•Seraphina•

The little ding from an elevator has never felt so ominous. Wanda, Darcy and Carol scurry away like thieves from a crime scene, abandoning their morning gossip by the copier. Scott almost drops his freshly brewed coffee, fatigue instantly melting off his features and shoulders tensing up, while Monica throws her phone in her bag, pretending she’s been working all along on an already strategically open Excel sheet.

Once the elevator doors part, the whole floor falls into a silent distress. Mr. Barnes steps out with the same expression he wears every single morning: lips pressed in a thin line, jaw clenched, and a faint, permanent scowl, as if the world had already disappointed him the moment he woke up. 

His suit is always impeccably ironed, not a single crease on his white, crisp shirt. His cologne—Tom Ford’s Beau de Jour—is never too strong, but it lingers in the air like a constant reminder of his authority. As far as his employees can remember, his left wrist has never been bare: a prized watch, very simple yet tasteful, that can’t strangely be associated with any expensive brand, rests there. He’s very protective of it, and nobody has ever dared to comment on its simplicity, especially after an unpleasant episode involving one of the company's previous clients, Mr. Pierce.

The older man attempted to touch it with a grimace, as a joke, he kept insisting after. Nobody ever believed Mr. Barnes’ blue eyes could turn even icier. His voice was tinted with a subtle growl as he intimated the man to get his filthy hands off his watch. Scott almost fainted when he noticed Mr. Wilson tightly press his lips together to avoid bursting out laughing.

Needless to say, Mr. Pierce’s company lost all its deals with Barnes Investments.

Mr. Barnes walks with purpose, the same black coat gently swaying with every clipped step and tie mathematically aligned. He doesn’t even glance at his visibly fidgety employees, his blue eyes hidden behind a pair of Ami Paris black sunglasses that he only removes once he enters his office, strategically located at the very end of the open space. 

He also doesn’t greet anyone. His presence alone is a daily roll call.

The CEO doesn’t talk much in general—not unless he absolutely has to. But when he does, one either ends up walking away with a quiet pride burning in their chest, or crying and shaking in the restroom. His words are sharp and efficient. A simple “fix this” could ruin an entire afternoon. A “this is unacceptable”, a week.

The worst thing is that he doesn’t even need to raise his voice, because his perpetual glacial calm is enough to make a grown man in his fifties tremble like a fawn taking its first steps. His disappointed silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic tapping of his pen against the sleek desk, could send any adult into an existential crisis.

He doesn’t even need to walk past the desks to know what happens inside his company. Every attempt to impress him is ignored without mercy and humor is met with a slow blink, as if it were a personal insult to his entire bloodline.

Somewhere along the way, the office collectively settled on calling him Mr. Tightass behind his back. Despite that, the CEO puts equal attention in rewarding and commending his employees when credit is due. It still feels like talking with someone who has been constipated for a month, but coming from the strict boss himself, the praise is always very welcomed.

Every morning, he follows the same meticulous routine: he checks his schedule with his trusted assistant, Natasha; retreats into his office to scan the reports left on his desk, flagging all the things he disapproves of, and then closes the door behind him with a resounding bang that feels like an order to not be disturbed.

He is habit wrapped in a suit and polished shoes; an ongoing source of heart palpitations for the entire staff.

This is the environment Madison Carrell, freshly graduated from NYU, walks into two days later, with a smug smile and pink high heels, blissfully unaware of what lies ahead.

Wanda is the one designated to show her the ropes, and Madison’s first day unfolds in a tour of the office—from the rows of desks lining the wooden floor to the large glass-walled meeting room. They pause briefly in the break room, where the analyst takes her time explaining how the kitchenette works. That’s when a dull knock on the open door interrupts their conversation. There, Mr. Barnes slightly leans forward, eyeing Wanda with his usual blank expression.

“I need the volatility report yesterday, Miss Maximoff.” 

“Yes, sir. I apologize. I’ll bring it to your office right now—” He raises a palm, stopping her nervous rambling.

“No need, leave it to Natasha and she’ll bring it to me.” Mr. Barnes has already turned away when she remembers the girl beside her.

“Um s—sir, this is one of the new interns, Madison Carrell.” His head turns enough to marginally eye the girl, giving her a curt nod before he’s returning to his cavern.

“Was that… James Barnes?” Wanda’s eyes flit on the intern, grimacing at her wide, sparkling eyes.

“Yeah, that’s him. A real gentleman, as you can see.” She rolls her eyes, stealing a handful of cereal from the glass jar.

Madison quietly gasps, patting her skirt as if to ensure she looks presentable. “I didn’t think I would meet him today. I’ve been a fan ever since he was invited to speak at a conference at my university two years ago.”

Wanda blinks once, one eyebrow raising skeptically. “A fan?”

“Of course!” The blonde wheezes. “He’s a brilliant, successful man who has built this company with his own blood, sweat and tears from the ground up. You should be grateful he even glances your way.” She stares at the vacant spot previously occupied by the CEO, trying to fruitlessly contain a grin. “And he's very handsome.” 

“You know he’s married, right?” Madison’s head snaps toward the analyst, her smile suddenly replaced by a scowl.

“What?”

It’s impossible. She knows his Wikipedia page by heart and there isn't a single mention of a marriage, nor of his personal life in general.

“Yeah, and also very much in love with his wife.” The older woman nods, quite amused. Now she almost regrets telling her, nothing exciting ever happens in this office, after all.

Madison’s mouth curves up, looking almost sympathetic. “Oh Wanda,” the analyst's eyes narrow on the intern patting her forearm condescendingly. “Everything ends. Even marriages.”

The analyst simply smirks knowingly, already walking to the door. “Mh, if you say so.” She then eyes the blonde, nodding towards the open space. “C’mon, I’ll show you your desk. It’s right next to mine and Darcy’s.”

The break room is unusually quiet for a mid-morning. Madison stands by the kitchenette, pretending to tidy up a stack of colorful mugs while her ear is tuned to the hallway. 

“Move Stark’s call to Wednesday, and if he complains, remind him we received an equally convincing offer from Williams Enterprise.” The moment Mr. Barnes’ deep, commanding voice thunders in the hallway, she straightens, a toothy smile brightening her face as his measured footsteps get louder and louder, until he crosses the threshold of the break room.

He steps inside, heading straight for the coffee machine with his red ceramic cup in hand—it’s his third refill already. He presses the button, then crosses his arms with a rigid posture, his left foot tapping rhythmically. Impatiently.

Madison takes a second to adjust her locks, before she turns toward the man. “Good morning, Mr. Barnes!”  

He gives her a brief glance, nothing more than a flicker of acknowledgement, and a curt nod, before returning his frown to the humming appliance.

She clears her throat, refusing to let his disregard deter her. “I, um… I baked something. Thought I’d bring some in for the team.”

Mr. Barnes looks bored at this point, still not moving his icy eyes from the cup. 

She swallows. “They’re chocolate chip cookies, fresh from this morning. I figured you might like to try one.” As the CEO turns with his steaming coffee in hand, he almost bumps into the extended tray of sweets. He grunts, clearly annoyed at this intern’s insistence, and in that exact moment, his wife’s words echo sweetly through his mind.

“They’re your employees, Jamie. Just… Try to be a little nicer?”

With a sigh, Mr. Barnes places the cup back on the counter, before taking a cookie under Madison’s hopeful eyes. But her enthusiasm is abruptly torn to shreds as she watches him break the tiniest piece off, almost a crumb, then taste it with the air of someone challenged to eat concrete for money.

A low hum escapes him, thoughtful. He eyes the rest of the cookie distracted as he starts mumbling. 

“I wonder if my wife will bake cookies, she already made a pie two days ago.” 

Madison blinks. Why does he need his wife’s cookies? She's literally in front of him right now, with a tray full of them that she specifically baked just for him! Does he know how hard it was to keep the team away from them, then look for a good hiding place in the break room so they would go unnoticed? She had to wait here for hours, pretending to clean and look for random stuff every time a passing co-worker eyed her with suspicion.

Madison forces a chuckle, an idea quickly forming in her mind to not let the conversation die. “What kind of pie?”

His fingers lightly scratch the stubble on his chin, still pensive. “Apple. It’s my favorite.”

Her eyes lit up. “I make a mean apple pie! Next time I can—” 

“It was excellent. The crust was neither too flaky nor too hard. And the flavors were perfectly balanced.” He shakes his head, still impressed. Madison winces as he literally cuts her off, but by the hazy look in his eyes, she doubts he even noticed her talking at all. “She’s a baker, so she knows her deal. Always testing new recipes on me.”

Is he pouting? 

“I finished the whole thing in two days.” 

Madison stands there frozen, the paper tray cradled awkwardly in her hands as she watches Mr. Barnes swiftly set the cookie down on the counter. 

“I need to text her.” He murmurs, not even glancing at his cup as he moves hastily toward the door. “Tell her to make another one for tonight.”

And just like that, he disappears, leaving the untouched tray and Madison’s crushed expectations behind.

It’s not until Scott pokes his head in that her vacant stare finally moves. “Can we eat them now?”

Alright, so the first attempt to impress her boss didn’t go as well as she predicted. That’s okay! Madison wasn’t elected student body president by throwing the towel at the first obstacle.

The next occasion presents itself the following week. Wanda was tasked with drafting a counter proposal to Mr. Stark’s new project, which meant Madison could not only be present during the presentation, but also outline a section of the submission and prove to Mr. Barnes she deserves her place there—someone who belongs in his professional world, beside him, not a lowly baker.

Right now, they are on a small break after four boring hours spent discussing the billionaire’s proposal. From her peripheral vision, Madison catches Mr. Barnes coming back in the room, along with Mr. Wilson, Mr. Rogers and Mr. Stark. Her chest slightly puffs out, finally ready to spring into action.

“So I told him I didn’t give a fuck about fishing, and then he spent all night crying over his ex-wife—”

“Ask me about my lunch.” Monica balks at Madison, tilting her head.

“Excuse me?”

“Ask me about my lunch. Ask me where I bought those nice tomatoes!” She whispers, leaning sideways against the long table. Monica stares at her appalled, until their boss’ booming voice reaches her ears and her eyes roll to the sky. Of course it’s one of the new intern’s weird plans to catch Mr. Barnes’ attention. She can't believe Madison is still at it after ‘The Cookie Failure’, as Scott named it. 

“Where did you find those nice tomatoes?” She mutters reluctantly.

“Louder.”

“Where did you find those nice tomatoes?” Her yell attracts the attention of the four men and other nearby employees minding their own business.

Madison gives her a little coquettish giggle. “You mean the ones in the salad I had for lunch? Of course I grow them in my garden!”

Last week, Mr. Wilson teased Mr. Barnes about his prettily packed lunch—no, she was not eavesdropping... She just happened to be walking past his office at the exact moment highly confidential conversations have the bad habit of being perfectly audible. At some point, he mentioned that the lettuce came straight from his garden, so she concluded he must have a green thumb. 

Of course she didn't have the time, nor the patience, to grow fucking vegetables. No one would ever be able to tell the difference between store-bought tomatoes and homegrown ones, anyway.

Tomatoes were tomatoes. The internet agreed.

“My wife has a beautiful garden.” 

Madison goes still.

“Does she now?” Mr. Stark amusedly teases him.

She doesn’t blink for a moment, like her brain has briefly stopped accepting information.

“Last year she grew tomatoes so perfect the neighbors thought they were made of wax.” He pats the pocket of his black pants. “Hold on, I have pictures.” And everyone gathers around him. Like bees around a flower. Even Monica! 

“Look at the color! It’s incredible.” A few murmurs of agreement ripple through the room, no doubt praising her and her damn tomatoes.

“And these are her cucumbers. And her lettuce. And—oh, here she is mulching. She didn’t know I was there.” Madison almost has an aneurysm as a faint, unguarded smile appears on his lips. “She’s so lovely.”

Coughing, Madison raises her voice in a pathetic last attempt. “I, uh… planted some basil.”

And without missing a beat, Mr. Barnes destroys her while still swiping through the pictures. 

“My wife grows five varieties of basil.”

Then, he stops short, his finger hovering over the screen as his lips press together to hide a grin. That's when Mr. Rogers clears his throat, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. His head jerks up, blinking as if he just woke up from a dream. 

“Alright.” His frown returns. “Break’s over. Miss Maximoff, it’s your turn.”

“Shit.” Madison whispers, squeezing her eyes shut. She was so focused on looking up gardening tips these past few days that she completely forgot she also had to help Wanda present her counter proposal. Which entails talking in front of an entire board of stakeholders about things she only read in her university books. 

Suddenly, those stupid tomatoes feel like they’re crawling back up her esophagus, and a cold sweat breaks across her skin. She makes it to the massive presentation screen on unsteady legs, her hands shaking so badly she can barely grip the clicker. Behind her, Mr. Barnes stands and starts walking toward them, while the rest of the table settles back into their seats.

“Maximoff, I read the counter proposal last night. Good job. The section about forecasted performance—”

Madison perks up. “I drafted that section—”

“My wife caught five mistakes there. Be careful.” He concludes, not sparing her a single glance as he turns to make his way back to the head of the table. Still, she catches his breathy comment.

“Such a brilliant woman.”

Her fiasco at Mr. Stark’s deal sets Madison back a few steps. Well, did she even move forward at all? After a week of reflection—mostly spent on TikTok tutorials about “what men like in a woman”, a suspicious amount of “CEO mindset” content and questionable productivity hacks she saved at 2 a.m.—the intern decides to take a new approach.

It’s Friday when Madison plans to stay back at the office, knowing Mr. Barnes always finishes late on Fridays. He doesn’t like being bothered over the weekend, so he ensures everything is done before he leaves.

Silence settles heavily over the building once the team leaves, making it easy to catch the rustle of papers and the faint creak of his chair around nine, signaling he’s finally done. Her coat is already on as she stands near her desk, deliberately checking her bag as if making sure she hasn’t forgotten anything. When he finally opens the door, she lets out an exaggerated sigh, lifting her eyes and putting on her best expression of surprise.

“Mr. Barnes! I didn’t think there was anyone left at this hour.” The man stops abruptly in his quick advance toward the elevator, turning to face her. “I had to finish a few things for Wanda and I didn’t notice the time. I’m just so happy to be here time kind of disappears when you get into it. You surely get that, right?”

He stares at her, deadpan. “Who are you, again?”

Her eyes bulge out. “I—” She gapes. “Madison Carrell! The new intern!” She rushes out, bordering on a shriek.

“Right.” He mutters, resuming his steps as she quickly jogs to reach him. “No, I actually don't get that. If it were for me, I would stay at home, or help my wife run her bakery.” After pressing the button to call the elevator, he stares ahead, still looking so put together after twelve hours of work.  

James Buchanan Barnes—one of the richest, most hard-working people in the whole continent, two-time #1 on Forbes’ Top 100 CEO, and major partner at Stark Industries—longs to be a househusband just so he can stay with his wife? And run a fucking bakery?

“She’s always telling me I need to come home earlier.” He sighs, and to her shock, his mouth twists into something akin to a fond smile. “She worries so much about me. She sent me a selfie an hour ago and now I can’t wait to see her.”

Madison simply nods along, face frozen in polite agony while her bag takes the worst of it, her knuckles turning white as she crumples the poor handle. She just wasted four hours of her Friday night doing nothing only to hear the man of her dreams sing praises about a woman she’s never met, yet knows entirely too much about.

The ride in the elevator is excruciating. Mr. Barnes is too busy grinning down at his phone to entertain her, and Madison’s slumped shoulders are a testament of her crushed hopes. Once they’re outside, she notices a couple of people gathered in front of the window of a clothing store right across the street. They look like they are decorating for Christmas, strings of lights already up and various boxes blocking half of the sidewalk. Mr. Barnes shakes his head at the sight, and Madison catches it from her peripheral vision.

Of course a cranky and curt man like Mr. Barnes would be a grinch!

Such a shame she completely missed his soft smile.

“I can’t believe some people are already decorating for Christmas.” She scoffs. “C’mon, it’s still November! Who is the idiot that does that?” Turning her head toward him, her chuckle dies in her throat at his gelid expression. 

“My wife.”

Madison’s heart drops to her stomach. “W–What–”

“My wife is the idiot who decorates for Christmas in November.” His caustic reply sends shivers down her back. Madison's jaw falls to the ground, and for a moment she just stands there, toes curling in shame and cheeks flaming red. Her mouth opens and closes twice, not really knowing what to say or do in front of the man eyeing her with so much vitriol.

Maybe the ground should open right this instant and swallow her whole. It would hurt less.

“I—” 

“Goodnight, Miss Carroll.” 

“What—” She whispers, completely caught off guard. “It’s Carrell!” She shouts, but he’s already halfway to his black Jaguar.

“FUCK!”

Wanda is so engrossed in her conversation with Darcy about the umpteenth date with a loser she met on Tinder that the loud thump on her right makes both women jolt in surprise. 

It's Madison and she is... a mess. 

Her ponytail is barely hanging on, a few blonde hair sticking in the air as if she was just electrocuted. Her makeup only consists of some smudged gloss—a rough contrast to the full face she has been displaying every single morning since she set foot here at Barnes Investments. Darcy and Wanda exchange a look of worry as they spot the big brown stain on her light blue shirt, probably coffee. 

They’ve never seen Madison look so distraught in the two months she’s been here. 

“Honey, are you okay?” Wanda tentatively asks. 

“Okay? Why yeah sure! Why shouldn’t I be okay?” She grits out with a fake, entirely too big smile, while literally throwing her things on her desk. 

“You sure?” Darcy raises an eyebrow.

“Of course! I mean, my crush is happily married to a woman who apparently has a pussy made of gold, because he can’t stop talking about her for one damn second.” Her pencil case almost flies to the ground. The desk shakes under the heavy laptop mindlessly tossed on its surface. 

Her little outburst makes a few heads turn, prompting the two analysts to shoot on their feet.

“Hey, lower your voice!” Wanda whisper shouts. “I understand you’re disappointed, but did you forget said crush is also your boss?”

“No, Wanda. You don’t understand.” She growls out, looking like a feral dog. “Two days ago I had to bribe his assistant with a fucking thirty-five-dollar chocolate bar just to find out his coffee order! Do you know where Mr. Barnes buys his coffee from every. Single. Morning?” Wanda shakes her head, mildly scared as Madison leans forward, her right eye twitching. “From a fucking coffee shop on the other side of New York. It took me fifty minutes just to get there, only for him to tell me he doesn’t drink that shit anymore because that stupid wife of his says it makes him too jittery.” She mocks with a pout and a whiny voice.

“He switched to herbal tea, or something. Last week!”

“Stand back, she’s gonna blow.” Darcy whispers horrified. 

“It’s been two months and I know more about this alleged wife of his than about the fucking company! He describes her as she is some sort of goddess who knows everything! And who the fuck keeps two hundred pictures of vegetables in their phone?” 

At this point, Madison is having a genuine outburst, screaming and slamming her bag on the desk under her co-workers’ bewildered gaze.

“For God’s sake, is she even real?”

As if by magic, the ding of the elevator suspends the room in silence. Everything seems to freeze as the doors slide open, revealing a woman Madison has never seen before, cautiously stepping forward. Her A-line mini dress has a soft plaid pattern, the sleeves sheer and flowy. The skirt flares out with a gentle silhouette, half hidden under a long black coat.

The entire floor gapes, taken aback by the romantic, almost ethereal vision. There’s only one person who doesn’t seem fazed at all, and that’s Mr. Barnes, who abruptly opens the door of his office as soon as the elevator door shuts. 

“Sweetheart.”

Your eyes immediately find Bucky's as he quickly makes his way to you at the end of the room. 

“Jamie.” His own lips twist into a grin when he finally reaches you, circling your waist with his muscular arms. 

“What are you doing here, doll? It’s your day off.” He mumbles, leaving a small kiss on your forehead. His blue eyes carefully take you in, poorly concealing his appreciation for your cute outfit, until they land on your bare legs. 

“Where are your tights?” He frowns, gently tugging you forward. “C'mere, let's sit in my office so you can warm up.”

“I wanted to see you.” You hum, keeping your feet firmly planted on the ground as your fingers pull at his suit jacket, so you can drag his face closer to yours. Once your lips are brushing against his ear, you whisper as quietly as you can, hoping only your husband will catch your words. 

“They're not the only thing I’m not wearing right now.” 

Bucky’s eyes widen, before his saliva goes down the wrong pipe, sending him into a coughing fit under your amused gaze. His employees try to not stare at the scene, but it’s so endearingly rare witnessing their stern boss turn into this blushing, pliant mess in front of a pretty girl. 

“Shit.” He swallows, awkwardly clearing his throat as he quickly recomposes himself. “Let’s go, sweetheart.” 

Everyone knows that at his core, Mr. Barnes is just a man pathetically in love with his wife, still, curious eyes follow you as he hastily guides you to his office with a hand on your back, his gaze not steering away once from your face as giggles unusually fill the open space.

“Thank God she came by.” Scott leans in, addressing the three women. “He’s always more lenient after her visits.” He elaborates, mainly for a flustered Madison, who releases her expensive bag, letting it fall on the floor with a dull thud, before storming off to the restroom. Wanda sighs, slightly shaking her head in exhaustion.

The man just stares at the two analysts with knitted eyebrows, completely confused. “What?”

“My pretty little slut, coming to Daddy’s office without wearing any panties.” Bucky grunts against the skin of your bare chest, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs to keep you nice and still on his desk.

It’s been six months since you and Bucky have agreed to try for a baby. Six months of pure, unhinged, hot sex in his office. It just so happens that your husband has been at work during your fertile window for the past few months, meaning that he could use that as an excuse to have you bare and whimpering in his office for a few days a month. 

Never in his career has Bucky dreamt of actually having sex here, of all places. Sure, he fantasized about your warmth by his side during those hard nights spent here amongst mountains of documents—he, Steve and Sam worked overtime almost every day at the beginning; his company was too small and new to afford the luxury of going home at a decent time. 

And you supported him through it all, his perfect darling. 

So imagine his face when you showed up at his workplace one day, locking the door behind you before literally throwing yourself at him, your breath warm against his ear as you gasped out how badly you needed him to fuck you until you couldn’t remember your own name.

Honestly, it wasn’t his proudest moment. He ended up coming before you after only a minute top, too aroused as he stared at you eagerly riding him on his chair, a hand on your mouth to prevent any loud noise from spilling out as his employees kept working, not having the faintest idea about what was happening inside their boss’ office.

From that moment on, your little visits meant only one thing. 

“Fuck, Daddy you’re so big.” You whine, clinging onto his shoulders. 

He lets out an animalistic groan as he squeezes your hips bruisingly. “Say it again.” He growls, grinding his hips harder against you. “You know I love it when you call me that, baby.” 

“Daddy please.” He slams his lips against yours, moaning as his tongue invades your mouth. When he pulls away, he goes straight for your chest, sucking on your nipple. Bucky loves to play with your breasts, you always get so responsive when his fingers tug and flicker your pretty nipples. Sometimes he just palms them for comfort during particularly frustrating calls he gets on the weekends from bratty assholes who refuse to go through his assistant first. Or out of boredom, while watching a movie. Until you get all worked up and end up cockwarming him throughout the rest of the movie.

“Can’t wait for these to swell up, gonna take such good care of you when they get too heavy and sensitive.” His head moves, the tip of his tongue already out to give some attention to the other nipple. “Wanna taste your milk so bad, baby. Will you let me? Bet it's just as sweet as your pussy.”

“Bucky!” Your head falls back as his teeth gently graze your erect nub, pulling a little pathetic whimper out of you that echoes loudly in the room.

“Shh-shh.” Your husband soothes, his voice back at your ear, his breath tickling your damp skin. “Been thinking about your pretty pussy all day.”

Bucky sounds a little dazed, his voice hoarse with something primal as one of his hands travels from your hip to your abdomen. “You’ll look so beautiful with your belly all big and round and full. All because of me.” 

“Please.” You cry out, trembling as tears threaten to spill from the corner of your eyes. It’s too much. Everything is too much. Your hot skin rubbing against his soft clothes, his filthy words, the way his blue eyes look at you with barely concealed hunger... His big cock stretching you open for him to move as he pleases. 

“You’re so fucking wet, baby.” Bucky marvels, staring in awe as his length disappears inside you, the loud, squelching sounds heating your cheeks up in embarrassment. You’ve done this so many times, yet that sense of danger, of possibly being caught doing something so debauched in such a professional environment, never fails to make your stomach flip and your core throb.

“Everyone will know how good I fuck you, how good I am for my beautiful wife.” He growls out against your lips. “My gorgeous Mommy.”

Your whole body shudder as your tongues dance, your pussy clenching at the sensation of his thick cock plunging deep inside you. It makes your head spin, leaving you completely speechless as Bucky's hips speed up. 

“Fuck, Daddy!” A whimper involuntarily falls from your parted lips, and your eyes squeeze shut. “Fuck, too big—” You gasp out the last word, his hips giving a particular brutal thrust that allows him to reach impossibly deeper.

“Yeah? I know, baby. I know. So big you can’t even talk properly.” He smirks. “Still, you take it so good, such a good girl.”

He covers your cheeks with sweet kisses, tracing a slow path down to the slope of your neck, where he makes sure to bite hard enough to elicit a surprised squeal from you.

“‘M gonna make you a mommy.” He pants harshly into your skin, his orgasm gradually approaching when you clench again. “The prettiest.” Thrust. “Sweetest.” Thrust. “Mommy.”

“Yes yes yes Daddy please!”  

Bucky’s low grunts and moans get louder as his fingers gently rub your clit, making your eyes roll back at the blinding pleasure. Your nails almost tear through the fabric of his half-open shirt.

“You’re so tight. Shit, I can feel you coming baby.” He moans, watching you nod quickly, and his voice drops a little. “Yeah? You finally gonna milk Daddy’s cock, pretty girl?” 

Your palm slaps on your parted mouth to stifle your lewd sounds. Your legs wrap tighter around his hips, and as he keeps thrusting faster and faster, your vision goes blurry and the knot in your belly finally snaps. 

“Daddy.” You whimper behind your hand, toes curling at the overwhelming bliss quickly hitting you. “Oh my God, I'm coming!” Your body wraps around him tightly as your hole clenches down, squeezing him so hard he almost chokes on his own spit. His fingers are cruel on your throbbing nub, toying with it until your hips jerk in overstimulation. You feel that hot pleasure everywhere—the base of your spine, deep in your gut, in your walls keeping him nice and warm. It’s always this intense with your husband: he knows what to say and where to put his hands so your orgasm hits you like a freight train, leaving your body exhausted yet quivering for more. 

“Fuck fuck—Daddy’s coming too.” He grits out, his thrusts messy and frantic, before his cock twitches, spilling deep inside you. “Shit—that’s it. Take it all, beautiful.”

Your chest is still heaving when you flop against him, forehead falling on his shoulder as your trembling fingers stay anchored to his shirt. His hands move to your asscheeks, thumbs leisurely stroking small circles into your skin as he tries to regain his breath as well. Yet, smugness drip off his voice. 

“Gave it to you so good you can’t even sit up straight, mh?”

You don’t have the energy to clap back, mewling with oversensitivity as he continues to gently thrust his softening dick lightly in and out of you, the mix of your juices trickling down and soiling the inner part of your thighs. Your lips part anyway to say something, but everything dissolves into an incoherent squeak when he gives your ass a light spank.

Bucky chuckles, proud of himself, his arms moving around your waist, hugging your body closer to his. “So gorgeous.” He coos, his eyelids fluttering close as the tip of his nose nuzzles your neck, breathing in your perfume, by now impeccably mixed with the scent of your favorite body cream. 

“So good for me. Fuck baby, I love you. I love you so much.” His hands gently cradle your cheeks, tenderly coaxing you out of your hiding spot as the strong urge to kiss you takes over his whole body. “Gonna have my baby and be the best mommy in the world.” He utters between sweet kisses. 

“Love you too, Jamie.” Bucky's lips curve softly at the way your eyelids barely stay open, letting you cuddle against his chest. His heartbeat never fails to speed up when those three magic words fall from your lips. 

“Think we did it this time?” You yawn tiredly, trying to keep your voice neutral. Still, your husband knows you too well after all these years by your side, instantly recognizing that hint of fragile hope in your question, and the faint change in your body, gone a little rigid.

His arms squeeze your waist once, before he drops a kiss on the top of your head, hoping it conveyed all his tenderness for your small family. That gesture, although little, instantly warms your heart, melting the tension off of your limbs as you squeeze his torso once.

“I have a hunch we did, my love.”

She just wanted to gather more information about your marriage from Natasha in a last, desperate attempt to convince herself she still had a chance. She is Mr. Barnes’ personal assistant, the only one who gets more than a single austere sentence out of him; the only one he calls by her first name. She must know something about his personal life. 

But Natasha was not at her desk. As a matter of fact, the small hallway was completely deserted, she noticed with a frown. 

And unfortunately, she had to find out the reason the hard way.

It's impossible to not notice the intern's pale face as she makes her way back to her cubicle, slow and stiff as her eyes stay fixed on nothing in particular. 

With a gentle voice, Wanda tries to strike up a conversation. “Hey, are you okay?”

Madison simply retrieves her bag, then turns away, Wanda barely catching her mumbled words as she starts walking toward the elevator. 

“I’m resigning.”

You gape, jaw practically on the ground as you tug another hairpin from your hair, sending a large chunk of hair tumbling from the updo. “And that’s my fault?”

Bucky leans in the doorframe of your bedroom, arms crossed and jaw tensed. Somewhere between the apartment door and here, he’d taken off his tie and rolled up his sleeves. If you weren’t so boiling mad, you’d be jumping his bones and pulling him into your sheets.

“You don’t understand.” Bucky grumbles, jaw ticking as he speaks. 

You narrow your eyes, meeting his gaze in the mirror before whirling around. The last of your hairpins drop mindlessly from your hands onto the dresser with a small clatter that is entirely drowned out by the deep intake of air into your lungs. 

“I don’t understand?” Your voice is low, dangerous, arms crossed over your chest.

Bucky should feel like he’s in danger. Like he’s about to get mauled, because you’ve got him cornered. He fucked up and he knows it, and with the one move he has left, he stalks towards you. Your chin raises to meet his gaze, unknowingly pushing your breasts higher into his view, the sight of the soft swell sending his blood rushing south.

“You don’t understand what you do to me,” Bucky husks, tilting your head back by your chin. Your jaw is still set, stubborn to the very end, but your blown pupils give you away. You want him just as bad. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek. He kisses the corner of your mouth, but is deterred from your lips when you turn your head away from him, jaw still set in determination not to give into him. 

He only smiles, kissing your neck and sucking at the spot he knows turns you to mush in his hands. Bucky lets his hands roam over your curves, mapping the skin of your waist and holding your body against his own. 

“Come on doll, you mad at me?” He punctuates the question with a bite to the soft skin of your neck, soothing it with a gentle suck and eliciting a small moan from you. Bucky smiles into your skin, letting his lips brush against you as he teases and gropes at your body. “You mad at me?”

Bucky thinks he’s got you exactly where he wants you. Pliant and soft, ready to forget all of this and fall into the bed to become a tangle of sheets and limbs until neither of you can do anything but say each other’s names, lost in pleasure. 

He’s wrong. 

Bucky is pushed onto his knees before he can even think. You look flushed, dress strap hanging loosely off of your shoulder and hair messy from his touch, but through it all, despite your body begging for him, your face is set in a hard line of determination. A small smile plays at your lips, leaning down to peck his lips sweetly. He slowly flexes his metal hand, itching to touch you.

“Something you want, Barnes?” The taunt is smug and it becomes clear to you that the both of you know exactly who has the upper hand here. 

Bucky rests his hands on your bare thighs, fingertips just shy of the edge of your lacy panties. He doesn’t even know you’re wearing the lacy blue ones that drive him crazy. Yet. 

“Please, baby. Let me get my mouth on you, I’m sorry. Let me I’ll prove just how sorry I am.” 

You tilt your head playfully, pretending to consider the proposition. Like you don’t want his mouth on your cunt as much as you want to breathe. Like he doesn’t know how to make you cum like anyone else. 

Your foot lifts from the ground, still in the obscenely high and uncomfortable heels you put on to try and make yourself seem not as quite as short compared to him. Holding his gaze, you draw the toe up his leg, over his thick thigh and brushing across the bulging erection his dress pants do little to hide.

Try as he may, he cannot contain the shudder that runs through the body at your slight touch, subtly moving his hips in a pathetic attempt to chase the pleasure. It disappears as you raise your knee higher, resting your foot on his chest. The action lifts your dress enough to expose your core to him, soaked through the lace and glistening in front of him. His eyes are locked on the treat between your legs, tongue darting out to wet his plush pink lips. 

“See something you like?” You giggle, spreading your legs wider and pressing your foot into his chest to keep him at bay. A groan rumbles through his chest as you push your hips back, resting on the ledge of your dresser. “Words, Barnes.”

Bucky swallows, kissing your ankle remarkably chastely for the vulgarity spewing from the two of you. “Yes. Yes. I can see how bad she wants it, angel; you’re so wet. Just spread your legs and let me eat.”

Hungry kisses make their way up your leg, Bucky’s stubble grating deliciously against your legs. His offer is tempting, and you’ll give into him, but you need to have your own fun too. Make him feel a little bad. The sight of such a big, powerful man on his knees for you does something to you every time.

“Beg. Maybe I’ll consider.”

Bucky’s pride evaporates like smoke on the wind. “Please, doll, please. Let me get my mouth on your sweet pussy. It’s all I can think about. I don’t care about anyone else. I don’t want anyone else. I’ll die happy between your legs if you let me. She tastes so sweet. The sweetest honey. I know you want it too, I can see her clenching. Like a heartbeat between your legs, please-” 

His lewd words and promises make something stronger settle in your chest. Who needs simple when you have this? 

You smirk, holding his gaze as the kisses grow hotter and wetter up your leg. “Please, baby…” Bucky gasped, pressing his body against your other leg. 

A small nod from you is all it takes for him to surge up, pushing your dress up and and pulling your panties down in one smooth motion. “Thank you, darling.” Bucky grins, yanking the panties from your ankle and putting them in his back pocket. He attaches his mouth to your cunt and sucks, making out desperately with your pussy. HIs hands are possessive, pulling you closer to him with possessive hands on your thighs. 

Bucky’s mouth is worshipping, licking and sucking with an unabashed fervour. It’s equally worshipful and claiming. 

You can have your fun now, Bucky thinks smugly, with your hands fisted in his hair. Each groan and filthy word he says against your clit promises a long night, an unmissable dominant tone and a humiliating fire in his icy blue eyes.

That was until the self appointed leader of the group, Natasha Romanoff, decided that enough was enough. In her own words, she was tired of the drab concrete buildings in which you worked soul sucking desk jobs and wanted to explore. But she didn't want to go alone. So, she planned. She made itineraries that the group was excited about. A few helped narrow down the field to a destination of the Amalfi Coast. But somewhere between the planning stage and the plane taking off for a two week trip to Positano, only you and Natasha had actually managed to buy the airfare and split the cost of an ocean front hotel room in the picturesque town.

Arriving in a landscape dotted with colorful cliffhanging houses on the bluest waters you had ever laid eyes on should have been enough to decompress. Yet the first thing out of Nat's mouth when you had barely unpacked a bag in the small hotel room you would be sharing was: "You look like you need to relax." Evidently the charm of being in another country without having to think of emails and spreadsheets for two weeks was not enough to bring your shoulders down from where they had permanently bunched at your ears.

And that is how you found yourself herded to the five star spa attached to your hotel. The air was tinged more prominently with orange blossom and citrus oils here, mixing with the salt air of the sea that seeped in through the windows. There was a soft melody of instrumental music along with water bubbling from a few rock fountains that dotted the reception area, granting a relaxing atmosphere from the bustling of the hotel lobby just beyond the entrance.

You had been directed to a pair of plush armchairs by the receptionist and offered a glass of cucumber water along with a list of services that were outrageously priced, even for a tourist town. You supposed that the main focus of stepping into a place like this should have been the ease of which it was to relax. But what really wasn't relaxing were the prices on the laminated sheet.

"Nat I - " you began in a hushed tone, but were cut off by the wave of her hand.

"We're on vacation," she sighed taking a small sip of water. "Just charge everything to my card, and you can pay me back when you can. I need the miles anyway." It wasn't so much of an offer as it was a request to just treat yourself. Like innately, she knew that you would argue over spending an exorbitant amount of money on a ninety minute massage.

Slumping back in your chair, you knew it was futile to argue when Natasha put her mind to something. The receptionist approached shortly after, getting you both on the schedule. Her voice had a distinct charming Italian lilt that you supposed was meant to be calming, though it felt performative in a way; like everything in this over priced spa. Maybe that's how they were able to charge such high prices. If clients were lulled into a false sense of comfort at every turn, it hurt less when money changed hands.

Natasha's name was called first by a tall, muscular blonde man wearing dark blue scrubs. Before she disappeared behind the frosted glass doors flanked by two lemon trees, she gave a sly wink, her nose scrunching slightly. A secret girl code that loosely translated to her likely coming back out with her masseur's personal phone number.

Good for her, you thought. Though you dreaded if she actually did get it that you'd be spending the rest of the vacation playing tourist alone.

That left just you and the incessant dripping sound of water in the reception area, which truthfully wasn't all that relaxing when it had you debating if you had time for a bathroom break. In the middle of your deliberation, you heard your name called.

When your eyes lifted to see who your appointment was with, you now had a concrete reason as to why services here were so expensive. A six foot, broad shouldered muscular man with chestnut hair, and blue eyes that could rival that of the ocean waters of the coast was looking at you expectantly. Your gaze drifted down to the clipboard that held your assessment form you had filled out while waiting. And you were sure it was a normal sized clipboard, but it looked dwarfed being held in his hands. Hands that would soon be on your skin.

His smile was warm, and looked to be the most genuine form of soothing in the spa as you walked up to him on unsteady legs. "I'm Bucky, looks like I've got you for the next hour and a half," he introduced himself, and you immediately noticed he did not carry the same Italian accent of anyone you had encountered at the hotel.

He held the door open for you into a warmly lit hallway, with more greenery and a stronger scent of lemons. "Do you have any problem areas you'd like me to address?"

The only problem that came to the forefront of your mind - aside from your sore back muscles - was that your mind was now…blank.

And yet he patiently waited for an answer as he directed you to a small dim room. Likely having rendered so many women speechless, that this was just part of his routine when he introduced himself to someone new.

The room he showed you to only held a massage table, a small cart with various oils and towels, and the same plinking music that had been playing in reception could also be heard in here, albeit much softer. "Uh, my back kind of? It was a long plane ride," you said, finally finding your voice.

Bucky nodded, jotting something down on the clipboard he still held. "Taking care of yourself on vacation? Good girl, sitting that long can cause unneeded stress on your muscles."

The praise coming from his mouth seemed to slip out so naturally, your brain almost didn't register it. But the rest of your body sure did.

He's probably like this with everyone, he's just trying to get a bigger tip from you. You reminded yourself.

"If you'll just undress to your comfort level," he pulled the drape of the massage table back, "I'll be back in five minutes."

And with that, he was out of the room with the door closing behind him with a soft click. Truthfully your comfort level with a strange man in a foreign country should've been to add more clothes and walk out of here. Especially with the way your thoughts were racing as you pictured his hands on your body.

Perhaps you should go request a different masseuse. One that you didn't want to do things with he probably wasn't allowed to charge for. But with the way your back ached and the crick in your neck from an eight hour flight, you didn't want to wait for a different masseuse. Nor did you want to explain to Natasha why it was necessary and get teased relentlessly.

Deciding you'd like the full experience, you stripped bare and folded your clothes in a neat pile on the chair in the corner. Sliding into the cocoon of soft sheets on your stomach, you shifted the drape over your backside and as soon as you made yourself comfortable with your head on the rest, a knock sounded at the door.

"Alright sweet girl," Bucky's smooth voice reached your ears once more as he stepped into the room. "Let's see if we can't get you to relax."

This was already a bad idea, you surmised. Your body was reacting to the baritone of his voice in ways you hadn't even considered when Nat suggested a massage. Like it was reminding you of the dry spell you had currently been in with your dating life and that something or someone needed to rectify that soon.

He peeled the sheet away from your back to begin, the sudden rush of air hitting your nerves and sending a shiver down your spine,

"Cold?" He asked from somewhere above you, concern lacing his words.

"A little?" Your voice squeaked the lie piling on to your mortification. You weren't really cold, more like your nerve endings you long thought dormant were reacting to any form of provocations.

You heard the click of a button somewhere and a sudden wave of gentle heat flowed from a vent on the wall next to you. "There we go," he murmured. "I want you to be as comfortable as possible."

Some more shuffling occurred while you watched his shadow cast by the dim amber lights dance around the dark floor. A click of a cap being flicked open almost had you peaking over your shoulder to see what was going on, but eye contact would likely only heighten this one sided awkwardness you felt for the next ninety minutes.

A warm sensation dripped over your skin, and you felt goosebumps rise in its wake. Bucky's palms were on you next with a firm pressure that already had the tension floating from your body and into his palms. Deft fingers kneaded the muscles along your spine first, pausing to roll among your shoulders.

Sinking further into the table, it was almost easy to forget who was on the opposite end of the hands that you could describe as harbingers of magic. Your eyes slipped shut, finally letting out a deep breath you didn't remember inhaling.

"Good girl, keep letting go," Bucky whispered, knuckles digging into your shoulder blades and working your muscles loose. There was that praise again, made all the more intimate by the fact that you were now naked and his hands seemed to be working overtime to pull every bit of tension out of your body.

He made it so easy to relax. More so than anything out in the reception area. The aura around his person inviting and safe in a way that made it easy to let go. From the warmth of the room, the slide of his fingers, the gentle praise, a floaty kind of feeling rushed to your head. It was then he found a knot just to the right of your spine that was worked out with enough pressure for an involuntary moan to slip past the barricade you'd been carefully crafting.

And it really wasn't even something you could pass off as a momentary lapse of judgment, especially if he kept skillfully working your muscles out like he was.

But Bucky, professional as he was, never wavered even when he felt the tension rising back to your body like you had done something wrong. "Happens more often than you think," he reassured. "Make all the noise you need to, sweetheart. You don't need to hold back on my account," he said evenly, and you could hear the ghost of a satisfied smile in his tone.

With permission granted unlocking something in your brain, you sighed, letting whatever slightly pornographic sounds come out. It wasn't like you would see him again anyway to be embarrassed about it. And as you fully let go, both of Bucky's hands continued working lower now to where the drape covered the last bit of your decency.

"Your lower back is really tense…" he muttered, hands wrapping around your waist, your attention flaring to the point of contact. "Desk job?"

Your mind momentarily stuttered as you tried to get your mouth to form words that weren't 'you can bend me over a desk'. "Uhm, yeah, unfortunately. I try to stretch but…"

"I can put a towel under your hips if you'd like?" he interrupted whatever your thinly veiled excuse was going to be for not getting up and stretching for ten minutes every hour. "May help me work out some of this discomfort."

You spied him already rolling up a piece of fabric into a tight cylinder. His hands and fingers glistening in the low light looking like a sin you'd love to commit.

You nod in agreement, and shift so he can wedge the towel under your hips. In doing so, the drape covering your ass narrowed, now just barely keeping you concealed.

More oil was added to your skin and Bucky's hands returned to your lower back. You had to give it to him, the added cushion under your hips did help your spine stretch, and the oil was already seeping into your muscles, aiding in the relaxation. But now you had a different problem entirely. The towel had been placed in such a way it pressed right against your clit, the texture of terrycloth mixed with the oil dripping down providing a delicious friction you hadn't been expecting.

And just why had you decided it would be a fabulous idea to get naked? As if the heat pooling between your thighs the second you laid eyes on your masseuse wasn't bad enough, you now had to deal with the fact that every time his thumbs pushed from the swell of your ass to the middle of your spine he unknowingly rocked you just right to send sparks shooting through your limbs.

If you thought keeping your noises to a minimum before was a challenge, it was certainly about to be an even bigger struggle. Screwing your eyebrows together, your fingers gripped the face cradle harder, you dared to let out a much more breathy exhale than before. Slightly worried that if you held any further noises in, Bucky would catch on to the lewd activities happening under the drape.

It would be so embarrassing to come like this, you thought for a brief second, another airy moan traitorously leaving your lips.

That time, Bucky's hands did pause, ever so briefly, on their upward trajectory. Enough that it was obvious he noticed your sounds had changed. But he didn't draw attention to it verbally. Instead, he moved…slower.

His hands trailed down, past your hips to your thighs. Thumb digging just a touch more into your muscles as he moved with leisure.

You barely noticed the drape that had still been covering your ass was being pushed up, too focused on the way he seemed to know when to press on your lower back to get another inappropriate sound out of your mouth. On the next pass, Bucky's fingers grew bolder, dipping between your thighs and nudging your legs apart.

It eluded you that his thumbs were getting closer and closer to where you were now dripping on every pass. Rational thought had long since flown out the window with the way he was slowly rocking you against the towel.

At least…until he drifted experimentally. Two fingers slowly and precisely slipped directly between your thighs ever so slightly relieving the ache that had been building since you had put your body in his very capable hands. It was too deliberate, yet slightly timid to be considered an accident. Much like the soft moans he had elicited from you moments earlier.

Your eyes flew open, breath catching as he did it again. Two fingers mindfully stroking your clit like he was testing your reaction. "I can stop," he said easily once you met his piercing blue eyes over your shoulder, pausing his ministrations but not taking his fingers away. "But I am very good at my job."

You were aware that you could say no. Surely such a posh and highly rated establishment would not survive if such acts were being performed under duress.

You were also aware that while you could…you had absolutely no intention of asking him to stop. Much like when you gave yourself grace by letting your mouth fall open, moans flowing freely, you rationalized that you were on vacation. You were never going to see this man again, and your body was wordlessly begging your mouth to just say yes. Shifting to tilt your hips in a silent dare for him to keep going, you both performed a staring contest in the soft light. But you realized quite quickly that he wasn't going to move again until you said something verbally.

Letting out a shuddering breath, and throwing all caution to the wind along with the last of any rational thought, you imperceptibly shook your head and gave a shaky whisper of "don't stop."

A slow grin spread across his face, a spark of delight as he gingerly tossed the drape to the side. There was no use for it now, considering it had turned into a small sliver that covered nothing.

"Turn over for me, sweet girl, if we're doing this, let's do this right," he murmured, giving a slight tap to your clit before withdrawing, a gentle hand coming to your hip to help maneuver you to your back.

With shaky arms and his guidance, you adjusted. The towel you had been grinding against was also discarded quickly, all the better so you didn't see the mess you had likely caused. Bucky's hands were on you again, steady, but sure, working their way slowly back up your thighs like he was still giving you the chance to back out.

"Beautiful," you swore you heard him whisper above the low music that was still faintly playing in the background. Heat spread from your chest to your ears as you chanced a glance at him while his fingertips made their journey back between your thighs. But his eyes, dark and hooded, were fixated on the dance of his hand moving closer to your center.

You let out a small 'oh' the second he circled your clit, thighs parting further — an invitation to keep going while your fingertips dug into the table. Eyes falling closed, your body arched into the movement, rocking without abandon now that it wasn't something you were trying to hide.

