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#talk to me about steve and his pain threshold#steve who was living with chronic pain pretty much his entire life#and then the serum that gave him super strenght and cured his illnesses but also heightned his senses#and amplified EVERYTHING#so steve not only hears and sees better but also FEELS more#and it doesn’t matter if it’s a friendly touch or gut wrenching pain#but it’s okay#he made it through when we was tiny and weak#and he’s stronger now#so he can clench his teeth and soldier on @cptsmallass
a/n: written for my 3k celebration, the prompt is bolded. inspired by national treasure, the mummy (1999), and similar adventure films. the premise of this fic is based on fact/real legends, then the rest is the result of my imagination.
“Steve Rogers?”
The man hums in answer, his gaze fixated on the small television mounted above the bar.
Offering your hand, you introduce yourself. “We spoke on the phone.”
His head leisurely turns, and though they’re hidden behind dark sunglasses, you feel his eyes as they sweep over you before he accepts your outstretched hand.
“You want me to take you into the jungle.”
Glancing down at his hand as it engulfs yours, you can’t tell if he’s asking a question or stating a fact.
Either way, you respond with “Jake said you were the best man for the job.”
Sort of.
[2 DAYS PRIOR]
“Are you crazy?” Jake gawks, “I mean, yes, you’re crazy, but this is like a whole new level for you.”
“I’m not here for your opinion.” You assert, resting your palms on his desk and leaning forward. “I just need someone to take us, someone who knows the area.”
Running a hand through his spiked hair, Jake replies “Look, I know a few guys there but none are gonna buy what you’re selling. Treasure hunters are a dime a dozen in South America.”
“Explorers.” You correct, heaving a sigh. “C’mon, there has to be one guy willing.”
“I’m telling you there’s not.”
Slapping your hands on his desk, you straighten up. “Fine then, we’ll go alone.”
“What?” Jake splutters, “You wouldn’t, you - fuck, you would.” He groans.
Glaring at you for a moment, Jake shakes his head before rummaging through the papers strewn across his desk.
“Do you have any idea how dangerous Ecuador is? Do you know how many explorers die there each year?” He lectures.
“Why do you think I’m here?” You retort.
Muttering under his breath, Jake finds what he’s looking for and meets your unyielding gaze. “I’m not saying he’ll do it, but if you have a chance with anyone, it’s Rogers.”
You grab the small piece of paper Jake holds out to you, but his tight grip stops you from taking it.
“He won’t be cheap.” Jake warns.
“Of course.”
A few seconds pass before he relinquishes the paper to you.
Smiling sweetly, you pocket it. “Thank you Jake.”
Huffing, he gestures to the door. “Go.”
Your smile grows at his exasperated demand - which you quickly obey.
Jake’s voice calls out behind you just as you open his office door.
“Don’t tell Rogers what you’re looking for!”
[PRESENT]
Releasing your hand, Steve pushes up from the bar stool.
You have to tilt your head up and up as you watch him reach his full height.
“That was awfully nice of him.” Steve states dryly, his attention returning to the football game occuring on the television. “You didn’t say why you wanted to go into the jungle.”
Right.
“Well, I’m an -”
A low whistle interrupts you, drawing both your and Steve’s attention.
“Maxwell.” You greet the approaching man, smiling through gritted teeth.
Ignoring you, Max looks Steve up and down before announcing “Perfect, you’re just the kind of brute we need.”
He’s not wrong. Steve Rogers is built like a brick shithouse and most definitely suited for the task at hand.
Stopping beside you, Max extends his hand. “You must be Steve Rogers, I’m Max.”
Giving a small nod, Steve shakes his hand before aptly reminding you both “I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”
You keep your lie brief.
“As I was saying, we’re here to study specific sections of the Amazon rainforest for a thesis I’m working on.”
Throwing an arm around your shoulders, Max helpfully - and truthfully, adds “She’s an archaeologist.”
Steve studies you both, his face expressionless.
Your stomach drops.
He doesn’t believe us.
“You’re treasure hunters.” Steve declares, confirming your fear.
“Actually, we’re explorers.”
Continuing on like you hadn’t spoken, Steve says “And I’m guessing you’re after the treasure of Llanganates.”
“Good guess.”
Sighing at Max's admission, you try again “We’re -”
“Listen,” Steve cuts off. “The jungle and mountain ranges here are no joke, and I’m not risking my life just so you two can come to the same conclusion as every other schmuck that’s gone looking for that treasure, which is that it doesn’t exist.”
Your jaw drops at his words. “I’m no schmuck Mr. Rogers and just because you don't -”
“We’ll pay you well.” Max intervenes, shooting you a wary glance as you glare up at the large man.
Steve places his hands on his hips, his attention still on you while you bite your tongue.
You swear his lips twitch with a smirk.
Asshole.
“How much?” Steve eventually asks, turning his head to Max.
“How much do you want?” Max grins.
Silence falls as Steve mulls over the question.
“Five thousand a day.”
Your jaw drops again. “No way!”
“Done.”
Baffled, you gape at Max. “That’s an insane amount.”
Lifting his arm from your shoulders, he shrugs “This is an insane trip.”
All you can do is stare as Max holds his hand out to Steve once more, stipulating “Five thousand a day for you to take us exactly where we want to go and to keep us from dying horrible deaths.”
Nodding, Steve shakes his hand. “Deal.”
You should feel ecstatic.
“Well then, when do we leave?” Max asks, “We’re currently staying at the Tesoro Inn.”
“First I need to know where we’re going.”
Both men turn to look at you.
Reaching into your jean pocket reluctantly, you pull out the map you outlined the beginning of your expedition on and hand it over to Steve.
Unfolding it, he studies the red line. “It’s incomplete.”
Of course, genius.
“You can see the rest when you get us that far.” Arms crossed, you raise your eyebrows, all but daring him to argue back.
Steve regards you from behind his sunglasses before stating “We’ll meet in front of the inn tomorrow morning at five thirty.” As an afterthought he adds “Make sure you pack light.”
You can’t prove it of course, but you just know he’s directing that last comment at you.
Narrowing your eyes, you’re dragged away by Max before you can utter a scathing response.
Steve’s mouth twitches again.
[THE NEXT DAY]
You stand outside the inn, watching as the sun begins to peek above the horizon.
“So he’s an ass and terrible at keeping time.” You announce in a cheery tone.
Max groans, taking a sip of his coffee.
I suppose after last night he’s probably had enough of me ranting about Steve Rogers.
“Darling, please, just ignore his personality and focus on his good looks.”
You scoff loudly.
“Oh, don’t even try.” Max laughs, “I know how much of a sucker you are for big arms and hands.”
Whatever.
A voice you unfortunately recognise calls out, “Good morning.”
Looking over your shoulder at Steve’s approaching figure, you use the barrier of your sunglasses to properly appraise him for the first time.
Steve’s tall and built, that much you had observed yesterday afternoon.
His hair is dark blond and long, the ends of it curling against the collar of his shirt while some strands fall around his face and over his still present sunglasses. The beard he has is thick and you’ll forcibly admit it’s the best you’ve ever seen.
You weren’t typically one for beards, but he made it work.
Similar to yesterday, Steve wears a long sleeved shirt that’s rolled up to his elbows and khaki military pants held up by a brown belt. Over one shoulder he carries a backpack while a duffel bag hangs from his left hand.
“Mr. Rogers,” You greet with a faux smile. “How nice of you to finally join us.”
Steve grins, coming to a stop in front of you. “Retract those claws kitten, I had to secure our ride.”
As if on cue, the loud rumble of an engine cuts through the peaceful morning air as an old pickup truck comes coasting around the corner, pulling up before you all.
“This must be the new Bentley model,” Max quips good-naturedly.
The older man hanging out of the driver’s window gives a rough laugh. “Ah, un comediante.”
“Solo medio tiempo.” Max retorts, earning another laugh.
Chucking his bags into the bed of the pickup, Steve grabs yours and Max’s off the ground and adds them to the pile. Twisting back to you, Steve extends a hand for the satchel slung across your body.
You shake your head, grasping tightly at the brown leather strap.
He raises an eyebrow but makes no further comment, instead gesturing to the bed of the pickup. “Alright you two, hop in.”
While you and Max climb into the back, Steve rounds the pickup and gets in the passenger side.
Max knocks twice on the back of the cab once you’re both seated and the pickup rolls forward with a loud bang, rocking the two of you sideways.
Resting a heavy arm around your shoulders for stability as you each sway with the motion of the pickup on the dirt road, Max states “I love riding in the bed of trucks, reminds me of -”
“Arizona.” You finish with a soft smile.
“Yep,” Max pops the p. “Where we found nothing but rock.”
“And got burnt to a crisp for our efforts.” You recall, looking up at him as he laughs.
“Let’s pray this expedition proves more fruitful.”
“It will.” You answer without a second thought, clutching your satchel again. “This time is different.”
Arizona had been a spur of the moment idea, something to do for fun and experience - nothing more. There’d been no prior research, no maps, no coordinates.
Humming, Max leans forward and grabs the rolled up sleeping bag from his backpack, placing it between the cab and his head before closing his eyes. “Tell me about it again.”
Settling against his chest, you recite the story you know by heart.
“In 1532, Spanish conquistadores captured an Inca Emperor named Atahualpa who promised them a room full of gold and twice as much silver in exchange for his life. The conquistadores agreed and soon treasures from across the region were being brought to them. However, the conquistadores’ fear of a re-energised Inca military led them to kill the Emperor before the ransom was fulfilled.”
“An Inca General named Rumiñahui had been en route with an enormous amount of treasure for the Emperor’s ransom when he learnt that Atahualpa had been killed. In response, Rumiñahui ordered his men to take the ransom into the uninhabited land of Llanganates and hide it.”
"Rumiñahui continued to haul even more gold, silver, jewels, and Inca artefacts to hide in Llanganates until he was captured by the Spanish. They tortured him for the treasure’s location, but he refused to tell them.”
“He’s a better man than me,” Max mumbles.
“In 1603, a Spaniard named Valverde married an Inca woman and claimed that her family showed him the treasure. Before his death, he wrote out the treasure’s location and even drew a map to guide others to it.”
“People have used and improved Valverde’s map for centuries trying to find the treasure, and the last person to have claimed finding it was Barth Blake in 1886. In a letter he detailed his discovery of gold, silver, emeralds, and other treasures, and stated that he, nor a thousand men could remove all that he had found.”
“So in over a century no-one has claimed to have found even a piece of the treasure?” Max questions, opening his eyes and looking down at you.
Lifting your head from his chest, you shake it. “Plenty have tried. A man named Mark Honigsbaum wrote a book in 2004 about his attempt. He concluded that either the Incans retrieved the treasure centuries ago or it’s been lost forever in the mountains.”
“You believe it’s still in the mountains, right?”
“Yes, in its original hiding spot, just not where it’s marked on Valverde’s map.”
Max huffs, “Why can’t they just say ‘go to this place, here’s the treasure, spend it wisely’?”
You chuckle, but both you and Max know you don’t - can’t agree with his sentiment.
Finding the location of this treasure has been your sole purpose for years. You’ve lived and breathed this lost piece of history for so long that you almost felt a part of it.
To be able to find something that you couldn’t simply be given a map to was everything to you. You’ve earned the coordinates sitting in your satchel through your own hard work and time - so much time.
Succeeding at this would be your life’s greatest achievement.
As well as your greatest honour. The artefacts, like tiles from the Temple of the Sun, stowed away with that gold and silver were invaluable pieces of lost Inca culture that deserved to be returned to the people and shared with the world.
“How much is it all worth?” Max asks with a whimsical smile.
Sighing, you give him the answer he already knows, but just likes hearing. “Thirty-seven billion dollars, at least. However its historical significance is priceless."
Max squeezes his arm around your shoulders, pulling you even further into his side. "Well seeing how you’re in it for the history, I guess you’ll have no qualms with me taking ninety percent.”
“Ninety?” You repeat, shocked. “That’s generous of you, I expected you to take at least ninety-nine.”
Pressing his mouth to the top of your head with a loud smack, Max states “You underestimate my love for you.”
[SOME HOURS LATER]
“Looks like we’ve reached the end of the road.” Max announces once the pickup has slowed to a stop.
You wouldn’t exactly call what you’ve been driving on for the past few hours ‘road’.
A door creaks open before being slammed shut.
“Alright kids,” Steve appears to your right, reaching for the bags. “This is our stop.”
Your legs wobble when you stand and your ass is completely numb from sitting so long.
Gingerly, you lower yourself out of the back of the pickup and walk over to Steve, Max ambling behind you.
Collecting your backpack off the ground, you straighten up as the pickup rolls forward with its signature loud bang and makes a u-turn.
“Buena suerte!” The driver calls out as he passes, raising a hand.
“Gracias!” You and Max return, waving back.
Sliding your sunglasses up onto your head, you turn around to face the famed Amazon rainforest and take a deep breath.
This is it.
“Please, after you.” Max smiles at Steve, sweeping his arm out towards the mass of green.
Dutifully, Steve pulls out a machete from the holder around his thigh and steps forward into the awaiting wilderness.
[SOME HOURS LATER]
The first few hours of the trek are completed in silence.
You listen to the soundtrack of the Amazon, admiring the nature around you while getting tripped up by it more often than not.
It’s thick - and humbling.
There are trees that stretch up so high they must almost touch the sky, and their trunks are so wide that you can see nothing else when standing in front of them.
Unfortunately, none of it can distract you from the heat.
The humidity is like nothing you’ve ever experienced and the sun isn’t even at its highest point yet - not that you can see it.
You removed your long sleeved shirt a while ago, stuffing it into your backpack with your sunglasses. This left you in a dark green tank top and brown hiking pants.
“We’ll take a break here.” Steve declares, breaking the long silence.
Pushing your backpack off your shoulders, you take a seat on it and pull out your water bottle, taking a greedy gulp.
“I miss the truck.” Max sighs forlornly, collapsing beside you.
His skin is shiny with sweat, just like yours.
You pat his back sympathetically.
“I thought you were looking for the treasure of Llanganates.” Steve says suddenly, sitting on a fallen tree across from the two of you.
You think it’s a question, but his tone makes it sound like a statement.
He likes doing that.
“We are.” You retort.
“Your map doesn’t follow Valverde’s.”
Surprised, your eyebrows rise. “You’re familiar with Valverde’s map?”
“Do you really think you two are the first I’ve taken on this wild goose chase?”
Raising your chin defiantly, you assert “We’ll be the first to find it.”
Steve smiles at your confidence. “Guess we’ll just have to wait and see kitten, but I’ll keep my bet on you going home empty-handed.”
“Oh, I like a good bet, what are we waging?” Max pipes in.
You roll your eyes while Steve’s sunglasses continue to hide his.
After a moment your guide decides “If we find the treasure, my services will be rendered free.”
Max scoffs a laugh “How kind, and what percentage of the treasure will you be asking for?”
Steve smirks, “Nothing absurd, just one percent.”
Which would only work out to about three hundred and seventy million dollars.
Yeah, nothing absurd.
To Max, it’s a bargain.
“I knew I liked you for a reason." He grins, picking himself up and walking over to Steve to shake on their bet.
“When we find the treasure we will be donating it.” You deadpan.
“Ignore her.” Resting his hands on his hips, Max says “She doesn’t understand greed like the rest of us simpletons.”
Steve hums in agreement, “You’ve got finder’s fee written all over you kitten.”
“Would you not call me that?” You glare.
His mouth twitches.
“I thought it was fitting.” Max mumbles from where he stands.
“And yes Mr. Rogers, we will be donating the treasure and accepting whatever finder’s fee we’re offered.”
Standing up, you place your backpack on, deciding for the group that the rest period is over.
As you stride away, you hear Max mutter to Steve “Don’t worry, we can fill our bags with goodies before the museum stiffs show up.”
[THAT NIGHT]
You sit in front of the small campfire Steve built earlier as a light source.
Heat isn’t something you’re in short supply of.
Max is lying in his sleeping bag on the ground beside you while Steve sits across from you both, on the other side of the fire.
He’s finally removed his sunglasses, but the night hides Steve’s eyes just as well as his shades. Instead of colour, all you see in his eyes is the reflection of the flickering flames between you.
“I was thinking -”
“Uh-oh.”
“Shut up.” Max sighs, lifting his hand to slap your closest arm. “I was thinking about what you said about that Blake guy, the one who wrote the letter saying he found the treasure.”
“Hmm?” You prompt.
“Well, it sounded like he really found it, so why didn’t he take it?”
“Blake took what he could carry, planning on -”
“Returning with more men and supplies to retrieve the rest, but on his way to New York from Ecuador he disappeared overboard. Most believe he was deliberately pushed to keep the treasure safe.”
Your head snaps towards Steve and he smirks at your reaction.
“Once again, not my first goose chase kitten.”
You’re about to tell him once again not to call you that, but Max speaks first, clearly trying to avoid another back and forth.
“What’s your deal anyway? How’d you end up in this hot ass country?”
Steve’s smirk fades as he shrugs, his expression hardening.
You side-eye Max.
Good one idiot.
