f1 + marvel

Due to your paranoia towards intruders and creeps in general, who could potentially want to steal your valuables (which honestly only include your gaming laptop and a pair of thrifted Jimmy Choos) you almost never leave your window curtains open, not even when you’re at home. Besides, it’s a hassle to be policing yourself when you like to walk around without much clothing at home, one of the unexpected perks of living alone.

This morning, however, you remember waking up in a hurry, having heard the alarm on its fourth snooze, and opening them to check on the sun. In the middle of your hastiness, you didn’t close them back up.

Which means that now, looking out of the window, your eyes meet a widened gaze.

Across from your house lives a family. They have been your neighbours for a couple of years now, ever since you moved in, but from what you can tell, they’ve been since forever. For the most part, the mom seems to be a normal, bearable neighbor who often can be a little overstepping, but nothing one can’t redirect in the middle of a conversation. The father, on the other hand, seems to be a wannabe manchild of a DJ, who plays such terrible music it can only be self made. You try to keep your distance, mostly, and don’t have much interactions with either of them.

But there’s the son.

His bedroom is across from yours, and even with the distance between your houses, you have a very clear view of what goes on inside of each other’s rooms. It’s one of the reasons why the curtain stays closed as well, but it’s not like you haven’t seen glimpses of him in many situations, or him you.

You’ve seen his late nighters, after he gets home from his work, gaming until irrational hours in the morning. You’ve seen him work on his music, which somehow is even worse than the dad’s, as if it’s a masterpiece he needs to polish tirelessly. You’ve seen him get dressed, like one of those cartoonish movie characters who pull on the shirt as they step in their shoes, at the same time. 

You’ve also seen him naked, out of the shower, or on his bed touching himself under the covers. All due to his apparent aversion to closing his blinds.

From your time living here, in all of the ways you’ve seen him, you never got his name. But sometimes late at night, when you’re alone, you wish you knew what it is. When you’re touching yourself, you often think of him, and try to guess what name fits him best. 

Mark? Jack? Steve?

He seems to have this sort of comically pathetic personality, but seems to try hard to look like a cool guy. It’s almost sad, in a funny way, to see that he doesn’t seem to realize his terrible fashion sense, bad haircut on hair which honestly needs more frequent washes, and awkward act makes it so that everything that would make him attractive to others is diminished. You don’t know what it says about you, however, that you think it makes him even more interesting. He has all of the raw material, but none of the effort to make it work actually works.

If he was someone else, or either him or you lived somewhere else, maybe you’d be willing to make some sort of move. The thing is, he sort of freaks you out in a very specific way. Everything about him screams obsessive. From his overall vibe, you’ve always had a feeling he’d be awfully clingy at best, downright obsessed at worst. No good sex is worth the headache, and having a weird situation with a guy, when you live right next door? Insanity.

Insanity that seems to be putting you to the test right now.

From his bedroom, he is staring right at you. He’s frozen, eyes flitting all over your body. One of his hands is holding a towel around his waist, and the other is holding a change of clothes. His skin is slightly wet, reflecting the neon lights emitting from his computer setup. You eye his blushed chest, heaving, and the chest hair that permeates the span of it. Something about this guy you always thought to be sort of wimpy in his attractiveness, having hair like a man, god, makes your body bloom with heat, and you instinctively bite your lower lip. The moles that decorate his skin seem infinite, and you briefly wonder how long it would take to map it all out, if he let you. Of course he would let you, he would kill for any woman to touch him, you thought immediately. Your eyes travel down, to his soft tummy, and the happy trail that leads under the towel, past the hand that’s holding it. Right down to his very apparent erection.

You look back up to his eyes, and find him still looking at you. He seems embarrassed, but not enough to chastise himself and break away first. You remember what you have often told yourself, that you truly shouldn’t let anything happen between you two. But being bored and tired is one hell of a stimulant. There’s not a worried thought about heat, bad couches and exhaustion in your mind anymore. All that exists there is one thought. Seeing what’s under his towel. Despite his many late nights of late night masturbation sessions, he’d never given you a true glimpse. You’d seen him under his blankets, sure, and sat at his desk, but nothing more than food for your imagination, barely. Not that you had ever been trying to look, of course, but it all circles back to your reasons for always closing your curtains. If he didn’t want anyone looking, why didn’t he ever close his? It’s not like you were trying to get out of your way to peep.

If you don’t have his name, you can at least have something memorable to visualize when you’re alone, right?

If you decide to play with him, is it really going to end up so poorly like you always feared?

Taking a deep breath, resolve settling slowly in your mind, you slide off the hair tie you have on your wrist. You cock your hip slightly, just enough you know his zoned-in eyes will notice. The grip on his towel tightens, and you snort softly from your nose. You gather your hair up in a high ponytail, all with the intent of elongating your body and exposing more of your torso to him. Without your arms in the way, your chest is even more on display, but you try not to look like you’re trying hard to impress him, even though you obviously are. You want him to think of you today, just like you will think of him.

He seems to already be close to a syncope. His breathing is noticeably heavy, and he seems to be frozen in this position of not knowing if he should look away or take it as an invitation to whatever this can be. And as you drop your arms back down from your hair, he finally looks into your eyes.

You give him a small, closed-lip smile.

He blinks, seemingly taken aback, probably not expecting a positive reaction to his open staring, and hesitantly raises his hand in a small wave. 

It’s at this moment you realize maybe you got him all wrong. You now think he’s not going to be any sort of stalkerish, freaky, obsessed dude, but instead just an inexperienced, awkward virgin.

And in this moment, you feel yourself getting obsessed with him.

There’s a moment where you stop to think how far you can push this moment without being too daring in this first “meeting”, if one can even call it that. You want this guy, of course, but it’s not like the hesitation from before has completely waned. There are a thousand thoughts racing through your head, but you’re mainly just thinking, or more like manifesting - drop the damn towel. You bite your lip, tilting your head to the right. He’s still watching your eyes, waiting for a response, so as you raise your hand to wave back, your eyes choose to openly travel down his chest down to his bulge. He’s big. Like, really big. If your body was already buzzing before, now it feels like it’s burning up, the heat you felt all day doesn’t even compare to what staring at his body makes you feel. Your panties are soaked, and you’re fighting back the urge to touch yourself. Not yet, you tell yourself.

God, I could leap over this window right now.

From the corner of your eye, you can see his eyes following almost exaggeratedly to look at himself, and quickly shooting up to look at you again. He finds you already looking at him with a raised brow. You just stare at him, and give a little nod with your chin towards his lower half.

And for the first time since you started this standoff, he moves, but he stumbles lightly and sort of trips over himself in excitement. He moves to hold the thing closest to him, which is the window sill. Who gets dressed so close to an open window? With the sudden move, he’s not just looking at you, but leaning in your direction, sort of bent forward in an almost scandalizing position. His left hand is still holding his towel, but the one that was holding the clothes visibly strains against the wood, either from the extortion of holding himself up or, well, being really fucking turned on.

Your mind swirls with images of him bent over like that on top of you, his hands digging into the meat of your thighs. Your hands would run over the hair of his chest, touching his nipples on the way down, and he’d let out a shaky breath, letting his head hang down even more, almost shy to meet your eyes. Your nails would scratch lightly at his waist, before moving to touch him over his towel. He’d be hard and hot to the touch, and a whine would make its way out of his throat before he could even try to fight it. 

The imaginary weight of him makes your mouth water, and that pulls you from your fantasy. Come on, you have a crazy scenario happening right now, dude. No need to imagine anything.

Now, he is blushing even more than he was, but he doesn’t rise up from his position, mouth agape as he tries to take in deep breaths. You had briefly fantasized before, but now it’s clear - he will only do what you ask, even if it’s just asking him to look away. If you don’t give him the order, he will not take the initiative. 

What a delicious realization.

With this thought in mind, you move slowly towards the window, lest he acts like a scared cat and runs away if you move too quickly, and open it. 

“Hey.”

You speak up quietly to set up the moment, not wanting to spook him, yourself, or draw any attention from his parents to the conversation you want to have right now.

“Oh wow, uh. Definitely wasn’t expecting you to talk to me. Hi.”

He sounds so out of breath and affected, your ego can’t help but inflate slightly. His voice is sweet, soft, and the way he talks is somewhat endearing, like he can’t fully control the words that leave his mouth. He's really cute.

“What’s your name?”

“It’s Kurt,” his eyes are wide, like he can’t believe this conversation is happening, and you can’t take your eyes off of them. He looks so sweet you almost feel bad for making all of those assumptions about him before. Almost.

“Hi Kurt. Glad to finally give a name to the face.” You lean on the window frame as you reply. Kurt. Kurt. Kurt. K- It suits him. In fact, it suits him to a ridiculous amount. You give him your name, before continuing. “Do you like the view?”

“Dude, if I like-” he shakes his head incredulously, and stops himself, before speaking again, more quietly this time. “Of course I do, I mean- I’d be crazy not to. This is honestly something straight out of my fantasies.”

Heat blooms through you, and you press your thighs together. “Hm. So you’ve thought about me before?”

He freezes, and you wonder if he didn’t mean to let that slip, but you don’t dare to let him get closed off or something similar. You rest your hip on the window, not quite sitting, but just enough so you’d keep your balance more easily, and give him a small smile.

“No shame in that, baby. I’ve thought about you too, you know.”

It’s funny to see him sputter, trying to form a cohesive question, but it’s not lost to you how he moves the hand holding the towel lower, and press lightly on his cock, trying to relieve some of his tension as well. You swallow lightly, imagining himself pressed against your heat, trying to relieve both of your desperations, maybe making it worse. God, come ON.

“Really? ...Like what?”

“Oh, this and that,” you giggle, pursing your lips slightly as a chill runs over your body. This conversation is driving you absolutely insane, but in truth it’s also the most fun you’ve had in relation to sex in a long time. Sweet, normal intimacy is fine, but the unhinged thoughts you always keep hidden in the back of your mind are finally having their moment to be acted upon, and now you’ve started, you just can’t stop. All there is in your brain is Kurt, and the immense necessity you feel to see him naked. To have him. “But it’s hard sometimes, you know? My imagination is a little, I don’t know, lacking sometimes.”

His eyes follow as your hand trails up your stomach, and teases your nipple lightly, giving it a gentle tug. His nails are now digging on the wood, and his other hand openly presses against his erection. He hisses, and without breaking eye contact with your ministrations on your chest, starts to pump himself over the towel. You thought you couldn’t get wetter, but as his hand squeezes around himself, and you can truly see the thickness of him, looking big even when encompassed by his large hands, you let out a tiny moan. He swallows, head leaning forward to slump against the edge of the open window, which was at perfect height with his forehead. Almost imperceptively, he gives himself a little nod, before raising his eyes to look into yours again. “What do you need from me? I’d-” he gulps, and his eyes close as he gives himself a harder tug. “I’d do anything you ask me to. I will.”

You smile openly, teeth all bared like a wolf. You feel sort of insane, in all honesty, but your body is buzzing, making you feel like you are truly alive. Forgotten are the worries you had prior to this, all your one-track mind can focus now is on him. The heat spreads from your core to your extremities, and you can feel on yourself how close you’d be, if you’d just let your hand travel down to touch yourself.

If you just let him climb over that window to touch you.

No. Not yet. 

“How about a trade?”

He almost looks confused, but the pleased look on your face must be an indicator everything is fine, because he relaxes, and his hand never stills. He’s breathing harder now, which seems almost impossible considering how he was when you first started this conversation. “...What do you mean?”

“Hm, how about this? You let me see that pretty cock, and touch yourself until you come, and I give you my panties. Sounds good?”

He’s nodding before you finish, and in no time, his towel is untied from his waist.

He’s gorgeous. You imagined before, how he would look naked, but wow. His body is lithe but soft, and his thighs are just as full of moles as his chest and arms. But his cock, you just… You can’t stop looking at it. All of your assumptions are correct, of course, but seeing it standing tall, thick and all pretty and flushed with red, looking like it’s one touch away from bursting all over his window, god. You want him in your mouth, even if it’s the last thing you’ll do, as he buries himself in it, your nose flush with his pubic hair. You realize as your train of thought continues, that you really want to smell him, and you briefly think god, I’m a freak.

Your hands move to remove your panties before you can think much about the consequences of all of this, and you feel them unstick from you with a quiet, wet sound. The exposure to the open air makes you sigh shakily, and you ball up your underwear. “You better catch this, dude.”

Thanking the lucky stars for your decent aim and strength (the thought of you having to make a run to the backyard to grab your random pair of panties sprawled on the grass makes you shudder), he manages to grab them swiftly. For a moment, he stares at the fabric in his hand, his other hand also stalled, just holding himself.

And then he brings it to his face.

You can see the moment he loses all composure. He breathes in once, and his eyes go unfocused. His hand starts moving around himself again, pumping quickly, as if he doesn’t want to waste another second not touching his cock to the smell of you. You want to touch yourself, badly, but something about the sight of this man, completely lost in your scent… You decide you can wait a little longer, and just barely press your fingers to your clit in consolation.

He’s like a man on a mission, nose buried in the fabric, and broken moans start to spill uncontrollably from him. His sounds are so soft, and it’s like he doesn’t realize how much he’s lost control. His hand moves fast, up and down with such vigor you can hear the sound of it from your own room. He leans his head haphazardly against the window again, and with one lidded look at you, which you interpret almost as apologetic, his tongue darts out to lick at your wetness coating your panties.

He lets out the most beautiful moan you ever heard from a man.

You let out a shaky breath, fingers pressing hard on your core. You can’t tear your gaze from his mouth, from where his tongue is digging into the material, trying to lick off every bit of your slick he can. His eyebrows are furrowed, his eyes squeezed shut in a look that almost looks like pain, but one look at his hand and you can see it’s moving even faster. He’s fucking his own fist now, hips bucking into it with no proper rhythm or care. He just wants to get there, and so do you. You want to have this mental image of him forever, tucked away like your perfect little pervert fantasy.

He gets sloppier quickly, and as his tongue keeps running over the fabric, he shudders with the incoming orgasm. He lets out a broken moan, barely able to breathe, and spills all over the window. His fist milk his cock as rope after rope of cum falls on top of the wood. His nose is still buried into the fabric, while his body still shakes. As he drops the panties from his face, you’re finally able to take a proper look at him. He’s wrecked, lips puffy and pink from rubbing onto the fabric, and when you look closely, you can see his eyes are wet, glistening in the low light of the street lights and the neon coming from his room. He looks almost like he’s in pain, but the small quirk of his lips makes you huff out a little laugh. You can’t say for sure, but the guy looks likes he’s feeling really fucking good.

“That was, wow. I mean, I don’t think I ever came this hard,” he runs his hand through his hair, and you can’t help but notice how gorgeous he looks with it pushed back. You really want to run your fingers through it now. “Did you also…?”

“Nope,” you slide down from the window, trying to steady your wobbly legs after such a rush. “It’s okay though, I kinda just wanted to watch. Give you my undivided attention.” You finish with a wink.

He laughs sheepishly, and offers the hand holding your underwear out lamely, barely meeting your eye. “Do you want them back now or do I give them back washed? Do you like, do you want me to drop them off at your house later or…? I don’t know what to do now, honestly.”

You hum unworriedly. “Don’t worry too much, Kurt. You can keep it for now.” Giving him a smile, you raise your arms to pull the window down. “You can always give them back next time.

Two hours later you’re in his bed, sheets already twisted, his mouth between your legs like he’s got all night. He’s so careful—broad shoulders keeping your thighs open, tongue slow and filthy, two thick fingers curling just right. You’re moaning, hips rolling, pleasure coiling tight and warm in your belly, but you know how this ends. You always know.

“Bucky,” you gasp, fingers in his hair, “you don’t have to—”

He lifts his head, lips shiny, eyes dark. “I want to. Let me take care of you, baby.”

You nod, because how are you supposed to say no to that? He crawls up your body, all that beefy muscle and warm skin, cock heavy against your thigh. When he pushes in—slow, thick, stretching you open—you moan loud enough to echo. He feels incredible. He always does. You rock with him, hands on his back, nails digging in as he fucks you deep and steady, murmuring praise against your throat.

“That’s it, sweetheart. So fucking tight for me. You feel so good.”

You’re lost in it, in the drag of him, the way his dog tags brush your chest, the low rumble of his voice. But the edge stays just out of reach, same as always.

Then Bucky shifts. He hooks his hands behind your knees and folds you clean in half.

Your eyes fly open.

The press is sudden—your thighs pressed to your chest, ankles by your ears, his massive frame pinning you down so completely you can’t even squirm. He sinks in deeper than you thought possible, cock dragging right against that spot that makes your brain short-circuit. The angle is filthy, overwhelming. Every thrust grinds against your clit and punches straight into the place that’s never been touched like this.

“Oh my god—Bucky—”

He feels it the second you clench. His hips stutter. “Fuck, doll, you’re squeezin’ me so tight—”

You come like a freight train.

It hits you so hard your vision whites out. Your whole body locks up, thighs shaking against his shoulders, a broken cry ripping out of you as you pulse around him, wet and hot and endless. You’ve never come with anyone before. Never. Not once.

Bucky loses it.

His eyes blow wide, pupils swallowing the blue, mouth dropping open in pure stunned lust. “Holy shit—did you just—?” He drives in again, harder, chasing the way your cunt flutters and gushes around him. “You came. You came on my cock, baby. Fuck, look at you.”

He’s grinning now, cocky and wild, sweat dripping down his temple as he fucks you through it, hips snapping sharp and deep. “You just needed it deeper, huh? That’s all it took? My pretty girl been waiting for me to fold her in half and ruin her little pussy?”

You can’t even answer—just whimper and nod, tears slipping down your temples because it feels too good, too much. He groans, low and wrecked, and comes right after you, buried to the hilt, growling your name like a prayer.

After that, everything changes.

The next night he’s got you bent over the kitchen counter, fucking you slow and lazy while you try to finish the dishes you started. You’re close—whining, pushing back on him—but it’s not enough. You know what you need now. You hate how badly you need it.

“Bucky… please…”

He chuckles, dark and knowing, and slows down even more. “What’s wrong, doll? You sound so desperate. Use your words.”

You shove your face into your arms, mortified and aching. “The position. Please. I need—”

He pulls out, spins you around, and scoops you up like you weigh nothing. In two strides he’s got you on the couch, legs shoved up and back until your knees are by your shoulders. The second he sinks back inside you come again—hard, fast, sobbing his name while he laughs softly against your mouth.

“Greedy little thing,” he murmurs, still moving, still hard. “One taste and now you can’t get off unless I bend you in half like a pretzel, huh?”

It becomes your thing.

Every time after that you turn into a whiny, desperate mess the second he teases you with shallow thrusts. You’ll be riding him, hands braced on his chest, bouncing so pretty, and he’ll just smirk up at you.

“You close, baby?”

You nod frantically, hips grinding faster. “Mhm—Bucky—please—”

He grabs your waist, stilling you. “Nah. Not like this.” His voice drops, filthy and sweet all at once. “You need me to put you in position? Need me to fold those pretty legs up and fuck you so deep you see stars?”

You whine, high and pathetic, cheeks burning. “Yes—yes, please, Bucky, I need it—”

He flips you so fast your head spins. Knees to chest, his massive body looming over you, cock sliding back in with one brutal thrust. You come instantly, screaming, nails raking down his back while he fucks you through it with that smug, adoring grin.

“Every damn time,” he growls, hips snapping. “Only come when I’ve got you pinned and open like this. My perfect girl. Say it.”

“I—fuck—I only come when you put me in the mating press—oh god—”

He kisses you messy and deep, still thrusting, still teasing. “That’s right. And you’re gonna keep begging me for it, aren’t you?”

You nod frantically, already feeling the next one building.

Because now you know the truth: you can come. You just need Bucky Barnes to press you down, fold you up, and give it to you deeper than anyone ever has.

A week goes by, and you kiss him twice more.

Once on his couch on Wednesday, which starts because you sit down close enough that the intent is pretty clear. The second time is Thursday, at his door when you’re leaving, which starts because you turn around and he’s right there.

You’re getting better at it. More confident, less in your own head, less managing the moment and more just in it.  

Tonight is Friday, and you’re back on his couch.

“Can I try something?”  

There's no version of him that would say no to your question. “Yeah.”

“I want to — I want to start it this time.”

He doesn’t ask what, because he already knows. He settles back slightly, like he’s making room. “Alright.”

So you close the gap and kiss him. The kiss in itself isn’t any different. But it feels different when it’s yours to start. You bring one hand up to his jaw the way he always does to you, and you feel him still like the contact surprised him. That small victory does wonders for your nerves.

He kisses you back slowly, letting you lead, his hand coming to rest at your waist with a patience that you are choosing not to read too much into. You shift closer and his grip tightens, fractionally, like some reflex he’s only barely managing.

When you finally pull back, his eyes open. His thumb makes one slow pass over your hip. “That was good.”

“You could be more specific.”

“You didn’t hesitate.” His thumb again, same slow drag. “That’s the main thing.”

You’re close enough that you can see the detail of him. The line where his jaw meets his throat, the soft stubble that’s absolutely not helping right now. The lamp behind him is the only light and it’s warm and doing nothing to help you think straight.

“What’s next?”  

He looks at you for a moment, like he’s reading something. Then he stands up. Before you’ve quite registered what’s happening, his hands are at your waist and you’re being lifted. Foot-off-the-ground-lifted. He’s walking toward the bedroom with your face against his jaw, his mouth pressed to your temple. 

You don’t say anything. You’re not sure you could.

Thing is, you've been in his bedroom before. But this is entirely different. You’ve been there to to grab something, just passing through. You know the where the bookshelf is, you know he has a photo of you and Steve, you know he has a lamp that sits in the corner.

But one of that prepared you for being carried into it. The fact that it's Bucky carrying you.

He lays you down on his bed and looks at you. There’s something in how he does it, that makes your whole chest tighten up.

“I’m going to take your shirt off.” You realise he’s telling you so you know what’s coming, giving you time to say no before he does anything. “Along with the rest of your clothes. And then I’m going to put my mouth on you.” He watches your face process this. “Questions?”

“That’s — that’s a lot of steps.”

“It’s really not.” He reaches down and gets the hem of your shirt in both hands. You sit up to let him pull it over your head. When you’re back down, his eyes move over you in a way that makes you want to simultaneously stay very still and also disappear. 

His mouth finds your collarbone and works down slowly, hands mapping out the territory of your ribs, your waist, learning you, inch by inch.

He moves like he has a plan and also like the plan isn't the point. Like the point is every single inch of the way there.

But he doesn’t rush past your breasts. He cups one fully in his palm, thumb brushing slow circles over the nipple until it’s tight and aching under his touch. “These are sensitive,” his breath is warm against your skin. “We’re gonna take our time right here so you figure out exactly what you like. Tell me if it’s too much or if you want it harder.”

His lips close over your nipple and he sucks. Slow at first, then deeper, pulling the peak into his mouth that makes your toes curl. It’s nothing like the quick graze you expected.

This is hungry, his tongue swirling around it while he holds the suction. You arch hard, a shaky sound ripping out of you with his name. He switches to the other breast without breaking contact, sucking just as thoroughly, letting you feel every pull, every flick, until both nipples are swollen and slick and throbbing in the cool air.

You hadn't known it would feel like this. You'd thought that it would feel good, fine, whatever. You hadn't accounted for the quality of his attention. The way he's watching your face while he does it, checking, adjusting, reading you. It’s with the same focus he brought to explaining what made a good first date. It's the same focus and it's directed entirely at you. And you don't know what to do with that so you just make the sound his mouth is pulling out of you and try not to think.

When he finally releases them with a soft pop, he murmurs “you like that?” His dark eyes go over your face and decides it himself. “Yeah, you do. What about this?” He grazes his teeth over one sensitive bud, then bites down lightly, just enough pressure to sting in the best way. Your hips jerk and you moan outright, louder than you’ve ever let yourself be. He soothes the bite instantly with his tongue, then sucks again, harder this time, alternating between both breasts like he’s memorizing every reaction.

It feels like he's building a map of you for himself. For some purpose you haven't named yet. And won't name right now, because you can't think right now. Also because naming it would be a problem. His mouth stays on you longer than you thought it would, sucking and licking and testing until your chest is heaving and your thighs are trembling around nothing.When you press them close together, he says against your chest, “don’t do that.”

“Do what—”

“Squeeze your thighs.” His hand slides between your knees and parts them easily. “Keep them open.”

Something about being told that with his mouth still on your breast rearranges your brain chemistry entirely.

He makes his way down your stomach, mouth and hands both, leaving heat everywhere they go. His stubble drags across your ribs, raising goosebumps. It's a small thing, the scrap of his beard on skin.

It shouldn't be a significant thing.

It is, though.

His fingers find the waistband of your underwear and tug them down your legs and off.

Then he just looks. Both hands on your inner thighs, spreading you open under the warm light of his bedroom, studying your pussy with an attention that makes your face go absolutely warm, sweat beading at your temples.

“Bucky—”

“Give me a second.”

“You’re staring.”

“You’re so wet.” He runs his thumb, a sliver of a touch, through your folds, and your hips jerk. His words aren’t quite to you, more like something he’s noting down for personal records.

“I know." You're mortified that he's seeing this. “I know, I’m sorry, it’s—”

“Why are you apologising?” He looks offended almost. 

“Because it’s — it’s a lot.”

“Yeah.” He looks up at you, the blue of his eyes now only a ring. “It is. That’s good.” His thumb again, the same barely-there stroke, and you make a sound you weren’t planning on making. “That’s very good, actually.”

It’s the voice he uses when something matters to him. You've heard that voice applied to other things over the years. An arguement with Steve, the conversation with Jaxon before it got physical. It’s the serious kind of voice, the one that inevitably says ‘this matters to me.’

The fact that it's being applied to this, to you, like this, makes it harder to breathe.

He keeps your thighs spread open with his hands, and his voice is warm like he’s walking you through something just for the two of you. “That’s just your body showing me exactly what it wants. Nothing to be sorry about. I’m gonna touch you right here so you can feel what feels best for you. Just let me hear whatever comes out, okay? I want to know.”

His thumb strokes slowly through your folds, spreading the slick. He hums softly, when your breath hitches. “Breathe for me.” Then his thumb finds your clit and circles it once. It's soft, light and careful and your whole body jerks.

“Bucky—”

Eyes move to look at your face now. “Feels good?”

You make a sound that's both a gasp and a hum. He keeps the slow circles, then brushes over it with the lightest flick of his thumb. You gasp again, softer this time.

Bucky pulls the hood back just enough with one finger, gentle as anything, then circles again with a touch more pressure. Your thighs tremble under his palms and another soft moan slips out.

“Good girl. See how much wetter you’re getting?”

Does he realise you're not in any position to answer him…

His forefinger circles your entrance, for one small moment, you wonder if he's going inside. But he just collects the slick and brings it back to your clit in slow, patient strokes.

Just when you think you're used to what he's doing, he shifts down between your thighs and you feel his breath against your skin. That’s when you understand. When he'd said he's gonna put his mouth on you, he didn't only mean your tits.

“Wait — Are you — are you going to—”

“Yes.”

“With your — your mouth.”

“That’s generally how it works.”

“I know how it works, I’ve watched porn, I just —” You try to think of useful words, the verge of failing. “I didn’t think you’d actually —”

He looks up at you from between your thighs with the patient expression of a man who has all night. “You didn’t think I’d what?”

“I mean. It’s not — you don’t have to. Like it can’t be that enjoyable for you, it’s—”

“I want to.”

“But—”

“I want to.” He says it the second time like the first time didn’t register, which it didn’t, which he can tell. The second want is more enunciated, letting you know its value. “That’s not a polite offer. I want to put my mouth on your pussy. Are you gonna let me?”

The framing of that sentence evaporates any ability to construct a counter-argument. “Okay… yeah. Okay.”

“Now, relax.” He turns his head and presses a kiss to your inner thigh.  

“Why’d you start with your mouth?” You question, mostly just to be saying something, because silence right now seems like more than you can manage. “I thought — I figured you’d use your fingers first. Mouth seems more—”

“More what?”

“Intimate? I don’t know. I thought fingers came first.”

He looks up at you again. “Before I put anything inside you, I want your body to know what pleasure feels like. I want you to know what it feels like to want more before I give you more.” He holds your gaze. “Does that make sense?”

Your mouth is very dry. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” And with that, his mouth meets your cunt. He exhales into you like he didn't mean to, this warm, involuntary breath, and it hits you that he wants this. He wants this specifically, not as the next step in the curriculum.

Because the sound he made when his mouth first touched you is not a teaching sound.

If you’d thought kissing him was breathtaking, this was on a whole another level. You decide to constantly remind yourself to breathe, because he sure as hell isn’t helping. 

The first sensation your register is heat of it. Just that, just warmth and the soft press of his lips against your core. His tongue drags slowly through your folds and your hand shoots to his hair of its own accord.

He licks into you like he’s learning you, cataloguing every place that makes you twitch and keeps coming back to it.

You've watched enough of him to know the difference between him going through motions and him when he’s actually into what he’s doing.

Now, he’s into what he’s doing. The sounds coming from him are laced with want. They aren’t even pointed at you. It seems to escape him rather than come from him. Like he forgot he was supposed to be in control of this. Like you're the one doing something to him.

When his lips close around your clit, you make a noise that could only be described as a cry. Only reassurance after that mortifying ordeal is that he makes a sound back.

His lips close around your clit again, and you have to consciously bite down to not let another noise out. 

Like he’s sensed your dilemma, he says against you. “You can be loud. No one’s going to hear you.”

“I’m not—” you start to object, but then he sucks and the rest of that sentence ceases to exist.

Your hand tightens in his hair without you deciding to. He actually groans at that, a vibration against your clit that shoots straight through you, and you loosen your grip immediately.

“Sorry—”

He comes off you just enough to speak. “Don’t apologise.” He looks up the length of your body at you. “You can pull it. You can do whatever you want with my hair. Grip it, pull it, push me where you want — however feels good. It’s for you.” A pause. “Yeah?”

He says it's for you. Like he wants to make sure you understand that. Like it matters to him that you understand that.

Only when you nod, and say yeah, does he go down. 

He eats you with with an attention, learning what you respond to and using it, building pressure with his tongue against your clit while his hands hold your hips steady when they try to roll up into him. 

At some point one hand leaves your hip and slides up your stomach to your breast, his thumb rolling over your nipple, and the moan that comes out of you at the combination is loud enough that you’re briefly grateful for thick walls.

“Bucky—”

A hum against your clit but he keeps going.

He hums like he's satisfied. Like that sound you just made is something he wanted.

Your hand is in his hair and you can feel him, how present he is in this, how little of him is elsewhere.

Nobody has ever been this entirely here with you before. Not that anyone has been with you before.

But even in the small ways like conversations, attention, the general experience of being in a room with people, you've always felt the slight elsewhere quality of other people's focus.

He doesn't have that. He's completely, entirely here. And not just now.

You know it isn’t something you should be analysing right this moment, but what he’s doing to you isn’t just physical.

Finally, your hand fists in his hair, the way he said you could. The sound he makes is something you’re going to be thinking about for a while. You know he’d said it was for you, but the way he’s responding, it’s hard not to think there’s a little something in it for him too.

You feel the tension building, coiling tighter with every stroke of his tongue, your thighs shaking either side of his head.

“Don’t stop,” you manage, “don’t — please—”

He doesn’t stop. His tongue works your clit in tight circles, his hand flexing into your hip. Everything tightens to a single unbearable point and then snaps. A sound tears out of your throat that you’ve never heard yourself make, your pussy clenching around nothing while he works you through every shuddering wave of it, slower now, softer. He draws it out until your legs are trembling and your hand in his hair has gone slack.

A kiss is pressed to your inner thigh. Then your hip. He’s moving back up your body and settling beside you. You try to remember what your name is.

“That was— I need a minute.”

“Take your time.”

You turn your head to look at him. His mouth is wet, his hair is a disaster from your hands, and he looks… he looks like someone who thoroughly enjoyed himself. There's something open in his expression, something that isn't quite contained, and you look at it for a second before he notices you looking and rearranges slightly.

You saw it. You aren’t in any condition to process it though.

“In porn,” you start and pause to catch your breath.

“Mm.”

“They make it look sort of — performative. Like they’re doing it but they’re also sort of doing it at the camera. That was nothing like that.”

“No.”

“That was—” You don’t have the word. “Better.”

He looks at you for a second with something in his face that he keeps mostly to himself.  “I’m glad it was.”

He disappears for a minute and comes back with a glass of water and a washcloth warm from the tap. Sitting on the edge of the bed beside you, he hands you the water first. His hand stays on your knee while you drink.

When you’re done, he’s gentle with the washcloth, so careful, taking care of you like it’s just the next thing he wants to do and not a task he’s ticking off. Your face is warm and you try not to feel too much about the fact that someone is doing this, that he’s doing this, without being asked.

You wonder if this is part of the curriculum or entirely something else. 

When he’s done he sets everything aside and looks at you. “You need anything else? Hungry, or—”

“No. Can — Can we just lie down for a bit?”

“Yeah, ‘course.”

He moves up the bed, and you roll toward him. That’s when you realise that he’s still in his sweats and his t-shirt. Entirely, fully dressed. And you are wearing nothing at all, which strikes you as a profound injustice.

“You’re still dressed.” Before he can say anything, you’re talking again. “That’s not fair.”

His eyes slowly drag over your body, which feels like a touch in itself. During the thorough once-over, he also appears to be giving this the serious consideration it deserves. 

Without another word, he reaches back and pulls his t-shirt over his head in that one-handed way that shouldn’t be as effortless as it is. “Lift up.”

As you straighten up, he puts it on you himself, guides your arms through, smooths it down over you. 

His face tips forward to press a kiss to your temple, just his mouth at your hairline for a moment. Your whole chest does something you’re going to deal with later.

He pulls the comforter up over you both. “Better?” 

You hum. Find the space against his side that your body has apparently already decided belongs to you, your cheek against his shoulder, his arm settling around you. 

He’s warm, too warm almost. It’s way too comfortable not to fall asleep. 

You’re not going to fall asleep though. You’re just lying here, that’s all, with his t-shirt pooled around your thighs and the smell of him close enough to be a problem and his heartbeat doing something steady under your cheek. 

There’s nothing to do and nowhere to be and his hand keeps moving, up and down, up and down.

This is nice.

He’s nice.  

You close your eyes. 

It's morning.

You can tell Bucky's awake because the arm around you is too still. Sleeping people don't hold that kind of stillness, it's a different quality entirely. He's doing a very convincing impression of someone unconscious and you're doing a very convincing impression of someone who isn't lying here thinking about his mouth.

Neither of you are particularly committed to either bit.

"You awake?" he asks after a while.

"No."

The sound he makes is almost a laugh. His thumb moves once over your shoulder. "How do you feel?"

You turn your head and he's already looking at you. The blueness of his eyes startle you in this grey light sweeping through the windows. 

There's something underneath the casual delivery of his question that is very much not casual.

"I'm fine, Buck."

"First time's a lot. Even when it goes well."

The fact that he says 'even when it goes well' like he's genuinely leaving the door open. Like he'd sit there and hear it if you say, ‘actually, I have a few notes.’ You don’t say that. You have no notes. 

"It went well. Quite well, actually. I'd go as far as really well."

"Yeah?"

"You were there."

"I was. Wanted to hear you say it."