He had not been over exaggerating, he was very good at his job. Executing just the right amount of pressure on the bundle of nerves, every so often dipping to gather the slick now freely dripping from your cunt and tease your entrance. Like he was a lover made just for you, and had learned every single way to provide the highest amount of pleasure to make your head spin.

"When's the last time she was taken care of, hmm?" his voice was closer than it had ever been, your eyes flew open again to see he had moved so his torso was hovering over yours, hand that wasn't performing magic between your thighs braced next to your head.

Fuck, his eyes were more disarming up close. Two shimmering pools of bright blue reflected what could only be described as starlight from the ambient lamps.

Did you really want to admit to a stranger how long it'd been since the last time anyone touched you like this?

"Uh…" you stammered, "haven't really…been awhile."

Real smooth. But what were you meant to say when words were drowning before they had a chance to form?

A gentle, compassionate look crossed his features. "Tsk, you can't neglect something as precious as this sweetheart."

With that, he finally pushed a long finger past your entrance, the stretch sudden causing a needy whine to travel up your throat.

"There you go. Just relax for me…" he whispered the command right against the skin of your cheek, and to your credit, you really did try. But the coil in your lower belly was tightening further and further.

Another unabashed moan slipped past your lips as he added a second finger, your jaw going slack from the sudden stretch while your fingertips dug further into the table to the point your knuckles ached. "I'm trying," you protested, though several parts of your body were continuously clenching.

Above you, a deep rumble vibrated from Bucky's chest. His hand that had been planted next to your head reached for yours, working your grip free of the table. Your fingers interwove with his creating a far more intimate connection than you had been braced for.

"Keep trying sweetheart, you can do it," he coaxed, leaning further in until his lips were right next to yours. While his hands and words were confident, there was a hesitation in the movement of his lips. Like he was a man who was afraid of pushing too many boundaries.

Your fingers squeezed his once his thumb pressed deliberately onto your clit, back bowing off the table while your thighs spread further, one ankle falling carelessly over the edge. "You're so close," he whispered, lips finally meeting the corner of yours. "Can feel it in the way she's squeezing me."

"Mhm," you managed to whine, lips chasing his automatically when he went to pull away.

There was barely a second of hesitation and his mouth was on yours, greedily drinking in the sounds of pleasure as he pushed you closer and closer to release. He tasted of bergamot, lemon and sea salt, like the personification of the small town itself.

It was like something snapped between you the second your lips collided. Something untamed finally being set free after being unfairly caged. Your hand flew to the nape of his neck, drawing him in closer, enough that with the angle, he had to withdraw his fingers from your cunt so he could steady himself above you.

You wanted to grumble at being denied, body clenching desperately around nothing. Until Bucky adjusted, knee finding the bare space of table between your legs. With a slight bounce, his large form soon eclipsed yours as he settled into a comfortable position. All the while, his lips never really ceased contact with yours. Exploring parts of you that you hoped he never dared venture with other clientele.

But any unfounded jealousy you may have stumbled upon exited your mind the second he pressed his hips to yours. The hard, throbbing ridge of his erection had your mind reeling. It hadn't really even occurred to you that he could be as affected as you were, needing his own form of tension relief. Perhaps the soft dark blue scrubs he wore were intentionally chosen to hide such things.

Your legs bent at the knees, drifting to either side of his torso until you cradled his lower body with yours. A sound came muffled from his throat, his teeth sinking into the plush flesh of your lower lip when your hips twitched upwards, bare pussy dragging across the outline of his cock that sent fire rushing through your belly.

Your free hand fisted into the hem of his top, thoughts running rampant of how you planned on daydreaming about ripping this very top off when you got back to your hotel room to now being able to experience the real thing. His hips moved in needy, urgent circles, the head of his cock catching your clit every so often causing your thighs to clench around his frame harder. His movements were so delicate, so restrained, you wondered if he was reconsidering.

Testing the already flimsy boundaries, your hand released his top, moving to rest on the warm skin of his abdomen. A shudder radiated from where your palm was placed as the weight of him sunk deeper onto you. Your hand explored further, your own hips canting up to meet his; soaking the front of his pants with your slick. Fingernails scratched into the hard wall of muscle, contracting like claws with each slow grind.

When you reached his shoulder, Bucky released his grip on your hand, yanking the fabric off and discarding it. It had been one thing to imagine what he looked like underneath the navy blue top. It was another thing in itself to see it in the ambient lighting of the massage room. The flickering candles on the shelves reflected shadows on every crevice that had to have been honed by hours in the gym. Both hands now moved of their own volition, traipsing up the dips until they smoothed over the light dusting of hair along his chest.

"Seems only fair I suppose," he chuckled softly, watching your hands explore. "That you get to feel me up now instead of the other way around."

You felt your cheeks heat once more, moving to withdraw your touch. But, Bucky moved quicker, gripping your wrist and placing a soft kiss to the delicate inside with a smirk.

"Knew you were going to be special the minute I laid eyes on you," he whispered, tugging your wrist until your hand landed at the nape of his neck again, your fingers carding into the soft hair.

"Bet you say that to every girl who walks in here," you mumbled, gaze darting to where his other hand was palming his erection through his pants that were slick from where you had been grinding against him.

A short laugh flitted from his lips, pulling the waist of his pants down further until his thick cock was freed. "I do, but none of them have ever gotten to do this though," he admitted gently, running the tip of his cock already leaking with precum through your folds.

The meaning behind his words barely registered when your eyes were still glued between your bodies. His large hand was wrapped around the thick shaft as he fucked into it, tip gliding through your aching pussy until it kissed your clit and withdrew again.

The motion continued, teasing away what little self restraint you had left with each dip that barely caught at your entrance. A frustrated exhale escaped your lips, looking back up to meet Bucky's eyes. "Can you just - " you huffed as he slid through even slower, like he had all the time in the world yet you knew the ninety minute session would have to end sooner or later.

The corner of his mouth pulled up again, head dipping so his nose brushed yours. "Patience sweet girl," he murmured against your lips. "Don't wanna rush this."

Your leg wrapped higher on his hips wondering if your strength could out match his. But his grip found your thigh, fingers digging into your flesh to keep you from using your muscles in an attempt to get what you want. His hand released his cock, letting it fall heavily onto your hip so he could cup your jaw.

"Breathe with me, okay? In," he inhaled, your lungs expanded on command, chest rising to meet his.

"And out," he exhaled, lips brushing yours intimately while your breaths mingled, his hips adjusting so you felt the nudge of his tip at your entrance.

You really should have expected him to press in the next time he coaxed you to inhale, yet the stretch of him finally filling you completely and slowly was something no amount of breathing exercises could've ever prepared you for.

A loud whimper tore through from your throat while you adjusted to his size, the hand at the base of his neck gripping a bit tighter to steady yourself. Bucky hiked your leg up further, hooking it around his hip — freeing up his other hand to completely cradle your face, elbows tucking under your shoulders while he settled his weight onto you. An intimate gesture you least expected, from someone who was a stranger a little more than an hour ago.

He hadn't even really moved yet, letting your bodies get acquainted; muscles clenching around his throbbing cock while his thumbs slowly brushed over your cheekbones. Every breath leaving your mouth was shallow, attempting to get air to your lungs while every other nerve ending was just concerned with pleasure.

Your fingernails found solace digging into the taut muscle of his bare back, clinging to reality as he finally buried every inch in. Eyes watered as you held his stare of concern marred behind feral need. "Breathe sweetheart," he reminded you once again, thumbs never ceasing the calming movement against your skin.

The table swayed gently with the start of his hips rocking. The ridges and veins of his cock massaging the most intimate and sacred parts of your body.

Needy deep grunts and soft breathless moans soon filled the room, articulated by the whisper of your skin connecting and the nature sounds that were once meant to be relaxing. They now only fueled a delirious fantasy, mixing with the heat rising. Where the room melted into something far more primal and less composed than anything the upscale spa had offered in their list of services.

His strong hands continued to keep your head tilted up. Every desperate thrust into your already fluttering pussy, still aching for the release he denied you earlier had your eyelids dropping. But his hypnotizing eyes that watched every flicker of pleasure on your features were hard to stay away from for long.

"Come on now, darling, let go of that last bit of tension," he breathed softly, head dipping to your collarbone so his lips were right next to your ear with another deep thrust that had stars bursting in your vision.

Words seemed fleeting, as much as you wanted to say for the umpteenth time that you really were trying, but the bliss washing over your body in waves was hard to release. Nothing would have made you more content than to stay in this haze of citrus scented oils.

"So stubborn." You swore you heard him huff, trailing a hand between your bodies where his thumb found your clit, massaging gently.

Entire body locking from the jolt caused a gasp to punch out from your lungs. Thighs and arms wrapped tighter around him, nails digging further into his skin until you were sure the half moons would become a permanent feature to his otherwise flawless body.

"There you are, now let it all go." Bucky's teeth grazed the column of your neck, thumb picking up speed in time with his pace that was becoming erratic. Pleasure finally crested through your nerve endings, flowing to every limb and ligament as you fell over the edge. Saliva pooled on your tongue, eyes finally falling closed to surrender to the sensations. His lips found yours again, an intimate gesture designed to bring you back to the present. He groaned deeply, a tremor rumbling through his entire body as you felt the throb of his own release flare into yours.

Bucky pulled back from the crook of your neck, hair that had been perfectly styled now fell in front of his wild eyes while realization crashed down on both of you. A sudden dawning of what just happened probably…should not have happened. Your limbs were still limp, muscles melting into the table in a sensation you had missed for too long.

"Am I - uh - going to have to pay extra for that?" you asked in an attempt to diffuse the situation, breath still ragged.

He laughed, low and genuine, brushing a piece of your hair back from your forehead. "Nah, we'll keep that off the books."

You giggled in response as he carefully maneuvered off of the table. You propped up on your elbows, accepting a clean sheet he handed in your direction, like he knew your body was already growing colder without his to keep you warm.

"When do you leave?" he asked sincerely, donning a fresh scrub top. Eyebrows drawn together in earnest.

You really hadn't been expecting him to all of a sudden seem so vulnerable, for someone who got you to the position you were currently in with such quiet confidence. "Oh, we're here for two weeks."

He nodded, looking now at a planner that was splayed open on the small counter. "Do you…want to come back tomorrow? I can take you to dinner first and then I can get you another…more appropriate session."

He tripped over his words as he asked, endearing in a truly charming way. "Yeah," you agreed easily, swinging your legs off the side of the table. "I'd like that."

Bucky's shoulders dropped, relief flooding over his features. "Great," he smiled, handing you a business card. "I've, unfortunately, got another appointment I need to get ready for, but I'm looking forward to it."

"Hope it's not one just like this?" you asked, turning the card around in your fingers to see what you assumed was his personal cell phone number scribbled in a margin.

"No," he chuckled again. "This was a…uh…first for me."

Natasha was already in the reception area when you drifted through the frosted glass doors. Everything that had first annoyed about the corporately saccharine decor was muted, the only thought on your mind was when you would get to see it again.

"So?" Natasha asked, a perfectly manicured eyebrow raised as she scrutinized your sudden glow. "How was it?"

You accepted another small glass of cucumber water, settling beside her. "Amazing. I'm coming back tomorrow."

The redhead's eyes narrowed at that, her tongue swiping over her bottom lip. "Is that so? And here I thought this was meant to be a girls trip?" she teased, nudging your foot with hers.

"Weren't you the one who said I needed to relax?" you shot back, briefly flashing the business card before tucking it back into your pocket with a playful smile. "Not my fault the relaxation method doesn't fit your definition of a girls trip."

After Chirps: Okay, maybe I did have more to say??? I hope you liked this one! But I'd be remiss if I didn't link the masterlist post for the collab, and let y'all know that along with all of the other scrumpdillyumptious fics coming, my veterinarian Bucky fic comes out in less than a week! As proud as I am of this one, that one is my baby and I can't wait to share it ❤️

Everything Taglist: @overwintering-soldier @stanmarvelous @wint3rbarnes @barnes-babydoll @defn0tonyourleft @herejustforbuckybarnes @stesha02 @sheriff-bodecker @wherewinterblooms @miraclediviner @tw1sters @bucksbby @daddysbitchybaby @metal-armed-muse @avgdestitute @imtoooldforthis82 @daydreamgoddess14 @hailmary-yramliah @nachtigall127 @heavenchana @ornateglass @steelandvibranium @stkmaprang @yourmomoclockit @misswhiddless @mariamorales1998 @mistressmkay @ladymiseryy @my-drvidess @alli0-0 @buckyscaptain

Bucky Only: @thegirlwhowaited5everok @phantom-wolf-girl @optimisticchildtyrant @sassandscribbles @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @procrastination20 @mathcat345 @highhopes1008 @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @scarletkanami

Stan Characters Only: @iamthatonefangirl @cassity357 @erina00 @buckytakethewheel

NOTE: Each story was created based on the prompt but includes other kinks and warnings. There are very dark themes involved in some of the stories. Please be sure to review every warning thoroughly before reading. Reminder that fiction is fiction.

✾ — Unrestricted View (Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes)

Prompt: Voyeurism Summary: Being horny and alone in a security room where Bucky has a fantastic view of your ass in those ridiculously tight leggings may be his last straw.

✾ — Seized (Lee Bodecker)

Prompt: Uniform Kink Summary: Sheriff Bodecker's innocent nightly visits take a turn when he finally steps into your home and gets a taste of you.

✾ — Hands Up (Mickey Henry)

Prompt: Cuckolding Summary: With two strikes with the Greek police, you can't risk a third, so you negotiate a compromise with them.

✾ — Raw Feed (Camboy!Bucky Barnes)

Prompt: Exhibitionism Summary: Bucky can't resist you when you're begging to suck him off when he's live in front of thousands of viewers. Your first feature film with the renowned camboy.

✾ — Care for You (Nick Fowler)

Prompt: Incest (Stepcest) Summary: The worst (and best) thing your mother has ever done to you is marry this man and give you a mysterious, handsy stepbrother.

✾ — Point Blank (Lee Bodecker)

Prompt: Gunplay Summary: To avoid a bullet through your head and another trip to prison, you give the good sheriff a show.

✾ — Control Alt Desire (Stalker IT Guy!Bucky Barnes)

Prompt: Manipulation Summary: He knows it's wrong, but he can't help it. He's in love with you. Alternatively, your IT guy watches you, then gets you to fall in love with him.

✾ — Off Hours (Bucky Barnes + Howling Commandos)

Prompt: Free Use Summary: The war is tough on everyone, but particularly the Howling Commandos, who have the world on their shoulders. You're there to make their job a little easier, particularly Sergeant Barnes.

✾ — Split (Lance Tucker)

Prompt: Somnophilia Summary: When the spotlight is gone and all that's left is you and him, Lance can't resist indulging himself in you.

↤ Main Masterlist

A/N: I knew I couldn't commit to a full month of filth so eight days is my version of a light kinktober! Hope you enjoy all the stories. Reblogs/likes are greatly appreciated :)

A/N 2: Clearly have zero self control when it comes to Seb so now it's nine days of filth!

Twigs and dark leaves crunched beneath the heavy stomp of your boots, each step forcing you to draw a ragged, tired breath from your overworked lungs.

Your hands gripped the straps of your backpack; the fishing gear inside clinking inside as the weight pressed into your aching spine.

You had set out with friends, a group of self-proclaimed ‘natural adventurers.’ In hindsight, that confidence was your downfall. You had done the one thing every horror movie and survival guide warns against—and that was splitting up.

From there, the trip spiraled.

You lost signal, then your footing, and somewhere in the frantic scramble through the bushes and trees, you had lost your phone.

Now, deep within the woods under a sky of oppressive gray clouds, your legs were beginning to give out. But as you shoved past a dense thicket of damp leaves, the greenery finally parted.

There, nestled in the distance, sat a small cabin. A thin ghost of smoke drifted from its chimney, dissipating into the moist air.

Finally. A small, breathless prayer to whatever deity was watching over you. You weren’t alone out here after all.

The cabin looked small from a distance, but up close, it was plenty big enough to house a whole family.

Your body surged with a newfound spark of motivation at the possibility of finally finding salvation. Maybe they had a functioning phone you could use to call for help—or better yet, a truck to drive you back to the closest town, even if it was miles and miles away.

That hopeful feeling made the gear digging into your spine feel a little lighter as you trudged uphill past the rocks and bushes, closing the gap between you and the house.

As you got closer, you took in the land.

Chopped logs were piled messily at the side of the building. There was a long, wooden table with a large cutting knife sitting on top—presumably where the family cut and prepped their meat.

Drawing in a deep breath of encouragement, you carefully climbed the first few steps of the entry stairway. You reached the porch and raised a hand to knock on the heavy wooden door.

“Hey! Who the hell are you?”

You spun around.

A man was stomping toward the porch, a fresh pile of logs tucked under one massive arm and a grime streaked axe slung over his shoulder. He was intimidating, to say the least. His features were hard and unwelcoming, framed by matted, dark hair and an unkempt beard that shadowed a sharp jawline. A sweat stained red henley clung to his broad chest and muscular forearms, which were mapped with the scars of years of manual labor.

His cold blue eyes pinned you to the spot, glaring at you with pure, unadulterated hostility.

“U-um,” you stammered, taking a quick step away from the door. “I mean no harm, sir. I’m just here to—”

“Get the fuck off my property,” he growled.

He dropped the logs—but kept a firm grip on the axe—as he marched toward you, his heavy boots grating against the dirt.

Jesus Christ. What did you get yourself into?

Just when you thought you’d finally found help, it was just your luck to stumble across an axe-murderer instead.

You quickly scrambled down the steps, raising your hands to show you came in peace.

“Sir, please!” you winced, trying to stand your ground. “I’m lost. I… I promise you. I was out on a fishing trip and I—”

“I don’t believe you,” he hissed. He approached just enough to get a good look at you, yet staying just out of arm’s reach. He nodded toward the heavy pack on your back. “Take it off.”

“… Excuse me?”

“Remove your backpack,” the man clarified harshly. “If you mean what you say, then you should have no problem with me goin’ through your stuff.”

With a hard swallow, you slowly removed your backpack as instructed. It was far too heavy to carry with just two arms, but as you strained to pass it to him, he snatched it out of your hands in one quick motion. You couldn’t help but wince at both his strength and rudeness.

He set the axe on the ground, and you finally let out a small breath of relief. He began to rummage through your pack, taking note of the fishing rods and reels, and digging through the fishing lines and tackle boxes filled with various lures. He sifted through the other emergency supplies—a flashlight, a couple of granola bars, and some first aid stuff— a bottle of rubbing alcohol and bandaids.

“See?” you huffed, a little spark of pride returning to your voice. “I told you. I was out on a fishing trip and I got lost—”

“Hands up,” he instructed, stepping toward you. “I’m goin’ to pat you down.”

You blinked. “Pat me down?” you repeated in disbelief. “For what—!”

Before you could even finish the sentence, and long before you gave him permission, two large, rough hands gripped your arms and started patting down your sleeves. You squirmed a little under his touch, but that didn’t stop him. His hands then moved to your waist, patting firmly through the fabric of your clothes.

To save yourself from the awkwardness of the inspection, you cleared your throat and gave him your name.

“…What’s yours?” you then asked.

He ignored you.

Your breath hitched and your face grew warm as his hands continued further down—to your hips, and then between your legs.

Once the man was satisfied that you weren’t a threat, he pushed himself up with a groan and finally looked you in the eye.

“Bucky.”

“Bucky,” you repeated softly. “Great. Well, now that we’ve got all this…” you motioned to yourself and your bag that he left on the ground, “sorted out, do you have a telephone I can use to call my friends?”

Bucky’s dull expression didn’t change. “No phone.”

He didn’t bother to elaborate, either.

He reached down, snatched his axe off the ground, and headed back toward his pile of wood. Thunder started to crackle in the heavy clouds above you as you hurried to grab your pack, stumbling slightly as you tried to keep up with him.

“W-wait, okay—no phone. Fine. But do you have a vehicle or something? A ride to take me back to the nearest town, perhaps?”

“No ride,” was all he said, his voice flat as he started tossing the logs into the existing pile.

What?

No ride?

You couldn’t tell if this man was telling the truth—or if he was using these clipped, short answers just to fuck with you. But as you watched him lift his axe and deliver a swing to a log with perfect precision, you realized maybe this guy didn’t have time nor energy to play around.

That conclusion was almost worse than him joking.

“I’m sorry, you don’t have a functioning phone and you don’t own a vehicle?” you questioned in disbelief. “Then how do you get around?”

You could see the irritation building in his already grumpy features.

“Everythin’ I need is right here,” he grumbled. “Catch my own food. Build my own house. Don’t need to rely on anybody else.”

Your heart started to race as panic settled in.

“Do you know where the nearest town is?” you asked, your hands tightening around the straps of your pack. “Maybe I can get there before sundown—”

Bucky looked up at the sky, taking in the thick clouds and the moisture building in the air, before he looked back down at his logs. He delivered another hard chop before answering.

“Not a good idea,” he mumbled. “Looks like a storm is comin’.”

The forecast before you left this morning had promised a sunny day—but with the clouds thickening, the possibility of rain wasn’t low.

Still, a storm sounded like an exaggeration. A light trickle, at most.

“Can you please just tell me where the closest town is? The sooner you tell me, the faster I’ll get out of your hair.” You pressed.

He set the axe down and wiped the sweat streaking his forehead with his dirty forearm. He looked at you, letting out a slow, impatient breath.

“To the south,” he pointed behind you. “Go straight until you hit the road, then make a left. Though if you leave now, you’ll get caught up in the storm ‘fore you even make it to the street.”

You looked in the direction he was pointing—all you could see was a thick density of bushes and trees. You glanced back at him and gave him a short nod.

“Thank you, sir,” you said, though you hardly meant it because he had hardly been helpful.

As you began to turn and tread through the brush toward the south, Bucky called out, making you pause for just a second.

“I’m tellin’ you, lady, s’not a good idea to leave now,” he warned. “There are some dangerous animals out there—and the storm ain’t goin’ to do you any favors.”

You didn’t listen. You had to get back home. Adjusting your heavy pack and pushing through the dense treeline, you left both the man and his warnings behind you.

For the first twenty minutes, you felt pretty confident.

The woods were quiet, and though your legs were on fire and your back was aching, you felt like you were making good progress.

Then, the first cold drop hit the back of your neck.

A light trickle followed, tapping against the leaves above you. Within minutes, the sky seemed to open up entirely. The ‘light trickle’ you had predicted transformed into a heavy downpour, turning the forest floor into a messy slurry of mud that made your boots slip with every step.

The wind began to pick up, howling through the branches and making the trees groan around you. You squinted through the fog and the heavy curtain of rain, realizing you couldn’t see more than ten feet in any direction.

You were shivering, your hair was completely drenched, and your clothes were soaked through to the bone.

Just keep going straight, you told yourself. As long as you keep going straight, you'll be fine.

Then, a low snarl crept up behind you—and that sure as hell didn’t come from the wind.

Your whole body froze. To your right, partially obscured by dense ferns, a lean, gray shape shifted. It wasn’t a coyote—no, it was far too large. It was a gray wolf, its fur matted and dark with rain, stepped into the small clearing.

“Oh… my god,” you breathed to yourself.

Your heart was beating so fast you couldn’t hear anything else. Every survival tip you had ever read vanished from your mind; the only thing you could think to do was run.

And that’s exactly what you did.

The moment your heels spun, the forest became a blurry nightmare. Your heavy pack bounced violently against your spine as you bolted, not even daring to look back. You just ran and ran, your lungs burning with every inhale.

Then, like an idiot, your boot hit a mud covered root.

Your heart leaped into your throat as your feet slipped out from under you. You let out a sharp gasp, tumbling forward until your shoulder collided hard with the trunk of a thick oak tree. The impact knocked the wind clean out of you, leaving you gasping and dazed in the mud.

A hungry growl vibrated through the air, cutting through the roar of the pouring rain. You looked up just in time to see the gray mass of the wolf taking eager steps toward you, its jaws snapping for your throat.

In a blind, frantic panic, your hand slapped against the side pocket of your backpack. Your fingers curled around the cold canister of bear spray you packed but never actually used.

You ripped it out clumsily, shoved it forward, and squeezed the trigger.

A cloud of stinging orange mist exploded into the air. The wolf’s head snapped back as it landed a few feet away, pawing at its face and whining as the chemicals hit its sensitive nose and eyes.

You scrambled to find your footing, your hands shaking so hard you could barely push yourself up. Just as you were about to make another break for it, a massive shadow blurred past you.

“You idiot!” he hissed angrily, his voice a ragged pant. “What did I tell you!?”

Bucky.

Anger clouded his face, his chest heaving as he gripped a knife in one large hand. Without hesitation, he launched himself at the disoriented animal. As he pounced, the wolf lashed out, its claws swiping across Bucky’s leg.

He let out a pained yell. “Ah, fuck!”

It seemed like he had done this a dozen times before, adjusting his heavy weight until he finally pinned the weakened animal into the mud. The wolf snarled, snapping its jaws blindly, but Bucky’s grip was like metal. His large, scarred hand clamped down on the back of the wolf’s neck, the veins in his forearms tensing as he forced its head into the dirt.

With a loud groan of effort, he drove the blade deep into the side of the wolf’s neck, right behind the jaw.

The animal threw out one violent kick that nearly knocked him off before Bucky adjusted his weight again, twisting the knife to sever the artery.

The wolf let out a weak wheeze before it finally stilled. Bucky remained over the carcass for a moment, his clothes soaked with rain and blood dripping down his leg. He let out a slow, steadying breath before he stood up, wiping the blade on his already dirty jeans.

He turned his cold, blue gaze toward you, and for a second, his eyes resembled the wolf’s—angry and grim.

“I told you, stupid girl,” he growled, his voice barely audible over the storm. “I fuckin’ told you.”

All of it happened in a blur.

One second, you were tumbling through the woods, just a moment away from losing your life. The next, you were standing in the middle of Bucky’s cabin. Your body felt frozen, your pulse still thrumming wildly as your drenched clothes clung to your skin like a layer of ice. You only snapped out of the haze when you felt Bucky’s hands peeling the pack off your shoulders.

When he reached for the zipper of your jacket, you flinched.

“Hey!” you gasped, your voice cracking. “What are you doing—?”

“I’m helpin’ you,” Bucky grunted, sounding offended.

“I don’t need you to remove my jacket for me,” you snapped, though your hands were shaking too hard to even find the zipper.

Bucky’s brows furrowed, and you watched his jaw tick. He looked terrifying in the dim light of the cabin—water dripped from his matted hair, his chest heaved with the earlier adrenaline of the kill, and fresh blood stained the denim of his jeans where the wolf had lashed out.

He took a step forward, closing the distance between you until he looked down at you.

“Listen, girl,” he hissed impatiently. “I just saved your goddamn life. Now here I am, lettin’ you into my home, about to offer you my damn shower—and this is what you say to me?”

You let out a shaky breath, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. He was right. He had saved you.

Your eyes trailed down to the jagged cut on his thigh. “You’re bleeding,” you pointed out. “You need to take care of that wound, or it’ll get infected.”

Bucky only scoffed, stepping away and shaking his head at you as if you were the most frustrating thing he had ever encountered.

“Bathroom’s down the hall, make a left,” he gruffed, already turning his back on you. “And don’t take too long—I need to use it after you.”

Not wanting to risk upsetting him further, you took it upon yourself to head toward the bathroom.

The cabin was certainly large enough to house a small family, which only made you wonder more if he really lived here all alone. The walls were stripped of anything personal—no photos, no decor—aside from a few scattered post-its and scraps of paper covered in messy handwriting, tacked up with rusted nails.

As you neared the bathroom, you noticed the bedroom right next to it. The door was cracked open just barely and curiosity got the better of you.

Leaning back slightly, you caught a glimpse of his private space. It was sparse, but in the center sat what looks to be a queen sized bed. It looked massive in the small room—certainly big enough to fit another person.

“You found it?” Bucky shouted from across the cabin, snapping you back.

“Yeah—I did. Thanks!” you called back, your heart giving a small, startled jump.

After settling into the hot shower, the steam finally began to sedate the bone chilling cold from your limbs. You scrubbed the mud and gunk from your skin with the harsh lye soap. Stepping out, you quickly reached for one of the rough, oversized towels.

You had just managed to tuck the fabric securely around your chest, shivering as the cool air hit your damp skin, when the door suddenly creaked open.

“Jesus!” you yelped, clutching the towel tighter and stumbling against the counter. “Knock much?”

Bucky didn’t enter the room. He just stood stiffly in the gap of the doorway.

In his hand, he held out a bundle of folded fabric— a worn, massive white T-shirt and a pair of drawstring shorts that looked like they could fit two of you.

“Not used to company,” he mumbled. He reached out and set the pile of clothes on the edge of the sink without a single glance in your direction. “‘Sides, I’m not interestin’ in lookin’.”

He didn’t wait for a ‘thank you’ or for you to yell at him to get out. He simply pulled the door shut.

Eventually, you changed into the clothes he provided.

With every step you took out of the bathroom, the shorts threatened to slip past your hips, forcing you to yank the drawstrings tighter. The clothes didn’t smell like fabric softener, but it carried a scent that was distinctly him and the rest of the cabin— pine, and woodsmoke.

Returning to the living room, you found Bucky sitting in one of the wooden chairs, his leg propped up as he examined the angry red gashes on his thigh. He hissed, his jaw tightening as he accidentally grazed the wound with his thumb.

“Thanks for letting me use your shower,” you spoke up, catching his attention.

Your eyes caught the deep gashes on his leg.

“Do you need help?” you offered again. “I can help you clean that up. I have some antiseptics and bandages in my pack.”

Bucky didn’t look up, his fingers hovering stiffly over the torn skin.

“No need,” he said roughly, his voice strained.

It was clear to you that the adrenaline was finally wearing off and the real pain was setting in. He gripped the edges of the wooden chair, his knuckles turning white as he forced himself to stand. He took a single step, his breath hitching as he leaned heavily on his good leg, and began to limp toward the bathroom.

You frowned. “Are you sure—”

“I told you and I’ll keep tellin’ you,” he grunted through the pain, “I don’t need your help, girl.”

Then, he disappeared down the hall and shoved the door shut.

You tried to make yourself comfortable in the dim cabin, but a sudden, strangled shout of pain echoed through the walls. The sound made you jump—an involuntary yell painfully tore straight from Bucky’s throat. Something heavy hit the floor, maybe a stool? Or a basin? Then it was followed by the sound of ragged breathing and more muffled grunts.

“Bucky?” you called out, taking a careful step toward the bathroom. “Are you okay?”

There was no answer.

You stood outside the door, trying to respect his privacy, until another pained groan reached your ears. Your stomach twisted. Despite his prickly attitude, he was obviously struggling with a wound far worse than he wanted to admit—and standing here, not doing anything to help him after he saved your life, only made you feel worse.

“Bucky, I’m coming in,” you warned, your hand reaching for the doorknob.

You waited one more second, expecting him to curse at you to stay out, but the only sound was his labored breathing.

So, you took it upon yourself to push the door open.

Inside, Bucky was laid out in the tub—naked, of course.

His head lolled back against the porcelain as he fought to steady his breath. His dirty, blood stained clothes were piled in a heap on the floor, leaving trails of mud and grime everywhere. The tub was filled with soapy water, and while he was bare beneath the surface, your eyes didn’t wander—you didn’t care to look.

Your entire focus was pinned to his leg, which he had propped up on the edge of the tub.

Stripped of the dark denim, the damage was more visible. The wolf’s claws had dug deep, leaving uneven, angry furrows that were weeping blood into the water. The skin around the punctures was already beginning to puff and redden, and with the grime from the forest floor mashed into the open wounds, it looked even worse.

“Jesus,” you gasped, kneeling beside him to examine the damage. “Bucky, this looks like it’s already getting infected.”

Without giving him the chance to pull away, you reached out and pressed the back of your hand against his forehead. He was burning up—the heat radiating off his skin was alarming, a telltale sign his body was already struggling to fight the bacteria from the wolf’s claws.

“You’re overheating!”

Bucky’s eyes remained shut, his thick lashes casting long shadows against his pale, sweaty cheeks. A low, delirious mumble escaped him as his head rolled further to the side.

“...Tired,” he croaked.

Your frown deepened. “Stay right there. Don’t move,” you commanded, though it was obvious he wasn’t going anywhere.

Before he could argue, you scrambled out of the bathroom. Bucky’s vision was disoriented and blurry, his mind racing through a fog of fever.

Just my luck, huh?

He had been minding his own business until you showed up on his doorstep. His only excuse for following you was a half baked thought about picking berries to go with his meat before the storm broke—and he just happened to grab a knife, and he just happened to head south in the exact direction you walked off to.

Damn. He was a fucking idiot.

You hurried back into the bathroom, clutching the antiseptic, a roll of sterile gauze, and a small bottle of ibuprofen tightly in your hands.

You knelt by the edge of the tub again, popping the cap off the antiseptic. “This is going to sting. Just try to breathe.”

As the cool, medicinal liquid hit his cuts, Bucky’s body jerked causing the water to slosh. A sharp hiss whistled through his teeth, his fingers gripping the wet ledge of the tub. He stared at you warily through heavy, lidded eyes.

Just like the wolf he had saved you from, he looked as if he were ready to pounce.

He wasn’t used to this. For as long as he could remember, pain was something to be swallowed with a bottle of whiskey and a needle and thread. He had built his own house, caught his own food, and bled his own blood without a soul nearby to witness it.

That was the whole point of being out here.

But as you meticulously cleaned the wounds, your touch was... different.

It was soft, steady, and gentle. He hadn’t felt anything like it in years. He had forgotten what it was even like to be tended to.

Bucky’s breath hitched as he watched you focus, your bottom lip caught between your teeth in concentration as you began to wrap the clean white gauze around his thigh.

“There,” you said softly, setting the tools down and offering him a weary smile.

You looked at him as if you were expecting a thank you, but the words didn’t come.

He let out a slow, shaky breath and let his head thud back against the tub. He was a fool for letting a stranger in, a bigger fool for letting her see him like this—but as the pain started to dull into a throb, he found he didn’t really care.

Sensing his need for space, you got up slowly. “I’ll let you be. When the storm clears up, I’ll be out of your hair—for real this time.”

Just as you turned for the door, Bucky’s hand shot out of the tub, catching your wrist and splattering water across the floor.

“Take the bed tonight,” he said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

You blinked at him. The couch? That tiny thing?

“Sorry, but your couch is far too small for someone like you,” you said, half-insulting his choice in furniture. “Besides, you need proper rest to heal up. I’ll take the couch.”

Bucky’s hand lingered around your wrist for a moment. You expected him to protest further, but it seemed his energy was finally spent.

With a tired sigh, he dropped his hand, letting it hang limply over the side of the tub.

“Fine,” he grumbled.

He had a dreadful feeling it was going to be a long night.

By the time Bucky woke up, the storm had retreated, leaving behind a world that smelled of damp earth and pine needles. Sunlight pierced through the bedroom window, cutting a sharp line across the bed where he lay alone.

He groaned, his eyes snapping open as he braced himself for the throbbing pain in his leg. He reached down, his fingers brushing against the white gauze you had wrapped around his thigh.

To his surprise, the skin wasn’t burning anymore. The fever had also broken. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, testing his strength.

There was a dull ache, sure, but he was steady enough to stand on his own.

He pulled on a clean pair of jeans and limped out into the living room, expecting to find you still curled up on that cramped, uncomfortable couch. A stray thought crossed his mind… that maybe he should’ve invited you to share the bed, but even he knew that would have been going too far for a stranger.

When he reached the living room, he found the couch empty. The rough wool blanket he had given you was folded neatly at one end, and when his eyes shifted to the corner where your heavy pack had been sitting, he found nothing but the bare floor.

His jaw tightened.

A strange, lonely feeling settled in his chest. A feeling he hadn’t felt in years and didn’t care to name. Of course you were gone. You had hiked out the moment the rain stopped, just like you said you would.

All he could do now was hope you made it to town safely.

He grabbed his boots and stepped out onto the porch, intending to finish the woodpile he abandoned yesterday. The air was crisp, and the forest was alive with the sound of dripping eaves and morning birds. He took a deep breath, turning his gaze toward the lake to check the water levels after the storm.

He froze.

Down by the lake, silhouetted against the sparkling reflection of the morning sun, was a figure. You were crouching by the water’s edge, his oversized white T-shirt tucked into those ridiculous drawstring shorts with a fishing line in your hands.

As he watched, you reached down and hoisted a small wicker basket— likely something he kept in the shed for gathering berries—and he could see the shimmer of scales thrashing inside.

By the looks of it, you had already caught three or four good-sized trout.

Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He began to descend the porch steps, his limp much less pronounced than it had been the night before. The damp grass flattened under his boots as he made his way toward the bank, the sound of his approach masked by the gentle lapping of the lake against the stones.

“Thought you said you were leavin’,” he called out, his voice gravelly with sleep.

You jumped, nearly dropping the basket back into the water as you spun around. Your hair was a mess of tangled waves and there were smears of mud on your shins, but your eyes were bright—clear of the panic from the night before.

“Oh!” you smiled at the sight of him. “You’re still alive!” You hoisted the basket up with straining arms, making your way toward him. “I caught you some fish—you eat fish, right?”

Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. “More of a red meat kind of guy.”

“Well... fish is good for you,” you informed him, trekking past him barefoot with the heavy basket. “And I’m going to fix you up some breakfast.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed as you reached him. “Don’t waste your effort,” he huffed, still looking as grumpy as ever. “I like my breakfast done a certain way.”

You ignored him, walking right past and back toward the cabin. “You should lay back down and take it easy. Consider this a thank you for saving my life yesterday.”

“I don’t need you playing house,” Bucky mumbled grumpily, following you through the cabin and into the kitchen. “I’ve been feedin’ myself since before you were born. Put those down, I’ll do it.”

You didn’t even look back as you set the wicker basket on the wooden counter. “Sit. Down. Bucky.”

He opened his mouth to snap back—to tell you exactly whose house this was and who was in charge—but the stubborn confidence in your voice caught him off guard. Up until this moment, he pinned you as a naive, helpless girl who couldn’t survive a night without his intervention.

He huffed, sounding like a disgruntled bear, and finally lowered himself into the sturdy wooden chair at the head of the table. A low groan escaped his throat as he eased his shoulders, his injured leg pulsing— a none too friendly reminder of why he shouldn’t have been standing anyway.

From his seat, he watched you move.

“Not only can I catch fish,” you said, getting to work, “but I can also cook it well.”

The cabin, which usually felt cold and cavernous, suddenly felt smaller and more… domestic.

You moved around his kitchen, your bare feet moving across his rough floorboards. You looked ridiculous in his clothes; the hem of his white T-shirt tucked into the oversized shorts, and the sleeves rolled up in thick bundles just so you could use your hands.

He watched the sunlight catch the dampness of your hair as you began to prep the fish. The sight of a woman in his space—wearing his shirt, smelling like his soap, and ignoring his bad attitude just to make sure he was fed—hit him harder than he expected.

“Christ,” he cursed under his breath.

For most of his years, he believed isolation was his only sanctuary. But watching you, he realized things he never thought he would feel.

He liked seeing this—a beautiful woman, clean and comfortable, cooking just for him. He could already picture it, coming home from a long day of chopping wood or hunting, only to find you like this. Safe and sound.

He liked the idea of having someone to protect.

Bucky was suddenly feeling very hungry now, and it wasn’t just for the fish.

“You’re gonna burn ‘em,” he muttered, though his eyes were soft as he watched your back. “Pan needs more grease.”

“I’ve got it, Bucky,” you replied, glancing playfully over your shoulder. “Stop worrying that old head of yours.”

“Old?” Bucky grumbled, though a faint, reluctant twitch of a smile played on his lips.

You turned back to the counter as you began to slice the trout into neat fillets.

“You know,” you began, tone light and teasing, “in my friend group, they called me the Fish Whisperer. Or the Fish Butcher. One of those. It depended on how much wine was involved in the cooking process.”

You let out a small, self deprecating chuckle, turning your head to see if you could pull another reaction out of him. But as you looked back down to finish a particularly tricky cut near the bone, your damp finger slipped on the smooth handle.

The blade skidded across the scales, coming dangerously close to your thumb. You let out a sharp, panicked gasp, pulling your hand back just as the tip of the knife bit into the wooden cutting board.

“Crap—!”

Despite his injured leg, Bucky moved with that same quick, almost predatory speed you had seen in the forest.

In a heartbeat, he was already hovering over you, his large hand reaching out to steady your wrist while his other instinctively moved to your lower back to stabilize you.

“Careful, sweets,” he rumbled into a protective growl.

You swallowed hard at his sudden closeness, his chest pressing against your shoulder. His grip on your wrist was firm but careful—the touch of a man who knew exactly how much damage his hands could do and was choosing, with every ounce of his will, to be gentle.

“Bucky…” you breathed, trying to still your heartbeat. “Are… are you okay?”

You stayed frozen, feeling his warm breath against the side of your neck. He let out a shaky breath, as if trying to stabilize his own heart, his thumb tracing a slow, distracting line over where your blood rushed in your wrist.

“I… just don’t want you hurtin’ yourself,” he said slowly, his voice thick and low. “That’s all.”

Since that little mishap with the knife, the tension in the cabin was suffocatingly thick—and you weren’t entirely sure if Bucky felt it, though he was certainly the cause of it.

By the time you finished preparing breakfast, you laid everything out on the table. Even with your back turned, you could feel his shameless stare burning through the thin fabric of the white T-shirt you wore.

“Where’s the cutlery?” you asked, turning to him.

He simply shrugged, his gaze glued on you before he looked down at the food.

“Your hands are the cutlery,” he said flatly.

You didn’t think it was possible, but eating with your hands only increased the tension tenfold.

You picked carefully at the fish, trying to maintain some level of decency, but Bucky was another story entirely. He went after the meal like a ravenous animal, picking the trout apart with his bare hands. You didn’t even need to ask if he liked the food; the way he was scarfing it down told you everything you needed to know.

You swore he didn’t look away from you once.

Leaning forward with his elbows heavy on the wooden table, he used his blunt, calloused fingers to strip the flaky white meat from the bone. Every time he finished a piece, he licked his thumb and forefinger clean with a slow, wet swipe of his tongue. His eyes remained glued to yours, dark and unreadable, as he licked his lips.

All of this made a strange heat crawl up your neck, and with no napkins in sight, you eventually had no choice but to follow suit.

You hesitantly lifted your hand, licking the salty grease from your own fingertips. The moment you did, Bucky stopped chewing. He went completely still, his gaze dropping to your mouth, his dark blue eyes tracking the movement with a sudden, sharp hunger. He watched every motion, his jaw clenching as he seemed hypnotized by the way your tongue moved.

Small, was all he thought as he felt his body warm. But it’ll do.

“I suppose I should take my leave after this,” you announced mid chew. “Thank you for everything—”

“You shouldn’t,” Bucky interrupted suddenly, a piece of fish still caught between his fingers. “There might be another storm tonight.”

Your brows furrowed. Another storm? While the mountain weather was notoriously unpredictable, the sky outside was currently a clear, piercing blue.

Although he proved himself right yesterday, another storm seemed today entirely unlikely.

Pushing out of your chair and grabbing your plate, you made your way to the sink.

“Well, in that case, I should leave now. The sooner the better—”

“Good luck with that,” he huffed, his tone sharpening with what seems like restless impatience. “The mud and the terrain from yesterday’s mess will only slow you down. You’ll be lucky to make it a mile before you’re stuck again.”

He took a quick sip of his water, letting out a satisfied exhale as his gaze settled on you. “Best you wait ‘til tomorrow.”

You stood by the sink, staring out the window as you weighed your options. Your friends and family were likely worried sick, perhaps already calling for a search party, and the thought of them panicking made your chest hurt with guilt.

But then, you remembered everything that had happened yesterday.

The storm, the wolf, the bone chilling rain, and the way the world had turned into a sliding, muddy trap. Bucky was right about the terrain—if you went out there and twisted an ankle or got lost in the washouts, there wouldn’t be anyone to save you a second time.

You were completely oblivious to the way Bucky’s eyes traced your body. You didn’t notice how he was manipulating the trauma of yesterday to keep you exactly where he wanted you.

In his kitchen, in his shirt, and under his roof—permanently in his sights.

“I… I guess you’re right,” you admitted softly, finally turning back to face him. “I don’t think I have another fight in me today. If the mud is really that bad, I’d just be a liability.”

Bucky didn’t smile—that would have been too obvious—but the tension in his shoulders eased instantly.

“Smart girl,” he rumbled, picking up another piece of fish before tossing it in his mouth. “No sense in chancing it. The woods don’t give second chances twice in a row.”

“I’ll just… stay out of your way, then,” you murmured, feeling a strange mix of relief and unease. “I can help with the chores? Or the woodpile?”

Bucky hummed, pretending to ponder the offer, though he already knew exactly what he wanted out of you.

“I’ll take care of the heavy liftin’,” he explained. “You can help me clean the place a bit—or catch some more fish for dinner.”

“You liked my fish?” you asked, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

Bucky pushed himself out of the chair with a grunt and met you at the sink, handing you his plate. “Guess you were right,” he gruffed. “You can cook, sugar.”

Your face warmed at the nickname. It seemed so at odds with a man as burly and grumpy as Bucky, yet it fell from his lips so naturally.

“Okay,” you agreed, setting the plates in the basin and turning on the tap. “Anything to help lighten your load. Thank you for letting me stay another night, Bucky. I really don’t know how to repay you.”

A swell of satisfaction and pride settled in his gut.

He liked this.

No—he loved this.

“Look at you, doin’ the dishes,” he noted with a nod toward the sink. “That’s already doin’ more than enough.”

He raised his hand to give you a gentle pat on the back, though his body yearned for something more—to press a kiss to your forehead, the way a husband might for a wife.

“I’ll go fetch some firewood to keep the place warm for when that storm hits,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Just stay here. Clean up, catch the fish. Don’t want you gettin’ hurt or lost again, little doll.”

The storm might not have been coming, but as far as he was concerned, you weren’t going anywhere.

For the rest of the day, you did exactly as instructed.

Despite your insistence that he stay off his leg, Bucky spent the entire afternoon outside. While you cleaned the cabin, the thud of his axe echoed against the trees.

Eventually, you headed back down to the water, but the moment you began fishing, you felt the pierce of a gaze tracking your every move. Every time you glanced over your shoulder, you found Bucky only a few feet away, wiping sweat from his forehead, his chest heaving from the labor— but his eyes never left you.

When you moved down the shoreline, or stumbled over a slick rock, or struggled with a particularly strong fish fight, Bucky was at your side in an instant.

“Careful, sweets.”

“Mind your step. Can’t concentrate on my own work if you’re stumblin’ all over the place, little doll.”

“I saw you fall just a moment ago. Sit down—let me check your leg.”

You kept promising you were fine, but nothing seemed to soothe his protective instincts.

You didn’t want to call him suffocating—he was certainly kinder than when you came across him yesterday—but the unwarranted attention he kept giving you felt restless.

As the day bled into evening, you noticed there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky.

You waited, even as you cooked dinner and set the table while Bucky washed up, but by the time the sun had completely fell below the horizon, the air remained still, dark, and clear.

There was no storm.

And it was too late to start the trek to town now.