“There’s not much to it.” Steve states. “I used to be in the military, now I’m not. Now I choose what jobs I do, which is usually anything that pays well.”
The fire crackles.
“What about you two?” Steve retorts. “Rich kids with nothing better to do? I can’t tell if you’re related or dating -”
“Ew.” You groan, pulling a face.
“We are not related, nor are we dating.” Max informs.
“And he’s the rich kid.” You add, gesturing down at Max.
“Yep, she just mooches off of me and I mooch off my dad.”
That earns a chuckle from Steve.
“His dad is the director of one of the most respected museums in the world.” You elaborate. “I interned there while completing my degree, which is how we met.”
It’s hard to believe that was almost three years ago. When you first met Max you certainly had no idea how important he’d become in your life.
You’ll never forget the first thing he ever said to you.
“So, do you consciously dress yourself like Rachel Weisz in ‘The Mummy’ or is that just an odd coincidence?”
[THE NEXT DAY]
“I take back my complaints about the jungle.” Max mutters, observing the swamp.
Midday has just passed and so has the first and shortest section of your expedition - the rainforest.
Now the wetland awaits you all. You estimate that it’ll take roughly three days to get through.
Three days of mud, stench, and the feeling of being constantly wet.
“Staring at it isn’t gonna get us through it any faster.” Steve asserts, taking the first step into the green water.
Everyone has tucked the ends of their pants into their thick socks to try and limit as much contact with the water as possible.
You follow after Steve, Max trailing behind you with a reluctant sigh.
It’s slow-going, trying to avoid branches and rocks hidden beneath the water’s surface that Steve finds with the long stick in his hand. The same stick he uses to avoid deceivingly deep puddles.
However, you soon miss the relative easiness of trekking through the water once you’ve reached the mud.
Loud suction sounds are all that can be heard as the three of you trudge through the mud that swallows your feet and then some with every step, a dark line on your pants indicating the highest it’s reached - halfway up your calves.
It takes all of your strength to free yourself, just so you can do it all over again.
“My legs are going to be ripped after this.” Max pants.
You can only huff a breath in response, too focused on pulling your feet from the mud. The suction is so strong you’re worried you might lose a boot - or two.
It also doesn’t help that your backpack feels like it’s full of bricks.
“Oh thank god, solid ground.” Max announces gratefully.
You look up - not to see if he’s telling the truth, but to see why he sounds so far away.
Wasn’t he just beside me?
“Shit.” You mutter to yourself.
Both men have made better progress than you. Max has spotted the solid ground because Steve now stands on it.
Staring back down at your engulfed feet, you grit your teeth and use every bit of strength you have left to try and quicken your pace. Every hour of daylight was precious and there wasn’t much left of today’s.
Maybe it’s their longer legs or strength - Max isn’t that much stronger than me, or maybe their backpacks simply don’t weigh a million tonnes -
God my legs are burning.
Then suddenly, it’s like a weight is lifted.
Because it is.
Your backpack is pulled from your shoulders before Steve places it over his own, his bags deserted on the hard ground ahead.
“Oh.” You squeak, startled by his presence. “Uh, thank you - wait, what - put me down!” You demand as you’re lifted from the mud with an echoing pop.
Steve’s hands grasp your hips as he pulls you out with what seems to be little effort, his arms bulging with the action. Then you’re upside down, thrown over one of his broad shoulders.
“Are you a caveman? You can’t just manhandle me!” You protest, affronted.
You brace your hands on his lower back, trying to hold yourself up so your face doesn’t bump into his back.
Is he just all muscle?
He’s rock solid underneath your hands.
Steve chuckles, “I just did kitten.”
“Would you -”
“Time is valuable out here, we can’t wait around for you to finish playing in the mud.”
Glaring at the mud beneath you, you insist “Put me down or I’ll fire you.”
It’s a very weak threat since you and Max kind of need him, but it’s all you’ve got.
Also… maybe you kind of don’t want him to put you down.
Maybe.
Another chuckle. “You didn’t hire me, nor are you the one paying me.”
“You know what -”
“Quit whining!” Max calls out, sounding close. “I told him to go get you, I want out of here.”
“See? I’m just doing what the boss asked.”
“How noble of you Mr. Rogers.” You mumble.
“Well it’s a nice change of scenery kitten.”
It takes a moment for you to understand his meaning, but it’s obvious when you do, your sharp inhale of air audible as you open your mouth to tell him to go -
You squeak again as you’re abruptly dropped onto your feet.
“And stop with the Mr. Rogers talk.” Steve says, shrugging off your backpack and hooking it over your left shoulder before you can snatch it from him.
Dropping his head so that he’s looking into your eyes - his are still hidden behind those damn sunglasses, Steve purrs “But if you insist on being so formal, sir will do just fine.”
Your mouth falls open and Steve moves out of the way with a chuckle when you attempt to swing your backpack at him.
The absolute -
Max appears beside you and grabs your arm lightly, urging you forward as Steve continues trekking ahead.
“Please remember we need him alive.” Max implores.
[THAT NIGHT]
“Now will you admit to me that he’s hot?”
“Shut up.” You snap at Max, shooting him a glare.
“Just look at his -”
Covering his mouth with your hand, you raise your eyebrows in warning.
You’re sitting on a log in front of the campfire not admiring Steve in the distance, illuminated by the torch on the ground beside him as he changes shirts for the night and -
Max snorts against your hand, making you drop it as your gaze quickly shifts to the fire while Steve changes into a different pair of pants.
Can’t he do that somewhere more private?
“Oh darling, you’d love his thighs, have a look -”
“Would you shut up?” You hiss.
“Too bad it’s dark,” Max carries on. “I can’t really see what his underwear is hiding - ow!”
Whack. “Shut.” Whack. “Up.” Whack.
“Alright, alright.” He surrenders, rubbing his arm. “Jesus, you’re in one of your violent moods today.”
Then, as if he can’t resist - because he can’t, Max smirks “Unlike Harry, I bet he’d actually know how to -”
“Oh my god -”
“Who’s Harry?”
You jump at the sound of Steve’s voice and your hand freezes midair, interrupted on its way to hit Max again.
“No one.”
“Her ex.”
I will murder you before sunrise - that’s what the look you direct at Max promises.
Steve hums, taking a seat on the other side of the fire. “And what didn’t he know how to do?”
His smirk tells you he’s already assumed.
I want to die.
No.
I want them to die.
“Cook.” You declare, glaring at him. “He didn’t know how to cook.”
“Was terrible at it,” Max reinforces with a sad tone.
You have to refrain from rolling your eyes.
“That’s a shame.” Steve states in his deep voice, a hint of laughter detectable in it. “Every man should know how to cook.”
“I wouldn’t call him much of a man.” Max inputs.
Fucking hell.
The comment is probably a little harsh, but Max is your best friend.
Harry had been your first and last attempt at a relationship. He’d been nice enough but… well, that was it really. Just nice, tolerable… passionless. You’d stick to the fictional men in your romance novels.
“Can you cook Steve?” Max asks, as casual as ever.
You turn to him with wide eyes.
“I’m a great cook.” You can clearly hear the laughter in Steve’s voice now.
“Of course you’d think that.” You jab, looking from Max to him.
Steve meets your irritated gaze over the fire with a smirk. “I’ve never had any complaints.”
“Well,” You shrug, biting back “Doesn’t mean they walked away satisfied.”
“I wouldn’t say they walked.”
Max chortles next to you, choking on his own spit while heat floods your face and neck.
“Okay.” Standing abruptly, you state “I’m going to bed.”
Their laughter follows you all the way to your sleeping bag.
[TWO DAYS LATER]
“I smell so bad.”
“I’m glad you said it.”
“Oh, because you smell so much better.” You mock, eyeing Max.
The wetland has been punishing. You’re covered in mud, bug bites, and drenched in your own sweat - not to mention every part of your body aches. It’s unpleasant, to say the least.
In an attempt to distract yourself, you decide to tell Max some more historical fun facts.
Well, they’re fun to you.
“You know, Valverde drew the map to the treasure before his death because he wanted to give it as a gift to the King of Spain.” You begin, “The King sent out an expedition to find the treasure but -”
“They were unsuccessful - obviously, and the friar that was accompanying them died in a swamp.” Steve gazes around, “Possibly this one.”
You purse your lips at his interruption, but can’t find it within yourself to be annoyed.
“Also,” You try again, addressing Max. “The Spanish conquistadors would constantly dig up large quantities of platinum while searching for gold and while we know platinum to be more valuable than gold -”
“They dismissed it as junk because being so rare, they didn’t know what it was. All they knew was that it wasn’t gold, so they would dump it as scrap.” Steve concludes, his shade covered eyes looking over at you.
“They threw away one of the rarest and most precious metals on Earth because their lust for gold, something that only had value because they gave it value, blinded them to the true, unique treasure right in front of them.”
It feels like the air has been knocked out of your lungs.
Forcing a huff, you feebly respond “Would you stop that?”
“Stop what?” Steve smirks.
That damn, all-knowing smirk.
“Knowing… things.”
Wow, good one. You really got him.
Steve’s smirk widens into a grin. “Why kitten? You like it when I talk smart?”
Yes, it makes me want to climb you like a tree.
“No, I just prefer not being interrupted.”
“Someone please correct me if I’m wrong.” Max pipes up, “But is this hellhole about to end?”
You gaze ahead and see that Max hasn’t gone mad. The wetland is indeed about to end.
“We’ll set up camp on the outskirts of the swamp.” Steve directs, glancing at his watch. “Tomorrow we’ll head into the grasslands, there’s a lake on our path that we should reach by the afternoon.”
[THE NEXT AFTERNOON]
“It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” Max sighs lovingly, admiring the lake. “I dibs using it first.”
You shrug, “Whatever.”
After three days covered in filth, what harm could waiting an hour or so longer do?
Besides, you wanted to take your sweet, sweet time.
Leaving Max at the lake, you and Steve trek up over a small hill beside it. There’s a few trees here, but they’re slim and spaced out, unlike in the rainforest.
Steve selects a spot at the bottom of the hill to set up camp, giving anyone using the lake some privacy.
Max wanders down a little while later, after everything has been set up and a small fire is burning steadily.
You tell Steve he can go next and he’s quick to rise.
It feels like you wait an eternity, but you know it’s just your eagerness to be clean that drags the time out.
The moment you spot Steve coming over the hill you’re on your feet, heading for the lake.
At the lakeside you remove your clothes, leaving your bra and underwear on. You soak your clothes first, scrubbing them clean before laying them out over the rocks around the lake to soak up the afternoon sun.
Finally, you delve into the lake’s cool waters.
You don’t rush, taking the time to rub every part of yourself spotless. Afterwards you lie on your back and float around the lake.
When your face starts to feel too hot from the sun, you submerge yourself underneath the water and hold your breath for as long as you can before coming back up.
Breaking the surface of the water, you keep your eyes shut while you run a hand over your face, removing the excess water.
When you open them again, you flinch.
“Do you mind?” You all but shriek at Steve who’s sitting on a large boulder at the lakeside, watching you.
He smirks, “Not at all.”
Glaring at him, you hiss “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
One of these days I’m going to kill him.
Swimming up to the edge of the lake, you keep everything below your neck underwater.
“Well, pass me my towel.” You snap.
Steve raises an eyebrow and it’s only then that you realise he’s not wearing his sunglasses.
Blue.
His eyes are blue.
You’re too far away to see any great detail though.
Steve raises his other eyebrow, bringing you back to reality and making your teeth grind.
“Please.”
Leisurely, Steve reaches for your towel behind him on the boulder and holds it out to you, as far as his arm will extend.
“Are you serious?” You ask, exasperated.
He shrugs, “I’m afraid it’s the best I can do kitten.”
Groaning, you bite out “Fine, close your eyes.”
A moment passes before he eventually does as you demanded, his eyes shutting.
“No peeking.” You enforce, squinting at him.
When you’re certain he can’t see anything, you rise out of the water and quickly approach him.
The second your hand grips the towel Steve tugs on it, sending you toppling onto him.
You fall face first into his solid chest while your hands scramble for purchase to push yourself back.
“What are you -”
The words die in your throat when you feel his warm, rough hands grasp your waist and spin you around, bringing you down to sit on his lap.
“Let me help you.” Steve husks into your ear, his beard pleasantly scratching at your skin.
His right hand presses against your bare stomach, holding you in place while his other hand picks up your towel again, swiping it over your left arm.
You open your mouth to object, but then his right hand is gliding up your wet skin to lightly wrap around your neck, tilting your head backwards so he can move the towel over your chest.
Any fight you might have had leaves your body in a giant whoosh, his touch turning you to jelly.
“There you go,” Steve coo’s. “It’s not healthy to always be so tense kitten.”
Fuck you.
That’s what you want to tell him, but instead you whimper as he suddenly drags the towel down and over your underwear.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
Since you pleasured yourself? Yes. Since you had a man touch you? Even more of a yes.
But he hadn’t made you feel anything close to this.
“That’s okay.” Steve whispers, as if you had answered. “I’ll take care of you, it’s what I’m getting paid for.”
Abandoning the towel, his fingers dip behind the band of your underwear and you’re almost panting in excitement.
He’s so… big around you, caging you in and overriding your senses.
“Poor kitten,” Steve teases, dragging two of his fingers along your slick folds. “Just dripping for me, huh?”
You want to punch him so badly you -
“Oh.” You can’t help but moan as his thumb presses on your clit, lightly circling it.
Instinctively, your thighs squeeze together and both of your hands wrap around his wrist to stop the action.
You’re embarrassed by how sensitive you are.
It has been a while.
Steve hushes you, “I know, I know.” Using his left hand to pry your thighs apart, he begins circling your clit again. “Just relax, I got you.”
His words seem to have a pull over you, as your body instantly relaxes in his hold.
With your body pliant, Steve’s fingers dip down further and slowly push into you - first one, then two.
Your hips eagerly lift to meet his hand.
“Good girl, fuck yourself on my fingers.” The vulgar sentence sets your face on fire while also making you clench around his digits with a gasp.
How the hell does he know just what to say?
It’s like he’s read one of your books.
Steve’s fingers start to push into you faster and a bit rougher as his thumb continues circling your clit.
Your stomach tenses, the coil within you already about to snap and god you want it, you want it so bad, so, so bad -
“Please.” You mumble, not recognising your own voice. It’s so airy and desperate. “Please let me come.”
Steve releases a guttural groan beside your ear, the sound rumbling against your back while his arousal pokes at your ass.
His thumb quickens on your clit as his fingers keep pumping into you, nudging just a bit more before -
You moan loudly when he hits the sweet spot inside you.
Steve’s warm breath tickles your cheek. “Come for me baby, make a mess on my fingers.”
Crying out, you whine Steve’s name as your orgasm collides with you.
It’s like the blood in your veins is replaced with fire, your body intoxicatingly hot as you jerk in Steve’s hold, riding out your high on his still moving fingers.
Steve’s murmuring in your ear, but it’s all white noise as you come back to yourself.
“Fuck.” You whisper when you feel a little less lightheaded.
Removing his hand from beneath your underwear, Steve raises his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean. You watch him, mouth slightly ajar.
“How was that kitten? Was it good?” Steve asks once he’s finished, his blue eyes shining down at you.
They’re a light blue - baby blue. At first you think they’re pure blue, but then you see just a flicker of green within them. Somehow it makes them even prettier.
It’s a shame he’s always hiding them away.
“Very.” You breathe out honestly, your mind still muddled.
Steve grins and lowers to brush his mouth over your cheek, the feeling of his beard making you shiver. “The chef appreciates your compliment.” He teases.
Drawing the connection back to that night days before brings you out of your orgasm-induced stupor and kicks your brain into gear.
What the hell did I just do?
Pulling yourself from Steve, you stand - your thighs still shaking a little, and snatch your towel off the ground. Wrapping it around yourself, you collect your clothes from the nearby rocks.
When you turn back you find Steve still sitting in the exact same spot, contently watching you with a lazy smirk, like nothing’s out of the ordinary - like there isn’t a large tent in his pants.
Your core throbs at the sight and you quickly look away.
Marching past him, you don’t respond when Steve calls out “I’ll be up soon kitten, I just gotta wash some of my clothes.”
The smile in his tone is obvious.
Heading for camp, you try to process what just happened.
Did I really just let Steve finger me?
“Oh god, Max.” You groan, dreading his reaction.
Just act natural, he won’t know if -
“Hello there, you took your - wait.” His eyes narrow.
To avoid looking at him you begin drying yourself and re-dressing.
“What?” You ask, trying to sound casual.
Max strides over to you and grabs your chin, forcing you to face him.
“No. Way.”
How the hell -
“Did you fuck Steve?” Max whisper-shouts, his brown eyes wide with excitement.
“No!” You respond in the same tone.
“Then what -”
Gesturing for him to be quiet, you check your surroundings before answering “Look, he just… gave me a helping hand, alright?”
It was less painful to just tell him, otherwise he’d never drop the subject.
“Did he ask for a helping hand back?”
So damn nosy.
“No.” You sigh, exasperated.
Max grins, “I knew he’d be good to you.”