That thing that's been quietly building since last night stirs again and you decide not to look at it directly. The part of your brain that is always oriented toward the next thing clears its throat. "I want to learn the other part."

He doesn't answer immediately. You fill the gap yourself. "How to touch someone. A guy. I want to know how to do it properly."

A breath. "Yeah. Okay."

"Should I … start with my mouth? Like you did?"

"No." He shakes his head once. "That's different."

"How?"

He's quiet for a second. You can tell he's actually thinking about how to say it rather than just saying something. "When I did that with you, it was because it was your first time. Even fingers can be a lot the first time. Guys don't need that. It's not the equivalent."

You think about it. It makes sense. The way he explains things always makes sense.

"Also, hands is easier to start. You'll know what you're doing before you're, you know. Down there."

"Right. And you don't need—"

Unlike you, it's not his first time. Any of this. You knew that going in, it was the entire point of coming to him, it was why you knocked on his door almost two weeks ago. And still there's a small stupid pang, that you are absolutely not going to mention.

He doesn't seem to notice. "So. Hands."

"Hands." 

The covers shift to reveal his torso. There’s an intense urge to reach out and touch the plane of muscle. You don’t.   

"Whenever you're ready."

You shuffle forward on your knees across the mattress until you're close enough that your body is almost touching his. He watches you with his hands loose at his sides, giving you the room. 

He's still in his sweatpants. You get your hands to the waistband and he lifts his hips slightly to help, cooperating without making it a whole thing.

You look.

For a full second, maybe two.

Because your brain is constitutionally incapable of silence, you say, "hi."

Bucky closes his eyes briefly, the expression of a man asking for patience from a higher power. "You don't have to greet it."

"I wasn't greeting, I was — it was a general hi." You look up at him. He looks back down at you. "He's really pretty."

Something happens to Bucky's face that he was not prepared for. His mouth does a thing, not quite a laugh, but also not not one. "He’s — That's not — people don't usually—"

"I’m just being honest." You look up at him and then back down. "He's also big."

"Okay."

"No, I mean significantly." You're doing the math and the math is concerning. He's not even fully hard yet. "How is he going to fit?"

"It'll fit."

"That's not an explanation."

"You don’t have to worry about that now. I'll make it fit.” There's a pull at the corner of his mouth, the effort of keeping his expression neutral while you sit there conducting what is essentially a full appraisal. "Are you going to touch it, or..."

The first contact is just your fingertips. Light, just along the length of him. He pulls in a breath and his hips shift, barely.

"You're so soft." You mean it genuinely. The skin of him is warm and smooth, absolutely not what you'd expected at all. "Like the skin. I didn't think it'd feel like that."

"Yeah." His voice has gone slightly strained.

You wrap your hand around him loosely. More curious than purposeful. He goes very still, the kind of still that takes effort.

Your thumb drifts up to the tip. There's a bead of precum there, you touch it. The sound Bucky makes is quiet and completely wrecked, his head dropping back for one unguarded moment before he pulls it back together.

You did that. Your thumb did that.

You swipe your thumb over the head again and he hisses through his teeth. "Keep doing that. And this is going to be a very short lesson."

So naturally, you do that again.

"Fuck — okay. I — I'm gonna move your hand."

He takes your hand in his and adjusts everything. The grip, the angle, the pressure, and wraps your fingers around his cock properly. His hand over yours. "Not that tight — Just like that. You feel the difference?"

"Uh-huh."

He does one slow stroke with your hand inside his, all the way up. His jaw goes tight. And he does it again. On the third one, he lets go of your hand, and drops his to the sheet.

You do it on your own. Same grip. "Like that?"

"Exactly like—" He stops as you do it again, his whole body jerking once. "Yeah. Yeah, that's—" His hand tightens its grip on the sheet. "Good."

You find the rhythm easier than you expected.

Bucky is quiet in a way that's the opposite of silence. His breathing changes, his throat moves when he swallows, and the hand that isn't gripping the sheet finds your knee and holds it. Like he needs something to hold onto and your knee was there.

You shouldn't be this focused on how he looks right now. You are. The flush starting at the base of his throat. The way his jaw has gone slightly loose.

You've seen Bucky composed in every situation you can think of. Watching that composure come apart because of your hand is doing something to you that has nothing to do with learning anything.

"Is this okay?"

"More than." He gets it out with some effort. His eyes are on you and they've gone dark, most of the blue gone.

"You can talk to me." You glance up to his half lidded eyes. "I told you things."

"That's different."

"How is it different?"

He opens his mouth, closes it. You get the impression the answer to that question is more complicated than right now warrants. So you let it go and keep your hand moving. 

When you twist your wrist slightly at the top, the noise he makes is involuntary. His hand comes off the sheet to catch your wrist.

"Where did you—"

"I was paying attention."

He stares at you. There are about four things happening in his expression at once and none of them are teacher friendly. He lets go of your wrist.

The sounds he makes are quieter than yours were. Held back, like he's rationed himself. But they're there. His hips move into the drag of your hand, just slightly, small involuntary pushes he's not entirely winning against. 

Warm puffs of breath are on your neck, as he drops his forehead to your shoulder. 

You've had his attention directed at you for two weeks but this feels different. This is him needing something to lean on and choosing you as destination.

His hips buck up, once, fully. Immediately, he pulls back fast. "Fuck — sorry—"

You want to tell him not to apologise, that watching him lose his composure is doing something to you. You don't say any of that.

He's close. You know it before he says anything, from the way his thighs have gone rigid and his breathing's come apart entirely.

"I'm almost — Stop." His hand closes around your wrist.

You let go and drop your hand back to your own knee. You knew what was coming but you didn't quite anticipate it. He exhales deeply and spills across his own stomach, his grip on the sheets going white for a moment, a low groan working out of his chest before his whole body goes loose.

Before anything sensible catches up with you, you reach out one finger and drag it slowly through the mess on his stomach.

There’s no lesson in curriculum that says you have to touch his release. You don’t care about it at this moment.

You're curious, is all. You've been curious about him in increments for the past two weeks and this is just the latest increment.

The sound Bucky makes comes from somewhere very deep and takes his whole body with it. At once, his hand snaps up and catches your wrist.

"Don't." His voice is completely wrecked. He looks it too. Undone in a way you haven't seen him before, fighting hard against something that might be a laugh and losing to both at once. "Do not."

"Why not?"

"Because." Completely black pupils gaze over you. "Because I just came and you're going to — Fuck. Why are you like this?"

"I was curious."

"Of course you were." He drops his head back against your shoulder and laughs.

You feel the laugh through his whole chest. You feel it against your shoulder and through your arm and somewhere behind your ribs. It's the kind of laugh that makes you want to make him laugh again.

His hand is still loosely around your wrist. He hasn't let go.

"Was that okay? Genuinely. Tell me if I did something wrong."

He lifts his head to look at you. "You did nothing wrong."

"The wrist thing—"

"Was very much not wrong." His voice is strained, but also a little offended, like you're being ridiculous. "Where did you even pick that up?” 

"I told you. I was paying attention. Do I get a grade?"

"You're not getting a grade."

"Feedback then?"

"The feedback is that you're going to be a problem."

You don’t know what he means by that. You don’t ask.

Two dates happen, but you are very intent on calling them lessons.  

The first one is a bookshop and coffee after, which Bucky picks because he remembered you mentioning it three years ago. You tell yourself normal people hold onto information like that. After all, you remember his favourite author too. 

He buys the book before you can get your wallet out. When you open your mouth, he says it's part of the curriculum, with a completely straight-face. You tell him that's a stretch. He shrugs and holds the door open.

The second one is harder to explain away. 

He cooks. Which was not on any syllabus you'd agreed to. You sit on his kitchen counter and talk for two hours before the food is even on the table.  

You're calling them lessons. That’s easier.

But why’s it becoming harder?

The next time you see Bucky it's a Thursday, and the word lesson doesn't come up at all. 

What does come up, eventually, is his mouth on your clavicle. The fact that there’s a movie playing matters less now than it did five minutes ago. Somehow, you've ended up horizontal with his weight half over you. His lips trail up to your throat. Tipping your head back, you give him more space to work with. 

But there’s one specific thing in your mind that needs attention right now. That’s been lying dormant for a week. "Teach me something." 

"I am teaching you." There’s no attempt on his part to untangle from you. In fact, he moves, rucking your shirt as he goes. His mouth takes in your pebbles nipple, and you make a sound you hadn't planned on, your hand going to his hair. He does it again, the slow suction almost pulling your body off the couch.

"That's not teaching me anything," you manage.

"Sure it is." He doesn't look up. "You're learning what you like."

"That's not—" He does it again and and you lose your train of thought.

There’s no point in being logical about this, you let him play with your tits however he pleases. 

After what feels like a lifetime, he surfaces. His face still rests on your torso as he looks up to you. 

"Can you please show me the next thing?"

"There’s a next thing?" His crooked lips tell you he’s messing with you. 

"You know what I mean."

"No, I don’t."

"Bucky."

“If you want it that bad, you can say it.” 

Trying to glare at him from this angle not only proves to be a minor exercise, but also futile because he just smirks. “Fine. Blowjob. I wanna know how."

He holds your gaze. Then he sits up, which means you sit up too. He's doing that thing where he actually thinks before he opens his mouth. The fact that it’s rarer in people makes you like him a little more. If that’s even possible. 

"Okay.” 

"Just okay?"

"Did you want a longer answer?"

"Well, for starters, I want to know how to actually do it."

His hand comes to the back of your neck. Before you've worked out what's happening, he's pulling you in. His other hand rests warm on your bare waist as he kisses you. "Sure you want to switch right now?" he asks against your mouth.

"Yes. I've been thinking about it since the handjob."

Something happens to his expression that he doesn't manage to contain. "Have you now?"

"Don't make it weird."

"I'm not making it weird." He sits back. You feel the absence of his warmth immediately. "Honest explanation or the polished version?"

"Honest, obviously."

"See what gets you a reaction, what doesn't. Same as everything."  

"Teeth," you say immediately. "And I don't know what to do with my hands. And how do I even breathe?"

"Don’t forget you have teeth." 

"I’m sorry, what?" 

"No, I just mean, if you’re just conscious of it — like keep it in the back of your mind, it's gonna be okay. Breathe through your nose. If you need air, just pull off, it’s not a big deal.”

“And what about hands?”

"Base of the cock, whatever you can't reach with your mouth. Or thighs. Both. Whatever feels right." A pause. "It’s okay if you can’t take all of it."

"What if I want to?"

"Then you'll gag and we'll deal with it."

A checklist forms inside your head as he speaks. "Okay but I have a genuine question. It's called a blowjob. But literally no one is blowing anything in the videos I’ve watched. So what is actually happening?"

His mouth opens, and then closes. Then the laugh comes out of him, a real one, helpless, the kind that takes his whole face. Your chest does something embarrassing at that sight.

Framing your face with both hands, the softest kiss is planted on your lips.  "You're" kiss "so" kiss "adorable" kiss "y’know" kiss "that?"

Oh God. You’re melting. You’re losing it all. Physically, you can hear your heart melt. But you take his face in your hands right back, mirroring him.

"I" kiss "know."

He grins against your mouth and kisses you properly this time, both thumbs drawing circles at your cheeks.

"Suction," he says when he pulls back. "That's the answer. Suction and tongue. The name's just a name."

"But why is it called that?"

"I — genuinely don't know." 

"You don't know?"

"I've never thought about it."

"How have you never thought about it?"

"Because it's never mattered before."

The way he’s tilting his head tells you he’s at least mildly curious about it. Proving you right, he pulls out his phone.

"Buck. No. Don't google it."  

"I have to."

"Bucky—"

He's already reading. His expression cycles between certainty and not quite confusion. "Okay so apparently, there are several competing theories."

"Of course there are."

"One is that it comes from a slang term for the act that has nothing to do with the literal — "

There’s nothing else to do but indulge him. "I don't want competing theories. I want one answer."

"Etymology is rarely that simple."

"Oh my god." You reach over and take the phone out of his hand. He lets you. "You just googled the etymology of blowjob."

"You asked."

"I didn't ask you to do it with that level of academic commitment." You set the phone face-down on the cushion. "Forget it. Never mind."

He's still smiling when he stands up. But the heat has returned, to him, and to you. 

What you don’t understand is why he’s standing. “I need you to sit.” 

“Why? This’ll be more comfortable for you.”

“I just — I wanna kneel.” 

"You don't have to kneel."

"I want to."

"You can do it just as well sitting down, it's easier on your—"

"Buck." You look at him. "I want to kneel."

An exasperated but equally fond sigh leaves him. He reaches back and picks up the throw pillow from the other end of the couch without another word, setting it on the floor in front of where he’ll be sitting.  

"Floor's hard," he says.

You don't say anything about that. You just kneel on the pillow and he sits on the edge of the couch. You're struck, not for the first time, by how completely not-strange this is. How it's just him. How that seems to be doing a lot of quiet heavy lifting lately.

When you tug at his sweats, he lifts to make it easier for you. You stare at his dick. His dick stares back at you. 

This is also the time you can show him that you’ve indeed learnt something. You start with the grip you know he likes, watching him thicken and pulse under your fingers until he’s rock-hard and leaking.

When you lean in and run your tongue, on the tip, through the slit once, his breath shifts immediately. 

His hand immediately flies to your head. You lick the tip again, slower this time, savoring the salty bead that wells up, then drag your tongue along the thick underside, tracing every throbbing vein from root to tip. The weight of him on your tongue feels perfect.

When his hand presses gently at the back of your head, you close your lips over the tip of him and suck, carefully. A whole body jerk accompanies an involuntary sound that he desperately tries to swallow back. You take a little more, tongue working the underside the way he’d said.

As you try to take more, your jaw strains with it. If he’d felt bigger in your hand before, he’s an entirely different story in your mouth. The stretch catches you off guard. 

He sees you struggling to take him, and he adjusts your fingers around his length. "Your hand — Whatever your mouth can't cover. That's what it's for."

Mouth on the upper half, hand at the base, you finally find the thing that makes his breath change. The slow drag of your tongue and suction combined makes him shudder, you notice. You do it again. Though they’re held back, the sounds coming out of him make it very difficult to concentrate on the task at hand.  

“Atta girl.” It slips out quiet, almost hard to catch.

The words hit low in your belly and you feel yourself clench around nothing. You almost lose your rhythm from merely two words. Chiding yourself, you try to recover. His hips twitch like the praise cost him the last scrap of control he had left.

The idea that you could make him forget himself, make him slip like that, make him say something he wasn't planning on saying.

You want more of that. You want all of that.

As you work him deeper, tongue dragging slow and wet along the underside with every suck, your eyes flick lower without meaning to. His balls are heavy and tight just below where your hand grips the base, skin flushed and drawn up. 

It is impossible to ignore now. You pull off.

He makes a sound of protest that is thoroughly undignified.

You glance up at him, lips shiny and breathing hard. “What about… those?” Sucking cock has your voice strained. “Do I — should I do something?”

“You don’t have to,” he says, reading it immediately, breath still ragged.

“But I should know, right?”

“It’s — if you want to, cup them first. Get a sense of it.”

He stands up without a word, feet planted wide in front of the couch, cock jutting out heavy and slick right at eye level. The new angle gives you everything you need.

His balls are warm and soft in your palm, making him go very still. You drag your tongue over them experimentally, feeling them draw tight under the wet heat. “Like this?” you murmur against the sensitive skin.

“God, yeah — fuck,” he breathes, thighs trembling. A raw and surprised groan rips out of him when you take one carefully into your mouth and gently suck. His hand fists tight in your hair and releases. “Christ.”

You switch to the other, licking and sucking with growing confidence, tongue swirling as his breath turns ragged. “You’re gonna make me lose it already,” he mutters. “If you don’t want me to blow already, you should come off.”

Satisfied with the way he’s shaking, you reach up and wrap your hand around his cock at the same time, stroking him slowly while your mouth stays sealed around his balls.

His hips jerk hard against your mouth. “Shit — wait—” His fingers slide into your hair and tug you off gently but firmly. “If you keep sucking my balls and jerking me off like that I’m gonna — fuck — cum way too fucking soon. Slow down. Please.”

You pull off from his balls to gently shove him back to the couch. He lands with a soft thud and a groan, and you immediately come back to his cock, lips closing over the head. 

This time you don't hold back. You want more of that.  More of everything. The sounds of him, the way his control keeps slipping in these small visible ways. 

Wet sounds fill the room alongside his ragged breathing. You stop being self-conscious about any of this entirely. Spit on your chin. His hand gripping your hair. You try to take him deeper than you have and it makes you gag, eyes watering. It’s a mess when you do pull off, coughing with tears pricking the corners. 

Without a word, his thumb comes to your chin to wipe it. "What did I say?"

"I almost had it."

"You didn't have it."

"I was so close."

"Take me back in your mouth. And stop competing with yourself." 

Mouth sliding back down, you take what you can and work what you have. His hips buck upward involuntarily, shoving deeper into your throat for one dizzy second before he catches himself. "Shit — sorry." He forces his ass back down. But the control slips again seconds later, another helpless roll that has you moaning around his cock.

You’re doing this to him.

His hand in your hair is gripping properly now. He says your name and it comes out rough. 

Till this time, you were so concentrated on him, you didn’t realise you were dripping wet. Those panties sure are soaked by now. 

"Come up." His hand migrates to your shoulder. "Come on, come up."

You don't. You remember his he pulled your hand during the handjob, and you don’t want that to fallen again. 

"Baby." The hand tightens. "I mean it — come up —"

It slips out. Just the once, just that word, clearly not planned. You stay where you are and look up at him through your lashes. He forces his eyes to stay open, to keep his gaze on you, but his jaw goes tight and his head drops back. The swear that comes out of him is helpless as his whole body goes rigid and still.

The first hot, thick rope of cum hits the back of your throat, salty and bitter and so fucking him. You swallow it down greedily, sucking harder through every pulsing spurt until he’s shaking and empty. 

The taste of him is all over your tongue. "Fuck," his voice is wrecked.

He is a sight as you sit back on your heels.  

His chest is heaving. There's a flush across his face and throat. He's looking at you from somewhere between wrecked and something else, something that's been showing up on his face more lately. 

"First time, you don't usually swallow. You don't know if you'll like the taste — that's why I was trying to—" He pauses to take a breath. "You should've let me pull you off."

Both of your hands go to his jaw. "Buck." You make him look at you. "I liked it. Very much. Can we do it again?"

Droopy eyes stare back at you, and you generously add, “not right now, obviously." 

Something gives in his face and he laughs. His hand comes up to cover both of yours where they're resting on him. Turning his head, he presses his mouth to your palm, warmth transferring from his lips. "Twenty minutes," he says into your hand.

"Fifteen."

"Twenty." A kiss to your palm. 

"Seventeen and that's my final offer."

"We can go straight to your cock. I'm ready."

Bucky looks at you. "No, you're not."

"I literally just—"

"Lie down."

There's no room in his voice for the conversation you were about to have. Because you know him well enough, you know that tone means he's already thought about this more than you have. It's annoying. You've gotten used to it. You lie down. 

He comes down beside you, and his mouth finds the side of your neck first, and then your jaw. "Have you done this before?"

The audacity of this man. “I’m sorry — If I'd done this before. Why would I be here?"

His lips press somewhere near your ear. "With yourself. Have you touched yourself?"

Oh. 

"Yes. Obviously." You didn't mean for the ‘obviously’ to come out quite so defensive. 

"This'll be different."

The audacity again. "Yeah, you’re gonna be better —"

"No, I just meant — my fingers are bigger."

Right. You take a breath. He's right, you know he's right. The size, and when you add his experience to the mix... "Okay."

"I want you to show me something first." When you turn to look at him he's already looking at you. He proposes it like it's simple. "How you do it. What you do when you're alone."

The heat that climbs your throat is immediate. "Bucky."

"You don't have to. But it'd be nice if you did."

"No I just —" You press your lips together. It's not that you don't want to. It's just that there's a difference between doing something and doing something with him watching your face for your reaction. "You'll literally be right there."

"That’s kind of the point." A quiet fact. 

Working up whatever nerve that requires, you slide your hand beneath the waistband of your underwear.

For the first few seconds you're almost entirely in your own head about it, hyperaware of him, of his attention. But your body doesn't especially care about that. It knows what this is. And gradually, the weight of being watched tips over into something else. The sound that comes out of you is not measured.

That’s when you register a movement without fully tracking it. You feel his breath against your inner thigh, you understand he's not beside you anymore, he's between your legs. Right there, watching up close as your hand moves under the thin fabric.

That is a lot of new information at once.

"Take these off." His hand is at the edge of your underwear.

To make it easier, you lift your hips. He drags them down and off in one slow pull and drops them somewhere behind him. The cool air hits your slick folds. But the most striking part of it all is that he's just looking, eyes dark and fixed on the way you're already glistening, the lips of your pussy flushed and wet from your own fingers. “God, I missed her.” The words slip out before he can stop them.

"Did you — did you just call my pussy 'her'?" The question comes out breathless though you're trying to sound sharp. You can't help picking at him even when your thighs are trembling under his hands.

He doesn't answer, so you naturally continue, "you wouldn't let me call your cock 'him'. But now you're out here naming mine like she's an old friend? That's rich." You manage to get the words out, but your voice cracks halfway through, the heat of his stare making it hard to keep the brat in check.

"That was different." The corner of his mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile. "But, you can do whatever you want, gorgeous."

Did he just — did he just call you gorgeous and send your nervous system into an overdrive? Or did he call your pussy gorgeous? Sometimes it’s hard to keep track, especially when you’re inches away from losing it. 

You try for a comeback, but there’s none, the words dissolve into a shaky moan before they’re even formed. Partly because his thumbs are already spreading you open again, exposing every slick inch to the cool air and his hungry gaze.

“Don’t stop on my account.” He urges your fingers to continue their motion, and you find your clit to work the slow circle you know. His hands stay spread open on your outer lips. 

His breath is warm against you and it is genuinely insane how much that alone is doing to you. You can feel yourself getting wetter under his gaze, which is embarrassing, and also apparently fine. Because when he notices, he makes a soft involuntary sound that vibrates right through your core. "Put your finger in for me."

For him.  

After a short shaky breath, you work one finger in.  The stretch is small and familiar but the sound you make is not.

"Just like that… fuck, look at you." You can feel him looking. Not at your face. "Leave it right there."

His thumbs, on either side of your lips, spread you open gently, slightly more. To look at you, at where your finger disappears inside your dripping pussy, at all of it, up close.

"She's soaking wet already." His thumb sweeps through your folds in one slow drag, collecting the slick until it shines on his skin. "Look at her pulsing for me."

A soft whimper leaves you as you try to keep pumping in and out of you. 

“Fingers out.” There’s an urgency to his voice now, eclipsing all softness there was there before. 

You draw your hand back, and you're about to just keep going, bring them up, towards you. But his hand closes lightly around your wrist. Redirecting you. 

He brings your fingers to his mouth, his lips closing around them, his eyes up and on yours while he sucks. He hums like this is a perfectly normal thing to be doing. 

The second he releases your hand, his face descends to your inviting cunt, sealing his mouth over your clit. Your hand goes straight to his hair. 

He groans at that, a sound that vibrates all the way through you, and his grip on your thighs tightens in response. 

The pain of it, just that slight pull of his hair under your fist, makes him groan again. You save this particular information in the box that’s been filing everything about him for almost many years now. 

He licks around your entrance, just teasing, testing, then goes back to your clit. You find yourself trying to grind up into him because your hips seem to have their own agenda now. When you roll up, he adjusts, tilts his head, his hands steady on your thighs, not stopping you.  

He looks up at you. Actually holds eye contact while his tongue moves against your clit, which is an absolutely unreasonable thing to do to a person. Your hand tightens in his hair. He makes that sound again.

Mouth wet, he surfaces to rest his chin on your inner thigh for a second. "I'm going to use my fingers now."  

"Yes," you say immediately. "Please."

His hand traces down your stomach, two fingers this time, slow through your folds. "Breathe."

"I'm breathing." You’re, in fact, not breathing. 

"Are you?"

It’s the second time you’re swallowing your words today. Because he decides to slide one finger through your entrance, no further, just to the first knuckle, and stops.  

"You okay?"

The stretch is different from your own. He's right about the size of it. But it's not too much, it's just new, it's just a presence you have to get used to. "Yeah, that's — yeah."

He pushes in slowly and it's very different now. The angle, the size, the fact that it's him and not you and that he's watching your face while he does it, which you are acutely aware of. When he's in fully, he stays there for a moment, unmoving. His thumb brushes over your clit, giving your body something else to focus on.

"Doing so good," he murmurs, as he curls his finger, just slightly, and your back bows off the bed. He does it again, finding the same spot, watching your face with that look of his. Patient. Like he has all the information he needs and is simply using it.

"Bucky—"

"I've got you, baby. You’re so good."

It’s the seventh time he’s called you 'baby'. You’ve tried not counting, but everytime it slips out of him without his knowing, it gets lodged into your brain.

His thumb keeps its steady circles and his finger moves in a slow drag. This is the point at which your body stops taking notes entirely and just exists in what he's doing to it. You pull his hair. He just hisses and keeps going.

"More. Buck — please." 

"Yeah? You can take me?"

"Yeah — please—"

He adds the second finger. The stretch makes you grip the sheets, makes a sound come out of you that breaks in the middle. He stills immediately. "Too much?"

"No." The word is out before you've finished thinking it. "No, don't stop."

He works them slowly, both fingers, curling and dragging while his mouth reattaches to your clit. Now, that and doing this at the same time is a lot. It splits your attention in a way that eventually gives up trying to split anything and just becomes one overwhelming thing.

There’s no warning this time, it happens suddenly without any notice, you come with your hand fisted in his hair and your face pressed to his pillow, sound muffled. His mouth works you through it slowly, drawing it out until your thighs are shaking.

When he finally slides his fingers free, you feel their absence immediately.

His lips press a soft kiss to your inner thigh, your pubic bone, and then just below your navel. Your whole body is doing something between boneless and stunned.

When he comes to rest besides you, his mouth finds yours. You can taste yourself on his lips and that is also a sentence you're going to need a moment with.

"You did so good for me," he murmurs against your mouth, and the way he says it is so straightforward. Something behind your sternum goes a little weak. His thumb moves over your cheekbone once. He pulls back to look at you.

You lie there and just try to breathe. He's propped beside you, his hand resting on your stomach, moving with the rise and fall of it. 

The lamp in the corner is doing something to the room, making it amber and small. 

"You know — you can’t just — just say ‘she’s pretty’ okay? That’s not — it’s not—"

"Mm." He hums to let you fumble through your sentence. 

You do. You fumble. "That — that was an incredibly unfair thing to say."

"Was it?"

"Yes!" Then, calming yourself down, "yes."

He laughs, a proper one, and you feel it through his ribcage where your arm is pressed against him. "I'll keep that in mind."

Your heart does something it's been doing more frequently around him lately. It’s a problem you’re currently not equipped to take a closer look at. 

Shifting away from his grip, you turn yourself to look at him. The thought that's been in the back of your head for the last twenty minutes makes itself known again. "Please give me your cock."

The remainder of his laugh doesn’t come out.  

"Bucky."

"I heard you."

"So—"

Taking your hand, he presses your palm flat against the front of his sweats. Where he’s hard. Properly hard. The heat and the shape of him is undeniable under your touch. "It's all yours."

The air leaves your body. The words leave your brain. All the blood in your entire cardiovascular system reroutes to your face in a single catastrophic second and you stare at his chest because you cannot currently look at him.

"I—" Nothing. You have nothing. Completely blank.

He doesn't move your hand away. If anything, he tightens his grip, just lets it sit there under his, while you attempt to reconstruct language.

"That's—"  The warmth of him through the fabric is not helping. "You're—"

"Yeah." You don’t know what you were about to say, so you don’t know what he’s actually agreeing to. But he doesn’t seem to have a problem with that. 

The smugness is radiating off him, and your voice comes out appropriately three times higher than usual, "I wasn't — I wasn't ready for that."

"You asked."

"I know I asked." Your face is genuinely so warm right now. "I asked and you—" You make a vague gesture with your free hand. "You can’t just — just do that ‘cause I asked."

The completely insufferable almost-smile at the corner of his mouth could power a city. He is enjoying every second of this.

"Stop looking at me like that," you tell his clavicle, because you still cannot bring yourself to look at him. Especially since your hand is enveloping his crotch, both enveloped by his own hand.

"I'm not doing anything."

You risk looking at his face, which is a mistake, because the expression on it is fond in a way that completely destroys you. You bring yourself to look back at his clavicle. 

His thumb makes one small stroke over your knuckles, where your hand is still pressed to him, still warm, and you feel it in your whole chest.

The gesture is less reassuring than it should be.  

Before you can process what’s happening, he shifts. Sits up properly, back against the headboard. His arm goes around your waist.

One smooth pull, barely any effort in it, and you're up — actually off the mattress for half a second — and then you're over him, knees sinking into the sheets on either side of his hips. 

The logistics of it take a moment to catch up with your brain. You're straddling him. You're bare from the waist down and he's still in his sweats and you're straddling him. 

You’re also not fully dropping your weight on him, just hovering, thighs tight with the effort of not fully sitting.

"Sit down." His hands rest at your hips, thumbs at the crease where thigh meets the curve of your ass.

"Bucky, I — I'm going to crush him."

Bucky sighs like a patient man, who’s tired of hearing the same thing for the hundredth time. "You're not going to crush him."

"I'm serious, Bucky—"

"So am I. Sit."

You try. That's the thing, you genuinely try. You shift your weight, start to lower yourself, and then the thick line of him presses up against you, the fear of crushing little Bucky surfaces again. You can feel him there, right there, even through the fabric, even from an inch away, and your nervous system is having a full board meeting about the implications of closing that distance. What if you actually crush him? 

"Still hovering," he observes.

"I'm trying."

"You're not going to crush me."

"You don't know that."

"I do, in fact, know that. I’m the experienced one, remember?"

Let there be a single moment where he doesn’t remind you of his sexual escapades. You almost consider retaliating by putting all of your weight on him in one go, but you need this guy, you need his cock. 

"Shut — shut up."

"Sit down."

"Bucky."

"Sit."

You make an undignified noise at him. He looks back at you like he’s content to simply wait, which he will, indefinitely, and you both know it.

But like everything with Bucky, he surprises you. One slow slide of his hand, down between your bodies, and his thumb finds your clit. It’s one light flick, barely anything. But your hips betray you completely. Your knees buckle and you drop fully.

The sound you make when you land on him is not something you'll be repeating in polite company.

The rough fabric of his sweats drags through your folds and presses flush against you. Your brain, which had been managing perfectly well up until thirty seconds ago, simply stops. 

His cock is right there, thick and hard under the thin cotton, pressed directly against your clit, and you are bare, not to mention wet and sitting on him. 

The moan that comes out of you has his name in it and very little else.

"Good girl. There you go."

You grab his shoulders. Mostly for something to hold onto, partly because the alternative is floating off the bed entirely.

"Bucky—"

"Feel that?"

You feel absolutely nothing but that, actually. The pressure alone is making your thoughts go sideways. Your hips twitch, chasing it without permission. 

His jaw goes tight and he tips his head back against the headboard for one unguarded moment before he levels out again.

His mouth finds your neck immediately. Open, dragging up toward your jaw and back down while one hand palms your breast, thumb working your nipple in slow circles until it aches. You press into his lap, just slightly, and feel him exhale through his nose.

"What are you—" Your own voice comes out strange. "Bucky, if you don't stop—"

"Don't stop what?" He says it against your throat.

"That. All of — just. Don't stop."

He laughs, low, the sound vibrating against your skin. "You want me to stop or not?"

"I want — stop asking me questions."

"Alright." He switches to the other side of your neck and you stop being able to track the conversation.

The thing is, every tiny shift you make drags your pussy across the front of his sweats. The friction is wet and warm and you are not entirely in control of your hips anymore. You rock forward, without even deciding to, and the pressure catches your clit just right and makes your teeth snap shut.

"Let's try something," he says.

You're mostly liquid at this point. "What?" It comes out slurred, half a word, because his cock is pressing exactly where it shouldn't be. He's also got his mouth on the underside of your jaw and your nipple is between his fingers. It's just a lot of ongoing information for your head to process.

He looks at you. His cheeks are already flushed and his eyes have gone the dark kind of blue. "Grind on me."

What? 

You just stare at him, hoping he’d give you something more than that. 

"Like this." His hands settle on your hips, guiding you. Forward, then back. Your clit drags across the ridge of him, making you bury your face in his neck. "Bucky—"

"Again." His hands repeat it. The same rhythm, forward and back. The fabric is already damp from you and the drag of it is obscene. "You feel that?"

You feel it fucking everywhere. "Yes."

"Just like that."

He keeps his hands on your hips for a few more strokes, setting the pace. Then lets go, one of them migrating to your nipple, the other to your back. Which means you have to do this yourself, in front of him, consciously. 

But soon enough, your hips find the drag again and the self-consciousness evaporates.

"There it is.”

The sounds you’re making are nowhere in your control. Small and helpless but rhythmic with your hips. And you can't locate any part of yourself that cares. His hand at your back presses you closer, and the extra pressure makes your breath hitch.

"You're soaking through my sweats," he says into your hair. He sounds ruined by this. "D'you know that? Can feel you through the fabric."

The fact that he's saying this out loud makes you grind harder and your moan is muffled against his neck.

"That's good, yeah." His voice has shed several layers of composure. "Keep going."

His breathing has changed underneath you, shorter, less controlled. With his chest rising and falling faster, you understand you’re taking him apart the same way he's been taking you apart this whole time.

There was some point where his attention, his hands, his mouth, all of it were directed at you, for you to learn. But it’s changed now. It definitely goes both ways. You can feel that now under your hips, in the way his hands are gripping you, grabbing your skin for more. It’s becoming less and less like a teacher.

It’s more like a person who is losing his grip on something. On several somethings.

An urgency finds you now, pace picking up solely because you need to see him as flustered as you are. 

"Fuck—" His voice is strangled. "Slow—"

You don't slow down. Your hips have their own agenda now, chasing something that's pulling tight and urgent in your stomach. Bucky's hands flex at your waist but they don't actually stop you, just hold on.

You're close. You know you're close because the friction has gone from good to unbearable in the space of about thirty seconds and your thighs are shaking and his name keeps coming out of you between breaths like punctuation.

"Bucky — I'm — don't—"

"I'm not going anywhere." Still ragged. His hand moves up your back, into your hair, just holding. "Cum for me."

Stuttering, your hips grind down one last time as your orgasm crashes through in waves. You feel him shudder underneath you, his grip tightening, his whole body going rigid.

Breathing his name into his shoulder, you both stay in a limbo.  

When you finally manage to open your eyes and lift your head, he's flushed. His neck and his cheeks and the top of his chest. Hair stuck to his forehead, lips parted, he’s breathing like he’s run across the campus.  

Something clicks when your gaze travels between his face and the dark, obvious wet patch spreading across his sweats. 

"Did you—"

His ears go pink. That alone is enough to confirm it.

"Bucky. Did you just—"

"Yeah." He scrubs a hand over his face. "I did." The tips of his ears are genuinely red and you've never seen this on him before. "I came in my sweats, yes, you don't have to—"

"You came in your sweats."

"I'm aware of what happened."

"Without me even—" You gesture at the general situation. "I was just sitting there."