You and Bucky were sitting at the dinner table yet again, but since the sun went down, neither of you had spoken a single word to each other.

“Hey, Bucky?” you called out.

He didn’t look up. His eyes were glued to the plate as he scarfed down the meal you made the same way he had earlier this morning. When he didn’t answer, you tried again, firmer this time.

“Bucky. There’s no storm like you said there would be.”

Bucky swiped a hand across his mouth, clearing the grease. “I guess not.”

A slow, impatient exhale left your nose. Bucky sensed your tension, and he narrowed his eyes at you, displeased. He rested both heavy forearms on the table and leaned in.

“It’s good that you stayed,” he pointed out, his voice low like a warning. “It’s better bein’ safe than sorry. You should know that by now—’specially after yesterday, sugar.”

Your frown only deepened, and Bucky’s jaw tightened. He clearly wasn’t pleased by how eager you were to leave him.

“I know,” you sighed, looking toward the dark window. “It’s just... my friends and family must be worried sick. If I had left earlier, I could have been home by now.”

“If you had left earlier, you wouldn’t have made me that delicious breakfast for savin’ your life,” Bucky reminded you, his tone sharp with impatience. He shoved his empty plate aside and leaned back in his chair, making it groan. “You should sleep in the bed tonight.”

“What?” You blinked, not quite comprehending his words. “No. Your leg still needs to heal, and that couch is far too small for you—”

“No one takes the couch,” he cut you off like a command. “We both share the bed tonight. There’s plenty of space.”

You hesitated, your gaze drifting toward the dark hallway that led to the bedroom.

The thought of sharing a bed with him—this hulking, unpredictable man, made your pulse race. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you pointed out softly. “I’m perfectly fine on the couch, really.”

“If you’re gonna trek tomorrow morning, you’ll need all the sleep you can get.”

He pushed his chair back, the heavy wood scraping harshly against the floorboards as he stood and began to limp toward the bedroom.

“Come on,” he grunted, not even checking to see if you were following. “I’ve got a set of clothes you can change into.”

With a defeated sigh, you followed him. By the time you reached the bedroom, Bucky was already rummaging through a heavy dresser in the corner. He pulled out another oversized white T-shirt and held it out to you.

“Here.”

“And the pants?” you asked, taking the soft fabric from his hand.

“All I’ve got are sweatpants that’d be way too damn big for you,” he said, shoving the drawer shut. “Unless you want to sleep in jeans?”

You swallowed hard. Sleeping without pants? You looked down at the drawstring shorts you had been wearing all day—stained with mud and smelling of the lake from your fishing trip.

“I’ll just wear these again,” you decided.

Bucky looked at you, his expression darkening with displeasure.

“No. Those are dirty,” he gruffed. “The shirt’s big enough to be a night dress. You’ll be fine.”

His tone left no room for nos or further objections. It wasn’t a request but rather an arrangement he had already finalized in his head.

After retreating to the washroom to change into the fresh shirt, you returned to find Bucky already stretched out on the mattress, his large frame covered by the sheets, taking up half the bed as he waited for you.

The sight of you standing in the doorframe wearing nothing but his shirt made the fabric of his pajama pants feel suddenly, painfully tight. He wasn’t sure he would even survive the night with you lying right next to him.

He scooted over, clearing a space for you while trying to discreetly adjust himself beneath the quilts.

You made your way to your side of the bed, sliding under the covers and lying stiffly beside him.

You stared up at the ceiling, feeling completely out of place in the quiet, suffocating cabin. Beside you, Bucky lay perfectly comfortable.

To him, this was exactly where you belonged.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t leave today,” he said, though the apology rang a little hollow. “I was just lookin’ out for you.”

You turned your head toward him, your hair fanning out across his pillowcase. Bucky’s heart strummed in his chest at the sight of you.

He could get used to waking up to this every morning.

“It’s okay,” you reassured him with a soft, tired smile, though he could still sense the disappointment behind it. “Better safe than sorry, right?”

“Exactly right, sugar.”

From your short time knowing Bucky, it hadn’t taken long to notice just how… blatant he was with his staring. Even now, lying together shoulder to shoulder, his blue eyes were piercing right through yours.

Unreadable and unwavering.

You swallowed hard, trying to break the tension. “How’s your leg?”

“Still hurts,” he mumbled lowly. “But I’m feelin’ a lot better lyin’ next to a pretty girl.”

So much for breaking the tension.

His words, intimate and entirely unexpected, filled you with embarassment. Staring back at him, you had known from the very start how handsome he was beneath all that grumpiness, the tired eyes, and the dark shadow of stubble.

You hadn’t pegged someone like him as the flirtatious type. But as you searched his expression, you couldn’t tell if he even realized he was doing it, or if he was simply saying the first thing that came to his mind.

Averting your gaze, you stared into the dark corner of the room.

“Y-you’re ridiculous,” you stammered, breathless.

Bucky’s large, calloused hand reached out, his fingers hooking gently under your chin. He tilted your face back to him, forcing you to meet his eyes yet again.

“For tellin’ the truth?” he rumbled, his voice filling the tense air between you.

You couldn’t move, held captive by his touch and the intensity of his stare.

You watched as his eyes began a slow and hungry journey. He traced the line of your forehead, the curve of your cheek, and then dropped to your mouth, lingering there until your lips parted involuntarily to suck in a breath.

“Pretty,” he mumbled so quiet, it was like he was speaking to himself.

His gaze continued downward, looking at the delicate column of your throat, then further still, taking in the way his oversized shirt draped over your body, shifting with every shallow breath you took.

When his eyes finally snapped back to yours, they were darker than before—pupils blown wide.

“So goddamn pretty.”

“I…” you started, not quite sure what to say, “t-thank you.”

There was a moment of silence between you two, and throughout the quiet, Bucky’s hands began to be more bold in its movements. He caressed your cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before trailing his thumb slowly over your bottom lip. He watched with a dark, satisfied grin when your breath hitched.

“You know, bein’ out here alone all these years... it makes a man yearn for things,” Bucky started to explain in a low, gravelly whisper. “Things a man like me thought he’d never have.”

“Like what?” you breathed.

“A family,” he answered with what sounded like a dreamy sigh. “I’ve seen it everywhere in these woods. Bears protectin’ their cubs, birds tendin’ to their nests. It’s the most natural, beautiful thing there is—that kind of connection. I just know havin’ somethin’ special like that... it’d finally bring me peace.”

You weren’t entirely sure where he was going with the confession, but all you felt you could do was nod and offer him sympathy.

“I hope you find that peace one day, Bucky.”

Then, his hand suddenly trailed from your cheek down to your throat, his fingers wrapping around the delicate skin of your neck in a gentle yet possessive squeeze that made you gasp.

“Feels like I already have, little doll.”

Bucky didn’t give you the chance to breathe, let alone retract the invitation he saw in your eyes.

He closed the space between you two, his mouth crashing against yours with a hunger only a man like him—starved and isolated for decades—could possess.

It wasn’t gentle at all. It was more like a claim.

His lips were rough, and his tongue swept against yours messily and hungrily. He moved like a man who hadn’t shared a kiss with a woman in his lifetime—like a man who was dying for the touch of another person.

You melted into the mattress as he moved more eagerly against you, the sheets ruffling as he hovered over you. One of his hands held you still by side of your neck while the other wandered your body through the thin fabric of his own shirt. His rough hand, warm and calloused, groped and fondled you through the flimsy white cotton, making you gasp into his mouth.

Bucky growled low in his throat as your fingers tangled into the thick, messy dark hair at the nape of his neck. His stubble tickled your skin, and the needy noises leaving his lips only made you squeeze your legs together, a deep ache beginning to build.

“Bucky,” you gasped, turning your head sharply to break the contact. You were panting, your lips swollen and tingling. “We... we shouldn’t. This is... I’m supposed to be leaving tomorrow.”

Bucky took this as an opportunity to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath searing your sensitive skin. He trailed a line of wet kisses toward your ear, his stubble grazing your jawline.

“Tomorrow’s a long way off, sugar,” he buzzed against your skin.

“Bucky, please—”

You were cut off with a sharp gasp as you felt Bucky grind his hips firmly against your leg.

Against the soft fabric of his pajama pants, he was hard, throbbing... and leaking. In the short time you two had been making out, he had already made a mess of himself in his own pants.

A shaky groan left his lips as he gripped your hip tight, making you wince slightly. “Fuck, baby,” he breathed, resting his forehead against your collarbone. “M’so hard. It hurts.”

Bucky began to rock himself—slow and shallow—against the soft heat of your leg. You couldn’t help but look down, watching the heavy outline of him throb against the fabric as he pressed into you.

“Just... we can fuck tonight—and you can forget all ‘bout me tomorrow,” he pleaded, his voice wrecked. “You can leave as early as you want—but please, darlin’. I need this.” He rocked his hips against yours again, drawing another gasp out of you. “It’s been so long.”

He drew the long hem of the shirt up and past your hip, and his breath hitched at what he saw.

“… No panties?”

Your face burned with embarrassment. “I… didn’t want to re-wear the ones I had on,” you explained, your voice small. “They’re dirty.”

You said that, but what Bucky was seeing right now felt far filthier. Your pussy, exposed and puffy and glistening, was laid out bare right in front of him—ripe and ready for the taking.

You knew exactly how this looked, and the way Bucky’s eyes darkened as they locked onto your cunt only confirmed it. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his gaz heavy as he took in every inch of you.

Bucky quickly slid down the bed until his broad chest was wedged between your knees. You tried to pull back—mostly out of shyness—but his large hands clamped around your thighs like iron shackles, pinning you wide for him.

“Bucky, wait—!”

But you cut yourself off with an involuntary cry as his tongue flicked out and lapped at your cunt. He was relentless and wasted no time. He buried his face against you, his dark stubble grazing your sensitive inner thighs as he began to feast like a starving animal.

He was messy and loud. The wet, slapping sounds of his tongue working against you filled your ears—vulgar and completely shameless.

You had never been touched or licked like this before. You had never felt the unabashed hunger of a man’s mouth on your skin, and your body was loving every second of it.

“Oh god,” you gasped, your fingers knotting the bedsheets.

Your hips bucked up against his face, seeking more, but Bucky held you perfectly still, his thumbs digging into your skin to keep you exposed.

He let out a low, muffled growl against your clit, his tongue flickering faster and faster against the sensitive peak until you were sobbing for breath. Every time you instinctively tried to close your legs or hide from the overwhelming sensation, he only snarled, forcing you back open for him.

He was devouring you.

He was treating you like the prey he had spent all day stalking.

Bucky finally pulled away, letting you catch your breath. His eyes were dark and his chin was coated with your sweetness mixed with his own saliva and drool.

“Taste s’fucking good,” he groaned so deep, sounding almost frustrated. “Only makin’ it harder for me to let you go.”

He sat back on his heels, still wedged firmly between your thighs, as he pulled his shirt over his head. You watched, enamored, as his broad chest moved— every muscle flexing under the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Dark hair traced the center of his chest, trailing down to where his hands found the waistband of his pants.

He pulled them down and kicked them to the side of the bed. Lying there between your legs was a man of pure masculinity. Thick hair decorated his body, and his hand—which you already thought was massive—could barely wrap around his cock as he stroked himself to his full length.

Bucky’s jaw went slack as he fucked his hand, his eyes shamelessly taking in the way you were spread out for him in nothing but his cotton tee.

Dark, curly hair sat at the base of his cock, and from where you laid, you could smell him—the salty scent of his precum, the masculine musk of pinewood, everything that was uniquely him. It made you ache, your pussy clenching around nothing as you watched.

“You’re drippin’ all over my sheets, sugar,” Bucky grunted. “Makin’ a reaaal mess.”

“Bucky,” you breathed, pushing yourself up on your elbows. “I don’t think you… I don’t think it’ll fit—”

“No?” he cut you off.

He didn’t let you finish—he didn’t need to—but he already seemed darkened by whatever doubt you were about to voice.

“I don’t care,” he grunted, his large hands grabbing your legs and hauling you flush against him. “M’gonna make it fit.”

Your body tensed as you felt the head of Bucky’s cock poke against your entrance. He groaned at the contact, his eyes fluttering shut in relief. You were already so wet, so warm, and so inviting. And judging by how easily his tip began to slide in, it wouldn’t be long before he was buried deep in your cunt.

Bucky held himself there for a moment, bracing his weight on his forearms as he let you adjust to the stretching pressure of his tip alone.

He looked down, a dark, fond smirk pulling at his lips as he watched you squeezing your eyes shut with the effort of taking him.

“Open ‘em up, sugar,” he rumbled the command. “I want you lookin’ at me for this.”

As your eyes fluttered open, meeting his blown out blue gaze, he began to push.

“Oh—fuck, Bucky!” you gasped as he slid deeper, your tight cunt stretching painfully and perfectly around his length.

A broken groan tore from his throat, his chest heaving as he fought every urge in his nervous system to just slam himself deep inside you. He was trying so hard to hold back that his face contorted into a snarl, his muscles locking with the strain.

You mewled and whimpered as he forced his way in, each movement of his hips more strained than the last. He was struggling with the tightness of you, the stretch a dizzying mix of burn and pleasure. By the time he was halfway in, it already felt like too much.

You began to squirm, your hips shifting and doing nothing to soothe the ache in Bucky’s balls. If anything, your movements only made him groan in pleasure.

When he realized you were trying to escape his length, his hands snapped down to your hips. His fingers dug into your skin, pinning you flat against the mattress and making you yelp.

“Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?” he growled, hovering over you with a snarl that made him look terrifying under the warm lamplight. “You aren’t goin’ anywhere. I told you, darlin’—I’m makin’ it fit.”

With that, his grip tightened on your waist and he hauled you flush against his body in a ruthless motion.

Your legs shook and your eyes rolled back as his cock buried itself completely, sinking to the hilt deep inside your cunt. Your head spun with the overwhelming bliss of being filled so thoroughly.

“Haaah—!” you hissed sharply, your back arching off the bed. “B-Buck—”

Bucky’s entire body was shaking, overstimulated with a desire he hadn’t felt in years.

He hovered over you, dark strands of hair shadowing his eyes as he watched your soft legs shake and squirm beneath him. His cock—the one you claimed was too large to fit—was sunk completely inside you, twitching as it savored every desperate ripple and clench of your tight walls around his shaft.

He watched himself grind his hips against yours, slow and steady at first, letting you adjust to every inch.

“Christ,” he groaned, the sound torn from the back of his throat. “You’re takin’ me so well, little doll…”

When your whimpers finally began to break into soft, needy moans, he took it as his cue to pick up the pace.

He started drawing his hips back and thrusting faster, making your body jolt and shake against the mattress with every thrust. The sight of his cock disappearing entirely into your cunt, leaving only his dark curls pressed against your glistening slit, made him throb and leak deep inside you.

“God… feels s’much better than my hand,” he grumbled to himself.

“Bucky…” you whined softly, the sound like music to his ears. “Feels good, don’t stop.”

Bucky was hypnotized.

He looked down, his vision tunneling as he watched the way you moved helplessly beneath him. Your body was rolling with every thrust against his mattress. Your hands came up to his shoulders, soft fingers digging into his hard muscles for stability.

And when you looked at him with those soft, trusting eyes, something in his chest snapped.

“Fuck. Fuckin’ hell—you… fuckin’… goddammit—fuck!”

His hips began drawing back further before slamming all the way in, drawing a loud, sharp cry from you that only made him want to fuck you harder—right through the bedframe and against the floorboards.

Bucky felt like an animal in heat, his mind clouding with a singular, primal thought that went far beyond just getting off.

He wanted to fill you. He wanted to plant himself so deep that it would take.

“Bucky—it’s too much, ah!” you moaned, clinging to him and wrapping your legs around his waist for support, inadvertently drawing him even deeper.

That didn’t help him at all.

“Oh—fuck, sweets!” he roared, pinning his weight onto you as your legs strapped him down. “Fuck—you’re askin’ for it now.”

The thought of breeding you, of keeping you right here in the cabin he built with his very own two hands, made his blood sing. He could see it so clearly—you, rounded and heavy with his child, tits full of milk, never having to leave the safety of these woods or the protection of his arms.

Every filthy thought of a future together was met with another hard thrust inside you.

“Mine,” he growled. He was so lost in the haze of lust that his mind was a jumbled mess. The only thing he could process was the need to fuck and breed.

Fuck and breed. Fuck and breed.

To breed.

Breed. Breed…

“You’re stayin’ right here, sugar. M’gonna fill you up so full, you won’t even remember how to walk out that door.”

His words were purely possessive. If you didn’t know any better, you would think it was just dirty talk—and god, did it work. Your pussy spasmed tight around his cock as you felt yourself getting close.

“Fuuck, Bucky,” you whined, “d-don’t stop…! I’m gonna cum—”

Every gasp that left your lips fueled the dark fire in his gut and the building ache in his balls. He didn’t just want tonight; he wanted years.

He wanted the connection he had seen the animals share in the woods—he wanted a son running around this cabin and you there to be called Mama.

Your cunt clenched as you tossed your head back, letting out a loud cry that rang through the cabin as you came undone all over Bucky’s cock. The feeling was exquisite, your pussy was milking Bucky with every pulse—and at this point, your body was practically begging for Bucky to cum inside.

“I’m gonna breed you,” he rasped, the words sounding like both a warning and a promise.

His eyes were crazed and wild as he looked down at the friction where your bodies joined. “Gonna give you everythin’ you need. Just stay... stay for me, little doll. Let me put a baby in you.”

Your head was rolling back against the pillow, your face drenched in sweat as your vision swam. You were still coming undone, your mind a hazy blur.

“H-huh…?” you managed to whimper with a tired slur of your words. “W-what was that—?”

One of his hands drew up from your hip to your neck, pinning you in place, while the other found your thigh, spreading you wider and bending it back so he could pound into you deeper—making the mattress and wooden bedframe shake and bolt against the cabin wall.

“Oh my god—!”

“Don’t you worry your pretty head ‘bout it,” he grunted, his breath hot and uneven against your ear. “M’just tellin’ you how it’s gonna be. I’m gonna keep this pussy pumped so full of me, you won’t ever remember what it’s like to be without it.”

He pulled back almost all the way, dragging out the pleasure until you cried out, before slamming back in until the hairs on his pelvis hit your slit.

“You’re gonna stay right here,” he reminded you darkly. “Nothin’ but my shirts on your back so I don’t have to waste time undressin’ you. Just easy access... every time I walk through that door, I’m gonna bend you over the table, the bed, the porch... and I’m gonna remind you who you belong to.”

The filth of his words and the overstimulated stretch of your walls was nearly enough to make you pass out.

“I’m gonna fill you up every single night, little doll,” he hissed, his pace becoming uneven and desperate as he felt his own climax nearing. “Until you’re waddlin’ around this cabin carryin’ my name... carryin’ my blood. You’re never leavin’, understand? You’re mine to breed.”

When you didn’t answer right away, he lightly squeezed your throat, making you gasp.

“Understand, sweets?”

“Y-yes,” was all you could muster weakly and tiredly, not understanding enitrely as all you felt was overwhelming pleasure. “Never leaving… fill me…”

You repeated the last few words you remembered him saying, and that was your downfall.

“Yeah?” he huffed a prideful laugh, like he finally had everything he wanted right here—right beneath him. “You gonna make me a daddy?”

His heart leapt in his throat, balls drawing tight as he felt himself finally reaching the edge. This was perfect—a pretty pussy to fuck whenever he pleased, and an even prettier woman to take care of.

Bucky’s entire body buckled, and he let out a loud roar that made you flinch—it sounded more like an animal than a man. His back arched as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself so deep it made you cry out again, his pelvis bottoming out against you.

A thick, hot rush of cum flooded into you, a heavy and pulsing warmth that seemed to go on and on.

His eyes rolled back and his teeth bared in a primal snarl as his entire frame shuddered with his release. He was pumping you full, emptying every bit of himself deep into your womb.

“Fuck—baby—!” he choked out, voice strained and cracking.

He didn’t pull out, even when his cock was completely spent and overworked inside you. Even as his body stilled and his length throbbed tiredly against your used, overstimulated walls, he stayed buried to the hilt.

He panted, his heavy chest heaving against yours as he kept you pinned firmly into the mattress. He was soaking you, making a complete mess of your insides just like he promised.

“There… fuck,” he rasped, his sweaty forehead dropping to rest against yours. “Puttin’ a baby in there right now—you feel it, don’t you? You feel how much I'm givin’ you?”

You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You had absolutely no energy left in your spent body.

All you could smell was the thick scent of sex and sweat, and the only light in the room came from the bedside lamp, which was now flickering weakly.

Then came the thunder. Rain began to pour, hitting against the cabin roof and the surrounding forest floor harshly. Bucky shifted his body, pulling you into his arms and dragging your limp body against his chest, pressing soft, and sweet kisses against your sweaty skin.

“There’s the storm, baby,” he cooed gently, his voice prideful as he proved himself right yet again.

“I told you. You aren’t goin’ anywhere.”

sitting in the drafts since new years oh nah someone save me 🥀 once again, this is my contribution for art's moodboard event hosted here! please be sure to check out the incredible writers who put out their work so far!

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“Jesus, Steve,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head with a glass of whiskey cold in his hand. “Look at you. Those muscles are practically busting out of your uniform.”

If it weren’t for the dim light of the bar, Bucky might’ve caught the flush creeping up Steve’s neck. Steve shifted, gripping his own glass before bringing it to his lips.

“I don’t know why we’re even here,” Steve said, draining the amber liquid in one go. “I can’t even get drunk.”

“No,” Bucky agreed. “But I can, so we’re drinking. Just admire the notes of oak or whatever.”

Steve scoffed, but he couldn’t stop a smirk from tugging at his mouth. It was impossible to stay moody around Bucky. “It tastes like gasoline.”

Bucky threw his head back, letting out a hearty laugh. As he straightened up, his eyes involuntarily drifted over Steve’s frame. Ever since the serum had transformed his friend, Bucky found himself constantly cataloging the… substantial changes.

Steve’s chest strained against his white T-shirt, his biceps flexing against the tight sleeves every time he moved. His jaw was chiseled now, his features sharper. Back then, Steve would have choked on a sip of cheap whiskey; now, the burn barely seemed to register. Bucky watched, mesmerized, as Steve’s Adam’s apple bobbed with every swallow.

“So, tell me what this serum is actually doing to you,” Bucky asked, his laughter dying down. His eyes trailed down to Steve’s chest. “Other than making you outgrow your damn clothes… how are you feeling?”

Steve let out a long, grounded sigh of satisfaction, setting his glass back on the scarred wood of the table with a thud.

“I feel… good. Like everything is heightened—” he raised a hand to chest level, “—up to here. Both inside and out.”

Bucky raised his glass, blue eyes peering down to Steve’s lap just over the rim. “That so?”

“Yeah.”

Bucky took a slow swallow and set his own drink down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “So, tell me. What exactly is it about you that’s heightened on the inside?”

Steve shifted, the wooden chair creaking under his new, heavy weight. His brows furrowed as he searched for the right words.

“It’s like a mental amplification. Everything that feels good feels… great. And everything that feels bad feels that much worse.”

He swallowed hard, his fingers beginning to fidget against the tabletop—a nervous habit the serum hadn’t managed to take away. He hesitated on whether to keep going. Bucky, ever attuned to Steve’s patterns of hesitation, leaned in closer, trying to guage the rest out of him.

“And?” Bucky prodded softly.

Steve parted his lips, his face coloring slightly, before pressing them thin and shaking his head. “That’s about it, really.”

Bucky raised a brow, noting the flush as it crept over his friend’s chiseled features. There was clearly something internal Steve wasn’t mentioning—something he was actively holding back. It felt wrong. Usually, Steve was an open book around Bucky.

“Alright, well,” Bucky muttered, deciding not to pry—at least not yet. He pushed himself off the barstool with a grunt. “Let’s go show our girl your new look, yeah? She should be waiting at the park.”

Steve’s lips quirked into a faint, lopsided smile. He took one last sip of the whiskey—for courage, Bucky suspected—and stood up, his frame nearly blocking out the overhead light of the bar.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Let’s go.”

After the two men settled their bill, they stepped out of the bar and into the crisp night air. They made their way toward the park, the streetlamps casting long, dramatic shadows across the pavement.

There you were, sitting on a wrought iron bench beneath the sprawling branches of an oak tree. You looked like a vision pulled straight from the pages of a fashion magazine, dressed in an off-white collared blouse and a long, pleated skirt, with a simple cardigan draped over your shoulders.

The soft glow of the moonlight caught the curve of your smile as you finally looked up from your book, noticing Bucky and Steve approaching.

“Bucky!” you beamed, standing up and snapping your book shut. “Steve!”

As you drew closer, Steve stopped dead in his tracks.

It felt as though the air had been kicked right out of his lungs. His heart, now amplified by the serum, hammered frantically against his ribs. He had seen you a thousand times before, but seeing you now—with every sense dialed up to ten—was like a man seeing color for the first time.

Your scent—a fragrance he used to only catch when he was standing right beside you—carried on with the breeze, finding his nostrils instantly.

His eyes fluttered shut for a brief, dizzying second as he breathed you in.

Bucky slowed to a halt a step behind him, noticing the way Steve’s shoulders locked and how his gaze became hopelessly anchored to you.

Deep down, Bucky had always known Steve had a soft spot for you—hell, everyone did. Even Bucky had one, and he was shameless about it. But there was something different in the way Steve stiffened this time, and Bucky couldn’t help but wonder just how much that serum had changed him on the inside.

“You guys had me waitin’ forever,” you met them halfway, smiling eyes darting between the two of them. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and got yourselves drunk.”

“Never that, doll,” Bucky offered you a tipsy, lopsided grin. “Our boy here couldn’t get a buzz going if he drank the whole bar dry.” He gave Steve a pointed nudge with his elbow. “Notice anything… different about him?”

You blinked, eyes drifting up to meet Steve’s. You tilted your head slightly, book held close to your chest. “Did you get taller?”

Bucky snickered as your gaze began a slow, bewildered trail down to Steve’s torso. “And since when did you suddenly start working out?”

“Jeez, you really need to start picking up the morning newsletter, doll.” Bucky laughed, slinging a heavy arm around your shoulder and hauling you into his side. You stumbled slightly against him, rolling your eyes at his familiar theatrics, but he kept you tucked firm under his wing. He pointed a triumphant finger at Steve. “This man right here just got injected with the Super Soldier serum.”

“Super soldier?” you repeated with a soft gasp. You stepped out from under Bucky’s arm, looking at Steve wide-eyed. “Steve, what on earth…?”

Your book was now tucked under one arm as your free hand reached out, hovering for a second before your fingers finally made contact with his bicep. The fabric of his usually loose T-shirt was straining and spreading tight across his muscles.

“Is that really you in there?” you teased, your hand sliding up his shoulder, then tracing the broad and wide expanse of his chest.

The propriety of your actions didn’t even cross your mind; you were simply enamored by the sheer mass of him.

You gave his forearm a squeeze, marveling at how your fingers couldn’t even meet halfway around it anymore. Just a few weeks ago, you had been the taller one—now, he was a mountain of a man, looming over you with a shadow that felt protective.

“Steve, you look great… you feel great, too—I mean, how are you feeling?” You blinked up at him, pressing your palm against his to compare their sizes.

Steve looked like he was about to combust on the spot.

The sensation of your small, soft hand wandering over his new frame and resting in his own rough palm was an absolute assault on his composure. Everywhere you touched felt like it was catching fire, the serum amplifying the friction of your skin against his until his blood felt like it was boiling.

He tried to speak, but his throat had gone bone dry. Bucky, of course, noticed immediately.

“I… yeah. Thanks. I feel good,” Steve stammered, nodding firmly as he looked down at you, a stray blond lock falling over his eyes. “I feel really, really good.”

You giggled at his familiar stuttering, finally pulling your hand away from his palm to tuck a stray hair behind your ear.

Steve, meanwhile, felt a sudden warm ache pooling in his lower stomach—a physical reaction so intense it made his head spin. Your giggle, your scent, the way you looked at him—everything he had loved about you before the serum was now heightened to an overwhelming pitch.

He shifted awkwardly, his trousers becoming uncomfortably, visibly tight, but there was nowhere to hide in the moonlight.

Bucky, standing just a few feet away, watched the flush deepen from Steve’s neck all the way to the tips of his ears. His eyes drifted down, catching the unmistakable, growing bulge that pushed against his friend’s trousers.

Bucky had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from howling right there in the park.

“Steve, you’re shaking,” you said softly, completely obliovious to his predicament as you moved your hand to the center of his chest to check his heart rate. “Is the serum making you sick? Your heart feels like it’s going a mile a minute.”

“N-no! No, I’m—I’m fine,” Steve choked out, his hands hovering uselessly in the air. He was terrified that if he actually touched you back, he’d lose all of his self-control. “Just… feels like a lot of energy. It’s a lot to take in.”

Bucky cleared his throat, a wicked little smile tugging at his lips as he stepped back into the conversation. “Yeah, I’d say he’s got a lot of energy built up right now. Might be a biological side effect—right, Steve?”

Steve returned his words with a glare, and Bucky only snickered louder.

“Let’s not stay out too late,” you said, looking around the quiet park, your voice airy and warm. “My mother baked a fresh batch of gingersnaps before she headed out for the evening. She left them on the counter and specifically told me to share them with you both.”

“Gingersnaps?” Bucky’s grin widened. “My favorite. Your mother always did have a soft spot for me.”

“For us,” Steve corrected, his voice low and territorial.

You laughed softly, playfully beckoning them with a wave of your hand as you turned on your heel. You began leading the way toward your apartment building just across the street, calling back, “Come on! They’re probably still warm.”

As you walked ahead, the long, pleated skirt of your dress swayed with every step. The fabric clung and released over the curve of your hips in a rhythm that felt far too provocative for Steve’s new, heightened senses.

He couldn’t look away.

His gaze was hopelessly locked onto the way you moved, his mind clouded with feelings that were a mixture of protectiveness and something… unfamiliar and hungry.

Bucky nudged him hard in the ribs, leaning in close enough to whisper, “Careful there, Steve. You keep staring like that, you’re gonna burn a hole right through her skirt.”

Steve stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk, his face flushing. “Shut up, Buck,” he hissed, though his eyes darted right back to you the second he regained his footing.

“I’m just saying,” Bucky chuckled, shoving his hands into his pockets as he sauntered beside his friend. “Usually, you’re the one lecturing me about being a gentleman. Now look at you—standing there like a dog watching a steak dinner.”

You glanced over your shoulder, raising a brow at their whispering. “What are you two plotting back there?”

Steve stood up straighter, and Bucky shook his hand in a dismissiving wave despite the smile he tried to fight. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, doll. Just lead the way—we’re right behind you.”

You frowned playfully, but kept on walking anyway. “I don’t like it when you two keep things from me.”

Steve felt his heart leap in his chest at the sight of your lips turned into a little pout. He was still struggling to keep his walk natural, his trousers feeling tighter with every step he took behind you.

“Trust me,” Steve said, his voice coming out a pitch deeper than he intended. “It’s nothing a girl like you would ever want to know. Just… stupid locker room talk.”

He waited until you turned your back to them before leaning toward Bucky’s ears. “Behave,” he whisper-yelled in warning.

“Oh—come on,” Bucky smiled, adjusting his jacket as he met his friend’s panicked eyes. “I’m a saint, Steve.”

Once the three of you reached the building, you led the way up the narrow, dimly lit staircase. The rhythmic click of your heels on the creaky wooden steps was the only sound in the quiet hall.

Bucky leaned back slightly as he climbed, his gaze hooked shamelessly on the sway of your skirt. A look of pure appreciation settled on his face, his tongue darted over his lower lip as he considered just how much his best childhood friend had grown up.

Steve, walking right beside him, felt a sharp surge of protectiveness at the way Bucky was cataloging your every move. He jutted a heavy elbow into Bucky’s ribs—a blow that, with his new strength, nearly sent Bucky over the banister.

“Be respectful!” Steve hissed, his jaw locked.

Bucky wheezed quietly, clutching his side.

“Jeez, Steve… watch the hardware,” he grunted, trying to catch his breath. “And don’t give me that lecture, pal. You’re looking just as hard as I am.” His eyes drifted pointedly down to the front of Steve’s trousers. “Probably harder, considering you’ve got the vision of a hawk now.”

You paused in front of your door, fishing the keys out of your purse. You raised a skeptical brow at the two of them. “What is going on with you two?”

Steve caught his breath, smoothing his expression as he closed the distance between you. He forced a stiff smile.

“Nothing,” he said. “We’re just excited for those cookies. Been thinking about them all the way here.”

Bucky let out a muffled snort behind him, but Steve ignored it, keeping his focus on your eyes.

You chuckled and shook your head, pushing the door open. “Well, don’t just stand there like statues. Come in.”

Steve crossed the threshold with Bucky lingering right behind him. The moment the door clicked shut, Steve realized that coming here so soon after the serum had been a mistake.

The apartment was a sensory trap. Away from the biting wind of the street, your scent was no longer just a trace on the breeze—it was everywhere. It was in the perfume lingering on your soft skin, the traces of your familiar vanilla scent in the kitchen, and on the lived-in warmth of the sofa.

To Steve, you were everywhere.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” you said, heading straight for the kitchen.

Steve didn’t move. He stood in the center of the living room, his body as rigid as a bag of bricks. Every muscle in his legs and back was coiled like a high tension spring. His hands were balled into fists at his sides just to keep them from shaking.

You returned a moment later, carrying a ceramic plate of gingersnaps and tea to the coffee table.

To Steve, you looked effortlessly domestic, the soft light of the floor lamp catching the stray flyaways of your hair like a halo.

As you sat on the sofa, you crossed one leg over the other, causing the hem of your skirt to hike up an inch or two higher than usual. It revealed the smooth line of your calf, covered only by a flimsy, sheer stocking that Steve felt he could easily rip with the slightest twitch of his hands.

A roar of blood rushed to Steve’s ears. He felt himself straining very painfully against his trousers, his fingers twitching with a desperate longing to touch you.

“Sit down, Steve,” Bucky prompted, giving his friend a nudge in the back toward the sofa. “Relax a little.”

Bucky sank into the armchair, leaving the spot on the sofa right next to you wide open. He looked at Steve, then at the empty cushion, and finally at Steve’s visible predicament, his eyebrows rising in amusement.

“Yeah, come here, Steve,” you said, scooting over and patting the empty space next to you.

Steve swallowed hard, taking long, stiff strides until he finally sank onto the small sofa.

The cushions dipped precariously and the wooden frame groaned under his heavy weight. He found his knees sitting much higher than usual, making him look even more like a giant in a dollhouse.

“Man,” Bucky laughed, lifting a cup of tea to his lips. “You’re gonna break the damn furniture, Stevie.”

Steve mumbled a shy, “sorry,” his face burning.

You just shook your head, ignoring Bucky’s usual teasing. You picked up a gingersnap and brought it to Steve’s lips, cupping your other hand beneath it to catch any stray crumbs.

“Say ah.”

Bucky nearly choked, a spray of tea flying back into his cup.

Steve had turned a shade of red that was impossible to hide, the color racing from his collar to his hairline until even his ears were glowing. He sat there frozen—his jaw hanging slightly as he looked from the cookie in your hand to the teasing glimmer shining in your eyes.

“Well?” Bucky taunted, leaning forward in his armchair and clattering his saucer down on the table. He was enjoying this far too much. “Don’t keep the lady waiting, Steve. Go on. Say ‘ah’ for the misses.”

Steve pressed his lips together, giving Bucky a hard glare from across the couch.

“Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport, Steve,” you teased, nudging the gingersnap closer to his mouth. “You said you were hungry, didn’t you?”

Bucky let out a low, wicked whistle. “He’s real hungry, doll. Starving, I’d say. Just look at him—he’s already drooling for a bite.”

“Bucky—” Steve’s jaw dropped in indignation at his friend’s shamelessness, and you seized the opportunity to slide the edge of the cookie past his teeth.

“There,” you hummed, reaching out to catch a small crumb off his bottom lip with a slow swipe of your thumb. “Was that so hard?”

Steve wished the worn cushions would open up and swallow him whole—because hard was exactly what he was. The simple graze of your thumb swiping over his lip was enough to make his whole body shudder. The feel of your lingering touch tingled on his lips, the sensation only making him dangerously need you more.

“Hell,” Steve muttered through the quiet munching. “Would you… please excuse me—”

He stood up so abruptly the sofa groaned. He kept his back turned to you, his hand dropping to swiftly, desperately adjust the painful bulge pushing up against his pants. He took stiff, heavy strides toward the bathroom, each foostep making the delicate floorboards thud and creak under his heavy body.

After Steve disappeared around the corner, you turned to Bucky. He was leaning back in the armchair, looking entirely too smug for his own good.

“Is everything okay with him?” you asked softly. “He’s been acting so… jumpy. Is the serum hurting him? Maybe he needs a doctor.”

Bucky let out a dry chuckle, swiping a gingersnap from the plate. He took a slow bite, savoring the sweetness before his eyes met yours, something mischevious and knowing behind those orbs.

“Hurting him? No, sweetheart. I don’t think ‘pain’ is what Stevie’s feeling right now,” Bucky said, his gaze drifting toward the hallway. “The scientists told him the serum doesn’t just change the muscles. It amplifies everything inside—his heart, his nerves, and his…” He paused, his eyes landing back on yours, “… instincts.”

You blinked, still not quite catching the drift. “Instincts? Like his reflexes?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Bucky replied with a casual shrug, dusting the crumbs off his fingers. He leaned in closer, resting his elbows on his knees to bridge the gap between you. “See, Steve was always the type to keep to himself when it came to women. But that serum? It turned him into a real man—in every sense of the word.”

You tilted your head curiously, and Bucky chuckled at your naivety before pressing on.

“Everything he sees, everything he smells… everything he feels… it’s all ten times more intense than it used to be.” Bucky paused, raising a dark brow. “You followin’ me, doll?”

“I’m trying to,” you murmured, though a slight heat was beginning to prickle at your cheeks.

Bucky glanced toward the closed bathroom door. “Usually, Steve’s got a lot of willpower. But you sitting there, feeding him and touching him like that?” A wolfish grin tugged at his mouth. “I bet it’s taking every ounce of strength in that new body of his just to remember how to be a gentleman.”

You followed Bucky’s gaze toward the darkened hallway, your lower lip poking out in a slight, troubled pout.

“But… is he hurting?” you asked, your heart aching at the thought of Steve in any kind of distress. “If the serum is making things that intense, it sounds… painful.”

Bucky chuckled. “Oh, you’re so innocent doll. That’s why we love you.” He shook his head, leaning back as he watched the gears slowly turn in your head.

“Listen to me,” he continued. “Steve is a gentleman. Always has been, always will be. He’d sooner jump on a grenade than be disrespectful to a lady—but at the end of the day, he’s a man. And a man has certain… needs. Especially when he’s sitting inches away from the person he’s been head over heels in love with since we were all knee high to a grasshopper.”

Your breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping your lips as your eyes went wide to meet his. “Steve… Steve likes me? Like that?”

Bucky gave you a boyish grin. “Like doesn’t even begin to cover it, sweetheart. He’s had it bad for you for about a decade,” he teased before he tilted his head and gave you a slight pout. “Now, don’t go getting me too jealous, either. I’ve got a heart too, you know.”

A deep, hot flush crept up your neck and nestled into your cheeks. You could hardly wrap your mind around the idea that Steve… kind, stalwart Steve, actually liked you. Between that revelation and the way Bucky was staring, you found yourself shifting restlessly on the cushion, rubbing your legs together subtly as if to soothe a sudden warm itch.

Bucky’s eyes dropped, tracking the way your skirt shifted over your thighs. He let out a low amusing hum at the way you wriggled beneath his scrutiny, his own expression darkening with interest.

“If he’s feeling… uncomfortable around me,” you started, your voice small and flustered, “is there anything I can do to help him? I don’t want him to be in pain.”

Bucky watched your legs work together for a moment before dragging his eyes back to yours. “You want to help him, do you?”

“Of course,” you nodded earnestly, meeting his stare with wide, sincere eyes. “I’d do anything to help you two if you were in distress. You’re my best friends.”

Bucky’s grin shifted, wider and somehow more predatory. He leaned in an inch closer, his voice dropping deeper. “Anything, sweetheart?”

Steve walked back into the living room. He looked slightly more composed, though his hair was damp at the temples where he had splashed his face with cold water. His shirt was tucked in tight—perhaps too tight—and he kept his arms stiff at his sides as he approached the sofa. He stopped in his tracks, his frame large in the small room, when he saw how closely Bucky was leaning toward you and the stiff, flustered way you were sitting.

“Everything alright?” Steve asked. His eyes darted suspiciously between his smug best friend and your embarrassed expression.

“Are you feeling alright, Steve?” you asked softly, looking up at him with wide, concerned eyes. “Bucky said the… um, the serum… it might be making things difficult for you?”

Steve froze. He stared down at Bucky, his eyes blown wide with a mix of shock and betrayal. He opened his mouth to stammer out a polite lie—to tell you he was perfectly fine and that Bucky was just talking nonsense—but Bucky didn’t give him the chance.

“I told our girl here all about your little predicament, Stevie,” Bucky interrupted with a gravelly purr. He leaned back, relishing the way Steve’s jaw tightened until the bone looked ready to snap. “Told her how all those new nerves of yours are screaming for a bit of... relief.”

Steve’s face went from pale to a scorched, blistering red. “Buck, shut it—”

“And the best part?” Bucky continued, ignoring the warning as he looked up at his friend with taunting eyes. “She’s a real sweetheart, Steve. She told me she’s willing to do just about anything to help you out of your distress. Isn’t that right, doll?”

Steve’s gaze flickered down to you, searching your face as if he were waiting for you to deny it—or perhaps, secretly hoping for your confirmation.

“Anything,” Bucky repeated for you, his voice low and suggestive. “She’s got a real generous heart, Steve. I think she’s just waiting for you to tell her exactly what a big, strong soldier like you needs to feel better.”

Steve’s chest felt like it was closing in on his heart. Your eyes—still wide and guileless—never broke away from his, and it only made his restraint weaker.

“What do you need from me, Steve?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. “If you’re hurting… if there’s something I can do to make this easier on you, just tell me.”

If you could be any more innocent, Steve swore he would lose his mind. He had a sudden, violent urge to pin you down on the couch and fuck you right there.

“I… I don’t…” Steve stammered, his voice trailing off as he heard Bucky push himself off the armchair.

Bucky stepped up behind Steve and reached out and to give Steve a firm nudge toward you, forcing his large frame even deeper into your personal space until he was practically looming over your lap.

“Look at her, Steve,” Bucky cooed next to Steve’s ear. “You’ve got the girl of your dreams sittin’ right in front of you, offering her help, and you’re not gonna accept it?”

Steve felt like he could burst right through the seams of his trousers just from looking at you. Your eyes kept flicking down to the heavy, undeniable bulge in front of you before darting back up to his, your teeth nervously strumming over your bottom lip as you fought the urge to stare.

Bucky noticed.

Of course, Bucky noticed.

He let out a sly grin before reaching around and flattening his palm directly over the straining bulge in Steve’s pants. He had done it so casually that you almost believed this wasn’t the first time he’d handled his friend.

“Fuck,” Steve’s eyes snapped wide, head turning to Bucky’s in shock but not pulling away. “B-Buck—!”

“Look at this, doll,” Bucky hummed darkly. He didn’t break eye contact with you as his fingers flexed, squeezing the length of Steve’s cock through the fabric. “You see how hard he is? How much he’s shaking just because you’re lookin’ at him?”

Steve let out a low, involuntary whimper—a sound so ungentlemanly it made his face burn even hotter. He looked down at you, his eyes dark and desperate, pleading for you to either stop this or finish it.

“P-please…”

Bucky gave Steve a firm squeeze, his fingers curling around Steve’s bulge. The pressure made Steve’s head roll back, a deep, broken groan vibrating out of his throat as his body betrayed him.

A dark, damp circle began to bloom against the front of his light-colored trousers, the fabric darkening as a heavy bead of pre-cum soaked through, marking him right where Bucky’s thumb was pressing.

Bucky let out a low, dark chuckle as he relished the way his friend was falling apart beneath his hand.

“Look at that, doll,” Bucky urged, voice raspy.

He shifted his palm slightly to smear the growing dampness into the cloth, making the stain even more obvious and Steve even more shameful. “See what you’re doin’ to him? He’s so worked up for you, he can’t even keep himself dry.”

Steve was trembling where he stood, his massive shoulders shaking as he looked down at his ruined pants before his gaze snapped back to yours—raw and shamelessly.

“Buck… stop,” he whined. It was a pathetic, needy sound, and despite every ounce of strength in his new muscles he could use to push Bucky off, he didn’t. He stayed rooted to the spot, leaning into the touch. “You’re… you’re scaring her…”

“Scaring her?” Bucky chuckled. “I’m not scaring her. Look her in the eye, Stevie. She wants you just as bad.”

Bucky glanced over at you, tilting his head with a flash of innocence that didn’t match the way his hand was still working Steve through his trousers. “Isn’t that right, doll? Don’t you want to help our poor, big Stevie?”

“How sohuld I…” you whispered, voice trembling as you looked up at the two large men looming over you. “What should I do?”

Bucky’s eyes darkened, a predatory smile tugging at his lips. “Get down on your knees, sweetheart. A man loves to see his woman on her knees for him.”

A small gasp escaped you, and you looked up at Steve as if waiting for his approval. He didn’t deny it—his brows were pinched together and his jaw hung open as his chest heaved in deep, heavy breaths. Finally, you slid off the cushions and sank onto the rug. From this angle, Steve looked like a titan, and the damp stain on his trousers sat right at eye level.

Steve swore he could bust right then and there just from seeing you on your knees.

“Now,” Bucky commanded softly. His hand finally let go of Steve’s cock to rest on top of his head, his fingers threading firmly through Steve’s blonde hair. “Open ‘em up. Nice and slow.”

“Slow?” Steve whined.

Bucky clicked his tongue. “He’s been waiting a long time for this, he can wait a little longer.”

With trembling fingers, you reached for the buttons of his trousers. The fabric was strained to the limit, and as you worked them free one by one, the rigid, pulsing heat of him began to push through the opening.

When the last button gave way, Steve’s cock snapped free, heavy and thick.

You gasped at the size. You weren’t sure how it was going to fit in your hand.

“There he is,” Bucky cooed, his hand tightening in Steve’s hair as he forced Steve's head down to look at you. “Now, wrap your hand around him. Take a good grip so he knows he’s yours.”

You reached out, your small hand barely able to meet around the girth of him. The feel of your warm, amateur palm wrapping around his skin made Steve’s eyes shutter closed instantly in pleasure.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve cursed, his hips instinctively bucking forward for more.

“Look at that,” Bucky chuckled.“Can’t even fit her whole hand around you—but it feels good, doesn’t it? So much better than your own hand.”

“So…” Steve moaned, his hips drawing back slightly before he thrusted himself into your palm, “much… better. Fuck—”

You tightened your grip, swiping your thumb over the pre-cum that gathered at his tip and over his cockhead. The friction of your palm against his over sensitized skin made Steve’s knees buckle, his large frame swaying as he looked down at you through his haze of lust.