Squinting at him, you retort “What does that mean?”
“Nothing.” Waving you off, he sits back down by the fire. “Was he good at it?”
Looking over your shoulder again to make sure Steve hadn’t snuck up, you quickly answer “He was great at it, now can we please forget this ever happened?”
Max lets out a chuckle while you finish zipping up your pants. “Good luck with that darling, you can’t exactly avoid him out here.”
Fuck.
What were you thinking?
You were supposed to be searching for lost treasure - the find of the century, not getting some from your guide who you literally cannot escape from until this is all over.
A guide who is going to be unbearable after this, as if he isn’t already.
Dropping your head into your hands, you let out a pained whine.
wow, i absolutely adored this!! the tension you built between steve and reader, and their chemistry don’t even get me started!!!!! i was giggling, grinning, biting my pinky like an idiot oh my goddddd
i love love LOVE when writers make steve a menace and he was just so scrumptious here
Steve grins, coming to a stop in front of you. “Retract those claws kitten, I had to secure our ride.”
reader’s better than me bc i would’ve melted right there and then oh my lawwwddd
AND THIS!!
“Well,” You shrug, biting back “Doesn’t mean they walked away satisfied.”
“I wouldn’t say they walked.”
I NEED HIM I NEED HIM I NEED HIMMMM PUHLEASSEEEEEEE
and i adored the whole thing about his eyes always being hidden behind sunglasses or obscured in the dark, for the reader to finally see their beautiful blue near the end!! and all the lore you built about the treasure - i didn’t want it to end!!! did they find it?? did reader and steve get together again?? ahhhh i’ll be thinking about this for a while 🙂↕️🙂↕️
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heyyy i loveveveveve your fics and ur theme ohmagosh but i wanted to ask how you made your animated icons + the theme post w the polaroids??? it's sooo cute beyond my mind 🥹🥹
aaaaaa thank you so much angel!!! i really love this theme so it always makes me so happy to hear that others like it too!! <33
as for how i made the animated polaroids, it’s actually pretty simple though does require canva pro (i think!). i also got an ask a few months ago about how i made a previous theme of mine and the process is pretty similar, and explains how i made a previous header (though no gifs used) so to refrain from repeating myself about header proportions and some elements used i thought i’d also attach that here!
but to make the “animated” gifs/icons/headers, you just get the gifs you want to use, and then upload it into canva. from there, you can search the canva elements for things like polaroid frames or whatever else you’d like to be in your header/icon (pinterest is a great place to find things too!)
then just arrange everything however you’d like, like cropping the gifs to fit inside the polaroid frame. once you’re done, download it from canva - make sure to select the gif option (or it won’t be animated!!), and transparent background.
then you can just upload it to tumblr how you would a normal photo on a post, or the normal way you’d change your header 🤍
sorry i always say i feel like i’m rubbish at explaining things, so if it any point you try this and get stuck on something specific, feel free to come back and ask again!! 🥰
it’s so bad we’re making theories to try to figure out how this isn’t actually steve steve.
marvel got steve’s return so bad that after years of us begging them to bring him back, we’re now desperately trying to figure out how it’s not actually him. i hate it here
I know Steve Rogers fucks like crazzzyyyyy. This boy scout act isn’t fooling anybody this soldiers slinging an absolute monster in that suit. The type of dick that you can hardly take even after he’s got his fingers pistoning into your soaked cunt, his soft lilting tone juxtaposing the brutal pace of his palm slapping against your clit, “That’s it, sweetheart, open up for me,” while you’re crying and writhing on the sheets over a few fingers curling up into you. There’s a bit of length you can’t take even when he’s fully seated inside of you, pushing as far as your little cunt will allow, swallowing down the aching sons that crack through your chest whenever he budges forward, tip knocking against your cervix with a painful twinge. Thick body hunched over you, arms closed around your head to keep you steady, chest rising and falling against him, trying so desperately to arch off the mattress when he starts a slow in and out rhythm, top of his thighs slapping against the back of yours. You writhe with each sheath, feeling the snug ridge of every vein and curve of his cock massaging your insides, “Doing so good, got my girl stuffed full, hm?” Your muscles spasm when he starts speeding up, grappling with your kicking legs, “Sh-sh, gotta get used to it. Don’t want you hurting yourself, yeah?” Has to physically maneuver your body when you won’t quit moving around, face contorted into mindless pleasure, thoughts spilling from your ears when he grapples with your body to lift you entirely up and down on his own, fucking into you like some kind of fuck doll, legs hanging and bobbing in the crease of his elbows, bouncing you up and down onto his cock, splitting you open while you cry and babble helplessly, “Almost there, see? Mm—just needed some help. Too much for my girl to take all on her own.”
⸝⸝ 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 might be a wanted man, but he’s good down to the marrow.
“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
please have a seat bc BOY DO I HAVE WORDS FOR YOUUUUUUU
the whole set up was playing in my head like a movie, with morgan freeman as the narrator, but I digress:
Your heart, unfortunately, had never shown much interest in good men.
guilty as charged I want 'em BAAAAAAAD
The chair complains beneath the size of him
pussy drooling already at this big man that I know is Steve bc you gave me insider information
“Good girl,” he drawls, “prettiest damn thing I’ve seen in weeks.”
sir you do not know what beast you're awakening
“Fine,” he concedes. “Train was delayed ‘cause I robbed it.”
why is he always in trouble in every universe bro, I know you guardian angel is fucking TIRED
“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?”
did I say pussy wet already? pussy WETTER
“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?”
not the call coming from inside the house so are we
YES I DID MISS YOU SOMETHING AWFUL STEVE PLEASEEEEE
the entire smut had me trying my hardest not to fucking whimper at work, bro.
“Missed your tight cunt so bad I damn near wore out my own fist thinkin’ about it.”
it's making my pussy lips tingle
you're saving me from telling a patient to go fuck off rn
The filthy praise goes straight to your cunt,
YES IT DOES. WITCH!!!!
I understand the why he pulled out buck fuck me Steve STOP WASTING IT
Your bad man, making sure no worse men can get in.
this actually made me go "aw no!" at work and my coworker asked what was wrong
"kid" and its a 200lbs man that I want to put me through a wall
I mean what
“Steady hands is all I need from you”
when you ask him if he's an ass or a tits guy and he says this so now its three things you can't give him (please understand my TikTok reference)
Steve almost dying literally every time like bro, again, I hope you're paying your guardian angel a good salary
And what exactly has Rogers told you about how I treat a lady, darlin’?”
hmmmm idk I think you should show me
“Pretty thing like you pointin’ a gun at me ain’t a picture a man forgets easy.”
I have an idea but everyone's gonna have to keep an open mind here....
CONDESCENDING STEVE CONDESCENDING STEVE CONDESCENDING STE— I've melted into a puddle of cum
“I am resting,” he counters. “You’re the one making all that noise.”
HELLO? YOU'RE CAUSING IT
“I’m fine, pretty girl, promise. Just need your hand on my cock. Need my girl to make it better.”
?!?!?????!!!!!?!?!??!?!?????!!!!!
“Romantic bastard,” he scoffs into the dark.
sure???????????????
“You are pale enough to haunt this house, Steve Rogers. Sit still.”
white boy come homeeeeee, lets go to Ulta and get Steve loving tan shade dark 2h express tanning mousse
I love reader just absolutely snapping at them when shit gets real I'm sorry it's not all swag you idiots
AHHHHHHHHHHH THE VOICE THE VOICE IS NOT BEHIND YOU MAMA THAT'S BUCKYYYYYYY
Steve coaching bucky through eating you out oh my fucking god I'm gonna cu—
BOYFRIENDS KISSING BOYFRIENDS KISSING AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH I NEED IT
pay gorn ily
how many times have I said that I love the concept of bucky controlling how fast I suck Steve off and being kinda mean? too many?
“Keep choking me like that and I’m gonna paint this pretty back with my come.”
PLEASEEEEEEUHHHHHHHH I CAME
Wanted men they may be, but they’re the best men you have ever known.
in my head they're gonna meet me at the safe house and then double creampie me its fine!!!!! we're fine!!!!!!
FRAN I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!! this reblog made me whole entire week, month, year, i was smiling so goofy at all your reactions.
no bc steve’s poor guardian angel fr fr that man js always in trouble take a damn break bro. but i fear his angel might’ve taken a shift off at the end…
BUT YES CONDESCENDING STEVE THATS MY MANNNNNNNNNNN I LOVE HIM SO SO SO MUCHHHHH
⸝⸝ 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 might be a wanted man, but he’s good down to the marrow.
“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
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Babes I’m feeling just as upset with Steve’s revelation in the trailers. It’s so bleak and his character is also giving bleak, ‘here, damn’ and just adding him because of how much everyone just misses the og avengers but at this point why not apply some effort in costume, makeup, and such… that close up, and well his sudden ‘miracle’ appearance, didn’t do much for me and many others from what I’ve seen. Granted, he was revealed to come back a while ago but still, hearing a seeing a couple of the ogs reuniting wasn’t as buzzy as I thought.
I am very much still obviously going to watch the film because I am a marvel fanatic through and through, but a lot of the scenes in the trailer is giving green screen special effects slop that will definitely have me cringing ugh idk I wasn’t expecting much but I also wasn’t expecting slop lol.
Thunderbolt group looked great, minus bucky’s terrible wig, and Sam looked amazing xx
Still very excited to watch for f4, shuri, and any other characters that might spontaneously appear🤭
pleasee literally "here, damn" is the perfect way to describe it MY GOD. literally 0 effort, pure nostalgia bait slop.
like marvel has got this man looking so bad that everyone’s crashing out, in full detective mode trying to convince themselves it can’t actually be "our" steve. suddenly it’s hydra cap, or loki as cap, or some alternate universe fuckery. and people are out here building full beautiful, intricate theories about why he looks so off and why that must mean something…
and don't get me wrong, i really want to believe that so badly, but also i will cry laughing (whilst also being filled with immeasurable rage) when come december that, no it is just steve, and the reason he looks so bad is because marvel are lazy and allergic to a wig that fits (side-eying bucky's hairline heavily too).
i would genuinely love to be proved wrong - please marvel, make me eat my words. i'd do it gladly. but rn i fear the much simpler answer is that they forgot my man is meant to be blond 😔💔
other than that, icl, i'm a fake marvel fan bc i don't care for f4, x-men, or a lot of the extra cast. god forbid a girl wants avengers in her avengers film rather than a film so stacked full of literally everybody ever that noone's gonna get more than 2 mins screen time. sorry i'm just mad and bitter rn 😭 but my stupid ass will still be in that cinema in 5 months time. can't wait to crash out with you all further then!!!!
Have we not, as steve rogers defenders, suffered enough????? They want any excuse to ruin his character more I CANNOT ANYMORE 💔
literally!!!! like there's me in every fic always gushing over steve's blond locks (mind you i don't even like blond men irl!!), just for marvel to brunet-ify him. OH!
genuinely just write a new character atp, rather than bringing back characters for nostalgia bait even though you can't be bothered to put in an ounce of effort to understand why we fell in love with those characters in the first place. after endgame it was clear marvel don't really care for steve rogers' character, and it took me a while to "get over" that (like i actually couldn't consume anything marvel related for a while, I WAS SO MAD!!!). and this is just pissing me off all over again BEACUASE WHAT ARE WE DOINGGGGG. urghhh get us in the writing room pleaseee
Summary: The rules are simple: stay on your side of the street. Until one night you meet a boy. As tensions rise between rival gangs, two lovers dare to ask a simple question. Can happy endings exist in a war zone?
PSA (Pink Service Announcement): hello!!! west side story is so near and dear to my heart I can only hope I did it justice. Readers character is a departure from Maria in the sense that she is not explicitly stated to be Latina, since I'm not Latina I didn't feel it was my place to write a reader who is. Her race and where he family immigrated from is left entirely ambiguous, and for the sake of the story, so is Vision's. I also changed the ending bc Maria's last monologue is perfect and im not gonna play with that.
Warnings: Young love!!!!! everyone is an adult but like 18-19 they are babies!!!! Purposely saccharine sweet, reader is naive/romantic, angst, guns, knives, fist fight, angst, like seriously angst, hot and heavy make-out, lots of kissing, mild smut, fem! Recieving oral, fingering, unprotected p in v, loss of virginity, loss of innocence
Word Count: 12.7k
DT: my darling Maddie bo baddie @epiphanyrogers my sweet friend I cannot thank you enough for letting me apart of this beautiful collab, and for humoring my insanity at every turn. Being apart of this talented group has been such a blast. my darling paul @superbassbuck thank you for reading this!!!! your feedback helped so much and I can only hope to live up to your belief in me. also thank you for the smut. It’s not quite the innocence kink we dreamt of it but I think it suits it. it would not have made the cut without you
The night Steve met you, something was different.
By the time Bucky swung by the shop it had sunken into his chest. Like a pebble landing in a stream. It rolled until finally making a home at the base of his gut.
"Just come to the gym Steve." Bucky begged. "C'mon it's one night out you can afford to lose the goody two shoes act for a few hours."
Steve had sighed, shook his head and made Bucky look him in the eye as he answered.
"Bucky you know I can't." He'd lamented. "I'm done with that stuff, you and the Wolves don't need me."
Even the mention of his old crew left a sour note on his tongue. Their memory burned deep in his blood. The mark his years running the streets had left on him, the matching stain on his record.
"I'd just be slowing you down anyway." He lamented.
Bucky scoffed, grabbing him by the shoulders and giving them a good shake.
"Don't be ridiculous." He tightened his grip, "You're our founding father, we're always gonna need you."
His friend let go, taking just a few steps back. It'd been at least a week since they'd seen each other, if not two. Steve hated to say it, but he looked terrible. Dark circles under his eyes, greasy strands oh hair sticking to his forehead. He looked skinnier too, like he'd been running more than usual and not eating enough to make up for it.
"I need you Steve." Bucky finished, this time a little softer. None of that bravado behind it. "There's gonna be a rumble." He whispered.
Steve's eyes blew wide. "A rumble? Are you crazy?"
The whole room seemed to tilt on its axis, the feeling in his gut warping with it. A wave of dread, heavy and ice cold washing over him.
Bucky sighed, crossing his arms. "I don't have a choice!"
"Of course you do." Steve challenged, poking two fingers into Bucky's chest, "What the hell could be so bad that you need to do something dumb as a rumble?"
Bucky lost his balance, falling back a few steps with the force of Steve's push.
"All for a couple streets? The Strays'll never go for it I'm telling you now."
Bucky shook his head, something terrible set in his eyes. "No it's not like it was when you were running with us Steve. It's worse now." He took a deep breath. "There's a fight every day, last week Sam almost lost an eye 'cause one of them pulled a switch knife."
Steve shrugged, "Did Sam pull his first?"
"Doesn't matter." Bucky denied.
"Of course it does!"
"No!" Bucky shouted, "it doesn't."
Silence filled the space between them. Cavernous and wide. They just stood there for a minute, two young men. Two young men who knew each other inside and out, who had seen each other through the deaths of their parents and raised themselves on the streets.
"I need this all settled I go." Bucky finally spoke up, all the vitriol gone from his voice. Surrender taking its place.
"Go?" Steve asked, "Buck what are you talkin' about?"
Bucky reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a crumbled letter.
"Got my orders." He held up the envelope, unfolding it so Steve could see the Government stamp on the front. "I leave in a week."
"Shit, Buck I had no idea-"
"So you're coming tonight right?" Bucky interrupted, stuffing the letter back in his jacket. "Need my best man if I'm gonna end this once and for all."
Steve recognized the look now. He'd seen it on other kids they'd grown up with, ones who had left in a uniform and never come back. Fear.
"Yeah." He agreed, nodding solemnly. "I'll be there."
He'd sent Bucky off with a promise and an agreement to meet at the soda shop before hand. The wind blew his entire walk home, angry gusts carrying bitter cold breezes. It felt like a warning, like a sign.
The day you met Steve Rogers had been completely ordinary.
Well that's not entirely true, it was also the day of your first dance.
Sure, you went to the dress shop as usual. Stopped at the market on your way home and picked up bread for dinner like your mother had asked. Although today Then you'd used some of your earnings to buy new ribbon. Bright red and silky, it shone against your skin and would surely do the same in your hair.
All the same, nothing a miss.
It was just the butterflies in your stomach, the pep in your step. The way you couldn't seem to stop smiling even as the wind tried to wipe it off your face.
Like your body knew something you didn't, every ounce of your crying out with joy for something it didn't even know existed yet.
Then you saw your dress.
"Wanda please I am begging you," you pleaded, holding the dress up to her. "Just a few inches off the hem, please!"
Wanda is the closest thing you know to an older sister, her family moved into the building around the same time as yours.
They immigrated from Sokovia only two months prior to your own arrival. You'd bonded over missing food from home and the struggles of adjusting to life as newly minted American girls.
Then she'd started dating your older brother, Vis and you really became family.
"Absolutely not." She insisted, shaking her head as she took the dress from your hands. "Your mother would kill me. Then your brother would kill me again."
