes softly enough to make your breath catch. Any protest thins in your mouth and dies there, useless, and the ease with which you melt for him makes Steve smile against your skin.
“Missed you,” he hums, pleased with himself.
The words catch somewhere tender, and before you can stop it, the fear you’ve been holding back for days slips free. “I thought you were going’ to die.”
Steve’s mouth stills against your skin. For a moment, he says nothing, then his jaw sets with all the stubborn bravado of a man determined to make the thing smaller than it was. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
You stare at him, eyes burning, and Steve’s bravado doesn’t survive it. His expression softens before he pulls you closer despite the faint wince it costs him, burying his face against your neck.
“No,” he murmurs, voice rough now. “Make a big deal out of it.”
Your fingers tighten in his shirt. Steve kisses your temple and lets you hold him as hard as you need to, though you can feel the care he takes with every breath.
“You’re a fool,” you grumble against his chest.
“I know,” he agrees easily.
“And stubborn.”
“I know that too,” he adds, the hint of a smile returning to his voice.
You lift your head enough to glare at him through the last sting behind your eyes. “Don’t sound so smug.”
“Can’t help it.” His hand slides from your waist, broad palm warm through the thin cotton of your nightdress. “You get awful sweet when you forget to be cross with me, ma’am.”
You should scold him. You mean to. Instead your head tips, giving him more room, and Steve’s breath warms where your pulse has already started tripping under his mouth. Then his fingers drift lower, gathering your nightdress up slowly so his hand can hand slip between your thighs, and what comes out of you isn’t an answer at all. It’s too soft, too needy, your hips shifting before your pride can stop them.
Steve only hums, like that tells him everything he needs to know.
“Poor thing,” he murmurs. “You’re soaked already.”
You make a small sound of protest, breath catching as your hips shift against his palm. “You should be resting.”
“I am resting,” he counters. “You’re the one making all that noise.”
Heat rushes straight through you. “Steve.”
He grins, because he knows what that tone means. His fingers drag through your pussy, spreading the slick of you over your skin until you can’t hold back the needy little moan that escapes. “Buck been winding you up all day, huh? Flashing those pretty eyes at you, running that mouth, standing too close every chance he got.”
You bite your lip hard, but Steve knows your body too well by now. The little tremor that goes through you when he presses two fingers to your entrance, and the way your knees loosen when he rubs his thumb over your clit.
“Mm. Saw the way you looked at him.” His thumb presses a little firmer, drawing another helpless sound from you as his voice drops rougher by your ear. “Saw the way he looked at you too. Like he was wondering how sweet you’d sound if somebody got a hand under your skirt.”
You turn your face into his shoulder, scandalised and burning, but the heat pooling low in you stomach tells a different story. “You can’t say things like that.”
“Seems I just did.”
His fingers push into you then, thick enough to make you clutch at his shirt, his name leaving you in a soft, broken sound. Steve goes still for a breath, jaw tightening as your pussy clenches around him, warm and slick and greedy enough to make him curse the wound in his side for keeping his cock out of you.
“Atta girl,” he murmurs, voice rough at your ear. “Open up for me, sweetheart.”
Your thighs part around his hand, your body taking him with a helpless little roll of your hips. His cock twitches heavy against your leg, and the moan that slips out of you is louder than you mean it to be, needy enough to make heat rush to your face.
“That’s my girl,” Steve coos. “Been so good taking care of me, haven’t you? Let me take care of you now.”
“Wait—fuck—Stevie, he’ll hear us.” you protest weakly, eyes flicking toward the door, where Bucky is sleeping on the couch on the other side.
Steve’s fingers slow, but they don’t stop. If anything, his touch turns crueller, pumping in and out of your pussy with an unhurried drag as his thumb circles your clit.
“Good,” he says at last.
Your eyes widen.
Steve curls his fingers inside you, pressing just right, and your whole body jerks against him. “Let him.”
Your pussy tightens around him before you can pretend to be scandalised. Steve feels it and smiles, filthy and pleased, as another moan slips out of you. You try to swallow it down, but his thumb keeps stroking your clit and his fingers keep fucking you open, slow enough to make every wet sound feel obscene in the quiet room.
“S’okay, honey,” he encourages, kissing beneath your ear. “I don’t mind. You make those pretty noises for me and let Buck hear what he’s missin’ out on.”
“Steve,” you whimper into his neck, overwhelmed by the heat of it, by the way he says Buck’s name with no jealousy at all. Like it turns him on too. Like he knows exactly what he is doing to you.
His mouth brushes your jaw. “Poor bastard probably spent all afternoon thinkin’ about what you’d sound like if he got his hands on you,” he rumbles, fingers driving deeper until your breath catches sharp. “Now he’s out there listenin’ to me do it.”
Your fingers curl in the front of his shirt, hips moving against his hand now, chasing more. Steve makes a rough sound like the sight of you fucking yourself on his fingers might kill him faster than any bounty hunter ever could.
Then your hand slides lower before you can think better of it, finding the hard line of his cock through his drawers. He curses under his breath, hips twitching once into your palm before pain catches at him and makes his jaw clench.
You pull back instantly. “Steve—”
“Don’t.” His hand tightens on your thigh, stubborn even now, even with sweat at his temple and breath caught in his chest. “I’m fine, pretty girl, promise. Just need your hand on my cock. Need my girl to make it better.”
Your answering moan is too wanton to stifle, and out on the couch, Bucky hears it.
He’s been awake for a while, one arm thrown over his eyes, every sore port of him arguing with the hard springs beneath the couch cushion. At first, he told himself he was just listening for Steve - that’s reasonable enough. A man has a right to keep an ear out for his best friend when said friend has nearly bled dry on a kitchen table. And if said friend is in bed with his pretty little woman, well, that’s hardly his fault, is it?
He knows should roll over and try to sleep. Or do literally anything other than listen to the needy catch in your breath when Steve’s fingers must find something good. Heat pulls through him before he can talk sense into himself. It’s been crawling under his skin all day. And now Steve’s voice is torturing him in the dark, coaxing the prettiest noises out of you like he means for Bucky to hear everyone.
His hand slides down over the hard ache in his trousers before he can pretend better of himself. His hips jerk into his palm at the first firm press.
Bucky shuts his eyes as his lips part around a groan of relief.
He should feel worse about it, probably. A gentleman might. Then again, he’s never made much of a claim to being one, and there’s nothing gentlemanly about Steve is talking to you through the door. Low and rough, sweet in all the wrong places, telling you how good you are for him whilst you make those soft ruined sounds that go straight to Bucky’s cock.
His fingers work the buttons of his trousers open, and he’s so wound up that the first touch to his throbbing length makes his hips jerk up. He’s already hard enough to hurt, thick and hot in his grip, precum slicking the head as he strokes once from base to tip. He has to force himself slower so he doesn’t spill too fast, listening to the shift of the bed in the next room and the wet sound of Steve’s fingers fucking you.
“Don’t hide from me,” Steve rumbles, voice carrying just enough. “Want him to hear how pretty you get when you come”
The needy moan you cry out in response, makes Bucky’s hand tighten and his eyes squeeze shut. He can picture it all wall for a man who hasn’t a right to see any of it. Your thighs spread under Steve’s hand, nightdress pushed up, tucking your face into Steve’s neck as you try and fail to keep quit. Steve, wounded and recovering, still generous enough to make sure Bucky knows what he’s missing.
“Stevie,” you gasp, and Bucky’s cock jerks in his fist.
He drags his thumb over the swollen head with enough pressure to make his stomach pull tight. The couch springs creak beneath him when his hips jump into his hand, and he freezes momentarily, listening. But neither of you stop. If anything, Steve laughs, low and filthy, like he heard the sound and knows eaxctly what it means.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” Steve groans. “Bet Buck’s got his hand around his cock right now, listenin’ to you. Bet he can’t help himself.”
Bucky presses his forearm over his mouth, a helpless grin pulling at him even as pleasure burns through his gut. Bastard. Mean, beautiful bastard. He strokes himself harder, giving up on pacing himself, fist slick and tight around his cock as your moans slip through the thin bedroom door and wrap around every filthy picture Steve puts in his head.
“Wish he could see you right now,” Steve goads, and Bucky nearly spills right there. “So wet for me. Sweet little pussy takin’ my fingers so good. He’d lose his fuckin’ mind.”
His hips buck desperately into his first, breath coming harsh through his nose as Steve keeps talking like he knows every dirty place Bucky’s mind has gone and means to walk you through all of them. Your moans pitcher higher, thinner, more desperate.
“Please Stevie—so close,” you whine, and Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything more beautiful.
“I’ve got you, sweet girl,” Steve coos. “Come for me. Let him hear.”
The sound you make as you fall apart under Steve’s hand is obscene. You pleasure spills out into the dark as Steve praises you in that honey-deep register like he’s got his fingers buried in the best thing he’s ever touched. Bucky strokes himself harder, cock slick in his fist, teeth digging into his wrist to keep his own noise down.
Then Steve groans low around a curse, and God, Bucky knows that sound. Learnt on cold nights under open sky when bedrolls were laid a polite distance apart and neither of them ever spoke of what they heard in the dark.
But hearing it now, with you, is enough to finish off what your moans started.
His hand works faster, rougher, chasing it until he spills over his own knuckles. He strokes himself through it, hips jerking up into his fist, hot cum slicking his fingers while the last of Steve’s filthy praise drifts through the door.
Head falling back against the couch, he throws his free hand over his eyes again as if that might make a decent man of him after the fact. But the other is still loose around his sensitive, softening cock. From the bedroom, Steve mutters something too low for him too catch, but you laugh in response, breathless.
Bucky smiles up at the ceiling, completely and utterly fucked. Both of you tucked under his skin, deep as a wound and twice as troublesome.
“Romantic bastard,” he scoffs into the dark.
You wake reaching for Steve, hands sliding over the sheets in search of the warmth that’s usually gone by the time daylight finds you. For one awful, familiar second, your heat braces for emptiness, and then your fingers meet his chest. Still there.
The joy it brings is so small and foolish it almost hurts. Steve’s still beside you, warm beneath your palm, alive beneath your hand, his breath moving slow and steady. You don’t mean to smile as hard as you do for something that won’t last, but you feel it happen anyway.
Steve’s eyes crack open, tired blue finding you through the grey morning light. His mouth curves faintly.
“Mornin’,” he rasps.
He lifts a hand with more effort than he lets show and brushes his knuckles along your cheek before drawing you close enough to kiss your forehead. It is gentle. Domestic, almost, in a way that feels absurd given the blood dried somewhere in your kitchen and the wanted posters nailed up in town.
But then Steve starts trying to get up. He looks pale enough that you threaten him twice before he gets both feet on the floor.
“You are pale enough to haunt this house, Steve Rogers. Sit still.”
His brows lift, innocent as sin. “Jus’ thinkin’ about breakfast is all, ma’am, swear.”
He takes your continued scolding with a faint curve to his mouth, one hand shielding the wound slightly, as you get up to help him dress. He even lets you fuss over him, and you breathe a sigh of relief when you see no red blooming on his bandages.
By the time you get him into the kitchen, his jaw his set hard enough to make you narrow your eyes. Steve takes your silent warning and lowers himself into the chair before bringing your hand to his mouth and kissing the inside of it. Just a brief, warm brush of his lips, eyes lifting to yours in quiet apology for every minute he’s made your heart suffer these last few days.
The door opens before you can say anything soft enough to embarrass you both. Bucky steps inside with a sack under one arm; he’s been gone since first light, having ridden into town for coffee, cartridges, and whatever else two outlaws and one increasingly compromised schoolteacher might need. You’re expecting some crooked remark as he kicks the door shut behind him. Maybe something about Steve looking less like a corpse, or you running the kitchen like a jailhouse.
Instead, his face is grim.
Steve clocks it immediately, and his shoulders straighten. Pain forgotten under the old readiness that lives dormant in him until needed. “What?”
Bucky sets the sack on the table. “You feel well enough to ride?”
Steve frowns. “If I have to.”