“See that, doll?” Bucky rumbled above you. “Steve’s a man now—and a man like this… sometimes a hand just isn’t enough to please him. Isn’t that right, Stevie?”

Steve didn’t, couldn’t, give him a coherent answer. He was busy babbling broken, desperate sounds into the air, his head rolling back against Bucky’s chest. “God… please,” he breathed. “Her hand.. it’s so soft—so warm.”

Your face was on fire. You could feel yourself wetting your panties with every heavy breath and grunt that escaped Steve’s lips. And the way Bucky was shamelessly watching you, that wicked little knowing grin plastered on his face, only made you feel smaller—utterly helpless under both of them.

Bucky’s cock was practically jumping out of his pants as his eyes were fixed on the way your small hand looked against Steve.

“Shit. I think he needs more, sweetheart.” He breathed. “I think he needs more, sweetheart. Stick your tongue out. I want you to use that pretty tongue of yours. Lick it—all the way up—and then I want you to take as much of him as you can into your small little mouth.”

You hesitated, your breath hitching as you stared up at the two men.

“I… I’ve never... sucked before—” you confessed, tiny and trembling.

The admission made you sink back on your heels, suddenly overwhelmed. You had Steve right in front of you, practically panting for anything you were willing to give him, which should have made you feel confident—but the performance anxiety was taking its toll.

You were terrified you wouldn’t be able to satisfy Steve, and the weight of Bucky’s watchful and critical gaze only made it worse.

But Bucky didn’t look disappointed.

In fact, his grin grew wider.

“Even better,” Bucky purred. He leaned over Steve’s shoulder, his eyes locking onto yours. “That just means Stevie here gets to be the one to teach you. And don’t you worry, doll... we’re gonna make sure you learn exactly how to take care of a man.”

Bucky’s hand slid down Steve’s forearm, his grip tightening as he nudged him toward you. “Help her out, Stevie. Grab her hair.”

Steve hesitated. His eyes dropped to the plump curve of your lips, and his cock twitched as he imagined the heat of your mouth wrapping around him. Slowly, as if expecting you to pull away, his thick fingers tangled into your hair.

When you let out a soft, shaky sigh at the feel of his touch, Steve took it as the only permission he needed. He tugged a little firmer now, guiding your face closer to his hard length until you stumbled forward on your knees with a small whimper.

“Tell her, Steve,” Bucky urged, his eyes fixed on your trembling lips. “Tell her exactly what you want her to do with that pretty mouth.”

Steve’s tongue sweeped over his bottom lip, with a hand tight around the base of his cock, he guided himself right to your lips. Instinctively, your tongue darted out at the pre-cum collecting at his slit, and Steve’s entire body shuddered with every effort it took from slamming his cock into your mouth.

“How does it taste, sweetheart?” Steve breathed, gauging your expression.

You looked up at him, your eyes a little hazy as the salty taste of him settled on your tongue. It was a completely new sensation—warm, strong, and undeniably masculine.

“It’s… a little salty,” you admitted gently “Is it supposed to taste like that?”

Bucky chuckled darkly, his hand coming up to grip Steve’s shoulder as he pressed himself into his back, his cock subtly rubbing up against the cleft of Steve’s ass through the fabric of his own pants. “Aw. Isn’t that cute? Just a little taste and our girl’s already curious.”

“Open… please,” Steve rasped.

Between the sight of your waiting mouth and the insistent pressure of Bucky behind him, his senses were completely overwhelmed.

“Open your mouth all the way for me, sweetheart,” Steve breathed shakingly.

He guided his throbbing, slicked head of his cock back to your lips, his fingers tightening instinctively in your hair. “I need to feel how warm your mouth is… I need you to take me.”

Shyly, you parted your lips. At the sight of your tongue, Steve took it as a final invitation to lose himself. He nudged your head closer to his cock until your lips stretched over his sensitive head. Already overwhelmed by the sensation of your plump lips sliding over his sensitive flesh, Steve let out a low, guttural growl and tossed his head back.

“Oh, hell…” he cursed, bucking his hips forward without warning.

Steve’s cock slid over your wet tongue and buried itself deep in your mouth. Your eyes went wide as you let out a muffled, helpless choke around his length. That small sound only made your throat tighten around his shaft, and the combination of your sweet, pained noises and the warmth was enough to shatter Steve’s last bit of control.

“Shit… that feels… fuck,” Steve whined, his hips snapping deeper into your mouth. “Feels too damn good—”

“Whoa, Stevie,” Bucky chuckled, though his own breath was hitching as he watched. He reached down, his hand landing heavy on Steve’s hip to try and still him. “Slow down, pal. You’re gonna choke the poor girl if you keep lunging like a wild animal. Take it easy.”

“I—I can’t…” Steve gasped, his head rolling back against Bucky’s shoulder.

His eyes were blown wide and glassy with a terrifying haze of lust. His thrusts became more frantic, his heavy cock sliding in and out of your mouth with a wet, vulgar slapping sound.

“Fuck, Bucky… do you see how she’s looking at me?” Steve grumbled, his voice a wrecked, low vibration.

He looked down at you, watching the way your eyes stayed locked on his even as you struggled to accommodate his size.

“She’s chokin’ around me… I can feel her throat squeezing me… but she’s not looking away.”

He glanced back at Bucky, blonde hair falling over his sweat beaded brow in messy, golden strands. “That—that means she wants it, right? She wants me to keep goin’?”

Your eyes grew wide and teary, your warm, wet throat closing in tight around him as he drove himself in to the hilt. You choked and coughed, drooling helplessly around his thick shaft as his pelvis collided with your nose with every thrust.

“Mmph—!”

“Fuckin’ hell, Steve…” Bucky cursed. “Slow down—you’re breaking her.”

Breaking you.

The mere idea of it—the very woman he had sought after for years, now pinned on her knees beneath him, servicing his cock—was too much to bear. Your eyes, usually so wide with wonder and kindness, were now glassy and teary as your mouth stretched to accommodate him.

The sight of your vulnerability was the final spark. It was enough to make him cum on the spot.

“Fuck… I can’t—shit, not when she’s looking at me like that…” Steve groaned, rocking his hips faster against your mouth.

“Ste—ve—mmph..”

“You like this, don’t you?” he breathed, his pupils blown wide as he stared down at the messy, beautiful ruin of your face. “My girl… my best girl… taking all of me.”

And then you nodded—a small, subtle little movement you managed to get out despite the possessive grip Steve had on your hair. That tiny invitation made his cock throb violently inside your mouth, pulsing once, twice, before his release finally consumed him and your mouth.

“Look at her, Buck!” Steve beamed, his head rolling back against Bucky’s chest as he drove himself into your throat one last time. “She’s so… fuck… she’s so perfect. God, I’m cumming—!”

Bucky watched, enamored, as Steve’s thick seed flooded your mouth. Steve held your head down, his fingers still tangled in your hair, as his release seeped around the stretch of your lips and down your chin, dripping obscenely onto the floor.

Your face—usually so pretty, soft, and composed—was now fucked to filth. Tears streaked your flushed cheeks, and your lips and chin were smeared with a mask of saliva and Steve’s cum.

It was a sight vulgar enough to make Bucky almost feel bad for you.

Almost.

The sensation of Steve’s salty, warm, and thick cum hitting the back of your throat was like a drug filling your head. His cock throbbed tiredly in your mouth, Steve finally coming down from his high. He let out a long, shaky breath and pulled out of your wet, sore mouth with a heavy, sloppy pop.

“I’m… I’m so sorry,” Steve rasped, his voice filled with regret as he took in the sight of you—kneeling on the floor, breathless and covered in his mess. “Look at you. I ruined you. I didn’t mean to be so—God, please let me help you up.”

He started to reach for your shoudlers, his large palms open and trembling, but he was cut off by the sharp sound of Bucky’s belt being unbuckled.

“Get up, Steve.”

Bucky’s voice wasn’t a suggestion but rather an authorative command that made no move for arguments. He nudged Steve back with a firm, steady hand, his eyes never leaving your messy, dazed face.

“That’s not a way to treat a woman now, Steve,” Bucky purred, finally extending a hand to you. His fingers were steady, a contrast to Steve’s shaking frame. “Our girl has never sucked a cock before—and yet here you are, slamming your pelvis down her throat and ruinin’ her.”

Steve’s face flushed with embarassment and shame. His eyes flickered to Bucky’s briefly before looking back at yours with guilt.

“I know. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I… I lost control.”

You reached up, wiping the corner of your mouth as Bucky’s hand closed around yours, pulling you to your feet. “It’s okay—”

“You should be ashamed of yourself, Steve,” Bucky interrupted with a sharp click of his tongue, shaking his head.

He pointed to the seat directly behind Steve—the one Bucky had just vacated. “Sit down. Since you don’t know how to pace yourself, I’m going to show you how to properly please a woman.”

Steve swallowed hard, watching your debauched face blink up at Bucky with a dazed curiosity. His heartstrings pulled knowing how brutally he’d just fucked your face, and reluctantly, he took a seat as instructed.

You felt Bucky’s warm breath hit the back of your neck as he pressed up behind you—his bulge rubbing firm against the fabric of your skirt as his hands circled from behind you to your front, undoing the buttons on your blouse one at a time.

“You have to take your time with a fragile woman like her,” Bucky said raspily, his nose finding the crook of your neck and pressing soft, wet kisses between each sentence. “You need to savor this moment—undress her slowly as if unwrapping a delicate present.”

Your blouse was finally undone, and you heard the small gasp that left Steve’s lips at the sight of your lacey bra.

Swiftly, as if he had done this plenty of times before, Bucky undid your bra in one quick moment, the lace hitting the ground.

“Oh—!” you gasped as Bucky’s hands immediately found your nipples, giving them soft and teasing tugs as he circled his digits around the sensitive flesh.

In reaction, your back arched against his chest, only making your ass rub up against Bucky’s straining cock even more.

“Bucky…” Steve breathed from the couch, his hands already working at his half-hard cock. “What’re you… doing…”

“You’ve gotta play with her for a bit,” Bucky explained, giving your nipple a harsher tug that made you squeal. “Hear that, Steve? Means she likes it.”

He nuzzled his nose closer to your face, blue eyes piercing through yours.

“Do you like it, doll?”

“I… I do…”

You were cut off with Bucky’s hand sliding up to your chin and giving your cheeks a firm squeeze in his direction.

“Look at me when you answer, baby,” he warned. “Do you like it?”

“Yes, Bucky... I l-love it,” you whimpered as his hands continued their possessive roam over your body.

Bucky’s grin was dark and satisfied, his thumb grazing the corner of your swollen mouth. “Good. Eye contact is important. Now…”

He reached out, his hand hooking under your chin and firmly turning your face to meet Steve’s gaze. Steve looked completely spent, his blue eyes wide and glazed with a heavy, post orgasmic haze as he watched you from the couch, his hand resting lazily over the rise of his cock.

“Look Steve in the eye while I touch you,” Bucky commanded, his fingers digging slightly into your cheeks to keep your head still. “Tell him how good it feels.”

You shivered, your eyes locking onto Steve’s. He looked so vulnerable, yet so hungry, his chest heaving as he watched his best friend’s hands work over you.

“Don’t keep him waiting.” Bucky urged.

“It… it feels so good, Steve,” you breathed as Bucky continued to grope you. “Bucky’s hands… they’re so warm—I love how he’s touching me—”

Steve let out a choked sound at your words, one hand stroking his shaft while the other gripped the arm rest. “Jesus…”

“He’s got a lot to learn, doesn’t he, baby?” Bucky murmured, his hand sliding down to the hem of your skirt and unzipping the side, letting the fabric fall over your legs and hit the ground. “Tell him how it feels when I do this.”

A mewl escaped your lips the moment Bucky slyly slid his hand down the waistband of your panties, his fingers gently rubbing at your clit before delving deeper against your folds. He shifted around you, one hand groping at your chest,waist, and hips—while the other fingered your wet cunt.

“Ah—Buck!”

“My,” Bucky chuckled, clicking his tongue. “She’s so wet.”

Steve swallowed hard, his eyes glued to the sight of Bucky’s hand disappearing into your lace. “Is she?”

“Long before I even started touchin’ her, I bet,” Bucky explained, nudging his knee between your legs to force them to spread wider for him. “That’s all because of you, Steve. You worked her up so good—she’s dripping around my fingers.”

Still standing and completely exposed to both of the hungry men, you felt Bucky’s fingers probe against your entrance, giving you a few teasing strokes before he pushed firmly against the tight heat of your hole. You arched your back, whining high in your throat as Bucky’s fingers sheathed completely inside you—at first stroking gently before he began to move roughly, enticing shamelessly wet sounds out of you.

“Oh my God—!” you cried.

You squelched around his fingers as he worked your slick folds. Steve’s eyes widened, his breath completely caught in his throat as he watched your body react so easily to Bucky’s hands.

“You hear that, Stevie?” Bucky groaned, increasing the pace in his fingers while rubbing himself against your back. “When a woman sounds like that—it means she’s ready. Ready to be fucked.”

With a sharp tug, Bucky hooked his fingers into the lace of your panties and dragged them down your legs, leaving you completely exposed and shivering in the center of the room. He rested a heavy hand on your lower back, his palm hot against your skin as he guided you toward the couch.

“On the couch, doll. Front and center.”

You stumbled slightly, your knees weak and your inner thighs a slick, aching mess. You barely had time to settle onto the cushions before Bucky was already unbuckling his belt, his pants hitting the floor as he exposed himself completely.

He stepped in, his thighs nudging between your knees and forcing you to lay back until you were spread wide and vulnerable beneath him.

Bucky was big in ways that genuinely worried you. If you could hardly handle Steve’s length in your throat, you weren’t sure of how your body would react to Bucky’s width.

He noticed the way your eyes widened as he hovered over you, his thumb tracing the seam of his own length as he rubbed his tip against your entrance. He let out a low, dark chuckle, completely satisfied with the way he had you squirming and the way he had Steve pinned to his seat, unable to look away.

“You see how she’s shaking, Steve? That’s what you want. You want her knowing exactly what’s coming for her.”

“Bucky,” you whined, your hands coming up to his shoulders for support—and Steve watched with a pang of envy, wishing it was his skin you were clinging to instead. “Please…”

Bucky laughed again, taking the head of his cock and dragging it slowly along your slit, coating himself in your heat. You let out a shaky breath, your hips involuntarily twitching, begging for the friction to turn into something more.

“She’s begging so sweetly, Buck…” Steve gave himself a gentle squeeze around his sensitive shaft at the sight of you. “You need to take care of her—”

“Even though she’s beggin’, you gotta make her wait.” Bucky explained despite the strain of holding back in his own voice. “You stretch her out bit by bit until she’s begging you to just get it over with.”

Bucky poked his tip against the soft, warm flesh of your cunt, pressing just enough pressure to make you gasp but not enough to penetrate all the way through.

“Tell Steve what you want, doll,” Bucky murmured, his hand coming down to grip your hip. “Tell him how much you want this.”

“B-Bucky, please,” you sobbed, your back arching off the couch as you tried to force yourself onto him, but he held his ground, as immovable as a mountain.

“That’s not an answer,” Bucky teased, his eyes darting to Steve, who was leaning so far forward he was nearly off his seat. “Is she asking for a kiss, Stevie? Is she asking for a blanket? I can’t tell.”

Steve’s throat bobbed as he watched the head of Bucky’s cock sliding against your entrance, the size of him making you look so small and fragile. “She wants you inside her, Buck. Just… fuck, just give it to her.”

“I want to hear her say it,” Bucky countered, giving you another shallow, teasing poke that made your toes curl into the cushions. “Tell us, baby. What do you want me to do with this?”

“I want you inside,” you choked out, your face warm with embarassment. “I want… I want you to stretch me. Please, Bucky, fuck me!”

Bucky smirked, satisfied. “That’s my girl.”

With one hand propped near your head to hold himself up, he used the other to grip the base of his cock. He pushed deeper against your entrance, your cunt slowly stretching around him with every stinging burn. You could feel every ridge, every inch of his width forcing your tight walls to let him in.

“Shit,” Bucky hissed a curse, “she’s so tight.”

“Buck,” you whimpered, fingers digging into the muscle of his shoulders as he stretched you with every slide. “Too… too big, I don’t think I—”

“You can, baby,” Bucky countered. He hooked one hand underneath your thigh, hoisting it up toward your chest until you were pinned back, nearly splitting you. “Here—I’ll help you. Steve, I want you to watch me.”

A broken mewl left your lips as you tossed your head back against the cushions. Bucky was filling you—completely and deeply—and he hadn’t even begun to move before your legs were already shaking. With a deep grunt, he finally bottomed out, his hips slamming against yours with a wet squelch so vulgar it made Steve’s breath hitch.

“Her legs are shaking…” Steve pointed out, which only made your body warm even more in embarassment.

You turned your head to look at him, and the sight made you clench instinctively around Bucky’s dick. Steve was at the edge of his seat, his toes curled into the floor as his large hand pumped over his cock. He was still slick from his own cum and the heat of your mouth, leaking profusely and looking every bit ready for round two.

“S-Steve…” you broke off into a whimper as Bucky’s grip on your thigh tightened.

The sudden grip made your eyes flicker back to Bucky’s—his darkening at the way you were looking at his best friend. He let out a sharp, mocking huff.

“Moaning another man’s name while I’m bured this deep inside you, doll?” Bucky pulled back until he was nearly out, the slick wetness around his shaft filling the room before he slammed back in, making you cry out and the couch groan.

“If you’ve got enough breath to call for Stevie,” he growled, pulling his hips back again before thrusting even deeper, “then I’m not working you hard enough.”

The moment Bucky increased his pace, a loud, broken moan ripped from your throat. You tried to hide it—to claw back any shred of composure—but you simply couldn't when you were stripped bare and taken so roughly while Steve watched every single second.

Every time Bucky’s cock kissed your cervix, it felt like your nerves were catching on fire.

You were parted completely by him, his width stretching you so thoroughly that your body had no choice but to acknowledge that you belonged to him.

“A-ah! Bu-Bucky… feels so good—!” you cried out, hands clawing at his back as he fucked you into the cushions.

Each thrust Bucky delivered seemed to synchronize with the wet pumping of Steve’s hand. Bucky looked over his shoulder, a dark smirk pulling at his lips as he caught Steve’s eye.

“Bet you’ve imagined this countless times, haven’t you, Stevie?” Bucky taunted.

He nearly pulled all the way out, letting Steve see the wet and stretched out version of you before bottoming out again, filling you completely and making you cry out.

“Lying in your bed at night, wondering what it would like to hear her scream like this for you.” Bucky continued with a gritty rasp.

As shameful as it was—every bit of it was true.

Every day you had spent standing next to Steve—acting small and seemingly innocent—you never would have guessed that little ol’ Steve had the filthiest thoughts imaginable running through his mind.

He used to imagine what it would feel like to have a body that didn’t fail him, a body strong enough to pin you down and finally act on the dirty thoughts that made his blood sing. He’d lie awake in his cramped apartment, staring at the ceiling and picturing your hands on him.

Or better yet, his hands on you—forcing a cry just like the one Bucky was coaxing out of you now.

Every time Bucky’s cock slid out of your cunt, Steve imagined it was his own sinking back into your tight, aching heat. If your mouth had felt that incredible, he could only imagine how it must feel to be buried deep inside you. The thought alone made him pump his cock faster, his body leaking a copious amount of pre-cum thanks to the serum.

He was already on the verge of busting a second load just from the sight of you getting ruined.

“God… ah, fuck,” Steve whimpered, his eyes glazed as his cock became painfully sensitive under his own touch.

“Look at him, doll,” Bucky prompted, leaning down to hiss the words into your ear while he continued to relentlessly pump into you. “Look at how hard he’s working just to keep up with us. He’s been a good boy, hasn’t he? Watching his best friend ruin you while he sits there and plays with himself.”

Bucky pulled back almost to the tip, gripping your other hip and flaring you even wider for the audience.

“He’s imagining it’s him,” Bucky laughed, a dark, sexy sound that made you flare up. “He’s imagining he’s the one stretching you out, the one making you sob his name. But he has to learn how to take care of you first, right? He has to watch me finish inside you.”

Your eyes widened at the thought of Bucky pumping you full.

It was dangerous, but with the way he had you pinned, your body couldn’t help but react. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper into your heat.

“Oh—” Bucky grunted, his cock twitching violently at the feel of your soft thighs locking him in. “Jesus… fuck.”

“Finish inside her,” Steve pleaded. He was timing his own hand to Bucky’s thrust, body tensing as he was prepared to cum alongside his best friend. “Fuck, Buck… do it. She’s pullin’ you in—means she wants it. I want to see you fill her.”

“She’s—she’s so tight,” Bucky hissed, his head falling into the crook of your neck. He drew his hips back as far as your locked legs would allow before sliding back in. “She’s pulling me in… like she’s trying to drain me.”

Bucky pulled back slightly to look you in the eye, his eyes dark with hunger.

“What should I do, doll? Should I cum inside?” he whispered, rocking his hips in a slow, agonizing grind as he fought to hold back his release. “Should I show Steve how to properly breed a woman?”

“Yes!” you sobbed, your hips rising to meet him—trying to rip the orgasm out of him yourself. “Please, Bucky. I want it, please!”

Bucky’s face strained at your words, his hips losing rhythm as he fucked you until his cock twitched and pulsed.

“Christ… you dirty girl,” he grunted between clenched teeth, each thrust making the couch slide an inch against the floor.

Steve watched and listened, tracing the way your body shook and the way your moans pitched higher and higher with every wet slap of Bucky’s hips. He could see the exact moment you both started to go over the edge—and he was right there with you, his hand a blur as he prepared to cum too.

“Shit!” Bucky cursed. “Cumming—fuck—I’m cumming, baby.” He groaned, tossing his head back as you felt his cock twitch inside you, filling you up deeply.

“Oh my god—Buck!”

Your head swam with desire, the feeling of him pumping you full making you cry out as you came alongside him. Your walls clenched around his shaft as he continued to pump lazily into you, his release flooding your core.

Across from you, at that exact second, Steve let out a broken groan as his body jerked in the chair. His hand moved in a blur over his sensitive shaft, his cock twitching in his grip before spilling warm cum all over his fingers and stomach.

The living room that had once been warm with the scent of sweet cookies and tea now smelled of nothing but sex and sweat. Bucky stayed buried deep for a moment, pressing soft kisses to your flushed cheek as the tremors in your legs finally began to fade.

“Good girl,” he murmured in soothingly. “You were such a good girl for me.”

Slowly, Bucky began to pull out.

The sudden loss of him left you feeling sensitive and vulnerable, and you could feel the warmth he’d pumped into you beginning to slick down your thighs, staining the worn cushion of the couch. Bucky reached for the floor, grabbing his pants and pulling them over his shins.

“Did you watch carefully, Steve?” Bucky asked, doing his belt lazily.

Steve didn’t say a word.

He just nodded, pushing himself up from the chair.

You were completely spent, your limbs feeling like stones against the couch, but your eyes went wide as you watched him approach.

Despite having just finished, Steve was already half hard again. You didn’t know how it was physically possible, but a man with his desires amplified by the super-soldier serum worked wonders in ways that even you couldn’t understand.

“I did,” Steve confirmed.

His chest was still heaving as he stood over you, his shadow falling across your trembling frame. He looked devastating—undone, messy, and still starving.

“S-steve?” you whimpered, weakly trying to sit up, “… are you okay? What are you doing?”

Bucky let out a dark, knowing chuckle at the shock on your face. He stepped aside, clearing a path as he looked from Steve back down to you, his hand clamping firmly on his friend’s shoulder.

“Good,” Bucky said. “Because it’s your turn.”

3 weeks since i posted my last fic 🚬 this has been in my drafts since jan and i'm glad i got to finally finish it! another stucky one, but from here on out you guys can expect to see more bucky fics soon (probably knight!bucky or model!bucky, depends if i'm feeling depressed or horny)

thank you guys for sticking around, and i hope you enjoyed!

⤷ notes: this is pure filth y'all. let me stress again that THIS IS A LITTLE MORE ~TABOO~ IN PREMISE THAN WHAT I TYPICALLY WRITE. like it says above I'm pretty sure it doesn't require any sort of dddne tag, because though past faux-cest is referenced, it's not current (steve and reader are no longer step siblings). the references are def there though, so let me know if I missed any tags!

a couple of other short things: reader wears a dress and heels. petnames used include baby, sweetheart, honey, babydoll, princess, angel, etc. (sorry I literally couldn't stop myself they just kept coming out). there is one instance in which hair is said to be 'grabbed' but it's vague, mostly just head movement and stuff, no other descriptions I think. reader is mentioned to have stretch marks.

and a last obligatory warning NOT TO DO ANAL without adequate prep and research beforehand jdgfskjhgf.

not proofread. enjoy! x

You haven’t seen them in almost ten years. 

That’s enough time to become a different person. To uproot your life. To change your hair, the way you wear your clothes. To walk a little more confidently. To go to school, get a job, make a career out of your passion and be damn good at it, even if it’s made you a little lonely in the process. Enough time to build a brand new life. 

And yet, when you run into Bucky in the middle of a bustling city street, he recognizes you immediately.

Approaches you with that same unfaltering suavity that you used to see flickerings of before, only now its grown into something more sophisticated. Experienced. Something that, if you think about it the right way, seems to be a shiny veneer over a much darker and rougher inside. 

But that’s probably just your imagination. A seemingly never ending string of lackluster dates and bad sex will do that to a woman. 

When he mentions that Steve’s in town too, some business convention or something they’re both attending at one of the nicer hotels, you already know what’s coming. Already know you should readily and emphatically decline the invitation. 

But he asks, and you hesitate for a moment too long, and when the corner of his smirking mouth pulls upward at the corner, you already know you’re going to give in. 

He steps forward then, the world narrowing to only the two of you as his cologne blankets your shoulders, hand warm on your arm and lips brushing your cheek in a friendly graze. 

See you tonight, sweetheart, he says. And you nod, because—well. 

Because you’ve never been able to resist them, not even with a decade of practice under your belt. 

You look over your shoulder to watch him go when he walks away, a pit in your stomach that tells you running into you likely hadn’t been a coincidence at all.

The lounge at the hotel is swanky and dimly lit, with dark furniture and velvet curtains hanging from the ceilings. 

Your drink is sweating against your clammy palm in your lap, the martini style glass garnished with a lemon twist and far above your usual spending threshold, even for a night out. But Steve insisted on paying and Bucky insisted on picking something off the menu, and that alone makes you grip the stem a little more tightly, both ready and reluctant to cling onto whatever of this night you can. 

It’s been so long since even just a glance had heat licking up your spine. You vow not to tell them that they’re the only ones who’ve ever been able to elicit such a response. 

Steve’s casual, “So, tell us about you,” is enough to shake off the ice in the conversation, and you observe them carefully from across the glass coffee table between your settees as you touch on the highlights of the last several years. 

Your ex-stepbrother doesn’t really look much different, save for that his hair’s a little darker and thicker, spreading down to cover his jaw and his upper lip as well. The last time you’d seen him in person, he’d been clean shaven. All smooth lines and a soft mouth, a pointed chin and crooked nose. He’s got the same polite smile as he nods along to your story, the sips of his own drink slow and savory as he watches you with one arm folded over the back of the sofa, the rest of his body turned to face you. 

Bucky, conversely, has always been his counterbalance. The drink in his hand is straight off the shelf and stronger than you could ever stand to manage, and he takes liberal swigs of it while he talks, eager tongue gliding along his lower lip to catch any remaining wetness. His grin is less civil than Steve’s is, each flash of his teeth and cunning gaze near blinding as he sits with his knees spread and posture relaxed. 

They seem to have done really well for themselves. You’d read a little about it, scavenging for updates online on the nights when you felt particularly lonely and wondered what they might be up to. They’ve certainly upgraded in a few noticeable areas, their clothing much nicer than anything they would’ve worn before, watches wrapped around their wrists and that sweet smelling cologne that must be expensive clinging to their discarded suit jackets over the back of the settee. You’re only a few years younger than them but the time between you feels stretched; like suddenly you’re eighteen again, when the distance to their 21 and 22 felt like ages. 

They seem even more in tune with each other now than they were then. Even if it’s cruel, a small part of you had been hoping they might drift apart—if only so the past could stay buried deep. 

“It sounds like you’ve done good for yourself,” Steve comments when you’re finished, smiling softly. “I’m proud of you.” 

The praise has your hand stuttering where you’ve been watching your drink swirl around your glass, catching it just narrowly before it spills out onto your dress. A memory rushes back into your head, unbidden. 

Opened right up for me, didn’t you? All mine. Fuck, honey, take my cock so well—so proud of you. 

Your face feels hot when you tip your drink back toward your mouth, using it as a shield as much as a breather. You’re certain your eyes are glassier than you mean for them to be. 

Even when you lower the glass, Steve’s smiling. Watching. Absorbing your quiet thanks like it’s something he’s owed. 

That’s the difference between them, you think; whereas every inch of Bucky screams open invitation, Steve has a dangerous streak of composure that the other doesn’t. Something that won’t give in unless you make the first move. Unless you beg. 

You’ve done it once. You’re not sure you have the courage to do it again. 

“Such a coincidence I ran into you today,” Bucky picks up the conversation, fingers tapping on the side of his glass on his thigh. 

“Small world,” you offer with a smile of your own. 

“Had to go over to Brooklyn the other week for work. Could see the lights and the ferris wheel from my hotel room.” 

You swallow. “Oh?” 

He nods. “Thought about you.” 

A different memory lines the curve of his mouth, a thick, trimmed beard where there used to be tan skin, the back of a car parked out behind the commotion of the boardwalk overlooking the pier. Dark eyes, long lashes, your wetness smeared across Bucky’s clefted chin in the light stretching from the dock as he watched you with his mouth buried in between your legs. 

Look at this wet fuckin’ pussy. You’re so easy for it, sweetheart. What would your brother say? 

“I think I’ll get a refill,” you announce suddenly, uncrossing your legs to stand. 

Before you can get to your feet, two other glasses are clinking down onto the table in between you, Bucky and Steve moving into your space on either side and blocking your exits. They operate fluidly, like a unit, settling to your right and left without a word. In their business slacks and button-ups, collars open bordering on indecent, you aren’t sure where to look that’s safe. 

Bucky’s fingers take your drink away and set it aside, the touch of glassware sharp in the muted, dwindling volume of the lounge. On your other side, Steve’s thigh presses against yours. Your heart rate spikes like you’re on trial for something. 

A bend of two calloused fingers find their way underneath your chin, pulling your steadfast gaze off the table and over to Bucky’s mischievous blue eyes. 

“Sweetheart,” he smiles gently, “you think we didn’t talk?” 

Your heart drops somewhere into your stomach, shame crawling up the back of your throat. You twist out of his grip, but all it does is turn you right into Steve’s chest. 

He curls his fingers around your wrist, stroking over the frantic thump of your pulse. In the same polite tone, he says, “We don’t keep secrets, honey. Haven’t since we were kids.”  

“And you?” Bucky continues, breath hot on the back of your shoulder as he leans in. “You were the most tempting fucking secret.” 

You let your eyes close for a moment, drawing several breaths until you can finally speak around the knot in your throat and the burn in the back of your eyes. 

“Did you tell everyone?” you whisper. 

“No, honey. ‘Course not,” Steve frowns, swiping a thumb against your temple. 

“We might be filthy perverts but we’re also a little… what’s the word you’d use, Stevie?” 

“Greedy. Selfish. Possessive,” Steve lists off with an unspoken underscore of pick one. “We protect what belongs to us.” 

The present tense of it makes you shiver, and with both of them pressed in close, you’re positive they can both feel it. 

“But I didn’t…?” 

“You weren’t ours?” Bucky asks. “Really? Not when I had you ride me ‘til your legs were shaking in the back of that Camaro?” 

Steve sympathizes. “How about the time we both had you in the same night? You thought we wouldn’t figure it out when you went straight from one to the other, but you needed both of us to be satisfied, didn’t you? That wasn’t clear enough?” 

Bucky's voice lowers to a gruff whisper. “What about that first time you snuck into Stevie’s bed, huh? When he talked you off with his fingers inside you sayin’ all those filthy things about what a good girl you were—lettin’ him ruin you for anybody else.” 

The two of them give you no time to catch your breath, every bit of youthful charisma that used to make you swoon now hardened, sharpened and honed into something ten times as lethal. 

“You don’t have to say it,” Steve smiles, knuckles brushing your cheek. His gaze grows fond, tone softening as if he’s calling you beautiful even if what he actually says is undeniably more filthy. Wrong. “We all know what you are.” 

Bucky’s fingertips trace the hem of your dress on your thigh, and even Steve falters a little at the noise you make. 

“Tell me, sweetheart,” Bucky implores, stroking over your skin. “You were pretty adventurous before. You ever been with two men at once?” 

The entire day begins to fall together in your mind, a plan perfectly orchestrated—one you’d walked directly into in your favorite dress and sleek black heels. 

You could say no. Go home. Try to sleep this off and pretend it didn’t happen. 

But. But. 

No one’s fucked you so well since them. Ten years of trying to experiment with different things, partners, kinks, the world at your fingertips, and you still couldn’t get them out of your system. After a while it was easy to tell yourself you were just focusing on your career. The sorts of things Steve and Bucky had awakened in you weren’t at all in line with your real life goals and ambitions. They were obsession and fixation, something forbidden and undeniably right all at once. 

You’ve only spent a couple of hours around them tonight, and already the ache has started again. Maybe you haven’t changed so much either. 

“No,” you admit eventually. 

Bucky’s hand slips up your dress. Steve smiles. 

“You want to?”

The penthouse suite is dark and sprawling, with marbled tile and a wall of floor to ceiling windows covering one side. 

Suit jackets are strewn on the back of leather chairs. Shoes are left by the door, one pair toed off neatly and the other kicked off with a thud. Hands run through hair, working out pomade and stress, and the kitchenette sink gives a metallic sound as a glass of water is filled and the sheets on the bed are folded back. 

You eye Bucky as he approaches you in the foyer again, lifting the water to your mouth to wash out the alcohol. 

“Do you guys…do this sort of thing often?” you ask in between sips. 

“Not really,” Steve replies as he returns from the bed, “Buck and I have different tastes.” 

Bucky peels your fingers off the glass as he takes it from you, thumbing at a drop of it left on your lip. “But you’ve always been just right.” 

He downs the rest and then abandons it, tugging at the collar of his shirt as he begins to undo the buttons. Even still in your heels, you don’t reach their height when Steve steps up beside you. He reaches out with one hand to hold the back of your neck, the other slipping down the front of your dress to lay claim to one side of your lace-covered breasts with his fingers. 

Your moan is a sharp, startled noise, eyes wide on Steve’s as he touches you like he never stopped. It catches Bucky’s attention, who’s bare chested this time when he crowds into you. Steve’s fingers catch your nipple between them just as Bucky’s find the hem of your dress again, and they don’t stop at your thigh this time. 

Casually proprietorial in a way that makes you vaguely lightheaded, his palm slides up your thigh and inward, cupping your cunt through the thin material of your underwear. You whimper, ashamed and undeniably turned on, hips twitching against his hand. 

Your knees go weak between them, sensation pulled rapidly between your chest and in between your thighs as they grope at your pliant body. You’ve typically mastered the art of strutting across board rooms and business halls in your heels but tonight you’re wobbly on them, and the way you lean into Bucky and Steve for support only seems to spur them on further. 

“Tell me,” Bucky says again, fingers rubbing a shallow circle on your clit over your damp underwear. “How many men have you let inside this pussy since the last time we had it, huh? How many times we gotta fuck you to make sure you’re ours again?” 

Your eyes burn again, embarrassed in that way that feels sweeter than it should. It feels freeing to be so unabashedly needy, even more so now than it had back then. The three of you fall back into your roles easily, even if it was only ever with one of them at a time before. 

“I—I don’t know,” you murmur. 

“She doesn’t know, Stevie,” Bucky taunts. “You think it’s ‘cause she’s already goin’ tongue tied on us? Or maybe she just lost count.” 

Your whimper gets muffled by Bucky’s thumb slipping into your mouth, no longer able to defend yourself. 

“S’that it? Were you a little bit of a slut, honey?” Steve carols in faux sympathy. “That’s okay. Just couldn’t find anyone who could do it better. Could you?” 

You shake your head, but it’s not good enough. Bucky’s thumb slips out of your pouting mouth and leaves a trail of spit on your chin. He taps it there twice, sticky and smearing. 

“No, what?” 

“I—I couldn’t find anyone who could fuck me better than you,” you confess. 

“Poor baby,” Steve hums. “Must be fate that led you back to us, hm?” 

“Fate’s a good word for this tight little fuckin’ cunt,” Bucky interjects, two fingers slipping beneath the fabric and dipping toward your entrance. “She knows what she needs.” 

“Please,” you agree. 

“Ten years you ran from us,” Steve says belatedly, ripping the top of your dress down in an unexpected pull. You gasp as the cool air of the hotel suite meets your chest, crooked lace leaving you halfway exposed as he palms at you roughly. “Pretended you didn’t need us even when it’s so obvious you do.” 

“You have any idea how much that hurt us, sweetheart? You were gone when we came back. We couldn’t even find you—just when we could’ve made you ours.” 

“I’m sorry,” you beg, vision blurring with tears that begin to spill over when Bucky’s fingers trace your entrance and then pull away again. “I’m sorry, please.” 

“S’okay, baby. We forgive you. But you’re still gonna have to do better than that.” Bucky’s hand slips out of your underwear altogether, coming up to grip your jaw. “You wanna make it up to us?” 

You nod as much as he’ll allow, sniffling. “Yes. Please.” 

Eyeing you so intensely it makes your breathing stutter, you hold it altogether when Bucky leans in just enough to press the softest kiss he’s ever given you against your slack mouth. It’s sweet and slow and he keeps his eyes open to watch you when he does it, and he strokes a hand down the back of your head before he pulls back to say—

“Get on your knees.” 

You sink to the carpeted floor like a feather, hardly feeling the collision on your shins for the way you have both of their attention. It’s always been a thrill, even when you had them separately—the paradox of power; the way you draw them in like a magnet, making them revolve around you even if they’re the ones giving the orders. 

You wonder if they were like that before, too deep in your own thoughts back then to notice it. 

The liberal touches don’t stop, feeling very much still in between them even from your lowered height. Neither of them make a move to unlatch their belts or unbutton their slacks, letting your own fingers find their way up the seams of their pants while the tips of Bucky’s fingers graze the spot behind your ear and Steve strokes a thumb over your jaw, watching you with devastating precision. 

You’re less steady than he is when you slip a palm up the inside of his thigh. The years between you have made you hesitant but the instinct is still there, the overwhelming need to indulge the way you used to. 

Would it be so bad if you did? 

Pride already left at the door with their kicked off shoes, you turn from Bucky slightly, just enough that his fingers fall to your neck as you lean into Steve’s legs. With one hand tucking fingers into his belt and the other slipping up the muscles at the back of his calf, it’s his fingers touching your hair that makes you give in. 

With closed eyes and a mouth wrenched open around a gasp that gets stuck in your throat, you let yourself fall forward enough that your face is buried at the apex of his thighs. He smells different now, you think idly; what used to be familiar soap and lingering body spray has shifted into expensive linen and cologne—but the scent underneath is still there, something masculine and sharp, something that makes your mouth water the same then as it does now. 

Steve lets out a muttered curse above you as you rub your cheek against him, their voices distant now when his hand lowers to your neck, holding but not pushing. 

“Look at you,” Bucky murmurs. “Right where you belong.” 

The noise you make in agreement is muffled by the material covering Steve’s hardening dick, your lips parted the slightest bit around it to map out the shape. When he feels your hot breath, his hips stutter forward before he holds himself back again. 

His voice is tight when he says, “Fuck. Think she’s missed us, Buck.” 

“Think she has,” Bucky reckons. “Always so eager. Hasn’t changed a bit. Why don’t you take him out of his pants, sweetheart?” 

You hardly part from him as long as it takes to get the button open and ease down the zipper, but you’re glad for the brief sacrifice. Steve’s scent is even stronger like this, the fabric of his pants folded down around his thick thighs, nothing but his boxers between you now. 

At Bucky’s direction you reach for the band of those too, eyes flicking up to Steve’s for reassurance you haven’t needed in years. It’s not like you haven’t experimented since you’d been with them, and sometimes you’d even played around with being the one more in control. 

This, though. This is what you’d been craving ever since. 

“Go ahead, honey,” Steve nods. 

With his permission you carefully peel down the underwear, bringing it down his legs with his pants. It’s a blur to you as he moves back to step out of them and kick everything aside, your eyes glazed and drawn to what you’ve tried for so long not to want as badly as you do. 

Objectively, you’ve spent quite a bit of time not looking at Steve below the belt. Even while you were together it was in ways that made the forbidden feel less bad—lights off, secret rendezvous and hiding places, middle-of-the-nights and under covers. Bucky’d been like that too, but for different reasons. 

Tonight might be the first time all of this is happening without any of those other things. The lights are low but they’re all on, glowing softly from the corners of the room. They hadn’t bothered with closing the curtains so the cityscape shines bright outside the window against the backdrop of stars, high up enough that no one can see you but deliberate enough an act not to close them that you know it’d been intentional. 

Now, they don’t care who sees. Now, there isn’t anything to hide. 

So you let yourself look, properly this time. 

When he steps back up to you he looks obscene, this new, older version of his body so much harder and more defined. The lines and planes of his abdomen flex as he leans back with his torso to give you free reign of his hips, the swell of his pecs and the thick, subtly groomed dark blonde hair leading down to his cock making you even more desperate. 

His shirt hangs open off his shoulders, a mimicry of the professionalism he’d had downstairs. He’s already disheveled, a single strand of his hair curving down over his forehead to graze his brow, lips swollen pink from his teeth and tongue, skin flushed to match. 

The three of you seem to be in agreement that you need this, a little bit of recalibrating before jumping immediately back into things. Bucky’s given you some space and Steve doesn’t try to rush you, hooded blue eyes watching intently. 

Your own gaze finally sinks down his body toward his cock, standing thick and proud between his legs. The darkened tip is shiny with a little of his excitement, and the odd familiarity of it makes your mouth twitch with a fond smile. 

Careful as you had over his pants, you dip forward until your nose is inches from the hot skin that his boxers had covered on his hip, smoothing your lips to a stray freckle there it’d always been too dark to notice before. You press against it with your thumb when you part from it, and it makes Steve’s breathing go uneven above you. 

“Don’t tease him, babydoll,” Bucky adds quietly, drifting a touch over your shoulder. “Been a real long time for both of you, hasn’t it?” 

With a whine, you turn a little further and split your lips, letting your tongue appear in the seam as you drag wet kisses up the side of Steve’s cock. He curses again, hand twitching on the back of your head while he breathes hard through his nose. You want to ask how long it’s been for him too, but—right now you’re growing desperate to have your mouth occupied with something else. 

When one side is slick enough you switch and do the other. By the time you finally reach the leaking tip it’s like a reward, and you moan, unabashed and unfiltered, as the taste settles on your tongue. 

“Oh, shit,” Steve exhales, heavy and curling with a bit of his old accent. “Fuck, I missed this mouth.” 

Pleased with the encouragement, you widen the split of your lips and take him deeper, slow passion instead of eager skill. You’re less worried about technique at the moment, focused on keeping your teeth covered but letting the rest of your mind drift into muscle memory. Steve’s always been responsive, quick to praise, restless up to the moment he’s finally spent. It drives you crazy in the best possibly way, makes your blood hum with something hot and needy and ravenous, something you’ve kept locked in a box in your mind and shoved far, far away. 

It rises to the surface again now as you work your mouth over him, easing down and slipping back up again, fingers gripping the sides of his legs like you’re afraid he might disappear. His own hand is no better, twitching from the back of your head to your jaw to your shoulder and back again, like he wants to touch it all at once. 

Something like a whimper slips free when Steve withdraws from your mouth, holding himself in hand and giving a few slick strokes. 

“Not too fast, honey,” he says in explanation, eyes dark as he nods toward Bucky. “Want this to last. Why don’t you switch to Buck for a minute, okay?” 

With a glance over your shoulder, heat sparks again in your stomach at the look Bucky’s giving you. He’d behaved himself while you and Steve got reacquainted but you know that expression—the one that says I waited, now it’s my turn. 

Where Steve was always intense and passionate, Bucky was playful and, sometimes, a downright tease. He’s got a filthy mouth and little filter for it, and his favorite hobby was reducing you to needy helplessness and then talking you off a ledge so steep it left your legs shaking. 

You’ve never been able to hide anything from him. You’re pretty sure you can’t now either. 

He’s already kicked off his own pants, completely naked now as he steps toward you with a hand fisting his cock. He’s just as hard as Steve is but he doesn’t leak as easy, the skin toward the tip bunching up with each drag of his fist before sliding back down to expose a wink of the enticing pink slit at the top. 

“Don’t have to worry about too fast with me, baby,” he mutters, closing the last of the distance to smear himself all over your mouth in a lewd drag. “Been dreamin’ about this mouth for fuckin’ years. You gonna give it to me?” 

With a shaky nod, you wet your lower lip and lean forward, but Bucky pulls away. You lose your balance for a moment, his free hand steadying you with impeccable timing. You blink up at him. 

“Ah-ah,” he shakes his head, stroking himself faster. “Tell me it’s mine first.” 

“It’s yours,” you tell him without hesitation. “I’m yours. Please fuck my mouth, Bucky.” 

“Good girl,” he moans, drawing out the word as his brows furrow in pleasure. He traces the corners of your mouth with his thumb. “Look at you, remembering your manners. Open wide, princess.” 

It isn’t the slow exploration Steve had allowed you, but you weren’t expecting it to be. 

Bucky slides into your mouth easy as if no time had elapsed since he last had you, one hand steadying himself at the base, the other pinching your chin between his fingers. His gaze is intense and unwavering from above you, the back-and-forth motion of his hips and torso controlled but eager in execution. 

“So good, baby. There she is,” Bucky grunts, rutting against your face while you try to relax your mouth. He’s not as thick as Steve is but he’s another inch or so in length, and he taps the back of your throat quickly as he works himself inside, spit gathering at the corner of your mouth and tears quick to shine in your eyes. “You can take it. Let me in, sweetheart. That’s it.” 

Each thrust tests your boundaries a little more, pushing and working you open until you truly can’t take any more. There’s no way you can take all of him—not Steve, either. But this is definitely more than you ever took before, and Bucky eases up and slows a little when he notices you’ve reached your limit. 

“Shh, there we go. So full of me, huh? Swallow around it, baby. Let me see that throat work.” 

His thumb finds your neck, stroking over it tenderly as you squeeze your eyes closed and swallow, your muscles contracting around the tip of his cock. He holds close for another few seconds then rips himself out of your mouth altogether, squeezing the base of his dick tightly. 

“Fuck. Good girl. Back to Stevie now, c’mon.” 

Steve steps up to you this time instead of making you turn around again, both of them standing with hips pressed together as you’re fed his cock again. It slips in much easier this time, your mouth a mess of spit and pre-come, your throat worked open from Bucky’s length. Your sinuses sting and your throat will undoubtedly be sore in the morning, but you’ve never wanted anything more. 