"Not true!" You promised, grabbing her forearm and forcing her to look at you. "They would kill me first and you'd have plenty of time to run!"
Your jutted your lip out, giving her your best version of puppy dog eyes, the same ones you used to get permission to go to the dance in the first place.
Wanda stared deadpan, completely unmoved by your efforts.
"Ugh!" You groaned, "please Wanda. It's my first night out since we moved here and I want to make an impression."
"These aren't the kind of boys you need to worry about that with." Wanda tried to appease you, "you already know most of them. The ones you don't know are for a reason."
"Oh Wanda enough!" You groaned, "They're just boys."
"Boys who don't like anyone different from them. Remember that." She narrowed her eyes, "just stay to our side of the gym will you?"
You sighed, but nodded. "Fine."
She rolled her eyes, walking away from you and taking a seat at her sewing machine with the dress still in her hand. She stretched it out on the table in front of her, assessing the seams and feeling them between her fingers. Then with a sigh, she spoke. "Two inches off the hem, that's it."
Your squeal surely echoed down the hallway, loud enough make Wanda jump in her seat.
"Oh thank you thank you thank you!" You giggled, running over to squeeze a hug around her shoulders. "You are the bestest friend a girl could ask for."
"I am your only friend." She reminded you, licking the end of her thread before pulling it through the needle.
"My only friend who will also take two inches off the neckline?" You poked, giggling all the while.
Wanda threw you a glare over her machine, reaching into her bag and pulling it some ribbons.
"Don't push, I could make it longer just as easily."
"No!" You panicked, shaking your head. "Two inches is perfect! Nothing else that is wonderful thank you Wanda."
He lips curled into a smile, a little laugh falling past her lips.
You sat in silence while she worked, mindlessly playing with your hair while she toiled over the old fabric. What necklace would you wear? Perhaps mother would let you borrow one of hers, or even a bangle for your wrist. Oh the possibilities were endless.
Perhaps you would meet a boy, someone your brother doesn't know. Someone who would see a woman and not just the little girl he had declared off limits the moment you touched ground in this city.
Wanda finished the dress with a triumph "Aha!" Happily sliding it off her sewing machine and holding it up for you see.
The hem was shorter, probably closer to two and a half inches. A small mercy you immediately threw her a grateful smile for. Then your eyes darted to the neckline, while she hadn't lowered it, she'd squared off the neckline. What had previously been a round neck with a sweet bow in the center was now a square neck free of any frills. It was womanly, undeniably so.
Finally you noticed the pièce de résistance sitting at the waist.
There against the fabric, shining bright against the white dress was a beautiful red ribbon. It was a near perfect match to the one you'd bought for your hair. A completely innocent way to highlight all the curves you often had to hide.
"It's perfect!" You gasped, reaching out to touch it, running your fingers over the ribbon in disbelief. "Oh Wanda thank you!"
Wanda smiled, standing up and bringing the dress and you in front of the mirror. Then she held it up in front of you, holding the neck where it would fall so you could see.
"So beautiful." She whispered. "Any boy who doesn't notice you would have to be blind."
You took the dress into your own hands, pressing it to your shoulders and giving it a good twirl. "It's wonderful!" You ran your finger over the new neckline before laying it out over your dress.
"Tonight's the night Wanda I can feel it." You pulled her into a tight hug, whispering the words conspiratorially in her ear. "My whole life changes tonight."
The gym feels like another world.
As if a gateway to different life has emptied out onto the waxed floors. The light catches them differently than usual, casting the wooden planks in an amber glow.
A fifth of rum poured in the punch is just the cherry on top.
There's a live band is playing on the stage, loud enough to drown out the click of heels on the floor and out of the way enough to nearly be forgotten.
They're playing Steve's favorite song.
He's late, at least later than he told Bucky he'd be.
Nearly an hour of debating if he should even come in the first place. A battle fought between loyalty and self-preservation.
Loyalty won in the end.
Maybe.
Steve had spotted Bucky almost immediately, a blur of dark curls holding a on to a spinning blonde. They hadn't stopped since he got there, dancing from one song to the next with hardly a break to breathe.
So he took root in a corner and waited. Planting himself in the protective shadows of the bleachers.
It was the same as it had been a few months ago, back when was Steve was alongside them on the floor, a girl to match Bucky's on his arm. Back before his time at the Reform House, before he had been stupid and paid the price.
It feels like a whole 'nother life now.
He can't go back, can't lose another six months.
He can't afford to lose another friend either.
He has to get Bucky to call it off.
The Strays have been piling in slowly, each group gaining in numbers until the dance floor began to split itself. A gang on each side, a room filled with kids forgotten by the rest of the world.
It may be neutral territory, but that doesn't mean there isn't still tension.
It's palpable, static cracking across the divide, threatening a lightning strike every time someone drifts to close to the invisible line.
Another reason to stay in the shadows.
It changes the way he views the entire room, how it morphs under the weight of this silly feud. He pays extra attention to every grimace, how when Vision lifts his girl Bucky has to do the same. How Bucky tries to throw her even higher.
It makes Officer Ross stick out like a sore thumb, his frumpy uniform blending blue and black together until he becomes the human approximation of a bruise.
When you're in the shadows, it makes it that much easier to spot the light.
There, across the gym, is where he sees you. Similarly sidelined, you stand just a hundred feet away at the other end of the bleachers. Steve can't seem to pull his gaze away once it finds you. Like a magnet finally finding its South Pole. The seats are extended, framing you beneath them in a halo and making it so Steve can see straight through.
You're busy staring at the scene in front of you, a soft smile playing at you lips. Unconsciously swaying to the music with gentle turns of your hips in just enough to make the hem of your dress dance around your knees.
Steve's heart cracks wide open. The feeling in his gut- the one he's spent all day trying to name- unravels. It floods his chest with warmth and begins to carry his legs in your direction.
It's everything you had pictured and absolutely nothing like you imagined.
You're hypnotized by the dancing, the way everyone seems to just know what to do. How skirts flare and skinny shoes refract the light. Every time someone lifts you hold your breath, every time they hit the group you clap. You're enraptured, hypnotized, utterly bewitched.
You're standing in the corner. All that fuss with Wanda and your hem just for it to be wasted under the bleachers.
Speaking of Wanda, she's breathless from dancing and yet making no moves to slow down. Her smile is the brightest it gets, all teeth and happiness. The smile she only gets around your brother.
Vis, is well, a vision. The tallest one in the room, he towers over everyone, shoulders set with his arms drawn tight around Wanda. He's smiling too, it's your mother's smile, her cheeks and the nose you both share. His skin glows under the lights like this, casting him ethereal. It's the same shade as yours, and yet you somehow doubt the same effect is being cast on you.
Still, it's every bit as magical as yours imagination advertised.
Wanda spins again, her dress fanning out around her. She looks every ounce the woman you so desperately want to be. Effortless, sexy, poised at every turn, and loved.
The boys are- well, boys. They cower in the corners and nurse the same glass of punch. They flash you a smile but never for too long, lest your brother see.
You aren't sure how Vis came to be so important here, what he did to earn the respect of so many of his peers. For some reason every boy on the block would do anything he asked. Including but not limited to, staying away from his baby sister.
One dance. That was what you'd managed.
More accurately half a dance. Peter, the nice boy from a few apartments down. He'd been brave enough to approach, ask you to dance and taken your hand in his sweaty palm.
Then he'd scampered like a kicked puppy when he realized your brother was there.
So here you stand along the bleachers, enjoying their protection and the view. Even if you weren't out there it was still exciting to watch everyone. How the couples move like they're anticipating each-others movements. The way they slip into a language spoken only with their bodies.
The more you watch the more you want to know what it feels like.
Love.
You think about love a lot, you're surrounded by it after all.
You see it in your brother and Wanda, the way she softens his edges in a way no one else can. It's in your parents, most of the time. Sometimes it's across the street, between the old couple from Ireland who sit on their stoop and feed the pigeons. It's in one of the girls you work with, Natasha. In the letters she reads you from her beau back in Russia.
You covet it, lean in closer when they speak as if you can catch it like a cold.
You feel it breathing down your neck, waiting to strike. Your heart is open, you just need someone to walk into it.
Or stare into it.
You feel Steve's eyes on you before you find him. The heat of a gaze and that intangible feeling that you're being watched. It breaks the spell that the dancers had cast on you, turning your head as if with a magnet. An undeniable pull to look.
Steve recognizes you before he even knows your name.
Not from seeing you around, or because you came into the shop while he was working. No, he'd remember that.
It's something deeper, like his body- like his soul knows yours.
When your eyes meet his it's as if he turns to air, disembodied and floating toward you.
The entire room disappears, fades into the back of his mind. All that's left the thump of the music beneath his feet and you standing about ten feet away from him.
He's not sure who gets there first, but the middle finds you only a foot apart, toe to toe and locked on each other's gaze.
You're stunning.
Stunning doesn't even really do you justice, as if you've been carved from the likeness of Aphrodite herself.
Angelic is more apt. Soft curves emphasized by the cut of your dress. The swell of your hips and delicate outline haloed by the gym lights.
There's a curve in your lips, a soft smile that threatens to blind him with the light exude. He's hooked.
His feet move first, one half step in your direction then a pivot. It's a poor copycat of what the couples are doing just on the other side of the bleachers.
You fall right into step anyway, smile breaking even further as you match his pose. It brings you chest to chest, hardly an inch them.
Then a spin, each of you carefully walking around the other, ensuring no loss of distance.
The music finally fades back in, triumphant and joyous as tensions continue to grow in the rest of the room.
It gives Steve the courage to touch. First the palm of his hand, laying over top of yours as you turn it upwards to meet him. Your skin is hot against his, electricity bubbling between you.
You're burning, a fire lit under the weight of his stare.
You've never felt more alive.
You've hardly known the boy five minutes and you already never want to feel anything else.
He could holds the entire world in those big, beautiful, blue eyes and all you can see is yourself.
Your tongue slips with a drop of your name, soft and breathlessly shared. As if talking too much will break the spell.
He stops moving, his fingers slowly lacing through yours.
"Steve." He whispers. His voice matches the rest of him, soft but unyielding.
"Stevie?" You repeat, dragging the syllables along your tongue as you try to get it right.
"Yeah." He whispers, neck craning and bringing his face an inch closer to yours. "Stevie."
Stevie is like the men in the movies, broad and sturdy. There's a beauty in his face you didn't know was possible in real life, in the cut of his jaw and the plump of his lips.
His lips, now that you've looked at them you can't look away. They part just enough for air to pass, pink and pretty and you can't get over the way they shaped around your name.
You want to feel them, want to know how they would press against yours. You want to know every kind of kiss with him. The hungry ones, the slow ones, the chaste ones and hello-goodbye ones.
The first one is at the top of your list though.
Steve isn't much better, his palm is turning clammy in your grasp. Nerves spiking the longer you hold his gaze.
You laugh, sudden and unbridled. It's like a songbird, sweet and natural. Like it's one of the worlds most natural wonders.
No wonder he gave in.
The kiss is tentative, barely more than lips pressed to lips. It's a test, making sure neither of you erupt into flames.
It only survives that way for a moment, then the damn breaks.
Your hands grab first, reaching up for fistfuls of shirt and using the leverage to pull his mouth firmer against yours.
Steve's are similarly unrestrained, wrapping around your waist and bringing your chests flush as well.
Together you cross a line that was drawn by people in the very same room. You tear it apart and dance on its memory, stomping it into the ground with completely disregard of everything it stands for.
A war between boys means nothing in the face of a love orchestrated by fate.
That's what you have between your hands, a boy who you believe with every confidence was made for you. As his hands slot over your hips, his nose tilting and falling into place along yours, you're certain he was made for you too.
Steve's kissed plenty of girls, he never really understood the appeal. Kissing was a means to an end, a bridge he had to cross to get to the next step of intimacy. Girls liked kissing, so he would kiss to appease them. It was never something he felt the need to do.
With his lips pressed to yours Steve already feels like he needs to kiss you for the rest of his life.
It's softer than kisses he's known before, there's no rushing or wandering hands. There's no room for the voice in his head to be bored or complain about lipstick getting on his skin.
He's consumed by it. His chest is air and his head is empty and all that exists is you in his arms.
Neither of you hear the stop in the music, the sudden cut off or the way the trombone flails with one last note before falling to silence.
Neither of you hear the shouting, the raised voices and thrown insults.
Neither of you hear the gasps, the sound of Officer Ross pulling his baton from his belt.
Neither of you hear the footsteps as everyone starts to scatter.
There's a hand at the back of your dress, Wanda's manicured fingers scratching your skin as she pulls you back and out of Steve's arms.
When it finally comes back into focus, the gym is chaos. Vis stands at the end of the bleachers, yelling for you and Wanda to hurry. There's something about getting you home, getting you both safe.
Your feet move, walking backwards as Wanda loosens her grip and takes you by the hand instead.
The look in Vis' eyes is enough for Steve to recognize what line he crossed. It weren't than the similarities between you would be. Nevertheless his heart pounds, any reservations he had for him disappearing.
Steve takes a few steps after you before remembering himself. Bucky is out there yelling his name and he doesn't even care. By the time he stops staring at the space you left behind, the gym is nearly empty. All that's left is the sound of rubber soles on the floor and distant footsteps
Steve searches the streets for an hour.
With your name etches on his tongue he shouts it down every alley, cries it toward every open window.
It's nearly eleven when he finally finds you.
A silhouette glows from a two stories above, soft yellow light escaping around it and filtering onto where he stands on the pavement.
Steve knows it in an instant.
You can hear his smile when he calls your name again.
It bounces off of brick walls, shakes the puddles and threatens to wake your neighbors.
Your head snaps in his direction, a mix of excitement to see him and panic at the risk of getting caught. With as much restraint as you can bear, you race towards the window sill.
The glass creaks with a groan, pushing out into the fire escape as you swing it up and open.
"Stevie!" You gasp, heart jumping at the sight of him. It's only been a few hours but your aching heart immediately eases. "How did you find me?"
Steve's at the bottom of your fire escape in an instant, climbing up two rungs at a time. He doesn't slow down until he on the platform below you, stopping at the bottom of the steps just as you move to stand at the top of them.
"I've been to every building south of the waterfront." He says, "I looked for your light."
"You found it." You affirm, smiling breaking. "Found me."
You both move at the same time, meeting in the middle of the steps and wrapping your arms around each other.
Steve's arms close around your waist, encircling you in his embrace just like at the gym. You do the same, squeezing him even tighter this time.
You breathe him in, deeper than you'd been able to before. He smells like summer air, a heavy musk mixed with cheap cologne. You want to bottle it. Spray it on your pillow and pretend it's his chest.
"I know it's silly but-"
"I missed you too." Steve whispers. He did, from the moment you left his arms a chill had settled over his bones. Like when anxiety curdles in your stomach, or a fever burns behind your eyelids. An utterly physical reaction to the lack of you.
He bends his head, pressing a kiss to your hairline. "I'm sorry for coming so late," he pulls away just enough to read your face, taking a step down so you're eye level with him. "I just had to see you."
You curl a hand over his cheek, resting it in the swell of his jawline. "I'm glad you came." You promise, using your other hand to card through his hair. "I didn't get to give you..." you trail off struggling to find the english version of the word. "Uh sleep kiss? Happy night kiss?"
Steve watches you shrink into the insecurity, heart aching as you tense for his reaction.
"A goodnight kiss." Steve says it slowly, careful not to sound cruel.
"Yes." You breathe a sigh of relief, repeating him in your own accent. "a goodnight kiss."
"Yeah?" Steve asks, leaning into your touch like a dog. You wonder if you scratched behind his ear would he pant?
"Mhm." You hum, shuffling forward until only your heels are on the step. You like being this height you realize, you can see his face better. Especially with the moonlight, you can make out all the beauty in his features. The way his blue eyes shine, the long curl of his lashes. There's a curve in his nose, a gentle swell you want to trace with your finger.
Steve stares up at you, just an inch shorter now, but the height different makes his stomach flip. His hand fans out over your lower back, both in possession and to help you balance on the step.
He wants to speak, to say something clever and charming the was Bucky would. They way he would have just a few months ago. The words run dry though, nothing left but earnestness and the urge to beg.
"What did I do to deserve that?" He asks, licking his lips without even thinking of it.
His eyes dart to yours, just as hypnotizing as they were at the gym. Maybe even more so now that he knows what they feel like.
"You were handsome." You nod, leaning in until your nose touches his. Your chest rests against his own, leaning your weight onto his body. "Also kind."
Steve takes it without complaint, leaning just as hard into you. He can feel your breath fan his lips, how it hitches when he juts his chin just a little.
"Than thank goodness I found you."
Distance disappears, another kiss and it's exactly the same but also completely different than the first one.
The world doesn't disappear this time, instead it reorients itself around you. The moon shines with its approval, the night bird sing with envy. Even the crickets chirp in time with your heart. There's no threat of being caught, no tensions seeping between bleachers and staining the moment.
It's just his lips against yours, their sweet movement and the way they seem to be trying to memorize yours.
Steve's a good kisser, you think. I could kiss him forever.