“Good.” Bucky’s eyes flick over you, brows tightening, then back to Steve. “Rumlow’s in town, asking questions at the mercantile. Offered coin for anyone who knew anythin’ about Steve Rogers and The Winter Kid.”
Steve face flattens, jaw setting into that hardened mask he uses to cover whatever else he’s feeling. Nodding once, he pushes up from the chair.
“Steve—” you start at once.
He bends and kisses you before you can finish, once hand gentle at the side of your face. It tastes too close to a goodbye kiss for your heart to bare, and the panic rises in your throat.
“We’ll draw him off, honey,” he murmurs, clearly misinterpreting your worry. “He won’t know you had anything to do with us.”
Then he turns to Bucky. “Get the horses ready. We’ll cut south - maybe this time we stop talking about Mexico and actually head there.”
Mexico?
You look from Steve to Bucky, at the silent communication already passing between them, and the speed with which they become men leaving. Men packing their lives into saddlebags. Men deciding what they can carry and what must be left, including, apparently, you.
“Take me with you.”
Both of them immediately stop.
Steve turns firs,t protest already written across his face. “Sweetheart, you can’t seriously —”
Bucky interrupts, sharper. “Absolutely not.”
“I wasn’t askin’,” you counter firmly, mustering up the same voice you use in the schoolhouse when a child thinks they might try their luck.
Steve’s brows pull together. “You don’t know what you’re suggestin’.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.” Bucky cuts in, which only makes you angrier. “This life ain’t—”
“Ain’t what?” you return. “For a lady?”
That closes his mouth. For once, Bucky Barnes has no clever answer ready, and Steve looks no better. The two of them stand there, each searching for the combination of words least likely to upset you further and finding none fast enough.
“After last night, I think any claim I had to bein’ a lady has been thoroughly mishandled.”
A flush climbs through the rough gold of Steve’s beard at once, and he drops his eyes to the table as if the wood grain has become a matter of deep interest. Bucky looks toward the window with equal dignity, which is to say very little, given what he had so clearly heard through your bedroom door. But you feel a little wild with it now. Freed by the strange relief of having already stepped over the edge in your own mind.
“I’m a schoolteacher in a town that’s been dyin’ for years,” you continue. “Folk still smile at me like I’m still respectable, but every year I stay unmarried, they look a little closer for the rot. And every night I come back to this house alone, and wait to hear news of Steve’s death.”
Steve’s face falls, and he looks at you with such earnest guilt that you have to look away or you’ll lose the nerve to finish. Your eyes sting badly enough that you have to blink hard and focus on staring at the floorboards.
“I’m no fool,” you say. “I know what I’m sayin’. Long days. Cold nights. Men with guns behind us. I know it won’t be some grand adventure out of a penny paper.” You lift your head again. “But I want a life I choose. I want more than waitin’ in this house for grief to come find me. And I want to be with you.”
Bucky looks at Steve then, and Steve returns it. They do that thing again where a whole conversation seems to pass without either of them opening their mouth, and you can already tell this is a feature of them that will get on your nerves. Still, you stand there and wait. You can see them weighing the right choice. You can also see, with a painful twist of hope, that neither of them likes the thought of leaving you behind.
Steve exhales through his nose. “You’d have to listen.”
“To both of us,” Bucky adds. “When it counts. If Steve says run, you run. If I say stay put, you don’t move a muscle.”
“You’ll ride until you ache,” Steve says, eyes searching your face for the first sign of regret. “Sleep under open sky. Eat beans out of a tin when there’s nothing else. Go without a proper bed more often than you’ll have one.”
Bucky leans his hip against the table, arms folding, his expression hard despite the tired edge of him. “And you’ll keep that shotgun close. Learn a pistol too, whether you like it or not. Pretty face won’t do much good if Rumlow catches up.”
“I’ll do it,” you agree, looking at Steve first, then Bucky, making yourself hold both their gazes long enough for them to see there’s fear in you, plenty of it. Just none useful enough to change your mind. “I’ll do it all, I promise.”
They seem satisfied enough to move again, almost. Steve’s hand twitches toward the supplies, Bucky’s eyes flick to the door. But you stop them before the moment can run away from you.
“The only thing I won’t do,” you continue, quieter, “is watch either of you die. I’ll skip that scene, if you don’t mind.”
Steve’s hand closes around yours before you can busy yourself with anything else, or turn away and pretend the words weren’t all too honest.
“Once we go,” his eyes hold steady on yours, “we go.”
There’s warning in it, but there’s promise too. You squeeze his hand in confirmation.
“Then let’s go.”
You leave before the town has finished waking, with no grand farewell to your little house. Just five minutes to pack the essentials, and everything else left behind for the town to make stories about two bad men and the lady they corrupted.
For the first couple weeks, you ride with Bucky. At first, Steve enjoys watching the two of you grow closer. But a few days pass without your arms around his waist and the man starts acting abandoned. Nothing dramatic, of course. Steve Rogers is far too dignified for that. He only gets quieter, pouts into his coffee, and looks at you from under those ridiculous lashes with his pretty blue eyes, utterly wounded.
But there’s only so much sympathy you can give him when every jolt of his horse leaves his face tight and grey - having you pressed against his side would pull at the wound no matter how carefully you held him, so you sit behind Bucky instead. Your arms wrap around his middle, sometimes resting your cheek between his shoulder blades when the road stretches long.
He’s always warm - despite the nickname - and complains when your cold hands slip under his coat in the mornings, but never makes you move them.
It’s on one such morning that the question slips out before it’s even fully formed in your head. Absent in its curiosity.
“Bucky?”
He turns his head back slightly, catching your face in the corner of his eye. “Hmm?”
Your chin is hooked over his shoulder, the brim of his hat shading your eyes from the sun. Steve is riding a bit ahead, far enough to pretend he’s not listening and close enough you know he is.
“Do you ever wonder, if I’d met you first, that we’d be the ones the get involved?”
Bucky makes a thoughtful sound, as though this is a matter requiring serious study. “But we are involved, sugar.”
You lift your head. “Are we?”
“You’re ridin’ my horse with me.” His hand covers yours where it rests against his stomach, thumb brushing once over your knuckles. “In some countries, that’s the same as being married.”
Steve glances back over his shoulder. “Name one.”
“Plenty, Stevie,” Bucky shoots back without missing a beat. “Just ‘cause you ain’t a romantic don’t mean it ain’t true.”
“That mean you don’t know any?”
“Means I’m a man of mystery, Rogers. Let me have that.”
You laugh into Bucky’s shoulder, and Steve turns forward again, shaking his head. Even from behind, you can see the curve at the corner of his mouth.
That becomes one of the biggest pleasures of the road, the two of them bickering like an old married couple with loaded guns and a shared talent for pretending they are the sensible one. Steve corrects Bucky’s directions. Bucky mocks Steve’s caution. Steve tells him caution is the reason he’s still alive, and Bucky retorts, “Barely,” with a pointed look at the bandage under his shirt.
You learn to sit between it and smile into the back of Bucky’s coat, warm with the strange comfort of being folded into something that clearly existed long before you and somehow has made room for you anyway.
The weeks begin to fold into one another after that, measured less by days than by how far Steve can ride before pain makes him stubbornly quiet. He never says when it’s too much - of course he doesn’t. But you both learn the signs, so that when that happens, you or Bucky find an excuse to stop. Steve accepts each excuse with the grateful dignity of a man who knows precisely what you’re doing and lacks the strength to protest.
Some nights you find a town small enough to risk, and the three of you take one room under a false name while Steve lies stiff on the bed and Bucky sleeps in the chair with a gun across his lap. Other nights, there is only open country and the fire between you, Bucky’s coat under your head, Steve’s hand tucked around your waist, pleased now he can finally pull you close.
You learn quickly; you have to.
How to ride until your thighs ache and keep your complaints mostly to yourself. How to drink bad coffee without making a face. How to keep your hair pinned under a hat when passing through towns where a woman travelling with two men draws more attention than a pair of wanted faces.
Bucky teaches you to shoot a pistol at a row of bottles outside an abandoned line shack, and Steve stands behind you, correcting your grip until Bucky accuses him of distracting you.
Rumlow stays behind you like bad weather you can’t outride, always somewhere on the edge of the horizon. Some days there’s no sign of him at all. Other days Bucky comes back from a supply run with his jaw tight, or Steve sees something in the dirt that makes both men go quiet. Neither of them likes fear on your face, so you learn how to hide that, too.
By the time Steve’s stitches come out, the three of you have already become a kind of routine.
Steve reads the land ahead. Bucky watches what follows. You keep track of the food, the clean cloth, and all the small human things the two of them would forget in favour of keeping moving. You sleep between them when the nights turn cold, Bucky pressed at your back and Steve careful against your front, one arm laid over your waist like even in sleep he means to keep you safe. Nobody ever says much about it in the morning.
But the trouble with Mexico is that it keeps costing money. By the third month, the coins in Bucky’s purse have started to sound lonely, and Steve has taken to rationing his own portions to make sure you have enough. You always protest that he needs it more, but it falls on deaf ears.
“We need money,” Bucky says one evening, poking at the fire with a stick.
Steve doesn’t look up from the map. “I know.”
“We need quite a bit of money.”
“I know.”
You look between them. “Why do I get the feelin’ neither of you is about to suggest honest work?”
Bucky grins. Steve sighs.
A plan is soon in place, and you quickly realise you aren’t just being given soft work. They aren’t just tucking you safely away and asking you to wait pretty by the horses. No, you’re the distraction. Steve watches your face intently whilst they explain your part, searching for fear, and Bucky watches your hands to see if they shake. They do, a little. You tell him they shake less when people stop staring at them.
“Mean little thing when you’re nervous,” Bucky murmurs.
“You’d know better than to test me, then,” you snap back, much to his delight.
And that’s how you find yourself in your best dress two mornings later, walking into a town that has never heard your name and smiling sweetly at the bank clerk while Steve and Bucky do what Steve Rogers and The Winter Kid apparently do very well.
Soon, there’s a saddle under your hips, stolen money in Steve’s saddle bag and Bucky laughing as the town bell starts clanging behind you. Steve rides quietly beside you, one hand low on his reins, hat pulled low against the flare. He looks more pensive than you’d expect for a man who just planned and executed a successful robbery.
“You know,” he considers, tilting his head. “When I was a kid, I always figured on bein’ a hero when I grew up.”
“Too late now,” Bucky shoots back instantly.
Steve turns in the saddle, mouth pulled into an exaggerated pout that almost looks genuinely hurt by the insinuation. “You didn’t have to say that—What’d you have to say that for?”
“Because we just robbed a bank and you’re gettin’ wistful about virtue. Felt like someone ought to keep you on track.”
You laugh before you can stop yourself, and Steve looks betrayed for all of half a second before his own mouth gives him away.
“I could still be heroic,” he argues.
“Of course, Stevie,” you soothe, reaching over to squeeze his arm. “And if heroism ever starts includin’ bank robbery, you’ll be the first man I nominate.”
Steve shakes his head, but there’s warmth in it. There’s warmth amongst all three of you now. The money will carry you further south. Rumlow, for the moment, is behind you. And for one bright stretch of road, with the sun high and the horses steady beneath you, the three of you ride easy.
When you reach the next town just before dark, it’s mercifully large enough to have a hotel, though only just. The main building fronts the street, while a handful of squat lodging cabins stand behind it beside the stable yard, each containing little more than a bed, a washstand and a door that locks.
You’ve already separated from Bucky two streets over - two men and a woman trying to book one cabin would draw eyes. A man and his wife, tired from the road and keen to be left alone, draw far fewer.
Bucky will return after dark with supplies and come through the open window like any decent outlaw.
By now, the routine is well worn. Steve keeps his hat low and asks for a room for himself and his wife. Your stomach gives a foolish little turn at the word, which is unhelpful given the circumstances, so you tuck yourself closer into his side and play your part.
The clerk turns the ledger around. “Name?”
Steve takes the pen and writes one of the names agreed between the three of you, this time settling on Mr. and Mrs. Drysdale.