"You were not just sitting there," he says, slightly pained. "You were. Doing all of that. For quite a while. And you're — " He stops himself, something crossing his face that he seems to decide against finishing. 

The laugh starts somewhere in your chest and works its way up before you can stop it. Helpless, falling out of you. You press your hand to your mouth but it's already too late.

"Go on. Get it out." He says dryly.

"I'm not—" You're laughing properly now, shoulders shaking. You can hear him hiss when you shift, your hips rolling just a fraction with the laugh, because your body hasn’t figured out how to stay still yet. The sound he makes is raw, like it got dragged out of him against his will.

“Fuck — give me a minute, baby, please,” he breathes, one hand clamping down on your hip to hold you there. Freezing you in place. His eyes are squeezed shut now.

“Shit, sorry—” the laughter dies in your throat. 

“Don’t be.” He exhales, eyes cracking open again. They’re still glassy, that post-cum haze making the blue look almost black. “I’m just… over-sensitive right now. You moved and it’s—” Another small hiss when you breathe too hard. “Yeah. That.”

You bite your lip, trying not to smile again even though the whole thing is kind of hilarious and kind of hot at the same time.  

His thumbs stroke slow circles on your hips. You feel the way his cock is still half-hard underneath all that mess, twitching every time your weight settles.  

You trace a finger along the side of his neck, right where his pulse is jumping. “Can I… give you a hickey? Just one. Or two.”

His head tips back against the headboard so he can look at you properly. The corner of his mouth lifts, tired but fond. “Hickey?”

“Yeah… I’ve always wanted to…” you trail off. 

“Have at it,” he makes space for your mouth, titling his head to one side. 

Immediately, you lean in and press your mouth to the spot just under his jaw, sucking slowly at first, letting your tongue drag over the skin until you feel him swallow hard. He tastes like salt and musk. Pulling back just enough, you see the little red bloom starting, then move lower, right where his neck meets his shoulder, and do it again. Teeth grazing just enough to make him hiss through his teeth in a completely different way.

His hand slides up your back, fingers threading into your hair. “Mark me up, gorgeous.”

So, you are gorgeous.

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Next Part

EXTRAS. Thank you for reading. Hope that wasn’t just porn without plot. Last part will be up next Thursday.

Five months. Five whole months you and Steve had been falling into each other’s beds (and any other surface or sturdy wall that would hold) on a regular basis. It started as a once a month thing. Then every two weeks. Once a week. Now—it was every few days that you were calling him up and asking him to come over. 

Steve didn’t want to read too much into it, didn’t want to get his hopes up but he couldn’t help but notice the increasing frequency of your hookups. It had made him hopeful. Ridiculously so.

Which is why tonight—he couldn’t stop looking at you. Not that this was out of the ordinary. Steve was always stealing glances toward you when you two were out with your friends. But tonight—Steve Harrington was trying to reconcile with the knowledge that he was most definitely in love with you.

It was less than ideal. Being in love with his close friend—a close friend that he was meant to only be casually hooking up with. But it happened. Somewhere between you tracing your finger over the moles dotted over his back and how you had even started calling him Stevie he had fallen for you. How your touch made his bad moods disappear. How ‘Stevie’—that single, stupid nickname had ruined his life. How it left him feeling weak and needy and imaging a future with you where he kissed you just for the sake of it and not just because you were about to fuck in the back of his BMW.

You seemed to be attuned to Steve—or perhaps the intensity of his stare had alerted you to his watchful gaz—because one second you were listening intently to Robin and the next you were looking back at him.

Eddie was talking to him—something about an upcoming gig—but Steve was not listening. Not when you were looking back at him.

You raise a brow, smiling a little as you nudge his calf with your shoe. It shouldn’t have an effect on him, but it does. Swears his heart could have burst out of his chest when you smiled at him.

“Something wrong, Harrington?” You ask him in that teasing voice that went straight to his cock. He was going to be sporting a semi in the middle of the bar soon if he didn’t sort himself out and stop acting like a hormonal teenager.

He swallowed—glanced at Eddie who just rolled his eyes. Eddie knew all too well about the little arrangement between you and Steve and if he was honest, he thought it was ridiculous. Steve was clearly unable to be okay with the casualness of it and you seemed completely unaware of Steve’s feelings towards you.

“Yeah,” Steve replies, eyes flickering back over to you and trying not to think about your foot that was still rubbing his calf. “I’m—yeah, no—I’m great.”

You hum in a way that indicates you didn’t buy Steve’s attempt at nonchalance. Your friends barely notice—Robin rambling about some professor at Smith’s while Nancy tries hard not to smile, Jonathan telling Eddie about his latest short film and Eddie listening intently (the only person who seemed intrigued with Jonathan’s eccentric ideas). You press your foot a little harder against Steve’s calf and watch as his eyes flicker back over to you, almost in warning.

He wasn’t sure what was with you tonight but he loved and hated it at the same time.

“I’m going to get another drink,” you announce, withdrawing contact from Steve’s leg and slipping out of the booth. ”Does anyone want anyth—”

“Yeah. Another beer,” Steve interjects before you could even finish your sentence. He ignores the fact that the beer on the table in front of him was half full. That his eagerness was painfully obvious. “I’ll help.”

You watch, brow raised as Steve clambers out of the booth in his haste to follow you.

”Do you think I can’t handle a few beers, Harrington?” You ask him at the bar a few moments later, after your friends had reeled off their drink orders to you while Steve stared at the shape of your mouth and pretended to listen.

Steve rolls his eyes, ears turning a little red while he busies himself with trying to get the bartender’s attention—determinedly ignoring your little remark.

You watch as he orders the group drinks—your eyes moving from his handsome face before they inevitably travelled down his body. You did this a lot. It was hard not to when you knew what he looked like beneath all those clothes. When you knew the dark smattering of hair that covered his chest—just barely visible beneath the v of his shirt. How his hands felt gripping your hips as you fucked into you. How those arms of his wrapped around your waist as you rode his—

“(y/n)?”

”Huh?”

You had been so deep in thoughts about Steve fucking you that you didn’t realise that he was holding out your drink for you. Your eyes flicker down—seeing his fingers wrapped around the cold glass. You try not to think of those fingers pumping in and out of you, tried not to think of Steve slipping them between your lips and telling you to suck—

“Oh,” you say, a little breathless as you take the glass of beer from his hand. Your fingers brush. You swear you feel the heat building between your legs. You weren’t sure what was wrong with you this evening—maybe Steve looked extra good in that shirt or maybe you were just incredibly horny. Perhaps a dangerous mix of both.

The moment Steve turns to grab his and Jonathan’s beers—you set your glass down on the bar and lean towards him, under the guise of grabbing a straw. Your free hand however, finds its way onto Steve’s thigh. You feel his intake of breath you let out of a hum of satisfaction before squeezing. You could tell Steve was already affected. Just a simple touch from you and the blood was already starting to rush to his cock.

”What are you doing?” He mutters, looking around the bar in mild alarm before he looks back at you, jaw clenched. “Anyone could see—”

”Oh relax, Stevie,” you murmur, another firm but gentle squeeze of his thigh before withdrawing your hand with a teasing smile. “But fine. I’ll stop. Don’t want to get you all hard now, do I? Would be difficult to hide that cock of yours, wouldn’t it, baby?”

The effect on Steve was instantaneous. Steve’s ears—his entire face—burns a shade of red that you were sure you hadn’t seen before. He clenched his jaw. His knuckles turned white where he was gripping his and Jonathan’s beers bottles too tight. You knew what it was instantly—it wasn’t just your hand on his thigh. No—Steve could handle that. It turned him on, sure but it didn’t fluster him like this. What flustered him—what made his cock start to swell beneath his jeans was you calling him baby.

Steve didn’t want to admit it—would never in his wildest dreams admit it—but that sweet pet name falling from your lips made him want to drop down to his knees right in the middle of the bar.

Steve adjusts himself in his jeans subtly, shooting you a look that told you he was semi hard by just a few dirty words. “You know that there’s going to be consequences for that, right?” He tells you—trying to regain some control despite the fact that his body was betraying him.

You bite back a smile, turning back to the bar so you could slip some money into the tip jar.

”You know I can handle consequences just fine,” you tell him before you take a purposeful sip of your drink—watching as his eyes flicker down to your lips. 

It’s a battle of wills after that. You slide back into the booth like nothing has happened, sipping your drink as Steve followed—eyes on how your hips swayed and mind on how much he wanted to bend you over the table and fuck you until the wood splintered.

You teased Steve mercilessly after that—your foot back to rubbing his calf as you both rejoined the conversation as though nothing had happened. Steve tried to look unfazed but he was failing miserably. You couldn’t help but feel smug about it—you had somehow managed to reduce the former King Steve to a pile of mush with just a bit of pressure on his leg.

The taxi on the way home was close to torture for him. It was just you, Steve and Eddie in the car and a taxi driver who seemed incapable of shutting up. Your thighs were pressed right up against Steve’s and it was all he could focus on.

“You gonna ask me back to yours?” You ask him in a whisper, resting your head against his shoulder in a completely innocent gesture.

The action made Steve’s heart do funny things in his chest. He had the urge to wrap an arm around you and pull you closer. He didn’t. He just swallowed before looking back at you with an attempt at any easy smile.

“You wanna come back to mine?” He asks.

You roll your eyes and bite back a smile. “Stupid question, Harrington.”

Steve Harrington no longer lived with his parents. He lived in a respectable two bedroom house with a refrigerator that hummed too loudly and a downstairs bathroom that desperately needed remodelling. He was proud of it—being able to afford a house on an assistant baseball coach (and occasional sex ed teacher) salary at twenty three years old. And so, Steve usually loved showing it off. But as soon as you were in the comfort of his new home—the last thing on Steve’s mind was showing you his brand new coffee machine.

Steve’s lips were on yours the moment that the front door had closed behind him. One hand cupping your face while the other slid into the back pocket of your jeans to pull you closer. You hum against his lips, your own arms wrapping around his neck and smiling when you feel how hard he already was through his jeans.

You pull away enough to smile at him, your fingers sliding through the hair that curled at the back of his neck. You smile a little more as you see him suppress a shudder.

“Gonna offer me a drink?” You ask him, brow raised. “Like a good host?”

Steve barks out a laugh, giving your ass a firm squeeze through your jeans before pulling you just that little bit closer. “Oh sure, I’ll get you a drink. Right after we christen the couch.”

You start to laugh but are cut off by Steve’s lips. He’s not polite and you’re grateful for it. Your body thrumming with want as he backs you into the nearby living room, licking into your mouth and groaning as your fingers tugged at his hair.

Your thighs hit the back of his couch and you let yourself fall back—looking up at Steve with wide eyes and lips wet with his spit.

“Fuck,” Steve groans, sinking to his knees in front of you—resting his hands on your jean clad thighs and squeezing. “Look at you. Fucking perfect.”

Steve often said things like this and it always went straight to your cunt. He felt you try and squeeze your thighs together but he held your legs apart.

“So fucking perfect,” he continues, leaning in to kiss over the seam of your jeans, right over where you were aching for him. The feeling made you whimper, hips bucking towards him as his fingers find the waistband of your jeans and tugging. The material snaps against your skin at the same time he presses his lips back against you.

Your back arches instinctively, fingers curling into his hair. “Stevie, please.”

Steve pulls away from you, enough to make you whine. There’s a smile spread across his face as his fingers continue to tease, now toying with the button on your jeans. “Please, what?”

“Your mouth,” you say simply, lips parting as you look down at him. “Your mouth. I need your mouth, baby.”

Whatever shred of self restraint that Steve possessed vanished the moment you gasped out the word ‘baby’. His fingers fumble with the button on your jeans, hands shaking with want when he’s successful. You lift your hips up off the couch to aid him as he tugs your jeans down your legs, throwing them carelessly across the room. He might have knocked over a lamp. He didn’t care. His lips find your left knee instantly, big brown eyes looking up at you like he couldn’t think of anywhere else that he would rather to be right now. 

“Can fucking smell how much you want me,” Steve murmurs against your skin, his fingers skimming up your inner thigh to watch how your skin twitches beneath his touch. “So fucking sweet, my girl always fucking wants me.”

You don’t correct him. Don’t tell him that you weren’t his girl because as far as you were concerned, right now—you were his girl.

“Always want you, baby,” you tell him as you move your hips up enough for him to see the damp patch in your panties. “Always.”

Steve swore he could have come on the spot from those words alone.

Fuck. He was in deep. He was in so fucking deep.

And so, he leans in—breathing in your sweet, musky scent before his mouth seals itself over the damp patch. You gasp, fingers curling into his hair as his tongue laps desperately at your clothed cunt.

It was too much and not enough at the same time—your body feeling as though lava was rushing through your veins instead of blood. And when his nose brushed against your clit through the cotton, you cried out his name.

“That’s it,” Steve murmurs against you—his jeans were impossibly tight from how hard he was but all he could think about was you. You writhing beneath him—you losing your composure when he hadn’t even really touched you yet. “Say my name, pretty girl. I’m the only one who makes you feel this good, aren’t I, baby?”

Your hips buck against his mouth, nodding as your lips part, head falling back against the back of the couch. “Yes—fuck. The only one Stevie. The only one.”

It wasn’t a lie. Steve was the only guy you were hooking up with. And maybe if you weren’t so clouded by lust, you would have thought more about that. But his tongue was swirling around your swollen clit over your panties and you were going to lose it.

“Stevie, could you—”

You didn’t even have to finish your sentence—two of Steve’s fingers hooked your panties to the side and you hissed as he blew cool air against your bare, soaked pussy.

“Oh honey, she’s fucking crying for me,” Steve murmured, brown eyes on your glistening folds—lips parted in awe as he spread apart them gently, eyes flickering up when you whimper above him. “I got you. Don’t worry—I got you.”

His fingers smear your slick over your folds, watching the way your body reacts. How your chest heaves and how your lips part. How—when he finally slides two fingers inside you—you let out a moan so loud that he has to bite down on his bottom lip to stop himself from groaning like a pathetic hormonal teenager.

Steve fucked you with his fingers slowly—thursting his fingers deep inside of you and curling them upwards so you let out another sweet moan. His other hand gripped your thigh, massaging the flesh as you lifted your hips toward his hand.

He knew what you needed. And he wasn’t going to hesitate to give it to you.

His fingers curled inside of you—watching for a moment as you whimpered his name desperately before he leaned in, lips finding your aching clit with ease. 

Your reaction was immediate—head thrown back against the back of the couch and his name falling from your lips. Steve felt like he had died and gone to heaven—tongue swirling your clit as his fingers continued to pump in and out of you, your pussy squelching with every thrust.

Steve could have lived between your legs—the way you tasted, how your fingers were tugging at his hair, how your hips were jerking up to meet his movements. How much you fucking wanted him.

Him. No one else. 

The coil in your belly tightened embarrassingly fast. It always did with Steve. You had never told him how quick he could make you come—you knew it would go to his head. But fuck—he just knew your body. He knew how to find that spot inside of you, knew just how to find your clit—

“Stevie,” you gasp out, fingers now pulling at his hair. “I’m gonna—”

Steve just hums against you—not speeding up just continuing exactly what he had been doing so well. Doing just what you needed—tongue swirling as his fingers pressed against that spongey spot inside of you.

And that was all you needed.

Your head falls back, your back arches as the coil inside you finally snaps. Steve groans against you as your walls flutter around his fingers—squeezing them like you wanted him to stay inside you forever. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he tells you, a final kiss to your clit as he looks up at you properly now, withdrawings his fingers just to lick them clean. “Most fucking beautiful girl in the world, baby. I swear it.”

You blink—still on another planet as you look down at him. At his big brown eyes, at the mix of your release and Steve’s spit dribbling down his chin obscenely, at the hair all mussed up from you pulling at it and fuck—you wanted him. In more ways than one.

“Take your shirt off,” you tell him—still sensitive but still aching with want. Your own hands shake as you grab the hem of your own top.

Layers of clothing come off quickly—your top, Steve’s shirt, his jeans, your bra and his boxers are all strewn over Steve’s living room.

“Should I get a—”

“No,” you say, eyes on his cock that was resting against his stomach as he sat down on the couch. You had seen Steve’s dick so many times that you had lost count and still, you could never get used to it. You didn’t think cocks could be beautiful until you saw Steve’s. It was long, ridiculously thick with veins that bulged along the shaft. Slightly curved in a way that was almost perfectly designed to hit all the right spots inside of you. The fat head of his dick was flushed red and already leaking with precum from having watched you come beneath his tongue barely two minutes ago.

Your eyes flicker up back to his and for a moment—there’s an understanding between you both. That you both understood that perhaps there was something more here. You were only sleeping with each other. There was nobody else.

Steve swallows and nods, hands finding your hips and squeezing before he tugs you down onto the couch to straddle him.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he tells you, both hands cupping your face as though you were more precious than gold. “You’re the most beautiful girl in the world, (y/n).”

You bite back a smile, eyes shining a little at his sincerity. Your heart doing things in your chest you hadn’t felt in a long time. “And I meant what I said earlier,” you murmur, hips lifting up so you could grip his cock to guide it towards your entrance. “You’re the only one, Stevie. The only one for me.”

Steve whimpers—actually fucking whimpers—at your words. He’s not even inside you yet and he was already going to lose it. His lips find yours in a kiss that could have burned through flesh—filled with so many unsaid words. And when you finally sink down onto him, Steve whimpered again against your lips until you had taken all of him.

“You’re fucking amazing,” he tells you, hands gripping your hips so tightly that he was sure to leave bruises. “So fucking amazing.”

You hadn’t moved yet—just letting yourself feel that delicious stretch. Letting yourself just feel him, your hands moving over the skin of his shoulders before they move to cup his face. “You’re fucking amazing, Stevie.” You whisper back, leaning in to kiss him gently as you finally, finally move. You lifted your hips once before sinking back down onto him.

You feel him deep in your gut and he feels your walls fluttering around him. It was everything you both needed and more. You did it again—hips bucking up before you slam down onto him. Starting a rhythm that was slow but somehow more erotic and intimate than any sex that you had before.

You pull away from the kiss just to look at his face—just to watch him as his lips part and eyelids flutter.

You keep rolling your hips, the coil tightening inside you once again as his cock nuzzles your cervix over and over again. The feeling grew slowly—intensely. More intense than the last. And when you tip over the edge, Steve’s there to guide your hips, letting you ride it out as your cunt squeezed his cock mercilessly through your orgasm.

“Baby, I’m gonna—”

“It’s okay,” you tell him, head titled forward to rest against his and hands gripping his shoulders. “Come inside me, Stevie. Please.”

“Are you sure—”

“I love you, Stevie,” you tell him, eyes locked onto his as your fingernails gripped onto his shoulders. “I love you and I’m sure.”

Steve blinks up at you dumbly, brown eyes wide and face flushing and then—

“You—oh—fuck—shit—”

He buries his head into your shoulder as his hips jerk against yours. You feel his warm release coating your walls and you bite back a smile at that desperate whine that leaves his lips again.

It takes Steve two, three, maybe four seconds to adjust. To realise what you had just said was not a figment of his imagination. That he hadn’t imagined you declaring your love for him mid-fuck.

“Do you really—”

“Love you?” You ask, your fingers moving back through his hair before you gently tilt his head back to look up at you. “Yeah. I really do.”

Steve breathes out, his own hands still holding your hips like he never wanted you to leave. “I love you too. So much,” he tells you. “So fucking much, (y/n). So much I—”

You silence him with a kiss—one that was soft, sweet—everything you and Steve had never had the chance to be. A kiss that felt like a promise for a future that you two could carve out together.

You pull away enough to say, “Please stop talking and fuck me again, Harrington.”

Steve laughs, leaning in to press a kiss against the corner of your mouth.

“Only if I can take you out for real tomorrow night,” he says.

You pretend to think about it, humming as your fingers massage his shoulders.

“You’ve got yourself a date, Harrington.”

He'd known he'd be okay as a teacher for the rest of his life. Coming home to the smell of dinner, cracking open a beer, sitting across the table from her while they laughed at whatever absurd, gravity-defying question their daughter— he hoped for a daughter first, though he'd never admit why— asked between bites of mashed peas. 

He'd been so sure of it. The evenings on the couch after bedtime, his wives feet in his lap like it was nothing, like it had always been that way, him working his thumb into the arch of her foot while the television murmured and she told him about her day in that half-drowsy voice people use when they finally feel safe.

He knew he wanted all of it.

He'd seen it once, a long time ago, in the narrow hallway light of his parents' house, when he was eight years old and supposed to be asleep. He'd crept downstairs for water and found them on the couch instead, his mother's head tipped back laughing at something his father said, his father's whole face open in a way it never was during the day. They'd looked young. They'd looked ridiculous, actually. And Steve had stood there in the dark in his socked feet and felt something register quietly in his chest, something that said— that.

He always knew he wanted that.

What he didn't know was that he wanted you.

You teach third grade at Hawkins Elementary. You have a habit of reading your students' drawings aloud to them as if they're gallery pieces, and you keep a mug on your desk that says World's Okayest Adult that you got from a nine-year-old as a holiday gift and cannot bring yourself to retire. You have ink smudges on the outside of your hand from grading papers. 

You smell faintly, impossibly, of crayons and something warm underneath, like cedar or cardamom, and Steve noticed it the first time you laughed at something he said, leaning toward him on instinct, and he'd spent the better part of that first date just trying to figure out where it was coming from.

You had no business agreeing to go on a date with him. He knew that. You didn’t talk at work before he asked. 

He'd been standing in the parking lot of the grocery store at eight in the morning on a Saturday, still half-asleep, a little embarrassed by the basket of frozen dinners he was holding, and you'd been there for some reason that later seemed too lucky to be real, and you'd had this expression on your face when he talked to you. Not the usual one. Not the oh, you're Steve Harrington expression, all recognition and preemptive expectation. You'd looked at him like you were actually listening. Like whatever he said next might genuinely surprise you..

You have no earthly reason to say yes when he asks you to dinner, stammering through the invitation like he's sixteen again instead of twenty-four. But you do. You smile—this sunrise of a thing that makes his chest feel too small—and you say yes.

He has no idea he'll want to take you on another date. And then another. That he'll want to take it slow in a way he's never wanted before, holding your hand on walks like you're something precious he might break. That he won't kiss you until the third date, and when he finally tries, he'll be so nervous he'll bump his head against yours hard enough to see stars.

He'd been building to it all night, and then it happened and he tipped forward too fast and his forehead bumped yours "Shit," he says, pulling back, mortified. "I'm so sorry. I wanted our first kiss to be perfect and I'm so—"

You grab a fistful of his shirt and pull him back in, crashing your mouth against his, and he has no idea that this—your boldness meeting his fumbling sincerity—will be the thing that undoes him completely.

The kiss wasn’t soft either, not forgiving. You'd kissed him like you'd been considering it for longer than the night and had simply decided to stop waiting. And Steve Harrington, who had kissed a number of people in his life, stood on your front porch and forgot every single one of them.

He does all the things he's done before on dates. Walks you to your door, kisses you goodnight, positions himself on the outside of the sidewalk so he's closer to traffic. But this time, for the first time, he wants to do these things. Not because they're expected, not because they're the motions you're supposed to go through, but because he wants to see the way your lips curl when he opens the car door for you. 

Wants to watch your eyes catch light like coins at the bottom of a fountain when he brings you flowers for no reason. Doesn't mind when your lipstick stains his mouth pink, or when a smudge of your eyeshadow transfers to his collar after you lean your head on his shoulder during a movie.

He keeps these small marks of you on him like evidence. Like proof.

And he never knew—how could he have known?—that after three months of seeing you, Steve Harrington would want a girlfriend. Not in the abstract way he'd wanted one before, the way you want things because you're supposed to want them. Not the placeholder kind, the ones who looked good on his arm and laughed at his jokes and disappeared from his life without leaving dents.

No, he wants a girlfriend. His girlfriend. The kind who knows he likes his coffee with too much sugar, who shows him your students' misspelled worksheets because you know they'll make him laugh, who argues with him about whether The Breakfast Club or Ferris Bueller is the superior John Hughes film (it's Ferris Bueller, and he'll die on that hill).

He always said he wanted this. But he didn't. Not really.

Maybe because it was never you.

Three months.

Three months of this, and somewhere in the middle of them, Steve realized he wanted a girlfriend.

The wanting had always been for some general, approaching shape, and now it had edges, and a smell like cedar and cardamom, and ink on the outside of its left hand.

.-.-.-.

Tonight, the thread holding his restraint together feels thinner than usual.

Earlier, at the Hawk, while standing in the concession line arguing about whether to get Milk Duds or Sno-Caps— you wanted both; he caved immediately— you spotted a friend from high school. You lit up, grabbing Steve's arm and pulling him forward with a grin that could power the entire theater.

"This is my boyfriend," you said, the word falling from your lips like honey, sweet and golden and completely natural.

The rush of hearing it hit him in two places simultaneously. His head, which went dizzy and light, and his cock, which twitched hard enough in his jeans to make him shift his weight and pray to a god he doesn't believe in that it wasn't obvious.

Boyfriend.

Steve Harrington has been introduced a thousand different ways. "Oh, you remember Steve?" "I'm here with Steve Harrington." "You know King Steve, right?" Always his name, always his history, always him as a person separate and distinct.

But you didn't say his name. You called him your boyfriend—something you haven't even discussed, something that apparently doesn't need discussing because it's true, it's real, you're his and he's yours.

And suddenly Steve doesn't want to be Steve Harrington at all. He wants to be your boyfriend. That's it. That's all.

He couldn't concentrate during the movie. Couldn't tell you a single plot point if his life depended on it. He sat there holding his girlfriend's hand— the word looping in his head like a skipping record: girlfriend girlfriend girlfriend— sporting a semi in the dark, occasionally having to press the heel of his palm against his crotch to relieve the ache.

He considered sneaking away to the bathroom, tucking himself into his waistband, anything to relieve the pressure. But that would mean letting go of your hand, and he's not willing to do that. Not when your thumb is doing this thing, rubbing circles on his knuckles, grounding him and destroying him in equal measure.

It only got worse after. Dropping you off, you asked him to come in for coffee—code you both understand means more kissing on your couch, more of your hands on his skin, more of this slow-burning thing between you that he's terrified of rushing because what if he breaks it? What if he fucks it up like he fucks everything up?

Now he's kissing his girlfriend's lips, and the word won't stop ricocheting around his skull. 

Your mouth is soft and warm, and you taste like the popcorn you split at the movies. He can feel your heartbeat where his palm rests against your ribs, quick and fluttering like a bird's wings. Your hand is in his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp in a way that makes him want to purr.

When he said you were taking it slow, this is what he meant. Nothing goes beyond this—kissing on your couch, hands staying mostly polite, both of you breathing hard but keeping the brakes engaged.

Sometimes, like tonight, you guide his hand to cup your breast through your shirt. Most of the time, you slip your hands under his, and he always smiles against your lips because you love his stomach. You map his chest first, fingers tracing the sparse hair there, then his shoulders, but you always come back to his belly. Palm the softness there like it's your favorite part of him.

And god, of course he wonders what you feel like— without the architecture of clothes in between. What you taste like beyond your lips and the salt of your neck. Wonders what sounds you'd make if he got his mouth on you properly.

Because he never knew he wanted to be respectful. Never knew he'd be the kind of guy who'd stop himself, who'd wait, who'd care more about doing this right than doing it fast.

But then again, he never knew you existed. So what the hell did he know about anything?

The kiss is slow, and it's also not slow at all, and those two things exist without contradiction. Your hands are in his hair and his are at your waist, and the kiss is the kind that gets away from you by degrees, each one a little less careful than the last, until you look up and can't account for the time. Your bottom lip is soft. You make a sound sometimes, quiet and unconsidered, and every time it happens, he feels it in his sternum like a tuning fork. You shift closer. He follows.

It comes out of his mouth before he can stop it.

He breaks away, both of you breathing hard, your lips swollen and shining, eyelashes fanning across the apples of your cheeks. Your pupils are blown wide, lids heavy, and you're looking at him like he hung the moon and he doesn't deserve it, he doesn't, but god does he want to.

He swallows hard, brushing your hair back from your face. His hand stops at your neck, thumb stroking along your jaw. "I want you to meet my parents."

The words land in the space between you and he immediately hears how they sound. His eyes go wide.

"I mean—shit—would you meet my parents? Because you don't have to if you don't want to, but I'd really like them to meet my girlfriend, and I understand if it's too soon or too much or—"

You giggle, and the sound makes him stop mid-spiral.

He blinks at you, heat flooding his face.

"I'd love to meet your parents," you say, and kiss him softly.

And Steve Harrington—who has introduced exactly one other girl to his parents in any capacity that mattered, who once faked food poisoning to get out of a girl meeting his mother at the fair—gets a boner at the thought of you shaking his dad's hand and sitting at his parents' kitchen table.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

He gives you chaste pecks, brows furrowed, nose pressed against your cheek, before he has to physically remove your hands from under his shirt. He stands quickly, running his fingers through his hair hard enough to hurt, putting distance between you before he does something stupid like beg you to touch him.

He sees you go rigid immediately, sitting up straight, hands folding in your lap. Your eyes fill with concern. "Steve... is everything okay?"

"What?" He turns slightly, not enough for you to see the obvious bulge in his jeans. "Yeah. No. I mean—" He clears his throat, puts his hands on his hips in that stupid way his dad does when he's uncomfortable. "Yeah. I needed to take a moment."

You wait, and the silence stretches between you like taffy. Then, quietly, carefully, "Did I... did I do something?"

Steve's eyes go wide. He spins around. "What? No—no! Shit, I..."

He stops. Swallows hard.

Silence.

You're waiting. He can feel the particular shape of your patience, the way it doesn't crowd him, doesn't demand. It settles around him like still water.

He turns fully to face you.

You're sitting with your hands folded in your lap, posture straightened, watching him with an expression that's trying very hard to be neutral and mostly succeeding. Your hair has come slightly undone from his fingers. Your lipstick has migrated—some on your chin, some (he knows) on his own mouth. You look, objectively, incredible, and this is not helping anything.

Steve Harrington looks at you across your own living room and thinks, I am completely in over my head.

He thinks, I knew I wanted all of it.

He thinks, I didn't know it was you.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Puts his hands back on his hips in that stupid defensive stance.

"You're—" He stops. Starts again. "I really like you. Like. A lot."

It comes out with approximately none of the grace or eloquence he intended, flat and graceless, but it lands. He watches it land, sees the way your expression shifts.

Something in your face does the thing—the slow opening-up thing, the light-through-curtains thing, warmth bleeding into your features.

"Yeah?" you say, and your voice has gone soft.

"Yeah," he says, and his voice has done something embarrassing, gone rough and desperate. "It's kind of a problem, actually."

Your eyes flick down to the very obvious evidence of this straining against his jeans, then back up to his face.

Your smile arrives—crooked and helpless and knowing—and he stops trying to think entirely.

He groans, the sound pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. His cock twitches again, aching, and he presses his palms to his face. "I'm supposed to be... I'm trying to be a gentleman." The words come out muffled, strained. He drops his hands, looking at you with those downturned puppy-dog eyes that make him look young and wrecked. "But you make it impossible to not throw every ounce of restraint I have out the window."

You're still staring at him, silent, and he can see your chest rising and falling with your breathing.

Then your face cracks—amusement and want and something darker all mixing together. "When,” you ask slowly, tilting your head, “did I ever ask you to be a gentleman?"

Steve nearly comes in his pants.

He watches, mouth dry and heart hammering, as you uncross your legs. Your palms brace against the cushions on either side of you, and you tilt your head, eyelashes batting with devastating innocence. He's frozen, speechless, as you roll your hips slightly—a small movement, almost imperceptible, like you're trying to relieve some pressure of your own.

Then you lift one finger, crooking it. Beckoning him.

His knees go weak, liquid and useless. He walks toward you on unsteady legs until he's standing directly in front of you, and then—without thinking, without planning—he sinks to his knees. He crawls the rest of the distance across your living room floor until he's kneeling between your legs.

He can see the color of your panties under your dress. Baby blue. Cotton. Simple and devastating.

He's breathing hard, each inhale shaky and insufficient.

Steve sits back on his heels, hands stupidly at his sides, waiting for permission he's terrified won't come. Then you poke your toe against his thigh—gentle, teasing—and he grabs it.

It's instinct, both hands folding around your foot, and then he's pressing his thumbs into the arch because he's wanted to do this for months, because he's been thinking about this on couches and in movie theaters and in the dark of his own car, and the small sound you make dissolves something in his chest. He moves to your other foot. His hands are large enough that his fingers wrap your ankle with room left over, the tendons and small bones of you familiar under the mapped pressure of his palms, the veins on the backs of his hands stark and dark as he works. He can feel his own pulse in them.

He moves up to your calves. Slowly. His thumbs tracing the curve of muscle, working upward, and when the hem of your dress gives way to his wrists he pauses.

He presses a kiss to your knee.

His hands keep moving. Up the inside of your thighs now, the warmth of you radiating into his palms, and he feels you shift toward him and he keeps going until his fingers find the waistband of your underwear.

He looks up.

"This okay?"

"Please," you breathe. Already lifting. Already helping him. "Steve, please."

He draws them down slowly, presses a warm open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh on the way, and then nips, and you make a sound that undoes another something in him. He looks up at you once more, chin resting on your leg, eyes dark.

"Can I?"

"Yes," you say. "God, yes."

He ducks under your dress.

The smell of you reaches him before anything else, warm and close and private, and his nose brushes the soft hair of your cunt and he exhales against you, almost reverent. He kisses you there first. Soft, closed-mouthed, like a greeting. Then he hooks your thighs over his shoulders, forearms spreading you open, and his tongue finds you.

You gasp.

He learns you the way he learns things that matter, carefully and then not carefully at all. He licks a slow stripe and listens to the sound you make, adjusts, finds the rhythm that makes your hips roll toward him. He works at you with his mouth, unhurried, your dress a dark tent around his head and the whole world reduced to this: the texture of you, the sounds you're making, the trembling that starts in your thighs when he finds the right angle and stays there.

When he presses two fingers into you, you cry out.

He feels you clench around him and groans against your clit, the sound vibrating through you, and your hands find his hair through the dress and pull. He curls his fingers. Crooks them. Listens. He fucks them into you slow while his tongue works and you're saying his name now, saying it in pieces, Steve, Steve, like it costs you something, and he speeds up his hand because he needs to hear what comes after.

What comes after is your thighs locking around his head and a sound torn from somewhere low in your chest and your whole body pulling taut like a bowstring at full draw, every muscle gone rigid, before you break open in waves that pulse around his fingers and leave you shaking and gasping in their wake.

He eases you through it. Presses his lips softly to your inner thigh. Comes out from under your dress, his face flushed and wrecked, his mouth wet.

He's still aching, his jeans unbearable. He presses his palm against himself, a breath through his teeth.

You look down at him from the couch, chest still heaving, a flush crawling from your throat to your collarbones. Your bottom lip pushes out.

"Stevie," you say. The syllables of his name in your mouth like that should not be legal. "Do you need to be taken care of?"

"Yes," he whimpers, hands already going to his belt buckle, fingers fumbling with the leather.

"What do you need, handsome?" you ask, sitting up. Your fingers find his hair, threading through and tugging gently. His head falls back, exposing the long line of his throat, and you press your lips there. Then you find his mouth, kissing him dirty and open-mouthed and desperate.