With regained control you work Steve over more confidently this time, less about acquaintance and more about enjoyment. He hisses when your own palm replaces his to hold him in place, your mouth bobbing up and down on him while your hand works over the rest. It’s a comfortable rhythm save for the handful of times Steve’s control wanes and he bucks into you a bit too hard, making you pull off to cough and swallow before leaning back in. 

He’s always been sensitive at the tip—you pull a little of your focus there this time, pursing your lips against it and moving them the way you might if you were kissing Steve’s mouth. It’s different, stickier and more flavorful, making you feel filthy and deliciously free all at once. 

The shift of your head back to Bucky’s dick is easy. When he steps up to you, the head of his cock poking your cheek as he jerks himself off, you slip off of Steve and onto him easily, the two of them nearly touching in the rush to get you where they want you. Your hand keeps working Steve over even while you’re sucking Bucky, your cheeks hollowed and eyes fluttered closed. 

It turns out your fleeting thought hadn’t been too far off base. As the lines begin to blur again between whose turn it is, Steve and Bucky both groan when their dicks touch against your mouth, your hand working them both as one barely slips into your mouth before the other thrusts a little for their own pleasure, making you even more of a mess. 

“Shit. Think you can take us both?” Steve asks, panting. 

“She’s a grown woman now, Stevie,” Bucky tuts. “Not your little sister anymore.” 

You whine in protest instinctively, but there’s no concealing the way your folded thighs tense on the floor, suddenly aching for something between them you could grind against for some relief. 

“Hush. We both know it makes you wet,” Bucky says, gripping just enough of your hair to tilt your head back further. His eyes are surprisingly gentle for the obscene way he’s painting your lips with his pre-come, sharing your tongue with Steve. “It’s not even the word itself, is it? You just like knowing you belong to someone.” 

Whatever noise tries to escape you this time is completely muffled as Steve slides fully into your mouth again, your throat working around him as you swallow, Bucky’s thumb wiping underneath your eyes. 

“You’ve been so lost, honey,” Steve laments, smiling gently. “But you’re home now.” 

He slips out again abruptly, leaving you to gasp out a wet “Thank you,” before Bucky’s back, taking his place. 

“Know it’s not just the word. ‘Cause there’s nothing tyin’ you to either of us anymore and you’re still here, aren’t you? Still need us just as much,” Bucky goes on. 

“I do,” you nod frantically when your mouth is free again, a string of spit connecting you to Bucky’s cock. “I need you.” 

Their hands pet over your face, your shoulders, your hair before tugging you upward in tandem, taking your shaky balance in stride. 

“Come up here.” 

Bucky’s arms circle your middle and lift, your feet hovering inches off the ground with your cheek pressed to his shoulder as he carries you across the suite to the bed. You give a hazy sigh and Bucky chuckles, pinching the side of your ass under your dress until you yelp and squirm. 

The practiced move of his fingers beneath the lace of your underwear has them slipping off of you and landing on the floor, left behind as you keep moving. His body heat is nice, your nearly-bare breasts pressed to his chest, his arms around you, his voice in your ear. You’ve missed being close with anybody lately, really, but most of all them. 

He pauses just before the mattress, Steve stripping off his shirt in your peripherals as Bucky’s palm slides over your spine and down, palming indulgently at your ass for a moment before parting it and dragging a fingertip over the exposed seam. You make another urgent noise, kicking weakly. 

“Calm down,” he scoffs, smacking a kiss to your shoulder before dropping you back onto the mattress in front of him. “I know you remember the finger I had in your ass when I made you come that last time.” He reaches for your hips, rolls you over, lands a light slap against the aforementioned body part while you gasp. “Said you’d let me fuck it one day, baby. Remember that? You gonna follow through?” 

“We’ll get to that,” Steve intervenes, stretching out across the mattress to lean over you as he takes your face in his hands. “Been waiting for this for too damn long.” 

His mouth seals to yours with a finality that makes everything else distant, your moans mixing together as you sink into each other. 

Steve bends further as you rise up on your hands and knees, both of you meeting in the middle in a tangle of limbs and lips. His tongue presses inside, tastes the heady mix of flavors from you and Bucky and himself combined, his desperate grip on your cheeks and the roll of his hips against you betraying how much he likes it. 

Rolling slightly, Steve turns onto his back and pulls you on top of him, Bucky’s hands finding the clasp at the back of your dress and undoing the material. It slips the rest of the way down your hips and Bucky drags it down over your thighs, folding your calves one by one to get it off of you without you having to part from Steve in the process. 

It leaves you nearly nude and shivering on top of him, left in only the lace stretched over your chest. Bucky unhooks that too, lowering the straps down your arms and off your hands. You vaguely think you hear it hit the furniture somewhere before his palms are on your breasts, kneading roughly, and you part from Steve’s mouth finally with a whimpering whine at the prick of pleasure-pain. 

He uses the grip on your chest to pull you up and backward, your pliant body swaying and reflexes kicking in too late to do anything but blindly obey. Your bare shoulder blades collide with his chest behind you, your knees still spread over Steve who lies panting and focused beneath you on the bed. 

Bucky’s mouth finds the back of your ear, smears a gentle kiss there. You shiver. “See—there’s some people who’d probably punish you for running away. But we know the truth. You didn’t run ‘cause you were a brat. You ran ‘cause you were scared, right? Felt too much, too quick, for the wrong people. Didn’t know what to do with it.” 

You nod as you turn your head to catch his mouth, and he indulges you in a quick and deep plunge of your lips before pulling back to lay his fingers flat against your cheek, shaking lightly to get your attention. 

“So we’re not gonna punish you, sweetheart. We’re just gonna remind you why it’d be so much better for you if you stayed. And if that means making you feel so good it hurts a little, well…” his gaze flashes with something dark, pupils expanding as he peels down your lower lip and watches it obediently bounce back into place before looking back into your eyes again. “You’ll be a good girl and take it for us. Won’t you.” 

It isn’t a question, not really, so you don’t bother answering. 

Steve gets his legs underneath him and shifts back to sit up against the headboard, catching you easily when Bucky passes you back over. You’re back is to his chest this time, and your throat seizes with an unexpected knot of emotion at the feeling. 

“Still fit so well,” Steve murmurs against your cheek, arms sliding over yours, circling your middle to pull you close. “Missed you so much.” 

You tilt back to kiss him again so he won’t see the tear that escapes, your chest feeling close to bursting with everything you wish you could say. Bucky and Steve have had each other all these years, no matter if it was mortifying for your secret to be known or not. They could talk about it, remind each other that it happened. 

You had no one. You’d tried, of course, but it wasn’t like this. Was never just easy. As natural as breathing. 

Steve hadn’t said missed this mouth like earlier or missed this body or missed being inside of you. It wasn’t the thrill or the secrecy or the fact that it was wrong. 

He’d said I missed you. 

“I missed you too,” you admit against his mouth, the lines in his face easing at the admission. 

He says your name, once, like it’s not a secret anymore. “Gonna make you feel so good.” 

There’s a bottle of lube on the sheets when you look down again, Bucky’s body shouldering up between the split of your thighs to lay on his stomach. He doesn’t even need the bottle, not yet—your wetness is audible when he parts you further and slides two fingers through the hot, sticky evidence. 

“So wet,” he marvels, pressing the tips of the digits to your clit to rub in slow circles. “Missed me too, then?” 

“You know I did,” you reply immediately, catching Bucky’s bravado-encased insecurity before it can derail. 

He’s not very good at hiding things from you either. 

He flashes you a small, private smile and turns to press his lips to the inside of your thigh, tracing every divot, mole, stretch mark until he reaches your hip. Your body’s changed just as much as theirs have but in the opposite way; when you were younger you were firmer and more fit. Age and natural processes have made you softer around the edges, your youthful lines replaced with winding curves. 

Bucky seems to enjoy it just as much as Steve is, one pair of hands molded to your chest while the others feel out the skin around your hips and thighs. You moan when Steve’s fingers close in on your nipples, mapping out your breasts that have grown a cup size or two since the last time as he pinches and rubs and kneads, his calloused hands causing an even bigger mess between your thighs for Bucky to witness. 

“Please,” you breathe when the touches start to get overwhelming, Steve’s hands too big and Bucky’s mouth too eager everywhere save for where you need him the most. Bucky pushes your thigh back open when it tries to close in on him. 

“Please what?” Bucky asks, raising a brow when you don’t answer. “You goin’ bashful on us?” 

“You were so brave before,” Steve reminds you, squeezing you lightly with his arms, then his hands. “Who made you so shy, honey? No reason to be embarrassed about what you want.” 

“You know what,” you whine, then yelp when it earns you a pinch to the hip. 

“Good girls use their words,” Bucky says. “Or have you forgotten all of ‘em already?” 

With a steep intake of breath, you steel yourself, leaning into the warm embrace of shame and something sweeter. “Please put your mouth on me,” you beg. “Nobody does it like you, Bucky, please.” 

“Better,” he purses his lip, considering. His fingers, still lazily stroking over your clit, press down a little harder. You shiver. “I’ll give it to you—on one condition.” 

“What is it?” 

His touch drifts off of your nerves, down over the seam of your entrance, further toward your ass and under a little until he can use your wetness to slick up your back entrance too. You twist in his hold, still shocked by it, even though it really isn’t that uncomfortable. 

Bucky presses you down again. 

“So naive, all those years ago. Thought lettin’ me play with you back here was enough to distract me from the fact that Stevie fucked you an hour before. Almost was, sweetheart,” he says casually, pressing a kiss to your hip as his eyes narrow mischievously. “Almost.” 

His thumb rolls over you in small, tight circles, working against the pucker of skin similarly to the way he’d worked your clit moments before. 

“It’s okay if it feels good,” Steve soothes, hands leaving your breasts so all of your focus pools on Bucky between your legs. “Let yourself lean into it a little, yeah?” 

Head tossed back on his shoulder, you try to let yourself internalize his advice. Bucky had started trying to ease you into this years ago, but you haven’t tried since and the touch is just as jarring as it had been the first time he wanted to finger you back there and you compromised with him opening you up on his tongue instead. At the time, it felt like the filthiest thing you’d ever done. 

Now, in comparison, it just feels…curious. 

Your body echoes your thought without you even verbalizing it, your hips lifting slightly from the bed to rock against the teasing press of Bucky’s fingers, first against your clit, then back down to your ass. He notices. 

“We fucked you separately so many times,” he continues, pressing in with a little more intent when you lean into it. “You ever think about what it’d be like for us to fuck you together?” 

A groan, shaky and accidental, leaves your mouth without permission. Bucky chuckles again when your cunt bears down on nothing right in front of him, and you can feel the shift inside of you—the need so great to have something filling you up that it begins not to matter where it is so much as that the mission’s accomplished. 

Bucky’s voice pulls you up again. “That a yes, sweetheart? Gonna let me make you come with my mouth while I open you up on my fingers?” 

You’re nodding before you’ve even fully considered the question, nervous and undeniably excited. The two of them share a lot of your firsts between them. After years of feeling like you don’t really have any of those left to give anymore, it feels thrilling to be able to uncover one you’d forgotten about. 

“Words, honey,” Steve says against your cheek. 

“Yes. Please—your mouth, your fingers. I want—” you force yourself to swallow, too worked up to think properly. “I want to feel you both at the same time.” 

Their groans chorus around the suite, and Bucky doesn’t waste another second giving you what you asked for. 

His mouth descends on your cunt at the same time Steve’s hands find their way back to your breasts, his chin hooked over your shoulder so he can kiss you while Bucky makes you gasp and cry out. He catches your tongue between his lips and sucks, the vibration of his moan rattling your teeth as you try to gather yourself enough to kiss him back. 

“Shit, Bucky,” you pull back to breathe, head dropping back against Steve’s shoulder again. His fingers loosely wrap around your throat, just enough to guide your view down between your own legs to watch. 

Bucky eats like a man starved, his teasing momentarily replaced with naked want that demands to be sated. His need makes you feel better about yours, on the same page despite the missing chapters in between. 

He certainly remembers how to pleasure you. Even the bits you’ve adapted and changed he picks up on quickly, dark blue eyes heavy on each of your reactions as one hand holds your hips down and the other sneaks, warm and wet with lube, between your ass against the bed, his mouth working relentlessly over your clit while his tongue tucks up inside and maps you out again. 

The first time he stops rubbing and starts pressing at your back entrance, you tense around him. His mouth shifts back up, flicking his tongue against your clit in rapid passes that make your  muscles twitch open again. 

“Relax,” Steve instructs, mouth moving against your shoulder as he squeezes your breast in his hand. “You can take it.” 

You’re not so sure, but Steve’s confidence makes you want to try anyway. Ages ago, in the back of Bucky’s car in the dark, he’d gotten one inside you before. Surely you can manage at least that much again. 

Sliding one hand over Bucky’s on your stomach and the other behind you to hold Steve’s neck, you use them as tether points and let your body float on the sensations in between. With the insistent pressure on your clit you can feel your pulse in your cunt, the subtle jab of Bucky’s wet chin teasing you. Further below, his finger presses and this time, just the very tip of it works its way inside when you bear down. 

“Fuck,” you exhale shakily, shivering at the newness of it as Bucky holds you down so he doesn’t slip out. 

“There we go,” he lifts off your cunt to praise, smearing a sticky kiss to the inside of your thigh. He presses a little more, the first part of his finger inside, and then gingerly begins to move it in and out with an awed look on his features. “That’s one.” 

The breath you’d been holding finally collapses out of your chest, Steve shushing you as you writhe on his chest, getting used to the feeling of being full in a different way. Bucky works himself in little by little, his lips descending to your clit again to suck lewdly as a distraction. 

You feel it when his knuckle presses against you, halfway down the digit. Your body isn’t as tense about it this time even if you try to be briefly, the most jarring part of the intrusion already overwith. 

Beyond that, it isn’t bad. It’s strange at first and you can’t see yourself ever doing it alone, but with someone else it’s sort of nice, the heat of it, the way your body keeps sucking him in, molding to his shape. He was right—you do like to be full, and this is just another way to get there. 

“You can come when I’ve got two fingers in,” Bucky says when you’re bucking on his hand, fucking yourself down onto one whole of his fingers and up against his mouth. 

It takes you a minute to blink back to reality, a whine already on your frowning lips. “Bucky—” 

“Or not at all.” 

Your pout deepens, and Steve sighs over your shoulder, squeezing your side. “Go easy on her, Buck,” he mutters. 

“You think I don’t know what she can take?” Bucky cocks a brow from between your legs, pumping the digit into you steadily. “I remember every fucking thing about this body. When it had enough. When it craved more.” His eyes shift to your face, assessing. “You wanna stop, sweetheart?” 

Your head shakes. “Keep going.” 

He flashes you a filthy, familiar grin. 

“That’s my girl.” 

His mouth doesn’t lower back to you immediately. Instead, Bucky sits up on his knees between the spread of Steve’s ankles, unhooking your legs from Steve’s that’d been holding you open and putting them on his shoulders instead. 

You make a noise as your body is lifted with him, Steve’s palms spread wide over your back to hold you up, your thighs touching either of Bucky’s ears on the sides of his head. It puts the three of you eye level, his gaze much more intense this time when he dips to lave his tongue over and in between your folds. 

It also gives him much more room to finger you open, his fingers returning with another layer of lube with complete access to your ass as it hovers in the air. 

You have to lock your ankles behind his back when one slips inside of you again, your body shuddering at the easier stretch this time. The angle lets him go deeper too, probes at places no one else has ever been before so he can mark them for himself. 

It sinks in then, how badly you want them both inside of you. 

“More,” you gasp, rolling your hips as you ride Bucky’s face. 

This time, you can feel his grin when it stretches wide between your legs. 

His free hand joins Steve’s on your lower back to hold you steady when he adjusts his grip, pulling his mouth back so he can see. Watching your face, he sinks his pointer and middle fingers inside your cunt, then stretches down to prod his ring finger and pinky against your back entrance. 

It takes only a few lube-heavy slides of his digits and a well-timed rotation of your hips to break past any resistance, and then—fullness. 

“Yeah,” you babble mindlessly, nodding against Steve’s neck. “Yeah, yeah—Bucky, more.” 

“Told you,” Bucky boasts, mostly to Steve, you think, but you can’t even bring yourself to care. 

With his other fingers working inside of you from both angles, he lowers his mouth to your clit a final time above them to suck gently at your nerves, holding you steady while his tongue flicks and pulses in a quick back and forth. It’s not unlike the pattern of the vibrator that you used to keep in your nightstand you and Steve used to play around with, and that—the thought that that’s something else the two of them have talked about together, that they know—makes your thighs start to shake around Bucky’s head. 

“She’s coming,” Steve tells him, moments before you’ve actually done it, too familiar with all your tells. “Don’t stop, Buck.” 

Your eyes roll as your mouth drops open, the obscene slick noises between your legs growing loud and rhythmic as Bucky keeps the pace and pressure until it peaks. Your body jerks and shivers between them, their hands underneath your back all that keeps you suspended as your mind goes blank. 

You whimper into Steve’s neck as the waves keep coming, mouthing blindly at his pulse. 

“I know,” he croons, nosing at your warm cheek, teasing your slack mouth with chaste kisses. “Been so long since you’ve been able to let go like this, hasn’t it? We’ve got you. Just let it out.” 

Bucky’s relentless even through the aftershocks, making you twitch and writhe while he teases out every last bit of your orgasm. When he finally parts from you with a wet mouth and dripping fingers, you slump in relief, grateful to be back on something solid when you’re lowered down to Steve’s chest again. 

Still shaking a little, you press your thighs together and turn into Steve, happy to tilt up for his kisses when he asks. You can hear Bucky moving around but it’s all distant, your release so strong it’d left your ears ringing for a minute. 

Your movements, haphazard at first, narrow into something more focused when Steve’s cock finds its way in between your legs. It stands up against your cunt, squeezed between your thighs, your wetness making everything move together all too easily. 

“Shit, honey,” he curses, hands gripping your sides when you slide against him. 

“She wants to be fucked, Stevie,” Bucky says bluntly, returning to the bed. He kneels over you again, appraises your desperate grinds with a detached pleasure that makes your insides melt. Far past pride, you whine in eager agreement. “You ready to give it to her?” 

It’s another rhetorical question. Steve says nothing as he gently shifts you off of him and onto the sheets so he can move around, but Bucky’s less tentative as he rolls you onto your front and yanks your hips up, the lube clicking open yet again. 

You murmur, vaguely confused as you try to look over your shoulder at him, but his fingers find your ass again before you can ask. You tense but moan as two digits plus his pinky circle your rim, more stretched back there than you’ve ever been before. 

Impatient now, you bear down accordingly when he presses, praises falling from his lips as he tests the width with several shallow, then deep thrusts. When he thinks you’re ready they disappear altogether, clean hand patting the side of your ass to get you to turn again. 

“We need condoms, sweetheart?” 

Splayed out on the mattress, you shake your head at the ceiling. “It’s—it’s been a while for me, and I’m on something anyway.” 

Bucky snorts, rearranging your legs. 

“Still like it bare, huh?” 

“Not with everybody,” you confess, glancing between them. “Only you two.” 

Steve pauses at the end of the bed, eyes widening. “Really?” 

“Fuck,” Bucky spits when you nod, dropping down to kiss you messily on the pillow. “Gonna fuck you nice n’deep, make you remember. Hope whatever you’re on is strong.” 

“No you don’t,” you retort, your orgasm impairing your filter. Your lips twitch with a smile anyway. 

Bucky stares hard at you, the blue in his eyes nothing but an icy, thin ring now. 

“No. I fuckin’ don’t.” 

He kisses you hard once more, and you hope it’ll bruise. All too soon he’s leaning up and away, but you don’t have time to complain before you realize he’s taking you with him. 

Your delayed reflexes don’t even kick in until you’re in the air, clinging to him with your arms around his shoulders and legs around his hips as he carries you toward the end of the bed. Steve’s there already, waiting with open arms and eager hands as he helps Bucky situate you between them, shifting you so that you’re facing him instead of Bucky. 

Steve holds your upper body, one hand splayed between your shoulder blades, the other on your waist. Bucky takes the weight of your lower body, palms spanning up and down underneath your thighs before he picks a spot and holds, his other hand disappearing as you hear the slick sound of him fisting his cock behind you. 

“Got you,” Steve says in response to the noise you hadn’t realized you were making, your eyes blurry when he pulls back to look at you. “Y’okay?” 

“Need you,” you murmur against his neck. “Please. Both of you.” 

WIth a muttered curse, Bucky closes in behind you, reaching underneath to position Steve’s cock for him so it’s poised at the entrance of your cunt. Steve hisses and you moan, shifting your hips as much as you’re able to get him inside. 

“Ready for him?” Bucky asks against your shoulder. 

You nod, gravity doing most of the work when their combined grips on you slacken enough to let you lower onto him. You shudder between them as he fills you up, the feeling intense and briefly overwhelming as memories come rushing back to you of before. 

You take a minute with him fully inside of you, basking in Steve’s sweet murmurings and Bucky’s hands rubbing at your skin, waiting until the knot in your throat doesn’t burn so much to press a kiss to his jaw. 

“I missed you,” you tell him again. 

His laugh sounds a little wet when he presses his lips against your forehead. “Missed you too.” 

Carefully unfolding one of your arms from his shoulders, you reach back to tug Bucky flush against your back. 

“Let me have you too, please.” 

“Anything you want,” he promises, seeming dazed as he sways into your body. He leans into your hand, amending his words with a press of his lips. “Anything for you.”  

Everything moves slower this time, Steve gripping your thigh as Bucky spreads you open, positions himself and tentatively presses the head of his cock against your other entrance. You have to remind yourself to keep breathing, not to tense up when you’re so close to getting what all of you want. 

Slick and steady, Bucky traces the blunt head of his cock all the way from where Steve’s buried inside of you back to the seam of your ass, spread wide and stretched accordingly to be able to take him. Even if he was the one who was certain you could do it he seems to hesitate for a moment, lingering in the build up. 

Then, slowly, he begins to press. 

Your mouth falls open as the head of his dick begins to stretch you like his fingers had, your brow furrowed at the subtle differences of the sensation. His length feels unforgiving but your body yields despite your worries that it wouldn’t, eased by the prep and the lube he’d applied generously throughout. 

The head pops into you with an audible shift, and the three of you share a collective exhale at the breach. Your body flutters around him, squeezing Steve in tandem, and the first sparks of heat begin to flicker again in your stomach at the fullness. 

“More,” you instruct again. 

With his forehead pressed against the back of your neck to watch, Bucky grips you with clammy palms and presses onward. The rest of him is longer than it is thick so the stretch isn’t bad, your head rolling to fall back onto Bucky’s shoulder now as he thrusts his way shallowly into you. 

Both of your eyes snap open when it’s Steve that ends up breaking the tense silence with a loud groan, his eyes half rolled back, fingers whitening at the knuckles where he’s gripping you. 

“I can—fuck,” he tries to explain through gritted teeth. “I can feel you, Buck.” 

Bucky’s cock slips in the last couple of inches all at once when his hips buck at the words, his moan just as loud in your ear as if he’s just realized the same thing. 

“Holy fucking shit,” he breathes. “Y’okay, baby? It’s—fuck, you’re so tight.” 

“I’m okay,” you tell them, already panting where you’re caught between their bodies—and now, their cocks. Your own moan is lower, needier, your hips so achingly full that you think you might never escape it. 

“I gotta—” Steve grits, sweat beading on his temples when you look at him. “Let me fuck you, baby, please. I can’t—” 

“Me neither,” Bucky chimes from behind you. “Can we move, angel? S’it too much?” 

The name sends another rush of memories through you, sacred murmurings between you behind the pier, at a drive-in movie, in Bucky’s bedroom under the covers. You whimper, turning to slot your mouth against his with a hand thrown back into his hair. 

“Please. Move.” 

They shift as soon as they have permission, an unspoken team effort to distribute your weight and find a rhythm. It’s Steve who pulls out a bit first experimentally, pushing back in as slow as he can manage. When he’s in to the hilt Bucky starts to pull out, giving his own tentative thrust in response. 

Gradually they gain a little momentum, Steve fucking into you one second, Bucky the next, never left empty in between. It feels good but it’s hard to get everything coordinated just right, until Bucky nods at Steve over your shoulder. 

“Hold her like this,” he proposes, helping Steve shift a bit until he can get your legs slung over Steve’s forearms. When they slip back inside with the changed angle you moan, shivering at how much more exposed you are, how much deeper they can reach with you folded up between them. “Fuck yeah, that’s better. Here, sweetheart, put your arm around my shoulders.” 

 You do as you’re told, shaky but determined, stretching your torso sideways a little until you have one arm slung around Bucky’s shoulders, the other around Steve’s. It distributes your weight better, lets Steve slip his arms under your calves and hold onto your thighs while Bucky grips your ass from underneath and helps you move. 

It also lets you see both of their faces. 

You take full advantage as they begin to fuck you proper, leaning over to kiss Bucky as you’re bounced between both of their thrusts. It’s tongue and teeth mostly but it’s exactly what you need, the roughness of his face against your soft lips making them sting. You hope the swelling stays even afterward, your lower lip caught between the graze of his canines. 

He grunts when you turn away from him to get to Steve instead, not even halfway there before Steve eagerly meets you halfway and moans against you. His sweetness is tinged with his desperation, the messy slide of spit on your chin and cheek in the rush to get to you quicker. 

How could you ever have thought you’d find this with anyone else? 

“Please keep me,” crosses your trembling lips before you can stop it, eyes stinging as you watch both of them, body overwhelmed with everything all at once. “I’m sorry I ran. M’sorry—it was stupid. I didn’t want—” 

“Hey, hey. Shh,” Bucky frowns, nudging his cheek with yours while he fucks you. “Not goin’ anywhere. Not ever. Not again.” 

Steve’s mouth presses against your cheek, firm and deliberate this time despite the pace of his hips. “We’ve got you.” 

They’re both so close to your mouth now, your brain hazy and your body undecided with the want to kiss both of them at once. Without thinking you bring your hands to the backs of their necks and pull them both in and, to your surprise, they both come. 

The three of your mouths clash in the middle in one big tangle of lips and tongues and hot, panting breaths, notes of wine and the taste of each other’s bodies still thick between you. You choke on a sob against them and it makes them all the more desperate, not even fighting for dominance or taking turns as much as giving you everything just like you’d asked, uncaring how much of themselves overlaps in the process. 

Bucky’s hand stretches over your hip and down in between your spread, stretched thighs, helpless to resist it when his fingers find your clit. You gasp, two eager tongues shoving themselves against yours as your overwrought nerves are expertly worked over by someone who knows each of your tells. 

“Make her come with me, Stevie, c’mon,” Bucky grunts, eyes heavy lidded and inches from Steve’s as they stare each other down. Steve’s eyes drop to Bucky’s mouth before he swallows and nods, and then he’s jostling you a little in his hold until he can drop his lips to your chest, wrapped tight around your nipple. 

Without the distraction of your mouths all together you can’t help but focus on your pleasure again, mounting rapidly inside of you. Bucky’s rough fingers are rubbing you exactly how you’d taught him to so long ago and Steve’s mouth is sealed tight around your breast the way he used to in his bed back home, lashes fluttering contentedly against your skin as if he’s the one being pleasured by it. 

And the fullness—it’s inescapable. Steve thick inside your cunt while Bucky lays claim to your ass, the two of them working in tandem to get you to fall apart in a way only they ever could. 

Bucky’s earlier words were right; it is more so the fact that you like belonging to something more than anything else. 

But you love that they belong to you too. 

“Gonna mark you up. Stretch you out so good nobody else’ll ever satisfy y’again,” Bucky rambles in your ear, breath hot against your cheek. “Gonna have to be both of us or nothing.” 

“Already has to be,” you manage, panting. 

His fingers speed up on your clit, grazing the spot where Steve’s dick is steadily rutting into you below. “Yeah? Those others didn’t do it for you?” 

“Pictured you,” you admit, touching your forehead to his. “Was always you.” 

“Fuck,” he spits, kissing you hard again. “Good girl. That’s our good fucking girl.” 

It’s audible when your nipple slips out of Steve’s mouth, peaked and aching with the memory of his teeth and tongue. His cheek presses up against the swell of your breasts, and for a moment, he looks nineteen again, glassy eyed and drunk on pleasure. 

“Wanna feel you come, sweetheart,” he says, voice deep and pink mouth slick with spit. “Want you to come so we can fill you up.” 

Bucky hums in agreement on your other side, bouncing you up a little between them so he can get the rest of his fingers on your clit instead of just his thumb. “Fuck yeah, c’mon. That’s it, angel. Can feel you squeezin’ us.” 

You can hear yourself making noise but it’s all distant, eyes rolled back under perpetually fluttering lashes as Bucky and Steve lave kisses all over your face and chest. Your cheek smushes against Steve’s hair as you press your open mouth against his temple, nails digging into either of their shoulders where you’re gripping them. Bucky was right—you can feel your body bearing down on them, the full, aching pressure of being more filled than you’ve ever been. 

And about to be even more so. 

“Shit, Steve, you think—think I’ll be able to feel you fillin’ her up?” Bucky chokes. 

The thought of it makes the coil in your stomach finally snap, gasping their names as you start to come, hips bucking between them out of your control. You’ve had intense orgasms but never one quite like this, where every limb twitches, muscles quivering and nerves unraveling all at once from the knot they’d been woven into, even your quivering chin steadied by Steve’s touch. 

It’s a team effort to keep balance as you feel them come too, Steve first, deep inside your cunt, the same one who’d done it last. Then Bucky from behind you, his hands gripping tight around your middle while he marks up your ass for the first time with shallow, jerky thrusts, feet planted wide on the carpet to keep steady. 

You slip a hand around the back of both of their heads to pull them in close as their thrusts slow and eventually stop, the last of your energy used to press all your mouths together. Even when your head rolls back against their shoulders they keep going, lips sliding against each other and spit connecting them, and you hum as the noise accompanies your eyes closing against Bucky’s shoulder. 

For the first time in years, you’re completely, thoroughly, hopelessly satisfied.

There’s a jacuzzi tub, a room service menu, satin sheets on the bed. The mattress faces another set of floor to ceiling windows and you can see practically the whole city from where your head is pillowed against Steve’s ribs, plates set on the nightstand and silk hotel robe tied loosely around your waist. 

Your legs are extended over Bucky’s lap where he sits up against the headboard, Steve laying flat on your other side. His fingers rest on top of your hair while Bucky’s drift idly up and down your leg, teasing the edge of the silk but not pushing it further. 

You already know it’s coming when Bucky finally lets the confident smirk fade, replaced instead with a small frown. 

“Why’d you run from us, sweetheart?” 

“I thought you’d be mad if one of you found out I slept with the other too,” you admit, relaxed enough that you can talk about it without wanting to bolt; even if you avoid their eyes. “I wanted both of you but I didn’t think—I didn’t see how it could work, definitely not back home. And I didn’t want you to pity me because I was younger and got attached and—” 

“Hey, easy,” Bucky squeezes your knee. 

“We told you we wanted you,” Steve frowns. 

“Yeah, but. Separately. And I—I couldn’t choose between you.” 

“What about after the divorce,” he asks. “Did you…think about reaching out?” 

“All the time,” you admit. “But I figured I’d waited too long. It’s not like there was a reception or a party I could run into you at to talk about it. I would have had to contact you directly and I…” you hesitate, clearing your throat. “I was selfish. You and Bucky always seemed like you had so much going for you, and I didn’t want to deal with the hurt if I found out one of you was seeing someone or married already.” 

A bittersweet silence settles between you for a moment, Bucky and Steve sharing a glance over your head. Steve’s fingertips graze your brow. 

“There hasn’t been anyone else. Not seriously. Not for either of us.”

It’s your own turn to lapse into silence now, unsure of what exactly that means in the context of your rather unique relationship. 

“I’m embarrassed that you knew the whole time,” you tell them, tentatively raising your eyes. 

“We didn’t know the whole time,” Steve admits.

“We had our suspicions, but I think we were both tryin’ to protect you. Neither of us brought it up ‘til a couple years later when we were reminiscing, and—well, missin’ you,” Bucky admits sheepishly. 

There was a time when the idea of them reminiscing about you would have made you melt into a puddle of shame. But in this light, knowing what you know now, you can’t find it in yourself to feel that anymore. 

Turning your head slightly, you graze your mouth against Steve’s stomach, a finger tracing the dull notches of his ribs. “I’m sorry I was gone so long.” 

“No more sorries,” Steve says, dipping his chin to smile at you. His fingers settle at the back of your neck, rubbing at the skin. “You’re here now. Let’s focus on that.” 

You nod with a small smile of your own, and then pause. 

“So, what—what happens now?” 

“Whatever you want,” Bucky slips his palm up your thigh, massaging the muscle. He glances at Steve again. “I mean, I know what we’d like, but.” 

Your fingers cover his and squeeze. “I think I probably want the same things. You said you guys haven’t done this before? Like, with three people?” 

“There’s no one we wanted to try it with but you.” 

Steve’s cheek is tinted with color when you reach up to press a hand to it, and he turns to kiss your palm when you do, fingers wrapped loosely around your wrist to keep you there. 

“We do have most of our shit figured out, promise,” Bucky says. “There’s just a few things that we’re…still working out.” 

Your gaze slides back and forth between them as they look at each other with heavy eyes, and your mind rewinds to those hazy few minutes post-sex and pre-shower when the two of them kissing had seemed like the easiest thing in the world. 

Without interrupting, you stroke your thumb against Steve’s cheekbone, Bucky’s fingers tangled with yours on your thigh. 

“Maybe I could help?” 

Two pairs of blue eyes refocus on you, careful smiles from both. “Yeah?” 

“We’d love that, sweetheart.” 

You know now for certain that finding them again hadn’t been a coincidence at all. 

find my masterlists here!

And in the middle of it all is Bucky Barnes.

Your favorite bartender.

He’s behind the bar like always, sleeves rolled to his elbows, black Henley clinging to his chest and shoulders as he shakes off a tray of freshly washed shot glasses. Someone stuck felt reindeer antlers on his head an hour ago and he still hasn’t bothered to take them off. They’re crooked, clashing badly with his resting-bastard-face, and for some reason that just makes it all better.

“Alright, sugar gremlins,” he calls over the roar of conversation, voice warm and rough enough to slide right down your spine. “Gingerbread entries are due in five. If you’re not gluing your shit together by now, it’s not gonna stand.”

The crowd laughs. Someone boos. A gummy gumdrop bounces off the bar near his hand.

Your team has somehow taken over the entire corner booth, bowls of royal icing balanced between beer bottles, gumdrops rolling dangerously close to the edge, and the smell of cinnamon so strong it feels like you’re inhaling Christmas.

“Hand me the gumdrops,” your friend Kara says, wrist-deep in a bowl of icing that looks like Elmer’s glue. “No—the red ones. Red is architectural.”

You blink. “That’s not…how that works.”

“Red. Is. Architectural.”

You pass them over, because arguing with Kara during a craft project is how people lose fingers. Across the room, the jukebox switches to an aggressively cheerful jingle-bell remix.

You’re mid-reach for a peppermint disc when you feel it—the unmistakable prickle of someone watching you.

You look up.

Bucky’s behind the bar, drying a pint glass with that battered white cloth he loves like it’s unionized. He’s not even pretending to look away. His eyes are locked on you—steady, warm, and a little dangerous.

The second your gazes meet, he smirks. Slow. Crooked. Wrong in all the right ways.

Your fingertips fumble the peppermint. It drops into the bowl with a wet plop.

“Oh my GOD,” Kara hisses. “He’s undressing you with his eyes.”

“He is not,” you say, trying for nonchalant even as your pulse tries to escape your body.

“Babe,” she says. “He is licking you from across the room.”

Mark leans over the icing bowl like a gossip goblin. “He gives the rest of us neutral bartender face. You? You get sex-eyes.”

“We are not calling it that—”

Mark cups his hands dramatically around his mouth and whispers, “SEX. EYES.”

“Stop,” you hiss, cheeks blazing. But when you risk another glance, Bucky’s gaze is already back on you, like he never looked away.

Kara pokes your ribs. “Go ask him for more candy. Or a drink. Or his phone number.”

“We’re literally building gingerbread houses.”

“Exactly,” she says. “Build your future.”

“You’re insane.”

“You’re horny.”

Before you can respond, a gumdrop sails past your shoulder, ricochets off a barstool, and lands by Bucky’s hand.

He picks it up delicately—as if assessing a murder weapon—before slowly lifting his eyes to yours.

You mouth sorry.

He mouths aim better.

Your friends detonate.

“He’s INTO you,” Kara whisper-screeches. “He doesn’t flirt,” Mark adds. “He grunts. And pours whiskey. YOU get flirting.”

You roll your eyes, failing miserably to hide your smile.

Then, like a perfectly timed movie cue, Bucky finally plucks the crooked antlers off his head and tosses them onto the bar. When he glances back at you, he tilts his chin toward your gingerbread catastrophe and mouths: Nice buttress.

Heat floods through you.

“Okay, I’m going to get—something,” you mumble.

“Get HIS—something!” Kara yells.

You whirl to glare at her, but when you turn back, Bucky’s already sauntering toward your end of the bar, towel slung over his shoulder, confidence rolling off him like heat.

Kara squeaks. Mark fans himself with a paper plate.

Bucky stops at your table, leaning down slightly—close enough that you catch the warm, clove-and-whiskey scent of him.

“Well, well,” he drawls. “If it isn’t my favorite disaster artist.”

You grin, chin tilting up, because you can feel your friends watching the way you and Bucky orbit each other, and you’ll be damned if you give them the satisfaction of seeing you melt on the spot. Even if—you know—you kind of are.

“Bold words from a man wearing Rudolph’s horns,” you shoot back.

He plants a hand on the bar and leans toward you, eyes a deep, impossible blue under the warm lights. You smell soap and whiskey and the faint spice of whatever cologne he always wears in winter.

“Careful, doll,” he murmurs. “Keep talkin’ like that and I’ll disqualify your little ginger tragedy out of spite.”

“Our ginger tragedy is a masterpiece,” you protest, gesturing dramatically. “We added buttresses.”

Bucky raises his brows. “You do know what a buttress is?”

“It’s an architectural support,” you say, then add, “Also the thing I’ll be shaking in your general direction when we win.”

Behind you, your friends snort. One of them whispers, “Just fuck him already,” not nearly quietly enough.

Color climbs your neck. Bucky’s gaze flicks from your face to your mouth and back again, fingers flexing against the wood.

He straightens, rolling his shoulders. The movement pulls the Henley taut over his stomach, and your brain goes briefly, blissfully, blank.

“You really think you’re gonna win?” he asks, laughing. “That’s cute.”

“Oh, we’re absolutely going to win,” you say, stubborn. “I’ve been mainlining holiday baking shows for weeks. I was built for this.”

“Sure you were,” he teases. “What do I get if you lose?”

You blink. “If I lose?”

“Yeah.” He props his elbows on the bar, leaning in again, voice dropping into that register that always makes your knees a little unreliable. “You were the one shit-talking my antlers, sweetheart. Stakes, remember those?”

Your stomach flips. The bar noise fades into a fuzzy background hum. He’s flirting, you think, or at least toeing the line with that easy confidence he wears like his own brand of cologne.

“So what do you want?” you ask, lofting your chin, trying to sound like you’re not buzzing under your skin.

He considers you for a moment, eyes flicking down the line of your body and back to your face. The look is quick, assessing, but it leaves a warm trail along every inch of skin it touches.

“Hmm.” He taps his fingers on the bar. “If your team loses, you drink whatever gross holiday special I mix up without complaining.”

“Without complaining?” you echo, horrified. “You put pickles in the Bloody Marys, Bucky.”

“And people love me for it.”

“People are sick.”

“You still come here three times a week,” he points out.

“Touché.”

He smiles, small and knowing, and your heart stumbles in your chest.

“Fine,” you say. “If I lose, I’ll drink whatever abomination you slide my way. No complaints.”

“And if you win?” he asks, lazy.

You should say something simple. A free drink, maybe. A comped tab. A round of shots for your table.

But the words catch on your tongue, and a different image flashes in your mind, unbidden. Bucky behind the bar, sweat beading at his temple. The flex of his forearms as he pours. The way his shirt rides up when he reaches for a bottle on the high shelf, exposing a strip of tanned skin and—the one time you caught a glimpse—a dark line of ink disappearing under his waistband.

You swallow, heat creeping lower.

“If I win…” You let the words hang for a beat, watching his face. His attention sharpens, eyes narrowing slightly like he knows you’re about to say something dangerous. The thrill of it settles in your chest.

“If I win,” you repeat, “I want to decorate you.”

That gets his attention.

One brow climbs. “Decorate me,” he repeats flatly.

“Like a gingerbread man,” you clarify, doing your best to look innocent. “Frosting. Candy. The whole thing. We’ve got extra icing.”

The corner of his mouth tugs. “You wanna frost me, doll?”

“Are you scared?” you shoot back, pulse pounding in your throat. “Afraid of a little holiday spirit?”

Behind you, your friends are losing their minds. Someone claps a hand over their own mouth to stifle a squeal. Another mutters, “Oh my god, she’s actually doing this.”

Bucky’s gaze drops to your lips again. His tongue flicks out briefly to wet his own, and your thighs clench.

“Scared?” he murmurs. “Of you?”

The way he says it—low, rough, almost affectionate—turns your bones to jelly.

He leans over the bar until his face is inches from yours, until you can feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek.

“You’re on,” he says quietly. “You win, you can…decorate me.” His smile edges into something sharper, darker. “However you want.”

Your heart does something stupid and acrobatic in your chest.

“Deal,” you whisper.

He straightens, claps his hands once, and raises his voice. “Three minutes, bakers! Then I’m comin’ around and taking bribes—uh, I mean, judging.”

The bar erupts into chaos.

You win.

By some miracle of sugar and spite, your leaning tower of gingerbread survives long enough for Bucky to walk around, pretend to make notes on a cocktail napkin, and dramatically announce your team as the winner.

“Mostly,” he says, one brow cocked as he eyes the peppermint buttresses, “because this architectural monstrosity has more personality than the rest of you put together.”

Your table erupts into cheers. There’s hugging and high-fiving. Someone shoves a candy cane into your hand like a victory flag.

Bucky meets your gaze over the mess, something hot and electric flickering there.

“Congrats, doll,” he says loud enough for the nearby crowd to hear. “Guess I owe you a prize.”

Heat spikes under your skin. You try to keep your voice steady. “I believe we had a deal, Barnes.”

“Yeah, we did.” He tosses the napkin onto the bar, nodding toward the door marked “Staff Only” at the end. “Give me ten to close out a few tabs. Then you can do your worst.”

The words punch straight through you. Your friends push you, whispering, “Go, go, go,” like a pack of devils on your shoulders.

You grab a half-used piping bag of white frosting from the carnage, ignoring their wolf whistles, and make your way down the bar. Bucky glances up as you pass, smirks, and flicks his gaze to the door again.

You slip behind the “Staff Only” sign, heart pounding so hard you feel it in your teeth.

The back hallway is narrow and dim, lit by a single buzzing fluorescent light. There’s the office, the tiny employee bathroom, the walk-in fridge. You hover in the hall, frosting bag clutched to your chest, and try not to overthink.

This is stupid, you tell yourself. It’s a joke. You’ll draw a little icing smiley face on his arm or something, and then you’ll go back out and drink eggnog until you forget the way his eyes looked when he said however you want.

The door clicks behind you.

“Thought you might bail,” Bucky’s voice rumbles.

You turn.

He’s propped the door open with his foot, making sure it latches quietly. The antlers are gone, tossed who-knows-where. He’s rolling his sleeves up higher, exposing corded forearms and veins that make your mouth go dry.

“You don’t strike me as the type to back down, though,” he adds.

You swallow, fingers digging into the cool plastic of the piping bag. “What gave it away?”

“The way you staked your entire dignity on that gingerbread house,” he says. “That was a bold move.”

You huff. “My dignity died the first time I saw you juggle martini shakers for a bachelorette party.”

He chuckles, low and rough, and the sound sends a shiver through you.

“C’mere,” he says, jerking his head toward the cramped office. “Less chance of you piping frosting on the beer inventory.”

You step past him into the tiny room. There’s barely space for the battered metal desk, a file cabinet, and a stray barstool in the corner. Holiday shift schedules are pinned to the corkboard. A little ceramic snowman someone gifted him sits by the computer monitor, its paint chipped on one edge.

Bucky shuts the door behind you with a soft click.

The air feels different suddenly. Thicker. Warmer. The dull thud of bass from the main bar filters through the wall, muffled but persistent, like your own heartbeat amplified.

You turn to face him.

He’s closer than you thought. Close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that you can see the gold flecks in the blue, the faint scruff along his jaw, the way his lips part on a slow inhale as his gaze drops to the frosting bag still clutched in your hand.

“Well?” he murmurs. “You gonna use that on me, or just squeeze it to death?”

Your face goes hot. “I’m…thinking.”

He hums. “Dangerous.”

There’s a beat of silence, heavy with everything unsaid between you for months—every lingering look, every flirt that skirted just shy of the line.

“I was kidding, you know,” you say, voice a little too fast. “We don’t have to actually—”

His expression shifts in an instant. The teasing softens into something more serious, more intent.

“You don’t wanna?” he asks quietly. “Because if you don’t want this, we walk back out there and pretend I never said shit. I mean that, sweetheart.”

The sincerity in his tone makes your chest ache.

You wet your lips, nerves and want tangling together. “And if I do want to?”

His jaw flexes. His hand comes up, slow enough that you see it coming, giving you time to step away if you want to. You don’t.

Fingers rough from years of bar work and a life you know he doesn’t talk much about curl under your chin. His thumb traces the corner of your mouth, catching on a smear of sugar you didn’t know was there.

“If you do,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, “then I’m yours ’til you run outta frosting.”

Something in your chest drops and soars at once.

“Okay,” you whisper.

The word hangs between you like a spark catching dry tinder.

You reach up, fist clenching in the front of his Henley, and kiss him.

He meets you halfway with a low, surprised sound that goes straight between your legs. His mouth is warm and sure, years of practiced control giving way to something hungry as he presses you back against the edge of the desk.

The kiss starts sweet, almost tentative. Then his tongue slides against yours, tasting of peppermint and whiskey, and the sweetness goes up in flames.

Your hands find his shoulders, fingers digging into firm muscle as he deepens the kiss. He nips your bottom lip, catching it between his teeth before soothing the bite with his tongue, and you gasp into his mouth.

“Jesus, doll,” he mutters, breath puffing against your cheek. “You been thinkin’ about this as much as I have?”

“Probably more,” you pant, dizzy. “I’m the one who threatened you with buttresses.”

He laughs, short and rough, and dips his head to mouth along your jaw, down the line of your throat. His stubble scrapes lightly, sending sparks skittering under your skin.

Your grip tightens on the frosting bag, remembering suddenly that this started as a game.

“Wait,” you breathe.

He stills immediately, lifting his head. “You okay?”

“Yes,” you rush to say. “More than okay. I just—” You lift the bag between you. “Deal.”

The look he gives you could melt ice.

“Right,” he says, voice dropping. “Can’t go back on a deal, can I?”

You shake your head, throat dry.

His fingers find the hem of his Henley, and for a second your brain misfires entirely as he drags it up over his head in one smooth motion.