The clerks eyes move over Steve as he writes, a little too closely for your liking. Steve’s hat shadows most of his face, though there is only so much a brim can do against a jaw like his. Then the clerk’s gaze drops to you, lingering on the plain dress, the tired hem, the cheap ring on your finger where your hand rests neatly against Steve’s sleeve.
“Long road?” he asks.
“Long enough,” you answer before Steve can, sweet and harmless. “My husband’s been poor company since noon.”
The clerk’s mouth twitches. “That so?”
“I get hungry,” Steve says.
“He gets sulky,” you correct.
The clerk looks amused now, his suspicion giving way to the easier pleasure of watching a married couple prod at each other. He reaches for a key from the row behind him.
“Cabin four,” he says. “Out and to the right.”
Steve takes the key with a polite nod, your hand still tucked around his arm, and the two of you make your way to the cabin to wait for Bucky and whatever trouble he tends to bring back with him.
But exhaustion claims you before said trouble arrives. You barely manage to loosen your dress before crawling beneath the covers, telling Steve you only mean to close your eyes whilst he checks the room. The bed feels strangely wide after so many nights spent wedged between two warm bodies beneath the open sky. Even when there had only been Steve beside you, his arm always fond your waist before sleep did.
Tonight, the empty space at your back bothers you more than it ought to, and you drift off feeling faintly abandoned by both outlaws.
Until finally you stir to the mattress dipping behind you and warmth settling along your back. It’s broad and familiar enough that your half-asleep mind doesn’t ask questions. Instead, you arch back into him, pleased to have your outlaw close, fitting your ass against his hips.
Impatiently, and a little pointedly, you reach back for the arm that has failed to wrap itself around you. You drag it over your waist and hold is hand beneath yours.
“Took you long enough,” you mumble into the pillow, a little pout tucked into the words. After all those weeks of Steve looking wounded whenever you rode with Bucky, he might at least have the decency to act pleased now that he can pull you close whenever.
His body goes stiff, and you take the teasing for what it is, grinding back again. Slower this time, rolling your ass over the shape beneath his trousers until his cock begins to harden against you. A strained breath warms the back of your neck. Then another, rougher, when you press closer and keep moving, sleepy need gathering fast between your thighs.
Still, his hand remains where you put it.
Your brows pinch. Steve has never needed this much encouragement where you;re concerned. Usually, one soft sound from you is enough to have him pushing up your skirts and getting greedy with whatever he finds beneath them.
“Stevie,” you whine, catching his wrist again. “Quit makin’ me ask.”
You guide his hand down over your stomach and between your thighs, pressing his palm against the heat gathered beneath your drawers. His fingers flex once. The groan that leaves him is low and delicious beside your ear, and you answer it with a needy little roll of your hips, trying to coax his hand into giving you what you want.
“That’s it, honey.” You hear Steve drawl, but his voice doesn’t come from behind you. “Keep grindin’ that pretty ass over Buck’s cock, he’s been waitin’ weeks to feel how sweet you are.”
Your eyes snap open.
Steve is sat in the chair near the window, one ankle hooked over the other, watching the two of you through the low lamplight. His hat rests on the table beside him, hair pushed back from his face, and the hard shape beneath his trousers leaves little doubt as to how much he’s been enjoying the view.
Behind you, Bucky has gone completely still. His hand remains trapped between your thighs where you placed it, fingers flexing once against the damp cloth of your drawers before stopping again.
Steve catches the hesitation on your face.
“Easy, pretty girl,” he coos, voice dropping softer. “You’re alright. Ain’t nobody cross with you.”
His gaze stays warm and steady on yours, settling some of the panic before it can take hold. Bucky makes no attempt to claim what you offered him in your sleep, leaving the choice entirely with you now that you’re awake, and the restraint loosens something in your chest.
You sink back against him again, and a quiet, needy “Steve” slips from your mouth.
“Well, quit teasin’ him then, sweetheart. You dragged Buck’s hand down to that needy pussy yourself.” His eyes stay on yours, smile turning wicked. “You want him to touch you, don’t you?”
You nod, “Yes, Stevie, please.”
Approval rumbles from Steve across the room at the same moment Bucky groans against your shoulder. His hand finally moves, slipping beneath the damp cloth between your thighs and dragging two rough fingers through the slick gathered there.
“Christ,” Bucky breathes, the word warm against your neck. “You’re soaked through darlin’.”
Your hips chase his hand before you can help it, opening wider as his fingers circle your clit. He parts you slowly, gathering the mess of you over his fingertips before circling your clit. And God, does he learn quickly. Taking each broken breath and twitch of your thighs as instruction, until your body is rolling against him with shameless impatience.
“That feel good?” he murmurs. “Been wondering how sweet you’d get for me.”
You whine and press back against him, already impatient, already desperate for more than the teasing drag of his fingers. Bucky laughs softly into your neck, pleased by how quickly you come apart for him.
“Yeah, I can feel that.” One finger presses into your pussy, drawing a thin moan from you as he works it deeper. “Taking me so easy. Such a good girl for us.”
Bucky pushes a second finger into your pussy, and the stretch of them pulls a broken moan from you. His hand is rougher than Steve’s, the calluses catching at tender places as he works you open, but he watches every reaction with the same focused attention he gives everything. One curl of his fingers makes your thighs tremble, and he does it again immediately.
Steve watches from the chair with one hand resting over the hard shape in his trousers, his eyes fixed on the way you grind down over Bucky’s knuckles.
“That it?” he asks against your skin. “Right there, sugar?”
“Yes—God, Buck—”
Bucky curses when your walls tighten around him. “She’s so damn sweet, Stevie.”
Steve’s mouth curves.
“If you think she’s sweet around your fingers,” he says, voice low enough to make your stomach clench, “wait till you get a taste of her.”
The thought pulls a desperate sound from you. Bucky answers with a groan of his own, his fingers curling inside you as his gaze drops hungrily between your thighs from over your shoulder. Your hand is already reaching back, fingers tangling in his dark hair as you twist toward him and tug with very little patience left.
Bucky goes willingly, laughing once under his breath as he lets you pull him down the bed, tugging down your drawers as he goes.
“That eager, darlin’?”
“Yes,” you gasp, spreading your thighs wider to accommodate those broad shoulders. “Please.”
Steve leans back in the chair, hand now palming over his cock as he watches.
“Go on, Buck,” he drawls. “Show her that mouth’s good for something besides bein’ a clever jackass.”
The first slow drag of Bucky’s tongue through you tears a cry from your throat. His hands close around your hips at once, holding you open while he tastes you again, deeper this time, mouth working with none of the caution his fingers had shown. He licks through every slick fold, groaning against your pussy.
Then his tongue circles your clit, and your hips jerk sharply into his face.
“There,” Steve rumbles, hand pressing harder over his thick length, still trapped beneath too much fabric. “She likes it right there. Don’t rush her, Buck. Keep your tongue flat and make her grind on it.”
Bucky follows the instruction immediately. He spreads his mouth over you, tongue broad and slow beneath your clit while his grip shifts lower, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath your thighs to pull you closer. Your back arches, breath breaking into a helpless whine as you begin to move against him, too desperate to stay still and too overwhelmed to find any rhythm beyond chasing whatever his mouth gives you.
“That’s it,” Bucky praises against you. “Good girl. Use me.”
His words vibrate through your pussy and leave you clenching around nothing. He feels it, answers with another hungry groan, then slips two fingers back inside you while his mouth returns to your clit.
The room seems to tilt.
“Buck—Steve—God—”
Their names tangle together as Bucky curls his fingers into the place that makes your thighs shake. Steve keeps talking from across the room, telling Bucky when to press harder, when to keep his mouth where it is, every quiet command proving how well he knows your body and how willingly Bucky is learning it.
Pleasure builds so quickly that instinct has you trying to squirm away from it. Your hips twist even as they buck toward him, hands scrambling over the sheets while Bucky holds you firmly in place and refuses to let the distance grow.
“Easy, darlin’,” he soothes, breathless against you. “I’ve got you. Let me have it.”
But you can’t. You need more. Need both of them.
Your hand reaches blindly toward Steve even though he’s still too far away, fingers stretching uselessly through the space between you as his name leaves you in a broken plea. “Stevie.”
He’s out of the chair before the word has finished. Steve comes to the bedside and catches your reaching hand, pressing it against his chest as he bends over you.
“I’m here, pretty girl,” he coos. “You close?”
You nod frantically, one hand clutching his shirt and dragging him lower because words have abandoned you. Steve lets himself be pulled into the kiss, mouth covering yours just as Bucky’s tongue flicks hard over your clit again.
You moan against Steve’s lips as his hand slides into Bucky’s hair.
“Closer, Buck,” Steve pants into your mouth, pushing him more firmly between your thighs. “She’s trying to run from it. Don’t let her.”
Bucky groans and buries his face deeper, lips and tongue turning greedy while Steve kisses you through every broken sound. The hand in Bucky’s hair holds him just where you need him, and Steve’s other palm cups your jaw, keeping your mouth against his as your body begins to lose all control.
“That’s my best girl,” Steve praises between kisses. “Lettin’ me share this sweet pussy with Buck. Look how greedy you’ve got him.”
Your fingers knot in Steve’s shirt as your hips rise hard against Bucky’s face, chasing the relentless pressure of his tongue. Bucky holds you there and eats you through it, groaning when your thighs close around his head and the first desperate pulse of your orgasm rolls over his mouth.
You come with Steve’s name breaking against his lips and Bucky’s muffled beneath it, your whole body shuddering as slick spills over Bucky’s tongue and chin. Steve kisses every cry from you while Bucky greedily laps at everything you give him, refusing to stop until you are trembling and breathless between them.
Only then does Steve ease his hold in Bucky’s hair.
Bucky lifts his head slowly, mouth shining and eyes dark with satisfaction, looking every bit as wrecked as you feel. He’s knelt between your thighs, one hand warm against your hip, whilst Steve is still leant over you. It leaves them close enough that Steve’s gaze has nowhere else to fall but Bucky’s mouth.
“Fuck Stevie,” he breathes, wiping his thumb beneath his lip only to suck the taste from it. “Can’t believe you kept her to yourself for so long. Greedy bastard.”
But Steve’s gaze is too focused on Bucky’s swollen lips, glistening with your arousal, for his brain to think of a response. His tongue flicks out absently, sweeping over his lower lip as though he can already taste you there. The hunger in his face is so plain that your hand rises almost instinctively, fingers curling around his jaw and drawing him toward Bucky.
Their mouths meet hard enough to pull a startled sound from Bucky, and for one suspended second neither man moves. Steve’s hand stays curled around his jaw. Bucky’s fingers bunch in the front of Steve’s shirt. The rough scrape of stubble and the unfamiliar shape of another man’s mouth seem to catch them both off guard.
But then Bucky pulls him closer.
Steve takes hold of the back of his neck and kisses him properly, tongue pushing into Bucky’s mouth with a low groan, greedy for every trace of you left on his tongue. Bucky answers with all the hunger he had just spent between your thighs, opening for him as though this is something they have been circling for years without ever daring to name.
The sight of them together sends fresh heat curling low in your stomach.
Steve’s tongue pushes deeper into Bucky’s mouth, licking over his lips and teeth as though Bucky has become another place from which Steve can take his fill. Bucky groans, one hand sliding around the back of Steve’s neck while the other tightens possessively on your thigh. Every reckless rescue, every night spent back to back beneath the open sky, every time one of them chose the other without hesitation finally makes sense for what it has always been.
Your slick still glistens on Bucky’s chin. Steve’s mouth smears through it as the kiss deepens, and neither of them seems to care where one taste ends and the other begins. Years of rough affection and stranger devotion turn filthy in front of you, Steve holding Bucky by the jaw while Bucky bites lightly at his lower lip before drawing him back in, as if now they have finally started, neither of them knows how to stop.
Then Bucky’s hand drops between them. His palm settles over Steve’s straining cock, and Steve groans into the kiss. Bucky rubs him slowly through the fabric, swallowing each low moan Steve gives him while Steve keeps one hand firm at the back of his neck. They look made for this, rough hands and parted mouths, years of devotion finding a new language right in front of you, and the thought leaves you aching all over again.