Steve is similarly wrecked, pulling back from you with reverence painting his vision.
"Tonight," he breathes, holding you in place with his gaze. "When I saw you it was like the entire world disappeared."
You can't help but melt, spine turning to dripping butter under his touch. "All I saw was you." You whisper, fingers curling through his hair. "All I see is you."
"So you'll see only me?" Steve asks, nerves shaking his voice despite the way you're currently wrapped in each other.
"Only you," you promise. "Forever."
Another kiss, this one more fervent, more needy. It's relief bottled with want and then shook up like a soda pop. You're both bubbling over, nerves fizzing with love and sugar.
"When can I see you again?" Steve asks the question before he's even completely pulled again, lips moving even as they still touch yours.
You giggle, unabashed and joyful. "You haven't even left me yet and you're already worrying about when you're going to see me again?"
He nods, instant and insistent. "I don't want there to be any uncertainty about this, about us." His hand cradles your cheek, swiping his thumb over it. "I refuse to leave this to chance."
Your smile is so wide it hurts your cheeks, the feeling in your chest so pure you can't see past it.
"Tomorrow." You tell him, "I work at the dress shop over on main. Come by at four, just after we close."
Steve kisses you one more time, less a kiss and more so a pressing of smiles. Teeth clink and lips miss and it's just as beautiful as the one in the gym.
"Tomorrow." He agrees. "At the dress shop. I'll be there." He pushes onto his toes, kissing your forehead.
Steve detaches himself from you slowly, letting his touch linger as much as possible. Then he backs down the steps, eyes never leaving yours.
"Goodnight." He whispers, blue eyes catching in the moonlight.
"Goodnight Stevie." You whisper, backing up until you're finally on the platform with your bedroom windows.
Your father calls one more time from inside, this time closer than before. You allow yourself one last look, one final sweep over his shoulders and account of his mussed hair. You want to remember him exactly how he is tonight, the version of him that exists in this moment. The one that is utterly and completely yours.
"Goodnight." He whispers again.
You climb back through your window, reluctantly putting the barrier of brick back between you. Through the grates you answer one more time. "Goodnight Stevie."
The window clicks shut and your curtains are drawn just in time. Your father coming inside to lecture you for still being awake.
Outside Steve stares at your window his entire descent, as if he still can't believe that you're real on the other side of it.
Tomorrow, he'd see you again. He'd hold you again. He can only imagine how slowly time will move in the meantime. Whatever it brings though, nothing will change the blooming in his chest.
Bucky comes in like a storm.
The slam of the door, a loud ring of the bell, both matched by stomping foot steps.
"Steve." He yells, voice bouncing off the walls. "Steve!"
Steve nearly hits his head rushing up from the cellar, "What- Jesus Buck what is it?"
His friend looks even worse than yesterday, like he hasn't slept since before the dance. He's still in the same clothes, dress shirt muddies and pants torn. He's out of breath and wild-eyed.
"Where the hell did you go last night?" Bucky prods. "Been lookin' for you everywhere."
Steve shakes his head, "I had something to take care of."
Bucky laughs, full of mirth and disbelief.
"Something more important than us?" He accuses.
"Us?"
"The Wolves- for fucks sake Steve what the hell?"
The Wolves. Steve remembers with a grimace, the very thing that brought him to you and threatens to take him away. A worse thought follows. The Rumble.
"I can't be apart of it Bucky, like I told you I'm not in that life anymore."
"I ain't asking." Bucky bites back, his answer immediate. "This is bigger than us Steve."
"No." Steve holds firm, "It's not just me anymore."
Bucky freezes, face crumbling as if he's been stabbed. The words hang in the air between them, building a bridge but already flooding the river beneath it. Forgiveness and distance created in the same breath.
When the moment breaks there's a smile, the pop of his friend's chin dimple followed by a clasp of his hand on his shoulder.
"You dog." Bucky whispers. "Who is she?"
Steve freezes with the realization that, his oldest, best friend would never understand.
So he shakes his head, lets himself smile but give nothing else away. "It's new."
"C'mon that's all you're gonna give me?" Bucky groans, "you're smiling like the cat who ate the damn canary."
"I don't kiss and tell." Steve insists, shooting his friend a look. "Anymore."
Bucky rolls his eyes, holding a hand to his chest as if he's been wounded.
"Wow I see how it is." He laughs, "good for you man. You deserve it."
There's an honesty in the way he says it, something that throws Steve off a little. There's weight behind his implication. 'It' could be a-lot of things. Love? A future? Something new?
The memory of Bucky's news flashes through his mind, the fast approaching deadline.
"Is this really how you want to spend your last few days in the city?" Steve asks, daring to prod. "Fightin' and looking over your shoulder?"
Bucky sighs and Steve waits for his defense. Waits for the anger or raised voice. Only it never comes.
"We always said we wanted to make things better." Bucky says, "that the Wolves were our way to do that."
Sure, that had been how it started when they were kids. A couple of preteens wandering the city and looking for ways to keep busy and maybe make a little money. Helping old ladies cross the street, shining shoes outside the barbershop, the summer they ran groceries at the farmers market. The ethos had always been the leave their city better than they found it.
When had it devolved to this?
"Yeah, I remember." Steve says, nodding along as the memory plays. "What's that got to do with all this?"
"They're changing things, it's all so different with them here."
"Different doesn't mean back Buck-"
"They're pushing us out!" Bucky exclaims, anger flashing across his face. "Taking what used to be ours and leavin' nothing left for us."
"Its not that simple-"
Bucky shakes his head, cutting Steve off. "Isn't it though?"
His words hang between them, heavy and mean. Bucky's anger falters in the silence, resigning itself to something more bleak.
Bucky rolls his shoulders back, stuffing his hands into his pockets and averting his eyes to the ground. "I wanna leave knowing I put this behind us." He shrugs. "All of us."
The last bit is pointed at Steve. A not so subtle reminder that try as he might to escape, he's still in this worlds orbit.
"What time is it?" Steve asks, finally caving.
Bucky sighs, "Midnight at the docks."
"Hands or knives?"
"Hands." Bucky confirms, "each side is picking their best man."
Steve feels his surprise paint his face. Bucky never chooses to shrink a fight, he's always been more of a strength in numbers leader than one to honor a fair fight.
"I'll be there." Steve promises.
Bucky scoffs, "like hell you will be."
"What?"
Bucky shakes his head, "you're not gonna be anywhere near this you hear me?"
His voice is firm, commanding in a way Steve's never heard before. A solemn reminder how much his friend was forced to change in his absence.
"You got a girl now, a chance to make something better for yourself."
"But Buck-" Steve starts, "what if you need backup?" He's not sure why he's pushing, why now that it's been taken off the table he's suddenly crushed with guilt at the thought of not being there.
"Don't worry," Bucky promises, and then as if he's just stretching Bucky lifts his arm over his head, pulling the hem of his shirt up enough to reveal a sliver of skin and a handgun tucked into his waist band. "I'll be ready if things go south."
Steve doesn't have time to react, Bucky slapping him on the shoulder and slipping out of the shop.
Even with Bucky's blessing, his heart feels pulled in two different directions. One half tugging him toward you, placing a future into his lap. The other one is tangled with loyalty, the overwhelming guilt of abandoning the family he created.
When morning breaks you can't help but feel like the whole world should be as happy as you are you.
The sun spills joy onto the streets, the birds sing a song perfectly in-tune, and there is nothing that could possibly ruin it.
You feel different than you did yesterday. Like your skin as grown thicker, your hair shinier. It's as if you went to bed a girl and woke up a woman, a beautiful one at that.
Every mirror you pass it sings it back to you, each reflection you don't see yourself, you see the girl who has stolen a boys heart. Even if you gave yours in return it still fills you with a giddy thrill.
The work that typically bores you can't even sway your emotion. The prick of a needle in your finger does no damage. When you spend an hour scrubbing the floors the ache in your back never comes.
It's as if a cloud as come and replaced your body, filling you with light and promise.
"What has gotten into you today?" One of the girls asks, laughing as she catches you staring into a mirror for the third time. "Even Narcissus was not so self obsessed."
You ignore her, not even bothering to listen.
"Wanda do you know what this is all about?" She asks.
Your friend hums from across the shop, a dress in her lap that hardly spares a glance as she answers with a knowing smirk.
"Haven't you heard? She's in love."
The shop erupts, half a dozen voices abandoning their tasks in favor of crowding you instead.
You don't even have to temptation to deny it, no shyness or insecurity to hide behind.
"Is it true?"
"Who is he?"
"How long?"
Their questions come flying, everyone speaking at once and leaving no room for you to even try and answer.
"He's sweet." Is what you settle on.
"And handsome." Wanda adds, unmoved from her own project as she pulls the needle through a seam.
You throw her a dirty look, only have meaning it.
The girls squeal around you. "Our baby is all grown up!" One of the coos.
"Did you use protection?" Another one prods, more accusatory than excited.
"Where is he from?"
The last one stings, it settles uncomfortably in your stomach. He's from here. You think to yourself, something you decidedly are not. Something that is blatantly obvious and yet Steve didn't even care to ask about.
"It's not like that," you assure them. "We haven't- not yet anyway." You promise. "It's new."
A chorus of 'ooohs' echo through the room.
They start to disperse, one by one leaving you be as they realize they won't get anymore answers.
"What did he do to get you all smiley anyway?" The last one asks, "You're practically glowing."
You shake your head, not bothering to hide your giddiness. "He just," you think about it for the moment, struggling to find the right word. "Makes me feel pretty."
She nods, understanding.
"We should all be so lucky." She whispers, nudging you with one last smile before she too goes back to her work load.
You only get a few moments of peace, a chance to check the clock and do the math one more time on just how long it will be until you see him again.
"It's a fair question." Wanda startles you, not having moves from her chair.
The rest of the girls are occupied enough to not even hear her.
"What is?" You ask, finding dress to mend and taking a seat beside her.
Wanda fixes you with a look, one of those all-knowing ones she reserves for special conversations.
"Where is he from?" She asks. The question isn't pointed, no edge or teasing. It's more like when a mother shares a worry, like she's propping you up to a learn a lesson.
You shake your head. "Here." You admit, "he's one of them."
Wanda stops all together, hand freezing with the needle still pinched between her fingers.
You panic, rushing to better explain. "He's not really though, at least I don't think he is."
Wanda's voice is much too steady when she does speak. "You want that kind of trouble?"
Protectiveness creeps into your veins, spidering across your chest. "He's not like the rest of them." You assure her, "he's gentle. And kind."
"And you've known him a day." She reminds you. "If Vis heard about this…"
"It feels like longer!" You insist. You've turned to face her now, entire body shifted towards hers as you try to get through. "Vis doesn't need to know, not yet."
You put down your work, taking one of her wrists in your hand as you plea. "Please Wanda, just give me sometime to enjoy this before the rest of the world decides I don't deserve to."
She sighs, closing her eyes with frustration but nodding nonetheless. When she looks at you again her familiar fondness is there, the one that predates her relationship with your brother and goes back to when you were just each-others first friends.
"Fine." She agrees.
Too happy to help it you reach over and hug her, arms wrapping around her shoulders with a tight squeeze. "Thank you Wanda."
She nods, pushing you off with a smile that gives her away. "C'mon back to work." She waves her hand over the dress on your lap.
You pick it up happily returning to your stitching. An anxiety that had bubbled in your chest sufficiently quelled.
There's only a few minutes of peace though, before you dear friend speaks again.
"You should know though," she begins, a heavy sigh at the top. "There's going to be a rumble tonight."
"A rumble?" You ask, heart dropping.
"The Strays and the Wolves." She reminds you, "Vis wants to settle this once and for all."
"Wanda they'll kill each other." Your spark dims, terrifying visions of them all covered in blood and dirt conjuring themselves. Your brother beaten and bruised within an inch of his life. You've seen him like that before, you can hardly bear the thought of seeing it again.
"Maybe." Wanda says, "probably not."
You sit with her words. Letting their weight rest across your shoulders.
"It's not your brother I'd be worried about anyway."
Stevie.
Would he be there? Could he stop it if he is? What could possibly be worth the torn knuckles and black eyes?
Yes, you think. I'll have to ask him to stop it. For both their sakes.
"You're going to have a busy night then." You tell her, doing your best to push the fear aside. "Why don't you let me lock up tonight?"
Wanda drops her needle once again, looking toward you with a raised brow. "You hate locking up. You think it's creepy when you're alone."
"I'll be okay." You assure her.
"Ah." She breathes, her smirk shifting to something more mischievous and knowing. "You won't be alone."
You don't dignify her with an answer, or more aptly a lie.
"Fine." She agrees, "you can lock up."
You have to bite your lip to stop yet another squeal from escaping.
Steve's knock comes at exactly ten minutes after four. Eight minutes after your last customer left. Four minutes after Wanda and the rest of the girls slipped out for the day. Two minutes after you flipped the sign on the door from 'open' to 'closed.'
He feels sheepish, standing on the street and waiting for you to answer with baited breath and his heart in his hands. Also flowers, a little bundle he bought from one of the corner shops on his way over. Mostly baby's breath it smells delicious and looks as delicate as the dress you wore to the dance.
Like a fool, he even dressed up. One of his nicer button downs, one with no stains on the cuff or loose threads.
You're still in your uniform when you answer, apron pulled tight around your waist.
He steps inside the second you open the door, laying his hand over yours on the knob to push it shut behind him.
The air in the store goes still once it clicks in the lock.
"Hello." He whispers.
"Hi." You beam, both of your hands still resting on the door.
Steve's other hand hand flexes, causing the bouquet in his grip to crinkle.
"Are those for me?" You ask, eyes lighting up as you take notice of them.
Steve flusters, pink dusting his cheeks as he remembers himself.
"Yes." He passes them over, a clumsy stretch as he all but forced them into your hands.
"They're beautiful Stevie." You hum as you take a deep breath, sticking your nose between the petals and closing your eyes. "Thank you."
Steve doesn't answer, too distracted by how your eyelashes kiss your cheeks.
Your hand gently pulls out from beneath his, walking over to one of the stations and putting the flowers down next to your things.
"We don't have long." You warn him, "Wanda's expecting me home by five. She wants us all to eat dinner together before-"
You cut yourself, voice trailing with what's unsaid.
Steve catches your shift anyway, sighing and walking further into the shop with you.
"Before the rumble?" He finishes for you.
You nod, a short one that makes your nerves clear to him.
"I'm not going."
Your head snaps up at that, eyes flaring with surprise and something else.
"Stevie you have to go." You insist, moving until you're toe to toe with him. "You have to go and you have to stop it."
Steve's heart drops.
"I don't know if I could- even if I went Bucky and Vis are both set." He shakes his head, petting a hand over your hair as if to soothe. "It's going to happen."
You pull away, stepping back just out of reach. "You have to at least try."
"What makes you think I can stop them?" He asks, dragging a hand down his face in frustration. Not with you, no with himself. With the twist in his gut and the fact that he knows he'll go. If you're asking? Steve would do anything if the request came from your lips.
You hum, as if thinking of your answer. Slowly, you close the distance again, toeing your way closer until your hands find his. "You're kind." You start, "you have a good heart, people listen to those who have a good heart."
Steve's unconvinced, but the look in your eye is steadfast. You're not trying to telling him anything untrue, you're simply trying to make him see himself as you do.
"Please Stevie." You try one more time, jutting out your bottom lip in a pout. "I don't want anyone hurt."
Steve bends like a wave to your tide, nodding before he can find another excuse.
If you can see that good in him, than perhaps it really is there.
"Fine." He whispers, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. "But only because it is you asking."
You brighten, l if that is even possible. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
A chaste press of lips follows, casual familiar contact. You take it as if his lips belong to you, and as far as Steve is concerned, they do.
You pull back just as quickly, moving to fuss with something else in the store as you finish closing up.
The picture paints itself in front of him. The store replaced with a house, something small but homey, covered in decorations and colors and something distinctly you.
There's dinner on the stove, fresh flowers in a vase on the counter, and open windows letting in the sun. There's bird song instead of cars honking, city noise substituted for something more suburban.
It feels tangible, inevitable.
You stop what you're doing, turning to look at him with a shy small and a small "What?" on your lips.
Steve walks over to you, taking you in his arms and this time stealing a deeper kiss.
You melt into him, spine curving as you arch into his touch. It's like molten lava seeping through your bones, bigger than the butterflies you've always been told to expect.
"What was that for?" You gasp when he finally lets you go.
Steve smiles, baring all his teeth and dimples to boot.
"Just saw our future for a minute there." He whispers.
"Yeah?" You hum, arms encircling his waist. "What was it like?"
"You being there when I come home." Steve starts, throat bobbing as he speaks. "A ring on your finger and your things in our house."
You bring your hands between your chests, making a show of sliding a ring off of your right hand and onto your left. It's a simple band, a gift from your mother on your eighteenth birthday. You hold it up for Steve to see, pretending to assess it yourself.
"Like this?" You ask.
"Yeah." Steve says, taking your hand in his and bringing the ring to his lips. "Like that." He places a kiss over the cool metal, leaving tingles across your entire hand in their wake.