The kiss is dirty. Open-mouthed and slow in the worst possible way, the kind of slow that isn't patience but devastation, and when you pull back for air his mouth chases yours on reflex, still reaching, mouths pushing and pulling.

Finally he breaks away, eyes closed, and when they open they're dark—pupils blown so wide the hazel is nearly gone.

"I need you," he says, voice wrecked.

He stands, ripping his shirt off in one motion. The fabric catches on his watch, on his hair, and then it's gone— somewhere behind him. 

Your eyes snap to his bare chest—the sparse hair, the constellation of moles you want to map with your tongue—then lower to his belly. The softness there that you love, the trail of hair that disappears into his waistband. You lick your lips. Something feral and private crosses your face. He watches you look at him and stands a little straighter.

He holds your gaze while he unbuckles his belt, towering over you.

"I'm going to fuck you until your legs shake," he says, and every ounce of gentlemanly restraint has been incinerated, burned away, leaving only raw want.

Steve shoves his jeans and boxers down in one swift movement, kicking them off, and his cock springs free—hard and flushed and leaking.

Your eyes widen. "Steve, there's no—"

"Wasn't I nice and got you ready, baby? Hm?" He coos, voice dropping into something darker, more commanding. "You can be good and take it." He pauses, eyes raking over you. "Take off your dress."

You pull it over your head and he steps forward immediately, into the heat of you, cock bobbing with the movement, the tip smearing precum against his belly, and your face turns into his stomach. 

You lean forward, burying your face in his belly, kissing the soft skin there, nipping gently. Your tongue traces the trail of precum that's made its way into his happy trail, tasting salt and musk and him. Your tongue finds the slick at the root of him and he grips your hair without deciding to.

"Fuck—" A whisper. "Honey—"

Your hand wraps around him. Pumps, slow, and he sees white at the edges of his vision.

He makes himself breathe. He makes himself reach for patience one last time, holding the back of your head gently, watching the top of yours.

But he can't let you continue or he'll finish right there, spilling across your hand and his stomach like a teenager. He eases you back gently, then slowly lays you down on the couch.

He looks down between you, lining himself up, but before he does your soft hand cups his face. Your fingers trace his jawline with reverence, then his nose, the bridge, the tip. You map the moles scattered across his face and neck like you're memorizing them, and he realizes—you've wanted this as much as he has. Wanted to touch him properly, wanted to learn him.

But he still needs to make sure. "You want this?"

"Yes, Steve. I want you."

He kisses you softly—a contrast to everything else—before returning his attention below. He lines himself up, pressing the tip against your entrance, and begins to push in slowly.

You both cry out at the first inch of it, your breath punching out and his head dropping to your shoulder, jaw clenched.

The stretch is intense, overwhelming, and he has to stop after just the tip, breathing hard.

"Relax for me," he murmurs, one hand spreading your thigh wider, opening you up. "That's it. You're doing so good, honey. So good for me."

He slides in another inch, then another, talking you through it the whole time. "Breathe. That's my girl. Almost there. Almost—fuck, you feel incredible."

When he's fully seated, buried to the hilt, you're both trembling. He stays still, letting you adjust, watching your face for signs of discomfort.

"Okay?" he asks, voice strained.

"Move," you gasp. "Please move, Steve."

He does, pulling out slowly before sliding back in, setting a rhythm that's deep and steady. His hips roll in a way that has him hitting something inside you that makes you see stars.

"More," you beg.

He remembers his promise. His hips snap faster, harder, the sound of skin against skin filling your living room. The couch creaks beneath you with each thrust, and he braces one hand on the armrest for leverage.

"You feel so fucking good," he groans, watching where you're joined, watching himself disappear inside you over and over.

You're making these beautiful desperate sounds—whimpers and gasps and broken versions of his name. Your breasts bounce with each thrust and he can't look away.

Long, rolling movements, working you open, your nails dragging lines down his back that he doesn't mind even a little. The sounds in the room are obscene already— the slide of him, the wet heat of it, the way the couch registers every movement. The air is warm and close and smells like both of you, like sweat and want and the cedar-and-cardamom of your skin mixed now with something that is specifically him.

He rolls his hips and you whimper, and that's what does it.

He quickens.

The gentleness doesn't leave entirely, it threads through what comes after, but the restraint he'd carried all evening, across the whole movie, across three months of this particular wanting, finally puts itself down. His hips find a rhythm that means it. The couch protests. Your head tips back.

"Steve—"

"You’re so beautiful," he breathes. “Always beautiful, but— fuck— like this…”

He braces himself over you, one forearm by your head, the other hand finding your hip, and he snaps into you and watches your face go slack and beautiful. Sweat gathers between his shoulders. His chest flushes deep pink where it meets yours, your skin sticking and separating with every thrust, the friction of it indecent and perfect.

"Tell me," he pants, hips never slowing. "Tell me you're mine."

"Yours," you gasp. "I'm yours, Steve, I'm—"

He groans, the sound punched out of him, and fucks into you harder. "That's right. Mine. My girlfriend. My good girl taking it so well."

Your fingers come up between you. Two fingertips, soft and certain, draw across his bottom lip. He opens for them. They press to his tongue, and his eyes close, and he groans around them, and you feel him pulse inside you at the sound of it. Then your hand slides back down between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit, and the sound that tears out of you makes him lose the last of his cadence entirely.

He fucks you harder. Closer to desperate than controlled, his breath ragged against your neck, your name sitting in his mouth half-formed and unspoken. He feels you tightening around him in quick deep pulses and he lifts his head and watches your face

"Look at you," he breathes, and there's something in his voice—awe mixed with possession mixed with something darker. "So perfect and needy. Needed me to fuck you, didn't you? Needed your boyfriend to take care of you."

"Yes," you whimper, fingers working faster. "Yes, Steve, please—"

"Please what, honey?"

"Make me come. Please make me come."

He shifts the angle slightly, hips driving in harder, hitting that spot inside you with devastating precision. 

You come apart beneath him with a sound that starts soft and crests, your whole body arching up into his, your hands clutching whatever they can find. He feels you everywhere, clenching and shaking, and the sensation pulls him under with you, his hips stuttering, his breath gone, his forehead dropping to yours as he follows.

Afterward, he stays where he is. He can't move. He isn't sure he wants to.

Your chest rises and falls under his. Both of you breathing hard, slick with sweat, the room quieted down to just the sound of that, just the two of you recollecting yourselves from wherever you'd gone.

He presses his lips to your hair.

"Stay," you murmur. You're already most of the way gone, your hands gone slack against his back.

"Okay baby," he says. His voice is rough and soft at once.

And for the first time in his life, Steve Harrington knows—with absolute certainty—that he's exactly where he's supposed to be.

Until you found yourself more and more endeared by a hundred-something year old super soldier, that turns out has as much self control as you do.

Which, since that night in his office (RIP your Deity wool skirt, he still owed you for that one), has been at an all time low. 

Bucky spoke from his side of the bed. The room was pitch black aside from your phone screen being on.

You sat with your back to the headboard, posture still annoyingly proper despite the fact that you were wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts, his arm around your waist as his face was nuzzled into your hip. 

You giggled softly. "You did." You spent a full four minutes untangling your hair before you crawled back into bed and Bucky fell asleep, this man needed to pay you in an endless supply of Kerastase Nutritive serum at this point. "I'm just answering some urgent emails."

He made a dissatisfied sound against your skin, pressing a lazy kiss to the curve of your hip. “They’re emails,” he grumbled. “S’not urgent.”

That earned a chuckle from you. "Mmmm, say that when you go in blind for your meeting tomorrow."

Your phone was carefully slipped off your hands by his flesh hand and tossed onto his nightstand, you let out a little "hey!" at the same time he sighed happily, turning back to you and hooking his arm around your legs, pulling you down to lay back down flush against the mattress. 

You landed with a soft huff, hair spilling across the pillow.

"Clearly didn't tire you enough." He tried for stern. Authoritative. The kind of tone he used in press conferences when he needed to shut down a room.

Unfortunately for him, the unmistakable evidence of his renewed interest brushing your leg ruined the performance.

You smirked at him, raising a brow. "I think you just want an excuse to fuck me again."

And as his hand sneaked under the blanket and pushed your panties down, his lips curved up in a smile that would be getting soaked in about thirty seconds. "I don't think I need an excuse."

"You're so full of yourself." You scoffed playfully. 

"Mmmhmm, you're about to be." Your phone lit up again on the nightstand and neither of you looked at it.

His mouth traced lower, his hand tightening at your waist as he drew another soft sound from you.

“You’re impossible,” you whispered.

The next day, you arrived at the federal building fifteen minutes early, hair sleek, makeup flawless, navy blazer sharp enough to cut glass. 

No one would look at you and guess you’d been pinned beneath a super soldier less than eight hours ago.

No one would guess you had two energy drinks this morning, since the Fucker in Charge decided to keep you up until 2:21am, wrapped around him like a vice. 

Not that you complained at the time, just wasn't ideal to be running on less than five hours of sleep in such an important meeting like this. 

Thankfully, it was all over zoom. 

Politicians from all over the country needed to come together, and it was easiest in a video call where they'd be able to talk endlessly about these issues in a three hour meeting. 

Bucky was, of course, dreading it.

“Morning,” he said, voice neutral — client-neutral. No warmth. No trace of the low murmur from last night.

“Congressman,” you replied just as evenly, handing him a slim folder outside his office by Lizbeth's desk. “Updated briefing notes. The veterans’ housing bill is going to dominate the first half. Senator Mitchell’s aide leaked the amendment language at six a.m.”

His eyes flicked to you — sharp, focused — and for a fraction of a second something softer passed through them. Gone just as quickly.

“You saw that already?”

“I don’t sleep much,” you said smoothly.

His lips twitched into a side smile, and he nodded towards his office, signaling for you to walk in. "Alright, let's get this show on the road." 

He walked in right after you, closing the doors as you set up his computer for him, sitting on the chair on the other side of his desk.

“Congressman Barnes,” Senator Alvarez greeted. “Glad you could make it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Bucky replied evenly.

You watched him slip into it — the public version. Controlled cadence. Measured pauses. Shoulders squared just enough to project steadiness without aggression.

He sat in his office chair and you typed up notes. 

“You’re proposing reallocating defense surplus funds,” Mitchell pressed. “That’s going to draw scrutiny.”

“It should,” Bucky answered calmly. “Our veterans deserve scrutiny on where their resources go. That’s the point.”

You'd press the mute button when you had a talking point or a question that popped up that you needed him to say or ask, so you could strategize the next move, the next post, always thinking ahead. 

Speaking of head…

You behaved. You swear. Scout's Honor. Pinky promise.

For an hour and fifty-two minutes. 

You passed him a glass of water at minute thirty-seven when his jaw tightened. You angled the laptop slightly at minute sixty-four when the overhead light caught wrong on his face.

Professional.

At minute eighty-nine, Senator Alvarez started rambling about “optics in middle America,” and Bucky resisted the overwhelming urge to slam his forehead into the desk.

You muted him smoothly, finger pressing the button with the same calm efficiency you used to shut down hostile reporters.

“Ask something about interstate coordination,” you murmured, leaning toward him just enough that your voice wouldn’t carry. “Funding disparities between urban and rural states. Phrase it like you’re concerned about equity. They’ll argue for fifteen minutes.”

His eyes flicked to yours — assessing, confused. Why would you want this meeting lasting any longer than it absolutely should?

“Specific angle?” he asked quietly. Eyes moving from yours to where you started to unbutton your blouse behind the camera. 

Oh, that. 

“Frame it like you’re worried smaller states won’t be able to implement without federal oversight,” you said. “Alvarez will disagree on principle. Mitchell will counter with budget autonomy. They’ll spiral.”

His lips curved faintly as you dropped your shirt onto the chair you were sitting on. 

You reached forward and unmuted him.

“If we’re discussing implementation,” he began smoothly, posture straightening as he addressed the screen, “how are we ensuring smaller states aren’t disproportionately burdened without adequate federal oversight?”

Hook. Line. Sinker.

You didn’t even wait for the responses to start overlapping before you unhooked your bra and let it be by your blouse.

As Mitchell leaned forward and Alvarez cut in, you reached over and casually toggled his camera off.

“Apologies,” you said lightly toward the screen, your own voice carrying professionalism. “We’re having a minor bandwidth issue. The Congressman is still with you.”

They barely acknowledged it — too busy debating.

Perfect.

You stood slowly from your chair.

Bucky’s gaze tracked you immediately, though he didn't say anything as you held your finger to your lips, telling him to be quiet. 

You walked around the desk deliberately, heels silent on the office carpet. You could hear the senators talking over one another through his speakers, voices rising as predicted.

You stopped in front of him and his throat moved when he swallowed. “Bandwidth issue?” he repeated quietly, mic muted and eyebrow raised.

“Mmmhmm," you nodded. "Terrible connection,” you said sweetly.

You lowered yourself to kneel in front of him, bracing your hands on his thighs, movements unhurried. Controlled. Intentional.

His hands dropped from the armrests, hovering for a second before settling — disciplined, as if resisting the instinct to reach for you.

On the screen, Alvarez was mid-sentence. “…and that kind of federal overreach—". You glanced up at Bucky through your lashes, one brow lifting slightly.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, the sound almost inaudible, scooting forward in his chair and spreading his thighs more to accomodate you in between them. 

You bit your lip as you reached for his belt, unbuckling it for him in giddy anticipation. He always got to have fun and tease you, and since this meeting was so unimportant to him yesterday, it should be equally as unimportant right now. 

That, and the fact that it was funny as hell to mess with him. And really fun to get payback later. 

You tugged his pants and boxers down at the same time, until they rested around his ankles, and there it was.

James Buchanan Barnes and the prettiest, heaviest, thickest cock you've ever seen in your life, all there for your taking. 

You reached up and tugged him by the tie, giving him a chaste kiss and letting go, almost as if you wanted to tease him and leave him wanting more, 

Once you settled back, you wrapped your hand around him, giving very tentative slow strokes. He let out something between a grunt and a whine, letting you know to "get on with it".

You leaned in and licked him from base to tip, wrapping your lips around the head and sucking him into your mouth, repeating the action a couple times until he was wet all around and could esily glide him in and out of your mouth all the way.

He hit the mute button, "That's it, baby. Get it all in your mouth." Then unmuted himself. A metal hand coming to gather your hair in a makeshift bun on the back of your head. 

Three senators talking over each other. One trying to cite precedent from 2008. Someone else pulling up a chart that absolutely did not prove their point. 

The audio lag made it worse, voices clipping and overlapping in a symphony of bureaucratic chaos.

Falling of deaf ears for Bucky, but not to you. 

You bobbed your head up and down his length, swirling your tongue around the head every time you got to the top, tasting the salty tang of him. 

You sighed in contentment as you closed your eyes, reveling in the taste of him, and in the reaction you were eliciting from him.

"You're topless in my office sucking my cock, what did you think my reaction would be? "No"?" You could almost hear how crass he'd make it sound li—

“Congressman Barnes, do you believe federal oversight should be conditional?” someone asked sharply.

You heard the, but Bucky clearly didn't, too lost in the thoughts of cumming all over your tits. "Congressman Barnes?"

You reached up with your other hand and pinched his thigh, not stopping the movements of your mouth, bringing Bucky out of his trance. "Ow! Yes, uh— conditional, no,” he replied. “Strategic, yes.”

He glared at you and you mentaly shrugged, and kept going. Mute. “You trying to kill me?” he murmured.

You leaned back slightly on your heels, expression innocent. “You zoned out,” you whispered, lips still close enough to him that every word had his cock twiching at the vibration. “That’s on you.” 

“You think this is funny?” he asked quietly.

“A little,” you admitted.

Unmute.

You had such a tight seal around him you were able to keep the wet noises to a minimum, the computer not ever picking it up. 

Every time you sped up, rolled his balls softly in your hand, and Bucky got close, you slowed down, keeping him right at the edge without being able to do much except just indulge in your teasing.

Unless, of course, he decided to stand up.

Which he did, catching you by surprise. Your eyes widened for a second at the sudden change.

You tried to pull your head back out of reflex, but his hand kept you in place as he shoved his cock deeper and deeper into your mouth, until your nose brushed the hair at the base. 

You groaned against him, something that could be translated into "okay, rude!" without any real bite to it. 

He muted himself again. "Think they're about almost done with that discussion, darling." He thrust into your mouth, feeling your throat close around him. "Don't have much time."

Your nails scratched at his thighs, your eyes watered, and you were sure your lip gloss was all over your chin, along with some drool and precum, but oh my God, did this man have your eyes rolling back at the feel of sucking his dick. 

Bucky grunted above you every time the head of his cock hit the back of your throat. 

His thrusts got faster, sloppier, and as you prepared yourself to have his cum flood your tastebuds, he pulled out. 

If he had no self control, the view of you pouting your swollen lips, all wet, because he took his cock out of your mouth would've been enough for him to bust a load all over your face.

He'd have to do that a different time, though. 

He pulled you up by the hand that was braced on his thigh, "I wasn't done…" You tried to protest.

Bucky chuckled, thanking the gods above you had a habit of locking the door when he had meetings like this, so no one would interrupt his train of though, a call, or anything… Governmental.

He kissed the pout off your lips, hands on your hips turning you in your axis, making you face his desk, bracing your hands on the mahogany wood as he kneeled down behind you, reaching up under your skirt to pull your panties down to your ankles.

His lips brushed your shoulder blade as he leaned over you, his tie ticking your back as it hung from his neck while his hands reached to pull your skirt up, not bothering with your stockings, which he though were kinda hot. "You know I love you, right?"

It was murmured onto skin and it made your heart swell, even in a moment like this. "Of course I do, Bucky," you chuckled adoringly, "why are yo— oh! my god—"

He pushed in all at once, holding back a loud groan while the air being knocked out of your lungs. You slapped a hand over your own mouth to try and prevent anymore noises from coming out. 

You heard Bucky click his tongue, the rustle of fabric, and in no time, he was stuffing the black tie that he was wearing into your mouth, something for you to bite on and groan into. 

He kept one hand over your mouth to make sure you wouldn't try to spit it out, even though he knew you wouldn't, as he started to move his hips. 

One thrust. 

Then another. 

Then he picked up a rhythm, the hand that was over your mouth falling to the back of your neck, following you down as you bent over completely until the cool wood was pressed against your bare breasts. 

As his hips picked up the pace, using his hold on you as leverage, you only hoped the squelch of his cock in your pussy would be muffled by the old structure of Capitol Hill.

Your cheek was heating up the wood under it, your breath fogging a little patch on the desk when it came out of your nose harshly.

He was trying really, really hard to not just rail into you and make the wet noises just louder and louder until everyone in the fucking building knew what you two were doing.

But he controlled himself, at least that much. 

Because time and time again, you reminded him that optics mattered if he wanted to make a difference through the legislative route. 

And if that meant he had to sway some voters through looking like he was an available bachelor, he's just have to keep quiet when he fucked you silly on his desk. 

He pushed his thrusts deeper, grinding his hips into yours when he bottomed out and rubbing the head of his cock over the spongy spot inside of you that had your knees buckling. 

As his hand sneaked from your shoulder down your body and to the front, to rub your clit, you moved your head, forehead now pressing against the wood as your eyes squeezed shut trying to focus on not being loud.

God, you loved when he gave you payback. 

“Congressman Barnes, we’d like your position on the amendment language,” a voice cuts through the speaker and brings both of you out of your haze for a second. 

Bucky slowed down with his hips, but not his fingers, using the hand that was on your hip to unmute himself. “Thank you, Senator,” he says evenly. “I think the concern we’re circling back to is implementation clarity.”

It’s absurd.

The way he can do that while your eyes are rolling back so far into your skull you could see your own optic chiasm. 

He pressed his fingers harder onto your clit, slower but deeper circles and your nails dug shapes into your palms. 

He muted himself again. "They're almost needing me again, baby, c'mon." His thrusts picked back up, both of you right on the edge. "I can feel y'squeezing me."

You whined behind the tie, his hand coming up to brush your hair over one shoulder and gently tilt your face to the side so he could lean over and let his lips brush your cheek.

"I can feel y'want to come on my cock, pretty girl." Kiss. "Be good." Another kiss to your jaw.

A few seconds of faster fingers and grinding of his hips was all you needed to let out a sound he'd understand as "oh my fuck!" behind the bunched up tie as you clamped down around him. 

You felt like you were levitating. All you could hear was blood rushing between your ears and muffled "fuck, fuck, fuck" from Bucky behind you as he chased his own high, thick ropes of cum filling your pussy until it started to drip out and onto the carpet.

Precisely why you never fucked in his office before, he always has too much. 

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

As you both caught your breaths, you spit the tie out. You nodded once. “Yeah.”

Bucky nodded against you, not even bothering to pull out before he unmuted himself again, catching the goodbyes and acknowledgements of the meeting. 

“And with that,” he said smoothly into the call, voice perfectly composed, “I think we’ve covered the key concerns.” He bit into your shoulder playfully knowing you'd supress a yelp, "Thank you, gentlemen."

💌 permanent freaks taglist: @chateaubarnes @houseofhyde @heldbybarnes @iamthatonefangirl @superbassbuck @its-in-the-woods @wildflowersandvibranium @unificsation @flockoff-featherface @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @winterdecember18 @juniebjonesin @barnesonly @bckyslover @buckyfmd @starfire-irl @tw1sters @pinksplace @artficlly @daddysbitchybaby @globetrotter28 @epiphanyrogers @famoushoshi @avgdestitute @blobfishlol @buckysdecaflove

⤷ notes: I did not expect my last fic of the year to be a watersports bucky fic but ykw it's all been chaos so jdhgsjhfg it checks out.

I need to dedicate this fic to @ladymiseryy for reawakening this kink for me fr. I've written it for slash pairings before but not here, and I had so much fun revisiting it! please check out her works (both asks and this recently posted fic!) if you want more of this trope!

obligatory warning that this might not be for everybody, and that's okay!

please keep in mind that you are the only one in charge of the content you choose to consume, and to be respectful of others choices as well. if you don't like, don't read! if you're unsure and would like to try it out, I'm happy to have you here! x

I'll also be the first to admit that I'm not *totally* clear on the understanding of the difference between omo and desperation etc., so please feel free to ~kindly correct me if any of those tags need fixing. I have tagged both since according to this post they both seemed applicable.

not proofread. enjoy, and happy new year! :D

It’s dark outside the blurry windows, the radio has cycled through just about every song it knows, and you’ve had to use the bathroom for the last hour at least. 

It doesn’t help that you’re exhausted. You have no regrets about spending time with family during the holidays and everything had gone about as good as it possibly could, your typical stressors behaving themselves and Bucky’s hand to hold beside you for the first time since you’ve been together. 

But that was then, and this is now, and you’re still holding Bucky’s hand over the console while he drives but the GPS is saying another two hours to home and your lower stomach is aching something fierce, muscles clenched and thighs crossed over each other. A near empty water bottle sits incriminatingly in the cupholder between you, your second one of the day, your insistence that you didn’t need the restroom at the last gas station echoing regret in your head. 

That was hours ago now, and the main highway had been overrun with post-holiday traffic as everyone else attempted to rush home alongside you, so you both agreed maybe taking a long, winding scenic route might be better than relentless stop-and-go. 

It’s been nothing but two lanes and tall trees until the sun set, the monotony of the view doing nothing at all to distract you from your growing issue. 

“Y’okay?” 

You hum distantly, head rolling against the leather from the dash over to Bucky in the driver’s side. If he can tell you’re sitting more stiffly than you have the entire trip, he doesn’t specify. 

“Mhm. Why?” 

“Got quiet on me,” he hedges, glancing back at the road. “Thinkin’ about something?” 

“Mostly tired,” you half-lie. 

“I bet,” he smiles. “Thought it went well, though.” 

Despite how uncomfortable you are, a smile of your own stretches your lips. “It did. Thank you for coming with me. It’s been perfect.” 

Bucky’s fades before yours does. 

“But…” 

You huff. “How do you know there’s a but?” 

“You carry your tension right here, y’know,” he murmurs, slipping his hand from yours to lift it to your neck, rubbing over the sore spots in your shoulders. “They’re touchin’ your ears. What’s on your mind?” 

With a quiet, defeated sigh, you look over at him. “You want the honest answer?” 

“‘Course,” he agrees. 

“I’m wishing I would’ve listened to you about going to the bathroom at that last rest stop. I didn’t realize how much water I was drinking and I’ve had to go for the last hour,” you mutter guiltily. 

The silence goes on for a few seconds, and you can practically hear Bucky’s grin before the moonlight glints off his teeth. You roll your eyes. 

“I think that might be the first time you’ve ever admitted I was right.” 

“Do not say I-told-you-so,” you threaten, pointing a finger. 

He catches it in his hold, pressing his lips to your knuckles. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

The road stretches farther and farther in front of you, narrowing into something gravelly and quiet, no other headlights passing you for minutes. It’s assumed that there isn’t really much you can do with your predicament aside from wait until you reach the next town, so you sit back, keep your legs crossed, and hope for the best. 

And then, slowly, the car begins to veer to the side. It pulls to a stop on the shoulder as Bucky shifts it into park, the headlights illuminating the trees and empty road around you. 

“What are you doing?” you ask. 

“There’s nothing on the map for another ten or fifteen miles,” he nods toward the GPS between you. “Just go here.” 

“Outside?” 

He raises a brow. “You’ve never done that before?” 

“I have, but only like—once or twice on a camping trip when I was a kid,” you admit, wiping a clammy palm on your pants. “Usually I’m very punctual about my bathroom habits, thank you very much.” 

“I’m aware,” Bucky says dryly, tossing you a tired smile. “C’mon. We’ll be quick.” 

His seatbelt clicks open. You freeze where you’re tentatively reaching for yours. 

“We?” 

Bucky blinks at you, undeterred. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, it’s dark, in a city we’ve never been through before,” he lists placidly. “You’re not goin’ alone. Sorry, sweetheart.” 

It’s a stalemate for a moment, but it’s a fight you’re too tired and too uncomfortable to try to win. Blowing out a breath, you click your own seatbelt free and rock forward in the seat, wincing a little at the sharp pull of how full you feel. 

“Ugh. Fine. Just—don’t listen,” you tell him over your shoulder. 

“If I don’t listen, I have to watch.” 

You pause, glancing at him. “Oh, what. That’s the rules?” 

“Somethin’s gotta be on you,” he shrugs. “My eyes or my ears. Take your pick.” 

If it didn’t put more pressure on your aching bladder, you would sigh even harder. 

“Ears,” you mutter decisively. His silence betrays that he’d already predicted as much. 

His door opens and closes behind you as you shift to the side, pulling the handle and swinging it open with your foot. The night air is cold and you shiver at the abrupt change from the car heater to the chill outside, momentarily distracted until you try to move again. 

You’re hyper aware of everything; the temperature, the muscles you have to use to stand up, the handful of inches Bucky’s truck is raised off the gravel that typically aren’t even noticeable as you hover a foot and carefully step down with Bucky’s help. 

His hands skim the sides of your waist when you’re on flat feet again, and you dig your nails into his forearms when he tries to move away from you, the pull in your lower stomach suddenly blinding. 

You’re horrified to find your underwear slightly wet in the center when you move your thighs. 

“Good?” Bucky checks, eyeing the cut of your teeth into your lower lip as you furrow a brow. 

“Just​​—don’t move for a second,” you manage. “Waited too long. Can’t move.” 

You could, technically, but it’d mean a very high likelihood of you humiliating yourself right here in front of the first boyfriend that’s ever successfully made it past the meet-the-parents stage without running for the hills. 

You’d really rather just play it safe. 

“Sweetheart,” he sympathizes with a frown, careful not to shift his hands as he leans down to brush his lips against the top of your head. “Wish you woulda said something. We could’ve stopped sooner.” 

 You grit your teeth, squeezing your eyes—and thighs—closed tightly as the burn of the feeling passes and lets you start to take in a breath again, muscles quivering. 

“Thought I could make it,” you confess sheepishly. 

Having noticed you relaxing slightly, Bucky moves a hand up to your face. “S’okay. You can tell me I was right. I won’t hold it against you.” 

With a scoff that’s mostly just air, you shove at his arm. “Go over there.” 

Backing away several feet, Bucky stands up by the front of the truck, leaving the passenger side door open between you for privacy. You step a little further in the opposite direction, eyeing the dark outline of the forest spanning out in front of you warily. 

“What if an animal sees?” you whisper. 

“Pretty sure you’re usin’ their bathroom,” Bucky drawls. “They probably won’t think it’s weird.” 

You bite back the attitude you’d like to give him and thumb at the band of your sweatpants, dragging them hesitantly down the curve of your hip with your underwear. “I meant what if something hears and—like, attacks me or something.” 

“I would attack it first,” he says simply. 

With a pointed exhale, you toe away some of the leaves underneath you. “Just. Turn around.” 

“I can’t see you.” 

“Turn.” 

Through the tinted glass window on the open car door, you just barely see him toss up a salute before he spins, hip resting against the hood, arms crossed over his chest. 

With as much privacy as you’re apparently going to get, you cast one more glance out at the nature and then drop into a careful squat, clutching your sweatpants at your knees. It’s almost immediately more uncomfortable than you’d already been. 

The cold air rushes in to remind you how exposed you are now, your full bladder pushes up harshly against your thighs, and after so many hours in the car, your muscles are hardly excited about being folded up and forced to hover like this for any longer than a few seconds without a proper stretch. 

You take in a big breath anyway, more than ready to get this over with and get back in the warmth of the car and head home. Maybe by morning you’ll forget this even happened. 

Except—you try to let go, and nothing happens. 

You wait several moments, thinking maybe it’s just that your body recognizes you aren’t in a bathroom and needs a second to adjust. But a minute passes, then nearly two, heat gathering in your face the longer there’s only silence. 

Bucky’s throat clears. “...Everything goin’ okay?” 

Your chin drops to your chest, words dangerously close to a whine. “I can’t go.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because you’re listening,” you complain. “I’m not used to doing this with an audience.” 

“I’ve heard you pee after sex,” he says. 

“That’s not the same thing.” 

He makes an unconvinced noise. “How so?” 

“Because it just—isn’t, Bucky,” you breathe exasperatedly. “Can you just, like—I don’t know. Hum, or something?” 

“Hum what?” 

“Bucky.” 

With a thoughtful shuffle of his feet, you hear the beginnings of an old song Bucky’s played you before. It’s raspy and just a little off key in a way that would make you unbearably fond if not for everything else happening at the moment. 

You close your eyes, willing your body to cooperate. The further Bucky gets through the song the more desperate you are, a dull burn signaling that you still have to go but something stubbornly holding you back. Even the stage fright you get sometimes in public restrooms has never been this bad. 

The song finishes with a last croak of a note, and Bucky lets it linger until he runs out of breath altogether. The silence afterward stings. Then—

“Well. That didn’t work.” 

“Oh my God,” you groan. “This is mortifying. I can’t wait another two hours, Bucky, I can’t. It hurts.” 

“Hey. You’re fine,” he’s quick to soothe, sincerity slipping in to replace the teasing. “We’re not in a rush to get home. Just take your time.” 

Except that you would sort of like to get home quickly now. It’s been a short trip but it felt longer than it was, always does around family, no matter how much better it was with Bucky there. You’re just exhausted enough to feel a knot forming in the back of your throat, sniffing not-so-subtly when Bucky offers up another suggestion. 

“You wanna talk about something?” 

You worry your lip. “Um. Maybe, yeah.” 

His voice drifts toward you from the front of the truck, low and comforting and disarming, but apparently not enough to get your body to get with the program. Fed up and impatient, you ease in a breath and slowly try to push, but all it does is make the ache worse and draw your attention to the way the muscles in your legs are growing tired of holding you in this position, knuckles losing color with how hard you’re gripping your sweatpants with sticky palms. 

When not even the pushing works, you sniff and go to stand, but your voice wobbles when you call out. 

“Let’s just get back in the truck.” 

“Hey,” Bucky says instantly when he realizes, his mid-story train of thought disappearing as he switches gears, softening. “Hey—it’s just us here. You’re all good. Just relax.” 

At the reminder of what you can’t do, your sinuses burn, blinking rapidly as your vision blurs where you’re staring at the leaves in front of you. 

When you don’t answer, Bucky warns, “I’m coming back there.” 

You’ve only just yanked the sweatpants back up enough to fall onto your ass on the pavement when he makes it around the passenger door, closing it so he can get to you quicker. With a defeated, shaky breath and a wobbling lip, you look up at him as he crouches in front of you. 

“You’re okay,” he says again, lines in his forehead as he swipes at the wetness under your eyes. “Don’t got anything to cry about, sweetheart. You really are tired, huh?” 

You nod, untrusting of your voice. Bucky’s hands feel nice at least, warm and big and a little like he could just take the pain from you by touching you alone if he tried. 

He can’t though, not for this, but he does take a cursory glance around you, considering. 

“...There is one time you always use the bathroom.” 

You blink your eyes open, trying not to glare. “I already missed the rest stop, Buck.”  

His mouth twists. “I was gonna say after sex.” 

Your brows draw inward, your frown caught between his stroking thumbs on your cheeks. You blink. 

“You’re proposing we have sex?” you verify, glancing around you. “Here? Now?” 

“Your body’s already used to that. I don’t have to lay y’out right here and fuck you for all the forest to hear, but,” he reasons, lifting a practical shoulder, “maybe if I get y’off first, it’d be easier to let go.” 

Slow tears drying on your lashline, you stare at him, waiting for him to laugh or tell you he’s joking. But he doesn’t, and your midsection feels so uncomfortably tight and you’re so exasperated that nothing at all would seem that far fetched anymore. 

If there’s anyone at all you’d do this with, you’re glad it’s Bucky. 

“Fuck it,” you relent. “Let’s try it.” 

There’s some shuffling as you try to find a position, grimacing as Bucky helps you back up into a squat again. He kneels behind you, tucked between your body and the truck on his knees, and then gently folds you up with him until your knees are pillowed by the legs of your sweatpants on either side, shoved backward in the middle so there’s a free area just in case. 

You layer your arms on top of his, grateful to have the heat and solidity to lean into at your back and underneath your fingers. Your upper body relaxes almost immediately. Your lower half, not so much. 

Bucky rubs lightly at your hips for a second, lips grazing the back of your neck and your shoulder as his touch inches closer toward your center. The press of his mouth is distracting until his thumb swipes over your lower stomach a bit too harshly, and you accidentally moan when it makes that sharp ache inside you turn sweet for just a moment. 

It’s gone as soon as it was there, uncomfortable pressure between your hips as your moan turns into a whine. 

“Shh,” Bucky encourages, meeting no resistance when his hand dips below your waistline and two digits stroke idly across your clit. “Relax. Let me take care of you.” 

You shudder when the touch gets a little more intentional, dipping lower to gather up some of the natural wetness that’s accumulated at the entrance of your cunt throughout the long car ride. He returns to your clit with enough slick to make it nice and easy, two roughened fingertips being achingly gentle as they rub slow circles over your nerves. 

Your cunt spasms as if unsure what to do with the new input of pleasure, halfway aching to be filled and halfway still aching to let go. You can’t stop bearing down as Bucky speeds up, your bitten off noises growing longer, drawn out and desperate in a way that you aren’t used to hearing yourself. 