Your thighs shift restlessly beneath them. One hand slips between your legs, fingers finding your swollen clit while you watch Bucky palm Steve’s cock through his trousers. A moan escapes before you can smother it.
Their kiss breaks, both men looking down at you, though their foreheads remain pressed together. Bucky’s mouth is red and wet, Steve’s no better, and neither of them moves for a moment as they watch your fingers circle desperately between your thighs.
“Well, look at her,” Bucky murmurs, his hand still cupped around Steve. “Got herself all worked up watching us.”
You whine softly, pressing harder against your clit.
Steve’s eyes darken. “Poor pretty thing.”
Bucky gives Steve’s cock another slow squeeze, making his jaw tighten. “Reckon we ought to find that mouth something to do besides whine.”
He shifts farther onto the bed and settles on his knees near the headboard, giving you room to turn beneath him. You move eagerly onto your hands and knees, facing Steve with Bucky still kneeling behind you, close enough that his thighs frame yours and his chest brushes your back when he leans over.
Bucky reaches around you before you can, fingers working open Steve’s trousers slowly at first, then surer when Steve does nothing to stop him. His hand closes around Steve’s cock as it spills free, heavy against his palm, the skin flushed deep at the head and drawn tight over the thick ridge beneath it. The vein you know so well runs dark along the underside, disappearing into Bucky’s fist when he gives one cautious stroke.
Steve’s head tips back on a broken groan.
The sound seems to delight Bucky, eyes dropping to watch his hand move again, slower this time, thumb dragging over the wet slit before sliding back down the length of him. Steve’s broad chest rises sharply beneath his shirt, every muscle in his shoulders pulled tight with the effort of holding still while Bucky learns how easily he can make him come apart.
Something needy catches inside you at the sight. You’ve heard that sound beneath your own hands too many times to let Bucky keep it all to himself.
You lean forward and press your lips to the swollen head, kissing it once before your tongue slips out to taste the slick Bucky has spread there. Steve’s breath breaks again, rougher now, and you follow the thick vein beneath his cock with a slow drag of your tongue, smiling when his hips twitch toward your mouth.
You kiss the tip again, softer this time, letting your lips linger around the crown. Steve’s hand braced against the headboard curls hard enough that the wood gives a quiet complaint beneath his grip.
Behind you, Bucky makes a low sound of disapproval.
“Now that ain’t kind,” he murmurs, gathering your hair away from your face with one hand. “Stevie’s been real good, lettin’ me have my fill of you, and here you are making him suffer for it.”
Steve tries to laugh, but it comes out rough and unsteady when you trace the underside of his cock with the tip of your tongue, following that thick vein until his hips jerk helplessly toward you again. Bucky’s fingers tighten in your hair.
“Think you oughta thank him proper.”
The push is slow but firm, guiding you down Steve’s length before you can tease him again. Your lips stretch around him as inch after inch slides over your tongue, Bucky holding your hair clear while he eases you forward until the swollen tip presses into your throat. You gag softly around him, eyes watering as your hands catch at Steve’s thighs, and the sound Steve makes is loud enough to fill the room.
His forehead drops against Bucky’s.
“Fuck,” he groans straight into Bucky’s mouth, breath breaking between them while your throat works helplessly around his cock. “Sweet girl, always so damn good to me.”
The praise goes straight through you. You moan around him, and Steve curses as the vibration rolls over his cock.
Bucky’s grip settles more firmly in your hair, guiding you back until Steve’s cock slips from your throat and then forward again in one slow, measured stroke. He controls the pace with an ease that makes your stomach tighten, keeping you steady while your lips drag over every inch of Steve. Each pass pulls another sound from Steve, his restraint coming apart piece by piece as the two of you work together to ruin him.
Bucky watches it happen with open satisfaction. His fingers tighten whenever Steve’s hips twitch, holding you in place long enough to make him feel the wet heat of your mouth before easing you back again. When your throat tightens around him and pulls another helpless groan from his chest, Bucky closes the distance and kisses him, swallowing every broken breath you pull from Steve as you bob on his cock.
Then Steve seems to decide he’s had enough of Bucky being the only one left with any composure. His hand drops between you, fumbling once at Bucky’s trousers before dragging them open. Bucky’s breath breaks into the kiss when Steve wraps a fist around his cock, giving him an experimental stroke.
“Stevie,” Bucky groans against his lips.
Steve’s mouth curves against his. He pumps him again, firmer this time, and the sound Bucky makes rolls straight through you. It leaves you suddenly, painfully aware of the hard weight of him behind you, of how close his cock is to the slick heat between your thighs while his hand remains tangled in your hair.
Your knees edge farther apart without thought.
The movement opens you beneath him, your hips rocking back in a needy little invitation even as your mouth continues working over Steve. Bucky feels it immediately. His free hand slides down your spine and cups your ass, spreading you wider as his thumb traces through the slick already coating your inner thighs.
“Goddamn, sugar, look at you,” he breathes , looking down at the wet heat waiting behind you. “Spread wide and drippin’ all over yourself for my cock.”
Steve follows his gaze.
His fist slows around Bucky’s cock, drawing the swollen head through the mess between your thighs. You whimper around Steve as Bucky’s cock slides over your clit and nudges against your entrance.
Bucky presses forward slowly, teasing you with every inch of his cock. He isn’t as thick as Steve, but he is longer, the stretch different enough to wrench a muffled cry from you around the cock already filling your mouth. Your pussy opens greedily for him, slick walls fluttering as he sinks deeper until the head of him kisses your cervix and leaves you shuddering between them.
“Fuck me, Steve,” Bucky groans, driving in until his hips meet your ass. “You been fillin’ this pussy every chance you get and she’s still tight enough to choke my cock.”
Steve’s cock pulses over your tongue at the words. You barely have enough strength left to hold yourself upright, arms trembling beneath you while Bucky draws back and fills you again, each long stroke knocking the breath from your lungs. Steve’s hips begin to move with him, pushing into your mouth as Bucky fucks into your pussy, and soon there is no rhythm left for you to keep, only the one they make between them.
You let them have you.
Steve’s hands settle on either side of your face, keeping you steady as his cock slips wetly over your tongue. Saliva gathers at the corners of your mouth and spills down your chin. Every thrust from behind rocks you farther onto Steve, leaving you whining and gagging softly around him while Bucky’s cock reaches so deep your legs threaten to give beneath you.
“Look at her, Buck,” Steve rumbles, watching your lips stretch around him. “Can’t decide which cock she wants more, so she’s takin’ both like the greedy little thing she is.”
Bucky groans and drives in deeper, his hips pressing flush to your ass, causing your mouth to jolt forward around Steve. “She loves it, Stevie. Can feel her squeezin’ me every time you push down her throat.”
Your walls clench hard around Bucky at the filth in their words, milking his cock as another broken moan vibrates around Steve’s.
“Think she likes hearing us talk about her.”
Steve’s gaze drops to you again, dark with affection and something far less gentle.
“Course she does,” he murmurs, thumb brushing through the spit shining on your chin. “Our filthy girl likes knowing she’s got both her outlaws pleased.”
Bucky’s thrusts begin to turn rougher behind you, each one driving you further onto Steve’s cock whilst Steve keeps one hand cradled against your jaw, thumb catching the drool that slips from the corner of your mouth. They feel your orgasm building, your pussy gripping Bucky and your moans breaking around Steve, and they chase it without mercy.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” Steve groans, eyes fixed on yours. “Come for us. Let Buck feel what that greedy pussy does when she gets everything she wants.”
Bucky’s hand tightens in your hair as his hips snap into you again. “Go on, sugar. Come all over my cock while you choke on his. Show us how good we make you feel.”
It’s the words that push you over. Pleasure tears through you so hard your arms nearly buckle beneath it. You come with both of them filling you, Steve thick over your tongue and Bucky buried deep enough to empty every though from your head. It’s both too much and exactly what you need - the two of them wrapped around you, with the truth of what they are to each other finally laid out between you.
Your walls clamp down around Bucky in frantic, pulsing waves. “That’s it darlin’,” Bucky growls as your pussy milks him, hips stuttering against your ass. “Keep choking me like that and I’m gonna paint this pretty back with my come.”
He pulls out just in time. His fist closes around his cock, stroking fast as the first hot spill lands across your lower back, followed by another thick stripe over your ass. Bucky groans your name as he empties himself over you, watching his seed streak your skin while your body still trembles beneath him.
Steve stares at the mess his best friend has made of you, and his cock jerks at the sight of you marked by Bucky’s cum. It’s enough to break him, spilling down your throat with a broken groan, hand tightening against your jaw as pulse after pulse fills your mouth. You swallow greedily around him, taking every drop while Bucky’s palm smooths over your hip.
“Such a sweet little thing,” Bucky murmurs behind you, still breathless. “Think your girl likes being shared, Steve.”
Steve’s thumb strokes tenderly over your cheek as you swallow the last of him, eyes glassy and looking up at him with such devoted affection it pulls his heart.
“Our girl.”
The next morning, you stir to Steve trying to leave the bed without disturbing you. He almost manages it. But the mattress shifts beneath his weight, and the warmth pressed against your front begins to disappear before you make a soft, petulant sound and reach for him beneath the covers. Steve catches your searching hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before leaning down to brush another against your forehead.
“Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”
You answer by tightening your fingers around his wrist, unwilling to surrender the place you have spent the night tucked between your two outlaws. Steve’s mouth softens, but Bucky solves the problem without properly waking. He makes a rough, sleepy noise behind you and pulls you firmly into his chest, one arm cinching around your waist until your back is fitted to him and there is no room left to complain about being abandoned.
“There,” Bucky mumbles into your hair. “Quit fussin’.”
You melt into him happily enough, eyes drifting shut again while Steve dresses nearby. Buck’s body is warm and heavy behind yours, his breath slow against your neck, and for a few precious moments the room feels safe enough to forget where you are.
But then Steve’s curse cuts through the quiet.
“Buck.”
Bucky doesn’t move immediately. “Mm?”
“Get up.”
The tension in Steve’s voice does what the words alone can’t. Bucky’s arm disappears from around your waist as he pushes upright, sleep falling away from him in an instant. You sit up with the blanket clutched to your chest and find Steve beside the window, peering through the narrow gap he has made in the curtain. His gun belt is already fastened. One revolver rests in his hand while he checks the chamber of the other.
“What is it?” Bucky asks, reaching for his trousers.
Steve lets the curtain fall back into place. “We’ve got company.”
Bucky crosses the room barefoot, keeping himself close to the wall as he looks out. His expression hardens. “How many?”
“Too many.”
Your heart begins to pound. You drag the sheet around yourself and slip from the bed, though Steve catches sight of you moving and immediately shakes his head.
“Stay back from the window.”
“What’s happening?”
Neither answers quickly enough.
You look from one man to the other, watching the quick efficiency with which they arm themselves. Bucky pulls on his shirt without bothering to button it before buckling his holster. Steve gathers the ammunition from the table and divides it between them, his movements calm in a way that frightens you more than panic would have.
“Steve,” you push, and when Steve glances back at you, the desperation on your face is enough to make him stop pretending.
“Street’s surrounded,” he finally admits. “Sheriff’s got men covering the front, both ends of the alley and the stable yard. More on the roofs across from us.”
The words make you freeze. “How did they find us?”
Steve looks toward the door, jaw working once. “Maybe the clerk didn’t buy our performance after all.”
Bucky looks through the curtain again, studying the street below. “Back window?”
“Two men in the alley, three more watching the yard. We’d need to draw them round the front first.”
They continue to move through possibilities quickly, cutting each one down almost as soon as it’s spoken. There are too many men. That’s the truth beneath every low exchange, though neither of them says it aloud. Bucky begins loading his rifle. Steve watches him for a moment, then glances toward you. The look passing between them is brief, but you understand it anyway.
“No.”
Steve’s face closes. “Sweetheart—”
“No.”
Bucky sets the rifle down. “Sugar, listen.”
“I know that look.” Your voice shakes despite every effort to steady it. “You’re working out how to get me clear.”