"What else?" You ask, voice hardly audible.
Steve pretends to think, holding your gaze as he pulls the moment out between you.
"No fire escapes, no sirens or gangs." He continues, "Just a quiet house, on a quiet street, in a quiet neighborhood."
"Sounds nice." You hum.
Steve nods, leaning down to lave one more soft kiss over your lips.
You're the one who deepens it, pushing onto your tiptoes and threading your hands through his hair.
When you let him go Steve looks dazed, eyes glossy and lips even pinker than usual.
"I keep thinking about our wedding," you confess. "Working here, surrounded by these dresses all day." You half gesture around you, the dozens of white dresses littering the walls.
Steve looks around, finally taking note of them.
"I think about who we would invite, who would be your man of honor-"
"Bucky of course." Steve butts in.
"Wanda would be my matron of honor, I mean I can't imagine her and Vis won't be married before the end of the year."
"So a spring wedding for us?" Steve asks.
"Yes!" You agree excitedly. "With wildflowers and baby's breath and a great big cake."
"Who will officiate?"
"Officiate?" You ask, head tilting. It makes you look so cute Steve has to push down the urge to kiss your nose.
"Who will marry us?"
You nod, thinking seriously about it for a moment. "I'll leave that up to my parents, I'm sure they have strong feelings about it."
"I don't care who does it," Steve breathes. "As long as they tie me to you."
"So you, Steve. Take me to be your lawfully wedded wife?" You ask.
"I do." He whispers, "I take you sick, I take you hungry, I take your poor, I take you rich. I take you as long as I live."
Steve kisses you again and you think that you'll need to buy more chap-stick if he keeps this up. Not that you mind in the slightest.
When your heart has stopped hammering, Steve finally lets you go long enough to check the time.
"It's late." You tell him begrudgingly. "I have to get home."
Steve nods, understanding. "Bucky's waiting for me too."
You sigh, stealing one last embrace. "Come by tonight? After it's done?"
"Leave your window open."
The Wolves are on a warpath.
By the time Steve catches up to them, sense is impossible to find.
With any entire day left to simmer their anger has completely bubbled over.
Bucky's the worst of it, insisting he'll be the one to fight.
Steve's not convinced he's even planning to try and win. There's a look in his eyes, something dark and hopeless. He's decided he's a dead man either way.
Still, every time he feels the urge to run, when the voice in his head tells him its pointless, he sees your face. He sees the look in your eyes, the way you think he's good.
He's determined to be worthy of it.
Vis is more subtle in his anger.
There's a rigidness in his posture, a careful control Bucky has never known. A skill Steve would desperately like to learn.
In his hands is a switch knife.
He spins it around, passing it over his knuckles and spinning it between long fingers.
It moves like a piece of him, an extension of an already lethal weapon.
"Thought we said hands." Bucky's voice echoes into the night, bouncing off shipping containers.
"Was just warming up." Vis responds, voice level as he passes the blade off to someone else.
His words bristle through the Wolves, the hairs on every one of their necks standing on edge.
I should say something. Steve thinks, I need to say something.
"Who fights?" Vis asks, breaking the tension. He holds out his knuckles and cracks them. "I have work tomorrow and would prefer to finish this sooner than later."
Two voices ring out.
"I'll finish this." Bucky says just as Steve calls out-
"We don't need to do this."
Every head snaps toward him, both sides united in their reaction.
"No." Bucky starts.
"I think we do." Vis finishes. "I would prefer to fight the one who kisses my sister though."
A gasp echoes through the Wolves, friends turning to him with disgust.
Bucky's gaze is the worst of all, thick with betrayal. Despite it, he still looks back to Vis.
"No," He insists. "He's not one of us. He won't fight."
Arms encircle themselves around Steve's, holding him in place.
Protests start to fall in a panic, pleas for them to stop, to think this through. Bucky's name slips like a beg, desperate to make his friend listen.
A circle forms around them, Steve held just out of reach, unable to break loose, unable to do anything but watch.
Both men square up, Vis' lean build and Bucky's broad shoulders. Each with their fists raised protectively in front of their faces.
Bucky strikes first, always too eager for his own good.
It's a miss, Vis dodging it with ease and countering with a punch directly to Bucky's abdomen. It lands with a thud, folding Bucky's position.
Bucky's quick to recover, dodging a second hit and landing one square on Vis' jaw.
They trade blows for long enough that time begins to drag. The noise in Steve's ears reduced to the rush of his blood and then sickening sound of fists and flesh.
Then Bucky gains the upper hand, a loud crack as his knuckles collide with Vis' cheek.
The taller man crumbles, knees giving out and sending him straight to the concrete.
It should be enough, should be the end.
But Bucky's never known when to stop.
He clambers over his crumpled body, pushing him flat onto his back and laying another punch, then another, then a third.
He keeps going, until his fists are covered in Vis' blood.
Steve hears himself yelling, throat raw with Bucky's name.
"Bucky you're gonna kill him!" He finally manages, voice ragged.
By some miracle it gets through to him, Bucky turning to face Steve.
As quickly as Bucky turns, Vis rallies.
One of the Stray's passes him a switch blade, the knife already drawn in.
It happens to fast, not even enough time to get the warning out.
The knife sinks into Bucky's stomach with a dull thud.
The entire world tilts on it's axis.
Steve finally breaks free, numb feet rushing forward to where his friend lies on the concrete.
"Bucky!" He cries, lifting his head into his lap. "Buck you're gonna be okay, yeah? Just hang on buddy."
Bucky's croaking, blood bubbling up over his lips. He gurgles, like he's trying to speak only nothing comes out. His hand lifts, covered in his own blood. It touches Steve's face, just for a moment.
Then he goes slack.
In an instant his skin goes gray, eyes glazing over as all the light from them disappears.
Steve's heart stops. It freezes in his chest, seized by grief and fear and worst of all anger.
He remembers this morning at the shop. The smile on Bucky's face, the familar warmth of his friend.
The gun in his waistband.
Steve doesn't think about you when he reaches for it.
He looks down at his best-friends body, and does the only thing he can think of.
He points it directly at Vis' chest.
The sun is nearly up when Steve finally comes.
The sky has started to turn blue, the first sign of morning peeking from the horizon. He slips inside your window, nearly falling over when he bends to fit his head in.
You're at his side immediately, arms throwing themselves around his neck.
"Stevie!" You whisper, sighing into his neck with relief. You wait for his arms to wrap around you, for their comfort.
Only they never come.
Slowly you pull away, confusion etched between your eyebrows.
"Stevie?" You whisper.
Finally, you take him in.
He looks awful, face gaunt and grey. His clothes are torn, the knees of his jeans ripped and bruises in the crook of his arm. That's not what makes you stumble backwards.
He's covered in blood.
It's splattered across his face, smeared along his cheek bones and dusting his blonde hair. It's all over his clothes, covering his hands and-
He has a gun.
It's limp in his palm, hand loose around the grip.
Your blood runs cold, a sudden and very sure feeling in your gut that something isn't right.
"What did you do?" You whisper.
Steve lets out a tortured noise, something almost resembling an apology.
He falls, knees giving out and bringing him down to your floor. The gun falls away, pushed to the side by his own hand.
"What happened?" You try again, tentatively coming closer as you speak. "Stevie what happened? Vis hasn't come home yet and there have been cops up and down the street all night."
You get onto your knees in front of him, and take his face between your hands, forcing him to look at you.
Steve hiccups, tears covering his cheeks, turning dried blood in pink streaks.
"I couldn't stop them-" he gasps, "I tried I promise I tried, but they just wouldn't listen."
You can hardly make out what he says between breaths, the words coming out wet and messy.
"It's okay," you try to sooth him, maneuvering until your pressed behind his back, pulling his head against your chest. "Sssh, it's okay."
Steve falls apart in your arms, broken cries and gasps pressed into your skin.
"Bucky…" He whispers, "he's gone."
Your heart aches at the way he says, as if absorbing his own pain.
"Oh Stevie." You whisper, pressing a kiss to his hair. "I'm so sorry."
"No." Steve croaks, "no I don't deserve it."
You feel yourself tense.
"What do you mean?"
Steve goes rigid in your arms, his tears still rolling down his cheeks and under his jaw. He reaches up to you with shaking hands, wrapping them around your forearm where it sits over his chest.
"Vis had a knife and Bucky didn't see it." Steve manages to whisper. "I didn't mean to but it was like I couldn't think."
You eyes flash back to the gun in the corner of your room.
Your ears reply the cry you heard from Wanda's apartment, the wail you blamed on someone else.
Your brother still isn't home.
"No." You whisper, shaking your head as soon as the thought makes itself known.
"No you didn't." You beg, tears already brimming over your lashes. "Tell me you didn't."
Steve turns in your arms and this time its him who holds your face.
"I'm so sorry." He murmurs, "I'm so so sorry."
Your heart splinters.
Grief like you've never known consumes it.
Like the floor has been pulled out from beneath you and sent you in a spiraling free fall. Or as if someone has ripped off the roof and left you alone in the rain.
It consumes you fast, tearing into your soul and taking a piece you know you can never get back.
It's wearying. sawing you in half and then placing what's left to dry out.
"No." You mutter, tears falling fast down your cheeks. "No, no, no, no." Your fists slam into his chest, banging into him with as much strength as you can muster. "Why?" You whimper, tossing the word at him over and over. "Why? Why? Why!" You repeat, until it devolves from a question to a curse.
Steve takes it all, letting you hit, scream, and cry. His hands fall from your cheeks, wrapping around your wrists in loose cuffs.
He's still weeping, gasping with pain as you take out every wave of your grief on him.
"It should have been me." Steve says, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist. "It should have been me."
You heart drops, even through the pain you find the room to protest.
"No!" You whimper, shaking your head. "No I can't-" You break off into a sob. "I love you both."
Steve's eyes clear and for just a moment the storm lifts.
"You love me?" He asks, voice hoarse.
You nod, tears finally slowing.
"I love you more than I hate you."
His kiss is wet, salty with your tears. It's messy and more sad than anything you ever hoped to share with him.
For every press of your lips becomes an exchange, another apology, another profession,
"I'm sorry."
"I love you."
"I'm sorry."
"I love you."
"I'm sorry."
"I love you."
Until the words blend together.
I'm sorry I love you.
You both mean it, Steve for all of the pain he's brought. You for all of the guilt eating you alive.
Still you don't stop, bodies shifting until your back finds the floor, lips pressed together with even greater desperation.
I'm sorry I love you.
You can't stop, and some sicker part of you doesn't want to. There's no idea what the daylight will bring, what other sins will come out of hiding. You have no doubt the cops are searching for him, you could live with that. You could move on knowing he's safe, knowing he's alive.
It's the Strays you're worried about. The boys who followed your brother, the ones who won't let his bloodshed be where this ends. The boys who have become such a big part of your new life here. The ones who sit at your dinner table and muss your hair like you're their sister too.
They won't let Steve go.
I'm sorry I love you.
Steve's body hovers over yours, the strong arms that made you feel so protected on either side of your head.
His kisses have an edge to them now, a bite you match with intensity. A nibble on his lip, a suck where your teeth are still indented. Steve takes it all with a gasp, one of his thighs holding his weight between your legs
I'm sorry I love you.
You still want him.
Your stomach twists with heat, a feeling you've never given credence too. It burns in your belly, driving your hips up against his leg. Your nightgown bunches between your thighs, wrinkling against his jeans getting caught between your bodies.
Your body lights up at the sensation, toes curling at the first press of pleasure.
The gasp you let out into Steve's mouth is different this time, there's no pain behind it, no anger. It's something more pure.
I'm sorry I love you.
"Stevie!" You gasp, back arching as you roll your hips over his thigh again.
"I know." Steve whispers, pressing his leg firmer against your heat. "I know."
Your breath catches, the pleasure between your legs climbing up to your stomach. The fire catches there too, body seeking out as much friction as possible.
It pulls behind your belly button, new and confusing and tantalizingly out of reach.
I'm sorry I love you.
Steve pulls back, sitting up on to his haunches and unbuttoning his shirt. He pulls at it like an inconvenience, down past the expanse of his shoulders and away from the swells of his biceps.
He tosses it aside, his belt following suit. He undoes the buckle with one hand and pulls it through the loops in one swift movement.
Then he's back on top of you, one hand holding himself while the other palms at your hip.
With how high your nightgown as ridden up, his hand slips under it with ease, palming the skin there as if he's not sure he's actually allowed to touch it.
I'm sorry I love you.
"Stevie." You say, grabbing at the thin material of his tank top with both hands.
"Yes?" He answers, lips brushing yours as he speaks. "Anything."
You nod, knowing he means it.
"I want you." You whisper, carding your hands through his hair.
You want him, want him while he's still yours.
Steve nods, placing another sweet kiss on your lips. "Then you can have me."
His hands go further, emboldened by your words and your own exploration over his body. His slides between your bodies, where your cunt rests against his pants and cups it. Thin cotton turns damp beneath his touch, fabric ruined as you rut into his palm.
You whine, pushing into him for more, desperately trying to chase the feeling he's ignited.
"This okay?" He mutters, flattening his fingers over your folds, pushing the gusset of your panties between them.
You nod, bottom lip pulled between your teeth. "Please." You whisper, "more."
Steve's hands stay soft, but their touch turns firm. He pulls your underwear down your legs, pushing your nightgown up to fully reveal yourself to him.
"Beautiful." He breathes, "so beautiful."
His hands come to your thighs, pushing them apart as he lowers his head between them.
I'm sorry I love you.
Your throat turns dry, breathing stops altogether as Steve looks up at you from the apex of your thighs.
He blinks at you, giving you a chance to push him away.
"I want you." You affirm instead, shifting your hips to give him a better angle.
Steve descends with a nod, the barest hint of a smile on his lips.
If you thought what you felt before was fire, then Steve's lips are lava.
It burns with the first swipe of his tongue, more exploratory than purposeful. Then a second, before he's diving in with gusto. Like a starving man Steve feasts on your cunt, as if it may as well be his last meal.
You're wetter than you ever believed possible, slick to his chin with want. More than you've ever felt on your fingers.
"Stevie!" You cry out, hand knotting in his hair, a sharp grip on his roots. You're gasping, a writhing mess on the floor of your bedroom. It's made all that much dirtier by your bed just a few feet over. A simple luxury denied because you couldn't wait to give in to your baser instincts.
Steve's tongue lays flat over your clit, tonguing it with kitten licks while two of his fingers explore your entrance.
They work you over, scissoring inside of you with the best of intentions. A curl of his knuckles and you're clenching around him like a vice.
Steve doesn't speak, doesn't find any words worth interrupting your pretty sounds.
With his lips closed around your clit you cum on his tongue. A full body spasm that leaves you gasping and wrecked. A thin sheen of sweat over every inch of your skin and stars in your eyes so bright you nearly can't see Steve when he comes back up to kiss you.
The taste of yourself on his tongue is filthier than sin, a reminder of just how far you've fallen in single night. A different girl lays beneath him than the one Steve met at the dance. This one's known joy, known sadness, known anger and pleasure.
How is she supposed to move on?
I'm sorry I love you.
Steve pushes inside you with a gentleness you wouldn't think is possible for a boy covered in blood. He lets your entrance kiss the crown of his cock and waits until you nod before breaching it.
There's a stretch, a big one. Your entire body goes tense, freezing in shock at the sheer size of him. Everytime you think it must be over, he must be done there's another inch, another circle over your clit as he tries to soothe the ache.
It's a fullness you've never known, unlike anything else you've felt.
He pushes inside the deepest part of you, heat throbbing as he lets you adjust.
"Stevie." You whimper, a single tear breaking over your lash line. "So much."
Steve twitches inside you, cock stirring at the sound of his name on your tongue. You say it slower than everyone else, like he deserves the extra time. It makes his chest feel like it could burst.
"I know." He soothes, "I know." He kisses your forehead, but gives a tentative thrust. A slow roll of his hips to see how your body receives it.
You gasp again, eyes still squeezed shut. Your expression changes though, from pain to something sweeter.
There's a hum, a soft little moan this time when he gives you another.
You say his name again and this time his entire body reacts, another twitch but also a firmer roll of his hips.
"You like when I say your name." You whisper, nose pressing against his.
Steve nods, arms shaking with the effort of holding himself back.
"I like when you do anything."
You sigh, dreamy and pleasure drunk. This time it's you who teases, giving a testing clench around his length.
Steve starts to unravel, his hips jerking in response to your test.
"Stevie." You repeat both his name and the action, pleased when it marries both reactions.
"Stevie." And he picks up the pace, thrusts changed from delicate to purposeful. Any fear of breaking you replaced with a fear of not having enough of you.
"Stevie." A ragged moan falls past his lips, the sound landing directly on your lower back, igniting with tingles that send your hips canting to meet his thrusts.
"Stevie!" When you fall over the edge again, tumbling into a free fall of pleasure and an overwhelming flood of love in your chest.
Steve falls right behind you, pulling out just as he begins to spill his spend. It makes a mess on the floor instead, a mess equal to your gasping and exhausted bodies.