In a way you hadn’t expected, the fullness in your bladder almost compliments the sweet rush of having your cunt played with, heightening the heat in your belly and making even the smallest twitches in Bucky’s movements feel intense. Your thighs try to twitch together around it all, having to remind yourself to keep them open. 

“That’s it,” Bucky murmurs, smearing a kiss against your cheek as he hooks his chin over your shoulder, looking down the front of your body. One hand grips high on your hip while the other disappears between your legs, wrist flexing. “Just nature takin’ it’s course, huh?” 

You don’t even have the extra focus to give to his lewd prodding, no typical comeback on the tip of your tongue. You feel almost dizzy with the way all your nerves are lit up simultaneously, and that’s before his fingers dip lower to slip inside of you. 

“Fuck,” you murmur, soft and sweet and in direct contrast to the intensity of heat that seems to coil tighter in your core. Your head falls back onto his shoulder as his digits stretch up and in, stroking you like a wave from the inside, budging up against something that feels deliciously swollen. 

“Tell me how it feels,” he breathes hot against your cheek, grip twitching on your waist. 

“Full,” you moan, wincing when a buck of your hips makes the pain come back momentarily before it’s swallowed up by pleasure again. “I’m—everything feels so stretched out.” 

It’s too honest to be dirty talk, something you’d be embarrassed about if you weren’t so overwhelmed and distracted. But Bucky takes it in stride, never letting you run too far. 

“Yeah? Full in here?” he asks, dragging his fingers in a circular grind inside of you before pulling them out, only to jab them back in right up against that sharp-sweet spot. You whimper. 

His other hand, which had been inconspicuously still until now, abruptly makes a slow descent around your hip until his fingers rest over the slight bulge in your lower stomach, hard and visibly distended underneath your shirt with need. 

He yanks the material up and touches skin to skin, then presses. 

“What about here? S’this full too, sweetheart?” 

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, jerking in his grip. 

He shushes you again, keeping you in place by design; if you move too much it only serves to press his hand harder against your bladder, only makes his fingers curve up into you in a way that makes you worry you’ll lose control it feels so good. 

When you curl forward in some pointless attempt to contain the intensity of it, Bucky moves with you, curling over your back like a parentheses. He keeps doing all the things he knows drive you crazy, two flat fingers jabbing straight into that spongy, sensitive spot buried inside your cunt, his palm slapping against your clit, taking the lobe of your ear between his teeth while he spills filthy praises from his tongue. 

His hand rubs at your hips and your belly the entire time with increasing pressure, your mouth wrenched open and eyes watering as the sound of your wetness—you aren’t even sure you could tell which kind anymore—echoes around the empty roadway and against the trees. 

The heat coils even tighter, your noises rising in pitch and thighs shaking as he works you over without letting you get away. The feeling ebbs, narrows, expands, making you unsure of exactly which peak you’re approaching—only that you are approaching one, and fast. 

It becomes clear moments before it happens, your eyes snapping open wide as you tug fruitlessly at his wrist. 

“Move your hand,” you gasp out. “Bucky, you should—I’m not gonna—” you cut yourself off with a whimper, your bladder already giving way, a different wetness dripping down your thigh. “I can’t hold it.” 

Right up against your ear, he growls out, “So don’t.” 

Your eyes roll back, muscles convulsing but body wracked still as part of the tension in you finally breaks. 

It almost feels better than an orgasm. You think you wheeze, positive your mouth makes the shape of Bucky’s name through the haze of white hot release that rolls through you. It isn’t even until several pleasure filled seconds later that the rest of the sensations begin to register—the soft, distant hiss of noise beneath you on the pavement, the warmth coating the insides of your thighs, Bucky’s insistent voice talking you through it, both hands, even the one in between your legs, still working you over lazily as it happens. 

His fingers have slipped out of you at least, slipping back up to rub your clit with the flats of all his digits. You could already hear it before but the sound of how slick everything is now is obscene, his grip consistently slipping off of you before he stubbornly returns again and again. 

It takes a minute for things to slow, your body eagerly expelling everything it’s been holding onto for hours. His hand makes things even messier, getting in the way, making what would’ve been a nice and clean release get all over your cunt, your thighs, and the clothes underneath you instead. He doesn’t seem to mind. 

In fact, you’re pretty sure he’s doing it on purpose. 

“Okay, that’s—that’s good, I’m—fuck,” you tell him, pushing weakly at his wrist as the last of your bladder empties against his fingers. 

“You’re close,” he rasps, voice nearly unrecognizable in your ear. He rubs you faster. “Can tell. Pissin’ all over my hand got you hot, sweetheart? Had no idea my girl was so filthy.” 

With a graze of his teeth against your shoulder his fingers slip down and inside of you again, wasting no time in fucking you on them exactly how he knows will get you there. 

You turn your head, brain still running a little behind as your body tries to loop from one release into another different one, but Bucky swoops down to press his mouth to yours before you can say anything, burying a needy, rumbling noise against your tongue. 

“Fuck, sweetheart. You’re so wet,” he curses when he pulls back. “Don’t think I can wait.” 

“Wait for—oh,” your breath leaves you abruptly when his fingers slip out and the grip around your waist brings you up with him, carrying your weight with one arm as he stands and throws open the back door of the truck above you with a sharp yank to the handle. 

It’s a little tall for you but just the right height for Bucky, putting his hips level with yours when he lays you down flat against the backseat. He shoves his denim-covered bulge up against your dripping cunt with a few indulgent thrusts, wetting the material until it darkens in the slim glow from outside, then curses to himself as he steps back to pop the button and yank them down to expose his cock. 

He strokes himself a few times with the hand stained in your wetness, then groans as he steps forward to grab you by the thighs and yank you forward until your ass is hanging off the backseats. You whimper when he drags the head of his dick across your cunt, tapping it against your sensitive clit a few times before teasing your entrance. 

“Wanna fuck you, baby. Can I?” he asks, breathing heavy and pupils blown. “Y’let me make this pussy drip with me too?” 

“Yeah,” you nod, half delirious as you grip the edges of the seat and push down against him with wriggling hips. “Yeah, please.” 

“Shh, gotta be quiet. Be a good girl, honey. That’s it.”

He rubs himself through your folds again, seemingly enjoying the wet, sticky heat against the head of his cock before pushing it low enough to press inside. He’s just as hot and thick as he usually is but you can tell his control is a little frayed, seemingly just as surprised to be getting off on all of this as you are. 

You both sigh once his hips are flush to yours, having held your breath through the whole descent. He presses a hand to your hip when you shift around on him, gasping at the way his shallow thrusts rub up against all of the still-sensitive, twitching muscles cradling his cock. 

“Listen to that wet fuckin’ cunt,” he grunts, watching himself fuck you while his thumb swipes over your clit. “Sure you got it all out? Think I can feel it on my thighs, sweetheart.” Dark eyes flick up to yours. “Maybe we should check, huh?” 

Lifting one of your legs straight up his body, thigh pressed against his torso and foot somewhere over his shoulder, Bucky grips the inside of your other knee and presses it up and out, bending you open. Then, with one palm braced on the leather beside your waist, he leans forward until the leg in the air folds toward your chest, calf burning as his cock sinks inside of you even deeper. 

And then his free palm finds your stomach again. 

You moan loudly, tossing a hand up to your mouth to bite at the backs of your knuckles at the last second when he begins fucking you in earnest. The pressure on your recently emptied lower stomach makes you hyper aware of him inside of you, the pressure of his palm lighting up all the same nerves. 

“That’s it. That’s the spot,” he purrs, turning to drag his lips across the damp inside of your leg. He huffs out a breathy laugh. “Fuck, honey, you’re shakin’.” 

“Feels—full. More than usual,” you murmur. You can hardly focus on him when your eyes keep rolling backward, even the vague shine of passing headlights from the opposite side of the road lost to you now as you watch them on the roof of the truck while your body bounces with his thrusts until he drags you back. “S’Sensitive.” 

“Mm, I know. Can feel you twitchin’ around me. Gotta replenish all those fluids, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you nod eagerly, reaching for him. “Fill me up. Please, Buck, c’mon—” 

“Shit,” he hisses, grip tightening on you as he fucks you even harder. 

Your tired muscles clamp down uncontrollably around him, confused by the onslaught of sensation as your body tries to decide between two separate functions. But even with his palm pressing down your bladder is already spent, your focus pulled solely toward your orgasm now. 

It builds rapidly, that sweet-sharp prick of pleasure driving you higher and higher. Bucky’s hand by your waist readjusts to catch yours and tangle your fingers together, pressing them into the leather by your head. You’ve never really had bad sex with Bucky before but this is something different, you unable to stop trembling and Bucky seeming drunk, nearly crazed by every reminder of the mess between your thighs. 

Dragging his fingers from your stomach, he reaches up to grab the back of your neck, folding your body up further so he can shove your mouths together. There’s nowhere left to run from the tension in your core, especially not with rough hair and hard planes of his pelvis grinding up against your clit, his cock buried unbearably deep, his mouth claiming yours like he’s starved for it. 

He presses his forehead to yours, hooded eyes inescapable. “Let go f’me again, baby, c’mon. Lemme see you.” 

Your lip is caught between his teeth as your mouth falls open, that bittersweet balance of too much and just enough toppling as you sink into an orgasm that makes you feel warm all over, spreading out from the inside. 

His hand cradles your neck when it falls backward, curses buried against your jaw as Bucky fucks you through your orgasm and right into his own. You’re still shaking when you feel him twitch inside of you, almost imperceptible from your own quivering muscles until a new kind of warmth begins filling you up. 

“F-fuck,” you whimper, your legs falling out of position to wrap around his hips as he bucks through it, weight splayed out over your chest, your arms trembling as they curve up around his shoulders. 

He groans low in response, smearing lazy, wet kisses up the side of your jaw and over your chin until he reaches your mouth. His tongue fucks inside at the same pace as his softening cock, both your lips and your cunt clinging to him like you might shake apart if he let go. 

With one last smack of his lips against yours he pushes up a little, catching his breath as his hips finally still. His temple brushes yours as he glances down in between your bodies, and you both watch as his fingers drift slow and instinctive toward the apex of your thighs. 

Gently rocking his come back into you where it’s started spilling out, he drags two fingertips up the inside of your sticky thigh, inward to dance around your clit and inside your folds around his cock. 

And then he lifts the damp digits to his mouth, eyes falling shut as he tastes you. 

“Fuck, that’s sweet,” he mutters. 

“Bucky!” 

His gaze settles on you, coy. “What? Y’wanna try?” 

He reaches down again, swipes another touch through the mess, catching a little of his own come on the tips of his fingers too this time. You can’t help but moan when he sticks them confidently onto your tongue, your nose wrinkling at the heady mix of flavors while you suck like he wants you to. 

Moving them gently in and out, he watches heatedly, flashing his teeth at you as he lowers to kiss the edge of your stretched, swollen mouth. 

“Good girl,” he rasps. His fingers slip out with a wet slide, dragging over your face to grip you by the chin as his eyes flick between yours. “Think you can gimme one more before we hit the road?” 

He moves back, pulling out of you to watch his come drip out of your cunt where your ass hangs off the side of the seats. Then, palms pressed to the insides of your knees, he spreads them as far as the door will allow and bends to spear messy kisses with his tongue up the inside of your thigh, moaning at the taste. 

You make a noise, starting to push up on your elbows. “You’re seriously going to​​—?” 

Bucky’s yes is buried somewhere in between your legs, and your back meets the leather again with a shout of approval of your own.

ride me, rudolph!

bucky x reader

⤷ your best friend, bucky, offers to drive you to see the glistening christmas lights in the next town—but when a deer jumps in front of the car and you accidentally smear red lipstick on your nose, he takes full advantage of the hilariously ironic situation.

elf on his shelf

grumpy bucky x elf reader

⤷ you're a scout elf sent by santa to monitor a grumpy man. one thing leads to another and the temptation between you gets hard to ignore. one problem, a touch from a human and you risk losing all your magic... but claus, it's almost impossible to resist.

frosty fingers

post thunderbolts bucky x reader

⤷ stranded in a safehouse during a mission due to a snow storm, the juxtaposition of his icy metal arm and his heated intent leaves you shivering and quivering.

mistle-blow

jock bucky x reader

⤷ a nervous jock comes to you for advice and in need of a lesson during a christmas party—after a confession, you find out he's a virgin. suddenly, the mistletoe isn't just decorative, and teaching him a lesson becomes deliciously imperative. (heavily inspired by @opheliabbarnes what friends are for)

naughty or nice?

dom bucky x brat reader

⤷ after a year of mischief, he finally reveals the list he's been keeping on your behavior—and the punishments turn out to be far more indulgent and pleasurable than you imagined.

snow angel

post tfatws bucky x reader

⤷ your blind date is unexpectedly enchanting. when you dare him to make a snow angel, he accepts the challenge with fervor—and leaves your winter night with snow in your angel.

unwrap me!

college bucky x reader

⤷ what begins as a playful college holiday gift exchange descends into teasing, ribbons, and lingerie, proving that the present isn't beneath the tree-it's you, wrapped in anticipation and delight.

buy me presents

sugar daddy bucky x reader

⤷ inspired by sabrina carpenter's "buy me presents" — you have been feeling neglected and undesired for the past couple months due to your sugar daddy being called in for "work" multiple times a day—in solution, you offered a festive ultimatum: "buy me presents 'cause i have options."

jingle balls

enemy bucky x reader

⤷ you were thrilled to host this year's holiday party for the office. until your co-host falls sick and your least favorite person, bucky barnes, has to step in. a very naughty kind of collaboration ensue backstage.

silent night

congressman bucky x pop-star reader

⤷ an awfully unpredictable pairing: a congressman and a pop-star yet in the midst of a glamorous gala, a secret romance unfolds behind the glittering lights, full of hidden desire.

white christmas

domestic bucky x reader

⤷ inspired by bong crosby's "white christmas" —your boyfriend, bucky barnes, adores 1940s music for its nostalgia. when you gift him a vinyl, he returns the favor in the most literal way possible—white snow, white sheets, white strings of release.

© dolcesaints ✮ ‘25 all rights reserved.

⊹༘. ✦ . / general taglist . ! @wint3rbarnes @swimmingnightcolor @literallyjustuhgirl @wifeofbarnes @evvilgf @buckybunni @colettebarnes @slutdier @kkwanvince @soupiemeowmeow @thewinterswift @cherie-fawn @starstruck-cowgirl @yourmomoclockit @daddysbitchybaby @jamesbarnesrealwife @lewatinria @darlingdenise @chipotleburritobowl

+ add yourself to the taglist!

⟡˙˖ ıl. from elovie. most of these are still in the early stages, so please don’t expect weekly updates. i’ll release each fic as soon as it’s finished. one thing’s certain, though—all twelve fics will be out before december ends! <3

You were sweeping the lower lab levels when the comms crackled.“Oh wow, this stuff is so old.”

You groaned. “That sounded like the voice of a man about to do something stupid. Joaquin, do not—” And then you heard Bucky choke, cough, and groan like he was about to twist Joaquin's neck like an old farmer would do to a chicken before dinner.

You jogged around the corner, footsteps echoing in the old no-so-sterile halls, and met up with both of them bumping straight into Bucky's chest in the process, making him grunt at the impact.

"Oh, hi." You smiled at him like you always did: sweetly, kindly, like you weren't trying to hide the fact that you'd rearrange the tiles on every subway station in New York if he asked you to. "You guys okay?"

Joaquin shrugged and nodded, "Just got some old school glitter all over grandpa." 

Bucky gave you a breathy "yeah, all good." before all of you nodded your heads in agreement and moved along.

You got to another wing of the old base, and the three of you got stopped by a heavy reinforced door preventing you from moving further into the hallway. “You gotta be kidding me,” Joaquin sighed, smacking the reader with the heel of his palm.

You leaned in to inspect it, raising a brow. “Looks like the power line’s fried in this section. We’ll have to backtrack through—” You didn’t finish, because Bucky swayed out of the corner of your eye.

Not dramatically, not theatrically, just enough that your hand shot out, instinctively catching his elbow. “Woah, hey,” you blinked up at him. “You good?” He didn’t answer.

His jaw flexed, teeth grinding. His breath came sharp, deeper, as if the air had suddenly gotten heavier around him. His pupils were… wide. Obscenely, almost. Swallowing the blue.

Joaquin noticed too. “…Uh. Sarge?”

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. Once. Twice. Like he was trying to blink something back into order.

“I said I’m fine,” he rasped, voice low and not fine at all. But his shoulders trembled, he felt the fabric of his shirt start to cling to him like he’d just stepped out of a sauna, the collar of the tac vest becoming chafy and uncomfortable.

You felt heat radiating off him—like his skin was cooking under the surface. Bucky inhaled sharply, not a normal breath, a slow, wrecking, deep inhale, eyes closing as he tumbled back, bracing himself on the wall.

“…Buck?” Your voice came out softer this time. You could see the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and the way his eyes were having a hard time focusing. His head lolled from side to side against the cold steel wall until you steadied his face to look at you. "Hey, talk to me."

"I feel—" He couldn't get words to come out, the throughts were there but his tongue felt heavy, like it wanted to give away secrets his brain hadn't allowed it to."I think I'm sick." And God, the way that you took a glove off and put the back of your hand to his forehead just barely helped relieve the heat his body was producing. 

Heat that went up a degree or two when you touched your cheek to his forehead, and he inhaled the sweet scent of your skin. Nothing perfume-like, or lotion, just… you, right at the space where your neck met your shoulder, like the smell of you had hooked him by the throat and reeled him in.

"You're burning up." He felt a whine bubble in his throat when you pulled away to talk to Joaquin. "What exactly was in that lab?"

“…Okay. So remember that old glitter? Could’ve been, uh—bio-aerosol? Or something from that weird Cold War pheromone vault section?” It was almost cartoonish the way Joaquin's face formed into a wince. A very "we're so fucked and he's gonna kill me" wince. 

You stared. “You mean sex pollen.”

“…I did not want to be the guy to say that out loud.” Both of you turned your heads to the sound behind you, not quite a growl, or a moan, but something animal and hurt.

"Okay, how long do we have?" Your mind was going a mile a minute. "Is he gonna die before we get back?" You walked back to crouch in front of Bucky, looking for his eyes with yours. “Hey,” you murmured, guiding his gaze back to you, “look at me.”

His breathing stuttered. “You shouldn’t—” he croaked, voice shredded raw. “I don’t—this isn’t—”

“I know,” you whispered. "Can you hang on until we get to the jet? Bruce and Tony must have something that can help." All you got back was a nod.

After talking the long way out, you managed to get back to the team, Steve's face like a worried mother hen when he saw the three of you, Bucky insisting on walking on his own, telling Joaquin to stand between the two of you. 

Steve jogged down immediately. “What the hell happened?”

Bucky jerked back like Steve reaching for him was a knife being drawn. “Don’t,” he bit out—voice shredded, almost unrecognizable.

“Why do you look like you’re about to pounce on something?”

Steve pulled his hand back, palms up, tone softening instantly. “Okay. Okay. Not touching you. Just talk to me.” Joaquin stepped forward like he was testifying in court.

“So—fun story—turns out Cold War Russia kept, um… let’s call it biologically weaponized pheromone particulate in some of the older R&D labs and—”

Sam blinked, looked directly at Bucky, then you, then right back to Joaquin when he almost couldn't contain his laughter. “So he just inhaled airborne horny juice.”

Steve’s face did every emotion at once. Concern. Fear. Confusion. A level of Catholic repression so strong it could’ve powered a city. While Sam just exhaled through his nose like someone who was seconds away from clocking out of reality.

Your body went still.

"I just— I need to lie down, and—" You reached out to help him onto the jet, but his hand shot our making you jump back. "Don't—" He sighed, trying to level his voice. "Just stay away from me."

You'd be lying if you said that didn't hurt a little. Like having the guy you've been pining over for the past two years tell you to buzz off didn't sting like lemon and rock salt on an open wound. 

Okay, it hurt a lot. 

It was visible the way that you retreated back into yourself, like it would protect you somehow. "Copy that." 

Steve’s jaw ticked, Sam looked down like he suddenly found the floor very, very interesting, Joaquin winced like he’d just watched someone get smacked with a folding chair.

“Wait—” His voice cracked, caught in his throat. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly. Too quickly. The verbal equivalent of throwing a sheet over a shattered glass and calling it clean. “We need to get you stabilized. That’s all that matters.”

“No. Don’t—don’t do that.”

You swallowed. “Do what?”

“That.” His eyes held yours, unsteady, and almost pleading. “That look. Like I pushed you into traffic.”

Steve took one step forward, voice gentle. “Buck, she’s just giving you space—”

“I don’t want space,” Bucky snapped. "I want—" Another wave of whatever the compound was hit him, and he doubled over in pain. Steve helped brace him and held a hand out to stop you when you instinctively stepped forward to help. 

“Let’s get him on the cot,” Steve murmured to Sam and Joaquin, gentle, smooth, easing into triage leadership. 

Sam mumbled to Steve on the way there. “We gotta get him to the medbay before his bloodstream goes full Discovery Channel.”

The flight home was torture in slow motion.

Bucky sat hunched forward on the med-cot, elbows braced against his knees, hands fisting and unfisting like he was holding on to the last thread of himself. Every breath shook. Every exhale came rough, uneven, punched through clenched teeth. The fever didn’t just burn—it crawled. Beneath his skin, along his spine, curling up behind his ribs like it was trying to get out. And every time the jet hit the slightest patch of turbulence, every sway of the cabin, every shift in yourbreathing—he reacted. His head would lift like he was tracking you by sound alone, pupils blown wide, like you were the only oxygen in the room.

And you—God—you sat across the jet from him, arms wrapped around yourself like that could hold you steady, eyes tracing the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but him. Because looking at him meant seeing the raw need he was fighting to keep contained. It meant seeing him hurt.

After briefing Tony and Bruce, and getting a “That man inhaled weaponized lust dust?” said over a pair of glasses and raised brows, Tony locked Bucky in a super soldier-proof room with bulletproof glass windows and an amazing vitals monitoring system. But if you asked for Bucky's opinion, the quarantine quarters were sterile in an unsettling way. 

The lights were too bright, the sheets were chafy and uncomfortable against his skin, and everything was too white and clean. He managed to sweat through a shirt already, pacing around like a cautionary tale, and was on his way to doing so a second time. Not even the AC was able to help cool him off. 

His eyes kept flicking—to the glass. To you, every few seconds, like his body knew exactly where you were even when he forced himself to look away.

Bruce was scrolling through old SHIELD and Hydra files on a tablet, voice low, clinical, steady.

“The compound works by hijacking limbic and hypothalamic pathways,” he murmured. “Drives instinctual bonding and reproductive compulsion. Increases cortisol and dopamine at unsafe levels. If we don’t neutralize it, he could go into cardiac stress within the next 12 to 24 hours.”

Your stomach dropped.

Tony glanced over. “But hey, great news. He won’t die from horny. Probably. Unless he, you know—” he mimed an explosion near his chest. “Pops like an over-microwaved hot dog.”

Steve glared. “Tony.”

“What? Humor is how I cope with things trying to kill us. Or in this case, trying to rail someone into a medically concerning state.”

“He’s getting worse,” you whispered. “His breathing’s all over the place. The pacing isn’t helping anymore. We can’t just let him ride this out.”

Steve scrubbed a hand down his face. “Bruce is working as fast as he can—”

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” Bucky's voice snapped through the intercom, ragged and pained, and incredibly frustrated. 

The room froze for a second. Steve flinched just slightly—guilt flashing across his face, Bruce and Tony looked up, and Sam turned around from where he was, back facing the windows Bucky was now bracing his hand on. 

And Bucky—

Bucky had turned around, from his pacing back and forth, and settled in front of the glass walls. His chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths. His jaw was set, eyes blown wide and dark, and sweat made his shirt cling to him like a second skin.

What stopped you dead in your tracks wasn't that, though. It wasn't his shirt starting to get soaked through, it wasn't his forehead shiny with sweat, it was the fact that the sweats he changed into did absolutely nothing to hide the state he was in. 

You hadn't meant to look, but like the moon pulls the tide, your gaze found the almost offensive tent he was pitching in his pants. Long, heavy, solid, straining against fabric that was doing absolutely zero work as a barrier—just pressed up the left side, the outline unmistakable.

Your pulse thundered behind your ribs like your heart wanted to sprint out of your chest and run to him. Steve—poor, earnest, helpful Steve—instantly jerked his head away like he’d just accidentally opened a stranger’s bathroom door.

“Oh my God,” Steve muttered, eyes locked firmly on the ceiling tiles. “Yep. Okay. Yep. We’ve reached that stage. Great.”

Sam spoke, turning back around, voice flat and so exhausted it could have been legally declared a sigh. “Yeah, I’m not making eye contact with any of that. I’m barely managing my own dignity today.”

Tony lifted his coffee mug like a toast to misery. “We’re all fighting for our lives right now, Wilson.”

Joaquin muttered something that sounded like holy mother of thirst traps, and immediately shut his mouth when Sam elbowed him.

He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated and burning and so far past okay he had lapped the field. “This is ridiculous,” he snapped, voice hoarse. “There’s no reason for me to be locked up like some—some feral animal. I said I’m fine.”

“Bucky,” you murmured, tone unimpressed. “Your heart rate is at one-seventy and you are five minutes away from humping the corner of the room.”

“I’m fine.” He snarled the word like it personally insulted him.

He turned again—another pacing lap, another moving target distracting you from the actual problem. Or making you focus on it, depends who you ask. 

Swing. Swing.

Your eyes followed it like it had its own orbit. With every step he took, his breathing got worse, and his cock bobbed and swung with the movement. Did they even bother to get him a pair of boxers? For god's sake. 

You tried to look away and failed. Spectacularly. 

Bucky stopped mid-step when he noticed. Tilted his head once he followed your gaze, and then slowly focused his back on you, like he was studying you. The same way a jaguar tilts its head before crushing a prey's skull between its teeth. So slow, you felt it in your knees. 

He wiped his face with the hem of his shirt—lifting it—exposing the deep, carved lines of muscle, the stretch of his abdomen, the line of hair disappearing down—

You nearly whimpered.

“Yeah,” he rasped, voice shredded, “now imagine what it feels like." Oh, you did. "Inside my skin. Constant. Pressure. Heat. And I can’t fucking touch anything because the second I do—” The thing is, Bucky didn't know every word out of his mouth at any given moment would, in fact, find its way to burrow under your skin. 

Each word from his mouth meant another step towards the glass that was separating you both. 

And against your better judgement, you had imagined it. You've imagined your hands wrapped around it, you've imagined the weight of it on your tongue, you've imagined it so far in the back of your throat that—

"Stop breathing like that—I can hear it.”

Your breath caught, like a well trained animal obeying its master. "I'm not breathing in any different way."

"I can smell you too." And that made your brain short circuit. "It's sweet, and—" He groaned, letting his head fall forward. "Fuck, you smell—" Not even Stevie Wonder could've missed the drool that was pooling on his bottom lip and falling onto the floor. 

“Wanna taste it. Lick you open right here on the floor. Tongue-fuck your pussy until you can’t remember your own name.”

When he lifted his head again, it felt like the entire world narrowed to just you two. With thick super soldier proof glass in between. 

His breath fogged the glass at the same time his eyes narrowed at yours, looking for a sign that he was affecting you as much as you were affecting him. “You’ve thought about it.” Damn him, James Barnes and his ability to read you like a book written in a language only he could speak. “Oh, sweetheart.”

It's almost like he could hear your thighs clenching together. “You smell like you’re already wet—fuck.” Definitely not what you wanted him to announce over intercom to the entire team, but the blush creeping up your neck really didn't allow you to focus on anything other than the image in front of you. 

Bucky Barnes, in a heathered grey shirt that he was sweating through, with a sinfully thin pair of sweatpants that could be an HR violation if anyone didn't know the contect of why anyone in the room with eyes could tell that was a perfect outline of his hard cock swinging around like it owned the place. 

With previous icy blue eyes that were now blown black with lust, looking at you like you were the next meal of a very starving beast. A beast that was frothing at the mouth at the though of the taste of you. 

“You smell warm,” he murmured. “Like your skin would taste soft.” He continued, like taunting you was making anything better and not just riling both of you even more. “And you’re trying so fucking hard not to move,” he said, voice breaking into a whisper. “Not to come closer.”

"You're not exactly making it easy."

Another wave hit him and he winced. "I can't think with you here." He swallowed hard. "All I see when you're near is just your back hitting plaster and your legs around my hips.”

His breathing fractured—like something inside him had finally tipped past reason into pure, raw instinct. “I wish this glass wasn’t here,” he said, teeth gritted like the words hurt. “I’d have you on your knees already… drooling around my cock.”

The air left your lungs. The more he talked the more it felt like one of those moments in the late summer into fall, where the pool is too cold and you jump in anyway. The moment where your lungs feel too small and the atmosphere feels too much and all you can really do is hyperventilate and try to breathe the shock away. 

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he said, like he was discovering something and confirming it all in the same breath. His tongue dragged over his bottom lip without him thinking—messy, desperate. “You’d open your pretty mouth and take me all the way down just to make me stop begging.”

“You’d look up at me while you did it,” he murmured, fever-slow, obscene in how sure he was. “Eyes wide, tears in the corners, letting me fuck your throat until you couldn’t speak.”

“Stop making me picture it.” It was barely above a whisper, really. You're not sure anyone heard it over the sound of both of you breathing as hard as you were. 

The drool slid from his lip again—slow, heavy—hanging for a moment before it fell to the floor. He didn’t notice, he couldn’t. His hips shifted—just a slight forward roll—and you bit your lower lip so hard you nearly bruised it.

Bucky's voice cracked down the middle. “Fuck—please—” His metal hand scraped against the glass, fingers curling. “I need— I need to— I need you—” He swallowed, jaw trembling, breath stuttering like holding himself together physically hurt. “Just let me wreck you,” he whispered.

He asked like your answer would ever be no. Like being that close to him without having him inside of you didn't physically hurt sometimes. Like you didn't have vivid dreams of his teeth on the bare skin of your ass and his hand wrapped around your neck like jewelry that belonged in the Louvre.

Steve stepped in between you two, ushering you away from Bucky. "That's enough." 

Bucky’s head snapped toward him, eyes blown wide and dark like storm clouds about to break “No,” he snarled, voice rough with panic instead of anger. “No—don’t—”

Bruce came forward, gentle hands on your shoulders. A doctor moving someone out of a blast radius. “Come on,” he murmured, soft. “Give him a second. His vitals are spiking—he needs distance to stabilize.”

“He doesn’t need distance,” Bucky barked, hands slamming against the glass—palms flat—every tendon in his arms standing out in painful, shaking relief. “He needs her.”

“Buck. You need to stop.” Steve kept his voice low, even. “Listen to yourself.”

Bucky’s chest was heaving—breaths quick and hot and uneven. "I'm sorry, fuck— I—" He didn’t look at Steve, didn’t look at Bruce. He didn’t look at anything except you as Bruce’s hand eased you back.

“Don’t take her away. Please. Please—” Bruce kept moving you carefully, slowly—gentle pressure between your shoulders.

You tried to go about your night. You really did.

You showered. You changed. You sat on the edge of your bed with your hair still damp, staring at the wall like it might offer you a door out of your own head. But every time you closed your eyes, you saw him—forehead pressed to the glass, voice cracking when he said please, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re falling and they already know the ground is going to hurt.

You lay back, staring blankly at the ceiling. You tried to count your breaths—steady, even, controlled. But your breathing only reminded you of his. That ragged, uneven, burning inhale that came when he was trying to keep himself from breaking.

You turned onto your side. Then your back again. Pulled the blanket up. Pushed it off. You tried to be rational. To be logical. To be the good, responsible, emotionally stable adult in this situation.

But there was something tugging at you, something far deeper and quieter than lust. Something warm and sore and impossible to ignore.

So you did what any sane (not) person would do, and snuck away from your quarters, through the corridors, and into the med bay to be alone and unsupervised with a super soldier under the influence of super soldier viagra mixed with preworkout to say the very least. 

The med bay was washed in low overnight lighting, the kind meant to soothe but doing absolutely nothing to calm the electricity tangled in the air. Bucky had been pacing for long enough that it was surprising the floor hadn't given in to the shape of his path. 

His hair clung to his temples, damp and curling where it stuck. His breath came in harsh, uneven bursts, chest rising too fast, like his lungs couldn’t catch air fast enough to match the fire under his skin.

Every few steps his metal hand flexed involuntarily, fingers clenching like he needed something—someone—to hold on to.

He didn’t see you.

He was somewhere inside the fever.

“Fuck—” he grit out, stopping long enough to brace both hands against the wall, muscles in his back rippling as he bowed his head, throat exposed to the floor like he was trying to bleed the heat out of himself.

He took another step—stumbled—caught himself on the exam table— and then something in him just broke. He dragged his hand up his chest like he was trying to tear the heat out of himself, jaw clenched so hard a vein pulsed at his temple.

Your voice came out softer. “Buck.” He froze completely. He had hallucinations of your voice earlier that day, sweet little mewls you'd let out if you were there with him to siphon them out of you, while he tried to take care of the issue on his own. 

Slowly, he turned his head toward the sound, and his eyes found you. And something in his entire body gave out. His breathing stuttered—hard—like his ribs were suddenly too tight to contain the relief.

He took a full, instinctive step toward you—body moving before thought—and then something in him seized. The sensible part of his brain stopped him from getting closer to the glass. 

"Get out of here."

Your brows furrowed in confusion. "Bucky, I—"

"Get the fuck out of here." He doubled over in pain again. "It hurts worse when you're so close and I can't—"

Your voice came out thin—fragile—almost unrecognizable to your own ears. “Bucky… I’m begging you. I can’t just stand out here and watch you suffer.”

"It wouldn't— I could—" If his brain started leaking out of his ears, you wouldn't be exactly surprised. "It's not safe for you." He flinched like the words actively hit him.

"You'd never hurt me."

"You could beg me to stop and I wouldn't be able to." 

He was still bent over, hand braced on the wall, every muscle in his back trembling from restraint. His breath dragged ragged through his chest, sweat rolling down his sternum in a slow line that made your own pulse stumble.

“I’m begging you,” you whispered. “Let me help.”

He shook his head once—sharp—like the motion hurt. “Don’t sound like that—”

“Like what?”

“Like you want me.” The words tore out raw, like he’d ripped them straight from the center of him.

The room went quiet for a moment, and you had yet another brilliant idea that wouldn't get you in trouble bigger than you could handle at all. Your feet moved you to stand by the control panel, and his head snapped up—eyes blown wide, panic flaring under the fever.

“Don’t do that. Don’t come in here. I’m telling you—I can’t—” You typed in your override code with steady hands, changed a single setting in the lock, and despite Bucky's protests, the door hissed open, and you bolted into the room before it latched closed again.

“I’m not leaving you alone in here.” Bucky grabbed you by the arm and attempted to open the door, not knowing you locked it from the outside. 

"Are you insane?!" He didn't sound angry, he sounded terrified. Terrified of not being able to hold back from everything he wanted to do to you. 

You moved toward him—not with impulse, but with a quiet, controlled resolve that came from somewhere deep in your chest. Bucky didn’t step back this time. He just watched you, breathing unevenly, shoulders tense like every muscle in his body was wound tight enough to snap.