Steve crosses to you, hands finding your cheeks and tilting your face to his. “Buck and I will draw them towards the front, and once they’re focused on us, you slip through the yard and take the first horse you can reach.”
Your eyes burn as you look between them. “And what chance does it give you?”
Neither man answers.
Months ago, when they let you ride away with them, you told them there was only one part of their life you wouldn’t share. You would endure the cold, the hunger, the long days in the saddle and every bullet sent chasing after them, but you wouldn’t stand by and watch either man die. Now they mean to hold you to it.
Bucky comes to stand beside you, one hand settling at the back of your neck. His thumb moves once over your skin, the touch unbearably gentle from a man preparing to walk into gunfire.
“You take the horse south,” he says. “Don’t stop in the next town. Just keep goin’ ‘till you can’t.”
You search their faces for another answer and find none. They’re terrified - you know them well enough now to see it. But they’re simply more frightened for you than they are for themselves. So you nod.
Steve’s hands linger against your cheeks for another second before he releases you, and Bucky’s thumb brushes the back of your neck once more before both men turn away, returning to plan as they let you dress.
Your fingers feel clumsy fastening your stays, though you force them through each familiar movement, pulling on yesterday’s dress and tying your hair back with shaking hands. Bucky crouches beside the bed and spreads their remaining cartridges across the floorboards, counting beneath his breath until a thought makes him pause with one round still caught between his fingers.
“Wait a minute - you didn’t see Rumlow out there, did you?”
Steve glances over from the rifle. “Rumlow? No. Why?”
“Thank God for that.” Bucky exhales and drops the cartridge onto the pile. “For a minute there, I thought we were in trouble.”
Steve’s expression flattens while a startled laugh escapes you despite everything, and the crooked grin Bucky sends your way suggests that was precisely what he’d been aiming for.
Steve returns to checking the rifle with a quiet shake of his head. “Idiot.”
Bucky’s smirk lingers only a moment before the boys begin getting ready in earnest.
Steve fastens the last of the ammunition at his belt and checks both revolvers one final time, while Bucky gathers the remaining cartridges into his pockets and slings the rifle over his shoulder. You stand beside the bed with your coat half-buttoned and look between them, both armed now, both trying to pretend as though this is merely another bad plan they will laugh about by nightfall.
It’s Steve who comes to you first. He cups the back of your neck and kisses you hard, all the tenderness in him sharpened by the knowledge that he cannot afford to linger. You clutch at his shirt anyway, trying to hold him there, but he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
“Promise me you’ll run,” Steve begs against your lips.
Before you can respond, Bucky adds “And don’t look back.”
You turn toward him, already crying despite the effort you’ve made not to. Bucky’s expression softens. He reaches up and wipes beneath one of your eyes with his thumb before drawing you against him and kissing you with none of his usual teasing left in it.
“You promise us, sugar,” he murmurs against your mouth. “You hear the gunfire, you run.”
Your bottom lip trembles, tears spilling freely, but you manage to keep you voice steady enough to reply “I promise.”
They lead you to the back window and ease it open just enough for you to slip through when the time comes, before heading back to the front door.
“Sheriff’s moved two more men toward the front,” he observes, peering through the narrow gap in the curtains. “Looks like they’re expecting us to make a grand entrance.”
Steve cocks his gun. “Well, I’d hate to disappoint.”
Bucky turns from the window with a faint smile, and just for a minute, the years between them seem to gather there in the quiet. They stand beside the door with their weapons ready, drawing one steadying breath before looking at each other.
“Till the end of the line,” Steve says.
Bucky’s answer comes without hesitation. “Always.”
Then they burst through the front door.
Gunfire erupts immediately, deafening in the close quarters, answered by the heavy crack of Steve’s revolver and the sharper report of Bucky’s rifle as they force the fight toward the front of the hotel. Every instinct in you screams to turn, to look, to run after them instead of away, but you cling to the promise you made and climb through the rear window once the coast is clear.
Then you run. Across the yard, past the stable wall and toward the first horse you can reach, every step carrying you farther from the two men you love. The law may have their names and faced printed on posters, may call them thieves and bad men, but you know better now.
Wanted men they may be, but they’re the best men you have ever known.
more mads: sooooo, i am so so sorry for how late i am for posting this. half of this was written in a sleep deprived, frantic haze so apologies if any of it gets confusing at any point, especially the ending. i had a different plan for it at first, but then i want to stay more loyal to the film, and i also needed to just get this fic done considering how late i already was to posting it. so this is what i landed on and i'm worried it hasn't quite worked :/ idk, this could be the sleep deprivation talking but i just started to hate this fic as i got closer to the end. hopefully you guys still enjoyed - if you did, please hit like or, even better, please consider leaving a comment/reblog bc it would genuinely make my whole day. my leo moon means i will literally perish without external validation. i’m tinkerbell coded. love u <33
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.
❝ bucky x reader x steve ❞
── you always thought bucky and steve couldn't be more alike. same taste in music, beer, and especially women. yet after a sorrowful night of maybe one too many drinks you learn in the best ways how different they can be.
⤷ tags: friends to lovers x3, poly?, porn with feelings/plot what plot, mentions of alcohol (a few glasses of wine), post breakup, reader is in her feelings, bucky and steve are cheeky assholes, but they love reader ⋮ warnings: 18+ mdni! smut, p in v, rough sex, threesome, semi spit roast, fingering, voyeurism, spanking, mean!dom bucky, soft!dom steve, praise kink & degradation kink, semi mutual masturbation, pet names (i.e sweetheart, babygirl, bunny, slut, cockwhore, fucktoy) this is just porn in words
˗ˏˋ ꒰ june’s note ꒱ ˎˊ˗
── read in real time as june loses her ability to write! yay! this fic burnt me OUT and you can definitely tell but whatever. full and complete credits go to @heldbybarnes she cooked up this masterpiece of an idea and i am merely the humble messenger of it.
If you knew nothing else in this world, it would be that Bucky and Steve will always be there for you.
Not even a phone call at half past one in the morning would scare them off.
"Hey," Bucky picks up on the first ring, as if he were looking at the phone waiting for your call. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah, I'm good." You mumble as you trace the rim of the wine glass in front of you.
"What happened?"
A huff of a laugh pushes from your nose, there's no hiding anything from Bucky, he's a dead set bloodhound when it comes to what's bothering you.
"Curtis and I broke up."
"Really? Shit girlie I'm sorry. When?"
You glance past the bottle in front of you and to the clock on the stove. "Like, an hour ago."
"What the fuck? You mean today?"
"Yup." You pop the 'p' as you finish off your glass, feeling the cold liquid settle into a warmth in your chest.
"Is he still there?"
"Never was."
The line went quiet and you could feel the anger radiating over the phone.
A quiet mutter was all you could catch before he came back to the call. "We're on the way."
Part of you wanted to protest, to tell them it's not worth their time and to just stay home, but the quiet and greedy side wanted nothing more than for Bucky and Steve to be your knights in shining armor to come save you from the depths of this breakup.
"Door's unlocked."
He grunts in response and the call is ended, leaving you to linger in the silence awaiting their arrival. You pour another glass, taking a heavy sip to ease the growing tension in your shoulders, Bucky and Steve have always been good friends to you but you could never deny the small voice in the back of your head that yearned for more.
It's no secret that they have crossed the bridge from friendship into something more themselves. It's not something that's often spoke about but you've seen it once or twice on the late nights out, the way Bucky's hand always rests in the small of Steve's back, the way Steve will lean over to grab something and whisper something against the shell of Bucky's ear.
At the time you felt ashamed to be looking, forcing your eyes to the ground as they exchanged silent words with eye contact that would make you buckle if it were directed to you. Yet as more time that passed you began to understand their relationship a bit more, to put it in simple terms you would describe them as friends with benefits but the friendship is the benefit.
You don't know if they've actually had sex with each other and you would never have it in you to ask such a thing, but you've seen the small moments they share when no one is looking, just thinking about it sends a heat to your face that not even the wine could replicate.
In divine timing as you will the thoughts of them out of your head there's a small knock on your door, you finish off your glass in one deep swig and make your way to the door but not before casting a small glance into the mirror above the fireplace to check your appearance. Any trace of tears are gone but there's still a slight red ring around your eyes and the corners of your nose, lips puffed and stained from the wine.
Not your best look but who's keeping track.
With the swing of the door you're greeted with two figures, similar in stance yet completely different in aura. Bucky's face is set in stone, the hard lines of his furrowed brow standing out against the soft edges of his steel blue eyes, his typical demeanor of appearing upset when concern is resting just below the surface.
Steve holds a similar soft look in his face, one of pure care and worry for a true friend with a gentle smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Hey." His voice is deep and smooth instantly putting you at ease, between him and Bucky they fill up the frame, their shoulders brushing each others as they both looked down at you.
"Hi." You breathe out, offering them both a small smile before stepping aside and holding the door open to let them in. A mix of their colognes wash over you as they walked by, Bucky's was a hearty mix of lavender, earthy oak moss and patchouli while Steve's cut through with the brightness of lemon and orange with a deep seeded cedar wood.
Both smells blended together so well, flooding your senses as you shut the door behind them, making you almost offer to take their jackets just to get another hit of their intoxicating scent. Alas they were both comfortable enough with you to set their jackets aside on their own, moving through the space of your apartment as if it were their own.
Steve made himself comfortable on the couch and you did the same while Bucky rummaged in your kitchen for something, sitting next to Steve gave you a moment to appreciate how his facial hair was coming in. The thick hair of his beard covered his jaw and chin alike, you still remember the day he said he was done shaving and was going to grow it out, earning a laugh from all around him who didn't believe him at first.
He looked devastatingly attractive. The beard suited him in ways you never thought possible, paired with the added length of his swept back hair it was almost impossible to look away as his green blue eyes bore into yours.
"How you doing?" He was quiet with his question, not in the sense that he held a secret but more of he was still wading through the waters of your feelings on the subject.
You shrug you shoulders faintly, giving him a half smile as your fingers pick at your nails instinctively. "Could be worse I guess."
"How so?"
"I could've actually cared about him."
He laughs gently with a small shake of his head, not missing the deflection of his question but letting it pass for now, eyes back onto yours making your heart race against your chest. "There is that I suppose."
"Did you get all of his stuff out?" Bucky's voice calls out from behind you, making you turn your head to see him walking out with a plate full of fruits, cheeses and chocolates you didn't even know you had.
"Uhm, no not yet." You watch him set the plate down in front of you and settle on the other side of you, his arm draped on the back of the couch lightly caging you in. "He didn't really have much of anything here anyways."
Bucky nods curtly, grabbing a strawberry off the plate and plucking the leaves off before handing it to you. "We'll help you get it out and make sure you let us know when he comes to get it so we can be here."
"You guys don't have to do all of that." Your eyes fall to the berry in your hand, your thumb brushing over the small seeds.
"We know," Steve's voice pulls your head to the other side, your eyes following his hand as he grabs yours and lifts the strawberry closer to your mouth, a silent reminder. "We want to."
With a faint nod your force your eyes forward as you take a small bite from the strawberry, the sweet acidity bursting across your tongue. Between the smell of Steve and Bucky in such proximity wafting over you and something about the taste of the berry mixing with the after hints of the wine made you dizzy.
Steve noticed it first, his hand finding your thigh and giving it a grounding squeeze. "You alright sweetheart?"
"Do you need some water?" Bucky was quick to add, the arm on the couch dropping down to your shoulders and brushing a small circle into the crook of your neck.
You shake your head, blinking yourself back to reality as you absentmindedly sink into both of their touches. "No, I'm okay just.. tired I guess."
"Here we'll help you clean up and then you can get to bed." Steve offered as he moved to get up from the cough, his hand leaving your thigh and letting the cold air of absence take its place.
"Wait," You reached out for his wrist, holding it in yours for just a beat too long before letting it go. "You.. you don't have to go if you don't want to."
Bucky's thumb pressed lightly into your shoulder, just enough pressure to catch your attention and make you turn back to him. "What do you want girlie?"
A small silence settles over the three of you as you contemplated what you truly wanted.