You’d suspected. You’d imagined. You’d stared at the way the shirt clung to him and fantasized a thousand times.

None of it prepared you for the reality.

He’s all hard lines and carved shadows, broad chest dusted with dark hair that narrows to a trail down his stomach. His abs are defined but not showy, the kind of strength that comes from actual work, not just mirrors and gym selfies. There’s a smear of dried frosting on one forearm where someone must’ve bumped him earlier, and a faint scar across one side of his ribs, old and pale.

There’s a tattoo, too—ink curling from the left side of his chest down toward his hip, mostly hidden still by his jeans. It makes your fingers twitch with the urge to trace it.

You must make some kind of sound, because his mouth quirks.

“Like what you see, sweetheart?”

You drag your gaze back up. “Trying to decide where to start,” you say honestly.

His laugh is low, wicked. “Then let me help you out.”

He steps back just long enough to kick the chair aside and turn, leaning his hips against the edge of the desk. His hands plant behind him, propping him up, and he spreads his legs, inviting.

“Canvas is ready,” he says, smirk softening into something oddly affectionate. “Painter’s choice.”

Heat pools low in your belly.

You step closer until you’re between his knees, the frosting bag balanced carefully in your hand. He watches you, eyes hungry, throat bobbing when you reach out with your free hand to touch.

You start at his chest, fingers skimming lightly over warm skin. His breath hitches.

“Gonna worship me with sugar, huh?” he murmurs.

“Shut up and let me decorate you,” you whisper back.

You squeeze the piping bag gently, careful not to explode it, and draw the first line.

White icing trails from one collarbone down toward the center of his chest, a slightly shaky line from your distracted hands. He watches your face, not the sugar, as you work, like he’s memorizing every expression.

Another line, mirroring the first, tracing the curve of his pec. Then a looping scallop along the edge, like the icing on a gingerbread cookie. You bite your lip, concentrating, tongue peeking out as you pipe a little swirl just above his nipple.

“Fuck,” he mutters, the word a gust of air. “You’re really—”

You glance up through your lashes. “I said shut up.”

A spark flares in his eyes at the little edge in your tone.

“Bossy,” he murmurs. “I like it.”

You add little “button” dots down the center of his chest, each one a perfect, obscene target. The frosting is cool against his heat, melting slightly on contact.

By the time you reach his stomach, your hands are steadier, your breathing is not.

You drag the tip of the bag down the valley between his abs, slow, watching the way his muscles jump under the touch. His fingers flex on the desk behind him, knuckles whitening.

“Fuck, doll,” he says softly. “You’re killin’ me.”

“You agreed to this,” you remind him, though your own voice comes out breathy.

You circle his navel with a neat ring of icing, then draw a little bow just under it, like you’re labeling a present.

Bucky huffs out a strained laugh. “That where you think the present starts?”

You meet his gaze, awareness crackling between you.

“No,” you say, and slide your hand lower, over the rough denim of his jeans, to where he’s already hard under the fabric. “I know exactly where the present starts.”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, hips jerking just slightly into your touch.

“Needy little thing,” he mutters, voice scraping. “Can’t even finish your art project before you start pawing at my cock?”

“Maybe I’m decorating with intention,” you say, squeezing the bag again.

You trace one last straight line, this one starting from just above his waistband and curving down, disappearing behind the button of his jeans.

His jaw clenches. “You’re playin’ a dangerous game, sweetheart.”

You drop the now half-empty bag onto the desk without looking away from him.

“Good thing I like dangerous,” you murmur.

Your hands go to his belt.

He lets you, watching, pupils blown wide. When the leather slides free with a soft whisper and his jeans loosen, his hips roll, almost involuntary.

“Take it out,” he says, low and rough. “Go on. You were so cocky out there—let’s see if your mouth can keep up.”

The combination of praise and condescension sends a bolt of want through you.

You push his jeans down just enough, dragging his boxers with them. His cock springs free, thick and already flushed, resting heavy against his stomach, right along the line of melted frosting you drew.

Your mouth actually waters.

“Fuck,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.

Bucky grins, sharp and smug. “See somethin’ you like, doll?”

You shoot him a look even as you step closer, crowding between his thighs. Your fingers wrap around him, and you swear you feel his pulse jump under your touch.

He’s warm and solid in your hand, weighty enough to make your arm flex.

“You knew exactly what you were offering when you made that bet,” you murmur. “Don’t pretend you didn’t want this.”

His breath stutters when you slide your fist slowly from base to tip, thumbing at the bead of pre-come already gathering there.

“Maybe I did,” he grits out. “Maybe I wanted to see how desperate you’d get for a taste.”

Your whole body lights up at the word desperate.

“You have no idea,” you say honestly.

He does, though. You see it in the way his gaze darkens when you lean in, in the way his hand reaches up to cradle the back of your head, thumb stroking the line of your jaw.

“Look at me,” he orders.

You do, lifting your eyes to his as you lower your mouth to his chest.

The frosting is cool under your tongue. You lick along the first line you drew, slow, savoring the mix of sugar and his skin, the faint salt of sweat beneath. He groans, head tipping back.

“Fuck, that’s—” He cuts himself off with a curse when you swirl your tongue around one nipple, sucking the sugary ring away before biting down gently.

His hand tightens in your hair, not enough to hurt, just enough to hold.

“Such a good girl,” he rasps. “So fuckin’ focused on that mouth, huh? Couldn’t even wait ’til we got home—had to drag me in here and eat me like a dessert.”

Heat flares between your legs at the praise, slick pooling.

You move lower, licking each little “button” dot clean, tracing every ridge of his abs with your tongue, following the path of your own decoration. By the time you reach his navel, he’s breathing hard, fingers in your hair keeping you where he wants you.

“Can taste the sugar,” you mumble against his skin, and then, unable to stop yourself, “but you’re sweeter.”

He huffs out a laugh that sounds almost pained.

“You’re such a fuckin’ romantic,” he says, but the words come out thick with affection. “Get down there and put that mouth to work.”

You slide to your knees between his spread thighs, the floor cold even through your leggings. The angle gives you an obscene view: his cock, heavy and flushed, the white icing line glistening faintly where it trails down to brush the base.

You wrap your hand around him again, giving a slow pump, and lean in.

“Thought you were gonna make me a gingerbread man, doll,” he says through gritted teeth. “Right now I’m thinkin’ you’re just makin’ yourself a snack.”

You look up at him from under your lashes, tongue darting out to catch the bit of frosting at his base.

“Maybe I can do both,” you say, and then you flatten your tongue and lick up the length of him, slow, collecting sugar and skin in one long, obscene swipe.

He swears, loud enough that you’re glad the music out front is still blasting.

“Fuck. Keep doin’ that and I’m gonna—”

You kiss the leaking tip, tasting salt and sugar and him, then sink your mouth down over him as far as you can go.

Everything else disappears.

Your world narrows to the hot weight of him on your tongue, the stretch at the corner of your mouth, the way his hand tightens instinctively in your hair, guiding your pace. You hum around him, and his hips jerk.

“Goddamn.” His voice is rough, staring down at you with wild eyes. “Look at you. Kneelin’ on the dirty office floor just to suck my cock. You really are desperate, huh?”

You whine around him, the humiliation and heat mingling into something that makes your thighs clench. He chuckles, breathless.

“Yeah, you like that,” he says, eyes glittering. “Like bein’ my messy little gingerbread slut. All that sugar on your tongue and you still want more.”

He pushes in a little deeper, carefully, watching your face. You breathe through your nose, relax your throat, take him as far as you can. When you swallow, he curses again, head thumping back against the wall.

“Jesus, sweetheart. You’re gonna ruin me.”

His hand moves you, setting a rhythm, using your mouth like it’s something he earned. Every slide of him over your tongue sends a sharp jolt between your legs, your body stringing tighter and tighter.

He pulls you off with a wet pop when your eyes start to water, thumb brushing away the mix of saliva and frosting at the corner of your mouth.

“Open,” he orders.

You do, lips parted, tongue out, and he groans.

“Filthy,” he mutters, but he sounds awed. His thumb slides between your lips, pressing down on your tongue as he pushes your jaw gently. “You just need somethin’ in that mouth, don’t you? Can’t stand not havin’ me there.”

You moan around his thumb, sucking, eyes fluttering.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He pulls his thumb free, dragging it down your chin, smearing the mix of sugar and spit. “Get up.”

It takes a second for your knees to cooperate. When you stand, your legs tremble.

He grabs your waist, spinning you, and suddenly your back is against the wall, cold plaster seeping through your thin shirt. He cages you in with his body, one thigh pushing between yours, pinning you there.

“You good?” he asks, hand cupping your jaw, searching your eyes.

“Yes,” you breathe, voice wrecked. “God, yes.”

He grins, quick and feral, and kisses you like he’s trying to claim every ounce of air in your lungs. You taste yourself on him, taste sugar and sweat and something sharp and addictive that’s just Bucky.

His hand skims down your side, over your stomach, to the waistband of your leggings.

“Look at you,” he murmurs against your mouth. “All worked up just from suckin’ me off. You soaked for me, doll?”

You swallow, cheeks burning. “Why don’t you check?”

He chuckles. “Cheeky.”

His hand slides into your leggings, fingers cupping you through your underwear. You jerk against him, a bitten-off whimper catching in your throat.

“Fuck.” His breath hisses between his teeth. “You are soaked. I barely touched you.”

You try to glare, but your hips roll into his hand of their own accord.

“Whose fault is that?” you whisper.

“Guess I better do somethin’ about it,” he says, voice low. “Otherwise you’re gonna make a mess on my leg, and we can’t have that.”

His fingers slip under the damp fabric, finally touching you where you need it. You gasp, hand flying to his shoulder for balance as he finds your clit with sure, practiced ease.

“Bucky—”

“Yeah, that’s it,” he says, mouth at your ear. “Say my name just like that. Always imagined what you’d sound like.”

The admission makes your head spin.

He works you with ruthless precision, rubbing tight circles, dipping lower to slide two fingers into you, stretching you around the thickness. Your body clenches, desperate.

“Fuck, you’re squeezin’ me,” he groans. “Gonna feel so good on my cock.”

The thought sends you hurtling closer to the edge.

“Bucky, I’m—” you gasp.

He pulls his hand away.

You whine, actually whine, chasing the friction, and he laughs softly, the sound full of wicked satisfaction.

“So greedy,” he tsks. “You really think I’m gonna let you cum on my fingers after you just used that pretty mouth on me like that? No, sweetheart. You’re gonna cum on my cock. I owe you that much.”

You’re pretty sure your brain short-circuits.

He hooks his fingers in your leggings and underwear and yanks them down in one practiced move, leaving you bare from the waist down. The air hits your slick skin and you shiver.

“Turn around,” he orders, voice gone rough. “Hands on the wall.”

You hesitate, a flicker of nerves threading through the haze of arousal.

He notices immediately, hand warm on your hip.

“Still good?” he asks, brow furrowing. “We can stop. I mean it. We can stop and go back out there, pretend we just—”

“No,” you say quickly, surprising yourself with the certainty in your voice. “I want this. I want you.”

Something in his expression softens, just for a moment.

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

“Yeah.”

His hand squeezes your hip, reassuring. “Then get your ass on that wall, gingerbread girl.”

You huff out a breathless laugh despite how wrecked you feel, turning to brace your palms against the cool plaster. You hear the quiet crinkle of foil as he digs in his pocket, and it occurs to you dimly that of course he’d be prepared. He works in a bar. Things happen.

The sound of the condom wrapper tearing is louder than it has any right to be. Your pulse thrums in your ears.

A moment later, he’s behind you, crowding you up against the wall with the heat of his body. One hand slides along your side, fingers spreading over your stomach, anchoring you. The other wraps around himself, guiding the blunt head of his cock to your entrance.

“Relax for me,” he murmurs into your hair. “Don’t tense up. I’ve got you.”

You exhale slowly, muscles unwinding as best they can.

He pushes in.

The stretch is intense, a deep, delicious burn that makes your eyes scrunch shut. He moves slow, giving you time, every inch of him sinking into you until his hips are pressed flush against your ass.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice shredded. “You feel—Jesus, sweetheart. You’re perfect.”

You moan, pushing back, greedy for more.

“That’s it,” he says, hand sliding down to grip your hip. “Take it. Knew you would. Knew you’d be so good for me.”

He starts to move, shallow at first, letting your body adjust. Every thrust grinds his pelvis against your ass, the angle just right to drag him along that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

The hand on your stomach slides down, fingers finding your clit again, circling in time with his hips.

You keen, fingers clawing at the plaster.

“Listen to you,” he purrs, the words a mix of praise and mockery. “You hear yourself, doll? Whinin’ for it like you didn’t drag me in here. Like you didn’t beg me with those eyes all fuckin’ night.”

“Bucky—”

He sinks his teeth into your shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp.

“You wanted this,” he says against your skin. “Didn’t you? Wanted me to stuff your mouth, then fuck you stupid against a wall while everyone out there sings goddamn Jingle Bell Rock.”

Your laugh breaks on a moan.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Fuck—yes, I wanted this, I wanted you—”

His breath catches. His thrusts go harder, deeper, the desk behind him rattling with each snap of his hips.

“Good girl,” he growls, the words hot against your neck. “That’s my good girl. Sayin’ what she wants.”

The praise hits you like a physical thing.

You can feel yourself spiraling, the coil in your belly winding tighter and tighter. Every friction of his cock, every swipe of his fingers, every filthy word pushes you closer.

“Bucky, I’m…fuck, I’m close.”

“Yeah?” he pants. “Already? Barely got started, sweetheart.”

His pace doesn’t slow, though. If anything, it gets more urgent, more desperate.

“You gonna cum for me?” he asks. “Gonna make a mess all over my cock like a good little gingerbread slut?”

You whimper, the mix of degradation and praise lighting up every nerve.

“Yes,” you cry. “Yes, please, please—”

“That’s it,” he says, voice rough with pleasure. “Beg for it. Beg me to let you cum.”

“Please,” you rasp, not even caring how wrecked you sound. “Please, Bucky, I need it—need you—need to cum, please, please—”

His fingers speed up on your clit.

“Cum for me,” he orders, voice a growl. “Now.”

You shatter.

Your orgasm rips through you like a wave, tearing a sharp cry from your throat. Your legs shake, whole body clenching around him, pleasure burning white-hot behind your eyes.

He curses, burying himself deep, hips grinding against you as he chases his own release. You feel his rhythm stutter, hear the raw sound he makes as he cums, the tension in his body snapping.

For a few seconds, all you can hear is your own ragged breathing and the muffled thump of music through the wall.

Then, slowly, the world slides back into focus.

He eases himself from between your legs, hand smoothing over your hip, your stomach, up your ribs as if to soothe every inch of overstimulated skin.

“You okay?” he asks softly, still catching his breath.

You nod, forehead pressed to the wall. “Yeah. I’m…wow.”

He laughs, quiet and disbelieving.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Wow.”

He pulls out gently, one hand steady on your hip, and you feel the slide of the condom as he takes care of it quickly. A moment later, he’s tucking you into his chest, turning you so your back is against the wall and he’s the one holding you up.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing damp hair from your face. “You with me?”

You look up at him, taking in the flushed cheeks, the softened eyes, the smear of frosting still clinging stubbornly above his heart.

“I decorated you,” you say faintly.

He huffs. “Yeah, you did. Didn’t quite expect the…full body shot experience, but I’m not complainin’.”

You giggle, the sound shaky but genuine.

“Gingerbread body shot,” you correct. “There was a theme.”

“And you committed to it,” he says gravely. His thumb traces your lower lip, gently rubbing away some dried sugar. “Gonna be thinkin’ about you on your knees with frosting on your tongue for the rest of my natural life, doll.”

Heat flares in your cheeks again. “Could be worse things to be remembered for.”

His expression softens.

“Oh, I got plenty of other reasons to remember you for,” he says, voice dropping. “But that one’s definitely up there.”

The tenderness in his gaze makes something ache in your chest.

“So,” you say slowly. “Is this…a one-time ‘I won the gingerbread contest’ thing? Or…”

He snorts. “Sweetheart, you think I’ve been flirtin’ with you for months just to bang it out once in the office next to the sticky note budget?”

Your heart stutters. “Months?”

“I’m a bartender,” he says. “My job’s to notice things. Like the fact you stay an extra hour on nights I work, and you always sit where I can see you. Or that you only ever complain about my pickle Bloody Marys ’cause you like watchin’ me argue with you.”

You open your mouth. Close it. “Okay, that’s fair.”

He leans in and kisses you again, softer this time, sweet and slow. No sugar. Just him.

When he pulls back, there’s a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“How about this,” he says. “We clean up, you let me make you a drink that doesn’t involve pickles or gingerbread, and then—if you’re still interested—we start figurin’ out what other holiday traditions we wanna corrupt together.”

Your chest feels too small for your heart all of a sudden.

“Yeah,” you say, breathless and stupidly happy. “I think I could be very interested in that.”

“Thought so,” he says, smug and fond all at once.

He reaches past you to grab the discarded frosting bag from the desk, inspecting it with a mock-critical eye.

“Gonna have to order more of this,” he muses. “We’re runnin’ low.”

You raise a brow. “Planning on more body shots, Barnes?”

His gaze slides back to you, hot and promising.

“With you?” he says. “Every goddamn holiday, doll.”

He tosses the bag in the trash, pulls his shirt back on, and offers you his hand.

You take it.

Out in the bar, someone starts up a wildly off-key rendition of “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” Bucky squeezes your fingers, leans down to murmur in your ear as he opens the office door.

“For the record,” he says, “all I want for Christmas is you covered in frosting again.”

You laugh, warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the lingering afterglow.

“Careful,” you say. “You keep tempting a girl like that, and she might make good on it.”

He grins, that slow, devastating smile that started this whole mess.

“Sweetheart,” he says, guiding you back into the glow of the twinkle-lit bar, “that’s exactly what I’m countin’ on.”

Creaky floorboards, eerie sounds that you deemed non-human, flickering lights, and the sound of footsteps that didn't belong to you.

When you decided to house-sit for your grandmother, this is not what you imagined you would be dealing with. You chopped it up to an old house settling, but the longer you sat at the chipped wooden desk—that used to be property of your late grandad—the more you started to feel a bone-deep chill spreading throughout your limbs. And it had nothing to do with the weather.

It was October, the crest of autumn, when the leaves were an array of reds and yellows. This was your favorite place to be during this season. Your grandma's mansion was daunting at times, but the surrounding pine trees and the lake nearby gave it a cozy feel. Which is precisely why you jumped on the offer when she asked you to watch while she was away, catching up with her girl friends for the next two weeks in Rome.

Inlet, New York, was the perfect place to write. You were an amateur writer, but a writer nonetheless. You had an upcoming deadline that comprised your first five chapters of your book. But the blinking cursor on your illuminated screen was mocking you as if it were saying, you haven't moved me in the last two hours; if you don't start typing now, you'll never get it done.

You lacked the motivation. An hour before you sat down, you strolled along Cascade Lake, breathing in the fresh air to hopefully get the gears turning in your malfunctioning brain.

The landscape was filled with tall mountains and lush greenery. It was quiet and serene in this part of the world. Back home, you were constantly listening to the sounds of the city life outside your window—loud vehicles and strangers exchanging curse words. This was a refreshing change of pace from the usual overwhelming noise you were accustomed to.

Swans glided through the glistening water—side-by-side like a pair of lovers on a leisurely swim. Clouds painted the sky with wisps of white as rays of sunshine peeked through the fluff. With all that being said, nothing sparked inspiration. Still, you were happy to indulge in the scenery by taking a few photos.

Then, it was putting a vinyl record on an old turntable. You swayed from side to side, hips moving to a song your grandparents grew up listening to. The speakers crackled, a static that seemed to relax your muscles. You spun, the skirt of your dress billowing in the breeze you created.

You imagined hands on your waist, gripping you as you danced. Palms slid lower to caress your hips. A whisper of breath fanned across your neck as fingers flirted with the hem of your dress.

Suddenly, it began to feel less like you were dreaming it and more like it was actually happening. Cold digits dug into the flesh of your thighs, causing your skirt to rise. You stopped dead in your tracks, eyes widened in fear. The record skipped, a high-pitched screech resounding through the living room.

As quickly as the touch came, it disappeared—the melody playing righting itself once more. Your chest heaved, eyes darting across the room as if you missed the part where your grandma said there would be a house guest staying with you. But there was no one in sight. Yet, you could still feel a set of hands on you, like a tattoo permanently engraved into your skin.

You flattened your dress and sprinted to pick the needle off the spinning disc, intent on ridding yourself of that sickening feeling in your gut. However, it followed you throughout the entirety of the house like a dark, creeping shadow stuck to your heels. No matter how massive the building was, there was no corner of the mansion you could go to where you didn't feel a chill or hear something that made the hairs on your neck stand up.

You didn't believe in the supernatural. Not because it was unthinkable, but because you'd never encountered something like that. Well, not until now. No. You are not doing that right now. You are not assigning these sounds and sensations to a soul. Your mind is just playing tricks on you, distracting you from getting your work done.

Instead of staring at your laptop like a maniac, you wandered into the kitchen to quiet your gurgling stomach. Grandma had stocked the fridge before she left, making it easy to find something to satisfy your hunger.

A sandwich seemed to do the trick for now. Something light until suppertime. You took a bite off, chewing on the combination of ham and cheese as mayo dripped down the corner of your lip. You wiped the white glob off with your thumb and brought it to your mouth, sucking it off.

Glancing out the window above the kitchen sink, you took in the way the sunlight gleamed off the lake. The surrounding trees waved back and forth as if they were greeting you. The lower hanging branches dipped, their leaves skimming the water.

Something in your periphery snagged your attention. You took in the reflection, noticing your mirrored appearance, then directly past you.

A form stood behind you—a pale presence sporting a pair of green trousers and a cap to match. His dirt-stained tank top stretched across his chest, and an unbuttoned military jacket was draped over broad shoulders. Piercing blue eyes bore into you from the reflection on the glass.

You nearly leapt out of your skin, whipping your head around to get a better look at the intruder. But he was gone within a blink. You swore there was just a man standing there a second ago…right? Were you going insane, or was someone playing a sick prank on you?

Your hand still rested over your racing heart, trying to stay calm. You insisted on convincing yourself that dehydration was the issue. So, you grabbed a glass of water and headed to your temporary bedroom to take a nap.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Sleep never dragged you under. You hovered on consciousness for the better part of an hour. You were too busy tossing and turning to get any real slumber.

Ambling through the halls, you decided to check in with your grandmother across the sea. You completely forgot about the time zone difference, but she insisted she wouldn't go to sleep for another hour. She filled you in on the outing she and her friends had. From the pleasantries they exchanged to the sights they encountered on their vacation.

"Well, how's the writing coming along, my dear?" she sighed into the phone that you held between your shoulder and ear. You realized you couldn't keep her on much longer; you could tell the exhaustion from the day weighed heavily on her shoulders.

"It's…been a struggle," you explained. "But, I think I'm going to find a spot on the couch, maybe put a movie on in the background, and get something written."

You drifted down the lengthy hallway, bare feet bathing in the sun-warmed floorboards. An orange hue filtered through the curtains, coating the wood where you stood in tiny boxes of color—a shadow of the window panes.

Your eyes flicked up to where the glow spread out across the wall. The sage colored hallway was littered with pictures, new and old. Your eyes scanned over the images of family members and friends as she spoke into your ear. "Don't overwork yourself, though. If it's not coming to you, you can always get a fresh start tomorrow morning."

A smile lifted your lips at the tinge of worry in her voice; it was just like her to show her concern any chance she got. As you opened your mouth to answer back, your eyes locked with one of the framed photographs. You stepped closer, unhooking the picture from its nail and examining it.

A man in his twenties looked up at you. In the picture, he stood in a bright kitchen, leaning against something just out of the frame; you could only guess that it was a fridge. The pots and pans hanging behind him provided the context clues to reach that conclusion.

He was handsome in a rugged sense, like you already knew he had a kind heart, but he was mildly rough around the edges. The button-down he wore was loose; a couple of the top buttons were undone, revealing his chest and a clear line of his clavicle. His hair was mussed, strands hanging in his eyes, but they almost seemed intentional, as if an angel hand placed them to look that much more devastating.

Then, your gaze flitted down to his. It was the same piercing eyes from the kitchen window. They were colorless in the picture, but the intensity was identical. Could it be him?

"You alright?" Grandma's voice came once more.

"Yeah, it's just," you tilted your head in thought, not wanting to frighten her right before bed, but also not wanting to sound like a complete lunatic. "Who's the man standing in the kitchen in this photo on your wall?"

She hummed a moment. "Sorry, honey, my mind isn't what it used to be. What photo are you referring to?"

You mentally kicked yourself; of course, she didn't know what you were talking about. You pulled your phone away from your ear, snapped a quick picture of the framed photo, and sent it to her. You told her to take a look at the image you texted her, waiting for a reply.

"Oh," she giggled—the kind of laugh that meant she was reminiscing. "Handsome, isn't he? Of course, he has nothing on your papa, but he sure was a looker. That's James, but his close friends called him Bucky."

You mouthed the name, getting a feel for the nickname. It strangely felt right on your tongue, but you didn't dwell on it. "How'd you know him?" you asked eventually.

"A friend of Papa's. They got drafted together when they lived in Brooklyn. You might know him better as Captain America's friend," she usefully added.

Everything clicked into place after that. James Buchanan Barnes. You read about him in a museum once when you were a kid. A small hand wrapped snuggly around your grandpa's finger as he guided you through the antiques and ancient objects, teaching you about the decades long past.

How could you forget, with all the war stories he described to you as you sat on his lap, lulling you to sleep with the rhythmic squeak of the rocking chair. For some reason, Bucky must've got lost in the ridges of your brain. You recalled Papa talking about his war buddies, but he had so many friends that the man you were still staring at slipped through the cracks of your mind.

"Do you happen to have any more photos from Papa's war days stashed away?" you inquired, placing the frame back on its nail.

"Oh, plenty. If you look in the storage room, there should be a light blue box full of memorabilia," she clarified.

"Perfect. Thanks, Gran," you muttered, heading straight to where she instructed.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Photos, old newspapers, metals, a folded flag in the shape of a triangle, and an old uniform were strewn across the carpeted floor. The television was a murmur of voices in the background, and your laptop was open beside you, several tabs showing Bucky's history. You sorted through the mess, putting them in their respective piles. However, your main concern was the pictures.

Most of them had worn edges, or the black-and-white images were slightly faded. Yet, you could still see what they depicted. Some were of Gran and Pa's wedding, mutual friends, and the photos you were in search of.

You saw James' face over and over. A few of him in his uniform, and others in casual clothing like the one in the hallway from earlier. Every picture was proof that the man you saw in the reflection was the same: matching hat, eyes, and sharp features.

But, holy shit, your grandma was right about one thing; he sure was a sight for sore eyes. Every photo you pulled out seemed to make you bite your lip and squeeze your legs together. You were aroused by just a couple of old images of this man you barely knew, only through things you heard or your research. You shook yourself out of your dirty thoughts and returned to your exploration.

It didn't make sense; why would he be tied to this place? You understood his backstory, his and your granddad's friendship, and his tragic demise. But what you couldn't discern was how he ended up here when he died in the Swiss Alps.

You opened another tab on your computer and typed out a couple of questions about ghosts. Are ghosts real? Where did ghosts originate from? What ties a ghost to a house? And you also searched for ghost sighting videos just because you couldn't help yourself.

The responses were endless. One website led you down a rabbit hole. Another, you couldn't make heads or tails of. The videos didn't help much. Most of them seemed fake—either heavily edited or a bad excuse for CGI.

Finally, you found something helpful. An article that described how spirits can sometimes be connected to objects, whether it was something they wore or something sentimental.

You rummaged through the clutter once more for anything that might've belonged to James besides the obvious photos. You picked up every metal and scanned them, then shook the box just to make sure you didn't miss anything.

You ended up unfolding the olive-green uniform and scouring its pockets. Breast pocket. A handkerchief. Right pocket. Nothing. Left pocket. Clink-clank. When you pulled out the object that made the sound, you discovered it was a chain. Not just any chain, but a pair of dog tags.

You almost put them back, thinking they were Papa's, but you took a closer look. James B. Barnes was engraved into the steel tags. Is this the item that binds him to this place?

You flipped the tags, rolling them between your palms to hear the clink of the two together. For some reason, you felt a strange tug towards the silver plates like a string pulling taut. You ran your thumb along the ridges of his identification numbers.

You brought the chain up and slipped it over your head. The chain was cool against the nape of your neck as the tags fell between your breasts. You felt that chill spread, goosebumps dotting your flesh with a vengeance. It was like the temperature dropped drastically; you could almost see your breath in front of your eyes in little white whisps.

The television flashed a bright white that flooded the room like an angel stepping down to earth. What followed the light was a high-pitched whine that had you cupping your ears to muffle the sound. You squinted and plugged your ears as it intensified.

The room shook like the space you were in was the only thing aware of the random earthquake happening right below you. Several things clattered to the ground—one of Gran's vintage cuckoo clocks, your ceramic mug filled with apple cider that was positioned on the side table, and the flower lamp beside the sofa.

Then, everything went still. The TV flickered and went black, the noise had gone silent, and even the orangey liquid that flowed from your, now, chipped mug seemed to slow. You uncovered your ears, blinking a few times to adjust to the darkness.

You didn't know whether you pissed him off or if he just liked scaring the shit out of you. Either way, you knew it was James, and he was making his presence known. It felt as though he were asserting ownership of this house and everything within it, including you.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

A shaded bedroom, but light crept into the corners as the rising sun permeated the sheets that were tangled in your limbs. You were sleeping, your chest subtly moving with every deep breath you took.

Bucky watched; he only ever watched. Normally, from a distance, but for a reason he couldn't begin to understand, he was drifting closer to you with every minute you stayed here. He'd alarmed you multiple times, and it hadn't even been a full twenty-four hours yet.

He didn't mean to, but when his emotions went haywire, strange things happened around him. For years, he had kept his distance from your grandmother, wandering the empty halls that held no memories for him.

An eternity stuck watching others live a happy life, while his was cut short. He was glad to see one of his best friends create unforgettable moments, but sometimes it churned his stomach with jealousy.

When his best buddy died, his lifeless form being carried out in a body bag, that was the last time James had let his emotions get the better of him. It was reminiscent of the war; limp, bloody bodies being moved to white tents in an attempt to bring them back to this side of the living. Lights flared and objects flew off the shelves on that mournful day, but your grandma never noticed, too lost in the waves of her own grief.

Then, a whirlwind of sweet smells and saccharine smiles started coming around the hollow mansion. You seemed to single-handedly revive the space, filling it with an exuberance it had always been missing.

Fuck, you were the most beautiful dame James had ever seen. Your laugh was as perfect as you; he'd studied how it would fade into something soft, and the way your eyes crinkled at the corners. That's precisely why he kept his distance when you came around. His reactions to you always seemed to cause a frenzy. Having to stabilize his feelings was like taming a wild animal that kept clawing at his ribs, even after the separation.

But it was difficult to resist you when you were the only one in the vast building. He lingered in the shadows, watching you in awe as you sat there, exuding wonder and grace. He couldn't help but touch you when the temptation became too strong, especially as you danced like you didn't have a care in the world.

Staring at you as you dozed off, softly snoring against the cotton pillowcase, was just too good to pass up. Yet, he couldn't just stand in the doorway, could he? He had to be close to you, as if he were tethered to your very being.

He caught the glint of silver that rested in the valley of your breasts that he longed to touch. The way you looked wearing his tags was downright sinful. You had no idea what you were doing to him, or perhaps you did. You knew it was Bucky haunting this mansion. Did you put them on just to fuck with his head? And had you worn such a revealing outfit to bed with him in mind?

You were in this baby-pink nightgown, as if the color would make it any more innocent. The sheer fabric clung to your every curve like a personal invitation for him. Instead, his gaze shifted to your slightly parted thighs, an area he knew he wasn't supposed to look at. But it was as if your pussy was purring for him even in your slumber.

James was always a gentleman in life, but in death, he was wicked. How could he be anything but with a pretty thing like you? A temptress sent to test his morals, and he was failing miserably.

He drifted closer, his slightly transparent shoes padding across creaky floorboards. Although his figure floated along the ground, it squeaked under the weight of his still scuffed boots like he was stepping into existence once more.

He crawled onto the bed—a shadowed leopard stalking his prey. His palms ghosted over you, see-through hands hovering over your calves, thighs, and hips. Drinking you in, he let out a low hum.

"Look so pretty in pink f' me, doll," he mumbled above you. "My tags look real good 'round your neck, too. Nearly killed me f' a second time when you put 'em on."

Bucky finally touched you, fingers splayed on your thighs, a chill rippling through you as soon as he made contact. He spread you further for him, effortlessly, despite the barrier between living and dead.

You shifted, head lulling to the opposite side of the pillow, and legs sprawling out as if you were making room for him. "That's a good girl," he praised, dipping his body, so his face lingered over your lace-clad cunt.

He swiftly moved those cute little panties to the side, baring your slick folds to the frigid air. Fanning his cold breath across the spot you were aching for him, you shivered. He chuckled darkly, lowering himself to scan your trembling figure from between your legs.

You twitched again, the sunlight catching your dampness, making it glimmer. He released a steadying breath, eyes half-lidded as he took in your appearance.

"Prettiest pussy I've ever seen. Bet she's real sweet too," he speculated aloud before closing the distance and dunking the tip of his tongue into your wet heat. His eyes rolled back from the simple action; he lacked the senses to actually taste you, but the feeling of your wetness, combined with his saliva, made his mind spin.

James dove back in, tongue flattening to gather your juices on his spectral tongue. He languidly lapped at you like you were a neglected pond in a broad desert, and he'd been dehydrated for far too long.

You made a delighted, sleepy noise, but your thighs were threatening to close on him. His palm shot out to stop you from ruining his attempt to drown in you.

"Nuh-uh," he scolded, "lemme see you. As soon as you put those tags on, this pussy became mine, so lemme enjoy her, sweet thing."

Tongue licking through your folds once again, he hummed against you. He drifted up to your clit, taking it between his lips and sucking it into his mouth. You moaned sleepily, bottom lip finding a way between your teeth as you bit down on it.

You were surrendering to the sensations, surrendering to him. He could tell by the way your eyebrows knitted together in pleasure that you were loving this as much as he was.

His tongue swirled around your swollen bud, then he let it go with a soft pop—the sound emanating throughout the space. Dipping his chin, he circled the tip of his tongue around your pulsating hole. He pressed against your opening, gliding through your gummy walls. You stirred, tipping your head back as a whimper escaped you.

"Shh, I gotcha," he cooed around his tongue. His hand slid up and down your inner thigh, though it probably lacked the comfort from how frosty his fingertips were.

He slipped it in and out of you in measured strokes of his tongue like he had all the time in the world. You writhed, legs jerking and hips tilting upward. One of his hands transferred up, laying flat across your lower stomach to keep you still as he fucked you with his tongue. Still, your body trembled beneath his palm.

His thumb shifted, landing over your clit. Pressing down, he rubbed it in tight, measured circles. His tongue plunged into you repeatedly, forcing you to get used to the feel of him. Your chest heaved as the pressure built in your gut, tension multiplying tenfold as he sped up his movements.

Your eyelashes fluttered, but you stayed on that bridge between rest and consciousness. "Please. Please," you murmured sluggishly, drawing out the syllables.

He retracted his tongue to speak to you, though he knew you didn't fully comprehend what was happening. "'M gonna get you there, don't worry. But, I gotta say, you sound so good when that pretty mouth is beggin' me."

Instantly, Bucky's tongue was back to driving into you with renewed purpose. Fuck, he needed to feel that perfect cunt come around his cock, but he'd settle for his tongue for now. His thumb moved quicker as he pushed into your clenched walls.

All your muscles tensed, and you moaned as the gates of your orgasm burst. You gasped, eyes shooting open as your climax rattled your bones. He worked you through it as you came undone.

You glanced down, and your vision was blurred. You tried to focus on the scene before you, but the waves of your release made it difficult to concentrate on anything other than the intense pleasure.

He ceased his movements, pulling his tongue from your pussy. Gazing up at you, he had a smirk on his face—all smug from playing with his new favorite toy.

You squeezed your eyes shut, still going through the aftershocks of your orgasm. You thought you might've been having a wet dream, but you blinked, willing your gaze to zero in on the man lying on the foot of the bed between your thighs.

You screamed, a shrill, deafening noise that echoed through the cavernous house. You scrambled up to the head of the bed in trepidation at the sight below you—an apparition with curled lips. The man from the reflection in the window and the one from the photos you rummaged through last night.

"James?" you asked, voice wobbling.

He nodded as he crept up the mattress, inching closer to you. You backed up further until your heated skin touched the wooden headboard.

He tutted, "Now, why're you runnin' from me, doll. You seemed real eager to get closer to me last night while doin' all that research. Don't think I didn't see the way you squeezed those pretty thighs together to dull the ache I put between them."

Your eyes widened, not with fear, but embarrassment; you hadn't realized he was watching you. "I-I'm sorry," you stammered.

"Oh, sweetheart," he muttered, moving a hand up to your face. You flinched, but he tilted his head as if to say, 'm not gonna hurt you. You relaxed slightly, shoulders slumping, and he took that as his opportunity to brush his knuckles over your cheekbone.

James shook his head, then cupped your cheek gingerly. "Don't apologize, never apologize. You feel better now, don't you? Did I make that pussy feel good?"

You swallowed hard, eyes darting everywhere. You fisted the hem of your nightgown, trying to regain your bearings. "I'm going insane, right? This isn't real," you convinced yourself, but you were still gazing at him like you had a problem and he was your solution.

Though that thought process made absolutely no sense to you, he tongue fucked you while you were asleep. You should be appalled. You should be fuming with anger that he touched you while you were in your most vulnerable state. Yet, here you were, getting soaked again at the thought of that ungodly act.

"'S real. I mean, 'm dead," he laughed at the absurdity of that statement. "But that orgasm I just pulled from you was very real."

He sighed and dropped his hand from your cheek when your expression remained stunned. "Guess I shoulda planned our first meetin' a lil better, but you're hard to resist when you look like a present wrapped in a pink bow."

Your cunt throbbed in response to his seductive tone as if he'd been waiting to get you in this exact position, and he finally quelled his hunger. You squeezed your thighs on instinct, and he noticed. His icy blue eyes flitted down to the gesture, an arrogant smirk spreading across his lips.

"She's calling for me again, ain't she?" Bucky inquired, cocking his head.

Your cheeks heated with a mix of shame and desire. You pressed your legs together tighter, in an attempt to douse the fire in your core, but with the way his eyes darkened to pitch black rings, it only made the fire ignite into a searing pain.

He put his transparent hands on your knees, prying them apart. "No, let her speak to me. Wanna give her what she's beggin' for," he growled.

You tried to defy him, put your legs back to their original placement. But his words were like honey coating your ears, coaxing you to open up for him. So, you let him spread you, and drink in the way your pussy fluttered around nothing.

"Tell me what she's sayin', doll," James instructed, his palms sliding up your thighs and giving them a rough squeeze before massaging them gently.

"Please," you said with pleading eyes. Your body was calling out to him now: stomach twisting with need, and skin prickling with lust.

He groaned, "Fuck, I do love it when you beg, but you gotta tell me what you want. Gotta hear more than that."

You took a breath before you answered. "Need your cock, James. Please."

His grin widened with mischief. Before you knew it, he was grabbing the underside of your calves and tugging you down, your head falling with a muted thud against the pillow. He was on you in an instant, lowering his head to capture your lips.

The kiss was ravenous as if he was swallowing you whole. He stole the breath from your lungs with every brush of his lips. You melted into the mattress below you, letting him take the lead. His entire form was freezing, including his mouth, but that didn't make the kiss any less heated.

Without ceremony, he unbuttoned his dull green trousers and yanked them down. He slotted himself between your thighs as he licked into your mouth. His tongue delved into you, then it swirled with yours in a dance of desire.

You moaned into him, and he echoed it with a grunt of his own. You gripped the back of his neck, deepening the kiss. He fisted his cock, pumping it as he bit down on your bottom lip, giving it a sharp tug before he released it.

"You don't know how long I've been waitin' for this. I knew I had to have you the moment I laid my eyes on you," he breathed.

He hastily pressed the head of his cock against your entrance like he wasn't about to wait any longer. You whined; he was thick, and the cold press of him wasn't doing anything to soothe the ache of the stretch. In fact, it only added to the painful pleasure.

"Hmm…so tight—fuck-" he groaned, pushing into you with care. He made sure to slide into you leisurely so as not to hurt his precious girl. Bucky jerked his hips forward, his pelvis kissing yours as he bottomed out.

Your pussy felt impossibly full, your inner walls lined with a thin layer of icy-cold. You shuddered, feeling the full weight of him inside and around you. He might as well have been flesh and bone above you with how solid he felt.

He clutched your hips in an unyielding hold like his phantom fingers might actually leave indents in your smooth skin. "'M goona move, okay, sweet girl?" He was looking for confirmation, eyes boring into yours.

You nodded, fully adjusting to his sheer size and body temperature. He instantly pulled back, skimming through your cunt, then thrust forward roughly. You whimpered, free hand reaching up to grab his shoulder for stability.

He set a steady pace, letting you feel every ridge of his dick against your plush walls. Easing in and out of you while he gazed down at you with warmth that was a complete contrast from earlier.

He glanced down between your thighs and reached down to spread the lips of your cunt just to see how you were taking him. "She was made just f' me, huh? She feels like home," he admitted softly.

His eyes drifted back up, scanning your features. "You're beautiful. So fuckin' beautiful," James complimented, leaning down to trail kisses along your exposed collarbone.

His fingers wandered from your pussy to your shoulder. He slipped the strap of your nightgown down your arm until the thin material dipped and revealed your breast. Planting chilled kisses down to your tit, he sucked your nipple into his mouth. He bit down gently, pulling a throaty whimper from your lips.

"Bucky," you crooned, arching your back into him.

He hummed, a buzzing that vibrated your skin. "There she is," he muttered against your sensitive flesh. "How does that feel, sweetheart?"

"Feels good," you replied breathlessly.

He inclined back with a glint in his eyes. "Good." His thrusts deepened with every push forward, grinding down when your hips touched.

His hips stuttered, and he stopped holding back. He sped up his movements, pounding into you. You wailed, your head snapping back as he drove into you. You clung to him, wrapping your arms around his back as your nails dug into his ghostly body.

Your cunt clenched around him like a vice, mouth open in a silent sob. Bucky hissed, the veins in his neck sticking out at the sensation of you. "You gonna cum?" he asked. You couldn't even respond, too drunk on his cock. Your lack of an answer only made him ram into you harder.

"Give it to me, pretty girl," he cooed. "Wanna feel it. Come on, cum on my cock."

Without much convincing, your pussy clamped down around him. It throbbed in rhythmic waves as you came with a cry.

"Fuck, there ya go," he praised as your second orgasm ripped through you. Your vision flashed, sparks igniting in your eyes as you went through a euphoric trance. Your mind was clouded, honing in on only him, as if the whole world fell away, leaving the two of you.

Hips jerking forward in speratic thrusts, and he grunted lowly. Bucky's spectral form flickered above you, fading in and out as if he were going back to the supernatural realm.

Even in your blissed-out state, you framed his face in your hands. "Stay with me, Buck," you begged.

His figure stabilized once more, and gripped you harder as if you were the one slipping away. "'M here. 'M not goin' anywhere, doll," he promised, adoration swimming in his pupils.

Propelling sloppily into you, his cock twitched. He buried himself to the hilt as his dick pulsed, painting your walls with his release. A chill spread through you, and your body trembled from the sensation.

He leaned his weight on you as he steadied his breathing. Gazing down at you with hooded eyelids, he brushed a sweat-dampened hair from your eyes.

"You alright?" he questioned, a charming grin plastered on his face like the one you saw in the photos you were studying last night.

Your thumb swept across his cheek, a matching smile growing on your lips. "Better than alright."

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Your fingers flew across your laptop, the clicking of keys filling the space. You were on a roll; the first time in weeks you had been able to write anything. Even if it wasn't perfect, it at least got your brain moving.

"Whatcha writin'?" a raspy voice whispered in your ear as he kissed down the exposed expanse of your neck.

You nearly lept out of your chair, clutching your chest where your heart was pounding. "Fuck, James. You can't just pop in whenever you please."

He let out a booming laugh, enveloping you with his arms before he spoke. "Sorry, pretty girl. Still gettin' used to lettin' people see me." You shook your head, but couldn't help the soft snort that escaped you.

"Well," he gestured to the open computer, resting his chin on your shoulder. "You never answered me."

You abruptly shut your laptop with a loud snap once you remembered what was up on the screen. "It's nothing," you insisted.

He smirked, tilting his head. "You writin' about me?"

"No," you lied. "Don't be cocky."

"Ahh," he nodded his head as if something clicked in his mind. "Scratch that, you're writin' 'bout my cock."

You rolled your eyes dramatically. "Keep dreaming," you mumbled, but, again, it was a lie; that was precisely what you were writing about. But he didn't need to know that the best sex of your life just so happened to be with a dead man.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ Main Masterlist

⋆⭒˚.⋆ Bucktober Masterlist ⋆⭒˚.⋆

you had completely forgotten the events that led you to this. here you were, on an fours, licking your beloved iced fucking coffee off of your step brother's pants. his hands tugged on your hair, smushing your face against his cock—

you and bucky had never gotten along. not even when you were actually step siblings. your parents were now divorced but they'd been married for so long that you'd just became a part of each other's lives.

yet somehow, you still flinch when you heard the tread of his boots in the hallway, yet you stayed curled on the couch, not looking up from your phone.

"back," bucky grunted, settling the sweaty plastic cup down on the coaster right next to you. the condensation immediately started pooling around it. "got your stupid vanilla sweet cream cold brew with extra caramel. happy?"

you finally deigned to look at it, then up at him. his t-shirt was damp with his own sweat from the heat, sticking to the muscles of his chest. you reached for the cup, taking a slow sip through the straw.

but then your face immediately scrunched up in disgust.

"ugh! you drank some of this!" you accused, shoving the cup away. a little brown liquid sloshed over the lid and onto the table.

bucky stared at you with a furrowed brow. "what? no, i didn't."

"you did! it's all…backwashy. it's gross. i can taste it." you crossed your arms. there's a full-blown pout on your lips.

he let out an exasperated sigh, running a hand through his damp hair after taking his hat off. "for cryin' out loud. i did not drink your coffee. i drove twenty minutes in lunchtime traffic to get it. the lid's still on, see? the straw wrapper's right there."

"you could have taken the lid off and taken a sip and then put it back on," you insisted, taking on a whiny, bratty tone. "you totally did. it's ruined. i don't want it anymore."

he leaned down, planting his hands on the couch on either side of you, caging you in. his blue eyes had grown dark in irritation and frustration. "you're bein' a real brat, you know that?"

"so?"

a slow and dangerous smile across his face. "so, if you're gonna be a brat, you get a brat's punishment."

bucky snatched the cup, tore the lid off and sat down heavily on the couch right next to you. before you could process it, he upended the cup, pouring the entire contents—the sweet, tan coffee, the melted vanilla sweet cream, and the sticky caramel—right into his lap, over the thick fabric of his shorts.

you gasped. the dark, cold stain spread instantly across his crotch, soaking through, the ice cubes tumbled onto the cushion between his thick thighs.