You lifted your hand slowly, giving him time to stop you if he needed to. He didn’t. So you let your palm settle against his bare chest, right over his heartbeat. His skin was hot—fever-hot—but under your hand the fire shifted, softened, just enough to change from a burn to an ache. The air left him in a long, shaking exhale, like your touch let him breathe for the first time in hours.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder, not in collapse, but in relief. A small shudder went through him, his ribs expanding against your hand as he tried to steady himself. You could feel his pulse hammering, fast and uneven.

“It’s a little better,” he murmured, voice rough against your collarbone.

“Not enough,” you said quietly.

He shook his head, and you felt the motion against your skin. “No. Not nearly enough.”

Your thumb traced a slow, grounding arc just beneath his sternum, the simplest touch offered as reassurance. His metal hand hovered near your hip, not touching you, shaking with restraint. Every part of him was working to not grab, not pull, not give in to instinct.

“Bucky,” you murmured. Your hand slid up, fingers brushing the line of his collarbone before you cupped the side of his jaw. His skin was hot beneath your touch, flushed. “Let me help.”

His eyes squeezed shut, his brow furrowing like the words physically hurt.

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Yes, I do.” Your voice stayed soft, steady. “I know you. I know you would never hurt me. And I’m standing right here choosing you.”

His breath caught, a shaking inhale that didn’t quite make it all the way in. You leaned in slowly, giving him time to stop you—even now—and pressed your lips to the sharp angle of his jaw.

He made a sound—low, involuntary—something between a groan and a gasp, his grip tightening on your hip without meaning to. The heat of him was overwhelming now that you were fully inside his space, and when you shifted closer, your thigh brushed the unmistakable, urgent press of him against the front of his sweats.

He jolted—like the contact shocked him—but he didn’t step back.

You whispered against his jaw, your lips barely moving. “Let me help, Buck.”

His breath stuttered, chest rising too fast against yours.

“Please,” you whispered, the word soft and warm and devastating. “Let me take care of you.”

His resolve buckled—not shattered, not broken—but gave.

You slid your hand down, slow and deliberate, until your palm hovered at the waistband of his sweats. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t speak. His eyes locked on yours—wide, dark, waiting.

So you touched him.

Your palm cupped him through the fabric, the heat and weight of him filling your hand instantly. He let out a sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest—raw, ragged, helpless. His forehead fell forward until it nearly touched yours, his breath shaking against your cheek.

You kept your touch slow. Gentle. Controlled. No teasing, no sudden movements—just steady pressure, your hand molded to him through the soft cotton, up and down in a rhythm meant to soothe the fever thrumming under his skin.

His fingers dug into your hip—not hard, just anchoring.

“Sweetheart—” His voice was barely a voice, just breath and need. “If you—if you keep doing that—I’m not gonna—”

You kissed his jaw again, slower this time.

“That’s the point,” you whispered. His breath collapsed against your neck and you stroked him again—firmer this time.

The roughness in his breathing started to shift, not easing but changing, gathering into something more focused, less chaotic. But the fever was still burning too hot, crawling under his skin like an electric current with nowhere to go.

So you sank to your knees.

The floor was cold beneath you, a stark contrast to the heat bleeding off of him. Your fingers found the waistband of his sweats and tugged. He didn’t stop you. Couldn’t. His head hit the wall behind him with a dull thud, chest heaving as he tried—failed—not to look down at you.

You freed him from the confines of the fabric, and he sprang forward—thick, flushed, already leaking, and twitching with need. Your breath caught as you wrapped your hand around him properly for the first time.

He let out a strangled groan so loud it echoed off the sterile walls. One hand reached down blindly, threading through your hair like it was the only lifeline he had left. He whispered your name like a curse, like a prayer, like salvation.

Your tongue flattened against the underside of him first, tracing the thick, pulsing vein that ran along the length of his cock. You felt him twitch in your hand, heard the harsh stutter of his breath above you as his grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting. When your lips wrapped around the flushed, leaking tip, Bucky actually whimpered.

“Fuck—” he choked, hips jerking despite himself. “Jesus, baby, that mouth—”

You hollowed your cheeks and took more of him, inch by inch, until your lips kissed the base and your throat fluttered around him. The way he gasped—it was like he’d been drowning and finally broke the surface.

“God, you’re—fuck, I knew it, I knew you’d take me like this,” he hissed. “So good. So fucking good. Like you were made for this.”

His knees almost buckled.

The sweat rolling down his chest gathered at the sharp lines of his abdomen, and he looked down, glassy-eyed and wrecked, watching his cock disappear past your lips over and over. You stroked what you couldn’t fit, twisting your wrist, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth to join the obscene, wet sounds echoing off the walls.

He didn’t last long.

He couldn’t—hadn’t been touched in hours, hadn’t let himself feel anything in months, maybe years, and now here you were, mouth full of him, eyes blown wide with submission and need, and he could feel the fever receding under your touch, like you were the cure he didn’t deserve.

His head slammed back against the wall again, both hands in your hair now as he held you there, not forcing—just anchoring—just begging. “Just a little more, baby. Just—fuck, I’m so close, please—”

“It’s still bad, isn’t it?” He didn’t answer. “You don’t have to hold back with me.” You rose up just enough to press your mouth to the inside of his thigh—soft, slow, intentional—then looked up again, voice thready but determined. “Take what you need from me, Bucky.”

You take him into your mouth again—no hesitation this time, no slow pacing. You hum around him; you don’t even realize you do it. His whole body jerks—hips twitching forward, instinct overriding restraint for a split second.

His hips roll forward—slow at first, testing, like he’s afraid of how much he needs this. But when your hands grip his thighs and you pull him closer, the last of his restraint just… slips.

“Sweetheart—” His voice drops, a gravel-soft moan. “Okay. Okay, I—shit—”

His rhythm finds you, and it pushes his cock inside of your mouth over and over again, bruising the back of your throat, making your eyes water. 

Bucky, on the other hand, was losing his mind. He feels like this could only really be a fever dream. The vision before him being one that he only saw seconds before waking up in a sticky mess of his own cum in his room some nights. 

“You have no idea—” A thrust, shallow but desperate. “I’ve wanted—” Another, deeper now, hips stuttering. “God—this—this—” He chokes on your name.

Your moan around him sent him right to the edge.

He came hard, with a broken cry that echoed with pain and relief and something that sounded suspiciously like your name. Hot, thick ropes spilled onto your tongue, down your throat, and you took every drop, swallowing around him while his body trembled, legs unsteady, heart thundering behind his ribs.

He looked down at you afterward, wrecked beyond recognition, jaw slack and pink lips parted like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“…holy fuck,” he rasped.

You didn’t even need to say anything—your eyes said it all. Your fingers curled tighter around the base of him, guiding him back to your lips, already red and slick with spit and the remnants of his release. You pressed a slow kiss to the tip, and Bucky swore under his breath, hips twitching.

“You’re still hard,” you murmured, voice low, almost disbelieving. “You need more.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you—head cocked, eyes wild and glassy, like he was still fighting himself even while his cock throbbed in your grip, fully hard again. His breath hitched when you opened your mouth, letting your tongue flatten against the underside of him again, licking him like you missed it.

That was all it took.

A rough groan tore from his chest as his hips surged forward, pushing himself back into your mouth. You moaned around him, taking him deeper, your throat already used to the stretch. His grip tightened in your hair, holding you steady this time—not pushing, not yet, just anchoring as he began to roll his hips, slow at first, dragging himself against your tongue.

But he couldn't hold back. Not when you looked like that. Not when you made those sounds.

“Open wider,” he grit out, voice almost guttural. “Let me—fuck, let me use your mouth.”

You did. You relaxed your throat, looked up at him through heavy lashes, and let him have it.

He began to thrust—deep, slow at first, but building with every breath. Each time he bottomed out, your throat flexed, gagging just a little, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. And he loved it. Ate it up like a man starved.

“Shit—shit, baby,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “Look at you—taking it so fucking well, like it’s what your mouth was made for.”

He was leaking again, throbbing inside you, grunting with every pass of his cock down your throat. You could feel him fighting the edge again already—his whole body shaking, hair falling into his eyes, thighs tense beneath your hands.

He came again. Harder this time. The first shot hit the back of your throat as he choked out your name like it was the only word he knew. His hips didn’t stop moving. Even as he emptied himself into your mouth, he was still hard, still needing.

When he finally stilled, breathing like he’d just run ten miles, he looked down at you—ruined, wrecked, flushed—and exhaled your name like a plea.

“I still need more.”

Your lips were swollen, spit-slick, eyes glossy and dazed as you slowly released him from your mouth with a wet pop. Bucky was panting above you, flushed all the way down his chest, body still trembling from his second orgasm—and still hard. Angry and flushed and leaking again, like his body didn’t understand that two should’ve been enough.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, but your gaze never left him. Not for a second. And he looked down at you like he was about to fall to his knees. Or break through the floor. Or both.

Then you stood.

Without a word, you reached for his wrist and guided him—slowly, steadily—toward the exam table. The padded med bed sat cold and untouched, the thin clinical comforter shuffled under your grip as you leaned against it and looked over your shoulder at him.

His hands were on your hips before you even breathed, gripping you like you were the only tether he had to this fucking world. He yanked your sleep shorts and underwear down in one swift, rough motion, groaning when he saw how wet you were—slick, glistening, thighs trembling.

“All this for me?” he muttered, almost in disbelief, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds. You gasped—more from the weight of it than the tease.

“I’ve been yours,” you panted, looking back at him over your shoulder. “You just haven’t fucked me like it.”

That did it.

He lined up and shoved in with one brutal, gorgeous thrust—splitting you open on his cock so deep you almost screamed. Your hands scrambled for purchase on the med bed, fingers clawing at the sheets as your body struggled to accommodate him. He was thick, long, heavy—and unrelenting. No time to adjust. No warning. Just full.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed, bottoming out inside you. “You feel like heaven. Hot, tight—fuck, I can feel your pussy fluttering already—”

You were already trembling under him, already dripping down your thighs. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and tugged your head back gently, just enough to murmur in your ear as he rocked into you.

“You wanted this,” he growled. “Wanted to help? Mmm? Did you? Or did you just want and excuse to have my cock inside of you?”

You whimpered, unable to speak—your brain blank, body overstimulated, mouth falling open.

“Say it,” he snarled, thrusting harder. “Tell me you begged for this cock.”

“I—I begged for it,” you gasped. “Bucky—oh my God—you’re so—fuck—you’re so deep, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he said, and then he was railing into you—brutal and beautiful and ruthless—his cock driving into you so hard your toes curled and your walls clamped down around him. Your stomach was pressed to the cold med bed now, knees buckling as he fucked you through it, chest bouncing with every thrust.

“Please,” you sobbed. “Please don’t stop—”

“Never,” he growled. “I’m not stopping until you’re filled up and leaking for me. Until you can’t walk straight. Until they smell me on you.”

His rhythm faltered.

You could feel it—how his thrusts turned erratic, his breath shortened into harsh, broken gasps against your skin, every nerve in his body set to burn. He was so deep inside you, so swollen and throbbing, and even though he’d already come twice, he was barely holding on now, just riding the edge with ragged desperation.

“Too—fuck—can’t—” he growled, hips snapping hard and fast as his chest collapsed against your back. “You’re gonna—fuck—milk me dry, baby.”

You barely got a gasp out before he slammed into you one last time and bit down on the curve of your shoulder—hard.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t controlled. It was animal.

Teeth sinking into skin just below your neck, like claiming you was the only thing keeping him alive. The sting of it only made your orgasm crash harder, clenched around him like a vice just as he spilled inside you—thick and hot, cock pulsing violently through the aftershocks, moaning into your skin like it broke him.

But Bucky didn’t pull out.

Didn’t move away like someone who just had his third orgasm in less than an hour. No—he collapsed over your back for a moment, panting, shaking, and then lifted his head, wrapped his arms around your waist, and lifted.

You gasped as your spine straightened, as he manhandled you into the center of the bed with strength that made your head spin. 

“I need to see your face,” he muttered, voice wrecked and low. “Need to watch you come around me this time.”

He flipped you over, sweat-slick hands gripping the undersides of your thighs and pushing them up, folding you into a tight mating press before you could even think. Your knees were practically pinned to your chest, legs spread wide, cunt exposed—wet and puffy and already leaking with him.

Bucky looked down at you like a starving man finally given permission to devour. And even though his cock was still twitching from the last orgasm—sensitive, too sensitive—he lined himself back up, and pushed inside again with a groan that bordered on agony.

“Fuck, fuck—hurts so good,” he panted, hips rolling slow this time, deep. “Too much. Too fucking much, but I can’t stop.”

You moaned, head thrown back, fingernails digging into his arms.

“Look at me,” he growled. “Want you looking at me when I fuck you full again. Want you remembering who did this to you. Who made you this wet. This messy.”

His hands pressed your thighs deeper, nearly folding you in half, angle so intense you could feel him in your stomach.

“Feel that?” he whispered, voice rough and wrecked. “That’s me. Right fucking there.”

Your fingers reached for him, tangling in his sweat-damp hair, needing him closer. He dropped his forehead to yours, breath mingling, mouths nearly brushing as his cock dragged slow and deep inside you—wet and squelching from how much he’d already spilled.

“Tell me you want it,” he panted. “Tell me you want more.”

“I want it,” you breathed. “Want everything.”

His cock twitched at the sight. At the mess he’d already made of you.

But it still wasn’t enough.

“Fuck, look at this pussy,” he groaned, lining up again. “Stuffed and still begging for more. You’re leaking down the backs of your thighs and I haven’t even gotten serious yet.”

Then he slammed back into you.

You whined, mouth falling open, hands scrabbling at his arms, nails dragging down his sweat-slicked biceps. The sound of his cock driving into you, the wet slap of skin against skin, was obscene—echoing off the cold med bay walls. Each thrust was brutal, hungry, unrelenting.

“Yes,” you gasped, back arching, eyes wide and wild. “Fucking ruin me, Bucky.”

He snarled like you’d just handed him a license to break you.

“Gonna stretch this pussy until I mold you to the shape of my cock,” he growled, sweat dripping from his temples as he drove deeper, harder, each thrust punching a breath out of your lungs. “You were made for this. For me. Just like this.”

Your thighs trembled where he held them pinned. Your cunt clamped down on him like your body didn’t want to let go, and it made him growl—low, animal, primal.

“I can feel you squeezing me—fuck—milking my cock.”

“Because you’re fucking perfect inside me,” you moaned, wrecked. “So fucking deep, Bucky—I feel you in my throat.”

He didn’t let up. He wanted you boneless. Brainless. Gone. He needed you raw and crying and fucked full. His balls slapped against your ass, cock driving into the tight, wet clutch of you over and over, chasing the next high like a man possessed.

“Gonna breed you, baby,” he whispered in a wrecked, breathless voice. “Wanna fuck it in so deep you’ll be dripping with me for days. Wanna see your belly swollen from how much I put in you.”

You cried out—clenching around him like your body wanted that, like it needed it.

His thrusts turned downright feral, pounding into you so hard the med bed squealed beneath your bodies. You held onto him like you’d fly off the earth otherwise, like he was the only real thing in the universe.

“You’re mine,” he snarled into your ear. “This pussy? Mine. This fucking body? Mine.”

“All yours,” you sobbed, overwhelmed and blissed-out. “Please, Bucky—don’t stop.”

“I won’t.” He pressed your legs even tighter to your chest, bent down until his chest was against yours, and fucked you into the bed like the world was ending.

You didn’t know how long it had been.

How many times he’d come. How many times you had. You were shaking, soaked, stretched so wide around him that it felt like you were being fucked into another dimension. Your thighs burned from being pinned open in the tightest press imaginable, your body locked beneath his. Sweat pooled between your bodies, his skin slick and hot, his muscles trembling with effort.

You sobbed when he thrust again—slow, deep, dragging the head of his cock along every oversensitive inch of your cunt.

“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice broken. “I can’t—I can’t—”

“You can,” he groaned, still moving inside you. “You are.”

Your tears were hot as they spilled down your cheeks. Not from pain. Not from fear. From bliss. Pure, ruined, brain-melting pleasure that had nowhere else to go but out through your eyes.

And still—he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop. Not when your walls were fluttering around him again, your cunt choking his cock like your body was begging for one more release.

“Baby,” he rasped, voice wrecked beyond repair, “I can’t—fuck—I’m so close—again—”

You were babbling now, hands clawing at his back, words slurred through cries. “Please, please, come again—fill me up, Bucky, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

That shattered him.

His hand found your jaw, gripping it firm but careful, tilting your face to the side, tears still streaking your flushed cheeks. His mouth dropped to your jawline, teeth grazing your skin before he bit down—just enough to make you cry out. To mark you. To claim.

His lips dragged against your wet cheek, breath hot and ragged as he whispered filth directly into your skin.

“You’re gonna be ruined for anyone else,” he growled. “No one else’ll ever fuck you this deep. No one else’ll fill you like I do. You’ll think about this—every time you sit down and feel me leaking out of you.”

You gasped, your pussy clenching tight again, and that made him snarl.

“Oh, you like that,” he panted against your cheek. “You like knowing I’ve come in you three times and I’m still fucking going—filling you to the brim like this pussy belongs to me.”

“It does,” you sobbed. “It’s yours—it’s only yours.”

He bit down again—right beneath your cheekbone—and his hips bucked hard, cock twitching, and then he spilled inside you again.

Hot, thick, endless—your body taking it all, your womb aching with how much he was pumping into you, filling you again and again like some primal need had taken hold and wouldn’t let go.

You clung to him, nails dragging down his sweat-slick back, body convulsing with overstimulation, your own orgasm cresting again, tears slipping freely down your cheeks, wet between your legs and everywhere else.

And through it all—his voice stayed right in your ear.

Sunlight filtered through the high, frosted windows—gold and soft, painting long lines across the floor and sterile white counters. Machines hummed faintly. The scent of antiseptic still clung faintly to the air, but it was dulled now, overpowered by the unmistakable smells of sweat, sex, and fabric softener.

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose before they even turned the corner.

“I’m just saying,” he muttered, tablet in hand, “if he exploded in the middle of the night, it’s your fault, Rogers. You’re the one who insisted on the glass enclosure.”

“He didn’t explode,” Steve replied, voice calm but tight. “But we need to check his vitals. And see if the fever’s gone for good.”

“And you don’t think maybe knocking first would be—”

The door hissed open.

Tony stepped in first, looking up from his tablet. Steve followed—and froze halfway through the threshold.

There, on the exam bed, tangled in sheets and wrapped around each other like two vines too stubborn to separate, were you and Bucky.

Naked.

Dead asleep.

His arm was slung over your waist, metal hand curled possessively around your hip. Your leg was draped over his. His nose was buried in your neck. One of your hands was splayed on his chest, and both of your mouths were parted in very unflattering, very loud, synchronized snoring.

And the sheets?

The sheets were barely covering anything.

“Oh Jesus,” Steve hissed, immediately turning around so fast his shoulder knocked into a tray of sterile wipes. “Nope. No. That’s—nope.”

Tony took one look, blinked, and quietly said, “So the mating press was successful.”

Steve groaned. “Tony.”

“What?! They’re alive. They’re breathing. No heart attack. Just a—y’know—thorough night of… clinical bonding.”

“Stop talking.”

Tony didn’t stop talking. He just raised the tablet and started typing. “Gotta say, though, Barnes is kind of a legend.”

Steve made a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a choked-off scream. “I am not listening to this.”

“You know,” Tony continued, ignoring him completely, “most guys tap out after two. Maybe three if they’ve got performance enhancers. But your boy over there looks like he went five, maybe six rounds. Give the man a medal.”

Steve was red in the face now. “Tony.”

And on the bed, completely oblivious, Bucky grumbled something about peaches and tight little throats in his sleep, nuzzled deeper into you, and pulled you even closer.

Tony paused.

“…okay, maybe a warning label instead of a medal.”

a/n: as always, if this is buns don’t perceive me!!!! I'll blame it on the fact that I had to write most of this while working a slow 12.

You were sweeping the lower lab levels when the comms crackled.“Oh wow, this stuff is so old.”

You groaned. “That sounded like the voice of a man about to do something stupid. Joaquin, do not—” And then you heard Bucky choke, cough, and groan like he was about to twist Joaquin's neck like an old farmer would do to a chicken before dinner.

You jogged around the corner, footsteps echoing in the old no-so-sterile halls, and met up with both of them bumping straight into Bucky's chest in the process, making him grunt at the impact.

"Oh, hi." You smiled at him like you always did: sweetly, kindly, like you weren't trying to hide the fact that you'd rearrange the tiles on every subway station in New York if he asked you to. "You guys okay?"

Joaquin shrugged and nodded, "Just got some old school glitter all over grandpa." 

Bucky gave you a breathy "yeah, all good." before all of you nodded your heads in agreement and moved along.

You got to another wing of the old base, and the three of you got stopped by a heavy reinforced door preventing you from moving further into the hallway. “You gotta be kidding me,” Joaquin sighed, smacking the reader with the heel of his palm.

You leaned in to inspect it, raising a brow. “Looks like the power line’s fried in this section. We’ll have to backtrack through—” You didn’t finish, because Bucky swayed out of the corner of your eye.

Not dramatically, not theatrically, just enough that your hand shot out, instinctively catching his elbow. “Woah, hey,” you blinked up at him. “You good?” He didn’t answer.

His jaw flexed, teeth grinding. His breath came sharp, deeper, as if the air had suddenly gotten heavier around him. His pupils were… wide. Obscenely, almost. Swallowing the blue.

Joaquin noticed too. “…Uh. Sarge?”

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. Once. Twice. Like he was trying to blink something back into order.

“I said I’m fine,” he rasped, voice low and not fine at all. But his shoulders trembled, he felt the fabric of his shirt start to cling to him like he’d just stepped out of a sauna, the collar of the tac vest becoming chafy and uncomfortable.

You felt heat radiating off him—like his skin was cooking under the surface. Bucky inhaled sharply, not a normal breath, a slow, wrecking, deep inhale, eyes closing as he tumbled back, bracing himself on the wall.

“…Buck?” Your voice came out softer this time. You could see the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and the way his eyes were having a hard time focusing. His head lolled from side to side against the cold steel wall until you steadied his face to look at you. "Hey, talk to me."

"I feel—" He couldn't get words to come out, the throughts were there but his tongue felt heavy, like it wanted to give away secrets his brain hadn't allowed it to."I think I'm sick." And God, the way that you took a glove off and put the back of your hand to his forehead just barely helped relieve the heat his body was producing. 

Heat that went up a degree or two when you touched your cheek to his forehead, and he inhaled the sweet scent of your skin. Nothing perfume-like, or lotion, just… you, right at the space where your neck met your shoulder, like the smell of you had hooked him by the throat and reeled him in.

"You're burning up." He felt a whine bubble in his throat when you pulled away to talk to Joaquin. "What exactly was in that lab?"

“…Okay. So remember that old glitter? Could’ve been, uh—bio-aerosol? Or something from that weird Cold War pheromone vault section?” It was almost cartoonish the way Joaquin's face formed into a wince. A very "we're so fucked and he's gonna kill me" wince. 

You stared. “You mean sex pollen.”

“…I did not want to be the guy to say that out loud.” Both of you turned your heads to the sound behind you, not quite a growl, or a moan, but something animal and hurt.

"Okay, how long do we have?" Your mind was going a mile a minute. "Is he gonna die before we get back?" You walked back to crouch in front of Bucky, looking for his eyes with yours. “Hey,” you murmured, guiding his gaze back to you, “look at me.”

His breathing stuttered. “You shouldn’t—” he croaked, voice shredded raw. “I don’t—this isn’t—”

“I know,” you whispered. "Can you hang on until we get to the jet? Bruce and Tony must have something that can help." All you got back was a nod.

After talking the long way out, you managed to get back to the team, Steve's face like a worried mother hen when he saw the three of you, Bucky insisting on walking on his own, telling Joaquin to stand between the two of you. 

Steve jogged down immediately. “What the hell happened?”

Bucky jerked back like Steve reaching for him was a knife being drawn. “Don’t,” he bit out—voice shredded, almost unrecognizable.

“Why do you look like you’re about to pounce on something?”

Steve pulled his hand back, palms up, tone softening instantly. “Okay. Okay. Not touching you. Just talk to me.” Joaquin stepped forward like he was testifying in court.

“So—fun story—turns out Cold War Russia kept, um… let’s call it biologically weaponized pheromone particulate in some of the older R&D labs and—”

Sam blinked, looked directly at Bucky, then you, then right back to Joaquin when he almost couldn't contain his laughter. “So he just inhaled airborne horny juice.”

Steve’s face did every emotion at once. Concern. Fear. Confusion. A level of Catholic repression so strong it could’ve powered a city. While Sam just exhaled through his nose like someone who was seconds away from clocking out of reality.

Your body went still.

"I just— I need to lie down, and—" You reached out to help him onto the jet, but his hand shot our making you jump back. "Don't—" He sighed, trying to level his voice. "Just stay away from me."

You'd be lying if you said that didn't hurt a little. Like having the guy you've been pining over for the past two years tell you to buzz off didn't sting like lemon and rock salt on an open wound. 

Okay, it hurt a lot. 

It was visible the way that you retreated back into yourself, like it would protect you somehow. "Copy that." 

Steve’s jaw ticked, Sam looked down like he suddenly found the floor very, very interesting, Joaquin winced like he’d just watched someone get smacked with a folding chair.

“Wait—” His voice cracked, caught in his throat. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly. Too quickly. The verbal equivalent of throwing a sheet over a shattered glass and calling it clean. “We need to get you stabilized. That’s all that matters.”

“No. Don’t—don’t do that.”

You swallowed. “Do what?”

“That.” His eyes held yours, unsteady, and almost pleading. “That look. Like I pushed you into traffic.”

Steve took one step forward, voice gentle. “Buck, she’s just giving you space—”

“I don’t want space,” Bucky snapped. "I want—" Another wave of whatever the compound was hit him, and he doubled over in pain. Steve helped brace him and held a hand out to stop you when you instinctively stepped forward to help. 

“Let’s get him on the cot,” Steve murmured to Sam and Joaquin, gentle, smooth, easing into triage leadership. 

Sam mumbled to Steve on the way there. “We gotta get him to the medbay before his bloodstream goes full Discovery Channel.”

The flight home was torture in slow motion.

Bucky sat hunched forward on the med-cot, elbows braced against his knees, hands fisting and unfisting like he was holding on to the last thread of himself. Every breath shook. Every exhale came rough, uneven, punched through clenched teeth. The fever didn’t just burn—it crawled. Beneath his skin, along his spine, curling up behind his ribs like it was trying to get out. And every time the jet hit the slightest patch of turbulence, every sway of the cabin, every shift in yourbreathing—he reacted. His head would lift like he was tracking you by sound alone, pupils blown wide, like you were the only oxygen in the room.

And you—God—you sat across the jet from him, arms wrapped around yourself like that could hold you steady, eyes tracing the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but him. Because looking at him meant seeing the raw need he was fighting to keep contained. It meant seeing him hurt.

After briefing Tony and Bruce, and getting a “That man inhaled weaponized lust dust?” said over a pair of glasses and raised brows, Tony locked Bucky in a super soldier-proof room with bulletproof glass windows and an amazing vitals monitoring system. But if you asked for Bucky's opinion, the quarantine quarters were sterile in an unsettling way. 

The lights were too bright, the sheets were chafy and uncomfortable against his skin, and everything was too white and clean. He managed to sweat through a shirt already, pacing around like a cautionary tale, and was on his way to doing so a second time. Not even the AC was able to help cool him off. 

His eyes kept flicking—to the glass. To you, every few seconds, like his body knew exactly where you were even when he forced himself to look away.

Bruce was scrolling through old SHIELD and Hydra files on a tablet, voice low, clinical, steady.

“The compound works by hijacking limbic and hypothalamic pathways,” he murmured. “Drives instinctual bonding and reproductive compulsion. Increases cortisol and dopamine at unsafe levels. If we don’t neutralize it, he could go into cardiac stress within the next 12 to 24 hours.”

Your stomach dropped.

Tony glanced over. “But hey, great news. He won’t die from horny. Probably. Unless he, you know—” he mimed an explosion near his chest. “Pops like an over-microwaved hot dog.”

Steve glared. “Tony.”

“What? Humor is how I cope with things trying to kill us. Or in this case, trying to rail someone into a medically concerning state.”

“He’s getting worse,” you whispered. “His breathing’s all over the place. The pacing isn’t helping anymore. We can’t just let him ride this out.”

Steve scrubbed a hand down his face. “Bruce is working as fast as he can—”

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” Bucky's voice snapped through the intercom, ragged and pained, and incredibly frustrated. 

The room froze for a second. Steve flinched just slightly—guilt flashing across his face, Bruce and Tony looked up, and Sam turned around from where he was, back facing the windows Bucky was now bracing his hand on. 

And Bucky—

Bucky had turned around, from his pacing back and forth, and settled in front of the glass walls. His chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths. His jaw was set, eyes blown wide and dark, and sweat made his shirt cling to him like a second skin.

What stopped you dead in your tracks wasn't that, though. It wasn't his shirt starting to get soaked through, it wasn't his forehead shiny with sweat, it was the fact that the sweats he changed into did absolutely nothing to hide the state he was in. 

You hadn't meant to look, but like the moon pulls the tide, your gaze found the almost offensive tent he was pitching in his pants. Long, heavy, solid, straining against fabric that was doing absolutely zero work as a barrier—just pressed up the left side, the outline unmistakable.

Your pulse thundered behind your ribs like your heart wanted to sprint out of your chest and run to him. Steve—poor, earnest, helpful Steve—instantly jerked his head away like he’d just accidentally opened a stranger’s bathroom door.

“Oh my God,” Steve muttered, eyes locked firmly on the ceiling tiles. “Yep. Okay. Yep. We’ve reached that stage. Great.”

Sam spoke, turning back around, voice flat and so exhausted it could have been legally declared a sigh. “Yeah, I’m not making eye contact with any of that. I’m barely managing my own dignity today.”

Tony lifted his coffee mug like a toast to misery. “We’re all fighting for our lives right now, Wilson.”

Joaquin muttered something that sounded like holy mother of thirst traps, and immediately shut his mouth when Sam elbowed him.

He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated and burning and so far past okay he had lapped the field. “This is ridiculous,” he snapped, voice hoarse. “There’s no reason for me to be locked up like some—some feral animal. I said I’m fine.”

“Bucky,” you murmured, tone unimpressed. “Your heart rate is at one-seventy and you are five minutes away from humping the corner of the room.”

“I’m fine.” He snarled the word like it personally insulted him.

He turned again—another pacing lap, another moving target distracting you from the actual problem. Or making you focus on it, depends who you ask. 

Swing. Swing.

Your eyes followed it like it had its own orbit. With every step he took, his breathing got worse, and his cock bobbed and swung with the movement. Did they even bother to get him a pair of boxers? For god's sake. 

You tried to look away and failed. Spectacularly. 

Bucky stopped mid-step when he noticed. Tilted his head once he followed your gaze, and then slowly focused his back on you, like he was studying you. The same way a jaguar tilts its head before crushing a prey's skull between its teeth. So slow, you felt it in your knees. 

He wiped his face with the hem of his shirt—lifting it—exposing the deep, carved lines of muscle, the stretch of his abdomen, the line of hair disappearing down—

You nearly whimpered.

“Yeah,” he rasped, voice shredded, “now imagine what it feels like." Oh, you did. "Inside my skin. Constant. Pressure. Heat. And I can’t fucking touch anything because the second I do—” The thing is, Bucky didn't know every word out of his mouth at any given moment would, in fact, find its way to burrow under your skin. 

Each word from his mouth meant another step towards the glass that was separating you both. 

And against your better judgement, you had imagined it. You've imagined your hands wrapped around it, you've imagined the weight of it on your tongue, you've imagined it so far in the back of your throat that—

"Stop breathing like that—I can hear it.”

Your breath caught, like a well trained animal obeying its master. "I'm not breathing in any different way."

"I can smell you too." And that made your brain short circuit. "It's sweet, and—" He groaned, letting his head fall forward. "Fuck, you smell—" Not even Stevie Wonder could've missed the drool that was pooling on his bottom lip and falling onto the floor. 

“Wanna taste it. Lick you open right here on the floor. Tongue-fuck your pussy until you can’t remember your own name.”

When he lifted his head again, it felt like the entire world narrowed to just you two. With thick super soldier proof glass in between. 

His breath fogged the glass at the same time his eyes narrowed at yours, looking for a sign that he was affecting you as much as you were affecting him. “You’ve thought about it.” Damn him, James Barnes and his ability to read you like a book written in a language only he could speak. “Oh, sweetheart.”

It's almost like he could hear your thighs clenching together. “You smell like you’re already wet—fuck.” Definitely not what you wanted him to announce over intercom to the entire team, but the blush creeping up your neck really didn't allow you to focus on anything other than the image in front of you. 

Bucky Barnes, in a heathered grey shirt that he was sweating through, with a sinfully thin pair of sweatpants that could be an HR violation if anyone didn't know the contect of why anyone in the room with eyes could tell that was a perfect outline of his hard cock swinging around like it owned the place. 

With previous icy blue eyes that were now blown black with lust, looking at you like you were the next meal of a very starving beast. A beast that was frothing at the mouth at the though of the taste of you. 

“You smell warm,” he murmured. “Like your skin would taste soft.” He continued, like taunting you was making anything better and not just riling both of you even more. “And you’re trying so fucking hard not to move,” he said, voice breaking into a whisper. “Not to come closer.”

"You're not exactly making it easy."

Another wave hit him and he winced. "I can't think with you here." He swallowed hard. "All I see when you're near is just your back hitting plaster and your legs around my hips.”

His breathing fractured—like something inside him had finally tipped past reason into pure, raw instinct. “I wish this glass wasn’t here,” he said, teeth gritted like the words hurt. “I’d have you on your knees already… drooling around my cock.”

The air left your lungs. The more he talked the more it felt like one of those moments in the late summer into fall, where the pool is too cold and you jump in anyway. The moment where your lungs feel too small and the atmosphere feels too much and all you can really do is hyperventilate and try to breathe the shock away. 

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he said, like he was discovering something and confirming it all in the same breath. His tongue dragged over his bottom lip without him thinking—messy, desperate. “You’d open your pretty mouth and take me all the way down just to make me stop begging.”

“You’d look up at me while you did it,” he murmured, fever-slow, obscene in how sure he was. “Eyes wide, tears in the corners, letting me fuck your throat until you couldn’t speak.”

“Stop making me picture it.” It was barely above a whisper, really. You're not sure anyone heard it over the sound of both of you breathing as hard as you were. 

The drool slid from his lip again—slow, heavy—hanging for a moment before it fell to the floor. He didn’t notice, he couldn’t. His hips shifted—just a slight forward roll—and you bit your lower lip so hard you nearly bruised it.

Bucky's voice cracked down the middle. “Fuck—please—” His metal hand scraped against the glass, fingers curling. “I need— I need to— I need you—” He swallowed, jaw trembling, breath stuttering like holding himself together physically hurt. “Just let me wreck you,” he whispered.

He asked like your answer would ever be no. Like being that close to him without having him inside of you didn't physically hurt sometimes. Like you didn't have vivid dreams of his teeth on the bare skin of your ass and his hand wrapped around your neck like jewelry that belonged in the Louvre.

Steve stepped in between you two, ushering you away from Bucky. "That's enough." 