"Stay," You mumble just above a whisper, your eyes dragging from Bucky's to Steve's. "Please."
Steve nods without hesitation, settling back down onto the couch a bit closer than last time as his hand finds your leg again, this time running it up and down a with an achingly gentle touch. "Of course."
"Don't have to ask us twice," Bucky chimes in softly, leaning his body closer until your side was up against his chest.
You lean back into both of them, letting their warmth encapsulate you and tether you to the ground. Steve finds the TV remote and puts on some quiet music channel, the slow and soft beat of blues filling the background of the room.
Time becomes unperceivable when you're with them, all you know is the feeling of them next to you and the sound of their voices in your ears for what felt like hours.
"You want another glass Stevie?" You offer as you top yours off, the warmth in your chest now spread across your whole body, lining your lips with a smile as you look at the two boys seated on your couch. Bucky is all but sprawled out in the corner, legs spread with a whiskey glass in his hand as his eyes flicker between you and Steve, his leg is crossed over the other with one hand on the back of the couch.
Maybe it's the wine, or maybe it's the irresponsible urge for a self esteem boosting rebound but the look of the two of them on your couch was too tempting and if you didn't know any better, inviting.
"No I'm okay sweetheart." Steve's voice floats across the air and brushes the back of your neck, making the small hairs stand up, you nod and try to keep a straight face as you sit back on the couch.
Bucky, who is oddly quiet in his corner, hasn't taken his eyes off of you since the three of you finished off his snack plate, lips stained with the red fruit juice of strawberries and a hint of chocolate. Steve seems to pick up on this as he rests his chin on your shoulder to look over at him.
"You're quiet Buck, got something on your mind?"
He doesn't respond, not right away, he just gives Steve a look that apparently says it all as Steve lets out a small hum and smiles against your cheek.
Your eyes narrow a the interaction, trying to piece together what silent words were just exchanged between the two of them. "What?"
"Steve has a secret to tell you." Bucky says as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. You turn just enough to see Steve out the corner of your eyes before he pulls away, making you fully turn to face him.
Reaching for you glass he takes a small sip before setting it down on the table, his eyes locked onto yours as he licks a small drip of wine from his bottom lip. You follow the movement and it makes your heart stutter in your chest.
"What's the secret?" You whisper in a breathy air, using every inch of your might to keep your eyes from drifting back to those pink lips tucked behind that fatally gorgeous beard.
He curls his index finger towards you and you have to immediately look away lest your mind starts conjuring up images of that motion being used on you for other purposes. Leaned forward he meets you halfway and you can feel the scruff of his beard brush the lobe of your ear as he whispers.
"Bucky wants me to kiss you."
The words still you to your bones, bringing your heart into your throat with its rapid unsteady beating. As your mind processes everything at lightning speed you see two choices presented to you in the blur of thoughts; A.) you shrink back and continue on with the friendship as it is, just that, friendship or B.) you play into it and just maybe you can get what you've been thinking about all night.
You much prefer the latter.
"Why doesn't he say so himself?" You murmur softly, eyes already dropping back down to his lips.
He gives a vague shrug, his hands finding yours and pressing small circles into the pressure point of your wrist, no doubt feeling the rabbited pace of your heartbeat. "Sometimes Bucky does a whole lot of talking, other times he just likes to sit back and listen."
"That a fact?" Your eyes part from Steve's to look over at Bucky, the beginnings of a smirk tug at the corner of his lips as he finishes off the last of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving you for a moment as he keeps his quiet facade going.
Steve lets out a breathy laugh before quieting down, his hand brushing the length of your jaw making you turn back towards him. His palm is rough and smooth all at once, the calloused pads of his fingers tracing the jut of your bottom lip.
"So, what d'you think sweetheart? Should we give Bucky what he wants?"
"What do you want?"
"I can't think of anything I'd want more than to kiss you," His voice is a hoarse whisper and somehow you've gotten close enough to where you can feel his breath against your cheek. "What about you?"
Words are lost on you as you look at Steve, the ocean tide of his blue green eyes pulling you in, a loose nod of your head is the only answer you can manage before his lips are on yours.
Forget fireworks or sparks flying, Steve's kiss was heavenly, tentative like a whisper and as warm as the summer sun. His hands immediately swept you up, pulling you into his lap and holding you close like he was passing a secret from his body to yours.
Eternal like moments passed before the kiss changed, your thighs squeezing his as your hips shifted on top of him making him groan into your lips. He moved his hands down to the dip of your waist and dug his fingers in, moving you again until you picked up the message and began to roll your hips on your own.
You don't know how much time had passed, Steve kissed you like he wanted to wear your mark for all eternity and it left you utterly breathless. When you did finally part for air, you looked back to see Bucky had moved from his original spot and is now next to you and Steve, a fresh glass of whiskey in his hand.
Steve looked unfairly handsome freshly kissed, his lips parted with soft breaths pushing through them as he squeezed your hips in his hands. Your heavy lidded eyes dragged back over to Bucky, a small tilt to his head when he caught your eyes lingering on his lips.
"Go on baby," Steve encouraged in a raspy hum, his hands still holding the curves of your hips, fingers just teasing under the hem line of your shirt. "Give him a taste."
You're leaning over before you realize and Bucky's already met you halfway, his lips taste like the burn and heat of whiskey as he swipes his tongue over your seam, wasting no time in exploring the inner depths of your mouth against his.
Bucky's kiss burned like a perfectly stoked fire, warm and consistent with each angle making the world around you fade into black. It wasn't until you felt Steve guiding your hips back and forth again did you feel yourself come back to the material world.
The mixed sensations of being pulled in by Bucky's lips, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip with a deep fervor as Steve's hand ever so gently ran up under your shirt and wandered across the exposed skin made your head spin.
"Wait," You breathe out as you force yourself to pull away from Bucky's lips, your mouth aching for more at the way his eyes fluttered open. "What.. what are we doing?"
You look between Steve and Bucky and watch as they share another one of their silent conversations, a huff of lust filled frustration pushing out of your nose.
"Stop doing that, just say it out loud."
There's one last look between them before they turn to you, eyes low and smirks growing.
"I think what Buck was trying to say—"
"—Was that we can do whatever you want."
The way the finish each others sentences with such ease nearly gives you whiplash, your eyes darting back and forth between the two of them.
"What do you mean?"
"He means," Bucky starts as he leans back in, pressing a line a kisses down your jaw and to the column of your throat. "If you want to take this farther we're all for it."
"But if you want to stop," Steve adds in, his hands smoothing over the skin of your lower back, thumbs dipping past the waistband of your pajama shorts. "Just say the word and hands are off, no hard feelings."
Your eyes flutter at the contrasting feelings. Bucky leaving wet open mouthed kisses across your neck and collarbone, stopping to bite and suck at the sweet spot below your ear, while Steve's hands held you like you were a diamond in his palms, beautiful and strong yet fragile to the touch as he roamed over your skin leaving a wake of heat in his touch.
"Up to you baby. We just want to take care of you, however you'll let us."
Words are few and far in between for you, your mind and body overrun with the dual sensations. Bucky's hand had started to squeeze and rub circles into your thigh while Steve brought your hand up to his lips, kissing the pad of each fingertip before licking a slow stripe up your middle two making you shudder under him.
"Yes, please yes."
That was all the sign they needed. Bucky pulled back and quickly cleaned up everything around you as Steve stood you up with him and led you to your bedroom, his wide palm steady in yours as you clung to him.
He sat you down onto your bed and began to move about the room as if it were his own, taking his shoes off and setting them in the closet, setting his watch on the dresser and even going as far as to add a fresh stick into your essential oil diffuser.
As he joined you on the bed it was only moments before Bucky was in the room, a small smirk on his lips as he went about his own ministrations, similar to Steve yet done in a different air. Steve moved around the room like it was his too, Bucky moved like it was his alone, his carpet to walk along and his mirror to look in.
The bed dipped even lower as Bucky settled behind you, his hand playing with the hem of your shirt as he leaned forward. "Tell me something pretty girl, did you at least get laid before that asshole broke up with you?"
Your breath hitched as you felt his hand slip under your shirt and up towards your bra, unclasping it to the last clip, before moving his hand around your stomach. Steve must've picked up on your stunned state as he reached out a cupped your jaw in his hand, gently stroking your cheek before leaning in for a kiss.
"Answer him baby."
"No." You whispered against Steve's lips, your hands digging into the fabric of shirt in need of more.
"Poor girl," Bucky mutters from behind you, hands brushing your hair over your shoulder as his lips find the nape of your neck and gently nipping at the skin. "Tell me the sex was at least good."
You shake your head and lean back into his touch, your body overwhelmed yet under stimulated and in desperate need.
Bucky pulled away and you had to stifle a whine as you looked back at him. "You're telling me that this entire time you were in that relationship, not only were you putting up with his bullshit, but the sex wasn't even worth it?"
"Bucky.." Your voice was nothing more than a soft whisper yet it held the magnitude of a thousand suns, the depths of desire lacing through your words.
He didn't grant you any relief, just a low scoff rumbling in the back of his throat as he looked over at Steve.
"I-I'm sorry, I should've known better, I know I should've left him a long time ago I just don't know why I couldn't—" You blurted out, unreasonable worry clawing at the back of your throat.
"Shh it's okay baby," Steve's voice tethers you back down, his hands cupping the sides of your face to lock your eyes onto his. "We're not mad it's okay."
You nod faintly and let out a small breath and he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. "I think Bucky is just a little jealous is all."
Confusion set over your face with furrowed brows and a slight pout. "Jealous of what? Curtis?"
"S'not fair. He got to have you in any way he wanted and he couldn't even have the decency to treat you right." Bucky's answer from behind you sends chills down your spine, your eyes still on Steve's as you felt a bold streak rise in you.
"You think you could do better?"
Silence grew and for a moment you thought you may have crossed a line, until you felt the palm of Bucky curve around your hip.
"I know I can."
A small smirk curled up on Steve's face as he looked down at you, a playful shake of his head egging you on as you pulled your bottom lip in between your teeth.
"Prove it soldier."
Nearly half a second went by before you were being turned around, Bucky stood at the edge of the bed and pulled you towards him as Steve settled to the side of you.
"You know you've got bratty mouth for someone who drove all the way here in the middle of the night just to make you feel better."
Blame it on the wine, or the heavy makeout sesh, or maybe the way Bucky was looking down at you like he couldn't care less about the next words that were about to come out of your mouth, all of it made you feel crazy and sane all at once and you wanted nothing more than to chase that feeling.
"I never asked you to come over, you just offered yourself up."
You watched Bucky's throat bob with a hitched breath, your words no doubt hitting the right nerve making you smirk until Steve's voice pulled you down from your high horse.
"Play nice sweet girl."
Bucky shook his head with an ever growing smirk, his hand reaching out to twirl a small strand of your hair as he looks down at you. "Yeah I bet you could, but you don't want to play nice, do you?"
You mirrored his head shake, yours slower and faint as yours eyes dropped down to his chest, then to his stomach, and finally to the belt around his jeans.
"I can play nice… for Steve."
Steve smiled and pressed a soft kiss to your lips, swallowing to the grunt he let out when you licked and nipped at his lower lip.
Bucky let out a dark chuckle behind you, his hands running down the expanse of your spine and lifting your shirt up to kiss down your shoulder. "Is that right? You think you can be good for Steve while I punish you for mouthing off?"
"I'll always be good for Steve."
"We'll see about that."
Bucky must've motioned to Steve behind you as they both started to move, stripping their shirts and unclasping their belts to pull off their pants.
You moved to take your own clothes off when two sturdy hands stopped you.
"Let me," Steve mutters and though his voice was soft there was no denying the command behind it. "Just want you to sit back and look pretty for me, think you can do that baby?"
A brief nod of your head curls a smile up on his face as his hands took over your goal, pulling your shirt up and over your head and finishing off the last clasp of your bra that Bucky had left for him.
Your shorts are gone without a second thought and the air in the room has changed around it. It clings to your skin like the thick humidity of summer as you feel the eyes of both Steve and Bucky bore into your skin.