"there," he said with a low voice, before tossing the empty cup aside. "now it's definitely contaminated. you were right, happy?"

you stared, wide-eyed, at the dark patch covering his groin and dripping onto the couch. "bucky… what did you—the couch—"

"forget the couch," his hand snapped out to circle your wrist, pulling you off your corner of the couch and towards him. you fell right on your knees in front of him. "you wanted your coffee. it's right there. so drink it."

he forced your head down. you only resisted for a weak moment but a sound escaped you. there was the sweet scent of coffee and caramel that filled your nostrils and beneath was the damp demin of his shorts.

"go on, baby," he said, tangling his other hand in your hair, not painfully but with authority. "you accused me of ruinin' it. now you're gonna lick it up. every. last. drop."

a shiver wracked your body in a confusion mix of humiliation and arousal. you hesitated, your lips inches from the soaked fabric.

"now," he commanded, giving your hair a slight tug.

you closed your eyes and pressed your mouth against the wet, cold spot. the flavour of the coffee exploded on your tongue.

but underneath it, you could feel the hard and thick shape of his cock beginning to stir against the fabric. you lapped at it, your tongue dragging through the sticky sweetness as a muffled whimper escaped you.

"that's it," he groaned, his head falling back against the couch. somehow, his hips gave a tiny involuntary jerk. "clean it up, you messy little brat. show me how sorry you are for bein' so goddamn difficult."

you obeyed, licking and sucking at the damp fabric. the act was so degrading yet so impossibly intimate, it made you dizzy. the coffee was mostly gone, but you kept going with slower movements, now seeking the heat beneath.

he let out a breath, bringing his hand down on the back of your neck as he spoke, "see? told you i'd make you drink it."

bucky shifted his leg slightly, placing his shoes methodically between your thighs. you tilted your head in response as if asking. you knew what he wanted—you simply wanted him to use his woods.

he gave you a knowing smile, tugging your hair back and making you look up at him. "ride my shoe, pretty girl."

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And yes, while you did make everything in his life better and easier, you had him questioning every single moral fiber in his body and testing his restraint at every turn.

Encouraging you to call him 'sir' was a giant mistake. One that cost him his sanity every damn day. Because every time those three god damn letters slipped past those perfect lips of yours he could feel the tension rising in his body and the blood rushing to his cock.

Eventually all he imagined when he looked at you was how he could easily bend you over whatever piece of furniture you were closest to while you shuddered and clenched around him. Your mouth parted, eyes rolling back in your head while you gasped nonsense. Until he would lightly tap your cheek and make sure you said 'sir' just as …

"Mr. Barnes?" you called sweetly, pushing into his office with a file in your hand. It's lucky your eyes were preoccupied so he could situate his lap further under his desk.

You seeing how hard he was at the mere idea of claiming you would not have been appropriate.

"Bucky," he corrected you. Hearing his last name slip between your lips was almost as bad as 'sir'.

"Oh! Right, sorry sir, Bucky," you continued entirely unperturbed and oblivious to his current predicament. "Here's the forms I need you to sign, plus I have your schedule for the charity gala tomorrow."

You leaned over the desk using two freshly manicured fingers to slide the paperwork towards him. Your other hand had wrapped along the edge of the desk for balance. Bucky briefly had a vision of what your hand would look wrapped around something else entirely while you begged him to…

His thoughts were cut short as you held a pen in his vision. His eyes snapped up to your small saccharine smile…and then they betrayed him by dipping to the v-neck of your blouse where your perfect tits were sitting so elegantly in what he could only assume was a pushup bra designed for temptation. Your necklace disappearing between the valley of your breasts was basically begging for him to lift a finger and pluck it free.

He really needed to enforce a dress code. Maybe full length nun robes may quell these flashes of desire.

"Thank you, sir," you said, gathering the now signed forms.

"I'd like for you to attend the gala as well," Bucky suddenly found himself saying. The schedule looked dreadfully boring, as they all were, and at least your company would preoccupy his mind during whatever long winded speeches the other benefactors would give.

Your eyes turned wide as you adjusted the papers in your arms. Oh what he wouldn't give to see you with that expression on your knees with your mouth open and…

"I don't, uh…I didn't prepare to attend so I don't have anything appropriate to wear," you stuttered out, dragging Bucky's attention back to reality. Your posture going rigid when you realized you failed to meet an expectation.

So eager to please, here you were endearingly nervous at the mere thought of disappointing him.

Bucky produced a sleek black card from his wallet holding it in the space between you. "Go get yourself something."

Your fingers reached out hesitantly, plucking the card from his grasp. In doing so, you grant him the rare pleasure of feeling your smooth skin as your hand brushes his. You take a step back, heels clicking on the tile floor unsteadily. Your thumb is brushing along the black metal when Bucky can tell you're about to protest.

He shut it down before you could even start. "Just say thank you and go shopping. I trust you not to get too carried away."

Your mouth snaps shut, teeth dragging across your bottom lip before you whisper a quiet, "thank you, sir." You turn slowly and make your way back out of his office. He's momentarily entranced by the subtle sway of your hips in that damn skirt you just insisted on wearing, the only thing breaking him from the hypnotic spell is when the door clicks and you're on the other side of it.

At this point he's sure you're some kind of temptress disguised as the picture of innocence. Because he just handed over his no limit American Express card without hesitation, his dick was still achingly hard, and all you had to do was get a little flustered and bat your eyelashes.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, tapping his fingers along his jaw as he glanced back at the door. "Fuck it," he grumbled, undoing his belt and palming his erection.

He wasn't going to be able to focus on his next conference call if all he could think about was replacing his cock with that damned necklace of yours.

The following afternoon, the tailor pulled a pinstriped three-piece suit from a garment bag. “This is the one, Mr. Barnes.”

His name didn't sound as good coming from the elderly man as it did from you…

Speaking of you, once he dressed, he snapped a picture and sent it off. You had orchestrated the fitting after all, and he wasn't even sure if this is what you had chosen.

'Does this look right?'

Your phone buzzed just as you were putting the finishing touches on your makeup. In a chain reaction of events you certianly weren't prepared for when you picked your boss's outfit out months ago, your mouth went dry, the brush in your hand went clattering into the sink, and your knees threatened to give out.

Did it look right, you scoffed internally. In theory yes, that was the correct suit. In all actuality, you had several other answers lined up.

It would look better on the floor.

That tie would look great around your wrists.

His hand would look better wrapped around your throat instead of that phone.

You rolled your shoulders back, the heat already rising in your body did not bode well for the fact that you were about to spend the rest of the night next to him. No matter, you could let your imagination run wild when you got home still smelling of his cologne.

You quickly typed back 'yes, sir' and went back to the task at hand: making yourself presentable enough to spend a night surrounded by glitz and glamour.

The phone nearly dropped from his grip when he saw your response. Surely…surely you had made a mistake. A typo somehow.

But what an error for it to be.

The words 'yes, daddy' were branded across the screen in response to his question.

It should not have felt like you poured gasoline on the fire simmering under his veins. But now…now Bucky's imagination was running faster with those eight letters, wondering how you would sound saying them in the throes of pleasure while pressed into a mattress. Your breasts bouncing with each thrust while he held your thighs open, your back arching as your pussy…

"Is that the correct suit, sir?"

Bucky cleared his throat, nodding his thanks. When was he ever going to get to finish a thought around here?

He looked back down at his phone to make sure he hadn't imagined the words. And he hadn't. Which meant he had two choices. Leave it be for you to realize and handle the situation somehow, or him to draw attention to it.

His brain told him what the rational option was. Too bad his cock seemed to be calling for him to rectify this situation louder.

Bucky arrived to your apartment in a sleek, black town car, looking entirely out of place among your modest neighborhood. Once he got over the initial jolt of desire, he had decided to just let it go. The last thing he wanted to do was embarrass you, and drawing attention to your little faux pas would make for an embarrassing evening. It was better to just leave it.

But then you opened the door.

His credit card had seemingly delivered the final test of temptation on a silver platter, in the form of a deep red satin dress that hugged your curves in all of the right places. The strapless sweetheart neckline pushed the supple flesh of your breasts up in a tantalizing way that made it hard for Bucky to not to want to bury his face between them.

The A line skirt accentuated your waist and hips, pouring down your body like molten lava that matched the rising temperature in his very being. A daringly high slit was cut in the fabric, showing off more of your leg than he'd ever seen before.

"Is it not okay?" your voice sounded panicked as your hands timidly smoothed over the bodice.

It was perfect. So perfect, Bucky was having a hard time not saying fuck it to the charity gala, pushing you back into your apartment, and ripping it off of you with his teeth.

But he couldn't say that.

"It's…no, you look great," Bucky cleared his throat offering his arm.

You ducked your head, but he didn't miss that proud smile at the compliment as he led you to the waiting car. Nodding politely at the driver, he held the door open and watched you gracefully slide in.

The car pulled away from the curb when you were both situated. Bucky hit a small button causing a dark privacy partition to slowly slide up, separating the both of you from the driver and isolating you in a bubble of heat and Italian leather.

Working beside him and coming into his office was vastly different than sitting here in an enclosed space. And you were sure you were just imagining the heat behind his gaze as he glanced over at you while city lights flickered past your features.

You reached for your phone, needing something to preoccupy your hands and mind. Instead of pulling up an app or going over his schedule, your heart stopped and what felt like ice flooded your veins.

Right there, encased in pixels under his name in the messages app: "Yes, daddy."

Not "sir." Not "Mr. Barnes." Hell, not even "Bucky." Daddy.

Something you really only called him in your private daydreams or nighttime rituals. There was no talking yourself out of this one.

You were sure you were fired and would likely have to pay for this dress from your last paycheck. How humiliating. You'd be out of a job, and have nothing to show for it except a red satin reminder of your Freudian fuck-up. Your hand scrambled for the car door handle, desperate to put space between you and the shame that was slowly filling the car.

But just as you were about to push the door open at a stop light, Bucky moved faster. Caging you against the sleek leather seats as his arm grabbed the door and held it closed.

He wasn't even sure what he was about to do, just that he was not about to let you run away when you looked like the embodiment of every single sinful thought he'd have had.

"You have daddy issues, sweetheart?" Voice low and amused. Almost dangerous underneath the tone that always made your thighs clench involuntarily.

You blink up at him, first surprised at the sheer power rolling from his frame, then at the pet name that had warmth flooding into your lower belly, then the fact that he clocked you so easily. He didn't look angry. He looked…curious.

Lamely all you could do was nod, because yeah, your dad not being present in your life had kind of fucked up any relationship you'd ever had with older men with any sort of authority over you. To your surprise Bucky's mouth quirked up into a teasing grin before he leaned in closer so his mouth was right by your ear.

"Do you want me to help you work through those issues?" his voice was a rough whisper, a shadow caressing along every dark thought in the deepest corners of your mind. The intent in his words dripping with honeyed lust.

Your breath hitched feeling the stubble of his beard skate across your skin, sending even more want through your body.

This was so wrong. You shouldn't want this; sleeping with your boss who was nearly double your age couldn't end well. The fact that it was happening after some subconscious slip of a nickname you'd never called any man before, let out alone your own father, was just morally reprehensible. So why was your body aching like you had already said yes?

There was a brief blink and you'd miss it moment where you debated saying no. But then his hand drifted from the door to your thigh. Heat and electricity traveled through the fabric of your dress, settling low in your belly until you found yourself drifting towards it. And then you realize this very may well be your only chance to see if he's as skilled as your fantasies about him are.

You meet his gaze finally, seeing the bold hunger in those blue irises that are almost swallowed by the black of his pupils. Your heart skips every other beat while you lean into the warmth of his touch.

All you can really do is nod, not trusting your voice to come out as anything more than a strangled noise.

He smiles like a wolf who has finally cornered its prey. And you were ready to be devoured.

His lips claim yours, soft at first, while his fingers slipped under the slit of your dress, warm and exploratory traveling directly for what he had been dreaming about since he hired you. You sigh into it, letting shaky hands drift up his chest and under the suit coat.

A hand came up to cup your jaw, a commanding thumb unhinging it so he could deepen the kiss. His tongue slid in, greedy and hungry, leaving you whimpering and completely at his mercy.

"You always take such good care of me, sweetheart, always know what I need," he murmured, when he pulled away just enough for his lips to brush yours with every word.

Your heart leapt into your throat, the mind melting realization that oh, he does indeed talk you through it had your legs parting on instinct to make room for his large body.

He took the invitation, turning you gently in the cramped space of the backseat. The cool window kissed your shoulder as you settled back on the door, the red material of your dress bunching around your hips as Bucky wrapped your thigh around his waist.

Just as he commanded a boardroom, he didn't ask for permission. He just started to claim. Hands already traveling up your bare thigh until they reached the lace edge of your panties that were doing very little to conceal the pool of your desire.

"Fuck you're soaked, sweetheart," he growled against your neck as his thumb swiped along your clothed center. The light touch sent sparks through every limb, your fingers scrambled to hold onto the expensive leather seats, hoping something would ground you against the way he was already pulling you apart.

"I haven't even properly touched you and you're trembling."

He pushed the lace fabric aside as his mouth continued its assault on your neck and shoulder. Two large fingers stroked one long swipe through your arousal before settling into an easy circular rhythm on your clit.

Your mouth fell open on a moan, nails clawing into the leather as heat built in your belly with every slow stroke.

"There you go," he hummed in approval, pulling back to watch pleasure crest over your features. "Does that feel good?"

"Yes sir," you managed to breath out, just as a finger pressed past your entrance. The stretch had you arching into his touch, body begging for more before you had a chance to think about it.

You were so fucking perfect. So pliable under his touch. And he hadn't even needed to ask you to call him that. You just did it.

"Such a good girl, always knowing exactly what I need," he cooed, adding in a second finger. "You know what I need right now? Need you to let me taste that pussy and see if it's as sweet as you are."

Your eyes flew open just in time to see him already ducking his head, using the hand that wasn't already preoccupied he pushed your skirt out of the way. He withdrew enough to slide the ruined lace down your legs, a whimper leaving your throat at the sudden absence.

"Such a pretty little thing," Bucky mumbled against your inner thighs as he settled between your legs. "I'm going to fucking ruin you."

His tongue ran one broad swipe between your folds just as his fingers had, a deep groan vibrating against your core as he finally tasted what he'd been dreaming about for months.

His movements were precise; circling the bundle of nerves, laying his tongue flat until it curled and sucked your clit between his lips.

Your hips jerked at the sensation, thighs clamping around his head as a moan that may have been his name spilled from your mouth. Even as the car rounded a corner, he held you steady in the small space, not even reacting to the movement. It seemed he was solely intent on seeing just how loud he could get you to moan his name.

Your back arched off the leather, fingers tangling in his hair that had once been perfectly coifed as another shaky whine broke from your throat. Loud and shameless, you could only hope the partition was also soundproof or you'd never be able to look the driver in the eye for awhile after this.

"That's it, let me have it baby," Bucky groaned against your cunt. "Be a good girl and come for me."

The coil in your belly snapped, pushing you over the edge, and you came with a brutal shudder and his name on your lips.

Bucky pulled back, his salt and pepper beard messy with the evidence of your ruin. He moved to hover over your body again, confident and steady, hair mussed from where your fingers had been.

"Taste," he ordered —tilting your mouth open with his thumb on your chin. You didn't have time to react before he spat in your mouth, your slick mixing with his saliva in a cocktail that had you drunk before you swallowed it.

"Good girl," he praised. Smoothly, he sat back against the seat, hands guiding your hips to follow until you were straddling his waist.

"You have no fuckin' idea how often I jerked off in my office to the thought of burying myself in your tight cunt. Always bet myself you would feel like heaven," he directed your arms to hold onto his shoulders before he moved to his belt, freeing his thick and flushed cock. "Let's see if I can fuck my way past the pearly gates."

You weren't sure if you were rendered more speechless from the sight of his length; hard and leaking just for you, the words he was saying over the steady hum of the car around you, or the way he was already lifting you and positioning the tip at your entrance like he owned you.

"Tell me what you want sweet girl," he said, letting you sink down slowly, eyes locked on your face as he split you open. "Want me to fuck those issues right outta you?"

"Yes," you moaned, wanton and undiscerning, tears pricking at your eyes, the stretch almost too much.

"Yes, what?"

Your throat worked around another stuttering noise of pleasure once you were fully seated. "Yes daddy."

"Christ," Bucky whispered, cock already twitching against your tight walls. Your grip only constricted as you moved on instinct, hips rolling in a languid pace as he let you take control for once.

His hands roamed along your body, wishing he could see what else this dress was hiding. He'd have to settle for the delicate way the tops of your breasts bounced as you fucked yourself on him. No matter, he'd rip the dress off you as soon as this damn event was over and he got you alone again.

He settled his grip on your waist, not wanting to ruin your hair more than it already was. "Just needed a real man to take care of you, didn't you baby?"

You nod as your movements become messier, chasing the drag of his cock against every nerve ending.

"Gonna take real good care of you, don't you worry." His hands slid down to your hips, taking over. He thrust up into your tight heat, your muscles clenching hard around him every time he tried to pull out.

"C'mon sweet girl, we're almost at the gala and I need to fill this perfect pussy up so you can feel me dripping out of you until I can have you again."

Your head fell forward, burying your nose in the crook of his neck while you let him move your body how he needed. "Harder," you managed to whimper. The scent of his expensive cologne coupled with the feeling of a suit worth thousands of dollars had a deep seated want to be completely ruined bubbling to the surface.

"Ask me like I know you want to," Bucky growled, wrapping his muscular arms around your waist, one holding the nape of your neck steady as he slowed down. Like he was going to deny you until you gave him what he wanted. And after all, this all started for one reason.

"Harder daddy, please," you breathed into his ear, already bracing a hand against the head rests. They creaked against the stress as his thrusts got rougher, more desperate, angling your body so his cock nudged impossibly deeper.

"That what you wanted, angel? Want me to make you forget how to walk and have you stumbling around all cockdrunk at this damn thing?"

"Yes, sir."

You were rewarded with his thumb going to where you were joined; rubbing quick and practiced circles along your clit. Your orgasm came crashing down not a second later, the sensations too much on nerve endings that had already been wrecked by his mouth.

"That's my girl," Bucky groaned, and with one final thrust up you felt his release spilling from his pulsating cock; covering your still fluttering walls.

In a stark contrast to how roughly he just manhandled you, he ever so gently lifted you off his lap and into the seat next to him. The car pulled up to the hotel the gala was in not a moment later.

"Pull yourself together, sweetheart, can't let everyone know how hard I ruined you." His thumb gently swiped at where your lipstick was smudged as the door opened.

You smoothed your dress as best you could, kicking your ruined panties off your legs and stepped onto the curb with his assistance. "Yes, sir."

"Good girl."

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♡ please note! i am new to this format and am primarily used to posting on ao3, so if you see anything I forgot to mention and should include here, please ~kindly~ let me know for next time. thank you! x

[ also, this has not been checked yet for mistakes. ]

It’s taken you three years to break your ‘no-dating-during-undergrad’ rule, and you’re already regretting it. 

It was a well thought out rule. The gap year you’d taken before college was stock full of poor decisions you probably wouldn’t make again, and while you don’t necessarily have regrets, you definitely came out of it with some things you didn’t want to experience again. 

The dating pool is, quite frankly, shit. Everyone wants to build-a-partner on swiping apps or have a mediocre one night stand and then sneak out before the sheets have gone cold. You’ve yet to encounter a man your age that hasn’t been horribly immature or blatantly antagonistic, and the older men you very briefly considered dating treated you like you were the one lacking maturity. 

That year had taught you a lot about wanting. But wanting fades, and you’d decided, moving forward, that casual flings weren’t really for you. 

Brendan seemed to understand all of that at first. A little too well, maybe. 

You thought that meant something, until you’d found out that the months you’d spent casually getting to know one another and building a connection was actually just the result of a bet to see how long it’d take you to put out. It feels like you’re in fucking high school all over again. 

You’re more mad about the fact that you couldn’t see it for yourself. Hurt, even—if you can let yourself admit to it. 

But now Brendan’s staring at you open-mouthed from his spot on the shitty sofa in his shittier frat house, surrounded by his friends and everyone else who knew and didn’t tell you before, and the drink you’d poured over his head is soaking into the material like watercolors. His face is ashen with disbelief, mouth wrenched open as he spits out liquid onto himself, fists clenched in festering anger. He looks like a child, which is fitting, really, for the way he acts. 

You’ve kept your head down for three years. You don’t like making scenes, but this helped a little. 

You storm out of the frat with your chin held high, distantly aware of the people recording on their phones. You hope it gets circulated online—Brendan deserves to be miserable and lonely until graduation, if not after that too. 

You just sort of wish you didn’t feel the same. 

“That was fucking awesome. God. I’ve never seen his face do that before. I’m saving this video. Can you set a video as a lockscreen?” 

You stifle a laugh into your textbook, lifting your neck up for the first time in an hour or so. Your eyes hurt from reading and typing on your computer screen beside you, and when you look up, most of the library occupants that’d been here when you first sat down have left. 

Except for Steve and Bucky, who’ve just arrived, seemingly, only to talk to you. 

You raise a brow at Bucky as he slumps into the seat across from you. “You really want Brendan’s face to be what you see every time you pick up your phone?” 

He grins. “If it’s you throwing a drink in it, hell yeah. S’good shit.” 

“He’s got a point,” Steve adds, leaning against your table with his arms crossed over his university sweatshirt. “I think there’s about half the campus that’s been dreaming about doing what you did to him. Worse, probably. It’s a collective catharsis.” 

“Look who’s taking an advanced English course,” Bucky reaches over to pinch him in the hip. Steve Steve swats him away, and Bucky looks back at you. “No, but. Seriously. People are being very supportive in the comments.” 

“Comments?” you groan, closing your textbook. 

“It is the twenty-first century,” Bucky reminds you. 

You chew at your lip, trying not to picture the worst. “Are there any bad ones?” 

Steve snorts as he helps you slide your laptop into your bag and then hefts it and your textbooks onto his shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Buck’s been on comment duty since it first went up, reporting anyone who’s being an ass.” 

“I am now responsible for several suspensions,” Bucky says proudly, standing from the table with a mock bow. 

“Thanks for defending my honor.” You pat his head a little condescendingly, but his smile is blinding enough to throw you off when he stands again and winks. 

“Anytime, sweetheart.” 

It’s dark outside the library when the three of you make it out to the courtyard, and you’re suddenly grateful they’d decided to show up. You hadn’t meant to stay so long, and while your campus isn’t necessarily scary, you don’t exactly relish walking alone at night. 

You fall into step between them on the sidewalk, Steve’s sweatshirt and Bucky’s dark tee grazing either of your arms. A few other lingering students glance your way from across the quad, and you straighten up, putting some distance in between the three of you. 

Steve and Bucky have a…reputation. And while you don’t care what they get up to in their personal time, you’d like to hold onto some semblance of your own reputation after all of this. 

But they were also the only ones here who were honest with you, so you can’t be too picky. You clear your throat, unsure if you’ve said it before now. 

“Hey, um. Thanks, again. For telling me about the bet in the first place.” 

“You don’t need to thank us for being halfway decent human beings,” Steve says. 

“Well. I wouldn’t go that far,” you tease, smiling. 

“You’re welcome, is what he meant to say,” Bucky rolls his eyes, nudging his shoulder with yours. “We’ve got your back.” 

“If I ever hear anyone in the girl’s bathroom making wagers about you guys, I’ll be sure to return the favor.” 

Steve looks adorably concerned. “Do they do that?” 

“Personally, I’d be happy to lend a hand to anyone looking to win a few bucks,” Bucky interjects. 

You raise a brow as you pass underneath a streetlight. “At the expense of your dignity?” 

“Not much there to begin with,” Steve mutters. Bucky reaches over you to shove him. 

“Punk.” He smiles at Steve fondly for a beat too long, then looks back to you. “So. What’s the plan now that dickwad is out of the picture?” 

“The plan?” you echo, shrugging. “Focus on school. Graduate. Get a job. Same as it was before him.”  

“That’s great, sweetheart. But I meant less academically and professionally and more… you know, romantically and such.”

“I’m not sure that really fits into it.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because it just doesn’t,” you tell him, slightly harsher than you mean to. Both of them back off a little as you turn toward your small apartment building, and you sigh, feeling guilty for taking it out on them when they’re trying to cheer you up. “Look. I tried it, okay? I tried back home, I tried here, I tried again, just now, even though I probably shouldn’t have. I just think I need to get my feet under me first before I try anything like that again.” 

“Because guys who are a few years older and have a job can’t also be assholes,” Bucky mutters. 

“Buck,” Steve admonishes. 

“I’m just saying—assholes are assholes. They can be any age, any place, any time. But that shouldn’t stop you from putting yourself out there because, against all odds, there are some of us who are, like. Halfway decent. And stuff.” 

You huff a laugh. “Strong argument.” 

“You know what I mean,” Bucky insists, uncharacteristically serious for a moment. “You deserve to be treated right, is all. And if you withdraw completely, you cut yourself off from the good stuff, too.” 

You glance at his expression, waiting for the crack, the joke, but it never comes. 

“I’ll keep that in mind, Bucky,” you agree gently. 

You pause at the door to your building, scanning yourself in and standing in the open space to keep it from closing on you. You take your bag back from Steve and hold your textbooks, and Bucky leans back against the railing on the steps, crossing his ankles. 

“Well. I’d say it definitely worked out for us, Stevie. We’re now friends with the coolest girl on campus.” 

You look at him. “Friends?” 

“She doesn’t have to be friends with us, Buck.” 

“No, but she should be. We come with perks.”

You freeze for a second, suddenly worried that their kindness has all been culminating into them hitting on you. But you relax slightly as he continues, counting on his fingers. 

“We’ll walk you home whenever you want. We always have snacks. And, uh. Steve will let you copy his work if you don’t feel like doing an assignment, probably.” He pauses, thinking hard, then breaking out into a cheesy smirk. “Also, free eye candy whenever you want it.” 

Steve sighs, heavily. “That’s a dollar in the jar.” 

“The jar,” you implore. 

“The Douchebag Jar,” Bucky clarifies. “Which I am so not contributing to for that, by the way.” 

“Oh, this is great,” you decide, ignoring him to turn to Steve. “Am I allowed to make him add to it, too?” 

Bucky scoffs. “Hey!” 

Steve shrugs. “Be my guest.” 

“Well I guess that’s a reason to keep you guys around,” you tease. “This’ll be fun.” 

Steve laughs, and Bucky sticks out an exaggerated lower lip, glaring at both of you. “This is so unfair. After everything I did for you in that comment section—” 

“Alright,” Steve huffs, reaching over to yank his sleeve, pushing him down the steps. He glances back at you. “We’ll let you get inside. And, seriously, we’re glad everything went okay with the Brendan situation.” 

“I mean it—lockscreen material!” Bucky says from the sidewalk. 

“Thanks,” you tell them earnestly. You offer a smile as Steve joins him and the begin to head back toward the dorms, watching them walk so close together that they nearly blend into one shadow. At the corner Bucky tosses up a wave, and then they’re gone. 

Sagging with the heaviness of your bag and books, you make sure the door’s security system activates and then drag yourself down the hall to the stairs. You pass a girl living on the floor above you on her way down. You used to make small talk with her in the hallways, but since the video, the conversation has significantly lessened, like she’s secretly afraid you’re going to toss a drink on her too. 

With a measured inhale and exhale, you make it to your apartment and let yourself inside, slumping your things to the small table in the foyer to deal with after you’ve gotten some sleep. You’ve been here for three years and not really made many friends, but this is by far the most alone you’ve felt since you got here. 

You’ve got Steve and Bucky, though, apparently. You don’t quite know how to feel about that accidental friendship yet, but it’s something. 

Right now, you’ll take it. 

You go home for spring break, avoiding all the festivities going on around campus. Brendan’s sure to be at all of them, and you’d like to save yourself the tension. 

You figure that by the time you get back to campus, Bucky and Steve will have mostly forgotten about you. They’d done you a favor, and you hadn’t offered to sleep with them for it. You’re not sure what else they could want from you. Especially not after a week full of opportunities for parties and booze and ill-advised sexual encounters. 

But your return only picks up right where you left off. The two of them begin showing up around you like stray dogs looking for a home, in the library, outside the lecture hall, the diner just off campus when you’re picking up food to-go. You want to be annoyed, and you’re still a little confused, but over time it gets easier just to accept the fact that you’ve befriended them. You might as well, you figure, since apparently this last year before graduation you’re doing all sorts of things that are outside of your comfort zone. 

Privately, you wait for the other shoe to drop. You know that their reputation isn’t unwarranted; you’ve been classmates with girls who’ve had no issue regaling in fine detail their nights of passion between both of them. None of the stories have ever been bad, certainly not like some other guys around campus, but those other ones have made you leery of men in general. Especially lately, it’s difficult to let down your guard. 

It doesn’t matter though, because they’re persistent. Steve is always quick to remind you that you don’t owe them anything, but you have genuinely come to enjoy the company sometimes. You’re so used to the sound of your own thoughts or your headphones that it was jarring, at first, having two people around you so often; Steve’s solid presence and Bucky’s perpetually running mouth. 

It’s been nice, is all. Not being alone. 

Even if you’re trying not to let yourself get used to it. 

The first time you realize you might’ve been wrong about them is when you’re hanging out at their dorm, take out boxes scattered around you on the floor and a shitty movie playing on Steve’s computer. 

You’ve all had a few drinks that Bucky bought from the gas station on the corner, and you picked up your favorite Chinese so that you could watch Steve’s cheeks go bright red with the seasonings. You’re already a little buzzed by the time you realize you’ve never seen Steve and Bucky drunk before, never overlapped at parties or events. 

They aren’t drunk but they’re headed that way, Bucky all giggles and Steve more loose lipped than you’ve ever seen him before. You’re pleased to find out that they aren’t aggressive or rude, still nice to you even with their inhibitions lowered. 

Lowered so much, in fact, that you’ve never seen them so touchy before. Not with you, but with each other. 

All three of you have been talking over the movie, sharing food cartons and passing beers back and forth, but any hopes you had on refocusing for the end of it are gone when you can’t stop watching them instead. 

Every few minutes Steve will lean over and say something in Bucky’s ear that makes him grin, crooked and private. You try to make yourself look away, back to your food or the movie, but they’re a little distracting. 

At some point, their hands meet in the middle where their thighs are pressed together, leaning back against Steve’s sofa. You watch Bucky’s pinky wrap around Steve’s and then retreat, teasing, before Steve does it back. A minute later, Steve feeds Bucky a bite of chicken using his own chopsticks. When sauce smears at the corner of his mouth, Steve licks his thumb and presses it to the spot, lingering there for a few seconds longer. 

Then, just as you’re about to look away, Bucky leans in to close the extra few inches and kisses him. 

It’s quick, sweet, and obviously not really meant for your viewing. You yank your eyes away from them, heart beating rapidly in your chest, and blink at your rice as you readjust your perception of them inside your head. 

You finish the last of the movie in silence, and by the time you’ve gathered enough courage to look back at them, everything looks relatively back to normal. 

Which you’re now realizing is something very different than what you thought. 

“So you two are…” you gesture between them, buzzed enough to bring it up but not enough to be eloquent about it, “...together.” 

A few feet away from you, Steve looks sheepish, and Bucky looks resigned. Something has hardened in his expression that you aren’t used to, defensive, almost, as he purses his lips and avoids your eye. 

“Yeah.” 

“Oh,” you say distantly. “I thought it was just, like—a thing you did to…” 

“To get girls into bed with us?” Bucky asks wryly, stabbing at his food. “Yeah. Most people think so.” 

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed,” you tell them gently, guilt killing the rest of your pleasant haze from the alcohol. 

“It’s not like we’re super public about it or anything,” Steve says, but even his smile is strained. “Don’t sweat it.” 

“Is the not-public on purpose, or…?” 

Bucky tosses up a shoulder. “Not really. People assume things. There’s a lot of people that wanna get in between us for a night or two. We just don’t really have that many friends. You know?” 

Yeah, you think. “I know what you mean.” 

Steve’s smile turns a little more genuine, and Bucky runs his eyes over your face for a minute, assessing. Eventually he relaxes, and you feel restless with the need to prove that you can be trusted with this. 

“You got any other movies saved?” 

Bucky announces that he’s choosing next, and you scoot a little closer to Steve on the rug, sharing fortune cookies between you. 

Your eyes stray to the infamous Douchebag Jar on the dresser, wishing you had a dollar to put in it yourself. 

Somehow, you get roped into attending another party—something else you’d sworn off for the rest of the semester. 

And it’s not even for any fun reason. You have a group assignment ready to submit that makes up nearly half your grade in this course, and one person hasn’t logged in to sign off, which is the final barrier to submission. 

You decide to cash in on your friendship perks that Bucky promised you before, enlisting him and Steve to accompany you to the party you know your groupmate will be at. The untouchable confidence you felt when you dumped your drink on him has dwindled into something sour now. Brendan might be an asshole, but he’s a frat asshole, and that means he’s got connections all over the place that you probably don’t know about. You’d pissed him off, and you don’t want him to retaliate somehow when you’re not expecting it. 

Things are fine for the first bit of the night. You show up with Bucky and Steve in tow and find yourself a relatively quiet corner, talking with Bucky while Steve goes to the kitchen to find drinks that haven’t been spiked or taste revolting. 

Eyes were on you the minute you stepped in, but upon closer inspection, you think maybe they’re just looking at Bucky. From this angle you both have a view of Steve over by the island, watching as a girl approaches him, lip caught between her teeth, a hand on the outside of his arm. You can’t even blame her. Steve looks as handsome as he ever does, like he was ripped straight from a vintage GAP men’s ad to be hung up on bedroom walls, and she’s really pretty. 

You wonder if she’s their type. Briefly you consider asking Bucky, but you think that might be rude. 

“Does that ever get old?” you ask him instead, nodding toward Steve. 

Bucky stares for a minute, watching Steve politely duck out from under the girl’s attention. “Yes and no. Always nice to be wanted, I guess.” 

He stops himself, and you tilt your head. “But…?” 

“But sometimes, y’know.” He sighs. “It’s hard not to wonder if it would even matter if I was there too or not.” 

You frown. “How so?” 

“‘Cause—well, you know what people say about us. Steve’s the relationship guy. The guy you date, ‘cause he brings flowers and he pulls out the chairs and he’s charming without even trying to be. Sometimes more so when he’s not trying to be.” Bucky glances down. “And I’m—I’m the reason we have the reputation we do.” 

“Bucky, that’s not true,” you tell him. 

“It is. I’m the one that likes the more social shit. Getting to know people. And, yeah, sometimes that means going home with ‘em if everybody’s feeling it.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I just—it was something we did a few times, the first couple years. And then, suddenly, it was just like we were only known for that. Which sucks, because Steve’s really fuckin’ smart, and he’s a great artist, and I think he’d get a lot more accolades if my name wasn’t always attached to him.” 

You study Bucky’s side profile, the curve of his shoulders and his hands stuffed into his pockets. It’s so easy to think of Bucky as confident with the way he presents himself, but you’re realizing now that he has a lot of the same insecurities that you do in relationships. It’s another thing that makes him feel more accessible to you, lowered from the isolated pedestal you’d put them both on before. 

“I can’t say I know what that feels like, because I don’t,” you tell him, your elbows touching. “But I have had the displeasure of suddenly being known for only one thing this year. And it does suck. And I don’t know about everybody else, but I’m really glad that you guys thought I was worth sticking around for long enough that I could get the chance to be proved wrong, too.”  You nudge him purposefully. “You guys are great, Bucky. Not just Steve. You balance each other, you know? And I’m—I’m just really glad I get to know you.” 

Feeling oddly vulnerable after your impromptu speech, you clear your throat, hoping that the flush on your cheeks isn’t terribly vulnerable—even though Bucky’s private smile tells you that it probably is. 

“We’re really glad to know you too, sweetheart,” he says. 

The two of you have drifted closer throughout your conversation as the party got louder, your sides fully pressed together and Bucky’s face inches from yours. You feel yourself heat further once you realize your proximity, and you immediately shove down the memories of thoughts you might’ve had about them once or twice before you became friends. 

Steve returns, saving you from breaking the tension yourself as he holds out a cup to you and Bucky with a smile. 

“Okay, I hope you like plain coke because it’s about the only thing here that I could guarantee was safe to drink. Unless you want questionably dated orange juice.” 

“I’ll take the coke,” you laugh. 

“Definitely same,” Bucky agrees. 

You cheers your plastic cups together and take a drink, scanning the small crowd in the house for your classmate and coming up unsuccessful. 

The house buzzes as even more people find their way in, your corner feeling a little crowded as others begin coming up every few minutes, saying hello to Steve and Bucky and catching up. Apparently they haven't been going to many parties lately, either. 

All of your earlier texts to your classmate have been left unread, but you check immediately when your phone finally buzzes with a response. You pull it out of your pocket while Steve chats with someone they know beside you, and Bucky peers over your shoulder. 

“That him?” 

“Yeah. He says he’s outside. I’ll meet him out there, make sure he signs, then we can go.” 

“I’ll go with you,” Bucky offers, pushing off the wall. 

“You go with Steve,” you insist, handing him your empty cup. “I’ll be fine. Seriously. Finish your conversation and then meet me out front.” 

He glances between you and Steve with a frown. “You sure?” 

“I’m sure.” 

Though he doesn’t seem pleased about it, you appreciate that Bucky lets you go without an argument. He slips into place at Steve’s side as you vacate the spot, and you head back toward the front lawn to get your digital signature. 

It’s humid out front, and you squint at the setting sun as you descend the front steps and move off to the side to wait. There’s groups of other students hanging around on the porch and the sidewalk, each of them glancing at you periodically. You cross your arms over your chest, forcing yourself to stand your ground despite the unwelcome attention. 

A minute turns into two, then five, and you find yourself wishing you had asked Bucky to come with you. You get out your phone again to text your classmate a series of question marks, and you get two words in response. 

Look up. 

You have about a split second to realize what’s happening before you look over your shoulder to find a group of Brendan’s friends huddled together on the third story balcony, a large bucket balanced on the railing. 

They shout something at you and then tilt the thing over, and suddenly you’re standing in the middle of the yard, drenched head to toe in something sticky and ice cold, frozen. 

You barely register voices coming out of the house, footsteps headed toward you. You cling to Steve as he strips off his jacket to cover you with, and when you peek out from under it, you see Bucky on the other end of the sidewalk gearing up to throw a punch at a guy who won’t delete the video. If you weren’t still partially in shock, it’d make you smile. 

He joins you soon enough, once Steve has quickly walked you to the other side of the fence and far away from the house and anyone who might still have a camera. 

“Hey. Let’s get out of here, huh?” Bucky asks, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and attempting to rub warmth back into your arm. Your teeth are chattering. 

“I—I didn’t get the signature—”

“Don’t worry about that,” Steve says. “I was the TA in that course last semester and I still talk to the professor. I’ll speak to him and explain. It’ll be fine.” 

Soaking wet and feeling horribly lost, you walk the same path to your apartment that you’ve taken with them countless times before. It’s not the first time you’ve felt grateful for them, but it is the first time you don’t really know what you would’ve done without them. 

So much for trying not to get attached. 

You let them spend the night. 

They find something to eat while you’re in the shower, and by the time you come out of your bathroom with wet hair and a fresh set of pajamas on, the food’s ready, there’s a sitcom playing on the television, and the way Bucky rushes to put his phone away tells you he’s been on very dutiful damage control again. 

You’re upset about what happened, but mostly tired at the moment, still too numb yet to cry or get angry. Steve tells you he’s emailed the professor as one episode rolls into another, the three of you sharing space on your small couch. 

The comfort is much needed. They don’t make you talk about it but they remind you they’re there in other ways; Steve’s arm along the back of the couch for you to lean against while he rubs your shoulder, Bucky’s fingers hooking onto yours on the cushion between both of your legs the same way he’d done with Steve on the floor of their dorm room weeks ago. Their quiet conversation amongst each other anchors you enough that you can’t get lost in a rabbit hole of bad thoughts, but they also don’t expect you to jump in and try to be happy at the moment. You aren’t sure you could anyway. 

It’s not a particularly high bar, but it does prove something important: Steve and Bucky have walked you home, seen you half drunk, been alone with you in their dorm and in your apartment, and now also when you’re emotionally vulnerable and looking for support. 

And not once have they acted like any of your exes. They haven’t used any of it against you or to manipulate you into something. 

“Will you stay?” you ask them between one episode and the next, the first words you’ve spoken since you got back. 

Even then, they say yes without strings. Steve takes your couch and Bucky curls up in the armchair by the window, both in relatively close distance to your bed that you probably could have all fit on, if you’d tried. 

You lay awake for long time that night, even when you can hear Steve snoring from the sofa and Bucky’s conked out against the side of the chair, cheek smushed against his arm. 

You’re not just attached, you realize quietly. You’re something a whole lot more than that. 

As graduation continues to get closer, so do the three of you. Maybe a little closer than you intended. 

Steve left some of his books at your place the night before and you told him you’d drop them by before your classes. So, for the record, you had warned him. 

Which is why you’re slightly surprised that it’s Bucky who swings open the dorm room door to greet you, his body blocking the view into the room. 

His body, which is lacking a shirt and very nearly lacking pants too, strapped low across his hips. He’s breathing heavily, face flushed, pupils dilated and fixed on you with a focus that’s so intense you have to keep yourself rooted to your spot. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he grins. “Those for Steve?” 

“Um. Yeah,” you say. “Is he—uh, here?” 

Bucky chuckles. “Oh, he’s here. He’s just…occupied. At the moment.” 

Your stomach drops in a split second, your confused smile going with it. You do take a step back then, holding out Steve’s things as a barrier between the two of you. 

“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realize you guys had someone over.” 

“What?” Bucky drops the smirk, stepping fully into the hallway with you. “There’s nobody else in there. Thought we covered that.” 

Now confused and embarrassed, you feel your face heat. “I—we did. I just figured, since you answered the door, and you said he was still—sorry,” you rush out. “I misunderstood.” 

Bucky stares at you for a second, and you desperately hope that you haven’t accidentally offended him again. Your reaction was more so rooted in your own feelings for them than anything about them, but you can’t exactly come out and say that right now. 

Without looking away from you, Bucky twists the doorknob behind him and leans back enough to call through the gap. 

“Stevie,” he says. “Make yourself decent.” 

There’s a muffled answer on the other side and then some shuffling, and after a tense minute between you and Bucky in the hall, Steve stumbles to the door just as half-dressed and obviously mid-coital as Bucky had been. With glassy eyes and hair sticking up randomly, he knuckles at his eye. 

“My stuff,” Steve says in belated acknowledgement when he sees you, offering you a small, breathless smile. “Thanks for bringing it by. I really appreciate it.” 

“Move over,” Bucky grunts. 

Him and Steve step back into the room, and Bucky holds the door open wide, waving you in. You hesitate for a second in the hallway before tentatively stepping forward, and he shuts it again behind you. He’s letting you see for yourself, you realize. 

And, sure enough, the room is empty except for them. The sheets on the bed in the corner are all rucked up and half coming off the side, morning light spilling onto it from the window above the headboard. Steve’s desk, doubling as a nightstand, has a bottle of lube balanced on the edge of it, still open. 

You turn slowly so you’re looking at them again, trying to come up with a way to apologize without giving yourself away. Bucky beats you to the punch. 

“We haven’t brought anyone else here this semester,” he says deliberately, holding your eye. “You understand?” 

So, before they told you about Brendan. Before you in general. The heat on your face feels like it spreads throughout your body, and you nod. 

“Good,” Bucky says. “And just for the record, you’re welcome here anytime, no matter what we’re doing. You’re not interrupting anything we wouldn’t be okay with you interrupting.” 

You glance at Steve for his reaction, but he seems to be in agreement. He steps up beside Bucky, bending to lean a dimpled cheek against Bucky’s shoulder atop his crossed arms, and smiles at you. 

“Think you’re gonna be late, honey,” he says. 

“Oh, shit,” you curse. “Yeah. I am, probably. Here,” you hand him his things clumsily, stepping forward into their space to trade it off. 

You plan to take a quick step back but Bucky catches your arm before you can. Steve drops the books on the sofa and turns back to you too, and you’re promptly pulled into a three way hug, your face against their bare chests. 

They’ve been more physical with you since staying over at your apartment, less hesitant to put a hand on your back or grab your hand or pull you into hugs like this one. 

Usually they’re wearing clothes, though. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, hugging them back. You feel Steve’s mouth against the top of your head. 

“Don’t be. We’ll see you after class, huh?” 

You nod, and Steve returns to the bed as Bucky walks you back into the hallway. His words from before still ring in your head about people’s assumptions, and even though Steve was alright with it, you feel like you owe Bucky another apology. 

“I really am sorry, Bucky. I honestly didn’t mean it the way that it came out.” 

“I know what you meant,” Bucky says, stepping closer, “because I would’ve done the same thing if Steve and I came over and I thought you had someone else inside.” 

You swallow. “I haven’t—with anyone else, either.” 

Bucky didn’t ask, and you aren’t really sure why you offered. It feels like you’re talking about the same things but you can’t be sure, and that’s scary enough to hesitate. 

But Bucky gives you another long look, his head tilted as he drinks you in, and then he nods as if pleased by your answer. Stepping away from you feels like a loss, your limbs thrumming with how close you’d been. 

“Good.” He smiles, then, and nods toward the exit. “Get to class. We’ll see you for lunch, okay?” 

Still reeling, you follow his direction, nearly jogging as you try to make it to your morning lecture. 

You get there, barely, but it’s no real use anyway. 

All you can think about is what Steve and Bucky had been up to before you got there and—hopefully, maybe—what they’d finished after you left. 

After that, it’s difficult to ignore the mounting tension between you. And with the dwindling time left before you leave campus, you’re antsy. 

You’ve come to appreciate Steve and Bucky as genuine friends. What if you try to make it more than it is and you don’t click the same way in that setting, and then things are weird between you until graduation? What if you’d somehow misunderstood their intentions and they actually don’t want you like that anyway? 

You’re pretty sure that last one isn’t the case. But you don’t really want to lose the one friendship you might manage to take out of college because of your libido. 

It’s hard not to want more though when they give you just about everything you wanted and never got in your past relationships. You meet Bucky’s sister too when she visits for Steve’s birthday in July, and the three of you stumble your way through a very awkward explanation when you try to convince her that you aren’t, in fact, a part of their relationship and none of you have any real evidence against it. 

Except for the sex. You are very much aware of the sex that is not being had in this situation. 

Ultimately, it doesn’t take much to shift things into place. 

You had dinner with them at a bar off campus, something a little nicer than the ones here, and none of you had been ready to part ways when you got back. Back at your place you change into something comfier while Bucky kicks off his boots and Steve sheds his jacket, the three of you spreading out in your space like you’ve been doing it forever. 

Steve sits at your dining table, bent over a sketchbook he’d pulled from his bag. Bucky is fiddling with the bluetooth speaker that you broke last year and haven’t been able to fix, his tongue stuck between his lips as he pokes and prods, and you’re on the couch, scrolling through your playlists in hopes that he can get it up and running. There’s a lingering energy in all of you tonight that your typical movie marathon doesn’t seem like it would satiate. 