You lay there with him in the aftermath, a blanket pulled half-hazardly off your bed and onto your bodies. It takes minutes for your breath to catch, for your frantic heart to calm down.
When it's settled, when your head lays on his chest and his hand draws absentminded circles on your back, Steve finally speaks.
"Run away with me."
The words hit you between the ribs. The prospect of leaving everything you've ever known, all the people you love, the home you've made in this strange place. You've done that before, you're not eager to do it again.
But it's him, it's your Stevie. It's your boy with the blue eyes and big heart and even with the blood on his hands you still want them to be the hands that hold you.
You shake your head, but your smile gives you away. The future that had been so suddenly ripped from you feels within reach again. Like maybe you can be happy, maybe you can forgive and grow. Maybe that little house is waiting for you to come and fill it.
"Okay." You agree.
"Really?" Steve asks, eyebrows lifted high. "I didn't think you'd say yes."
You hum, tracing a line down his chest with your finger. "Me either." You tease, "there's a word in a country, for when two people are meant to love."
"Soulmates?" Steve offers, his own grin nearly unbearable.
"Yes." You nod, tucking your head into his chest. "You are my soulmate." You tell him.
"You're mine." Steve breathes in return, "there will never be anyone but you."
"Then it's settled." You tell him, moving so you're leaning on his chest. "We will go somewhere, and we will find a place for us."
"A place for us." He agrees.
You get dressed in a quiet exchange of knowing looks and stolen kisses. You take from each others lips with familiarity, two bodies shared inside one soul.
As Steve leaves, you give him one last kiss, one last whispered exchange.
"I'm sorry."
"I love you."
You're not sure what tomorrow will bring. It has clothes shoved hastily into a napsack, a note addresses itself to your parents with an apology and a promise to write.
Outside the streets start to come to life, New York flutters in through your open window. A neighbor starts to hang her washing, a bird sings its alarm.
A boy runs home, blonde hair shining on the sun and a smile on his lips.
Behind him another stares with bloodshot eyes, rage in his blood.
Only a block away, you hear the shot when it rings out.
Thank you so much for reading!!! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it, seriously this fic was such a fun departure from my usual stuff and it was so nice to get back to Steve!!! Love you! Say it back!
oh pink i don’t even have the words this was gorgeous. i think i felt every single emotion under the sun, and the way you captured that naive young love, full of hope and wonder despite everything had my heart absolutely swelling.
it was so so so beautiful to the point where i was convincing myself they’d have a happy ending and somehow come out of it good anyway. and so then the ending tore my heart from my chest and stomped on it. i’m heartbroken for them even though i knew it was coming, which is seriously a testament to your writing and how you made us root for them even though they were doomed. GAAAHHHH more poor babies they were so in love and steve only went bc she thought he was good enough to stop it all oh my god i’m gonna cry. he just wanted to be as good as she saw him 😭😭😭
and the fact that her begging him to go go to stop it is the only reason he went and, him trying to stop it is why bucky died, and then him killing vision in retaliation oh my god pink seriously my heart is in pieces on the floor. doomed by the narrative indeed 😔
you literally captured steve perfectly too, even with fitting him into the role of another character. oh that sweet sweet boy. HOW I LOVE HIM SO!!
seriously pink, this was insane! ISANE!!! the way you capture emotions, and particularly love, in your writing always has me floored. it always feels so alive and makes the characters feel so tangible and this was no different. like:
You see it in your brother and Wanda, the way she softens his edges in a way no one else can. It's in your parents, most of the time. Sometimes it's across the street, between the old couple from Ireland who sit on their stoop and feed the pigeons. It's in one of the girls you work with, Natasha. In the letters she reads you from her beau back in Russia.
You covet it, lean in closer when they speak as if you can catch it like a cold.
You feel it breathing down your neck, waiting to strike. Your heart is open, you just need someone to walk into it.
describing reader’s understanding of love and desperation for it like this 🥹🥹 and also this bit in particular:
He did, from the moment you left his arms a chill had settled over his bones. Like when anxiety curdles in your stomach, or a fever burns behind your eyelids. An utterly physical reaction to the lack of you.
i literally said “awwww” out loud to no one. THEYRE SO TRAGIC AND IN LOVE
and the smut don’t even get me started, such a beautiful first time for reader and probably every thing she ever hoped for, and then agreeing to run away together, him going home all happy and in love FUCK 😭😭 they were so so sweet i just wanted them happy, and her hearing the shot ring out. i’m destroyed 😭😭
thank you so much for joining the collab pinky, i am absolutely overjoyed to have this wonderful fic as part of the showing. LOVE YOU TOO <33
⭐︎ warnings: smut, rough sex, reader talks him through it, bucky doesn't dirty talk, he snarls instead, size difference, dumbification (bucky talks like a caveman? idk), talks about consent, period typical misogyny, creampie, praise, breeding kink, spitting in mouth, mating press, overstimulation, bucky loves eye contact
⭐︎ word count: 6k
⭐︎ a/n: what started out as a 'hahahehe' food for thought turned into a smutty porn without plot fic. ty to @epiphanyrogers for giving me the motivation to write this by feeding me with her own gladiator steve !! reader literally teaches what consent is to bucky, but ultimately the sex is consensual. either way, please tread carefully.
synopsis:
Bucky becomes the reigning champion and naturally, he seeks a prize—a pretty maiden to bed. You fall victim to his rough hands—to a brute who doesn't even know the meaning of the word "no." Yet to your surprise, despite being a man who takes whatever he wants, he is willing to let you teach him what consent really means.
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The Colosseum is a home for bloodbaths.
There is a symphony of cheers and screams that rings throughout the entire dome. Swords clash against swords, sweat and blood dance together, dirt kicks into the air, and alcohol and spit shoot out of patrons’ mouths.
It is meaningless—all of it just a cruel form of entertainment for the emperor and his family.
You are thankful that you hadn’t been born a male to be pushed into these silly games, but instead, you are a woman—and that might be worse. But for now, despite all the screaming happening outdoors, you find solitude and a somewhat sense of peace near the barracks, sweeping debris and scrubbing the blood and grime off the floors from the defeated champions who walked away, already on the verge of death.
“Look at them,” you breathe. You pause your sweeping, wiping a strand of sweaty hair out of your face as your eyes peer through the wide holes of the wooden gates. “Animals. The whole lot of them.”
Livia does not need to look up to know what them you are referring to. There is only one kind of ruthless animal in the world—and that is men.
“Do not stare,” she warns you quietly. “If they catch you looking, they’ll punish you.”
“Please,” you scoff. “Their heads are too far up their own egos to notice us.”
“Big egos, yes.” Livia’s golden eyes glance over her shoulder from where she kneels on the floor, scrubbing grime. “And bodies. They are also quite handsome.”
Your eyes snap to her in revulsion. “Handsome? How can you say such a thing!” You glance back at the two men battling in the center of the dome. “Look at them. They are monsters.”
In the center is a man that you recognize—Bucky Barnes, the reigning champion for years. The White Wolf, is what the Emperor likes to call him. He is fighting another man, not much bigger than him, and certainly a man you do not recognize, meaning a man who will soon be falling to his doom beneath Bucky’s swords.
You have to admit, however, the man was giving The White Wolf a run for his money.
Finally, the man kneels before Bucky in defeat. Bucky raises his sword and delivers the final blow that sends the man to his grave.
Cheers erupt inside the dome. People jump out of their seats to shout and stomp. More debris and dust fall from above, landing on your and Livia’s faces—making you both cough.
The gates of the dome rattle as the herald’s voice shouts over the roaring crowd.
“Victory belongs to the undefeated! Behold your champion—The White Wolf!”
Thousands of voices chant his name as the dome thumps in a cadence that shakes the stone foundations around you. Through the wooden slats of the gate, you watch Bucky raise his blood-slicked sword to the sky. Unlike the other victors, he doesn’t smile. He never smiles.
Livia wipes the dust off her brow. “Another one to his name. He truly is unstoppable.”
You pull your gaze away. “He is a butcher,” you mutter.
Livia pushes herself off the floor with a light groan. She lifts the empty wooden basin to her chest. “I am going to refill this,” she says. “We’re going to need a lot of water to wash the victor up. I will be back.”
The wooden gate in front of you begins to groan as it slowly lifts. You grip your broom tight, moving to the side to make space for the blood-soaked victor to return back inside.
When Bucky steps in, the cool shade of the barracks is pure bliss against his hot body. Behind him steps the herald, adjusting his fine robes and wiping a pristine handkerchief over his sweaty brow, while the champion in front of him bleeds everywhere.
Bucky drops onto a wooden bench, and it creaks beneath his large body. His chest heaves as he catches his breath. With eyes still fueled by the adrenaline of battle, he watches as you approach him with a damp cloth and drop to your knees, wiping the splattered blood from his shins and boots.
“A magnificent display, White Wolf,” the herald boasts, pacing the floor and waving a hand dismissively in your direction as if you were just another piece of furniture. “The Emperor was thoroughly pleased. The coin will be transferred to your keeper, of course, but the Emperor insists on a personal reward for his favorite fighter tonight. A token of appreciation. Wine? A feast? Or perhaps a woman from the upper courts?”
Bucky does not answer the herald.
You try to keep your eyes down, working on scrubbing the crimson off his leather armor, but you can feel his cold stare watching your every movement, tracing the line of your shoulders and the curve of your vulnerable and exposed neck.
“We have the finest women prepared,” the herald continues, oblivious. “You have earned the right to take whatever, or whomever, you please.”
A massive and calloused hand suddenly shoots out. His fingers lock around your fragile wrist, making you wince and drop the rag.
“This one.”
You meet the champion’s eyes, and the spirit behind them terrifies you.
Bucky looks at you, not the way he stares at his opponents, but with something far more lethal. He looks at you as if you are roasted meat served on a silver platter by the Emperor himself. It sends shivers down your spine, and you avert your gaze.
The herald stands confused beside him.
“Her?” the herald sputters, looking down at you in disbelief. “White Wolf, she is a mere servant. A floor scrubber. The Emperor offered you a lady of the court. Someone fit for a powerful champion, such as yourself!”
The way the herald utters the word lady sounds like an insult to you—as if insinuating you’re not woman enough for a man like Barnes.
Bucky’s grip on your wrist tightens again as he gives your arm a rough shake, forcing your attention back to him with a gasp.
“Want her,” Bucky grunts, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The herald blinks, his eyes flickering down to you where you kneel before the champion. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “You must be mistaken, champion. She is nothing but a dirty servant—”
Bucky’s leather gloves creak as he tightens his hand on the hilt of his sword, and the herald falls silent, taking that slight movement from the gladiator as a threat to shut up.
“Fine, fine,” the herald mutters with a defeated sigh. “If that is what pleases you, then she is at your disposal.”
Your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. You hadn’t expected the herald to give you up so easily. You had hoped he would insist Bucky find a better woman—someone of higher value, and nowhere near your station.
“Wait, sir—you can’t possibly—!”
“I will let the Emperor know of your decision.” The herald turns on his heel, continuing to talk as if you aren’t even present. “He will be very amused. Though… it does make my job easier, finding another prize… I shall consider this a win for the both of us!”
The herald scratches his beard and shrugs as he continues to walk away. You feel like your life is already flashing before your eyes. There are horror stories of men like Bucky—men who just take and take without remorse. You are no exception. You don’t even want to imagine the kind of things he would do to a woman like you once the herald leaves you two alone. Ignoring Bucky entirely, you try to pry your weak arm away from the fighter’s grip and get to your feet.
“Sir, wait! Don’t leave me here with him!”
But Bucky’s grip remains tight. He hauls you against his broad, bare chest as he stands up. You collide into him with a yelp as he pins you still.
“Mine now,” he rumbles deeply.
You try to pull back, your heels digging into the grime stained floor, but it’s like trying to move a stone pillar. “Let me go! I have to finish cleaning, I have to—”
Without a word, he crouches before you and wraps both strong arms over your legs, hauling you like nothing and propping you over his shoulder like a prize he rightfully deserves.
“Come,” Bucky barks without a single opportunity for defiance. “Take you home.”
Your voice is dry from all the shouting and begging for him to release you. Your fists are weak from pounding his back in an attempt to make him let you go. Now, as you sit at the edge of his worn bed in his small home—which feels like it’s being held up by nothing but sticks and tapestry—you realize all of it was futile.
Tears streak your dirty cheeks as you wipe at them pathetically. You couldn’t even say goodbye to your dear friend, Livia. She must be worrying herself sick about you.
Bucky stands large and imposing in the center of the already tiny home. He wastes no time as he strips himself of his clothes, eyes locked onto your trembling frame. This man in front of you has no sense of shame as he leaves himself completely bare, his cock already hard and springing to his muscular lower belly.
You glance up, your breath catching in your throat at his size.
He is huge, his tip already gorging into an angry red while pre-cum dribbles out from the slit. Your eyes follow the veins that decorate his shaft up until you reach the base of his cock, where dark curls sit unruly and trail thinner up to his belly button.
“Good,” he grunts in approval. “Look at me. Only me.”
Bucky’s strong legs stalk forward to meet you at the edge of the bed. All you can do is stare at him with wide eyes. The campfire flickering behind him casts a warm light, highlighting his muscles and the sharpness of his features.
As he gets closer, you scramble backward. His knees dip and creak the bed as he crawls after you. To him, this is a game of cat and mouse—and he doesn’t mind one bit. You’re terrified, but he sees this as foreplay. The two of you continue this until your back hits the stone wall, leaving you nowhere else to run.
“Please,” you whimper. “Don’t do this.”
Then, without warning, his hand shoots out to grab the neckline of your dress. With a simple tug, his mere strength tears right through it.
“No!” you shriek, your hands coming up to cover your breasts before he even catches a glimpse. “Stop!”
Bucky furrows his brows. Your cries and actions only confuse him. His hands grab your arms, trying to pry them away from your chest. He is so much stronger than you; he could easily break you if he wanted to.
“No! Stop! I’m not ready!” you cry again, shaking your head as you gather all your strength to fight back. “I said, I’m not ready—!”
With your hand acting on a mind of its own, it reaches out and delivers a hard slap across the gladiator’s face.
Bucky’s head whips to the side, his dark, matted hair covering the features of his face—you can’t make out his expression at all.
Your eyes go wide, and your hand weakly retreats back to your chest. If you hadn’t thought Bucky was going to kill you before, you are certain he is going to skip the sexual act and kill you right now instead.
But, being as stubborn as you are, you hold onto the shovel that digs your very grave.
“I told you to stop,” your voice is shaky, but you try to find your footing. “I said no. Countless times. I did not give you my consent. Don’t you know what that word means?”
This is foolish, you think to yourself. Talking to a gladiator like Bucky is like talking to a brick wall. Your words will just go in one ear and out the other.
Bucky slowly turns his head back to you, his gaze locking onto yours with eyes so sharp you could swallow the blade. This is it. You’re certain this is where you die.
He makes an expression—not a pained one, but confused. His jaw is tight where your hand just struck him. He doesn’t move to strike back like you think he will, and he doesn’t wrap his hands around your throat to kill you.
He tilts his head, his face scrunched now in a way that makes him look almost like a kicked puppy.
“No?” he repeats, treating it like a question.
The syllable sounds clunky, foreign, and deeply awkward rolling off his tongue.
He looks down at your hands, still clamped tightly over your torn dress, and then back up to your glassy eyes.
“Consent?” he tries the next word, his brows furrowing from how unusual it sounds.
You nod, holding your breath. “Yes. Consent. I did not give it to you.”
Bucky blinks as the cogs work—or try to—in his head.
The reigning champion of the Colosseum, the brute of a man who knows exactly how to sever someone’s limb or take a prize by force, looks completely lost. For his entire life, the rules were simple: fight, win, take. No one had ever told him ‘no.’ No one had ever given him a choice, and he had never given anyone else one either.
“Consent,” he tastes the word again, as if trying to see if he likes it or not. Then, he shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
Now, you are just as confused as he is.
You stare at the gladiator who kneels before you on the bed. He is probably the most feared man in the empire, yet he sits there naked and baffled by such a basic concept.
“You don’t know?” you whisper. “You don’t know what the word consent means?”
Bucky shakes his head, his broad shoulders slumping a fraction. He looks down at his own massive hands, then back at you, looking almost defeated and unsure of what to do from here.
You let out a trembling breath, slowly adjusting your grip on your torn dress to keep yourself covered as you try to find the words to explain it to a man raised only for slaughter.
“It means... permission,” you explain softly. “It means that my body belongs to me, just like yours belongs to you. To take a woman to bed, she has to want it too. She has to say yes.” You gesture weakly between the two of you. “If I say no, or if I say stop, you have to stop. Otherwise, you are just hurting me. You are just forcing me.”
Bucky listens intently, his dark eyes watching your lips as you speak.
“Don’t want to hurt you,” he answers, his voice rough and strained.
That catches you by surprise. You didn’t expect that kind of softness out of him. Then, he meets your eyes again and continues. “Not yet, at least.”
You pull the torn dress tighter against your chest with a slight frown, and Bucky notices. He shifts awkwardly on the back of his heels—his cock still hard but his mind just as confused.