"What now?" You ask out of curiosity but there's a small waver of insecurity in your voice pushing through.
"Hands and knees for us baby." Steve guides you as turn onto your palms, your knees pressing into the mattress, Bucky's hands find the divet of your hips and holds you steady.
"You know the traffic lights pretty girl?" Bucky asks from behind you, his hands begin kneading the flesh of your hips and down to your thighs, giving every square inch it's deserved attention as he moves up to your ass.
Steve's eyes on you as Bucky feels you up sends a shiver of heat down your spine, the dual attention overriding your senses turning your thoughts into nothing more than TV static. "Mhm."
"Use your words." Bucky's hands dig into your ass and the slight pinch of his nails makes your breath hitch, you go to turn your head to look back at him when Steve's hand steadies your jaw forward.
"Eyes on me baby."
"Yes," You mumble as you lock eyes with Steve, mouth parting as he traces your lips. "Red, yellow and green."
Bucky grunts in what you guess is approval as he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of your underwear. "What's your color pretty thing?"
"Green. So fucking green."
A dark breathy laugh leaves his lips as he pulls the fabric down, letting it pool around your knees as he steps back to admire with a deep breathe out.
"God Steve, you're gonna lose it when you see this perfect pussy."
Steve just smiles as he looks down at you, he'd been tracing your lips just barely pushing his thumb past the seam and onto the wet heat of your tongue before pulling it out to spread your saliva like lip gloss.
"I wonder how pretty this pussy will drip for me after I spank this ass for being so bratty."
Chills covered your entire body as your eyes fluttered, thighs aching and arms shaking without even a touch from either one of them. Steve, ever the gentleman, noticed your struggle and moved to the side and patted the length of his thigh. You didn't have to be told twice, your arms bending and tucked under you as you laid your head across his lap, your neck craning as you looked up as him brushing the hair from your face.
"I think eight will be a good reminder, don't you Steve?"
Steve kept stroking your hair back, his thumb just barely grazing your cheek "What do you think baby, you think you can be good for eight?"
You nodded your head against the skin of his thigh as a small yelp pushes past your lips, Bucky's hand leaving a startling stinging burn with a harsh smack on the swell of your ass.
"I thought I told you to use your words." Bucky's voice was flat and stern behind you, his fingers ghosting over the growing burn on your skin.
Your eyes fought to stay open as you looked up at Steve, his hand had moved from your hair down to your back, lightly stroking up and down your spine."Y-yes, I can be good for eight."
"Good."
Bucky wastes no time in doling it out, two more sharp smacks across your ass make you whimper into Steve's leg, the pain bleeding into pleasure and stirring up a searing heat in between your thighs.
"Think she's starting to like it, huh Buck?"
"Mm you should see the way her pussy clenches," He punctuates his sentence with another heavy slap, switching to the other side adding more burn. "So empty and desperate."
Steve's hand moves from your back to your stomach, splaying his wide hand across the soft skin just barely brushing below your belly button. "That right baby? You feeling needy for some more?"
Another echoing smack. "Greedy girl."
"Please," You mumbled into Steve's thighs, drool slipping out the corners of your mouth with a cry as Bucky lands an especially hard spank to your skin. "Please Stevie I need more."
"How could I ever say no to that beautiful face?"
Another gasp leaves your lips as Steve's hand dip past your stomach, middle and ring fingers brushing your clit before tracing the slit of your cunt. "So wet already, bunny."
You whimper and push into his fingers, aching for any further touch. Bucky sees and holds you in place with one hand, landing a ear piercing slap with the other.
"You want more then you beg for it like the little slut you are."
"P-please!" You sputter out, hands going numb under you from the angle but you couldn't care less, Steve's fingers were still gently caressing the slick of your folds and it had your thighs trembling. "Please Steve, please I need more I'll be good I promise."
Steve lets out a soft hum, his other hand carding your hair out of your face. "Mm you beg so pretty babygirl, how could I say no to that?"
The slip of his fingers inside of you is a feeling you don't think you'll ever forget, his wide middle and ring digits filling that desperate ache inside of you so perfectly you could cum on the spot just thinking of it. Bucky kneads the curve of your ass in time with Steve's movements, and the dual feelings of pleasure make you shudder and melt.
"Oh she definitely likes that Stevie," Bucky mocks, his condescending tone mixed with the heady touch of his hands digging into your sensitive ass makes you hiss and moan with each wave and pleasure and pain. "If you like this just wait until you get Steve's cock inside of you, he'll turn you into his little cockwhore in no time."
Their words buzz across your ears but nothing sticks, Steve's fingers reducing you down to a mumbling mess, the sweet curve of his middle finger as it brushes the outer edges of you g-spot as he hum sweet nothings to you carts any cohesive thought away to another land.
"Feel good babygirl?" He coos as he pushes his fingers in deeper, each drag of his finger pads across your walls makes you twitch as you frantically nod your head.
Another sharp slap to your ass brightens your senses, a whine spilling from your lips as you clench around Steve's fingers.
"Fuck," Steve breathes out, his fingers somehow finding a way further inside you. "Do that again Buck."
And he does. One harsh smack makes your thighs quiver and you tighten around Steve's fingers once again, making Steve groan in time with your whimper.
"Christ baby, gonna kill me and I haven't even had a taste yet."
On that note Bucky shifts behind you, his heavy shadow no longer looming over you as he moves around onto the bed. Steve helps you sit up, holding you by your waist as he pulls you toward the center of the bed, fluffing your pillows under you before meeting your lips in a fierce kiss.
"You felt so good squeezing my fingers bunny," He mutters against your lips, nipping your bottom lip and licking it smooth before moving down your jaw and throat, his lips leaving a light mark at every chance he got. "Can't wait to feel you cum on my face."
He kept on with his mission south, dragging his tongue over any bit of untouched skin he could find as he settled between you thighs, the scruff of his bread scratching you making you shiver.
"Stevie," You whine, your hand finding it's place running through his bourbon brown hair. "Please I want more."
A wide grin curls up on his face as he leans in to press a kiss to your inner thigh, the trail growing closer and closer until a stroke of his breath brushed across the heat of your cunt, goosebumps running over your thighs.
"Pussy so pretty babygirl," He mumbles with a kiss to your clit, making you jump and your thighs squeezing around his head, his left hand wrapping around one thigh to hold it apart as he licked you open. "Lemme in, just let me."
Two broad fingers pushed into you and knocked the air out fo your chest, your body going lax with pleasure as he slowly worked you open, lips enclosing around your clit as with soft licks and suction just as the gentleman he is.
"Fuck Stevie," His name was nothing but a soft whimper on your lips, hips rolling into his touch for more when you felt the bed dip with weight next to you.
"Eyes up here," Bucky's voice cut through your whines as he lifted your jaw up, fingers digging into your cheeks as you looked him over, the toned planes of his chest unable to keep your eyes from drifting down to his clothed free cock. "Don't think you get off the hook that easy."
He shifts around and before you can process his knees are on either side of your chest, pushing your breasts together as his cock stood at full mast in front of you, your mouth watering at the sight of him above you.
"What? You need an invitation?"
You wanted to scoff, to snap back with the same caliber of attitude he was giving you, but between Steve slowly curling his fingers inside you at the perfect angle you were at a loss with how perfectly presented he was to you right now. You start to shake your head before you remember your reprimands from earlier.
"No."
"Good girl, now open wide for me, let Bucky see that pretty mouth that loves to talk back."
Steve hasn't let up for a second, his mouth only giving you a relief to kiss across your thighs and sink his teeth into them before going back in with his teasing kitten licks. You oblige Bucky's command and open your mouth as a small moan slips out watching Bucky stroke himself once, twice before tapping his flushed tip against the width of your tongue.
He doesn't give you a second to beg for more before he's sliding his thick length into your mouth, one hand gripping the headboard above you as the other rests just next your head.
"Goddamn baby, that's it, let me put this mouth to good use."
Another small moan slips past, the heavy warmth of him dragging along the inside of you cheeks as you hollow them out combined with Steve lowering his fingers to slide his tongue alongside into your wet cunt makes your body scorch with pleasure.
Bucky's hand moves to the back of your head, lifting it up just enough so he can rut his hips forward to the back of your throat, wet sounds from your lips and thighs fill the room with muffled moans and sighs of pleasure from the two men.
"Fuck baby, I knew this mouth was good for something other than back talk. Mmph you look so good like this, bet you love having your mouth stuffed full while Stevie makes that pussy feel so good." His hand behind your head digs into your hair, pulling at the roots as you look up at him through water lined eyes.
You can't answer, and even if you could you'd have no rebuttal, you do love it and you never want it to stop. Steve wraps both arms around your thighs, holding you open as he presses one palm down onto your stomach, the pressure mixed with the twisting curl of his fingers snaps something in you.
A muffled cry slips from your mouth and vibrates along Bucky's cock, making him groan and push in farther. Your hips have their own agenda as you buck and grind into Steve through your orgasm, the added layer of his beard scratching at your thighs making you twice as sensitive.
"That's it, grind that pussy against Steve's face, be a good little slut for him."
Bucky's breath hitches in his throat and you can see the way his biceps tighten up so you double down, swirling your tongue every time he pulls back to the tip and hollowing your cheeks out when he pushes back in.
"I feel you trying to make me cum," He groans as he slows his hips to long and deep thrusts, each push in hitting the back of your throat before he pulls out completely. "Only good girls get cum down their throat, and you've been nothing but bad."
A pouty whine slips past your lips as he gets off your chest, your hands trying to follow him away before they're caught in Steve's grip and held down to your sides as he slowly crawled up your body.
"What's wrong bunny? Why're you poutin'?"
"Bucky's mean to me."
Steve smiles as he nudges your thighs further apart with his knees. "Is that right? You want me to give him a stern talking to?"
You nod dramatically and scoot down to flush your thighs to his, your eyes trailing down on him for the first time tonight to see his equally impressive length. For a split second everything hits you all at once and worry crashes over you.
"That's not gonna fit Steve."
Steve just smiles as he gently repositions you, hooking one leg around his waist and bringing the other up to rest against his chest. "Shh, don't you worry about a thing sweet girl."
Bucky chimes in next to you, grabbing your jaw and tilting it towards him. "You're gonna take it all and you're gonna thank him for every inch."
You nod and for the first time tonight you don't get reprimanded for it, rather he leans down and presses his lips to yours, his tongue pushing past to tangle with yours as his hands squeezed at the flesh of your breasts and pinched the peak of your nipples.
"Color?" Steve asks with a gentle squeeze to your thigh, his cock twitching and lightly tapping your cunt.
"Don't stop." You moan with a roll of your hips.
Getting lost in the touch of Bucky you hardly register the feeling of Steve's cock brushing over your clit until it slips further between your folds, just teasing your entrance. Bucky shifts down to lay next to you, moving his lips down to pull a nipple into his mouth a with a sly wink up towards you.
"Buck-ah!" Your words die off with croak of a moan as Steve sinks into you, your thighs instinctively trying to close at the breach of pressure before he grabs the back of your knee and holds you open.
"Ah ah," Bucky chided as he pulled off your breast with a pop to nip and pull at the peak. "Say thank you."
"T-thank you." You hardly manage before another broken moan cuts you off, your head lulling back into the pillows as Steve pushes in further, each inch feeling impossible to bear.
Bucky moves back to kiss your neck as his hand slips down to your clit, just barely ghosting circles over it. "For what?"
"For your— fuck, for every inch of your cock."
"Mm you're welcome bunny," Steve adds with a feather light kiss to your forehead, his breath fanning across your face as he slides in to the hilt with a single thrust, making you both moan in time. "Shit, I should be thanking you pretty girl, you feel so fuckin' good."
Steve's voice, along with everything else in the world, fall away. Nothing registers past the feeling of his cock stretching you through and through, each small shift of his hips pulling pitiful whimpers from your lips as he ruts into you at devastatingly slow pace.
"Aw cmon Stevie," Bucky pouts playfully as he dips his fingers down to where you and Steve meld, the tips of his fingers brushing Steve's cock as his palm presses against your clit making you twitch at the contact. "I know you can fuck harder than that."