Bucky’s head snapped toward him, eyes blown wide and dark like storm clouds about to break “No,” he snarled, voice rough with panic instead of anger. “No—don’t—”

Bruce came forward, gentle hands on your shoulders. A doctor moving someone out of a blast radius. “Come on,” he murmured, soft. “Give him a second. His vitals are spiking—he needs distance to stabilize.”

“He doesn’t need distance,” Bucky barked, hands slamming against the glass—palms flat—every tendon in his arms standing out in painful, shaking relief. “He needs her.”

“Buck. You need to stop.” Steve kept his voice low, even. “Listen to yourself.”

Bucky’s chest was heaving—breaths quick and hot and uneven. "I'm sorry, fuck— I—" He didn’t look at Steve, didn’t look at Bruce. He didn’t look at anything except you as Bruce’s hand eased you back.

“Don’t take her away. Please. Please—” Bruce kept moving you carefully, slowly—gentle pressure between your shoulders.

You tried to go about your night. You really did.

You showered. You changed. You sat on the edge of your bed with your hair still damp, staring at the wall like it might offer you a door out of your own head. But every time you closed your eyes, you saw him—forehead pressed to the glass, voice cracking when he said please, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re falling and they already know the ground is going to hurt.

You lay back, staring blankly at the ceiling. You tried to count your breaths—steady, even, controlled. But your breathing only reminded you of his. That ragged, uneven, burning inhale that came when he was trying to keep himself from breaking.

You turned onto your side. Then your back again. Pulled the blanket up. Pushed it off. You tried to be rational. To be logical. To be the good, responsible, emotionally stable adult in this situation.

But there was something tugging at you, something far deeper and quieter than lust. Something warm and sore and impossible to ignore.

So you did what any sane (not) person would do, and snuck away from your quarters, through the corridors, and into the med bay to be alone and unsupervised with a super soldier under the influence of super soldier viagra mixed with preworkout to say the very least. 

The med bay was washed in low overnight lighting, the kind meant to soothe but doing absolutely nothing to calm the electricity tangled in the air. Bucky had been pacing for long enough that it was surprising the floor hadn't given in to the shape of his path. 

His hair clung to his temples, damp and curling where it stuck. His breath came in harsh, uneven bursts, chest rising too fast, like his lungs couldn’t catch air fast enough to match the fire under his skin.

Every few steps his metal hand flexed involuntarily, fingers clenching like he needed something—someone—to hold on to.

He didn’t see you.

He was somewhere inside the fever.

“Fuck—” he grit out, stopping long enough to brace both hands against the wall, muscles in his back rippling as he bowed his head, throat exposed to the floor like he was trying to bleed the heat out of himself.

He took another step—stumbled—caught himself on the exam table— and then something in him just broke. He dragged his hand up his chest like he was trying to tear the heat out of himself, jaw clenched so hard a vein pulsed at his temple.

Your voice came out softer. “Buck.” He froze completely. He had hallucinations of your voice earlier that day, sweet little mewls you'd let out if you were there with him to siphon them out of you, while he tried to take care of the issue on his own. 

Slowly, he turned his head toward the sound, and his eyes found you. And something in his entire body gave out. His breathing stuttered—hard—like his ribs were suddenly too tight to contain the relief.

He took a full, instinctive step toward you—body moving before thought—and then something in him seized. The sensible part of his brain stopped him from getting closer to the glass. 

"Get out of here."

Your brows furrowed in confusion. "Bucky, I—"

"Get the fuck out of here." He doubled over in pain again. "It hurts worse when you're so close and I can't—"

Your voice came out thin—fragile—almost unrecognizable to your own ears. “Bucky… I’m begging you. I can’t just stand out here and watch you suffer.”

"It wouldn't— I could—" If his brain started leaking out of his ears, you wouldn't be exactly surprised. "It's not safe for you." He flinched like the words actively hit him.

"You'd never hurt me."

"You could beg me to stop and I wouldn't be able to." 

He was still bent over, hand braced on the wall, every muscle in his back trembling from restraint. His breath dragged ragged through his chest, sweat rolling down his sternum in a slow line that made your own pulse stumble.

“I’m begging you,” you whispered. “Let me help.”

He shook his head once—sharp—like the motion hurt. “Don’t sound like that—”

“Like what?”

“Like you want me.” The words tore out raw, like he’d ripped them straight from the center of him.

The room went quiet for a moment, and you had yet another brilliant idea that wouldn't get you in trouble bigger than you could handle at all. Your feet moved you to stand by the control panel, and his head snapped up—eyes blown wide, panic flaring under the fever.

“Don’t do that. Don’t come in here. I’m telling you—I can’t—” You typed in your override code with steady hands, changed a single setting in the lock, and despite Bucky's protests, the door hissed open, and you bolted into the room before it latched closed again.

“I’m not leaving you alone in here.” Bucky grabbed you by the arm and attempted to open the door, not knowing you locked it from the outside. 

"Are you insane?!" He didn't sound angry, he sounded terrified. Terrified of not being able to hold back from everything he wanted to do to you. 

You moved toward him—not with impulse, but with a quiet, controlled resolve that came from somewhere deep in your chest. Bucky didn’t step back this time. He just watched you, breathing unevenly, shoulders tense like every muscle in his body was wound tight enough to snap.

You lifted your hand slowly, giving him time to stop you if he needed to. He didn’t. So you let your palm settle against his bare chest, right over his heartbeat. His skin was hot—fever-hot—but under your hand the fire shifted, softened, just enough to change from a burn to an ache. The air left him in a long, shaking exhale, like your touch let him breathe for the first time in hours.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder, not in collapse, but in relief. A small shudder went through him, his ribs expanding against your hand as he tried to steady himself. You could feel his pulse hammering, fast and uneven.

“It’s a little better,” he murmured, voice rough against your collarbone.

“Not enough,” you said quietly.

He shook his head, and you felt the motion against your skin. “No. Not nearly enough.”

Your thumb traced a slow, grounding arc just beneath his sternum, the simplest touch offered as reassurance. His metal hand hovered near your hip, not touching you, shaking with restraint. Every part of him was working to not grab, not pull, not give in to instinct.

“Bucky,” you murmured. Your hand slid up, fingers brushing the line of his collarbone before you cupped the side of his jaw. His skin was hot beneath your touch, flushed. “Let me help.”

His eyes squeezed shut, his brow furrowing like the words physically hurt.

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Yes, I do.” Your voice stayed soft, steady. “I know you. I know you would never hurt me. And I’m standing right here choosing you.”

His breath caught, a shaking inhale that didn’t quite make it all the way in. You leaned in slowly, giving him time to stop you—even now—and pressed your lips to the sharp angle of his jaw.

He made a sound—low, involuntary—something between a groan and a gasp, his grip tightening on your hip without meaning to. The heat of him was overwhelming now that you were fully inside his space, and when you shifted closer, your thigh brushed the unmistakable, urgent press of him against the front of his sweats.

He jolted—like the contact shocked him—but he didn’t step back.

You whispered against his jaw, your lips barely moving. “Let me help, Buck.”

His breath stuttered, chest rising too fast against yours.

“Please,” you whispered, the word soft and warm and devastating. “Let me take care of you.”

His resolve buckled—not shattered, not broken—but gave.

You slid your hand down, slow and deliberate, until your palm hovered at the waistband of his sweats. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t speak. His eyes locked on yours—wide, dark, waiting.

So you touched him.

Your palm cupped him through the fabric, the heat and weight of him filling your hand instantly. He let out a sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest—raw, ragged, helpless. His forehead fell forward until it nearly touched yours, his breath shaking against your cheek.

You kept your touch slow. Gentle. Controlled. No teasing, no sudden movements—just steady pressure, your hand molded to him through the soft cotton, up and down in a rhythm meant to soothe the fever thrumming under his skin.

His fingers dug into your hip—not hard, just anchoring.

“Sweetheart—” His voice was barely a voice, just breath and need. “If you—if you keep doing that—I’m not gonna—”

You kissed his jaw again, slower this time.

“That’s the point,” you whispered. His breath collapsed against your neck and you stroked him again—firmer this time.

The roughness in his breathing started to shift, not easing but changing, gathering into something more focused, less chaotic. But the fever was still burning too hot, crawling under his skin like an electric current with nowhere to go.

So you sank to your knees.

The floor was cold beneath you, a stark contrast to the heat bleeding off of him. Your fingers found the waistband of his sweats and tugged. He didn’t stop you. Couldn’t. His head hit the wall behind him with a dull thud, chest heaving as he tried—failed—not to look down at you.

You freed him from the confines of the fabric, and he sprang forward—thick, flushed, already leaking, and twitching with need. Your breath caught as you wrapped your hand around him properly for the first time.

He let out a strangled groan so loud it echoed off the sterile walls. One hand reached down blindly, threading through your hair like it was the only lifeline he had left. He whispered your name like a curse, like a prayer, like salvation.

Your tongue flattened against the underside of him first, tracing the thick, pulsing vein that ran along the length of his cock. You felt him twitch in your hand, heard the harsh stutter of his breath above you as his grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting. When your lips wrapped around the flushed, leaking tip, Bucky actually whimpered.

“Fuck—” he choked, hips jerking despite himself. “Jesus, baby, that mouth—”

You hollowed your cheeks and took more of him, inch by inch, until your lips kissed the base and your throat fluttered around him. The way he gasped—it was like he’d been drowning and finally broke the surface.

“God, you’re—fuck, I knew it, I knew you’d take me like this,” he hissed. “So good. So fucking good. Like you were made for this.”

His knees almost buckled.

The sweat rolling down his chest gathered at the sharp lines of his abdomen, and he looked down, glassy-eyed and wrecked, watching his cock disappear past your lips over and over. You stroked what you couldn’t fit, twisting your wrist, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth to join the obscene, wet sounds echoing off the walls.

He didn’t last long.

He couldn’t—hadn’t been touched in hours, hadn’t let himself feel anything in months, maybe years, and now here you were, mouth full of him, eyes blown wide with submission and need, and he could feel the fever receding under your touch, like you were the cure he didn’t deserve.

His head slammed back against the wall again, both hands in your hair now as he held you there, not forcing—just anchoring—just begging. “Just a little more, baby. Just—fuck, I’m so close, please—”

“It’s still bad, isn’t it?” He didn’t answer. “You don’t have to hold back with me.” You rose up just enough to press your mouth to the inside of his thigh—soft, slow, intentional—then looked up again, voice thready but determined. “Take what you need from me, Bucky.”

You take him into your mouth again—no hesitation this time, no slow pacing. You hum around him; you don’t even realize you do it. His whole body jerks—hips twitching forward, instinct overriding restraint for a split second.

His hips roll forward—slow at first, testing, like he’s afraid of how much he needs this. But when your hands grip his thighs and you pull him closer, the last of his restraint just… slips.

“Sweetheart—” His voice drops, a gravel-soft moan. “Okay. Okay, I—shit—”

His rhythm finds you, and it pushes his cock inside of your mouth over and over again, bruising the back of your throat, making your eyes water. 

Bucky, on the other hand, was losing his mind. He feels like this could only really be a fever dream. The vision before him being one that he only saw seconds before waking up in a sticky mess of his own cum in his room some nights. 

“You have no idea—” A thrust, shallow but desperate. “I’ve wanted—” Another, deeper now, hips stuttering. “God—this—this—” He chokes on your name.

Your moan around him sent him right to the edge.

He came hard, with a broken cry that echoed with pain and relief and something that sounded suspiciously like your name. Hot, thick ropes spilled onto your tongue, down your throat, and you took every drop, swallowing around him while his body trembled, legs unsteady, heart thundering behind his ribs.

He looked down at you afterward, wrecked beyond recognition, jaw slack and pink lips parted like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“…holy fuck,” he rasped.

You didn’t even need to say anything—your eyes said it all. Your fingers curled tighter around the base of him, guiding him back to your lips, already red and slick with spit and the remnants of his release. You pressed a slow kiss to the tip, and Bucky swore under his breath, hips twitching.

“You’re still hard,” you murmured, voice low, almost disbelieving. “You need more.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you—head cocked, eyes wild and glassy, like he was still fighting himself even while his cock throbbed in your grip, fully hard again. His breath hitched when you opened your mouth, letting your tongue flatten against the underside of him again, licking him like you missed it.

That was all it took.

A rough groan tore from his chest as his hips surged forward, pushing himself back into your mouth. You moaned around him, taking him deeper, your throat already used to the stretch. His grip tightened in your hair, holding you steady this time—not pushing, not yet, just anchoring as he began to roll his hips, slow at first, dragging himself against your tongue.

But he couldn't hold back. Not when you looked like that. Not when you made those sounds.

“Open wider,” he grit out, voice almost guttural. “Let me—fuck, let me use your mouth.”

You did. You relaxed your throat, looked up at him through heavy lashes, and let him have it.

He began to thrust—deep, slow at first, but building with every breath. Each time he bottomed out, your throat flexed, gagging just a little, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. And he loved it. Ate it up like a man starved.

“Shit—shit, baby,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “Look at you—taking it so fucking well, like it’s what your mouth was made for.”

He was leaking again, throbbing inside you, grunting with every pass of his cock down your throat. You could feel him fighting the edge again already—his whole body shaking, hair falling into his eyes, thighs tense beneath your hands.

He came again. Harder this time. The first shot hit the back of your throat as he choked out your name like it was the only word he knew. His hips didn’t stop moving. Even as he emptied himself into your mouth, he was still hard, still needing.

When he finally stilled, breathing like he’d just run ten miles, he looked down at you—ruined, wrecked, flushed—and exhaled your name like a plea.

“I still need more.”

Your lips were swollen, spit-slick, eyes glossy and dazed as you slowly released him from your mouth with a wet pop. Bucky was panting above you, flushed all the way down his chest, body still trembling from his second orgasm—and still hard. Angry and flushed and leaking again, like his body didn’t understand that two should’ve been enough.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, but your gaze never left him. Not for a second. And he looked down at you like he was about to fall to his knees. Or break through the floor. Or both.

Then you stood.

Without a word, you reached for his wrist and guided him—slowly, steadily—toward the exam table. The padded med bed sat cold and untouched, the thin clinical comforter shuffled under your grip as you leaned against it and looked over your shoulder at him.

His hands were on your hips before you even breathed, gripping you like you were the only tether he had to this fucking world. He yanked your sleep shorts and underwear down in one swift, rough motion, groaning when he saw how wet you were—slick, glistening, thighs trembling.

“All this for me?” he muttered, almost in disbelief, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds. You gasped—more from the weight of it than the tease.

“I’ve been yours,” you panted, looking back at him over your shoulder. “You just haven’t fucked me like it.”

That did it.

He lined up and shoved in with one brutal, gorgeous thrust—splitting you open on his cock so deep you almost screamed. Your hands scrambled for purchase on the med bed, fingers clawing at the sheets as your body struggled to accommodate him. He was thick, long, heavy—and unrelenting. No time to adjust. No warning. Just full.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed, bottoming out inside you. “You feel like heaven. Hot, tight—fuck, I can feel your pussy fluttering already—”

You were already trembling under him, already dripping down your thighs. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and tugged your head back gently, just enough to murmur in your ear as he rocked into you.

“You wanted this,” he growled. “Wanted to help? Mmm? Did you? Or did you just want and excuse to have my cock inside of you?”

You whimpered, unable to speak—your brain blank, body overstimulated, mouth falling open.

“Say it,” he snarled, thrusting harder. “Tell me you begged for this cock.”

“I—I begged for it,” you gasped. “Bucky—oh my God—you’re so—fuck—you’re so deep, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he said, and then he was railing into you—brutal and beautiful and ruthless—his cock driving into you so hard your toes curled and your walls clamped down around him. Your stomach was pressed to the cold med bed now, knees buckling as he fucked you through it, chest bouncing with every thrust.

“Please,” you sobbed. “Please don’t stop—”

“Never,” he growled. “I’m not stopping until you’re filled up and leaking for me. Until you can’t walk straight. Until they smell me on you.”

His rhythm faltered.

You could feel it—how his thrusts turned erratic, his breath shortened into harsh, broken gasps against your skin, every nerve in his body set to burn. He was so deep inside you, so swollen and throbbing, and even though he’d already come twice, he was barely holding on now, just riding the edge with ragged desperation.

“Too—fuck—can’t—” he growled, hips snapping hard and fast as his chest collapsed against your back. “You’re gonna—fuck—milk me dry, baby.”

You barely got a gasp out before he slammed into you one last time and bit down on the curve of your shoulder—hard.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t controlled. It was animal.

Teeth sinking into skin just below your neck, like claiming you was the only thing keeping him alive. The sting of it only made your orgasm crash harder, clenched around him like a vice just as he spilled inside you—thick and hot, cock pulsing violently through the aftershocks, moaning into your skin like it broke him.

But Bucky didn’t pull out.

Didn’t move away like someone who just had his third orgasm in less than an hour. No—he collapsed over your back for a moment, panting, shaking, and then lifted his head, wrapped his arms around your waist, and lifted.

You gasped as your spine straightened, as he manhandled you into the center of the bed with strength that made your head spin. 

“I need to see your face,” he muttered, voice wrecked and low. “Need to watch you come around me this time.”

He flipped you over, sweat-slick hands gripping the undersides of your thighs and pushing them up, folding you into a tight mating press before you could even think. Your knees were practically pinned to your chest, legs spread wide, cunt exposed—wet and puffy and already leaking with him.

Bucky looked down at you like a starving man finally given permission to devour. And even though his cock was still twitching from the last orgasm—sensitive, too sensitive—he lined himself back up, and pushed inside again with a groan that bordered on agony.

“Fuck, fuck—hurts so good,” he panted, hips rolling slow this time, deep. “Too much. Too fucking much, but I can’t stop.”

You moaned, head thrown back, fingernails digging into his arms.

“Look at me,” he growled. “Want you looking at me when I fuck you full again. Want you remembering who did this to you. Who made you this wet. This messy.”

His hands pressed your thighs deeper, nearly folding you in half, angle so intense you could feel him in your stomach.

“Feel that?” he whispered, voice rough and wrecked. “That’s me. Right fucking there.”

Your fingers reached for him, tangling in his sweat-damp hair, needing him closer. He dropped his forehead to yours, breath mingling, mouths nearly brushing as his cock dragged slow and deep inside you—wet and squelching from how much he’d already spilled.

“Tell me you want it,” he panted. “Tell me you want more.”

“I want it,” you breathed. “Want everything.”

His cock twitched at the sight. At the mess he’d already made of you.

But it still wasn’t enough.

“Fuck, look at this pussy,” he groaned, lining up again. “Stuffed and still begging for more. You’re leaking down the backs of your thighs and I haven’t even gotten serious yet.”

Then he slammed back into you.

You whined, mouth falling open, hands scrabbling at his arms, nails dragging down his sweat-slicked biceps. The sound of his cock driving into you, the wet slap of skin against skin, was obscene—echoing off the cold med bay walls. Each thrust was brutal, hungry, unrelenting.

“Yes,” you gasped, back arching, eyes wide and wild. “Fucking ruin me, Bucky.”

He snarled like you’d just handed him a license to break you.

“Gonna stretch this pussy until I mold you to the shape of my cock,” he growled, sweat dripping from his temples as he drove deeper, harder, each thrust punching a breath out of your lungs. “You were made for this. For me. Just like this.”

Your thighs trembled where he held them pinned. Your cunt clamped down on him like your body didn’t want to let go, and it made him growl—low, animal, primal.

“I can feel you squeezing me—fuck—milking my cock.”

“Because you’re fucking perfect inside me,” you moaned, wrecked. “So fucking deep, Bucky—I feel you in my throat.”

He didn’t let up. He wanted you boneless. Brainless. Gone. He needed you raw and crying and fucked full. His balls slapped against your ass, cock driving into the tight, wet clutch of you over and over, chasing the next high like a man possessed.

“Gonna breed you, baby,” he whispered in a wrecked, breathless voice. “Wanna fuck it in so deep you’ll be dripping with me for days. Wanna see your belly swollen from how much I put in you.”

You cried out—clenching around him like your body wanted that, like it needed it.

His thrusts turned downright feral, pounding into you so hard the med bed squealed beneath your bodies. You held onto him like you’d fly off the earth otherwise, like he was the only real thing in the universe.

“You’re mine,” he snarled into your ear. “This pussy? Mine. This fucking body? Mine.”

“All yours,” you sobbed, overwhelmed and blissed-out. “Please, Bucky—don’t stop.”

“I won’t.” He pressed your legs even tighter to your chest, bent down until his chest was against yours, and fucked you into the bed like the world was ending.

You didn’t know how long it had been.

How many times he’d come. How many times you had. You were shaking, soaked, stretched so wide around him that it felt like you were being fucked into another dimension. Your thighs burned from being pinned open in the tightest press imaginable, your body locked beneath his. Sweat pooled between your bodies, his skin slick and hot, his muscles trembling with effort.

You sobbed when he thrust again—slow, deep, dragging the head of his cock along every oversensitive inch of your cunt.

“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice broken. “I can’t—I can’t—”

“You can,” he groaned, still moving inside you. “You are.”

Your tears were hot as they spilled down your cheeks. Not from pain. Not from fear. From bliss. Pure, ruined, brain-melting pleasure that had nowhere else to go but out through your eyes.

And still—he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop. Not when your walls were fluttering around him again, your cunt choking his cock like your body was begging for one more release.

“Baby,” he rasped, voice wrecked beyond repair, “I can’t—fuck—I’m so close—again—”

You were babbling now, hands clawing at his back, words slurred through cries. “Please, please, come again—fill me up, Bucky, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

That shattered him.

His hand found your jaw, gripping it firm but careful, tilting your face to the side, tears still streaking your flushed cheeks. His mouth dropped to your jawline, teeth grazing your skin before he bit down—just enough to make you cry out. To mark you. To claim.

His lips dragged against your wet cheek, breath hot and ragged as he whispered filth directly into your skin.

“You’re gonna be ruined for anyone else,” he growled. “No one else’ll ever fuck you this deep. No one else’ll fill you like I do. You’ll think about this—every time you sit down and feel me leaking out of you.”

You gasped, your pussy clenching tight again, and that made him snarl.

“Oh, you like that,” he panted against your cheek. “You like knowing I’ve come in you three times and I’m still fucking going—filling you to the brim like this pussy belongs to me.”

“It does,” you sobbed. “It’s yours—it’s only yours.”

He bit down again—right beneath your cheekbone—and his hips bucked hard, cock twitching, and then he spilled inside you again.

Hot, thick, endless—your body taking it all, your womb aching with how much he was pumping into you, filling you again and again like some primal need had taken hold and wouldn’t let go.

You clung to him, nails dragging down his sweat-slick back, body convulsing with overstimulation, your own orgasm cresting again, tears slipping freely down your cheeks, wet between your legs and everywhere else.

And through it all—his voice stayed right in your ear.

Sunlight filtered through the high, frosted windows—gold and soft, painting long lines across the floor and sterile white counters. Machines hummed faintly. The scent of antiseptic still clung faintly to the air, but it was dulled now, overpowered by the unmistakable smells of sweat, sex, and fabric softener.

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose before they even turned the corner.

“I’m just saying,” he muttered, tablet in hand, “if he exploded in the middle of the night, it’s your fault, Rogers. You’re the one who insisted on the glass enclosure.”

“He didn’t explode,” Steve replied, voice calm but tight. “But we need to check his vitals. And see if the fever’s gone for good.”

“And you don’t think maybe knocking first would be—”

The door hissed open.

Tony stepped in first, looking up from his tablet. Steve followed—and froze halfway through the threshold.

There, on the exam bed, tangled in sheets and wrapped around each other like two vines too stubborn to separate, were you and Bucky.

Naked.

Dead asleep.

His arm was slung over your waist, metal hand curled possessively around your hip. Your leg was draped over his. His nose was buried in your neck. One of your hands was splayed on his chest, and both of your mouths were parted in very unflattering, very loud, synchronized snoring.

And the sheets?

The sheets were barely covering anything.

“Oh Jesus,” Steve hissed, immediately turning around so fast his shoulder knocked into a tray of sterile wipes. “Nope. No. That’s—nope.”

Tony took one look, blinked, and quietly said, “So the mating press was successful.”

Steve groaned. “Tony.”

“What?! They’re alive. They’re breathing. No heart attack. Just a—y’know—thorough night of… clinical bonding.”

“Stop talking.”

Tony didn’t stop talking. He just raised the tablet and started typing. “Gotta say, though, Barnes is kind of a legend.”

Steve made a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a choked-off scream. “I am not listening to this.”

“You know,” Tony continued, ignoring him completely, “most guys tap out after two. Maybe three if they’ve got performance enhancers. But your boy over there looks like he went five, maybe six rounds. Give the man a medal.”

Steve was red in the face now. “Tony.”

And on the bed, completely oblivious, Bucky grumbled something about peaches and tight little throats in his sleep, nuzzled deeper into you, and pulled you even closer.

Tony paused.

“…okay, maybe a warning label instead of a medal.”

a/n: as always, if this is buns don’t perceive me!!!! I'll blame it on the fact that I had to write most of this while working a slow 12.

You couldn’t believe what was staring back at you. You couldn’t believe that your husband of many years would do something like this.

The bright screen displayed banking statements. Several hundreds, then thousands of dollars being sent to a woman you had never heard of—some lady who went by the name “Samantha Wilsbury.”

You had never heard of this woman in your life. Neither Bucky nor his crew had ever mentioned her. Bucky trusted you completely with all his banking and money information. When you first saw the five thousand dollars sent to Ms. Wilsbury, you didn’t blink an eye. You knew how demanding his job was; transactions were constant, money moving in and out so often that you hadn’t even bothered to check up on it anymore.

The only reason you started caring was because of the new transfer staring back at you right now.

Half a million dollars sent to Samantha Wilsbury.

With an accompanying message that read: “Treat yourself to something nice. — B.”

A million emotions came crashing down hard on you. This empire that Bucky had built for you, all the vows he said with tears in his eyes when you two got married, all the hopes and dreams of having a family together—all of it was thrown away in one cold and daunting wireless money transfer and a five-word sentence.

Your heart should have sunk at the sight. You should have closed the laptop, run to your king-size bed, and started crying. You should have ripped apart Bucky’s Prada tuxedos, or keyed his precious Bugatti.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you closed the laptop calmly. You put on your best dress, slipped into your fancy heels, applied your overpriced makeup, grabbed all of his credit cards designated for your use, and walked out the front door with a fur coat and the keys to his Rolls-Royce.

No bodyguard, no chaperone.

All you needed was your rage, and his money.

The first stop was Dolce & Gabbana. The Vittoria Calfskin bag. Fall and Winter collection. You barely even tried it on before deciding you also wanted the larger size in leather, and with one quick swipe of Bucky’s black card, he was already down eight thousand dollars in the span of fifteen minutes.

Bucky normally never batted an eye whenever you spent his money—in fact, he encouraged it. But despite that, you rarely splurged. You believe that spending extravagantly is a privilege, not a right. The most you would typically spend in a day would range between thirty and a hundred dollars—never over. When a few minutes passed and he still hadn’t reacted to your sudden eight-thousand-dollar transaction, you figured this wasn’t nearly enough.

You were just scraping the surface.

The next stop was Versace. You picked up a black wool-cashmere coat with an A-line cut, a mere four thousand dollars. And you might as well pick up a few pairs of pumps, right? Black wool matches with everything. So, you added a red La Medusa Slingback pump and a Gianni Ribbon Patent pump in both burgundy and light pink. While you were there, you completed your unnecessary brand-new outfit with the signature cat-eye and square sunglasses in black.

Another swift swipe of his card, and he was down another seven thousand dollars.

You knew that Bucky was drowning in work—whatever mob bosses like him do. You knew his day was going to be stressful, and adding to his stress little by little for his infidelity was going to be the perfect cherry on top.

Meanwhile, Bucky’s phone was pinging with back to back notifications from his bank.

Purchase Approved: $34,960.00 at Chanel Boutique, Atlantic Ave., Brooklyn Heights. If this wasn’t you, call your concierge banker.

Purchase Approved: $25,400.00 at Tiffany & Co., Pierrepont St., Brooklyn Heights. If this wasn’t you, call your concierge banker.

Purchase Approved: $19,480.00 at Cartier, Bedford Ave., Williamsburg. If this wasn’t you, call your concierge banker.

Purchase Approved: $50,340.00 at Jimmy Choo, Front St., DUMBO. If this wasn’t you, call your concierge banker.

He raised his brow in confusion as he stared down at the purchase history on his phone. He could never be upset over you spending his money. But he couldn’t help but be curious about his wife, who usually stayed at home and only spent money on takeout, was suddenly lavishing herself with designer purchases, all in the span of two hours.

Bucky brought up your contact information, a smile tugging at his lips as his fingers worked over the keyboard.

Bucky: You having fun, baby?

You left him on read for about five minutes, but you eventually replied.

You: Lots of it.

Bucky wasn’t the best when it came to reading undertones through text. After reading your message, he felt a strong swell of pride. His smile grew wider, happy knowing that he was the source of your enjoyment—his money, his hard work, and you were finally using it to treat yourself to something nice.

His heart raced with anticipation. Had you gone and bought yourself a sexy set of lingerie? Some more bedroom heels to add to your tumbling pile of stilettos? Regardless of what it was, he couldn’t wait to see you prance around in it.

Bucky: I can’t wait to see what you’ll put on for me tonight.

You: 👍

For the rest of the day, Bucky’s mind was occupied with thoughts of you.

He imagined you waiting for him at the house with a bright smile, surrounded by shopping bags bigger than you. He pictured you, head to toe, dressed in Fleur du Mal—a silk robe, sheer tights, and black lace. His favorite.

In the backseat, one hand clutching a fresh bouquet of roses, he used his other hand to subtly adjust himself. His erection kept pulsing in his pants as he clearly pictured the scene; you meeting him at the edge of the bed, your bare legs on full display as you walked across the marble floors in your brand-new Louboutins.

“Fuck,” he mumbled to himself, tugging at his belt to ease the growing tightness. Unfortunately for him, the shuffle of his hips only pressed his cock harder against his slacks—the friction instinctively making him throb for more.

He sat up straighter, one hand clamping hard on the driver’s seat. “Mind stepping on the gas a little? My wife is waiting for me at home.”

“You’ve got a special date night planned for Mrs. Barnes?” the old man behind the wheel cooed, peering at him through the rearview mirror.

Bucky was never one for small talk—but he didn’t mind this time. He only smiled, smoothing his hair back as he pictured your face, beaming once he stepped inside with the bouquet of roses. He had a rough day. Work was demanding, calls were incessant, Sam and Steve couldn’t get the job done right, and the only thing he wanted was to go home and make sloppy, sweet love to his adoring wife.

“You bet I do.”

When Bucky walked through the double front doors of his mansion, he expected to find you waiting for him in the foyer, jumping into his arms and marking his face with red lipstick as you always do.

Instead, he found his butlers hauling boxes and suitcases—your suitcases—down the stairs.

One of them looked up, catching their breath. “Good evening, Mr. Barnes—”

“What the hell is this?” Bucky hissed. “What is going on here? What is my wife’s luggage doing in the middle of my foyer?”

One of the butlers straightened, swallowing hard. Bucky could see a trail of sweat trickling down the side of the man’s head as he spoke. “Mrs. Barnes told us that she’ll be moving to the spare house in Santa Fe, sir. She requested that we have her belongings packed no later than—”

“Moving?” Bucky scoffed, raising his hands in disbelief, rose petals flying everywhere. “Moving? Packing?”

All of the men froze, standing there like deer in headlights. They glanced at each other, none of them knowing what else to say.

“Where is she?” Bucky asked, his voice surprisingly quiet.

None of them moved an inch.

“I said,” Bucky exhaled, finally losing his patience. “Where the hell is my wife?” he barked, his voice echoing off the grand entrance walls.

One of the butlers raised a timid finger, pointing up past the stairs. “S-she’s in the master bedroom, sir—”

The poor man couldn’t even finish his sentence before Bucky shoved past him, the sound of his expensive shoes clicking urgently against the clean marble floors. He left a trail of angry rose petals as he stomped up the stairs. His heart was beating anxiously fast, his ears ringing with the words “moving” and “belongings packed.” He hadn’t felt this anxious since his best friend Steve got shot during a job.

Bucky couldn’t believe it—you, his precious wife, the very person he devoted everything to, was going to milk his bank accounts and leave without a word or explanation.

He practically kicked the door down, finding you in the middle of the master bedroom—not in the silk robe and red bottoms he expected—but tossing clothes haphazardly into your luggage.

“Oh,” you said, turning to him and narrowing your eyes. “You’re home.” You then dug back into the closet, dismissing him as if he were one of the butlers.

He tip-toed around the bundles of clothes you had strewn all over the floors, the sad display of roses still clutched in his hands. “Honey,” he began with a voice that was softer than how he spoke to the butlers downstairs. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m leaving,” you said flatly, tossing a shirt into the suitcase without another glance.

He frowned, setting the flowers on the dresser before walking over to you. He rested a gentle hand on your shoulder, the touch immediately making you stiffen.

“Baby,” he sighed. “If you needed a little private getaway, you should’ve just told me. I can book us something right now, somewhere far with just the two of us—”

“No, Bucky,” you turned, glaring up at him. “I’m leaving you.”

All the color drained from his face and the ringing in his ears only grew louder. His vision started to blur, and he blinked once, then twice, before he forced himself to focus back on you.

“What?”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t trust yourself to speak. You pressed your lips together, keeping your head down and your eyes focused on the task at hand: packing your belongings into a suitcase. While you were walking back and forth from the closet, all Bucky could do was stand there, jaw agape and his eyes wide.

“What the hell do you mean you’re leaving me? Where are you going?” Bucky snapped, but you continued to ignore him. You moved as though he wasn’t even in the same room as you.

“Angel, answer me.”

You still ignored him. You brushed past him, your heels clicking against the floor as you bent down to pick up a stray dress you had thrown. Before you could even stand up completely, his hand wrapped around your arm, giving it a light squeeze and forcing you to face him.

“I told you to answer me, sweetheart,” he frowned. His hold on you was tight, but his voice was soft. Even then, you could tell it was taking everything in him not to shake you for an answer.

“You want an answer, Bucky?”

He nodded.

“Then why don’t you answer this—” you pulled your arm away in one harsh tug, jabbing a finger into his chest, “—why don’t you explain the series of transactions you’ve been sending to this random woman you’ve told me nothing about—”

“Series of transactions?” His brows furrowed. “Random woman? What are you talking about—”

“Don’t act like you don’t know!” you snapped in his face. His eyes widened in surprise. He opened his mouth to speak, but you breezed right on, not caring what he had to say. “Thousands of dollars being sent daily—whatever, that’s nothing. But half a million dollars with a message saying ‘treat yourself’ to a... Samantha Wilsbury? Are you kidding me? Who the hell is that, anyway? A hooker?”

Bucky blinked. “Okay, hold on—” His words died in his throat as you pushed past him roughly, causing him to stumble back a bit.

You zipped up your luggage, hauling it off the bed. “I’m not sticking around to hear whatever you have to say. I don’t care about the money or the luxury life. If the man who was supposed to be the love of my life isn’t being loyal to me, then what the hell is the point?”

“Sweetheart, stop,” he stood in front of you, halting your movements. “Stop this. You’re not going anywhere. Just listen to me—”

You glared up at him. “There’s nothing for you to say. I’ve already made my decision. I’m leaving.” You rolled your luggage, trying to move past him, and he trailed after you, calling your name, but you didn’t look back.