“How do I get you to want it?” He rests his hand on your bare ankle, tugging you gently. “Like how I want you?”
You swallow hard as you stare at his large hand wrapped around your ankle. He could grab you and break you—mold you and bend you so easily to his will—but he doesn’t.
“You have to… court me,” you try to explain. “You have to make me feel safe, and you have to make me want it.”
Bucky tilts his head. Everything you have just said—even the word safe—feels alien to him.
Your teeth worry your bottom lip as you continue. “It means you don’t just take what you want. You touch softly. You talk to me, and you kiss me.” You point a trembling finger to your mouth, then to his. “With your lips. To show me that you care about how I feel, not just what you want.”
“Touch softly,” Bucky repeats, drilling the instruction into his mind.
You shudder as his hand, once wrapped around your ankle, turns into a gentle caress with his fingertips.
Up and down, his calloused fingertips trace your foot up to your bare calf. He leans over your body, forcing you to lie down beneath him as he hikes up the hem of your skirt. He flattens his palm so it rests heavy against your bare thigh.
“Kiss,” he murmurs, his blue eyes tracing the curve of your lip. “Make you safe.”
He lowers his head, his dark, unruly hair brushing against your cheeks as he brings his face inches from yours.
He hesitates for a second, his nostrils flaring like an animal as he breathes you in. Then, with an awkward, slow movement that he isn’t at all used to, Bucky presses his lips to yours.
The kiss is clumsy and far too hard at first, but as much as he wants to, he doesn’t force his way inside. He doesn’t push his tongue into your mouth, demanding dominance. He keeps his mouth pressed against yours, his lips slightly parted, mimicking the action as best as his instincts allow. It is gentle, surprisingly soft, and very wet—he might’ve even been drooling, aching to kiss you.
He pulls away just a fraction and searches your face for any sign of fear.
“Like this?” he murmurs, his breath hot against your mouth. “Safe?”
Your heart flutters wildly in your chest, except this time it has nothing to do with fear. You stare up at the man before you with wide eyes and wet lips. Bucky studies your face, trying to make out if what he did was right or wrong.
“Y—yes,” you breathe out. “That was good.”
Satisfied with your answer, he leans back down and kisses you again. One hand rises up—slowly, to avoid startling you—and cups your cheek gently. His thumb grazes over the curve of your cheek while his lips explore yours.
A soft, needy sound leaves your lips before you can stop it, and Bucky answers with a deep groan. While one hand cradles your cheek, his other hand slowly rises beneath your dress to grip your smooth hip.
You find yourself unexpectedly leaning into the kiss, matching him until his tongue pokes past your lips and swirls around yours. The two of you breathe heavily, moaning softly against each other as Bucky positions himself between your legs. His cock grows even harder, poking against your warm inner thigh.
He can’t take it anymore. Each moan that leaves your lips sounds like yes, yes, yes to his ears. His desperate hands find the waistband of your panties, threatening to tear them.
You suddenly pull away from the kiss with a gasp, catching your breath. Your hand presses against his bare chest, stopping him.
“No,” you pant as you stare up at him. “Stop. Not yet. You have to be patient.”
At the word stop, Bucky freezes. A snarl rips from the back of his throat, and his face twists in frustration. His jaw clenches so hard, his muscles twitch. You wince back into the pillows in fear, thinking you are in over your head and have pushed him too far.
You brace yourself, closing your eyes tightly.
“I’m trying,” he growls, the words tearing past his teeth. “What do I have to do? Tell me.”
You open your eyes and see him hovering over you. His large body acts as a blanket of warmth while one strong arm props him up, the muscles straining under his own weight and restraint.
“You have to touch me,” you explain gently, pulling his hand away from your underwear and bringing it up to your chest. “Like this.”
Bucky’s eyes follow your movement. Your smaller hand rests over his as you guide him to squeeze your breasts. His breathing grows heavier as his fingers tug and start to play with your budded nipple, relishing the way you moan and arch your back into his touch.
“Like that,” you moan softly. “Good—good boy.”
He groans loudly at your praise. His dark, unruly hair brushes your skin before his mouth closes over your budded nipple. He begins to lick and suck hungrily, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak while his teeth graze the edge.
“Mm…” Your eyes flutter shut at the pleasure, your head tossing back against the pillow while he makes love to your tits.
Encouraged by your sounds, he grinds his thick hard cock firmly against the smooth skin of your bare thigh, seeking any kind of friction to relieve the ache between his legs.
One hand leaves your breast to grip your hip, digging his fingers into your skin to hold you still while he ruts against you like an animal. He whimpers against your chest, drunk on your scent and the high of your soft moans.
“Please,” he begs, his stubble tickling your bare chest. “Say yes. Let me have you. Now.”
The way he pleads sends a warm rush through your lower belly, a feeling that leaves you craving him just as badly. The man who is used to taking whatever he wants without remorse is reduced to being entirely at your mercy between your legs. A sensation settles inside you that you never thought you would harbor.
Control.
Just one word—one breathless little “yes”—would send Bucky over the edge. His pleasure and his craving are both held in your hands.
“Okay,” you say, giving him a small nod, satisfied with how well he has done. “You can have me.”
A growl rips from his chest. Driven by instinct, his large hands grip the waistband of your panties once more, his knuckles pulling taut as he prepares to shred the flimsy fabric to pieces.
“No,” you interject quickly, slapping his hands away. “Don’t rip them! That’s rude!”
He scowls as he draws his hand back, a whine of frustration catching in his throat like a disappointed hound. It’s clear he is unhappy about facing another rule when he is so close to the edge, yet he listens.
“Pull them down slowly,” you instruct.
Using every ounce of restraint in his veins, he resists the urge to tear the cloth. He hooks his thick fingers into the sides and slowly pulls the fabric down past your hips and thighs until you are completely bare beneath him.
“There you go,” you sigh softly, pleased with his gentle movements. “Good boy.”
Bucky’s eyes drop to the slick heat waiting for him. He hovers over your body, his heavy breathing filling the space between you as he positions the thick head of his cock right at your entrance. He rubs himself up and down against you, soaking his length in your arousal and sucking in a breath at the heat of your touch.
He is too big—impossibly so—and you aren’t sure if he will fit.
“Need to fuck you,” he grits through clenched teeth. “Hard.”
Holding himself at the base, he works at your entrance. His tip slowly slides in, stretching the opening and pushing deep enough to make you arch your back off the bed with a painful hiss.
He pauses at the sound.
“No,” you whimper, blinking tears away as you peer down at him. “If you’re going to have sex with me, you have to be gentle.”
His face twists into a strained expression, but he reluctantly abides.
One hand steadies your hip while the other holds his heavy cock, sliding into your warm, tight walls. Your body is so tight, not used to accommodating such a size, but he relents and continues pushing in.
You cry out, eyes squeezing shut as your arms rest on his shoulders for support.
“Look at me,” Bucky commands in a rough, deep voice. When you don’t listen, he tilts his head down so he is in your line of sight and tries again. “I said look at me.”
You finally do, and his eyes search yours intently. The ring of blue demands that you look at him, and him only.
“Keep them open,” he instructs. “Look at me. It will feel better.”
So, you do.
You both stare into each other’s eyes while he slides himself even deeper. As his cock stretches you wide, his brows furrow and his face twists into a snarl, baring his teeth at the tightness of your body until he finally sheathes himself fully inside with a groan.
“Gentle,” he rasps brokenly. “Gentle. Gotta be gentle.” He repeats the words as if he’s trying to remind himself.
Your legs shake around him, your body trying to get used to his size.
He hasn’t moved yet, but you already feel impossibly full. Your walls embrace him, and you feel your body slowly opening up to let him in. As his cock settles deep inside you, pleasure slowly overwhelms your senses.
For Bucky, it feels like pure torture. Your body is snug and warm—like a wet, tight fist wrapped around his cock, so much better than what he’s used to with his own calloused hands.
“Need to move,” he curses. “Need to fuck. Say yes.”
His voice comes out rough and crude, but he refuses to move without your consent.
“Hold on,” you whimper, still adjusting to his size. You shift your hips slightly, trying to get comfortable, but the movement only makes him groan in pleasure.
“Fine,” he grunts, squeezing your hip.
After what feels like forever, you finally nod your head.
“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m ready.”
And just like that, you open the pearly white gates to heaven for him.
With a hungry growl, he draws his hips back until only half of him remains, and then he slides himself back in. Your lips part in a gasp as he fills you again—his cock sinking even deeper, kissing your cervix.
“Tight,” Bucky clicks his tongue, growing frustrated. “Too tight.”
He pulls out halfway before slamming into you again, and again, and again. Each thrust grows harder and more unrelenting, forcing your body to yield to his cock.
“A—ah! It’s… s’too much—”
“Want me to stop?” he groans out painfully and reluctantly, like he doesn’t want you to answer with a ‘yes’.
“No,” you manage to breathe out. “Don’t stop.”
Moans and gasps spill from your lips every time he fills you. His girth splits you open with every savage thrust, his strong thighs forcing your legs wider for him.
His eyes never tear away from yours. Every time you try to squeeze your eyes shut from the force of his thrusts, he grabs your chin roughly and shakes you, forcing you to look back at him.
“Eyes. On. Me,” he hisses angrily.
Squeezing your cheeks to force your lips apart, he drags his thumb down your lower lip to pry them wider. He leans down, his hot breath tickling your skin while his damp strands of dark hair dance over your face.
He spits into your mouth, the traces of it dripping from his lips down to his chin, slicking your open mouth. It’s wild and savage, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Without giving you the opportunity to pull away, his lips cover yours as he forces his saliva to swallow down your throat.
His tongue dances around yours again while he fucks you deeply, each move threatening to break both you and the bed.
Your eyes roll back so far in your skull while your legs dangle helplessly around his hips. Every thrust feels like a punishment for making him wait. Your nerves are crying out for release—and eventually, you give in. Your cunt spasms violently around Bucky’s length as bliss overwhelms every single sense.
“Oh my god,” you cry. “I’m gonna cum—!”
Your cries fill the small house as your back arches off the damp bed. Bucky insists on making eye contact with you, holding your jaw and forcing you to look at him while he fucks you through your climax.
You clench him tightly, your pussy pulsing in loving beats and squeezing him for every last drop.
“Fuck. Yes. Good, feels so good,” he rasps angrily, his thrusts becoming harder and more desperate.
His balls slap vulgarly against your wet pussy, traces of your slick clinging to him every time he bottoms out. His balls churn with pent-up seed, aching to fill you deep. Your cries grow louder, your hips shifting around to accommodate the overstimulation—but it’s no use.
Bucky’s close, so close. While his eyes bore into yours, his pupils dilate with desire. He just needs to get deeper, to fuck you at an impossible angle to pump you full…
“Wait,” you dig your nails deep into his back, making him gasp in pain. “Slow down—it’s too much…”
He snarls angrily, his hips slowing down just a fraction, but not entirely.
The sound that leaves your lips is a cocktail of pain and bliss. It’s a sultry sound that encourages him to continue, to take what he wants, but the words leaving your mouth say otherwise.
“No,” you shake your head. “Stop, please. It’s too much for me. You’re going to break me—”
His hands release your cheeks roughly as his head drops to press his sweaty forehead against yours. Another animalistic sound tears through him as he forces his hips to come to a stop. His cock stills inside you—pulsing for any form of friction. Just a few more thrusts, and he’ll cum. He’ll cum hard. But he stops, because you asked him to.
“Need to cum,” he pants against your face, taking in the way your eyes have gone teary. “So close.”
“I know,” you say with a soft sigh, your eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “I know. I just… just need a minute.”
You let your fingers trail up and down his back, and he shudders at the feeling.
The two of you lie there, tangled in each other’s limbs while you catch your breath. Bucky waits impatiently—his heart beating so fast in his chest as he uses every ounce of restraint in his blood to refrain from fucking you right through the bed.
Your pussy is already swollen and puffy from his size, and the longer he remains stuffed inside you, the tighter your body squeezes around him.
With his forehead pressed against yours, he shifts his knees and hips slightly to get comfortable, but even those tiny, forced movements are agonizing. Breathy moans and grunts escape both your lips, shared in the tight space between you. It’s sex without the vulgar movements, and it feels far too intimate for a ruthless man like Bucky.
Finally, you grant him permission.
Staring into his eyes, you give him a small nod to let him continue. And the moment you do, the last thread holding Bucky’s control snaps.
He grabs your legs and shoves them high over your shoulders, splitting you wide and pinning you down into a deep mating press. “Need to go deeper. Hold still.”
You had just gotten used to his size, and the sudden change in position makes your eyes fly open. Your mouth falls open in a gasp as he draws his hips back before bottoming out completely inside you.
His heavy, sweaty body crushes down on yours as he begins to fuck you hard and fast. Every draw of his hips fills you impossibly deep, your stretched cunt molding helplessly around his thick length. He works his hips in a wild, frantic rhythm, chasing his release at full speed before you can say another word to stop him.
“Mine,” he rasps through gritted teeth, his chest heaving as his sweat drips onto your skin. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine—”
The force of his hips slamming against yours knocks the breath right out of you, your moans coming out as breathless gasps while he pounds into you. His eyes bore into yours, waiting for you to finally give in.
“Tell me you’re mine. Say it.”
You blink through tears of bliss. “I—I’m yours—” you manage to stammer out.
His face twists in pleasure, baring his teeth as he pins your legs against your chest while the tip of his cock works deep against your cervix. “Good. A perfect sleeve for my cock. Look at me while I cum inside you.”
The sight of your face scrunched in pleasure and vulnerability sends a wave of heat coursing from his lower gut to the very tips of his toes. His cock pulses and throbs inside, slicking your walls with his pre-cum—a warning before giving you the real thing.
“Pump my cum,” his large palm settles over your lower belly. “All in here.”
The thought of you walking around the house barefoot and round with his children—growing up to be champions just like their father—makes his head spin and his balls grow heavy.
“Close. So close,” he curses and groans over and over, speaking more than he ever has. “Hold still. Take it all for me, wife.”
Bucky buries himself as deep as his length will go, pinning you down as his entire body locks tight. His cock pulses, pumping wave after thick wave of his hot seed deep inside your womb.
His head drops into the crook of your neck, his large, sweaty chest heaving against yours as he rides out his pleasure.
He releases your legs for a moment until both your rapid hearts finally slow to a steady beat. Slowly, agonizingly so, he draws his thick length back, pulling out of your slick, overstimulated cunt with a wet suction sound.
You let out a soft, breathless gasp at the sudden empty feeling. A ring of creamy white circles the base of his cock, and his seed dribbles between your folds—physical proof of what he just did to you.
Without a word, he grips both your ankles with one large hand, pinning your thighs together and pressing your legs straight up into the air to hold them suspended above you.
You blink at him—dazed, exhausted, and thoroughly used. His cock rests half-limp between his strong legs, so he clearly isn’t going for another round.
“What are you doing…?” you whisper softly, confused.
He holds your legs firmly in place as his dark eyes scan your bare, trembling body.
“Make sure it takes,” he grunts out, his voice rough from satisfaction. He uses his free hand to trace a warm, possessive line down to your lower belly, pressing down gently right over your womb. “Keep your belly round with my sons.”
You stare up at him in disbelief while your legs are held helplessly aloft by his massive hand. You’re too exhausted to argue, your brain still foggy from your orgasm. Still, you manage an incredulous laugh.
Does he seriously think propping your legs up like a pair of stilts is going to magically guarantee a pregnancy?
He looks so proud of himself that you don’t even have the heart to argue. He squeezes your ankles slightly, letting out a satisfied hum from his chest once he’s convinced his little trick did the job. The smile on his face is almost boyish in a way that does not belong to a rough man like him.
“Good wife,” he praises you. “Birth me healthy champions.”
You let out a soft sigh, fluttering your eyelids shut as fatigue finally crawls its way into your bones.
As you drift into slumber, you make a mental note to teach this brute a lesson on how gravity works. And right after that, you’ll teach him what aftercare is—especially if he plans on keeping you forever and making you his wife.
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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⸝⸝ 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 might be a wanted man, but he’s good down to the marrow.
“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
⸝⸝ 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 might be a wanted man, but he’s good down to the marrow.
“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
God, where do I start? As usual, my world revolves around your works <3 Saw this on the train and was shaking in excitement.!!!
I WAS SOOOO Stucky deprived … and this cured it. I don’t think I can recover from this because this is so beautifully written.
The tension between Steve and Bucky???? And us?? Hi…. Need that! Need to be sandwich between these bandits. Like honestly, without hesitation, I would take them in!!!!! Stay in my house forever PLEASE.
As usually, Maddie… take my house, my cats and all of my savings!!!!!!! Girl YOU ARE SOOOO AMAZING <3
mox, bby, have i ever told you i love you BECAUSE OH MY GOD I LOVE YOU SM <333 your reblogs light up my whole week when i see them you are the sweetest ever ever THANK YOU THANK YOUUUU 🤍🥰
and pleasee i think we all need to be sandwiched between these two cowboys!!
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