Steve doesn't reply, not verbally at least, a small grunt is all that slips out before he's leaning over you, bending your leg to your chest as he grips the headboard in his free hand he pulls out until just the curve of his head is resting inside you before thrusting back in.
A breathless gasp pushes from your lungs as your hands scramble for something solid, landing in the flesh of Steve's bicep as he fucks you blissfully senseless, every snap of his hips winding a tight coil within you.
"S-shit Steve, feels so good— god please don't stop baby."
As if he'd ever. Not with the way your cunt had squeezed around him, selfish and desperately begging for more right alongside you. Lulling your head to the side your eyes catch the small movement from your vanity, it was Bucky, leaning back in the chair with his fist closed around his cock with moving with short and slow strokes.
"You see Bucky sweetheart? See how hard we made him?"
You nod lazily, mind near empty as your eyes fixated on him, your hand extending across the mattress out to him. "Bucky.."
Bucky just smiles at your whine, but you don't miss the way his legs twitch, his chest rising and falling in quick fashion as he times his strokes to Steve's thrusts. Your eyes lock onto each others and it sends a fire over your whole body, any shy or shameful part of you withering away under Bucky's eyes and Steve's touch.
"Gonna be good for him just like you're good for me? Show him how pretty our girl looks when she cums?"
Another pathetic nod as you watch Bucky, your eyes darting from his lips to his cock. "Wanna cum so bad."
"Fuck," Bucky barely mutters, his hips just barely ticking upwards. "Make her cum Steve, lemme see."
With a grunt of agreement Steve leans back, grabbing a pillow from the side and holding your legs together to his chest as he lifted you up and slid it under you. It was a brief pause but it was enough to make you whimper craving more, your hips pushing up against Steve's thighs as he settled in the new position, making you wait even longer as he let his eyes linger over you.
"Please," You whine in a whisper, hands moving up to your chest kneading and pulling the pebbled bud of your nipples. Bucky hisses through his teeth, no doubt in restraint as he slows his strokes.
"Please what, bunny?"
Mouth open to respond he thrusts all the way back in, any words now turned to muddled gibberish as he leans back, allowing your hips to tilt up and perfectly nail each drag of his cock to that sweet spot deep inside of you that makes your toes curl.
"Oh f-fuck," Bucky's voice from the side of you, his lip caught between his teeth as he basically fucks his hand. "Cmon Steve, make her cum so hard she won't know what's you or her, pet that pretty little clit until she's creaming around you."
Bucky's words hit you and Steve at the same caliber as he reaches down to slip his thumb past your lips, gathering up the pooling saliva and centering it right against the aching bundle of nerves between your thighs, making you squirm under him.
"There you go, just like that." You don't know if the praise was for you or Steve but it made your skin tingle all the same. Steve takes kindly to it, his free hand digging into the soft skin of your thighs as he drives into you, the slick slip of his cock in and out of you filling the air.
Your bodies tune into each others, your thighs twitch and walls tighten as Steve's thrusts turn uneven and sloppy as you both chase a so desperately needed high.
"Come on babygirl, cum for me I know you want to, jus' give it to me."
The press of his thumb in one tight circle on your clit snaps that coil, your back arching with a piteous moan of his name, your cunt clenching like a vice around him as he pulls you through it with each thrust. He splits your legs on each shoulder as he hunches over you, your eyes rolled to the back of your head with a flutter as he ruts into you through his own orgasm, spilling every hot and slick drop deep inside of you as he fills you up with a delicious gravelly groan of your name.
You both go lax in the afterglow, your legs falling to the sides as Steve holds himself up above you, your body is buzzing with aftershocks, every inch of you sore but you conjure up enough strength to loop your arm around his neck and pull him flush to you completely.
He lets out a deep hum, hands slipping under you as he momentarily puts his full weight on you. The pressure mixed with the warmth of his cum slowly slipping out of you crashes another wave of fatigue over you, your eyes lulling shut.
Movement stirs your eyes open, Steve holds you firm as he rolls the two over you over, making you makeshift straddle him as he lays back on the headboard. You give him a soft puzzled look before you feel the bed dip behind you, a familiar set of hands running up your sides.
"You know you and Stevie look pretty good together," Bucky murmurs with a gentle tug to the lobe of your ear. "Making all those sweet noises for him."
You lean your weight back against him, head falling back on his shoulder as his licks and kisses his mark onto the column of your throat.
"Gonna make the same little whimpers and moans for me, huh?"
His hands switch between running up your chest between your breasts and down the crease of your inner thigh, just letting his touch wander aimlessly. You soon grow fidgety, hips shifting trying to touch him to brush his cock closer to where you want him most.
"So needy already? What, Steve didn't fuck you good enough?"
"Just want you, Buck please." You mumble with a pout, turning your head to meet him in a kiss. He obliges, humming into you as one of his hands leaves your body, the distinct warmth fading away. You want to pout, jut that lip out in hopes he'll bite it back in and go back to touching you, yet when you pull away and open your eyes your met with a mouth watering sight.
Bucky's hand, the one you almost whined over, was wrapped around Steve's cock. Slow, steady little strokes that twist at the top before going back down leave both you and Steve breathless.
"What'sa matter? Thought you told Steve you were gonna be good for me. Good girls don't whine."
You stifle the irony of another whine, your eyes glazed over as you sunk back to keep watching. Steve's brows with lightly furrowed and his lips hardly parted, just enough to let those breathy little sounds out, each soft whine sending a searing heat between your thighs.
"Bucky," His name is tumbling from your lips before you can help it, hands itching at your sides.
"Hm?"
"Can I touch myself?" He lets out a pleased hum, pressing himself up against you and you exhale in hopes of his allowment.
"No."
There's no holding back the pout this time, you're on the verge of complaining when the air around you shifts, Bucky's hand digging into your hip as he pulls you flush to him. "Sit up Steve."
He does and once he's where Bucky wants him he turns your head for another kiss, this one is bold and bare, all tongue with a graze of teeth before he pulls you away from him.
"Bucky please I need—"
"Need what?" He cuts you off with a knowing smirk. "Need me to touch you? Kiss you? Fuck you like the greedy girl you are?" His hand traces up your spine before gently pushing you down, you flow with gravity and land on your palms right between Steve's thighs.
"Show me you can take it then." The angle change sends chills across your back as you look up at Steve, his face is still flushed with knitted brows and a maddening hard on, you get the sense that he feels just on display as you do.
The slight wave of insecurity is broken by the feeling of Bucky's thumb brushing through the slit of your cunt, just barely pushing in as the rest of his fingers dig into the soft skin of your ass.
"Color."
Your answer comes in actions rather than words as you lean down to capture Steve's length in your mouth, humming at the heavy feel of him and the deep groan that rumbles in his chest. Bucky just scoffs to himself and you're more than sure that he and Steve are sharing another infamous silent conversation right now.
Any chance to reprimand them for it is out the window when Bucky sheathes himself inside you, every inch deliciously filling you to the brim in one deep swift motion that makes you gasp around Steve's cock.
"Shit," Bucky moans and it's pure music to your ears. "God you're right Steve, our girl feels so damn good."
Bucky fucks nothing like Steve. Steve held a pattern, a rhythmic sense to each push and pull of his hips, Bucky is relentlessly fierce, with the determined goal to unravel you from within. You've already made a mess of Steve's cock, face wet with drool and tears as Bucky splits you open, every thrust pushing you to take Steve in further.
"C-careful Buck," Steve stammered out, each hollow of your cheeks making his breath hitch. "Don't wanna break her."
Bucky hums out a laugh, his hands set on your hips pulling you back into him. "Think she wants to be broken Stevie, bet I don't even have to do anything."
To prove his point he stops mid thrust, a garbled whine sounding around Steve's cock. "You want it so badly, take it greedy girl."
You surface for air, spit strings connecting you and Steve as you look back at Bucky who's making no effort to keep moving. A small groan escapes as you start to roll your hips back, starting a slow and shaky pace that pulls moans from all three of you.
"That's it, go on and fuck yourself on this cock." He adds a spank to your ass for emphasis that only makes his knees weak as you clench around him. "Shit, feels so good keep going baby."
After a few moments of coordinating motions you finally find it, that dream pace, your hand steadily jerking Steve's cock as you push and grind into Bucky's, thighs trembling with each smack as the heat of pain blooms across your ass.
"Such a pretty little cockwhore we have Stevie, fucking herself so good." Bucky's voice has dissolved into something utterly irresistible, a low and scratchy tone that scatters chills over your body.
Steve lets out another gracious moan, his rich baritone voice humming through you as he grabs your jaw and lifts you up for a kiss, licking and loving the taste of himself from your mouth. "Even prettier from this side."
"P-please," You whimper into him with a broken moan, your hips burning with ache as you try keep up. "I can't— fuck, I can't anymore, please Buck, Stevie."
"You want Bucky to take over bunny, is that it?"
You nod fervently, your head heavy in his hand as he give you another quick kiss before guiding back down to his lap, letting your head rest in the crux of his thigh. Bucky shifts behind you, spreading your thighs even more as he ruts deep into you with an animalistic fervor.
"This what you wanted? Got tired of doing it yourself and wanted Bucky to use you like the good little fucktoy you are?"
Staggered breaths fell from your lips, eyes nearly in the back of your head, your body a live wire crackling in a storm, waiting for that one lightning bolt to strike.
"God this pussy's so good baby, never gonna let anyone take it from us again, gonna be our good girl from now on."
"Hear that baby?" Steve cooed as he stroked away the hair that stuck to the drool in the corner of your mouth, eyes soft as if he were looking at a masterpiece being made rather than inelegant unraveling of your very being. "Bucky and I are gonna take good care of you."
"B-bucky.. so close." You barely whimper before another smack is landed on your ass, your body tensing and relishing in the pain all at once.
"Take Stevie down your throat and I'll let you cum."
You don't hesitate, lifting your head up and wrapping your lips back around Steve, glancing up at him to watch his head fall back. With a deep breath through your nose you relax your throat, taking as much of him as you can while your fist makes up for the rest, head bobbing in time to Bucky's thrusts.
"Fuck, I feel you baby, squeezing me so tight. Gonna milk every last drop outta me, huh? Take it all like you took Stevie's, with a fucking smile on your face."
A sputter of a moan echoes out as your thighs tremble, bright heat soaring across every nerve in your body as your orgasm rips through you, tears pricking your waterline as Bucky follows you over, two more searing smacks on your ass punctuate his high. Steve's hand sweeps your hair to the back of your neck, fisting a handful as he graciously holds your head up as he ruts his hips into your mouth, lashes stuck together as you looked up at him with pleading eyes.
The salty drip of precum hits your tongue first as not soon after you feel each rope spurt hitting the back of you're throat as you swallowed around him, not letting a single drip out as he pulls you off and lets your head fall back down on his thigh.
Bright white circles spot across your vision as your eyes flicker open. Your brows furrow as you look around, you're laying on Steve's chest with a solid warmth behind you.
"There you are, hey pretty girl." Steve's voice fully brings you back as you sit up slightly, an arm around your waist holding you in place as you look back to see Bucky spooned up against you, eyes low lidded with a small smirk as you settled back into place.
"How you feeling?"
"Good."
"Just good?" Bucky teased from behind you, earning a flick from Steve and a small laugh from all.
"Definitely more than good."
"Good." Steve echoes out with a kiss to your forehead, pulling both you and Bucky closer in. A few moments of quiet pass by and as much as sleep is calling your name there's another, stronger presence nagging at the back of your mind.
"Guys?"
They both hum in response and you almost laugh, baffled by how similar they go back to being after such polar opposites.
"What.. happens now?"
Steve's arm tightens around you as he scoots impossibly closer. "Whatever you want. You want us gone in the morning just say the word."
"And if I don't?"
"Then we'll be right here when you wake up." Bucky answers as he switches off the table lamp, the soft glow in the room giving way to cool darkness that soothes your bones from within as both men hold you tight.
"And in the morning you'll be kissing me so sweet while begging to be Steve's little bunny again while he ruins you from the inside out."