“Christ, baby. Listen to me!”

“Don’t push me, Bucky. Be glad that I’m only leaving your sorry ass with a mere dent in your bank account and didn’t crash your fucking car—”

“Samantha Wilsbury is a man!”

You paused at the doorframe, looking over your shoulder at him, your hand still gripping the luggage handle. “What?”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, frustration and exhaustion evident in his voice. “Samantha Wilsbury isn’t some woman I’m sneaking around with—it’s a code name. For Sam.”

You raised a brow. “Sam Wilson?”

“Who else?”

“Well—I don’t know! You don’t tell me anything!”

“You never really asked,” Bucky frowned. “And besides, I don’t want you worrying about my silly little job,” he explained, as if he wasn’t the mob boss of all of Brooklyn. “Your job is to be sitting at home, safe and sound, wearing your cute outfits—like a good little wife should.” He took a step closer, looking down at you as he cupped your chin between his fingers, tilting your head up to look at him. “Not spending all of my money out of spite without hearing me out first.”

You furrowed your brows. “What the hell could you possibly be sending half a million dollars to Sam for? And what was up with that ‘treat yourself to something nice’ message, then?”

“I sent him that money to clean out a property to protect us from an investigation,” Bucky let out a long exhale, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “And the ‘treat yourself to something nice’ message is code for a successful transfer.”

You frowned and crossed your arms tightly over your chest, still not convinced. You had seen the messages “treat yourself to something nice” once or twice—but they were usually sent to men like Steve Rogers or Tony Stark. None of which had ever been sent to a woman.

Bucky sensed your hesitation and let out another sigh, his thumb rubbing your chin soothingly, then tracing the curve of your lips slowly. “You’d really think I’d be unloyal to you—my wife of many years?” His blue eyes bore deep into yours before trailing down to your lips, then to the line of your jaw. “You have access to everything I own. My credit card information, my phone, all of my passwords. I’ve always been so open with you, angel. You know that.”

You pressed your lips together, averting your eyes to avoid his gaze. It was true—Bucky gave you access to everything. Everything he said made sense, but even as you stood here, slightly embarrassed by your overreaction, your pride was still standing strong.

You had a hard head—always so damn confident to the point you didn’t like to be proven wrong. That’s why Bucky married you.

“Well, what else was I supposed to think? You don’t communicate with me.”

“And you think this,” he motioned around the messy room, “packing your bags and swiping my cards is communicating?”

You stayed silent, your jaw clamped stubbornly tight.

Bucky gave your chin a squeeze, making your lips plump out slightly. He shook his head, clicking his tongue in disapproval.

“That’s not what a good wife does, you know?” he mumbled, his voice growing quiet and deep. “Good wives don’t think their devoted husband is out cheating on them. Good wives don’t milk their husband’s bank account dry out of spite,” he continued, his thumb probing against your glossed lips. “And good wives certainly don’t pack up their stuff and leave without a word.”

He then pushed his thumb past your lips. Your mouth closed around his finger as you blinked up at him. “Now make it up to me and suck.”

“Bucky…” you muttered, your voice muffled around his finger.

“No,” he shook his head. “I told you to suck,” he demanded.

His other hand flew up to the back of your head, giving your hair one harsh tug before holding you still as he pushed his thumb deeper into your mouth. His hold was tight, but his words came out gentle. “Be a good wife for me now.”

You never broke eye contact with him. Your cheeks slowly began to hollow out as you sucked on his thumb, letting out soft whimpers as he began to stroke it back and forth into your mouth.

“Look at that,” he breathed, exasperated. “You look so damn cute when you’re not spouting lies in my face.”

You swallowed the saliva building up in your mouth around his finger. “I… mmph—thought—”

“I know,” he cooed gently. “I know what you thought. And you thought wrong—letting your pretty little head wander to every bad thing without consulting me first.”

You only muffled around his finger as he rocked it back and forth against your tongue. The sight of you like this—hair tousled by his own hands, your plump and glossed lips sucking eagerly at his thumb, and the soft, helpless whimpers vibrating out of your mouth—only made his cock throb in his pants.

If his erection was unbearably hard on the car ride home, his cock was practically jumping out of his slacks now. He watched his thumb, glistening with your spit, stroking in and out of your warm mouth.

“Fuck,” he grunted, pulling his thumb out with a wet pop. He smeared his wet finger over your sloppy, glistening lips. With a growl, his hands started working on his belt and zipper, looking down at you with hungry eyes. “Get on your knees.”

You barely had time to wipe your wet lips with your hand before his rough hand found your hair again, quickly pushing you to your knees before you could protest. You stumbled to the floor, your hands catching on his clothed thighs as you let out a startled gasp, coming face-to-face with his cock, already hard and swaying.

You yelped as he tugged your hair back, forcing you to arch your neck to look up at him. “Buck—” before you could finish saying his name, he grabbed his shaft, slapping your soft face with his cock—it was heavy and warm.

A low groan rumbled from his chest as you winced, urging him to continue giving your face gentle slaps with his dick. He smeared his pre-cum all over your face—your cheeks, your lips—ruining the time you took to make yourself look pretty in a matter of seconds.

“Look at you, princess,” he taunted, a grin tugging at his lips. “How cute of you to think you’d be able to leave me. Got all your bags packed, and now you’re here on your knees, with my cock—my scent—all over your pretty little face.” He let out another groan, his cock probing at your closed lips. “Real cute.”

“You’re ruining my makeup,” you whined.

The act was humiliating and degrading, yet you couldn’t deny the arousing feeling that came with it. It was a shameful part of you that you knew Bucky took advantage of—and tonight was no exception.

He let out a sigh of pleasure, rubbing the tip of his cock against your cheek. “Don’t know why you’re so worried about that. You’re not going anywhere anymore,” he rocked his hips gently, the warmth of his shaft rubbing along your face. “You’re going to stay right here, on your knees, where you belong.”

Bucky gave your hair another tug, pulling your face closer. “Now suck.”

When you didn’t move, he poked his cock against your lips, nudging his tip past your mouth. Your eyes fluttered shut as you felt his length slowly slide against your tongue, your lips stretching around his shaft as he started to rock his hips. You tried not to gag as he eased himself in.

“I know blow jobs aren’t your favorite because you can’t fit it all in,” he tossed his head back and groaned before looking back down at you. “But after that little stunt earlier—you owe me this.”

His grip on your hair tightened as he nudged you deeper, bobbing your head up and down against his shaft. Tears pricked at your eyes as his cock hit the back of your throat, choking around his length before he pulled away, giving you room to breathe.

“Fuck. I’m sorry baby,” he rasped before moving your head back down, causing you to gag and cough around his cock. “You just look so damn cute trying to take it all.”

He pulled more than halfway out, letting you catch your breath before he went back to fucking your mouth, his thrusts shallow as the tip of his cock disappeared in and out of your warm, pillowy lips.

You looked up at him, your eyes glossy with tears as you sucked at his cock. The sight of your angry husband—his eyes fluttered shut, his brows knitted tight with frustration from earlier, his jaw slightly hung open as desperate groans and grunts escaped his lips, his hips rocking into your mouth slowly—it was enough to make your cunt flutter. Your hands clenched around his slacks, your tongue now fervently lapping around his dick—trying to please him.

“Bu-Buck—mmm,” you muffled around his cock. “P-please…”

He shuddered, the soft rumble of your words vibrating around him. His eyes landed back down on you—pulling your face away and drawing his hips back, his length leaving the warmth of your sweet mouth with a wet pop.

“Fuck—what’d you say, baby? Did you just say ‘please’?”

You let out a cough, sniffling as you nodded your head. He growled, a strange feeling swelling in his chest. The sight of you catching your breath and tearing up after what he’d just done made him want to take care of you—but also ruin you completely.

“Get up,” he commanded, grabbing your arm and hauling you to your feet in one swift motion. He then nodded toward the king-size bed. “Go.”

You swallowed hard, your heart beating faster in your chest. Bucky was usually gentle with his lovemaking. He never barked orders at you, only at the people who worked for him. To see him take charge like this made you move to the bed without a second thought. It scared you, but you were also excited.

You kicked your heels off and lay down in the center of the bed, but as you got comfortable, you didn’t see Bucky follow. Instead, he walked over to the dresser, pulling out the third cabinet.

He reached in slowly, digging around before pulling out a rope and a silk blindfold.

“Wait,” you spoke up, grabbing his attention. “I don’t want to be blindfolded. I want to see you while you—”

He scoffed. “Honey, you’re not in any position to be making demands now.” He shut the drawer roughly, taking slow and heavy steps toward you, the rope and blindfold clutched tightly in his hands.

“I don’t care if you want to see me,” he said, grabbing your hands roughly and pinning them to the bedpost. He ignored your whimpers as he began tying the rope around your wrists and the frame, his movements precise and swift.

He stepped back, looking down on you. “Go on,” he taunted. “Give it a nice tug for me.”

And you did. It didn’t budge.

Bucky hummed in approval. “Good. Now you can’t run away.”

He lifted the blindfold, bringing it closer to your face. You squirmed, turning your face away and avoiding the silk.

“I don’t want to be blindfolded,” you whined, writhing on the bed. “I want to see you!”

When he failed to put it on, he let out an agitated groan. With one hand, he grabbed your chin, squeezing your cheeks to force you to face him.

“And I wanted you to be a good wife and show me the things you lavished yourself with after my shitty day at work,” he hissed. “But instead, I walk in to find U-Haul boxes all over my foyer, the bedroom a mess, and my wife threatening to leave. And now you want to see me?”

He let out a laugh, the sound completely condescending, but it only made your panties wetter.

“No. You don’t get to see a damn thing, spoiled brat.”

He quickly tied the blindfold around your eyes, the black silk blinding you completely. You were stuck on the bed, immobilized and blind as a bat. You let out a shaky exhale as you heard the sound of his clothes ruffling; the careless toss of his expensive shoes, the belt, and his pants hitting the ground.

You felt butterflies in your lower belly once his weight pressed down on the mattress, his warmth and scent growing closer to you.

There was a brief, agonizing pause. You could feel his presence. He was close, unbearably close, yet he didn’t move.

“Bucky,” you breathed. “You’re still there, right? W-what are you waiting for?”

He didn’t reply. The only sounds you could hear were the light shuffle of the bed and the sound of skin rubbing against skin. Then, his breathing grew heavy, and quiet grunts escaped his mouth.

He was jerking off to the sight of you—bound, blind, and completely helpless.

“S-sweetheart, please—” you pleaded, your legs squirming and thighs squeezing together to soothe the ache that had been left unattended. “Please, touch me.”

“Yeah? You want me to touch you? After you threatened to ‘leave my sorry ass’?”

A pathetic, almost whiny sound left your lips before you could stop it. “I know what I said was stupid, but fuck, just please, just touch me.”

He crawled closer to you, his fingertips trailing the hem of your dress. “Touch you here?” His hand started crawling up underneath, smoothing across your bare thigh and rubbing over your clothed pussy. “Or here?”

“Just undress me. Do something—”

You let out a sharp gasp as his hand suddenly came up to the V-neck of your dress, and in one harsh pull, the fabric tore right through the middle—his strength ripping it apart as if it weren’t a thousand-dollar dress, as if it were simply cheap wrapping paper and he was opening his present.

“No fucking bra,” he gritted through clenched teeth, disapproving. “You weren’t wearing a fucking bra when you were out shopping in this tiny little dress?” his hands found the waistband of your lace panties, ripping that open in one hard tug. “And lace. My favorite. You were never planning to leave, were you? You were just hoping to piss me off—begging to get fucked.”

As if anything you could possibly say mattered—as if you had any pride left—you shook your head in futility. “No, I—”

Before you could finish your sentence, his rough hand clamped hard on your thigh, making you jump. Without warning, he poked his cock against your slit, his tip catching at your entrance.

You were already so embarrassingly wet that his cock head slipped inside, your walls already fluttering around him; accommodating him, inviting him in.

“Oh my God!”

His thumb found your clit, giving it slow, soothing rubs. “Fuck, that’s just the tip, and—and—shit, you’re so fucking tight,” he rambled. He slowly pushed in deeper, testing you as his cock went about halfway in.

Your cunt stretched around his pulsing cock, the burn slightly painful as you tried to adjust to his size. You wanted to hold onto him, you wanted to look into his eyes as he fucked you, but you were bound and helpless. The very thought of being spread open, tied up for your husband’s pleasure, only made you wetter.

And that only made it easier for him to slip inside even deeper.

He moved his hips, his cock slowly sinking further inside. A low groan rumbled from his chest—and God, you wished you could see his face right now. You wished you could see your husband, eyes shut and head thrown back at the feel of your tight pussy clamping down on him.

“God—so fucking…” he grunted, rocking his hips back and forth, slowly easing the rest of himself in, “warm, so hot and warm—and tight. Jesus—”

You cried out as his hand moved your thigh up and over his shoulder, your leg swaying helplessly in the air as he fucked you—this new angle allowing him to drive into you deeper. Your warm walls clenched around him, welcoming every ridge, every pulse, as he rocked his hips back and forth.

The bed started to creak as a litany of curses left Bucky’s lips; “Fuck, baby. Feels so damn good.” “Don’t want to stop, don’t ever want to stop fucking my girl.”

His fingers circled your clit even faster, making you arch your back and your legs tremble around him even more.

You couldn’t touch, you couldn’t see, you couldn’t even form a coherent thought. He had reduced you to a babbling mess as he fucked you so deep—the only thing you could do was feel.

“Can’t believe…” he rasped, the sounds of his heavy breathing and skin slapping against skin filling your ears, “… you actually thought you could fucking leave me.” He gripped your thigh harder, holding your leg up. “Spend all my fucking cash,” his fingers sped up against your clit. “And leave me just like that. Shit—this is what fifty thousand at Cartier gets you—blindfolded and tied up for my fucking pleasure.”

His nasty and filthy words made you feel warm, your pussy fluttering around him helplessly as you felt yourself getting close.

“Oh my god, don’t stop, Bucky! I’m going to—”

He let out a disapproving grunt, stilling his hips—or rather, forcing his hips to stop—and his fingers paused right above your clit. “You know what I just realized, honey?”

You gasped, lifting your head up off the pillow and looking at him—despite being blindfolded. “W-why’d you stop—”

“I just realized you haven’t apologized,” he pointed out. “I haven’t heard a single ‘I’m sorry’ leave your lips yet.” He slowly moved his hips back, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix goodbye. “All I’ve heard from you tonight were lies and demands—begging me to fuck you. And here I am, giving you what you want.”

“Bucky,” you whined, your voice rising higher in pitch the more you felt his cock retreat. “Please, don’t—”

“God, what kind of husband am I if I let my wife brat out like this?” He laughed, incredulous. “What a fool I am.” He pulled back far enough that only his tip remained inside you—just barely.

“No!” you cried, your voice shaky. You rocked your hips, trying to sink back down on him, but the ropes against your wrist kept you in place.

He gave you one very short, very shallow thrust with just the tip. “Go on, sweetheart. Tell me you’re sorry.”

One thing Bucky knew was that you were very prideful. So prideful that he’d tear down his own just to make you happy. But how much pride could you hold onto when you were lying here, completely bare and tied up, with your vision gone and desperately needing to come?

“I’m… I’m sorry,” you mumbled.

“What was that?” he moved his hips back, only half of his tip inside.

“N-no!” you gasped. “Don’t leave me like this—please. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!”

He sighed, clicking his tongue disappointedly as he withdrew completely, his cock leaving the warmth of your pussy with a wet pop, leaving you utterly empty—leaving you fluttering around nothing.

“And here you are, still making demands.”

“No, no!” you cried out, shaking your head. You writhed on the bed, tears spilling down your cheeks and dampening the silk. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry for not communicating with you—I’m sorry for not trusting you—please. Please don’t leave me.”

Without another word, Bucky grabbed both your legs, pulling them up again and against your chest, nearly folding you in half as his cock pushed past your entrance—giving you one hard and deep thrust, filling you up completely again in a matter of seconds.

“Good girl.”

You arched your back off the bed, moaning in pleasure as he filled you deeply. He fucked you harder, harder than he had before, your body shaking and bouncing uncontrollably against the mattress, the bed frame hitting the walls obscenely.

“Fu-fuck… yes, Bucky!”

“Shit,” he grunted, leaning down so that his body completely enveloped yours. “Feels so fucking good, angel.”

Your hips were aching because of the fold he had you in, but you didn’t care. You were so close, and you knew he was too. His hips started to move into a frantic rhythm, his cock throbbing inside you, his breathing growing heavier and uneven.

You let out a cry as you felt yourself come undone unannounced. Your pussy clamped down on him hard as your body shook with the overwhelming sensation. Bucky still pounded into you—chasing his release right after yours.

“God, baby. You’re gripping me so tight—fuck,” he grunted. “Shit. Gonna fucking cum, sweetheart. Gonna pump you full.”

And with one, hard, sloppy thrust, he filled you completely with his seed. He moaned loudly before his body dropped on top of yours, his hands wandering all over your body lazily, groping and feeling you as his body trembled with pleasure.

With shaky hands, Bucky removed the blindfold from your face, and you squinted, your eyes adjusting to the sudden light. Once your vision focused, you were met with Bucky’s gaze—soft, adoring, with that lazy boyish smile. It was a complete contrast to how he had treated and spoken to you just a few moments ago.

“Look at you,” he breathed, in awe. “Your makeup’s all over the place.” His finger crept up to wipe a stray tear from the corner of your eye, trailing down the curve of your jaw. He ran his thumb over your lip before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss. “So pretty.”

You melted into his kiss before he pulled away. You wanted more of him. You wanted him to hold you and you wanted to wrap your arms around him. You tugged against the ropes that bound you to the bed, giving him a frown.

“Untie me,” you requested.

“I don’t know,” he teased, smiling. “I like seeing you like this.”

Your frown deepened into a dramatic pout. “Untie me!”

“Say please,” he laughed softly. “Haven’t you learned your lesson?”

“Please?”

Bucky let out another quiet laugh, his hands coming up to untie the knot around your wrist. Once you were finally free, you let out a small wince, rubbing at your wrist from the slight burn of writhing against the rope. He frowned, grabbing your wrist and looking down at them.

“You were moving around too much, baby.” He brought one wrist up and kissed it gently, then did the same thing to the other. “This is why I don’t like using ropes on you. Come here,” he shuffled around on the bed, moving your body easily against his.

He held you close as you both lay there in silence for a moment, your breathing steadying and softening as he gently caressed your hair.

After a moment of silence, he spoke up again.

“You don’t think I’d actually cheat on you, do you?” he asked, his voice quiet and slightly breaking at the end.

“No, I—I… should’ve heard you out before going all money crazy,” you sighed into his chest. “It was so obvious too—Samantha Wilsbury is a ridiculous code name.”

Bucky chuckled, the vibration comforting against your cheek as you lay against his bare chest. “At least you had a good time shopping, right? Who chaperoned?”

You hesitated for a second. “No one.”

His hands stilled in your hair. He pulled away slightly to look down at you, but you kept your face buried in his chest. “No one was with you? You were out alone? What the fuck—I’m going to kill Walker—”

“No,” you protested, chuckling softly. “Don’t kill him—” you warned, because he would actually do it. “I wanted to go alone.”

“That’s dangerous, baby,” he frowned. “But at least you’re home safe and in my arms, I suppose. Just don’t do that again.” He sighed, his fingers running lazily through your hair again. “What’d you buy today? I want to see.”

“Oh. I don’t have them,” you said casually.

His fingers paused in your hair a second time. “You mean, you left the shopping bags in the Rolls-Royce?”

“No,” you shook your head against his chest, nuzzling even closer, preparing for a nap. “I donated them.”

“Wait. What?”

Later that week, Bucky was out on another grueling mission. He was gone all day, and curiosity got the best of you. You were scrolling through his bank statements again, and the sight of the most recent money transfer made you snort.

Halloween always made you a little nostalgic—memories of costumes, candy, and parties. But tonight? You and Bucky had conspired to do the opposite. No trick-or-treaters, no noise, no costumes. Just the two of you, tucked away from the world, movie playing on the TV.

Earlier, you’d placed a large bowl of candy out on the porch with a scribbled sign that read Take Two. Bucky had smirked at your half-hearted attempt at neighborly duty, but he didn’t argue. “Better than me opening the door every five minutes,” he teased, amused edge in his voice that always made your skin prickle.

Now, the world outside was full of laughter and rustling leaves, but his apartment was cocooned in shadows and flickering light. The Thing flickered on, bathing the room in grainy cool-toned glow. You curled against the couch cushions, glass of port wine in hand, toes tucked under a soft blanket that Alpine liked to curl against, specially when it was fresh out of the dryer.

Bucky sat beside you, stretched out in sweatpants and a black dry-fit shirt, one arm slung casually over the back of the couch, the other holding a beer on his thigh. Casual for him.

But his eyes had been on you more than the screen all night—tracking every twitch, every time you hid behind the glass waiting for a jump scare, and every laugh at the horrible special effects 1982 was able to provide.

“You’re not even watching,” you accused softly, turning your head toward him, poking his thigh with your foot.

“I’m watching,” he replied, a small smirk pulling at his mouth. Then, after a beat: “Just not the movie.”

The wine warmed your cheeks. You tried to hide it by sinking deeper into the blanket, but when he shifted closer, draping his arm from the couch to around you to pull you into his side, your pulse gave you away.

He smirked. He always did this. After a few months together, you stopped feeling self conscious that he could literally hear your heart rate spike whenever it did. And he may or may not have liked to be the reason why.

His hand started innocently—rubbing slow circles at the top of your arm. Then lower, down your back. Then drifting lazily along the side of your ribs. His thumb brushed the curve of your waist, feather-light but deliberate.

The movie played on, forgotten, as you melted against him. His voice ghosted against your temple, teasing. “You’re warm.”

“Wine,” you murmured, sipping again just for something to do while he kissed your shoulder, your clavicle...

“Mhm,” he hummed, letting his fingers spread against your side, each stroke lower than the last. “Thought so. Can taste it in your skin already.”

You laughed softly, tipping your head back to glance at him. “Taste it in my skin? What does that even mean?”

His gaze caught yours, glinting in the dim light. “Means you’re sweet tonight, sweetheart. Sweeter than usual.” His thumb stroked the hem of your shirt now, testing how far you’d let him wander.

As far into your mortal soul as he'd like, you told him once.

Your stomach fluttered—half from the wine, half from him. You didn’t stop him. You'd never.

The movie was forgotten now, you couldn't bring yourself to care about who was or wasn't the thing, you put your half-finished glass of wine on the coffee table. His hand, once idle at your waist, tightened suddenly, pulling you tightly to stay perched on his lap like you'd meant to stay there for eternity.

“Bucky—” you breathed, but the protest died the second his mouth found yours.

The kiss was heat, desire, his tongue sliding against yours, the faint sting of his teeth grazing your lip. His hands roamed—one pressed to the small of your back, the other gripping your thigh and dragging you rocking you on him while you were straddling him.

You could feel him, hard beneath you, the type of heat pressing between your legs that made your mouth water. But there was something else too—something sharper.

When you broke for air, you saw it. His fangs, peeking just beneath his lip, glinting in the dim light of the TV.

Your breath caught, arousal tangling with the adrenaline that surged through your veins. “Bucky…”

He cursed under his breath, trying to turn his head away. “Shit—sorry. I can’t—”

“Don’t,” you whispered, fingers clutching his jaw and pulling him back to face you. "Don't hide from me."

He did that the first time his fangs accidentally made an appearance early in your relationship. He'd expected you to run, scream, throw garlic bulbs at him and try to keep him away with your fingers crossed in front of you, but you didn't.

Oh no.

That night he had you on your back crying for him to stop while pulling his face even closer do your pussy with your hands tangled in his hair. A delicious paradox he made sure you experienced again, and again, and again.

"Wait, what about garlic? Do I have to keep it out of the house?" One of the things he loved most about your sex life was your ability to laugh at yourself and still have him hard as a rock.

He punctuated his chuckle with another deep thrust that made you grab the headboard to avoid hitting your head. "You can make all the garlic bread you want, baby. It don't bother me."

Your heart hammered, back in the present, each thud ringing in his ears like a siren. You tilted your head, baring your throat. “Please?”

His pupils blew wide, chest heaving. “You don’t know what you’re asking me for.” he rasped, fighting himself as his thumb stroked your racing pulse.

“I do.” Your lips brushed his ear, coaxing. “You want it. I want it. Take it, James. Take me.”

He whined—wrecked by the sound of his name on your tongue, by the rushing in his head that wasn’t just bloodlust but want. Centuries of restraint, of refusing the temptation he lived with every time he touched you, all of it hung by a fraying thread.

He leaned forward slightly and his fangs grazed lightly on your skin, just enough to sting, then pull back, trembling. “I’ve never…”

“Then do it now,” you begged, hips rolling against him as if to push him over the edge. “I want to feel you lose control.” He moaned at the feel of you rubbing against him, cock getting harder by the minute.

The sound of your blood pumping was deafening, like a drumline only he could hear. Each pulse against his tongue made it harder to resist, his lips dragging along your throat, tasting your warmth, your sweat, your wine-laced sweetness.

It was like waving a juicy steak in front of a very, very hungry bear.

He tore himself back, chest heaving. “No—no, I can’t,” he rasped, fingers digging into your hips like he was holding himself in place by sheer force. “If I feed on you… if I don’t suck you dry, you’ll be bound to me. It’s not just blood, sweetheart.”

You let out a whimper at that. Being his forever didn't sound so bad. Your pulse thundered against his hand, his words making your whole body tremble. And still, you tipped your chin up, eyes burning into his. “I’m already yours.”

That undid him.

A guttural growl vibrated out of his chest as he flipped you onto your back, the blanket falling away. Your breath hitched, but there was no time for nerves—he was already dragging your shorts and panties down, his hands rough, desperate. He shoved your thighs apart, kneeling between them, eyes black with hunger.

“God, you smell—” he broke off, mouth pressing hot, open kisses to the inside of your thigh. His tongue stroked slowly, savoring the taste of your skin. Then his teeth sank in, just shy of breaking, nipping, teasing, until you were writhing.

“Bucky—” you whimpered, every nerve ending electric.

He groaned against you, fangs sliding lower until he finally gave in. A sharp, sudden sting, and then bliss as his teeth pierced your flesh. "ah!"

You gasped, arching, the bite shocking heat straight to your core. His lips sealed over the puncture, and he moaned like he was starving, tongue lapping, fangs pressing deeper.

The pull was unlike anything you’d ever felt—draining but euphoric, like every heartbeat funneled into his mouth, every vein lit on fire. Your blood sang for him, the wine you drank earlier making it rich and heady, sweeter than anything he’d ever tasted.

His moans deepened as he drank, rough and hungry, hands pinning your thighs wide when you tried to squirm. The more he took, the more undone he became—hips rutting against the couch, his self-control unraveling as the taste of you intoxicated him.

You clutched at his hair, torn between the dizzying pull of weakness and the sharp, aching pleasure. “Don’t stop,” you gasped, voice ragged.

One of his hands slid down from holding your knee open to splay on your pelvis, thumb finding your slit and spreading the wetness around, "Mmm, fuck."

He lifted his head briefly, mouth wet and red, eyes blazing with something feral. “So fucking sweet,” he panted. “I can’t—god, I can’t stop.” And then his mouth was back on you, feeding harder, faster, like a man possessed, while his thumb found the taut bundle of nerves and rubbed lazy figure-eights on it.

Your body hummed with the stimulation, each drag of his mouth a surge of ecstasy and surrender. You felt both emptied and filled, claimed in a way deeper than sex, every ounce of yourself pouring into him.

And him—he was drunk on you, a thousand times worse than any blood he’d ever tasted. You were decadent, addictive. Each swallow set his nerves on fire, each heartbeat pounding against his tongue like a tiger chained inside a cage begging to be let out.

When you moaned his name, trembling, it nearly broke him. He drank deeper, too much, and you went lightheaded, dizzy with pleasure and loss, your body arching helplessly into his mouth.

Only when he realized your pulse had slowed beneath his tongue did he pull himself back from the haze between your thighs, blood slick on his lips, chest heaving as he stared down at you in horror and awe.

Your body was still trembling, head light, vision a little blurred as you tried to catch your breath. The room seemed to tilt around you, every nerve raw from the feeding.

Bucky dragged his mouth from the punctures in your thigh, licking the blood from his lips with a low sound that made your stomach flip. He looked wild—fangs bared, jaw slick with red, chest rising and falling like he’d just come up from drowning.

And then he bent lower.

“Bucky—” your voice cracked, half in warning, half in desperate need.

“Haven’t even touched you here right yet,” he murmured, his breath hot against your folds. His hands pinned your thighs wide, thumbs stroking up and down the trembling muscle as if to soothe the sting of his bite.

Then his tongue slid against you, slow and deliberate. The aftershock of blood loss made the sensation explode—every stroke magnified, every flick against your clit sharper than it should’ve been. You gasped, body arching before you even realized it, fingers tangling tight in his hair.

“Fuck—oh my god—”

He moaned into you, the sound vibrating against your clit, and it felt like he was drinking from you all over again, devouring. He alternated between long, greedy licks and sharp little sucks, his teeth grazing just enough to make your thighs twitch.

The dizziness made it impossible to keep track of anything but him—his mouth, his tongue, the wet heat of his lips wrapping around you. Every nerve in your body was lit up, your blood thrumming so loudly you thought he must still hear it in his head.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he groaned against you, lips glossy with a mix of blood and your wetness as he bent lower to thrust his tongue inside of you as his nose nuzzled your clit, and you cried out, nails digging into his scalp.

The contrast made you delirious—where his feeding had been sharp, draining, possessive, this was indulgence, worship to the god of your pleasure in the altar between your legs.

But the dizziness blurred them together until you didn’t know where one ended and the other began. Every pull of his mouth felt like he was still taking from you, binding you, claiming you as his.

He put two fingers in and curled them just slightly inside, reaching the spot that undid you so easily every single time. "Bucky, Bucky- fuck, feels too- ah!- much.. nggh"

He just looked up at your and took his mouth from you for long enough to let out a "Mmmm, m'girl can always take more. S'good to me." before diving right back in, even letting his fangs graze your clit at one point to tease a yelp out of you.

When your orgasm hit, it was overwhelming—your whole body arched, mouth falling open in a silent cry, thighs trembling around his head. You swore you could feel your pulse in your ears.

He didn’t stop. Not when you shook, not when you whimpered, not when you begged. He licked you through it, slow, savoring, his tongue gentle now as if to soothe after the storm. When he finally lifted his head, his mouth was slick, his lips swollen, eyes black and shining with hunger and devotion.

Then he leaned up, kissing you slow and deep, letting you taste yourself, taste the faint copper still on his tongue.

You were still buzzing, floaty and warm, when his kisses slowed, then deepened again. His hands slid over your hips, fingers curling under your shirt like he couldn’t quite help himself.

You laughed softly against his mouth, arching into his touch. “Bucky…” you teased, rolling your hips against him. “You could just… fuck me, y’know.”

The groan that tore out of him was half agony, half hunger. He kissed you harder, fangs grazing your lip again. He pulled his sweats down with your help, pushing the elastic waistband down with your feet when you had your legs wrapped around his waist.

His cock slapped against his stomach, tall and proud. Thick, veiny, red and leaking, needy to stretch the velvet of your walls around him and paint it white.

He gripped it at the base and rubbed it in the wetness leaking out of you, making you whine. "C'mon, Buck, don't be mean..." you tilted your hips up to chase the friction of him.

He nudged the head against your pussy, making you bite your lip and grin up at him.

Knock knock knock.

You both froze.

A muffled chorus of tiny voices carried through the door: “Trick or treeeaat!”

Bucky dropped his forehead to your shoulder and actually growled. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You bit back a giggle, your body still humming under him. “Guess the ‘Take Two’ sign didn’t work.”

He sat back just enough to glare at the door, jaw tight. “Can’t they read?”

"They're probably five... or fifteen."

The knock came again, louder this time, followed by a little “Hellooo?”

You dissolved into laughter, burying your face against his chest. Bucky sighed, muttering curses under his breath as he reluctantly pulled the blanket over you both. “Swear to God, if they take the whole bowl…”

You giggled harder, clutching his shirt. “You sound like such a grumpy old man.”

His hand cupped your jaw, forcing you to meet his still-dark eyes, his mouth curving into a wicked smirk. “And you sound like a girl who’s begging to get fucked into the couch the second they’re gone.”

"Why wait?"

That elicited a spark in his eyes that you only ever saw when he was gonna make you swallow your words... amongst other things.

The knock came once more, followed by the sound of little feet running off, laughter fading down the hall.

His cock was still heavy and hot against your folds, your hand still around him. His chest rose and fell hard, fangs flashing when he finally looked at you again.

Your eyes widened just as he shifted his hips, pushing forward. The thick head of him parted you, stretching you slow but deep. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, head falling back against the cushions.

“Bucky—” Your eyes rolled back as he continued to push in.

“Shhh.” He pressed his mouth to your throat, teeth grazing the pulse point. “Pretend we’re not home, sweetheart.” His next thrust sank him fully into you, the force making the couch creak.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, muffling the broken sound that tore out of you. He groaned at the sight, grinding his hips into you until your whole body trembled.

“Good girl,” he rasped, kissing your palm before pinning it back down. “Keep quiet for me.”

Another thrust, slow and heavy, made your legs shake. The lingering dizziness from him feeding on your blood magnified everything—the stretch, the heat.

Outside, you thought you heard more laughter, another knock echoing distantly on someone else’s door. But here, in this room, the world had narrowed to him—his cock sliding deep, his mouth dragging hot kisses up your throat, his voice in your ear.

“Already bound to me,” he murmured, rutting into you harder, needier. “Already mine. Let ‘em knock all night.”

You bit your lip, trying not to cry out, but your body betrayed you, clenching around him so tightly he groaned against your skin, half-feral.

“Fuck, look at you,” he muttered, voice a low rasp right at your ear. “Still flutterin’ from my bite, still squeezin’ me like you’re tryin’ to pull me deeper.”

Your hand slid up the back of his neck, nails scraping his scalp. “Maybe I am,” you whispered, breathless. “Maybe I want you all the way in, James. Don't wanna have any-fuck- any part of me not belong to you-u, oh!”

He groaned, hips stuttering, his fangs scraping a warning over your pulse. “Sweetheart, you keep talkin’ like that and I’m gonna—” His words broke off, a growl catching in his throat as you clenched around him again.

You giggled, hazy and warm. “Gonna what?”

He pulled back just enough to look down at you, eyes black, his mouth curling into a dark, crooked smile. “Gonna forget there’s a world outside this apartment. Gonna fuck you ‘til you can’t even remember your own name.”

Another slow thrust, his cock dragging wetly out of you only to push back in until his hips were flush to yours. The wet sound made you whimper against his mouth.

You bit your lip, your giggle breaking into a moan as he rolled his hips in a tight circle that had your toes curling. “Don’t… stop…”

His fangs grazed your lip again. “Wasn’t planning on it.” He pressed his forehead to yours, voice a low growl.

Yeah... you were so glad people took Halloween seriously, being loud tonight wouldn't attract anymore attention than a haunted house.

A/N: if this was buns do not perceive me okay? byeeeee