The top you’d worn to the bar is a button down, soft enough that you’d left it on when you got home even though you changed your pants. You have to roll up the sleeves as you watch Bucky work, hotter outside and a different heat here in your apartment, your body keenly aware of where Steve and Bucky are inside of it. 

The apartment. Not you, unfortunately. 

With your hair let down and the makeup you’d put on this morning mostly smudged off now from laughing at dinner, you’re an odd mix between pleasantly relaxed and impatient for more. 

“Aha,” Bucky cheers, pressing a button on the speaker. The traitorous thing that hadn’t worked when you did that gives a happy beep at Bucky’s touch, the lights on the front blinking to show that it’s ready to pair. He grins at you, lethal with his dark brown hair and the deep green of his sweatshirt, and holds out a hand for your phone. “You picked a song yet?” 

You give it over, shuffling one of your most recent playlists when you couldn’t decide on anything else, and Bucky pairs it with the bluetooth. Soon enough there’s quiet music playing throughout your living room, and you realize how much you’ve missed having it to fill the silence. 

Finished with the speaker, Bucky leaves it on the windowsill and crosses over to you, shoving the coffee table out of the way as he goes. He extends a palm. “Come on.” 

“Where are we going?” 

He drags you up from the sofa and to the center of the room, now an empty space, hands on either side of your waist. 

“We’re going right here,” he says. “There was nowhere to dance in the bar.” 

“I think there was, actually,” you point out. 

Bucky gives you a flat look. “If I just wanted to grab onto your hips and hump you from behind for a few minutes, I’d prefer it not be in public, sweetheart.” 

You stutter a laugh, allowing him to pull you close. One of his hands on the center of your back, the other holding yours against his chest underneath his collarbone. It puts his nose at your hair and yours near his neck, close enough to smell the cologne he’d put on this morning as he sways the two of you back and forth. 

“I should probably tell you that I’m not very good at dancing,” you admit. 

“Seems like you’re doin’ just fine to me,” he says. “Stevie? Thoughts?” 

Steve grunts from the dining table. “Busy. Keep dancing” 

The two of you turn in a slow circle, and when you begin to face him, you realize that Steve is drawing you and Bucky. You’re pretty sure he’d been working on something else before, but now his eyes keep flicking up to you every few seconds, tracing curves and hard edges, the line where you and Bucky meet in the middle and your shuffling feet as you try to stay off Bucky’s toes. 

One song bleeds into another on the speaker, and you tilt your head enough to rest it opposite your hand on Bucky’s chest. You feel his sigh as much as you hear it, his pulse steady under your cheek. 

“Been a long time since I’ve gotten to do this,” he tells you. 

“It’s nice,” you agree. “I don’t think I’ve actually ever danced with anyone before this.” 

Bucky pulls away from you only enough to guide you into a small spin, then tugs you right back with a wink. “You’re a natural.” 

You’d enjoyed the momentary distraction of learning something new, but by the time the third song comes to a close, all you can think about is how close the two of you are. 

You keep picturing the way he’d looked in the hallway in the dorms that day, flushed and sweaty and yet still in control. Letting you into their space, proving to you that there was no one else. You’d been embarrassed in the moment, but every time you’ve thought of it afterward you get distracted wondering what might’ve happened if you hadn’t had class, if you’d stayed, if you’d joined them in bed and finished what they’d started with each other before you got there. You wonder now if Bucky can feel your pulse picking up underneath his hands. 

The sun is setting outside the windows and you can feel it through the cracked blinds, humid and inescapable. When you tilt your head up, you’re close enough to Bucky’s face to see the beginnings of sweat on his temples. 

“S’warm,” you murmur, worried he might let go of you if you’re too loud. His mouth curves up at the corner, making a show of feeling your forehead before moving down to your cheek. 

“You are, yeah,” he confirms, swiping a thumb over the collar of your shirt. “Maybe we should lose a few layers.” 

You swallow. “I’m, um. I’m not wearing anything underneath.” 

It’s meant to be more of a reason you can’t take it off than an attempt at flirting, but Bucky is visibly affected, inhaling sharply through his nose as his eyes run over your face. The hand on your lower back spreads out and tugs, pressing you tight against his chest. 

It makes you stumble, catching yourself with a grip on his arm and a surprised noise. The shirt isn’t particularly thick, and neither is the lace bra you’re wearing underneath it. It doesn’t have any padding in it so every bit of your breasts go firmly against the heat of Bucky’s chest, with nowhere to hide and no place to conceal the hardened points of your nipples through the lace. 

With an extremely measured exhale, the hand Bucky has on your cheek spares a thumb to trace over the outline of your lips. When you don’t pull away, Bucky leans in. 

“You been wantin’ this as much as we have?” 

You nod, breathless. Relieved. “Longer, probably.” 

“Wanna bet?” Bucky cocks a brow, then winces. “Ah, fuck. Sorry. Bad choice of words.” 

Your laugh is quiet, but it makes Bucky smile. Your fingers spread out on his chest, smoothing over his shoulder and up to his neck, grazing his hair that’s close to touching his shoulders now. 

“And if I was feeling lucky?” 

“I would say,” Bucky proposes faux thoughtfully, slipping both arms around your waist and lowering his voice to a whisper, “that there’s a damn near guarantee we could make Steve awful jealous right now.” 

You fight a smile. “I think I like those odds.” 

Bucky leans in closer, until the ends of your noses are touching. Everything about him is warm, his scent familiar and inviting, his arms easy to lean into. His eyes flick down to your mouth and back up again, and you tilt your chin for him without having to ask. 

Bucky could probably tease you all night long, but if he wants you, he’s going to have to be the one to make the first move. 

He doesn’t leave you waiting for long. His own face turns, just enough to catch your lips with his. A brief graze at first, and then more firmly. It’s been months now since you’ve kissed somebody, and you always forget how much you enjoy it. And the fact that it’s Bucky is just a really, really nice plus. 

You lean into his weight as you abandon any former semblance of dancing altogether, standing still and sliding your hand fully up into his hair. He hardly parts from you enough to breath but neither of you seem to care, and for a few seconds, everything else falls away. 

Everything except for Steve, that is; you can hear the soft scratch of his pencil stop as it hits the sketchbook and rolls off somewhere on the table, the thump of his feet on your floor, the added body heat at your back when he steps into your space. 

It’s the only thing that makes you pull away from Bucky, twisting so you can make sure that, despite all the signals, he’s still alright with this happening. 

He assuages your worries nearly immediately, turning you in Bucky’s arms so that he can take your face in his hands and taste you for himself. It’s surreal, having this in real life and not only in your head, and you cling to the front of Steve’s shirt like you had Bucky’s, caught between them both. 

“What do you want?” Steve asks you, dropping his hands to hold yours, rubbing circles into your wrists in between your bodies. 

“Anything you want,” Bucky agrees, pressing against your back. 

You glance over toward your bed and ask them, for a second time, “Stay?” 

Steve grins and you feel Bucky’s relieved exhale as his chest caves behind you. He bends to kiss your shoulder, and Steve slips his fingers through yours. 

“Lead the way, sweetheart.” 

It’s not as weird having Bucky and Steve in your bed as you thought it might be. 

They’ve already been everywhere else in your apartment anyway, and it’s almost weirder that they haven’t been in it yet in some capacity or another. You’re glad to be rectifying that now. 

You go down easily when Bucky lays you back on the end of the mattress, reluctant to part from your mouth. He does eventually though, if only to peel off his sweatshirt and leave him in a thin t-shirt, and Steve steps up in his absence to kiss you some more. 

“How many times have you touched yourself, right here, thinking about us?” Bucky asks, grinning above you. 

“Dollar in the jar,” you tell him. 

He doesn’t even try to make a joke. “Dead serious, sweetheart.” 

You look to Steve for support, but he only chews at his lip, sheepish. “I’m kind of curious too.” 

Rolling your eyes, you kick Bucky in the hip with your leg.  “Surprised your egos fit through the doorway.” 

He catches your calf in his hand before you can draw it back to the bed and you watch, propped up on your elbows, as he rubs the skin there up and up and up. He kneels on the mattress beside you, fingers grazing your shin, the sensitive inside of your knee. 

“You tellin’ me we’re wrong?” he asks. “That you’ve never once thought about us when you were in here, came home after seein’ us and needed some relief? Never slipped your fingers between these thighs and wished it was ours instead?” 

He bends to attach his mouth to the side of your neck, and your head rolls to the side to allow him access even as you keep stubbornly quiet. 

“Never imagined what it’d be like if we were there with you, huh? One on either side, keepin’ you warm. Makin’ you squirm.” His fingers trail up higher, just barely grazing the line of your shorts before pulling away. “Makin’ you beg.” 

“Bucky,” you gasp. 

He smiles like you’ve just proved his point, but schools it quickly to sit back on his knees with a shrug as Steve takes a seat by your ankles. 

“‘Cause if you had pictured us, I was gonna offer to make your dreams come true. But I can’t really do that if you didn’t have ‘em in the first place, so—” 

“I did,” you relent, too keyed up to deny it. “I—I thought about you. Both of you.” 

Steve’s eyes light up at your admission, his own touch slipping around your ankle, rubbing. “Yeah?” he asks. 

“Yeah.” 

“Tell us about it?” Bucky prompts. “We’ll do whatever you want.” 

You’re not sure you have a place to start. You’ve pictured this happening in a variety of different ways, none of them given to you quite so easily, and the unexpected power placed into your hands is something you aren’t sure you know how to hold just yet.  

Steve ducks down to press his lips against your knee, then moves to pull his own shirt over his head. Bucky, seemingly sensing your dilemma, moves to sit behind you. He leans back against the headboard, slipping his hands underneath your arms to drag you back against his chest to watch Steve. 

“How ‘bout we start with just one, hm? That make it easier?” He rubs your arms. “Why don’t you tell Stevie what you like about him?” 

The man himself is shuffling at the end of your bed, his chest bare but his hands twitching like he still wants to shove them into the pockets of his jeans. You reach a hand out, and he comes closer, kneeling on the end of the mattress. 

“Your hands,” you say first. 

“They’re nice, aren’t they?” Bucky agrees. Your answer earns you Bucky’s hands slipping over your shoulders and down to the buttons of your shirt, flicking open one and then two. “Could probably hold these real good, one in either hand.” 

He grips both of your breasts in his palms in display, and you bite back a gasp as you push up against him. 

But just as easy as he’d moved toward them, he moves away. Casually, he runs a finger over the next button. 

“What else?” 

“You’re nice to me,” you tell Steve, whose smile softens a little at your words. 

Bucky eases another button from its pocket. “That turns you on, sweetheart? His manners?” 

“You care,” you rephrase, staring at Steve until he meets your eye despite the spreading flush on his cheeks. “You ask how my day was and actually care about the answer. Offer to help me carry things when I overcommit on accident. You check in on me if you know I’m having a hard time, and you always make sure I’m comfortable and feel safe.” 

“Anyone would have done those things,” Steve argues. 

“No,” you insist, “they wouldn’t. They haven’t.” 

Unable to fight you on that, Steve can only look at you, surprised and quiet. 

“Also, you have nice shoulders.” 

That earns you a laugh, Steve’s aforementioned shoulders shaking with it as he sits fully on his bent legs on your bed. “Thanks, honey.” 

Sitting up, you part from the warmth of Bucky’s chest behind you so that you can turn around and face him. He doesn’t stop you as you settle on his lap, just settles one hand on your hip and the other on one of your thighs as you get comfortable. He’s gone quiet, and you don’t like it. 

“And you…” you trail off, using your hand to make him look at you. 

“Not quite as polite as Stevie is,” he says with a subdued smile. 

“Maybe, but that’s not what I like about you anyway,” you tell him easily. “If you were polite, you wouldn’t have monitored the comments on that video. Or punched someone in the face to defend my honor. Or marched up to me in the library all those months ago to let me know that my boyfriend was betting on my virtue, despite the fact that we were practically strangers before that.” You raise your brows when he opens his mouth. “And don’t tell me anyone would have done that, because almost everybody knew, and they didn’t say a word.” 

He rolls his eyes, but you can tell that at least some part of what you said has settled him a little. “Yeah, alright.” 

“You’re honest. That means a lot to somebody who’s been lied to before.” 

“Well, shit,” he murmurs softly, looking at you. “Here I was thinking it was my rugged handsomeness that hooked you in, but—” 

You lean forward and kiss him again, and he abandons his train of thought to kiss you back. You can’t resist grinning when you pull back, thumbing at the dimple in his chin. 

“You are pretty handsome.” 

The room goes quiet, all three of you smiling to yourselves. Even when you look to the side, Steve’s just watching the two of you, a fond expression on his face. 

“I went off topic. Sorry,” you apologize. “Did I ruin the mood?” 

“You’re half naked in Bucky’s lap,” Steve says pragmatically. “I’m not sure anything could ruin the mood for me right now.” 

As if being reminded of the fact himself, Bucky’s eyes take a detour from yours, trailing down the front of your open shirt and lace bra and back up again as he draws in a slow breath. His fingers twitch on either side of your hips. 

“Steve,” Bucky says, still looking at you. “Gimme your hands.” 

Without question, Steve’s hands—the ones you said you’d liked so much just a few minutes ago—appear, one on either side of you at Bucky’s disposal, palm up. You watch as Bucky’s own hands curl around his wrists and tug, making Steve kneel behind you, his warmth obvious even through the thin layers. 

Bucky presses Steve’s palms flat against your ribs, letting you feel the weight and shape. He moves them slowly up, still watching your face, until Steve’s cupping the underside of your breasts. Both of them can feel the hitch in your breathing, but you can’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed. 

From the look on his face, Bucky knows exactly what he’s doing to you. 

Finally, just when you’re about to pester him about it, Bucky slides Steve’s palms up the last couple of inches to mold over the shape of your breasts fully. The three of you exhale a variety of different noises—you, a gasp, Steve’s stuttered moan, Bucky groaning low in his throat, eyes half-lidded as he watches Steve learn your shape. 

You sway a little, off balance, but Steve’s right there behind you to rest against. Leaning back into him pushes your chest up and forward, further into his eager hands, and he squeezes briefly, enough to pull a surprised noise from you again. 

“So soft,” Steve murmurs, dipping forward to nose at the side of your neck. His thumbs sweep over the line dividing flesh from lace underneath your shirt, slow and steady until he can find the hard peak of your nipple under the material. You whimper, your hips restless against Bucky’s underneath you. 

“Look at that,” Bucky says, tucking your hair behind your ear. “See what happens when you tell us what you want?” 

His hands slip down to grip your waist more firmly, hauling you up against him closer until the bulge of his hardening cock sits snug in the split of your legs. You’re separated by his jeans and your underwear, but the heat, the shape, the feeling—it’s already so good. 

“We thought about you too,” Steve admits, breathing harder against your neck as he slips two fingers beneath the fabric of your bra to press against your nipples with nothing in between. 

It takes a moment for the words to catch up with you. You lift your head from his shoulder. “Really?” 

“Fuck. Yeah.” 

“Steve,” Bucky warns. His cheeks are the slightest bit more flushed, and you wonder, briefly, what could have been so depraved that even Bucky would be blushing. 

You desperately want to know. 

“You’re so—we didn’t think you’d ever want this. But we’d talk about it. Sometimes.” 

“‘Sometimes’ as in over brunch,” you question breathlessly, slipping a hand back to slide it into Steve’s hair, “or sometimes like that day at your—?” 

“Both,” Steve moans when you pull. “Definitely both.” 

You turn your chin enough that Steve can kiss you over your shoulder, his other hand yanking Bucky forward against your chest. One of Steve’s hands leaves you as his tongue teases the corner of your mouth, and you hum into his mouth when Bucky’s teeth graze the spot Steve’s wandering fingers just vacated. 

Kissing Steve is warm and intense, slicker than you thought it’d be. Something about Steve made you think his kisses might be chaste and just as polite as the rest of him, but he holds the back of your neck and gets as close to you as possible, sharing air and cradling your lower lip with his own with a focus so heavy it makes you a little dizzy. 

Which isn’t to say that Bucky isn’t doing his best to distract you anyway; his arms have wrapped fully around your waist now to hold you against his chest, his mouth mapping out the path of skin between your breasts with aching intent. Every few seconds you feel his teeth, nipping and teasing, but it’s hardly enough. You put a hand to the back of his neck and press until he commits, mouthing at you in wet trails and sinking his teeth and tongue into your skin enough that it’ll leave a mark or two behind. 

It’s more sensitive the closer he gets to your nipples, the skin thinner and easier to bruise. But he hears your muffled noises against Steve’s mouth for what they are, easing up on you as he takes one in his mouth before swiping a tender thumb over the blooming marks to solidify them. 

“Can I taste you?” Steve pants against your lips, pulling back. “Please. Been thinkin’ about it, what you taste like—” 

“He’s real good with his tongue, sweetheart,” Bucky rasps in addition, as if you need any more convincing. 

No sooner have you nodded do you find yourself plucked off of Bucky’s lap and laid on your back on the mattress, and the loss of solid heat between your legs feels like an ache. You reach for Bucky, kissing him messily as he flicks open the last of the buttons on your shirt and Steve eases your underwear down and off your legs. It feels jarring, a little, until Bucky leans up to strip his own shirt off, and you see Steve losing his pants in the corner of your hazy vision as Bucky leans in to kiss you again. 

He does it differently than Steve does, rougher, less composed. The same flash of teeth you’d felt against your breasts is the one you feel now against your lips, and he likes kissing you nice and long and deep and then pulling back, watching you chase him for more. You’ll make some sort of joke about that cocky grin, some time when you aren’t otherwise occupied. 

Steve’s hands slide up the outside of your legs, over the tops of your thighs, running up and down to the inside of your knees and back up again. You’re ticklish there, and you shiver when his mouth follows closely behind, the bed creaking as he settles in the space you’ve made for him between. 

“So fuckin’ wet,” Steve marvels distantly, and the thickness of his voice draws you back into the moment. You break from Bucky’s mouth with a gasp and a string of spit still connecting you, and Bucky thumbs it away as you glance down between your legs at where Steve is openly staring at you. His eyes flick up to your face for a second, a spark of something mischievous in his gaze. “Bet you’re soft here too.” 

Without further ado he lowers his mouth to your cunt, and you groan, dropping your head backward into the quick reflex of Bucky’s hand that cradles it. 

“Don’t be afraid to tell him what you like,” Bucky murmurs against your jaw. “He takes orders like a champ.” 

You file that away to be explored later. The affect it has on you is obvious—to Steve, at least—who moans against you when your cunt bears down around the wet heat of his tongue. You slide a hand down to slip it into Steve’s hair and against his scalp, but don’t direct him otherwise. 

“Don’t know what feels good. Haven’t done this part much.” 

At your admission, Steve slips his arms underneath your thighs, pulls your legs over his shoulders, makes a noise that you can feel. He laps at you without shame, but you can feel that focus in every movement; the angle of his sharp jaw, the suction in his cheeks, each measured exhale that makes you shiver before he settles his mouth over the bump of your clit and sucks, then goes back to flicking his tongue. 

It’s true, nonetheless—none of your previous partners have bothered much with eating you out, and if they had, it was always a couple minute precursor to penetrative sex and nothing more. And that was usually just to get you wet enough, which…is not looking like it’s going to be much of an issue here. 

Steve’s eyes flick up to you again, finding yours atop the rolling wave of your stomach as you try and fail not to grind your hips up against his mouth. He holds your gaze as he rubs one warm fingertip through your excitement and then hovers it above your entrance, thoroughly prepared by his tongue, and you nod. 

His tongue makes wide, firm circles against your clit as the digit sinks into you. Not quick, not rough, slow enough that you feel every aching inch of it until there isn’t anymore to go. You whimper, pushing against him for more, but it’s Bucky that answers. 

His hand wraps loosely around your throat to get your attention, fingers on your neck and thumb pressed to your chin to tilt it back. He’s been watching you while Steve takes you apart, quieter than you typically know him to be, but the heaviness in his eyes tells you it’s arousal and not anything bad that’s got his tongue tied. 

The thumb on your chin raises by an inch, pressing down on the thickest part of your lower lip. You open for him, eager for whatever you’ll be given, but he doesn’t kiss you. 

Instead, as Steve eases a second finger in underneath the relentless roll of his tongue, Bucky hovers above you, purses his lips, and spits, slow, into your open mouth. 

You shudder, clenching down hard against Steve’s fingers as you’re pushed even closer to your first orgasm of the night. Bucky sees it all—watches your eyes roll backward before the flutter closed, lets you squeeze the outside of his wrist against your throat, doesn’t look away for a moment as you close your mouth to swallow what he gave you and then open again so he can check. 

“Fuck,” he curses, drawing the word out long and pressing it into your tongue as he drops down to kiss you. It’s overwhelming, the thrust of Bucky’s tongue similar to the motion of Steve’s fingers inside you; it’s so deliciously close to what you’d pictured all the times you’d thought about this alone in bed. 

Just that the real thing is better. 

Your hand finds the side of Bucky’s face as you kiss, and you find your nails dragging across the roughness of his facial hair. It’s somewhere between stubble and a beard and you like the in between, can’t help thinking about the marks it’d make if he took Steve’s place between your legs right now. 

“I like this,” you tell him, rubbing your hand over it. “Liked it both ways, but it looks good grown out.” 

“Both ways?” Bucky lifts a brow. “You knew about us before this year?” 

Steve tilts his hand, curves his two fingers up into you to find your spot, shoves his tongue in the space left over. You shiver, your brain-to-mouth filter momentarily offline. 

“In the stands. Football game. Freshman year. You always had crowds around you.” 

“No shit,” Bucky breathes, chuckling as he smears a kiss against your cheek. “Can’t believe we wasted so much fuckin’ time.” 

You pull his mouth back to yours, one hand in his hair and the other digging your nails into Steve’s arm that’s been spread over your stomach to keep you from bucking away from him too far. His jaw must be aching by now, you think; your other partners certainly would have complained by now that you hadn’t come yet. 

Before you can start feeling guilty and trying to make yourself, Bucky pulls you back with a hand on your face. “Hey. You wanna come like this?” 

Your lower lip disappears behind your front teeth, still tasting of Bucky. If you say yes, there’s a chance it’s a means to an end—you get off, then they get off, and then it’s over. You want this to last as long as possible. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Let me rephrase, then,” Bucky says, catching the lobe of your ear between his teeth. “If Steve makes you come now with his mouth, can you do it again for me afterward?” 

“Yes,” you nod frantically. “Yes. Please.” 

Bucky grins. “Atta girl.” 

With a clear goal in mind, Bucky slips rough fingertips down the front of your body, between the valley of your breasts and down your quivering abdomen, past your hips until he reaches where Steve’s head is settled in between your shaking thighs. He goes even further then, using two digits to spread you apart nice and wide, the way Steve can’t while he’s holding your waist and fucking you on his fingers. 

The position means that there’s nowhere left to hide now, no reprieve from the sensation of Steve’s tongue. It’s warm and wet and unyielding, sucking and flicking and drawing your clit to full attention for him. With toys or fingers it might be too much sensation to really feel good, but the pressure of his mouth is just right. 

You cling onto Bucky’s arm and Steve’s hand as you begin to tense up, the coil in your stomach tightening. You like this part, this little plateau before the plunge, and it’s been so long—if ever—since you’ve actually gotten to experience it at the hands of someone else and not just your own. 

If you could talk, you’d say right there or don’t stop or I’m close, but your breath is getting stuck in pants and hiccups, your hips twitching, out of your control. You feel molten underneath both of their gazes, anticipating your release but not rushing you toward it. 

You let your eyes close, welcome the sudden press of Bucky’s fingers against your mouth and Steve’s hand to keep you grounded, and let everything else fall away for a minute. 

The orgasm doesn’t take you by surprise. It builds, slowly and then in quicker increments, until it takes you over. Your mouth wrenches open noiselessly, eyes wet with overwhelmed tears, and all of you tenses tight before rapidly unraveling between the fixed points that Steve and Bucky make around you. 

It keeps going, Steve’s mouth and fingers insistent as he works you through it. Noise fades back in as the ringing in your ears adjusts, Steve’s moans as you get him wet with your release, Bucky’s rough, raspy whispers of praise against your hair, your own shameless whines and squeaks as you ride it out completely. 

Eventually, when you’re spent, you collapse back against the pillow Bucky put under your head and blink idly at the ceiling. You feel cold between your legs when Steve pulls away, your cunt pulsing, displeased at the sudden emptiness. 

It’s worth it—if only because you get to lie back and catch your breath while Bucky drags Steve in by the neck and ravages his mouth with his tongue, tasting him. Tasting you. 

Their hands are all over each other in a way that betrays the fact that they’ve been in a much longer relationship, aware of each other’s limits and weak spots. Steve groans when Bucky yanks his head backward and sinks his teeth against his neck, smearing you even further across Steve’s skin, leaving visible wetness behind. You watch, half surprised and still valiantly turned on, when his palm smacks the side of Steve’s ass and squeezes before he pulls away. 

Both of them are hard, Bucky’s bulge significant underneath his boxers and Steve’s briefs rucked dangerously low against his hips, enough to see the hair around the base of his cock. He must’ve been grinding against the bed. You push your thighs together again with a whimper at the thought. 

The noise draws Steve’s attention, and he crawls back on top of you, turning your bent legs to the side but keeping your back against the sheets as he kisses you. Soft, slow, more like what you thought he’d be like in the first place. 

“Was that good?” Steve asks you.  

“So good,” you agree with a smile, pushing a hand through his hair. “Thank you.” 

“Both of you are too polite,” Bucky sighs. “What am I gonna do with you two?” 

Steve slants his eyes from you over to Bucky, sly. “Something with your dick, preferably.” 

You choke at his forwardness; you’ve never known Steve to be that bold. Bucky laughs at your expression, and Steve seems unabashed. 

“You ain’t heard nothin’ yet, sweetheart,” Bucky tells you. “Just wait ‘til I’m fuckin’ him through the mattress. He gets real filthy, then.” 

“Fuck,” you exhale. Your filter’s still not totally back. 

Biting down on a smile, Bucky leans in to look up at Steve with you, appraising. “He does make quite the picture like that. But maybe…” he turns, talking right into your ear. “Maybe you take him first, huh? Been so patient, both of you—you want that?” 

You nod. “Yes. Yeah.” 

“Then, after he’s finished, when you’re all shaky and sensitive—it’ll be my turn. Roll you over. Slip into you, nice and easy. Fuck you deep enough that you can feel me right here,” Bucky continues, reaching down between you and Steve to press a palm against the cradle of skin between your hips. 

“Bucky,” you moan. “Yes. Please. All of it.” 

Lazily, Bucky rolls his head to look up at Steve. “Stevie?” 

“You gotta fuckin’ ask?” he mutters to a laughing Bucky. You raise a brow, and he shifts his gaze to you, smiling crookedly. “When I said we’d talked about this, I meant in detail.” 

You laugh with them, which is something else that hasn’t happened during sex with anyone else. It feels good. You feel good. Your body is loose from your first orgasm and you’re comfortable enough with Steve and Bucky that you don’t feel like you have to put on a show or hold a certain position. Which is good, because they seem to be developing a habit of arranging you however they like. 

Like you’re a delicate addition to the well oiled machine of their relationship, Steve wraps his arms around your thighs again and pulls you down to the center of the mattress, and Bucky locates one of their wallets from the floor to grab a condom. The thoughtfulness makes you momentarily emotional, one less thing you have to think or worry about. 

The condoms in their wallets that, you’re realizing right now, are probably more so for them to have sex with each other than they are to hook up with girls like you initially thought. You’re glad to understand better, now. 

While Bucky’s up he grabs a water from your fridge and pops the cap, drains a good third and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before tossing it to Steve. He does the same, then leans down to hold it against your lips while Bucky fixes the pillows behind you. It’s oddly intimate, given everything you’ve already done, and you flush with heat at the unexpected gesture. 

The boxers come off, Steve’s and then Bucky’s. You drink them in with a stare that’s only partially intentional, your mouth dry despite the water, suddenly glad that Steve had opened you up on his fingers in addition to his mouth. It’s been a while, and they’re both fairly well endowed. 

It’d be the perfect place to make a crude joke at your expression, but it never comes. Steve leans in, fingers brushing your cheek. “You okay? We can do something else, if you want.” 

“Or stop, if you’re tired,” Bucky adds. 

True to your word, care and honesty really do seem to be what gets you going these days. 

You shake your head, pulling your legs apart and Steve in between them as you lay back with Bucky’s thigh as a pillow. The condom sits idly on the bedspread to the side, and you pick it up and hand it to him in invitation. 

With a smile and a final press of his lips to your forehead, Steve kneels up between your legs and rips it open, rolling it onto himself. He takes a few measured breaths as he looks at you, working his fist over the length of his cock in three slow pumps before he relents and braces on his knees. 

Steve’s broad all over, and he spreads you wide without even meaning to. The span of his thighs and hips pushes your legs open enough that when he leans forward on top of you his dick is already straining where it wants to go, and you hiss when it bumps against your still-sensitive clit, shivering. 

He grips it and swipes it through your wetness, letting it rest against you so you can feel the weight and shape of it before anything else happens. He’s warm, velvet hot against you, and you’re so wet that you can feel it on the sheets underneath you. Open from the orgasm and Steve’s fingers too, you think he should be able to slide in fairly easily. 

You hook a leg over Steve’s hip as he leans forward further, the head of his cock pushing barely inside of you. Both of you moan, and Bucky lets you squeeze his hand as hard as you want in open anticipation. 

Holding himself there, Steve gives a few slow thrusts against you. Shallow and brief, working himself in just slightly more each time. His thoughtfulness is a tease without meaning to be, making you clench down around nothing each time he withdraws. 

Then, on a particular forward thrust, his cock sinks in a little deeper. He holds himself still, then repeats it all again. By the time he’s halfway inside of you you’re both holding your breath, sweat beading on Steve’s hairline, his grip tight enough to leave marks on your hip. 

“Shit. Bucky. I’m—” Steve curses, squeezing his eyes shut as he pauses, shivering. 

“Get it together, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs, pushing some of his hair back from his face. “Promised her a good time, did we not? You gonna deliver?” 

Steve nods quickly, but the muscles in his neck and shoulders are pulled taut as he swallows audibly. “She’s—tight, Bucky. Fuck.” 

“You would know, since you just had your fingers inside her, big guy.” Bucky flashes you a grin. “Sorry. Steve gets a little stupid about good pussy.” 

“Liar,” Steve manages, breathless. “Never had one like this before.” 

“Had what?” Bucky taunts him. “She’s got a name, don’t she?” 

Being with them is apparently unlocking various new kinks for you. You feel suspended, weightless, anchored only by the thick pressure of Steve’s cock stretching you open, the biggest you’ve ever taken. You couldn’t form words if you tried. 

“Your—” Steve chokes, trailing off. He grits his teeth, forces his eyes open and looks straight into yours as he slides the rest of the way inside of you. “Fuck. Your cunt. This tight little fuckin’ cunt.” 

You cry out, arms shooting up and sideways to grip onto whatever you can to steady yourself. It doesn’t hurt, though you’re sure to be sore later. But you’ve never taken anyone this big before and it’s different in a way you hadn’t thought to expect. 

You can feel him, hot inside of your body. Every inch of you is aware of it too, making room, adjusting, overwhelmed. You struggle to get air in for a moment but keep a shaky hand pressed to Steve’s side so he doesn’t pull out, trying to catch your breath. 

Steve noses at your cheek. “That okay? S’it—?” 

“Yeah,” you manage, blinking rapidly to clear your vision. “Deep. It’s—so full.” 

Tender as anything, Bucky wipes at your cheeks to catch the tears you hadn’t managed to hide and strokes over your flushed skin with his thumb. “He’s big, isn’t he? Knows how to use it, too.” 

He turns his attention to Steve, sinking fingers into your hair and settling up against your scalp, holding you steady. Sparks dance along your nerve endings at the promise of it, and you can’t help bearing down, drawing Steve further into you in anticipation. 

“Show her, Steve.” 

Steve shifts, bracing his palms on the bed in preparation obediently, but he pauses to kiss you again first, each one sweeter than the last. 

“Tell me if it’s too much, ‘kay?” 

With your approval, he widens his stance by your shoulders, bends his knees to push yours apart a little further, and braces himself to draw backward. 

It’s slow—achingly so, at first, but necessary to get you used to him. He pulls back only halfway before pushing back in, working out of you the same way he’d worked himself in. Your wetness makes it all perfectly audible, the obscene slick noises echoing in all three of your ears each time he shifts. 

You wrap a hand around his bicep, feeling the movement of the muscles underneath, and squeeze to let him know you can take a little more. His thrusts deepen, pulling nearly all the way back out of you before returning this time. It exaggerates the length of his cock, makes every drag of it feel even deeper, every brief moment of emptiness like a loss. 

The three of you are quiet as he works up to a rhythm, entranced by the sight and sound and feeling of him taking you for the first time. You’re struck by a moment of disbelief at how unlikely this had seemed to you before; a fantasy you’d never actually get to have. 

But you do, and it’s better than you imagined, and you’re not planning to waste it thinking of past hypotheticals. 

You clench around Steve again, wiggling your hips, and he seems to get the message. With a quick readjustment of his grip on your hips, he kneels up and drags you with him, laying your ass against the slope of his thick, tensed thighs. It rushes blood to your head that’s still on flatter ground against Bucky’s leg and you gasp, feeling exposed and split open as your legs fall further apart to accommodate him. 

Steve fucks you deep and the right amount of rough, a divot between his eyebrows that tells you it must be feeling good for him too. He’s glistening with sweat now, bare chest and muscles on display, and it’s hard not to feel self conscious around the two of them. But he’s making you feel good enough that it’s easier to let go, and if that didn’t do the trick, Bucky bending over you to kiss you again surely does. 

Watching the two of you kiss makes Steve quicken his pace again. He grunts with each thrust of his hips, your wetness spreading all over his lap and the inside of your thighs and making a mess. When he thumbs over your clit you cry out into Bucky’s mouth, your body suddenly beginning to strive for release again. 

“Fuck,” Steve pants, the circles of his thumb rough with the pace of his thrusts. “Baby. Want—I want you to come with me. Can you?” 

“Nightstand,” you gasp to Bucky on autopilot. “Top drawer.” 

He goes without question, stretching himself out so that he doesn’t have to move you to get to the nightstand. The drawer opens and things rattle to your left as Steve lowers your body back flat to the sheets and begins fucking you in sharp thrusts aimed right at your spot. It’s so good but you need just a little bit more, just—

“Fuckin’ hell,” you hear Bucky groan as he finds your vibrator and frees it from its not-so-secret hiding spot. You’ve resorted to it more often than not lately, the idea of a quick and efficient release more enticing than a slow workup if you’re tired or stressed. “How many times’ this thing heard our names, huh?” 

You don’t give him the answer to that, because it’s mortifying. Instead, you say, “Second button. Hold it down, then press it twice.” 

Seconds later, you hear it buzz to life. Even the sound of it seems to push you closer, the sensation so closely linked to release in your mind that you’re aching for it. Steve’s thumbs are digging into your hips, Bucky’s skin hot beneath your cheek, your body rising to meet each one of Steve’s movements. You’re so overwhelmed you feel like you might cry again—the really good kind of tears. 

And then Bucky presses the vibrator against your clit. 

You do cry, then, and yell something you’ll probably find embarrassing later on. But Bucky knows what you need, doesn’t let you wiggle away from it. There’s nowhere for you to go, even, not when Steve’s cock is buried so deeply inside of you. 

And it is deep; he’s not pulling out as much anymore, holding you still, fucking into in long, punctuated thrusts, never once leaving you empty. He grinds into you in a concentrated effort now that the vibrator’s on you, careful not to knock it off. 

“You gonna come for me?” he grunts to you, disheveled in a way so unlike Steve that it threatens to unravel you. His perfectly styled hair is in ruins lying across his forehead from you and Bucky’s fingers, scratch marks across his chest, a red flush working its way down from there with his restraint. His want. 

You nod, trying and failing to form the words. Bucky, as if reading your mind, kicks the vibrator up just one more notch and presses. 

“Oh, fuck,” Steve shudders, fucking you harder. “M’not—not gonna last. God, you—you’re squeezing me so fuckin’ tight, baby.” 

“Yeah? Is he right, sweetheart? You feelin’ real good? I got this in the right place?” Bucky asks above you. 

You nod, blurry with tears and pleasure. “Don’t—don’t stop.” 

“Nobody’s stoppin’, honey. Promise. Not ‘til you come for us again.” 

You don’t wait for a command or a cue, can’t even wait to make sure that Steve’s there with you before you go tumbling over the edge again. The orgasms with the vibrator are sharper and more sudden, rolling over you in waves. You say their names this time, repeating them as you whimper and squirm between the onslaught of Steve’s cock and the toy, caught in an endless loop of pleasure. 

This one doesn’t last as long, but you’re slower to come back from it. Once your body stops rolling with the last dredges of your orgasm, you feel little things—Steve’s tight grip around your waist, his teeth in your shoulder, the added weight and wetness between your legs as he fucks himself through his own orgasm into the condom. Bucky’s hands still in your hair, his voice praising both of you, the fixed points at the edges of his smile. 

You stay like that for seconds, minutes, you aren’t sure, basking in the aftermath of it. It’d been unexpectedly intense, and you’re once again glad that this is them and not anybody else, content to let yourself float in it for a minute before you have to be coherent again. 

Steve eases off of you slowly, carefully, mindful of your sensitive and spent body as he pulls up and out of you. The emptiness this time around feels more severe, and you’re embarrassed at the noise you make and the fact that Steve has to reach down and curl three fingers back into you until it feels like less of a loss. 

You aren’t certain how long it’s like that—Bucky stroking over your arms, your legs, your thighs, Steve’s fingers gently fucking into you without purpose until your body is more okay with letting him go. Even then there’s a smoothness to it all, a system with you in the center. 

Steve gets up to toss the condom and grab another water while Bucky pushes the last of the other one to your lips and helps you finish it. Awareness begins to trickle in again, your muscles a little sore and the wet spot on the bed less than ideal underneath you, but Bucky remains a solid, sturdy weight at your side. 

Bucky, who’s still achingly hard against his own hip and hasn’t made a single move to do anything about it. He could’ve fucked your mouth while Steve was fucking you, could have gotten himself off with his own hand and come on your chest. It’s not like you would have said no. 

But he hadn’t done any of that, because you had a plan, and because he’s more polite than any of you give him credit for apparently. 

Roll you over. Slip into you, nice and easy. Fuck you deep enough that you can feel me right here. 

Lazily, you roll off of Bucky’s thigh and into a dry spot on the sheets, laying your cheek against the pillow to look up at him. He really is handsome, his hair and his face and his body and his heart, and you want him just as badly as you wanted Steve. You still do, if he’ll have you. 

You reach blindly across the bed to grab his hand and tug. He leans on an elbow beside you obligingly, running a hand up your spine. When you make another noise, he finally undoes the clasp that’d been barely holding your bra still on you all night, and the straps fall open, baring your back to him fully. 

“You wanna sleep, sweetheart?” 

You shake your head, fumbling for his wallet on the corner of the nightstand. You’re still shaking a little but you manage it, flipping one side open and pulling another condom out with two of your fingers to hand back to him. 

With the audacity to look surprised, Bucky glances at you, wide eyed. He leans closer, stroking a hand down the back of your head. “Still want me?” 

You nod against the pillow, slipping one of your arms beneath your head. “Just—slow.” 

“‘Course,” Bucky agrees. 

He arranges you so you don’t have to move anymore, letting your head stay comfortable while he nudges your hips up onto a pillow and into place for him. You’re already wet and open and ready for him and you hope the thought is as exciting to him as it is to you, that he’s been waiting for this as much as you have. 

Distantly, you register movement. The condom being ripped open, footsteps returning, soft voices, the bed creaking under new weight. With anyone else, you would’ve had to be on high alert. Wouldn’t have trusted them to be so vulnerable with. You’re not scared with Steve and Bucky. 

As if proving the point, your body opens for him easily when he presses inside. You’d liked seeing Steve face to face but this way everything is so much tighter, warmer, softer around the edges, every inch of Bucky’s body pressed against yours keeping you anchored to the bed. He’s not as long as Steve but he makes up for it in thickness, the weight of him filling you like pressing on a lovebite you don’t want to fade. 

He pauses for a minute when he’s settled to the hilt, just holding you. Your breathing syncs, heart rates much calmer now, and you welcome him in so much that you think you could nearly fall asleep if he held still long enough. 

And then he moves. 

An arm tucked underneath your shoulders and another keeping a forearm pressed into the pillow beside your head for leverage, Bucky doesn’t bother with the rough fucking Steve had given you. He hardly pulls out much at all. Instead, he grinds into you in steep, slow circles, making sure that neither of you miss any fleeting detail. It’s the most quiet you think he’s ever been around you before, both of you listening, moving, communicating with each other in a way you haven’t before. 

The angle is so different than being on your back. The times you’ve been on your front before were all hands and knees, nothing like this; not the intimate press of a warm chest to your bare shoulder blades, not an open palm against the thud of your heartbeat, not with anyone close enough to feel the reactions of what they were doing to your body. 

It builds quickly this time, and without any conscious effort. You lean gratefully into Steve’s fingers when they move your hair from your face, but otherwise, you’re overwhelmed by nothing but Bucky. He’s thorough and attentive, seemingly conscious of the same approaching crescendo as you are. You can believe it, after making him wait all night. 

Bucky moves your hair from your shoulders too, kisses the curve of your neck, your shoulder, the first notches of your spine. The hand on your chest rises briefly to hold your throat again, keeping you steady as he rocks into you over and over again. 

There’s a subtle tremble in the strength he uses to hold himself above you, a few last strings that need cutting. He’s still taking care of you. 

The pillow propping your hips up gives enough room to reach underneath and touch yourself, but it’s not your hand that you want there. 

Lifting your tired limbs, you shift your arm until you can wrap your fingers around Bucky’s wrist that’s around your chest. You drag it down between your hips and push it where you need it, Bucky’s rough fingers finding your throbbing clit with ease. 

Relief rolls over you at the intensity of it. You don’t have much energy except to tilt your hips back and try to move them back and forth between Bucky’s cock and his fingers, but it’s enough. 

The angle’s better and Bucky slides into you even deeper, his helpless groans matching pitch with your frantic whimpers. It’s not going to take much this time, not with so much build up, and when you feel Bucky’s thighs begin to shake around yours where he’d shoved one up at to the side, you tighten around him, the contractions of your muscles drawing your own orgasm to the surface. 

Bucky takes your jaw in his hand as you come one last time, his fingers spreading out over your face to hold you while he fucks you through his simultaneous release. It’s the least intense one of the night but your tired body feels every ebb and flow of it, clutching onto every part of Bucky you can with how much it rocks you, makes you feel vulnerable. 

He keeps you steady through it, boxed in in his arms just like when you were dancing earlier. Even when you’re both finally through the aftershocks he stays there inside of you, lips pressed against your shoulder, hand tucked underneath your cheek. 

He leans up just enough to press a kiss there too when he eventually lifts himself off of you, and you can feel Steve at the ready with a cool rag to wipe you down. It’s not as good as a shower would be but there’s no way you have the energy for that right now. You appreciate the change in temperature and the gentle treatment as your body winds down from the rush of endorphins you’d flooded it with, and when you’re mostly clean, Steve helps you sit up and slip on Bucky’s shirt while Bucky strips the sheets and tosses a clean blanket over the mattress. 

You settle in between both of them, already nearly asleep when you curl against Bucky’s front and feel Steve slip an arm around you from behind. Bucky’s the last one to talk, thick with sleep and something else you can’t name just yet. 

“Thank you, sweet girl.” 

You press an open mouthed kiss against his chest in response. You’d missed his voice. 

Brendan (and the rest of the campus, for that matter), are all shocked to find out that the school’s biggest brat and its equally notorious playboys are all in a relationship. Even more so when it lasts through another semester and after graduation, too. 

You’re not, though. They’d been wrong about all three of you, so it makes sense they’d be wrong about this too. You’ve stopped caring so much about proving people wrong, especially when you have so many other things to put your focus toward. 

Nudging open the door of your apartment with your shoe, you let yourself inside and set the last moving box down by the dining room table. You smile at the sketchbook that’s been left out, a rough drawing of Bucky on one side, you on the other. 

“Okay, I think that’s everything,” Bucky announces, falling back onto your couch. 

“Until we have to move everything up another floor next week,” Steve reminds him, gulping down water from your sink. Bucky groans. 

“Don’t fuckin’ remind me.” He tosses an arm over his eyes dramatically. “You sure we can’t just live here, sweetheart?” 

“Yes,” you answer immediately. “The size of your unit is practically double mine. If anything, I would be moving in with you.” 

Peeling his arm away, Bucky gives you a mischievous grin. “Now there’s an idea.” 

You laugh, walking over to him. “Easy, tiger. One thing at a time.” 

“Oh? S’that the plan now?” 

You settle on his lap, both of you sweaty from moving their boxes to your place temporarily. The window Steve cracked isn’t doing much in the way of cooling you down, but you sort of like the way Bucky’s hands feel like brands on your hips. 

“No plans. We’re going with the flow, remember?” 

“Ah, that’s right.” He nods, thumbing at your lip. “Does the flow entail us takin’ a break so I can get this mouth on me again?” 

“Horny jar,” you say at the same time as Steve, both of you grinning at Bucky’s groan. 

“I’m not using that damn jar anytime I want my girl,” Bucky complains. “I’d be broke.” 

“Yeah, but we’d have rent covered for the first, like, three months at least,” Steve reasons. 

Tossing an arm over the back of the couch to flip him the middle finger, Bucky uses his other hand to curve around your neck and pull you down to his mouth. He kisses you deep, slow, as lazy as the heat in the apartment, and your sore muscles go slack against him. 

“Maybe we can take a little break before trying to organize everything,” you tell him. 

With a cheer, Bucky lifts you clean off the couch and sets you on the ground, spinning you in his arms. “Fuck yeah. You have the best ideas. I love you.” 

He kisses you again, but both of you pause when you realize what he just said. You glance from Bucky to Steve, who’s already looking over at you from the kitchen, equally frozen. 

“Uh,” Bucky says. “Hey, so. I love you?” 

Your mouth splits into a slow grin when he doesn’t retract it but tells you again, and you laugh as you lean up to kiss him again. 

“I love you too.” 

His arms slip around your waist, keeping your mouths together as he walks you back toward your bed. You can hear Steve clearing your pathway, then finally feel him against you once you hit the mattress. 

“I guess Buck beat me to it,” he smiles, “but I love you, too.” 

“Well, I love you…three?” you ask, giddy as you pull him down against you. 

“So much love,” Steve murmurs against your mouth. “Does this mean we have to start a love jar now?” 

“Nah,” Bucky insists, stripping out of his shirt. “We’d lose count.” 

The three of you collapse into a pile in the center of your mattress in a happy heap, all smiles and wandering hands, and you think, as Steve peels his borrowed boxers down your legs with your shorts, that this is the best you’ve ever felt in a relationship in your life. 

When you feel safe enough, you’ve discovered, you kind of like not having a plan. 

They settle in around you easily, slotting into place, and stay.

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